DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.
TITLE: Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome
SUMMARY: Albus tends to the garden, Hermione receives a summons, and Harry indulges in poetry.
Chapter Twenty-One - Charity Holds A Rally
"The common adage of 'cack hand, spoilt spark' is often attributed to Dexter the Drab, a Branch-Priest druid of English stock who lived in the sixth century. The sentiment in fact harkens even as far as the Middle Kingdom of Egypt, where Seers were executed if a divining eagle were to rest on one's left shoulder. The true reasoning behind this taboo remains a mystery, though it is undoubtedly exacerbated by the disproportionate number of Dark wizards who favour this hand, particularly for spellcasting. Sorcerers who observe the so-called Left-Hand Path have been said to call forth unimaginable forces of terror, not exclusive to the creation of the first Dementors, the mastery of Fiendfyre and even power over the bolts of Jove.
Needless to say, no such eyewitnesses are available to support these claims.
~ Velma Ross, The Other Face of Janus (1722)
The atmosphere was still, stale... frigid. The likes of Death Itself may have baulked at the idea of a night-time stroll in such conditions.
Albus raised two fingers, brushing them against the stagnant ether in a quick circular motion. The act obliged him a rush of heat where robes met flesh, but the chill to his core remained unabated.
They have arrived, then.
He drew his wand. "Expecto Patronum."
Where gnarled arms of willow and birch had earlier denied him all but the thinnest glimmers of moonlight, a brilliant silver phoenix now perched on a branch beside Albus, illuminating the immediate path and soothing him with its nurturing warmth.
He stepped further into the body of the Dark Forest, the backdrop of his Castle's lawns soon replaced by those long, sable forks of sturdy bark. Even when bolstered by the comfort of his radiant guardian, the surrounding dearth of heat was yet ever present. He empathised with the creatures of the wood, for not a Bowtruckle nor Bugbear dared make themselves known.
"What have you done, Cornelius?" he said aloud, absently wary that in spite of the unearthly cold, his breath flowed still unseen.
With no warning, Albus felt a shift in the air - not unlike a gong struck by a mallet.
His words triggered a Babble-Bursting Jinx. Well hidden, at that.
"Who goes there?" cried a high, harsh voice not moments later. Its demand was tempered by an ill-concealed tremble of shaken confidence, but Albus readily complied, replacing his wand as his Patronus surrendered to the shadows.
He turned in its direction, palms raised. "It is only I, Miss Tonks. How goes the song?"
Encroaching wandlight revealed the form of his former student, her heart-shaped face now crowned by a shock of hair whiter than his own.
"Boring really," she replied with a nervous titter, extinguishing her wand. "Sorry 'bout that, 'Bishop'. I thought I recognised your phoenix, but the Wild knows what this place can do to your head."
Albus smiled. "No doubt. I assume that Auror Scrimgeour sent you along?"
"He said it would 'prep' me for the next stage of the program." She huffed. "He sent Nichols to the Patrol School like all the other Law recruits, though."
Albus laid a hand on her shoulder. "He sees promise, Nymphadora. Make what you will of the opportunity. I must say, it is a pleasant surprise to have you with us for a while longer. Where is Kingsley?"
"Hogsmeade way," she said, pointing south. "He reckons our Albatross wouldn't dare come closer than that." Albus hummed in agreement.
"He's with them," added Tonks.
The chill prickled at his skin once more. "How many?"
"Two," she said, looking skyward. "For now."
Albus inhaled, nodding as he digested 'a dozen by June's end'. "Take great care, Miss Tonks."
"We're pretty much guarding them at this point," she said archly. "Aurors or not, we're only two wands. All it'll take is a silly firstie to stray too close to the wrong end of the Lake. Dementors don't see trees: they smell souls."
That they did; the last-minute change to the security detail deeply troubled Albus, for the Hogsmeade ward was home to hundreds of children throughout most of the year. Even for a wizard as skilled as Iggy's killer, the employment of such odious creatures was hardly a light touch.
The screeches of a solitary owl echoed far away from the surrounding thickets. They gave Albus an unpleasant stir but, coupled with the lingering despair that just one Dementor could leave in its wake, it was no more than a sign that his attention was better spent on the Castle proper.
"I believe that I have overstayed my welcome," he said, eliciting a dark chuckle from the young witch. "Again, Miss Tonks - do take care."
She nodded, flourishing her wand from which a ghostly Jack rabbit sprang forth. It pranced a lap where Albus stood before falling into place at the Auror Candidate's heels.
"Same to you, Sir Albus."
"It's gone! It's - it's gone!"
The first shriek jolted Harry awake in an instant. He was enjoying a lakeside stroll with Hedwig a mere minute earlier, until Hollygalleon had to go and comment about how boring it was before magicking Tracey Davis out of the blue, thereby making the whole affair awkward because Harry didn't know how to get rid of her. As such, he found himself oddly thankful for Neville's outburst.
Ron, in contrast, did not.
"Keep it down or toss off!" he shouted, hurling his pillow in the blond wizard's direction. Then he paused for a moment, face impassive.
"Wait a sec. Chuck it back, would you?"
Neville ignored him, flinging the contents of his trunk across the room in a one-wizard race to the bottom.
"I don't believe it... don't fucking believe it..."
"Oi," yawned Seamus, rising feebly from his covers. "What's your beef, Nev?"
Neville's head bobbed up, staring first at Seamus, then his trunk, and finally at the space between them - which was occupied by the window, similarly wide open.
"Why's the window not shut?"
Seamus yawned again. "It was bleedin' hot last night. Did you not notice?"
Neville cursed, as did Dean, roughly tugging his sheets over his face. Harry surreptitiously peered to his right, confirming that Ron had forgone his pillow and followed suit.
"Nothin' for it, ah?" said Hollygalleon, giggling from inside his drawer.
Harry sighed, launching himself out of bed. "What've you lost, Nev?"
"Nothing! I know where I left it!"
Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, but what is it?"
Neville slammed the trunk shut with yet another curse, storming past Harry for the shorter, sandy-haired wizard next to the window.
"Do you know what you've done?" he hissed at Seamus, balling his fists. "Do you actually f- "
Neville ran his hands through his hair with a strangled cry. Harry shared a glance with Seamus, who looked as bewildered as he felt.
"She's gonna kill me," he mumbled, stumbling back to his own four-poster with his head hung low. "Nana's - all's those pages... thousands..."
Harry frowned at him. "You what?"
Head in hands, Neville had ears for naught but his own pity. That didn't matter - Harry was almost certain of it now.
His diary. Neville too had a Grimoire.
He hadn't written in his own for a good while, not since the event following Feast Night. It was infuriating to think that after all that time, Harry's father hid himself behind a schoolboy's password under the pretence of "being careful".
Was his blood not enough?
Harry thought of Remus. Maybe his father intended for all of this - for one of his loyal friends to relay the message so that his son could claim his birthright - but that made no sense. Remus made no mention of the Grimoire so far, and Harry had seen his handwriting. Compared to the note that had first accompanied the tome, his was too plain, and too print-like.
And as much as Harry had successfully abstained from its pages during the first couple of weeks, he still craved closure. Despite all that he had learned about magic, his family, himself, even... between his father's secrets and the killer of Ron's uncle, he was entirely unsure of his place in this world.
Why couldn't he muster the courage to find out?
His wand was surprisingly patient with him. "He was only trying to protect you, surely - he's your father, Harry!"
Harry initially disregarded its arguments as general nosiness, but as the middle of the month drew near, he was fast reaching his breaking point.
"Talk to him," whispered Hollygalleon in the Library one evening. "You're doing yourself more harm by putting it off!"
Harry peeped over his Latin exercise to the stack of books in front of him, the weathered journal leaning against them. Since Neville's incident, he had made sure to carry it everywhere.
"If not now, then when?"
When several seconds of tapping his quill against smudged parchment bore no fruit, Harry set his homework aside and reached for the Grimoire.
James Charlus Potter.
.
..
...
Hello, Harry.
The password had been waived this time around. Harry briefly wondered if the book was capable of empathy.
I'm ready for answers.
.
..
No doubt. What do you want to know?
Truth be told, he was unnerved by James' replies, finding even his prior introduction terse and frank in comparison to his grandfather's narrative. He took a deep breath before putting nib to parchment, gently prodded by a warm thrum from Holly at his side.
Why the password? What were you hiding from?
.
..
Thieves. The Grimoire is far from perfect. Blood from a Potter is all that is necessary. Blood is easily stolen, Harry. You might be able to use your thumb as you please, but a drop of your blood will still suffice. It's how the Grimoire works.
Harry hitched a breath. Was he truly powerless in protecting it, then? Not to be deterred, however, he pressed ahead.
What would a thief want from you?
.
I'm a Potter, Harry. We have more than a few trade secrets. I'm sure that you're upset with me, but rest assured that many of the names in here would have enjoyed the same protections at one point in time for similar reasons. At least I can rest assured that I'm in your hands, now. Before we go any further, can I ask who gave you the password?
.
Remus. It wasn't intentional. He showed me the Marauder's Map.
.
..
Not Sirius?
As Harry's stomach was wracked with guilt, he had to remind himself that his father was dead.
.
I'm sorry, Dad. Sirius Black is missing.
.
..
...
Do you know who Peter Pettigrew is? Is he alive?
.
Yes and yes. What does that mean?
.
..
He's looking for you, Harry.
"Shit... I told you, idiot!"
Harry bit down on his cheek, hard. Remus was so certain... it couldn't be true.
He isn't bad. Remus said so.
.
I don't know what he is, Harry, but I know that I'm dead. We see everything that you write, remember?
.
What does you being dead have to do with Pettigrew?
.
Peter was supposed to keep us safe. If we're dead, he failed, and if he's alive, then he gave us away.
Harry was torn. How had it come to this - choosing between the words of a werewolf and a talking book (written by a dead man, at that)? Memories, brief yet vivid, littered his conscious as reels of shredded film: Sir Albus announcing Prewett's death, the Pettigrew articles, the manifesto on Doge's Wireless...
The night Hermione sat him down.
He's been here already.
He must have! In a perfectly unassuming disguise, Pettigrew - Wormtail, perhaps - confronted Pringle in hopes of... what else?
"The Map!" gasped Hollygalleon. "But what for?"
I can hazard a guess. It seemed pointless at first, what with all of Prewett's Weasley relatives being in Gryffindor, but a bloodbath wasn't exactly Wormtail's style, was it? Not at all; with the help of the Map, he could track them... isolate them at their most vulnerable...
Harry wrestled with trembling fingers before scrawling his reply.
What does he want from me?
.
..
...
If you really want to know, ask Albus for the Three Brothers. He will understand.
.
You won't tell me anything else? Why even bother with the password, then?
.
..
...
..
.
Because no matter how many Curses you throw at this book, a password is still a password.
"Wow," breathed Hollygalleon. "What a tosser."
Harry slammed the Grimoire shut, swearing as he launched it at the pile of textbooks before him.
"Potter!" hissed Madam Pince from around the corner. "Control yourself! Five points from Gryffindor."
Take a hundred, for all I care.
The sun's appearances were fast waning, while the Almanacs were filled anew: lessons were in full session. Even at the base of the North Tower, one could hear chalk skating over slate in a pattern of fervent loops and screeches.
"The Wild... is... godhead. The Wild is... enlightenment and... the Wild - is - ruin!"
Madam Pope was authority.
Madam Pope was wisdom.
But above all, Madam Pope was fun.
After the class' introduction to rites and ceremony in Professor Veness, Hermione would be the first to confess that her interest in Theurgy had dwindled to browning embers by the end of last year. The department Mistress' theatrics - and her incense - only served to obfuscate the already ill-defined subject, and Hermione, more than anyone else she knew, found fun to be an impossible goal if she had no idea what she was doing.
It was for this reason that Madam Pope's approach set her passion aflame once again.
"Gods, angels, daemons and fae: it takes magic to appease magic," said Pope, one hand gesticulating after the other. "And our magics - the arts of witchcraft and wizardry - work on principles. It is not enough to hold faith, or to feel the magic, or even to possess the voice of a Celestina Warbeck or Ligeia Nightingale. Rituals need rules. Now, let us list - in order of use - the apparatus required to perform the Second Boon of Raphael, beginning with a three-inch-long string of wool, preferably vermilion in colour..."
"We didn't have to do this much work last year," groused Ron, unscrewing his inkwell for what was likely the first time since it was purchased.
"Those were petty rituals," Hermione whispered back, eyes front. "Complex ones need equipment. Have you been living under a rock or something?"
Ron's lip curled a little. "Feels like it. Can't get any kip since Nev started sleep-talking at nigh-"
"Mister Weasley," said Pope, who happened to be standing right in front of them, gold-rimmed spectacles teetered on the edge of her especially long nose. "How are we doing on this fine autumn afternoon?"
He grimaced. "Er, you know... just listening to everything you say, and that."
Pope hummed appreciatively. "And that indeed. Tell me, Mister Weasley - would you care to name the element after the goat skin drum?"
Ron glanced at Hermione; she averted her eyes. She knew very well that Ron could lip-read, but to do in plain sight was absurd.
Not that she expected any less from him.
"Right," twittered Pope with a smug smile. "Will that be ten points or detention, then?"
The other Gryffindors shouted out their judgements in panic, though not for long: a sharp look from Pope soon quelled their tongues.
"Detention, Miss," mumbled Ron, his brow marred with scorn as he turned to the rest of his House.
"Friday evening it is," said Pope brightly, striding back to the blackboard. "Now if we can- "
Three short raps at the door stopped the Madam in her tracks, her heel snapping at the floor with a dissatisfied clack.
She sighed. "Yes?"
The door wailed a mournful creak once it was prised open, as the tiny mousy-haired Gryffindor behind it was all too aware.
"Oh! S-sorry, I didn't know it would be so loud..."
Madam Pope's face softened - almost pitifully so - upon seeing the child.
"No no, that's all right, dear," she said, flashing a sheepish smile. "How might we be of assistance?"
"Er, the ah, Deputy Head needs..." His brows pinched together as he scanned a torn piece of parchment. "Her, um, Hermain? N-no, wait... Hermeeown- "
"That's me," said Hermione tersely, standing up as she culled the urge to flare her nostrils.
It's not his fault. It's not his fault...
Ron leaned back, wide-eyed and wry-mouthed.
"All right, Herman," he stage-murmured, eliciting muffled giggles from the neighbouring desks.
Promising herself that she would deal with Ron later, Hermione quietly excused herself and marched over to the elfin Gryffindor, who proceeded to scramble down the corridor at a breakneck pace.
"Hey, stop - oi," she panted after the boy, reining him back by grabbing the nape of his shirt. "No running in the corridors!"
He turned to face her, mortified. "S-sorry! Please don't tell - it's just Professor McGonagall said to be quick about it, and I thought I was already late because everyone else got their notes at breakfast, and I only found out because she pulled me out of Sorcery just after lunch, and- "
"It's only down the hall," said Hermione, fixing him with a hard stare. "You got into Hogwarts, didn't you? Use some sense."
His set his skittish gaze downward, cheeks tinged with red splotches as his lip began to quiver. Hermione tutted under her breath, gently pushing him forward in pursuit of Gryffindor Tower.
The door to Professor McGonagall's office was firmly shut; a rarity during waking hours to be sure, but it appeared to corroborate the boy's claims of the House Head's urgency.
Hermione gave the door a firm knock, stifling a wince when it was jerked back by an inch or two. She could make out a single hazel eye from the crevice between board and frame.
"Granger? Creevey?"
She nodded, looking over her shoulder with faint interest. Ron's little sister, Ginny, mentioned a friend by the same name the other day.
The eye blinked. "Get inside, quick."
The door parted further, and Hermione was bustled in by Creevey (which was no mean feat, considering that he was a few inches shorter). The same hazel eyes, belonging to a female Ravenclaw Prefect, followed her all the way past the threshold.
It was a tight fit; stools were placed wherever shelves and bookcases were not, a couple of the older students electing to stand instead. Professor McGonagall's study was a far cry from spacious, but a cursory search of the room left no doubt that at least fifty students were crammed inside it.
McGonagall stood behind her desk, stoic. Another staff member - a willowy witch whom Hermione vaguely recognised - leaned against it, her eyes slightly drawn as she gazed through the far-side window.
"That's all of them, then," she said with a soft exhale, wheeling her arms as she pushed off of the desk. "You doing the honours, Minnie?"
The Deputy Headmistress' brow hardened for less than a blink, but Hermione caught it regardless.
"A pleasure, Professor Burbage," replied McGonagall, ambling away at a sedate pace. She paused at the centre of the office, after taking the time to look each and every occupant in the eye. Hers were fraught with something Hermione had seen only once before, at the mention of Harry's father.
Worry.
"Before I say anything else," she said, hands intertwining, "I would wish to thank you all. The attendance of every student we receive at this School is something cherished, for all the years you read here add to this Castle's history. I urge you to never forget that."
Hermione's stomach was unsettled, her ears pounding with blood. She took another look around the room, finding her suspicions confirmed: there was Sally-Anne to the right, Kevin Entwhistle near the front, Justin by the window... Muggle-borns, all of them.
"You're sending us away, aren't you?" spat a voice behind her. "My family said this would happen."
"What?" cried another. "Where? How can they?"
The outbursts only ignited a blaze of others as they looked around the office, bereft of old blood as it was. Once McGonagall drew her wand, however, the chaos subsided with immediate effect.
"No-one is going anywhere," she said, lips thin as she replaced it. "You have every right to be here, and as long as your names are penned in our ledgers, this is not subject to change.
"I cannot - will not - lie to you. Forces beyond our control seek to change our School in ways that the majority of staff find unacceptable. Thanks to positive influences in the Ministry among other bodies of authority, we have been offered life-lines, but there is still work to be done. As such, we have set ourselves a target. Every single pupil in this office, whether they are sitting external examinations this year or not, will aspire to a four E-grade average by the end of the academic year."
Kevin sniffed at that.
McGonagall spun toward him. "Amused, Entwhistle?"
"Well er, no," he said, his mouth moving a ways past those three syllables. "B-but four Es isn't exactly hard, is it? Madam."
"For you, maybe not," she said, shoulders slackening as she occupied Professor Burbage's former place on the edge of the desk. "That it is a standard attained by less than a third of pupils might suggest otherwise. Were I to tell you that said Es would be attained in Latin, Cardinals, Sorcery and Artificing- "
"That's crazy!"
"We've got more chance of winning the Quidditch this year!"
"The Cannons have more of a chance- "
Crack.
"I would be the first," said McGonagall, lowering her wand, "to argue that you underestimate yourselves. Before me you stand fifty-eight strong - all chosen, all hand-picked. So chosen because you have the spark to perform our arts with the best wands - gravers, runcibles - in the country. But the target is just that. Your attendance here is not conditional."
"What happens if we don't meet it?" asked Hermione. It was the question on everyone else's lips, after all. What could be worse than being removed from the School?
McGonagall chewed her lip for a moment; it took what felt like an eternity for her to meet Hermione's gaze.
"It is possible that from next year onwards... we are to teach Muggle-borns separately."
There was no outrage this time. No cries of indignation, nor exclamations of betrayal. The pupils, Hermione included, remained silent.
Numb. Sparkless.
"Obviously you agree," said Professor Burbage suddenly, "that's not an option. And that's why we've come up with this plan. If you all do your best in the exams, in your extra-curriculars and anything else that comes your way, we'll have a wicked strong defence against them. You don't have to hit all those targets, but make them your goal. Show them how wrong they are.
"Now this is how it'll work." She Summoned a scroll from the table, unfurling it as she scanned the room. "We're assigning study groups, workshops - the lot. Our biggest weapon, though, is you. Upper School are going to mentor the kiddies, and you're all going to look out for each other this year. It's not a gang, and it's not a club. We just want you to do your best, and the best way to do that is sticking together. Who's with me?"
No one answered.
"All right, Harry - you're doing just fine. Last one, now."
Kingsley stalked over to the final chest, removing a scratched metallic tin the size of a paint can. He set it before Harry, slowly edging away with a Cheshire grin.
He resumed his place next to Dumbledore, at the desk of the Headmaster's office. Harry was convinced that they knew just how nerve-wracking their presence was.
Still, they smiled.
He focused his attention on the tin, and was surprised when he encountered... nothing.
More concerning was the fact that, unlike the feeling of nothingness that he felt near Diagon Alley's entrance, there simply was nothing here. Harry could hear magic now, taste it. But there was nothing to be experienced here.
Even the stubbornness in the face of discovery was absent. No conviction to protect, no fear at the prospect of being caught. A concealment-type Charm, maybe? He'd read about those - was he really looking at a teapot instead? Or maybe it was a Switching Spell...
"No," he said aloud.
Kingsley chuckled. "No what, Harry?"
It was neither. He tried to listen, but the tin had nothing to say. No silver-tongued words of misdirection, no woeful laments of what it once was.
"There's nothing." He looked up at them, and laughed. "Nothing. There aren't any spells on it at all, right?"
The two older wizards shared a look and, by their identical grins, seemed thoroughly pleased.
"Harry, Harry, Harry," said Dumbledore, wandering over, "I've no idea why I'm still surprised. Well done."
Harry faced Kingsley, bemused.
"You've passed the test, Harry," the dark-skinned wizard said, hands splayed. "It's the first hurdle, of course, but by Woden it's the biggest!"
Harry leaned into his seat, mulling the thought over.
"You... you wanted to know if I was really - "hearing" it. That I wasn't making it up."
"Oh no, Harry," said Dumbledore with a soft laugh. "As we discussed last year, I've suspected it for some time."
Kingsley sauntered towards them, hands behind his back. "The first step to learning the Song, Mister Potter, is to hear where it isn't. Now that you've accomplished that, we can work on helping you to sing it for yourself."
Harry did a double take at that, but a wink from Kingsley called an end to the assessment.
"I'll be at Hogsmeade till dawn, Sir Albus," he said with a nod, making his way to the door. "Give us a tune if you need anything."
"Noted, Kingsley," the Headmaster replied in kind. "Thank you, once again."
Harry stared after him, basking in the uplifting breeze of achievement for a short while before his doubt inevitably set in. He still didn't get it.
Magic was still a mystery. Wizards were still a mystery.
Life: the most cruel puzzle of them all.
All of a sudden, Dumbledore chortled.
"A Sphinx could task you deadly riddles, Harry," he said, blue eyes shimmering as he sat beside him. "What is the matter?"
Harry threw his head back, attempting to recall anything that he could make sense of. Few came to mind.
"Everything," he said with a harsh exhale. "One day it's Wandsong, the next it's Duelling, the G- ... I have questions about everything."
"I'd be shocked if you did not. What irks you about Duelling? Do you wish to stop?"
"No!" he said, biting his tongue before smiling weakly at Dumbledore. "Sorry. No, but me being... you know, left-handed? Susan got over it - kind of - but it's only going to get worse, now that we're officially partners. Smith says it makes me a Dark wizard."
Dumbledore's eyebrows climbed his temple. "He does? Young Zacharias, you say?"
Harry nodded. "Susan said something about the Left-Hand Path, and- "
"Ah." The Headmaster's eyes were clouded; he peered down at Harry's wand hand. "Such a curious relationship in magic. Left, right. Bright, dark. Often defined, seldom understood. It would be remiss for me to deny that the symbolism of the Left can sometimes lend itself to the ... chaotic, perversive ways of the Dark Arts. Then again, I highly doubt that, as talented as you are, it is a symbol which you recognise."
"I haven't found anything on it," said Harry, crossing his arms. "Just Bright Theory."
"Yes! The other monster, so to speak. Equally elusive to modern witchfolk, if not more than the Dark Arts. Bear in mind, Harry, that the latter has ravaged our society for millennia, the former rearing its head as the crown of all fabled saviours throughout the ages. We now live in a time where a Dark wizard - left-handed too, mind you - rules as tyrant over millions of our brothers and sisters. You've nothing to prove, my dear boy. You cannot prove anything, in fact, for even Merlin was scorned as half-daemon once in his lifetime. Fanatical anti-Dark sentiments have run at an all-time high for many years... though I never suspected that it would reach the children so soon. I apologise, Harry."
"It's not your fault, though," he muttered. "Suppose I should have expected it, what with what happened to Ron's- "
A lump formed in his throat. Should he tell Sir Albus about Pettigrew? About everything?
Dumbledore cracked a wan, wistful smile. "Quite. Ignatius and I were as thick as thieves, it must be said. But I believe the terror has reached its peak."
Harry said nothing.
Dumbledore frowned. "Harry... is there something you wish to tell me?"
How could he say it? He knew that he had to, but how? Neville's lament over losing his own Grimoire was fresh in Harry's mind still, and if only for the sake of keeping a promise, he couldn't do the same.
But this was Sir Albus: the greatest sorcerer of all time, and his guardian. No one else could offer the same help - not even Remus.
"I need to know about the Three Brothers."
Dumbledore opened and closed his mouth.
"I see. Where, Harry?"
"I- I don't know. I found the term in a - erm, book, and it just sounded..."
Whether Dumbledore bought the pitiful half-truth or not, the cloud-cover over his eyes darkened.
"It appears that I have homework to do. Meet me tonight at eight sharp please, Harry."
"Now just make sure not to break this, Neville-boy! Seven bad years for both of us if you do!"
"I know, Uncle Algie. Nana thinks I've already got 'em, though!"
"Oh, she would, wouldn't she? Don't mind her, lad - she's only looking out for you."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Uncle Algie?"
"Yes, Neville?"
"My Dad was a good person, wasn't he?"
"... What makes you think he wasn't?"
"Well I - I dunno, just... stupid. Sorry."
"Your father was a proud wizard, Neville. Proud wizards are bound to make mistakes sometimes. But yes, he was a good person. And an excellent father."
"Y- ... yes. Okay. Thanks, Uncle Algie."
He gave a faint nod to his Uncle's urges to call him for anything, pocketing the mirror before traipsing down the steps of the Owlery. It was a brilliant present.
Far better than that wrinkly old book.
"Then it is a fairy tale."
"It is, yes," said Dumbledore, handing over a transcription of Tales of Beedle the Bard. "But is that all there is to it?"
"Can't you tell us?" murmured Holly.
Dumbledore chuckled. "It is a long story, Harry. Does your wand have patience?"
"It will."
He laughed even harder. "Very well! We begin, then, with Beedle. A Wandsinger, actually - he coined the term in the fifteenth century. The three brothers in question, however, precede even the erection of this very Castle."
Harry gasped. "So they're real after all!"
"Of course," said Dumbledore, inclining his head. "They were the brothers Peverell."
"Peverell..." He ran the name over in his mind several times, almost certain that he'd seen it somewhere else. "So who were they?"
"Now that," replied Dumbledore, leaning forward, "is part of the mystery. Those who ascribe the tale to truth maintain that all three died on these very Isles, though we are quite certain that they did not, in fact, originate here. You see, the Peverell name and its variations were actually quite common among European wizards for some time. It is said that Perillus the Athenian was the progenitor of the line, but that is neither here nor there. All that truly matters are these brothers: Antioch, Cadmus, Ignotus - their uncorrupted family name being lost to time - and what transpired here."
"Did they really meet Death?" asked Harry, arching an eyebrow. "On a lark one night? Really, Professor?"
Dumbledore's mouth twitched. "Some say so. They think it careless of them too, hence the term 'playing Death at bridge'."
"But what do you think, Professor?"
Fawkes barked at him.
"Play nice, friend," said Dumbledore, chiding the phoenix with a waggling finger. "They definitely existed. We know this through right of heirloom, among other factors. You remember the gifts that Death bequeathed them?"
Harry nodded. "The wand, the stone and the cloak." His eyes shot open. "They exist too?"
Dumbledore presented his own wand, eyes hovering over Harry's for the briefest of moments before drawing a vertical line of golden flame between them.
"The Wand of Destiny."
Another flourish; a circle fell into place at the base of the line, which intersected it.
"The Jewel of Hope."
A final trio of sweeps enclosed the shapes in a large triangle, its apex falling at the line's end.
"The Shroud of Fortune, Harry. These objects three are known by many names - together referred to as the Deathly Hallows, and occasionally as the Triptych of Hades."
"The Triptych!" exclaimed Harry, causing Fawkes to crow in displeasure. "The Wormtail Killer, he mentioned it in- "
"That he did." Dumbledore waved his wand once more, Vanishing the golden symbol. "The Trishula and their leader rely on its mythology in no trivial measure. You can see why. Magical might, reclaiming what was lost, and freedom from the eyes of one's enemies... Tempting goals for a militant wizard state, no?"
Harry's heart leapt. Of course it was.
"The Keys. They're just like the Chief House Keys!"
"There are parallels, yes," said Dumbledore softly, his face unreadable. "And yet, they are dangerous beyond even Grindelwald's basest desires."
That was it, then. Pettigrew, the killer of Prewett. Pettigrew, the servant of Grindelwald. If he couldn't get Death's gifts, he could find the next best thing.
His best friend's Keys... and Harry's blood.
"Am I safe here, Professor?"
There was a pause. Fawkes spirited off in a gout of flame.
"I would be more concerned," said the Headmaster, brow well and truly rumpled, "as to why you would even question it."
As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."
Author's note: Once again, thanks for reading! The reviews are much appreciated as always.
As you've probably noticed by now, there's a shedload of lore in this AU, so I'm thinking about releasing articles every now and again which explore the differences in more detail. Since the fic is nowhere near popular (or noteworthy/original to be honest lol) for a wiki, I'm thinking Google Docs.
The first article would be all about Hogwarts: its brief history, curriculum, traditions, etc. Average update time would be largely unchanged since I have all of this stuff stashed away anyways - it would just be a matter of tidying up the presentation and whatnot. Give me a shout by PM if you'd be interested.