A Promise Kept - Chapter 32 - Fate

Fate

There was something of a sense of undeniable liberation he felt from how he had spent much of his day. Harry had never been allowed to venture into the world alone, and though he knew his mother would be furious with him for doing so were she to discover his little venture, to him, it had been worth it.

Getting to know Sabine without the prospect of being watched over by any prying eyes had been quite the revelation, and their time together had ended on a high.

He did not know who had initiated the kiss, but he did not regret it happening.

He liked Sabine. To Harry, she was something of an escape from everything else occupying his mind, and more than that, he’d enjoyed her company.

Of course, she had asked questions, as had he, but she had made no attempt to get an insight into the things he did not wish to speak about. There had been no pressing him about Voldemort or trying to get him to speak about his father.

She had simply wanted to get to know him for who he was.

Harry expected that she felt the same.

He’d heard of the Von Droombeeld family, had been urged by Sirius to tread carefully around them, but carrying the name he did meant that hers was not so important to him.

In all, he was pleased with their time away from everything, and he was hopeful they might just manage to snatch some more moments like that.

“You’re looking pleased with yourself.”

Olivia’s tone as he entered the common room was not accusatory, merely an observation, and Harry shrugged in response.

“It’s not been such a bad day.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him as she hummed.

“Well whatever it is that has made you so cheery, keep it up.”

“Are you saying I’m a miserable git?”

“No,” Olivia denied amusedly, “but it is nice to see you smile.”

Although it had only been a couple of days since he and Sabine had snuck away to London, his spirits had remained high, even in the face of the next unknown to come in the form of the brief note he’d received from Dumbledore at the end of the date.

Harry,

I would be much obliged if you could meet me in my office at six pm this coming Friday evening. Here is someone I wish to introduce you to.

Albus

It was a rather ominous note, but Harry suspected what this meeting would pertain to. The Hogwarts’ Headmaster had reached out to his acquaintance, someone he believed would be able to shine some light on what had happened to Harry’s fire spells in the aftermath of the World Cup.

With the hour drawing near that he was expected, he ensured he had his cloak and wand handy before activating his portkey.

Over the past couple of years he had been coming here now, Grimmauld Place was certainly cleaner than when he’d first seen it, but that didn’t mean he’d grown any fonder of Kreacher.

The elf was a surly being at best, and even outright hostile. Were it not for his status as the heir of the family, Harry doubted he’d presence here, albeit briefly, would be tolerated.

Not that he ever visited for the sole purpose of simply being here.

No, Grimmauld Place was unpleasant at best, and he’d sooner not have to use it as a point of arriving or exiting Britain at all. As such, his stay was brief, and he entered the kitchen to use the floo to Dumbledore’s office.

When he arrived, the man was waiting for him behind his desk, less relaxed than Harry was accustomed to seeing him, and he remembered that the final task of the tournament would take place tonight.

“Hagrid has done a good job with the maze.”

Dumbledore nodded, a proud smile forming at the mention of the gamekeeper.

Harry was yet to make the man’s acquaintance, but such an enormous man was impossible to miss on the grounds of the school.

“He indeed,” Dumbledore murmured, “but our attention is required elsewhere for now.”

“Where are we going?”

“To a place that only exists in the words of rumours for most, but to those in the know, it is very real.”

“Do you always speak in riddles?”

Dumbledore chuckled.

“My apologies, Harry. It is a habit I have developed as an older man. I will explain everything when we arrive, but I would urge you to wear that marvellous cloak of yours. It is best that you are not seen until necessary.”

Harry nodded and did as he was bid, wrapping the cloak around his shoulders as Dumbledore stood and approached.

Offering his arm, he gave Harry a reassuring smile before the two of them vanished from his office to only where the headmaster knew.

“We’re in London.”

“We are, and only a short distance from the Ministry of Magic, which is where we are going. Best use the public entrance for this excursion. Arriving through the fireplace will certainly raise questions.”

He led Harry towards a muggle phone box, and the two of them squeezed inside. He watched in fascination as Dumbledore lifted the receiver and dialled a number.

“Albus Dumbledore,” he spoke when the call was answered. “I’m afraid I left my Sherbet Lemons here.”

Although the man could not see him, Harry was fighting the urge to laugh. He was certain that was not an official reason for visiting the Ministry, but as a badge popped out from where coins would usually be dispensed, Dumbledore showed it to him before pinning it to the front of his robes.

“A memento, Harry. It is not often I use this method of entry.”

“How many of those badges do you own?”

“Seventy-one.”

He said it with such pride, and though it was petty mischief at best, Harry could see the headmaster quite enjoyed his rare forays into immaturity.

“Maybe I will have my own collection one day.”

Dumbledore beamed at the declaration, though his expression sobered as the phone box came to a halt in a large atrium comprised of granite.

Neither said another word as they made their way towards a lone desk placed in front of a pair of elevators, and the security guard stood sharply.

“Professor Dumbledore,” he greeted the headmaster. “What do we owe the pleasure?”

“I need only access the chamber briefly, Paul. I’m afraid I left behind some rather important documentation I promised to peruse before our next meeting.”

“Of course. May I check your wand?”

Dumbledore nodded and removed it from within his sleeve, but not the one that Harry had seen him use on numerous occasions now. No, his usual wand was a much paler wood than this, slightly longer, and the carving in the handle was certainly not the same as the phoenix claw on the one he handed over.

Harry watched in fascination as the guard tapped it with his own wand, and a small slip of parchment materialised in front of him.

“All is in order,” he declared.

“Thank you, Paul,” Dumbledore replied, accepting his proffered wand, and making his way towards one of the lifts.

“You have two wands,” Harry commented as the gates closed.

Dumbledore nodded, his lips twitching in an indiscernible way.

“Indeed, and perhaps I will share that story with you one day. Tonight, however, is not that night, Harry.”

He said nothing else on the matter as he pressed one of the dozens of buttons, and the lift shot forward rather than taking them upwards.

“Best to hold on.”

“You could’ve told me that before,” Harry grumbled, pushing himself to his feet.

Once more, the headmaster appeared to be quite amused by his antics, but before Harry could say anything else, the lift jolted to a standstill.

“Department of Mysteries,” a feminine voice spoke.

“This way, Harry, and you’d best stay close from here on out. It is quite easy to become lost down here, and there are many things you would not wish to investigate.”

Although his tone was light, Harry did not doubt the man’s words, and he stuck close by as he was led through a series of doors, some that did not appear to be what they were, and even a circular room full of them spinning nauseatingly.

At Dumbledore’s behest, they stilled, and he stepped through the one before them. How he knew where it led, Harry couldn’t be sure, but the magic here was overwhelming his senses, so much so that it was difficult to discern one thing from the next.

“It is safe to remove your cloak now, Harry, and best keep it hidden,” he added, pausing briefly. “Better yet, I think it would be best if it wasn’t here at all.”

“Why?”

Dumbledore’s expression became thoughtful.

“There are many people that would like to possess that particular cloak, and the man we are going to see is one of few I know that could probably identify it. It will be quite safe in my office for when you are finished here.”

Harry frowned, but the man seemed to be quite concerned about him having his cloak with him. With a reluctant nod, he handed it over, and with a wave of his wand, Dumbledore vanished it.

“Locked away in my top drawer,” he explained. “Come, his workroom is just around the next corner.”

Harry did not know what the Department of Mysteries was, or who he was here to see, but the figure they came upon waiting for them wore a robe and hood that covered his face.

He stood and Harry could feel him scrutinising him closely before he circled to continue his inspection.

“Your magic is strong, Mr Potter, and quite unusual, like nothing I have ever felt before,” he murmured. “Yes, quite something indeed. You may leave us, Albus. You have your own affairs to attend to this evening, and I do not expect this will be a short meeting.”

With little more than a bow, Dumbledore left the room, and the hooded man stood in front of Harry.

“My name is Croaker,” he introduced himself. “Now, shall we begin?”

(Break)

“Any dragons in there, Hagrid?”

The large man guffawed as he shook his shaggy head.

“No, nothing like that, but Aragog was happy to provide a few of his children, and I might have arranged for a sphynx to be put in there.”

“A bloody sphynx!”

“She’s alright. She’ll only be asking them to answer riddles.”

“Thank Merlin for that,” Sirius snorted. “I wouldn’t fancy facing one of them.”

Hagrid chuckled once more; his eyes alight with interest as he seemed to ponder that very thing.

For Sirius, this was a light-hearted moment in what had become a rather tense wait for the task to begin and end. Even Albus seemed oddly discomforted by it, as were the other judges sitting at the table.

Crouch looked to be as disinterested and surly as ever, and Bagman’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. Karkaroff was fiddling nervously with a large staff he carried, and Maxime was wringing her hands in her lap.

The crowd, however, were as excited as they had been for both previous tasks, and the journalists that had flooded the school were hopeful to land the scoop for the morning editions.

Sirius was neither nervous or excited, but he would be pleased when it was all said and done.

As his final duty, he had been the one to place the cup in the centre of the maze, thankfully, long before any creatures or traps were added.

Now all that remained was for the task to begin, and that would happen shortly.

In a little over an hour or so, the tournament would be concluded, and though it had certainly been quite the experience, Sirius was quite looking forward to a normal school year come September.

(Break)

Even now as she waited for the task to begin, she was unsure just how much she would choose to compete against the others. For Fleur, the tournament had been quite the personal journey, a humbling experience for the most part, and one she could not way to be over with.

These past weeks had been full of moments of anxiety and expectation, of worry, and deep concern. The magic of the goblet demanded that she at least enter the maze, fulfilling her obligation to compete, but she found that her heart was no longer in it.

Still, here she was with her wand in hand, and she watched as Krum entered, the large opening closing behind him. Only a few moments later, Diggory followed suit, and her grip tightened as she waited for the final claxon to sound.

Had anyone told her at the commencement of the tournament that she would be here now, feeling as she did, Fleur would not have believed them. To her, it had been the highest honour to have been chosen as the champion of Beauxbatons, but it no longer mattered so much.

Things had unequivocally changed throughout her time here, and not necessarily for the best.

Gabrielle was still adjusting to what had befallen her during the second task. It would take time, but she was slowly becoming more comfortable and confident in herself.

Not that she was able to face her friends quite yet.

She wanted to, but Fleur could understand her reticence. Gabrielle was not the same girl that had been placed into the depths of the lake, and she was very much aware of it.

Still, all would be well with her.

Physically, she had recovered from her ordeal, was even thriving, but being so close to death had certainly left a lingering mark on her, and on the rest of the family.

It was the sound of the claxon that pulled her from her thoughts, and Fleur stepped forward into the maze, taken aback by the silence as it sealed behind her.

“One step at a time,” she murmured, moving forward once again into the unknown that awaited her.

(Break)

“Very fascinating,” Croaker murmured to himself as he watched Harry casting a fire charm. “Now, again, Mr Potter, but do not hold back.”

With a nod, Harry unleashed an unrestrained gout of flame. The protections in place held, but he could feel the struggle between them and his fire, and when he ended the spell, the glass dome he’d been placed within was less clear than it had been from the dripping of the inner surface.

“I do not think it is wise for us to do that again,” Croaker spoke interestedly. “Come, I have seen enough.”

The dome lifted, and Harry was grateful for the fresh, cool air that met him. Taking the seat that Croaker gestured to, he watched as the man wrote in a language he could not begin to decipher.

It was a mixture of numbers, letters and symbols that made no sense to him, but the Unspeakable scribbled away with practised ease.

“Now, I would like to extract a sample of your blood, and from that, I will be able to isolate some of your magic so that I may run a few tests and experiments. With your permission, of course.”

“A needle?” Harry asked as Croaker summoned one from a draw.

“Crude but the most effective way of drawing the right amount.”

“And what is the right amount?”

“That remains to be seen,” Croaker returned, and Harry could almost feel the man grinning beneath his hood.

Fortunately, he was satisfied with only two syringes full, and he went about adding it to a beaker which contained a few other liquids Harry was not familiar with.

“What is that?”

“Classified. Much of what you may find here is, and it is for your own good, Mr Potter.”

He watched as Croaker used his wand to quickly spin the blood sample and whatever else it had been mixed with, and the reaction of the different elements became volatile.

A myriad of reds, greys, greens, and gold seemed to clash with one another, and Croaker was hard-pressed to contain what was happening. When the beaker stopped spinning, he brandished his wand in a way as though he was searching for something, before snapping it like a whip.

A bubble around the size of a fist appeared, and within it, was a swirling mass of energy, grey in colour but streaks and flecks of the others appeared intermittently.

“Is that my magic?”

“Just a small sample, Mr Potter,” Croaker answered breathlessly, taking a seat to steady himself. “It is no easy feat to separate it, and yours was particularly troublesome. Now, let us have a look at it, shall we?”

His legs were still shaking slightly as he stood, but he was undeterred as he inspected the orb.

To Harry, the magic within felt as familiar as anything else he’d lived with his entire life, but Croaker hummed curiously as he went about his work. It was a rather intimate process, almost as though everything that made Harry what he was had been put on display for a stranger to examine.

As far as he knew, Croaker was no Healer.

Nonetheless, he seemed to know exactly what he was looking for and he nodded satisfactorily.

“Your magic is quite exceptional, Mr Potter. Well attuned to Charms, Enchanting, Transfiguration, but your forte is undoubtedly combat. It is in your blood, after all. An Animagus, and your bond with your wand is quite something. Mahogony, Elder, Thunderbird, and Griffin…”

He paused for a moment and hummed once more.

“Contradictory indeed, but it works, and yet, there is more to be had from it. That is for you to discover for yourself. What interests me is the nature of your magic. It is all your own, and yet, formed by other influences you have encountered. How very curious, but it has certainly not caused you to suffer. No, on the contrary, it has benefitted you greatly.”

“What has?”

Croaker turned towards him, and once more, Harry could feel a penetrating gaze boring into him.

“You survived the impossible, Mr Potter. After what happened to you, even we looked into the phenomenon, experimented with the killing curse more than any other had before in a bid to find a defence against it. Ultimately, we failed. I had hoped that your magic might hold the key, but that isn’t so. Your do not have an immunity to it, but there is still a protection of sorts, sacrificial in nature. Yes, someone was willing to give up their life for yours, so readily that magic was prepared to intervene. It did so quite spectacularly, though what has me curious is what it did to you in that moment.”

Harry swallowed nervously.

“Voldemort is undoubtedly an exceptional wizard in his own right, and by all accounts, you should be dead. The magic invoked that night not only saved your life, but it also shaped you into something quite remarkable. You see, the killing curse did not work as intended. It left a mark, a scar if you will, and your own magic has exploited that, has taken all of what the Dark Lord’s magic left behind and made it a part of itself. In doing so, it seems that your magic has, let’s say, developed an ability to take other magic it encounters, the parts it can use to better itself, and does just that.”

“So, that is why when Mrs Delacour healed me, my fire spells changed?”

“I believe so, but we will only truly know if we experiment. What we are going to do is something I have never even heard of, so the results…well, I cannot say with any certainty what will happen, but this could be quite the boon, perhaps a much needed one for you, Mr Potter. We will know soon enough the extent of just how useful or detrimental this could be to you. For that, we must experiment.”

The man was evidently quite excited by his theory, and Harry watched as he began summoning shrunken trunks from a shelf nearby, resized them and opened them.

“Yes, this should suffice,” he murmured. “Now, let us see.”

Harry said nothing as he removed dozens of phials from within the trunks, returning some and then removing others. After around fifteen minutes, he seem satisfied with what he had collected.

“What are they?” Harry asked.

“Magical essences,” Croaker explained. “Pure magic that has been gathered from a variety of beings, some which are quite dangerous indeed, and others a little more benign in nature. I intend to mix these with your magic to see how it reacts to each of them. From there… I am unsure. This purely experimental, Mr Potter. Nothing could come of it, or we could learn a great deal. We will see.”

He turned away once more and used his wand to begin separating the bubble containing Harry’s magic into dozens of smaller samples.

“I think it is best if we use the dome for this. There is no telling what could happen when I begin.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Very much so,” Croaker chuckled. “It could even be quite catastrophic. You see, pure magic itself is volatile. When we cast a spell, it is rarely only our own magic that is used. Magic surrounds us in all things, Mr Potter, and our own mixes with it to create a desired effect. Pure magic, especially foreign to us is more often than not, quite lethal. Shall we begin?”

Harry could feel the grin of the man, and though it was undoubtedly risky, it was rather infectious, and he was excited by the prospect of what might happen.

“Let’s do it.”

With only a nod, Croaker lowered the dome and added the first sample of magic before readying a phial.

“This is the essence of a vampire. Now, how does it react with your own?”

The cork of the phial popped open, and Croaked carefully poured a drop of what was within into the bubble containing Harry’s magic.

The effect was almost immediate.

The concoction began to hiss loudly, and a red fog formed within, fading a moment later.

With a frown, Croaker raised the dome and inspected what was left behind, humming as he did so.

“Well, it seems that your magic did not like that at all,” he spoke. “There is nothing of the vampire left but let us not be disheartened. We have many others to try.”

(Break)

With all the champions now in the maze, it was a nervous wait to see who would emerge victorious. For the most part, the spectators were blind to what was unfolding, and save for the occasional flashes of spell fire, and even the occasional scream or roar, it was all but impossible to predict who would win the task, and the tournament.

Albus looked on with the rest of the judges, and his thoughts idly drifted to harry and how the boys’ time with Croaker was unfolding.

With what lie ahead of him, he would need all the help he could get, after all.

Albus would do all he could on that front, would assist Harry with his monumental task, but ultimately, it would come down to Harry and Tom to decide the outcome of the impending war.

He could almost feel it in the air, that unmistakeable sense of foreboding he’d experienced when Gellert had arrived on the continent, and when the very first whispers of disappearances began here in Britain in the early days of Voldemort’s rise.

It was becoming more prevalent now, more apparent, and Albus suspected that it would not be so long before the Dark Lord struck once again.

How or when, he could not be certain. Tom Riddle was an unpredictable man to those that did not know him, and that was what made him so dangerous.

Harry would undoubtedly have his work cut out for him when the two would inevitably meet, but from what he had seen of the boy, he might just be able to succeed where all others had failed.

Dorcas Meadows, perhaps the most talented witch Albus had ever met; killed by Tom personally.

Lord Craig McKinnon, a wizarding powerhouse in his own right; slaughtered by the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters, along with the entirety of his family.

Benji Fenwick, and incredible fighter; cut down in his prime by Lord Voldemort.

The list went on and on, and Albus knew that it would only grow.

Tom had quite the proclivity for killing those that could pose a threat to him, and yet, he had faltered that Halloween night, had been reduced to what he’d lived as since by a mother and her child.

Not that the outcome of prophecy that tied Harry and Tom was a foregone conclusion.

Life was rarely so kind to see its way to grant such an easy, harmonious conclusion.

No, the war between the two would be bloody, violent, and full of suffering.

Neither would allow it to unfold any other way.

Oh, there would be those that fought for both sides, those that wished to see the Dark Lord succeed in his endeavours, and those that would die to prevent it.

Nonetheless, it would indeed be Harry and Tom that decided the future of Great Britain.

Who would win, Albus did not know, but he had hope, hope that good would triumph over evil, that Harry would find a way to destroy the man that had haunted him since he’d been a babe in his mother’s arms.

Albus nodded to himself.

He believed in Harry Potter wholeheartedly, but that did not mean the journey would be easy. No, it be fraught with danger, with unexpected obstacles, and, as it was with all wars, loss.

“They’ve been in there close to an hour now,” Olympe commented, pulling him from his maudlin thoughts.

Albus nodded and looked towards the woman two places over, only to be distracted by Barty, who was pale and trembling.

“Barty, are you well?”

The man fell from his seat, and Albus immediately began attending to him.

“Ludo, fetch Poppy!” he instructed.

Barty was shaking uncontrollably, and his eyes were wide, manic, but it was his smile that caught Albus off guard, and before he could react, he felt something thud against his chest.

With a gasp, he quickly found himself looking up towards the night sky, an immense pressure weighing him down, and as he looked to see what had taken hold of him, he saw the hilt of a blade protruding from his sternum.

Pain.

It tore through him as though he’d been set ablaze, but he could not move, could not speak, not even scream from the agony he was enduring.

He could hear shouting and screaming, but it seemed to be coming from so far away as he seemed to grow weaker and weaker with each passing second.

(Break)

“ALBUS!”

He’d been focused on watching the maze, but the blood-curdling scream from Minerva snapped his attention towards her. She was already sprinting towards the judge’s table, and Sirius followed suit with Remus in tow, both drawing their wands as they witnessed a sudden, magical backlash.

Those that had reached the scene of whatever was unfolding were hurled backwards by the force, and then he saw it; an unmistakeable figure lying on his back with something dark and trembling protruding from his chest.

“Bloody hell, what is that?”

Remus said nothing, and as they drew nearer, they found they could not approach anymore when they were around a dozen feet away.

From here, they could see the unmoving headmaster, but it was to the object Sirius looked; a knife, but it was no ordinary blade. No, even from here, he could feel the vile magic pouring off it.

“No, don’t!” he warned as Remus raised his wand. “It will fight back!”

“What do we do?”

With a frown, Sirius managed to take another step forward, only for a tendril of magic to snap at him from the hilt of the knife, sending him backwards from the force despite having raised a shield.

He shook his head and flicked his wand in a bid to summon it, only for Dumbledore to unleash a roar of agony whilst the blade held firm.

Sirius had never seen nor heard of anything like it, and before he could ponder what was happening, an ominous, red light began to illuminate the ground at his feet, causing his eyes to widen.

“GET BACK!” he shouted, seizing Remus by his robes and all but hurling the werewolf away.

The illuminations had not been so benign. Although he only managed a glimpse of it, he could see the runic symbols being formed. What he did know, however, was what he’d witnessed had been blood magic, but none he had even read of in his family’s extensive library.

Not that it would help them now, and even less so as the ground began to shudder from a sudden force. Once more, Sirius felt himself being thrown away from Dumbledore’ only this time, by the force of an explosion.

When he managed to open his eyes and breathe again, he was not the only one to have suffered such a fate.

A large clearing had been formed by the explosion, and in the middle of it was the unmoving form of Albus Dumbledore, minus whatever had been impaled into his sternum.

Struggling back to his feet, he rushed towards the man, passing the deceased Barty Crouch as he did so, only to pause as he reached the headmaster.

Dumbledore’s eyes were open, still glassy, but they were lifeless.

All that remained of the blade was a gaping hole in his chest, and of the man, his broken and cursed body.

He did not need make an announcement.

The mournful trilling of Albus’s companion told those gathered all they needed to know of what had happened. Fawkes’ song was all that could be heard as the onlookers tried to process what had just happened.

(Break)

He continued watching the bubbling cauldron, the diamonds encrusted into sparkling in the light of the flames beneath. If this were to work as intended, it would prove to have been the greatest of plans. Dumbledore would be dead along with his father, and none would be any the wiser to what had truly happened, until it was too late.

It was with a sense of excited anticipation that Barty waited, and it only became more palpable as a dull thud sounded a short distance away.

With a few waves of his wand, he quickly determined that the blood the blade had taken belonged to Albus Dumbledore, and that the man would indeed no longer be among them.

“It is here, my lord.”

“Then get on with it.”

He could hear the glee in his master’s voice, but there was a sense of anticipation. What they intended to do tonight had never been done, was the brainchild of the most brilliant of men he had met.

The Dark lord had painstakingly crafter the dagger that had been used, created it to serve only one purpose.

With a nod, Barty began adding the last of the ingredients into the cauldron before carefully picking up the frail from of the man he’d come to admire, smiling reassuringly before he too was place within the boiling liquid.

Wasting no time, he retrieved the last three things he would need, swallowing deeply as he began murmuring the words the Dark Lord had concocted for the ritual.

“Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son.”

Adding the length of femur he’d excavated only hours prior, he added it to the cauldron, eliciting a hiss from within.

Picking up the silver knife he would use for his own gift, Barty hesitated only a moment before smiling with pride and speaking loudly and clearly.

“Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master!”

He felt the blade cut easily through skin and bone before his hand dropped into the cauldron he held it over, and Barty looked at his stump before laughing.

It wasn’t truly funny to be bereft of one of his limbs, but the way it did not immediately bleed tickled him, though the pain quickly followed, and he knew he needed to finish his task quickly before the blood loss became problematic.

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, y-you will resurrect your foe!”

He deposited the returned blade into the cauldron and fell backwards from the magical backlash.

A plume of smoke began spewing from the cauldron, along with a myriad of red and green sparks, but it was the shadowy figure that stood among them that Barty watched so closely.

“Robe me, Barty,” the Dark Lord spoke, his voice strong and reinvigorated by the magic.

Barty did as he was bid and allowed his master some space as he took in the splendour of the man before him. When the fog cleared, he could’ve cried with joy, instead, he simply fell to his knees.

Lord Voldemort had returned just as Barty remembered him from almost a decade and a half ago.

(Break)

Harry could not be certain how long her had been watching Croaker work. From time to time, the man would pause to take notes before resuming his efforts. As things were, he’d managed to separate the magicks he’d managed to mix together successfully without unpleasant outcomes and had separated them further into dozens more of the orbs.

Even so, Harry was still lost on exactly what the man was doing. He recognised his own magic, some of the other samples Croaker was using, and even new magicks when they were mixed, but he remained lost on the ultimate goal of such a monumental exertion.

All of it was far beyond his skill, but Croaker seemed to be at his absolute best.

Despite his lack of coherence in what was happening around him, Harry was fascinated by the process, and the Unspeakable only became more excited.

“What is it?” he snapped as a frantic knocking sounded at the door.

Another robed figure entered and began whispering hurriedly to Croaker, who dropped his wand at whatever had been revealed to him.

“You are certain?”

“Completely.”

“Then I want the department in full lockdown measures until I say otherwise.”

“Yes, sir!”

The other man left, and Croaker released a deep breath as he summoned his wand back to his hand.

“I’m afraid that our work here is done for tonight, Mr Potter, but I will resume it at my earliest convenience. You will, of course, be kept updated with my progress, and what happens next.”

“What happened?” Harry asked.

Croaker deflated once more.

“I just received word that Albus Dumbledore is dead. Somehow, he has been murdered.”

“Murdered?”

Harry felt a deep sense of unease and discomfort fill him at the revelation.

“My colleague is certain. I do not know the details yet, but it happened during the final task of the tournament. Three of the other judges were killed, and Madame Maxime is in critical condition. There are other minor injuries, but nothing concerning.”

“Sirius…”

“Is well. I will allow you to leave shortly, but…”

He broke off and looked towards the door, seeming to be having an internal debate with himself.

“It was Voldemort, wasn’t it?”

“There is no proof of that.”

“But you think that too.”

Croaker eyed him from within his hood.

“Come with me, Mr Potter. There is something you must see. Without Albus… Come.”

Harry kept his wand in hand as he followed Croaker though the labyrinth of corridors, and even through a section of a wall before another door that led them into what appeared to be a large amphitheatre.

It was cold in here, colder than it should be, and the archway in the centre of the room was eerie.

Harry paused before it for a moment, listening to what appeared to be whispers in a language he could not quite understand, but he could feel the words resonating with him.

“Does it always whisper?”

“Whisper?” Croaker asked.

“Can’t you hear it?”

“There is nothing to hear, Mr Potter,” Croaker said confusedly, “but best keep away from it. Those that step through do not come back.”

Harry nodded as he edged away from the archway, a shiver running down his spine as he heard a bout of insane laughter from within it.

“We can discuss it later,” Croaker said thoughtfully. “For now, there is something else you must see that is here.”

The next room they stepped into was even larger than the one they left, full of shelves that reached higher than harry could see, and each was lined with glass orbs that glowed ominously in the darkness.

“This is the Hall of Prophecies,” Croaker whispered.

“As in Divination?”

Croaker nodded.

“Such magic escape most of us, but seers are very real, Mr Potter. There are countless records of them existing among, and even more of their prophecies becoming the truth. Some are obscure and difficult to decipher at first, but when events come to pass as predicted, they become clearer.”

Harry was not foolish enough to dismiss it out of hand.

He was certainly no seer, but he did not doubt that they were real.

“Now, this one came to us almost fifteen years ago now,” Croaker spoke gravely, pointing to one of the orbs.

“It has my name on it. Why the question mark?”

“Because it was uncertain just who the prophecy pertained to. It was the Dark Lord’s own choices that made it so. I think you should perhaps hear it, and then, it will become just a little clearer. You may break it.”

Harry took hold of the orb, finding it odd that such a seemingly insignificant thing could have so much bearing on his life.

With a frown, he dropped it to the ground, and a raspy voice spoke in the quiet din of the hall.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

He listened to it three times in all before his hand reached for the scar on his brow.

“He marked me as his equal,” he murmured.

He was indeed born at the very end of July, but much of it was ominous, and even quite foreboding.

“A power the Dark Lord knows not…”

“You are already an exceptional wizard in your own right, Mr Potter,” Croaker spoke almost sadly. “I expect that given time, you could be one those in the future speak of. Of course, you could avoid it altogether…”

“No,” Harry said in little more than a whisper. “I have no intention of avoiding this. It is exactly what I want, but as you said, given time… With Dumbledore dead…”

He couldn’t quite believe the Hogwarts’ headmaster had been killed.

It was a shock that he couldn’t quite yet fathom, and if Voldemort was indeed responsible, it meant that he believed himself to be ready to make his return.

Whether that was now or even in a years’ time, Harry was not sure he was quite ready to prevail over the man.

He despised Tom Riddle with every fibre of his being, but he could not deny that he was an incredible wizard by all accounts.

“Indeed, Mr Potter,” Croaker spoke once more. “Dark days lie ahead of us once more.”