Angela's Note: Enjoy a chapter a bit longer than normal!
I'm also taking part in a fanfic contest on Inkitt. I posted my story Ruthless (as it's the only one that I think fits the bill). Please help give me a bump, I'd appreciate it! Just go to the story and click the 'Heart' at the bottom of the screen to vote. Thanks! Inkitt DOT com SLASH stories SLASH 57367
Harry stood looking at himself observing himself. It was a tricky thing, to view a memory inside a pensieve of himself viewing a memory inside a pensieve; like peeking through the layers of an onion.
He hadn't tried until that afternoon; the last time he had checked himself over for outside influences had been with Hermione beside him, looking year-by-year for any sign the horcrux had tainted him.
This was different. This was, somehow, worse.
Harry watched as his own green soul stood on a street, fire burning still on the edges of the memory, the inferi scattered about upon the ground like fragments of broken triangles.
He watched himself watch himself kneel, fingers of light reaching for what he now knew was the Resurrection Stone. Saw his fingers gently pick it up, turn it over, place it in his pocket. Nothing changed, yet.
The memory flickered again. Harry was alone, in Grimmauld Place, sitting in a wooden chair, pulling the ring out, trying to change it, trying to explain its impossibility to himself.
Harry looked at himself in the memory within a memory, then looked at himself looking at that memory. It was as close to a mirror as he had ever come; and in this way he could see far more clearly if anything changed.
His past self placed the ring upon his finger, and Harry watched it happen, so slight he never would have seen it without observing his two self's side-by-side.
A slight shift in the humanity of his pattern; a sphere angling slightly into a cone here; a box becoming more of a prism there. Such a little change, a slight angle in his pattern, nothing he ever would have noticed.
The growing chill in his stomach deepened, hardened. Harry changed the memory again, as he had four times before now, because he could see that that slight change was nothing. Nothing compared to what he saw when he examined himself three years ago to himself now.
Harry watched himself unwrap the package that was around the Cloak of Invisibility. Saw that the pattern upon the Stone shifted in either agitation or excitement; saw his own pattern shift with it, so very excited at finding another pattern he could not explain.
Then the memory-self flung the pattern of stars and shadows around him and vanished into its light with a laugh he hadn't realized he had uttered.
When the Cloak was pulled away, the damage was done. It wasn't so slight, now. More cones and prisms, the green of his own soul and the human pattern of his body both changed irrevocably. As if what made him human was becoming more like what made the Stone and the Cloak, sharp angles and sloping curves.
And scattered about his color dark green shadows glimmered, mirrored by lighter pinpricks of palest green darkness.
Which made no sense, that shadows could shine and light could cast such darkness.
He hadn't seen it, but then again, he hadn't viewed many memories of his current self. Hermione would not notice the difference in his light, overwhelmed as she was by all the other portions of his sight. They had both focused too much on his face, on the bloody horcrux, to see the smallest changes being wrought elsewhere.
More memories flickered by, all that he could remember of himself actually wearing the Cloak, the Stone a constant presence on his finger.
Every time another angle sharpened, though the effect was not as dramatic as the first initial experience. Every time there was another prism here, another cone there, more contrast in his color, more stars and shadows, such tiny little things even he would only notice on close observation over a long period of time. And with each change, he saw his own pattern responding to the activity in the Stone and Cloak; or perhaps they merely were responding to him.
When he grew excited, their patterns shifted. When he was angry, they flickered. When he was deep in thought, they pulsed in contrast to his own shifting light like pets eager for attention.
He saw that he had responded unconsciously. That he did indeed, as Hermione teased, run his fingers constantly over the Cloak in absent motions. That he did twirl the ring on his finger.
He was constantly touching them. Like the nervous habit of a smoker, reaching to make sure his next fix was in his pocket.
Harry left the pensieve with a slight stumble, falling into the nearest chair.
The story had been a magnificent blend of legend, warning, and fact.
He couldn't say it was all a fabrication; he could see with his own sight that the Cloak and the Stone were very, very real items. He knew they were special. He knew they were changing him. Perhaps just one of the Hallows could not manage it; the Stone alone had done very little.
But it made him wonder about the truth of possessing all three, and what together they might manage to do to the human who held them. The Master of Death.
Immortality? In body, or soul? Conscious reincarnation? The ability to summon the dead or bring back life? Or would he die, instead, becoming some shadowy figure who ushered others into the realm beyond, holding a large sickle?
Such a fanciful, non-scientific thought. Harry ran a hand over his face, sighed. Mentally stepped back from the problem, trying to separate his emotions and think rationally.
Scientifically.
He possessed two artifacts, centuries old at least. Two of three objects created, no doubt, by genius wizards for purposes only they would fully understand. Objects that were indestructible.
He needed copies of the original legend, the oldest he could find. He needed to experiment with the Stone. He needed to decide if he should lock both Cloak and Stone away and see if their influence could be reversed.
He needed to tell Hermione, bask in her comforting light, let her make sense of the entire thing.
But underneath the shock, underneath the sense of betrayal at having his own pattern altered against his consent, Harry felt another emotion, one rising in strength as every moment passed.
Fascination. Sheer excitement at discovering something rare, something mysterious, something no one else had experimented on to his knowledge. An entire new realm that might be opened to him with the Stone.
Despite himself, a smile began to twist his lips, and he looked down at his right hand, at the finger that still carried the ring that held impossibility.
"Wonderful." Harry murmured, looking into its depths, and seeing the growing shadowy light inside his own skin flicker with the sentiment.
"A story for children." Hermione said flatly, looking down at the invisibility cloak pooled in Harry's lap, its soft silvery folds spilling across his legs. "It's not unusual for myths and legends to grow out of fact. Look at the mundane stories of Merlin and Arthur, and all we learned that was true and false when we entered the wizarding world. But this; this."
She wasn't sure what to say, how to form the words. The Invisibility Cloak itself, even if indestructible, did not seem so strange. There were many spells that would do the same, ones far more convenient than carrying around a large length of fabric.
But the Stone was another matter entirely. If the stories were true, it could possibly do much more than Harry himself was capable of with his sight when it came to bringing people back to life.
"You haven't tested it yet?" Hermione asked, even though she knew the answer before he shook his head. "Okay. Alright." She paused again, mind racing.
Should they even test it at all?
Who would they summon first?
"I wish I knew how they created them. If we summon anyone, it should be the Peverell's. Best to get our answers from the source itself."
Hermione felt the stirring of excitement all the way down to her bones as the possibilities began to form.
"We could talk to anyone. We could talk to Einstein! Tesla! Merlin! Anyone!"
Harry grinned at her, his black hair too-long and wild, in dire need of the cut his aunt despaired getting him still enough to finish.
"I know."
"But why did Voldemort have it? And how? And your father, how did he have the Cloak?"
Harry's eyes looked down at his lap, green orbs focused better on its form than they ever seemed to focus on anything else. She would be jealous, if she wasn't so fascinated herself.
"The story states Ignotus passed the Cloak down to his son. Antioch's Wand was stolen after his murder. No doubt, the other brother had children who claimed his property. I was told that many people have researched their bloodline, looking for the Hallows. My dad and Voldemort could have been descendants, or themselves or some ancestor claimed them in some way from a descendant."
Hermione's hands clasped together, as she looked carefully into Harry's face, looking for emotion.
"You could ask him. Your father. Your mother. You could… talk to them."
She saw the surprise bloom; and wondered that she felt a bit sad that he hadn't yet considered that himself.
"I guess I could." There was wonder in his voice. "It still hasn't sunk in."
"If it works, of course." Hermione quickly said, telling herself not to expect too much. After all, the story has also claimed that those returned were not… well, alive. Who knew exactly what the Stone would bring back? She couldn't help but remember a story she had read long ago, about three wishes on a monkey's paw.
The second wish had been used to bring a son back to life. A son that had been dead more than a week in a horrible accident.
The last wish had been to send him back.
"Death." Harry's voice was both contemplative and confused. "In the story, it's an actual person."
"Unlikely." Hermione spoke, brows drawing together. "More likely it's a simple way of making the story more exciting for children."
"And yet, all the objects deal with death in some way. One to bring death, one to reverse it, and one to prevent it. I think calling the antagonist Death is no accident. The Peverell brothers must have researched death, and by proxy, soul magic, very thoroughly. One might have even had my form of sight, the ability to see that souls go somewhere. They might have solved the mystery of it."
His voice rose, and Hermione couldn't help but see that his hands moved over the invisibility cloak reflexively, just as her own father would pet his cat.
"Such a thing could topple religions." Hermione murmured. "And why not publish their work? Where is a book with their discoveries?" She leaned forward, wishing she could meet his gaze even as she knew that he saw her better than anyone else. "And why did none of them become this 'Master of Death'? Because if they did, they should still be alive now, right? And if one of them never possessed all three artifacts, then no one has, and therefore no one can know that anything special at all happens by having all three."
Harry leaned back into his seat, eyes closing as he spoke his thoughts aloud. "Unless the very legend I was told was created on purpose, maybe by Ignotus himself, as he is supposedly the one to live the longest. A warning just in case anyone ever was able to accomplish the feat. Adding enough flourish to make the legend survive the years, enough fact to be helpful when the right person asks the right questions. It would be a brilliant strategy."
"Easier to just write it down." Hermione muttered. "In a book for everyone to read."
"And have everyone creating Resurrection Stones?" He returned, and she folded her arms, stance rigid.
"Ignotus wouldn't have to say how he created it, just that he did. Even if he wanted to avoid public notoriety, surely he would have at least left notes for his descendents. Why hide that fact, why make up some legend instead?"
Harry's mouth drooped into a frown. He hated losing an argument.
So did she, for that matter. It made conversations between them interesting at times. It also made them frustrating for others to listen in on what sometimes appeared to be the drawn out battle of two stubborn minds.
"He could have been ashamed of what he had done. Or scared. Notes could have put his family in danger."
Hermione groaned at that logic.
"We can speculate all night, Harry, and dinner is no doubt cold. Are we going to test out this Stone or not? All our answers could be waiting right inside that little black rock."
He grinned, eyes opening to fix somewhere on the region of her chest.
"I'm not hungry."
She couldn't help but smile in response.
"Me either. Let's try it."
He stood without waiting, laying the cloak aside to hold a hand out to her, warm skin meeting her own as he tugged her to her feet, pulling her into an impromptu hug.
"Have I told you today I love you? Do you have your notepad on you?"
She laughed at the two very different questions.
"Yes, and yes."
His lips twisted in a universal picture of excited mischief.
"Then away to the laboratory, my Lady."
"Right away, my Lord." She returned in faux solemnity, her hand squeezing his.
In the hallway, Kreacher rolled his bulbous eyes and turned away.
Warming charms were not standard in a house-elf's repertoire for nothing.
"Cadmus Peverell was the one to create, or receive, the Resurrection Stone." Harry began, as they stood in the plain stone experimentation room, Hermione's lighting charms illuminating the empty space. "He tried to bring back his fiance, but it was told that when she returned, she was not dead but also, not alive. He killed himself in his grief. She may also have felt some pain or trauma at being returned to life."
Hermione watched him as he stood, the Stone in his hand removed from its setting within the ring. A simple octahedron, dull black in color. She could have sworn, a time or two, she had seen something inside its depths glowing dimly out at her. But she hadn't studied it as thoroughly as Harry had.
She simply hadn't been that fascinated with it.
"Really, we must go into this with no expectations. Any part of the legend could be misleading. The story says to turn it three times. So here we go."
Harry slowly began to rotate the stone, fingers delicately maneuvering the octahedron as he spoke a name.
"Cadmus Peverell."
Hermione saw something change, and spoke softly as the magical quill on the table beside them automatically documented every word they said.
"There is a symbol flashing inside the stone. Silver lines, a line within a circle, the circle within a triangle. It's the Deathly Hallows symbol. Make note, this leads me to believe the items were indeed created around the same time, or at least Cadmus was aware of his brothers own inventions."
Harry finished turning the stone the third time, and Hermione sucked in a breath.
Silver mist was coalescing before them, twisting, turning.
Fading away into nothing.
"...Harry?" Hermione questioned softly.
"I saw the Hallow pattern expand and ripple, then splinter apart."
"I saw silver mist, like the substance of a ghost, then it faded."
Harry raised his chin.
"Let's try again."
Harry went through the motions of experimentation with thorough, unyielding patience.
They tried rotating the stone in different amounts and different directions, and only the three clockwise turns from their first try yielded any results.
They tried chanting Peverell's name versus merely thinking it, only to get the same result as when it was simply stated.
They debated letting Hermione try the summons, and decided against it. While she was eager to experiment herself, neither one wanted to risk her own pattern getting twisted as his had from the Hallow's influence. Harry wasn't certain yet whether it was a benign taint or something with much darker implications.
"We need to try another name. Who is next on the list?" He heard the rustle of paper, her voice a solid strength.
"The other Peverell brothers. Then you said Flamel. Why Flamel? Nicolas Flamel, the alchemist?"
Harry lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
"He made the only other magical gem that has gained as much notoriety as the Resurrection Stone, and it too deals with death, in a fashion."
"Logical." Hermione murmured. "Is it possible that souls that died a great deal of time ago can not be summoned? Only the recently deceased?"
Harry absently ran his fingers across the angles of the small stone in his hand, its size barely more than a pebble.
"Just as much as it's possible only magical souls can be summoned, or only unbroken ones that have not gone through trauma of some sort."
"More tests." He could hear the smile in her voice, and answered it with his own.
"More tests."
Which is why they spent another hour attempting to contact each Peverell brother, a methodical process as each potential factor was again tested.
Rotation, incantation, rotation, incantation, rotation, incantation.
His stomach rumbled, an annoying break in the routine.
"Nicolas Flamel." Harry finally said, thinking of what he knew of the man.
Another possible conundrum. Surely there had been more than one Nicolas Flamel, and surely multiple Peverell descendents had been named after their famous ancestors. How would the Stone's magic know to pick the right one?
Hermione gasped, and Harry, his fingers finishing the turn of the stone, saw the black stars expand and billow and bleed away into bright, stark color.
It was pure, unblemished, solid scarlet red, a soul of beautiful light. There was no humanity to it; no angles for him to read, no pattern that governed its form. It had the shape of a man; a man in clothes, even, though the clothing held only the pure soul's light.
He would say the soul was alive; but there was no flicker of life to it. Nothing that could be killed, or resurrected.
It simply was.
"You make a grave mistake, young ones. Necromancy is no art to trifle with."
The red light spoke to them; Harry was struck dumb with amazement. He realized suddenly that the scientific part of him, while thrilled at the possibilities, had not truly been expecting many results.
Hermione cleared her throat, and he saw her light bend into a metal chair, her breath quick.
"N-nicolas Flamel?" She whispered hesitantly.
"I confess, I did not expect there to be further adventures after death. I was quite counting on it being the end. I had already… forgotten, what it feels like to be angry. But I am angry now."
The voice was male, strong, cultured with an unmistakable french accent. It was not old; neither was it young.
This was not a ghost or a spirit. It was not simply a soul with no body, it was a soul that needed no body. It existed beyond the physical realm, in some other place. It was not alive, and it was not dead. It did not exist, but it was here in front of him.
No wonder Cadmus Peverell had been driven mad.
"What is it like?" Harry found his voice, surprised at its strength. He felt like sitting down much as Hermione had, his legs weak. "Death?"
"That is what you choose to ask me first, dark wizard?"
He saw no point in arguing labels. "Yes."
The spirit was still, no sound of breathing, no rustle of clothing. As silent as a statue, a parody of a man.
"I do not have to answer you." There was a hint of surprise in Flamel's voice. "What magic have you wrought here?"
Harry felt his hand tighten around the Stone in his palm.
"We will trade information, then. You tell me about Death, and I'll tell you how you are here."
"And you will send me back." Flamel said. "I find it uncomfortable to be here."
"Alright." Harry agreed, glancing in Hermione's direction. He saw her light jerk in a nod, her voice gaining strength as she answered his unspoken question.
"Okay."
The pure scarlet tones moved, pacing, and Harry hoped Hermione was memorizing everything she saw. Was it a man? Was he young, or old? Was he dressed in modern clothing, or clothing from his time period?
"I will choose to take your word on that." The spirit paused in its movement, and Harry felt its focus fall on him like a cold touch.
"Death is nothing I can put into mundane words. I find it hard to verbalize, in any language I know, the scope of it. It is healing. It is… life. Another life, but in reverse. An unwinding of everything that this life is. I had begun to forget pain, and distrust, and hunger. Only in fleeting moments do I remember agony and sorrow. They are concepts; they are the opposite of what I was becoming. It was going to take a very, very long time for me. But I had lived a very, very long time. I will be dead for centuries before I return as something new."
"Return." Harry breathed, thoughts spinning in a whirlwind, soaking in the information like a desert in the rain.
"Nothing is infinite. Nothing remains in stasis forever." Flamel mused aloud. "Death is not a place you can enter. It has no doors, no walls, no ground below you or sky above you. It is a state of being, a time. I lived for a time, and then I died for a time. Now I am here, where you have summoned me."
"Reincarnation." Harry began. "You are saying that the souls unwind and are reborn."
Flamel hummed and lectured, perhaps as he had lectured many times in his life. "No, and yes. It is hard to understand something that is happening to you while it is happening. I understood this better when I first died; but already I have forgotten many of my years. I talked with others who explained some of it to me, and much I observed myself. Perhaps, as long as you live is as long as you will die. Those taken in their infancy will spend the least time in the other state, because their souls are already pure and innocent and unbroken."
"Unbroken." Harry latched onto the word. "What happens to the broken souls?"
The spirits voice was sad, an elderly grandfather with the voice of a middle-aged man.
"Some make it through, scarred, and are made anew. Others can not; they return as ghosts, if they have enough strength. The rest… are no longer. They have no more time left."
So many questions answered, and yet a thousand more he was eager to ask.
"Is there a limit? To the amount of times one can be reborn? Could I not summon older souls because they have become other people? Living people?"
A flash of scarlet; a raised hand, or a dismissive one?
"I answered your question. Answer mine. I would know what dark path a bright mind like yours has begun to tread."
Frustration rose and was quelled. Harry opened his palm and held out the Resurrection Stone.
"I do not understand how it works, only that it does. The Resurrection Stone, one of the Deathly Hallows. I had hoped to speak to Cadmus Peverell, but the summons failed us. I wanted to know how it was created. I wanted to know how it is indestructible, and why it has begun to manipulate my own soul. I wanted to know if there really is a Master of Death, and what that would mean."
"So many questions. So young, to hold such an old thing. I know of the Hallows, but have never held one." Light reached for the Stone, and pressed against his own, a cold pressure that he could feel but not truly touch, and then it fell away. "And I still can not. This is not life you have given me, but I'm sure you know that as well. What do you hope to gain?"
Harry lowered his head, looking down into white shadows with their scattering of dark stars, all held inside the small form of a gemstone.
"You said it yourself. I want answers to my questions."
"Some things are not meant to be known." Flamel said gently. "Some things are better left a mystery, lost in time."
"Like the Philosopher's Stone?" Harry countered, looking into the spirits solid, pure light. "You never shared its secret."
"I never will, just as I imagine the Peverell brothers never intended to share their own. Those who create things that shame them always seek to cover up that shame, one way or another. If I have learned anything in death, it is that death is a wonderful, necessary thing. I would not seek to escape it again. I only pity those who run from it, who cower in fear from it. We are meant to die, just as we are meant to be born. No one can stop time."
"Is that what the Peverell brothers were doing? They had to create the Hallows together. And the pattern of them… it is like nothing I have ever seen. There is no time, to the Hallows. They are as unchanging as yourself at this moment. They are a solid essence of… something. Something that is trying to make me a mirror of it. I need to know what that something is."
Flamel sighed. "What was left of the Peverell brothers were reborn long before I died. If I ever met them in some other time, I have no memory of it. We all unwind with different speed, but the unwinding itself is inevitable. Those that are old in their death are also very, very young. We lose the recent things first. Impressions, then memories. The feelings are the last to go; I think something is left in us that will always remember the ones we loved, and the ones we hated. As I have said, it is hard to put into words. Everything I have told you is truth; but it is also a very pretty lie."
"It is light and darkness at once." Harry said softly, and was not relieved when the spirit jerked with surprised agreement.
"Yes, exactly! It is the dawn of understanding intertwined with the dark recesses of incomprehension. How do you describe color to the blind? Pain to the insensitive? Sound to the deaf? How do you explain death to the living?"
Blue-violet light rose, coming around the spirit to stand beside him, one warm hand slipping into his own.
"Mr. Flamel. Is it alright if we call for you again? If we wish to speak to you once we have processed… all of this?"
Harry leaned into her solid strength, grateful that she had understood how much the information had sent him reeling.
"When I am here, I remember some of what I have forgotten. It is hard to be here. It is hard to both long to go, and long to stay. You may summon me again; I can not stop you. But I would ask it be brief. I'm not sure what else you could gain from me. I will not give you the formula to my Stone. I am more determined in death to conceal it than I was in life, and that determination was formidable."
"We understand." Hermione soothed. "I am sorry we caused you discomfort."
"I have comfort, my dear, in knowing I won't remember it for much longer."
Harry clenched his own Stone, focused on the spirit in front of them, and spoke softly.
He hadn't been sure going into it how exactly a spirit, if one was summoned, could be dispelled. But he found the answer was simple.
"Goodbye, Nicolas Flamel." And so saying, turned the stone counter-clockwise.
The presence did not fade away; it collapsed in on itself, an implosion of spirit, until nothing remained.
"Harry." Hermione said softly, her lips turning to speak in one ear. "Let's eat."
He smiled despite himself when his stomach rumbled.
It said something about life, that one could discover proof of reincarnation, and still be hungry afterwards.
"Yeah. Let's eat."
And with her hand in his, moved towards the door.
"I'm disappointed. Isn't that silly? Everything I have learned, all the new answers and questions. So much more than we could have hoped for. And yet, I'm disappointed."
Hermione ran a hand through Harry's hair gently as he whispered. She lay with her back on the sofa, Harry's body draped over her legs, his head in her lap as they watched the fire burn behind its grate.
"I really did like the idea of talking with Merlin." Hermione agreed, pinpointing with the accuracy of a like mind just what exactly was bothering her friend.
"All the scholars who are long dead. Or even the ones who died little less than a century ago, lost. It was like I had them within my grasp, only for them to slip away. All that knowledge."
She hummed in agreement, gently untangling his wild hair with her fingers, drawing her nails down his scalp until he sighed with pleasure.
"It probably would have been too easy. I pictured us in a room filled with all the dead geniuses of the modern age, solving world hunger and world peace and immortality."
"And warp drive engines and space travel." Harry added, the corners of his lips rising with a smile.
"We can test just how long ago the dead had to die before they have lost their memories." She hesitated, then took a chance. "You might still be able to speak to your parents. They've only been gone a little under two decades."
"I know. I want to, and time is running against me if I wait too long. But... not now. Not yet."
She nodded briskly, and let the subject subside. "Meanwhile, it's time to research everything we can about reincarnation. If I had to pick a world religion to be on the mark about death, Hinduism would not have been my first choice."
"It makes me wonder about other things." Harry turned in her arms, green eyes looking up into her face.
Vibrant, beautiful green eyes. Hermione smiled into them, not the least bothered that they were focused firmly on her nose.
"Like what?" She prodded.
"Dementors, for one. Is it possible they were created for a purpose? To find and consume those broken, fragmented souls that manage to avoid death? Maybe even a way to… recycle ghosts?"
Hermione laughed, the mental picture of a garbage truck pulled by ghastly floating dementors flashing through her mind. But she couldn't discard the logic of it.
"If they were, it was a creation that did not stick to its appointed task. I've never heard of dementors going for ghosts, only perfectly normal human beings. They cause unimaginable suffering, as well, even when they do not kill. Seems superfluous."
He let out a sigh, absently rubbing his cheek against her palm.
"Just as likely they were a failed experiment into soul magic. I wouldn't mind destroying them all either way. I hate them."
Hermione knew there were few things Harry truly hated with a passion. She leaned down to place a quick kiss onto his lips.
"We'll add it to the list." She grinned. "Things to accomplish in the next ten years."
"Five years." He scoffed. "Let's be realistic."
They laughed together, and Hermione felt warm and comfortable and content.
She could almost let herself forget the Deathly Hallows completely.
When his light left, Harry wandered back into the now silent, empty living room. He felt as if some of the life of the place went with her, though the happy echo of her presence remained.
"Master? Do yous need anything?" Kreacher questioned softly, and Harry turned to regard the elf with a quick Look.
"No, thank you." The elf, short and spindly, drew away at his words with a slight bow, leaving without question.
He was still a very formal, self-important house-elf, even after the years he had spent with Harry as his master.
Harry sat with a sigh, twisting the ring that had retaken its place on his middle finger, the Stone a black incandescent eye upon the twisted band of gold. He wasn't surprised to feel the presence of the invisibility cloak at his back, the fabric sliding across his shoulders and glimmering like a slice of the night sky.
He didn't remember putting it on from where it had been left in a puddle on the cushion hours earlier, and he was too tired to worry overmuch about it. It was simply there when he wanted it, like the unquestionable force of gravity. One did not have to understand to believe.
"Still a mystery." Harry whispered into the quiet room, the fire dying in its cage, its fuel expended. "My two impossibilities."
And despite himself, he wondered just where the third Hallow was and who bore it, and if that same pulling force of gravity would strive to bring the three items together once again, a complete unit.
He wouldn't look for it. He had other questions that needed answers, other projects to devote his time to. There was the Ministry, and Hermione, and the horcrux.
But he was no longer certain if, faced with the third Hallow, he would be able to turn away and not reach out and take it.
He was just too bloody curious for his own good.
The March meeting of the Wizengamot was pathetically routine. Harry spent the majority of it trying to care about cauldrons, property lines, and proposed fines in lieu of incarceration. The only highlight was when the new house-elf regulations, or more appropriately, the lack of them was presented.
House-elves would no longer be slaves. They would have a choice of when and where to work, a choice to leave if they were not satisfied. They would not be forced to take compensation, but their Master's would be forced to offer free time and wages. A family group of elves could not be forcibly separated, and no elf could be made to take a mate and have young against their will.
And best of all, in his opinion, were the new penalties for commanding corporeal punishment for refused commands. No longer would a house-elf have to beat themselves or others for their Master's twisted pleasure.
Vaughn told him that when the vote was called, most heads swiveled in his direction. Only five members refrained from voting. The rest followed him when he raised his hand to signal his positive vote.
Hermione met him outside the doors, her light pulsing with emotion. She flung her arms around him with a giddy laugh.
"We did it! We did it!"
He laughed in return, swinging her around in an clumsy embrace that sent them both stumbling.
He heard the pop of cameras and ignored them.
The reporters would take their pictures, but none would approach him. His reputation did have the occasional positive effect.
"We should move on. There's a crowd gathering." Vaughn murmured in their ear, and Harry nodded, walking briskly towards the lifts, Hermione's hand held tight in his own.
He couldn't quite keep the smile from his face.
Hermione stomped through Diagon Alley, the rain a constant angry downpour around her, Fallon splashing along behind through the wet streets.
This time, when they reached the entrance to Knockturn, they didn't pause. She descended the crooked steps rapidly, one hand on her wand, eyes vigilant as she looked for the one store that had answered her owls with something other than nonsense or flat-out rebuttal when she asked after the Mirror of Erised.
She found the store, it's dingy sign only saying Crup, above the symbol of it's namesake, the devilish tail of the magical canine circling across the wood in an exaggerated serpentine motion.
Hermione ignored Fallon's soft curses as she pulled open the door. She had sworn this would be the only stop, a simple in-and-out trip that would be kept under a half-hour. She had also sworn she would never enter this particular Alley again, a promise she doubted she could keep forever.
But she had been sincere when she promised him, at least.
The store was dark, dank, and exactly what she expected. Scuffed wooden floors, with cluttered shelves of dubious artifacts resting precariously upon them. The only window was boarded over, not even the palest ray of the late afternoon sun shining through. The storefront was instead lit by a few sparse candles in ornate gold and one pitted silver candelabra that rested beside a equally pitted silver dining set.
The young man behind the counter, however, did not look like the Mr. Brendon she expected to find manning a desk that looked in need of at least a hundred repairing spells.
She never understood how a world that had cleaning and repairing charms at the flick of a wrist could still be dirty and semi-demolished.
"May I help you?" The man's eyes weren't focused on her, but on Fallon, his accent foreign. He was bald, so smoothly shaven a hair removal potion must have been used.
That would also explain the disturbing lack of eyebrows. Perhaps the potion had been accidental.
Hermione stepped into his line of sight.
She was on a time limit, after all. No time for niceties.
As if this place warranted it.
"I'm looking for Mr. Brendon."
Eyes that looked black in the low light fixed on her, the iris' indistinguishable from the pupils. The man was pale; too pale. And his face had deep shadows in the candlelight.
"I'm Mr. Brendon."
Cultured, idle tones, perhaps even bored.
He's a bloody vampire, Hermione realized in fascination, the facts pieced together into one unquestionable conclusion. I'm talking to a vampire! Harry would kill to be here!
At that thought, she felt a pang of guilt. Harry wasn't here, because she wanted to go alone. She wanted to do this for him. If she could only find the blasted Mirror.
"Okay." Hermione answered, and could practically feel Fallon's disapproval at her back. The ex-auror hadn't known they would be talking to a vampire, either. While the beings were not exactly required to register with the Ministry, they were usually monitored anyway. If Fallon hadn't know Mr. Brendon was a dark creature, it was because the man was either new to the Alley, or had managed to successfully avoid Ministry employees.
Considering any known Ministry employee walking into Knockturn Alley alone was an instant target for every ghoul, hag, and criminal, she was leaning towards the later.
"You sent me a reply about the Mirror of Erised. You said you had information."
The man smiled, and she didn't known whether she actually saw the hint of pointed canines or if her mind was playing tricks on her. He reclined slightly in his chair, the movement all liquid grace. "We do indeed. For a price of course. Nothing, as they say, is free."
Hermione nodded briskly, fishing out the leather drawstring bag from her damp cloak. It clanked with coins when she tossed it onto the counter.
"Nothing worthwhile is free." She agreed, projecting as much confidence as she could muster. While twenty-five galleons was not a large sum, it was also not in any way small. She could buy several large magical books for that, easily. It should be more than enough for a simple conversation about an artifact no one, it seemed, wanted.
It was also nearly all the magical coin she had on hand without visiting the bank and touching her savings, then converting the mundane money through the goblins. She really didn't like the way they sneered at her when she did so.
She didn't see the bag being taken; but one second it was there, the next, gone. For the first time, she felt a shiver of fear go down her spine.
The man's polite smile didn't falter, but she swore she saw his eyes gleam brighter. Was it true that vampires could smell fear?
"How lovely." He spoke, gaze swinging between herself and Fallon. "You did not bring Lord Potter?"
Hermione lifted her chin. "The Mirror of Erised." She stated pointedly.
This time, when he grinned, she knew she saw teeth that were just slightly too sharp.
"Yes, of course. We do not remember her exact name, they tend to run together after the years pass by." He tapped long fingers on the wood in front of him. "But she was a charms professor, of Hogwarts. White hair, and carried it so very beautifully. We appreciate those who age with grace."
He had an odd way of speaking, nosism if she wasn't mistaken. She did not know if that was something inherent in Vampires, unique to him, or maybe it wasn't nosism at all, and more than one person ran the store. Fallon mumbled something behind her that she didn't quite catch; but Mr. Brendon, apparently, did, for his constant smile temporarily disappeared.
"She bought the mirror to study at her school, and as far as our knowledge goes, it still remains there. We heard of an attempted sale a decade later of the enchanted mirror by the current Headmaster, but the Ministry labeled the artifact dangerous due to a couple… unfortunate accidents. No one in the community who possessed the valid permits to acquire it cared to do so. It simply wasn't interesting enough to warrant the hassle or the expense." Another quick smile, another hint of fang. "The Ministry does love to take its share of the profits of any class three and higher objects. Raises the price."
Hogwarts. Finally a lead! She glanced at Fallon, to see the wizard staring grimly at the vampire with severe focus.
Did he actually expect an attack? Vampires, in reality, rarely attacked anyone, mostly because they would receive no defense or second chance from the Ministry. The first offense landed the attacker shoved outside in solid daylight, no more questions asked. They instead paid, and paid well, to feed from any willing witch or wizard who needed some quick cash in exchange for a pint of their blood.
"Thank you, Mr. Brendon."
She began to turn, and paused when the vampire spoke.
"We are most interested in Lord Potter's future plans. This business with the house-elves… it makes us ask ourselves. If creatures such as those are blessed with his defense against Ministry regulations, what about the rest of us?"
It was spoken in the same idle, bored tone, but she caught the hint of true interest behind it.
Hermione squared her shoulders, made herself smile and meet his black eyes.
"Everybody deserves to be treated fairly."
His smile was wide, pale thin lips parting to reveal the monster inside.
"We agree, Hermione Granger. Let it be so."
She shivered when she stepped aside; only just realizing how over-warm the Crup had been. The rain still poured down the Alley, running in rivers now across its cobblestones. Fallon shuffled up beside her.
"Quickly, now. We've been here too long."
"Not even half an hour." She protested, but was silenced by his dark look.
"An hour, maybe more. Time moves… differently, with those monsters."
She couldn't believe it, until she realized that the Alley was darker now because the sun had finally set, the gloom that creeped in every crevice a more natural darkness.
"How?" She hadn't read of that phenomenon in her books. Surely it would have been documented.
She matched her guard step for step as they trotted through the narrow streets, splashing through puddles that contained grime whose substance she didn't want to consider too hard.
"Not always, not a lot most times. But with the old ones, and in one of their lairs… they decide how quickly things pass. It is not they who move quickly, but their magic that is able to slow down your own responses. A short range, moderate stasis charm, in effect."
"When he took the coins." Hermione guessed, and saw his head jerk in a nod underneath his cloak.
"And at other times."
"I didn't notice." Hermione mumbled, disconcerted. She was proud of her skills of observation.
"Most don't. They are regulated for a reason, missy. They're dangerous."
"Everyone has the capacity for violence." Hermione retorted, wishing they were anywhere else for this conversation than in a dark alley that she now knew was home to at least one vampire.
"Not everyone lives off human blood." Fallon had her there.
She saw the entrance to Diagon up ahead, and began to relax.
Which was, of course, when her luck finally ran out.
Fergus Fallon had not spent forty years with the Aurors without encountering dark creatures of nearly every kind. Not a few of those encounters had been in Knockturn Alley, which was notorious for its denizens bad habit of robbing, threatening, raping, and even killing those hapless enough to pass through without proper precautions.
Every few years or so, one Minister or another would decide to "clean" the Alley. They would arrest several dozen, wound a few more dozen, and for a few weeks, even months, the place would be habitable. But inevitably the criminals of the wizarding world trickled back into their old haunts, and the illegal dealings ramped up again.
Fergus expected trouble. He expected trouble anytime he accompanied either his employer or Miss Granger. It was a trait that made for a good bodyguard. Whether the expectation was warranted or not, it was a given. And with a high profile wizard like Harry Potter, he had not doubted for a moment that it was only a matter of time before someone got it into their head to seek revenge, or notoriety, by threatening or even attacking him.
He hadn't expected it so soon. Lord Potter had a reputation, one that leaned towards inspiring fear in the general populace.
But Hermione Granger was not the Blind Sorcerer. And they had been in the Alley long enough for word to spread of their presence.
The spell came from ahead and to the right. Another from behind. Miss Granger was no slouch in the wand work department, and he gave her credit for raising a relatively strong shield charm at the oncoming jinx. He whirled to protect their rear, hating the narrow Alley and all of its nooks and crannys that could hold an army of potential enemies.
"Keep moving, like we've discussed." He stated calmly, and she began to walk steadily forward, her shield moving with her.
More spellfire. He catalogued the color and shape of each one, standard binding spells and borderline-dark magic, nothing fatal. They were either being warned, lead into a trap, or only targeted for a robbery or kidnapping rather than assassination.
With the din of the storm, he could not hear the intonation of their curses, nor see clearly enough to pinpoint their location. They would simply shield until they reached the safety of Diagon and its crowds.
"Fallon." Her voice was calm, steady, but a warning nonetheless. He glanced ahead, and saw the dark robed figure blocking their path as their progress forward stopped.
Bloody hell. Lord Potter would fire him for certain.
"Look who we have here." It was a woman's voice, cheerful. "Two birdies who don't belong. Wouldn't the two of you look nice with my collection? Yes?"
A voice behind them agreed with the same cheerful tone. "Yes!"
The robed woman laughed. "And what a royal bird! How would the so-called Sorcerer feel when we take his little bird? Would he come pay us a visit, you think?"
"Oh yes!" The other agreed. Fallon calculated his chances of disarming them. Only two of them, that he could see.
"Would he pay us? Threaten us? Does he care for you, little bird? Does he like his little mudblood whore?"
Miss Granger stiffened, her shield lighting the Alley with soft gold light. Her voice, when she spoke, was cold with finality.
"He would just kill you."
The women shifted in silence for a moment. Fallon felt that silence down to his bones, and wondered if Granger was trying to scare them into scattering, or simply stating the truth. He wondered for the hundredth time just who exactly Vaughn had talked him into working for. He was getting too old for this.
The pay sure had been great while it lasted, though.
The woman ahead laughed, but it was not as cheerful as before.
"He wouldn't have the bollocks! Little spoiled brat who thinks he's a Lord."
There was a hiss; Fergus felt it more than heard it.
It was dark, liquid, happy. The sigh of a predator whose teeth had sank into meat fresh and warm and thrashing with life.
He knew that sound, had seen the aftermath of its carnage.
"Run!" Fergus demanded, pushing the surprised girl ahead of him into a stumbling run, even as the robed woman ahead let out a scream of rage.
"Julia!"
Her spells, when they came, were not aimed at Fergus and Miss Granger. Fergus did not look back as they passed her by, Diagon Alley steps away.
He heard her scream cut off; heard that hissing sigh of pleasure once again.
Miss Granger jumped the last steps into the other Alley, the throngs of passing wizards giving them only a brisk glance.
A voice came to them from the shadows of Knockturn, soft and cajoling.
"One favor for another. Let it be so."
Miss Granger began to turn back, and Fergus took her elbow in an iron grip, pulling her with him towards the crowds and the light and the humanity that was far less likely to kill them, one way or another, growling curses into the night.
"Bloody, cursed, despicable monsters."
Harry paused at the end of the driveway leading up to Privet Drive, a habit formed years ago before he even understood and questioned what it was he saw.
Before, when he was young, the wards over the Dursley's house had been thin bands of strong emerald light, a cage-like grid that was easily seen through to the greater shadowy sky above. They had always been there; and when he questioned why his own home and a few select others bore such domes, there had been no easy answer found. He had speculated about natural rhythms of energy, or even some sort of gas leak.
Later, in his teenage years, he had known it must have been some sort of ward created by his wizarding mother, to protect the only family she had left. It was good, then, that the Dursley's had never moved.
But such a thin, fragile ward whose exact purpose the ward-makers had been unable to define would not suit his family now. He had needed wards strong enough to hold several wizards at bay for a long enough time that his family could seek help. He had paid dearly for those wards to be created, and considered the investment more than worth it.
Harry had taken the Minister's warning seriously. He was a celebrity in the wizarding world; and more now, a wealthy member of the government. There would be those who would want to harm him and his family, including even the Granger's, with multiple different motivations.
So now, the wards that Number Four Privet Drive blazed with golden light influenced by the fading emerald sheen of his mother's previous wards. A place that would always be his home in some form, as long as his family lived there.
And he would protect that home any way he knew how.
Which was why he spent a moment to look over those wards carefully, looking for any outside influence or chink in its armor, before he moved on, approaching the house with methodical steps, his staff held loosely in one hand.
He saw the bright souls of the privately hired guards underneath a thin veil of magical power, meant to cloak them from normal sight. They stood off to the side, one angled toward the street, the other away.
Harry ignored their presence as he had on his other routine visits back to his Aunt and Uncle's house for dinner, approaching the door which swung wide open before he could raise a hand to knock.
"Harry! Come in!" And so saying, his aunt grabbed one arm and yanked him inside, in a manner he was very unaccustomed to.
Harry stumbled into the hall, gaping in surprise as his normally prim and proper aunt slammed the door closed behind them with a satisfied grunt.
"Harry."
A fervent whisper. Harry leaned forward, frowning, as his aunt's soul flickered with emotion.
"Now, Harry. I am not one to complain. Especially since you insist on paying for all the… security measures, and such."
His aunt and uncle had not been happy with his insistence. Both of the necessity of it, and of the fact that he wanted to pay for it out of the Potter Vault. But as far as Harry was concerned, the Dursleys were at risk because of him, so it was his responsibility to pay to prevent that risk.
"But these wizards… well, they just… they act like Mrs. Hutchinson before her husband left her."
Mrs. Hutchinson. If Harry remembered her correctly, the older woman had lived two doors down and been the community fashion-watcher. About as snooty as the upper middle class could possibly be, and part of the reason his aunt had been so concerned that Harry always be dressed to perfection when he stepped outside the door.
Heaven forbid his clothes be mismatched. His aunt would have a telephone call before he even reached the playground.
"How so, exactly?" Harry asked hesitantly, speaking in a low tone in natural mimicry of his aunt's fervent one.
She whispered back, hands of jam purple wringing together absently with flexes of color.
"Well… it's nothing specific. Just... a tone. I've tried to ignore it, Harry. But I keep getting the feeling that we're being treated like particularly intelligent animals."
Harry froze, a tremor of anger running through his blood. He knew the guards were purebloods. It had been hard enough to find trained security at all outside of the auror force, and of those few knew anything at all about the muggle world.
The current rotation between the Granger and Dursley households had been one of his last options, and the only ones willing to 'babysit' a group of muggles. Better than nothing, but he hadn't imagined they would be so transparent about how they felt about their guard duty.
After all, they were getting paid, and paid well. The least they could do was be professional.
"I'll see what I can do."
Petunia sniffed at his answer, then patted him quickly on the shoulder.
"I can handle some uppity men. I just thought you should be aware if I lose my temper."
His aunt losing her temper could mean several things, none of which would be good if targeted at a prejudiced magical user. Harry's frown deepened, but he allowed himself to be lead into the dining room, where the smell of food greeted him before he was even pushed down into a chair.
"Dudley not coming home this weekend?"
His aunt returned from the kitchen, then jumped with a startled shriek as a loud pop echoed through the room, right on the heels of a vibrant yellow swirl of color.
"Kreacher apologizes to Master's family." The house-elf began with swift formality, a bow performed with rote perfection. "Master, Miss Hermione and Mr. Fallon wait at Grimmauld Place. There is an altercation, though no harm is done."
Harry stood as swiftly as he had sat, already holding out one hand as he sent his aunt an apologetic smile.
"I'm packing you a portion." She warned, a hand waving him away. "So you best come back and tell me what happened when you get it."
"Of course." Harry smiled, though worry was growing in his stomach at the thought of what Kreacher would classify as an 'altercation'.
A bony hand grasped his own, and yellow magic rose to squeeze him away.
"My fault, sir."
Amazon green light, blazing out of a figure that stood tall and proud in the center of the Grimmauld Place living room.
"No, it's m-mine." Blue-violet light demanded in return. "I'm the one who wanted to go down there. I'm the one who didn't know about vampire's time-manipulative abilities, or I would have left as soon as I realized."
Harry wondered if there was something wrong with him, that he felt a pang at having missed out on that experience. Was it truly manipulating time, or simply slowing down the life force of another person? Could vampires affect life force, as he could? What did a vampire's pattern look like? The dark beings were few and far between, and nearly impossible to find. While it was illegal to actually kill them, that was about as far as the Ministry would go, and the punishment for breaking the rules only an extravagant fine.
"It's my fault, sir." Fallon stated firmly again.
Or perhaps it was an aura vampires put out, part of their own magical force, that would weaken or slow the physiological and neurological responses of potential prey. Did that mean, to vampires, that the entire world moved at a slower rate?
No, time for them would still move at the same speed. He could only conclude that, when they used this aura, it only seemed like the other people moved very, very slowly.
That would get boring. No wonder there were not any documented cases. If used sparingly, it would only seem that vampires moved extremely fast, not that the observers themselves moved slow.
"If you insist it's your fault, then that means us getting out of that situation is also your fault. We're equal in that case, and you don't have to be ridiculous about taking responsibility for it."
Hermione, logical as always, stomped one foot with a solid thump for emphasis. Deep green light let out a weary sigh.
Harry figured they had probably already argued this same conversation the entire wait at Grimmauld Place.
"I allowed us to get into a situation that was manipulated by a half-human creature. No doubt, this Mr. Brendon kept us longer on purpose, just so he could appear to rescue us, putting us in his debt. A debt he no doubt intends to collect not from either of us, but from Lord Potter…."
"Harry." Harry protested. He hated being called a Lord by people he considered friends, even if one of them was, technically, an employee.
Fallon continued, unheeded. "...so that he can push the vampiric agenda into the light of the Wizengamot once more. This is just the sort of thing I was hired to prevent."
Hermione paced, her light flashing in agitation.
"And maybe it should be! It is horrible that the only rules protecting vampires, and werewolves too far that matter, are simple lines of legal rigmarole saying 'don't kill them, but if you do, we'll forgive you'!"
Harry stood, holding a hand out to gain their attention, waiting what he thought an appropriate time for their eyes to come to him.
"Fallon. I don't blame you for this, so get that out of your mind. You did exactly what I hired you to do. Not every situation is in your ability alone to manipulate. Hermione. You didn't know there was a vampire there. You didn't, and still don't, know his motives. So both of you, stop fighting about who did what when. I'm just glad you got out in one piece."
And he was glad. Very, very much so.
Hermione moved to him, one soft blue-violet hand taking his own. "I found what I was looking for. I'm going to try to get it tomorrow, then I'll tell you everything."
"As long as it's not in Knockturn." Harry said with a grin.
"I promise." She said vehemently. "I don't want to ever go there again unless it's very important."
Fallon let out a sound of extreme annoyance. Harry laughed.
It was times when he wished to pass unnoticed that he most regretted his inability to use invisibility charms, or even use the Cloak for its true purpose.
He hadn't yet figured out how to see beyond magical barriers as he could now, to some extent, see beyond physical ones. They still blinded his sight with their own magical pattern, which rendered him blind in truth.
So, in the interest of passing as unnoticed as possible, Harry wore a dark hood low over his face, and entered Knockturn Alley at the witching hour of three o'clock in the morning, when few if any wizards still lurked in Diagon to speculate at his presence.
He still had his phoenix staff, but it at least he could cloak with charms. He hadn't yet spent the time to go to Ollivanders to commision a new one for the Ministry assignments.
"This is a mistake." Vaughn murmured at his back, as he had several times before.
Depending on the way one looked at it, it could be a mistake. Harry preferred to label it a risky field experiment. He simply couldn't wait to meet a vampire and draw his own conclusions.
Did they truly have no soul, as the books speculate? Werewolves possessed one, as did Veela and every other semi-human creature. House-elves, while not holding obvious uniquely colored souls that faded at death, did seem to have a different sort of pattern unique to them as an individual, something he attributed to them being an entirely different species that could not reproduce with human-kind.
He had a theory that the house-elf form of magical reproduction passed along their soul-pattern onto any offspring, a type of purposeful DNA encoding that might even allow memories or experiences to be inherited. It was fascinating, really.
But vampires. Details were sketchy about them in the books he had read. Several wizards had lived among them at times throughout history; one even calling himself a blood-brother. Vampires were able to mate with human-kind, as evidenced by the documented half-human Lorcan.
No one would specifically say whether pureblooded vampires were created or born. Harry hoped to discover something of that when he finally saw one.
After all, it was obvious that werewolves were humans first, their original patterns tainted with lupine scars.
Would he see something similar in vampires?
He had to know. He couldn't stop himself from questioning, and when questioning, seeking answers. Even if those answers lay down Knockturn Alley, which was in no way as uninhabited as Diagon Alley at that late, or perhaps early, hour.
Colors streamed by in rivers of light. He recognized werewolves and hags and goblins, half-humans by the score, witches and wizards with broken patterns scattered about like desecrated altars to dark magic. None seemed to pause at his presence; doubtless, as Vaughn had reluctantly attested, he simply looked like yet another denizen of the Alley.
No one would enter Knockturn Alley at this hour by accident. No one sane would enter who did not have relative assurance of their ability to handle themselves.
"Here it is." Vaughn murmured, and Harry saw only another wooden building among a dozen others, its purple bones speaking to a strong stone foundation. Wards glimmered on its eaves and doors and windows, nothing more grand or special than a dozen others they had passed.
His guard led the way, bangladesh green that seemed somehow purer among the other wizards they passed, if only because it was unbroken. The air inside the store Hermione had visited the day before was oddly warm and dry, carrying a scent he attributed to dusty bookstores. Old things lay inside here, he could tell, even if all he saw where colors and patterns in unrecognizable shapes, many imbued with strong magic.
A person was inside, an orange color that was streaked through with black along jagged breaks in his or her pattern.
This was someone who was, no doubt, addicted to magic that required acts of extreme cruelty or violence. Acts that made a person into a monster.
But this monster was human.
Vaughn was a solid blue-green shield between him and the other, who flickered along the shelves with questing hands, the guard stiff, his colors vibrating with intensity.
"May we be of service?"
The voice drifted to them from the depths of the store, cultured tones oddly melodic.
The orange-black soul jerked, tensed, and muttered a negative response in nearly unintelligible words that he could not identify as male or female, before moving towards the door in an awkward shuffle.
Harry watched the broken pattern leave, even as he scanned for the origin of the voice.
When Vaughn did not move, Harry stepped around him, heading deeper into the store.
When Vaughn did not follow him, he knew something was wrong.
"What did you do to him?" Harry asked into the warm empty air, feeling it swirl and move against his skin as something entered.
Something. Some thing. For a moment, he stared, equally repulsed and fascinated.
It bore a human pattern. It even bore a soul-color, though not a shade he had ever seen among humans.
Black, as black as the shadow-light in the Deathly Hallows, so black it made the exact angles of what made it live hard to distinguish by itself. It was only visible against the green light of wood behind and below it, a living shadow. And threaded through it, as repulsive as any dementor, ran the chaotic multicolored hues of another being's life force.
A dementor was muddy brown with the life it took; a vampire, it seemed, was black. One ate souls, another ate life. He was no longer sure where the line between monster and man was.
"Nothing to harm him." The man's voice was young, but normal. Nothing but his soul spoke to him being anything more than a person. His scent, what Harry could gather of it, was not even abnormal. Lavender, perhaps. Some flower. Not even a hint of the coppery taint of blood.
Harry observed Vaughn's presence; and saw, unmistakably, how the life that had been flickering with adrenaline was now beating slowly, so slowly he would think at first glance Vaughn had fallen asleep.
Maybe he was. Maybe Vampires simply had the power to put their enemies into waking dreams.
"You want to speak to me." Harry said his conclusion with careful words. He had deduced the vampire had no desire to harm him, and considered it already proven correct. If Mr. Brendon wanted him dead, he could have killed him already.
"We do." Black drew closer, close enough that Harry saw that it was mainly purple and blue tones that ran through his soul, two distinct patterns that the vampire must have fed from recently. "We wish representation."
Harry had expected as much; had been warned of that fact by Scrimgeour months before. He had rather thought werewolves might approach him first, though. Public opinion was less horrified by a once-a-month monster than a daily one, not to mention that there were probably a hundred times more werewolves than vampires.
"You think you can get that from me?"
The vampire hissed; it was a laugh, maybe, and the first inhuman sound the being had made. Harry saw abruptly that the vampire had no hair; no spikes of color dancing over the forehead as most people he saw had. Did their bodies not grow it? If so, did they have no nails, either? Or was it merely part of vampire culture? Or simply this particular vampires preference?
"Yesss. If the Blind Sorcerer speaks for us, the wizards will listen."
"They might not act, however." Harry returned.
"Maybe not, maybe so. We wish to live unhunted. We wish to be free."
"It's a crime to kill vampires."
"It's a crime only when it's enforced." The man spat. "We have lost children to the fire."
Harry felt the vampire's energy press upon him, warm dry heat. He would have thought vampires would be cold.
"People fear what they do not understand. Your species hides, barely any information has been published. Enough to recognize you, enough to… guard against you."
Garlic, for one, was highly allergic to them. He was curious why.
"For our own protection. We hide ourselves as all magicals hide from the muggles. To prevent conflict. But we are tired of hiding."
Harry could understand both sentiments. And in this one, he happened to agree with the vampires.
His mind raced, even as he looked again over the pattern across from him, representing so many unanswered questions.
"Can you see the life-force in another person?" Harry asked abruptly. "Is that how you can slow down a target?"
Mr. Brendon hesitated, made the sound of a tongue clicking against teeth.
"No. We feel it, like the sensation of rain against the skin. Some people storm more than others. We… can calm that storm."
"Fascinating." Harry breathed. "Is it unpleasant? To feel this?"
"Sometimes. Crowded areas, the very young, the very powerful."
"What about me?" Harry asked again, both surprised at the quick answers and more than willing to take advantage of them.
"You rumble with thunder. We would know to taste you would be to feel the burn of your life like the strike of lightning. It would be horrible, and wonderful. We could live a year off your strength."
Harry supposed, from a vampire, that was a compliment.
"So the most benefit comes from drinking those who are most unpleasant to taste." He concluded with a nod.
"If one is old enough, stubborn enough, to withstand the pain." Mr. Brendon acknowledged.
The silence grew, and Harry looked back at Vaughn, before staring into the black.
"I won't represent vampires until I know I'm not advocating for a species that has a genetic predilection for mutilation or killing. I will need to know why you are what you are, and how you live. I studied house-elves for years before I approached the Wizengamot on their behalf, and they do not have the reputation vampires do."
Another hiss; this one pleased.
"We will do this thing. We have already agreed."
Harry felt a thrill of excitement mingled with dread.
"Why do you always speak in plural?"
Harry felt the air shift, saw a black hand rise towards him, its veins highlighted with another patterns life.
"We live off of others. We are never alone, never… singular. We are always made of someone else."
So many questions. Harry could spend a month simply asking them. But there was not yet time.
"I have to get other things in order before I can begin. Will you wait? Another year, maybe?"
Harry heard the smile in the pleased hiss that echoed in the store.
"We are made of waiting."
Harry smiled at that statement; both an answer, and a warning. All waiting must, eventually, come to an end.
Then, with a beat of his heart, he took Vaughns life and awakened it, the wizard not faltering even a second as his light began to vibrate once more with tension.
Much like a thunderstorm, Harry could see now. The physical tension in the air similar indeed to the sensation of building electricity.
Muggles still did not know exactly where and when lightning would strike. They could hypothesize; they could even be certain. Fulminology could speak of electric discharges and stripped electrons, the dozens of types of strikes, the triggers, the particles.
But no one could say for certain where and when it would strike. Unpleasant indeed.
The vampire hissed again, moving a distance from them both, footsteps falling softly, and Harry turned his back on the being and moved to the door.
Perhaps the ability to slow life was also developed in self-defense, not merely as a way to trap prey.
Vaughn opened the door, the man's wand a slash of red phoenix in his hand.
Harry made sure his hood was pulled low as he stepped out into the street.
He now had yet another thing to add to his ever-growing list of goals.
~ To Be Continued in: A Maroon Mix of Metal and Magic~
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