Sitra Ahra

Fifth Movement: A Blaze at Dawn

It was the song that started it all.

He had been adrift in an endless abyss, completely incapable of coherent thought. Pain was the only definition of the world, mercilessly crushing and obliterating any attempts to find a center. Without intervention, he could have laid there forever, losing his thoughts as soon as they formed, under a scorched sky.

The song changed it all. The slow, beautiful trills banished the tide of pain, allowed for him to reclaim his sense of self. The burned and blistered wastelands began to recede, to be replaced by the greenery that Harry once thought gone forever. It was the sight of green, the color usually associated with life, which planted the seed of hope. Maybe, after all this, everything would turn out alright.

The song wasn’t merely content to restore the greenery, thankfully. From the skeletal, blackened remains of the house, it began to mend itself. Like a plant flowering forth from the ashes of a brushfire, the house began to slowly materialize. Hallways, rooms, windows all began to grow, right before his eyes, expanding towards its former shape. As quickly as it had begun, it stopped, almost as if it had been completely reformed within the space of a moment.

The cornerstone of his mind rebuilt, Harry took off running towards the front door of the house. He threw the door open, to the foyer that had become familiar to him. Like a child returning home from school, he rushed into the living room, and turned on the TV. Instead of the live feed to reality he had been expecting, the thick screen remained dark.

He scrambled toward the CD player, his aural link, tearing the headphones from the jack on the stereo. He frantically pressed the disc change button, only to have the selector skip over the fifth disk, as if it didn’t exist. With growing fear, he sprinted into the kitchen, and threw open the stove, only to be greeted by a complete lack of sensory information.

His suspicions were confirmed. He was cut off from the world.

It seemed safe to assume that he wasn’t in danger of being possessed anymore, as his senses weren’t even being used. However, he hadn’t the faintest idea where that left him. Was he in a coma, wasting away in some hospital? Had Voldemort’s final revenge been to trap him in his mind forever, a prisoner within his own thoughts?

He could have easily breached the shields around his mind, and regained control, but trepidation stilled his hand. He was reasonably certain that there had been a long stretch of time where his possessor had successfully kept him sedated. Who knew how long he had been suppressed? Even worse, though, was the thought of the horrible things he may have done. He suspected the images his mind showed him, of a young woman being brutally killed, were more than a dream. If he were to wake up, would he be charged as a murderer? Was his possession even provable?

 

So instead of testing the limits of his mind, he paced ceaselessly through the halls of the house, the omnipotent song dulling his anguish somewhat, and keeping the worst of his demons from terrorizing him. Apart from a vague sadness whenever he entered the library or the kitchen, he had no memories of this place. Had it been his childhood home?

The key to everything, he knew, was contained within the vault in the basement. For hours on end he would turn the dial on the combination lock, always without luck. When he grew frustrated with the guessing game, he would bang his fists against the cold, indifferent steel of the door, his eyes growing damp with agonized frustration.

Harry could follow the logic of the situation quite clearly. Obviously, whatever memories his mind had contained were far too volatile for Voldemort to get a hold of. Any hints he left behind as to the actual combination, would have to have been hidden extremely well, lest they fall into hands of the evil entity. That is, if there were any clues at all. Perhaps his past self hadn’t left any.

The pursuit of knowledge, of clues, left the house looking as if a tornado had raged through it. It could have been days, it could have been hours, but eventually a moment arrived where Harry just gave up, all hope of discovering the combination gone.

He had no past, no previous experience to color his world. He couldn’t help but wonder if it would have been better to just let Voldemort have the memories that once held free residence within his mind. Perhaps the evil man would have used his knowledge to wreak terrible things, but at least he’d have a sense of self, an identity.

Yet through all his moments of self-doubt and despair, the song always remained. The more he listened to it, the more he thought that it was not just a song of healing. Though no parts were comprehensible, it seemed to speak to a corner of his soul that was beyond mortal language. It was almost magnetic, as if imploring him to leave the empty comfort and security of his mind, and venture back out into reality.

Indeed, why shouldn’t he go back? There’s obviously not much left in this place for him. Currently, it was less a house and more an empty tomb. At the very least, the song appeared to have restored his broken mind. Would a song this beautiful, capable of such good, truly lead him astray?

When put that simply, it sealed the decision for him. Each successive step, as he moved toward the shimmering, permeable shield that enclosed his mind, seemed heavier than the last. A few steps from the border between realities, it felt as if he were wading through cement.

He took one look back towards the large house. He expected to feel a pang of nostalgia, but there was nothing, no longer had he any memories to anchor to it, as his oldest memories involved being picked up by a police officer. If he hadn’t been already dedicated to his current course of action, his final glance drove the truth home, showing his reluctance to leave as being purely a reaction to the consequences he may face when back in the real world. There was nothing left for him here.

Harry faced the opaque blue shield, with his face set in determination. With only the slightest bit of trepidation, he stepped through the blue shield, and exited the confines of his mind.

Harry faced the opaque blue shield, with his face set in determination. With only the slightest bit of trepidation, he stepped through the blue shield. His body was met with minimal resistance as it passed through the shining luminescence. He felt a sudden urge to take one last glance back, but feared that it would kill his nerve.

Beyond the confines of his mind lay an expanse of infinite darkness, stretching out in all directions. He strained his eyes, and looked for the exit, his pupils dilating to pin pricks. At last, he finally saw it, a small sliver of light, which looked as if it were a million miles away.

His destination found, he began to float towards it, the cold breath of infinity brushing against him as he moved. As he moved closer, the sliver of light grew slightly bigger, and began to develop its own magnetism. Before he could take another breath, the attraction grew ten-fold, hurling him even more carelessly, he sped toward the growing light.

He pulled in air to scream, but found the oxygen ripped from his lungs by the ever-increasing velocity. The light battered as his pupils as the light enveloped his entire vision. A silent scream frozen upon his lips, his world exploded as he collided with the rift.  

-

Out of the many possible scenarios that Harry’s fear had conjured during his indeterminate incarceration, the one that greeted his senses was one he hadn’t envisioned.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt such vast comfort before. The bed he lay on was soft enough to make him feel weightless, but firm enough to keep him from sinking. He thought it was probably magically enhanced, as the comfort level seemed to be the alchemists’ answer to bedding.

The same song that healed his mind, and had convinced him to take leave of his mind, continued to trill. Upon opening his eyes, he was met by the sight of the song’s source.

It was a large bird, roughly the same size as a swan. Its plumage was a deep crimson, with a gold-feathered tail that hung far below its body. Sharp, golden talons grasped the bird perch nestled right next to the window, where the strange bird regarded him with dark eyes shining bright with intelligence.

Phoenix?, Harry thought to himself, slightly shocked. He thought for a moment, before the probable truth arrived, putting his mind at ease.

He hadn’t seen much of it during their fight at the orphanage, but he vaguely recalled a phoenix assisting Dumbledore, and absorbing a killing curse meant for a child. If it was allowed to heal his mind, then his expectation of facing an inquisition upon his awakening were false.

Feeling slightly foolish, Harry addressed the phoenix.

“Thanks for the help.”

The bright bird seemed to be satisfied at Harry’s show of gratitude. He wasn’t exactly surprised it understood him, considering all that it seemed to be capable of. It gave out a short, final trill, which Harry interpreted as “you’re welcome”, before disappearing in a flash of flames.

Its abrupt departure startled him initially, but he recovered quickly, and began to take inventory of the room. It was rather spacious, lit by the sunlight filtering in through two large, open windows to his right. With the phoenix song gone, he could hear the crashing of waves coming in through the window, as well as the light smell of sea salt.

The room was constructed from almost seamless white masonry, which gave the room a serene, calming atmosphere. The only dark counterpoint to the white walls was the wooden framing of the windows and doors, as well as the furniture. They were composed of a dark wood that was polished to flawlessness, and practically shone under the sun’s rays.

While it seemed a crime to abandon such comfortable bedding, Harry gingerly began to do so. The pain in his extremities wasn’t as extreme as he had been anticipating, with only stiffness and minor discomfort as opposed to the tsunami of agony he expected. Either he hadn’t been comatose for a great deal of time, or whoever had cared for him had been meticulous in their efforts.

It would have been more prudent to stay in bed, to succumb to the invisible fingers pulling his eyelids downward, but ultimately his decision was without debate. To just lay back would be concession of sorts, a defeat of his will. The very thought was abhorrent, though he couldn't accurately describe why.

 

For lack of a better destination, he cautiously made his way to the open window. The brine grew stronger in his nostrils as he approached, the roar of the waves louder. Upon reaching it, he reached out to the windowsill and steadied himself, labored breaths shuddering his frame, head down.

As his strength and wind returned, he brought his head up and beheld the sight before him. His room was nestled right up against the water front, with waves crashing against the cliffs walls that his room was perched against. The room faced westward, giving him a view of the setting sun. All that remained of it was an orange half-circle peeking over the edge of the horizon, throwing the ocean into brilliant reds and oranges.

Harry had no inkling of where he might be, but two things were very clear to him. First, it seemed safe to assume that they didn’t mean him harm, but what was their motivation for taking care of him? What favor would they be looking for in return?

Well, whoever they are, you’re not going to gain anything by being confrontational. Listen, wait, observe. Be pleasant, polite, but don’t volunteer anything you don’t have to. Whatever motivations these people have, will reveal themselves if you’re patient.

Secondly, the view certainly did not suck. In fact, he was of the firm belief he’d never seen anything as beautiful before.

So enthralled was Harry by the sunset that he barely heard the knocking upon his door, and discarded it as irrelevant. He was shaken from the sight when the knocking began, more heavily than before, but at a slow, even tempo, free from any authorative quality.

The sudden disappearance of the phoenix now made slightly more sense. It probably alerted the owners of the home of his new found consciousness. With slight unease, he awkwardly hobbled away from the windowsill, and threw on the pajama tops that were draped across the chair next to the window. If he was going to meet the people responsible for his care, he should probably be dressed.

He ignored the growing cramps in his legs and made his way to the door. He composed himself with a deep breath before opening it.

In the doorway stood an older man and woman, which Harry assumed to be husband and wife. They both had white hair, but their faces were devoid of the heavy folds and creases that typically accompanied old age. They both had slightly anxious looks upon their face, which was a pale reflection of the deep awkwardness Harry felt.

What am I supposed to say to these people? Harry thought to himself, at a loss as to how to proceed.

You should probably act grateful, but slightly disoriented. That’s probably what their expecting.

He was saved by the woman, who broke the short silence first.

"Harry, it is good to see you that have awoken. How are you feeling?"

Her voice was warm, caring, of genuine concern. He felt himself began to relax at her words, began to hope that perhaps they weren't part of any greater agenda. Perhaps he should show some gratitude.

"I'm feeling okay," he answered, "much better than expected. Thanks for looking out for me."

The woman smiled brightly at his thanks, as did her husband, albeit in a far more restrained manner.

"It was our pleasure, Harry. My name is Perenelle Flamel."

She moved forward after her statement, hand extended. Harry took it lightly and pumped it once.

"And this is my husband, Nicolas."

The man, only slightly taller than his wife, stepped forward and shook hands with him. His grip was strong, firm, not betraying any signs of age.

"Good to finally meet you, Harry. Both myself and my wife have been taking care of your recovery. Dumbledore asked us to, since his Hogwarts responsibilities do not give him much time to properly care for someone."

At the mention of Dumbledore's name, he panicked, and brought his left hand up to his face. The fear in his eyes departed upon seeing all of his digits were bereft of jewelry, and he let out a sigh of relief. He had completely forgotten about the ring, but her mention of Dumbledore had brought the cursed object to the forefront of his awareness.

Perenelle's hand found his shoulder, and began to rub it softly.

"That evil ring is never going to hurt you again, I promise."

Harry nodded in response. He wasn't exactly fond of the contact, but could appreciate the gesture for what it was, an attempt to reassure and comfort him.

It was Nicolas that spoke up next.

"Our residence is far away from the scrutiny of the public eye, and no one is going to bother you here. We just want to provide a calm, quiet place to overcome your ordeal."

He found himself more assured by Nicolas' words. The prospect of staying out of the public's notice appealed to him.

"Thanks."

"Once again, it is our pleasure. I'm sure Fawkes has by now alerted Dumbledore to your awakening, and he will want to meet you."

"Only, of course, once you're ready." Perenelle hastened to add.

Harry wasn't exactly surprised at her protectiveness, probably her maternal instinct kicking in.

"I want to meet him as soon as I can. If he didn't come to the orphanage...." Harry trailed off, playing up the moment slightly. He was grateful for the care he had been given, but more than anything he wanted to thank the man that had set him free personally.

Perenelle's expression saddened at Harry's implication.

"I understand, Harry."

The cramps ratcheted up their discomfort to a new level after her words, causing him to stumble slightly, with a grimace of pain upon his face.

The two Flamels moved to help him, but Harry waved them off, a slight smile upon his face.

"Thanks, but I can do this myself."

Perenelle looked ready to object, but Nicolas placed his hand upon her shoulder, and squeezed slightly. He saw that he didn't look pleased by her husband's gesture, but said nothing as he turned and hobbled back to the bed.

As the bed approached, he felt the exertion of his movements catch up with him. He could barely keep his eyes open as he collapsed upon the bed, facedown. In spite of the fatigue washing over him, he rolled over, and beheld the Flamels.

He didn't have that great of a read on them, but it certainly appeared they genuinely wanted to help him, and he would be foolish to turn away help at this point in time.

"Thank you both, for looking out after me." Harry said, his words fading out at the end, sleep close to claiming him.

"Once again, Harry, it is our pleasure," Nicholas spoke, "You are mostly healed, but you still need your rest. We will see you in the morning."

The last thing he heard before slumber took him away was Perenelle's voice.

"Pleasant dreams, Harry."

-

The next time Harry awoke, it was to night. He rolled over, attempting to find a more comfortable position better suited for a descent into slumber, but as if a switch had been turned, he found himself devoid of all will to sleep.

He gave it a valiant effort, but after what seemed like an hour of shutting his eyes, he conceded that there would be no more sleep for tonight. It was more than simply not being tired, however. Deep within the recesses of his mind, he felt something like an itch, almost like a compulsion. It spoke of wasting time, clamoring to do something a bit more productive than lay about in bed.

Strange as the feeling was, he certainly couldn’t argue with it. Sleep was no closer than it had been upon waking up. Conceding defeat, he mentally prepared himself to rise, knowing full-well it was going to be unpleasant.  

Gingerly, grimacing in anticipation of the accompanying aches, he stretched out. The pains never came to pass, he was surprised to note. Still somewhat leery, he brushed the covers aside, but still felt no hint of the discomfort he had felt earlier.

Throwing caution to the wind, in one swift movement he leaped off the bed, landing cat-like on all fours upon the hardwood floor. It appeared that the Flamels, armed with certain knowledge he’d awaken, had eased his pains.   

Harry was pleased to note that his journey to the window was far less arduous than his one several hours previous, completely free of pain or hardship. With leg movement being far less of an issue to him, and the windowsill being very wide, he sat down upon it, and swung his legs over. His feet dangled off into a black abyss, as the sea wind batted lightly at his pajamas.

Within his mind, the sun had never set. It was like a virtual photograph, very detailed but ultimately unchanging. The thousands of pinpricks of light in the dark, clear sky above was his first glimpse of the night sky in months. It soothed him more than he could ever hope to articulate, brought to him a deep sense of relief. He was truly safe now, and actually had the opportunity to sort through his own thoughts, figure things out.

It was clear to him that his past was currently a complete loss. That was out of his hands, as seemed to be the combination to his secret memories. So then, what could he recall?

There were vague memories of being picked up by a police officer, but he couldn’t name the location, or anything particular. It made sense that he would have been picked up close to his relatives, or whomever he had been staying with, but luck wasn’t on his side. If the police, with their vast networking capabilities, hadn’t been able to locate where he had come from, then he didn’t like his chances. A voice from deep within his mind chose that moment to speak up.

Unless it had been hidden from muggle eyes…

That did make sense, or at least was plausible. It was probably his best chance, considering that afterwards, he had been sent to the orphanage. No, if there was a link to his past, it was when he arrived in this world, at the exact point his memories started again.

What about the ring?

The ring really bothered him. Who would have a vendetta against a ten-year old? Someone capable of finding such a powerful object, capable of such evil, would have probably needed vast power themselves to keep from being destroyed by the ring. What had he done to attract such deadly attention?

Dumbledore’s probably doing his best to track down the ring himself. Focus more on the present.

Fine, then. All signs pointed to him staying with the Flamels for a long time. He didn’t have a great deal of experience with the couple to really know them well, but his first impressions were favorable. Their concern for him did seem genuine, or at the very least they were good at faking it. It probably wasn’t a stretch to assume Nicolas, Perenelle and Dumbledore were old friends.

Judging by the apparent location of the manor, and its size, the Flamels were certainly not wanting for wealth, so he scratched financial considerations from the list. Most likely it was a favor for Dumbledore, as the Headmaster would appear to have too many things going on to care for him.

Who was he kidding? Dumbledore had earned his complete and utter trust. If Dumbledore trusted the Flamels enough to leave him under their care, then they must be alright. He would give them the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.

It’s settled. What about your past?

He hadn’t any idea how long he had been under, but thought it safe to say that a great number of people had contributed to his recovery, specialists of all types. With the damage he remembered sustained from his fight with Dumbledore, it was a certainty. If he were to let on that his past was a complete mystery, the Flamels may conjure mental specialists.

This was something Harry had no intention of letting happen. No one was messing around with his head. Whatever his past had hid, it was something that was so dangerous, or volatile that he had purposefully destroyed his sense of past. Voldemort himself had been inside his mind, and the locked vault had withstood his most violent assaults, but had been rushed in his efforts. If Voldemort had more time, Harry thought it safe to assume he may find a way through. He had little doubt a mental specialist would do the same.

As much as Harry was curious about his past, he understood the magnitude of the sacrifice that had been made. By letting someone else force their way in, he would be negating his own choice and letting loose whatever hid in his mind. For now, he would just have to deal with it. Besides, he had certainly had his fill of uninvited guests in his mind for the year.

So where does that leave you?

His best option was probably to stall. If asked, he could always claim the memories of his past were too painful to recall. If he could buy enough time, he could show the Flamels, or anyone else for that matter, that he was more than capable of functioning without assistance. With enough time, he could probably come up with a plausible explanation that would hold up to light scrutiny.

In his ponderings, night shifted into day, the black sea slowly brightening to deep blue. He expected one of the Flamels might be up to check on him, so he moved from the windowsill, and over to the closet. Upon opening the door, he was greeted by what appeared to be the entire color spectrum, in robe form.

Not feeling particularly vibrant or flamboyant, he withdrew a robe of deep navy. It fit quite nicely, which wasn’t all that surprising. It seemed more than safe to assume that his apparently wealthy benefactors had taken his measurements while he was under, preparing for his eventual awakening. And, judging by the eye-wateringly blinding colors of some of the garments, should he wake up one morning with the urge to wreak vengeance upon the collective sight of the world.

After getting dressed, he was tempted to go out and explore, but decided against it. A person his age who was roaming the property this early was one that was having trouble sleeping, which would prompt questions. If he were to at least maintain a veneer of everything being fine, perhaps that would cause less questions to be asked.

The room was at a severe loss for means of entertainment, so again he returned to the window, watching as the sun slowly ascended from the east, setting the crashing waves alight in a blaze of gold.

Harry thought it quite appropriate. His old life has been scorched away by the evil that had been contained within the rain. Breathing deeply of the night air, Harry began to feel a sense of renewal. He may not have been reborn from ashes, but he had secured a second chance. He had survived a madman's attempt to annihilate his very being. He was still here.

His musings were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. He gracefully leapt backwards off the windowsill, and opened the door before the second rap fell upon it. Perenelle stood beyond the threshold, her hand frozen half-way through the motion of a second knock, a smile creeping upon her face.

“Good morning, Harry. Did you happen to be waiting by the door for me?”

Harry himself smiled slightly in response, before replying.

“No, I was by the window, looking at the sunrise. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She nodded.

“It certainly is a sight to behold. Judging your quick movements, it seems that you are feeling a lot better than last night. Are you feeling faint or dizzy at all?”

“No,” Harry replied, shaking his head. “Whatever you gave me after I fell asleep made all the aches go away.”

“Wonderful! The young usually are resistant to the side-effects of healing potions, and it appears you are no different.”

“Mrs. Flamel, thanks for everything, I really appreciate it,” Harry spoke, trying to inject the sincerity he felt into his voice.

Oddly, she looked both humbled and embarrassed by his thanks.

“Harry, it was our pleasure to help you. You have certainly had a rough time of it, and we just want to provide a nice place for you to heal, relax, and get away from the insanity of the real world. All that I will ever ask of you in return is that you never refer to me as ‘Mrs. Flamel’ again.”

He gave her a reassuring smile at her declaration. “That sounds fair to me.”

Perenelle nodded.

“Now that the matter of my name has been settled, would you care for some breakfast?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically in response. When had he last eaten solid food? He couldn’t even remember.

He followed her out of the room, into a hallway constructed from the same white masonry that his room had been. Small wooden tables lay halfway between each door, each with a different ornate lamp upon them, while the floor appeared to be carved from marble.

Perenelle slowed so that he could walk beside her, and she began to talk.

“This is the guest wing of the house. The room you were in was only temporary. Now that you are awake, we will move you to a larger, better room.”

Harry didn’t see what was so bad about the room he had just left, but didn’t really mind either way, so he just nodded in response.

The hallway opened out onto the second floor of a grand hall, comprised mostly of the familiar white masonry. Alcoves placed all over the hall alternated between ornate marble statues and carvings, with the occasional elaborate skylight on the upper alcoves. He stopped walking, unwilling to spend any mental energy on anything aside from trying to take in the architectural marvels.

Perenelle’s light chuckle pulled him away from his visual inspection, where she was looking at him with humor in her eyes.

“The Flamels have traditionally been a very ostentatious family. My husband and I like to think us above such bourgeois lifestyles, but then again we are rather attached to the place.”

He nodded as she began to descend the staircase, which curved to the left, at a gradual ninety-degree angle, to join the main staircase in the center of the hall. Harry followed, his bare feet barely making a sound upon the spotless floor.

At the bottom of the stairs she took a right, and passed through a wide set of oak double doors, which were propped open. Within was a long dining table comprised of a dark wood, with a capacity of perhaps fifty people. Portraits lined the right side of the room, with wide windows on the other side, ornamental ironwork set into them.

“Using this table would be a bit much for our current dining needs,” Perenelle stated, passing the gargantuan table without a second glance. She passed through the closed double doors at the other end of the room, into a large kitchen, white marble countertops gleaming in the sun. To the left of the cooking area was a small wooden table, where Nicolas sat, the Daily Prophet opened wide, a slight look of disgust upon his face.

At the sound of the approaching footsteps, his expression brightened. He closed and folded the paper up, and tossed it to the floor.

“Good morning Harry,” Nicolas greeted, “I trust that you’re feeling much better today?”

“Much better,” Harry assured, “whatever you gave me last night worked wonders.”

Nicolas smiled fondly at Harry’s words.

“I should hope so, young man. It would be quite embarrassing to have word get out that I was losing my touch.”

Perenelle rolled her eyes at her husband’s words, but Harry found himself intrigued.

“You made those yourself, sir?”

“Indeed I did,” Nicolas stated, “while I could have bought them, no self-respecting Potion Master would purchase that which they can brew themselves. However, we can speak of that later. I assume that right now, breakfast is your number one priority.”

Harry nodded quickly in agreement, with his stomach fully giving its approval.

“Have a seat then, we will take care of everything else.”

He didn’t exactly feel comfortable with being waited on, but figured at this juncture it would be rude to speak up, so he took the seat to the right of Nicolas at the square table. Just as Perenelle took her seat to his left, breakfast appeared on the table, which caused Harry to flinch back in surprise.

“I am deeply sorry, Harry, we should have given you some sort of warning,” Perenelle apologized.

Harry, feeling slightly embarrassed, shook his head. “It’s okay, it just surprised me a little. Besides, I would be an idiot to complain about breakfast appearing before me, with no wait time.”

Both of the Flamels smiled at him.

“Well, in that case, Harry, don’t wait for us. Do your worst.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

-

Harry never knew gluttony could feel so good. His stomach full, he reclined against the chair, wondering how much effort it would take to tailor his robes to accommodate his expanded waistline.

“Well, Harry, you seem to have enjoyed your first real meal here.” Perenelle mused.

He nodded in agreement, as even speaking required effort.

“I know that you have certainly stuffed yourself,” Nicolas spoke, “but I was about to head out to my Potions lab. Would you be interested in seeing it?”

His body immediately protested, insisting that he do nothing but lay around the entire day. However, his mind had other ideas, and was a cruel dictator, leading him to nod in response.

“Wonderful. Are you ready now, or do you need time to recuperate?”

Harry’s affirmative response was once forged from pure will. He rose slowly, feeling the full weight of the eggs, kippers, sausages, fruit and juice ingested earlier. Attempting to be polite, he started to clear the table, before Perenelle placed a hand upon his arm.

“Thank you for the consideration, Harry, but it is already taken care of. Have fun with Nicolas, I will see you later today.” She rounded upon Nicolas, a playful smile upon her face.

“Take good care of this one, he is not expendable, unlike most of our guests.”

Nicolas laughed at her jest.

“If you insist, milady, no harm shall befall this young soul.”

With that, Nicolas began walking back the way they had come, prompting him to follow. They emerged out into the main hall, and crossed the wide expanse, to a magnificently carved double door, that he assumed served as the main entrance. Nicolas paused before opening the doors, and regarded him.

“We could have just gone out the side-door in the kitchen, but I thought you might want a glimpse of the grounds.”

“Yeah, I’m curious to see how big this place really is,” Harry replied.

At his assertion, Nicolas pushed open the doors. Beyond lay an area roughly the size of three football fields, stacked side by side. A wide lane of white gravel stretched out directly in front of them, graded to an almost unnatural flatness, with stone walls on either side. On the other side of the stone walls was lush greenery, the likes of which Harry had never been privy too, not even in picture format. Every color of the rainbow was represented a hundred times over by the various flowers and plants, many of which he assumed could only be magical in nature. He doubted that Eden itself could have done any better.

“Makes for an impressive sight, does it not?” Nicolas asked rhetorically.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Harry said quietly, his eyes still trying to drink in all that lay before him. Glancing to the side, he saw that the greenery extended all the way to the edge of house, before ending in a high stone wall.

“I do not possess much of a flair for herbology, but my wife is quite the prodigy with regards to it. With the help of the house-elf, she maintains the front, and her own greenhouse.”

Harry followed Nicolas’ gaze, which went to a large glass structure about halfway between them and the edge of the property. Directly across from it, on the other side of the lane, was a smaller, more compact building, partially buried in the ground.

Nicolas began walking, maintaining his dialogue with Harry.

“How much do you know about potions?”

Harry thought for a moment, letting the moment linger. He felt bad about deceiving these two people, who had treated him with kindness. Sadly, he had to protect the secret of his past at all costs.

He had some knowledge of them, but couldn’t recall where he had learned about them. Most likely he had learned about them in his previous life.

“Not much. Perenelle mentioned them, and how they helped my healing. Are they medicines?”

“You do not miss much, do you Harry?” Nicolas asked, giving him an encouraging smile.

“I guess not.” Harry replied quietly. He couldn’t describe why, but praise made him slightly uncomfortable.

“Medicine is one of the many things that you can create with potions. I have spent a great deal of my life making potions, experimenting with them. In my time, I have actually achieved my fair share of notoriety with my exploits, but that is a story for another day.”

Nicolas abruptly stopped, surprising Harry. Glancing to his right, he saw that there was a walkway that led from the main path, which cut its way through a copse of high, dense shrubbery. The path led to a solid-looking, black iron door.

“We do not exactly anticipate potential thieves finding our home, but in the event that they do, there are security measures in place.”

Nicolas regarded Harry, adopting a serious expression for perhaps the first time since meeting him.

“I do not mean to frighten you Harry, but some of the measures I have in place here are…unpleasant. I manually disable them in the morning, but activate them every time I leave my lab for an extended period of time. It is very important that you never venture out here without me. Are we clear?”

Harry nodded, before seeing how obviously inadequate the gesture was.

“I understand. I’ll never come out here by myself.”

Nicolas nodded, apparently satisfied. He withdrew a large key, which seemed to match the door. He placed it into the lock, and let both of them in.

Harry’s first impression was of a mad-scientists lair, the type that he sometimes saw on TV during his infrequent trips to the living room during his time in London. The centerpiece of the room was a large wooden counter, upon which lay countless vials, beakers and other glass apparatus he had never seen before. Pushed against the far wall were a row of columns, all of different sizes and compositions.

“Welcome to my potions lab, or as my wife refers to it, ‘The Bunker’. Please, have a seat.”

He motioned to a tall wooden stool, which Harry, after a bit of a struggle due to the height challenge, placed himself upon. Nicolas leaned against a chalkboard on the wall and began to speak.

“As I mentioned before, I am a Potions Master. It’s a rather prestigious title, which only seven people in all of Britain possess. It also has several ceremonial aspects to it, which they have since given up trying to force me to attend.”

Harry couldn’t help but ponder why any of this mattered.

Nicolas seemed to infer what he was thinking, and chuckled.

“I gave my background not to impress you, Harry, but to establish that I do indeed know exactly what I am talking about, even if my ideas might be slightly…counter-intuitive, I suppose.”

Harry thought for a second before replying.

“I guess that makes sense, but why wouldn’t I believe you?”

“Too true, Harry. I suppose that I would expect you to be at least somewhat skeptical with me, being that you’ve really only known me for less than twenty-four hours.”

Harry shrugged, while internally he smiled slightly.

Am I really that obvious?

“You were the people that brought me back from….well,” his voice dropped an octave, before continuing, “a very dark place.” He waited for a second, trying to come up with the right words, that would potentially put Nicolas’ mind at ease, and cement the appearance that he would always be honest with the man.

“So far, in ten years…not a lot of good things have happened to me. Almost everything that happens to me…it just goes bad. What happened at the orphanage, well, it was like…losing all hope. I mean…I didn’t think I was ever coming back from that.

But, I did. And both you and your wife helped me through that. To me, if you can’t trust the two people who saved your life…who can you trust?”

At the end of his monologue, he noticed Nicolas’ eyes grow slightly misty, which drove guilt into his heart. While what he said was essentially true, it had been played up slightly for dramatic effect. At that moment, there was nothing more in the world he hated more than his responsibility to protect the contents of his mind.

“Well spoken, Harry,” Nicolas stated, his voice quavering slightly, “I can only hope to build upon that trust, to prove to you that we will always be there for you, regardless of circumstance.”

“Thank you.” Harry spoke, quietly.

Both were silent for a short while, before Nicolas regained his earlier train of thought.

“I know that you are relatively new to the Wizarding world. If you are at all interested, I can teach you a great deal about it, so that by the time you are ready to attend Hogwarts, you will be more comfortable among magical society.”

Hogwarts? Harry thought to himself, his brow contracting in thought. The name sounds familiar. Wasn’t that the school that Dumbledore taught at?

Nicolas chuckled lightly at his confused response, his eyes now clear.

“Sorry, I intended to introduce you to this world’s concepts slowly, and already I am getting ahead of myself. Hogwarts is Britain’s school for magical children, considered by most to be the finest school of magic in Europe. Albus Dumbledore is its Headmaster, and many, myself included, believe him to be the finest one who has ever presided over the school in its long history.”

That would explain why he wants to teach me about the wizarding world.

“Does everyone have a chance to go?”

“Yes, of course. The British magical government has a method for tracking all witches and wizards, regardless of heritage. All magical children, upon turning eleven, receive letters inviting them to attend Hogwarts. Your mother, Lily, was one of those children who received a letter, who up to that point never knew they were magical.”

Harry supposed that made sense. If the government had a way to track magic, perhaps that was why they had sent an agent to investigate him at the orphanage.

“It must be really hard for them to adjust to the magical world.”

Nicolas shook his head slightly in response.

“When a person is immersed in magic continuously, it becomes almost second nature. While it may not seem to at first, the transition is usually very quick. Keep in mind, they are using magic on an almost hourly basis. Under those conditions, it is a lot easier than you would think.”

“Oh, I guess that makes sense,” Harry agreed, nodding. “I assume that potions is one of the subjects taught there?”

“Right you are, Harry,” Nicolas replied, favoring him with a look approval. “It is usually the easiest class for muggleborns to get a grasp of, since for the first few years it is little more than following instructions, and doesn’t require much, if any magic to be used.”

Harry tilted his head to the side, slightly confused.

“I don’t get it. That sounds really simple, like reading a cookbook. Why wouldn’t everyone get through it easy?”

Nicolas chuckled.

“A reasonable assumption, but it often taxes the mind when you consider how often people struggle to follow simple instructions. Beyond that, though, the first few years are intended for a student to become familiar with the ingredients, and their interactions with the world. As potions become more complicated, instructions won’t do much good, as skill with recognizing where adjustments need to be made become far more important. Admittedly, the majority of the early work comes not from the brewing, but from writing essays on the various materials common to potions.”

Harry made a face at the mention of essays, as he considered it nothing more than busy work, prompting an understanding grin from Nicolas.

“I know the essay aspect seems rather pointless, but it will get you more familiar with the properties and nuances of ingredients, which is hugely important.”

Harry sighed dramatically.

“I guess that makes sense, as painful as it sounds. What else are potions good for, besides medicine?”

At his question, Nicolas’ eyes developed an excited shine to them.

“The usefulness of potions is practically limitless. Aside from the vast array of medicinal uses, there is a potion that allows for the user to take the shape of any person, called Polyjuice. Strengthening solutions make objects far more resistant to damage. Explosive and corrosive potions have long been used in battle. There is a potion, Felix Felicis, which makes the user extremely lucky for a period of time. Harry, there is even a potion that can prevent death.”

Harry couldn’t help but find himself impressed, the potential use for them being far more expansive that he had originally thought.

“I have been experimenting with potions for a very, very long time, and I still have not reached the point where there is nothing left to discover, or where I have grown bored with them. There is always something new to discover, to unearth. So, have I convinced you of the usefulness of potions, Harry?”

He let out a small laugh. Nicolas’ enthusiasm for the subject had been evident, and somewhat contagious. However, he was more curious about the other topics covered at Hogwarts.

“Yeah, it sounds like it could be really useful. What other subjects are taught at Hogwarts?”

“Well, first years, as you will be next year, only have eight classes to worry about.”

Nicolas held out one finger.

“Well, first off is a class called Potions. Have I mentioned that one yet?”

Harry let out a wide grin at his statement.

“Yeah, I think you said a few words about it.”

“Excellent,” Nicolas replied, holding out another finger, “there is Transfiguration, which is the practice of turning one object into another. It probably is the most magically intensive subject at Hogwarts, very challenging, requiring a high level of concentration and will. However, it is extremely valuable, well worth learning.”

“Third, is History of Magic. While the professor...is…” he trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

Harry had an inkling that Nicolas wasn’t exactly fond of the professor, whoever it was.

“Well, Harry, I see no reason to be discrete with you. Quite frankly, the professor is absolutely terrible. The material is useful, especially to someone like yourself, still relatively new to the Wizarding world, but its presentation leaves, much, much to be desired.”

Harry nodded. He had found that, taken as a whole, interest in material was directly proportional to the teacher’s presentation.

Nicolas leaned forward, and his voice adopted a conspiratal whisper.

“Please do not tell Perenelle, but we have a fine library at our estate. I can recommend you a few books, just read those and you will never have to pay attention in class.”

Harry chuckled, quite fond of the idea.  

“Next is Charms, which is the practice of using spells that affects how an object corresponds to the world.”

Following the statement, Nicolas was silent for a second.

“That was an absolutely horrible explanation, was it not?”

Harry laughed in agreement, prompting a slightly embarrassed smile from Nicolas.

“Well, Charms is rather difficult to categorize, as at many points it intersects with Defense Against the Dark Arts. In both classes you use spells, but the Defense class will mostly deal with spells that have very clear offensive or defensive applications, while Charms would teach a student spells that would affect objects, like how to make them float, or how to make them lighter or heavier. Does that make more sense?”

Harry nodded.

“It was a lot better than the first one. What’s Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

He stuck out his thumb, leaving him without any spare fingers on the hand.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts is a topic even broader than that of Charms. Usually, the material is entirely at the discretion of the professor, who…as of late, seems to change with alarming regularity. Nonetheless, in general it deals with, as stated before, offensive and defensive spells. It also deals with Dark creatures, and a variety of other topics.”

Harry found himself intrigued. It certainly didn’t appear that Hogwarts taught the Dark Arts. What were they really?

“Sir, what exactly is the Dark Arts?”

Nicolas was silent for a second, which led Harry to believe he was choosing his words carefully.

“With regards to the magic in general, there is a spectrum. Most spells are neutrally aligned, bearing no allegiance to either Dark or Light. However, the Dark Arts are something entirely different.”

Harry leaned forward. He couldn’t explain it, but as interesting as he found Nicolas’ explanation of Hogwarts, this intrigued him deeper.

“The Dark Arts are based entirely upon the foundation of sacrifice. To use the Dark Arts, there must be some sort of sacrifice involved. The Dark Arts can only exist through death. However, this death need not be literal, in any sense. There are a great many witches and wizards, throughout history, who have used the Dark Arts and lived virtuous lives. Their sacrifices have been minor, for instance, one wizard underwent a ritual that destroyed his ability to father children, but he gained something in return.”

“Everything has its price,” Harry whispered, more to himself than anything. He remembered hearing it somewhere, but couldn’t remember where.

“Indeed it does, Harry,” Nicolas agreed solemnly, “but often, the price is too high. For some people, this is unimportant, which is why the Dark Arts are often so feared. Some people in this world, Harry, have no limits, no morals. They care not the price, and will go to any length to accomplish their goals.”

Harry was struck by the thought of the evil reptile-shaped man who tried to destroy his mind, and how murder seemed so trivial to him.

“Like Voldemort?” Harry asked, quite sure of the answer.

“Just like him, Harry,” Nicolas states gravely, “he was about as evil as a Wizard could ever become, possibly the most vile Dark Lord in recorded history. Luckily, we had our own weapon against him…”

“Dumbledore?” Harry asked.

Nicolas favored him with a small smile.

“Exactly. As Dark, and as evil as Voldemort was, Dumbledore was his complete opposite, a Lord of the Light. Without him, the Wizarding world would have fallen into darkness. As the Dark can only exist with death, the Light can only exist with life, with purity. Those who have sacrificed a part of themselves for the Dark, will find that the Light will forever elude them.”

Quite a bit more complicated than the muggle world.

“So, it’s either one or the other?”

“Correct. The Flamels, themselves, have long been a family dedicated to the Light, as have the Dumbledores. Hogwarts really only acknowledges the Dark Arts as something to be avoided by an adolescent. Obviously, it’s a large decision, one that as a society, in general, it is believed can only be made once a person has matured to a certain degree.”

Harry thought for a second, wondering if he should ask the question on his mind, before throwing caution to the wind.

“Do you mind if I ask what made you stick to the family tradition?”

Nicolas shook his head.

“Not at all. As a wizard, I can command magic to do as I please. Without magic, I am not a wizard, so it’s an equal relationship, with no part having clear control over the other. When using Light magic, I believe that this relationship is maintained. However, with the Dark…I may be slightly biased, but it seems to disrupt that relationship. When one has to make sacrifices to gain power, it seems to be a process of becoming a slave to magic, as the Dark has been known to corrupt.”

He thought a second, before continuing.

“I do want to stress, Harry, that not everyone who uses Dark magic is evil. Far from it. You will find good people who use it, and find evil within those dedicated to the Light.”

Harry nodded, starting to get a better grasp at how some of the pillars of Wizarding society functioned.

“Thanks for sharing that with me, sir. I know it was rather personal.”

Nicolas waved it off.

“I am both proud and certain of my choices, so I have nothing to hide. Do you want to know anything else about the Dark Arts?”

There was a great deal more Harry wanted to learn about the subject, but figured he had been indulged enough for one day. If the library was expansive as he had been led to believe, he could probably find all he wanted within it.

“No, you told me all I wanted to know. Is that it for classes, or are you going to have start using your other hand to count?”

The older man chuckled slightly at his statement.

“I think that I will manage. The next one is Astronomy. I do not find it particularly useful, and cannot think of a lot of uses for it. Between you and me, I find it completely pointless.”

Harry found himself agreeing. Astronomy was fine as a hobby for some people, but he really didn’t know why it needed to be taught.

“There is also Herbology, which is my wife’s specialty. I am sure she would be more than willing to show you a thing or two within her greenhouse.”

Harry found it odd, that one of the classes was essentially gardening.

“It is useful at all, sir?” Harry asked, not really speaking his true thoughts on the matter.

“Yes, I would say so”, Nicolas replied, “at the very least with its link to Potions. Working with plants, you learn a lot about their properties, which is a huge help with regards to Potions.”

He supposed that made sense.

“It does sound kind of useful, now that you mention it.”

“Correct you are, Harry. Lastly, is Ethics. It’s a relatively new course that…” He trailed off, with a look of disgust on his face, similar to the one he wore while reading the paper during breakfast.

“Harry…tradition is an important thing. It preserves the order, the cultures of our world. Naturally, new ideas are going to occur as civilizations grow, but from necessity, not for progress’s sake.”

His eyes looked as though they were far away, as if his mind has been transported to another place, one that he hid deep within himself.

“I…I do not understand the world anymore. The natural order of the world, is that actions change the world, words and appearances are just those. But this new world, Harry, cares not for actions. It cares for appearances, for illusions. Everyone agrees that these new ideas will not work, are doomed to fail, but no one is willing to do anything about it. We edit our speech, tip-toe around one-another, and to what end, Harry?”

Harry certainly didn’t have an answer, as he didn’t even know what Nicolas was talking about. As if sensing Harry’s unease, he shook his head, casting aside the cobwebs.

“Forgive me Harry, I’m old, and liable to occasionally branch out into tangents that do not concern you. The important thing, is that Hogwarts, a school which has stood with an established system for close to a thousand years, is facing direct interference from the Ministry, the Wizarding government.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Harry said, “isn’t it the teachers who should have the final say?”

“It is, but that’s only the root of the problem. The Ministry is looking to push its politics upon young, impressionable minds, which is absolutely beyond reproach. For a thousand years, Hogwarts first-year did fine with seven core classes. Now, though, apparently that’s not good enough, the Ministry has to push its propaganda upon the young. ”

He wondered if it was a biased opinion that met his ears or something closer to the truth.

“You don’t have to worry about me, sir. I try to question everything that I’m taught. They won’t be able to brainwash me!”

The tired look in Nicolas’ eyes faded as he laughed.

“No, I suppose not. Shall we move back to far more pleasant topics, such as Potions?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Most excellent. I think I am going to start you off with a simple Potion, which is often the first one taught at Hogwarts. Some might say I’m giving you an unfair advantage, but I just say that I am giving an under-privileged child a chance to succeed. Sound good to you?” Nicolas finished, a sly smile upon his face.

Harry nodded enthusiastically. He had absolutely no qualms about getting a head start, and learning to actually do things commonplace to the Wizarding world.

Nicolas turned behind him, to a small bookshelf located next to the chalkboard. He searched for only a moment before pulling out a thick volume, and placing it on the table next to Harry.

“This, Harry, is ‘Magical Drafts and Potions’ by Arsenius Jigger. While a great many of the introduction-level Hogwarts texts are of poor quality, this is an exception. You will not find a finer textbook for beginner Potions. Would you kindly open the book to page twenty, and tell me which potion is described?”

Harry flipped through the thick tome, noticing that the pages appeared to be simultaneously smooth, but stuck to his finger while flipping, making page turning a breeze.

I guess it’s the best of both worlds here in the Wizarding world.

“It says ‘The Boil Cure Potion’.”

“Correct you are, Harry. While its usage is quite evident by the name, it is a simple potion, with a relatively low amount of variables involved, which makes it ideal for our purposes. Tell me, what are the ingredients needed?”

The information was listed, right below the caption at the top of the page, and they looked very unpleasant.

“Dried nettles, crushed fangs, stewed horned slugs and porcupine quills. Do you have all of these…things?”

Nicolas chuckled lightly.

“Why, indeed I do. Follow me to the storeroom, and the bounty of the Boil Cure Potion shall be yours!”

Groaning slightly, he obediently jumped off the stool, and followed the Potions Master to the storeroom.

He couldn’t help but feel that the next part would be rather unpleasant.

Stewed horned slugs?

-

Within a few hours time, Harry found himself back in the Flamels’ kitchen, gorging himself on sandwiches that the house-elf had so generously provided.

“So, Harry,” Perenelle began, “what do you think of my husband’s obsession?”

Harry had to admit that he did find himself fascinated with the subject. The subtleties, the small, delicate details that made the difference between perfection and disaster. There was something calming, relaxing about focusing solely on the brewing process, that let the rest of the world just fall away.

“I like it a lot. I thought it would be like schoolwork, but I like doing magical stuff.”

Perenelle turned to her husband, a stern look upon her face, mouth pressed into a straight line.

“Well, my dearest husband, are you happy with yourself? You have converted yet another innocent soul to your particular brand of madness.”

Nicolas, not looking all that chastised, let out a wide smile.

“Milady, I could not be more pleased.”

Her façade broke at his statement, leaving the three members of the table wearing matching grins.

Just before Harry could break in with his own retort, the flurry of wings stilled his tongue. In a whirlwind of movement, a tawny owl swooped through the window, and deftly dropped a letter upon the table. It hooted once, before taking off again, out the window it had came.

The envelope left behind was completely bereft of name, prompting Harry to ask who it was from.

“I am not sure.” Nicolas answered, picking up the letter and opening it. Upon unfolding it, he spoke two words.

“Dumbledore’s reply.”

Harry froze at the words. While he wanted to meet the man and personally thank him for all that he did, he was also apprehensive, and slightly frightened. What do you say to the man that you tried to kill?

Perenelle, sensing his unease, covered his hand with her own, and gave it a light squeeze. She regarded him with a small, sad smile.

“Harry, don’t worry,” Perenelle began, “Dumbledore knows that it was not you who fought against him, but Voldemort. He holds you in very high regard for holding out against Voldemort for so long.”

Harry nodded in response, slightly uncomfortable with the contact. He didn’t know why, it was a caring gesture, but it uneased him for some reason. However, he didn’t want to make Perenelle feel as if the gesture was unappreciated, so he plastered a fake smile upon his face.

“Thank you.”

Thankfully, she released his hand at his reaction, and glanced at her husband, who was absorbed in the letter.

“What does Dumbledore have to say?”

Nicolas held up one finger, asking for another minute without looking up from the letter.

She looked rather incensed at his lack of real reply, but held her tongue, and kept her expression neutral. As the seconds wore on, he began to fidget, even though it was a childish action he felt beneath him. Why was the letter taking so long?

After what seemed like an hour to Harry, Nicolas folded the letter and handed it to his wife. He was silent for a second, and rubbed his temple slightly, before turning to Harry and addressing him.

“Harry, if you think you are ready for it, Dumbledore would like to meet you tonight, at six o’clock. Are you ready for this?”

He was silent for a second, but there really wasn’t much of a choice. There was a great deal of trepidation within his mind, but he squashed it mercilessly. Now was not the time to be skittish.

“If you think this is too soon to confront, then that is also perfectly alright.” Nicolas added, taking his momentary silence for indecision.

Harry shook his head in response. “No, I want to meet him tonight, to thank him personally.”

Nicolas nodded, then followed up, rather hesitantly.

“Dumbledore, because of the…rather unique situation the two of you experienced, he says that there are things about that day that you would prefer not to get out, and asked if it was possible that the initial meeting only be between the two of you. Are you comfortable with that?”

Harry was relieved that Dumbledore had suggested it. He wasn’t exactly comfortable with the details of their first encounter, and certainly didn’t want them getting out. While he was beginning to trust the Flamels, the idea of anyone knowing what occurred that day was simply unacceptable.

“Yeah, that’s actually how I want it. So far, I trust you two, but…” Harry trailed off, not really knowing how to finish the statement in a delicate manner.

“Harry, it is perfectly alright,” Perenelle reassured, “I understand that the events, while totally out of your hands, still make you feel ashamed. If I were in your position, I would like as few people to know as possible too.”

Her statement prompted Harry to give her a grateful smile. He was glad that the Flamels could at least understand where he was coming from on the issue.

The next minute was spent in silence, with Nicolas apparently deep in thought, Perenelle reading, and Harry munching on his sandwiches, in thought as well.

If all the letter had was Dumbledore’s request for a private meeting, and a time, then why was it so long?

“Dumbledore cannot serious!” Perenelle exclaimed from nowhere, breaking Harry from his reverie.

“I’m afraid he is, dear,” Nicolas solemnly spoke, “but think about it deeply. Can you see the potential benefit?”

“I…” Perenelle faltered for a moment, before finding the proper retort, “is that not a bit too much right now?”

“It might be, it will be up to him to decide.”

Both of the Flamels turned to Harry, who had been following the exchange closely. Obviously it had been in Dumbledore’s letter, concerning him, but other than that he hadn’t a clue.

“Harry,” Nicolas began, “We’re both sorry to speak of you as if you are not here.”

Perenelle nodded vigorously, echoing his sentiment.

“Dumbledore has suggested something, that while rather outlandish, might be a good idea. Sadly, he alone wants to inform you, and he asked us not to tell you anything.”

Harry fumed for a moment, put out.

Why are they holding back information? If it’s about me, shouldn’t I have a right to know?

“Harry, we’re very sorry for the secrecy,” Perenelle apologized, “but you will find out exactly what is going on later tonight. We promise.”

His sudden anger drained away at her words. They didn’t really like the secrecy either, but apparently Dumbledore had asked for it.

I could still pout, but it wouldn’t do any good. I’m not a child anymore, and will not act like one.

“It’s okay,” Harry assured, “if I’m finding out tonight anyway.”

“Thank you for being so understanding, Harry,” Perenelle thanked, “most people your age wouldn’t have the maturity to handle this situation the way you just did.”

He let out a small smile at her compliment.

“I just try to act my age, not younger.”

“The effort is appreciated, Harry. Once we’re done with lunch, would you care to see my greenhouse? There are some fairly exciting plants within it, and I do stock a good portion of the materials used for my dear husband’s obsession.”

Harry really didn’t care about it, but certainly acknowledged that it would be a good idea to do something, anything to get his mind off tonight’s impending meeting.

“Yeah, I’d definitely like to.”

-

As the shadows began to lengthen, Harry sat within one of the sitting rooms, not far from his room. He had originally thought that the guest wing of the house had only extended to lodging, but on that front he had been wrong.

This room had a large window, which took up half of the far wall, giving an almost perfect view of the slowly descending sun. He gazed at the large, bright orb, seated within a plush leather armchair.

 

There was a clock on the wall behind him, but by sheer force of will, he had turned his back to it. He was well aware that six o’clock may have come sometime early next century if he had watched the time pass.

Reflecting, he found the day; by far to be one of the more enjoyable ones he could remember occurring. He had been surprised to find himself quickly infected by Perenelle’s enthusiasm for Herbology. He wasn’t a huge fan of playing around in the dirt, but he found dealing with plants to be calming, even if it was only relatively calm plants he was dealing with.

The sheer variety of plants that inhabited the greenhouse was mind-boggling to him. Some of them even seemed more like animals than plants, especially that Venomous Tentacula, which seemed to almost have the disposition of a chastised puppy when shooed by Perenelle.

Any luck with trying to distract yourself from Dumbledore?

Harry sighed deeply. He had been recounting the day in his head for what seemed like a while now, anything to push the doubt away. With all he had heard of Dumbledore, and seen himself, it was obvious that the man was a genius, of deep intellect, someone who couldn’t be easily deceived.

How is there any way he’s not going to know I’m lying?

He didn’t know, but it wasn’t going to stop him from trying. He had fought too hard to keep his secrets and he wasn’t going to give them up without a fight.

A light knocking up the door tore him from his thoughts.

Well, I guess its show time.

He rose from the chair, his hands trembling in anticipation. Before he took a step, he closed his eyes, and forced his apprehension away, willing himself to remain calm. It fortunately worked, and his next step was cool, collected, without tremor.  

He crossed the short distance to the doorway, and opened it.

Dumbledore stood outside the room, adorned in dark purple robes, a grandfatherly smile upon his withered face.

“Harry, I’m very pleased to see you up and about. Having never had an opportunity to do so during our previous meeting, allow me to introduce myself as Albus Dumbldore.”

Struck by a sudden sense of the surreal, he slowly shook hands with his benefactor.

“Pleased to meet you sir, I’m Harry Potter.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled at the introduction.

“The pleasure is entirely mine, my boy. Would you care to take a seat?”

Harry did so, sitting back into the leather armchair that still bore the slightest of creases from his earlier visitation to it. Dumbledore took the seat next to him, which was a similar armchair, except blue as opposed to the green one he sat in.

“Before I say anything else, Harry, I need to apologize for not being here for your recovery. Sadly, the demands of my profession have become very time-consuming as of late.”

Dumbledore’s eyes grew a hard sheen when talking about the demands of his job, but it was gone so quickly that Harry wasn’t sure if he had imagined it or not.

“It’s not a big deal, sir. I wasn’t really conscious for any of it, so it didn’t really matter.”

“Well, at the very least I’m glad that you don’t hold any ill will against me for neglecting you.”

“Are you serious!?” Harry exclaimed, “how could I hold a grudge against the person that helped me break free from Voldemort? If you never came, I would never have got the chance to escape.”

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly.

“A reasonable point, Harry, but you’re to thank just as much. If you hadn’t have held out so long against him, which is a feat that many older, accomplished wizards have failed at, I never would have had the opportunity to help.”

Oh shit. Here it comes.

He had hoped the topic of how he kept Voldemort from taking over his mind could be kept secret for a little while longer, but Dumbledore was edging dangerously close to it.

“Yes, sir, I guess you’re right. Anyway, thanks again for helping me. I’ve wanted to say that to you ever since I woke up.”

“Yes, the Flamels had mentioned that, and you are very welcome, Harry. How has your time been with the Flamels, to date?”

“It’s been nice. The Flamels have been kind to me, and teaching me all about the Wizarding world.”

Dumbledore laughed heartily.

“Am I to assume that Nicolas has tried to infect you with his love for Potions?”

Harry grinned at the statement.

“Yeah, he has. I actually like potions, doing something that’s magical. It makes me feel like a part of this world.”

“That’s very good to hear, Harry. Did you have any knowledge of magic before you came to the orphanage in London?”

Harry froze, though managed to keep his facial expression neutral. Should he lie here?

“No, I’m afraid not, sir. The first time I learned of magic was when I first saw what Voldemort was doing.”

Dumbledore nodded at the statement, looking slightly grave.

“So it must have been even greater of a shock to you, then. How exactly were you aware of your surroundings, Harry? From my research, it appears that most of the time, the person being possessed won’t have any memories once they wake up. Do you have any idea why this didn’t happen to you?”

Thinking fast, Harry lowered his voice, and replied.

“I’m not sure, sir. When I first awoke, it was like I was behind someone else’s eyes. I knew that if I…well, came forward, I might be able to take control, but I wasn’t sure. During the fight, I didn’t know what type of stuff he had hidden to use against you. I waited until I was sure that he had nothing left to use, since I thought I was going to get one shot at taking back control.”

Dumbledore appeared clearly impressed with his actions.

“Again, I must congratulate you, Harry. Had you come forward too soon, there’s a good chance you would have never had another opportunity. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll admit, Harry, that I had been searching for you for almost ten years, but was unable to find you. Imagine my surprise when you turn up at a muggle orphanage, my boy! All of my previous methods of finding you had failed, which is surprising, since a specific child should usually be fairly easy to find.”

“That is strange,” Harry replied, injecting some confusion into his voice, “Do you have any idea what happened?”

“I have a few ideas, but certainly no concrete conclusions,” Dumbledore stated sadly, “but I’m very confident of one thing.”

Harry began to get very nervous. He didn’t like where this was going, nor the silence that stretched out the statement. After about twenty seconds, he broke it.

“What’s that?”

“Well, there isn’t a great deal of ways to hide one’s self, especially when an owl is sent with a letter addressed to a particular person. You see, owls have a keen magical sense of tracking people, which is beyond the measure of all other creatures. The only way to prevent an owl from finding you is to block your magical signature, which is not easy, and only possible through either powerful amulets, or wards.”

Harry was silent at the direction of Dumbledore’s conversation. Really, what could he say at this point?

“So, Harry, I ask you, is there anything that you’re not telling me about your past?”

With a loud sigh, Harry laid his head low. While he thought he was being careful, Dumbledore had clearly seen through his plans. He was in despair, his back completely against the wall. There was really only one rational path for him to take.

“Please forgive me, sir. I’m very sorry for lying to you. I know it’s a poor way to repay what you’ve done for me, but…I just didn’t want anyone else to know about where I came from.”

At his words, the Headmaster’s expression grew sorrowful.

“I understand, Harry. Please know that I knew that you were lying from the start. I just needed to determine whether a piece of Voldemort was still controlling you, or whether there was some other explanation.”

To think, Harry thought he had been so clever.

“Really? How?”

“In our fight at the orphanage, Voldemort used banishers, cutters, conjuration, transfiguration, physical shields and healing spells. Do you know how a person’s magical core works, Harry?”

He shook his head in response.

“A magical core is the magical organ that grants all magic users their affinity. Though it’s magical, it does have some similarities to human organs. More than anything, it’s like muscle, but with a vastly greater growth ceiling. There’s a reason why young children can’t cast powerful spells; it’s not physically possible. The magical core isn’t developed enough to support the creation of such a spell.”

The truth was evident to Harry.

“Even if Voldemort was possessing me, all that he would have access to would be my magical core. If it was small and undeveloped, he wouldn’t have been able to use any spells.”

Dumbledore nodded in response.

“Correct. With the spells Voldemort was using through you, it would have required at least a few years of regular magical use. So I ask you, Harry, where were you before the orphanage?”

Harry remained silent, still loathe to part with his secret, which in turn caused Dumbledore’s expression to grow somber.

“Harry, anything that you tell me will be kept in the strictest confidence. Whatever happened, I’m not here to judge you, only to get a perspective on why a ten-year old child is equal to that of a fourteen year-old Hogwarts student.”

Dumbledore’s words assured him.

The question is though, will he believe you?

“Sir, I don’t have the faintest idea.”

Dumbledore didn’t have any outward reaction to his words, but Harry felt that he had disappointed the man in some sense. In hopes of explaining himself, he rushed on.

“My first memories are of wandering the side of the road, in scorched clothes. A cop picked me up, then eventually I was placed in the orphanage. I was silent, didn’t talk to anyone, because…well…back then I un-understood my past.”

His voice hitched slightly, a consequence of the immense frustration he felt.

This isn’t fucking fair! Why did I have to lose my memories?

“Harry, please,” Dumbledore said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “take as much time as you need.”

Get yourself under control, Harry! You’re not some fucking sniveling little kid!

“I don’t understand why anymore, but the inside of my mind…it’s an actual place, a house in the middle a forest. I assume that inside my head, was very important, or dangerous, or both, information. There was a clear shield around my mind, that protected me from Voldemort getting in. If I ever tried to take control of my body, I’d have to break the shield, and let Voldemort in to do it.”

He stopped for a moment, trying to figure out how to explain it. Much of it was still confusing to him. Dumbledore squeezed his shoulder again with his long, gnarled fingers, before letting go and giving him a nod of encouragement.

“I decided to sacrifice my past, everything, to possibly escape. In the basement is a large, steel vault. I don’t understand how anymore, but I somehow locked my entire past within it…and I don’t know the combination. I searched every fucking inch of that area, but I never found a single clue about the combination.”

Harry immediately regretted lapsing into such casual and rude speech in front of Dumbledore, and opened his mouth to apologize, but Dumbledore waved him off.

“Thank you for the courtesy, but emotion often colors our words without our forethought. Don’t concern yourself about the slip.”

Harry nodded graciously, as Dumbledore appeared to settle into thought, staring at him with a mixture of sadness, and something else Harry was at a loss to describe. After about thirty seconds, the Headmaster broke the silence.

“Harry,” Dumbledore began, “that was a hugely, incredibly brave thing to do. To sacrifice so much…Harry, you’ve erased all my doubts regarding you, but why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped.”

There it was, the heart of the matter.

“Sir, if it ever got out I didn’t have a past, the Flamels probably would have brought in mental experts, and they probably would have cracked the safe.”

“I assume you don’t want this, since the secrets within would be exposed?” Dumbledore questioned gently.

Harry nodded.

“That’s a part of it, but I also have to believe in myself. I don’t know my past, but I think I have a good idea about myself, and I don’t think that I would sacrifice my entire past for no good reason.”

“I understand, Harry,” Dumbledore said, head bowed, “but I want you to think about letting me help you. I would be willing to take a magical oath which would swear me to complete secrecy. At least give it some thought.”

Harry nodded, at least resigning himself to think about it. It would be rather nice to have this burden shared, and to have a powerful wizard take a look at the situation.

“Thank you for keeping an open mind. There is one other thing that I want to speak to you about. How much do you remember about the ring?”

Harry didn’t need clarification about which ring. That was clear as day.

“Everything, every detail. It haunted me for a long time inside my mind. It’s a nightmare. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Harry, how would you feel about bearing witness to its destruction?”

Harry found himself shocked. The ring was still around?

“Sir, why haven’t you destroyed it, before it catches someone else!?”

“Harry, I certainly appreciate your concern, but I currently have it magically bound, so that it can’t harm anyone. I almost did destroy it immediately, but thought it might be therapeutic for you to see the evil artifact destroyed.”

Oddly enough, Harry felt himself touched by the gesture. However safe Dumbledore considered the ring, he had to know there was a chance that things could always go wrong. Dumbledore had risked all of that, just to make sure that he had some sort of closure with the evil artifact. His answer was evident.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

-

The fear, the terror, the avalanche of emotion he expected upon seeing the object that had possessed him, never arrived. It was controlled, and couldn’t harm him. He was safe. It probably also helped that Nicolas and Dumbledore had been joking around most of the night, robbing the Horcrux of its one final chance to inspire fear.

The ring lay at the bottom of a clear glass cylinder, with a diameter of only a few inches. Directly on top of the cylinder was a basin coated with the fluorescent green of dragon mucus, which held within it basilisk venom. All of this was contained within a much larger box, with sides six feet long.

“Did we really have to use dragon mucus?” Harry muttered, still mildly traumatized by having to coat the basin with the thick, incredibly sticky substance.

“Indeed we did, my budding apprentice,” Nicolas spoke cheerfully, “it is one of the few substances in the world that will hold up against the potent acids contained within basilisk venom.”

Dumbledore looked up from his intent staring contest with the ring.

“Nicolas, how were you able to synthesize basilisk venom so quickly? I know you’re incredibly skilled, but this is even a miracle even for you.”

Nicolas let out a long chuckle at Dumbledore’s compliment.

“Thank you for the kind words, Dumbledore, but when did I ever say I would need to actually synthesize it?”

Surprise found its way onto Dumbledore’s face, something which looked alien on it.

“How, Nicolas? There hasn’t been a single basilisk seen for over five-hundred years…” He trailed off as the solution struck him, which ended in a laugh.

“Well played, Nicolas.”

“Why thank you,” Nicolas replied, bowing down low.

Harry found himself confused by the exchange. Were they implying that Nicolas was over five-hundred years old? Surely that was impossible.

Perenelle, starting to look slightly annoyed by the somewhat blasé atmosphere, spoke up.

“Are we completely sure this is safe?” Perenelle asked, looking around the damp, cold wine cellar with suspicion.

“I assure you, milady,” Dumbledore began, “that this glass is of a special design, one I and your husband designed ourselves.”

“That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence,” Perenelle whispered balefully, stealing a glance at her husband, who was examining the ring’s container from the other side.

Harry let out a small snicker at her snide comment, unable to hide it.

Perenelle glanced in his direction, a small, sad smile upon her face.

“Are you sure you want to watch this, Harry? I would hate for you to have to relive any of those horrible moments spent under control of the ring. Who knows what evil it might attempt to escape?”

He shook his head defiantly, unwilling to yield on the subject, despite her arguments to the contrary.

“Thanks again for your concern, but I truly need to see this, to know once and for all that Voldemort won’t ever be able to harm anyone again.”

She nodded, biting her lip slightly. He knew she wasn’t going to relent on her opinion, but respected his enough to not try to prevent him from seeing this.

“All right,” Nicolas exclaimed suddenly, “everything should be all set.”

“Should be?” Perenelle asked maliciously, “That is not exactly the word I want to hear when we are dealing with a piece of Voldemort’s soul!”

Nicolas strode up to his wife, and grasped her hand lightly.

“We are taking this very seriously, my dear, I assure you. Both Dumbledore and I have figured out what we believe to be a foolproof way to dispose of the ring. If the situation starts to go sideways, well, I like our centuries of experience against that ring. Whatever happens, it is never going to hurt Harry again.”

Perenelle squeezed her husband’s hand one more time, before letting go.

“Could you go over the plan one final time?”

Harry’s ears perked up at her request. He knew it by heart by now, but found himself wanting to hear it again, one final time.

“Of course. When I say so, our good friend Albus is going to summon the stopper which is holding the basilisk venom within the basin. He’ll cancel the summoning once the cork has exited the basin. By that point, the venom will have flowed into the cylinder, completely filling it, and thus submerging the ring completely.”

Nicolas paused for a moment, savoring the thought, before continuing.

“Then it is going to be farewell to this piece of Voldemort’s soul.”

This piece?

“Sir, what do you mean by this piece?”

Dumbledore raised his hand, wanting to field the question himself.

“Harry, remember when I explained to you the basics of the Horcrux?”

Harry nodded in response. It had only been about an hour ago, where he had learned that Voldemort had encased a portion of his soul within the ring.

“The night he attempted to destroy you, his body was completely destroyed. With his Horcrux still intact, he would still have an anchor to this world. I believe that this most likely allowed for him to remain in spirit form, not unlike a poltergeist of some sort. In all probability, he may have possessed someone, just to regain physical form.”

Harry felt far less comforted by the news. That meant that the real Voldemort was still out there, waiting for his time to strike. His body language wasn’t lost upon Dumbledore, who sought to reassure him.

“Do not despair, Harry. We’re doing a great thing tonight, robbing Voldemort of his most potent weapon, his immortality. We will find him one day, and on that day he will be outside the protection of his Horcrux.”

Harry nodded at Dumbledore’s words. He wasn’t exactly reassured, but he felt somewhat better.

Dumbledore seemed satisfied by Harry’s answer, and turned to Nicolas.

“I believe that we’re now ready to begin. Any final preparations you’d like to make?”

“No, I am ready,” Nicolas replied, shaking his head, “whenever you are ready.”

At the confirmation, Dumbledore’s eyes hardened, and became cold. It was in such stark contrast to his usual grandfatherly demeanor, similar to the look he wore while fighting Voldemort at the orphanage. With a single swift movement, he raised his wand aloft and pulled it back sharply, wordlessly summoning the stopper.

The stopper flew out of the basin, before dropping to the ground as Dumbledore cancelled the spell. The dam unbound, the silvery fluid dropped down into the cylinder, like a waterfall of poison.

The ring immediately began to change, shifting itself into different shapes in an entirely futile effort to save itself, surrounded by a slight green glow, which highlighted brightly against the rising tide of silver. However, the toxic venom was far stronger than the ring’s conjured shield.

In a matter of seconds, the shield broke down, and began dissolving the gold metal. An unearthly shriek emitted from the dying Horcrux, a sound culled from the very depth of hell itself. The sound ran right through Harry’s head, the soul fragment’s hatred and fear becoming his own, as if he himself were dying beneath an ocean of toxins.

He clapped his hands over his ears, his head full of wasps. It was hard to concentrate on the surrounding world with such pain, but he saw that none of the other people had hands over their ears, leading him to briefly wonder why he was the only one in pain.

Just as he made the realization, the sound was abruptly cut off. He looked to his side, and noticed Dumbledore twirling his wand in complicated patterns, but the hatred within remained. Pushing it aside, he refocused his attention on the dying soul fragment.

Despite the basilisk venom submerging and destroying it, the ring again began to glow, this time with a dark green light. He leaned closer to get a better view, and without preamble, it exploded in a blinding flash of light.

Pain exploded in his eyes, and the world turned to pure white, his retinas burned by the blinding flash. Through his pain, he heard the loud crash of the leftover shrapnel impacting the outer protective box. He braced himself for the incoming shrapnel, but felt no new pain. He only had time to consider that at least the outer glass worked, before the pain returned, back from the sabbatical the threat of shrapnel had granted.

He fell to his knees, clutching his face, trying to cradle his burned eyes. Hands were upon him immediately.

“Harry, don’t worry, you’ll be fine!”

Was he the only one who hadn’t looked away in time?

Coherent thought slightly returned as the knowledge struck him that at least one other person had looked away. Despite the pain, there was one other pressing issue.

“Is the Horcrux gone!?” Harry screamed, struggling to keep his mind clear from the fog of agony.

Warm, lined hands grasped his own, and Perenelle’s voice spoke into his ear.

“Yes, Harry, it’s gone. It will never hurt you again.”

He heard her turn away from him with a rustle of fabric, and address the rest of the other two people there.

“Could someone please just stun him?!” Perenelle yelled, clearly not wanting him to have to suffer any more.

His tense, taunt muscles slightly relaxed at the news. Voldemort’s trump had been discarded.

However, Voldemort himself was still out there, and would probably not stop until it had found him.

And when that day arrived, he was going to be ready.

When darkness descended, he went to it willingly.

-

Author Notes:

First, let me apologize for this chapter taking so long. With no violence to fall back upon, I had to actually write a lot of dialogue, which moved forward, progress wise, with all the velocity of molasses flowing uphill.

This is the first part of the second arc, which will cover the pre-Hogwarts events. I think it will be three chapters, but time shall tell. Also, I think the next chapter will be up at the beginning of October, but once again, time shall tell.

Any comments, suggestion or criticisms would de deeply appreciated. I’ll make an effort to answer every review I get.

Thanks to my co-conspirators, darklordmike and mira mirth, for their valuable assistance with plotting, characterization, continuity and grammar.

Thanks to my beta, Erzibeth-Malfoy, for her help with this mammoth chapter.

DLP Thanks:

The Lord of Chaos, Johnny Farrar, akatsn

Thanks for reading.