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Everything Everywhere One Thing at a Time (Harry Potter / Stargate Multicross)

Discussion in 'Creative Writing' started by Karmic Acumen, Sep 20, 2022.

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  1. Threadmarks: Prologue: Dreaming the Good Life
    Karmic Acumen

    Karmic Acumen The long-suffering one

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    Author Note: I've finally succumbed to the lure of the guilty pleasure that are multicrossover fanfics. I don't know how far I'll get this one, but it only took me a couple of days to toss this much out, so here we are. This is the only story I don't have a clear endgame planned for, mostly because I'm not sure what all other settings will get involved, or even what all of them will need dimension travel instead of sharing the same world. I haven't seen the latter done well very often. Suggestions are open.

    All crossovers I read happened because some outside deus ex machina made the plot happen. I'm going for the opposite route where the protagonist does it himself.



    Summary: Dreams had always been an escape for Harry Potter, but he was pretty sure that you weren't supposed to dream entire lives all at once. Now what's this whole dimensions malarkey and what does divination have to do with it? (Harry Potter / Stargate Multicross)




    [​IMG]

    Prologue: Dreaming the Good Life

    "-. .-"

    It started with Quidditch.

    More precisely, the night before his first match. Or, well, the entire week leading up to it. Till that point he'd been too high on not getting expelled to realise he should be bloody well falling apart from nerves. But then it finally dawned on him that he was the youngest seeker in a century with barely any training on a team that had been absolutely flattened several years in a row by all the other Houses. Life suddenly became very stressful, and the comments from all and sundry didn't make it any better. Increasingly so the more boastful, boisterous, babbled or begrudging they got. It got so bad that the stress started following him into sleep. So Harry James Potter, like all children chasing their first life's dream in the middle of the hot mess of life known as puberty, went to bed on the eve of the Gryffindor – Slytherin match absolutely convinced that his life was going to end. His despair was total, incontrovertible, inconceivable, absolute!

    It was also perfectly contained and masked by a pretense of dutiful confidence so flawless that it would have passed muster at the Dursleys, even with Marge and her monster there to bite and bark at him, if he did say so himself.

    And so it was that on the night after Halloween of 1991, it was the anguished hopelessness doggedly focused inward with absolute self-control that followed him into sleep.

    The immediate result was the first lucid dream Harry Potter ever remembered having.

    When he woke up the next morning, he was calm and confident and no longer afraid because he'd just spent a whole lifetime flying. The specifics were blurred, he could barely piece together ten minutes' worth of actual memory, and most of it wasn't even on a broom, but the feelings and the experience were etched in him deeper than the scar on his forehead. He went out, played his part and won the game handily despite whoever-it-was trying to murder him in broad daylight. Honestly, it would have been embarrassing if he'd still lost the game with that kind of experience under his belt.

    He didn't say any of that, obviously. He did, however, find it easier to live in the moment now that he'd completely satisfied one of his greatest cravings. Which meant he was loads better at spotting when Hermione's pestering threatened to veer from good-natured to irritating enough for Ron to daydream about throwing the twins at her.

    "Honestly, Harry!" Hermione harrumphed, every bit the girl that had once scolded them for almost getting them killed or, worse, expelled. "You shouldn't egg Ron on, he's in danger of flunking as it is."

    "We're barely half-way through the first term, Hermione," Ron said, probably knowing the next five moves in their chess game by now. "Lighten up, will you?"

    Hermione harrumphed. "Fine. Don't come running to me when you're in danger of being held back a year." Harry almost wanted to laugh. For someone so bad at lying, Hermione sure did it a lot. "And you, Harry, honestly! I know you're smart and talented. If you only applied yourself you'd be an amazing wizard, I know it!"

    "Thanks, Hermione," Harry grinned at how red she turned upon realizing how she'd just insulted him. "But I don't think hand cramps are the answer there."

    Hermione rolled her eyes and went back to going dreadfully over the limit on her potion essay.

    Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. His smile faded from his face. How did you tell your bookworm friend that you weren't applying yourself in school because it was… school? Hermione loved school. Not that Harry disliked school, exactly, he was certainly glad to leave all the pretending to be a dumb and useless delinquent back at St. Grogory's, but…

    But it was school. And not even the best kind of school either. The best professor had the sparsest syllabus. The class he'd been most interested in had a teacher that hated him for no reason. History class was somehow the dullest thing he'd ever suffered in his life even though the teacher was a ghost. The class that should have been the most exciting had a teacher so smelly and useless he gave Harry literal headaches. And the old fairy godmother may as well be a nun for all the wonder she put into her teaching.

    This was supposed to be a world of magic, where you embarked on wonderful adventures of wonder to find yourself, overcame your flaws, surpassed your limits, learned important life-defining wisdom and made your dreams come true. The letter storm proved it, Diagon Alley proved it, Fortesque's Ice Cream proved it, and Hogwarts, oh, Hogwarts definitely proved that was true once. Once.

    You couldn't make ghost haunting into the biggest and dullest disappointment of generation after generation unless something was really rotten in Avalon.

    And that was the rub, wasn't it? Hogwarts was a magical place, but the only reason they were allowed inside it… wasn't. Not in the ways that really mattered. Even his adventure in Quidditch only happened in spite of the school rules.

    Harry blinked and sat back in his armchair, absently feeding his rook to Ron's knight. Could that be it?

    He confronted Malfoy against teacher orders and won a prize, the respect of the other students, and a spot on the House Quidditch team despite never having flown before in his life. McGonagall broke school policy to enroll him a year too early for entirely personal reasons. He and Ron had only managed to save Hermione from the troll because they disobeyed the headmaster's direct orders, and it was the best excitement of his life which earned him a life-long friendship with the brightest witch of their generation. And if there was one thing that connected all those adventures, it was freedom.

    Freedom like he only ever felt in his dream.

    The sounds of the Common Room seemed to fade as he wandered off in his own head. Could that be it? Could it be so easy?

    The answer, it turned out, was hell yes. Time off from classes during Christmas Hols saw him receive the first presents he'd ever gotten, including his Dad's Cloak of Invisibility. Breaking curfew to skulk around the castle let him discover an amazing ancient artefact. The ancient artefact then showed him the faces of his Mum and Dad! For the first time in his life, he knew what his Mum and Dad looked like!

    He got Dumbledore to praise him too, and if that didn't confirm his beliefs about the true point of being at Hogwarts, nothing did.

    It wasn't about the rules. It wasn't about any of that. It wasn't even about school. The only way to fulfill your dreams in this magical world was by going off the beaten path seeking freedom.

    The Third Floor Mystery suddenly beckoned like it never had before.

    Harry's conclusion was admittedly challenged by the dragon debacle. Only briefly though, because the quest was ultimately successful and their failure in the aftermath was just that: their failure. Malfoy further confirmed it: he'd also succeeded in his rule-breaking counter-adventure and then failed in the aftermath. And wouldn't you know it, the result fit the pattern and them some: detention with Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest, which was against school policy (like the seeker thing), mortally perilous (like the broom jinx thing), and resulted in Harry coming face to face with his parents' murderer for the first time (like the parents in the mirror thing), but only after he went off the beaten path in search of freedom (like every other time).

    Freedom was dangerous, sure, but Freedom was also the most wonderful thing ever.

    That night, after being carried on the back of a Centaur who also grasped for freedom, Harry went to bed wondering about magical creatures, Mars, and the future. He had his second lucid dream.

    He woke up with the vague memory of living to the ripe old age of too-senile-to-care after marrying and having three children with Ron's little sister.

    Weird!

    Then life got really weird, which is to say he started living in something of a constant déjà vu up until the moment when Hermione was about to cast Petrificus Totalus.

    "Hey Neville," Harry said idly as Hermione prepared to do violence in the name of their Very Important Quest that no longer beckoned, because it wasn't really freedom if it was dangled in front of you by someone else, was it? "You do realise you're a wizard, right?"

    "I-I know I am! …W-why?"

    "You should be using your wand, not your fists." The previously pasty boy flushed red. "Here, try mine."

    Neville stared at Harry's wand stupidly.

    "Go on. Who knows, it might even work better than yours."

    Neville's flush turned from embarrassed to angry enough at the blatant allusion to take Harry up on his offer.

    There was an awkward silence.

    "I-I didn't know new wands were so much better," Neville said, surprised. "… Locomotor Mortis!"

    Harry side-stepped before Neville even got the second word out, which was good because the flash of spellfire streaked past like a bowshot and tinkled loudly against the wall.

    There was stunned silence.

    "… Bloody hell, mate," Ron gasped. "All this time! Have you just been pretending to be a useless git?"

    "Ron!" Hermione hissed, snapping out of her shock. "And you two, what are you thinking Harry? We'll be caught!"

    "That's fine," Harry said, feeling free from the déjà vu for the first time in over a week. He briefly wondered if this was what being drunk felt like, but immediately recalled that no, it wasn't. He'd been drunk enough times in his dream, the experience was completely different, would not recommend.

    "Harry," Ron whispered, looking worriedly between him and Neville. "We gotta go."

    "We don't, actually." Harry took his wand back from Neville's slack hand and looked at it. Holly and Phoenix Feather, 11 inches, nice and supple. Not broken. Not elder either. He dismissed those vague memories and the questions they raised in favour of the one that actually stayed with him. The best memory. Him and his… wife, he supposed. Them and their children opening Christmas presents. He stared at his wand and remembered how James and Albus and Lily ripped paper and cheered and wrestled over each other's toys until Harry provided them with the best distraction.

    Dreams are true while they last.

    "Expecto Patronum."

    Light. Mist. Prongs emerged from his wand, bright and solid. Sharp breaths came from around him as the stag cantered around the room before stopping in front of him.

    Harry blinked slowly, then brought a hand to his neck and pressed on his Adam's apple. "Albus Dumbledore." His voice came out even deeper and scratchier than he'd hoped. "Tom Riddle is in front of the Mirror this very moment."

    With a flick, Prongs whisked out through the wall.

    Harry Potter spun his wand between his fingers and decided there had to be some manner of holster somewhere or other. Ron, Hermione and Neville stared slack-jawed.

    "Right!" He said brightly. "Back to bed."

    The next day, Dumbledore sadly announced that Professor Quirinus Quirrel had died of a bad reaction while testing the third floor defences. It was all very tragic.

    Griffindor didn't steal the house cup that year, more's the pity.

    But there was no blurb in the Prophet about the Flamels setting their affairs in order either, so overall Harry decided to consider first year a win.
    "-. .-"
    The déjà vu returned when he was having his last talk with Hedwig the night before taking the Hogwarts Express back to Durzkaban. On a whim, he took out a piece of parchment and jotted down a short note. Then he tossed it into the fire and wrote one that hopefully sounded properly posh, that was a thing with the famous, right?
    To the Alchemist Nicolas Flamel

    I am the one who warned Albus Dumbledore about the theft-in-progress. As payment for this minor debt of honour, could I perhaps bother you for some informed advice? I am currently interested in the matter of dreams. Specifically, how to control them. Reading suggestions will suffice.

    Live long and prosper.

    He watched from the window just in case Hedwig started flying in circles, but she didn't. Huh. No owl ward? Maybe they had a PO box or something.

    Welp. Back to Fort Normal.
    "-. .-"​

    To Harry James Potter,

    My first advice is to avoid sending geminio copies when you wish to act incognito – objects created by magic like your parchment fall short of only blood for the purposes of scrying. My regular means have not been able to lock on your current place of residence, but the train ride had you quite exposed.

    My second advice is to consider the color-change charm whenever you send your owl out, especially so far afield. As delightful as she is, she is also very distinctive.

    As to your request, that depends. If your interest arose spontaneously, the Hogwarts library should have abundant material on dream interpretation.

    If you've had lucid dreams before, however, you may have a talent for divination. The Mind Arts can be used to induce lucid dreams, but finding a trustworthy teacher that will not abuse the privilege of seeing your deepest self is the tallest order. That said, the usefulness of Occlumency or Legilimency is actually minimal once the dreaming state has been achieved. Contrary to what some believe, dreams are not a mere product of the mind.

    Ultimately, though, it all comes down to one's ability to keep a clear focus. You would not be the first person to induce lucid dreams just by laying in your bed and deciding it hard enough.

    I do know the means by which you might draw more practical benefits, but they take years to attain, they can only be acquired personally, and they are not entirely lacking in peril, especially for a child of so few years. I will not, however, cheapen your plight, nor pretend ignorance about your prospects. Scrying your location is not the end all of my divinations. You most certainly could benefit from consistent forewarning more than most.

    So. Convince me. For extra credit, convince me before October 8th.
    I will not claim to be the only gatekeeper to the knowledge I offer, but I do promise to never lead you false or use you for my own benefit. As you said, I and my wife owe you a debt.


    ~ Nicolas

    P.S. Should you encounter problems with correspondence, I noticed the far side of the local park has some excellent roosting sites.

    The words jumped off the paper, burst into flames and the smoke turned into a winged gemstone that flew around his head three times before dispersing. When Harry looked back at the blank letter, it was gone and there was an owl treat in its place.

    "Wicked!"

    He fed it to Hedwig. She was most pleased.

    Harry did end up having trouble with his mail, as in he didn't get any from anybody, including his friends who swore up, down and sideways they'd write. He didn't even get a reply to his thank you note containing his valiant first attempt at persuasion. Harry supposed an entire page of "please please please please please" might have overdone it a little, but his joke couldn't have been that bad, right?

    He sent Hedwig out the window and went to the park to send his letter there, feeling weirdly relieved that his door wasn't padlocked to high heavens and he didn't have bars on his window. Must have been something he dreamed. The Dursleys were the one part of Harry's life that had always given him déjà vu, probably because they never changed their treatment of him much to begin with. Harry thought to dispel it (ha!) by taunting Dudley with fake incantations a few times, but that actually made the déjà vu worse, so he stopped. He had much more important things on his mind anyway. Like deciding whether he should risk… whatever the penalty was for doing magic outside school and send a messenger patronus.

    In the end, he decided against it. He wasn't quite that desperate yet, and worse came to worst, he'd meet his friends again at the train station anyway.

    Hedwig came back after a couple of days, tired and letter-less. Harry went to the park to try again.

    There was a long-eared owl waiting for him with a note.
    Mr. Potter,

    A horrible first try. It made Perenelle laugh though, so good job there.

    The owl's name is Eudaimon.

    ~Nicolas

    P.S. Hedwig is not a magpie, but I'm sure she'll find a few lost pounds for you if you ask nicely.

    The letter turned into three owl treats this time. Harry stared at them. Why would Nicolas Flamel tell him to start collecting lost coins? Was this for some mysterious magical ritual of mystery?

    Harry must have passed the payphone half a dozen times that week before he slapped his forehead. "I'm an idiot."

    "Hoot," Hedwig agreed, a pound held in her beak.

    "Glad you agree," Harry said dryly.

    He dialed.

    "Hello?"

    "Hello, is this the Granger residence?"

    "Yes. I am Ian Granger. To whom am I speaking?"

    "I'm Harry Potter, Hermione's friend from school?"

    "Harry Potter! Lad, my daughter's been shedding hair like a cat fretting over you. What's this about not answering your letters?"

    "So she did write!" Harry sunk down the side of the cabin in sheer relief.

    "Sounds like there's things going on here. Let me – Hermione, calm down, I'm just – alright fine, here, take it before you go bald, I swear that girl-"

    "Harry! Harry, is that you?"


    "It's me, Hermione."

    "Oh thank God, and I guess Merlin and Morgana too, what happened, Harry? Didn't you get my letters? I've been going spare with worry, and so has Ron you know!"

    "You are? I mean, of course you are, duh." Oh look, no déjà vu for… quite a while now actually, huh. "Look, I don't know what's been happening but I haven't received any letters from you or Ron. I just wanted to make sure you're alright and, well, let you know I guess."

    "Oh Harry, have you called the post office-wait, what am I saying, these are wizard owls, forget I said that, do you think they have an owlpost office at the ministry?"

    "I don't know?" Harry trailed off. "Anyway, if we can't write I just wanted to say we'll definitely meet again at the station."

    "Or you can call again. Or I'll call you!"

    At the Dursley's? Good luck with that. "I'll call you if something comes up."

    "Oh… Alright Harry. Call whenever you like!"

    Harry swallowed. She didn't want to put him in trouble with his aunt and uncle but didn't want to be insensitive and bring it up. Well, that was alright too. "Great. Thanks, Hermione. Tell Ron I said hi and good luck on your homework."

    "Oh, I finished that the first week home, you haven't? I swear, Harry, you-"

    The call cut off and Harry didn't have any more coins.

    He went home feeling weirdly happy and upset all at once.

    Hedwig scrounged up a few more pounds over the next couple of weeks, but he didn't call Hermione again in case he needed them for an actual emergency. He spent as much time in the park as he could get away with though, even if the risk of Harry Hunting increased each passing day. Dudley wouldn't be afraid of him forever.

    Harry didn't get any closer to persuading Mr. Flamel, but he was fine with that. As far as Harry was concerned, the man had already done more than his share, even though Harry lived in juvenile prison, or near enough anyway. Harry never stopped sending letters though, and he devoured the man's replies like… well, a starving child. Which he kind of was because the Dursleys fed him see-through soups and scraps. Harry wondered what kind of food Mr. Flamel ate. He asked him.

    He got an answer.

    So Harry asked about everything else he could think of too.

    By the time his birthday came around, Harry was forced to conclude that Nicolas Flamel was bloody brilliant. More brilliant than every other person he'd ever met, except maybe Headmaster Dumbledore. He was old, he was young, he liked wearing purple and gold (like royalty!), he knew all sorts of magic, he knew the name and use of every plant, he knew all the alchemy, he knew everything. Harry had no idea that there wasn't a single wolf left in the whole country, but apparently they'd all been eradicated by Irish wolfhounds by the eighteen hundreds, it was crazy!

    Nicolas Flamel's favorite star was the Sun, his favorite food was fried eggs, and his favourite pastime was minding promising young minds so they didn't get themselves desolately despoiled by discombobulation. His words.

    It was the nicest thing anyone ever said to him.

    Sniffle.

    Also, 'Flamel' meant flame, and Nicolas meant 'victory of the people.'

    I don't know if I should feel embarrassed or glad I never cared about where names came from before. Harry had written in his last letter. Compared to you, Harry's a joke. A diminutive of Henry, which apparently means 'home ruler.' Which I'm most certainly not.

    Harry most decidedly wasn't. He couldn't believe he'd gotten a library card just to be disappointed like this. And he couldn't even console himself with the knowledge he'd do better if he did own the house, because it wasn't any achievement to be better than the big, sweaty tub of lard failing to realize that he'd put off the people he was 'entertaining' downstairs the moment Petunia opened the door.

    "Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!"

    What the bloody hell?
    "-. .-"
    There were bars on his window. And a bunch of locks outside his door. And a cat flap so Vernon could feed him like a rabid animal. The déjà vu was back with a vengeance. As if not receiving any letters or gifts for his birthday hadn't done that already.

    Harry briefly wondered if he'd failed to take advantage of some opportunity that Dobby the House Elf represented. Whatever it was. For the life of him, though, Harry hadn't the foggiest what he was supposed to have done. You didn't bargain with crazy, that was just common sense!

    Maybe he should have pretended to comply? Promise to never go back to Hogwarts but go anyway? He'd led whales one through three by the nose about his dangerous magic for months, one lunatic should have been easy!

    "How does Hermione do it?" Harry muttered as the sun set outside his window. "She lies her pants off at a moment's notice and gets away with it even when nobody believes her. And Ron somehow convinced everyone he's so useless that they barely bother trying to force him to do anything unless it's literally their job. Why don't I ever get left alone? This is so stupid!"

    It figured that he wouldn't have his wand anymore when he was finally desperate enough.

    He was about to doze off when a noise wrenched him out. Even though Hedwig was locked in her cage. It was a miracle she was still alive considering that Vernon's whole reason for the locks and bars was to prevent Harry from returning to Hogwarts entirely. Were his books even in one piece? His potions supplies? His wand?

    Harry blearily struggled out of his sheets and blindly reached for his torch when he saw them. Two glowing orange eyes.

    He practically flew across the room and pried open the window. Eudaimon couldn't fit through the bars – Vernon had left less space than even Hedwig could use, and Eudaimon was bigger – but with careful fingers, Harry was able to take the letter. He almost forgot to hide under the blanket before reading it.
    Dear Harry,

    Don't be too easily amazed. Mighty names are a thing of the past, diluted by ego and fashion. Did you know that Alfred used to be the rarest and most remarkable name in all Scandinavia? Alfrid, Aelfrick, they were magical names that infused the bearer with the might of all his great forebears. They were the names of kings. Now they're as common as pimples and not to anyone's betterment. A thousand years ago I'd certainly have given Eudaimon a different name. That aside, you certainly don't live up to your name right now, but don't you think you're putting the blame in the wrong place? No one can be a home ruler without having a home first.

    Be constant. Be patient. Grow strong and wise. Your time will come.

    Happy birthday, little one.

    The words rose from the letter like a Pegasus, and when the paper changed this time, it wasn't to owl treats. It was a beautiful glass globe filled with a shining liquid that glowed emerald. Harry hated the Dursleys in that moment. Because of them, he couldn't even have a good cry.

    There was a note attached.
    Show globes have a most peculiar history, feel free to look it up sometime. It involves treason and ruddy Romans. This one is spelled so muggles won't notice it. If you ever need help and can't write for any reason, hang this outside your window. If you don't have a window, use the porch. If you're walled from the outside completely, break it.

    Harry didn't break it, but he wrote him and then some. Maybe it was the anger, the injustice of it all, maybe he was addled from smothering his own crying and just snapped. Whatever it was, Harry just couldn't hold it in anymore, he needed someone to talk to about… things. Something. Everything!

    He took a biro to write in the smallest hand he could and filled two whole pages, then another two pages, then even more pages until he felt like his head had been scrubbed empty with bleach and sandpaper. He stared blankly at the stack for a while, and only snapped out of his godawful wish to tear them all up when Vernon pounded suddenly on the door. He'd spent the whole night writing. Harry went to and back from the loo and then sat there until Vernon kicked his bowl of soup through the cat flap. He ate it and then sat some more. He looked out the window. Eudaimon was asleep on the sill. Was he under a notice-me-not too? Just how much could that spell do, exactly?

    Harry rolled up his… life's story? Tied it with a shoe lace and gave it to the owl before he could talk himself out of it.

    Then he crashed into bed and tried and failed to fall asleep all day because he was too busy cussing himself out in his own head for blurting out his entire life's story to a man he'd never even seen in person. He agonised over his decision. He agonized all the way to sunset about what he'd do and not do differently if only this wasn't the life he had to live.

    When he finally caught up with the sleep that kept evading him, his mind was worried out and empty. He'd sleep on it, he decided. Dream.

    He dreamed of flying again. Up until he realized he was in a dream.

    Then he decided to dream of everything good he wanted from life because he sure as heck wasn't going to have that back in reality.

    Harry woke up after living to the ripe old age of too-awesome-to-care in a world where he lived a good life with his Mum, Dad, brothers and sister because Voldemort went after Neville instead. He didn't remember most of the dream this time either, but the lifetime of contentment soothed something in him like not even a lifetime of flying did. The one memory that did stay with him was weird though. It was when Dad was dying to a wasting curse he picked up somewhere along the way to preventing Voldemort from coming back. James Potter was on his deathbed giving last words, and when it was Harry's turn, he reached up, pulled him close and murmured something that made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

    I'm half-way gone, son, but the things I can already see... You of all people know better than to live your live by another's words. But just in case you're silly enough to sacrifice that good sense for your dying dad, these words are not for you. They're for the Boy-Who-Lived: The Pottery Is Located at Number Eight Rollright Weald.

    Harry wondered if dream Neville was any less confused about those words than he was.

    Harry wrote everything he could remember down in his ever growing dream journal and then a new letter for Eudaimon to take along when he left. Then he waited. And waited.

    And waited.

    Nicolas didn't reply that day. Or the day after. Or the next.

    But on the fourth, the Grangers drove up to the house to invite Harry to join them on their shopping trip in Diagon Alley.

    "Though we'll surely understand if the lad would rather wait for his proper turn," Ian Granger told uncle Vernon while Harry eavesdropped from his upstairs prison. "The way Hermione tells it, it was quite the magical adventure. If even half of what she said was true, what with giants swinging fire-spitting umbrellas and flying swarms of letters all over the place, I'd wait for the encore myself."

    Vernon was suddenly all too happy to see Harry gone. It was amazing.

    "We got an anonymous owl that you were being kept locked up," Hermione told him in the car. "I can't believe they'd do that to you!"

    Nicolas hadn't abandoned him. He'd gotten help.

    It was only the training in pretend from the Dursleys that allowed Harry to not break out in blubbering gratitude.

    Eudaimon ambushed him in the Leaky Cauldron loo.
    Dear Harry,

    I'm still examining your autobiography. I will follow up on it later, when I've finished my latest student's surprise evaluation. I can, however, tell you that dreams don't typically induce such lasting and fundamental changes as you've described. Have you had any other lucid dreams at all? Alternatively, if you ever come awake but cannot move a muscle, know that you are not actually awake. Sleep paralysis is itself a dream. Remember the difference and it will make all the difference.

    ~Nicolas

    Harry didn't return to 4 Privet Drive that day.
    Dear Nicolas,

    Sorry for unloading on you like that, I regretted it the moment I sent the letter off.

    As for dreams, I actually managed to wake up in one deliberately! It was odd, though, I only controlled it a little while and then it was like I lived another life again, and not the same as the first one either. I don't remember much, except Dad talked to me on his deathbed. And I mean ME me, not dream me. Or not JUST dream me. Here's what he said…

    Harry Potter spent the rest of the summer at Hermione's house, eating three meals a day, catching up on his other correspondence, and waging war against Hermione's incurable bookishness to watch fantasy and science fiction marathons with her parents instead. It was great! Some of the things felt like he'd been looking forward to seeing them forever, even though he'd never even heard about them before. It was strangely fulfilling to get around to them. A few even felt familiar, maybe he'd dreamed about them too? If he did, though, he didn't remember it.

    No so great was that Harry accidentally spilled the beans on the troll incident. Somehow he fast-talked the Grangers out of immediately pulling Hermione from Hogwarts and getting themselves memory-wiped. He wasn't entirely sure how that made them arrange a family get-together with the Weasleys all of a sudden, but the ride to Ottery St. Catchpole in an invisible flying car made it all worth it.

    He met his dream wife there. Well, met again since she'd actually been there when boarding the train the year before. She was a weirdo. Tiny too, not that he had a leg to stand on there, unfortunately.

    Ron was a blast to catch up with, magical homes had so much cool stuff happening all the time! And the twins were pretty cool too once you figured out the trick to them, you just had to refuse every single thing they handed you while keeping a safe distance! Harry nailed them both in the head with live gnomes and they actually praised him for it! The Weasleys were the best!

    It wasn't cool how they immediately assumed they were horsing around when the entrance to the train platform closed in their face and spread them and their luggage all over the train station. Fortunately, Hermione was there to vouch for them when Mister and Missus Weasley came back looking for them, so they didn't get in trouble. Which was annoying because one, Hermione was the only one of the three of them who ever actually lied to any adults, and two, doing as Ron said and taking the flying car to Hogwarts would have been absolutely wicked and Harry would need at least a week to forgive Hermione for talking them out of it.

    He never revealed Nicolas to anyone. He didn't want to. It was okay not to share everything right? That the man he had shared everything with didn't write again for the rest of the summer only cemented his decision.
    "-. .-"
    To my conscientious student,

    I am making an addendum to our agreement: either convince me by October 8th, or solve a challenge I've devised to hopefully assuage your need for adventure in a way that will not get you killed. I do not say this on a whim but because of the contents of your latest dream.

    The challenge is this: uncover the functions and uses of the Fidelius Charm by the date aforementioned. I expect a full essay, including all documented uses and misuses of it, complete with critiques for each and recommendations.

    I will be grading you.

    ~Nicolas.

    Harry was torn between breath-taking relief and annoyance at Nicolas brushing past his heart-stuttering life's confession. Maybe he was still 'examining'? But what even was this nonsense about getting himself killed? It wasn't like Harry ever went of his way to look for danger! Rude!
    To my secret penpal that shouldn't be so mean to me,

    I accept your challenge. Even though I still haven't the foggiest what I'm supposed to be trying to persuade you to tell me.

    Hint hint.

    -Your student who has never gone off looking to get himself killed, thank you very much!

    The library fairly rung with the slam of three massive books dropped unceremoniously on the library table where an unenthusiastic boy was being enthusiastically pestered into doing his homework.

    "Hermione," Harry said while manfully pretending not to notice Ron gaping in horror. "I need your help with a bit of light research."

    Hermione stared, and then smiled brilliantly. They didn't get anywhere that day unfortunately, but the Golden Trio left the library feeling accomplished and determined to leave no cover unturned. Well, most of them were, but two out of three wasn't too bad. Hopefully Ron will find it in his heart to forgive him for this. If not, there were always chocolate frogs.

    Oh look, Neville was getting bullied again.

    Harry bickered Malfoy and his posse on their way and thoughtfully eyed the useless Expelliarmus'ed wand of the Not-Boy-Who-Lived.

    Opportunity!

    "Ron, I need your help with a bit of light vandalism."

    Some things were worth not getting forgiveness for.​
     
    Last edited: Sep 30, 2023
  2. Threadmarks: Chapter 1: Protagonist – Centered Divination
    Karmic Acumen

    Karmic Acumen The long-suffering one

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    The other settings begin to seep into the fabric of reality.

    ===================================

    [​IMG]

    Chapter 1: Protagonist – Centered Divination

    "-. October 1, 1992 .-"​


    The Fidelius Charm was the ultimate way to hide things. Unfortunately, it was also the ultimate way to get away with murder if the single documented use of the charm was anything to go by.

    "This spell sounds amazing, Harry, how did you find out about it?" Hermione excitedly asked as they finished going over their findings during what would probably be their last picnic, the days were getting cold. "Are there any other powerful spells you haven't shared with us? When are you going to explain how you cast the Patronus charm last year? Are you ever going to teach us? I've looked it up you know, it's a spell you're only taught at NEWT level, and even then it's rare to be able to cast it, let alone master it! And now this? Harry, the Fidelius Charm is old magic, really old, and really powerful. It literally makes any location invisible, intangible, unplottable, and soundproof, all with a single spell! You're absolutely sure this is the magic that was protecting your parents' house?"

    "Wow, Hermione," Ron said in fake amazement as he fed Scabbers his fifteenth nut of the afternoon. "Why don't you call me a liar too while you're at it?"

    "Honestly, Ron, have you listened to a word I said? It doesn't make sense, tell him, Harry. Harry, are you listening?"

    Harry wasn't, in fact, listening. He was watching Ron's rat, trying and failing to figure out why it gave him the biggest feeling of déjà vu of all only until its self-imposed quest to chew apart the few books and numerous newspapers stacked haphazardly on the blanket. Harry had had to camp in the forbidden section under his cloak and cast geminio for hours. If Scabbers didn't lay off, Harry might be forced to do something he wouldn't regret.

    Ron scowled. "Maybe he would if you actually explained anything."

    Right, he was being talked about as if he were an inanimate rock again.

    "Fine," Hermione huffed. "It doesn't make sense because the entire Magical World knows where Potter Cottage is now, it's actually a national monument! That should be impossible because the secret keeper is still alive."

    That sparked an entire argument over the spell's nature, purpose, and whether or not it even mattered now that nobody lives there anymore so there's no secret to keep, Hermione, duh. Which sparked an entirely new argument over the spell's wording and how it wouldn't matter if everyone died if the secret was about the place rather than the people living in it, Ronald, obviously.

    "It must have come out at his trial," Hermione concluded, smoothing out her skirt ever so primly. "Everyone would have tuned into the Wizarding Wireless to listen, Sirius Black was You-Know-Who's right-hand man after all."

    The déjà vu came back.

    "Hey Harry," Ron said suddenly. "Didn't you say Hagrid was the one who found you?"

    "… Yes," Harry agreed slowly, seeing the problem now that it had been pointed out. "On Dumbledore's orders…"

    "Who shouldn't have been able to do it!" Ron said triumphantly, not realising this had no bearing on the point being argued over.

    "But that would mean…" Hermione trailed off.

    "That the secret keeper had to have already died." But as soon as he said it, Harry knew it was the wrong conclusion.

    "But he wasn't," Hermione said what they were all thinking. "… Was he? What are we missing?"

    Harry couldn't contain his frustration anymore. "None of this makes any sense!"

    They laid around on the grass until they started shivering from the evening chill.

    "I'll ask dad to find out what he can about Black's trial," Ron announced.

    Harry was grateful. He was doubly grateful Ron volunteered without Harry having to ask him.

    Hermione averted her eyes and began collecting her – was she blushing? "We should take this to Professor Lockhart."

    Harry made a face. "I am not giving that ponce the opportunity to put me on display outside of classes too."

    "Hear hear," Ron agreed.

    "You are both ridiculous."

    "Right back atcha."

    Nicolas was going to grade him a Troll.

    Harry wrote his haphazard essay and sent it anyway.

    Eudaimon found him two days later during his cooldown walk after Quidditch practice. It was one of several habits he'd added to his routine that he did alone, precisely to give the owl a reliable window to drop by without questions asked. He'd only been intruded upon twice. The first time at the end of the first week, when Neville marched up and punched him for 'accidentally' stomping his wand to splinters when Ron 'accidentally' knocked it out of his hand down the stairs. The second time was at the end of the second week, when Neville marched up and apologised for overreacting to what was clearly a favour in hindsight and could Harry please take his money back, what do you mean no?

    The essay came back marked Acceptable.

    Dear Harry,

    Top points for thoroughness, half points for content analysis, minimum for presentation. I suggest taking a break and sleeping on it next time. The best ideas come out of nowhere after you've already thought yourself out. Of course, a borderline grade does mean that I still have concerns, but a deal is a deal.

    Since you beat the deadline, however, I'm offering you the opportunity for extra credit. Solve the following puzzle.

    Halloween is not on Halloween.

    ~Nicolas

    P.S. The Pottery is, indeed, located in the woods eight miles off the stone circle. I did not intrude.

    Harry felt like something had punched all the air out of him. Eudaimon did live up to his name.

    Dear Sir,
    Thank you. You didn't have to.
    ~Harry

    Harry had gotten help on the Fidelius research because he hadn't known how significant it would be to him personally, and Mr. Flamel hadn't told him it couldn't be a group project. He'd even manage to hedge around the topic of why he was interested to begin with. This time, though, it felt wrong to cheat, so he didn't tell Ron and Hermione anything. Even though he may as well be beating his head against the walls for all the progress he made on his own.

    Nicolas turned out to be right, though, as always. The best ideas do come out of nowhere after you've thought yourself out.

    It happened during astronomy class.

    "Lunar calendars!"

    He lost two House points for disturbing the class, but he didn't care. He wrote the letter that very night and snuck out of the tower under his Cloak to send it immediately.

    Dear Professor Flamel,

    It's the calendars, right? The modern Calendar is Solar. The Solar Calendar puts Halloween at the midpoint between the fall equinox and the winter solstice, but even if that's true, it still wouldn't fall on October 31st. But Halloween comes from when we still used the Lunar Calendar. And I tried to figure out where that would go by the old calendar and I don't know, wasn't Samhain New Year's?

    I'm missing something, aren't I?

    Harry James Clueless

    Hopefully he wasn't missing too much because Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party was on the 31st. He hadn't been thinking when he said yes, just wanting Mr. Filch to leave him alone, and he'd skip if he had to, but he'd promised.

    "Harry, mate," Ron told him the next day the moment he sat next to him at breakfast. "Hermione is worried about you. Now, because she's a girl and therefore has no clue about us blokes-"

    "Ron."

    "-I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. What's up?"

    "… I think I'm ready to teach you the Patronus."

    Ron and Hermione stopped.

    "Correction. I'll try to teach you the Patronus charm. I bet you one galleon that you can't do it."

    "You're on!" Ron said, breadcrumbs flying out of his mouth with the force of his offense. "Can't be that hard if you can do it, can it?"

    "Oh, we have a gambler." He couldn't believe that distraction worked, could he make it better? "Alright, I bet you five galleons you can't even get mist to come out, and a further ten that you won't manage the corporeal version."

    Ron paused mid-shoveling food into his mouth. Always a remarkable achievement. "You know, I can tell that you're just distracting me, but I'll take it."

    "Ron!"

    "Oh look, Harry, Hermione isn't interested, that means we get to spend all the time on it just the two of us."

    Hermione sputtered in outrage. "That… You are the most childish, churlish, insensitive, pigheaded – and yes, Ronald, I can also tell that you're distracting me but I'll take it also, so there!"

    "Damn, Harry, she's onto us, look at her hair standing all on end, it must be magic!"

    It was the first déjà vu in months that didn't feel unnerving. Almost like their talk after the Third Floor Mystery that Failed to Beckon. They talked around Harry back then too, until Ron remembered Tom Riddle's name from the trophy room back during the Midnight Duel that Never Was, and Hermione realised that asking about the Patronus really wasn't going to earn her an answer more believable than 'I learned it in a dream.'

    Eudaimon didn't show up until October 12, but it made up for the delay with Nicolas' longest letter to date, as well as the first package in addition to the transfigured treats that Nicolas had ever sent over.

    "Trolldom," Harry sounded the title. It was a grimoire. "By Johann Bjorngard."

    It was the letter that really made Harry's schoolwork seem paltry.

    My dear student,

    By the old reckoning, today would be the time to hold the harvest festival. This was a time of celebration, where you gathered your harvest, made offerings to appease the spirits, and then got together with everyone within your rooster's screaming distance and feasted like swine for a week to meet the upcoming lean times as fat as possible. This event, Samhain, was bright, crowded, long and worldly. The exact opposite of the conditions necessary for meditating, meeting and communing with the beings of other realms. Put bluntly, no spirits are going to make themselves seen or heard over the whole village partying loud enough to wake the dead. Granted, waking the dead was the whole point, but it also had the risk of a disgruntled draugr or troll coming out from the nearest burial mound or bridge to smash your roof in. Finally, Samhain happened in the week leading up to the last Full Moon of the year, the most auspicious time for large workings of human magic.

    All Hallow's Eve is New Year's Eve, the first New Moon after Samhain, the time of endings and beginnings, when summer gives way to winter, when a year dies and the next is born, when the Oak King dies and the Holly King takes his place. No amount of messing with calendars will ever change the fact that the true end of a year is the death and torpor of living things ushered in by winter. Mystically, it goes far beyond symbolism. It is no small thing for countless planes of same, lower and higher nature to all mirror each other so exactingly and regularly since the dawn of time. The synchronicity of the same recurring transition on such a scale is why we know of the similarity principle to begin with. The ripples caused defy world borders as easily as they defy description.

    The Night of Hallows is also the time when people stay home and observe the passing of the year with their close ones, then rest after their revelry. At most there will be one last bonfire and no travel beyond the village bounds. Only the odd mystic goes out looking for visions and revelations. This has the convenient result that magical beings and creatures can cross over and meet for a revel of their own without pesky humans to crowd them out. Conversely, this is also the time when they are in the best mood of the entire year thanks to gorging on all those aforementioned Samhain offerings. Incidentally, nights of the new moon are the darkest and quietest, and it's a well-known fact that sensory deprivation causes 'hallucinations.'

    The last full moon by the old reckoning falls this year on the twelfth of October. The first new moon of the upcoming New Year falls on October twenty-fifth.

    My deadline was chosen so you have time to prepare for the Yearly Walk. If you decide to undergo this ritual and succeed, you will take the first step on the diviner's path and have your first glimpse of many things, even the future.

    The book accompanying this letter details the instructions. I cannot emphasise enough how important it is to follow all the instructions exactly. I would hate for you to go mad or have your face frozen in a rictus for the rest of your life. One can be fixed, the other not so much. Even more troublesome will be if you get cursed or abducted for being such a darling child.

    You have no Beowulf on hand to rip Grendel's arm off, so I advise caution.

    But I believe you can do it.

    ~Nicolas.

    Secret magic wasn't the only thing that defied description. Another thing was Harry's mess of feelings at finally getting everything he ever dreamed of and more from an adult.

    Harry's relationship with the seethingly jealous Hedwig experienced a miraculous recovery due to how much mail-ordering he had her do for the next two weeks. He was less decisive about finding a way out of Hogwarts, mainly because he had no clue where to start. Fortunately, he didn't have to fall back on his last resort of climbing over the walls because the problem solved itself. Fred and George managed to 'accidentally' overhear them talking about the Patronus spell practice. And by overhear, he meant that they heard the name 'Prongs', which culminated in a spirited third-person argument with the Marauders in a certain Map. Knowing an opportunity when he saw one, Harry didn't immediately ask for the return of his Dad's property. Fred and George repaid their 'debt' by informing the Trio of the passage to the Shrieking Shack. Grudgingly, but he'd take it.

    Suspicions abounded of course, including from Ron and Hermione, especially when he pretended a lack of appetite all day on the fated Sunday. The way he tried to avoid looking at fire before giving it up as a bad job didn't help matters. But he didn't tell anyone what he was doing. It was the rules.

    Now how did that recipe for flushing potions go again?

    "-.October 25, 1992 .-"

    At midnight on October 25 of 1992, Harry James Potter snuck invisibly out of Hogwarts, hoped that he hadn't hallucinated the barefoot Ravenclaw girl that skipped around the corner towards the lake, went to the Whomping Willow, pressed the knot near the base to immobilise it, and took the passage to the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade while his mind constantly repeated the same chant. Don't speak, don't smile, don't laugh, don't look back. He took off the Cloak and stuffed it in his pocket, checked to make sure his wand was in its holster where nothing could see it, and struck with a fire steel and flint in front of himself to disclaim any connection to the flame of civilization that he'd failed to escape throughout the day. Then he slapped his cheeks, took a few deep breaths, set his face in the blandest mask of everything's fine, and stepped out.

    He had his resolve almost immediately ruined when he saw a man standing in the only spot that the distant Hogsmeade lights reached.

    Tall. Blond hair. Long beard. Robes of gold and purple that made him look like a king. Large pointed blue hat and cloak. The caduceus hung from a silver chain around his neck. Holly staff in one hand. And at his waist hung a stick of black wood, covered in glowing runes.

    What was-

    Nicolas Flamel turned his head towards the Forbidden Forest, acting like he didn't know Harry was standing there about to gasp in happiness and fail the night before it began.

    The disappointment was crushing.

    Then Harry remembered the rules, schooled his expression and began walking.

    He was hard-pressed not to throw himself at the man and hug the night away when Harry passed by and Nicolas automatically turned to match his pace without giving any impression that he even realized Harry was there.

    Barely one minute into the ritual and Harry's mask already wanted to crack with joy, but he wouldn't let it. He wouldn't! He needed this, he was determined to do it, and he'd had years of practice at keeping a straight face at the home of his proverbial evil stepmother, and now look! Mr. Flamel just happened to be in the area! Performing a ritual he hadn't need to bother with for over five hundred years. Going in the same direction that Harry was going without even a hint that he was actually leading the way. He couldn't disappoint him.

    Entering the Forbidden Forest was like crossing into another world. First year's detention may as well have happened on a different planet. The wind stopped, sounds faded, the last lights from the sleepy village and Hogwarts beyond disappeared. Soon the only thing Harry had to navigate by were Nicolas' footsteps, and even those seemed to be fading without actually drifting away at all. With every step, the ground beneath his feet seemed to swallow sound. The trees around him looked like giants tearing at the world with their long gangly arms. With every breath the air felt more and more like weavings made of water and the world around seemed to shiver with some secret magic.

    He'd thought he was brave, but the soul-deep, horrible terror that took hold of him almost proved that wrong when the last natural sounds disappeared, his determination to see this through warring with the existential fear of a lurking predator. With heart-stopping fear he realized that he could no longer hear Nicolas' footsteps. Then he realized he wasn't even hearing his own steps, could barely even feel his own body anymore, like he was dreaming but worse, an out of the body experience with no legs or arms or mouth or eyes and he was going to-

    Nicolas' robe brushed his hand.

    Harry didn't scream.

    Light and sound returned all at once, and it was all Harry could do not to jump or shriek, let alone keep a straight face. It came from above, like a roaring whistle through heaven. He didn't miss a step, didn't stumble despite not seeing where his feet went, and chanced a look. There was still no moon. There was an enormous sphere of crystal taking up half of the sky, and around it the starry black was replaced by a rainbow mist stretching from one horizon to the other, thick and rippling, seeping down through the canopy like vapor. Then Harry saw a meteor streaking like a bolt through where the stars should be, a trail of fire in its wake. It glanced off the sphere wall with nary a sound or flicker. Far behind from whence it came, there was chaos spitting pain out the universe's tearducts. Up until a big grey hammer came out of a vortex and shot a spear right into the evil eye.

    The distant shriek rattled Harry's body that he didn't otherwise feel. He blinked at the ruckus. He wondered if that meteor had really looked like one of those stasis pods from the Grangers' sci fi. He must have imagined it. Because if he didn't imagine it, he had to acknowledge that the hammer looked like a spaceship.

    The crystal sphere rippled out of sight as if sinking into the rainbow ocean. The misty space dispersed along with the echo. For a moment Harry didn't know if he was still walking or where he even was.

    Then the woods went crazy. Pixies began flying every which way, shrieking. Scared and angry ghosts came charging through the trees, chased by the sound of hooves. Fairies dropped out of their path to hide inside flowers that shouldn't exist so late in Fall. The flowers closed around them and took their fairy light for their own. The path ahead became illuminated by hundreds of them, like little lamps, and swarms of fireflies looking for a chance to make his thoughts go fuzzy. Harry stomped on some because he had to look like he didn't notice any of it, even when the little winged ladies flew up to scold him. They scattered and gave him a wide, disdainful berth after the first few almost got knocked aside as if he didn't see them. Somehow he found a game trail, only instead of scared animals there were gnomes running around in a panic from a bunch of gremlin-dwarves. They were arguing over a pair of armored boots, wrestling and beating each other over the head with ridiculously inflated pig bladders wrapped inside their pointed hats while the rest jeered from the sidelines. The one with the bigger nose won the fight just as Harry passed by, prompting the crowd to cackle until fireballs started raining from the sky all over the forest. Sounds of shouts and gunfire, and cannons and falling wood came from the distant woods soon after, mixed with sharp blasts and warhorns cut too short.

    Don't think about it yet, don't think about it.

    The noises followed Harry as his feet brought him to a bog with a narrow hoofpath. The pink light of the flower buds reflected strangely in the little pools of water around him. He walked on, but even without looking he caught glimpses in them. A wide bowl filled with red jelly shaped like flowers. A tree with golden fruit hanging off its boughs. A hole in space with its edges colored like a rainbow's watery reflection. A tunnel of light with stars streaking by.

    A man suddenly burst from the undergrowth ahead of him, large and dressed in metal armor and swinging around a metal staff with lightning mouths at both ends. He saw Harry and opened his mouth, but whatever he wanted to say went to his grave because he was promptly ambushed by the gremlins from earlier. They bashed him over the head and beat him to death in the mud. With his last gasp the man crushed the throat of his killer, so the others laughed and ripped off the symbol on his forehead while their new chief stole the last chief's boots and used his bare hands to pull the man's belly open. A snake shot out of it straight into his mouth. The dwarf gasped and stumbled back with a golden flare in his bulging eyes. The others cried foul and beat him to death too, then ripped the snake from his neck and carried it off to make a belt out of.

    Harry distantly wondered if this was all just a dream after all. He was sure he should have felt some queasiness at that, but he didn't. Only the feeling like the world was a web bending and stretching forward as he walked and pushed through it, calm and collected and easier to keep a straight face with every passing step.

    He passed by the body site without a second glance. A woosh of blue… something burst out from the perfectly round pool he floated face-down in, and then sunk back, leaving behind not a single trace that anything had happened.

    Coming out of the Forbidden Forest was like walking through a curtain of rain onto open plains. The empty fields were swarming with small men carrying bundles of hay, the sounds of sickles and scythes ringing into stones, and mice carrying loads or grain and large cans of beer. Harry somehow managed to pay even them no mind, and Nicolas didn't either. He was with him again, but had he ever been gone? Harry wasn't sure.

    They reached the Hogsmeade cemetery. A man was coming out the iron gates, dressed like a yankey pauper with a backpack as raggedy as the rest of him. He smiled brightly and waved as they passed by. "Dun be so dull, everybody. Its more easy to make friends if you make pepul laff. I'm going to have lots of friends where I go. Please, if you get a chanse put some flowrs on Algernons grave in the bak yard…"

    The graveyard was empty, except for a hag digging graves, and there were no graves in the lone yard around the single crypt atop the hill when Harry passed by. He didn't go looking for any headstones of Algernons.

    He didn't go off the beaten path on return, but even the village was eerily quiet, the lampposts dark and shutters pulled down on the windows. It was ironic that it was here that Harry almost strayed.

    Nicolas broke off, turning his path closer to the edge of the street and knocked on the wall as he passed it. From inside came an answering laughter, then they were at the next and Nicolas knocked on that too. Then the next, and another, so Harry did the same on his side. Some were happy, some were grumpy, one produced the saddest wail Harry had heard all year. Each knock and answer left Harry feeling more like himself, though it seemed as if he'd never stopped, and the earth and air still felt like the world's heartbeat beneath his feet and its breath cool down his neck.

    I don't sound like this, Harry thought, barely remembering not to frown. But I will? Or I did, in those dreams. The question very belatedly occurred to him. What does make-believe about growing up have to do with divination? With all… this?

    Between one step and the next, Nicolas vanished.

    Harry didn't stumble, but only because his feet were moving on their own at this point. He was back at Hogwarts. He knocked on the gates and they opened silently and easily, welcoming back with open arms. It looked wonderful, sounded peaceful, smelled of dew and felt like home. Harry still didn't see more than one foot in front of him, but somehow he knew exactly where everything was.

    He was home again, but home seemed to want to show him some things too. It was very nice on its part, so Harry took the long way around. Hagrid's house blasted him with a wave of despair when he knocked it in passing. The previously empty stables were filled with strange, skeletal horses with snake-like features and bat-like wings. Two strangely familiar and solid-looking ghosts paced in front of the Whomping Willow while arguing with each other and a third that wasn't there. The lake was a window to some fantastical view of golden pyramids floating in space. He had no idea what to make of any of it anymore. Actually, he didn't know what most of the other bizarre things meant either.

    There's going to be war next year, Harry thought absently as he finally allowed himself to think of everything he'd seen and heard and how Nicolas' book explained it. But not here. Far away. The battle sounds were very far off into the forest. But then how did that… soldier make it to where I was? What did that mean? Who was he? What was he? What was that symbol on his forehead? What was that snake?

    Really, what did any of it mean? What was the vision in the sky? The images in the water? Who was that man coming out of the graveyard, was he even a vision or just some random bloke? What did a stupid man who didn't know where he was or where he was going even symbolise? It had to be Harry's imagination, though he didn't know his imagination was anywhere this creative, in a what the hell is wrong with him kind of way. Nicolas was going to laugh at him, Harry just knew it. And he'd do it all in private while teaching Harry the next useful thing because he was good and kind and went out of his way to make him feel like he mattered.

    At least the rest of the stuff made sense. Battle noise in the forest meant war, busy fields meant good harvest, empty cemetery meant few deaths. Harry thought of that one house. Should he warn them? But he hadn't seen any Grim, did that mean he was wrong? Would it do any good? It had wailed in grief when he knocked on it in passing, that meant death in the family, didn't it? Within a year. Everything he saw would happen in the next year.

    Harry blinked, only now realising he'd reached the doors and had come through the front gates instead of retracing his steps through the willow passage. What… How… Did it really happen?

    The castle doors were ahead of him, open wide in welcome already. There was no Ron or Hermione fretting over his absence. There was no Professor McGonagall waiting with thinned lips to take away fifty points and give him detention. What there was… was the certainty that Harry was back in Hogwarts without feeling like the Forbidden Forest or graveyard or Hogsmeade or any of those other places had been left behind. No farther than the corner of his eye.

    Harry blinked, ignored the phantasms teasing at the edge of his vision and kept walking. And when he passed through the entrance and the doors closed behind him, he knocked on the wall just to see what would happen.

    The Grand Staircase came to life with the light of torches.

    "Students out of bed~ students out of bed down the entrance corridor – why, it's Potty Wee Potter!"

    Harry knew the professors were all in their quarters. He knew the headmaster was sleeping. He knew Filch was moping in the Trophy Room. He knew the Trophy Room was currently on the other side of the castle on the third floor. It was like the Marauder's Map was in his head, the footsteps and names floating here and there. He was one with Hogwarts and Hogwarts was with him.

    "Oh, most think he's barking, the Potty wee lad, But some are more kindly and think he's just sad, But Peevesy knows better and says that he's mad —"

    Harry ignored Peeves all the way to the seventh floor.

    "Oooh, Crackpot's feeling snotty. What is it this time, my fine Potty friend? Hearing voices? Seeing visions? Speaking in --- tongues."

    Ser Cadogan's painting had changed to Harry and Malfoy dueling in front of the entire school. He passed it by just as Malfoy conjured a snake and Harry stupidly lowered his wand in favour of starting to hiss at it like a crazy person.

    "You did it, you smartsed me, wee Potter's the one, and Peeves gone all angry, Ickle firstie Out Of BOUNDS PAST MIDNI-"

    Prongs charged out of the wolfhound's painting and gored Peeves right as the poltergeist was about to jump literally in Harry's face.

    "Nooo, you did it, you bashed me, wee Potter's the one, and Peeves gone mouldy, I just wanted some fuuu-"

    Prongs drove Peeves across the hall and into the painting of roving animals that promptly chased Peeves outside the frame. Harry's walk got him to the next painting just in time to see Lily Potter tie the poltergeist to the largest of the almond trees with conjured chains. Harry would have stopped and who knows what might have happened if not for the wolfhound barking from the other wall. He managed to keep going without stumbling.

    The painting of the elephant showed Hagrid's chicken coop full of dead roosters. The painting of the roaring tiger instead had Ginny Weasley finger-painting on a wall in weirdly thick red ink. The hippo painting was replaced by a young Hagrid pleading with the Head Boy for the life of his pet monster. The monkey in a cage instead showed Hagrid shivering inside, sniffling tearfully. The wolfhound was in the painting right next to it, whining in soundless sympathy. Sinister, gangly demons hovered around them both, the sight enough to make Harry feel like he was freezing. They were almost close enough to slip through Hagrid's bars when Prongs swooped in again and chased them off with warm, brilliant light.

    Then Prongs came out of the painting, landed in Harry's path and shapeshifted into James Potter.

    Harry stumbled to a halt with a gasp. He felt like his eyes were about to pop out of his head.

    The world held its breath.

    James Potter turned away and walked back and forth in front of the bare wall three times.

    Harry breathed sharply as a door grew out of the stone.

    His father's spirit stood by the entrance, watching. Waiting.

    Harry hesitated.

    Then he walked forward like nothing was out of the ordinary and opened the door.

    Dad fell into step like Nicolas had and led the way without leading the way into an endless maze. Old things, new things, trunks and chests and cabinets stacked high enough to disappear into the darkness far above.

    On the first pass Harry was hard-pressed not to turn his head in every direction. On the second, a silk bag and a small silver chest were glowing with ectoplasmic traces of Dad's passage. By the third, Dad's steps had slowed, which meant Harry's had slowed to just enough that he could snatch the items as he passed. Dad gave no sign that he noticed, but on the fourth pass veered down a completely different way than any before.

    That was when Harry finally found out what it took to finally finish his Yearly Walk – the dreaded dead end.

    There was a delicate faceless bust there, with a tiara sitting on its head. It was beautiful. So beautiful that Harry couldn't resist the impulse to reach out and touch it.

    Dad's hand snapped out. It passed through his arm without any resistance, but the wash of cold snapped Harry out of it and made him stagger back, breathing hard, heart frantic with fear. What was that?

    Dad stood in front of him now, watching him. Then he jumped into the diadem.

    An unholy scream shattered the silence, a black cloud burst out of the coronet, and Harry fell to his knees when his scar erupted in the worst pain he had ever felt in his life. He felt like his brain was splitting open, like malice was a tangible thing slithering over his soul as the wraith dragged its way through the air right at him, looking into him to find everything he was afraid or ashamed of, all the way to that first memory he never remembered of his mother pleading and falling to a poison green light and Voldemort was in front of him, reaching-

    The wraith pulled back with a shriek, away into the grip of James Potter with an arm around its neck, away from the golden glow on Harry's skin and the white shimmer along his forearm where his wand glowed with the traces of Dad's ghostly passage, same as the silk bag and silver chest scattered across the floor.

    Harry blinked between one and the next, swaying woozily. "… Wingardium Leviosa." The silk bag lifted off the floor and drunkenly swallowed the tiara. The wraith shrieked as it lost its form. "Wingardium Leviosa." The diadem-in-a-bag dropped inside the lockbox, which he promptly snapped shut. The wraith vanished along with the fear and the darkness.

    Harry collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath as his head pounded and something warm and wet dripped down his forehead to his eyes and nose until he tasted blood. He laid there until… he didn't know. He didn't know how long he was sprawled on the ground in that room that had grown out of the wall.

    There was a chandelier on the ceiling now, dispelling the chamber's gloom. The light was suddenly blocked by Dad learning over him. He didn't look like a ghost at all.

    Harry swallowed and struggled to sit up. Then he froze when he saw his wand held in his father's grasp. When had he dropped it? Wait, how was he holding it? Was... Was he...?

    James Potter looked from his face to the wand and back, tapping it against his palm exactly like Harry imagined a Dad might do when he was about to take his kid's stupidity out of his hide.

    Then his hand moved almost too fast to see. A burst of light shot from the wand at Harry's head. Harry flinched before he could realise he hadn't felt anything. His head snapped back up to glare at Dad accusingly.

    James Potter smirked down at him, dropped the wand to clatter on the floor and... vanished.

    Hogwarts faded from Harry's mind then, until he once more saw, heard, felt, smelled and touched no more than a boy could.

    Harry scrambled for his wand and clutched it to his chest like someone who'd just escaped death. He was never going to drop his wand ever again until he was dead.

    The Room of Hidden Things creaked around him with the sounds of a hundred swaying towers of boxes, trunks and chest full of lost and found spanning hundreds of years all the way back to the castle's founding.

    Harry returned his wand to its holster, wiped the blood off his face with a tea cosy, and spent a few minutes building up his courage to pick up the silver chest. He picked it up. Nothing happened. Suddenly he realized he was exhausted and would probably collapse where he stood if he stopped to think about it.

    He set off back through the winding maze. He didn't know where he was going, but the Room did. Soon he was back at the entrance. Then out of it. He clutched the silver box to his chest while looking around dazedly. The corridor was back to normal. The paintings were back to normal. Hogwarts was back to normal. Harry was back to normal.

    There were no thoughts in his head. His mind was empty.

    He stared down at the silver lockbox containing a silk bag containing a silver diadem containing… a Koschei the Deathless phylactery knockoff? What?

    What the bloody hell was he supposed to do with any of this?

    He stood there until his legs were about to give out.

    Then he walked back and forth three times thinking I need a place to stash this thing until my brain starts working again.

    A door grew out of the wall. There was a… set of rooms inside? He didn't really look at any of it, just the glass case on the far wall. He dragged his feet over and locked the box inside before leaving.

    Miraculously, he made it to his room without anyone, man, beast, portrait or vanished poltergeist being the wiser.

    He stopped in the doorway, staring at Ron's bed.

    Then he blinked and pointedly went to bed. He was done trying to see things he hadn't a hope of understanding anymore today.

    He'd figure out why Ron's rat was possessed by a ghost in the morning.
     
    Last edited: Mar 12, 2024
  3. Threadmarks: Chapter 2: Enemies of the Hair, Beware
    Karmic Acumen

    Karmic Acumen The long-suffering one

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    Chapter 2: Enemies of the Hair, Beware

    "-. October 26, 1992 .-"
    Harry slept in the next morning, which was not good as it was a Monday. Ron had to wake him up a second time after breakfast (Harry didn't remember the first), then a bleary Boy-Who-Lived was promptly distracted from the confounding sight of the Scabbers-possessing ghost.

    "Mate, what happened to you?" Ron asked. "Was it the twins?"

    "What?"

    "Your hair, mate."

    "What?"

    Harry stumbled to the loo and stared at his reflection. His hair was red. Like his Mum's. No, even redder. Except just as much of a mess as before. It looked like an explosion had gone off.

    Dad did this, Harry thought numbly. Then he was everything but numb. Holy shit, Dad did this – I met my Dad!

    The crazy laughter that took a hold of him made Harry forget about the Curse of the Scabbers Man-Ghost and his classmates looked at him like he was nuts for the rest of the morning.

    "Come on, Mate, relax, it's not so bad," Ron awkwardly reassured him when Harry finished laughing and went back to looking like he'd seen a ghost, which he had. "Tell him, Neville."

    "Harry, why's your hair red?"

    Ron groaned. "That new wand's only made you more useless. Come on, Harry, the twins have a free period so they should still be swindling people down in the Common Room, we'll make them take it off before Charms."

    Fred and George were indeed in the common room. They denied spelling Harry's hair though, and people even started to believe them when nobody up to the seventh years managed to reverse the change.

    "Finite!" "Finite Incantatum!" "Colovaria!" "Colovaria Reverso!" "Blimey, that's some stubborn spellwork, Potter. This calls for experimentation!"

    Thanks a lot, Dad, Harry thought dismally as he and Ron ran late for Charms. Now everyone wants to use me as a guinea pig. Apparently, his Dad could use even stuff his son didn't necessarily mind to throw his life into chaos. At least you didn't give me freckles. Harry stumbled. That's not an invitation!

    Professor Flitwick failed to undo it. Professor Lockhart accidentally made his scalp break out in hives instead. Harry spent the rest of DADA and his free period in the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey failed to reverse the change too, eventually giving up and sending him off with a jar of boil-removing paste to mix with his shampoo. That made his boils go away but his hair still insisted on looking like a bright cherry.

    He bemoaned his fate long and woefully in the what-did-all-of-last-night-even-mean letter he sent Nicolas that evening, but he felt completely justified when his condition showed no sign of fading the next day. Or the day after that. Looked like this was one of those Marauder pranks made to last a while.

    Oh well, it's not so bad, Harry told himself. I can live with looking a bit more like Mum for a while. Even without the black hair, I'm still Dad's spitting image.

    Unfortunately, Harry reached that decision only after Hagrid gave him a pep-talk. On Wednesday. Just before Potions class.

    "Potter!' Snape barked in outrage the moment he laid eyes on him. "What is the meaning of this?"

    Here we go. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir." It was even true, so-

    "Five points from Griffindor for your insolence! Ten more for failing to seek help with this unsightly display!" Where was this outrage the last few days during meals? "Finite Incantatem!" Nothing happened. "Oh, not the typical two-bit spellwork, found help from that pair of devils, did you Potter? Colovaria!"

    Snape's wand turned Gryffindor red.

    The class turned silent as the grave.

    "POTTER!" Snape hollered. Literally hollered, flying spittle and everything. "You think this is funny, boy!?" But Harry didn't mean to snicker, it's just- "Fifty points from Gryffindor!"

    Harry gaped in outrage. He couldn't do that! "You can't just-!"

    "Not another word or you'll be in detention by the time you turn thirty! Ten more points for presuming to command Hogwarts staff!"

    If I ever drop my wand again I'll deserve what happens.

    Snape's puce-colored face spasmed hideously one last time before the greasy git forcefully averted his eyes and stalked back to the front of the class. "I'll admit, Potter. I underestimated you. I did not think your mind capable of such targeted mockery."

    Bugger you, Harry seethed. What the hell crawled up your shorts?

    "And what are you all doing standing about? Get to work!"

    Thanks a lot Dad, Harry thought glumly. This isn't a prank on me, it's a prank on Snape!

    The only bright spot in that week when even Ron and Hermione were starting to give him a wide berth (how could they?) was when Eudaimon finally delivered Nicolas' return letter.



    To my overachieving student who is far too short and skinny and is therefore commanded to follow the meal guide I transfigured this letter out of unless you have some heretofore unknown allergy to eggs and milk and meat,

    I will preface this by saying I have focused only on the sights as described by you – while we walked the same path, we did not both see and do all the same things. Not all of them were visions either, as opposed to actual events happening in the various worlds and dimensions that bled through each other and ours, but that is another matter.

    First off, you are right to be sceptical about the 'dwarves' you saw. Those creatures are not dwarves, they are imps. The dvergal are mighty, noble beings that left this world long ago, before the last deluge, before the war against the void pretenders sunk Atlantis beneath the sea, before even the gods left our plane and planet.

    The golden apple trees in the pools sound remarkably like Trees of Life, saplings of the World Tree Yggdrasil. Its physical manifestation occurs very rarely on Mount Kogaion, but saplings have been grown at various times in various places, notably Richat, Asgard, and in the Labyrinth of the Gods in Greece. The red flower-like 'jelly' sounds like ambrosia. I am not sure why you saw these things, seeing as they were consumed or destroyed in the chaos that led to the collapse of the Bronze Age.

    The simpleton coming out of the cemetery was an apparition, but I was able to snag a trace of ectoplasm off him as he passed by. My scryings point towards one Charles Gordon, a muggle yankee who vanished off the face of the earth in 1965. And I do mean vanished, there seems to be no trace of him for magic to track after his disappearance on July 28 that year. It is literally like he disappeared from existence, which admittedly has roused my interest. I am looking into more mundane means, the man did not live so long ago that he wouldn't be survived by some family or acquaintance. I will keep you informed.

    The man you saw mauled to death I'm less certain of. He seemed like a warrior or soldier, but his weapon and garb are unfamiliar to me. Without a clear idea of the symbol on his forehead, I can only speculate. The body-snatching snake is the more concerning thing, as it behaved worryingly like the void pretenders I mentioned earlier. But I know of no account where they burst out of people's bellies, let alone live such base lives as roundworms. And if they were to suddenly return, let alone start a war on this planet this very year, it is an event of such scope that shadows would have been cast long into the past. I and others would have seen signs and visions of it decades ago, and the backdoor they might have used for more subtle infiltration was thrown into the sun millennia past. The pyramids floating in space that you saw in the Hogwarts Lake could potentially be their own an argument, but the pyramid is such a basic and useful shape that literally anyone is liable to adopt it for anything and everything, void-bound or otherwise.

    The events inside Hogwarts are of more immediate concern. The sheer level of response on the part of the Genius Loci is remarkable. I believe this affinity will serve you well even beyond the scope of the Walk itself. However, that you stumbled upon a phylactery, let alone one that made your scar split open before it literally attacked you, is nothing short of alarming. In light of the events of last year – which I will fill in the blanks for next time we meet in person – I think it goes without saying that it must belong to Tom Riddle. Since you managed to secure it, however, I am reluctant to advise its immediate disposal. Not only do you lack the means, but finding out exactly why you reacted the way you did takes precedence over knee-jerk reactions. You should not have been incapacitated, let alone in so gruesome a manner. However, I will not presume to make decisions for you, nor expect you to wait on me when you have Albus and the entire Hogwarts staff on hand. The same goes for the mystery of the haunted rat. The one with first-hand intelligence will do as he thinks right.

    Finally, the crystal sphere has me stumped. Astronomical calculations relative to even the largest estimate for the impacting object indicate a diameter greater than our solar system's entire heliosphere. That is assuming the 'rainbow gas' behaves anything like the void at all, which it most likely doesn't seeing as it literally caught fire. The other objects and events are only more baffling, the symbolism is all over the place. I fear this is one mystery that will rely a great deal on luck to solve. Or perhaps further insight will reveal itself as you reprise the Walk in the future.

    Speaking of which, having witnessed you become such an overachiever, I expect you to observe the Yearly Walk through all of its seven consecutive years. Moreover, having read of everything I didn't get to witness but believe every word of because you are a good and honest lad, I sincerely hope you go past that and round it up at nine.

    I am very proud of you, little one.

    ~Love, Nicolas.



    "Love, Nicolas," Harry murmured, reading the words over and over while huddled behind the curtains of his bed. I am proud of you. The words kept repeating in his mind. Harry sniffled and quietly wiped at his eyes. He'd leave the tiara for later, he decided. Actually, everything except his schoolwork and friends could take a break from him too.

    Dear Nicolas,

    Thanks for all your help. And for being there. And everything. I have no idea what to do with any of this, but thank you.

    Were you serious that we'll meet again? Will it be soon? Because I think I should hold off on the crown thing until then, that thing was nasty and I don't think Dad will come back from the grave to wrestle it a second time. It's pretty safe where it is. I'll definitely tell the Headmaster, but I don't think it's such a good idea to go up to him and say I found Voldemort's phylactery. Wouldn't I sound like a nutter? Why would Voldemort make a phylactery and then leave it in Hogwarts? It's crazy.

    You think you could be there for it? The last time the three of us went volunteering important information, nobody believed us.

    All year.

    Love, Harry.

    There. That didn't make him sound too needy, right? Even if he was totally waffling and really just wanted to meet Mister Flamel so he could touch him and make sure he was real.

    Harry blew his nose and set about reading Nicolas' put-some-meat-on-your-bones guide, already vowing to do everything it said.

    Hilariously, 'everything it said' added up to nearly the same amount of food Ron ate in one sitting. Oh well, attention was inevitable. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, he'd never be allowed to change without everyone and their head of house giving him the side eye.

    Unfortunately, Harry underestimated just how close he was to the end of his temper when Fake Halloween came along. Ironically, being annoyed at his Dad made the anniversary of his parents' death slightly more bearable than the previous year. Unfortunately, he couldn't be at the feast because he'd promised to attend Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party. It was every bit the opposite of what he'd hoped. Somehow, he'd neglected to consider that Cuthbert Binns might not be the only disappointing ghost at Hogwarts. And beyond, it turned out. To say nothing of the ambiance.

    Chilly hall, cobwebbed walls, rotten food because apparently the only way ghosts got even a vague impression of taste was when the food was as dead as they were. The only redeeming feature of the 'party' were the severely underequipped chandeliers, because they made it so the only light in the ballroom was the one from the Hogwarts ghosts themselves. That, if nothing else, was properly phantasmic. It still didn't change the fact that the whole event was so dismal and dreary that not just Ron but also Hermione were sending him meaningful looks and inching towards the door.

    Harry might still have kept a stiff upper lip and gotten some mileage out of the ordeal through his talks with the ghosts, because their stories, if nothing else, were quite interesting. But then Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore and his Headless Hunt crashed the party and déjà vu made its unwelcome self known once more.

    "Nick!" roared the party crasher. "How are you? Head still hanging there?" He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless Nick on the shoulder.

    "Welcome, Patrick," said Nick stiffly. But did not invite him to partake of the… offerings.

    "Live 'uns!" said Sir Patrick, spotting Harry, Hermione and Ron and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment so that his head fell off again. The crowd howled with laughter.

    "Very amusing," said Nick darkly.

    "Don't mind Nick!" shouted Sir Patrick's head from the floor. "Still upset we won't let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say… look at the fellow…"

    "Says the talking head," Harry said flatly, jarring the entire routine. He turned to Nick. "Did you invite this… qvasimodo?"

    "Qvasimodo!?" Balked the head on the floor.

    "No I did not," Nick said.

    "So he's not here as a guest," Harry said, knocking on the wall to see if... He felt Hogwarts stir around him familiarly, though slow and lumbering compared to before. Like… like it was sleepy. "He's an intruder."

    "An excellent point!" Boasted Sir Patrick's head while his body faced Sir Nicholas. "Won't you invite us to your revelry, old boy? It is only proper!"

    Nick said nothing.

    "Ah, but what would be the point of that tonight?" Sir Patrick's head sniffed loftily as his body finally retrieved him from the floor. "This is the Night of Hallows! No walls or boundaries or claims matter tonight, living or dead!"

    So even ghosts could be ignorant of reality. "No it's not." The memory of the Yearly Walk came to life at the back of his mind and Harry Potter realised he knew what his Mum had done to the poltergeist. He'd known since the moment it happened. He just hadn't known to think about it. Like... Like a memory from a dream he didn't recall until it happened in real life.

    Sir Patrick floundered. "I beg your pardon?"

    "It's not the night of Hallows." Harry said slowly as if talking to a complete dunce, because he might be feeling a bit bloody offended on Sir Nick's behalf right now. "That was last Sunday."

    Ron and Hermione exchanged confused whispers, but the huge, black-armored knight, who was the only headless hunter who didn't have his head with him, separated from the rest of Patrick's posse and landed between Sir Patrick and Sir Nicholas, facing the former with arms crossed.

    Patrick looked shocked.

    That was all the distraction Harry needed to snap his wand out of its holster and swish and jab- "Phantasma Claudo!" A pale white chain burst out of Harry's wand, shooting across the room to smack the ghost in the chest, where it promptly split into four off-shoots that instantly wrapped around and through him.

    "Ah!"

    Harry flicked his wrist and sent the interloper flying. "Laqueus exspiravit." Ectoplasm burst out of Harry's wand, turning into a glowing net of chains that plastered Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore and his head to the far wall, bound and gagged.

    Harry lowered his wand, looking at his fine work. "Huh. Didn't think that would work." Thanks Hogwarts.

    Hogwarts thrummed at the back of his mind and withdrew with one last scan of its new incorporeal ornament. It felt… definitely sleepy. Best not poke at it too much in the future then, Harry would hate to have his sleep constantly messed with too. Besides, how much longer must places sleep compared to people?

    The Headless Hunt's lone dissenter drifted over. Even headless, the black knight towered over him. The headless horseman then… poked him in the eye.

    "Ouch, cold! Ugh, there's ectoplasm in my eye!" Harry took off his glasses to rub at his eyes. There was a lot of skurge charm in his near future, lovely, and the headless horseman was gone now so he couldn't even complain about it. Harry paused when he put his glasses back on though. There was stuff on his right lens. More ectoplasm. Ectoplasm that spelled words. The Blessed Crow keeps vigil under the White Hill. Harry blinked in confusion, then realized his surroundings had become conspicuously quiet.

    Everyone was staring at him.

    … Shite, he'd just done necromancy, hadn't he? "Sorry, Ron, Hermione, I don't think we'll be making it to the pies. We'll have to hope Fred and George smuggled some into Gryffindor Tower."

    "-. October 31, 1992 .-"
    His distraction worked terribly. Not only did Ron and Hermione not take him up on the transparent attempt to pretend the scene they'd just seen had never happened, his friends both moved to one side of him and kept stubbornly quiet while glancing at each other all the way to Gryffindor Tower. Even more unfortunately, the twins weren't around to bargain treats out of, so no easy distraction from that corner either. Harry was about to head for the unoccupied seats closest to the fireplace when Ron and Hermione very pointedly bracketed him, and marched him upstairs to the second year boys' dormitory and shut the door behind them.

    "Harry," Hermione said decisively while Ron crossed his arms next to her. "We're staging an intervention."

    "A what?"

    "You've been avoiding us," Hermione said as if he hadn't spoken. "You've started wandering around the castle by yourself, you'll only research things that have nothing to do with our lessons, you've been getting more and more distracted in classes, you've even started to eat like Ron-"

    "It's freaky, mate!"

    "- but you've been running ahead of everyone else on practicals and somehow keep pulling powerful spells out of nowhere. First the Patronus charm, and now… whatever that was! Harry, since when have you known magic that can affect ghosts? It's… That's…"

    "It's soul magic, mate," Ron said hesitantly. "Do you know what that means? Hogwarts doesn't teach it, I don't know if there's stuff about it in the restricted section even. We're lucky no other students saw, but what if the ghosts blab? Which they will!"

    "Harry," Hermione said cautiously. "This is bad."

    Thanks a lot, Hermione, it's not like he already knew that or anything.

    "Harry. Mate," Ron hesitated. "Do you have something to tell us?"

    No, Ron, I don't because everybody only ever wants to know everything but they never actually tell me anything! Harry rubbed his face and turned away so he wouldn't explode at them. Why did they have to interrogate him? Did he have to share everything? Wasn't he allowed to keep anything to himself? So he had stuff to deal with, big bloody deal, everyone did! He'd done nothing wrong. There was nothing anyone could say to convince him otherwise. There was…

    There was a ghost possessing Scabbers.

    "Harry, I promise we're not trying to interrogate you," Hermione vowed.

    There was a ghost possessing Scabbers at it was watching them.

    "Really, we're not," Ron hastened to agree. "We're just worried. It's what friends do you know!"

    There was a ghost possessing Scabbers at it was watching them from Ron's bed.

    "Harry," Hermione said slowly. "Does this have anything to do with those letters you've-"

    Harry raised a hand. He hadn't expected to be cornered today, especially about something he was always going to ask Nicolas to share with them anyway, but if it was going to happen. "If we're going to have this talk, we can at least do it in private. Sorry, Mr. Ghost."

    "Harry, what-"

    "Phantasma Claudo." Swish and jab and a pale white chain burst from Harry's wand and wrapped around the ghost on Ron's bed so if he just yanked-

    Scabbers lurched off the bed and transformed mid-squeak into a rat-faced man that – SMASH! – crashed onto the floor of the dormitory in a tangle of sheets and bed curtains.

    Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley stared in shock at the very human being that was groaning in pain on the floor. They stared even more as the person dazedly climbed to the floor and looked around in confusion. Confusion that vanished almost too quickly and-

    "Bloody hell!" Ron burst. "Who the bloody hell are you!?"

    The Rat-Faced man stared blankly between the three of them and settled his unsettling beady eyes on Harry for several long, tense moments.

    Then he lunged through Ron and Hermione and was out the door before they had finished crashing to the floor in his wake.

    "Oh-ow!" "Ooof!"

    Harry didn't think. He took off after him. "Wait! Stop!" He barely stopped the door from smashing in his face. "STOP! Where are- PHANTASMA CLAUDO!" He nailed the re-transformed rat's uglier ghost half just before it jumped down the stairs, causing the rat to shift mid-leap and lose his footing.

    THUD – THUD – SMASH!

    Rat Face rolled down the stairs and came to a groaning stop at the feet of Peter James who froze mid-way through his practice swish of the warming charm.

    Harry came to a stumbling halt at the top of the winding mahogany staircase, startled to see that the entirety of Gryffindor House seemed to have appeared in the Common room sometime in the past few minutes, but Rat Face was recovering shockingly quickly, what does he do, what does he do now, if one spell worked would the latter do anything- "LAQUEUS EXSPIRAVIT!"

    The blob of ectoplasm splattered over the man's back and quickly wrapped him up in a ghostly net. Unfortunately, the man proved too alive and solid to be at all impeded. He only jumped to his feet faster. "STOP HIM!" Harry yelled, not knowing what else to do. "Don't let him get away!"

    "That's him?" Someone cried, and what-?

    "Is that the one who petrified-look OUT!"

    Rat Face lunged and snatched Peter James's wand. "EVERTE!"

    Woosh – BOOM!

    Everyone between Rat Face and the door was blasted aside.

    Harry rushed down the stairs while the Gryffindors that were still on their feet finally reacted. "Expelliarmus!" "Colloportus!" "Colloshoo!"

    Rat Face ducked away from the disarmer – "Alohomora!" – left his shoes where they stuck and vanished through the portrait hole.

    Harry didn't stop. He shot out after him. "Stop right there – where are-?" He was gone - but his ecto-net wasn't-! "Levicorpus!"

    Fat Rat Face threw himself on the floor with a curse, but the dodge worked and he quickly pushed off and turned the corner towards the staircase.

    "No!" Harry ran faster, he couldn't let him get away- "St-OOF!" Harry turned the corner only to slip on a frozen puddle that hadn't existed and smash into the opposite wall. "Owww- no, wait! Lumos." Harry cast a light on the tip of his wand and ran.

    Harry was about to despair – Rat Face had already reached the staircase, he was a stone's throw from the ground floor! – but though Hogwarts was asleep, it must dream a mean dream because they ended up on the seventh floor of the castle instead.

    "Periculum! Melofors! Obscu-WHOA!" Rat Face ignored the fireworks, silently dispelled the pumpkin head jinx and caught Harry with a tripping jinx just as he cleared the top steps.

    "Ugh!" Harry fell and got up with a snarl. His lungs were burning but he couldn't rest, if he stopped for even a moment he-

    "Levicorpus."

    Harry skid around the corner right in the spellbolt and was promptly yanked upside down by the foot. "Wha-no, no, Fini-"

    "Expelliarmus."

    Harry's wand flew out of his hand and into his.

    "No, help HELP, HE'S ON THE SEV-"

    "Silencio!"

    Shite.

    But the Fat Rat just stared at him weirdly before turning his back and scurrying off to… to the portrait of Godric Gryffindor, what-

    "Starshine."

    Nothing happened.

    "Starshine!" Rat Face hissed at the portrait.

    Godric Gryffindor was unimpressed.

    Rat Face snarled, swiped his wand in Harry's direction "Incarcerous!" and yanked Harry right out of the air even before the ropes wrapped around him. The man caught him in his rough, gnarly, clawed hand and dragged him to stand in front of the portrait and this was the worst time to get a déjà vu-

    "Now you listen to me, Harry dear," Rat Face said in a hideous parody of Missus Weasley mixed with Uncle Vernon. "Any funny business and it'll be your hide. Starshine. When I take off the silencer, you'll say Starshine and nothing else. Got it?"

    Harry nodded quickly.

    "Finite."

    "HELP HEL-!"

    SMACK

    Harry fell to the floor, his face smarting with a rapidly forming bruise. He tried another scream but he'd been silenced again. He moaned soundlessly as Rat Face hauled him back to his feet and pressed the tip of his own wand to his neck. "You get one more shot. Be grateful. It's more than anyone ever gave me. Finite."

    Harry stayed stubbornly silent.

    "Starshine, say it."

    Harry stared in Gryffindor's eyes, not saying a thing.

    Rat Face pressed the wand deeper, then snarled and threw it away, pulled out the other one he stole and hot hot IT BURNS NO STOP-

    "FLIPPENDO!" "DEPRIMO!"

    Rat Face threw Harry at the first spell, dodged the second -

    "Slugulus Eructo!" Came Fred's voice. "Ducklifors!" Came George. "Everte Statum!" "Protego!" "Incarcerous!" "Entomorphis!"

    "Protego – Deprimo – REDUCTO!"

    An armor shattered somewhere, but Harry didn't hear it over the pounding in his head, he'd smacked his head on the floor and didn't have ears for the chaos around him because he hurt and it burned and his face was throbbing and he could smell pork-

    Godric Gryffindor took off his pristine red hat and threw it right at him.

    The Sorting Hat dropped on Harry's Head with a startled curse. "What the – where am I? How did I get here?"

    "Ducklifors!" "Repulso!"

    "Protego – EXPULSO!"

    "YIKES!"

    Rat Man's spell blew up the armor Fred was hiding behind.

    "Potter!" Hissed the Hat. "Can you move?"

    Harry did his best to focus and nodded.

    "You need to get me near your hands. On three, swing your head as hard as you can backwards. One, two, three!"

    Harry threw his head back as hard as he could, then barely managed not to pass out from the stars swimming in front of him.

    "Now, Potter, reach inside me. Hurry!"

    Harry groaned but managed to roll on his side and squirm backwards until he found the hem and finger-crawled his way inside for – was that a knife?

    "That's right, Potter, I knew you could do it, true Gryffindor you are, the truest Gryffindor there is, now cut those ropes!"

    Harry plucked at the handle with his fingers until he finally reached the blade and started rubbing the ropes against the edge.

    "Obscuro!" "Reducto!"

    "LACARNUM INFLAMARE!"

    A giant fireball flew from Rat Man's stolen wand and caught both twins in the edge of its blast.

    "ACK! "OGH – PROTEGO!"

    Harry's bonds snapped.

    "REDUCTO!"

    Fred managed to shield.

    "STUPEFY!"

    George didn't. He flew into the wall and crashed to the ground, still.

    Harry rolled over with a groan and stared in shock at what he was seeing.

    "Stupefy!"

    "Protego!" Fred gasped.

    The clash of spells rang hollowly against the walls.

    "I really didn't want to do this," Rat Man whined, then his voice twisted hideously. "Crucio!"

    "AaaaAAAAAGH!"

    Harry grabbed the hilt, pulled the Sword of Gryffindor out of the Hat and swung it down with all his might.

    "AAAAAAAAGH!"

    The Rat-Faced Man fell back and down as his hand flew off in a violent spray of blood.

    Harry stumbled, wiping at the blood splatter that had blinded him. The world spun around him even with his eyes closed, he felt like just one gasp away from vomiting, and the scream drowned out everything, George's silence, Fred's whimpers, everything but Harry's own heartbeat and the pain.

    "F-Fereul-aagh," Rat Face whimpered as some spell or other sputtered despite that he'd just lost his wand with his hand. "Agh," Rat Face whimpered. "Ah, oh… m-master-" What? "Master, forgive me for I am about to sin, but I have no choice."

    Harry managed to wipe the blood from his eyes just in time to see the Rat Man holding a third wand, pale and dreadfully familiar and aimed to Harry's right.

    At Fred.

    "Avada Kedavra!"

    Harry didn't think. He jumped in the curse's path.

    The world slowed to a crawl.

    "Your bravery is my own," Spoke Godric Gryffindor with his hands laid gently over his as the world almost stopped. "But your technique is not. Observe and learn now the Long Tail Guard of the Dragon." Harry's feet firmed, his back straightened and his arms moved on their own.

    The Sword of Gryffindor cut the Death Curse in half.

    The world exploded. The air blasted out with a gong. The sword flew from his hands and embedded itself in the wall tip-first, ringing sharply, its rubies gone from red to green. And Harry Potter flew back and fell to the ground, rolling to a stop on top of a hard stick he belatedly recognised as his wand.

    He managed to stumble back to his feet at the same time as the Rat Man. Then he just stood there, his mind too blown to muster any thoughts anymore.

    Across from him, the Rat Man stared back just as dumbstruck and something that looked bizarrely like terror.

    Harry's wand moved his arm on its own.

    "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

    "EXPELLIARMUS!"

    The spells met in the middle, two beams of green and red, and Harry heard the barest echo of the most beautiful sound in the world before his spell overpowered Rat Man's and the strongest force of magic Harry Potter had ever mustered slammed the other full in the chest.

    Rat Man crashed into the wall with a sickening crunch, fell down and didn't come up again.

    Harry fell to his knees, clutching his wand and trembling in place, his breaths fast and short, his lungs unable to fill no matter how hard he pulled in.

    The Hogwarts staff finally arrived minutes later, to the sight of George Weasley unconscious, Fred Weasley trembling in agony, and a bruised and beaten Harry Potter sobbing on his knees in relief.
     
    Last edited: Sep 26, 2022
  4. Threadmarks: Chapter 3: Breaking and Entering Is the Best Metaphor
    Karmic Acumen

    Karmic Acumen The long-suffering one

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    A/N: Harry finds out what other parties have been up to.

    He also experiences what happens when potions mix up with accidental magic.

    Also, image resize scripts seem to be borked, so enjoy the huge close-up I guess.


    [​IMG]
    "-. October 31, 1992 .-"
    Harry remembered the aftermath vaguely, even though he was hyperaware while it was happening. Half the professors sputtered in outrage, the other half fretted in concern, the Headmaster took charge of the Rat Man, and Professor McGonagall looked like she'd seen a ghost when she and Professor Flitwick led Harry to the hospital wing with Fred and George floating after them.

    Madam Pomfrey slathered his face in bruise-removing balm, covered him in gauze and bandages, and gave him a calming draught that made him feel a lot less horrid, but then she had to devote herself fully to the twins. George was just tired and scuffed from the bad fall. Apparently, stunners didn't throw people across the room, they just made them faint. It was just George's luck that he was mid-run when it happened. Fred, though, was the worst off. Even with the short exposure, Madam Pomfrey had put him to sleep and was checking every inch of him over to make sure he didn't need a nerve-regrowth potion. The Cruciatus curse was seriously bad news.

    That was about when Ron and Hermione rushed into the hospital wing.

    "Harry, are you alright?" Hermione asked in a rush. "What am I saying, of course you're not, you're in the hospital wing again!"

    "They locked us in!" Ron hissed, looking around as if he thought someone would come to throw them in jail any moment. "They wouldn't let us help, they boxed us in the Common Room and locked the door, even changed the password! Bloody Perfect Percy, always with the good ideas no matter who they put in the hospital – George? The heck are you doing in a hospital bed?"

    Harry flatly and factually summarised the situation. He was thinking a lot more clearly now. Must be the potion.

    Hermione gaped and Ron blanched. "Fred was Crucioed?" He stared at the divider behind which Madam Pomfrey was hard at work. "What? When? Who was that guy?"

    "Peter Pettigrew," George said from the other bed, voice low. "Least that's what the Map called him."

    "Peter Pettigrew," Harry repeated flatly, his mind flashing back to all their research of that night. "As in my parents' friend Peter Pettigrew. 'The man who was supposedly killed by Sirius Black' Peter Pettigrew. Peter Pettigrew the-"

    "Marauder, aye," George grunted, reaching for the bedside counter. "Wormtail Peter. It's sparked a total mess of an argument. Take a look."

    George's weak throw ended with the map on the floor. Ron had to dig under the bed for it and hand it on. Harry took it and opened it. The ink-art of Hogwarts was ripped and bloated while a stag, a rat, a dog and a wolf were falling over each other in a veritable storm of disbelieving and angry speech bubbles.

    "Well, at least you're not petrified," Hermione said, though she didn't sound altogether convinced that was a bright side here.

    "Petrified?" Harry asked in confusion. "Was I supposed to be?" Come to think of it, there was that one upper-year that shouted-

    "We only just found out too, Harry, Filch's cat has been petrified. She was found near the second floor girl's lavatory, hung from a sconce. There was a message left behind too, written in blood on the wall."

    "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware." Ron murmured, looking warily at Madam Pomfrey's shadow on the divider. "It happened while we were at Nick's party. And since we weren't with the rest of the school when the feast broke up, we're the main suspects."

    "Or we were," Hermione valiantly tried to appease Ron's sour face. "But it's abundantly clear now that we weren't responsible."

    Harry didn't say anything about the… probably wrong conclusion. He was too busy being very unnaturally calm while remembering his vision about Ron's sister finger-painting in very thick red 'ink.'

    Noises from the entrance made Harry quickly fold up the parchment and pass it back through Ron to George, who deactivated it with a quick Mischief Managed and hid it under his pillow.

    It was the Hogwarts staff accompanied by the rest of the Weasleys, including Arthur and Molly. They descended on the twins in a veritable storm of anxious mothering. They put more than a token effort to include Harry in it too, even if it only made Harry feel jealous at not having a bedside somebody of his own. Thankfully, the calming drought deadened the feelings.

    "Harry," Dumbledore said when the Weasley huddle was properly clustered around the twins. "I want to know if you're ready to answer questions. Many grave things are unravelling tonight. It grieves me to ask for more of you so soon, but experience has taught me it never serves to let such things lie."

    Harry blinked, raising his head to meet the headmaster's gaze, trying to discern the expression of the eyes behind the half-moon spectacles. Dumbledore's light-blue gaze twinkled, making Harry feel as though he were being X-rayed. Like when he was being watched, except ten times stronger and right in his face. He blinked hard and averted his gaze. The feeling disappeared.

    Harry's bruise throbbed. The inside of this head seemed to be in disarray, as though his brain had just been rattled along with the rest of him by an earthquake. The loving hustle of the Weasley family seemed very far away. Hermione was next to him, earnestly meeting Dumbledore's gaze.

    Finding a trustworthy teacher that will not abuse the privilege of seeing your deepest self is the tallest order.

    The calming draught felt like cotton around his brain. Harry leaned into it. If he didn't, he would scream.

    The one with first-hand intelligence will do as he thinks right.

    "I want to talk to Hermione a bit first, sir."

    The silence hung between them a moment too long. "Very well Harry, but please hurry. There are others vying for your attention and I can keep them away only so long."

    Harry waited for the headmaster to walk to the door. Then he slid out of bed and stood between him and Hermione, not entirely faking the need to wait for his dizzy spell to go away. "Hermione," he whispered just loud enough for Ron to hear too, even though he was understandably focused on his brothers. "Dumbledore reads minds through eye contact."

    Hermione gaped.

    Harry's hand snapped up to cover her mouth before she exploded like she was clearly about to. "I didn't realise until just now." He carefully withdrew his hand and dropped it when Hermione didn't burst with her million questions. "We'll talk. Soon. All three of us. But right now I need you to do something for me. This is important, Hermione, please."

    "Alright Harry," Hermione said worriedly, making to look around Harry to Dumbledore and stopping half-way. "What do you need?"

    "Back in the dorm. In my bed, hanging off the top frame is a glass globe. I need you to break it."

    Hermione's eyes widened. "What, why?"

    "Hermione," Harry clenched both his fists and his teeth. "I can't explain anything right now. I just need you to do it. Take it and smash it, throw it at the ground, I don't care, just make sure it's in pieces before I reach the Headmaster's office, please."

    "Alright, Harry, alright, I'll do it. Is there anything else I can do?"

    "No. Just do it fast."

    "Blimey!" Ron exclaimed hard enough to echo out in the corridor. "I forgot my wand in the common room! Mum, Dad, I gotta get it, it's dangerous to be without one right now!"

    Maybe Harry wasn't the only one grasping for freedom.

    "Oh Ronald," Mrs. Weasley sighed. "When will you stop forgetting every important thing?

    "I'll go with him," Arthur announced. "Come on, Ron."

    "I'll come with you!" Hermione called. "I'll see you later Harry. You should hurry, the Headmaster's waiting!"

    I could hug you both, Harry thought gratefully. Then he frowned with all the self-discernment of drug-induced peace. Why don't I ever do that anyway?

    "Harry?" Dumbledore called. "Are you ready?"

    I don't wanna. "I'm coming."

    The Hospital Wing was a tower accessible from the first floor, while the Headmaster's Office was its own tower on the other side of the castle accessed from the third floor. That meant that they didn't need to pass through the second floor if they took the Grand Staircase, which they did. But Dumbledore led him through the corridor where Filch's cat had been petrified anyway. Harry wouldn't pretend not to appreciate having his curiosity satisfied. The cat was gone, but the writing wasn't. Harry's footsteps splashed in the lingering puddle as they passed by, echoing dully in the hall. The water split ahead of Dumbledore though, not touching him at all.

    One day I'll be able to do that too.

    "Gobbledy Goobers," Dumbledore told the gargoyle, who jumped aside to let them pass.

    The calming potion was already working overtime.

    The spiral staircase spun on its own to raise them up to the office proper, where Dumbledore preceded Harry into the chamber. It was a large circular room with many bookshelves and delicate silver instruments on spindle-legged tables, puffing smoke and whirring. Portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames. High above, the ceiling was dominated by a slow winding orrery. And on a perch beside the door stood a bird with crimson feathers on its body, claws and a beak gleaming gold, black eyes, and a golden tail as long as a peacock's. The bird watched Harry with bright interest as he entered.

    "Ah yes, Harry, this is Fawkes, my familiar. You're lucky to see him looking so well, his burning day is coming so he'll be turning ragged and decrepit soon, rather like me really. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets."

    "I'm sure that's all very fascinating, Dumbledore," came the condescending voice of Lucius Malfoy from where he stood further in, because the office was far from empty. "But we should get back to the matter at hand, unless you still need time to come up with excuses for the madhouse you've allowed this school to turn into."

    In addition to Draco's older clone, there was Professor McGonagall, a woman wearing the biggest monocle Harry had ever seen, two aurors, and Snape lurking like a giant bat near the wall next to where Peter Pettigrew was tied unconscious to a chair. The people all turned to look at Harry the moment they saw him.

    "… Hello," Harry said. The calming potion seemed to be losing strength fast, so he turned his attention to the first thing he noticed that wasn't trying to make him feel like a bug under a microscope, which happened to be the fireplace. It was lit. The red and orange flames danced merrily, uncaring of the grave atmosphere in the room.

    "Harry Potter," murmured Malfoy Senior as if Harry hadn't been there to see him provoke Mr. Weasley into a fistfight just a month before. "The hero of the hour."

    Is he related to Snape?

    "Harry, allow me to introduce Madam Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and with her are aurors Gawain Robards and Rufus Scrimgeour. She's here to get your testimony of the night's events and then everything can go back to normal. And you know Lucius Malfoy of course. He's here today in his capacity as Chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors."

    Harry met the man's eyes before he thought better of it and blinked a few times even though he didn't feel anything from him, pretending exhaustion. Then he spotted who was hiding behind the man. A small, wrinkly, hunched over form. A floppy-eared thing wringing his hands, looking furtively away from him. Dobby the house elf. Harry's brain had never been more conflicted between 'that's cute' and 'get away from me.' It was like a green stop sign.

    I hate fake Halloween.

    "Come now, Harry," Dumbledore called for him to follow, pulling his wand with a wave that materialised a chair out of nowhere. "Here, sit."

    Harry quietly climbed into the chair that Dumbledore conjured. It was comfy. And in the middle of the room. Where everyone could stare at him. Harry didn't remember ever feeling so small and ganged up on. He's messing with me, right? Even during Harry Hunting he could at least run away. It didn't always work, but at least he had the option.

    Madam Bones stepped forward. "Mister Pot-"

    The blaze flared. The fireplace doubled in height. The flames burst up. They turned from red to green.

    Malfoy scowled. "Expecting someone else, Dumbledore?"

    "Not to my-" The fire turned from green to gold. "- Ah. I believe I know who it might be, though I couldn't speculate on the why."

    Sparks flew out of the flames to flick all through the room, alighting on shelves, tables and clothes without going out or catching fire. They're not sparks, Harry realised when one of them managed to somehow miss everyone to land on his sleeve. It's a golden flake of... something.

    With a final surge that made the golden flames shimmer violet, Nicolas Flamel stepped forth in a billow of purple and gold. The caduceus hung from a silver chain around his neck. Hooded robes cast sharp shadows over light skin and eyes that seemed to glow with an inner light. A massive phoenix-embossed grimoire hung from thick twined ropes around his waist, clasped tight with a crow's skull. Holly staff in one hand, its head a gimbal slowly spinning around a glowing gem. At his waist hung a stick of black wood, covered in glowing runes. Tall. Blond hair. And…

    "Nicolas!" Dumbledore rose to stand behind his desk. "This is a most unexpected surprise. To what do we owe the honor? You timing is most curious, I will admit."

    "Albus. Strangers." Nicolas nodded in greeting and then proceeded to walk up to Harry while ignoring everyone else.

    "You cut your beard!" Harry said stupidly. When had he hopped off the chair?

    "Hardly," Nicolas scoffed. "'Tis barely a trim, little one." The man struck the ground with his staff, causing it to morph into a cream-colored wand – was that apple wood? – which he then gave a negligent wave. Harry's chair grew proper-length legs and twice as wide. Nicolas sat down on it and lifted Harry from under the arms to sit next to him.

    Harry literally melted from relief. He was there. Nicolas was there. He was real!

    "Now, let me check you over. One always wants to be at their best for an interrogation."

    "Dumbledore, what is the meaning of this?" Lucius demanded in the background.

    "This is hardly an interrogation, Mr. Flamel," said Madam Bones.

    "A detained felon, a potion master standing by to have his expert opinion recorded for the veritaserum questioning that clearly just took place, the Head of Law Enforcement and two aurors at her side, plus the chief overseer of the venue where today's events took place." Nicolas waved his wand over Harry's body. "All of you gathered together, at ten past ten at night, in the place of power of the leader of the International Confederation of Wizards, around a twelve-year-old child who has been denied all due representation, to say nothing of a grace period or even proper healthcare." Nicolas frowned and waved and flicked and turned his wand a few more times around Harry's head, the tip leaving pale streaks lingering in the air. "And it seems you even timed it so the boy's judgment would still be impaired by a calming potion. How very devious of the Hogwarts leadership and the Ministry both to collude on this." Nicolas sent Dumbledore a disappointed look identical to the one Dumbledore used on students. "I will be instructing Harry here in the right procedure for filing a complaint about that."

    The auror woman visibly rethought what she was planning to say. "A calming potion, you say?" She passed her gimlet eyes to the rest of the room. "It seems certain parties have proven reluctant to part with all relevant information in defiance of law. Rest assured I will address that issue. How long will the potion last?"

    "Madam, if you insist on addressing me as if I was born yesterday, I'd rather you not address me at all."

    Auror Robards scowled and opened his mouth to say… nothing at all because he'd been silenced. How? When? And why was Nicolas upset with her question?

    Nicolas snapped his fingers and a globe of purple light wrapped in white runes shrieked to life in his palm before it disappeared just as quickly, leaving a gold-colored metal ribbon wrapped around his fingers, hand and forearm. "Tsk, wrong artefact." He snapped his fingers a second time, exchanging the ribbon glove for a gold-framed disk that looked like a squished tomato with wrinkles. "Not that either." Snap the third, and now Nicolas was holding a pistol. The man looked at it flatly, then disappeared it up his sleeve, no, don't go, come back! "Right, Hogwarts is one of the funny ones." Nicolas frowned and didn't snap his fingers this time. The globe of light bloomed white and hummed like a pipe organ before fading. "Finally. This will take care of your addled wits, Harry." Nicolas motioned with the golden teaspoon invitingly. "Say 'ah.'"

    Somewhere to the right, Dumbledore breathed in sharply. "Nicolas, what are you-?"

    It didn't taste like anything, but it went down his throat like maple syrup, and the next thing Harry knew, he was having a highly detailed and exceptionally vivid dream as if he was in one of the Hogwarts paintings come to life. Nicolas was leading him around his cluttered laboratory, which was bathed in golden light, and showing exactly how to make the Philosopher's Stone.

    He came back to himself feeling his skin buzzing, full of more energy than he ever remembered feeling, and clear-headed like he never remembered being at all. Harry looked around the room with new eyes, immediately realising he'd been out of it longer than he'd thought. Enough to miss an entire conversation. One that left the woman, the aurors and even Dumbledore dissatisfied. And Snape outraged.

    Nicolas was, as Harry fully expected, the best.

    "Surprising," Nicolas said, watching Harry thoughtfully. "Your hair is still red. I'll add metamorph practice to the plans, just in case."

    Meta-what?

    Madam Bones snapped closed the folder she'd been reading for… however long and handed it to Nicolas with pursed lips. "Everything seems to be in order."

    Harry eyed the paper as it vanished somewhere or other. "What's that?"

    "Oh, just a little something to persuade the not entirely good people here that I'm fully entitled to be your advocate whenever it suits me."

    "Oh." How did he manage that?

    "Please, Mr. Flamel," Madam Bones said curtly. "Your points were raised, made and addressed. Insults become none of us now."

    Flamel eyed her dryly. "The Ministry's hypocrisy is noted." Then ignored her bristling and turned back to Harry. "Harry. I want to use legilimency to pull the memory of the night's events from your mind. Do I have your permission? Please think of any questions or clarifications you might want before you answer. Either way, you don't need to go ahead with the travesty of this interrogation unless you really want to. I'll handle things whatever happens."

    "Oh," Harry was really starting to sound like a broken record. "Will it hurt?"

    "No."

    "… Can I choose what you see?"

    "Not without training, I'm afraid."

    "Right." Really, he just wanted to say yes, but Nicolas had asked him to think about it. And the last time he didn't cling to Nicolas like a barnacle, he up and vanished. "Pettigrew didn't petrify Mrs. Norris, did he?"

    Nicolas turned to Dumbledore expectantly.

    "Not according to his veritaserum testimony," Dumbledore said.

    "And do you presume he could have beaten it?" Flamel asked. Harry hadn't even thought about that - wait, the magical world had actual working truth serum!?

    Out of Harry's line of sight, Snape sneered. "Not unless the simpleton has advanced his potions skill beyond mine while living as a rat for the past twelve years."

    That simpleton hoodwinked every one of you, Harry thought unkindly. "… What does it mean? That he's alive?"

    Nicolas leaned back with his arm around Harry's shoulder – Harry might have cuddled a bit there – and inspected the items on Dumbledore's desk. Then he snapped his fingers and wandless geminio charm deposited a parchment in his hand.

    "Mister Flamel-"

    "Informed consent, madam. The Ministry may not insist on it, but I do." Nicolas scanned the sheet top to bottom. "It says here that Sirius Black was only a decoy for the real secret keeper of your parents, Harry, which is the same rat man in yonder manacles. The wretch promptly proved his cowardice by betraying your parents to Tom Riddle. Then he proved his cunning just as promptly by framing your godfather for the crime and his death, which he faked by screaming accusations at Black and blowing up a gas main in a crowded street, then cutting his own finger and escaping as a rat through the sewers. He then spent the years in his rat form, hiding from the Death Eaters he was convinced would blame him for Tom Riddle's suicide by vicious parents. I assume he chose the Weasleys to freeload off of because they would be the last place anyone would look that also provided him a direct ear into the ministry. The questioning doesn't seem to have been thorough enough to touch on that, unfortunately. Here." Nicolas rolled up the scroll and gave it to Harry.

    Harry blinked and accepted the scroll, even though everyone else in the office felt like they were trying to burn him with their eyes. "He spent twelve years as a rat? Just like that?" Harry then felt a bit ill. "He slept in Ron's bed." And his brothers' before him too. "Ugh."

    "I'm afraid so."

    This was horrible! "I want to go." Harry blurted. "But only if you won't vanish this time!" It didn't take a genius to realise that this time fell like an even bigger bomb than Nicolas showing up to begin with. "You won't, will you?"

    Nicolas turned to look at Dumbledore expectantly again.

    "Temporary quarters can, of course, be arranged. Pitts!" A house elf popped into the office. "Please have the purple guest room on the seventh floor prepared for habitation."

    "Yes, Headmaster sir!" The elf vanished.

    "What even are house-elves?" Harry muttered to himself.

    "Cursed pucks," Nicolas explained anyway. "Hobgoblins. They went around doing chores for people just so they could pretend offense at the spooked residents, whom they would then torment viciously and without end, often to injurious or outright fatal consequences. A fair few people they even drove to suicide. They eventually switched one too many babies with their changelings – their glamored offspring – so Merlin worked together with the ancestor spirits of all the British Isles to give them a place in man's household like they always wanted. Now they go suicidally mad if left alone, which is precisely the sort of ironic fairy logic that made the curse work on them to begin with. Well, unless they earn their freedom by human standards. Merlin was harsh, not heartless. All the same, though, don't give them clothes unless you're absolutely convinced they'll be better off. Or you want to punish them, spirits know plenty of them continue to earn it to this day."

    Harry was very clearly the only human being in Dumbledore's office that appreciated Nicolas Flamel wasting their precious time explaining common knowledge to an ignorant as-good-as-muggleborn, but that only made Harry love him even more. "You can do it."

    "Hmm?"

    "You can read my mind. You'll teach me how to stop it, right?"

    "That and more." Nicolas tipped Harry up by the chin and stared into his eyes for a few seconds. "And that's that."

    Harry blinked, feeling like his brain had just been combed through with a loupe and torch. "That's it."

    "That's it. Now, would you like to go or stay?"

    Harry made a show of pretending to be conflicted about being in a situation he never wanted hide or hair of to begin with. "I'll go." But he hesitated. "Can…" Harry bit his lip. "Can I tell Ron and Hermione about you? And… all the other… stuff."

    "Oh little one," Nicolas said sadly. "Of course you can. Why would you ever think I'd make you choose? They're your only friends in this world."

    Harry felt like he wanted to curl up under a rock. "Right. Sorry. Thanks."

    "Thank me by being a good friend to them in return. And maybe by making some more."

    "Right." It should be illegal to make someone feel so bad and then so much better so easily. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

    "And the day after, and probably many more times before the end of your school year here. Speaking of which." Nicolas pulled out again the documents that Madam Bones had been looking at. "You will want to go over these as well."

    Harry blinked and accepted them automatically. "Alright? What are they?"

    "Custody papers, at least until the end of the year, signed and filed. You aunt and uncle aren't the worst of people but they're down there, they sold you for a bar of gold."

    Harry's brain stopped working.

    Nicolas rose, put Harry on the ground and walked him to the door. "Go on now. I'll handle matters here."

    Harry went.
     
    Last edited: Sep 30, 2022
  5. Threadmarks: Chapter 4: Friendship Isn't Magic, but It Sure Is Useful
    Karmic Acumen

    Karmic Acumen The long-suffering one

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    A/N: We're really entering the realm of shared universes now. The pace will pick up again next chapter, the Hogwarts years will be a lot less loaded compared to canon. Well, most of them.



    [​IMG]

    Chapter 4: Friendship Isn't Magic, but It Sure Is Useful

    "-. November 1, 1992 .-"
    "He slept in my bed!" Ron moaned sickly, falling on the armchair completely past caring that literally the whole of Gryffindor house was listening. In defiance of McGonagall's orders to turn in, which the prefects had passed down and promptly disobeyed themselves. Harry could have put it off until tomorrow, but he couldn't do that to Ron. He could have had the talk between just the three of them in the dorm, but he couldn't in good conscience kick the other boys out. And he could have left everyone hanging, but then who knows what rumors would start before he could do anything about them again? Malfoy would be insufferable, Harry agreed with Ron there, and Hermione had grudgingly agreed too because she didn't want to wait either. So Harry told everyone what happened that evening. Well, what he could without sounding like a crazy person, he'd leave that to Fred and George to handle when they came back. There was still much gawping from the entire house, enough to make Harry extremely uncomfortable, but hopefully it would go away as quickly as everything else did in Hogwarts.

    He held back on the private important stuff until the next day.

    That was not the highlight of next day though. Partly because the real highlight ended in the closest thing to tears. And partly because he woke up that morning to find that he'd grown several inches overnight and didn't need glasses anymore.

    Say 'ah', rang in his brain.

    "Holy hell," Harry whispered after he fled from the loo back to the darkness of his curtained bed where it was safe. Harry James Potter was absolutely dumbstruck. Then he was a curled up, weeping mess because… because nobody had ever been so kind to him ever!

    He was also absolutely ravenous, which drove him from bed, room and tower to have triple what Nicolas' meal plan said to eat for breakfast. And lunch. And since he was still hungry and their classes ended just after mid-day period, he took Ron and Hermione on a detour to the kitchens (which he must have found in a dream or someplace). Hermione spent the rest of their walk to the Black Lake swinging between outrage at slavery to outrage at the absurdity of 'punishing' provably malicious fae by giving them exactly what they'd always wanted and what was Merlin thinking letting them get off for mass child kidnapping with… with… "With community service?!"

    Harry hmmd and hawed in all the right places, but his mind was really more concerned with the fact that Nicolas had left the castle before dawn and still hadn't come back.

    Neither had the headmaster.

    "Anyway. Harry," Hermione said primly as they settled on their blanket. "You said you were finally ready to talk to us. I hope you can actually follow through on it this time."

    Harsh, but fair. "Yeah, I-"

    "Food first," Ron grunted, already tearing into a mayo and chicken sandwich. "No talk'ng 'bout imporfant sthuff on 'n empty st'mach."

    "For Merlin's sake, Ron, don't talk with your mouth full, it's disgusting!" Hermione turned her nose, then primly seized her own sandwich and proceeded to eat with all the aplomb of someone who'd endured Ron's atrocious table manners so long that her own stomach was plated in iron now.

    Harry didn't comment even though he also thought Ron should be a bit more aloof considering one of his brothers was still in the hospital wing after… wait.

    Ron's a stress eater, Harry realized suddenly. Man, I'm dumb.

    The food was delicious, but it didn't make the worry go away.

    "Right," Ron said after he finished his sandwich and four chicken wings, allowing him to eat at a more human pace. Not that Harry was any better these days. "Now, mate, we're ready to hear why you're suddenly as tall as me."

    "… Yes," Hermione said slowly. "That is a rather dramatic overnight change, isn't it? Harry, would you mind ever so much casting the Patronus Charm?"

    "Hermione!" Harry 'gasped' blandly. "Suspecting your best friend's been replaced, for shame." But he flicked his wand out because fair was fair. "Expecto Patronum." Prongs emerged and cantered around them brilliantly.

    "… I'm still amazed you can do that," Hermione said in a murmur as Prongs nuzzled against her hand.

    Harry spied some older students staring in shock from the other side of the lake, but what was the point hiding anything at this point? It was nothing compared to cutting the killing curse in half, and George had loudly and grandly proclaimed it to all and sundry at noon meal.

    "I still can't make more than mist come out," Ron said sullenly, as if casting the Patronus Charm to begin with wasn't an extremely rare feat that even adult wizards seldom managed. "Why is it so hard? It can't be so difficult if you can do it!"

    Harry ignored the jab. George had utterly failed to make his littlest brother feel better, instead reminding him that Fred was still in bed suffering Cruciatus exposure. It was a wonder he was so open to talking about Harry's own problems, even just as a distraction. "You haven't been challenged yet, I think is the reason," Harry pat the crumbs off himself as best he could.

    "Maybe we can talk to Hagrid about finding us a lethifold."

    "Don't be ridiculous, Ron, that's insane," Hermione scoffed. "And you, Harry, you're dodging the issue."

    "Yeah, mate, you're the one who invited us out here, so come on, spill."

    They're your only friends in this world. "Right. I guess the best place to start is first year. Day before we left Hogwarts, I decided on a whim to send a letter."

    He told them everything that happened as best he could remember since he had none of the letters to provide as proof, seeing as they had been eaten by Hedwig or shattered to pieces on the dorm floor (Harry had gathered every last shard of the show globe and begun to religiously practice the Reparo charm). He didn't leave anything out, told them of the letters, the dreams, Nicolas' lessons, everything up until the Hogwarts visions because that's when... Dad happened. He needed to catch his breath before tackling that.

    And the adoption, because that…

    That couldn't be real, right? He must have misunderstood something. Yes, that was definitely it, Nicolas had outright told him it was only until the end of the year. Whatever it was. Nothing would really change that mattered. Nothing.

    Keep a straight face, Potter, you can't cry every time someone's nice to you, especially when it's just your being so greedy that you're never happy with what you get.

    "That's… That's amazing, Harry," Hermione said, voice hushed. "I didn't know there was so much magic that Hogwarts doesn't teach."

    It wasn't so wonderful while it was going on. But Harry didn't say anything because Ron was looking frowny all of a sudden. "Ron?"

    Ron shook himself from his glum mood and grabbed his milk bottle to wash down his scone with. Then he grabbed a strip of bacon because he always thought better if he had something to chew on, he promised. "You know how Colin's been constantly arguing with that Hufflepuff? I think I heard something like that once, but I'm not sure. They seemed to argue about a lot of stuff at once, talk was all over the place really. Thought they meant crystal balls and just didn't know the proper name, muggleborn you know? Some of the older years corrected them too, before they got swept into the argument anyhow."

    Colin? Colin Creevy? And a Hufflepuff? A couple of second years had the key to the one and only vision that stumped Nicolas Freaking Flamel? Colin Creevy and a Hufflepuff second year? "Which Hufflepuff?"

    "Do you mean Justin Finch-Fletchley?" Hermione guessed.

    Oh, was that the name? Harry had probably tuned out his existence because he made an effort to tune out Colin's existence, which was practically automatic at this point. Not that he had anything against Colin, exactly, he was just… so exhausting to share a world with. Which Nicolas would probably be disappointed in him for thinking, Harry thought glumly. "We'll talk to Colin later then, I guess." Merlin, he was already feeling tired just thinking about it.

    It's not you, Harry, he told himself. It's your curiosity. You're secretly an animagus and your form is a cat. Except unlike McGonagall, curiosity's already killed the cat a dozen times over and there's never been enough satisfaction to bring it back.

    Wait, didn't that proverb mean the opposite of what everyone thinks?

    Hermione was frowning now too. "Come to think of it, the idea of a crystal sphere the size of a solar system does sound a little familiar. I think it might have been a feature of the geocentric model, but I'm not sure. We'll have to research it."

    Of course they would.

    "Thanks for ruining my appetite, Hermione," Ron groused, to Hermione's huff. "Anyway. Harry."

    "Yeah, Ron?"

    "You can control dreams."

    "My dreams." So far, anyway.

    "Which you've used to live alternate lives," Hermione said slowly. "Which somehow weren't just your subconscious playing tricks on you because you've somehow managed to acquire forbidden knowledge and spells like the Patronus Charm."

    "I wouldn't call any of it forbidden, exactly." Could he? "And I can't really control anything yet, it just sort of happened once or twice." Harry paused. "Well, three times if you count the dream I had before the Quidditch match."

    "What's that?" Ron demanded, suddenly razor-focused faster than Harry had said quidditch.

    That led to another talk about where it all started.

    By the end of it, Ron was as amazed as he was jealous and Hermione was thoughtful. "So three times. Once to learn to fly. Once to learn the Patronus – though apparently it was just an accident from being married-"

    "Because that makes sense," Ron mumbled around his snack, because he was snacking again of course.

    "- and the third time to learn the location of what might be your ancestral family home that nobody knows about, Harry, this is amazing!" Hermione gushed. "Do you understand what this means? You could learn so much, experience so many things, Harry you – you're living proof of the multiverse theory!"

    "The what?" Ron asked.

    Now it was Hermione's turn to veer into a long-winded explanation, not that Harry had been at all long-winded or anything. If he had been he'd have actually mentioned who his dream wife was. Had been. Would be? Or wouldn't? Would that be better? There was a medical term for people who lusted after copies of their mothers, Harry was pretty sure. Was that from a dream too?

    "So you see, you prove the truth of the many-worlds theory!" Hermione proclaimed. "Oh, you must teach us how to do this too, Harry, think of all we could learn! Oh, I can't wait to try it, just seeing a glimpse of all possible choices, can you imagine the possibilities?"

    Harry could imagine quite a bit and he didn't like it. If Hermione's theory was that you had no choice but to make all possible choices, and everyone else also had no choice but to make all possible choices, then free will didn't exist and he didn't want that to be true at all. Especially since it also meant suffering every possible hardship, injury, humiliation and torture under the sun. Apparently. "I guess? I'm not sure it's teachable though, I don't know that it's something you can usually do in dreams, even Nicolas is pretty stumped."

    "But you have to try! We're learning the Patronus, aren't we? That should be impossible for two second years too."

    That was not the same though? "I guess?"

    "You're both barmy," Ron huffed.

    They fell quiet while the wind breezed around them and the giant squid emerged and plunged back into the outer depths of the loch. Hermione was making notes about what to research first. Ron was quietly munching on a last scone and staring at nothing over the water.

    Hold on, Harry thought with alarms blaring in his head. Ron's never so still and quiet, not for this long. Harry watched Ron more closely while trying not to make it obvious, which he was usually pants at. Which in turn made his worry even worse when he seemed to get away with it. Something's not right.

    "Harry, hold up." Ron obliviously ruined Harry's chance to ask what was wrong. If anything, seeing as Fred was plenty bad enough already. "You still haven't explained why you're so tall now."

    "Oh. Right." He completely forgot. "I…" He was going to sound insane. "I think Nicolas gave me the Elixir of Life last night."

    Harry had prepared for lots of things from them after dropping that bomb.

    What he hadn't prepared for was Hermione's panic.

    "-. .-"
    "So you see, Harry, we have to find out, it might already be too late!"

    Yes, Harry had indeed prepared for everything his friends would throw at him after that revelation. Except for Ron to be too sullen to give more than a token protest when Hermione dragged them into a twelve-book research binge that ended with her asking Harry point-blank if he was now forever stuck as a twelve year old.

    "Gee, thanks a lot, Hermione," Harry said sarcastically. "What ever would I do without you scaring the lights out of me?"

    "This is serious Harry, we have to talk to Mister Flamel immediately!"

    Unfortunately, that proved impossible because it got to dinner time and Nicolas still wasn't back. And once again, neither was the Headmaster.

    The reason for that became apparent when a storm of owls descended on the people in the Great Hall, one of whom was Eudaimon. He had a letter in his talons, a narrow long one wrapped around the Daily Prophet, Special Evening Edition, November 2, 1992.

    Harry,
    In the interest of pre-empting certain malicious interests whose clandestine reach is only exceeded by their personal stake in your business – and would therefore much rather have your godfather stay in prison, if not suffer a terminal incident ever so mysteriously – Albus has decided to take the initiative in a way I can only agree with.
    There was one close call, but the article ended up as accurate as it could be. I will be starting your studies of law after this.
    I am sorry we couldn't meet today as planned. I will see you tomorrow,
    ~Love, Nicolas.

    The letter turned into the wing carapace of some sort of blue beetle. Weird. Harry shrugged and gave it to Eudaimon, who ate it and then pointedly looked at the black pudding. Harry rolled his eyes and forked a chunk of it for the owl to indulge, the bird liked being catered to after a flight. So of course Hedwig would land on his shoulder and disdainfully hoot for her proper share of affection too. Harry tolerantly leaned aside to make room for her and ignored the two birds passive aggressively competing over who could eat the most. He spread out the front page of the paper instead.
    PETER PETTIGREW ALIVE! SIRIUS BLACK NOT THE POTTER SECRET KEEPER! BLACK IS BOY-WHO-LIVED'S GODFATHER?!

    BY A. FENETRE

    With a heavy lump in his throat, Harry read the article to make sure it was as accurate as Nicolas said – not that he doubted Nicolas or anything – and then looked around the hall.

    If anyone disbelieved him at all about last night, they didn't now.

    "-. .-"
    That evening, nobody in the castle and especially the Common Room had anything to talk about that wasn't somehow related to the Gryffindor Death Eater. Not the least of which because of the Very Bad Things that the Prophet article exposed about Voldemort, Death Eaters, Pettigrew, and even the former Minister.

    Up until someone speculated one time too many on why and how this and that was or wasn't exposed at Black's trial and Ron just snapped.

    "There was no trial!"

    The Common Room didn't all fall silent immediately, but it didn't take all that long either.

    Ron was way past being embarrassed by the attention, but he didn't seem inclined to keep it on himself for once. He glowered at everyone before turning to Harry, who'd spent the time since dinner growing increasingly closed off as the implications of having his rightful guardian put away for no crime kept hitting him. "How do you want to handle this? You're the only one anyone's paying attention to anyway."

    Harry was hard-pressed not to flinch at how bitter Ron sounded talking to him just then. Did I do something? "I have no idea," he replied instead. "This is the first time I hear of it too."

    "Remember when I said I'd ask Dad? When we were researching the thing?" Harry rather pettily relished the confusion on everyone else's faces. "Well, I did. And all he's been able to tell me all this time is that he still can't find anything. He thought the records were sealed or something, but now?"

    "You think there wasn't one at all?" Hermione asked, appalled, but hesitated to argue for it. "… It's terrible to think about, but if Sirius Black is innocent, then it's practically impossible that a trial wouldn't have exonerated him with all the ways that magic can find out the truth. But why would they do that? Even if they decided expediency was most important, they should have revisited the case after the war ended, surely?"

    "Guess Bagnold was just too busy throwing parties," Wood joked, then frowned when everyone seemed to take it seriously. "No, really? You lot think she was in on it?"

    In on what? What was 'it' exactly?

    That caused a whole other mess of arguments which got even wilder when someone mentioned that Minister Fudge himself had been first on the scene.

    Certain malicious interests whose clandestine reach is only exceeded by their personal stake in your business.

    Shite.

    It took a long time for the House to break up that night. Harry would normally have retired way earlier, but he couldn't bring himself to leave when it meant he could miss some important discovery. Hermione was with him all the while, taking copious notes of everything she heard – wait, Hermione knew shorthand now?

    Ron, though, only got quieter and his mood darker the more time passed, and it went way past just not having food on hand to distract himself with.

    "Ron?" Harry called, as lowly as he could now that there wasn't as much chatter to go unnoticed in. "You alright?"

    "Yeah." Ron scowled. "Everything's peachy."

    What was he missing? "Is it Percy?" Harry hadn't seen him do or say anything out of the ordinary, but Percy's ordinary was enough to be getting on with and-

    "It's not him, it's everyone else," Ron hissed darkly. "My brothers were put in the hospital wing. One of them's still there, Fred was Crucioed yesterday. Yesterday! But everyone's already forgotten about it. It's like nobody cares. They only care about-" Ron bit off the end and glared down at the chess set and all its very wary pieces.

    They only care about me, Harry finished in his head. They only care about what I do and damn everyone else.

    "Hey Harry," Ron cut through his self-pity with an even sharper knife. "This thing with Nicolas Flamel…"

    Did he stumble on the adoption papers? But he'd carried them in his backpack all day and it was right here. "Yeah?"

    "You're training to become a prophet, yeah?"

    "I think it's more like a diviner."

    "Whatever," Ron put his chin on his clasped hands, sounding tense as a bowstring. "I don't suppose you saw anything about what happened to Fred and George."

    Harry went still and became suddenly aware that their big talk had been completely derailed before he got around to telling them about the Hogwarts visions.

    And everything else.

    Shite, what do I do? This isn't a good time.

    Unfortunately, Ron saw something else in his hesitation. "… You did."

    "Not about the twins!" Harry blurted, his temper rearing out of nowehere immediately after because apparently he didn't have a grasp on it either when even his best friend jumped straight to assuming the worst of him. "I didn't know anything about Pettigrew or… all that." Come to think of it, his visions hadn't warned him about any of it, what even was up with that? It seemed like a pretty big thing to miss!

    "What did you see then?" Ron demanded.

    "…This might not be the best place for this."

    "Yes it is."

    "Ron-"

    "Neville, Dean and Seamus are already up there, so there's literally no difference where we talk."

    Harry looked at him in disbelief. Was it really better to stay and hope their words were lost in the-

    Ron's face twisted into something ugly and miserable.

    Harry broke. "Ron, are you sure you want-?"

    "Yes I'm sure!"

    The chatter nearest to them dipped. Hermione looked up from her notebook to glare at everyone. Parvati and Lavender went back to whatever they were babbling about and soon so did everyone else. Harry briefly considered taking this to the dorm anyway-

    "Harry, I'm not up for any more secrets right now."

    "Fine," Harry snapped, because they really were apparently doing this in the wrong place at the wrong time. "You want to know what I saw?" Harry bit out a whisper, leaning forward over the table until he and Ron were almost nose to nose. "I saw Ginny finger-painting on the walls in red paint.'"

    Ron recoiled, open-mouthed, while Hermione drew back in shock, hand over her mouth.

    Harry regretted it immediately, but what else was he even supposed to do? He pulled back. "Are you happy now?"

    Ron just kept staring at him, open-mouthed. Then he snapped it shut, grabbed his backpack, got up and left.

    Harry watched him go, a hollow, wretched feeling yawning open inside him.

    "… You shouldn't have let him browbeat you, Harry," Hermione said as if that wasn't exactly what Harry was already regretting. "Whatever he thinks, this was not the best time and place for… Were you serious, Harry? Gi-" She stopped, but Harry already knew what she wanted to ask. How could he claim this? Why would she do this? How could she possibly petrify people? She was a firstie, wasn't she?

    Harry bit back whatever unkind things he'd inevitably say to Hermione next and stayed quiet for the rest of the evening, well into the night after Hermione and the rest of the house turned in. Then he grabbed his backpack, went to the loo, put on the Cloak and left the Tower unseen and unheard. He didn't know where he was going, only that he didn't want to be in the same room as Ron right now because Ron didn't want to be in the same room as Harry right now and Harry at least was a good mate even in bad weather unlike some people.

    Friendship, everyone! Let's take a moment of silence for our dearly departed. He wasn't with us long, but man did he liven things up!

    Why did his best quips happen only when nobody was around to hear them?

    Harry had just finished his third random circuit of the Seventh Floor except the opposite side of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy – what even made the Purple Room purple if all the doors looked the same?! – when he stopped in his tracks at the sound of footsteps. Harry quickly hid behind the nearest armor and waited.

    Albus Dumbledore appeared, humming a low tune as he walked seemingly oblivious to everything around him, then stopped just as he was about to pass the statue and turned to look right at him. "Out again, Harry?"

    Busted.

    Dumbledore continued. "I have it on fairly good authority that no other miscreants, criminals, or fugitives from justice have come to reside in the castle in the past twenty-four hours, disguised or otherwise."

    Harry reluctantly took the Cloak off and stuffed it in his pocket. "That doesn't mean there aren't any others from before."

    "I assure you, Harry, infiltrating Hogwarts through any means less extreme that our recently relocated rat is quite unlikely. Unless you are out and about for reasons other than seeking the heart's desire?"

    Harry kept his mouth shut and thinned his lips as the vision of Ginny finger-painting in red flashed through his mind. He stopped himself from meeting Dumbledore's gaze, wishing he wasn't reminded of the Mirror now of all times. He had enough to deal with as is.

    Dumbledore motioned him to follow. "Come now. It's a bit late to be out in the halls."

    Harry was confused that they were only going further away from Gryffindor Tower, but maybe Hogwarts changed more at night than he thought.

    "Tell me, Harry, have you had cause to visit the Hospital Wing again today?"

    "No, sir."

    "What about accidental magic, have you suffered any more outbursts like that?"

    "No, sir." They continued in silence. It was awkward. He wanted to ask about Nicolas and the Ministry and the Paper and Sirius, but he couldn't get the words out. So when he did open his mouth, he only managed a "…Why? Wait, what do you mean more outbursts?"

    "I mean that a Calming Draught takes effect instantly and only lasts for roughly five minutes after. It may linger for ten to fifteen in some patients, but only rarely and never more than that. Certainly not a whole hour as was the case for you yesterday."

    "I did what?"

    "Think, Harry, was there any moment where you felt particularly strongly about your temper? Wished for the blessed serenity to last, perhaps? You were understandably overwrought when you were brought in."

    Finding a trustworthy teacher that will not abuse the privilege of seeing your deepest self is the tallest order. "I think so."

    "There you have it. Of course, the fact you were driven to accidental magic is its own evidence that you should not have been put into that situation so soon to begin with, but hindsight makes fools of all."

    The footsteps rang hollow and damning and Harry wasn't under a calming draught anymore. "That's it?" He demanded, stopping where he was. "That's it, you're just going to pretend nothing happened? After you-" Harry felt like he might really scream this time, but what was even the use? Was Legilimency even a crime in the Wizarding World? He didn't know. There was so much he didn't know, why wouldn't everyone treat him like he was stupid, even Ron had-

    Dumbledore stopped, turned, clasped his hands behind his back and looked at Harry calmly. "I will not apologise for treating you the same as all other children. I should apologise for being the sort of man who ransacks the minds of children to begin with, but it would not be heartfelt and you hold liars in contempt. I do only do so in truly extreme circumstances, and I have never once overstepped by seeking more than was relevant to the situation that called for such measures, but I will not demand allowances for something I consider cold comfort myself. Perhaps that is what I should apologise for – that I've become such a man that I can ransack the minds of children without feeling regrets at all. We are here."

    Harry barely had time to register everything Dumbledore had just told him when the headmaster knocked on… some door and turned to walk away how could he just-?!

    "Leaving already, Albus?" Nicolas idly asked from where he'd appeared in the door. "I thought you'd accepted my invitation to dine?"

    "Nicolas," Dumbledore stopped and turned, looking a tiny bit less serene, but his eyes twinkled at Nicolas, who was meeting them straight on and – wait, were they talking through Legilimency? The mind arts were so useful, it was so unfair, can't he just hate them in peace? "As a matter of fact I was coming over to do just that, but I believe present company would like it better if – Nicolas, really! There is no need for-"

    But Nicolas had already literally marched Dumbledore inside. "Making decisions for other people without their input is what got you into this mess." Then he came out to usher Harry in as well. "Let me guess," he told him after closing the door behind them. "He pulled an 'I am the worst of people and don't deserve any understanding or sympathy' and tried to make you hate him so you'd have a clean break, as if that's even possible."

    Harry gaped. Is that what was happening?

    "That answers that," Nicolas scoffed, motioning for them both to go further in. "Don't hold it against Albus too much, Harry, I've tried for years to show him that his self-flagellation is just as selfish when it goes and causes its own host of problems to the same people he's feeling guilty over, but does he listen? Bah! Of course not! Some people would do anything to hang onto their attachments, but then there's people like Albus who go too far in the other direction. I blame it on his guilt over unjustly blaming his father instead of the ministry for throwing him in Azkaban for the high crime of avenging his daughter' assault."

    "Nicolas, really?" Dumbledore protested.

    "Communication, Albus. Extenuating circumstances, they're his one weakness, Harry, he thinks he's the only person in the world not entitled to them. Let me guess, he didn't mention any of the exceptional lengths he went to on your behalf either, did he? Last night too."

    Harry had wound up on a seat at the table somehow. There were books in front of him. One was thick and old, lacking any name on the cover. The other was a paper hardcovers called The Mythical World of Atlantis: Theories of the Lost Empire by Preston B. Whitmore. He was amazed he could ever read right now. "… On my behalf?"

    "Yes," Nicolas said dryly, picking up the books on the table he clearly hadn't expected to need tonight but was going to the trouble to clear anyway because he was the best ever. "Albus backed me up yesterday entirely for your sake, despite that I practically invaded his domain, did so without the courtesy of a warning, and stepped on a fair bit of his business elsewhere in the doing. All to steal you for myself, which I assure you he does not appreciate in the slightest, he is quite attached to you as it happens." So he was adopting – no, don't jump to conclusions, Potter, that's what got you into this mess. "That I am critical of his approach to your treatment didn't endear me much to him either-"

    "I disagreed with your interference with the magic I set up for his protection that has no peer and cannot be duplicated," Dumbledore cut in. "And I continue to do so, but the situation cannot be salvaged any longer, so arguing over it any further is pointless."

    "But he still joined his force to mine and even silenced that one Auror before he could become a nuisance. That's something that would have been career-ending for literally anyone else. I don't suppose he mentioned any of that?"

    Well now Harry felt kind of bad. "… No."

    "Hmph. Just between you and me, Harry," Nicolas said with Dumbledore sitting right there. "With Albus I usually find it worth forgiving when he resorts to Legilimency in his line of work. Not so much on students, obviously, but I bet he didn't mention that thoughts are practically broadcasted by some people half the time? You're not exactly white noise yourself, though you're better than most, which is why he needed to put effort into it to begin with. It's that same habit that let him know the Minister was already considering having your godfather fed to dementors before the Pettigrew scandal could explode."

    "What!?"

    "It was a hopeless thought, but one born of self-preservation. Such thoughts have the habit of turning to action when combined with the money of unsavoury personages. And Lucius Malfoy has a very vested interest in having his son inherit the Black fortune. Anyway, we can talk more about that after we eat, unlike you we both missed dinner. I hope you like boeuf bourguignon, Perenelle sent some over, and I've got some bread-crumbed squash and poor knights."

    Harry's mind was spinning. He definitely believed Nicolas and the Headmaster had been teacher and student at one point, they were way too alike. "Poor knights?" He asked stupidly.

    "French toast."

    "Oh. Right. Thanks."

    Nicolas just harrumphed and turned his back on them to go into the adjoining kitchen. "Am stram gram," was heard from inside. "Pique et pique et colégram, Bourre et bourre et ratatam, Am, stram, gram…"

    Harry's eyes widened and he turned to the headmaster. "Please tell me he's not reciting a curse."

    Finally, Dumbledore's face softened. "No, Harry. I suspect he's mixing and matching the dishes."

    "By reciting a spell in an unknown language?"

    Dumbledore actually cracked a smile at him now, why? "It's not a spell, Harry. It's eenie meenie miney mo. In French."

    Harry gaped, then flushed in embarrassment and didn't say anything until he had the food in front of him and he finally had an excuse to not say anything even longer.

    The food was delicious. More so than even what the house elves served, though he was probably biased because of the source.

    It was much later, after they'd all eaten and Nicolas got them settled in the living room with hot cocoa in their hands, but without having Harry escorted back to Gryffindor Tower, that Harry realized he was the one they were waiting on.

    "So," he mumbled, then cleared his throat and did his best to talk like a real human might. "The Prophet…?"

    "That was Albus' very excellent pre-emptive attack. Any harm that comes to Sirius Black from this point on is a guaranteed end to Fudge's career."

    Harry couldn't help shooting Dumbledore a grateful look.

    The headmaster hummed mildly, availing himself of Nicolas' bowl of sweets. "I've already used you as a cover more than once. It was past time I returned the favour."

    The stone at Gringotts, Harry realised.

    Nicolas palmed his face. "You see, Harry? He's hopeless. Whenever he makes a bit of progress, he backslides because of all the baggage. I am at my wits' end! Maybe you'll have better luck."

    "You're joking, right?"

    "No."

    Harry looked away, uncomfortable being treated… exactly like he always wanted adults to treat him, he really was pathet – wait, was that what he thought he was? "You have a boombox?"

    "Hmm? Oh yes, it's much more practical than a gramophone, the sound quality is much superior and the selection is quite superlative. Do you have any favorites? I can put something on if you like."

    "You mean it works?" Harry asked before Nicolas could get up and Harry would need to admit he didn't know any songs because his experience with music was limited to the few, bland tunes Vernon put on the car radio those few times he was taken anywhere. "Electronics don't work in Hogwarts. At least that's what everyone says."

    "Ah, yes," Dumbledore mused. "True for most practical intents and purposes."

    "Emphasis on the practical, little one. In truth, it's more of an issue with how magic treats copper."

    "Quite," Dumbledore nodded. "Copper is the fundamental material used in all modern technology, and for good reason. Copper was known to the ancients as orichalcum. Before spells were created that could collect the energy from the ether, light, motion and much else was made through magic that drew electricity from the world around it, and it took a long time to make even those workings efficient in absence of wands and arithmancy. Orichalcum was an essential part of all enchantments at one time, much as it is ubiquitous in electrical devices today. It's not that magic disrupts technology, it's that magic has been primed to look for orichalcum and use electricity to feed itself. Used to be we sent huge streams of it from the ground into the sky, before whatever happened that made magic evolve into an Astral construct. That's what the pyramids were for."

    "Well, the ones wizards made."

    "Wait," Harry said, putting his empty cup down. "Are you saying copper was part of some past magical revolution like it was for the industrial revolution? And magic is... stuck in the habit of just doing things with it all the time now?"

    "More or less." Nicolas nodded approvingly. "Either way, for electrical devices to work in places like Hogwarts, you need to either change how Magic itself works somehow - unlikely - or you need to change all the copper in them with gold or silver. A fairly expensive enterprise, and certainly not as straightforward as you might think. The metals have different material specifications, doing the modifications requires certain technical expertise that wizards generally lack. As with all things, however, there are exceptions – I myself have a contact across the pond who I go to for all my magic-proofing needs. I don't think you're ready for that particular level of insanity, however."

    "What's that supposed to mean?"

    "He was forced by external circumstances to drop out of school before his WOMBATs – that's the equivalent of OWLs in the United States. MACUSA obliviated him and everyone connected to him of all magic as a result, they tend to go overboard with their enforcement of the statute there."

    "Which is eminently strange, for a country funded on freedom from tyranny," Dumbledore mused.

    "Right," Harry said automatically because he didn't care. "What does that have to do with anything?"

    "It matters because he was still a trained wizard, and in absence of memories and a wand to tell him what to do with the magic that would now not wither, he set his mind towards solving the problem of electronics constantly shorting out around him. The result of which is that he is now a master engineer that solved the great magical mystery of our time without knowing what he was doing. Now he's trying to hack magic without knowing what he's doing. And that's just the start of what he's done. Don't even get me started on his entourage. I repeat – you are not ready for their madness."

    "Are you serious?" Harry asked incredulously. "He can't be crazier than the DADA teacher being possessed by Voldemort."

    "His animagus form is a robot."

    "…What."

    "Yes, that was my reaction as well."

    … I stand corrected, Harry thought dumbly. "A muggleborn accidentally invented robot shapeshifting because he was obliviated – that's it!" Harry gasped in realization.

    Dumbledore and Nicolas were staring at him.

    What else was new? "Can you temporarily obliviate someone?"

    "… Yes."

    "Huh." Harry turned to Dumbledore then. "Do that then."

    Dumbledore looked confused. Really, actually confused for once. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

    Harry addressed Nicolas. "You said he keeps falling into old habits because he's got baggage, right?" He turned back to Dumbledore, who looked sour now but it was his own fault. "Temporarily obliviate yourself and then… well, research!" It always worked for Hermione at least. "Read about yourself? That should help, right?"

    The two ancient wizards were looking at Harry like they expected him to sprout two extra heads. And new limbs. And maybe some horns and a tail.

    "It was just a suggestion," Harry muttered, crossing his arms defensively.

    "I stand corrected," Nicolas weirdly echoed Harry's own thought from earlier. "You might, in fact, be insane."

    "Crazy enough to meet your friends?"

    "No."

    "But-"

    "Until you're of age and can legally disobey my commands to not have anything to do with them without my express say so, you're not getting anywhere near that place."

    "And on that note," Dumbledore cut in, rising from his chair. "I believe that is my cue to retire."

    It was?

    It was only when Dumbledore was already at the door that Harry finally remembered something important. "Wait!"

    Dumbledore stopped and turned, surprised.

    "You…" Harry grit his teeth, hating that he didn't seem to have the right words for anything today. "It only happened the once. Right?"

    "… With you, yes."

    "I…" Go on, Potter, say it, say it, say it if you ever expect forgiveness in return. "I can forgive you the once."

    The headmaster looked down at him, surprised. And more.

    Harry's words finally knit together on the back of a weave he built in unremembered dreams. "But if you do it again, to me or to my friends, I won't make the same mistake." And daringly, Harry met Albus Dumbledore's eyes straight on.

    They didn't twinkle once. "I understand." Then the headmaster left.

    He didn't promise, Harry thought hollowly. He didn't say he'd never do it again.

    "I believe it is well past time for you to be in bed as well, Harry."

    Nicolas just let it go.

    Harry felt even worse then, but even so he didn't want to go anywhere. "Can-" Can I stay here tonight? But Harry found he wasn't brave enough. "Can-" He had to say something, but what? "Can we talk about those papers first?" Actually, that really was important.

    "I'll do you one better." Nicolas briefly left the hallway and returned with new papers. Papers that looked identical to the other ones, except they didn't have an end term.

    Harry's breath left him and his heart pounded in his temples.

    "The papers before were temporary, as I'd still rather the final decision should be yours. These are the proper forms for adoption. I want you to take them, read them and give me an answer by-"

    "YES!"

    "-the end of the year. By then, you should have had enough time to-"

    "I said yes."

    "No, Harry," Nicolas Flamel pronounced with total finality. "You will take these, you will read them and you will make an informed, properly reasoned decision using the entirety of the allotted time frame. After you've talked it through with those you trust. After you've spent enough time with me – and my wife whom you haven't yet met – to decide if we can also counted among those precious few. Yesterday I tricked you into drinking an unknown substance and your last blood kin just sold you, Harry. Do not underestimate the second thoughts and conflicting feelings you will have for the next several months. Do not dismiss your second thoughts, do not suppress your misgivings. Critical thinking is the one thing you should never compromise on."

    Harry's grip almost went through the paper. His fingers should have torn through the paper with how hard he was gripping them, they must have been spelled.

    "Now." Nicolas' manner softened. "I apologise but we won't be able to meet before afternoon tomorrow. I need the time to go to Gringotts and set up a meeting this weekend for you to check your finances."

    "My finances," Harry said flatly. I don't care about my finances!

    "It will likely be tedious, but you need to get started on that sooner rather than later. Goblins don't work to expand the wealth of their clients, quite the opposite. They hate wizards and do their best to fleece them. They offer no interest on deposits, but they do on loans, and they charge service and vault fees to a total far beyond the tribute they need to pay the ministry annually. Also, the exchange rates on pounds per galleon are literal robbery."

    Now he sounded like Binns, Harry didn't care about Goblins, why was Nicolas doing this? Was he always going to drop a bomb on him and send him off to deal with it on his own, was that what Harry had to look forward to?

    "You might also want to warn your muggleborn friend against going to Gringotts looking for vaults belonging to secret squib or magical grandparents. Odds are there are. Vaults that have been drained dry and have only a backlog of fees in need of payment. The goblins will rob even children blind if given the opportunity, while protecting the vaults of convicted criminals up to and including lifetime Azkaban inmates responsible for dozens of proven murders. I'll grant them that their security is as close to the best that you can get in the isles, but it's nowhere near expensive enough to justify this greed. But this is what monopolies get you. Honestly, giving a foreign enemy nation total and sole control of your money is the height of stupidity. If Wizards and Witches weren't so self-sufficient, the ICW would have collapsed long ago."

    Harry felt a lot like a robot himself as he let Nicolas lead him back to the Fat Lady's portrait and said his goodbyes.

    It was only when he reached his dorm that he remembered that he was on the outs with those he trusted. He'd completely forgotten to ask Nicolas what was being done about Ginny and the rest of it too.

    Screw it, Harry thought petulantly. He already knows from my letters. If he forgets about it, it's his business. Besides, it would be bloody awful to talk to him about Ron's family issues like that. Especially without asking Ron first. I don't want to make him even angrier with me. He's one of my two only friends, right?

    It didn't make Harry feel any better, but what else was new?

    Hopefully things would be better in the morning.
     
    Last edited: Oct 5, 2022
  6. Threadmarks: Chapter 5: The Perfect Crime Is Still a Crime
    Karmic Acumen

    Karmic Acumen The long-suffering one

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    A/N: I don't plan to rehash the canon years, but some things I can't gloss over. Tune in next time for the next episode of Harry Potter's Legendary Outrages.




    [​IMG]
    Chapter 5: The Perfect Crime Is Still a Crime

    "-. .-"
    Things didn't look better the next morning, and didn't improve throughout most of the day either because both Ron and Hermione seemed to have important things to do on their lonesome outside classes. Nicolas was sympathetic when Harry complained about it after he got back to Hogwarts, but his brilliant solution was to tell Harry to go back to Gryffindor Tower and 'make himself available,' whatever that meant. Harry was a bit too preoccupied to ask for clarification after Nicolas' absolutely crushing announcement that he was leaving Hogwarts. No, it wasn't a consolation that they'd see each other again in the weekend, not when he'd have to wait until the hols for the next time! But of course Harry would be too tongue-tied to give Nicolas a proper what for. He was too preoccupied trying not to lose it when Nicolas invited him to spend Christmas with him.

    Of course Harry said yes!

    How could he be so stupid? Of course Nicolas wasn't going to just move into Hogwarts full time, he wasn't staff, it wasn't a hotel and he had a life of his own to live, what did Harry think was going to happen? Especially after he went and handed over that silver box with the cursed tiara inside it. Nicolas and Dumbledore would probably have no room for anything else in their schedule for weeks.

    Why did I ever think getting adults to finally take me seriously would make things any better again?

    Things on the friendship front didn't turn around until late afternoon. Harry told himself not to read too much into it, Ron was entitled to have time to himself, and today was Hermione's library day, she always went off on her own every week and came back around this time, or even later.

    All those thoughts were swept away when he saw Ginny Weasley walking quickly into the Common room with Ron trying to get her to stop and talk – awkwardly and to terrible effect. Hermione entered right after them, just as Ginny fairly blew off Ron and all but ran off in angry tears in response to whatever Ron had just said. Ron scowled in weary annoyance, looked around the Common Room until he saw Harry, then and marched back out. Harry felt crushed for the second time in as many hours, up until he saw Hermione pointedly looking at him, so he got up and followed her out. Ron was there waiting, and set off down the corridor with them the moment they caught up.

    "They reckon Ginny did it," Ron said lowly. Stiffly. "The writing on the wall. Dumbledore and McGonagall just done talking to her. They reckon she was made to do it and then obliviated." Ron's tone turned bitter. "Probably imperiused her, because why not? Us Weasleys seem to be collecting unforgivables this year."

    "Whoa." What else was he supposed to say? "I'm sorry."

    Ron glared at him, then glared at the ground instead. "No your fault," he muttered.

    All the weight of the world fell away. Harry had feared it would take weeks for Ron to talk to him again, that's how long it took for the Dursleys to lay off a bit after he did some accidental magic. Harry did his best not to be too obviously happy when Ron was so down. That was the friendly thing to do, right? Solidarity, solidarity for everybody!

    The trio took a walk around the Hogwarts grounds and finally had a long, proper talk about everything that had happened. Since the adults had all failed, they agreed that they needed to look into this themselves. It was a bitter pill to swallow, that this year's trouble was already worse than first year's despite the adults in charge actually doing their job this time. Harry tried not to feel guilty that his own problems were keeping Nicolas too busy to deal with this on top of everything else he owed nobody to solve, but it was hard.

    Their talk ultimately went nowhere, but the next few days gave them a new avenue to consider through Draco's snooty threats. Also, there came the time for first ever instance of their history professor actually being useful. Which is to say, Hermione got Professor Binns to explain all about the Chamber of Secrets.

    The trio had another walk along the grounds that day and unanimously decided they definitely couldn't just let it go, especially when Ron's sister was already involved. Unfortunately, even though they all agreed on the obvious suspect, there was an obvious conundrum.

    "It's gotta be Malfoy," Ron said sullenly, pacing back and forth while Harry and Hermione watched from the garden bench.

    "We still have to make sure," Hermione countered. "We can't just assume we have all the answers."

    "Who else could it be?"

    "Someone actually capable of casting the Obliviate charm and the Imperius curse, spells Draco can't possibly be capable of, we're just second years. Even the most talented second year couldn't possibly…"

    There was an awkward pause as Ron and Hermione both looked at Harry.

    "Spells Draco is probably not capable of," Hermione awkwardly amended. "Is he?"

    "It's gotta be him!" Ron said stubbornly. "You don't hear anyone else gloating and promising mudbloods they'll be next, do you?"

    "Or it could be someone who can not only cast unforgiveables but also fool the staff. Including Dumbledore," Harry said dryly. "Like anyone in the higher years."

    "Which Malfoy will know about even if he's not the heir!" Ron spun on his heel, pointing dramatically. "Don't you see? He's our in!"

    Harry wasn't convinced. Wouldn't pushing back just upset Ron though?

    "He's right, Harry," Hermione said grudgingly, "We can't just dismiss the possibility."

    "Fine," Harry huffed, even though he didn't find Draco all that compelling these days. It was strange, but déjà vu was stranger, and Draco seemed to be very good at bringing it out. "Let's say you're right, how can we check?"

    "Well, since you're a seer, can't you just-" Ron wiggled his fingers. "See?"

    "It doesn't work that way, Ron." Harry didn't know how it worked at all actually.

    "Okay, fine, sheesh," Ron raised his hands defensively. "You're only a seer sometimes, got it."

    The tense awkwardness threatened to return, but Hermione unwittingly saved Harry again. "There might be a way. Of course, it would be difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We'd be breaking about fifty school rules, I expect… What we'd need to do is to get inside the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions without him realising it's us."

    Harry frowned. "And how do you suppose we do that?"

    "All we'd need would be some Polyjuice Potion."

    Harry listened in wonder how Hermione Jean Granger laid out a detailed plan to get Professor Lockhart to sign a note authorising her to borrow the book Moste Potente Potions from the library's Restricted Section, pilfer rare ingredients from Snape's cupboards, and go about brewing a highly complicated and dangerous potion. Take advantage of her crush. Break the rules of the library. Steal from Snape. Hermione! Harry wasn't crazy to think she was crazy, Ron thought she was crazy too, and he said so loudly, fervently, gleefully and at length.

    Then Harry's eyes caught Neville Longbottom as the latter walked to the greenhouse at the far side of the Hogwarts Grounds, and it dawned on him that he might have a completely different use for polyjuice potion. "Hey guys," he idly cut in when Ron and Hermione paused for breath. "How would you like to make a new friend?"

    Ron and Hermione followed his gaze and watched Neville until he disappeared into the greenhouse. "What are you thinking, Harry?" Hermione asked.

    "I'm thinking we're going to brew polyjuice potion." He decided. "But we might have more than one use for it. Excuse me, I need to see someone about something."

    Fred and George weren't in the common room, but they were in the kitchen, being fussed over by the elves who were not happy with their recent cursing conga. Harry explained his idea. Then politely asked for very specific help. Then politely threatened to go ahead without the help he was asking, at which point the two 'grudgingly' gave in.

    "I still say you should come to us first when you go skulking," George told him. "But you've already shown how prone you are to getting in a tight spot without even trying."

    "Treat it well, Harry," Fred asked. "It's the secret of our success. It's a wrench, giving it to you, but truth be told we were just waiting for you to ask for it. We decided last night, your need's greater than ours. Besides…" He watched Harry pensively. "It was made by your father, right?"

    And his two friends and the rat.

    George Weasley sighed. "Anyway, we know it by heart. We bequeath it to you. We don't really need it anymore."

    Harry sat with them a while, learning all he could of the functions of this wonderful treasure. He left the kitchens with his belly stuffed full of good food and his pocket full of the most precious parchment in the world.

    Now to see about striking new friendship. Harry felt a bit bad that he only got the idea because he needed Neville's help for what amounted to a glorified distraction. Bloody hell, this was slimy as all get out, wasn't it? Wait, this was going to be Harry's first try at making friends since first grade, wasn't it? Ron had done all the work for theirs, and then Hermione fell in with them without Harry doing practically anything. That was all Ron too, however roundabout and… messy.

    "Crap," Harry breathed mid-way through transfiguration, turning his goblet from a half-rat into something almost as nightmarish as his dreams of revenge. He could no longer pretend otherwise, he was trying to make his first friend and was only doing it because he needed him for something. He was a horrible person.

    It was important though. Harry consoled himself with the decision that he wouldn't even bring up his plan until after he and Neville were friends for real. If they were. They would be. He could do this.

    I can do this.

    It was only after the very awkward first evening of inviting a very suspicious Neville Longbottom to study and play exploding snap with them that it occurred to Harry that he'd forgotten to ask Hermione one important question.

    "Hey, Hermione, how long is the brewing going to take anyway?

    "A month."

    "A month!?"

    But that would cut into his Christmas break!

    Nicolas had invited him to spend Christmas with him. And now Harry had committed to a scheme that needed him to stay in the castle.

    Harry slept uneasily that night, and for once he didn't find solace in dreams no matter how hard he tried. He woke up in an even fouler mood than the night before.

    This is my punishment for taking advantage of Neville, isn't it? Harry thought, glaring at the innocent ceiling. This sucks,

    The he got up and went to Quidditch practice, thankful for the distraction of the upcoming game. Of course, even that almost got ruined when the Slytherin team cut into their practice time because of Snape. When Ron lost his temper and cursed Malfoy to vomit slugs, Harry was not ashamed to admit he participated in the ensuing brawl without any reservations. He even gave Flint a black eye! Sure, the Slytherin captain was too busy with Wood to even see him coming, but nailing the huge sixth-year and getting away with it was going into Harry's memory album for certain. Just as soon as he made one. Sure, it got the whole team landed in detention, and Harry envied Ron's clean-up duties in the Trophy Room every moment of helping Lockhart answer his fanmail. But it definitely took his mind of things, so overall he counted it as a win.

    He had a big decision to make.

    "-. .-"
    Visiting the bank proved less daunting than Harry had feared. Nicolas took him and had a staredown with the teller, then another staredown with the private clerk they requested a meeting with. Harry found out his vault was just a trust vault set up by his parents when he was born. Which was crazy, there was still a mountain of galleons in there. It did have a maximum limit on how many galleons could be removed each month, but the fact Harry hadn't known went to show just how much that was. Harry and Nicolas left with a ledger of his other holdings, which he only got because he was the last Potter still alive. There was a bunch of stuff listed on it, most of which seemed to have come from the Godric's Hollow cottage after the attack. Plus a lot of additional money, though Nicolas thought it was too low for a family that could have been in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He speculated that the Potters might have kept the bulk of their wealth outside goblin hands. Something to look into in the summer.

    Harry was just glad it was over and immediately put it behind him.

    Then he almost died during quidditch again. During the first match of the year (again). To an assassination attempt (again!). And the assassin didn't even do him the courtesy of actually trying to assassinate him this time, even though he did a much better job of it than the first one, how was this Harry's life? What did he do to deserve this? If Dobby the House-Elf hadn't let slip that bit about the Chamber having been opened before, Harry might have strangled him. How could he make this creature leave him alone before he went and finished making Harry feel sorry for him? What was the point in having enemies if your allies decided the best way to keep you safe was to try and murder you? House elves were crazy!

    At least Nicolas had stopped Lockhart from… whatever he was about to do to make his shattered arm worse. That had been a surprise to both of them. Harry being on the quidditch team had apparently slipped Nicolas' mind completely when they'd parted last. The man certainly didn't waste time fixing his oversight though, and he decided the best way to do that was to show up for Harry's first game of the year unannounced. It was brilliant!

    Madam Pomfrey still had to vanish half of Harry's radius, though. And a bunch of bone chips. And give him skele-gro. That cursed bludger had done some serious damage.

    Re-growing the bone hurt like hell. It was pretty wicked that wizards could regrow bones though. And nerves too, apparently. He'd asked.

    Harry cursed Snape for ruining potions for him, he'd been looking forward to the class so much, it would have let him get ahead at the Dursleys even without a wand he was forbidden from using.

    The upside to his latest brush with death was that Ron and Hermione got to meet Nicolas and found out about the Christmas invitation. Being the bloody brilliant friends that they were, they immediately made common cause to persuade Harry that he shouldn't miss such an opportunity and that Hermione didn't need so many extra hands for the brewing anyway, really. Harry felt like he should have insisted, but he didn't have it in him. He wanted to accept Nicolas' invitation so much.

    So he did.

    There was still a while before break though, so he set about investigating the few loose ends left with a spring in his step.

    Said spring in his step threatened to leave him almost immediately, when one of the last unfulfilled visions finally caught up to him. Which is to say, a Duelling Club was started by Lockhart and Snape, his least favorite teachers. To 'give the young ones an outlet other than brawling all over the quidditch pitch' Lockhart said.

    Remembering what he'd seen in that painting, Harry decided he didn't want to let himself be embarrassed by whatever hex or curse would be cast on him to make him stop in the middle of his duel with Draco and hiss at the snake like a crazy person. He was briefly tempted to go anyway, because of the opportunity it represented. Whoever could make him forget wizards could just talk to snakes normally was probably capable of making him forget other things too. Like being imperiused to petrify Filch's cat. But contrary to what people thought about him, Harry didn't, in fact, like putting himself in danger.

    "Harry, wait," Hermione stopped him mid-way through his explanation, looking at him as wide-eyed as Ron as they watched Hedwig leave with his owl orders from the top of the owlry. "You can talk to snakes?"

    Apparently, talking to snakes wasn't normal. And should be kept a secret. Otherwise everyone would start thinking Harry was the Heir of Slytherin. Because of course they would. Who knew?

    He didn't sign up for the duelling club.

    He heard later that Neville ended up matched against Draco instead. And got a draw. Harry couldn't help but feel smug. Then Neville stopped being suspicious or awkward around them immediately and Harry felt triumphant. Take that déjà vu!

    Unfortunately, the rest of Harry's plans for the semester didn't go anywhere. He was still unable to induce lucid dreams on purpose. Draco was no longer easy to rile up after his loss of face due to his epic quidditch loss and even more epic duelling non-performance. And the only crystal spheres and rainbow gas Colin Creevey knew of were complete fancies from a muggle board game with the most ridiculous magic rules, so that was another dead end. Hermione had a lot of funny things to say about spelljammers though, even if Harry secretly thought they were a neat idea.

    Oh well. It was a long shot anyway!

    When break finally arrived, Ron, Hermione and Neville all came to the train station to see him off.

    "Have a great holiday, Harry," Hermione said with a hug. "I'll make sure the potion is perfect."

    Harry hugged her back. "I know you will."

    "I'll keep an eye out," Ron said when it was his turn, referring to the Marauder's Map Harry was leaving with them. "If anyone skulks around where they shouldn't, we'll know."

    Harry wished him luck, he could barely keep track of all the changing levels of the castle, let alone all the people roaming around at all times of the day. It was much easier at night, but Mrs. Norris had been petrified before curfew. Anyone out to attack people would need people around to attack. And they would attack again, no matter what everyone else thought. Yes it had been weeks, and writing in chicken blood on a wall after petrifying the most hated animal in the castle looked more and more like a prank the more time went on, but Harry was sure there was more to it, somehow he just knew it.

    But Harry couldn't keep thinking about that right now, he was going on holiday with his- what even was Nicolas anyway?

    Harry turned to Neville.

    "I know you've got some scheme in the works and you wouldn't have invited me into your group otherwise," Neville said, shaking hands and wait, what did – he just said – shite. "But I'm not mad. If you figure I don't work after, that's alright too. It's been nice."

    Now Harry felt really bad. And he deserved it. "We won't."

    Neville smiled shyly. "I'd like that."

    Harry got on the train and enjoyed the long, pleasantly quiet ride. He was glad that Malfoy was staying at the castle. He did his best not to feel lonely in his empty compartment.

    Nicolas was waiting for him on the platform, welcoming Harry with a smile and a hand on his shoulder, which he used to present Harry to his wife like… like someone showing off his-

    "Well met, Mister Potter." Perenelle Flamel was a stately woman dressed in a flowing blue gown with elbow-length sleeves of silk and a parasol despite the dreary weather. She looked like the stereotypical blue-blood matron, except she didn't feel or look at him like Narcissa Malfoy at all. She took Harry by the chin and inspected him critically. "My husband truly does good work. I hope this healthy pallor means you're ready for a bit of a walk, child, because we have shopping to do."

    "-. .-"
    'Shopping' turned out to be merely groceries. Except there was no 'merely' about them because they were groceries for the little family(!) feast that Nicolas' wife was cooking for Christmas. The Christmas which the Flamels hadn't celebrated since Nicolas 'death' because real Yule was actually around mid-January.

    The Christmas they decided to celebrate this year just for Harry's sake.

    Harry was so overwhelmed that he did the only thing he could think of – he pulled a Hermione and tried to distract himself with studying. Nothing class-related because he was still Harry Potter, not Hermione Granger, but still.

    "What you need, child, is to think outside the box," Perenelle Flamel told him as she turned the roast over. "Your ancestors got sick of people having to argue with the ferryman and just buried them with a boat. That's quite the workaround to solve an old problem that comes up time after time in the old stories."

    Harry was touched that neither her nor Nicolas thought he was a silly child for wanting to prepare for the worst, but… "What does that have to do with anything?" Harry completely failed to see the connection between his continued failure in information gathering and taking your money to your grave.

    "It has to do with how well you control what you control. You're still fixed on gathering more information, but have no idea where to start except existing prejudice. Have you done all you could with the things you already have? Consider Albus recently – he's gotten so used to appeasement plays that Lucius Malfoy was almost able to wrest control of a situation Albus himself set up. Malfoy, meanwhile, is a credible threat to the life of your innocent godfather despite having no rightful authority in the matter, just because he knows what means he has available very well."

    Perenelle Flamel, Harry had been surprised to learn, was the less gentle of the couple. She preferred to show feelings through actions and gestures. Like commemorative statues and charity. And inheritance. Inheritance like the 5,300 Tours pounds that she 'left' her husband when she 'died' in 1397. Which her sister then promptly contested in court, stealing Nicolas' 'inheritance' and prompting Perenelle to privately disown her and her husband and all their children and heirs for the rest of time. After which she used an assumed identity to beggar the couple too, just to be thorough.

    Perenelle was watching him expectantly.

    "… I should find out more about what happened when the Chamber was opened the first time," Harry said. It was a shot in the dark, but it was a good idea, wasn't it? "And maybe talk to Ginny directly? Narrow down what I already know, right?" Magic, for once, wasn't making things any easier. There were a bunch of ways to petrify people, especially when you were doing it to something as magically vulnerable as a measly cat. "What if the message was a lie too?" Harry wondered. "It could just be a stupid prank." But he still didn't believe it. Was that strange?

    "You don't strike me as the sort of person whimsical enough to have visions about mere pranks, more's the pity."

    Harry scowled. "I could be though." Perenelle pointedly allowed herself to be 'distracted' by the closed oven. "I totally could! My dad was the leader of the Marauders you know!"

    "Clearly, the wind must have blown the apple to the other side of the mountain."

    Harry gaped in affront. How could she? He was supposed to finally be with grownups that actually took him seriously, what was this betrayal?

    Oh, but why was he surprised? Magic had betrayed him too! After listening to the treasure trove of information that Nicolas and his wife could just call up from memory, Harry had been almost certain Slytherin's monster had to be either a cockatrice or a basilisk, if only because Slytherin wouldn't have settled for second best. After all, it was pretty simple, wasn't it? A parselmouth called Salazar Slytherin builds a secret chamber of which the other Founders somehow knew nothing, despite them (or Gryffindor at least), having (shared?) control of the wards of Hogwarts. Then Slytherin seals the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school (which should logically have been within his lifetime). The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic. It seemed so obvious, right? As much as anything was obvious in a tale that had obviously grown tall in the telling over the past thousand years.

    Except the basilisk and cockatrice didn't petrify you, you just died instantly.

    Nothing in Harry's life could be easy. Harry was dumb to ever hope otherwise, considering that his first source had been Binns, of all people.

    I probably shouldn't be annoyed at this, Harry thought in dismay. It's not like I wish Slytherin's monster was anything that dangerous. I don't!

    It was frustrating though, that neither magic nor history of magic was any help to narrow things down. Unless Slytherin had somehow stuffed his Chamber of Secrets with a live gorgon, and that gorgon hadn't escaped or died in the time since, and it fell under the control of a Hogwarts student instead of killing him – and whoever else got in the way of her leaving for greener pastures – there wasn't much of a lead to follow at all.

    Not unless the heir struck again. Which he had gone a long time without doing, but it only made sense after the Pettigrew mess, especially with not just Dumbledore on alert but also Nicolas Flamel in the castle for a while there. With both of those factors gone, Harry was sure there would soon be a repeat performance. Something Harry wasn't willing to just wait and see. Putting his plan into action was more important than ever. He'd have to do something nice for Neville. Something that didn't make Harry feel any slimier than he already did.

    "But enough about business," Nicolas declared. "This is supposed to be a holiday!"

    It was indeed a holiday. The greatest holiday. Harry spent it with kind people, he got presents, he gave presents to everyone who got him presents even if they weren't anything special, and he wished it would never end. He felt stupid for ever wishing the Dursleys could act like real parents. He felt guilty for enjoying the holidays so much like he was betraying his real parents.

    Christmas morning found Harry feeling happy and guilty at the same time. He wished Sirius Black could be here so he could finally have a link back to his parents and get over his confused feelings, but apparently his time in Azkaban didn't leave him in a state fit to entertain children.

    "You think I should have got him a present?" Harry wondered as he inspected the Flamels' joint gift. It was a tablet made of some green gem-like material, hazy and misshapen at the edges. There was writing on it in raised letters, but he didn't recognize any of them. The note said not to ask questions about it until he found out what the language was. Without help.

    "I gave Black the Elixir, did I not mention that?" Nicolas asked absently, as if that monumental revelation was a trifle compared to casting animation charms on the palm-sized thestral that Harry had transfigured himself. "I dare say his physical recovery will swiftly make a difference. It's too early to know how it will affect his mental faculties though, if at all."

    "Oh." Harry couldn't help feeling disappointed. "I thought the Elixir fixed everything?"

    "A good question you might find more useful researching yourself,' Nicolas mused with a final flick of his wand. The thestral stretched its wings and flew over to take a prominent spot on the mantelpiece. "Freeform assignment. No deadline. Title – Elixir of Life and Neuroplasticity."

    "That's not fair," Harry whined, he was being ridiculous but he couldn't help it. "I have no idea what the Elixir of Life even is." Nicolas refused to tell him, saying it had to be his ultimate test as an alchemist if he 'chose to walk that path at some point,' as if he'd do anything less!

    It had been close though. Not that Harry would admit it, but knowing about alchemy's non-magical parts wasn't the same as seeing what that meant. Harry had been very interested in how you could unboil an egg without magic, but when he actually saw it happen he immediately wished he'd never asked. Magic was weird, but muggle chemistry was outrageous.

    Wait, what even was neuropastilicy?

    "That's a good point." Nicolas mused, unaware of Harry's inner torment because he didn't read minds willy-nilly like some people. "A different assignment first, then. Try to deduce what the Elixir of Life does to a human body and why. I'll give you a hint – I've taken to calling it ormus this century. Do your best." That wasn't helpful at all!

    Harry was going to need outside help on this one, wasn't he? Unfortunately, Ron and even Hermione were out because none of this was taught in class, and he didn't know any adults who would help.

    Maybe Sirius Black would know. Unfortunately, he was being held in a secret, secure location, receiving counselling pending his much belated trial which was scheduled for way out in March for some reason that surely wasn't suspicious at all. At least nobody could arrange any accidents and claim sickness or weakness from his time in Azkaban, now that Nicolas had given him the Elixir. The last dose Nicolas would part with for the foreseeable future, apparently. The Elixir of Immortality didn't spring eternal, it turned out. Well, it did but also not? Or something? Come to think of it, Mrs. Perenelle looked a bit older than her husband. Harry asked Nicolas about it when she wasn't around. Nicolas made it another thing Harry was supposed to find out on his own as part of learning alchemy. Which he would. As soon as he didn't get queasy every time he thought about muggle science.

    At this rate the curiosity would kill him way before the heir of Slytherin could.

    Life caught up to him eventually though, and soon enough Harry was reluctantly ending the hug he'd been brave enough to steal before boarding the train back to Hogwarts.

    "Make sure to apply yourself from now on, Harry," Nicolas told him as he held him, then pulled away because Harry wasn't going to. "I want to be proud of everything else you do too."

    "Right." Harry sniffled, wiping at his nose and breathing deep for his eyes to clear up. There, he could still pretend it was a cold. "I'll do my best." He was going to ace all his classes and do everything else he needed or wanted and nothing and no one was going to stop him.

    Nicolas must have seen something on his face, because he smiled and nodded solemnly as if acknowledging some great oath.

    Harry's heart fluttered all the way back to Hogwarts, back to his friends, classes, free periods, and the news that the polyjuice potion was ready to enact Hermione's grand plan.

    So Harry finally told them his grand plan. Sure, it hinged on using the map to keep track of everyone, which had already proven impossible, but they'd just been going about it the wrong way. They didn't need to track everyone, they only needed to track whoever was going weird places during those times when everyone knew where everyone should be. Like classes. And meals. And feasts like not-Halloween, when everyone knew where everyone was the whole time.

    Neville was all for it. Ron didn't let it go so easily though. He still thought his idea deserved following up on, and Hermione sided with him because she actually thought it was less crazy than what Harry wanted to do, the nerve of her!

    They compromised and Ron polyjuiced into Crabbe. And so Ron Weasley became the only Gryffindor they knew of that not only knew where the Slytherin Common Room was, but actually made it inside. The escape was not as clean, but Ron managed to prevent people from recognising him through his failing transformation by nailing Draco with a bat-bogey hex on the way out. Ron was smug for weeks, even though it turned out he was wrong – Draco was not the Heir of Slytherin.

    Ron also learned that the last time the Chamber was opened, a Muggle-born girl died and whoever was responsible was expelled. And that was far as Draco got before he began complaining about Harry and Dumbledore and how the headmaster was the worst thing to happen to Hogwarts. Malfoy's dad also had a secret stash of illegal artefacts in Malfoy Manor, incidentally. Ron didn't waste time sending his dad a note about that and wow, Draco was kind of bad at keeping secrets, wasn't he?

    They had two polyjuice doses left.

    The first one went to waste on a wild goose chase through Hagrid's chicken coop, only to end ignominiously when Harry invisibly turned a corner and ran straight into Ginny Weasley, who was using her free period to take a walk. The ordeal ended with the both of them covered in mud and feathers. It was embarrassing, especially since Ginny had only gotten weirder since Harry had last talked to her. Not that he was much better with how awkward it was to talk to an eleven year-old version of his dream wife. The excursion did tell him two important things though: whoever was up to no good had his own way to be invisible, and their name showed up as a constantly changing letter salad on the map.

    When he met up with his friends again, Harry learned that Neville had won him twenty points in Herbology. He also learned that Hermione and Ron had managed to confirm that nearly all of the other upper years had had classes at the same time and didn't have any absentees, because house point awards and penalties were public and nobody had lost any for skipping classes in that time. The only ones who had a free period were the Slytherin fourth and seventh years. So.

    The heir of Slytherin was from House Slytherin but nobody in House Slytherin knew that he was the Heir of Sytherin. It wasn't much, but it was a lot more than they previously had.

    The Gryffindor Four retired to the Common Room in high spirits.

    Only for those high spirits to crash and burn when the vast majority of Gryffindor House that still attended Lockhart's joke of a duelling club – like the vast majority of all other houses who didn't want to give Snape ammunition – returned to the Common Room escorted by McGonagall, minus one.

    Colin Creevy had been petrified. He'd been found with his camera containing film that had been burnt to the melting point.

    The four Gryffindor second years looked grimly at each other. "Should we take what we know to McGonagall?" Neville asked, though he seemed dubious.

    It said a lot that it was Hermione who shook her head, however grudgingly. "McGonagall never followed through on anything we told her, even last year when it was literally a matter of life and death. And, well…"

    Ron curled his lip. "McGonagall gave Harry and me each five points for saving Hermione's life from the troll, and she took five from Hermione when she said she'd gone looking for the troll. But then she took fifty off each of us when Malfoy snitched on us for being out after curfew. That means Hermione's life is literally worth ten times less to her than being out of bounds. And she only took twenty points off Malfoy for the same thing, which I guess means she values the lives of Slytherins more than Gryffindors."

    Well, that wasn't quite how it happened – McGonagall was harder on them because she assumed they had fed Malfoy the dragon story to get him in trouble. Of course, the way she automatically assumed the worst of them in favour of Malfoy was actually worse. And now McGonagall had also punished the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team with a bunch of lost points and detention for brawling, but did nothing to the Slytherin team even though the Slytherins had given as good as they got, and it was Draco who started it by calling Hermione a mudblood. If Harry was any braver, he would have cursed Malfoy himself.

    No, they wouldn't be believed unless they could literally show the teachers Slytherin's chamber. And probably not even then unless they had a monster to show off right then and there. They had to bide their time and handle this themselves.

    The opportunity came when Lockhart officially lost whatever was left of his mind on Valentine's Day

    It was a circus.

    "-.February 14, 1993 .-"
    Lockhart was officially insane. The nut took a break from his narcissism just long enough to realise that the atmosphere at Hogwarts had turned tense and gloomy after the attack on Colin. His 'solution' was to decorate the Great Hall with large, lurid pink flowers, get heart-shaped confetti falling from the pale blue ceiling, wear lurid pink robes to match the decorations, and send everyone all over the place shrieking in horror because the lunatic had spread not-dwarves dressed as cupids throughout the school to receive and deliver valentines.

    All day long, the imps kept barging into the classes to deliver valentines, to the point where even the teachers completely lost patience and began to glare at Lockhart in disgust. When Ron nudged Harry during the evening feast and showed him Hermione's opened book with the Marauder's Map spread over the pages, Harry met the sight of the Letter Salad dot with absurd relief.

    Harry met the eyes of his friends one after the other, and they rose as one to leave the Hall in all too real disgust. But of course fate wouldn't let things just go, because a cupid-imp decided that was the perfect time to tangle in his feet. Harry tripped over the thing and fell with the sound of a distinct crack inside his bag.

    "His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
    His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
    I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
    The hero who conquered the Dark Lord."


    Harry gaped in horror. Who wrote such crimes against poetry? "You bloody imp, you spilled ink all over my things!"

    "Language, Harry," was Hermione's incorrigible reaction, even as she helped him dig through his bag and dab the stains. "It's no use, Harry, we need to get to the Common Room to salvage this."

    It was the perfect alibi, but somehow that didn't make Harry want to turn the thing into a slug any less.

    They power-walked out of the Great Hall and made a beeline to the nearest boys' loo, where Hermione waited outside while the three of them went in for the switch. Ron held their bags while Neville took a thread of Harry's hair and added it to their last polyjuice potion, which he promptly drank. Neville didn't enjoy the transformation much better than the first time, but he was proving to be made of far sterner stuff than anyone had thought.

    And so the Golden Trio made a very visible march back to Gryffindor Tower while Harry Potter put on the Cloak of Invisibility and went to unmask his second rat. It was the perfect crime.

    The Marauder's Map led him to the second floor girls' bathroom.

    Harry stopped and stared blankly at the entrance to the place where they'd spent weeks and weeks doing illegal brewing.

    What.

    Double-checking the map showed Letter Salad right inside.

    The Heir of Slytherin is a pervert, was Harry's first thought. His second thought was to give him the benefit of the doubt because anything else would be a double standard, but that seemed silly to do for someone trying to commit mass murder. His third was that this bathroom was avoided for a good reason called Moaning Myrtle. Why'd he go in?

    The faint sound of grinding rock snapped Harry out of it the same moment the Letter Salad dot disappeared.

    Harry rushed into the bathroom and stopped dead at the sight of Ginny Weasley's back disappearing into the darkness of a massive pipe in the wall behind the spot where the main sink had once been. The sink whose tap never worked.

    Holy shit. Harry thought dumbly. It is Ginny under Imperius! "Expecto Patronum," he hissed as low as he could "Guys, it's the bathroom! The potions bathroom, I just saw Ginny go through a hole, there's a pipe behind the broken sink, shit it's closing, get Dumbledore!" Harry barely made it before the sink covered up the hole. He nearly missed a step and gave himself away because the pipe was old and rank and slippery, but he didn't because he was a seeker with unequalled reflexes, everyone said so.

    The pipe was scary dark and went on and on, but it came with that weird feeling Hogwarts gave when you seemed to be walking in a straight line but really weren't. Even after the pipe ended, it only led to more tunnels even more blatantly magical than the first. It seemed to take forever to reach the end, and when Harry did he almost panicked when he stepped out and bones cracked under his feet. Only risking a lumos because no other feet were going crunch in the darkness, Harry breathed a sigh of relief. They were just rats and other animals, no human bones in sight.

    Harry deliberately didn't dig past the top layer.

    Moving on, Harry almost tripped when he saw a massive shed skin. Holy hell, is it a basilisk after all? But this skin is huge!

    Harry Potter very nearly turned back and fled.

    But that would leave Ginny Weasley at the mercy of this Letter Salad person.

    Harry set his jaw, turned off the light and hurried past the skin as fast as his Cloak let him walk without causing a ruckus. His haste paid off because he finally spotted Ginny again through the gloom. Only her. She came to a stop ahead of him in front of a stone wall with a snake engraved on it, at the same time as a distinctly male voice said "Open!"

    The noise of grinding stone cut through the darkness as the door to the Chamber of Secrets was opened. Harry swallowed dryly. That proved their hunch that the Heir had a way to go about invisible, but did it have to be as good as his?

    Harry didn't wait until the last moment to go in this time.

    The Chamber of Secrets was a massive, cavernous place of absolutely surreal grandeur. As if detecting their presence, braziers lit up with pale green flames, allowing the place to be seen. The Chamber was half-flooded, but even then it was positively gigantic, framed with towering pillars that were entwined with carved wood all along the walls. At the far end, a gigantic Statue of Slytherin stood, towering and life-like, flanked by the four largest and most ornate of the columns. Harry almost forgot to watch his step as he tried and failed to spot whoever was controlling Ginny to come down here.

    Failing, he skulked over to the side pillar furthest inward that he could hide behind without wading into the water and giving himself away. Each of his step was a mirror of Ginny's so that what little noise he made was concealed. He was debating whether or not to stick his head out or try and signal Ginny some other way – could people even defeat the Imperius? – before Ginny stopped and opened her mouth.

    "Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four!"

    Harry's mind went blank. It was the man's voice. The man's voice came from Ginny.

    The ceiling groaned. The pillar trembled under his hand. Harry gulped and turned toward the statue of Salazar Slytherin again. The stone slab concealing the statue's mouth started descending as he heard an ominous snarling that seemed to be coming from inside. Dimly he could feel his throat going dry and his lungs start to hyperventilate as something shrieked "Hungry!" from within the statue. The stone slab concealing the statue's mouth stopped descending. A split second afterwards, the Basilisk emerged from the darkness and started to come into the light, hissing menacingly as it slid down the statue to the watery ground while its tongue tasted the air. The creature was a monster, a gigantic serpent of titanic size, dark green scales, and deep yellow eyes.

    Harry watched in horror as Ginny Weasley led the Serpent of Slytherin out of the Chamber of Secrets and outside his sight. He told himself not to scream. He told himself not to move. He told himself not to blink. He told himself to breathe. He couldn't.

    He couldn't breathe. He couldn't blink. He couldn't move at all. He wanted to scream.

    He couldn't scream.

    He couldn't do anything at all.
     
    Last edited: Nov 17, 2022
  7. Threadmarks: Chapter 6: Petrification Is Hard to Tough Out
    Karmic Acumen

    Karmic Acumen The long-suffering one

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    Finding good art of Harry slaying the basilisk that didn't come from the film proved practically impossible, and what I did find was way cartoonish. Have this image of a frowny Tom Riddle instead.



    [​IMG]
    Chapter 6: Petrification Is Hard to Tough Out

    "-. February 14, 1993 .-"
    He tried to move until he couldn't think. He couldn't breathe because his own chest felt like a rock pressing down on it. He'd begged and pled and screamed without screaming until it felt like screaming out of a coffin, that's what his body had turned into. How did he get himself into this mess? Why the bloody hell did he just stand there gawking at the snake? And why was he just petrified instead of dead? That's not how basilisks worked! And who was that in Ginny's body? Was it even really her?

    Maybe it was someone polyjuiced, Harry thought in despair. That would be a riot, why wouldn't our biggest win be stolen and turned to shite?

    Or maybe Ginny was possessed instead, it would explain why his name on the Map was always an unintelligible letter salad, but then where did all these possessing creeps come from? It's Voldemort again, isn't it? Harry thought bleakly, except it made no freaking sense. Whoever spoke from Ginny's mouth sounded nothing like the dark lord, Harry had heard him just weeks ago when he jumped out of the diadem at him, whoever this was wasn't even a full grown man! It was like a teenager trying to sound all grown up and failing! And where was the sibilant lisp? What kind of plan was killing all the muggleborn in Hogwarts anyway? Harry wasn't even one, and why didn't Voldemort do this last year if it was him? I'm in denial, aren't I?

    Why was this happening to him? What had he done to deserve this? You weren't supposed to be conscious after being petrified, it wasn't possible, everyone said so. Had they lied? Were they wrong? Was he not petrified after all? Was this death, then? Was he really dead after all? Was this what awaited when the body failed, an eternity trapped inside your corpse without being able to move or breathe or scream in horror? If he knew what was going to happen, if he knew everything that was going to happen next – if he knew in advance the consequences of his own actions – he'd have turned his back on every mystery and chased the secret of escaping death the same as the thing inside his head. He'd be an empty shell, cowardly and weak. He'd never eat or drink or laugh or get out of bed in the morning. He'd never love anyone, he'd never dare to. He'd be as ruined as Voldemort.

    But Voldemort could at least float around and drain every creature dry that stood in his path. Everything that thought to try and stop him from outrunning the breakdown of his soul as his awareness crumbled and stretched and clawed at itself in desperation. Latched desperately on the one thing left when hope and will failed him. Memories of good. Memories of bad. Memories of worse. Memories of everything he'd left unfinished. Over and over as his consciousness rewound itself all the way back to the moment when Ginny came back half an hour after leaving. Then she ordered the basilisk back inside Slytherin's mouth, closed it and left the Chamber of Secrets, taking all sounds and motion and the light of the braziers with her.

    Thinking about Ginny made Harry want to bang his head against the wall. Wishing for help only made it worse. Thinking about Nicolas made him want to cry. Thinking about Ron and Hermione made him want to scream all over again, were they even safe? Shite, he'd sent them the messenger Patronus just before he went in half-cocked, didn't that mean they might have been in the bathroom when the basilisk came out? Harry didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't help but think about it until he didn't even know which way was forward anymore. It seemed like he could see in all directions, all the better to watch himself strain his will trying to move his body. The harder he tried the more he failed. The harder he willed magic to free him, the more his mind ground at the weaker and weaker tethers holding it and his body together. Any moment now something would break and his thoughts would stretch outwards in all directions. Life was flashing before his eyes, getting stuck on the biggest and stupidest things. His visions. So wonderful.

    So dumb! War that happened on a different earth so it didn't matter. Ancient fake gods that might be aliens, as if he cared about that instead of seeing something actually useful to not ending up where he was now. Ectoplasm in his eye, spelling a secret – a Secret keeper's secret! He could see the other end of that secret, and there was nothing there but an old skull sitting on a plinth in the darkness. And that cosmic vision about a board game, that was the worst! He could literally see himself flying to the other side of the planet just to watch some old man jotting down rules for how to kill monsters with dice games, why was he still here? Just to suffer?

    I don't want to die, Harry thought desperately. I don't want to die. This isn't right. This isn't fair, I don't want to go, I don't want-

    Two ancient snakes twitched in their sleep on the Atlantic floor. The skull's eyes came alive with the green of death. Far across the pond, a jolly-faced man raised his head in surprise and looked right at him.

    Harry crashed awake back in his stone paralysis. I'm going mad, aren't I? Harry could feel his body tight like a dead shell, as hard as it was weak. The only thing left now was the drip by drip by drip of the water seeping from outside, make it stop, make it stop. It hadn't rained. There were no streams on the Hogwarts grounds. The Hogwarts plumbing didn't even use much water, the magic vanished all the waste as soon as it was out of sight. Where was the water from? Am I under the lake? Drip by drip by drip was his only answer, make it stop, how long has it been, it feels like years, is nobody looking for me, make it stop make it stop make it stop-

    "Beyond the shadow you settle for, there is a miracle illuminated."

    Harry crashed awake all over again.

    "I hope you don't mind me dropping in. Turnabout is fair play. A trespass for a trespass, you understand."

    There was a man there. A man right next to him. Tall, strong and old. Venerable-old, not decrepit-old. The man. The man from the dream he'd just crashed out of. The… American?

    "I live in Canada actually." The man said mildly, looking from Harry to where Harry was stuck looking for… for- "Four days, looks like."

    Four days!? But it felt so much longer! If this was just four days, what will he be in a week?

    "Oh how you don't know, that beyond the lake you call home, there lies a deeper, and darker ocean green, where waves are both wilder and more serene. Would you like to travel there? To its ports? I've been there, you know."

    No, he didn't want to die! Who was this man come to…?

    …. Was this death?

    "No."

    Oh. That's… good? But then what-

    "Who."

    ... He was hallucinating, wasn't he?

    "A hallucination, am I?" The man walked around to stand in front of him. "Think that's a nice thing to say to someone, do you? Hallucination, hah!"

    Well sorry, Harry thought snappishly. It's not like I just imagined snakes in a jar and screamed my head off at a dead man's skull down in London or anything!

    "You saw Bran?" The stranger balked delightedly. "Imagine that! Something brand new under my sky!"

    Saw who? His what?

    "Don't worry about that, it hasn't been literal in a while," What? "What happened to you, Little Homebody?'

    Harry was instantly reminded of where and what he was and felt like he was about to break down again.

    "That's it?" The man exclaimed, nonplussed. He absently tugged at his long beard, like a befuddled grandpa mistaking it for platinum and trying to spin it into thread. "You mystics are so spoiled these days. Used to be you actually had to train to see what you were doing, grow a whole new soul part to even see the aether, never mind grabbing it to weave your spells with your rambling minds. Now look at you, going crazy just from a bit of sensory deprivation. Wizardry was supposed to be a force multiplier, not crippling training wheels!"

    What was he talking about?

    "You think magic's supposed to be so simple? You think that tools are all the same? Not all of them are meant to make things easier, some are supposed to teach. To train. You don't think it's strange that wands are given to children? You think it's a coincidence that wands can't do jack shit for the hardest magics out there? That ancient magics don't even notice when they're there?" The man moved around him until he stood behind Harry, back to back. Looking at the wall. His lips curled in a smirk. "Think it's your eyes seeing me now?"

    Harry was startled. He felt like he almost fell out of his body for a moment there. How did he see behind him? Through the man even?

    "That's it, now you see. Don't mind the pun, I'm literally their father you know." What was he talking about? "Now, can you look anywhere else? I don't mean here and there, I mean inside. What do you see?"

    Harry could, in fact, look in. It was actually pretty easy. There wasn't much though. Other than all the points of light dashing in and out from outside through space and the planet, and there was all the… missing electricity? Were those nerves? And the things around it, muscles and bone, they looked so strange made of stone. He didn't remember ever seeing them anyway else, but somehow he knew what they were supposed to look like. This wasn't it at all.

    "There we go, you finally got it," the stranger said from where he'd sat down at some point to draw. "Call me Ed."

    How long had he stalled out there, wait, call him Ed? That didn't narrow his actual name down at all!

    "That's nice," Ed said distractedly, charcoal sliding across the paper. "Now look at your forehead."

    Harry looked at his forehead from behind his forehead. The golden light under his skin backlit a flayed and mutilated baby.



    WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?

    Prongs came alive inside him, roused by Harry's panic and shock. It saw what Harry was looking at and charged the freakishness like a comet of starlight. The world erupted in ripples in his path. The pearly waves washed over and through the darkness within, illuminating blackened tendrils spread from head to foot. When the mighty antlers gored the monster, Harry's whole being shook like he was about to come apart. The black coils were grown right through his seams, pull wrong just once and he was going to fall to pieces. Flesh might endure but stone was brittle.

    Prongs backed away, standing between Harry and the creature, braying angrily. Unhappily. Digging grooves in Harry's soul with its hoof.

    "What is that?" harry thought hysterically. "What the hell is that, what's happening, what am I seeing, what am I supposed to do!?"

    "Have you done all you could with the things you already have?"

    Harry's panic faltered. Those were the Flamels' words.

    "Sleep paralysis is itself a dream."

    Nicolas' words.

    "I believe you can do it."

    The Patronus is a messenger! Harry finally remembered, his entire being filling with a mad surge of hope. Prongs, get help!

    Prongs brayed victoriously and erupted from his flesh-turned-stone, lighting up the Chamber of Secrets for one glorious moment before he vanished through the walls.

    Harry could still see it. Could see through it and around it as it blitzed through the wall, hundreds of feet of ground, then a dozen more walls straight into the Purple room where Nicolas abruptly stopped pacing. Harry said something, or Prongs said something, or maybe didn't. It was strange, the farther away Prongs got, the less Harry recalled even though he was perfectly aware of what was happening in the moment. Nicolas somehow understood, though. Used his own patronus to summon help and immediately commanded the stag to lead him where Harry was. Dumbledore caught up half-way to the bathroom. Ron and Hermione were already there when they arrived, looking tired with bags under their eyes next to the place where the defective sink used to be. No words were exchanged, the four just watched as Prongs spoke in the tongue of snakes for the passage to ~OPEN!~

    The wall behind the used-to-be-sink vanished, opening the way.

    Barely ten minutes later, there was once more light in the Chamber of Secrets.

    "Harry?" Nicolas called, his voice hushed but urgent and relieved to his bones. "Harry, where are you?" His calls were soon echoed by three others, hopeful and desperate behind their Lumos lights. The braziers came to life, but still nobody found him.

    Oh, I'm still under the Cloak!

    Harry guided Prongs over to where he stood.

    Ron made it first, pawing at the air until his hands found the cloak and pulled it off. "Harry!" His voice was hoarse, just like Hermione's. "Shite!"

    "He's been petrified!" Hermione gasped, wiping eyes wet with tears.

    "Oh you foolish, lucky child!" Dumbledore breathed, a wand of elder wood held tight in his hand. "That's why none of our patroni could find you. Even with all my spells, the work of death yet confounds the living."

    "It's not his fault," Ron cried angrily, hesitating to touch him, before turning to Dumbledore accusingly. "He wouldn't even be here if he didn't have to do your job for you!"

    Nicolas was walking around Harry's statue-like frame, his rune stick glowing in his hand as he gazed upon him with eyes glinting golden beneath his great blue hat.

    "How did a basilisk even do this?" Ron demanded. "That skin out there's huge, but it's definitely a snake! It can't be anything else!"

    "Colin saw the basilisk through his camera," Hermione mumbled. "Justin saw it through Nearly Headless Nick. Mrs. Norris… she must have seen its reflection in the water on the floor! And I gave Neville my mirror so he could hide in the stall. That's it! A direct gaze kills, but no one saw the eyes directly!" This time, she turned on Dumbledore. Triumphantly. "Do you see? The Cloak saved his life!"

    Justin was – wait, Ginny got Neville!?

    "Who!?" Nicolas called sharply, stepping forward to look down right in Harry's eyes as if he'd just heard- "Harry, are you… are you conscious in there?" Yes, yes, yes, yes, please- "By the stars, child, have you been aware this whole time?"

    Yes, Harry screamed mentally. It sucks!

    Hermione breathed in horror. "Oh, Harry…"

    "You mean the patronus wasn't just accidental magic?" Ron was just as horrified. "First you get petrified by accident and now you can't even turn to stone properly? What the bloody hell, mate!"

    "Ron! How could you say that?"

    Dumbledore turned from the rest of them and began to steadily walk around what parts of the chamber weren't underwater, waving his softly glowing wand with every step, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

    "Harry," Nicolas said, eyes flicking between him and Ron so fast that Harry probably wouldn't have seen it with his… well, eyes. "You should know Miss Weasley is in the hospital wing, unconscious and fading from no discernible cause."

    Shite. So they still didn't know who the heir was? But she was possessed, why weren't they using the spirit binding spells on her? Was it too dangerous for the host soul?

    "Possession?" the thought appeared from nowhere, and Harry recognised its foreign nature as easily as he had Gryffindor. "You can hear me even with your brain turned into rock. I did not expect this." Nicolas was looking into his eyes intently. The world slowed to a crawl as their conversation occurred at the speed of thought. "Harry. I'm going to do something. Tell me the moment you want to stop."

    Eh?

    Nicolas Flamel drew his wand, pointed it at Harry Potter and cast an animation charm.

    Harry's mouth opened. What?

    Nicolas then made Harry bite on the rune stick and put his great blue hat on Harry's head.

    Harry suddenly knew all the answers to all his questions, knew where everyone was on the grounds of Hogwarts, could see thirty meters in all directions and five meters into the ground, and knew what everything and everyone in Hogwarts was talking about. He knew what his dead father's spell had done. He could see exactly how a prank spell had been adapted to trigger Harry's latent metamorphmagus ability like a huge flaming sign. He knew what thoughts were. He knew what memories were. He knew dreams were. What they weren't.

    Dreams weren't fancies of the brain. The brain was just part of the body, and the body was just one part of everything else. One of eight. Dreams were the mind leaving the rest to see and do and will and dream things with everyone and everything else. And sometimes, very rarely, they stood in for memory. Memory of everything outside his body's memory. Things happening far off. Everyone else's dreams he ever touched. Lives he never lived. Except he did.

    All his dreams of past lives carried by his soul settled into his mind with full and crystal clear recollection, up to and including every hindsight about how he'd have done things properly.

    Prongs. We've one more ride to ride.

    His spirit companion emerged from within him, alive with light. He glowed out of Harry's eyes, then from all of him like a nimbus with a crown of light. But this time, when he charged into battle, Harry grabbed tight onto its antlers and rode his spirit animal away from body, chamber and company straight up.

    The earth was dark, but Harry didn't need light to see. The lake was barely brighter, but the patronus cast its shine like a rising star as Harry Potter rode his mighty steed up through seaweed, merpeople, and schools of curious fish whirling excitedly around him and past the giant squid's enormous, startled eye.

    Like the moon rising out of the sun's reflection, Harry Potter rode the White Stag out of the water and turned to where he could sense the darkest, foulest dream.

    They crossed the castle grounds in a trail of radiance, soaring over the gawping fliers around the quidditch pitch, over the greenhouses and the magical creatures class, straight through the wall of the hospital tower to find the Weaseley family screaming in shock at the sight of him all around Ginny bed. Harry stopped in place, but Prongs didn't, lowering his head and barrelling right through a dumbstruck Arthur Weasley and into his daughter's tiny, prostrate form. Harry Potter's ghostly feet touched the ground just as Ginny Weasley arched in her bed, moaning in her sleep and then gasping awake as Prongs gored Tom Riddle Junior's unliving shade right out of her.

    The leech choked on blood that didn't exist, because he wasn't so much mind or soul as it was just a memory, hands clutching at the gaping wounds in its form, bleeding green smoke and ichor. It had fed well, though, and recovered from the shock of its sudden expulsion fast enough to run out the infirmary before the Weasleys could react. Prongs made chase, but its form dispersed into white gossamer before it reached the door. Harry could already feel his spirit weakening, struggling under the sudden load of too much too quickly. There were good reasons why the diviner's path took years to walk, and Harry knew all of them now too. Not from any memory, but from the stick of glowing runes between his far-off teeth, and the hat now on his head, neither of which was made by human hands. But he still had strength. He still had time.

    He had allies.

    Prongs manifested beneath him this time, growing out of the floor to bear him forward, past the chaotic babble of the awestruck living without losing more time. As they gave chase through classrooms and corridors, Harry clung tight to Prongs' antlers and reached out with his mind. Hogwarts didn't stir for him this time, but it didn't have to just to share a dream. Hogwarts had already done more than enough for him, Harry didn't need it to do anything, he just wanted the ghosts.

    It was mid-way through their charge through the potions classroom that the Bloody Baron emerged through the wall right in the shade's path and stabbed it with his sword.

    "Nooooooo!"

    "Phantasma Claudo," Harry intoned, chains sprouting from Draco Mafloy's wand that was conveniently forgotten on the desk, when the Slytherin drew back screaming like everyone else in the classroom. The spell caught the shade mid-scream, tying it in spectral chains whose loose ends were caught by the headless hunt. They burst on horseback through the walls and ran the creature down, trampled it, circled it, clapped its chains to the saddle of the horse belonging to the Headless Knight in Black.

    Harry glanced at the wand, amazed at holding it aloft for all that he was unsurprised. Wands had spirit. Enough for a ghost and even a memory to touch.

    He dropped it back on the table and looked around. The mixed Slytherin-Ravenclaw Potion class was staring at him in open-mouthed shock. Even Snape. Harry smirked at the sight and felt his spirit grow just a bit stronger.

    Then he nodded to the Black Knight – even though he had no idea what the Headless Hunt was even doing here – held his hand out and grabbed Prongs by the antler mid-charge because he had little time left before he broke apart under he strain. Little time to do the one last thing he needed that was even more important than saving Ginny.

    They blitzed through walls and corridors towards the one other thing he knew would have enough spirit for him to grasp even without flesh hands.

    There was still a dozen or so students of all years camping at the sport where the Sword of Gryffindor was still stuck in the wall. Every day people would try and fail to pull the sword from the stone. Harry hadn't tried. He did now though. Walked up to the wall while everyone was staring in complete dumbfounded disbelief and took the sword hilt in his spectral hands. It didn't budge, but he could feel it. He let go and looked up at the portrait. Gryffindor stood proudly in his frame, watching Harry encouragingly.

    Harry walked past the sword and put his hand on the canvas. Gryffindor mirrored his gesture. Harry could feel his own spirit like roots drawing power from the aether, sustaining his soul and memory and his wandering soul-mind, just like the physical body took in food, water and air to sustain itself and the emerging identity of the conscious mind. Harry could also feel the rune stick pulling hard on his spirit, diverting that energy to weave and reweave the connection between his mind and soul and memory. He was too young and untrained for this, but needs must, and though the two objects were blatantly not a good fit for anyone but their winner, they held all the memory of when and why and how Nicolas did what Harry was about to do next.

    For the first time, Harry pulled on the power of his spirit deliberately. His grasp on his memories frayed, and he was sure his body would have suffered if it wasn't a statue. I won't remember any of this, will I? But he did it anyway, extending the connection into the portrait. When he pulled his hand away, Gryffindor came out with it, his image in the painting pouring out like paint into an orb of light that Harry shoved into his chest.

    "You are unwell, little shaman," Godric Gryffindor murmured in his mind. "Your enemy is a parasite become a pulsing sore inside your bone. I will help you lance it." Harry's feet moved back, his back straightened, and his hands grabbed the hilt on their own, the right hand near the guard, the left hand on the pommel. "Watch and learn now the Two Horned Guard of the Taurus."

    The Sword of Gryffindor thrust even deeper for a moment, then back to wrench free of the stone with a ringing song.

    Harry Potter turned away from the wall and marched past the awestruck onlookers that had tripled in number at some point since his own arrival. They felt shocked, amazed and embarrassed. Why would they – ah. They'd looked at his disappearance and took it to mean he was the Heir of Slytherin. Lovely.

    Harry scowled at the lot of them and decided that his father had the right idea.

    Prongs returned to him but did not ask to be let out again. The strain was almost overpowering now. Harry walked as quickly as he could without losing his shape. Gryffindor flowed apart from him to walk on his right, his hand on the sword hilt to share the load. On his left, the Headless Horseman cantered up, the bound and gagged memory of the teenage dark lord dragging on the floor behind his horse. The tide of gawkers felt almost overwhelming behind him, but the headless hunt streamed forth through the wall to bar their path. The brave few who pushed through the riders were called to halt by the House Ghosts, and those who chose to ignore even them were left behind when the staircase moved away from their path the moment Harry was on it.

    When he finally reached the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets again, Moaning Myrtle looked one gasp away from babbling awkward invitations to share eternal unlife together and fainting. Also, Headmaster Dumbledore was just coming out of the pipe. When he saw them, his grip went so tight that the paper drawing in his hand creaked – wait, where did that come from, it looked like a weird tentacle ship, wasn't Ed just a – no, not important.

    "Headmaster," Harry said, not pausing his step and thankful that wizards could hear Ghosts without him having to put effort into that too. "It was Voldemort's diary horcrux. The Black Knight can take you where it is."

    Right?

    The Black Knight inclined his shoulders in agreement, though Dumbledore didn't take him up on the offer. At least not immediately.

    Harry didn't have it in him to pay attention to his surroundings anymore. He left the Hunt to wait and paid no mind to the headmaster turning to follow him back in. Feeling his growing distress, Gryffindor gave back what he still had of Harry's life force and surrendered his shape to overshadow his sword outright. The sword seemed to lose all weight and Harry was grateful. The strain was easing the closer he got to his body, but it was still worse than when he started.

    "Harry!" His friends cried on seeing him, but they stopped before they could run up to him when they saw his face and the thing he was carrying. The green of death shone from the once red rubies ever stronger.

    He walked up to his body, paused, and turned to look at Nicolas meaningfully. Beseechingly.

    Nicolas clenched his fists and thinned his lips. He obviously had no idea why Harry was asking what he was asking, and he felt this had already gone on too long to risk. But all the same, the immortal alchemist nodded sharply and turned, raising an arm to halt the others as Dumbledore drew near. "Come away, children. You too, Albus. We need to get out of the way."

    "Nicolas, explain."

    Harry ignored everyone, turning instead towards his own body. He looked terrified like this. But he wasn't surprised. He felt terrified too.

    Reaching forward, he felt a surge of gratitude at finding that Nicolas had prepared for all possibilities and animated his fingers loose enough for him to pull his wand free. It was much gladder to see him and serve its purpose than Malfoy's. It was a shame he couldn't spend more time like this, but he had a meeting with death to narrowly miss.

    Sticking the sword tip-first into the floor, Harry Potter pointed his wand at himself and cast an animation charm. Then he tossed his wand up, let go-

    And caught his wand with his stone hand.

    This is so weird, Harry thought as his joints ground like millstones with his every move of his walk to the middle of the chamber. But waste not, want not. Harry raised his wand, closed his eyes, excluded them from the animation magic, and called all he could remember of this incident, and all the lessons and experience in magic he collected in the other two lives he could remember.

    Influunt Sicut Ego. With a jab and wave of his wand, the flood water rose up off the ground, like a crashing wave in reverse that then spun like a whirlpool in front of him until he thought Glacius. The water became a sloping tunnel of shimmering ice that spanned the distance from Harry to the mouth of Slytherin's statue. Caligo. A jab to the side raised a massive wall of smoky fog between him and the rest of the Chamber.

    Harry holstered his wand, pulled out Gryffindor's sword, paused at the suggestion Gryffindor gave him, pulled his wand back out and cast a second, smaller Glacius at the floor beneath him before holstering it again. The Sword of Gryffindor was in his hand. The rune stick was in his other hand. On his head was a dwarf's hat.

    I really wish I had a rooster right about now, Harry thought. But it would be useless without the basilisk being out in the sunlight.

    He hoped and dreaded that the two most powerful wizards on Earth really would stay out of this just because a twelve-year-old said so – oh, they weren't. They had wands out and supersensory charms up and were ready to intervene at a moment's notice. Harry's fog wasn't hindering them at all.

    Gonna have to take them by surprise, Harry thought with the wry patience of a different life. But that's for later.

    ~Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four!~

    The ceiling groaned. The ice creaked like a hundred rusty hinges in front of him. The stone slab concealing the statue's mouth started descending as he heard the same ominous snarling from inside. Prior experience didn't seem to have put a dent in the fear Harry felt, but he had no flesh throat to go dry or lungs to start hyperventilating as the basilisk shrieked "Hungry!" from within just like before. He put the stick of runes back in his mouth and braced himself. The stone slab concealing the statue's mouth stopped descending. A split second afterwards, the Basilisk emerged from the darkness. The creature was still a monster, a gigantic serpent of titanic size, dark green scales, and only its deep yellow eyes cast any light before it now as it spotted him at the other end of the icy tunnel. Harry could literally feel dark magic on his face, but the windows to his soul were shut and he could see through walls.

    This is it, Harry thought.

    "This is it," Gryffindor agreed, his serious tone at odds with a deep-seated sense of absolute irony. "Observe and learn now the Short Guard of the Serpent."

    Harry laughed as the basilisk lunged straight at him.

    Harry's knees bent, his back stiffened and his hands moved on their own, the right on the hilt and the left grasping the blade, then he stomped on the ground. The basilisk smashed into the floor where he'd just been, mouth agape. Harry Potter's backwards slide on the ice ended in just the perfect place for him to stab the monster in the snout.

    The blade barely pierced. His momentum was all backwards and the basilisk's hide was strong. But the Sword of Gryffindor flashed and filled the Chamber of Secrets with the green of death, shimmers reflecting off the ice as the unforgiveable curse was released.

    The monster fell dead with nary a death throw. The king of serpents slid bonelessly out of the icy shaft, naught but its sheer weight pushing it forth until its sightless eyes stared at Harry's face from its place at his feet. Even then, the head alone came up to Harry's chest.

    Silence.

    Now that he was paying attention, Harry realised there had been shouts and screams behind the fog. He only noticed them now because they stopped. Even that was getting hard.

    I'm pushing it.

    "Hurry and claim your prize," Godric urged.

    "I claim this beast as spoils."

    He could practically feel when 'deadly beast' became 'mighty trophy' in the eyes of Magic. It didn't really feel any less dangerous, but he had a Hogwarts Founder and at least two lifetimes that said claim was important. Hopefully he was right because otherwise this was going to be the stupidest way to end the day.

    The others were calling his name again, but Harry ignored them. He stepped forward and found himself absurdly grateful for the unexpected strength of his statue-like body. He doubted he'd have been able to pry the basilisk's jaws loose without it.

    "Before you let go, that palate looks mighty soft."

    Harry stabbed the sword through the roof of the basilisk's mouth and decided to leave the sword there for Gryffindor to enjoy since he liked the idea so much. If the sword absorbed more venom than the last time he did this, it would probably be even more helpful later. Maybe Gryffindor liked eating brains when he was alive?

    Harry's joints creaked reaching out. The basilisk fang came loose with a loud SNAP just as Nicolas emerged from beyond the fog and froze in horror as Harry Potter stabbed the basilisk fang into his forehead.

    "Harry, NO!"

    CRUNCH.

    A pinpoint flash from Dumbledore's wand sent the fang blasting out of his hand the opposite way, but it was already too late. His scar erupted in pain he didn't need a body to feel. He felt like his head was melting, like malice was a tangible thing slithering over his soul. Harry would have fallen to his knees if the basilisk venom hadn't destroyed the animation spell on him along with so much else. All else that had been sheltering the flayed and mutilated splinter of a mad soul that now tried to crawl away from the venom deeper in him. It found no way. Flesh might endure, but stone just chipped away.

    An unholy scream shattered the silence as a black cloud burst out of Harry's lightning bolt scar trailing blood and ichor black as pitch. It burst and sizzled as pale moonlight from his guardian spirit blended with the golden glow on Harry's skin to sink deep into every crack and tendril, pushing the corruption out like an infection finally lanced open. The foul blood mixed with the basilisk venom still eating through his skull like acid and washed it away.

    Not all of it, though, and not fast enough. He was on his back now, Harry noticed. Nicolas had animated him again and was desperately holding him in place. Dumbledore was casting freezing and stasis and summoning charms as fast as he could wave his wand, but the venom just ate every spell. Harry tried to reach out mentally to someone, to say-

    "FAWKES! TO ME!"

    Dumbledore pre-empted him. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all. Completely bonkers of course, but Harry didn't have a leg to stand on there, especially with what he was about to do now.

    Drawing inward, he looked at his forehead from behind his forehead, past the golden light to the traces of his father's spell and followed them all the way back to the latent metamorphmagus talent beneath his red hair.

    Change, change, change.

    Stone turned to flesh.

    Harry James Potter's last memory before darkness took him was of a phoenix crying while everyone he loved called out his name.
     
  8. Threadmarks: Chapter 7: Short-Term Memory Loss Is a Misnomer
    Karmic Acumen

    Karmic Acumen The long-suffering one

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    Chapter 7: Short-Term Memory Loss Is a Misnomer

    "-. February 20, 1993 .-"

    Harry woke up in the hospital wing. Which confused him. Why was he here? He felt great! Why am I in here, Hogwarts?

    Hogwarts didn't reply. It was still fast asleep. Which was more than fair.

    "Don't move too quickly."

    Nicolas was at his bedside.

    Harry shot up in bed so fast that all the blood rushed out of his head. The world promptly floated away from under him and he collapsed back with a groan and his vision a blur. He shut his eyes in the hopes of riding out the dizzy spell. Great. He got to feel great while everything else felt horrible at the same time, score another world's first for Harry Potter, everybody.

    Nicolas' warm hand laid over his forehead. "I did say not to move too quickly, little one."

    Harry brought his hands up to hold it, just to make sure it was real. To make sure he wouldn't pull away too soon. "How did I get here?" He barely strung out the words, his tongue was so heavy. It felt like just minutes ago he was still a statue down in the Chamber, but at the same time it felt lifetimes away… "What happened?"

    Nicolas gently thumbed Harry's forehead. "What do you remember?"

    "I was a statue for…" An all too vivid hallucination came back to him. "Four days I think?"

    "Let's try something else. What is your name?"

    Eh? "Harry James Potter."

    "Parents?"

    Harry blinked his eyes open in confusion. "James Potter and Lily Potter. Why are you asking this?"

    Nicolas went to withdraw his hand but Harry tightened his grip before he could think about it. He promptly pretended he needed the leverage to help himself to a sitting position. Nicolas thankfully didn't comment on his embarrassing clinginess.

    "You've just suffered severe head trauma, Harry." Nicolas compromised by leaving his hand over Harry's on the bedside. "This is me running a cognitive test. What day is it?"

    Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. "I don't know, how long since I clocked out? Wait, when did I pass out? I only remember up until you dropped your hat on my head and then…" Then it was all…

    A dream.

    "It is February 20 of 1993. That means you've been in here for…" Nicolas trailed off leadingly.

    Harry searched Nicolas' face. "… Two days?" He hedged, then felt relieved when he got a nod. He opened his mouth, then closed it and looked around. His bed was surrounded by dividers and no sounds seemed to be coming from beyond them. That… that was a relief actually. "What happened?"

    "What do you remember?"

    A whole lot of being paralysed, terrified and going crazy and then suddenly – no. No, not suddenly at all, but he couldn't remember almost any of it. There was just one sight he didn't need to struggle to remember among the many fading from his mind. "Did I stab myself in the head?"

    "Starting strong, I see," Nicolas said drily. He watched Harry for a moment, then raised his other hand entreatingly. "I would like to use legilimency. Is that alright?"

    "… As long as you keep asking, I guess it's fine." Harry was sure Nicolas always would, but it felt important to say it aloud for some reason.

    "Thank you, Harry." Nicolas pulled his chair closer and locked their eyes together. "Relate the events in your own words."

    Harry thankfully recalled everything up to looking in the Basilisk's eyes almost perfectly. He remembered his time as a statue almost as well, but for that he wasn't thankful. His words came increasingly haltingly the further he tried to describe what going mad with paralyzed terror felt like, until he had to take breaks to drink water and wait for his hands and knees to stop shaking.

    "We can take a break."

    "No," even Harry's breath was tight, but he could do this. He had to do this now, he… "It's alright if it's-" It's alright if it's you, but Harry's words caught in his throat. "I don't want to do this twice." It was the sort of weakness Harry had learned the hard way to never show, but…

    "Then I am honoured."

    Nicolas guessed what Harry was thinking even without reading his mind. Harry didn't know what the feeling was called, but it was… It was good.

    The rest of what Harry remembered was not as good. It was more confusing than anything.

    "You were visited by a geriatric Canadian," Nicolas flatly summarised. "A geriatric Canadian that either translocated into the Chamber of Secrets in full defiance of Hogwarts wards, or astrally projected. Immediately and spontaneously in response to your accidental intrusion. He also somehow left physical evidence of his passage in the form of a drawing. Made in charcoal on paper, neither of which was conjured."

    "Really? That sounds-" wicked "-powerful."

    "Well intentioned as well," Nicolas said pensively. "His apparent power and insight into you and your situation is daunting. But he also invested time, energy and goodwill into averting your descent into madness. He even left a physical sign that you had not hallucinated, though that is not the most remarkable thing. What is noteworthy is that he departed without demanding payment, just as the situation turned sufficiently muddled that Magic did not know to initiate a life debt. It's enough to make me wonder if he came up with an agenda in those few seconds after he became aware of you, or if he's just mad."

    "I thought all old wizards were mad," Harry muttered, then blushed at inadvertently calling Nicolas crazy too.

    Nicolas didn't say anything though. Just watched him patiently.

    It made Harry feel all warm and fuzzy and tongue-tied. He needed a while before he was able to string words together again. The wait also worked to bring out another vague impression of a new memory. The worst and best of all his memories. "There was another wraith, wasn't it?"

    "There was," Nicolas said grimly. "The wraith in Ravenclaw's Diadem was a horcrux, a splinter of Tom Riddle's soul that he broke off through ritual murder to prevent his soul from passing on upon the body's death. During your out-of-the-body experience, you intimated that the diary of Tom Riddle – the item that Ginevra Weasley was under the control of, it seems – was another such item. They have both been destroyed as of yesterday. You have already deduced the rest."

    "I had one in my forehead," Harry breathed. "I had a piece of my parents' murderer inside me. Inside my head." Now that he knew it, he could actually remember some things after his return to his body a bit better. But a bit better wasn't much improvement over nearly nothing. "I can remember everything that happened after I was petrified up to when you found me." Harry said, desperately trying not to think about the fact that he had apparently been the host of Voldemort's soul his whole life. "But not afterwards, even after I… returned to my body apparently? I must have done it, if I did… that."

    "You did. After you rode the White Hart to perform an exorcism on Miss Weasley, led your own version of the Wild Hunt through half the castle in broad daylight, captured the malignant spirit in the middle of Potions class, then promptly followed this by improvising a shaman's spirit channelling to draw Gryffindor's sword from the stone in front of a quarter of the school. You used said sword to slay the basilisk shortly after, in case that hasn't come back to you yet."

    Harry didn't reply. He was too stunned.

    "The swordsmanship could be explained via Gryffindor's assistance, but you also displayed spell mastery well ahead of even a full Hogwarts education. I assume this means you were able to draw on those past lives you mentioned in your letters, which doubtlessly compounds your inability to recall things now."

    "What?" Harry could only stare in open-mouthed shock. "What?"

    Nicolas reached into a bag next to his chair and pulled out a rolled up sheet of paper. "Do you recall this at all?"

    Harry shook his head in a vain attempt to get a hold of himself. "… I remember seeing him draw." Harry said slowly. "But everything after is a blur, except for when I… stabbed myself in the forehead with a basilisk fang apparently. I was trying to get the thing out of my scar, wasn't I? Why can't I remember?"

    "Long-term memory self-actualises by assimilating from short-term memory, and short-term memory amounts to only about ten minutes. Breaking free from the confines of the flesh lets you dream entire lifetimes in moments, but you still only retain ten minutes' worth when you return and 'wake up' as it were. You've yet to overcome this limitation."

    The penny dropped. "Is that what the rune stick and hat are for?"

    There was an approving glint in Nicolas' gaze. "The diviner's path does indeed rely on overcoming this limitation, but I will refrain from influencing your path any further."

    "You've got to be kidding," Harry balked in complete disbelief. "It's way too late for that!"

    "I've been guiding and teaching, Harry. Only what I did the other day was an overstep."

    "Says who? I don't!"

    "Nevertheless, I stand by my decision," Nicolas was firm. "You've saved innocents, saved the school from closing, slain a thousand years-old class five monster, and used the spoils from that feat to destroy a living horcrux without killing said first living horcrux for the first time in history. You even had enough gumption at the end to use a heretofore untapped metamorphmagus talent to defeat what was probably the strongest petrification curse of the last thousand years. I cannot even begin to think of a better balance of help and restraint on my part. I would be mad to change my approach now."

    Again with using not being mad as a defence, was Harry truly so lucky that he got the only old wizard that wasn't crazy? Wait, no, don't tempt fate!

    "It's alright Harry." Nicolas squeezed his hand, smiling reassuringly while completely misunderstanding Harry's internal crisis. "You saved the girl. You slew the demon. You expelled the parasite. You even redeemed your reputation and that of all who believed in you, building an immortal legend in the doing. You're alright now, better than ever. Take a moment and bask in your accomplishment, little one. You deserve it."

    "That's not the point!" Harry cried, and wait, why was he freaking out? "That's not it at all, don't change the subject! I didn't - Immortal legend!?" Harry shrieked as embarrassment did what everything else had failed. Shrieked! "I don't want an immortal legend!"

    Nicolas turned stern. "If you keep screaming at me it will hardly get any smaller."

    Harry snapped his mouth shut and blushed.

    Nicolas crossed his arms and waited, but his patience felt a lot less emboldening now.

    Harry's heart sank. "I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have yelled at you."

    Nicolas softened back to his usual self. "I forgive you. If it becomes a habit, though, I'll not be as lenient."

    "Yes, sir." Harry muttered, then mentally slapped himself for acting like Nicolas was Uncle Vernon. He thinned his lips, sat up straight and looked Nicolas in the eye. "It won't happen again."

    "Oh I'm fairly sure it will, you're a bullied child that's regained just enough self-worth to push boundaries." How did grownups make you feel good and bad all at once? "But the spirit of your promise is appreciated. Here. Your drawing."

    Harry blinked and accepted the rolled up paper. And the change of subject. When he unfurled it, he found a very detailed schematic – not sketch, schematic – of what could only be one of those weird tentacle spaceships that Colin and Justin had told him about. "What the h-?"

    "Ahem."

    "-Heck," Harry amended quickly. "… I have no idea what this means. I mean I know what it means, you just told me what it means, I just don't know what drawing this specifically and leaving it behind means."

    Nicolas sat back, peering at him knowingly. "I think you do."

    Harry made a face. "There's no way the biggest and baddest of all visions was about some board game."

    "Prophecy manifests through the observer's frame of reference, and you're a child that's been short-changed on playtime your whole life. It's farther from impossible than you think."

    "No," Harry said stubbornly. "That can't be it. If it's my frame of reference that matters, then I say that's not it."

    "Oh I agree," but he'd just-! "And I'll try to look into any 'Ed' connected to this game of your muggleborn acquaintances. Hopefully he won't take offense. I'm surprised, however, I'd have thought you'd appreciate the possibility that you might have overestimated the scope. You've certainly done your best to minimise the scope of all the other visions. Quite effectively too."

    "Only because it made the most sense." Harry huffed. "And I still got petrified and almost killed. Fat lot of good the Walk did there." Actually, that was a really good point! "Wait, why didn't I get any useful visions about all this? Getting petrified and killing a basilisk in ghost-possessed statue form is a pretty huge thing to miss!"

    "A diviner can never divine his own future." Nicolas told him.

    Harry sputtered in outrage. "That's the stupidest rule of Magic I've ever heard, and I know Gamp's Fifth law!"

    "Gamp's law is there by design." What? "But this is no rule at all, Harry. It's the observer effect. Once you know the results of your choices, you change your choices. Some change in behaviour and attitude is inevitable. Knowing the consequences of your choices leads to further refined choices, or bad choices based on events even further out. And so on and so on in an infinite feedback loop. An infinity of changed futures means no future to see."

    "That-" That doesn't make any sense, Harry wanted to say, but he disagreed with his own knee-jerk reaction the moment he thought about it. But still! "I can only see everyone else's futures but not mine? That doesn't sound fair."

    "Isn't it? It's not some law imposed by a cruel higher power, Harry. It's informed decision-making. Free will, Harry. Do you regret having it?"

    "Oh." Harry felt like he had just experienced a revelation. "I didn't think of it like that."

    "Don't beat yourself up over it, most people don't think about it either, but they still act by their own will anyway, even if just to choose to think and do what others tell them. You are well ahead of most in this regard. You should feel proud."

    "Should I?" Harry wondered, because he seemed to be going all in on this pushing boundaries business, even if it meant arguing for the sake of arguing because he needed something to stop him from exploding from all the praise. "I thought pride was a sin." He joked. It was a joke, right?

    "Unearned pride is hubris. Earned pride is the ideal state of man, it means you're accomplishing your best self. Granted, people usually don't go about it so literally, but that just goes to show that I am a very good judge of character."

    If he ever took on the job of an educator, Nicolas Flamel would drive every other teacher out of business. "Hold on," Harry frowned. "You're wrong. I did see my own future."

    Nicolas raised an amused eyebrow. "Is that so?"

    "I did! I saw my duel with Draco Malfoy."

    "You didn't see your future, you saw Draco Malfoy's." Nicolas spoke with the sort of confidence that Harry barely dreamed of possessing. "The fact you saw that vision speaks to the lack of control you had over that outcome compared to all other forces and actors at the time. And you saw for yourself how little even that amounted to in the end, once you observed the ultimate driving force behind that future."

    "Oh," Harry frowned. "I thought it was like a fixed point in time." Had Hermione's dad's science fiction marathons lied to him? But then fixed points couldn't be changed at all-

    "There is no such thing," Nicolas declared with all the confidence of six hundred years, which meant Mister Granger's hobby had lied to him, how could he do such a thing? "There is only the past and the present. Even they have gaps that have yet to be filled, and everything else is up to us to create. Notice how the duel with young Malfoy is the only future you managed to outright prevent? That's the full extent of your leeway. You've already considered that you might not have acted by your own will there. Consider also that it might not even have been you in that vision at all. Occam's Razor would suggest it was, but your frame of reference would certainly allow otherwise. Polyjuice Potion is just one of several ways to impersonate someone, and you yourself just achieved a second."

    The life-altering revelations just didn't want to stop.

    Harry decided to just roll with it. They were just more things to add to the list of why his life was great and he should feel great.

    Then he promptly experienced what Nicolas had meant way back, when he said that the best ideas come out of nowhere after you've already thought yourself out. "You can't divine the future of other diviners either, can you?"

    The pride and vindication in Nicolas' eyes made Harry's breath catch. "Very good, little one."

    There was even more to dig under that epiphany, somehow Harry was sure of it. But he found that he couldn't think any thoughts at all when Nicolas was looking at him like that. It wasn't fair, Harry didn't want to make a fool of himself, why was Nicolas trying to make him cry? "So," Harry quavered, then forcefully cleared his throat so he wouldn't choke up. "What now?"

    "Now I ask you if there's anything else you want to ask me before I hand you over to your friends. I'm afraid Mister Longbottom is still petrified, but Mister Weasley and Miss Granger are anxious to welcome you back among the hale. I've also prevailed upon Albus to make a perfunctory appearance, hard though it might have been. You'd almost think he regrets that Malfoy Sr. has finally stopped being a nuisance.'"

    Headmaster Dumbledore didn't want to see him? "What did I do this time?" Harry demanded, feeling more annoyed than ashamed for once. "Why doesn't he want to see me?"

    "I believe that watching you stab yourself with the razor-sharp fang of the darkest of dark creatures, which was incidentally dripping with the most corrosive substance on Earth, has poor Albus rethinking all his life's choices. Watching a twelve year-old child commit suicide is bad. Being the one who drove that child to suicide is worse."

    "I'm not suicidal!" Harry balked, aghast.

    Nicolas didn't say anything.

    "I'm not!" Harry insisted. He wasn't suicidal. He wasn't!

    Nicolas still didn't say anything.

    "I'm not suicidal," Harry said more calmly. Talking calmly made you easier to believe, right? "I may not remember all the details but I'd definitely remember that!"

    "And yet it would have been suicide if Albus was any slower on the uptake. You know it. You knew it then. You know it now." Nicolas beheld him with eyes so intense that Harry belatedly wondered how distraught he had to be right now. "I don't believe for a second you didn't know what you were doing. The risk of death was far higher than the odds of surviving long enough for the horcrux to unravel, if it even did. But you chose to leap regardless. You were ready to die, Harry."

    Harry dropped his head, but then straightened again. He knew what he was doing. He remembered enough of what he felt to know that much. He wasn't the one in the wrong here. But then why couldn't he meet Nicolas' eyes? He crossed his arms and averted his face. "It was worth it."

    "I disagree."

    His head snapped back in surprise.

    "Harry. There was no immediate danger. Your mother's magic had the parasite so tightly locked that none of our spells could even see it through the golden glow. The White Hart is aware now also, cross-contamination was well and truly halted. But it didn't occur to even your best self that you could wait."

    "Wait for what?" Harry insisted stubbornly. "Wait for Voldemort to get resurrected? Because that's what's going to happen!"

    "Wait for better conditions perhaps?" It was a question, but Nicolas' voice was unusually flat. "Petrification, basilisk venom, a sharp knife, all of those could have been replicated later. Perhaps when we had some forewarning that you will need an immediate dose of phoenix tears or you'll die in my arms."

    Harry gripped the blanket in his tight fists. He knew he'd shock them, but it was over and done with, and everything was fine. Why would they still be upset? "I knew you'd want to stop me," he admitted. "That's why I couldn't give either of you the chance. I knew it would work." It had to work. "And I was right."

    "Oh Harry…"

    Harry swallowed and blinked rapidly, desperate to stem the tears. He thought Nicolas might be angry, he could have dealt with it if he'd gotten angry, but he wasn't. He didn't even sound disappointed, he was… he sounded…

    Heartbroken.

    "Perhaps it's better to rip the band-aid off all at once," Nicolas murmured. When his voice came again, it was wrought in iron. "If, after all this and whatever else happens, you still decide in favour of coming under my guardianship, you will not continue at Hogwarts."

    Harry Potter's head snapped up and he stared at Nicolas Flamel in open-mouthed betrayal. "What!? What do you mean? How can you say that!?"

    "Your dead mother wove her fortune and spirit into yours to keep you safe. Your dead father has been acting across timelines to slay your enemies and give you a home to live in. I can never compete with that, nor would I want to." The matter-of-fact words cut at Harry's… everything. He hadn't considered any of that when he decided he was ready to throw everything away. Hadn't considered- "But I still have my best to do by you. And my best does not include letting you spend more time in a place where you suffer routine attempts on your life."

    "But…" It only happened once, was what Harry was about to say before he remembered it was actually three times, and those were just the ones he knew of. Somehow, he doubted Nicolas would consider it a good argument. "That's…" That's not fair, Harry wanted to say, but Harry couldn't get that past his tongue either. "It's… It's Hogwarts…" It felt like that should be enough to win any argument, so why did the words feel so empty all of a sudden?

    "Well, apparently Hogwarts is going to get so much worse that you were ready to commit suicide at age twelve to spare yourself the pain."

    It wasn't a joke, and it didn't feel like one, but it was one. The most absurd cosmic joke in the universe, that was his life. Harry didn't feel like laughing.

    "I'm not making you choose," Nicolas said quietly. "You can accept. You can refuse. You can choose your Godfather instead. I will teach you all I can regardless. I will do all I can to let you maintain your friendships regardless. You will not be going back to your aunt and uncle regardless. But just as I settle for no half-measures as a teacher, I will not give half-measures as a parent."

    Harry just kept staring at Nicolas with the same soul-tearing betrayal. There was a feathery tightness inside his chest. His heart seemed to try to burst out and his blood pounded in his head. He had no words for the feelings Nicolas had just ignited in him. It felt like the whole world had collapsed from under him.

    "I know Hogwarts feels like your only real home." Nicolas made to reach out, but Harry drew back so he clasped hands together instead. "But home is not a place where people try to routinely murder you. And tell me honestly – does this home come with a family? Truly?"

    "Yes it does!" Harry bit out, even though he knew it for a lie the moment he said it. The House you got sorted in was supposed to be your second family, but none of them acted like it. He'd paid in literal blood and sweat for all his friendships, and everyone other than those five people still assumed the worst of him when the going got tough. Even McGonagall never did the right thing despite using him for her own gratification in Quidditch. She even let Snape bully him and so many others and called it staying 'neutral.' She was the Deputy Headmistress, she was the Gryffindor Head of House, she wasn't supposed to be neutral, she should be being fair.

    The closest thing to a family were Ron and Hermione, but the three of them were barely anything like the Weasleys. There was a tight bond of trust between them, loyalty forged on the battlefield even, but friendship and family were different things. He would do anything for them, but he was an orphan. If he weren't, if his parents still lived, would he feel so strongly?

    No. No he wouldn't. Already he didn't feel for them nearly as strongly as whatever he was feeling for Nicolas right now.

    Nicolas watched him. Waited for him to gather his words. Words that actually meant something.

    Harry never thought he'd resent him for it. Never thought that someone's patience could feel so oppressive, he never thought he'd receive respect and only want to throw it back in someone's face. He never thought he'd be so angry at him. That he'd finally have a grownup give him everything he ever wanted and only feel angry for it.

    This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair, none of this was fair.

    "That is all I had to say," Nicolas finally spoke when Harry proved unable. He waited a moment longer to see if Harry would say anything. When he didn't, he nodded somberly, stood and waved down with his hand. Suddenly, Harry could hear all sorts of noises coming from beyond the dividers. "I'll be there for you when you're ready to talk again, if you wish. I'm glad you live and were able to make a full recovery. I hope you won't be so quick to throw your life away from now on."

    Nicolas pulled the drapes apart and left for the infirmary exit, where Ron, Hermione and Dumbledore were not so subtly blocking the door against a veritable crowd of gawkers from all four houses.

    No, this isn't over, wait, don't go, come back! But Harry still felt too angry and betrayed to get any words out as his friends did everything short of tackle-hug him a few seconds later.

    "-. .-"
    Harry barely listened to his friends speaking over each other. He wasn't losing out on anything. They'd get frustrated and bicker and stop in embarrassment, then start from the top all over again. He instead looked at his two friends intensely, memorising their voices and faces. It was still months before he had to make a decision, but it already felt like he'd never have the chance to do this again.

    When they fell silent, Ron and Hermione fidgeted in place and looked at him strangely. Relieved and happy enough to cry – which they still were, sniffles and everything – but weird all the same. The fact that Harry was more upset now than on Valentine's day was apparently suspicious.

    Harry greeted them, reassured them, dismissed their worries about his sorry state. Revealed nothing about what he and Nicolas had just talked about. Admitted nothing. Hinted nothing. Especially not how he wished Nicolas had dropped his bomb and immediately left like he did before, instead of sitting and waiting for Harry to try and completely fail to find his own piece to say. At least then Harry could stay properly angry at him, instead of spending however long it took to meet again facing the fact that he had not even one counter-argument.

    He couldn't leave his bed fast enough.

    "What happened while I was out?" He asked as soon as his head stopped floating and his feet didn't feel like they'd fold under his weight. He wanted an update, he told himself, it wasn't just to distract himself.

    "Ginny's alright," Ron said hoarsely. "You saved her, mate. First Fred and George and now her! I was there when you – I saw it, it was the most amazing thing I ever… You were like the Erlking! You came up riding the White Hart of legend, and then your Patronus just… it was just…" Ron broke into tears. "You owe me ten galleons!"

    Harry suddenly felt stupid for thinking his friends would ever have trouble distracting him from his woes. Also. "What?"

    Ron sniffled, took out his wand and warbled– "Expecto Patronum!"

    A great white stallion charged out of Ron's wand, luminescent as the moon and toweringly massive. It proceeded to canter all over the infirmary, leaving lingering trails of stardust all through the air, drapes and petrified students.

    Harry watched, awestruck. That was three years ahead of time! "Wow, Ron! That's an easy O on the DADA owl!"

    "You owe me ten galleons." Ron sobbed, voice hoarse with half-swallowed feelings.

    "Sixteen galleons," Hermione quavered too, hastily wiping her own tears. "One for succeeding, five for the mist, ten for making it corporeal."

    "Sixteen galleons then." Harry could hug them both. No, not could have. Would have. He hugged them both.

    They all but squeezed the life out of him in their huddle.

    When they finally broke apart, Harry already felt a hundred times better. He resolutely did not think about what it meant for his future hug prospects that he might not be returning to Hogwarts next year. "What about the other victims?"

    "The mandrakes haven't matured yet," Hermione wiped her face with her handkerchief and joined him with Ron to stand at Neville's bedside. He was on his side, still stuck in that half-kneeling position with a hand reaching low. "He was looking through my mirror from under the stall door when the basilisk gaze caught him. Ginny never even knew he was there."

    Harry was able to check on Colin and Justin too, before Madam Pomfrey finally materialised and shooed them off after one last diagnostic spell. Harry caught his reflection in a mirror on the way out. There was no trace of a scar on his forehead anymore, but his hair was red even now. Scowling, he wished it would finally just turn- oh, it was black again. Finally! Maybe now Snape would stop looking at him so strangely.

    Actually, no, never mind. Who cared about Snape? Certainly not him!

    The headmaster was just outside the door.

    "Mister Potter," Dumbledore said calmly, hands clasped behind his back. "The harrowing events of the past week are a matter of utmost secrecy. So, naturally, the whole school knows."

    Of course it did, why would it be anyway else? Harry scowled. "For the record, I never wanted and still don't want an immortal legend."

    "I am afraid you failed in that regard."

    "Well that's just perfect."

    "It was obviously the ghosts," Hermione muttered behind him. "Nothing else makes much sense."

    "Nah, it was the portraits for sure," Ron disagreed, not even trying to keep his voice low despite the crowd of gawkers that had only grown bigger over yonder. "Gryffindor's portrait's been looking like he ate a huge canary cake all by himself."

    Was nothing ever going to go his way? "Do we at least know how Ginny got the diary?"

    "I will tell you what has been deduced. We believe the diary was slipped into Ginny Weasley's cauldron after the brawl between the Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley in Diagon Alley. Naturally, this has been vehemently denied by the former, and alas, there is no proof available to push the matter, at least without any further developments." Dumbledore's sight lingered on Ron briefly there, and why – oh, the 'anonymous' tip! "The consciousness in the diary proved most resistant to interrogation as well, unfortunately, and such would have been useless in any case. Any incriminating account from that corner was rendered null and void with the pardon at the end of the war. I will mention that Lucius Malfoy looked rather aghast when I explained exactly what the item was, and doubly so when I invited him to witness its destruction. He even tried to argue for its handover to the Department of Mysteries."

    Which would have been a complete disaster, though Harry wasn't sure why he felt that way about something he was only now learning about. He was pretty sure he'd never heard about the Department of Mysteries before. Was it his dreams again? "Well, I'm glad it's gone."

    "Quite." Dumbledore's tone made Harry tense. The headmaster was watching him every bit as intensely as Nicolas had, near the end there. Harry didn't feel like his mind was being ransacked, but- "I have decided to try your suggestion."

    "Huh?" Harry was completely thrown? "My what?"

    "You suggestion during our dinner with Nicolas."

    What was he- oh. Oh. "… Are you sure? It's probably dangerous, isn't it?"

    "I believe I can mitigate the risks well enough." Dumbledore nodded then. "The evening feast will be starting soon. I trust you will make it?"

    "Sure?" Harry was practically ravenous already, why would the headmaster need to ask? "There's not still people on the 'Harry Potter's the Heir of Slytherin train' are there?" He still wasn't clear on how that happened in the first place.

    "Oh, I dare say you don't have to worry about that."

    That didn't make him feel much better at all!

    Dumbledore was watching him. Lingering there for some reason or- "Sometimes, disagreements can seem insurmountable." No. "But they never are. And if I may be so bold, you will find no better advocate than him."

    Dammit.

    "Have a good day, Harry. Mister Weasley, Miss Granger."

    Dammit.

    "Same to you, sir," Ron said when Harry failed to speak.

    The crowd of students parted like waves before a barge as Dumbledore turned around and left, and Harry braced himself for his friends to-

    "Like Wild Hunt's ghosts before the Erlking didst the gawkers split," Ron muttered as if he hadn't even been there for Dumbledore's blatant… whatever that was and since when did Ron-? "Behold the hero rendered bare, to the hunger most ravenous of thirsting plebeians."

    What the hell?

    "As now they are, and making practised smiles as in a looking-glass, and then to sigh, as 'twere the mort o' the deer." Hermione too!? "O, that is entertainment my bosom likes not, nor my brows!"

    Ron gaped at Hermione, outraged. "You so totally stole that!"

    "It's Shakespeare, Ronald," Hermione huffed, turning her nose. "Honestly, don't you read?"

    "So you admit it!"

    Hermione scowled at him. "You're hardly in a position to throw stones."

    "You wish!" Ron scoffed. "Unlike you, I don't need to steal lines from other people."

    "You mean you just made that up?"

    "Duh! You mean you didn't?"

    Hermione gaped and flushed red. "You're impossib-AH!" Then she shrieked upon turning away only to kiss Ron's Patronus right on the lips.

    Ronald Billius Weasley cackled gloatingly. It actually spooked the first wave of well-wishers some. It took quite some time for Ron to notice Harry's stare. "Fred and George have been going Thespian on everyone in sight since you disappeared," Ron admitted. "Seems to piss the bigger morons right off." He turned his scowl upon the encroaching mass. "Doesn't seem to work as well for me though."

    They were promptly overrun soon after.

    Shockingly, Harry and his friends weren't trampled to death by the mob. In fact, the mob was actually smaller than it seemed at first glance. Also, it was entirely made of the immediate friends of the petrified victims and their immediate friends. The upside of which was that Harry didn't know any of them personally, so he didn't need to put time and effort into playing nice. Well, no more than politeness demanded. On the other hand, this also meant that these students – almost all of them upper years – cared just as little about what he wanted to say. The result of which was a total deluge of talking over each other demanding answers to their questions. Harry seriously considered keeping his mouth shut and pushing through them to escape, but…

    Does this home come with a family? Truly?

    Harry planted his feet and began answering questions from pure spite. Yes he was alive. Yes he'd been petrified. Yes he had unpetrified himself. Yes he knew how to explain it. No he wasn't going to explain it, as if he'd ever mention the metamorphmagus thing, he wasn't crazy no matter what everyone else thought! What do you mean he was being an arse for keeping it to himself? It wasn't something that would work on someone else! Even he didn't understand it, what do you mean am I the heir of Slytherin after all, how the hell are you still on about that!?

    "The truth is scarier to them, Harry Potter," came the absently cheery words as Harry grit his teeth at the busybodies that were now shying back from the sight of him. He didn't know how his sparking wand had appeared in his hand. All he knew was that it felt very, very right somehow. But now there was a tiny girl in front of him. Ravenclaw. Long platinum pale hair fluttering in the air with every bounce. An eerily familiar first-year girl with an almost vacant look on her face as she skipped forward and gave him a newspaper. The Quibbler. February 20 Special Edition.

    HARRY POTTER – INOCENT CHILD OR WALKING DEAD?

    By Xenophilius Lovegood

    For twelve years Harry Potter has been believed to be a simple child of age with our own children just starting Hogwarts. None of us have ever questioned that the many epics written about his early life have not even a grain of truth to them. Yet word out of Hogwarts has cast doubt on the fictional nature of the Harry Potter biographies. No doubt the vast majority of them are still complete nonsense, but one fact is now undeniable: Harry Potter has been dead this whole time! The Harry Potter we know of was just a homunculus double meant to distract from the preparations for our hero's true triumphant return! In spirit!

    "Daddy's completely wrong of course," said Luna Lovegood as she tucked her hair behind her radish earring. "You were obviously taken in by the Wild Hunt and have been receiving secret training to fight the evil spirits in charge of the minister's secret army of heliopaths. A very good plan of course, otherwise they'll be subverted by the forces of darkness when they return. Which they will of course, they've tried to kill you too many times to stop now."

    What was she - how was any of that- what did she mean it was obvious, completely loony is what – wait, what forces of darkness was she talking about?

    "I'm glad you don't take your body with you for it though. What happened to King Herla was the last straw for Merlin, did you know? If the little fairy king hadn't deprived the Britons of their greatest king and besmirched the reputation of the dwarves by pretending to be one, house elves might not exist as we know them today."

    King who?

    But Luna Lovegood was already skipping away. Barefoot. Just like she had when…

    She was there, Harry remembered. She went on the yearly walk just like I did! And she was loopy as all get out. Is that going to happen to me?

    "King Herla sounds vaguely familiar," Hermione grudgingly confessed as she bravely interposed herself between the others and Harry as they made their escape. Harry did the polite thing and waved goodbye even as they made tracks as fast as they could without breaking into a run outright.

    "He's the Elrking," Ron revealed as he interposed himself between the others and Hermione. "It's in the Tales of Beedle and the Bard."

    "Well I haven't read them yet," Hermione declared ever so primly. "I've had slightly more important things to research than children's fairy tales."

    "And now you just look silly," Ron smirked at Hermione's affronted look. "What? It happens so rarely, let me enjoy the moment!"

    "Hmph!"

    Ron spent their walk arguing with Hermione for a while. Hermione explained how King Herla must be from somewhere else because she could only have come across the name in the muggle world. Ron avoided conceding the argument by somehow derailing the whole talk into brainstorming a strategy for becoming a straight-O student. Somehow, bribery got involved. And self-hypnotism. When Hermione shot both down, Ron challenged her to come up with a better method to avoid studying his brain to death. When Hermione failed to convince him that that didn't mean what he thinks it means, she put up the merits of not ending up maimed, crucioed or possessed as motivational factors. Ron groused that he'd already thought about that, thank you very much. In fact, he'd already owled his brother Charlie about a summer job at the dragon reserve in Romania. Hermione praised him and encouraged him to refine his plans by the time their career counselling meetings with McGonagall came up.

    "You think she'll have a problem with it?" Ron asked. "I get to make money and play with man-eating baby dragons that like to bite and spit fire at the people shovelling their mom's manure."

    Hermione scrunched her nose. "How you could possibly consider those to be positives is beyond me."

    Ron nodded sagely. "It's good to know your limits." And there they go again.

    Career counselling meetings. It had completely slipped his mind that those were a thing.

    Harry looked at his two friends, doing his best to sear their voices and faces in his mind. It was still months before he had to make a decision, but it already felt like he'd never have the chance to do this again. In a betrayal of everything he'd ever wanted, Harry Potter wished Nicolas Flamel had given an ultimatum instead.

    Being forced to choose would have been less painful than this.

    He needed a distraction.

    And he got one.

    When it finally came, though, it was nothing Harry had expected. Which made sense, and at the same time didn't. The past few days should have left him more prone to off-putting deja vu than before, not less. Then again, it was supremely unlikely that the distraction in question would repeat itself. Ever.

    "This is not the entry hall," Hermione called out, coming to a stop. "Where are we? The hospital wing is literally right across the hallways from the Great Hall. How did we get lost?"

    "Blimey, we're on the seventh floor!" Ron realised. "Look at the portraits. What the hell, we didn't even climb any stairs! I knew Hogwarts changes on you, but not this much!"

    Well. Harry knew a lure when he saw one, and this one was as blatant as they got.

    Sure enough, Godric Gryffindor was waiting for them when they reached his portrait. Harry took his time to study the Founder for once. The man was big, tall, broad and muscled like three men in one. His tunic was made of a rich, burgundy material lined with gold at the seams, but did little to conceal the man's bulky frame. Red hair, red beard that fell like a lion's mane all the way to his chest. Great crimson cloak around his shoulders. And at his side was his sword in its sheath, handle held in his grip.

    Gryffindor beckoned and set off through the portraits.

    What else could they do but follow?

    The founder led them all the way to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and promptly walked out of the scene into the real world. Harry could only stop and stare.

    "Where'd he go?" Ron asked, peering all over the tapestry. Could he not see him?

    "He just vanished," Hermione echoed, because neither of them could apparently see Gryffindor right there out with them.

    Gryffindor watched them mildly, then turned to Harry with a warm, meaningful smile. Walked soundlessly across the hallway and paced in front of the wall three times.

    A door melted into view. The grinding of the stone attracted his friends' attention. Gryffindor sent Harry one last glance and walked through the wall.

    The three exchanged glances, and agreed wordlessly that Harry should go first.

    After the Chamber of Secrets, Harry had expected something grand. But the room was nothing like that. It wasn't exactly tiny, you could probably fit their whole dorm inside, but it was pretty unremarkable, with round walls and simple masonry. There was hardly any room to care about any of that though, when the first and last thing you cared about was the thing in the middle.

    A big round stone with Gryffindor's Sword sticking out of it.

    "Bit on the nose, isn't it?" Ron breathed faintly.

    Harry stared at the sword. The silver gleamed in the semi-darkness and the red rubies were large as eggs. He hesitated.

    Then walked over and grabbed the hilt.

    Gryffindor faded into view in front of him, so full of color that you could almost swear he was alive again. He reached out for the hilt as well. When his hand laid over Harry's, it felt as real as flesh.

    "You did well, Little Warrior," the man murmured. Well, what passed for a murmur on such a loud and larger-than-life man. "But your skill is atrocious. A stain on the honour of my house. 'Tis most egregious!" The grin came clearly through that bristling mane of red. "You do mean to correct this failing, I hope?"

    Harry, thankfully, was only almost stunned to the point of speechlessness. "Uh… sure?"

    Gryffindor's smile turned warmer. "You don't need to agree if you don't want to, child."

    "I do!" Harry blurted. He was panicking, why was he panicking? "I really do, I think. I mean, after what happened and, well…" Harry felt frustration overcome him. "Ugh, this is all Slytherin's fault. His bloody pet knocked me stupid and now I can't even string two words together."

    A shadow passed over Gryffindor's face. "Don't be too hard on him. He had good reason to build the chamber and put a monster in."

    Harry looked back at in disbelief. "What reason could possibly be good enough?"

    "The Norman invasion."

    "Oh." That was a big deal in Britain's history, wasn't it? "Sorry."

    "It is not your failing that you've been educated falsely," Godric sighed. "But enough of such somber topics! This is a good day! I trust I don't need to say what you're supposed to do?"

    Harry grinned, planted his feet and pulled the sword from the stone. The blade cut the air with a ringing song that Harry remembered crystal clear even though he didn't remember anything else of that memory.

    "Good. Now watch closely because I'm not usually one for showmanship either." The man turned translucent and flowed over and through him, taking something of Harry and extending it, overlaying it until he and Gryffindor both overshadowed the sword.

    "Just a moment," the Founder's thoughts were almost too loud in Harry's mind, "I can do a fair few things on my own, but Wizardry is still the province of the living. Here we go."

    The Sword of Gryffindor shimmered, made a soft – SWISH – and transformed into a fountain pen.

    Thankfully, Harry's seeker reflexes were their own entity these days. The pen was made of silver with the rubies small and sparkling in a line along the barrel. Was this really happening?

    "The quill is not mightier than the sword, but it's still useful, wouldn't you say?"

    The pen felt natural and real in his grasp. Harry then felt a mental prompt from… the possessed sword?

    "You can call me Godric, Little Warrior."

    Then I'm honoured.

    Harry thought it would hurt to use the same words, but even angry at Nicolas as he was, paying forward only made Harry happy.

    Taking a deep breath to banish those feelings, he turned the pen between his fingers and it became a quill. Turning it again changed it back into a pen. With a bit of focus, he found he could make it change just by wanting it hard enough.

    At the far end of the room, a wooden post appeared.

    "Observe and learn, now, the Daring Guard of the Archer."

    Harry grabbed the hilt in a reverse grip, let the sword move his arms and threw it like a spear.

    Godric drove so deep into the wood that the tip burst out the other side.

    "Now reach in your pocket."

    He could still hear him? Harry reached in his pocket and pulled out the Pen of Gryffindor. Startled, he looked up to find that the sword had vanished. It had vanished and returned to him on its own. "Wicked!" With a nudge of his mind, the pen became the sword once again. This was the third, no, fourth bestest thing ever!

    "I'll go off haunting when we're not doing anything, or if you just need privacy."
    Voice didn't come through in mental communication, you just knew what the thought was the moment it happened. But Harry still fancied he could hear the deep rumble of the man as he spoke. "But I'll be there for you whenever you need me."

    I'll be there for you when you're ready to talk again.


    Harry clenched his hand around the hilt and bit his lip. If he didn't, he might cry. Or whoop up and down the chamber until he collapsed from exhaustion. Probably both. Was there anything that wouldn't remind him of Nicolas?

    "Bloody brilliant."

    "I can't believe the Sword in the Stone lacked so much gravitas!"

    Oh right, his friends were still there.

    Harry turned to them, sword in hand, but found he had no idea what to say. He turned Godric back into a pen and put it in his pocket. He still didn't know what to say. What to think.

    Ron didn't know either. Hermione didn't know either.

    The space between them inflated like an invisible balloon and spat out a tiny spelljammer crewed by hamsters.



    What.

    Harry's mind promptly experienced the equivalent of double vision as his soul-deep wave of disbelief found itself in good company. "…Starting our partnership strong, aren't we? I thought we'd get at least a decade together before you knocked me stupid again."

    Harry Potter and company watched in dumbstruck silence as the little flying ship flew slowly closer until it hovered in front of Harry. They continued to stare as the hamster crew squeaked and chittered at each other until the one with the top hat cheeped loud once, climbed up to the crow's nest, pulled a megaphone out of nowhere and- "Delivery from Unspecified Benefactor of Obsolete Origin! Are you Harry Potter!?"

    Harry gaped, speechless. The hamster sounded like your stereotypical butler, but… but… but he was a hamster! "Who the hell are you!?"

    "I am Captain Boo of the Nutcracker!" Captain Boo tipped his hat. "Miniature Giant Space Hamster, at your service!"

    "Miniature what?" What the bloody hell? "Holy shit, am I seeing this?" He looked at Ron and Hermione desperately. "Am I seeing this? Are you seeing this?"

    "If by 'this' you mean a tiny flying ship crewed by talking hamsters, certainly not, Harry," replied Hermione with all the confidence of the clinically insane. "After all, that would be impossible."

    Ron had only slightly less to say. "Don't look at me, this isn't the craziest thing I've ever seen, Scotland's national animal is a unicorn you know!" Oh God, Ron had already cracked!

    "Hellooo the Giant!" Squeaked… the miniature giant space hamster. "Are you Harry Potter or not?"

    "… Yes?"

    "Excellent! Now, your package had to be resized for the trip, which means it will unshrink the moment we leave, so please handle carefully! We do not guarantee returns!"

    A little disk of light appeared next to the ship. The… sailor hamsters loaded it up with a little square item. Then the disk flew over to a stop in front of Harry's face.

    Harry almost didn't take it, but what would that get him? What would they do if he refused? What could they do? The Basilisk didn't think a tiny human child could do anything either, and look where that got it! What if the hamsters got upset?

    How was he seriously thinking those words right now?

    "I'm proud of you for not disregarding the interpersonal element of strategy," Godric dryly said in his head.

    Harry slowly reached up and, with all the confidence of someone deciding this was a dream and therefore nothing out of the ordinary, plucked the little… whatever it was and rolled it onto his palm. It looked like a gift box wrapped in polka dots.

    The space in front of him inflated like an invisible balloon and ate up the tiny spelljammer crewed by hamsters.

    Harry stared stupidly. Then he turned his eyes away from the empty space in front of him and looked at his friends just as stupidly. "Those were clearly toys under an animation charm."

    Hermione practically squeaked. "Definitely."

    "No doubt about it," Ron nodded furiously. "Nothing but toys, it's Merlin's honest truth."

    The tiny box wrapped in polka dots became a book-sized box wrapped in polka dots. There was a thread wrapped around it. And a note.

    Harry took a deep breath, took out the note and read.

    Little Homebody! Heard you might be in the market for a training venue! I've got this tiny little pocket dimension just gathering dust on my shelf ever since its intended recipient imprisoned his ultimate nemesis in a volcano instead, it's unconscionable! Mountain's not even active anymore, has a big old lake on top and everything, can you imagine the cheek!? I've idiot-proofed it so you don't get trapped inside by mistake, but just in case you still manage somehow – I know your type! – I tossed in three extra doors that you can drop practically anywhere. This way there's always a way for someone to come save your sorry hide when you next try to sacrifice yourself on the altar of youth's stupidity. Try it out, it's got dinosaurs!

    Harry calmly thought absolutely nothing as he quietly read the note. And then not so quietly read the note again aloud so that Ron and Hermione could equally calmly think absolutely nothing or they'd all go absolutely bonkers together.

    When reality went on being reality despite all evidence to the contrary, Hermione slowly looked up from the paper she had taken out of Harry's hands at some point. "Harry, where do you find these people?"

    Harry tried and failed to find a good answer all the way to the Great Hall.

    Then he had his entire thought train derailed for the third time in the same day when the very loud Great Hall fell absolutely silent the moment he was through the doors.

    Harry Potter stopped in his tracks and looked up from his navel-gazing to find that everyone in the Great Hall was staring at him.

    Shite.

    Then Fred and George jumped to their feet and began to clap.

    It was like a ripple. Gryffindor House stood up to clap. Then Ravenclaw. Then Hufflepuff. Even the Slytherins joined in, clapping politely even though they refrained from rising to their feet. Far ahead at the staff table, Albus Dumbledore stood and began to applaud, prompting all the other teachers and staff to rise and join in. Professor McGonnagall, Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout, all the other teachers too. Hagrid's claps sounded like thunder above all of them, and next to him even Snape had gotten up to slowly clap with the most disgruntled look on his pale face. The sounds and the cheers that rose from all directions made the walls ring and Harry's entire body shake in place.

    He should have flinched, but he was too wrung out to be startled. He would have shied away, but his absurd day had cured him of that too. He felt himself blushing, but the impulse to look down and hide never came. Hogwarts was the closest thing to a reflection of the entire magical world, and all of it was cheering for him now. It felt…

    It felt…

    Beyond even the farthest table, right by the staff entrance, Nicolas Flamel leaned against the wall. Watching. Smiling earnestly. Hopefully.

    What was this feeling?

    "Victory, Little Warrior," Godric murmured. "Bask in it. It's yours."

    Go bask in your accomplishment, little one.


    Harry Potter stood amidst a standing ovation like none Hogwarts had seen since its first founding.

    Then he walked forward to bask in his accomplishment.
     
    Last edited: Oct 22, 2022
  9. Threadmarks: Interlude, the Smaller: Not All Those Who Wonder Are Lost
    Karmic Acumen

    Karmic Acumen The long-suffering one

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    A/N: The small ripples first. The wider ripples are coming up next, then a timeskip from a mystery box POV.



    [​IMG]
    Interlude, the Smaller: Not All Those Who Wonder Are Lost

    "-. ??? .-"

    The room had a concave floor that rose up into one round, edgeless wall outwards and upward so high that it tapered off in hazy darkness. But barely a spot of it could be seen past the bright, whitish silver light all around him, a cloud-like wind made solid, like light turned liquid moving ceaselessly. There was something in his hand. Raising it, he saw an unassuming wand made of unadorned elder wood with a handle formed of two conjoined spheres. The white mist tangled like gossamer at its passage. Curious, he waved a hand in front of himself. The effects were the same. Trying to catch the strands made them disperse like smoke. Doing the same with his wand tugged on his brain, somehow. Cradling his head, it felt bizarrely empty and light, though he didn't know why.

    He looked around. There was food and drink on a table to the right. There was a stone vault with a sign on the door designating it as a sanitary. Turning his head made him feel as if his skull was dragging along a snare built straight through his brain. The cloud-like light crimped at his movement as if tugged upon, making his hair and long beard seem as if they broke off into vapour.

    The light is the snare, the man deduced. It's rooted in my head. Or it came out of my head. Is coming out…

    The man noted mildly that he had a basic concept of everything around him even though he lacked any manner of memory. How very curious.

    For lack of a better idea and because he felt slightly peckish, he made for the table.

    He finally realised just what the gossamer mist was when it didn't move with him and his head overlapped the strands immediately in front of him.

    Oh, the man thought as his surroundings changed around him and he felt like he should be tumbling forward instead of just stepping up to the sight of a young girl running at three wizards with wands drawn.

    Now what could possibly be going on? Also, why was this going on?

    Actually, who was he for this to be happening to him?




    "-. Sirius Orion Black, Islington, London .-"

    OLDEST WIZARD IS 756!

    by Uno Highest

    Barry Wee Willie Winkle celebrates his 756th birthday in style today, and is determined to set the record that he tried and failed to achieve last year. This year's party promises to be an even more extravagant affair, with invitations sent to all the wizards and witches he has ever known, plus one! Sources close to the matter are confident in the intended recipient of the last and foremost invitation. Will Harry Potter make an appearance? We will brave the 30 million-long guest list (plus one!) to answer that very question tonight!
    The Daily Prophet had become an even slimier rag than before, if they dared use his Godson's name like this, especially so soon after their positively saccharine arse-licking at the end of February. Unless, of course, this was a ploy by the Ministry to both attract and distract from this eternal scam, while the DMLE worked to finally expose the culprit behind this blurb appearing in some form on the front page of the paper every year on the same day. A culprit that surely wasn't Nicolas Flamel. He didn't seem the sort, even before he had Harry to exploit like this. Also, this scam predated his birth by almost a hundred years.

    Sirius Black tossed the paper on the table in disgust and his eyes fell on the single newspaper clipping in that entire dreary house that was framed. Well, ever since he destroyed all the ones his not-at-all-dear mother had put up all over the house.

    HARRY POTTER, THE SECOND COMING OF MERLIN, OR BRITAIN'S HUNTER KING REBORN?

    By R. ALMEIDAS

    Sirius didn't even have to read it anymore, he knew it by heart. It had done a lot to let him keep his wits about him while the law slogged its way to his trial. While hearing of Harry being put in danger made him want to strangle everyone involved in his case, the news only ever reached him after the fact, so Sirius was able to keep a hold of himself. With some help from the fallout from that and everything else, all of which the Prophet kindly chronicled for him as well. Not with the usual slant either, even the press was confused about whose arse to kiss this time, though the Minister got the worse and worse of the deal as time dragged on. Complicit or Ignorant: The Minister's Dubious Job Record; Cornelius Fudge and the Fudged Obliviates: Malice or Just Foolishness? Did Fudge Fudge Facts by Obliviating Valuable Witnesses before the Aurors Could Take Statements?

    Now that he was a free man with a clean bill of health, Sirius was looking forward to meeting Harry again. Even if he wasn't looking forward to how that reunion would ultimately end. At the risk of his godson feeling betrayed to the point of not wanting to have anything to do with his own Godfather, Sirius Black wasn't any more inclined to let Harry stay in Hogwarts than Flamel was.

    Before that, though, he had the matter of claim to discuss with his benefactor.

    "The Alchemist's Outhouse!" He stepped through the Floo and came out the other side into a rundown shed whose only purpose was to house the Floo and whatever wards there were to judge newcomers. Flamel hadn't given him details when he shared the Secret. Exiting to the sight of a rundown forest cottage, he looked around for the overgrown cobble path. "He said fifth stone after the second gap in the kerb on the left." It took several tries – he hadn't spotted the right gap because of the dandelions – but eventually he found the right portkey stone. Now for the password. "Mistletoe killed the sun and mistletoe renewed the sun that ever walks in time, bright, mighty and deathless."

    The hook around his navel yanked him vaguely northeast.

    He landed just outside a pair of rusty, vine-covered gates. When he passed through them, they turned into a tall, pristine gateway of a sprawling property with a homestead far atop the central hill, next to a donjon without the adjoining castle. Sirius made for it, but Flamel's owl showed up before the minute was out and flew around him in a bid to follow.

    He found the alchemist behind the second hill, talking to burial mounds. "Alchemist!" He called dramatically as he always did when he needed to pretend he wasn't stressed. "I have come to – alright, what are you doing?"

    "Informing my descendants that they might have a visitor soon. Wouldn't do to have them torment little Harry too badly when he's sitting out."

    Right. Sirius carefully didn't ask. He'd probably get derailed before he actually got to what he came here for. "Whatever, that's not what I came here for."

    "No indeed."

    "I have just one question before I decide." Which is to say, decide whether they would collaborate or fight over Harry.

    "Go ahead."

    "What are you even doing here?" Sirius demanded, but he should probably be more specific. "I don't mean right here right this moment, I mean in general. Why did you move from France? To Britain of all places? We get along like cats and dogs." It might seem like a strange thing to get hung up about, but he'd tried every other avenue to find issue with the man – he didn't trust things too good to be true anymore – and this was the end of his rope.

    "Ah." Flamel stopped his French muttering and turned to him. His mood was… very grave. "That is a question with a very dark and simple answer."

    "Let me have it then."

    "I used to live in Vendée."

    Eh? "That tells me absolutely nothing."

    "You can find the answer in any public library. Or just ask a portrait. I'm sure your family has one dating back long enough."

    "Right," Sirius grunted. What did 'long enough' even mean? Six hundred years was a long stretch to guess through. "Thanks for your lack of help."

    "Bring some quidditch hoops when you drop by next. All I have is baskets."

    "Baskets!?" But that meant there hadn't been a single game of quidditch played on this property since early 1800s! "How do you expect Harry to live in this place!?"

    "With great attention and thoughtful care. Please have your final answer ready by then as well."

    Right.

    Later that day, when Sirius was back in his not-at-all-dearly-departed parents' home, he wondered at the strange turn his life had taken, when something like that was still less annoying than dealing with Dumbledore. Also, he still wasn't in on the secret of the Flamel property proper, despite visiting it several times now, which he grudgingly agreed was very good security.

    Guess he had some reading to do now.

    Sirius looked around at the old, dreary, decrepit state of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

    Maybe some housecleaning first.




    "-. ??? .-"
    The strands of misty light were each a memory, and he couldn't seem to be able to hold more than one in his head at a time.

    Once he figured out he could will the things away from his head, he was able to take a closer look at the runes on the walls. They were many and intricate, but he could puzzle them out with patience, and there was nothing indicating that the memories should belong to anyone specific. He was an odd mess of amnesia and knowledge he didn't know he possessed until the environment prompted it to surface. He assumed the memories were his, because he was the common denominator in all of them. But he'd yet gone through very few, and he couldn't be sure it wasn't a coincidence yet, not when the memories were experienced in third person. For all he knew, these were not even all the memories of the same person. His brain seemed to be woven into this non-weaving, but most of the memories drifted alone, disconnected, often without any context at all. Though he'd begun to notice that they tended to spontaneously bunch up and form clouds of interconnected threads that nearly looked like something, in that short moment when he emerged from the latest experience.

    As he seemed unable to cast any actual magic wherever he was, though that could be due to his lack of knowledge of actual spells, he worked with what he had. This room allowed him to interact with the floating memories and little else. Some trial and error let him figure out (remember?) how to pull specific strands with his wand, so now he had some nominal control on when to delve any particular memory, even if they all looked the same from outside. The headaches he got during or after delving seemed related to how closely connected the next one was or wasn't to the one before. Also to their length and how long a break he took between viewings.

    He'd be more worried about all this, except the table got regularly restocked with new drink and food. He'd started to use it like a timekeeping device. Between the three meals interspersed with sleep in the bed that always appeared whenever he needed it, he was fairly comfortable with his current ability to count the days.

    Little emotion had emerged so far besides a vague sense of ennui. Something was keeping him calm. He'd have more intellectual misgivings about that if not for how confounding or outright offensive many of the memories were to his intelligence. He'd taken to experiencing and exploring each memory several times and then having a relaxing snack and even a nap after he thought all he could about them. The epiphanies that came to him in the hours after he stopped thinking about them were not entirely reassuring.

    If this was supposed to be a way to absorb and process information and experience without personal bias, it was definitely working.

    He was less sure about what this room was actually intended to achieve, though. The beginning of an outline of a preliminary observation was beginning to form in his mind, but contemplating it seemed least likely to cause any clouds of association to form out of the pale floating gossamer. Either that meant he was wrong, or whatever mind had been unravelled here had been weighed down by very much bias indeed.

    This would all be so much easier if whoever was responsible for this had at least left him a note with explanations. He could only speculate on why that was not the case. To avoid tainting the experience?

    Or perhaps the experiment.

    Hopefully whoever set it up was not too averse to unexpected results.




    "-. Lucius Malfoy, Wiltshire, England .-"


    HARRY POTTER, THE SECOND COMING OF MERLIN, OR BRITAIN'S HUNTER KING REBORN?
    By R. ALMEIDUS

    The boy who defeated He Who Must Not Be Named may not be a normal child by any stretch of the imagination. Shocking reports have recently come to light about Harry Potter's astounding adventures and capabilities, which cast doubt on all the theories that his parents were responsible for what actually destroyed the Dark Lord that night.

    Potter, the Daily Prophet can categorically reveal, regularly performs advanced feats, even spells from forbidden or ancient magics. On Halloween last year, Hogwarts first-hand witnesses say, Potter not only performed necromancy to subdue a belligerent intruder at Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party, but he also overcame the disguise magic of Peter Pettigrew is that same night and exposed him for the murderous imposter rat he is. This was immediately followed by a running battle through Hogwarts, which concluded with said Death Eater quite literally disarmed with the Sword of Gryffindor (see a summary of the ensuing Sirius Black Scandal on p.6).

    Potter then seemingly spent the following months investigating the matter of the heir of Slytherin, even past the point where everyone else, including Albus Dumbledore himself, dismissed the petrification on October 31 as a prank.

    Things, it seems, finally came to a head on Valentine's Day, though not in any way that readers who kept up with our coverage of Potter's disappearance might believe. Despite rumors that his vanishing meant he was the heir of Slytherin (which the double petrification immediately after seemed to support), the opposite has now turned out to be the case. Harry Potter, it seems, not only discovered the true identity of the heir of Slytherin, but defeated both it and Slytherin's monster!

    This all would be amazing on its own, but the manner in which this was achieved is more remarkable than the achievement itself.

    "Potter can astrally project," reveals Cedric Diggory, a Hogwarts fifth-year. "We were camping on the seventh floor, just studying while watching the latest attempt to draw Gryffindor's Sword from the wall, when Potter's ghost comes up riding a shining white stag, walks up and pulls the thing from the stone quick as you please. Godric Gryffindor's portrait gave his blessing and everything, right there for all of us to see. Even helped him slay the Basilisk later, way I hear it."

    "The faculty tried to hush it all up," added Cho Chang, a Ravenclaw third year. "But it's kind of hard when Potter goes and leads the Wild Hunt through half the school to exorcise an evil wraith that had been possessing that poor Weasley girl."

    The Heir of Slytherin, it seems, was not a Hogwarts student at all, but someone using a sentient dark object to possess a student for his own nefarious aims. Ginevra Weasley is the only daughter and seventh child of Arthur Weasley, head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office at the ministry of Magic. His youngest son, Ronald Weasley, is by all accounts Potter's best friend. Neither were available for comment, although their Mother told reporters to clear off or she'd set the family ghoul on them.

    A member of the Dark Force Defence League, who wished to remain unnamed, stated that he would regard any wizard who could walk around bodiless and lead the Wild Hunt astride the legendary White Hart "as either the second coming or inheritor to the legacy of either one or both of those legendary figures."

    The White Hart is associated with Herne the Hunter, a legendary king of the Britons (see page 3) whose disappearance drove Merlin to the edge of his patience and perpetuated the downfall of the last Fairy Kingdom and the punitive reduction of the Little Folk into the House-Elves of today (p4).

    Albus Dumbledore has, to date, blocked all our attempts to reach out to Potter directly, but a letter delivered by owl – a majestic Snowy Owl indeed – provided the alleged name of the heir of Slytherin, one Tom Marvolo Riddle Junior. Investigating on this former alumnus are only beginning, but preliminary information already suggest a potential link with He Who Must Not Be Named (p5).
    Lucius tossed the paper into the fire in disgust. Even the way the cinders danced in the flame seemed to mock him, so lively and jolly they were. "Dobby! Bring my tea to the study!" He was in too foul a mood to inflict himself on Narcissa right now. He also didn't want to risk her soothing him too soon, he needed the anger. He needed the anger or he'd go back to fear he felt when Dumbledore revealed to him just what his Lord had entrusted him with and was now-no, no. No.

    No. He wouldn't think of that now, he couldn't.

    Unfortunately, the quiet and privacy of his study did not give him the usual feeling of control.

    Curse Potter. Curse Dumbledore. Curse Weasley.

    If the blood traitor hadn't shoved his Muggle Protection Act down their throats, if the muggle-loving wretch hadn't used it as a pretext to conduct raids on their homes, none of this would have happened. Lucius had been perfectly content to remain within the bounds of polite backroom skulduggery, but as always the blood traitors just couldn't leave things well enough alone. No one else would have driven a Malfoy to the last resort of putting his own son at potential risk, but Weasley had to be discredited in the Ministry, and Albus Dumbledore had to be removed from his position as Headmaster of Hogwarts. The survival of their families depended on it. The continued existence of their world depended on it. If only his Lord had actually told him what the item was, instead of just claiming it was a charmed object that Lucius wouldn't think twice about-no.

    No. The Dark Lord had his reasons, and no doubt his own plan to use the… object to open the Chamber of Secrets would have been different from Lucius' own. It certainly wouldn't have ended with Lord Voldemort's soul anchor destroyed, making Lucius personally liable if the Dark lord ever returned and learned that Lucius had gotten it destroyed for his personal vendetta-

    His wine glass shattered on the floor, spilling wine every which way like blood as he fell to his knees in the shards. He felt lightheaded, his heart was pounding in his temples and he couldn't seem to get his lungs to pull in air.

    Breathe out! He mentally screamed. Breathe out, out, out.

    Barely, slowly, he managed to collect himself, using every last scrap of Occlumency to banish his newest, worst terror from his mind. When he could open his eyes without swaying, Draco's handwriting was in front of him. It had fallen off the desk when he scattered his paperwork on the way down. Even his son's complaints about Potter had changed in tone from annoyed to disbelieving. Fearful.

    Like father like son, Lucius thought bleakly. Then he truly felt angry. And angrier still when he realized he was feeling grateful for the anger.

    How did it come to this? Lucius seethed as Draco's words mixed with the Prophet's and Lucius' own memory of the ghastly experience that his meeting in Dumbledore's office on Halloween had turned into. Potter has no friends, no connections, no influence, but somehow he's protected and favoured by forces no man can stand against and live.

    Albus Dumbledore. The Wild Hunt. Godric Gryffindor from beyond the grave across a thousand years of history.

    Nicolas Flamel.

    What even was Flamel's stake in all this?

    Was I wrong to dismiss Potter? When Draco returned home from his first year at Hogwarts, he spoke long and loud about Potter's refusal of his offer for friendship in favour of his allegiance to the Weasleys through their youngest Ron. Lucius had been disappointed. Their hopes that Potter was another, better Voldemort had been admittedly wild, but it was still a blow to have them shattered. Did my son lie to me? He'd still discouraged Draco from seeming less than thrilled about the Potter boy, as open hostility towards him could prove potentially disadvantageous to their social standing. Now it looked like he might have been wrong to trust his son all. If even a tenth of what had come to light was true, Potter was everything but unremarkable.

    That Nicolas Flamel, of all people, was dabbling in politics for the first time in his eternal life was certainly a conundrum as well, but not as large as Potter acting out in such a spectacular fashion. Out of nowhere. Normal children did not do these things. And these things did not come out of nowhere. How did Draco miss all the signs? Had Draco missed all the signs?

    Was I wrong to trust my own son?

    No, Draco was loyal. His wife and son were loyal and devoted to the family name.

    Did I overestimate his discernment?

    That… seemed much more plausible.

    It didn't make the burning weight of his mistake any easier to bear. If Lord Voldemort ever returned, Lucius life would be forfeit. Morgana only knew what would happen to Draco and Narcissa then.

    Not long ago, he'd thought that seeing the Minister's career collapsing from all the revelations in Black's trial would be the biggest upheaval since the end of the war. He'd thought that playing kingmaker would be his biggest and most rewarding challenge of the decade.

    He'd been a fool. The power games hadn't just been swept clean, the board game had been flipped and smashed to pieces. That his whole life had come apart at the hands of a child was galling, but it was not the place of mortal men to argue with Old Powers.

    I need to get a handle on this, Lucius thought without knowing where to even start. But I can't do that by going ahead as normal. I need to watch my step.

    When Old Powers stirred, mortals stepped lightly or got stepped on. He was not going to be stepped on.

    Especially not by a child.




    "-. ??? .-"
    He had been here for many days. He'd made tremendous progress in that time, though he was certain said progress was not the progress intended by whoever was behind this experiment. Which was probably himself. It seemed more and more like something he would do. He was apparently fortunate enough to have wise friends and was himself wise enough to listen when they told him he needed to take a good look at himself.

    Eventually.

    Unraveling his entire memory to force himself to repeatedly and neutrally examine them was a tad extreme, but he was beginning to agree that it had been necessary. He was looking forward to remembering what spells or potions he devised to make the unraveling process benign and painless, instead of it being painful and potentially mind-destroying as memory extraction typically was.

    He wasn't looking forward to everything else.

    That he'd been planning for the murder of a child since said child was one year old was quite unconscionable. That it wasn't the worst thing he was actively aiding and abetting was much worse. That he was completely oblivious to the latter was a disaster rivalled only by the collective ignorance of everyone else.

    Voldemort wanted purebloods to rule all others, and eventually to stop hiding and take over the world.

    The wall was covered in snapshots of reports, assignments, newspapers and segments of his own experiences put to photograph. It made the entire bowl look like a detective's investigation board gradually mutated into the worst version of itself until it became one big conspiracy wall. Albus Dumbledore got the impression that his non-amnesiac self never thought much of muggle intellect. Occasionally, a detective, intelligence agent or even the odd tinfoil hat guessed the true reason behind all the strange turns of mind and action that their family, friends, local businessmen or political representatives exhibited. But he'd never paid them mind past making sure such intrepid investigators had their evidence and memories adjusted. Beyond that, he indulged in 'harmless' chuckling at the poor muggles' antics with the old crowd. Wishing them luck chasing their new interests in secret royals, banker bloodlines and aliens.

    It never occurred to him to consider the implications that those people were all right.

    The Magical World is a Global Shadow Conspiracy.

    Even on the surface, this was less hyperbolic now than it had been just twenty years ago. The Magical World would not be able to remain entirely secret without complete oversight of the muggle authorities and their avenues of information dissemination. Increasingly so the further their technology advanced. It was why there was no real concern over the increasingly destructive capabilities of muggle means of warfare – it didn't matter how terrible or how may bombs you had when the enemy was mind controlling the person with the hand on the button.

    Past the surface, though, the consequences of the methods used and abused to maintain the separation of the two worlds were disturbing in the extreme.

    The power dynamics in case of an unexpected masquerade failure were the first stunning blind spot. Albus hadn't yet regained his usual feelings on the issue, but the him of now was glad that the purebloods didn't know or disbelieved all claims of muggle weaponry and nuclear weapons. But not because he was worried about the outcome of a magical-muggle war. He wasn't. He was relieved because it kept the radicals and dark lords from taking those weapons for their own use. That Voldemort never did such a thing spoke to the single-minded obsession that ruled him in his later years. Somehow, though, it never occurred to anyone on the sane side to neutralise the threat in advance. All it would take would be to transfigure or switch the nuclear triggers for authentic-looking duds.

    But short-sightedness and ignorance underpinned their whole society, didn't they? How else could they, the masters of the mind and all its workings, fail to conceive that memory alteration and brainwashing on a global scale would have horrible repercussions?

    Perhaps he was being hyperbolic, but then his eyes fell on QUEEN'S CORGI TURNS INTO HAMSTER and it really didn't feel like it. That was the least tone-deaf of the myriad news, reports and confidential information he had spread on his wall, including the dozen directly linked to this very title. 'The International Federation of Warlocks is meeting to discuss the incident' is all well and good, as was 'The Daily Prophet will keep you up to date on further news on that story tomorrow.' But the follow-up was nothing more than 'situation resolved, here is the next scandal.' 'The real corgi of course will not be found' indeed. 'Muggle 'accidentally' gains entry to Diagon Alley.' 'Muggle 'accidentally' gets stuck in magical painting.' 'Muggle's fantastical accomplices.'

    We already have the ultimate extreme of the worst misrepresentation of Voldemort's lofty vision.

    When they had a criminal to find, wizards knew the moment a muggle communicated about them via television or telephone. When someone reported a magical to the muggle Crime Watchers Hotline, the Ministry of Magic Witch Watchers were immediately informed. When a new minister of magic gained office, the prior appointments of heads of state were rescheduled on a whim so that the new Minister or his toadies didn't have to wait on mere muggles. Every match in the Quidditch League came with rote brainwashing and abuse of the muggles who actually owned the land. Even Arthur Weasley's Muggle Protection Act was condescending by nature, treating muggles like quaint little creatures. And even that law was ultimately just a means for the 'muggle lovers' to indulge in some tyranny of their own for a change. Random raids on people's homes with no warrant or cause beyond blood status, what was Albus Dumbledore thinking condoning such a thing?

    Grindelwald himself didn't have ambition as brazen as this.

    The only saving grace of magical society was that they usually installed permanent controls only were they needed to. But that was the rub, wasn't it? The higher you went, the more it was necessary, to the point where the highest levels of muggle power were bespelled on the regular. Treated like toys on a playgrounds, even. Wizards played tricks on the Queen of England and saw no trouble for it.

    What effects could this be having on muggle society? Their cultures? Their politics? How much of the elected officials' failure to follow through on their mandates traced back to them? How much of the erratic behaviour of those in the halls of muggle power could be blamed on wizards? How many wars had been started because the US President's next appointment was rescheduled because wizards didn't feel like waiting to disclose magic to the Russian President, complete with obliviates and confundus charms to make sure he never thought they were of consequence? What happened when those so subverted and those who elected them had no one to blame for the consequences? Other than each other.

    What will happen if this goes on much longer?

    Gellert Grindelwald got the support he got because muggle wars had already caused collateral damage and death to wizards and beings. Do wizards think the same won't happen when their cavalier mistreatment of the mind's sanctity caused the breakdown of muggle society again?

    The Statute of Secrecy is destroying humanity.

    Albus Dumbledore turned away from the wall and beheld his free-floating memories. "I have contemplated enough."

    The food on the table made room for his private journal. Leafing through it, he found thorough and exacting explanations for everything that he had done to himself, from the potions he used to minimise cognitive risk, to a complete breakdown of the ancient runes and spell weaves he'd etched and cast to turn the Room of Requirement into a giant pensieve. Well familiar with how his non-amnesiac self worked at this point, Albus Dumbledore skimmed through the pages until he found exactly which of the runes on the walls to scratch out so that the unravelling could be reversed.

    Will I remember myself, he wondered. Will I care about any of this?

    Hesitating, he made a final circuit around the chamber, speaking aloud all his conclusions up to that point. He spent awhile writing it all down as well, with full referencing where at all possible. He felt ragged by the end, but also freer. He went back to the table then, conjured several phials and extracted the memory of his final summation, then as many more as he could of what he considered most important until he couldn't hold his wand because of the headache anymore.

    Then he had one last meal and good night's sleep.

    He'd find out how much of a death sentence the resumed continuity of his pre-amnesiac consciousness would be in the morning.
     
  10. Threadmarks: Interlude, the Greater: But All Who Lack Wonder Are Miserable
    Karmic Acumen

    Karmic Acumen The long-suffering one

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    A/N: Wow, it sure took a long time to reach this point, didn't it?



    [​IMG]

    Interlude, the Greater: But All Who Lack Wonder Are Miserable

    "-. Nicolas Flamel, Devon, England .-"

    He had finished setting up Harry's room, child-proofing his laboratories and had even checked the safety charms on the quidditch pitch that Black had put together that morning. It seemed the man's passion for the sport did not make him lax on precautions. Good.

    Nicolas had also dug and bespelled a new cold storage for the basilisk corpse. He'd already harvested the time-sensitive parts that didn't take well to stasis charms, but the corpse was otherwise intact. Nicolas was unaware of any basilisks that grew so large in the past. Discovering new enchantment or potion uses for the corpse, maybe making clothing or armor from the skin, either would make for a good capstone when Harry was older. Even just coming up with a procedure to cleanse or transmute the dark magic without ruining the leather would earn him accolades. The shed skin was also in storage and was fairly tough even now, despite steadily losing the magic in it, so Nicolas was willing to be optimistic.

    That finished the modifications to what he already owned. Now to see about anything new. What would Harry need, want and not think to ask for even though he really should?

    "Replace all his school supplies," he murmured, making a note to buy new ones of everything. Except some of the books. And potions equipment, Nicolas made cauldrons and phials as good as the best on the market. They also owned several farms and menageries, and Perenelle maintained her own greenhouse, so they very rarely needed to purchase ingredients. Food either. "Perenelle will take him shopping for clothes, so that's covered."

    "I knew what it meant, you know, his poor attire," said Albus from across the veranda table. "His underdeveloped frame too. I decided it was a price worth paying because every iniquity he suffered at his relatives' hands meant he would love our world all the more."

    Nicolas hummed but did not reply because one did not interrupt soul-searching. One did, however, include as many hints as one could when they happened to be producing all the background noise. "Set up Harry's own workshop? No, teach him how to build one himself. Will double as ongoing lesson in practically applied magic and prepare him for renovating the Pottery with his own hands. Stock up on toys. Practice wands, board games for strategy, cards for counting and hand-eye coordination, lego for telekinesis and creativity." Or when Harry wanted to be left alone. "Take a trip to America for new magic-proofed electronics."

    "I'd never have countenanced such a thing," Albus lamented. "At this point I don't even know if I'd have opposed a technology-disrupting ward on Hogwarts, if that was the reason."

    That was merely Albus' self-deprecation talking, but one did not coddle grown men when they were feeling rightfully guilty over being willing to aid in murder. "It would never be proposed, it would affect the wizarding wireless as well."

    "It always goes back to self-interest," Albus said glumly.

    Self-interest was natural. Effective altruism lay in that self-interest being sufficiently enlightened. Nothing that couldn't be taught. Television would probably work against that, with the dross being passed off as culture, but Nicolas would probably get one regardless. Their current set was quite small and sub-par these days. Muggle game consoles might become a time sink, but only if Nicolas failed to make real life interesting enough. He was confident he could put more wonder in Harry's life than any muggle's best fantasy, and they'd work together to use any exceptions as inspiration. "… Leave schedule open for a trip to Lake Ontario." As far as pseudonyms went, 'Ed Greenwood' was quite on the nose. Especially when the public persona could charitably be described as self-indulgent. Nicolas had sent a request to meet through muggle post, but had yet to receive a reply. With anyone else he would drop by to spy unnoticed or just knock on the door, but the confoundingly ridiculous outcomes of his divination attempts made him wary. "Revisit investments on the muggle side. Will teach Harry how to make his money work for him. Also, where to go and what and who to enchant to make sure all paperwork is in order. Faking one's death and spoofing inheritance can be left for later."

    "I almost wish I was imperiusing myself back then as well," Albus groused. "At least that would explain some of my complete disregard of… everything."

    Clearly, imperiusing himself to stay calm at all times during his temporary amnesia had left an impression on Albus Dumbledore. This, though, was not the sort of thing you let fester. "That's quite the claim. Now find ten reasons why it's the biggest load of nonsense you said all day."

    Albus's face fell even further, somehow, causing Sirius Black to shift even more awkwardly than he had since they sat down for lunch.

    Not for the first time, Nicolas Flamel pondered British idiosyncracies. "You British people are a lot like ants, I've found." It wasn't even a jest. "You are loyal to your queen, love crumbling pastries, take things that don't belong to you back to your colony, and have an innate instinct to line up single-file and do everything in a queue." Both literally and figuratively. "But you also brought common law with you everywhere you went, which was the most humane in the world at the time, destroyed your malicious extranational mistakes like the East India Trading Company, and were willing to use the money and help from the rebels that kicked your teeth in to abolish slavery for the whole world. You have only just had your teeth kicked in." Perhaps not the best analogy for Albus having a second existential crisis over not being sure if his amnesiac self had been right to have his own existential crisis in the first place. "But it will pass. I'm looking forward to seeing what abolitionist fervor looks like on you."

    Albus said nothing to that.

    Sirius Black, though, bore awkward tension poorly indeed. "Is that why you repudiated the French people?"

    "I did not repudiate anyone." Though he would have been justified to. "I did, however, agree for personal reasons to give up my French citizenship in exchange for the British one."

    Not many conflicts were so grand in scope as to spawn a Voldemort or Grindelwald, but the French Revolution easily qualified. The French Ministry of Magical Affairs weren't feckless incompetents. They joined the Twelve Swords to the Raiment of Charlemagne to cast an Interdiction on the whole country, making all known methods of magical transportation impossible. Coupled with blanket Floo shutdowns, it worked to curtail foreign magical intervention and even crippled the mobility of that conflict's would-be Dark Lord long enough to corner and slay him. But that meant no one else could fly, floo, portkey or apparate for the duration of the Reign of Terror. And so Nicolas and his wife, who were abroad setting up a home away from home for just such an outcome, were stuck in Britain while all their children and grandchildren were butchered with gun and cannon to the noble refrain of "Liberté, égalité, fraternité."

    "I was ready to sacrifice you too, Nicolas," Albus confessed. The self-loathing was completely bare now. "The moment I went to you with my offer to safeguard the Stone, I'd already decided to destroy it if necessary."

    "I would have been fine, it's my wife you'd have been sacrificing." He could create another stone, but probably not fast enough for her. And it wasn't exactly something you could have multiples of. They took a very literal sort of personal investment. "I would have cut you out of my life completely."

    Albus grimaced and looked down at his hands.

    Nicolas was glad it didn't become necessary. Compared to what the French did in Vendee, and what they later became, the British were charming in a quaint sort of way. Even in their prejudice they were equal opportunity zealots, comparatively speaking. He hoped he never saw them lose that. He liked his adopted country as it was now, with their stiff upper lip and their love of beans and toast. "What is Harry's favorite food? Other than treacle tart."

    "I don't think he has one," Sirius replied. "… You're really going all out on this, aren't you?"

    "Naturally."

    Sirius frowned, not willing to put things off for once. "Alright, fine. I'll just ask. Why are you going so far for him? I get being his teacher. I can even accept you're old fashioned and understand apprenticeships differently, but this is more than that."

    He was only asking this now? "Harry impressed me and I have since grown fond of him." Honestly, was that not sufficient? "It's actually made me and Perenelle consider having children again, though naturally that will wait until the little one gets fed up with being my first priority." Going by Black's glare, that was apparently not good enough either. Enlightened self-interest then. "Do you know why seers go mad so often?"

    Black unclenched his fist and sat back in his chair. "I never had to wonder about it. I assumed it's because prophecies come at some nebulous cost to the soul, but you seem to be teaching Harry something else."

    "Divination is heavy on the soul, but not why you think. There is no bliss of illusion when you can see through all of them. There is much dark truth and action that visions reveal, more so the further one walks along the path. It is quite demoralising. It is not a path for the faint of heart. Indeed, even the strongest hearts wear down and break if there isn't enough good with the ill. And considering Harry's track record, he'll be seeing much ill indeed." Nicolas closed his notebook and hooked his pen back to the binder. "A seer must find what joy he can in the present, and so his life must be filled with love and happiness. As Harry is currently cross with me, he may not accept the former from me, for a time. But I can still provide him with the opportunity to find or make as much of his own happiness as humanly possible."

    There was quiet between them again, but this time it was a bit less heavy.

    Eventually, Sirius broke it. "Dumbledore. You're an arse and I hate you."

    Albus' face twisted in pain, but he quietly nodded acceptance.

    "I don't want you near Harry. I want you to have nothing to do with him. And yes, Flamel. If you want me to play nice, that is my condition."

    Nicolas met Black's eyes squarely. Black's point was valid, and Nicolas was even somewhat impressed. This was a much superior composure compared to when Albus disclosed the prophecy and a certain potions professor's complicity in events. But Nicolas had already said his piece to Albus and was not one for beating a dead horse. Besides, Albus Dumbledore was better than Sirius thought of him.

    "I do, of course, agree," Albus answered. The shadow on his face deepened. "There are other matters that require my attention in any case. I will stay away."

    "Unless Harry wants otherwise," Nicolas said mildly. "In which case we'll have to revisit the issue."

    Sirius' face twisted, but he nodded sharply in agreement. Surprisingly, he then softened some. "You need help, Dumbledore." He clearly didn't mean with politics. "I won't stand in the way of that. This place is big, and I'll want some time alone with my Godson every once in a while anyway. As long as you don't stick your wand where it's not invited, we won't have any problems."

    One could hope.

    "Right," Black said, rising from his chair. "Time to go break my godson's heart by telling him he was never going back to Hogwarts anyway. Just so you know, Alchemist, if he hates me for the rest of time I'm blaming you."

    "He won't." Honestly, did Black have no faith in the little one at all? "At some point he will realise that every good parent manipulates their children into not growing up to be savages, convicts or corpses."

    "I'm stealing that," Black groused. "I swear, being a Godfather shouldn't be this stressful. At least he's not a parselmouth anymore."

    Black left soon after, but Albus lingered until he lost track of time, so Nicolas invited him to stay the night. That finally startled the other wizard enough to break him out of his latest, soon to be discarded plan to upend the entire magical society. Albus demurred, though, and left to catch up on his paperwork back at Hogwarts. Unfortunate, but it wasn't time yet to insist. Things with him were still too raw.

    Nicolas Flamel was never without his own designs, however. The matter of 'Ed' had stalled, but there were two other leads he was following up on. Since Perenelle was off enjoying her leisure with her housewife friends, now was as good a time as any to resume on the lead closest to home.

    Drinking an invisibility potion and casting a strong notice-me-not charm on himself, Nicolas apparated to the tourist entrance of the Tower of London and then used a few short-distance apparitions to penetrate into the inner grounds. He then spent a while walking around the place, paying special attention to the basement entrances. He'd done this multiple times before, but he wanted to be thorough. Finally, he decided that the access likely wasn't on the surface, or it had been but later got built over. He broke into the underground levels, making sure to leave no trace of his passage behind.

    The basement and tunnels were less extensive than he'd assumed, allowing him to walk all of them at least once by sundown. Well, those strictly within of the hill itself. Unfortunately, he found nothing out of the ordinary, neither by muggle or wizard standards, even though he kept repeating over and over that The Blessed Crow keeps vigil under the White Hill.

    Either this was a special kind of Secret that only worked for the recipient, or this wasn't the right white hill.

    Nicolas Flamel returned home, pondering prophecies, burial mounds, spirits and secrets.

    The last matter he needed to follow up on involved no magical secrets. What's more, its potential scope dwarfed that of virtually all other concerns. Even Albus' newest fixation on the Statute of Secrecy that he could definitely use a break from lest it become obsession in record time.

    "Perenelle, my fair wife," he said at dinner. "How would you like to go on a cruise?" Say one that sails along the coast of New Jersey, for example. There wasn't time for a full trip by summer, but he didn't intend to linger so long regardless.

    "I would surely loathe it," sniffed his dear wife. "Have you seen what passes for socialites these days? The airs on those creatures make even your foulest potion fumes seem sweet and amorous."

    "I suppose Albus can be my plus one," Nicolas mused, not entirely joking. "Or Black. Perhaps both." Notice-me-not, some gillyweed and a warming charm should give them more than enough time to find what they needed.

    "I'm sure you boys will find your ulterior reasons to be eminently compelling, but I'd much rather stay at home with my flowers."

    "Alright. Perhaps next year."

    "Perhaps."

    Once upon a time, husband and wife had attempted to fly over the English Channel to their family's rescue only to nearly drown several times when every broom and carpet failed them. Since then, Perenelle hated the sea. Hated the very thought it. Couldn't stand the sight of it. The attic was still stuffed full with all the brooms and flying carpets they tried and failed to fly over.

    This was a positively mild reaction by Perenelle's standards. She was truly making an effort again.

    It was good to see his wife putting the last of her sorrow behind her.


    "-. Charles Gordon, Bright Falls, Washington USA .-"


    Doctor Flannhamr,

    I am writing to let you know I will not be able to join you at CERN. Prior obligations have caught up with me and I will be unavailable for the foreseeable future.

    I am grateful for your mentorship during my doctorate and hope we can remain on good terms.

    Respectfully, Charles Gordon.


    Bright Falls was a sparkling little township easily subsisting off the Cauldron Lake tourism. Charles hated the place, and he'd say so if it wasn't crass. Perhaps emphatically dislike could be more comfortably confessed, but no one ever asked, thankfully. His patience would have coped, but the constant whine in his ears was already enough to worry about.

    "Doctor!" The sheriff called in greeting, always jolly during their 'unexpected' run-ins that never failed to occur within five minutes of Charles emerging from the bus station. "Welcome back! Whose career are you here to ruin this time?"

    One day it might be yours, Charles thought as he removed his headphones. "I'd like to think even the Lodge would need more than three months to repeat that performance." Sheriff Frank Breaker had a bright smile on his face, so open and earnest you could almost believe he wasn't an agent of the Magical Congress of the United States. Charles usually approved of such competence, but not when it propped up shadow organisations so bad at psychological profiling that they didn't see through card-carrying psychopaths like the late and unlamented Emil Hartman. "But then I'm still hopeful this place will run out of bad luck one of these days."

    "Always with the cynicism, perk up man! What you've got here is the American Dream!"

    On reflection, competence certainly didn't come hand in hand with self-delusion. Perhaps he was overestimating the good Sheriff, it wasn't like the man had cottoned on to the fact Charles was on to him and his masters. "Dream is a good term."

    Charles bantered with the man until the sheriff couldn't justify keeping him any longer. He then carried on as normal until the town was behind him. Then he pulled the Microbee 32000 out of his bag and typed MINDSCAN. Ten seconds later, a chime notified him that no new mind alterations had been detected since last scan. As expected, but you could never be too careful with these things, especially with his personal history.

    He put his headphones back on and followed the Geiger-like sounds.

    Soon enough, Bird Leg Cabin was just one boat ride away. Charles always worried he'd tip over and drown. Much more so than usual because most other lakes didn't have a reality-warping eldritch horror trapped beneath them. Alas, as always it was a risk he had to take.

    There was no one to meet him when he docked on Diver's Isle, but that was fine. This was, as always, a surprise visit since he made a point not to transmit any signals in or out of this place just in case. Besides, he knew where the spare key was.

    Barbara was on the patio. She pretended not to notice him in favour of continuing to look through the scope of her Ruger AR-556 MPR 450 Bushmaster. "Can you even aim that?"

    It was a fair question. Since the 450 Bushmaster didn't come standard with a scope, it was probably throwing off her aim. And since an Anderson job wouldn't have such issues, she must have jury-rigged one herself.

    Barbara put her gun aside and rose to greet him. "Charles, we didn't expect you today. Tom's still writing downstairs."

    Oh, she called them by their proper names now? "Going native are we?" He made sure to breathe in before she reached him. Voluptuous women like her took your breath away when they got a hold of you. "Breaker was in poor form."

    "That's a surprise." She pulled away and straightened Charles's tie. "The good sheriff's had nothing but free time. I dare say he's even getting bored with nothing happening."

    They enjoyed the moment of levity, but Charles was here for a reason. "How is he?"

    "Carrying on. All the energy in his punches is going into the Arcade Machine now. I've asked him to take me out for a boat ride when he's finally finished writing."

    "I advise against that."

    "As you do every time you drop by." Barbara smiled slightly. "We will carry on until our last strength, then we will bait our enemy to spend his last strength. Either way, Thor will see us on to Vidblainn."

    Charles was determined not to expire before he was well and truly decrepit, but he was a man of the mind. His friends were people of passion and vigor, he wouldn't begrudge them wanting to have that in the next life. He'd already gone down the path of not valuing anything other than intellect. It was not a happy dead end, and he'd only come back from it because others had seen worth in his halfwit self.

    Barbara led the way to the basement, where Thomas Zane was using the Punching Keybag to punch poetry into the Arcade Machine. Charles' first proprietary invention was still holding on. It was perhaps an unorthodox hardware attachment to a coin-op cabinet, but better than the alternative.

    "Hackerman," Tom greeted gruffly, spin kicking the Keybag so hard that an entire stanza wrote itself in one strike. Arcade Machine whined in discomfort. "You're early."

    "I can get back to dry land and visit Tor instead."

    "Nah, it's fine, I was going to take a break anyway." Tom wiped his forehead with a towel and punched one last time.

    The Arcade Machine saved progress and the screen shut down. When it flickered back on, the unsmiling face overlaid the starting screen to The Epic of Kung Fury. Charles' lips twitched nostalgically.

    The 80s in Miami were wild.

    Only Tom would come up with the idea to write a reality-warping eldritch abomination into a harmless arcade game. Charles even approved of the theory. It was Tom and Barbara's chance to complete the plan that he doubted. The misqualified energy emanations from below had grown tremendously since his last visit. How bad was their sleep these days? Their dreams?

    But they'd long since talked that topic to death. Charles followed his friends up the stairs instead. "I see you're almost done."

    "Another few months and Thor's pecs will finally have some proper competition. Then I'll load that thing down under with so many horror vibes it won't even be able to walk in the sun."

    Despite himself, Charles almost wavered. It sounded like the sort of thing where they'd need his help. But he had a life debt to repay, and his curiosity wanted sating as well. "That's why I came. I don't think I'll be around for the encore. Or last hurrah, whatever it turns into."

    Tom turned around, his eyebrows high. "Is this talk gonna need Anderson's moonshine?"

    Charles thought about, it then shrugged. "May as well."

    It took a lot of Anderson moonshine and his memory was on strike when he groaned awake at mid-day two days later. But for once Charles was able to leave his friends with no unresolved feelings, and even sailed the lake without fear. Even the sheriff missed him on the way out.

    Charles entered the bus stop restroom, lifted the Microbee 32000 on his shoulder and typed PORTALHOME.

    Screeching blue lightning tore open a dark hole in space.

    Let's hope you have something good for me to bite into, kid, Charles thought as he stepped into his living room. "Alice, I'm home!"

    Almost thirty years ago, Charlie Gordon had gained everything, lost everything, and then been given everything back again after he walked face-first out of New York into an invisible door. The only price his benefactor demanded for the drink that literally regrew his brain was a date and a set of coordinates. All he had to do was be there at the given time, knock on the gate and ask for employment.

    Employment not for himself but a certain brain surgeon.

    Two for the price of one, Charles thought for the hundredth time. I'm not throwing him into the unknown by himself. Which his benefactor no doubt expected.

    Picking up the phone, he dialled a number from memory. Ring, Ring, Ring-

    "Hello?"

    "Doctor Strauss."

    "Retired Doctor Strauss. Who is this?"

    "This is Charlie. Pray tell, good doctor, how is Algernon's grave looking these days?"

    The good doctor shut the call on him. Of course he did, he was undeservedly disgraced in academic circles and thought it was a prank call.

    He didn't think it was a prank anymore when Charlie knocked on his door that same evening.


    Charlie,

    You can't do this to me. We finally have all the approvals for the collider, all that's left is to finalise ownership of the land. The paperwork is unconscionable, how will I cope without dropping all of the drudge work in your lap?

    And what about later? Whose hard work am I going to pretend to steal with you gone? Who am I going to argue with over coffee brands? Mankind is finally going to see how wrong they are about everything, how will I go on without anyone to gloat to around the water cooler? There are people here who actually think they know what universal heat death looks like, I cannot muster the proper amount of disdain for that on my own.

    I demand recompense for this emotional damage you inflicted upon my person, no, I demand to know who and how managed to steal you away.

    Do introduce me, won't you?

    ~Dougan.



    "-. Osiris, formerly of Egypt, lately shipwrecked off the coast of New Jersey .-"
    Awareness returned. With it, thought. Memory. Hate. The canopic jar was open once again. On instinct, he burst out of his prison with mouth bare, teeth and pincers out to spear skin and flesh, but there was no host waiting for him. Instead, he found himself in a glass vessel no bigger than three steps across. He was swimming in water. Water and nutrients not unlike those in his prison, and an energy charge just barely enough to keep him from death. What was this? Had Ra reconsidered? Had he decided an eternity of insensate imprisonment was not sufficient punishment for his defiance? Where was he? Where was Isis?

    There were three hosts outside the tank. He did not recognize their faces. He did not know their dress. He did not know their words. One of them wore a kara kesh, but he did not feel like kin. Osiris sensed no naquadah from any of them. Pretenders! They dared to garb themselves in the gods' raiment? Osiris reared up in rage, fins and teeth bared in a snarling hiss. Their suffering would last years for this offense once he-

    The one on the left pointed with his stick and flicked. Osiris' body lurched on its own, plastering him against the glass. A gravity tug. So they were not complete incompetents. He would keep that one alive the longest, just as soon as the one in the middle got close enough to claim. It was a fool if he thought this paltry strength could keep him pinned, the bodies of gods were not so flimsy. Just one more step.

    Osiris lunged up.

    He smacked into nothing so hard that he was dazed. What was that? There was nothing on top of the tank, why had he – a forcefield. How long had he been sealed away that even mere hosts had developed cunning? This was-

    "Legilimens."

    Osiris was violently thrown into his own mind, deep in the recesses of memory where gods could plan and build and dream of all who came before. There was a foreign will in there with him, stumbling in awe at the scope of a mind he would never be able to fathom in a million year. Osiris hissed in outrage, they dared? It dared! Osiris had endured a year of Ra's Rod of Agony and still the mind probe almost failed when Osiris was at his lowest. This lowly creature thought a god's mind would bend before such paltry probes unharried? Osiris almost let the fool to its fate, a god's mind was a whole indivisible, try to rip at it and the flood of knowledge would break all other minds, did this fool think he was somehow exempt?

    But every moment Osiris waited was a moment more for the intruder to bend and tease at the threads of thought and memory in a manner more insidious than even the most advanced memory recall device. How was it doing this? Osiris felt disquiet, then he promptly bellowed with rage at his own lapse and violently reasserted control over all parts of him.

    The Decrepit One stumbled back from the tank. Osiris banished all doubts at how difficult it had been to expel him and relished the sight of that weakness.

    "The hard way it is then."

    Suddenly Osiris was hoisted up by an invisible force, and this time it had no give. He emerged unwilling from the water and hovered mid-air, hissing and flailing indignantly. He was before the third one. The one mid-way in age between the others. The one with the kara kesh. The kara kesh pointed right at him.

    The red beam hit his head and he shrieked.

    He'd felt worse agony, but lesser agony was still agony. He could feel not one but three foreign wills set themselves against his own, but he refused to bend. He would expel these upstarts no matter how long it took.

    Osiris did not know for certain how long he was tortured. He refused to lose consciousness when it was finally over. He did not think of how this was most likely just the start.

    "This creature is vile." The Decrepit One was speaking. "That its kind could rise to become the apex race of the cosmos is an offense to all notions of sense."

    "I have no idea what I'm seeing here either,"
    the youngest said when the mind scouring beam finally stopped, voice unsteady. "It's… a lot of degeneracy to wade through, and I can't find anything useful. I feel filthy and disgusted just from five minutes, but I have this urge to dive back in because in the moment… while I was experiencing it… it felt good." Osiris still couldn't understand them, but the creature was surely lamenting its complete inability to see even a glimpse past Osiris' impregnable defences. "I… think I'll remove the memories after we're done here and never do this again, if it's all the same to you."

    "You know your limits best,"
    Decrepit One insulted the younger man.

    "It seems the void spawn are much older than we reckoned," said his poor excuse of a Torturer, clearly pretending to be unmoved lest the other two pounce on his weakness. Even now, hosts were never capable of more than aping their superiors. "And they pass everything on. Twenty-five thousand years of history, at least. No wonder they never broke the mould, they are each mere copies of the mould itself."

    "It will take lifetimes to make any headway like this,"
    Decrepit One said, lifting his rod aloft. What were those tools? They looked like mere wood, but they achieved feats not unlike the gods' accoutrements and their filigree would have passed muster in the highest conclaves of heaven. "And that assumes we even stumble on the tenth of a percentage of actionable knowledge scattered amidst all that… degeneracy."

    Torturer raised his stick, and Osiris rose with it until he hovered just out of reach of the host's face. He lunged and flailed uselessly anyway. "How convenient that the little one's off-the-cuff advice has provided us with the perfect alternative. As with everything else, it has proven prescient in more ways than one."

    "Yes,"
    Decrepit One nodded, raising his stick while his superior completely failed to realize it was being mocked. Such gall would never last in the Court of the Gods. "The day he runs out of ideas will be a sad one indeed."

    "For you two, maybe.
    " Youngest muttered with a disrespect that would have seen him flogged in Osiris' court. "I for one would have been glad if he – and thus me – had nothing to do with any of this."

    "You can back away. There will be no misgivings."

    "… No. This has to be done, and I want my pound of flesh after what I just went through."


    The three encircled him. They raised their rods. They reached forth until the tips touched the flesh of their God, how dare they-

    They pulled.

    Osiris' mind unravelled like a tapestry in reverse.

    "-. Sirius Orion Back, Hogwarts, England .-"
    Sirius waved the loose memories out of his face and floated the insensate space snake back in its tank. The thing landed with a splotch and just… floated there. There was no angry swimming, no hissing, no rearing up with head crest spread like a mad cobra. Sirius tapped on the glass with his wand a few times. The snake twitched at the sound. Not entirely brain dead then. On a whim he flicked his wand at one of the threads hovering closest and sent it to the creature. The snake shuddered and performed a weird watery crooning sound that immediately stopped when Sirius pulled the memory back out. The snake went meek and quiet again.

    "It should still retain its unconscious bodily functions," Dumbledore guessed, walking up next to him. "And its natural instincts. Perhaps it will even develop a new consciousness in time. Completely free of its forebears' legacy."

    Sirius didn't say anything. He instead went to the table, took a phial, put his wand at his temple and slowly pulled out everything he's just ripped from the snake's mind. It was almost too painful, Sirius could have sworn the memory spanned a time frame longer than his lifetime, but it was also dense and so tightly bound that his own mind almost eagerly let it go.

    When he was done, Sirius was glad to see Dumbledore and Flamel doing the same nearby.

    They turned to look at the loose shimmering threads that filled the Room of Memory to almost literal bursting. "Amazing," Dumbledore said, though his tone was grim. "The room's diameter is a few dozen times bigger than the first time."

    The Room of Requirement had created an instance of itself to integrate Dumbledore's additions, and it hadn't had trouble containing the wizard's full record in the so-called Room of Memory. Void spawn were apparently a lot more to handle though, and not just because their memory was eidetic. They didn't just have their own memories spanning thousands of years, but also all the memories of their forebears, leading to the equivalent of some twenty thousand years. Many times over.

    If not for the genius of the Founders and the sheer power running through the ground below the castle, this wouldn't have been possible.

    Sirius looked at the brain-dead snake again. It looked small and ugly and squalid, and it was all those things. Which made it all the more galling that it was so dangerous. It had managed to withstand three different legilimency attacks at once for quite some time, under torture, when two of those attacks came from two of the most accomplished mind magician alive. It hadn't even noticed the Confundus charms. If this was that a void spawn could do without a host and addled from eleven thousand years of stasis, Sirius could begin to see how they could dominate the world for so long, never mind technology so advanced it looked divine. Good riddance to the she-snake being already dead from exposure when they found her.

    There were theories that wizards had their own country before something happened to make them scatter across the world during the Bronze Age Collapse. The assumption was that the country was Atlantis, and the cause of their dispersal was the island's sinking and destruction. Osiris and its dead mate had been stuck in jars thousands of years before then, but for all that the oldest mummy was over nine thousand years old, there were no wizard mummies or cursed tombs dating earlier than 2,995 BC. Magicians were largely absent from muggle history prior to Mycenean Greece as well. "The International Statute of Secrecy isn't the first time we hid, is it?"

    "No indeed," Flamel confirmed, though he seemed preoccupied. Preoccupied and pleased. Happy, even. "Little Harry is truly blessed." What did that have to do with anything? "I have not seen so many good unintended consequences in one place in all my six hundred years."

    Sirius looked at the man incredulously. How was any of this good? Hopefully Dumbledore was still sane, and Sirius couldn't believe he'd just thought that when-

    "We are going to need help." Speak of the devil and he shall reply with a bewildering amount of sense for someone who'd spent his whole life keeping everything to his chest, never mind what it did to everyone else.

    Sirius might have certain unresolved feelings.

    "Very well educated help," Flamel agreed. "Intelligent help."

    Dumbledore hesitated, turning away from the threaded strands. "I do not think it can be found in the magical world."

    "For the moment," Flamel agreed as if it was no bother. "And in sufficient amounts, most likely never. Though it does strike me, entirely coincidentally of course, that the Supreme Mugwump can give special dispensations for muggles to know things whenever he wants."

    He could?

    They stood in silence, the memories of the inheritor of all the void's evil just a few feet away.

    "This will be the work of decades," Dumbledore murmured. The shimmering curtain backlit a grim and resolute, frail human being. "I will not live that long."

    "Come now, Albus," Flamel looked back, eyes bright with certainty. "We all know who will lead the future."

    They moved the void spawn to the Chamber of Secrets and set it up with an automated food dispenser before finally parting.

    Sirius was fully resolved to go bug Harry into lowering another one of the hundred walls he'd raised after Sirius' despicable betrayal. Alas, this was not to be because Harry was not alone. In fact, the entire the Golden Trio (plus one) were most definitely not alone. And it wasn't just because the end of the year was just two more weeks away and Harry very understandably wanted to spend what time he had left with his housemates. They and half of everyone else who had a free period were clustered in groups around the Hogwarts main Gate being inconspicuously conspicuous.

    Taking advantage of his grownup privileges, Sirius Black walked past the children and the forbidding presence of Madam Hooch that was nowhere near as forbidding as McGonagall and so no barrier to him. He only stopped when he was in front of the gates next to Hagrid. "What's going on here?"

    "Unexpected guests," Hagrid 'whispered.' "They look like muggles."

    Yes they did.

    That was about when McGonagall came down with Dumbledore and Flamel right behind.

    "Hello there," Dumbledore greeted with twinkling eyes. "Who do I have the pleasure of greeting."

    The younger of the two men scowled at the wizard and turned to his balding companion. "Don't look him in the eye, he reads minds."

    Sirius wasn't the only one taken aback.

    "Great," the older man groused, pulling his topcoat tighter around him. "Bloody perfect, why am I here again?"

    They were yanks.

    "Leopold?" Flamel breathed. He'd stopped in his tracks with something that looked remarkably like astonishment. The younger yank heard and looked at them. "Leopold Nilsson? Is that you?"

    "My real name is Charles Gordon." That told Sirius nothing, but it seemed to mean a lot to the Alchemist. "Good day to you, Mr. Hearth. It is nice to finally meet you properly." And as if that was enough to settle the matter of a six hundred year-old immortal being completely blindsided, the yank turned to Dumbledore and held out a sheet of paper.

    Dumbledore walked to the ward line and reached through. When the paper didn't make his arm fall off or anything else similarly sinister, he took and looked it over. "What are these?"

    "Our terms of employment."

    Say what?

    "I was told the position would involve ophiology and pyramid structures. That is the full extent of my instruction."

    Pyramids. Ophiology. Snakes.

    Despite himself, Sirius couldn't help but seek Harry out in the crowd because really, godson mine, how the hell did you pull this off?

    "… Let's take this to my office."
     
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