A Budding Friendship
He had thought that during his venture for the festive season, along with his wife and son, he might just find himself in the company of one Harry Peverell, but upon his arrival and enquiry with Reverend Seabrook, it was not to be.
A part of Henry was disappointed that the boy was not present, but he could not deny that he was equally relieved, torn on whether or not he truly wished to make his acquaintance.
Still, he was most curious about his origins, how he and his ancestors had gone the better part of a thousand years without drawing attention to themselves.
Besides, he was kin, after all, no matter how distantly that was so.
As relieved as he had been that he’d need not explain the connection to Alice and William, that faded quickly enough and was replaced only with disappointment, and unable to shake the curiosity that seemed to only increase, he had come to Godric’s Hollow once more to see someone who might give him the answers he sought.
“I’m afraid he has been gone for several months without a word,” Bathilda Bagshot informed him. “He told the Dumbledores he would be away for some time but gave no indication when he might be back.”
“I see,” Henry murmured, a deep frown creasing his brow.
“I must say that the resemblance between the two of you is quite uncanny. He has the same unruly hair, the strong jawline, and even carries himself similarly. You are broader in the shoulders, and his eyes are a most notable green.”
“We look alike?”
“It is as though he could be your own son, Lord Potter.”
Now Henry’s curiosity was truly piqued.
“I would be most interested in meeting him when he returns. Could you inform me when he does so.”
“I will.”
“Thank you, Bathilda,” Henry offered cordially before activating his portkey.
Arriving back in his study he consulted his family tree for the umpteenth time in a bid to explain the existence of a Peverell, one who apparently resembled him closely enough for it to be remarked upon.
“It makes no sense,” he murmured, tracing the two existing lines.
The one leading back to Cadmus Peverell had merged with the several families before merging with the Gaunts some centuries prior, the one of Ignotus with his own, which left only one other, which was blank.
Had Antioch Peverell married and sired children before his untimely death?
It was certainly possible, and with it being the only feasible explanation, Henry deduced that this Harry Peverell must be a descendant of the third brother.
Still, it did not explain how the entire branch had neither been seen nor heard of these past many centuries, and until he met the young man for himself, Henry knew he would remain in the dark.
(Break)
He was hopeful that, just like the last time he had been sitting on the swing, that Harry might suddenly appear again. It had been almost a year since he’d left with the promise that he would return, and though Albus believed him, it did not appear he would be doing so as soon as he would like.
His seventh and final year at Hogwarts had come and gone in a blur, mostly spent studying for his NEWTs, watching over Aberforth, who was flourishing in his own right, and writing to his mother for regular updates on Ariana.
Truthfully, Albus had not expected her to thrive as much as she was doing so with Harry’s departure. He had expected setbacks, and though she still had her good and bad days, the latter were no longer as common as they had been.
She took great comfort in the necklace Harry had gifted her, and the stack of envelopes he had carefully curated for her perusal were a much-needed boost during her darker moments.
Much to his relief, she was doing as well as he could hope, and yet, he did not doubt that she too yearned for Harry’s guidance, especially during those moments she struggled to escape the maudlin thoughts that plagued her.
Even so, the books the boy had gifted to their mother had been quite the boon, and Ariana was doing exceptionally well, proving to be a talented budding witch.
The very thought brought a smile of gratitude to his lips, though it fell as his gaze shifted towards the home in the distance.
None had entered and none had left since Harry had informed them of his impending absence, but the locals did not miss the ever-present magic that lingered over the village like a protective blanket, reminding them that in some way, he was still with them, just not in the way Albus wished.
Nonetheless, despite missing his friend, things could be much worse.
Now, he was home and would be able to help Ariana whilst undertaking his next little venture in life whilst working closely with Nicholas Flamel as the man’s apprentice.
What he would do after, he wasn’t so sure. He knew that Professor Weasley was hoping that he might one day replace her as the Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts, and perhaps he might just do that.
Already, he was completing Mastery level work and had been doing so since he’d taken his OWLs. Albus wasn’t usually one to brag about his achievements, but he truly was gifted in the art, more so than an any other born in recent history.
Transfiguration was undoubtedly something he would pursue to its very limits, and he was looking forward to doing so, but for now, he was relishing the challenge of tackling something new under the guidance of the famed Alchemist.
“Ah, there you are, Albus,” the familiar voice of Bathilda Bagshot called. “I did say that I would introduce the two of you when he arrived. This is my nephew, Gellert.”
It was not often that Albus was left taken aback.
Growing up in a world of magic, he had met remarkable people for as long as he could remember, and the last person to do so was the boy he’d been thinking of.
Harry’s presence was undeniable, and what he’d achieved with Ariana, and with magic were not negligible, but Albus could not recall a time he had been so enamoured by the mere sight of another.
The young man standing before him was almost ethereal, so pale that he could almost see the sun passing through him, with eyes so blue that they were almost milky.
His hair was the most enchanting of silver, and for the first time in his life, Albus found himself briefly lost for words.
“Alus Dumbledore,” he managed to articulate, offering his hand, which was readily accepted.
“Gellert Grindelwald,” the man replied in kind, somehow doing so with such an elegance and grace Albus had never seen from another.
“Well, I will the leave the two of you to get acquainted,” Bathilda declared, though neither Albus or Gellert seemed to hear her, and she wandered off, leaving the two of them alone.
“My aunt says that you’re very good at Transfiguration. Although I am loathe to admit it, it is one of my poorer practices.”
Albus nodded, enthralled by the accent of the other man.
“It is what I am best at, but I love all magic.”
“As do I, Albus,” Gellert replied with a winning smile, “and my fascination for it only grows the more I learn. You see, I possess a hunger for it, a need for knowledge, which has gotten me into trouble from time to time, but it never deters me. I intend to unlock the secrets of magic itself so that I may understand the power that I wield.”
Albus’s own smile brightened in response.
“How far have you got so far?”
Gellert chuckled amusedly and wrapped an arm around Albus’s shoulder, sending a shiver down his spine.
“Albus, I do not doubt that I will never truly begin scratching the surface, but what is life without ambition?”
Albus nodded his agreement.
He too was ambitious, had envisioned his own glory in his endeavours, and it seemed that he and Gellert were birds of a feather in that regard.
“I have my own ambitions,” he admitted. “I will be working with Nicholas Flamel soon.”
“Nicholas Flamel?” Gellert asked, surprised by the revelation. “My, you must be more talented than my aunt has let on. Why don’t you tell me about your ambitions whilst you show me around the village. I will be here for some time, so it would be good to be familiar with it.”
(Break)
His breathing was laboured, and he could feel the sweat running down his back, but Harry would not relent, not when he had been given free rein to inflict as much harm on Severus Snape as he could manage.
The trouble was, no matter what he did, the man rebuffed his efforts with practiced efficiency.
Though he was loathe to admit it, Snape truly was an exceptional wizard. His wandwork was flawless, and his knowledge of the Dark Arts was likely only second to Voldemort himself, and yet, Harry was putting up quite the fight himself, fending off the efforts of the man.
Even so, he did not doubt this bout would end as all others had; with him experiencing considerable pain as he attempted to stand after Snape had managed to breach his defences.
Still, he was faring well enough to push the man as much as he was being pushed, just as he had been almost every day for the past three months.
Three months.
It felt that it was much longer that he had rebuffed the efforts of the Minister of Magic to recruit him as a ministry poster boy, and much to Harry’s relief, he’d heard nothing from Scrimgeour since.
More concerning, however, was that nothing had been heard from Voldemort either. There had been no further attacks, and no indication that the Dark Lord was even present, but Harry knew better.
Voldemort was out there, biding his time as he had for more than a decade before he would inevitably strike again.
It appeared for now that he was eager to keep a low profile, to consolidate his power, and gain followers from within the shadows, ready for when he would strike next.
For Harry’s part, he spent his days doing mostly doing what he was now. When he wasn’t in lessons, he was preparing for what was to come as best he could with the help of Snape and Dumbledore, and through his own efforts away from both of them, all the while pondering what was happening with the younger Albus and his family where he left them behind.
Often, he found himself thinking about Ariana, wondering if she was still coping as well as she had been when he’d left, if Abe was still as interested in Runes, and if Albus was proving to be just as much a brilliant wizard as the older man he’d come to know.
Despite this, Harry knew he needed to focus on the here and now, on his efforts to ensure he survived the war he found himself embroiled in, and the many other issues that continued to crop up.
Of course, he was grateful that Scrimgeour had opted not to continue mithering him, but Harry was no closer to figuring out what had happened to Katie Bell.
The girl had still not returned to Hogwarts, and in her stead, Ron was serving as the current Quidditch captain, which Harry had insisted upon despite the calls for him to return to the team.
Once more, it had been difficult to deny the request of his peers, and even a final plea from Professor McGonagall, but he knew he’d made the right choice.
Still, he’d asked Dumbledore several times for any news on what had happened in Hogsmeade, only to be told that the aurors were looking into the matter.
He knew more than he was letting on. Of that, Harry was left in no doubt, but he was being as coy and frustrating as ever.
“You must be quicker, Potter. Your speed, your creativity, and your instincts will be your greatest weapon against the Dark Lord.”
As expected, Harry again found himself pushing himself up off the ground having been defeated, and though he knew he was getting better with each passing day, his efforts were still not enough.
He nodded and took sip of water, using his brief respite to ponder all else he was yet to do, but there was one thing he could no longer ignore. Despite it having become something of a trivial matter, it was still important, and although Dumbledore had made it clear to him that antagonising Slughorn was unlikely to work a second time, Harry knew he did not have the luxury of cultivating a relationship with the man.
His rather lacklustre performances when it came to potions certainly had not endeared him to Horace Slughorn, nor had avoiding the man’s little gatherings among his chosen students, which left Harry with little to work with.
Besides, he despised skirting around things simply because it made someone else uncomfortable, and had no desire for false diplomacy, especially when it came to dealing with Voldemort.
No.
Harry knew he did not have the luxury of time for such an approach, and nor was he inclined to take it. Slughorn may not like the conversation they would share, but they would be sharing it, nonetheless.
“Again?” he asked.
Snape only nodded in response, and once more, the two of them said nothing as they went about the task of attempting to tear one another limb from limb.
(Break)
It wasn’t that he’d ever been opposed to celebrating Christmas, but for Albus, his childhood memories of the festive season had become bittersweet over the years. Before his father had been sent to Azkaban, the Dumbledore family had something of a tradition they followed.
On Christmas Eve, each of the children would be allowed to open one gift, then their mother would make them some hot chocolate with whipped cream topped with little marshmallows before they headed to bed.
They were some of his fondest memories, and now, they only elicited a bout of sadness within the headmaster.
His father died in jail a few years after the incident with the muggles, and his mother had been killed during one of Ariana’s magical outbursts, with the girl following…
He pushed the thoughts of what had happened to his family aside. They haunted him so, and Albus had been tormented by them enough over the many decades he’d lived.
Still, it wasn’t as though they’d be able to plague him for much longer.
The curse was indeed spreading as Severus predicted, and his entire right arm was blackened with rot, and the tendrils were now beginning to reach out towards his heart. When that happened, he would be no more, not as he was now, at least.
“Our next great adventure,” he murmured, smiling sadly.
Fawkes trilled a mournful note, and Albus stroked the plumage of his companion, unsure of how long he did so before the fireplace flared into life.
With a flick of his wand, he balked at the stony expression of his younger brother as it appeared in the flames. It had been several months now that Aberforth had contacted him, only to explain the gathering of students he’d had in his pub who were arranging a defence club of sorts.
“I’m coming through,” Aberforth said gruffly, not waiting for a response.
Only a moment later, the man was standing before him, his expression unreadable, though his eyes roamed over Albus’s form.
“So, you’re dying then?”
Albus frowned before shaking his head.
“Harry.”
Something of an amused grin tugged at Aberforth’s lips, though it fell.
“He didn’t go into specifics. It’s true then?”
Albus chuckled humourlessly as he raised his right hand, and Aberforth visibly swallowed.
“How long?”
“Six months, maybe seven.”
His younger brother released a deep breath.
“You always were involving yourself in things you shouldn’t, Albie,” he said sadly.
“I made a foolish mistake, and not for the first time, but this time, it was worth it. I struck a blow against the Dark Lord that will see to his demise.”
“At the cost of you.”
“We all must go one day.”
“But not before your work is done! You are going to leave that boy to face him and his followers.”
“And there is none I have more faith in or trust more than Harry,” Albus replied sincerely. “He is aware of what is to come, and he will win, Abe.”
Aberforth released a deep breath.
“You always were a stupid prat,” he snorted. “Any last requests?”
“Just that I am buried with them, and you share a drink with me. There will be those who wish for me to rest here, but it’s not where I belong.”
Aberforth nodded soberly as he took a seat.
“It always goes wrong for us, doesn’t it, Albie?”
“Only when it truly matters,” Albus agreed.
It had certainly been a bittersweet reunion between the two of them, and perhaps there was too much water under the bridge for their relationship to ever be what it once had when they’d bee children, but Albus was grateful that Aberforth had been able to put his hostility and pride aside to visit him.
There was little more he could ask for in his final months.
Months.
That was all that remained of his life, and there was still so much for him to do, most of which he simply would not get around to. Of course, he had made his final arrangements, briefed the stricken Minerva on his inevitable passing, and was dedicating much of the time he had left to ensuring Harry was as prepared as he could be.
Things would change upon his death.
Tom would become emboldened by his passing, and the uneasy peace would give way to a resurgence of violence much like what the country endured during his former students first rise to power.
Unfortunately, there was nothing that could be done to prevent that, and although he had every faith in Alastor as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Harry’s ability to put an end to Tom, there would be suffering and loss along the way, as was the very nature of conflict.
Albus had long grown tired of war.
His own part in such had haunted him for more than five decades now, and even in his final days, he was preparing one much younger than him to play even more of a pivotal role in the unpleasantness that plagued their world.
It was not how he’d once envisioned his life ending, and had even been hopeful for a semblance of peace after what had transpired on the continent during the 30’s and 40’s. It was not to be, however.
He’d known the moment he had met the young Tom Riddle that there was something different about him, something undeniably disturbing, but Albus could not have fathomed that it would lead to what had unfolded upon his graduation from Hogwarts, let alone some fifty years after the young man had departed the castle.
Once more, Albus had found himself at the forefront of a war in which the people of Britain looked to him to solve, and it appeared as tough history was indeed to repeat itself, until the fateful night he had interviewed Sybil Trelawney.
It shamed him to admit that there was a pat of him that was relieved ending the conflict would not be his responsibility, and when the Potters had been murdered and Harry miraculously survived, it was guilt and uncertainty that plagued him.
Albus had pondered how a boy, as remarkable as he was, could hope to defeat the Dark Lord.
Of course, he had approached the prophecy from every possible angle, pondered al possible sets of circumstances he could think of, and only one had made sense to him.
Lily’s protection.
He could not begin to even consider that Harry could prevail over Tom with an outright battle between the two, and having observed the boy, how selfless he was, and his capacity to be so different to the Dark Lord, he thought he had deduced the outcome.
Much to his surprise, it seemed that Fate had other ideas.
No, Lily’s protection and Harry’s ability to care for others so deeply was not the power the Dark Lord knew not, and though Albus was still not entirely certain of what that power was, he had an unshakeable faith that Harry would indeed emerge victorious.
Time and time again he had managed to survive against the odds, was honing his own skill as a rather brilliant wizard in his own right and had developed something of a determined ruthlessness to him that could not be taught.
Albus would not pretend he wished things could be different, that Harry need not taint himself in such ways, but it was clear that although they shared the same goal, the two of them were different in so many ways.
Albus had always abhorred violence, had seen what it had led to, and for him, it had been nothing but abject loss and misery.
For Harry, it had been much the same throughout his life, but instead of shying away from it, he seemed to embrace it. It was something that Albus himself could not fully grasp, and yet, Harry had done so quite willingly.
It was in his blood, after all, and his life had only served to condition him for it.
Although he wished it was not so, Albus had come to accept that Harry would fight the war his own way, and to that end, he needed to be prepared to truly fight for his life.
“Come in, Harry,” he called as the very young man he’d been pondering knocked on the door to his office.
“I have it. The memory from Slughorn.”
Albus was taken aback by the revelation, but relieved, and as Harry placed the pensieve on the desk, the two of them delved into the memory without delay, exiting after only a few moments.
How Harry had managed to convince Horace to part with the memory, Albus did not know, and such thoughts were far from his mind as he pondered the predicament they now certainly faced.
Seven.
The frightening thought that there could be more out there had crossed his mind several times, and though the task ahead of Harry was still exceptional, it could be much worse, nigh on impossible.
“Three. We have the diary, the ring, and the locket. We both agree that he has Hufflepuff’s cup that he stole along with the necklace from Hepzibah, which leaves two others we know nothing of,” Harry spoke.
Albus nodded as he pulled at his beard.
“Severus has spoken of his belief that the relationship Tom shares with his snake…”
“Nagini,” Harry broke in, a deep frown forming on his brow. “It makes sense. If he placed a part of his soul inside her, it explains how I saw her attacking Arthur. I was connected to her too.”
“My thoughts exactly, Harry,” Albus praised.
“But there is still one other, and we do not know where the cup is, or how to get to the snake.”
“Indeed, but it is much less daunting when we know what it is we face. I will continue to look into what I can, while I am able to. I have a few ideas yet.”
“Do they involve doing something stupid?”
“Nothing quite as foolish as this,” Albus chuckled, holding up his blackened limb. “When I am certain of anything, you will be the first person I discuss it with, Harry. It is my hope that we can retrieve the next one together.”
He merely nodded in response.
Both of them knew what was coming in the near future, knew that Harry would very much be alone when it mattered most, but Albus could not even consider losing faith in the young man.
“Three to find,” he murmured.
“Three to find,” Albus echoed, offering an encouraging smile, “but we know what two of them are.”
“Any thoughts on the third?”
“Nothing certain, but I have an idea or two.”
Harry nodded, and though he understood the task ahead of them, Albus could see that his mind was awash with many other thoughts that did not necessarily pertain to the Dark Lord.
Albus knew he was looking into what had happened to Katie Bell, and inevitably, he would discover the truth of the matter in due course, which meant despite his misgivings, the headmaster knew he would need to act quickly.
What he was to do, he was still unsure, but time was of the essence.
“Is something else troubling you, Harry?”
The boy offered him a sad smile.
“Lots of things, professor, and I will share them with you when the time is right,” he promised.
It was a rather ominous reply, but there was something akin to hope and even warmth in his eyes as he spoke. What thoughts were plaguing him seemed to be as equally troubling as they were pleasant, and as ever, Albus knew he had to put his trust in Harry.
Truthfully, despite all that had befallen him, Harry had never given him a reason to feel disappointed or concerned about his actions, well, for the most part.
The two of them certainly shared similarities but were both so different in many ways, though equally capable.
When Albus was gone, the war would indeed take quite the turn. Tom would undoubtedly double his efforts, and Harry would respond in kind, though much less kind and cautious than Albus would.
Harry was not one for diplomacy, nor was he so reticent. Severus had said as much when discussing their work together.
“I’m not going to be able to return here in September, am I?”
The question left Albus feeling taken aback, but before he could speak, Harry continued, holding up a hand.
“Tom is going to want to take Hogwarts and will likely find a way of doing it without you here, but he will only want it more if I’m here. Besides, I can’t fight a war from inside the school, and me being here will just make it more dangerous for the other students and professors. It will be for the best if I don’t return.”
Albus deflated.
“Harry, as much as I wish to say that what you’ve said isn’t true, we both know what it is that Tom wants, and that there is nothing he will not do to achieve it. I do not doubt that Minerva would find a way of keeping all within the castle safe, including you, but it is not in your nature to hide from your problems. I would urge you to reconsider your decision, but come September, you will be of age.”
Harry nodded in response as he smiled sadly.
“I know what I have to do, Professor. You’ll understand my decision when the time is right.”
He left the office, and leaving a thoughtful Albus Dumbledore in his wake.
There was much that Harry wasn’t telling him, and gone were the days that he could glean anything from the young man without explicitly being told. His grasp on the Mind Arts truly was exceptional.
Even Severus had praised Harry for it, and even for his rather astounding progress with wielding magic.
He would need it, all of it.
His enemies were many, and among the most dangerous witches, wizards, and creatures to be found within magical Britain and beyond.
Harry had always been quite something in his own right, but to survive all that was to come, Albus knew he must become truly exceptional; a path he had first set foot upon the night Tom Riddle murdered his parents.
(Break)
He had questioned whether or not he had too much time on his hands more times than he cared to count these past several months, but living the life that he did granted him the privilege of pursuing things most would not invest their time in.
Why would they when much of what was known was little more than hearsay, rumours, and conjecture?
Having taken the time to visit Godric’s Hollow only a matter of days after Nott had spoken of the return of the Peverells, Orion had felt it, the eerie, foreboding magic said to be wielded by those bearing the name.
According to the locals, it had always been somewhat present among them, but since this Harry Peverell had arrived, it had grown stronger.
A year.
As quickly as he’d arrived, he’d departed, and none had seen him for a year, and yet, Orion had not allowed that to deter him from his efforts, and even collaborating with the renowned Cantankerus Nott in a bid to uncover the truth about the legendary family all had thought to have gone extinct almost a millennia ago.
The man truly had earned his reputation of being an exceptional Historian. How he managed to obtain firsthand accounts from such a long time ago, Orion did not know, but if knowledge truly was power, Cantankerus Nott might just be the most dangerous man in Britain.
“This is a good one,” he declared. “I would urge you to read this. It is from an Irish dockhand, a written report to King Niall. I have already translated it for you.”
Orion accepted the frail piece of parchment, squinting to read the faded writing.
My King Niall,
The news I bring you is most troubling.
Your forces were defeated on the west coast of Cymru. Only a single ship has returned, captained by a large, squawking crow that stood upon one of the hundreds of severed heads pile on deck.
More troubling is the sickness it brings to us all who climbed aboard to inspect them.
Five have perished agonisingly, screaming with blood leaking from their eyes, and flesh rotting off the bone. There was a curse upon the ship, my king, which has been destroyed, but not before another eight have fallen sick.
I expect they too will die soon enough.
The remains of the ship lie in the bottom of the bay, burned by the most powerful fire I and the druids could muster.
Your servant, always,
Jamie
“The Peverells executed them all,” Orion mused aloud.
“And placed a most vicious curse on the ship itself, or the corpses.”
Orion nodded.
His own family was famous for their use of such magic, but as far as he knew, the Blacks had never attempted to curse so many at once. In a way, he admired the Peverells, but it only added to the troubling reputation of them.
Truthfully, what he and Cantankerus Nott had managed to uncover these months made the stories he’d heard as a boy seem rather tame.
“Another one here speaking of an attempt by the Danes to invade Wales,” Cantankerus spoke, pulling Orion from his thoughts. “They were slaughtered and hung from trees by their entrails as a warning to any others that dared make a similar attempt.”
Orion could only nod in response, adding yet another account to the many they’d become privy to.
“They gather in the churchyard of the village seeking solace in Death, and he replies with his protection of the lands. Those who dare tread here without invitation will know only misery. The souls of their enemies are claimed, and bodies returned to the Earth. Three is a curse on these lands, a curse to those unwelcome.”
“Who wrote that?” Orion asked.
Nott shook his head in response.
“There is no name, but it is written in blood.”
It was ominous, and though he remained curious, Orion Black could not ignore the foreboding that filled him.
The Peverells had never been counted among the powerful families of the Wizengamot or even the Wizard’s Council, but they need not be. Where political power was wielded by many, the Peverells wielded something else entirely, and even now after so long that they were last here as they once were, that power could still be felt in that small corner of Britain.
Now, there was another among them, a young man who might perhaps wield that power once more, and those with any sense, admittedly few who were not blinded by their own arrogance, would heed the return of the Peverells.
“It is troubling, no?” Cantankerus questioned.
“For those that might antagonise him. I see no reason to make an enemy of him unless it becomes necessary. He is still only one man, and it isn’t as though the Peverells haven’t fallen before. Still, I see no reason for hostilities, not when it is not necessary, not yet, at least. Besides, the boy is not here.”
“But he will return,” Nott pointed out. “He made it clear that he would do so to the Dumbledores.”
Orion hummed thoughtfully.
“Then we wait until he does.”
“To what end?”
“To satiate our curiosity. Nothing more, and nothing less, but we do so cautiously.”
Cantankerus nodded.
“They will certainly make an interesting addition to my work, even if they cannot be considered for the list of those pure of blood.”
“Is Malfoy still objecting?”
An amused grin tugged at the lips of Cantankerus Nott.
“Quite vehemently. He even had the audacity to offer me a significant financial incentive to forget what I learned about his kin, as have others.”
Orion chuckled.
“Well, whatever you are being offered, I will double it to see your work come to fruition. Think of it as an investment into all of us understanding the foundations of our houses.”
“And a most welcome donation it will be, Lord Black.”
(Break)
“You know this magic, Harry,” Ignotus said encouragingly. “Focus on its intent.”
He did know it and had become intimately familiar with it since Dumbledore had given him the cubes, and as he ran his hands above each one of them, his own magic warned him against touching the wood.
“A blistering curse, a blindness curse, but it is only temporary, a jinx that will make your ears ring, and this one will give you crippling stomach cramps.”
“What of the final two?” Cadmus pressed.
“A sleeping spell and a concussion hex.”
He opened his eyes to see that the cubes were now glowing green, indicating he had identified them correctly, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief.
For months, he had been working on not only feeling magic but being able to deduce the nature and intentions of it. With the help of the Peverells and what he’d deemed to be rather ridiculous drills that saw him fending off attacks blindfolded, he had finally gotten a considerable grasp of the art.
“And what you have achieved, Harry, is something so few ever will. You are developing an enviable understanding of magic. Now…”
“Blindfold on?”
“Indeed.”
Muttering under his breath, he did so and waited for the inevitable attacks to come from the device he’d found in the Peverell home. It was an odd, glass dome that glowed in a myriad of colours, depending on the magic it would unleash. Fortunately, none of the spells were lethal in nature, but certainly left their mark on him when Harry failed to defend himself.
According to the three brothers, using the device used to be something of a family undertaking for all of their children when beginning their magical education to understand the magic around them, especially what could be used as a weapon, relying on their own to warn them even before it could become so.
Instinctively, Harry raised his wand to block the first offering before stepping aside from the next, not wanting his nose to be pouring blood for the next hour or so.
From there, he simply followed the direction of his own magic, reacting to each warning, allowing it to lead him from one decision to the next.
“Excellent,” Ignotus praised. “You are putting your faith in your magic, Harry, and that is what you must often do. Your magic will guide you, protect you, and when you trust it to do so, it will come to trust you equally.”
Harry nodded as he removed the blindfold, elated by his success, and equally relieved that he’d not been cursed.
“This is a truly incredible breakthrough for you, Harry, and you will certainly reap the benefits during your next duel, but you must continue to trust your magic,” Ignotus urged.
“Indeed,” Antioch agreed. “I do not doubt you will surprise yourself. Now, let us…”
He broke off as Harry held up a hand to silence him, and he consulted the map, frowning at the name that had appeared on the seventh-floor corridor.
“What the hell is Malfoy doing here?” he asked himself, watching as the Slytherin hurried away from the corridor when he realised the room was in use.
Had he becoming here all year?
There had been times that Harry had arrived to find that someone else was using the room, and he’d assumed that it was Hermione or any other number of students from the DA.
Maybe he would broach the subject with the girl, and even keep a closer eye on Malfoy, just as someone else appeared to be.
He watched as the two dots headed towards the dungeons, the one bringing up the rear pausing whenever Malfoy did, evidently to check that he wasn’t being followed.
Why Dumbledore would be following him, Harry did not know, but he intended to keep a closer eye on Malfoy himself.
The boy had been far too quiet this year for Harry’s liking, and whenever Malfoy was quiet, much like Voldemort, he was up to something, and evidently, Dumbledore thought so too.
With a shake of his head, he placed the map back on the desk.
“Is something troubling you, Harry?” Cadmus asked.
“Nothing that can’t wait for now.”
“Then let us get back to work,” Antioch suggested. “I have some very useful spells to teach to you to improve your duelling.”
With a nod, Harry readied himself, doing his utmost to push the thoughts of Malfoy and Dumbledore aside, but he could not deny that his curiosity was piqued, so much so that he knew that there was something else that would now occupy his thoughts until he solved yet another riddle, the irony of his chosen word not being lost on him.