Travels
Harry had never seen Kendra Dumbledore so distraught as he did when he found her sitting at the kitchen table of the family home. She was all but mute, tears rolling down her cheeks as Ariana did her utmost to comfort the woman.
“Albie left,” the girl explained. “He and mother had a fight about it, and he stormed from the house. She tried to tell him she did not want hm to leave with the Grindelwald boy, that there was something about him she didn’t like, but he left anyway.”
Harry cursed internally.
“Did he say where they were going?”
Ariana shook her head.
“No, only that they were going to travel on the continent. I’ve never seen him like that before, Harry. He was so angry when they argued. My brother isn’t like that. You know Albie.”
“I do, and I think this Gellert might have something of a hold over him. I will do my best to find them and see what I can do. Will you be okay?”
Ariana offered him a smile as she nodded.
“I think this is all just new for Mum. None of us have ever argued with her before, and I don’t think Abe is going to take it well. He doesn’t like Gellert. I can’t say that I do either.”
Harry released a deep breath as he pulled the girl into his arms.
“I’ll do what I can.”
Ariana placed a kiss on his cheek before sitting back down with her mother, and Harry left the Dumbledore home, followed by the apparition of the man he’d brought along.
“She looks so well, Harry.”
It was a bittersweet moment for the man who should be here to see how different things had been for his family without the upheaval he’d experienced during his youth, but he had come to be greeted by something else entirely.
“I will fix this, Professor,” Harry promised. “I just hope that the younger you will realise that he is starting on a very worrying path before it’s too late.”
How he would fix it, he didn’t know and given what the apparition had told him about his dedication to Gellert before the unfortunate incident that had caused the death of Ariana, Harry was doubtful he could deter the younger Albus.
No, although he wouldn’t speak his concerns, he suspected that his initial thoughts on the matter would prove to be correct. If Albus was so blindly devoted to Grindelwald, both. Might just become his enemies in the coming months or years.
He hoped that wasn’t so, but he could almost feel it coming to fruition.
“I need to get to Bulgaria before Grindelwald.”
“Yes, you must, Harry,” Dumbledore urged. “He must not acquire the wand.”
Harry nodded as they entered his home, and not having yet unpacked, saw no reason to delay his departure.
“How do I get there? I can’t apparate it, and I doubt The Knight Bus will take me.”
“It will not,” Dumbledore confirmed, “and getting a portkey for international travel is not so simple from the Ministry of Magic. It will take a few days at least. No, I think you will be better served if I teach you a final lesson on how to make a portkey.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“In a manner of speaking, but the sensors to detect them did not come nto effect until 1941 during the heat of the war.”
“So, there is no way to track them?”
“Indeed, nor is there a way to track your apparation here, Harry,” Dumbledore said conspiratorially. “Now, if you are ready, I expect it may only take an hour or so to learn for one so capable. You can be in Bulgaria before this evening.”
(Break)
It wasn’t often that Ron Weasley found himself speechless, dumbstruck, or even unable to believe what it was he’d heard. Were it not his own parents telling him, the twins, Ginny, and Hermione what had happened, he wouldn’t believe it.
His mother was weeping as his father comforted her, and much like him, the others were in a state of shock.
Dumbledore was dead, and everything just felt so much more daunting.
Without Dumbledore, You-Know-Who was more dangerous than ever, and Ron could not even begin to think of what would happen next.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered.
His parents left the kitchen, and none of those who remained knew what to say. For several moments, they remained silent until George spoke.
“Bloody hell. You know it will only get worse.”
“And you know who they will all be looking to,” Fred added gravely.
“Harry,” Ron murmured.
The twins nodded, and Ron felt himself filled with a sense of dread.
“Does Harry know?”
“Someone would’ve told him by now,” Fred replied. “Come on, George. We have work to do.”
“What work?” Ron asked as the twins stood to leave.
“Keep it out, Ronald, unless you want it taken from you,” George answered, gesturing to his nose.
They too left, and the silent Ginny followed only a moment later leaving Ron with the pale Hermione.
She’d arrived only this morning to attend Bill and Fleur’s wedding that would be taking place at the Burrow in a little over a week having convinced her parents to take an extended holiday away from Britain after explaining the war to them.
She’d not spoken about it much, but Ron could see that she had been struggling, and with the news of Dumbledore’s death, she was almost catatonic.
“Poor Harry,” she said quietly.
Ron could only nod in response.
He’d never been so good at comforting her in her moments of need, and even now, he felt lost.
“We’ll be there for him,” he said reassuringly. “He won’t be doing it alone.”
Hermione offered him a weak smile.
“It changes everything, doesn’t it? Without Dumbledore…”
“It’s going to be bad, Hermione,” Ron said darkly. “It’s going to get very bad.”
She nodded.
“I think I’m going to lie down for a little while,” she declared.
Ron watched as she made her way to the door, not knowing what else to say to her.
“Hermione, how do you break up with someone?” he blurted.
She paused and frowned at him.
“I think that is something you should figure out for yourself, Ronald,” she sighed.
Being the only one left in the kitchen, Ron sunk back into his chair as he pondered the many things on his mind.
Truthfully, he’d enjoyed spending time with Lavender, but it was not a relationship he saw going anywhere. She was a nice enough girl, but the two of them had nothing in common, and he thought it better to end it sooner rather than later.
For now, however, he couldn’t even think about the conversation he’d need to have with her in light of the latest news they’d received. He would speak with her when they returned to school after the summer.
If there was a school to return to at all.
(Break)
“I’m still going to be working with Nicholas, but I will be travelling. I’m not asking permission, Mother.”
His words sounded harsher than he’d intended, but Albus meant them, nonetheless. He wasn’t seeking her permission to venture out into the world with Gellert, merely informing her of his decision.
“There is something quite off with that man,” his mother sighed.
“You hardly know him!”
“Neither do you, Albie!”
“I know him well enough. I cannot spend my life in this village. I want to see the world, and I’m going to do it, whether you like it or not!”
“Do not talk to Mother like that!” Ariana interjected hotly.
Albus could feel her magic reacted unfavourably, and despite the unexpected falling out, he did not wish for her to lose control of it.
“I’m going to pack,” he declared. “We will be leaving soon.”
His mother had not said another word to him before he’d left, and though Albus did not wish to leave things as they were, it seemed there had been nothing either needed to say.
He didn’t want to fight with her but his mind had been made up, and he knew if he didn’t leave when he did, he might never do so.
Gellert had been insistent that their time to do so was now, that there was a greater destiny set out before them away from Godric’s Hollow, even if their departure had been so sudden.
It hadn’t escaped Albus’s notice that it had come after Gellert had met Harry, nor that it seemed to have unsettled the man quite distinctly.
“We’ll stay here for the night, and then leave for Bulgaria tomorrow.”
“Bulgaria?”
“To visit Gregorovitch. If there is anyone who knows anything about the wand, it is Gregorovitch.”
“Do you really think he might know something?”
“I think he might have it.”
Albus frowned.
“But if he does, shouldn’t it be returned to Harry?”
Gellert offered him a sad smile.
“I think doing so would be a grave mistake. The Peverells, Albus, garnered a reputation of being among the most dangerous of people. I read through my aunt’s research, and they were very Dark Wizards.”
“Harry Isn’t, Gellert. He’s my friend.”
The other man squeezed his shoulder gently.
“I hope that is true, Albus. I really do, but I met his gaze and saw that same darkness I read about in him. Maybe I am wrong, and if I am, I will apologise profusely, but I am certain of what I saw. Truly, I hope I am wrong, but I am not willing to risk it. He cannot be allowed to possess the wand.”
“But he helped Ariana…”
“He did, but Peverell is not like either of us, Albus. He does not know or share our vision for the world. It is just us, Albie, as it should be.”
Albus nodded, and Gellert smiled brightly.
“I fear I am right about everything. It is not often I a wrong.”
“But when you are, your mistakes are much more disastrous than the average person.”
“As it is for you, my dearest friend.”
(Break)
“I expected nothing less from you, Harry. You have proven to be an excellent study this past year we have been working together. Now, I would like you to create one to take you to Melbourne, Australia.”
With a nod, Harry focused on the shoe he’d been using to create portkeys and looked towards what was a very outdated atlas he had opened on the table.
Double-checking the co-ordinates, he cast the spell and watched as the shoe shimmered with a golden hue.
“Wish me luck.”
With a tap of his wand, he activated the portkey and felt the unpleasant yet familiar feeling of being hooked through the navel, though this time, his moment in the void was much longer than it had been for the others.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled irritably, stumbling but managing to stay on his feet when he arrived in a bush somewhere far from his Welsh residence.
After ensuring the portkey had worked as intended, he activated it once more to return home, where the apparition of Albus Dumbledore was waiting expectantly for him.
“Excellent work, Harry,” he praised. “There is nothing more you need to know.”
“So, I should go to Bulgaria.”
“Indeed,” Dumbledore urged. “You must reach Sofia, and just outside of the city centre, you will find a rather distinct church. It is in the grounds you will find a statue of a monk knelt in prayer that you must rest your hand upon his shoulder. That is how you will access the magical district, and Gregorovitch’s place of business.”
Harry nodded his understanding.
“I will be back soon, but there is no need to wait for me here. Go and spend time with your family, professor. That’s why I brought you along.”
Dumbledore offered him a smile before leaving for his home, and Harry readied himself for his own journey, deeply aware of what rested on his success.
Having followed the man’s instructions, he found himself looking down the length of a humbler iteration of Diagon Alley, smaller in size, but no less interesting to him.
Along with the shops, there was vendors selling their wares in carts, and were it not for the one thing he’d come here for, Harry would certainly be inclined to peruse them.
Instead, he passed them by as his gaze flitted between each of the buildings, and he paused as he reached the final stretch of pavement, coming upon the one he sought.
“Gregorovitch,” he murmured.
With the schoolyear in full swing, there were not so many people milling about as there would be during the summer months, but it was busy enough that few would pay him any heed, and as he entered the premises of the wandmaker, Harry was relieved to find that it was bereft of customers.
The bell had not even finished chiming when he heard a voice call out to him in a language he did not understand, but only a moment later, an older man entered, stilling at the sight of him, his eyes widening just enough for Harry to know that Gregorovitch was not so ignorant of who had arrived to see him.
Those eyes taking in his appearance were as keen and canny as any other he’d seen, and his slightly hunched posture spoke of an ailing man, but Harry wasn’t fooled.
He might be stopped over in his later years, but Gregorovitch was no vulnerable pensioner.
“I know that you speak English. You did so the night you visited Ollivander.”
Gregorovitch’s eyes narrowed, and Harry did not miss the slight twitching of his fingers as he considered reaching for his wand.
“What is it you want?” he asked, his accent thick, but no less concerned.
“You know exactly what I am here for. You can feel my magic. It is exactly the same magic that created the wand. I would rather you didn’t attempt to harm me, not when you have bigger problems than me on the way.”
“Bigger problems?”
Harry nodded.
“There is another who knows that you have it, a very pale man who will arrive in the next day or so to take it from you, and he will not be so friendly in his approach. The wand belongs to me, Gregorovitch.”
The wandmaker shook his head, just as an infant would whose favourite toy was being taken from them.
“No, the wand is mine!”
He moved much quicker than one of his age should be allowed, but the shield Harry conjured to defend himself proved to be unnecessary as Gregorovitch screamed, and the wand he’d drawn clattered to the ground, much to the man’s surprise.
With a flick of his own, it flew into Harry’s waiting hand, and the very same power he’d felt, that readiness to obey him flooded every fibre of his being, sending an uncontrollable shudder down his spine.
“Y-you really are a P-Peverell!” Gregorovitch whispered. “I thought you were tricking me!”
Harry shook his head.
“I am not tricking you, and there really is another man who will arrive here shortly to claim this for himself. You have no idea how dangerous he will prove to be, Gregorovitch. He cannot be allowed to possess the wand.”
The man was not pleased that the wand had not obeyed him, and the chuckle he responded with was somewhat hollow and defeated.
“Maybe it is better that I do not possess it,” he mused aloud. “It only worked a little better than my own wand, and it has been quite the burden to bear. I have waited many years for the secret to be discovered, many years of living each day wondering if I am to be murdered for it. I suppose I should be grateful that it is where it belongs.”
“How did you get it?” Harry asked curiously.
“Some bloody fool brought it to me,” Gregorovitch snorted. “Their father had passed away, and they found it on him. Since I’d made the one they knew of, they brought it in believing it to be a second wand I’d provided. I told them it was one of my own, and that it had been stolen some years prior. I paid them seven galleons for it, and they left just as happy I was at my own misfortune of obtaining it. I have been studying it since, but it has yielded so little to me.”
It was a strange way for the wand to come into the possession of another, and though Harry was interested to understand the journey it had been on throughout the centuries, he was simply glad that he had it now, and Grindelwald would not.
With a nod, he reached into his pocket and placed eight galleons on the counter in front of the wandmaker.
“Now you have made a profit, but I think it is best that you have no memory of this conversation, but you will understand that you are in danger and should close your shop for a while. Beware of the pale man, Gregorovitch. You will inevitably hear of him in the years to come. Grindelwald will not be stopped so easily. Obliviate!”
The man’s expression became blank, and with a few modifications, his memory of who had come to visit him were hazy at best, altered so that he thought it had occurred years prior, and the man who had taken the wand was so very different to Harry, but he could remember next to nothing about him except for a pair of blue eyes.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the memory being erased altogether. That would prompt Grindelwald, and maybe Albus into probing deeper into the account they would receive.
Even so, Harry knew he needed to proceed with caution and figure out a way of deterring Albus from the path he had set himself upon.
The world he’d grown up in had spoken of the horrors Grindelwald had been responsible for during his uprising, and Harry could only imagine how much worse it would be if he were to have Albus Dumbledore at his side.
It truly was a most troubling thought, and as he took his leave of the shop to return to Godric’s Hollow, it was one that did not rest easily with him.
Still, if his own Dumbledore was indeed right, there may just be nothing he could do to remedy the situation until it was already too late.
(Break)
“…and wizarding Britain will be in mourning for some time as it come to terms with the passing of perhaps the greatest wizard in our illustrious history. We at the Wizarding Wireless Network would like to say fare well to Albus Dumbledore and wish that he rests in peace after many decades of service.”
The Dark Lord snorted as he turned off the radio with a flick of his wand.
He only wished to confirm the news he’d been brought by Severus, and hearing it publicly announced brought him just as much joy as he’d hoped. The old fool truly was dead, and with the country weeping over the loss of their hero, it was time for him to take advantage of the situation he’d been presented.
Since Severus had visited, he’d been pondering what it was he could do, how he could take capitalise on the death of Dumbledore. Of course, he was rather furious that it had not been him to kill his former headmaster, but him being dead was all that mattered.
Yes, a considerable obstacle had been eliminated, and now only a few others remained.
Both Moody and Scrimgeour must also perish, but the one the Dark Lord needed ridding of the most was the irksome boy who simply refused to die.
Potter.
Thus far, time and again, the boy had gotten lucky, had relied upon the help of others and magic he could not possibly begin to understand, and little else but sheer, dumb fortune.
His luck, however, had all but run out.
There was no Dumbledore to save him, no old magic courtesy of his mother to protect him, and when the two of them inevitably met once more, the Dark Lord would tear him limb from limb for all that had befallen him because of Harry Potter.
Nonetheless, for that most beautiful vision to come to fruition, he needed to plan and act accordingly and not do so brashly. No, he must ensure his preparation for such an important, momentous occasion was faultless and implement perfectly.
“Get in here, Wormtail!”
The snivelling man entered the room and offered a clumsy bow.
“Y-yes, m-my lord?”
Lord Voldemort surveyed him.
He truly was among the most pathetic of creatures, but he could not deny his usefulness and dedication to him when he’d been so weak.
“I have a task for you, Wormtail.”
“O-of c-course, m-my lord. What d-do you require of m-me?”
“Nothing so trivial, but without Dumbledore, Hogwarts is vulnerable. I wish for you to make your way inside and await further instructions.”
Pettigrew frowned confusedly.
“But Severus…”
“Is not to know of your presence unless absolutely necessary. He is to be given plausible deniability, for now. I will send a message to you when the time is right for you to act.”
“What am I to do, my lord?”
He merely smiled in response and revelled in the fearful expression of the rat as he explained his plan, and when Pettigrew was gone, the Dark Lord nodded to himself.
Yes, the war would certainly be swinging in his favour soon enough, so much so that there would be no coming back for those who opposed him.
(Break)
It had been only a single night since he and Gellert had left Britain, and in the light of day without the image of the man to beguile him, Albus found himself perusing his own thoughts, wondering if he had chosen wisely to come along.
He felt guilty for how he and his mother had parted, guilty that he’d sent only a letter to Abe to explain his absence, and guilty that he had not even said farewell to the little sister he’d been so worried for.
Paris was indeed a beautiful city, and certainly lived up to the romance often written about in more works than Albus could count, but he found he could neither enjoy nor indulge in it with such a burden weighing heavily upon him. Were Gellert here, he would offer him some comforting and encouraging words, squeeze his shoulder the way he did, and maybe take his mind off the thoughts that plagued him.
Gellert, however, had decided to venture to Bulgaria without him, and had urged Albus to enjoy France for the brief time the two of them would be here.
Where they were going next, Albus did not know, but as guilty as he felt for everything else, he was equally enthused by the prospect of their travels.
“It will be the most amazing of experiences, Albie. You will still be able to study, but there is so much more for us to see and learn outside of the village. You will see. I have the most incredible places to show you.”
The thought brought a smile to his lips, and though he felt troubled, Albus wanted to enjoy this opportunity, to revel in the experiences he and Gellert would share.
With that in mind, he decided he would like to perhaps explore his surroundings. He quite fancied visiting the Palace of Luxembourg, so readied himself to do so.
When he was finished showering, he took his leave of the hotel they’d spent the night, and walked the short distance to the palace, pausing briefly to marvel at the beauty of the building.
It was quite the feat for such a thing to be built by muggle almost three centuries prior, and the surroundings gardens were in full bloom with a myriad of fauna for him to explore.
Even so, as he did just that, he could not help but feel that he should not be here, that he should return to the hotel to pack things and return home where he would apologise profusely to his mother.
He deflated at the thought, and yet, the urge to do so was not something he could ignore.
Instead of exploring further, he began making his way back towards the gates, pondering just how it was he would explain to Gellert that he could not join him, that he was going to return home.
Before he could reach the gate however, Albus was pulled from his musings by a rustling in one of the bushes.
With a frown, he knelt down to investigate, his eyes widening at the little, featherless bird peering up at him from within a pile of ash, chirping almost indignantly.
“Merlin,” he whispered, looking around to see if someone had somehow misplaced such an incredibly rare creature. “What are you doing here?”
The little phoenix chirped at him once more before jumping out of the pile of ash, and Albus offered his hand, marvelling as it climbed into his palm.
“I expect you must be quite hungry,” he chuckled. “I’m afraid the only thing I have is some Sherbet Lemons. They won’t do for a little one like yourself. Come, I’m sure we can find something suitable.”
The phoenix chirped in response before hopping into his pocket, and Albus found himself confused as to what had just happened.
Not only were they rare to see, but for one to choose to spend time with a human was almost unheard of. Phoenixes were fiercely independent, as dangerous as they were marvellous, and Albus did not know what he would do with it.
He paused at the thought before looking back towards the palace.
Was it meant to be that he came here today and found the creature?
Albus had never been one to believe in fate or such frivolous magicks, but something within himself told him that he was exactly where he was supposed to be, and though he once more found himself thinking of how it was he’d come to be here, it no longer felt so wrong that he was.
“Okay, we’re going,” he chuckled once more as the phoenix chirped at him, encouraging him to find some food to help build its strength.
(Break)
He added the finishing touches to yet another of his creations, holding it up to the light to inspect every grain of wood. He certainly could not allow any defects, not when so much effort had gone into it.
Writing the label of what the wand comprised of, he placed it into a velvet lined box, and then onto one of dozens of filled shelves.
This was how he spent most days.
On a good one, he could perhaps craft five or six of the highest quality wands, and if a particular one gave him problems whilst doing so, that may turn into a bad day where only three or four would be completed.
Wandlore was a most complex study that so few could even begin to understand. It wasn’t as simple as piecing together slithers of wood and magical ingredients. No, it was an intricate art that required a type of listening to both, hearing what most others could not, and marrying the parts together so that they may work harmoniously in the right hands.
Mykew Gregorovitch had dreamed that he would revolutionise the craft, that he would create the best wands ever seen, and to an extent, he had succeeded. His wands were of the very best quality, the craftmanship always faultless, and he used only the very best ingredients.
What he had learned over the years, however, that it was not him nor any other artist that could dictate the laws of wand creation. No, there were many creatures that would never cooperate with humans, many would that were too unyielding to be wielded, and so few combinations that would demonstrate the desired outcome.
Of course, like any other, he had experimented, and more than once, almost to his detriment.
Still, he had not been deterred but he had come to know his limits, when to push the magic just a little more, and when it was best to retreat.
Even after several decades of working with the materials he continued to gather himself, his passion remained, and nothing pleased him more than matching a customer with one of his creations.
Nonetheless, when the pale man with pale eyes and a false smile entered his shop, he felt himself immediately on edge. There was something about this man that he knew he could not trust.
“How may I help you?” Mykew asked politely on his native tongue.
“Yes, I expect you can. I seek knowledge about a particular wand, and I suspect you may be the one man who can tell me more about it.”
“A particular wand? Is it one of my creations?”
“No.”
“Then I am afraid I would be of little use. Only a crafter of a wand can truly understand it.”
“I am speaking of the elder wand,” the pale man snapped irritably.
Mykew frowned before he chuckled.
“Do you know how many have come to ask me about such a thing?” he questioned amusedly. “It is a myth, young man, just as I told the others, even the one who arrived only yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
Mykew nodded.
“He too asked about it.”
“What man?”
Mykew shrugged.
“He was like any other who asks about it. There was nothing so noteworthy about him.”
“What do you remember about him?”
Mykew frowned as he pondered the encounter. For the most part, it was hazy, but there was one thing he remembered.
“Blue eyes,” he declared. “He had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, even bluer than yours.”
The man muttered under his breath.
“You are certain? He did not have green eyes?”
Mykew shook his head.
“No, they were blue.”
He met the young man’s gaze and felt something deeply unpleasant run down his spine, a chill he could not explain, but a name came to the front of his mind as the magic withdrew.
Grindelwald.
This was the man the other had warned him about.
“It seems that you are telling the truth,” he muttered frustratedly. “There is nothing you can tell me about it?”
“Only what most others know or believe. It was crafted by Death himself, and gifted to Antioch Peverell, who was murdered in his sleep for it.”
He met the man’s gaze once more to show that he was telling the truth, and he all but stormed from the shop, slamming the door behind him and leaving a rather confused but oddly relieved Mykew Gregorovitch in his wake.
It was a strange encounter indeed, almost as strange as the one he’d had with the Peverell man the previous day.
Mykew was no fool.
He remembered who’d taken his wand, and exactly what the man had looked like, but he knew that it was in his very best interest to count his lucky stars that he yet breathed.
He’d heard of the family, researched them deeply enough to know that the last thing he wanted was one of them as an enemy.
No, he may be without the wand he’d never truly been able to understand, but he was alive and both visitors believed him to be ignorant of what either had done or sought.
That was the very best he could’ve hoped for, and now, he was hopeful that they would leave him be to continue with his work.
(Break)
His memories here were bittersweet.
After what had happened between his father and the muggles who’d attacked Ariana, the Dumbledores had relocated to Godric’s Hollow in the hope of escaping the scandal that had followed, but instead of getting a second chance at life, they had only been torn apart further.
Albus vividly remembered the fateful day that his mother had been killed, of how deeply into despair Ariana had fallen, and how she too had died shortly after.
It had haunted him so, and he’d carried the guilt with him for more years and decades than he cared to count. Not a day went by that he wasn’t plagued by what had occurred here, and yet, somehow, he was back, seeing how things may have been had certain events not come to pass.
It was strange to see his mother puttering around the kitchen, and more so his sister dep in thought as she studied a book devoted to Herbology.
Ariana had never been granted the chance at an education. Her magic had been deemed to unpredictable and volatile to risk allowing her to have a wand.
Harry had truly worked wonders here, and Albus could spend forever watching the lives that had been cut short unfold around him.
Even so, he could not forget the differences that had come from Harry’s intervention, his own young, foolish self being taken in by Gellert with nothing to deter him from the path he would inevitably find himself on.
Guilt.
Once more, he was plagued by it, only this time, it was for his mother who yet lived, and the young man who would inevitably do his utmost to remedy the errors of who Albus had once been.
Life had never been fair to Harry Potter, and it seemed that Fate was not done with him yet when it came to what she required of him.
Still, he smiled sadly as he watched his mother and sister, and Albus was somewhat at peace as he did so. Nonetheless, as beautiful as such a simple vision was, and how much comfort it brought him knowing they were in the very best of hands, it remained bittersweet.
Of course, for as long as he was here, he would help Harry as best he could for what it was he would face, but ultimately, with such little time, much of it would be down to the one already burdened with what most would deem to be an unsurmountable task ahead of him.
“Is it me or is it cold in here?” Ariana asked, her gaze coming to rest on him.
She could not see Albus, but given the curious expression she wore, there was undoubtedly a part of her that could feel his presence.
“It is a little chilly,” their mother responded.
“It’s the middle of summer.”
“Then maybe it is just something watching over us.”
Ariana nodded thoughtfully, her eyes so similar to own remaining firmly on Albus as a ghost of a smirk pulled at the corner of her lips.
“I think you might be right,” she murmured, her eyes twinkling almost amusedly.
(Break)
He inspected the wand he held, shuddering at the magic that flowed through him.
Over the course of the last year, he had felt the coldness within him growing, though it had not been as strong as it was now that he possessed the wand evidently intended for him.
It positively thrummed in anticipation of being used, at being in the hands of a Peverell once more.
“It is a thirsty mistress,” the cloaked figure spoke. “It will smite your enemies just as well as it wield any other magic you have at your fingertips. It will destroy and it will create in your hands, Peverell, and you will need it to.”
Harry nodded as he traced the engraved elder branches that climbed from the length to the tip, his finger bouncing over each circular inclusion denoting each section of the wand.
“It is your wand now, Peverell, especially now that your first will no longer recognise you. The elder wand will not share you, and the phoenix that has become your companion all these years no longer sees you as such. Soon enough, it will see you as a foe.”
Harry frowned at the ominous words.
“Fawkes will see me as an enemy?”
“You are to be at odds with his chosen.”
“But Tom…”
“Changed the very nature of his wand, corrupted it with his own magic and honed the power it possessed. Phoenixes are creatures of light, of purity, but they are not infallible or incorruptible. They are loyal and become what it is their chosen requires of them.”
“So, my wand…” Harry murmured as he drew the length of holly.
He could still feel the magic, the warmth of it, but it was not what it had once been, It did not resonate with him as it did when he first purchased it.
“You are not the same boy you were, Peverell. You have changed, your magic has changed, so much so that the wand no longer recognises you.”
“But the elder wand does?”
“In magic, mind, body, and soul. It is yours and yours alone to wield.”
Harry nodded and though he was saddened by the loss of his first wand, he understood.
He wasn’t the same person he’d been when it had chosen him, and if what he expected to come in the coming years was to be so, he might just need all the help he could get if he was to find himself against not only Voldemort, but Grindelwald and Dumbledore too.