Comfort
There is something in the air. It has been a long time since I saw him, and although he isn’t here, I can almost feel his approach.
- The Diary of Cassiopeia Black
He would not deny that he’d been taken aback by being introduced to Bathilda Bagshot, and even more so by her rather brash and poorly veiled attempt to discredit him.
What he had not expected was that the woman had a way already lined up to test him, and though he’d been somewhat nervous, the magic surrounding what had once been the Peverell home had welcomed him readily.
Nonetheless, he remained cautious as he carefully used his wand to cut himself a path towards the house. The undergrowth was thick from where the grass and other plants had been growing and wilting away over the course of several centuries, and he snagged his foot more than once as he attempted to traverse.
With each step he did take, the magic permeating the entirety of the considerable piece of land grew stronger, reaching out to his own, guiding Harry towards the source.
The home.
He’d become rather good at sensing magic and even discerning whether or not it was dangerous to him, but he was still working on identifying specific curses.
Here, the magic was not easy to read. What reached out to him was mostly benevolent, but beneath it was an unmissable air of danger for any it took exception to.
Fortunately, it showed no signs of reacting poorly to Harry’s presence, and as he reached the front door of the stone building, it opened, admitting him into the home.
Much to his surprise, the antique furniture within was intact, the wood it was fashioned from still gleaming as though it had been freshly polished. In the foyer of the home was an enormous fireplace, and to the left of it, a wide spiralling staircase made of a hard, dark wood.
The floor matched it, and the walls were made of a thick stone, which had been whitewashed.
For a home that was close to one thousand years old, it was cosy enough but would need considerable work to bring it close to a modern standard, and it wasn’t as though Harry did not have the means to do just that.
Maybe he would do so if he was indeed going to be spending time here, but for now, he was content with taking a tour of the house, pausing as he reached a rather ominous trio of portraits hanging above the fireplace.
“Ignotus Peverell,” he murmured, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the resemblance of the man, well, each Cadmus and Antioch too.
He resembled them all quite uncannily, but where his eyes were the green of his mother, the Peverell’s were an eerie silver.
With a shake of his head, he continued on his way, discovering what was something of a kitchen full of pots, pans, cutlery, and plates that would need to be replaced.
There was another fire where food was likely cooked, but nothing else one would find in a kitchen he was familiar with.
He pushed aside the memories of cooking for the Dursleys as he moved into what was a sizeable parlour room with an adjoining living room, both of which closely resembling the entrance hall in décor.
It was when he entered the latter that he spotted a roll of parchment resting on the table, the seal holding it together a symbol he had come to recognise whilst reading Iolanthe Peverell’s diary.
When he broke it and unrolled the missive, he immediately knew who’d penned it from how familiar the handwriting was.
To Whom may discover this letter,
I write this at the behest of my father, Ignotus Peverell, who beseeched me to do so in one of his final moments of clarity before he surrendered himself to Death.
For much of his final year of life, he was not himself, existing within his own mind where he was tormented by the memories that had plagued him, until h seemingly wasn’t.
I remember him becoming lucid, and his plea for me to ensure this home was ready for when one of our blood was needed once more, and here it is. With considerable work, I have preserved it in the hope that it will serve a purpose for the one he believes will come.
Use it well.
Iolanthe Potter, formerly Peverell, daughter of Ignotus.
Harry smiled at the scrawl before pocketing the letter, his wand snapping into his hand as he caught sight of the figure that had seemingly appeared from nowhere in front of him.
Death.
The presence of whatever it was that had been with him these past months had never been so strong, but he’d yet to see the cloaked being for himself the way Henry Potter had described to his parents.
Now, it was here, seemingly taking in his appearance.
“So, you found it.”
“Wasn’t I supposed to?”
“It does not matter to me. This is merely another place we can convene.”
Harry could only nod in response but frowned as he pondered his arrival.
“Why did you send me to the forest?” he asked curiously.
“That was not my doing, Peverell. My intention was to bring you to the village, but it appears that Fate had other ideas. It seems that she has learned of my subterfuge already. I had hoped we would have longer.”
“Fate?”
The cloaked figure hummed irritably.
“I expect she too is taking advantage of our arrangement to get you to do more of her bidding. To what end, I cannot be certain, but you drew attention to yourself, Peverell. Your presence has been irrevocably noticed.”
“You’re telling me,” Harry sighed. “Everyone here knows who I am.”
“It is not the people here who should concern you, but the outsiders.”
“The Blacks.”
“Indeed.”
“But I didn’t tell him my name.”
“He saw you, Peverell, and word will inevitably reach the rest of wizarding Britain of the return of your line. It will garner interest from friend and foe alike. You must be cautious. I do not know what Fate wants from you here.”
“I don’t know what you want from me here,” Harry pointed out.
The figure eyed him for a moment.
“To help you, Peverell. To prepare you for what I require of you.”
“Voldemort’s soul.”
“Yes.”
“But…”
The figure held up what appeared to be a smoky hand.
“You have taken the first steps on the path, and all will become clear soon enough. You need only see it for what it is when it inevitably comes.”
The words only served to confuse Harry, and he shook his head.
“He is right.”
“He’s always right.”
“He’s always right.”
Harry swallowed deeply as he turned to see the portraits of the Peverell brothers, each looking upon him speculatively from the entrance hall.
“I thought perhaps you may need some additional help,” the figure explained. “With Fate’s intervention, it is impossible to tell what lies ahead of you, Peverell. I have my need of you, but she will undoubtedly throw obstacles in your path. You must be ready, and although they are fools in their own right, they truly were exceptional men. They managed to bring me to them.”
Harry nodded as he slowly made his way back towards the entrance hall, stopping when he found himself standing before the Peverell brothers.
“There is much of us in him.”
“Yes, he is one of us.”
“In resemblance, but does he possess the talent?”
“We will see.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then Death brought us here only to witness the demise of our line.”
“Ever the pessimist, Antioch,” Ignotus chided.
“Perhaps he did not inherit your wisdom, brother.”
“Let us hope he did not inherit yours.”
“Or yours, Cadmus,” Antioch snorted. “My death was of my own doing, but I did not take my own life.”
“I chose Death over a life without her.”
“Enough!” Ignotus snapped. “We are not here to relive our own foolishness. No, we must see that the boy is prepared. He will need us. Soon, he may well be alone in the world. Death will have his due, but as his chosen, you must do his bidding.”
His first talk with the portraits, as surreal as the experience had been, consisted of little more than Harry speaking of his life, the ups and many downs he’d endured, and what it was that led him to being where he was now.
If he were honest with himself, the Peverell brothers were rather unsettling in their ways, and he wasn’t certain if it was because that was who they had been in life, or if Death had taken something of each of them away when he’d claimed them.
Not that it mattered.
They were willing to help him, even if they did unnerve him.
He had yet to hear their story, and Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He got the impression that Death was not so fond of them, but, it appeared he admired them.
Of course, Harry was not opposed to any help he could get, but thus far, the Peverells had offered little other than sharing conversations with him when they weren’t insisting he fix the home.
That was what he would be spending some of the day doing.
For the first time since the locals had learned of him, he would be visiting the village to gather some supplies before visiting Ariana.
His work with the girl needed to continue, after all.
“Good morning, Mr Peverell,” a woman greeted him as he passed her by.
She seemed cautious of him but relaxed when Harry offered her a nod.
“Good morning,” he returned. “Would you know where I can buy some building materials?”
“Ah, you will want to speak to Mr and Mrs Jones at the merchant’s yard just past the post office. You can’t miss it dear. They will have anything you need.”
“Thank you,” Harry said appreciatively. “Are they…?”
“Magical? Yes, you won’t have any problems spending galleons there. Most businesses around here will take both currencies.”
He breathed a sigh of relief as he continued on his way, not relishing the thought of returning to Diagon Alley to exchange his coins, which he wasn’t certain wouldn’t be flagged by the goblins.
They may not have been noticed by the shopkeepers, but if anything was amiss with them compared to those around today, the goblins wouldn’t make that mistake.
Perhaps he would need to find a way to make his own money here or look into whether there are any differences to be aware of so that he uses only older coins.
“Morning, Mr Peverell.”
“Morning,” Harry replied to a man carrying a bag of mail.
“Good morning, Mr Peverell.”
“And to you.”
It was odd being acknowledged with such politeness and not being swarmed because he’d been recognised. Harry had always detested his fame, and though he was loath to find himself in such a position again, it did not seem so burdensome, well, for now, at least.
“Ah, Mr Peverell, what can I help you with today?” a middle-aged, balding man greeted him as he entered the builder’s yard.
Were it not for Ignotus Peverell telling him what he would need for the repair work he needed to carry out, he would be lost, and that was without the task of purchasing what was deemed to be modern appliances, which the man could not help him with.
“I have a list of things I will need, Mr Jones.”
The man accepted it and put a pair of glasses on, nodding after a moment.
“The materials, you can have straight away, and everything else, well, we will need to look through the brochures I have here. Mind, it won’t come cheap.”
“I know, but the house will need it.”
“Then we shall get started,” Mr Jones declared. “Bronwen, would you mind putting the kettle on the fire? I think me and Mr Peverell will need some tea.”
(Break)
There had been no mistaking the mixture of shock and excitement that filled the air as Harry entered the Peverell property, nor the gasps of surprise as the house vanished from view when he stepped inside.
Albus felt the magic falling into place across the length and breadth of the village, a comforting blanket assuring them all they were now safe having been exposed for so long.
Of all those gathered, it was Bathilda Bagshot who’d been the most surprised, who was pale and mute as she had been led back to her own home by their mother, and Albus took Abe back to their own.
It had been the strangest of occurrences, and although Albus had heard rumours about the Peverell family, he’d not paid them so much heed, but there was no denying just how different it felt in Godric’s Hollow now, how he’d seen another side of those that lived here.
They’d been in awe, some cautious, but most seemingly welcoming the return of one of the most notorious families in history.
Still, aside from the rumours, Albus knew next to nothing about the Peverells, about the true history, but there was perhaps some people from a time gone by that might be able to tell him more than even Bathilda.
“I understand that you are a keen student, Albus, but you should be using this time away from the castle to rest.”
“I am, Professor,” Albus assured his headmaster. “I was hoping to speak with Professor Binns.”
“Binns? I can think of no one who would like to speak with him,” Professor Black snorted. “Even when he was alive, the man was dullard. Ah well, suit yourself. You know where to find him.”
Albus nodded appreciatively and made his way to the History of Magic classroom where he found the ghost he sought writing dates on his blackboard.
“You’re late, Entwistle…”
“There are no classes today, Professor.”
“Ah, well, what’re you doing here?”
“I wanted to ask if you could tell me anything about the Peverell family.”
Binns frowned.
“That is a name I have not heard in some time,” he mused aloud. “I’m afraid there is not much I can tell you besides how they ruled over a section of Wales some thousand years ago. What was it, ah yes, they defended their lands from Irish invasions and even scuppered the efforts of Arthur himself from taking over the west coast. I’m afraid there isn’t much else I can tell you. Maybe you’d be better served asking one of the older ghosts in the castle. Let me see, yes, the Bloody Baron might be able to offer you some insight, and maybe the Fat Friar. I believe they were around during the time.”
Albus did not know that, but he nodded appreciatively.
“I will, thank you, Professor.”
“Yes, yes, Entwistle. Don’t be late again. You are dismissed.”
He shook his head amusedly as he left the classroom.
Professor Binns would not even remember the conversation they’d shared, let alone that it was Albus he’d shared it with. Even so, he would rather the Professor be able to tell him more rather than seeking out the Bloody Baron. At the best of times, the ghost of Slytherin house was unpleasant, so, he opted to seek out the Fat Friar, who was friendly to the students from all houses.
He found the ghost on the second floor, floating by a large portrait of a fruit bowl near some ornamental barrels which Albus believed served as the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room.
“Is the summer over already?” the Friar asked.
“No, I was just hoping you could help me. I’m looking for information about the Peverell family. Professor Binns said you and the Baron were around when they were.”
The Fat Friar frowned before nodding.
“Yes, I remember the rumours of their reputation, and hearing of their deeds when it came t defending their lands. They were as feared as they were respected for a reason, young Albus. The magic they wielded was like no other. It is said that they convened with Death itself, and for their loyalty and deference to it, they were gifted their own power. Why would you be asking about them? I expect even now, it is a rather dangerous subject to broach. There will be old families who still tell tales of them, I expect.”
“I was just curious,” Albus replied. “Do you think the Baron would know more?”
“Perhaps, but he is not the most amenable of fellows. What I do know is that there is a kernel of truth even in the strangest of rumours, and the rumours about the Peverells were plentiful. Best let it lie, Albus. There have been many troubling men that plague our world, and although the Peverells never sought to destabilise the country, their reputation was troubling for those who were in power.”
With a nod, the Fat Friar vanished into the barrels, and Albus took his leave of the castle, deciding not to push for more information.
“Troubling,” he murmured.
He could not speak to the rumours of others, not without context, but what he could do was think back on his own interactions with Harry, of how kind he’d been to Albus and his family, and how he was helping Ariana when no other could.
Maybe there was something in the rumours of the family magic he possessed, but not even the Fat Friar had been able to say that they’d done anything other than defend their lands from those who wished to invade it.
Even so, his interest in them remained, though having gotten to know Harry, somewhat at least, he was not so troubled by what little others had to say about his ancestors.
No, Harry was his friend, a good person, and despite the reputation of those that had come before him, he would not allow that to sully his thoughts on the boy he knew.
(Break)
Our efforts on the west coast have been for nothing. Even when we outnumber them, our ships are burned, and men slaughtered in droves. The few allowed to return tremble in fear, each of them speaking of the coldness, but little else. They dare not mention what is done to the others, but the expressions adorning the severed heads that arrive a matter of days later tell a story of misery and suffering.
I would have that land for my own were it not haunted.
I visited briefly posing as a trader, and I have never felt the likes of what I did in the village nearest the coast. Even now, the chill stays with me; a warning against my intention to lay claim to it.
Death.
It is Death itself that awaits any, and they are his chosen.
The Peverells.
They wear no crowns but are afforded all of any king. Their name is spoken with reverence by their own, and fear of those who are not. No, they may wear no crown but that little corner of land I desire is theirs and theirs alone.
Bathilda prided herself in being something of an authority when it came to magical history. Already, she was writing a comprehensive book about Britain spanning back thousands of years covering culture, magical practices and developments.
It was quite the undertaken unto itself, and not without its drawbacks, which she found tying into the latest conundrum she had been confronted by.
Although, for the most part, there was traceable lines leading her back to even long before the romans arrived in Britain, there were periods that proved to be something of ‘Magical Dark Ages’, where she found herself relying upon limited, and unreliable evidence to draw her conclusions.
The time of the Founders was one of those periods, which was why so little was known about them despite their notoriety, and even less so about others around during the formation of Hogwarts.
Even the years of Merlin were shrouded in mystery, his deed and efforts scarcely recorded by the man himself or those who knew him but passed on from generation to generation by word of mouth, undoubtedly becoming twisted and perhaps exaggerated more so as time went by.
Much the same could be said of the Peverells.
Truthfully, Bathilda had not heard of them until she’d moved to Godric’s Hollow several years prior after the untimely death of her husband, but the stories told of them seemed to be more consistent than those of Merlin, Arthur, and even the Founders.
Somehow, the locals had held onto their own interesting history, were not prone to embellishment, and why would they be when what Bathilda had learned had been quite exceptional.
Of course, as a historian, she had delved into the lore surrounding the Peverells, and armed with only a few names, an odd symbol etched into some of the graves in the graveyard, her efforts had born little fruit, except for a few journals she’d found during a trip to Ireland, and the home that had once belonged to the family.
The magic surrounding the dwelling had been rather ominous, and according to the locals, it had been abandoned for more centuries than they, their parents, and their parents that came before them had been alive.
Even so, it was all but impossible to get closer than the front gate without being filled with a sense of foreboding, of something lying dormant beyond.
Out of respect for the locals, and her own lacking ability with such things, Bathilda was certainly not going to attempt to find her way in, meaning she had only her own musings to rely on when it came to the extinct family.
With little to go on, she had abandoned them quickly enough, but had obtained some most interesting tales from those whose families had seemingly been within the village for centuries.
For the most part, she had given the Peverells no more thought whilst she’d shifted her focus back towards what would likely become her lasting legacy. That was until Albus Dumbledore had mentioned Harry Peverell.
Bathilda had not believed for a single moment that the boy claiming to be one of them was telling the truth. At first, she had thought it to be a joke of sorts, another local boy playing a joke on the outsiders that had arrived to take up residence.
She had even been concerned when Kendra had informed her that the very same boy was spending time with her ailing daughter, and more so when she’d arrived the previous morning to inform her of Ariana’s progress.
Bathilda simply needed to meet such a boy, to see for herself how it was he was managing to fool whom she had deemed to be a rather well put together woman.
What had followed had both humbled her and piqued her curiosity.
He was a Peverell.
How that was so, she still could not fathom, but there was no denying it. The very same magic that had warned her away from the ominous home had welcomed him so willingly, and the village had been brought into the embrace of it too.
She had felt it, the cool, comforting power permeating the very air of the village, promising protection from any that would do them harm.
Bathilda had never experienced anything like it, nor had she been proven to be so very wrong. Nonetheless, she was not too proud to admit that somehow, she had indeed been proven such, and all she could do was try to make sense of it all by consulting what little material she had in a bid to paint a picture of what it meant for a Peverell to be back among them.
Thus far, however, her canvas was blank, consisting only of what she had seen for herself and the ramblings of men long passed.
Still, she would not admit defeat, not when a mystery of one of the most shrouded periods of time was at her very fingertips for her to unravel, if such a thing was even possible.
If half of what she’d heard about the Peverells was true, then the young man of her thoughts would not be joining her for tea soon to allow Bathilda to pick his brain.
No, for now, she would sit back and observe with interest, would watch what would unfold next, and maybe, just maybe, she would get a little more clarity on the mysterious overseers of Godric’s Hollow.
Little did Bathilda Bagshot know, that soon enough, she would get more than she could ever have envisioned.
(Break)
Being within her own mind was a terrifying experience. Here, there was no escape from her thoughts and swirling magic, even if Harry’s was present, calming her somewhat.
Ariana had spent the last several years avoiding thinking, using the candle she kept lit on her bedside table as a distraction; the dancing flame almost keeping her in something of a hypnotic state.
“Occlumency is very useful at helping you regulate your emotions, if you can use it correctly,” Harry spoke gently. “The problem is, hiding from those thoughts that haunt you is not an option. One day, you must come to terms with what happened. Feel your magic and then feel mine. You resent your because of what it led to, and that is why it acts the way it does.”
“You make it sound as though it is alive.”
“Isn’t it? Magic is its own thing. Maybe it doesn’t have a mind as complex as ours, which is why when we are feeling emotional it reacts, but yes, it is just as alive as we are. How does my magic feel?”
“Cold, calm, but dangerous.”
It was such a strange feeling, but one Ariana continued to find comfort in.
“And what about yours?”
“Angry,” she whispered. “It is not calm.”
“Because you haven’t kept it calm,” Harry explained. “You have pushed it away, and it doesn’t like that very much. You must learn to find comfort in your magic as much as you do mine.”
She felt the power within her flare in response to his words, and Ariana bit her lip desperately to prevent it from lashing out.
“It’s alright,” Harry soothed, but it wasn’t.
Ariana could feel it breaking free from her grasp, and try as she might, she could not stop it. The strain of doing so became too much, and though she tried to warn Harry what would happen, she felt herself plunged into a familiar darkness.
For how long she was out, she didn’t know, but her magic was calmer now and she was looking up at the lights Harry had conjured during his first visit. Her head was spinning, and instinctively, she leaned over the edge of the bed to empty the contents of her stomach.
“You did well holding back as long as you did, but it is you holding it back that makes it worse. It is harder because you are a powerful witch.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered weakly.
“You have nothing to apologise for,” Harry assured her, helping Ariana back into a seated position. “You are still doing well. We are going to have good days and bad days.”
She nodded unhappily.
“I could’ve hurt you.”
“I know enough to make sure that doesn’t happen. I am more worried about you hurting yourself. That is what will happen eventually if we stop trying.”
Ariana could only nod once more in response.
“How?” she asked.
“Well, what we are doing will help, and when you are able to confront what happened, accept it, and your magic, it will all become much easier. I promise.”
Ariana believed me, but that didn’t mean doing so would become any easier. She had done her utmost to hide from it all for so long that she wasn’t sure she could do it.
“You can do it.”
“Can you read my mind?”
“No,” Harry chuckled, “but I can feel your magic. It wants you to be able to accept it, and I think these might help.”
He placed a stack of opened letters on her bedside table, the scrawl across the front of them familiar.
“We already spoke about what a mother or father is willing to do for their child, and those will really make you see it. Your father does not regret what he did, Ariana, and he would do it again, even if you wouldn’t want him to. He loves you and just wants you to get better. All he asks is about you and your brothers, and how all of you are doing. I think when the day comes he receives the letter telling him that you are much better, he will know that everything has been worth it. Read them,” Harry urged. “All the motivation you could ever want is in there.”
She was terrified at the thought of doing so, but she nodded.
“For now, you should get some rest, and I will think of a way you can have an outlet for your magic. Letting it build up as it does is not good for anyone, especially you.”
He gave her hand a squeeze before leaving the room, and Ariana eyed the stack of letters. She wanted to read them more than anything, just to see her father’s handwriting more than anything else, but right now, she simply couldn’t do it.
She wasn’t ready for such a big step, and she wasn’t sure she ever would be.
(Break)
She could only look on in horror as Ariana’s magic flared violently, as it lashed against the walls causing the paint to drip to the carpet below. Kendra had feared that this would happen, that her daughter would lose control of herself whilst Harry was trying to help her, and yet, he seemed to be taking it in his stride, his hand clinging to her own as he attempted to calm her.
Oddly enough, it was working.
Usually, the brickwork itself would be falling away, and the house would tremble from the force of the uncontrolled magic. Even so, it was no less frightening to witness, but it ended much sooner than it usually would with Ariana falling limp in the boys’ arms.
Harry offered her a reassuring smile as he laid her down.
“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” he said comfortingly.
“She wouldn’t want to hurt you…”
“She doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Her magic is reacting to the emotions she is trying to supress. It is the guilt and anger that is doing this, and her trying to quash her magic. She really does need a wand, Mrs Dumbledore. It will help her be able to release it in a more controlled way rather than allowing it to build up like this.”
Perhaps he was right. He’d been right about everything else so far.
“I can’t even get her to leave this room often…”
“I’ll make the arrangements,” Harry promised, “but she will need to start coming to terms with what has happened. Occlumency will only go so far in helping her.”
“How?”
“She is already doing it,” Harry replied encouragingly. “She’s still trying to fight it mostly, but she will realise soon that she can’t escape her thoughts and memories. She will need to face them.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“It is more dangerous for her not to,” Harry sighed. “What she needs is reassurance that her father did what he did out of love for her, and that he doesn’t blame her.”
“He doesn’t,” Kendra said sadly. “In his letters he only asks after the children, Ariana mostly.”
“Do you have the letters?”
Kendra nodded.
“Then she should read them.”
He hadn’t stayed long after Ariana had woken, but left with the promise that he would arrange for Ariana to have a wand, and the promise that their efforts would continue.
Despite the seeming setback and the girl being tired out from the ordeal, she did seem to be in better spirits than she usually would be after losing control of her magic.
She was even looking at the stack of letters, evidently torn on whether or not she wished to read them.
“I can read them to you, if you like,” Kendra offered gently. “Not now if you’re not ready, but when you are…”
Ariana nodded before she yawned, and expression of guilt forming.
“I could’ve really hurt Harry.”
“No, he knows what he’s doing,” Kendra said with a smile as she took her daughter’s clammy hand. “He’ll be back again tomorrow, I’m sure. Would you like to see something?”
Ariana nodded cautiously, and Kendra drew her wand, thinking back on the days that each of her children were placed in her arms for the very first time.
“Expecto Patronum,” she whispered.
A white dove burst from the tip of her wand, and Ariana eyed the ethereal creature with the same awe she had when Harry had used the spell, shuddering as the warmth of it filled the room.
“Harry taught me how to do it,” Kendra explained. “He is a marvellous teacher. It only took me a day of practice to manage it.”
“It’s a dove.”
“For you,” Kendra said fondly. “I always called you my little dove.”
The girl smiled, an unreserved, sincere smile as she watched the dove flying around the room, and although only moments prior she’d once again lost control of her magic, there was something distinctly different this time, almost a slither of hope that she was not doomed to remain as she was for the rest of her days.
(Break)
“Good, now ready yourself, Harry,” Antioch urged.
He yelped as something collided with his shoulder, and he tore off the blindfold he’d worn at the behest of the Peverells to see the trio sniggering amusedly.
“It’s not funny! Why am I doing this blindfolded?”
“So you can feel the magic,” Antioch explained. “Seeing what is coming is one thing, but when you can feel it before it even comes your way can be the difference between life and death. That split-second is an advantage that so few will ever have, and you should have it.”
Harry muttered irritably under his breath.
He knew they were only trying to help, but that didn’t mean they were beyond mocking him from within the safety of their portraits, and Harry got the impression there was much more of it to come.
For all of his achievements these past months, he was under no illusion that there was still much for him to learn, likely more than he would manage to before he and Voldemort met again.
The man had a tendency of arranging their unwanted get-togethers at the most inconvenient of times.
“Try again,” Antioch instructed, barely containing another snicker as Harry glared at him.
Nonetheless, he complied, only to unleash another yelp as he was struck once more.
“I wasn’t ready!”
“You will never have the luxury of preparation,” Antioch chided. “You must always be ready!”
“You know, you sound like Moody and his constant vigilance.”
“He sounds as though he is a smart man.”
“He’s a bloody lunatic!”
“And you can claim to be entirely in touch with your sanity?” Ignotus interjected. “From what we know of you, Harry Potter, you yourself are scarcely of a sound mind.”
“He’s courageous,” Antioch defended.
“Many would say reckless,” Ignotus pointed out, “but so long as you find a way to curb it to use to your advantage at the right moment, such courage can be of great benefit. Now, it is time for us to begin your other teachings, Harry. Between the three of us, you will become a truly exceptional wizard, ready to face anything fate throws at you.”
She seemed to have taken quite the interest in him even before he’d been born, an interest that had seemingly grown if his arrival in the forest was anything to go by.
To what end that had been orchestrated, Harry did not know, but he suspected that it wasn’t the last he would be hearing of the situation.
No, something told him that was merely the very beginning of yet another set of circumstances unfolding around him that he would need to navigate.