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.

 

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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.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter IV: Change and Exchange​

It took Hermione one week to figure out that trying to make sense of the book was an endeavour doomed to failure. It took her another one to figure out that Potter was more entertained knowing she struggles without result, that he would if she admitted defeat, and asked his aid. It pained her to give up, to lose, even if it was no contest. She didn't want to prove herself lesser. But eventually she figured that her goal was to make a spell, not to translate a book. Potter probably learned Latin before he even began messing with spells, and she didn't have the time to engage in such. She was Prefect, she had to do her homework, she had to study for the OWLS. She'd have to become a polyglot some other time. For now, it didn't fit her schedule. Neither did palaeography, which her encyclopaedia defined as the study of ancient and medieval handwriting, and which seemed an equal, if not greater, expense of time.

And so she relented, and not without a degree of distress, she resolved to ask for help. So, after another potion class, she once again ambushed him in the hall, to return his book and ask for assistance. As she was following him outside the classroom, Potter observed her and slowed his pace, allowing her to make the request.

It was to her great admonishment, and anger, that Potter quickly produced from his book bag a sheaf of papers, neatly typed out – with all words and their purported etymology written down, and helpful hints of possible use in incantations added. He could have offered her the notes the first time he offered his help.

"You've had these the whole time, yet you've gone to the whole trouble of needling me so?" asked Hermione, quite tempted to curse him to belch snails. Or turn him into a snail. As each second passed, the latter fate seemed even more appealing. Potter would look good as a snail – perhaps learn a lesson in being agreeable.

Potter was being his usual smug self, answering her without a care in the world: "I could have. But half the point of learning is the work you put into it. Do you allow Weasley to copy your essays, Granger?"

"No, but I fail to see the relevance to our current discussion." she interrupted him, wondering what the point of that was.

"I presume you make him do some work before you deign to help him. Am I wrong?" retorted Potter.

"Yes, but again – I fail to see how that is relevant. You are just beating around the bush. Make a point, before I lose my patience." she replied, her nails digging in the flesh of her palms. By Merlin, the boy knew how to make himself disagreeable.

"I have let you do the work, and in exchange for you proving yourself hardworking, I have now provided you with the reward of the notes. Isn't that just the same thing?" the young wizard explained, one eyebrow raised in challenge and defiance.

"Well… it's not really entirely similar…uh.. the situation with Ronald is different…" tried to answer Hermione, a bit gobsmacked. It couldn't be the same thing: Ron was lazy and needed to be pushed. It was only after endless complaints she agreed to look over his work, to make sure he didn't write something utterly wrong and momentously stupid.

"I didn't mean to challenge your competence, or work ethic, Granger. I'm just saying that just because you're brighter than most, there's no reason to face a little humility." Potter explained again, his face showing some measure of displeasure at her failing to see his point.

"That's just excuses and you know it Potter" answered the witch, incensed at his attitude. "You're just amusing yourself at other's people expense. If that is so, who's humbling you?"

Potter waited a moment before replying, as if he was pondering something. Then he answered: "I've got plenty of people – and none that you need to know of. And haven't you forgotten something, Miss Granger?"

The sudden addition of the honorific irked Hermione even more. He couldn't sound more like some strict, self-righteous professor if he tried. And he wasn't one, so she didn't appreciate his tone of superiority. So she opened her mouth, and out came a curt and abrupt "What?"

"Gratitude, thankfulness, appreciation. Need I go on?" said Potter. She realised that she looked like an ungrateful witch, demanding something he was in no way obliged to give.

"Sorry" mumbled Hermione quietly. "And thank you" she said, with a louder and cleared voice.

"Well then, good day to you…Miss Granger!" said Potter, and turned to go.

"Just wait a minute. I am not done with you" replied Hermione.

Potter turned again and threw a strange look towards her. She felt a sudden sense of shame. After all, Potter had helped her, even if he was uttermost vexing. Whatever strong words she had left were abandoned, and to save face, she quickly threw a question at him:

"The notes. They're typed. How did you do that?"

"Ah" exclaimed Potter, as if suddenly enlightened to her purpose. "Protean charm. They're more versatile than you know. I've enchanted a typewriter, linked it with a modified Protean charm to a parchment, and it transfers my writing to the typewriter, and I've got my handwritten notes and the typed one. Makes things neater."

Hermione was suddenly enthused: "I haven't ever thought of that. So it's a bit more complex than a normal one? So instead of a linked transformation, you've added an intermediary step that necessitates a physical action to transmit the end point of the spell unto a second piece of paper? The typewriter being the instrument of the spell?"

"That would be more or less correct"

"You found that somewhere, or you modified it yourself?"

"Why do you ask, Miss Granger?" said Potter." You want that too? Yes, it's one of the modifications I've done to the spell" With that, Potter rummaged again in his bookbag, took out one of his many worn notebooks, flipped through the pages, ripped one and handed it to her."

Hermione was not happy that the boy was still trying to vex her by calling her Miss Granger, but she minded her manners without need of a reminder, and she thanked him. Yet she was still curious: "You said one of them. How versatile could that charm even be?"

"Oh, it can be quite versatile, if you think beyond the usual approaches. But I can't tell you that – it's proprietary information."

"What do you mean by that? You can't just claim a spell as just your property!"

"Well, technically I can, and I will – I am a Potter, we are not academics, we are inventors and businessmen. Ministry law and regulations protect spells developed and modified for enchanting innovative artefacts for artisanal or manufactural production. And I've got a couple of ideas up my sleeve that can put a lot of Galleons in my pockets. So, excuse me if I don't want those ideas bandied about so everyone could figure it out."

That cleared the mystery of the boy a bit further, Hermione thought. Slytherins were supposed to be ambitious, but except for being the best wizard of their generation – a fact that could be attributed to natural brilliance instead of ambition, Potter did not show any overt goals or sought any recognition. He didn't play Quidditch, but she now knew that was not for lack of trying, but he had burned his bridges. He couldn't care less for House points, or prestige among his peers.

But that just meant that his ambitions reached beyond the walls of Hogwarts. It was responsible of him and admirable to think so far – in time and place, and Hermione Granger was suddenly reminded that OWL year presumed careers advice, and she hadn't given serious thought to what she'd do with the rest of her life. It was only in April, but that meant that she'd need to prepare, to investigate every possible career path, so she'd be ready to meet with Professor McGonagall when the time came. Thus, anticipately alarmed, she set up to go to the Library to begin on it. She couldn't be content with things were now, in her school years, for change was coming, and would not wait for her to catch up.

 

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V: Blood and Curses



History of Magic, or rather the professor, had been a bore as always. A ghost reciting by rote notes written decades ago, when he was still in the world of the living, did not make for an exciting class. That is not to say that Harry Potter slept through the class, as many were wont to do. If Aunt Bathilda would get even the slightest hint of that, she would yell "Sacrilege" and send him the most harshly worded Howler she could.

So as a good kid, he spent the hours working on his own little project, which Aunt Bathilda had entrusted him a year ago, at her age not having the energy and patience of writing another book. Being stuck at Hogwarts did limit one's sources, but there were plenty of 17th century journals and books that detailed Pureblood attitudes towards Muggles prior to the Statute of Secrecy. There were quite a lot of interesting things to learn, like about Ralston Potter's Wizengamot career, or the first Lucius Malfoy being refused the hand of Queen Elizabeth I, a fact that never ceased to be funny.

Once the ghostly professor ceased his droning, and the last period of class done, he made his way to the Slytherin common room. He spoke the password, only to be rudely pushed aside by Malfoy and his cronies. Too tired to teach that brat a lesson, Harry simply spared a sneer and went his way to the dorms.

After he put away his books, and took whatever he needed, he went out the room, intend of spending the rest of the day tinkering and studying in solitude in the Room of Requirement, unbothered by any. His great aunt, who had written "Hogwarts, a History" knew most of the castle's secrets, and had left some out in writing the book. The Room of Requirement had been one such secret, imparted upon him by his great-aunt after he had come home the first year with the top grades in his year.

Of course, nothing could be so simple. Granger had stopped him once this day, outside Potions, and in hindsight, he had been a bit of a prick talking with her. Now it was Daphne Greengrass who had stopped him, though he was quite aware of what she was seeking.

"Any answers?" asked the girl, anxious and fidgeting, as if life or death depended on his reply. Which to be fair, was true, in a manner.

The matter not being one he could shrug off, he stopped to discuss with the witch: "Give me a minute, Greengrass, to fetch the letters from my dorm."

A minute or two later, he returned, carrying a sheaf of envelopes with him. He handed the over to Daphne Greengrass, with a copious amount of explanations:

"I have sent a few letters the first time to a few of grandfather's old contacts, those I believe had some competence in the subject. Then I had a hunch on the matter, and wrote my, let's call him great-uncle, and got a satisfactory answer, so I had to write another round of letters with the latest information. I also contacted one of my distant cousins across the Atlantic. He is no expert on the matter, but as former Director of Magical Security for MACUSA, he has plenty of contacts of his own, people knowledgeable in the effects of Dark Magic. But in the summary of it – there's news somewhat good and some not so good – it depends on the particularities of the case."

"But you're saying Astoria has got a chance?" asked Daphne, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"To explain it in short – I had a hunch, which my great-uncle agreed with, that whatever medieval wizard or witch that cursed your bloodline had no hunch of the workings of genetics. So the blood curse, malediction, whatever you want to call it, settled upon the blood itself. Now, there's two possibilities here."

"The first one that the curse affects the bone marrow, which produces the poisoned blood. The second one is that the blood of the originally cursed witch held the curse itself, which was transmitted to the child by the transfer of blood in the womb. This second one might explain why only some of your ancestors manifested the curse – there is a possibility that the curse manifests itself only in children with the same blood group as the original victim. But to make sure that the second possibility is true, we would have to find cases of male children in your family affected by the course and not having passed it to their children."

"I'll tell my parents to check any family records for any cases of it" said Greengrass, making a mental note of it."But what your saying, that you, or your correspondents might have found out the workings of the course, that means there's hope for curing her, not just for treating the symptoms?"

Greengrass's face was so hopeful, that Harry hated to tell her things were not that simple. But lying would be even worse.

"This are only hypotheses at this point, and there is no procedure for curing it developed. There have been some ideas thrown about, which you will find in the letters, but you might not find them appealing." he said at last, suddenly uncomfortable.

"If this is about the cost" said the young witch, with a resolute determination, "father will pay how many Galleons it would take. I will make sure of it."

"It is not money, but the procedure that might be unappealing. If it is the blood itself – to be cured, Astoria will have to be fully exsanguinated, every drop of blood cleansed from her body, and entirely new blood put in. Cleansing the blood and putting it back in would not work – there's no potion or alchemical concoction that could absolutely purify it from every trace of Dark magic except the universal solvent, but the alkahest had been the futile quest of many an alchemist, and even Flamel hadn't cracked that one. And if it's the bone marrow, it means she'll additionally need to have it extracted in its entirety and new one transplanted, and her father would be the only possible donor."

"But those procedures can be done, no?" she asked, her tone hopeful." There's Healers than can do that?"

"Bone marrow transplants has been done. By Muggle doctors. Same as with blood transfer. We wizards prefer Blood Replenishing Potions to that. But not even Muggles exsanguinate people – it's a risky, deadly thing. Losing even two-thirds of your blood can lead to death. It needs to be figured out how to keep your sister alive during this."

"I will tell father this. He will find Healers that could do that. Even if he will have to scour the whole wizarding world." she said, relentless to the bitter one. It was admirable to hold such love towards a sibling, Harry thought, even if he lacked personal experience in having siblings.

"Anyhow, the bulk of the letters are about Potions treatments that can alleviate the symptoms and hopefully make sure she lives a long life. So such treatment can wait years before all things are satisfactorily researched. The typewritten letters, with no details on the correspondent are the one from my great-uncle. Your father cannot inquire of his name, post address, or his qualifications in the subject. He can only trust my word on the matter that his observations are knowledgeable, legitimate, and truthful."

"Why?", asked Daphne, keen to assuage her curiosity. "Is he some eccentric old sorcerer, or paranoid, or something like that?"

Harry, as always when it came to that particular relative, was not glad to discuss of him: "Suffice to say, that only in such condition I could offer his help on the matter. Your father would have to trust me on this."

"If that's all then, Potter, thank you. You'll have my family's gratitude as long as we live".

Harry was preparing to leave, but he remembered one thing: "There's something else, Greengrass. If you ever want to have kids, if you want to ensure they're not born with the curse, you'll have to go through the same treatment."

Leaving behind the horrified face of the Slytherin witch, Harry went about his business.

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Notes: Wanted to do a second part, about what Harry was so eager to get to, but then I figured it did not fit tematically in this chapter - I'll have to flesh it out further for a next chapter

 

[WinRarArchivist]

VI: Dreaming Big​

When you walk past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy three times with a specific desire in mind, the Room of Requirement will offer what you want, provided it is inside the constraints of the laws of magic. When Harry passed the tapestry in mind, he had one specific want – to enter the Room in the same configuration he had entered it countless time – as his private study, or lab, or workshop, or whatever one would call it.

Inside the room was bookshelves full of many tomes – some personal ones of Harry's, other scrounged from the Room of Hidden Things on the basis of their novelty to him. There were half a dozen cauldrons set up, some boiling, some not. There was a small crucible, a worktable full of glass jars and flasks, cucurbits, alembics and lutes, and ceramic containers, a pair of tongs and a small bellows. In the middle of the chamber was a furnace, with a box of coal laying near it.

There were several cabinets full of potion ingredients and countless magical materials. Harry, with the power of a vault full of gold behind him, had spared no expense in acquiring all that was legal, leaving nothing that had any potential use unbought.

From Abraxan hair and Acromantula venom to Wartcap powder and Wiggenbush bark, from belladona and billywig stings to valerian root and the leaves of the Venomous Tentacula, everything imaginable was stored there in vials, boxes or various other receptacles.

Beyond that, there was a variety of magical objects strewn about – many magical instruments, objects enchanted on a whim for a purpose or other, half successful – and half failed, thrown in a bin that occasionally emitted sparkles, foul smoke and weird sounds. There was also Harry's enchanted typewriter, settled upon a desk with much more care than the rest. And a wireless radio, half dismantled, with a sheaf of notes next to it.

Separate in a corner, on a small table were two television sets, a magical camera and an old magazine, and next to that table an ornate desk.

That desk, or the potential that was behind it, was Harry's current endeavour – and once finished, his greatest accomplishment to date. He had come across an old Muggle magazine from 1945 called The Atlantic, and in it was an article by a man called Vannevar Bush, on the topic of a machine called the memex, which could create some sort of a collective memory. The memex was to contain a storage unit for microfilms – very small photographs made by muggles of various documents – books, magazines, photos, letters, manuscripts.

The memex was to photograph and concert to microfilm these documents and store them into the desk, allowing the user to manually type onto them with a keyboard. Levers would be used to flip through microfilmed books and add notes to those by some photographic means.

Furthermore, that Muggle machine could create an associative indexing, allowing the person using it to build a trail out of associated information, through coded dots printed on the bottoms of microfilms, linking different documents.

The Muggles never made that machine reality, instead creating decades later computers. But since the computers worked by electricity, their use in the wizarding world was impossible. But such a machine was indeed very useful, and Harry meant to create it by enchantments, to build his own Magi-Memex.

Of course, his greatest aid in this endeavour was his oldest and most trusted friend – the Protean Charm. Harry had already figured out how to modify a magical camera so he could turn all his notes, assignments, and books in those microfilms and had figured a way to project them into a screen mounted atop the desk.

But he had yet to figure out the modifications that the Protean Charm needed to link those documents to the keyboard, to make the enchantments recognize the words upon those documents, and to allow him but to type on keyboard, and magically tag them with keywords, creating those trails, to allow the same keyboard to make written addition upon the microfilm, or even allow him to draw on the images magically projected on the screen, or touch a word and be shown all possible documents containing it.

He had worked a few months to figure out everything on his project, and he would probably spend more months on it. But in the end, it would be worth it. He could call forth a piece of information forth, with but a few words typed on a keyboard.

The two television sets, and the project behind them, were more ambitious. A decade ago, a few intrepid wizards had set up the British Wizarding Broadcasting Corporation, intent upon setting up a television channel. That project had been sadly rejected by the British Ministry of Magic, worried about the potential breaches of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, arguing that Muggle could potentially tune in and be exposed to their world.

Harry planned to bypass such concern, by the use of the same Protean Charm, working on creating long distance Protean charms that could transmit sound and sight from a central place, where such content would be filmed. This magical means would thus offer no opportunity for a Muggle to be tuned in through his TV – his enchanted TV would be similar only in the exterior, being but the husk of a Muggle television set.

Of course that meant, beyond enchanting these artefacts, he would have to create his own television network, sell his own enchanted television sets, and employ people to create the content of various wizarding TV channels.

He planned for the Weasley twins, once he offered them a starting capital, to play a part in it. A wizarding shop, which would become very popular through the creative work of those two pranksters, would be the perfect place to start selling his Magi-Memex (which would be a bit more expensive than an average wizard would afford), and the enchanted TVs, more affordably priced.

Of course, the buyers would then have to pay for a license to get access to the content of his own wizarding channels. He already planned to poach Lee Jordan from the twins, to serve as his future Quidditch commentator on a sports channel. He planned to make deals with Quidditch teams worldwide, to show their games on television for those who did not have the money, or opportunity, to watch it in person.

Beyond that, a news channel was mandatory. He could employ his own reporters and commentators and provide a more accessible way to find out the news to the wizards of witches of Great Britain. He hoped that the ease of opening a TV and watching the news would give him the same power over wizardkind that the Daily Prophet now held.

And then there was the entertainment. He had already thought of showing wizarding plays on a different channel. And education – inviting famed magical scholars to give their opinion on their own subjects. Of course, there was also a different education – Witch Weekly would grasp with own hand the opportunity to offer their own advice other than in writing. People could also demonstrate different household spells, their advice broadcasted in countless wizarding houses. But he would not allow them to bring the incessant celebrity gossip on his network – that was better left upon a printed page, or in the mouths of witches chattering during their teas, or schoolgirls giggling in the corridors.

And the advertising opportunities – he would certainly make more money than the Daily Prophet made of it now. And Great Britain was a small market and not the greatest of opportunity. He already planned to enlist the aid of his American relations to set up shop in the United States. If the work to set it up in other countries would provide overwhelming, he could certainly license his magical technology to wizards of enough wealth to afford starting such an enterprise.

He already felt he could grasp the whole world with his fingertips. If only he could figure out that damn Protean charm, then he would have galleons rolling in willingly in his Gringotts vault.

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Notes: So this is a more technical, informative chapter - no action, but it sets up Harry ambitions, and it's the only thing that I got inspired to write, so I thought to just get it out now, and a more active chapter will wait until I wrangle my muse. The fount of inspirations kinda flows more towards Baelor now, than towards Harry, but I'll get back to this sometime in the next few weeks.
I was a bit under the weather (literally and metaphorically) this past week, feeling kinda tired and sick-ish, so I apologise if the quality isn't up to par.