A/N: I started writing this story in 2007... quit working on it for years... finished it with a flurry of mad writing in 2009. This is 150,000 words long in total (41 "chapters"); it's an epic, and will take a lot of time to read. I admire and adore anyone willing to commit to it.
Warnings: EWE, AU, ignores some canon, Minor Original Characters (not paired), some invented language
Pairings: Harry/Draco; Hermione/Ron; Percy/Penelope (briefly)... While this is a Draco and Harry story, please be aware that they spend about half of the book separated from one another.
Story Summary: The war ended three years ago, and the wizarding world snuggles into a post-Restoration era. London is a cheery place again, except for Harry Potter. Among his peers, he's the source of gossip and malapert speculation. Eager for an understanding of how he became so antagonised, Harry accepts an offer from Draco Malfoy to explore a macabre tie to the past. But Malfoy is more enigmatic than ever. And Harry, along with Ron and Hermione, are tossed into a mystery that takes them back to the days when Albus Dumbledore was a young man, into the Other Worlds of the Northern Elves, and into the very core of Light and Dark Magic.

-x-

PROLOGUE

Albus Dumbledore had never witnessed such a land as what lay before him. He blinked against the glare, sunlight to snow, and swallowed again a bite of tears for this austere beauty. An hour had passed since crossing into the Arctic Circle. He felt the crossing in him as a gentle tingle, as though the north pole had a power of its own. Father Christmas, singing snowmen, reindeer who play games, and, of course, the omnipresent elves.

At least Dumbledore had come to the north pole with an elf as his guide. An elf made the adventure into Norway all the more legitimate. But Dumbledore would never think of elves the same way. For they were not the images of myths.

And Kriskarius Prask hardly expressed the same characteristics of all his elf kin. His height was shorter than standard. His hair highlighted in copper, unlike the sheer hues of his Western relatives. And his eyes blazed an ardent green, rimmed in yellow. Intrepid, brutish, churlish, antagonising eyes, and that way for good reason. Prask sequestered himself regularly from the clannish social dealings of his people. He existed alone, here, high in the north country. Waiting to be a guide to the witches and wizards that trekked the wintry wilds, and asking very few questions as to why they would do so. He provided this service to see the guests of his lands reach from one point to another. No singular elf could do it better.

No one understood ice and snow better than Prask. A man of few words, his sentences laconic and cast quietly from his low voice. Yet his ears were exemplary. The ice sang to him. He claimed it sang to everyone, but he was the only being Dumbledore had met, as of yet, that could decipher the carol codes. The talent was unparalleled.

Elves have a universal knowledge of earthly things, a concept of time shared with no other sentient species, and a strict deference for magic. Prask disregarded magic. It was nothing to him but fireworks: pretty for a little while, but otherwise useless. All the magic he needed his elf genes had provided at birth. Through childhood, Prask had to nurse the instincts. Disregard the weakest. Discover the strongest. Train it, study it, acknowledge its influences. And then use it.

He knew snow.

And he knew the Voesvorgen.

The snow was an inconvenience to Dumbledore. But he had expected it. Just another hindrance. A mere stepping stone to the Voesvorgen. The snow was still and silent and allowed him time to think and plan. He had done so little of that.

They wouldn't see him coming. Oh no. Not the Voesvorgen. Not they.

Then again, those who wielded Dark Magic never saw their end, when they looked in the serene eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

-x-

'Albus, up ahead,' Prask said as he stopped. From the sides of his hood, his long hair trembled in an erratic western wind. His cheeks had pinked from exertion. His gaze penetrated the distance. And Dumbledore followed the line of sight to a series of cliffs on the opposite fjord.

'Good,' said Dumbledore, transplanting his walking staff from his left hand to his right. 'Well done, Prask.'

Prask's acknowledgement was a modest nod.

Dumbledore analysed the distant spot. The sun held its harsh angle, not high in the sky but too far east to shed all its golden glory on the uneven face of the fjord. And the fjord rose up, less steep than its cousins hugging the North Sea farther south. Where those they had passed earlier had been green and lush with the skin of spring, these fjords were forlorn, desolate, weighed beneath the eternal clasp of winter. Patches of snow lingered where the sun failed to reach, where Persephone forgot to tiptoe. Yet he caught a series of black spots, blacker still than the shadows, and they whisked excitement into him.

'Which cave, do you think?'

'The fifth one in. Notice, it's the only one that is missing snow at its lip.'

'So it is! So it is! What keen eyes you have, Prask. And cleverness. It had gone completely out of my notice. The fifth one in. We had better hurry, for I fear our time nears its end!'

Armed with his alabaster staff, Dumbledore rushed on. His gaze snapped back to the fifth cave. After a day of seeing nothing but snow, ice, and the burning azure above, Dumbledore was grateful to feast upon a different sight. And the fifth cave!

Nearly there . . . Nearly there . . . If they were not too late.

-x-

The lateness came quickly. In a beastly roar and a quaking of the earth, it came. Its asperity, its timeliness, its sick need for coincidence, smote Dumbledore to the heart. He was winded by the ferocity of the howl, and fell where he stood. Prask remained standing. Stunned, but standing. He shifted his lithe feet apart, withstood the quivers and aftershocks, and stared fixedly at the fifth cave.

A flame shot from the depth. Orange and red, demonic in its ability to hypnotise. Then a snarl. A knurled ribbon of obsidian smoke. A maudlin whimper. And—

Prask was tugged to the ground by Dumbledore.

'Hold still!' the wizard commanded. And fractious Prask, who barely obeyed any law, written or orated, obeyed this.

The wizard's staff lay on the ground, a fist close to its top. It swirled in an arch overhead, and a curtain of snow and ice enclosed them.

They heard the beast cry. In the empty, vacuole fjord, the sound echoed and echoed. The land beneath Prask's hands was alive with granules and crystals jumping erratically, so disruptive was the shriek.

'You have magic,' said Prask, holding the wizard's look, and finding maturity and wisdom hidden in a youthful pate, 'and yet you hide from that beast.'

'I am not in the frame of mind,' Dumbledore assuaged with one of his charming smirks, 'to take on a newly-formed dragon this morning. It is much more an evening task, after tea, if it must be done at all.' Dumbledore paused, listening, and heard a faint creak of the ice, and the lonesome chorus of the surf upon the rocky shore far, far below. 'He will be gone in a moment, gone to find his master and start again.'

'Yes.' Prask could think of nothing worthwhile to say. He had not the gifted tongue of Albus, or of his relatives, to say easy placations as situation required.

'You do realise this means we failed.'

'Yes. I am sorry, Dumbledore. If I had been a better guide, we might have been in time. If I had been able to lead you to the—'

'It is no fault of yours, Prask. And out of every failure rises a benefit. I have learned about the ice of Norway. Should the Voesvorgen commit such a daring act again I will be more prepared.'

'Will they?'

'Anything is possible. And, additionally, you and I have formed an acquaintance, a friendship, as quests often procure between two people of dissimilar backgrounds.'

'Should you call me friend, Albus, I am much honoured. And when the Voesvorgen unleash their evil again, I will be ready to fight at your side.'

'You are a good man, Prask. Or, if you prefer,' Dumbledore's smile increased, 'a good elf.'

'My kind do not see me so enlightened.'

'Perhaps they will, Prask, one day.'

The ice moaned, and the sea along with it, and then all went still. Winter's calm had regained the northern fjord. Dumbledore examined the low ceiling.

'I think we will risk exposure now.'

The staff removed the igloo. The two men stood, brushed themselves free of sticking crystals and flakes. Afterward, they surveyed. Nothing had changed. It was remarkable, Prask thought, that such turmoil had been unleashed, yet nothing had changed. The sky reigned above, the ice solid beneath his boots, as they had always been.

And a dragon's accidental nativity, the result of ethereal virulency, did not end the world. Not yet.

'Out there somewhere,' Prask said, looking at the eastern horizon and feeling a sense of infinity innate to his people, 'the Voesvorgen celebrate and are joyful. They have won.'

'They have won this simple little battle, yes. Though we must conclude that our pursuit of them remained hidden, even from their encompassing reach, and in that we have been fortunate. We will not dwell on our loss, Prask. We must look into the future. Out there somewhere is a day when the Voesvorgen will be destroyed. Perhaps many years from now, perhaps out of my lifetime and yours. But that day, like the Voesvorgen, waits with patience.'

Prask let show a rare grin. Hopeful it was, if a touch cynical. 'I look forward to this future victory of your description.'

'As do I.' Dumbledore took to his staff, his wand planted inside, better to wield one weapon instead of fumbling for two, and started down the path they had just now ended. A path that had started with hope, and had ended in despair.

A sign of the beast remained in the clear north. The scent of smoke, and the burned lamina of a dragon's skin.

-x-

Episode One: Echoes

I.01

Harry Potter had spent a purposeless year in London, ever confident that he'd find a way to better his world from the bottom to the top. With a new Minister for Magic, a clear out in the Ministry, families reunited, and friends made out of the mutual heartache of loved ones lost, Time had weaved her own magic web. The Restoration era was winding down as the new millennium crawled nearer. Suddenly Harry found himself without Hogwarts, without a proper job, and no place to call home. Grimmauld Place remained his, left to him by Sirius, but the memories bore a burden far too great to endure alone. A run-down room at the Leaky Cauldron provided a haven, a close attachment to London's wizarding community, and did not have the ponderous sense of isolation like Number 12. No residence would ever replace Hogwarts to him. It had been his home, ten months out of twelve.

Now he had nothing. Or barely anything. His wand, some clothes, a trunk of old schoolbooks, war relics, and a famous name. Nothing at all, really. The sensation was unfamiliar. He felt unbalanced, unnatural. 'It's odd waking up every morning and knowing I don't have to fight anymore,' he once told Hermione and Ron. Hermione had said that he'd grown so used to being a victim, and Ron used the word hero in place of victim, that it was difficult for Harry to ease back into the normalcy others claimed naturally but that had always evaded him.

Normalcy, he strove for it at first. At the age of nineteen, bored with London, he returned to Godric's Hollow, set up house, and lived as a leisure gentleman. The days went on so tediously, and he was too far, he decided, from Ron and Hermione, and with so few in Godric's Hollow willing to become friends with the Harry Potter, the leisure life soon turned monotonous, drab, it lost all appeal.

He wished himself away.

On a day in March, he trolled Diagon Alley and heard that his previous room at the Leaky Cauldron was empty. And the afternoon following, he had left Godric's Hollow, to what he thought was the secret glee of its denizens, and returned to London. He thought it would bring happiness. The familiarity brought ease, not happiness.

Somehow, life was not quite as it should be.

-x-

I.02

First, encouraged by the Weasley Collective, Harry applied at the Ministry, a position that happened to be vacant under Ron's brother, Percy Weasley. Percy called Harry into the Ministry for an interview. To Harry's astonishment, he grew more and more nervous, though it was only Percy, and surely the Ministry wouldn't dare turn down the opportunity to have in their employ the Harry Potter.

Percy, dressed in his best grey wool robes of business, and his tall hat, sitting behind his wide wooden desk in his wide white office, examined Harry's c.v. rather critically.

'Harry, I'm going to be honest with you.' Percy looked as though honesty was the worst that could ever pass his lips. Honesty an enemy of the Harry Potter. Percy set his hands, palms on the c.v., downward, and upward went his shoulders, and intense went the authority in his brown eyes. Then his brow slipped together in the middle. Consternation had come. 'Harry, I'd hate to point out the obvious, but this has been on my mind since—since, well, the war, actually— Harry, do you realise you haven't actually finished school?'

A devastating point. He hadn't finished school, in the technical sense that he'd never taken his N.E.W.T.s. Harry, for a moment, allowed this point to pass, though a silent scream shuddered through him, and it banged against his heart like a maddened eagle whose wings had been clipped, who could not survive.

Then Percy smiled, bright, gleaming. He beamed and was radiant. 'I'm taking the piss, really.' He laughed a moment along with Harry, and the laughs expelled the seriousness from the room, exchanged for joy. 'Wasn't that horrible of me? So sorry, I couldn't resist. Though it has been on my mind, and it's something you really should look in to. N.E.W.T.s can still be taken. I'll put you in touch with Griselda Marchbanks, you remember her I'm sure, the head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority. She'll fix you up.' He moved the c.v. around and fidgeted with a quill. 'I'm afraid, however, that the opening in my department is excessively boring. Wouldn't suit you at all. But you need a proper job. Let me owl to you a list of Ministry openings, and whatever sounds most interesting to you, that will be yours.'

'Mine? What, just like that?'

'Of course,' Percy ogled him as though Harry had flobberworms growing from his ears, 'of course, Harry! We've been hopeful—well, some of us have—we've wanted you to come to the Ministry. Some of us even had bets going as to who would get you to work for them first, the Ministry or Hogwarts. Now that's an interesting enquiry, if you may allow me the indulgence for a moment. Why not Hogwarts? You would've been the best Defence Against the Dark Arts professor that ever was.'

Harry lifted his shoulders, measuring the answer before speaking it. He took his time to speak now, now that there was time enough for patience. How to verbalise the violation he felt? 'I-I can't, it would be impossible. That job always felt like someone else's.'

'Fair enough,' Percy conceded with a nod. 'And they say the position's still cursed. Although Ginny seems to enjoy it.'

'She may have it.'

Percy measured the reaction of his sister's name against Harry, and waited too long before expounding the topic. Instead, he stood, held his hand for Harry, and watched the young man rise. Odd to have seen someone like Harry Potter grow up, become a member of the family in heart if not lawfully, and rejoice in his triumphs and pity the trials.

'It is finally nice, Harry, if I may say so, to help you out for once, instead of the other way round.' Percy, who'd always been a little pompous, managed to say such a graceful, condescending sentence without preaching. 'I'll owl that list to you, and you should have it by morning.'

Harry nodded and thanked Percy beneath his breath. Percy grinned again when Harry Potter thanked him. Him!

It was a great day.

-x-

I.03

And on that list, Harry had found a tremendous amount of interesting jobs, with interesting titles, such as Exorbitant Magic Counsellor, and Moon Jewel Mason Specialist. He discussed the jobs with his best mates, at Hermione and Ron's cosy home just ten miles south of Ottery St Catchpole.

'Don't take that one,' Hermione advised, using a quill to strike out 'Inter-continental Flight Liaison'.

'But it sounds really romantic,' Harry said. 'Why shouldn't I?'

'Romantic!' repeated Ron, willingly slapping Harry's messy cowlick for this insubordination of male propriety. 'Repeat that word again, and I'll do much, much worse, Potter!'

'It's all about travelling,' Hermione replied to the 'Why shouldn't I?' remark. 'You'll never be home.'

Harry pored over the list and couldn't refuse the retort. 'I'm hardly home as it is. And, all the same, what home?'

'Er,' Hermione stuttered then rose from the table, 'I think the vegetables are burning. No, Ron, I'll check them.' She was gone, and Ron obligingly filled in.

'Our home, mate,' said he. 'She means you won't be round often if you take yourself a travelling job. Can't you find something decent that might leave you time for holidays? Couldn't stand it if you went too far away. Wouldn't be the same. It was even terrible when you lived in Godric's Hollow. I'd rather have you at the Cauldron forever than in Wales for a month.'

'You and all of Godric's Hollow were glad I left.'

'I mean it, Harry. You shouldn't be too far away. Who am I going to talk Quidditch with? Hermione? Not bloody likely. I need you about. For sanity's sake. For the sake of my testosterone. You know. We keep inviting you to Apparate round for dinner, but you're not here that often. And if you take a proper job, it'll be even less often.'

Appreciative of these emotional insights, invaluable to his lonely heart as they were, Harry snickered, following it with a smile. 'And I suppose taking a job as a Seeker is out of the question?'

'We've talked about that,' Ron held the argumentative tone from his voice, and the exasperated inflections stunk of resolve. 'You can't, unless you go as Seeker for the Chudley Cannons, and only the Chudley Cannons.'

'I shouldn't worry if I were you, Ron.' Harry pushed the list from beneath his sight, leaned back, and popped off his glasses for a clean. 'Teams are hardly bombarding me with owls loaded with multi-year offers, are they? No, it's just the same with them as with everyone else. Everyone's afraid of Harry Potter. Maybe I'm cursed.'

Self-consciously, with a derisive smirk, he rubbed the scar on his forehead.

He suddenly remembered, void of doubt, that he was indeed cursed.

-x-