William's eyes turn at him, thin slightly as if smiling. However, the rest of his face is rather indistinct in the half-light of the chamber for a moment, or maybe just from Charles' peripheral vision. The helmet and its cradle come cleaner into focus, its lines flowing in fixed paths around empty air but shaped to Charles' curly head. "I know it's where you go to look for people," he answers. "And I know it's got a name.

"A lot of people have got places like that in their minds. Remus' is a weird room in a castle with loads of rubbish in it. Maybe he's shown you before?" William puts his hands in his pockets, a muted shuffling of skin and fabric. "Heather didn't have a proper place, but she'd be carrying a bloody huge flashlight. Or a journal. Most of the time, people don't find what they're looking for in dreams." Dislocated sympathy tinges his voice. But the Marauders were long past the stilted symbolism of the chamber's safe stone walls, and Heather had ever searched through darkness for what she already knew she could not find.

People trick themselves in dreams. There's only so much William can do. "It's symbols, more than memories, exactly. I suppose white people haven't got too many symbols for happy things."