Chapter 10

"I believe I have a clue to Harry's whereabouts."

The reticent Potions Master immediately snapped to attention in the chair.

Looking piercingly over the top of his half-moon spectacles at his Potions Master, the old wizard spoke in a measured manner. "My boy, I do not wish to get your hopes up. At the moment, it is something I postulate as having the highest possibility..."

"Damn it, Albus!" The austere wizard interjected. "Just tell me! Any possibility is better than the odds we have had thus far." His lean fingers gripped the edge of the desk tightly.

Holding the younger wizard's gaze, the wizened headmaster dropped the bombshell. "I have reason to believe Harry is in Valhalla."

"Albus! You are joking. Tell me you are joking!" The agitated Potions Master exploded. "He is not dead! Harry. Is. Not. Dead. No, he cannot be dead." The dark man's form trembled with barely suppressed emotion.

"Severus. Severus! Stop. I have not finished saying my piece." The old wizard leaned forward. "It is my theory, my belief, that Valhalla has accepted him for training. I do not believe young Harry to be dead. Not by any means, if the information we have on Voldemort is accurate."

"Albus, have you lost your mind?" The Potions Master spluttered in response. "Valhalla is not for the living." Yet, his mind whirled with all the possibilities.

"Ah, my boy, there seems to be a catch. Our Harry is after all the Boy-Who-Lived." The barmy old coot leaned back in his chair, stroking his long beard contemplatively. "He was to have died, that fateful Halloween 16 years ago. That night, he met Death and survived... that condition matches perfectly with what I had found." Indicating the large, dusty tome on his desk, he continued. "There is an old prophecy in this, dating back to the Founders' era. The gist claims that Valhalla will provide assistance to the Light's hope in the days of bleak Darkness. Assistance provided to one who survives Death's acquaintance."

"That can hardly apply." The Head of Slytherin pondered. "How can you be so sure Harry is the one? That it applies to Harry, after the prophecy had been around for a thousand years?"

"Ah, my boy, that is why I need you to verify my research." Dumbledore spoke sagely. "Look for further information and translations, before we let the others know of this. It would not do to be mistaken on such a matter." Fixing his blue eyes on the cadaverous Potions Master. "Our hopes are flagging, the Malfoys are frantic with worry, and you, my boy, are killing yourself bit by bit with each passing day." Clasping his hands in front of him. "If this is true, then, we will at least have a small measure of relief."

"I... I will do it if it means I can find him." The Potions Master sighed. "Rest assured that I will do my best, Albus."

"Ah, that is all I can ask of you, my boy. Lemon drop?" The wizened Headmaster offered the dour man his stash of muggle sweets.

"No. If that is all, Albus?" At the old codger's nod, he stood. "Good day, Headmaster."

"Severus." The younger wizard paused in his steps with his hand on the door knob. "Do not be too hard on yourself. I am sure he knows that you care for him." Without looking back, the man gave a curt nod, and swept out of the office.


"My childe, how is Occlumency coming along?"

"Galdrfadhir?" The young man turned to face his elderly mentor. "I think I have a better grasp of it now."

"Good. What do you have after this?"

"Potions practical, followed by physical combat with Tyr. We will be doing swordplay today."

"Continue with your meditations for now, my childe. I will see to the arrangements for someone to test your Occlumency in the evening." Eyeing the lean young man critically. "Remember to take your meals."

"Yes, Galdrfadhir. I will."

"Come, Freki. Geri. Leave Harry to complete his meditations." At that, the two shadowy wolves got up from their spot resting against the young man to follow their master to the halls.


Lying on the dark silk sheets of his huge bed, staring at the canopy while waiting for sleep to come, his tired thoughts inevitably wondered to his emerald-eyed boy. 'Harry, where are you?' Images of the past few years with the boy swirled through his thoughts. 'I miss you, I love you.' The dusty tome Dumbledore had him read seemed unbearably vague to his Slytherin exactness. Hardly enough to go on, but it was a clue, one that he would gladly grasp if it would help. 'I will find you, Harry.'

- finis for now