Updated: May 20th, 2015

- Just corrected some minor grammar mistakes and edited a few bits that I didn't particularly like.


The Summer months started off with somewhat of a bang.

After exchanging goodbyes and promises of letters with everyone, Harry was promptly picked up by the Dursleys.

The car ride was blissfully silent, with Harry and Vernon exchanging pleasing glares, all the while Harry muttered nonsense under his breath - though just loud enough to be heard but undecipherable - and occasionally twitching his fingers.

Poor Dudders kept rubbing his fat arse and whimpering.

All too soon, and yet far too long, the family's sedan pulled into the picture perfect visage of Number Four, Privet Drive.

Harry was kindly asked to remove himself from the backseat and to haul his 'damn trunk and ruddy owl' into the two story house all by his lonesome. Upon entering the house, the door was promptly shut behind him, an ominous crack resounding throughout the otherwise silent house.

It was then that Vernon and Petunia decided to bless him with their kind words...

"Now listen here boy," Vernon-The-Kind snapped at him to grab his attention. "There'll be no freakishness and you-know-what in my home this summer!" He pointed out. "Your ruddy, squawkin' owl is to be locked up, we don't need the neighbors exposed to your unnaturalness. Petunia-" Said loving aunt shoved a sheet of paper into his hands, its front and back covered in her tiny scrawl. "-has been kind enough to make a list of chores for you to do before you head back off to that crack pot old fool's school."

Both Aunt and Uncle smirked at him, pleased with themselves.

Dudley, shielded behind Vernon's larger form, looked decidedly uneasy. He knew his cousin, it was all so much sweeter to know the poor fool you were shoving into the dirt, and Harry's blank face and complete lack of response unnerved him. Unaware, his left hand trailed a familiar path to the end of his tail bone.

Harry regarded his relatives for a moment before, out of curiosity, he glanced down at the list.

Paint the shed.

Paint the fence.

Tend the garden once a week.

Mow the lawn once a week.

Do the dishes, prepare breakfast daily, clean the gutters...

And the list went on, each line filled with multiple tasks, with each half of the page filled with twenty or so lines.

Naturally, Harry just couldn't allow this to slide.

"Well then," he cleared his throat importantly. "I believe I need to lay a few ground rules of my own."

Predictably, the elder two Dursleys bristled over his words before he continued on, cutting them off before they had the chance to start. "Now, as you may or may not know, the use of magic is highly monitored by our Ministry, so much so that underage magic - meaning anyone under the age of seventeen - is forbidden outside of school. In fact, it's illegal."

Vernon and Petunia looked ever so pleased at the revelation.

"However," here he smirked wickedly. "the trace - which is what they use to monitor magical use - is only applied to our wands." He held up his eleven inch stick of holly for emphasis. "There are... certain individuals who are powerful-" he couldn't help but place extra emphasis on the word. "-enough to perform wandless magic."

He smiled, the gesture devoid of all forms of pleasantness. "Luckily for you, I am one such individual." He waved his hand, summoning Vernon's car keys, his aunt's wallet, and the television remote - which fizzled and died, Oops - while in the opposite hand the now wadded up list of chores burst into flame, its ashes crumbling from his outstretched palm, revealing unblemished skin before reversing form to recompose the list.

Harry was pleased to note only the barest of twinges at the strain on his magic.

The summoning charm - advanced fourth year curriculum - was just about the extent of Harry's wandless abilities, and while the burning and reconstruction of the paper certainly looked real to the Dursleys, it was but a mere illusion; a relatively weak one that most any wizard or witch could easily recognize. The Dursleys being Muggles, could not.

The once smiling visages of his relatives had long since fallen, their faces turning an ashen white.

"Now, on a more somber note," he pouted sadly. "I'm afraid that I won't be spending much time here, in fact, this will likely be the last summer you ever have to see me." He paused to let that little tidbit sink in. "Of course, if I didn't have all these dreadful chores to do, I could be out of your hair all that much faster."

With a speed Harry himself would do well to match, Vernon snatched the paper from his hands, shredding it for good measure.

"Now," his voice was still a little shaky at the casual display of the dreaded 'M' word. "There'll be no need for that. You go on and get up to your room, the sooner you're outta here, boy, the better."

Harry snapped off a mock salute, his lips pressed together grimly. "Yes, ma'am." He marched - stomped - his way up the stairs, snapping his fingers as an afterthought, causing his trunk and Hedwig's cage to float after him.

He made sure to swing his door shut with a satisfying slam.

The moment the door closed, he let out a sigh - a combined summoning and levitation charm was a bit more difficult to pull off - letting the charms on his trunk fail and freeing Hedwig from her cage. The snowy owl then proceeded to land on his shoulder - her talons digging in a mite bit harsher than normal - and nip affectionately at his hair.

He reached up to return her affections. "I'm sorry girl," he began. "It wasn't my plan to ignore you so much this past year."

She hooted, informing him that although she was annoyed, she was willing to forgive, as long as he came bearing gifts.

Harry looked offended that she thought so lowly of him. "Of course I brought treats!" He declared indignantly. "There's a special level in hell for people who don't bring treats, Hedwig," he lightly scolded, no real heat behind his words. "And Harry Potter is no such person."

She precked, resolutely informing him that she didn't believe he had treats.

He fidgeted.

Her amber eyes narrowed.

"Well," he coughed, turning to rummage through his trunk. "I don't really have any treats per se." He answered carefully.

She angrily flapped her wings, buffing his ear several times as she did so.

Harry responded by standing abruptly, nearly toppling the snowy owl from her perch - in hindsight, not the wisest move as his shoulder could attest to - brandishing a several inch long cluster of paper towels. "But I did make sure to preserve some bacon." He declared happily, smiling teasingly at his owl.

If owls could scowl then Hedwig would have scowled. Instead, she was reduced to narrowing her eyes at him (again), before gliding off to perch on top of Harry's desk, her back to him.

"Aw, Hed, don't be like that," Harry called. "I was only just playing."

Hedwig shuffled forward a little, her head held high, refusing to look at him.

He approached her slowly, unwrapping the bacon, dispelling the preservation charm as he did so. "Hedwig," he cooed, wafting the delicious bacon above her head. "I'm really sorry, girl, and it would mean the world to me if you were to forgive me."

She gave another hoot, her head twisting around to pin him with The Look.

"What more do you want?" He demanded, frustrated. "I already said I was sorry!"

In response, Hedwig threw her head back and... well, she just threw her head back. Owls lack the ability to laugh.

"Hedwig!" Harry exclaimed, trying to sound reproachful. Though, he too chuckled as he saw the humor - and insanity - of the situation. "Merlin, I'm as barmy as Dumbledore." He said morosely.

The owl barked her agreement before happily eviscerating the strips of bacon Harry set out for her, while the boy himself rummaged around in his trunk once again, withdrawing a roll of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink.

Harry shuffled over and positioned himself behind his desk, gently nudging Hedwig - who was too involved with her treat to pay him any mind - out of the way and spread his supplies out before him.

He picked up his quill, dipped the tip into the black ink, and began to write the first of many letters.

'Sir Nicholas Flamel,' he wrote, the man had been knighted in the sixteenth or seventeenth century by one of the Louis'

'I am writing to you in concern over a certain magical artifact that was, until recently, held
in trust by one, Albus Dumbledore. I am certain that, by now, you have been informed of
the artifact's untimely demise.

I am now telling you that assumption was wrong; I have the Stone.

I am also obliged to tell you that I am, from this moment, holding the artifact in ransom. I
don't want money or eternal life or any of the other myriad of abilities the Stone possesses.
What I want, what I need and am asking for, is your assistance. I believe, and have since
reaffirmed, that due to a magical anomaly, my magic has become corrupted and will continue
to have negative effects on my health.

Through research I have discovered a powerful cleansing ritual that could rid me of my burden,
whereas your artifact serves as an anchor. This is where I require your assistance, as I, myself,
do not possess an adequate amount of knowledge to proceed forward with the ritual without
invoking unnecessary risks. I know for certain that you are the creator of this ritual and, as
such, are in a position to provide access to the vital information I require.

It is this information that I ask of you and, in return, you have my oath that the artifact shall
be returned to you promptly, whole and unblemished, should you heed my request. Should you
not, I promise to you the Stone will be destroyed.

I realize that you are likely to be upset with this letter and the information it contains, it is my
hope that you will look past this and choose to aid a young man just beginning his life.

Until I hear from you,

H.

P.S. I would greatly appreciate your discretion in these matters. I see no reason to involve
additional parties.'

Harry read over the letter twice more, making minor adjustments before he was satisfied with the end result. With a sigh, and a small prayer for something other than Potter Luck, he attached the scroll to Hedwig and sent her on her way.

It would be two days before she would return.


Harry scowled down at the aged, yellowed pages before him, a French to English dictionary at his side - he should have known Flamel's notes would be in French - frantically scribbling down the translation on a separate page.

In his original timeline, Harry had come across the actual journal from which this ritual had been recorded in - at the time he believed it to be Flamel's own, but it must have been Dumbledore's personal translation. When the old man (the one with six hundred plus years under his belt) passed on he left a number of personal effects to the Headmaster, who had, in turn, shared a portion of them with Harry, one of which being this very ritual.

He scowled as he flipped another page of the dictionary, searching for the phrase 'les fluides corporels' - he really should have taken Fleur up on her offer for lessons, or at least bothered to pester Hermione for some sort of translation charm. Honestly, he was proficient in Hungarian, German, Spanish, and Archaic Latin - thanks Hermione. Why the hell had he not bothered to learn French!?

Hedwig had return an hour ago, surprisingly absent of any form of tracking, with Flamel's personal notes and a brief letter clutched in her talons. 'Good Luck.' was all it had said, Harry honestly wasn't sure whether to interpret it with sarcasm or not.

The ritual - defined by Flamel as a Rite of Affliction; a ceremony primarily used to heal, purify, exorcise, or protect a single individual. Unsurprisingly, Harry was hoping for all of the above - he was tediously studying was simple by design, made possible by the Stone's massive magical output, while also managing to be extremely dangerous; also because of the Stone's involvement. As such, the smallest of mistakes made during preparation could spell disaster.

The ceremony called for a purging potion - generously donated by Snape's potions stores free of charge - to be consumed precisely seven hours prior to initiation, fire salts (crystallized stones created from dragon's breath), several forms of bodily secretion, phoenix ash, crushed blue dragonfly wings, charred blisterwort (an inedible type of magical mushroom), and an additional anchor of some sort; Harry would be using his wand for its particular core.

The phoenix ash, dragonfly wings, Harry's poo, and blisterwort would be mixed together and then left to cook over an open flame - of which a small portion of the fire salts would be added - for several hours. The end result would be a dark blue, near black, lump of charcoal which, in turn, would be used to sketch the intricate diagrams needed for the ritual.

The remainder of the fire salts would then be meshed together with his blood, before being laid out in concentric rings surrounding the position Harry would take, forming a two-way protective barrier around his person - he expected the magical backlash to be rather severe. His perspiration would be added last, during the actual ritual to express the sacrifice of his body.

With a grumbling sigh, Harry turned back to his translations - if he hurried he may be able to initiate the ritual tonight while his relatives were fast asleep courteous of a little sleeping draught.


Harry took a step back to survey his handiwork - it was now nearly four in the afternoon, six hours since Hedwig had returned. On the floor in front of him, sketched out in bold lines, was a single Triquetra Celtic Knot, more commonly known as the trinity knot; a somewhat complicated shape formed of three vesicae piscis - the shape formed when two circles of the same radius intersect - with an added circle binding the trio together. Each of the points represented the three levels of being; the mind, body, and soul. The inverse triangular form created where they intersected represented magic.

The image was originally created by staff wielding Celts during the Muggle world's Iron Age, the three points associated with the realms of the earth, the sea, and the sky; the very nature from whence they believed magic had been born.

For this ritual Harry would need to be seated in the center of the runic marking lotus style, with each hand holding either the Stone or wand and completely starkers, facing the third point representing the soul. At the tip of the point Harry had lain the remaining stump of charcoal as a sacrifice. Now, Harry wasn't sure what or who he was sacrificing it to - whether it be God, or Death, or even Magic - but the damn ritual had called for it and, so, he had done it.

Belief wasn't necessarily an integral part of the magical world.

Outside of the knot, which was barely large enough to accommodate Harry's small size, lay the two thin strips of fire salts mingled with his blood. The rings main objective was to act as a magical focus and barrier of sorts, his added blood helping to leach off the Blood Wards surrounding Privet Drive to fuel the ritual and, in turn, hopefully prevent the destruction of his room and the house at large during the inevitable backlash. Also, whether they failed or not, the rings would absorb the excess magic, negating any type of monitoring charms over the area.

With everything seemingly in place, Harry tipped back the foul tasting potion, simultaneously triggering the digital alarm clock he had nicked from Dudley.

All he had to do now was wait...

The first hour slipped by easily enough; a bit of boredom led Harry to writing his first letters to Tonks and Ron - Hermione should already be in France by now - but overall, the monotony wasn't too debilitating - Harry did discover an interesting Aberforth Dumbledore motif hidden in the swirls of his ceiling he had never noticed before. By the second hour Harry was beginning to question the wisdom of patience as a virtue.

The majority of the third hour, uncomfortably enough, was spent in the Dursley's loo - the smell was... terrifyingly toxic.

The fourth hour would forever alter Harry's perception of turkey sandwiches.

Bathroom Banaza returned in full force for the fifth hour despite his lack of eating or drinking anything.

The sixth ho- HOLY SHIT! SOOO MUCH ENERGY!

T' 7th 'our - where the hell did the energy go?


Harry frowned in concentration as he stripped out of his clothing, assuming his position within the circle, his entire focus centered on his intent. He fell into the familiar motions of controlling his breath - a technique he had used all too often to keep his emotions in check - inhaling deeply through his nose before exhaling the breath through his mouth.

It didn't take long before the outer world fell away and the entirety of his being was composed of the simple action of inhale and exhale. His posture relaxed and his breathing came easier as he enter a tranquil state. Unfortunately - or fortunately depending on your perspective - this was the trigger for the ritual as the Stone seemed to pulse, sending a tremor of irritation throughout his body that gradually began to intensify.

Harry grit his teeth against the pain, the blood red Philosopher's Stone in his right hand seeming to glow into an ember as it began to warm as the pulsing increased. In his left hand, the phoenix feather and holly wand began emitting golden sparks, pure magical energy starting to arch between the Stone and wand, Harry's body being used as the channel.

The first truly painful feeling built in his stomach, and Harry was sure he was going to sick up on the floor before the feeling passed, traveling upward, along the lining of his esophagus like liquid fire before seeping into his lungs. From there it slowly spread throughout his extremities, an unpleasant ripple indicating exactly how far along it was.

The process only took fifteen minutes.

Harry was slightly bent over by now, sweat pouring off his body as he drew in great heaping gasps of air, his heart thundering in his chest, pumping much needed adrenaline throughout his system to keep him coherent.

Pain; Harry was accustomed to pain, so much so that he had developed a series of steps to effectively shove it into the far reaches of his mind and soldier on barely incapacitated. This, however, was on an entirely new scale.

His blood felt like it was boiling and his magic lashed out viciously against the foreign magic of the Stone, only to be slapped away as if a child. There were thousands of icy needles filling his lungs and his muscles corded and twisted beneath the surface of his skin, sending his body into spasms. His body had long ago slipped into shock, fighting in vain against the onslaught.

Yes, this was pain.

He shivered as the ripple traveled up the back of his neck to the base of his head before it danced along the outside of his skull, zeroing in on what Harry had been dreading and waiting for. The pain instantly doubled as it sought out his cursed scar, it felt as if great hands of stone were attempting to pry apart his skull, desperate to get at what lay beneath.

Silent tears spilled from his eyes.

Harry focused inwardly as the pain continued to grow, drawing blood as he bit back the anguish that threatened to rip from his throat. But it continued to build regardless, growing exponentially the longer he was in contact with the two magical foci until he wanted nothing more than to release them, to be done with this, but he couldn't - wouldn't - cave now.

Just a little longer became his mantra.

Startled, he realized there was smoke coming from the hand grasping the Stone - his wand hand he dully registered - though he was unsure if it was his flesh burning or simply a byproduct of the ritual, unable to wrest control of his senses long enough to search for the pain or smell the burning of flesh as the frantic beat of his head forced his undivided attention.

Blood began to flow from his scar as the horcrux within struggled against the might of the Philosophers Stone, before, with a spray of blood, the scar burst open completely, thick black ichor beginning to slop its way out of the zigzagging wound and Harry finally relented to the agony the ritual had brought.

His back arched against his will, his head tipped backwards as his eyes flew open, and he screamed.

The storming energy that had been slowly swirling and building within him was released and with it, the concentric warding scheme flared brightly before it collapsed.


Harry woke, blessedly sore, his mind muddled and encased in a screen of fog. He was still nude, lying sprawled out across the remains of the trinity knot diagram, the deep blue charcoal smeared across his torso. He blinked his eyes a few times, finally coming to understand why his vision was blurry - he wasn't wearing his glasses.

He moved to sit up, groaning instead before accepting defeat and lying still - either Ol' Saint Nick conveniently failed to mention the level of pain associated with the ritual or Harry was just special.

He lifted his lead-lined arm and carefully ran the pads of his fingers over his famous scar, not surprised to find the area sore, but pleased to not feel the usual innate presence coming from the cursed wound - it seemed the ritual had worked. Never one to leave anything to chance, Harry closed his eyes, attempting to focus on the slight internal pressure he had discovered after learning of the horcrux the first time around.

A smile broke out across his face - it was gone.

Invigorated with euphoria, Harry pushed himself up, stumbling his way over until he sat heavily on the edge of his bed. Damn, he was exhausted - coupled with the stiffness of dried blood and stickiness of old sweat, he felt pretty shitty.

The room, amazingly, was still intact; his window had a slight crack running through its lower pane and the rings of fire salts had been seared into the wood flooring, but other than a few, easy-to-be-rid-of, scorch marks and the remains of the diagram, his room was fine. The Stone - he glanced at his hand, beyond pleased to see that it was only a raw red and didn't look likely to scar - was still inside the trinity knot, his wand had rolled over to rest against the leg of his desk, and the charcoal offering seemed to have caught fire sometime during the ritual.

His head collapsed into his welcoming hands in equal parts exhaustion and relief.

Harry didn't realize he was beginning to doze off until his left hand lost purchase, causing his head to snap up painfully to avoid toppling forwards. Determined not to just collapse backwards, he bent down and scooped up his boxers - dark pink with glow-in-the-dark stars courtesy of Tonks - and shuffled around until he was able to slip them on.

With a weary sigh - he was just so damn exhausted - Harry pushed himself to his feet, staggered to his door, into the hallway, and finally into the bathroom beyond and a much needed shower.

Fifteen minutes, scalding hot water, a bit of scrubbing, and three near falls later Harry was back in his room, his door locked, the curtains pulled to, his wand beneath his pillow, and snuggled deep within the welcoming folds of his bed, sleep having already claimed him.

He never even noticed Hedwig watching him with worried, amber eyes, a letter attached to her leg.


Author's Note:

The scene with Hedwig was inspired entirely by the fic 'Agent O' by Rorschach's Blot. If you are a fan of Crack fics, I highly recommend the story and the author as a whole.

Now then, Flamel's response to Harry having the Stone was gleaned from the small glimpse we have of his character from canon, where he chose to destroy the Stone and move on to 'the next great adventure'; I figured the sentiment would be the same here.

The ritual is one of three that I originally wrote and the one that I liked best - though, I'm still not particularly pleased with it. I was attempting to portray the ritual as a bit frantic, with Harry obviously rushed about removing his own bit of Voldy, but also because of what I believe the nature of actual magical rituals would be like - demanding, painful, and hallucinogenic; an incident you would look back on and remember, but with very little detail other than pain.

I'm not sure how well I was actually able to put this in words, so let me know what you think.

As always, thanks for reading.