Whispers
I think he must be dead. I see him often enough to know that he is around, but it has been month upon month since the last time I laid eyes on Harry Peverell.
- The Diary of Cassiopeia Black
He was not one to become engrossed in reading, but Harry had found himself equally enthralled as he was curious about the magic the Blacks had accumulated, and the more he read, the more he believed how useful it would prove to be.
From one book, he had learned more curses, hexes, and jinxes than he had from being in the wizarding world for five years, and having finished the volume, he tentatively drew his wand to see if he would be proficient with such magic.
Flipping back through the book to the very first spell, he re-read the section, nodding to himself when he was done.
Clearing his throat, he pointed his wand towards the wall, carefully moving his wand in the required pattern as he muttered the incantation and huffed irritably when nothing happened.
“Master must mean it,” Kreacher spoke. “Master must want to use the magic. Kreacher remembers Master Arcturus teaching Mistress Bella.”
His nostrils flared at the mention of the woman.
“Bellatrix knows this magic?”
“All of it.”
Harry wasn’t surprised, but if anything, it only motivated Harry more to be able to both wield and defend against it.
Bellatrix of all people certainly deserved a taste of what she had exacted upon others.
With a determined nod, he took aim once more, imagining that Bellatrix Lestrange was standing before him, and took a step back as a pink spell hissed from the tip of his wand.
It splashed harmlessly against the wall, but had it been a person he’d struck against, their tongue would be torn from within their mouth.
It was a nasty curse, but only one of many he would need to perfect.
Between studying the books of the Black family library, and avoiding the incessant floo chimes courtesy of Dumbledore, Harry had been practicing magic.
He was not avoiding the inevitable conversation with the headmaster out of a sense of petulance, nor for any other reason than he did not wish to speak with the man. For now, there was nothing to say, nor anything he wanted to hear.
No, Harry merely wished to be left to enjoy the freedom he had acquired for a while, and to indulge in something that would be useful.
“Master’s lunch is on the table,” Kreacher announced before vanishing with a gentle pop.
Harry nodded and made his way back towards the kitchen where the elf had laid out quite the spread for him, as he did every mealtime.
It was an odd relationship that had developed between the two, and without the influence of the portrait of Walburga Black, Kreacher seemed to be much better off.
When he wasn’t helping Harry, which he could not deny had been most beneficial over the past couple of weeks, he was finally doing what he should’ve been when Sirius was alive, cleaning up the ancestral home, and even checking in on the other properties Harry had inherited but had yet to visit.
There was a part of Harry that wanted to be furious with the elf, wanted to blame him for what had happened to his godfather, but in truth, he was more to blame than Kreacher for being a gullible fool.
“Never again,” he reiterated.
It had become something of a mantra these past days, and he repeated it often whenever he was practicing the magic that those he knew would never approve of.
Not that they were in a position to judge.
It was not them that the Dark lord was coming for so ardently, and not them that would find themselves in a fated fight for their lives.
No, it was Harry shouldering such a burden, and he would prepare for that eventuality any way he saw fit.
Dumbledore had certainly done nothing to prepare him for it, and the man had known of the prophecy before Harry had been born, so, if anyone was going to ensure he was ready, it would be Harry himself.
With a nod, he helped himself to a large steak and vegetables Kreacher had prepared for him, huffing irritably as his already threadbare t-shirt tore at the shoulder.
Between finishing the regimen of potions Tullius had given him, and the regular, nutritious meals Kreacher provided, he was finally gaining some weight and felt much healthier for the lifestyle he’d unwittingly adopted.
Perhaps practicing magic as much as he found himself doing was helping too. Regardless, Harry doubted he had ever been so healthy as he was now, and it was serving him well in his endeavours.
“Master should wear suitable clothes,” Kreacher grumbled as he appeared and began dusting the heads of his predecessors.
Harry nodded.
He knew that he probably could use an entire new wardrobe. The only thing the Dursleys had ever brought him of his own was underwear, and even they were no longer suitable.
“I will make some time…”
“No need, master,” Kreacher said dismissively. “Kreacher can do it. Kreacher knows the very best seamstresses. If master would stand.”
Harry did so, and Kreacher took in his appearance before nodding, vanishing with a click of his fingers.
“But I didn’t…”
He broke off and shook his head, finishing his meal before picking up the journal he’d been reading belonging to Iolanthe Peverell he’d found resting at the very top of the trunk upon opening it. Thus far, he’d only perused what she had noted down about her formative years, of how she’d been an only child, how her mother had died when she’d only been a few years old, and that she’d been raised by her father.
It had made for rather difficult reading as she’d described how paranoid the man had been, how it was a shame that such a brilliant man all but hid from the world around them from fear of something he would not speak of.
Harry felt as though he was intruding on the most intimate thoughts of the young woman, but he was compelled to continue reading in the hope that he would learn what became of the family that had ultimately merged with his own upon the death of Ignotus Peverell, and his daughter marrying Hardwin Potter.
I managed to convince father to meet with Hardwin.
I met him in the market, and he caught my eye when he chastised the local magistrate for attempting to belittle a peasant girl who was begging for food.
Hardwin kicked the man up the backside and sent him on his way before buying the girl some food and clothes, smiling at every turn.
There has been no other who has intrigued me so, and that smile when aimed towards me left me frozen in place. Oh, he is handsome; fair-haired with the warmest, brown eyes that speak only of mischief, but they are as kind as they are strong.
He seemed to be quite taken with me, and even escorted me home, claiming that such a walk was not suitable for a lonely lady.
I have never been that, but he quickly found his way to my side, and when he was gone, I wished him back.
Hardwin Potter had been fair-haired.
From the description of herself, Iolanthe had been the one with raven, almost untameable tresses, so that was where Harry had inherited his from, and perhaps every other Potter before him born from that union.
With a shake of his head, he continued reading, his curiosity about his family only growing as he did so.
Father liked Hardwin and agreed that the two of us could be married.
I could not be happier with the arrangement, and although he is neither wealthy nor a pauper, I already know I will never be left wanting. One day, though I hope it shall not be soon, father will leave us more than enough wealth to get by, but Hardwin does not care much for gold or luxury.
He is a simple man who finds joy in the simplest of things. I find it to be rather endearing.
Harry smiled fondly.
Although he still felt he was intruding upon the woman, he could not deny that he was enjoying reading of the journey.
Our first child was born, a boy we named Henry, and I must say, he resembles my father closely, but there is no denying that Hardwin fathered him.
His eyes are as brown as his, but he took the Peverell hair.
Oh, he is a Potter by name, but none would ever miss who he truly takes after. Our family magic is strong, and it flows through Henry’s veins. Perhaps it will do so for many generations to come.
Father seems pleased with him, and insists we visit daily.
“Henry Potter.”
He had seen the trunk belonging to the son of Hardwin and Iolanthe and made a note to retrieve that one from the vault too when he was finished with these.
The saddest of days.
Father called me to his study where I found him to be much weaker than I have ever seen him. His age was never something I had considered, but when he revealed that he had lived for more than a century and a half, I must say I found it difficult to believe.
“Our magic is strong, my child, much stronger than you will ever know. I have protected you from it because it was my burden to bear, but I fear that it must be preserved, that one day, the world will need another of our kind.”
The cloak he placed into my hands was like nothing else I’d ever seen.
“A gift from Death himself.”
I have heard the foolish rumours surrounding my family, but they seemed to have quietened these past years.
The locals spoke of how my father once protected them from the outside world, of how he would stand for them when he was needed, but nothing could’ve prepared me for what I was to learn this day.
The tale of what he and my two uncles had done was as spectacular as it sounded fantastical, and yet, my father told it so solemnly, his demeanour that of the most broken of men as he regaled me with how each received their gift, or burden as he put it, and how his brothers had fallen foul of theirs.
If the wand and stone do truly exist, then where are they?
The cloak I now possess is indeed incredible, is my burden, and will become that of my son, and then his, until it no longer is.
Harry stilled as he digested what he’d read and removed the cloak he’d been gifted on Christmas Day during his first year of Hogwarts.
Surely this could not be the very same one Iolanthe had mentioned.
Harry wasn’t certain how long he was pondering that very notion when he was interrupted by the returning Kreacher, who placed a stack of wrapped packages on the kitchen table.
“Everything master could need,” he declared proudly, frowning as he caught sight of Harry’s expression. “Is something wrong, master?”
Harry shook his head.
“Kreacher, what can you tell me about this cloak?” he asked curiously.
The elf eyed the garment thoughtfully for a moment.
“It is master’s cloak.”
“It is.”
“No, it is master’s cloak,” Kreacher said pointedly. “It is old magic, just like master’s is now.”
“Like mine is now?”
Kreacher nodded.
“Master’s magic be changing. When master first arrived, his magic was different, but it is like the magic in the cloak now.”
“What was it like before?”
Kreacher frowned at the question.
“Not the same. Master’s magic was different, and now master’s magic is like the magic in the cloak.”
Harry should’ve known better than to expect Kreacher to be an all-knowing being of sorts, but what the elf had said gave him much to ponder. Tullius had said that his magic seemed to be unsettled and seemed to think that Riddle attempting him had changed it from what it had been.
He couldn’t even begin to explain it, but it seemed that it stemmed all the way back to that Halloween night, and whatever had transpired between the two of them when he’d cast the killing curse at Harry.
With Riddle attempting to possess him, it seemed to either have undone it or caused an irrevocable change.
“Master’s magic is different now. There is no bad man’s magic anymore,” Kreacher spoke once more, his tearful eyes wide before he vanished.
It was a rather odd reaction from the elf, and Harry suspected there was an explanation for it that he would seek later. For now, however, he was focused on his own thoughts, and the idea that, somehow, the cloak he possessed, had once belonged to Ignotus Peverell, who had lived close to one thousand years prior.
(Break)
Despite Lucius having been arrested in the Ministry of Magic of all places, Narcissa was still playing host to many of the Dark Lord’s followers, those who had been liberated from Azkaban, at least.
She had seen nothing of the man himself, a small mercy she was grateful for, but enduring the company of his band of murderers was not what she would consider to be an honour.
“You’re not still sulking about your idiot husband, are you?” Bellatrix huffed as she entered the parlour, throwing herself into a plush armchair Narcissa was quite fond of. “I already told you, the Dark Lord will free him.”
Narcissa nodded.
She’d not seen Bellatrix for several weeks now, not she’d returned from the Ministry of Magic to inform her that Lucius had been arrested, along with four others.
“No,” she denied. “It is something more troubling.”
Bellatrix frowned, and Narcissa released a deep breath.
“I helped Draco claim the Black lordship.”
Bella’s eyes widened excitedly, and she grinned, though it fell as Narcissa shook her head.
“He could not claim it.”
“He has claimed it, but there was nothing but the title to claim. Sirius somehow found a way to squander everything, every last Knut is gone.”
Bellatrix’s jaw tightened.
Narcissa knew she’d been keen to see it all handed over to the Dark Lord, to provide him with what most would deem to be an endless supply of gold, but that was not to be.
In a way, it was a relief that her family fortune would not find its way into his hands, though she was not pleased by what Sirius had somehow managed to do.
“There’s nothing left?”
“Nothing.”
“That bastard!” Bellatrix seethed as she stood and began pacing back and forth. “How dare he put his filthy little hands on what doesn’t belong to him.”
“He always did find a way to have the last laugh,” Narcissa chuckled humourlessly. “You may have killed him but look at you now. Even from beyond the grave, he found a way to infuriate you. Anyway, it isn’t Sirius that is bothering me.”
“Then what?”
“We bumped into Potter in Gringotts, well, he approached us.”
“And?”
“He expressed his joy about what has happened to Lucius, and openly goaded Draco to attack him. The boy is mad, Bella. I thought he was going to really hurt Draco. You do not seem surprised by that.”
Her sister shook her head.
“No,” she murmured. “In the atrium, before the Dark Lord and the old fool fought, Potter was chasing me, and he used the Cruciatus Curse on me. Not very well, but he did not shy away from using it.”
Narcissa swallowed deeply.
To resort to such a curse knowing the consequences, both to the user and the victim was most troubling.
“Draco…”
“Should learn to keep his mouth shut,” Bellatrix warned. “I saw Potter fight in the Department of Mysteries, and even though he is lacking, he is very good for someone his age.”
“Draco will not listen to me. He is furious about what happened to Lucius, and he will attempt to cause trouble for Potter.”
“Then he will either be successful, or will be taught a very harsh lesson,” Bellatrix said with a shrug. “It is your own fault, Cissy. You allowed Lucius to raise him in his image, and now, he is a cocky, arrogant little brat.”
Narcissa scowled at her sister, and even if she wanted to, she was not inclined to disagree with her.
“Will you help him?” she almost pleaded. “Will you make sure he can look after himself?”
Bellatrix did not seem to be happy about the request, but she nodded, nonetheless.
“I will, which is why I am here. The Dark Lord wishes to speak with him.”
“With Draco?”
Bellatrix smiled proudly.
“I am to take him with me now.”
“What does he want with my son?”
Bellatrix shrugged.
“I do not know but is best we do not keep him waiting. He has not been in a good mood since that night.”
She left the room, and Narcissa felt herself filled with a sense of dread. Whatever it was the Dark lord wanted with her son would not end well, and yet, she knew there was nothing she could do about it, not until she learned of what he required of the boy.
(Break)
He had held off from calling the Order to meet.
There were those among them that would be grieving for the loss of Sirius, others who’d been wounded during their ordeal within the Department of Mysteries, and Albus too had needed time to piece together what had happened, and what they faced now that Cornelius had resigned.
From what little he had managed to gather, two men were the frontrunners in the upcoming election; Pius Thicknesse, someone of questionable repute, and Rufus Scrimgeour, a former Senior Auror, and one that would not shy away from the impending conflict.
Of course, he would prefer he election of the latter, and with the likes of Lucius Malfoy currently awaiting trial in Azkaban, it was a given that Rufus would find himself in the highest office in the land in the coming days.
“Is Grimmauld Place still unavailable?” Molly asked as the group fell silent, waiting for him to speak.
“It is complicated,” Albus sighed. “With Sirius’s death, it was impossible to fathom who might’ve inherited it, but that mystery has been solved. Harry is there.”
“Alone?” Molly asked worriedly.
Albus nodded.
“I have attempted to reach out to him, but it appears that he does not wish to speak with me.”
He understood.
Having lost yet another person he held dear and learning of just why Tom had come for him, he would need some time to come to terms with everything. Even so, the thought of the young man within Grimmauld Place was troubling.”
“It is dangerous in there,” Arthur pointed out.
It was, and that was what troubled Albus so.
At the best of times, Grimmauld Place was not for the faint hearted, and for someone already plunged so deeply in misery, it would do Harry no good. Still, at least he was safe from those that would wish him harm. Albus’s main concern, however, was Harry’s state of mind.
“For now, I am not inclined to press the issue. Harry should be given time to grieve. I am sure he will communicate with me when he is ready. Alastor, do you have any news?”
The grizzled man shook his head.
“Nothing,” he answered. “Everything is quiet.”
Albus nodded as he shifted his gaze towards Mundungus Fletcher, a most useful man if a little distasteful in his ways.
“Knockturn Alley is empty,” he answered. “Anyone of his lot are hiding, and the usual lot don’t want to be caught up in any of it.”
“We must remain vigilant, nonetheless,” Albus sighed. “I expect he will be planning and plotting, but now that his return is known to all, he will not remain idle for long. Soon enough, we will find ourselves plunged in war once more.”
He wished more than anything that it wouldn’t be so, that Tom Riddle had perished the night he had arrived in Godric’s Hollow, but it wasn’t to be. Albus had known for many years now that his former student was still out there, biding his time until he was able to return as he eventually had, and having done so, he did not doubt that the man intended to pick up where he left off.
Already, he had the allegiance of the dementors, and that of several giants. Others would flock to him soon, and Albus did not doubt that the coming war would be much worse than it had the first time around.
Tom would take no foolish risks, not when he had already made such a significant error the night he had attempted to retrieve the prophecy.
Nonetheless, that did not mean he would shy away from doing what he did best; instilling fear into the masses in a bid to bring the country to heel.
It was concerning to say the last, and yet, Albus knew it would not be quite the same as it was before. No, it would be different this time, and though he was not sure how it would conclude, there was something of an end in sight in the form of the young man who’d already lost so much, who seemed now to only have everything to gain.
(Break)
A wand of great power, a stone to raise the dead, and a cloak of true invisibility.
Although he seemed to be quite delirious in his final moments, the tale he told of what he and my uncles had done is something I cannot forget. Father was nothing but an honest man, and he spoke so solemnly about what had happened to the three of them.
At the very least, it explains why he has lived the way he has these past decades.
“Death has stalked me, and without the cloak, it has finally found me. I pass in peace and accept his waiting embrace.”
They were his final words, and I cannot describe the chill that swept through the room as he breathed his last. Even now, I feel it, and it as though Death itself is with me wherever I tread.
It means me no harm, but watches, almost as though it tests my worth.
Iolanthe’s words were ominous, and were it not for the cloak he’d inherited, Harry would likely dismiss them out of hand, but he could not deny what it was he seemed to possess.
Having consulted a few books in the Black library only solidified the claim of Iolanthe Peverell that it would be passed on from father to son and had indeed done so.
By all accounts, the magic of any invisibility cloak would begin to wane within a decade or so at most, but Harry had seen the proof in his father’s letters that it had been in his possession since before he’d started Hogwarts around a quarter of a century prior, and yet, the magic remained just as strong.
It had never failed Harry, after all, and Kreacher had confirmed it was old.
“A thousand years,” he murmured as he took in his appearance in the mirror.
It was odd having clothes that fit him well, let alone them being brand new.
Kreacher had chosen smart yet functional attire consisting of several pairs of trousers, t shirts, jumpers, shoes, coats and jackets, most of which were muted colours with some earthier tones thrown into the mix.
Not that such things mattered to Harry, but it seemed that Kreacher was, and the elf nodded his approval as he observed the outfit Harry was wearing.
It had become a daily thing since he’d acquired them, and more often than not, the elf would make pointed suggestions about which trousers should be worn with which shoes and shirts.
“Master must look smart. He will one day be the Lord of his family,” Kreacher reiterated for the dozenth time.
“If you say so,” Harry sighed, scowling at the haircut he’d been given.
He did not doubt he needed one, and perhaps it was his own fault for trusting Kreacher with the task of doing so, but he could not deny that he resembled many of the men in the portraits dotted around Grimmauld Place.
Still, he looked much cleaner, healthier, and without Dudley’s clothes hanging loosely over his frame, more like a person with his own free will, even if Kreacher had standards and expectations Hary was expected to meet.
“I look like an inexperienced lawyer,” he decided.
“Master looks like a man of his station,” Kreacher corrected.
“If you say so,” Harry grumbled.
He wasn’t truly complaining.
It was nice to have things of his own, clothes that fit, and he could not deny that it made him feel different. In truth, he’d been feeling different since he’d arrived at Grimmauld Place.
He somehow felt unburdened despite so much being placed on his shoulders, and free despite being imprisoned by the grief that still plagued him.
It was odd to feel so well yet so dreadful at the same time, but that was the only way Harry could describe it.
Physically, he seemed to be thriving now. It was the mental battle and myriad of emotions he was feeling he struggled with. Perhaps it would get easier as time went by.
Tullius seemed to think so, and he did not doubt the man would give him his own thoughts when he arrived shortly. He had written the prior day to inform him of his follow up appointment.
Not that he’d asked if Harry would be available.
He snorted amusedly as the floo in the study chimed, and he bade the man entry into Grimmauld Place.
“Good Morning, Mr Potter,” the Healer greeted him, pausing and offering Harry a smile. “I must say, you are looking much better. You’ve even grown a little these past few weeks.”
Harry hadn’t noticed, but Kreacher nodded proudly.
“Master looks well,” he declared before vanishing with a click of his fingers.
“You do,” Tullius said thoughtfully whilst he set up his equipment. “It is quite the remarkable change, I must. Well, let us not dally. Take a seat on the bed and remove your shirt.”
Harry did so, and the man went about the task of checking him over, murmuring under his breath as he did so whilst consulting his notes.
“Exceptional,” he declared, moving on to inspect Harry’s scars, pausing once more as he lifted his fringe, humming as he checked his stack of parchment once more. “You have grown almost three inches, Mr Potter, and gained significant weight. I would deem our efforts to be quite the success, but it is your scar that leaves me quite dumbfounded.”
“My scar?”
Tullius nodded.
“I cannot say what has happened, but it is no longer afflicted with the same unpleasant magic. I do not know what it was, but whatever happened when the Dark Lord attempted to possess you seems to have dislodged it. I expect your own magic has somehow purged it, or…”
He broke off as he removed the familiar pyramid, and Harry placed his hand on it.
“How very curious,” Tullius said with a deep frown marring his features. “How very curious indeed.”
“What is?” Harry asked, reminded of his first visit to Ollivander.
Tullius leaned back in his chair as he continued to inspect the device.
“When I first arrived, Mr Potter, your magic was very unsettled, which is understandable as you’d experienced a rather traumatic ordeal. During our second visit, it was still quite unstable, but now, it seems to have remedied itself. Not only that, but it also appears to be different. It was disjointed, almost made up of different components, but now, it is as one. I cannot explain it, Mr Potter.”
“Does that mean I’m not sick?”
“On the contrary, your health has taken an extraordinary turn. I expected you might no longer be malnourished, but it seems your body and magic has bounced back with a vengeance. In all my years, I have scarcely seen anything like it.”
“Oh,” Harry replied dumbly. “Well, I took the potions and have been eating regularly. Kreacher did say something about my magic being stronger, or different.”
Tullius hummed thoughtfully as he began packing his things away.
“Well, I can only urge you to keep up whatever it is you are doing. It has done wonders for you, Mr Potter. Before I do leave, however, have you noticed anything different?”
Harry frowned at the question.
“I haven’t had any headaches recently,” he realised, “and I’m sleeping and eating better.”
“And your magic?”
“I’ve been practicing…well, I’ve been using it.”
Tullius nodded.
“The magic the Blacks have accumulated over the years is quite something, as is the madness some have been afflicted with. I cannot speak of what afflicts some, but I do know that Arcturus Black was the greatest advocate of the Mind Arts. He was an incredible practitioner, and he claimed that he was not concerned about the madness that can be caused by using such magic because of them. I would urge you to look into them. I expect there is more than enough literature for you to consult in this house.”
“I have already been studying Occlumency, for what good it has done.”
The healer seemed to be surprised by the revelation but nodded approvingly.
“Then you must already have an understanding of just how powerful the mind is,” Tullius replied. “Physically, you are well, but have you done anything to address the grief you are experiencing?”
Harry swallowed deeply at the question.
“Not really.”
Tullius offered him a smile.
“Well you should,” he advised. “I expect you carry much of it, and often, the best way of handling it better is to confront what ails you.”
“How do I do that?”
“That is for you to decide, Mr Potter, but maybe holding a burial for Sirius Black would help, or facing what it was that took him from you. Perhaps even what happened to your parents. I would be remiss in my duties if I did not look out for your state of mind as much as I do your physical health. I think continuing your work in Occlumency could prove to be most beneficial for you.”
He said nothing else before bidding Harry farewell and taking his leave through the fireplace.
Harry released another deep, calming breath.
Maybe Tullius was right.
Physically, he did feel great, but emotionally, he could not say the same.
No. he was still very much broken from what he’d endured, but the prospect of facing it was not something that rested easily with him.
“The Mind Arts,” he murmured as he left the study to see if there was indeed anything pertaining to the subject in the Black library to supplement what little he’d learned from Snape already.
(Break)
Severus eyed the pleading woman sitting opposite him, his own expression giving nothing away.
Of course, Narcissa was right in her belief that Draco was being punished for Lucius failing to retrieve the prophecy, but as ever, the Dark Lord had made it appear to be an opportunity, one that her son had given no choice but to grasp with both hands.
Not that the boy would be so keen when he truly realised what it was he’d done.
No, when the reality set in, Draco would become fearful, and face quite the dilemma.
Whether he would make the right choice remained to be seen, and Severus had his doubts. Draco was not courageous, and he would see killing Albus as his only choice.
“Please, Severus, you must help him!”
“The Dark Lord has made it clear that this is Draco’s task, but I can promise I will watch over him as I always have.”
Narcissa breathed a sigh of relief, but Bellatrix was not satisfied.
“Swear it!” she insisted. “Swear it with an unbreakable vow.”
“Very well,” Severus agreed.
It was risky, but it was now him that had no choice.
If he was to refuse, it would raise questions about his loyalty, and that was the very last thing he could afford. There could be no doubt when it came to the service of the Dark Lord, and once more, Severus would need to have faith that Albus would find a way around this problem.
If he did not… Severus did not wish to even consider the alternative.
(Break)
He shook his head as he closed the book on the Mind Arts.
Having read what they consisted of, how they were practiced, and mastered Evidently, Snape had not done the worst job in preparing him. According to one of the books he’d flicked through, his mind would begin to form a strong, natural defence the more someone attempted to breach it.
Oddly, the practices were very much frowned upon bordering on illegal. Stranger still, it only made them appeal all the more to him, and he decided to immediately set to work on the process of protecting his mind further using the new information he’d gathered.
The headache that had been absent these past days was back.
It wasn’t as it had been before where it felt as though his skull might split in two, and certainly not localised in his scar, but his entire head throbbed uncomfortably, which was an expected side effect of clearing the mind, for a while, at least.
Thirty minutes a day before bed.
That was the very best time to undertake the practice, and though Harry had done so, he’d slept barely a few hours before waking up long before sunrise.
His conversation with Tullius had been playing on his mind since the Healer had left, and knowing the advice from the older man was likely quite sound, he found he was keen to begin laying some of the demons that haunted him to rest.
What good visiting his parent’s grave would do, he didn’t know, and truthfully, Harry wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Their deaths had plagued him for so long; in his dreams and waking hours, that it was almost like a perpetual, dull pang in his chest he carried.
With Sirius’s death, however, it was different. It was still raw, and there were many more questions he had he could not help but ponder, and though he doubted he would ever receive the answers he sought; he could not forget the dreams of peace he’d experienced, the dreams of the ominous veil he often found himself standing before.
It had not been so difficult to find his way here now.
Beneath the cloak, he’d managed to navigate his way through the Department of Mysteries, and to the room Sirius had been snatched away from him in.
Now that he was here, it was not so easy to approach the eerie archway, and Harry remained at the top of one of the stone staircases leading to it, watching it from afar.
From here, it seemed ominous enough, and even rather benign, but he knew better.
As he approached, however, having mustered just enough courage to do so, he once more found himself experiencing that same peace he’d dreamed of, and the grief of loss melted away, leaving him unburdened, despite the whispering he could hear from within.
As it had been when he dreamt of it, they were incoherent, for the most part, and Harry realise that he wasn’t hearing the voices as such, but they were in his mind.
‘Death’
‘Come’
‘Death’
‘Come’
‘Listen’
‘Death’
There was a part of him that knew he should be terrified, that hearing voices had never led to anything good for him, and yet, they grew louder, more insistent, but Harry felt no threat from them.
If anything, they made him feel just that little bit closer to Sirius.
Swallowing deeply, he removed the cloak just enough that it rested on his shoulders, and he frowned at the familiar magic he could feel emanating from the veil.
It was so very similar to the garment.
‘Peverell’
He froze as he heard the name, and even took a backwards step, and yet, the magic and the voices combined were so very inviting, more alluring than anything else he’d ever felt, and Harry was hard-pressed to ignore them.
‘Come, Peverell’
He felt a lump form in his throat as a wave of grief washed over him.
The last voice sounded like Sirius, and he wiped away a tear that rolled down his cheek.
‘Come, Harry’
He choked back a sob and shook his head, covering himself with the cloak once more as he heard a disturbance from above, and one of the doors opened, admitting a figure garbed in a grey cloak.
Harry watched as the man descended the stairs, pausing in front of the veil just a few steps to his left.
He neither said or did anything but watched closely before shaking his head and leaving the room once more.
Harry watched the veil for a few moments more before following, doing his utmost to ignore the voices that only seemed to call for him louder.
Reaching the top of the stairs, they all but pleaded with him, and though it felt so very right to do as they bade, he knew he needed to walk away before he complied, which for Harry, was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.