For Oblivion is Written in the Laws of Men

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For Oblivion is Written in the Laws of Men

​

"You know, the Oxford Latin Dictionary is of no use if you want to craft a spell."

The words startled Hermione, distracting her from the heavy tome in front of her. More than that, the words irked her, feeling a threat and a challenge at her intelligence. She lifted her eyes to seek out the offender.

A boy, dark haired and green eyed, with a black notebook in one hand, propped lazily against a bookcase. It was Potter, from Slytherin, in the same year as her and, if one preferred dramatics, her nemesis, her competition for the first in ranking. Quiet, seldom seen, he hadn't spoken once to her. To hear him now demean her efforts, after he had proven himself better than her year after year, more than irked her.

"I'll have you know." she began speaking, but the boy interrupted her, and she grew more furious.

"I'm not questioning the quality of the dictionary just because it's a Muggle one. It's probably the best one can find. And there lies the trouble. It's useless because it's correct."

Hearing the absurdity flowing out of his mouth, she was quick to correct him: "Haven't you listened to Professor Flitwick. Saying the incantation properly is very important. So choosing the correct spelling is even more important if somebody wants to create a proper incantation."

The boy had the gall to laugh at her: "How many spells have you learned that are correct Latin. And I didn't talk about spelling. Choosing the correct word for an incantation is sometimes the dumbest thing you could do."

She started contradicting him again, but he, quite stupidly in her opinion, kept going on with his absurdities: "When did wizards first start using Latin incantations, Granger?"

"The Romans used them first, but most of the spells we use now are of medieval or modern make. But I fail to see how that's relevant to the discussion."

"Do you think that medieval wizards had a correct notion of etymology, unlike Oxford professors. The medievals relied on superficial similarities, talked about spiritual background. Their etymology was half symbolic, much like magic itself. They would argue that mors comes from morsus, death from bite, just because Adam and Eve become mortal by biting the apple of the forbidden tree. Or that littera comes from legere and iter, because letters offers a road for people to read."

"That's nice to know, I guess, but I fail to understand how that's relevant to incantations" said Hermione, increasingly irate and facing an obstacle for her reading in peace.

"Precisely because medieval etymology had a spiritual background, or for wizards a magical-symbological one, if you want to make a spell you need to use a book that clarifies medieval etymology. A great deal of magic is believing, and they believed in such meanings, thus giving them power. Creating an incantation is not a scientifical, clinical pursuit and using that Oxford dictionary you'll end up with one that lacks any useful magical meaning or symbolism," said Potter.

"This stuff should be in a book. I don't know where you found out this, but such knowledge should be available for all who wish to learn" answered Hermione.

"Maybe you haven't found the right book. Though I have to thank Aunt Bathilda for figuring this out, it isn't that easy to figure it alone, if you know where to look."

Seeing as he knew more about spellcrafting than her, Hermione, with a great deal of reluctance, made him an offer: "I don't suppose you would like to join me for studying, at least until I figure out an incantation?"

"I would love to", he spoke again, with a tone that belied a certain lack of sincerity, "but I simply do not have the time. And I much prefer studying alone."

"But you don't do anything besides studying. You don't play Quidditch, you're not in any clubs, and you don't have any friends to spend time with them. And they say two minds are better than one. I could help you figure out if you make a mistake in your homework."

"I don't play Quidditch because Flint made Malfoy in exchange for Senior bribing the team with brooms."

"I thought that every team got new brooms that year, not only Slytherin." said Hermione, bewildered.

"I couldn't let that slight to meritocracy go unanswered. And they refused to let me on the team afterwards, even as Chaser. To get back on topic, I'm in no Hogwarts club because they're utterly boring. And I'll have you know I do plenty of stuff with my time. There's Potions and Herbology, and reading, for pleasure. And friends are kinda overrated."

"But if you really need help, I think you can find Isidore of Seville's Etymologiae on some shelf."

And with that, Potter picked up his book bag, laying at his feet and left the library. But not with a parting shot: "By the way, send my thanks to your father when you next write to him."

His last words didn't make any sense. Potter was a Slytherin, most likely a rich Pureblood, judging by his clothes and bearing, and the fact that he always had the best equipment. There was no way he knew her father, at least, without her in turn knowing about that. She tried to make sense of it for a moment, but to no avail.

Burning for an answer, she sat up from her table and ran after him, catching up in the hallway.

"Why do you need to thank my father? And how do you even know him?"

"First of November, 1981. A couple of miles at sea outside the port of Bideford. Just write to him, he'll know what I'm talking about."

Hermione tried again to parse his meaning, again coming up blank. She never heard her father talk about that specific day. Her moment of thinking was just enough for Potter to make himself unseen. She gave up on finding him again, or trying to get something clearer from him, and resolved to write to her father at the soonest opportunity and get to the bottom of it.

 

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II: A Quiet Brand of Ingenuity​

September 9, 1995
Harry Potter

A quiet brand of ingenuity. That's what his ancestors' work had been called across the century. A talent for Potions and Herbology always seemed to spring forth in their line. Potter after Potter spent their lives quietly at home inventing some new potion, almost always a medical one, which would end up just as quietly licensed to magical hospitals around the world, for 14 years, until the patent expired, and filled his family's coffers. Pepper-Up, then Skele-Grow, and countless other potions had been the result of Potter ingenuity.

Hard work and a quiet brand of ingenuity, that was the most apt description for a Potter's life. It was fitting then that most Potters ended up sorted in either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. His grandfather had broken the mold, being the first Gryffindor in centuries, and being more concerned in developing cosmetic potions rather than medical ones, and creating a company to brew them, rather than just license them. His wife, a Bagshot, had been his heplmeet, and Sleekeazy had been as much her work as it was his grandfather.

His father had conformed with the family past, and ended up in Hufflepuff, though he died to young to add to the family's work before he died. He had died at Bellatrix Lestrange's hand, along with his mother, a few curses ending two bright life and the advances to magic they would have brought forth. His grandparents had died of dragonpox before that, and he had no close kin left on his father's side, except for some distant cousins in the former colonies, tied closer through business rather than blood.

An orphan at a young age, he had ended up with his closest relatives, his mother's sister, Petunia, and her husband, Vernon Dursley. Bitter and always aware of the society's eye upon them, they had shunned his magical nature, making every effort to appear normal to an outsider. He had not a happy childhood, though he had fared better than a Victorian waif in a workhouse.

An incident with accidental magic at seven years of age had brought Obliviators to Privet Drive, and the Dursley were more than eager to get rid off their wizard nephew and continue to live a normal life. A Ministry official had quickly sought out his closest wizarding relative and sent him to live with his grandmother's great grandaunt, Bathilda Bagshot. At more than a hundred thirty years old, she was perhaps not the best suited to care for a child. But another could not be found, save for Bathilda's great nephew, but the Ministry had most understandably chosen not to send him to live with him. After all, accidental magic was no crime, and most certainly did not deserve so great a sentence.

Aunt Bathilda had met him a few years back, when he was but an infant and the Potters lived next door, in their Godric's Hollow cottage. But when the war grew builder, they had thought it safer to retreat at the grand house some great-grandparent of an extinct line had left them.

Aunt Bathilda had no idea how to raise a child, for he was no longer a toddler to dote upon. She had once been a professor at Hogwarts, maybe a hundred years ago and that was all she knew how to deal with a child - to teach and to discipline. Harry was shy and quiet, and did not need much of the latter. So she taught him all she knew best - all the history of the Wizarding World she knew, morsels of magical theory, the rudimentaries of Potions. And when he had a question she had no answer to, she sent him to the shelves and stacks of books she had gathered in her long life, and told him to find his answer there.

And he had found more than he sought there. Letters, from an Albus to a Gellert, their sense parsed only years later, and now kept secure, for whatever purpose they might have in the future - though he was not such a fool to consider blackmailing the Headmaster.

It had never crossed his aunt's mind that a child might need socializing, or friends. If she was busy, she handed him a book. If he had thought he needed fresh air or some exercise in nature, she floo-ed him to the old Fleamont place, where there were no living people, save for the few free elves that rented the small farms around the estate and took care of the house. He had wandered the gardens and vast greenhouses of the estate, had flown his broom across the fields, and explored the many halls and rooms of the ancient house, the portraits his only companions.

Albus Dumbledore came to the Bagshot cottage a few days a year, spending his time in long discussions with Aunt Bathilda, and each summer, without fall asking his aunt's and his own signature on a parchment form, to release the gold for the stipendiary fund for disadvantaged students, gold that the Potters had parted with for centuries.

Another wizard, middle-aged, Callum McTavish, who was the director of the Sleekeasy Company, came around every three months and did his better to explain to him how the company was going.

He had come at Hogwarts, more than prepared, every secret of the ancient castle known already, courtesy of his grand-aunt, the first year's theory already learned. He had came with dreams of being a greater sorcerer than the Potters before him, of creating new Potions and spells, of learning Alchemy from Dumbledore himself, of enchanting wondrous things. His ambitions, greater than him, had seen him sorted in Slytherin.

Even at Hogwarts, he had made no friends, his sheltered and isolated life leaving him with little to relate with the others, their games seemed to childish and their inclination to learning too lacking. He had spent most of his days in the library, preparing his homework and reading ahead, or going through old Prophet editions, trying to gather any mention of the name Potter, from beginning to end. If he wasn't in the library, he was practicing his spells.

In second year, he had thought to try out for the Quidditch team, the Seeker spot being empty. But Lucius Malfoy had bought Nimbuses for the team, and Draco Malfoy had made Seeker. He had been angry at that, and without thinking too much, he had written home. Aunt Bathilda had checked with Gringotts, and having made sure that, by buying two dozen Nimbuses, he would be in no danger to be left penniless, had agreed to the purchase. He had gone to the Headmaster's office to make sure that his name would not be made public, but he had gloated in person to Marcus Flint, and had ruined every future chance of making the team, and earned the undying ire of his house. Some had tried to curse him, but he could handle them, and as he grew older and better and magic, none were fool enough to cross him.

Aunt Bathilda had approved of his petty act of vengeance, reminiscing fondly in her letter on how his grandfather had the custom of doubling every donation Abraxas Malfoy had ever made, to ensure that whatever influence he earned would be lesser than his own. But his motives were less petty, since Fleamont Potter was sure that Malfoy had poisoned his friend, Nobby Leach, the first Muggleborn Minister for Magic.

He had spent the next years at Hogwarts even more lonely and isolated than before, and took every ocassion to get away. He had spent a semester abroad at Ilvermorny in his third year, and met there some distant Potter cousins, who were now the closest thing to friends he had. In his fourth year, he had spent another at Uagadou, and he was the better for it. He had learned tricks of wandless magic, has started learning Alchemy - which was only a NEWT subject at Hogwarts, and most important of all, he had become an Animagus. He had the form of a raven, which was rather ironic, since that hat had sent him to Slytherin instead of Ravenclaw.

He had now begun his fifth year at Hogwarts, and this year he would spend entirely at Hogwarts, since it was the year of the OWL exams, and he had to prepare for such, even if he had no great worries. He also spent his time in the Room of Requirement, on which he had stumbled upon, brewing and trying to better potions, and trying to enchant various objects.

And that had given an idea. His grandfather had been the first one not to license his potions, rather starting his own company and had used the vast greenhouses of the Fleamont estates to grow the ingredients for his potions. Even now, elves employed as gardeners dutifully harvested each and sent them to the company for brewing. His own interests were larger than Potions, a myriad ideas, some doable, some not, coursing through his head.

And for some of his ideas to bear fruit, he had need of partners. And Hogwarts had two great innovators among his students, of age and soon to finish their educations. Their ideas were ingenious, their inventions manifold. And they needed capital.

There was just a problem - they we're Gryffindors and the greatest pranksters in Hogwarts. Not the wizards a Slytherin could approach so casually and offer them a business opportunity. So he had hatched a plan, using a bit of cunning and resourcefulness, to approach the matter from another angle.

However funny seeing Granger struggle was, he loathed seeing people stupidly going on the wrong path, so he gave her a helping hand, which in retrospect, was given in a rather condescending manner. But his help was not that disinterested. Granger was friends with Ronald Weasley, a man with two particular brothers. After all, if the direct approach was unwise, there were other paths to tread.

 

[CrimsonCodex]

Very interesting. Watched

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter III: That Insufferable Boy


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Dear Hermione,


That was a question that I never expected. You have been intentionally vague in putting it - how do you know something happened, and from whom? I have asked your mother, but she doesn't believe that she mentioned anything about that day.

In 1981, we still lived in Bideford. It was the night after Halloween when I saw what appeared to be an explosion far away, on the isle of Ynys Dewin. It was storming that night, so nobody wanted to sail to see what happened - because of the storm and because of the rumours. Perhaps legend is a better word than rumour here, because in the last couple centuries, according to local folklore, the island has been inhabited by sorcerers, and it's said that queer mists covered the isle every time someone tried to sail towards it. When I returned, the old folks told me that I was the only one that ever went ashore in living memory.

I didn't let the tales stop me, so I rowed on a boat to the isle. It is an odd thing to remember, for I only remember the house, not the rest of the island. But a great deal of the house was in ruin, and I found there the bodies of a man and a woman, cruelly murdered. I'll spare you the details, but it looked as if Jack the Ripper himself had its fun with them. The boy was uninjured thankfully. I wrapped him in his blanket, and took him back to the house, announced the authorities, and that week someone came for the boy.


Seeing that you asked me this a couple weeks after you returned to Hogwarts, and considering the strange tales surrounding the island, I presume that explosion was magical in nature. Is he boy a wizard you've met at Hogwarts? If you've met the boy, do tell me how he's fared since.


Your mother sends her love,

Dad

---

That wasn't quite the explanation she expected, Hermione thought, as she finished reading her father's letter. As far as she was aware, that Halloween was when Longbottom defeated You-Know-Who. She presumed that Death Eater attacks stopped afterwards, but it seemed it was not so. Enlightened and confused in equal measure, Hermione did what she always did when in doubt - she went to the library.

After borrowing a few old numbers of the Daily Prophet, she found out more. It seemed that after the Dark Lord fell, a couple of Death Eaters attacked the Potters and killed the parents, leaving only their boy alive. She couldn't parse any reason why the Lestranges, who seemed to be some of the You-Know-Who's closest followers, and Argo Pyrites attacked them. It would have made more sense before, not after, even if James Potter was a "blood traitor", married to a Muggleborn (so Harry Potter was not a Pureblood after all).
Neither of the Potters were Aurors, or worked in any of the Ministry's departments. Growing even more curious, she checked a few other numbers of the paper, and she only saw mentions of James Potter's father, one calling him an old friend of Nobby Leach, who was the first Muggleborn Minister for Magic, and repeated annoucements of donations to various causes, those for Saint Mungo's being the largest. One fact was quite strange though. Fleamont Potter's donations were often going to the same causes to which Abraxas Malfoy donated, were mentioned after his, and were twice as large. For a feud between two sorcerers, that seemed a weird way to attack the other, but it was certainly better than violence.

That was a mystery solved, but as she left the library, Hermione had a stark realisation. She didn't need to write her father, nor to look through old numbers of the Prophet. It was a waste of her time, better spent studying. She could have learned all this from Potter himself, if the boy hadn't been so frustratingly vague.

---

She hadn't had any opportunity to scold Potter for sending her on wild goose chases, because, as usual, Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen outside class. Except for the meals, which he attented almost everytime (but spent his time eating and avoiding conversation), and occasionaly flying his broom with wild abandon (though he didn't play Quidditch), he wasn't seen around the grounds of the castle, in the hallways or participating in the many clubs the school had to offer. And he didn't spend a great deal of time in the library. When he did, he went straight for whatever books he wanted, made copious notes, had the books returned and left with great haste.

She resolved to catch up with him today after potions, if she could indeed catch him. Potions this year were more bearable, Professor Snape finally leaving the school for greener pastures. The new Potions master, was Horace Slughorn, a jovial wizard, who used to teach the class before Snape had taken the post. And Professor Slughorn had a better appreciation for talent than him, complimenting her work in a most approving manner.


They where making the Draught of Peace now, the Professor helpfully suggesting that they should make use of it, for it was OWL year, and nobody needed anxiety to ruin their hopes for good grades.
Of course, it had the drawback that if you did not have the skill to make it, you would have a failed concoction and no cure for the anxiety messing up a potion provokes.


To make sure that she'll have the time to talk with him, with an apologetic look towards Ron, Hermione went to partner up with Potter. Potter had always done his potions without a partner, since the first year - the students' number was odd, so he was left out, by his own choice - he never sought out a partner.


They did not have the opportunity to talk during the class - the potions was fiddly enough to brew without the need for distractions. Both of them were concentrated on their own cauldrons, and despite being partners, they each prepped their own ingredients and did their work as separatedly as possible. Hermione could do nothing but the admire the preciseness of Potter's every action. Beyond that, and she cursed herself for somehow not noticing until now, Potter had a stopwatch and a notebook, timing his every action to the second, and stopping to log them on the notebook, jotting down each and every step of the brewing, and its time. And he did not bother with a quill, but used a ballpoint pen.

When the potion was done, the professor looked on their work, with nothing but words of praise. Yet he had much more than that for Potter: "Marvelously done, Mister Potter. You're certainly your parents' son. Those two were the most prodigious students I've ever had. Well, the two of them and Severus - three in one year. an amazing coincidence. But I dare say none of them brewed a better Draught of Peace than yours."


She could agree that Potter's Draught was perfect, but resented the overt and overlong praise of the Professor.


Once class was over, she started packing her Potions equipment, but Potter tardied, scribbling some more in his notebook. When she left the classroom, she had to wait for him a few minutes. When he finally left, he walked with a brisk path, and even as she waited, she had to run after him.


"Wait a minute, Potter" she yelled after him.


"What do you want, Granger? I've no time to lall about. Be quick about it." said Potter, stopping.


"But neither of us take Divination, so I don't see why you're so hurried."


"I've got places to be, stuff to do. You're divagating, Granger. What's the purpose of you accosting me in the halfway? I know you're a Prefect, but I've hardly had any time to break rules since I left Potions."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Potter. Except being frustratingly vague, but that's not against school rules. Why couldn't you just tell me that my father saved you when you where a toddler?


"Nothing in life is easy, Granger, and there's no fun in making it any easier."


"Well, you certainly don't make things easier. That book you recommended - it's not in the Hogwarts library. I asked Madam Pince and she said that it was removed a long time ago"


"Oh." answered Potter, quite dumbly. After a brief pause, he continued: "I suppose I could loan you my copy." And with that, Potter rummaged through his book back and took out an old and weathered book, and handed it to her.


She took it and opened it.


"That's centuries old...and it's all in Latin."


"Nothing in life is easy, remember? Besides, if you don't want to read it in Latin, your best bet is French, and even they translated only five volumes to date. And you're right about its age - the manuscript it's from the eleventh century, written in Carolingian minuscule - but that was the only copy my family library had. And you may very well find an use for that Latin dictionary after all."


"I'll take great care of it" said Hermione, reverently.


"Well, do return it when you've decided on giving up parsing it. It's not the easiest text to read. You could ask me for help then, I owe at least that to your father."


The mention of possible failure emboldened Hermione. She left, with a quick thanks, determined to understand the text, even if it was in some weird and hard to understand handwriting, and entirely in Latin. The work would be worth it if it meant she did not need ask for help from that insufferable boy.

Who knew making a spell was such a bother. But Potter obviously made a few of his own, being so knowledgeable about it, and she wouldn't prove herself his lesser.

 

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