A/N: Yo, guys. I've been on a roll recently and a really good idea struck me for TDL, making me all motivated and stuff. Here's chapter 5 for you. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and for once, I'm not being sarcastic.

Deep in the wilderness of the British Isles, rumoured to be located somewhere deep in the ancient forests of Scotland, stood a great, gleaming castle of incredible magic. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was a learning centre of magic, and had been so for over a thousand years. The four greatest witches and wizards of that time had built Hogwarts, brick by brick, at the bequest of an ancient and powerful wizard. One of the reason's why Hogwarts had stood against time and resisted all attempts at destruction was that the ancient castle was, in a sense, alive. It was common knowledge to most wizards, wand-wielding or otherwise, that magic was most present in life. There were darker areas where those seeking power through more unscrupulous means could attempt to harness the awesome power that was death, but even then that power only came into fruition when merged and conflicted with some semblance of life.

Through methods long forgotten by modern wizards, the four founders of Hogwarts had imbued the very stones of Hogwarts with an enchantment that essentially mimicked life. This allowed for a greater magical retention rate for the permanent features, such as defensive wards and the like, an increased resistance of magical damage (which had been especially useful given the sheer amount of pranksters that Hogwarts managed to produce, to the point where Zonko's was one of the top-five selling business in the Wizarding World), and a complete immunity to the long-lasting damage of magical wear and tear that usually happened with inanimate objects. While some of the Headmaster's liked to propose that Hogwarts had developed a conscience of sorts, they were usually trying to add to the mystique of the school rather than present any solid magical facts. Still, Hogwart's unique architecture did have some drawbacks. The sheer amount of magic that pumped through the stones led to some odd fluctuations throughout the old building. For reasons for too complicated for the average wizard to understand, this meant that occasionally the staircases would move, doors would become walls, walls would become windows and windows would become some kind of glowing green algae that Albus Dumbledore quite enjoyed on toast.

It also meant that when a student showed up late to class, their incredulous claims of a staircase leading them to a giant room full of chamber pots was probably correct.

It still didn't stop the professors from handing out detentions.

"I don't see how it was my fault," a lanky, gangly and awkward-looking teenager complained loudly.

His red hair clashed horrible with maroon jumper was wearing, but this Weasley had long ago reconciled with the fact that he would look horrible in anything his mother made for him, so he may as well take it like a man- a whinging, whining and complaining man, but a man nonetheless.

"If you hadn't been as late then perhaps Professor McGonagall wouldn't have been as harsh on you," lectured a stern-looking teenager witch.

Curly brown hair fell to her shoulders, covering part of her ever-growing bust, and narrowed dark eyes stared out from behind a forehead permanently marred with frown-marks.

The third of the group sighed.

"Hermione, it's not his fault that the staircases moved on him," the witch said, looking like she interceded in these types of arguments quite often. "Ron, stop complaining. You know how the Professor is."

Amanda flicked her long, blonde hair over her shoulder as Ron nodded glumly. She had grown up quite a bit in the last few months, both physically and mentally. She was a little taller, a little curvier and a little more jaded, the latter reflected in her wary grey eyes.

She was also a little bored.

Perhaps it was the teenage angst that her brothers always liked to tease her about, but Amanda was growing more and more frustrated with the seemingly ideal tranquillity of Hogwarts. The curriculum, while challenging, bored her. She wanted something useful, something that she'd need in the future when she finally made her stand against the darkness that had been encroaching on her world. There had been a time when she would have been more than happy to sit by and watch the world go by from her cushioned room. Those sentiments died when an ancient demon tried to murder her.

She blamed it all on Harry, really.

Briefly, she wondered what he was doing at the moment and had to suppress a snort. He was probably chatting up some woman while fighting a bunch of demons at the same time. Maybe she could ask him to mail a list of spell she should look up? She had been practising all of the ones he had taught her whenever she had a chance. The D.A may have been disbanded (due to a lack of an adequate teacher) but the friends closest to her, which were those who had accompanied Neville to the Department of Mysteries and a few others, had kept up the practise a few nights every week. Amanda liked to think that she'd become proficient in all of the spells she knew.

Well, most of them. She hadn't even touched Fiendfyre since the Department of Mysteries and would probably never touch it again. Unwanted thoughts of the events that occurred there rose to mind. Flickering flashes and sensations of pain and blood and fire, fire so bright that it would burn out your eyes, mingled with the agonising screams. Amanda stumbled on her step and squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring her friend's worried glances. Maybe she should have taken her father's suggestion and gone to see a psychiatrist. He had been really worried about her, even if she thought she had detected some disappointment. She had killed man. How could he not be disgusted with her?

Perhaps it was a good thing that she had reminisced over that incident at that particular point in time. Otherwise, she might not have heard a faint but familiar voice grumbling in annoyance. Amanda's heart skipped a beat and Ron and Hermione turned to her as she stopped.

"Do you hear that?" Amanda breathed.

"What?" Ron asked in puzzlement, exchanging a look with Hermione.

Amanda ignored them as she quickly strode to the corner of the hallway and turned into the one leading to the Great Hall. Her eyes widened and a beaming smile spread across her face. With a sudden burst of speed, she flung herself at the surprised Harry and captured him in a giant hug. Harry grunted, his arms instinctively coming to catch her. The force of her sudden 'attack' sent them both sprawling to the floor and Harry swore loudly, a furious scowl on his face as Amanda leaned over his chest, a wide grin spread across her face.

"Hi, Harry," she chirped.

"Brat?" Harry asked in a resigned tone, rubbing his head and grimacing as he lay on the cold, stone floor.

"Yeah?"

"You're an idiot."

Harry pushed Amanda off him, a fierce scowl on his face, and stood up. He made an exaggerated motion of brushing himself off, glaring at the way-too-happy blonde girl as he did so.

"Get over it," Amanda scoffed, sounding amused as she stood up.

Still, her cheeks were starting to darken and she looked a tad embarrassed at her reaction. Harry noted the way her jumper stretched across her chest and how her legs flexed and grinned lecherously.

"Couldn't wait to get your hands on me, could you?" he asked.

Amanda rolled her eyes, her cheeks a delicate pink

"Grow up," Amanda muttered.

"Somebody has," Harry agreed.

"Amanda!" Somebody called out and Harry turned his head, making out the identities of the two Hogwarts students that were quickly approaching them.

"Oh, it's you," Hermione muttered as she noticed Harry.

A scowl came over her face and harry briefly wondered if she was still about that dead boyfriend of hers…what was that guy's name again? Then again, maybe she was over that and didn't like him for another reason. Harry didn't exactly pay close attention to Hermione. She irritated him for some reason, which usually led to him irritating her until she got pissed off.

"Nice to see you too, big tits….I mean, Hermione," Harry said and smiled cheekily. "Sorry, bit of a Freudian slip there."

"Still a pervert, I see," Hermione shot at him, self-consciously folding her arms over her chest.

"Still a fussy bitch, I see," Harry shot back smugly.

"Easy there," Ron cautioned, taking a step forward to stand in between Harry and Hermione.

Harry threw Hermione a sly wink before turning back to Amanda. "So how were your holidays?" he asked carelessly.

"Mom took the family to Disney Land and then we went camping over at the national reserve forest in…"

"Yeah, yeah, I don't really care," Harry interrupted her.

"Then why'd you ask me?" Amanda demanded.

"Small talk," Harry answered with a shrug and smiled at Amanda's exasperation.

"You never change, do you?" she muttered, more to herself than anybody else. "Well, what about you? Did you do anything fun?"

"I went to Hawaii," Harry answered. He gestured at his face and frowned. "What, you can't tell from the tan?"

"Bloody awesome!" Ron breathed.

"Hawaii… that must have been nice and warm," Amanda said wistfully. "Did anything exciting happen?"

"Well, some assassins tried to kill me. Apart from that, it was all good," Harry told her.

"Assassins, huh?" Amanda murmured. "How'd that work out for them?"

"Not well, Amanda," Harry answered seriously. A dark smile touched at his lips and something gleamed behind his bright emerald gaze. "Not well at all."

"Maybe you should ask him why he's here?" cut in Hermione, annoyed and scowling at Harry. "It'll be just our luck if he's become a student again."

"I've got a meeting with Dumbledore," Harry answered her, his tone a tad cold. "Besides, why the hell would I want to become a student again?"

"Well, we're just about to head to lunch," Amanda said, her mouth suddenly feeling dry. She resisted the urge to shuffle on her feet. "Did you want to come and catch up?"

"The meeting starts in…" Harry started to say, frowning and glancing down at his watch.

"Now, I believe, Harry," somebody called out pleasantly.

Harry turned his head and saw Dumbledore, decked in those really fancy- and weird- robes of his, striding from the direction of his office. His eyes twinkled happily as the elderly man took in the sight of the teenagers before him, his blackened hand mostly hidden under his large, baggy robes.

"Yo'," Harry greeted lazily.

"However, I suspect that our meeting will take some time," Dumbledore continued, directing his gaze at Amanda. "Harry might be able to catch up with you at dinner, if he's not too busy."

"Good meal… time with the brat... good meal… time with the brat…" Harry pondered out loud. "Good meal… time with the brat - who has grown breasts…"

Amanda flushed and shuffled on her feet self-consciously as Harry winked at her invitingly.

"Come, Harry," Dumbledore said, smiling faintly. "We have much to discuss, and you will find that we have very little time. Good day, Ms Carpenter."

"Bye, Harry," Amanda called out as Harry spun around and began to tail after Dumbledore.

"Yeah, whatever," Harry grunted, throwing a half-hearted wave back at them.

His mind was more focussed on the meeting ahead of him. Judging by the old man's performance against Voldemort at the Department of Mysteries, Harry was hoping that the wizard had a few good tricks to share with him or, at least, something interesting.

The first thing that Harry did after he removed his head out of Dumbledore's pensieve was to hastily check his dark trousers. His fingers touched upon his still-secured belt and he breathed out an exaggerated sigh of relief. He turned to Dumbledore, who was watching Harry with a slightly bemused expression.

"Is something wrong?" the Headmaster asked.

Nearby, Fawkes watched Harry with her beady black eyes. Harry still had a particular hatred against that particular fiery crow (something that he never failed to mention when the Fae bird was around, much to Dumbledore's amusement) and flashed it a glare as he turned to Dumbledore.

"Just making sure you didn't take any liberties with me when I was otherwise occupied," Harry said dryly.

"Ah, I see," Dumbledore said with dawning comprehension. He stroked his beard and smiled politely. "At what point during the memories did that particular thought occur to you?"

"Around about the time the smarmy little brat was shitting his pants after you set his wardrobe on fire," Harry said bluntly. "That, by the way, was pretty cool. Who knew Lord Voldemort was such a little whiny bastard when he was a kid?"

Harry took a seat before Dumbledore's desk while the aged wizard sat down in his seat, leaning back comfortable into the charm-ridden cushions and exhaling a little noisier than Harry remembered. The Denarian Knight noted this and was inwardly puzzled, before the blackened flesh of Dumbledore's bad arm caught his eye, hidden in the folds of the Headmaster's ornate violent and silver robes. Maybe there was more to this injury than Harry suspected?

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed quietly. Regret flashed in his light-blue gaze, his mouth contorting in an involuntary show of sadness. "Tom was a bright boy, a very gifted wizard, but he did have his... issues."

"He had issues?" Harry repeated and snorted derisively. "Please. Whatever respect I had for Voldemort is gone after watching all of that. The rest of the world may hear "Purebloods rule and Mudbloods suck" and "Avada Kedavra!" whenever he opens his mouth but all I'll hear from now on is "Waaah! I hate my daddy and I'm a whiny little bitch! Waah!'"

Dumbledore pressed his fingertips together and did a very good job of not showing how amused he was. If it wasn't for the cocaine addiction that made his eyes do that twinkling thing, Harry wouldn't have been able to tell.

"Seriously," Harry continued. "There has to be better ways to dealing with a crappy childhood like that. I get the whole 'killing your parents' thing. I mean, if I hadn't offed my Aunt, Uncle and Cousin, well, I wouldn't be the fine person I am today."

"If I recall correctly, you murdered the last of your blood family when you were seven years old," Albus said musingly, the barest hints of disapproval and sadness lingering on his wizened face. "Tom, at least, waited until he was seventeen."

"Yeah, well, it just means I'm a bigger badass than the self-proclaimed 'Lord Voldemort'," Harry said. He frowned, looking thoughtful. "I wonder if there's a way to mock his name somehow. Voldemort…Voldie? Moldie? Moldie Warts? Moldie Shorts?"

Harry and Dumbledore both paused.

"Nah, I sound like a complete moron when I say crap like that," Harry dismissed.

Dumbledore chuckled, but then grew serious.

"I have no doubt that you are wondering why I showed that montage of the history of Lord Voldemort. Despite the fact that those were situated far in the past, they have serious repercussions here in the present."

"The Horcruxes," Harry supplied and rolled his eyes. "C'mon, you old bastard, even a young whippersnapper like me can focus and pay attention. That memory with that fat guy sort of cinched it, really."

"Yes," Dumbledore said heavily. "It seems that one of Lord Voldemort's paths to true immortality took him to the forbidden realms of soul-splitting. Essentially, a Horcrux is a physical, inanimate object that was crafted or created through powerful magic. This is object is then embedded with parts of one's soul, allowing a link to the mortal plane even after death. They are horrible objects, the methods of creating them barbaric and sadistic."

"Barbaric? What do you mean?" Harry asked curiously.

"To create a Horcrux, one must commit a great evil, cold-blooded murder," Dumbledore said gravely. "This acts as a ritual, in a way, opening our level of existence to those below."

"A cold blooded murder? That's it? That's a great evil?" Harry asked and scoffed. "Please. I've seen a lot of things that are worse than just a simple murder."

"Do not say such things," Dumbledore snapped, snapped, at Harry. Harry fell silent in surprise, staring up at the aged wizard speculatively. There was strain on his wrinkled face, and a haunted expression in his eyes. Dumbledore took a deep breath and visibly sagged. "My apologies, Harry, but there is more to it than that. To create a Horcrux, one must make a cold-blooded murder of an innocent person. You yourself have killed many times, yes. Tell me, could you drag a small child off the street, slit their throat, mutilate their corpse, ingest their flesh and use their blood as the symbols for a summoning circle, all on a whim?"

Harry was silent.

"The murderer cannot kill under the pretence of righteous judgement or for the greater good," Dumbledore continued, looking very old and tired. "No matter how they delude themselves, they must take a cold-blooded kill and thoroughly enjoy it. They must profane themselves, their souls and this very world with the creation ritual, the contract of sorts with creatures far beyond our realm, deep in the Nevernever where even the Fae do not tread. How such knowledge of these creatures, these things, found its way to this earth, I will never know."

The Horcruxes must be a touchy topic for Dumbledore, Harry concluded. With the way the powerful wizard was acting now, there had to be something in his past that was making him so… defensive. Harry kept his thoughts to himself, his face impassive, and waited silently for Dumbledore to continue.

"To create such a terrible object fractures your very soul, which, I suppose, is the point," Dumbledore said quietly. "By binding pieces of his soul to these objects, Lord Voldemort has gained enormous power. He has the ability to resist the touch of the mortal coil, as you very well may recall. As well as a certain sense of immortality, Voldemort has also increased his… perception, so to speak. He can see power and magic in ways that you and I will never be able to. This has given him great power."

"That's very interesting," Harry murmured. When Dumbledore regarded him carefully, Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, relax, not even I'm that stupid. Besides, technically I don't even own a soul."

"Ah," Dumbledore said in understanding. He stroked his beard, regarding Harry curiously. "Are you saying that the Fallen that inhabits your body would disapprove?"

'Of course I would,' Meciel spoke into his mind with a sniff. 'I would not barter away such a valuable possession for the twisted power and knowledge of the J'irth'kyaka,'

'You know them?'

'I know of them,' Meciel answered, and there a tone of disgust in her voice. 'Half-twisted creatures of creation, failed products of life who's souls were never properly formed. As such, they can enter neither heaven nor hell. They; can never find peace in their tormented lives. They are immortal, ageless and in constant agony. Those pitiful excuses of existence have nothing to offer one such as myself except their hatred, their jealousy, their anger. It's a wonder how Voldemort managed to stay relatively sane when bartering with such things.'

"Long answer short, Meciel can get really clingy with the things she likes," Harry answered dryly. "And she really, really, likes my soul."

'It tastes like chicken' Meciel said mildly. 'Granted, that's chicken that's been thrown into a pit of sulphur and scorched black, but chicken nonetheless.'

'Don't like, don't eat,' Harry retorted, well aware that Dumbledore was watching him carefully.

The elderly wizard could probably tell he was conversing with Meciel but chose to remain silent out of politeness. Harry was about to address him when he paused.

'Hey, you're not really eating bits of my soul, are you?' He asked Meciel hesitantly.

'It grows back', Meciel said blandly, and refused to say anything else on the matter.

"Now I don't even know if she's joking," Harry muttered to himself. He glanced up at Dumbledore and grinned. "Still, an extremely hot fallen angel is nibbling at the edges of my soul… that's kinda kinky, no?"

"We, Harry, have very differing views of what is 'kinky' and what is not," Dumbledore evaded expertly, although his eyebrows had reached his hairline and his eyes were twinkling.

"Oh, right," Harry said, nodding quickly. "Sorry. I forgot that you were gay…and that you liked touching little girls."

"Wouldn't 'little boys' be more appropriate for that particular insult?" Dumbledore asked, shaking his head in mild exasperation.

"Nope," Harry said cheerfully. "Just goes to show that you're an inconsistent bastard."

Dumbledore nodded as if he understood exactly what Harry was saying, which would have alarmed the Denarian greatly since not even he understood half the crap that exited his mouth.

"Look, that was a shit-load of memories and I didn't understand half of that crap," Harry commented casually. "Pretend that you're talking to a blind, crippled, retarded kid in a wheelchair with his hands like 'this'" here he rose his hands in a bad imitation of a mentally handicapped person.

Dumbledore opened his mouth to begin, having the courtesy to look at least mildly offended at what Harry had just said, when the Denarian stopped him with a gesture of his hand.

"Wait. I think I just called myself retarded," Harry said, frowning. "Why don't you pretend you're talking with a talented, powerful wizard with a penchant for destructive dark arts and the host of an ancient, immortal Fallen angel that could vaporise you in a second if you even implied that I was retarded."

"Simply put, Voldemort has seven Horcruxes," Dumbledore said smoothly. He adjusted a stack of parchments on his desk, glancing down at one of them. "Lord Voldemort has hidden them in places that hold some significance to him. They are most likely to be objects once owned by the Founders of Hogwarts. One of these Horcrux is himself. One of them is his serpent companion, Nagini. One of them is a cup, although I do not know of its location. One, I believe, may be hidden somewhere within this very castle. One of them, I…have my suspicions about, but may be out of reach for now. Two of them have already been destroyed, one giving me this."

He gestured at the blackened husk of his arm.

"Voldemort has defended his Horcruxes with powerful curses and enchantments," Dumbledore said grimly. "I misjudged the strength of these defences and it cost me my arm, almost my life. Were it not for Professor Snape, I would be dead. Were it not for Fawkes, I would be slowly dying. As such, the curse was trapped and contained and I live on."

Fawkes let out slow, sad warble and soared from her perch. She landed on Dumbledore's shoulder and rubber her plumage against his head. Dumbledore smiled softly as Fawkes warbled again and stroked her head, gazing at the bird with nothing less than utter adoration. Harry was disturbed to see the expression on the one person he respected more than anybody else but stayed silent, scowling at the bird furiously.

"Fawkes is to me what Meciel is to you, Harry," Dumbledore reprimanded mildly. "Allow me my crutch and I will allow you yours."

"Yeah, whatever," Harry muttered. He scratched his head and purposely changed the subject. ""You know, I'm not the best at puzzles and detective stories," he admitted. "Give me somebody to kill and I'll kill them. Give me something to find and you'll probably find that I've blew it up by accident the first time round."

"I understand that," Dumbledore said. "I will do my best to locate the Horcruxes. When they are found, I may call upon you to attempt to retrieve them, if you are willing. Once we have possession of them, I am in the belief that you are the one most fit to destroy them."

"Why's that?" Harry asked. "Apart from my charming good looks and awesome magical power, of course."

"The Horcrux defences hold a certain mental component to them," Dumbledore answered. "They will attempt to sway a lesser wizard with temptations of power and glory. You, and your unique status, will be able to resist that temptation better than others would."

"Are you sure about that?" Harry asked sceptically. "I'm not so good with temptation. I did sell a Fallen angel my soul, remember."

Dumbledore smiled faintly.

"I believe you are the best choice," he said firmly. "There is another reason why I believe that. One of the true and tried methods of a destroying a Horcrux is the judicious application of large amounts of Fiendfyre. There is no wizard in Great Britain, save perhaps Lord Voldemort himself, which has better control over the cursed flame other than you. Naturally, I cannot ask him for his help and I dare not touch it myself, lest I lose control and destroy myself along with it. So I must turn to you."

"Well, it does piss off that old son of a snake fucker," Harry mused thoughtfully. "I…er… call him a snake fucker because he looks like a snake. I'm implying his mother was into bestiality."

Dumbledore merely raised an eyebrow at Harry's justifications and remained silent

"Yeah, sure, I'm in," Harry said carelessly, after a few moment's had passed and the penetrating stare that Dumbledore was given him was starting to becoming annoying. "But!"

He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk and narrowing his eyes.

"I distinctly recall being told that I'd get some personalised training from you," Harry continued. "I have a good memory, a great memory even. Ask Meciel. I never forget something important. That better not have been a trick just to get me here…"

"You may relax, Harry," Dumbledore placated Harry with a soft smile, gently motioning for Harry to calm down. He sighed and stood up from his chair, the large phoenix on his shoulder keeping its balance quite well. "Yes, I have shown you a weakness of Lord Voldemort's immortality. That said, even if all of the Horcruxes are destroyed, it will merely mean that once he is killed, Voldemort cannot be revived. It will not detract from his power at all."

"He is a tough bastard," Harry muttered sourly, distinctly remembering the three times he had clashed with the Dark Lord.

Despite his Hellfire-boosted spells, despite knowing magic that no teenager had the right to know, despite reflexes and athletic skills that put Olympic athletes to shame, Voldemort had proven to be a superior opponent. Whatever dark magic ran through his thin, pale body made him quick and strong, and that was before he took hold of a wand.

"Voldemort is a powerful wizard," Dumbledore said gravely. "He has undergone procedures and rituals that would have crushed a lesser wizard and come up on top. He will shrug off and regenerate all but the most severe physical and magical wounds, although your skills in this area probably exceed his. His spells will be tens-times more powerful than the average Auror-class wizard. His reflexes and duelling style is unique to himself and quite possibly one of the most dangerous duellists in the world. His stamina, unmatchable by even myself. His greatest asset, however, is his mind. His ability to analyse a situation in a split-second and react accordingly will match even your own superior senses. I have heard some compare Lord Voldemort to a modern-day Salazar Slytherin. That is incorrect. Voldemort surpassed Slytherin long ago."

"Did you wanna suck his dick any longer or are you done?" Harry muttered sourly. He kicked at the ground, looking and feeling annoyed. "That's a real nice de-motivational speech you have there. Way to point out that Voldemort superior to me in every way… although I might have to contradict you in some places. I'm not a pushover, you know."

"I am not underestimating your skills, Harry, just as I am not underestimating his," Dumbledore explained softly. His eyes were serious and hard, his mouth pressed in a firm line. "You have done well for yourself. In seven years, you have grown from a small, magically inferior child into a battle-hardened warrior who has stood toe to toe with far superior foes and won. In another five or so years, I have no doubt that you could even rival myself in every way, I, who have had over a century of training. But we don't have five years. We don't have one year. This war has already begun."

"Great," Harry sigh unhappily. "Way to make me feel good, while dashing all my hopes spectacularly. Excuse me if I don't believe you and try to 'off that bastard anyway."

"I am not saying that you are destined to lose," Dumbledore said calmly, looking as serene as ever. "I am merely saying that your battle with Lord Voldemort, as dictated by prophecy, would go much smoother if you were to…how do they say it? Ah, yes… if you were to have a 'trump card'."

"A trump card?" Harry repeated, narrowing his eyes. "What does that mean?"

"Do you know how wand-magic works, Harry?" Dumbledore asked the Denarian, ignoring the question. "Some wizards, those who have labelled themselves 'True', draw magic from this world. They find power in their existence, from their own emotions and dreams and hopes- or hate. Wizards who wield wands, however, draw power from somewhere else. It is a realm beyond most perceptions, a realm of pure…power, for lack of a better word."

"Tell me something I don't know," Harry snapped, although the suddenly interested and eager look on his face probably belied his harsh tone.

"This power is raw, unfocussed," Dumbledore continued. He stroked his beard absently, his eyes flickering to his bookshelf where numerous tomes jutted out. "There are many theories on how we use our magic, but they all have the same underlying principle. Language."

Harry was silent.

"Language, to humans, holds the key to our perceptions. Language influences the way we interact with our world and each other. Language passes on our emotions, our hate and our love. The type of language we learn even influences the way our mind literally thinks. We think in language, we speak in language, we see in language, we touch in language. Tell me, Harry, have you ever the phrase 'the pen is mightier than the sword?'"

Harry nodded.

"For us, it is quite true," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile. He lifted up his quill and his wand, a curiously-shaped stick of gleaming wood that Harry couldn't identify. "Between these two objects, my personal wand and an ordinary quill, it is the quill that, in essence, is more powerful than my wand."

"I don't understand," Harry said slowly. "Is it enchanted or something? Can it stab through bone?"

"It can make words, Harry," Dumbledore said gravely. "Language is nothing without words. But words are just noises, simple sounds that our mouths make. Language is nothing without the word and the word is nothing without meaning. We attribute meanings to words. For example, 'water' is just a set of sounds. It is when we apply meaning to it that it becomes comprehensible. For a split second, consciously and unconsciously, our minds link the meaning of 'water' with our memories, experiences and, more importantly, our emotions. Water may be the beloved lifesaver of the stranded man in the desert. Water may also be the hated murderer of the parent whose child drowned in the river. Meaning, Harry, is everything."

"I…" Harry started, but frowned and stopped.

Even within his mind, Meciel was silent. Ancient and terrible she may be, even she knew that there were areas where she was not all-knowing. Dumbledore clearly had something very important to say.

"Our realm of power, the realm where we draw magic through our wands from, it is connected to this world just as it is connected to the Nevernever and countless other worlds," Dumbledore continued. There was passion in his eyes, and Harry could see why the man had decided to become a professor of all things. "It has no direct impact on us, but we, wielders of the tool known as language, have an impact on it. The language we use, the meanings we attribute to words, the emotions we conjure for them all, they all resonate within the realm of power. Overtime, these resonations can cause a relatively small but permanent effect on this realm. When these words are utilised properly, and with the right focus, we can draw the resonations out into this mortal world. These resonations, which heed no scientific laws, produce the effect we know as wand-magic. Transfiguration, charms, curses and counter-curses are all the results of a resonations impact on our world. We then guide these resonations into existence with out wands."

"Wand-Magic theory, 101A," Harry said quietly. "Interesting, sure, but I don't see how it's useful."

"Meaning creates the words, words create the language, language creates the meaning," Dumbledore murmured. "It is the ancient languages from all over the world that have the greatest resonance in this realm, simply because the age of the resonance itself. As a rule, older resonances are more powerful. However, without meaning and context, the word is simply a word. As language influences the way we think, it is very hard to use the incantations of a wizard who does not speak the same language as us. Hence, many of our spells are simply 'translated' versions of the older languages."

"You're going to be teaching me ancient spells?" Harry hazarded a guess.

"In a way," Dumbledore replied mysteriously. "Now, as a rule, it is generally agreed upon that the Ancient Egyptians were the first civilisation to create significant resonance in the wand-magic realm of existence. This is attributed to a number of factors. Population is one, for example. Simply put, the Egyptians were the first civilisation to have a population large enough with a well-developed language to create the necessary ripples for a proper resonance. In the late sixteenth-century, the International Confederation of Wizards decreed that the official language of spells would be Latin. Latin was a very popular language spoken by millions during the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. More importantly, it was the official language of the Church; hence, it would not fall from our memories as easily as other languages had. It is quite interesting to study these central years, as wizard persecution was still running rampant. Why, the Head Warlock himself had to fend…"

Dumbledore stopped at Harry's blank gaze. He chuckled to himself, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Forgive me, Harry," he said cheerfully. "I seem to have gone off into a tangent all on my own. Where was I? Ah, yes. The ancient Egyptians were the first magical civilisation to create a proper resonance. Granted, their methods of wielding and controlling this resonance were far inferior to the wand-based focuses we use today, but generally, it is an academically accepted fact that no wieldable resonance predates them. However, for scholars such as myself- and there are not many like me- we tend to regard this rule as lacking.'

Harry frowned.

"For you see, Harry, the realm of power that we draw our magic from is connected to countless worlds," Dumbledore said wisely, nodding to himself. "Yes, yes, thousands upon thousands of other worlds- millions, even- all brushing up against this realm. Some you may know, the Nevernever, for example, contains countless of these words, most which have never been mapped before by human hands. These countless worlds have inhabitants, some so far different from us that we could not even begin to perceive them as they truly are. But, to some, we are the ones who are so different from them. Nevertheless, these inhabitants have one thing in common, Harry. Can you tell me what it is?"

"Language," Harry breathed, understanding dawning on him. He licked his dry lips and spoke. "These worlds have language of their own, and they're all connected to the realm of wand-magic."

"Exactly," Dumbledore beamed. He looked pleased. "Those languages, some far more ancient than our own, have words. Those words have meaning. Granted, the meaning and emotion behinds most of these languages is far beyond us. We are too dissimilar, to alien to one another. But, there are a select few whose resonance we, as human beings, are able to grasp and utilise. During the battle with Lord Voldemort at the Ministry of Magic, I utilised some of these words. These words came from a series of scrolls that were discovered in the ruins of what is known as the Temple of Solomon. Lord Voldemort knew it as the Psalm of Ar'uck'shei. I know it as the language of the angels."

"Angelic power?" asked Harry, his voice tinged with awe.

He, of all people, knew exactly how powerful the holy power could be. A Sword of the Cross, a powerful holy artefact, had chosen him of all people to be its wielder against the forces of darkness (Harry still found this terribly amusing, considering he was consorting with the minions of Hell). The blade could bathe itself in silver flame, cut through supposedly unblockable spells and grant him sheer supernatural luck.

"It is not easy, Harry," Dumbledore warned. "Tell me, how can you perceive the hopes, dreams and emotions of a being you have never met? How can your mind, physically created to think, feel and act in a certain way, break past the structural limitations of your brain and empathise with the denizens of a world shaped so differently from our own? It is like…"

Dumbledore paused, contemplating his words.

"It is like trying to imagine a new colour," he said at last. "How could you even begin to comprehend it, a colour that the eyes of a human being have never seen before? What's more, how could you understand it well enough to describe it to somebody else?"

Harry was silent.

"That's only the beginning, Harry," Dumbledore said passionately. "There are Words of the Drakon, for they have language. There are Words of the Fae, for they too have language. There are Words of demons, of angels, from a multitude of beings- most that human eyes have never glanced upon before. These Words are old, their resonance ancient and, for some unknown reason, strangely potent in our particular world. I will teach you how to use these words. I will teach you how to reproduce sounds that our throats cannot physically create, that our ears cannot physically hear. I will teach you how to utilise these Words in combat, from Words that turn matter into oblivion to Words that can summon entire oceans upon our enemies. In the end, Harry, you will have a power that the Dark Lord knows not. You will have the Words of the Worlds, and you will crush your enemies with them."

Harry's slow smile became a full-brown grin.

"Then let's get started, shall we?"