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Mental Defences

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The first pleasant evening Harry spent in Salazar's rooms since he'd arrived was passed with a long conversation that ranged over Wizarding mythology and fairytales to complex and arcane magic. If Harry had been impressed by the man's knowledge before, then it paled in comparison to the sheer extent of what he held in his ghostly mind.

Slytherin in life had not been complacent where there was information to acquire, travelling the world and exploring untouched territories inhabited only by the ruins of ancient magical civilisations. But in death…it became clear to Harry that his ghostly form had only facilitated his lust for knowledge, allowing him to roam areas that he had been unable to even imagine.

"There is no true appreciation of life until you die," Salazar told him passionately. "To die, and rise from the grave as something insubstantial, fuelled only by the power of your own mind, that is something that cannot be explained and must be felt to be understood. I rose through the soil, and I saw worms, insects and animals moving to the universal heartbeat of life. There were ghosts among them too, although so elusive that they could hardly be noticed." A small smile had come to his face as he spoke, and his eyes had filled with a strange tangle of emotion.

"I rose, and the I could feel the difference between soil and sky as if through the eye of a creature from another world, and all around me was a multitude of life. Of creatures moving and striving and living. I saw the world from a perspective you could not even begin to comprehend as you are now," he said, a brief shadow of wonder crossing his face before passing away as subtly as it had arrived.

Growing distant, Harry pondered that he had had epiphanies like that. He could remember the walk down to Hagrid's hut in his first week of school, and the overwhelming feeling of being utterly insignificant against the immensity of the world. He could remember looking at the grass, and wondering how something so small had managed to get such a hold on something as incomprehensibly big as the world. Everything he'd thought he'd understood had been overturned when he was suddenly thrust into the wizarding world, and as a consequence he'd experienced a sudden freshness to his outlook on the world.

Buried in memories, Harry sank back into the sofa. Was that what lay behind Voldemort's plan? To conquer the world, as small as his minions were, until they covered the surface like a billion blades of grass?

How odd it had been to discover that he had a nemesis. He had thought Dudley his enemy when he was a child, but once more the great wide world had taught him otherwise. He had been provided with the ideal and fantastical outpouring for all of his hates and sorrows. All Voldemort's fault, everything.

Though he knew him to be, he still couldn't imagine him as simply a man. His expectations and hatreds had built him into something far larger, and despite seeing him at his worst times, he still found it impossible to separate the residues of Tom Riddle from Lord Voldemort. He doubted that the former even existed anymore. The memory of the dark-haired boy he had met had evolved into something of immense proportions.

"What a nemesis you have created for yourself, little one," Salazar said softly, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"Oh yes," replied Harry dryly. "If it hadn't been for me, he could have carried on thinking himself invincible. I would have died…perhaps even come back as a ghost…" he trailed off frowning. "Can kids do that?"

"In very rare cases," said the Founder, before pausing and looking at Harry with a speculative expression. "Lord Voldemort is not infallible."

Harry laughed bitterly. "I suppose not, but somehow even when he fails, he always ends up winning."

"Ah, little one, I understand your dilemma," said Salazar. "He is the vessel of your hate, and that gives him power over you."

"I've heard it all before," Harry told him glumly. "My hating him makes him powerful, therefore I must get rid of my hate," he recited in a sarcastic, singsong voice.

Salazar let out a burst of dark laughter. "Oh, how confused you are my protégé. He has power, because you lay your own upon his head in wreaths." Harry raised his head and looked at Slytherin curiously. "What did I tell you of anger, little one?"

Harry's face resolved in sudden comprehension as he answered. "That it lends me power."

"And by giving it away…" Salazar trailed off suggestively.

"I make myself weaker," Harry finished. "But that wouldn't make Voldemort any stronger than he already was."

"Not stronger no," Salazar dismissed. "It lends him greater power in his attack."

"Then how?" Harry persisted.

"What do you know of the Mind Arts?" Salazar asked.

"But I-" he said, before cutting himself off. "Oh. So he can use my emotion to fuel his attacks?" The ghost before him inclined his head.

"Any novice of the Mind Arts can read another's emotions, but only a master may take them as his own." Salazar paused before shaking his head. "Enough of this. Continue with your magic," he instructed.

Harry discovered that broadening the area of his skin that the light resided in was not difficult in itself, not now that he had an inkling of how to go about it, and definitely not in comparison to the days of failed efforts he had put into it before. It was a peculiarly comforting feeling – that of his magic trailing lazily through his veins. The blend was of both hot and cold, fluid and solid, electrifying and nullifying. His magic seemed to be made of contradictions, and it ran through him like a balm.

Cancelling the effects was somewhat harder, almost exclusively because he was so unwilling to let go of the sensation. He eventually succumbed when he realised how difficult it would be for him to sleep with softly glowing hands and arms. With a soft goodnight to the ghost of Salazar, he climbed under the covers of one of the transfigured sofas – care of the Founder's portrait.

---

Despite himself, Harry fell into a routine of sorts. It was difficult to keep even a mildly organised timetable, for Salazar seemed determined to dismantle any order Harry imposed on his activities. However, Harry managed to mark out his days by the fall of the light through the enchanted ceiling, and regulate his work with his meals and his sleep as markers.

He woke the next day to the scent of food drifting from the table that seemed to reserve its appearance for mealtimes. Salazar remained strangely absent throughout the meal, but as he finished a small tugging on his mind alerted him to the Founder's presence.

His feet led him to the ground floor until he stood in the middle of the still present chalk circle. A grating sounded to his ears and he swung to eye the wall behind him warily.

And jumped.

A cold had appeared on his shoulder, and it took him a moment to realise that it was silvery, translucent.

"It is time."

"Time for what?" Harry replied, a little worried. "Salazar?"

"Give it no more thought," Salazar said dismissively. "Little protégé, you have begun to progress in your magic." He paused and gestured at the wall he had been eyeing. "Reap the benefits," he said, drifting away.

Harry's eyes remained glued to the wall, where he watched the panelling fade into a silvery white door. Moving warily towards it, he reached out to skim his fingertips across the shimmering wood. It wasn't ornate, but the obligatory snake graced the doorknob. It flicked open it's blank eyes when he touched the surface of the door, and it opened without further protest.

Despite himself, Harry grinned.

There was a small blue sofa that sat in front of a fireplace, and a spacious desk where several books lay, the rest of the small collection on shelves above. Through an open door on the opposite wall, Harry could see his trunk lying at the foot of a bed. There was even an elegant bathroom off to the left.

Still smiling, he closed the door behind him and went to unpack.

---

The book in his hands was a small slim green volume on Animagi. The cover was worn and soft under his fingertips, and the marbled pages smelt of dust and the particular scent that he had come to associate with the Hogwarts library. Harry's eyes remained glazed by the firelight and unmoving, somewhere in the middle of a sentence he had stopped reading over an hour ago. He had managed to make one of his thumbs glow and shed enough light on his reading material – an achievement he was proud of.

It was that little achievement that had made him drop into contemplation, and he realised that he had never really thought of what he wanted to do further than discovering who his remaining family was. He would have all this power, this wandless magic and skill, but what would he do with it?

Everything had been so simple last year, he reflected. He would continue as he had, preventing Voldemort from assuming a physical form, being hailed as the Boy-Who-Lived, and basking in the simple joys of having people who cared about him. The benefit of living the first eleven years of his life with the Dursleys was that he appreciated what little he did have in the world.

Perhaps he had been complacent. He had become used to being cared for, and when Ron had fought with him, he had been thrown into despair. When he had returned, he had been so happy that he hadn't bothered to find out what the next task was. Or just what he was getting himself into. He realised that he hadn't even opened a book to find out what the Tournament actually entailed. Not even when he had been nominated. He had got by on luck, just as he always did.

Snape was right. He was lazy when it came to pulling his own weight. He relied on his instincts to get him away unscathed, and they always did.

Not this time though. He'd realised, perhaps for the first time, how young he was, how inexperienced. Perhaps it had been his belief in the challenges as games that had got him through the trials life had thrown at him, but when he had been tied up in that graveyard, he had realised for the first time what kind of game he was playing. It was a dangerous one, and he was but yet a child in it. He was a lamb compared to Voldemort's wolf.

He still couldn't understand how he had escaped. The older mage had been careless, he supposed. Perhaps he had overestimated him, and made a trap big enough to catch the enemy he thought he would get, letting smaller fry get through the holes.

Voldemort wouldn't make that same mistake again.

But what was he to do about it? He would have the skills to fight when Slytherin was done with him, but what could he do? He was one man in a world of organisations.

The Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore had spoken of it, hadn't he? Harry had looked it up after that, although there weren't many mentions in the history books. The books on the first rise of the Dark Lord had spoken of a mysterious 'Order' that helped in battles, but nothing more than that.

With whatever skills he was going to acquire over his time with Salazar, he might be able to help them…but to what end? Of course, he wanted Voldemort's life to be the end, but what would be the cost? Wouldn't it be better if he just took his friends and left? Or simply left himself? Voldemort had made it clear that Harry was the one he wanted to kill above all else, besides Dumbledore.

He needed a plan. And for that, he needed to talk to his mentor.

---

In his bedroom, Draco laughed bitterly at the morning news. He held the cheap paper with his good hand, scrupulously hiding the other beneath it.

'Rebel Group Strikes Ministry Home!

The anti-Ministry terrorist group strikes the home of Dennis Flitter, leaving the sign of the dreaded Dark Mark above the house. This reporter wonders what the world is coming too when youths will resort to such measures to create panic.

The attackers were confirmed as young, and none bore the Dark Mark on their arms, says an eyewitness. Once more, this reporter asks the Wizarding World if they know the whereabouts of one Mr Potter, who has mysteriously disappeared at the same time as the rebel attacks have increased.

One Healer from St. Mungos gave this anonymous statement on the famed Boy-Who-Lived:

'The killing of his parents by You-Know-Who has obviously severely upset his mental state. Throughout his years at Hogwarts School of Magic he has headed numerous fantastic stories, each revolving around his parent's killer. He has obviously become obsessed with this idea of a phantom Voldemort, so much so that he is willing to proclaim it to the Wizarding world. Whether he is willing to assume the role of his 'arch nemesis' and start a rebel group to support his claims remains to be seen, but it is a distinct possibility with his history.

For more on Harry Potter's life, see page 5…'

Draco snorted and let the paper fall into his lap. Any fool who'd met the boy would know that he didn't have a chance in hell of starting any such thing, particularly when his 'arch nemesis' was up and walking around the Wizarding world, reviving his old contacts. But then again, he supposed that it wouldn't really be to plan to reveal that the world's most feared Dark Lord was back. Not yet, anyway.

Draco wasn't stupid, and he knew that the famed Boy-Who-Lived had quite the nascent ability for the Dark Arts. He only prayed that he never learnt how to use it.

"Not bloody likely," he sneered, awkwardly folding the Daily Prophet and setting it to one side. Not likely at all, with Dumbledore breathing down his neck. Not for the first time, he reflected that if Potter was only a little less pure and Gryffindor, then he would have been remarkably easy to sway to the other side.

Wincing, he shifted his arm, stealing a morbidly curious glance at it. When they had cut the Soul Metal out of his flesh, he had screamed, painkillers or no. It felt like part of his soul was being ripped away from him.

Which, he thought humourlessly, was exactly what it was.

---

"You will be mastering simple feats of magic and manipulating them until I am confident that you are ready to branch into different areas," Salazar informed him. "Your first session on Mind Arts will be tomorrow, although advanced areas will need test subjects. Come now," Salazar chastened, seeing Harry's wince, "try to exercise a little sense before your emotions. To improve, you must practice, and to practice, you must experiment.'

"I suppose," said Harry reluctantly. "What happens after I can do basic things?" he asked.

"A whole range of interesting topics will be explored," the ghost said, a glitter of interest showing through his eyes. "But that is in the future."

"How long in the future?" Harry pushed.

Salazar laughed. "That depends entirely on you little one."

From the Founder's satisfied expression, he could see that he was going to get little more from him. Sighing, he drained the last of his coffee and sat back.

'Your plans will arrange themselves, given time,' Slytherin's voice whispered within his head, making Harry twitch slightly in surprise.

---

The following day proved to be exceedingly strange for Harry. Upon waking, he found a book on physical training and a set of glowing instructions in the air above. Obeying them, he settled down to read the first chapter, before doing a series of stretches and jogging around the room. He was alarmed to note that he was slightly out of breath, but when he ran through the amount of exercise he had done since arrival, he found the source of his problem. Simply put, standing or laying around trying to 'create light' wasn't conducive to aerobic fitness.

It was after breakfast that things became much stranger.

"Sit."

Harry complied, taking his usual seat on the blue sofa and running his hand over the stitched snakes on it, which let out a hiss that seemed to run on the edge of reality and memory.

Salazar shot him a sly glance, and Harry recoiled, his world fading into blackness. When he opened his eyes once more, he was standing in his mindscape. Behind him he could see the cave-in, and before him the long, branching tunnel stretched into the distance. Faint echoes resounded around the tunnel, and Harry felt a strange yearning in his chest as he listened to them.

"They come from the central cave," Salazar told him from where he was leaning idly against the wall.

"The…" Harry trailed off, frowning. "How do you know?"

"In your unconscious state, I took my time to explore your mind," he said with a calculating glint in his eyes.

"You just took you time to 'stroll around'?" Harry demanded, but Salazar merely waved his accusation aside.

"I looked at very little, but I understand the way in which your mind is set out, and for that, it is time to work on your defences."

Leaving Harry watching after him thoughtfully, Salazar moved past him to reach one hand out to caress the stones that made up the cave-in.

There was something distinctly odd about seeing the Founder in the flesh, as it were. He was tall, taller than Harry, but of a similar build. Salazar, as he was fully-grown, had broader shoulders, but from his slender build Harry estimated that they would have been relatively the same size when the man was younger. Their facial shapes were very different though, the Founder's face broader and more hollowed, whilst Harry was only just getting a decent level of definition in his own. Idly Harry wondered how old he was.

"1072 years old," was the reply, Slytherin not even sparing him a glance as he ran his hands over the stone of one of the walls he had progressed on to.

"When you died, I meant," Harry corrected, a little embarrassed to realise that Salazar had been looking over his thoughts just then.

"When I died…" he trailed off and paused, thoughtful. "When I died, I was 49 years of age."

"Erm…if you don't mind my asking-" Harry began hesitantly.

"You will learn in due time how my demise was contrived."

"Oh," said Harry. "How is it that-"

"I am able to read your thoughts with ease because of my ghostly form," he said with a smirk, with a sweeping gesture. Harry frowned. The man certainly seemed to be taking a delight in cutting him off today.

"It is of course, somewhat facilitated by my existence within your mind at the moment."

Harry's brow creased a little in thought. "Then, what would happen if you were to try and use Leglimency on me now?" he asked, pointing to himself. "Would there be a mind-"

"Within a mind," Salazar finished with an odd smile. "Oh yes. Infinite minds are the beauty of Leglimency. A set of mirrors that face each other and allow a thousand, thousand reflections. Of course, they are only mirrors. Change the master, and you change them all, but change a reflection, and you enter the realms of the subconscious."

"However," he said, turning to Harry, "we are at the moment only examining your defences and mental order."

"Right," replied Harry. "Where do we start?"

They began with Harry's primary and only defence, which was the cave-in. Salazar had told him disparagingly that he had seen other foundations for defences in his mind, but they had been 'removed', as they held no merit. Harry wasn't all too pleased with the idea of him removing some of his mental defences, but he didn't complain. After all, he had a whole lot more experience in what made a good defence than Harry did.

The construction of the defence was a subject of debate, because Harry had no idea of how it was made before he had added the alterations, which seemed peculiar as Salazar had informed him of its strength – 'nothing impressive, but a workable beginning'. When questioning Harry on his incorporation of Parseltongue into the defences, Salazar's eyes took on an appraising, interested gleam.

"You utilised the diverse dialects?" he asked curiously.

"Uh…yeah," Harry said hesitantly. "I read about them in a book on Parseltongue, but it wasn't too detailed, so I just played it by ear."

"Interesting," Salazar mused. "The best form of learning is by experience. From now, I wish you to speak the tongue, unless I tell you otherwise," he hissed.

"Oh…all right then," Harry said before wincing. "Guess that wasn't Parsel, huh."

"Indeed not."

Focusing, Harry tried again. "Better?"

"Very much so. It pleases me to hear the tongue spoken once more. It has been a long time since I have had the chance to speak with one of my own," Salazar said, a strange look passing over his face.

They spent a great deal of time discussing tactics for defence, ranging sometimes into battle strategy. Harry immediately suggested the idea of completely airtight armoured defence, but Salazar rejected the theory.

"Do you have the mind of a snake, or not?" he asked disdainfully. "Building a fortress in an open plain is inviting attack."

"Ah," Harry muttered, a little embarrassed for suggesting such an obvious tactic. "Well, I suppose I could build a kind of 'mental trap'."

"Of what form?" Salazar pressed.

"Oh, all forms," Harry continued, thinking back to Dudley's video games. "There are the obvious ones like covered pits, dead ends, hidden nets and wires, ceiling traps, and hexed stones. But I think if I wanted something more hidden, I could add stuff like you find in those Indiana Jones movies. That's a Muggle film…uh...moving pictures that last for a few hours," he explained, spotting Salazar's questioning look and dredging a memory forwards for him to examine.

"But," he continued, "I could do things like darts that come out of walls when you step on the wrong tiles and stuff. Or not," he added quickly, realising how foolish he must sound.

"No, no. It is best to consider all options, and many of them are indeed viable," Salazar reassured him, looking pensive. "May I suggest that you also install several Oubliettes?"

Harry frowned. "They're dungeons with only a trapdoor in the ceiling as the way out, aren't they?"

Salazar nodded thoughtfully. "A useful tool, especially if you wish to examine the minds of those who are invading and discover the reason why."

"What about…what about guards or something?" said Harry slowly. "Like a guard dog, or those dragons that guard Gringotts."

"You run a little ahead of yourself. Let us establish physical means before examining the creation of animals," he said.

Salazar set him to begin work on strengthening the cave-in, simply watching and pointing out flaws. For Harry, it seemed to take both an eternity and a few minutes to complete. As well as weaving in several more strains of Parselmagic, he added a kind of mental identity key into it, along with an intensely complex defence that would either forcefully expel the attacker if they were powerful, or capture them in the rocks if they didn't pose so much of a threat. Salazar had explained to him that the weaving of magic into the mental defences was a bonus of being a wizard, but many of the defences were possible without it.

"So the balance between them is the important part then?" Harry asked as he worked. "Because if you lose your magic, then all the magical defences are down, and if you lose your mind, then all your non-magical defences are down?"

Salazar inclined his head slightly. "An intimate construct of both allows for at least one to remain, and to retain some of the structure of the other."

Nodding, Harry stretched and looked around him. "Right, what next?"

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Notes: Sorry for the delay in updates, I've been ill. Next chapter may also be a little late because I'm away for three days.