There were seventy-eight cards in a tarot deck, as Petri had mentioned. At the time, Harry hadn't thought much of it, but later when Petri took him to the Starry Prophesier to build his own deck, it became clear that those were seventy-eight times two (upright and reversed) meanings that he would need to memorise like the back of his hand.
It did not help that Petri refused to give him a straight answer about what any of the cards were.
"It's your deck," he would say. "You can interpret it however you like, as long as it's consistent."
Harry liked the lack of prescription, but he would have appreciated at least a starting point.
The lady at the Starry Prophesier, on the other hand, had a bit too much say to about the cards.
She was extremely tall, towering over Petri, and wore needle-thin high heels that made her even taller. It looked like somebody had robbed an upholstery shop and dumped it all over her—she was covered in ugly shawls and heavy sashes. When they entered the cramped shop, she tittered in a high voice and prowled out from behind her ostentatiously sequinned booth to meet them.
"Hello darlings, here to discover yourselves? Find your soulmate?" she asked, batting her eyelashes at Petri and stroking her long, chestnut hair. Harry fought the urge to gag. What was she doing? Petri was like, seventy years old.
Harry glanced up and was relieved to see that he looked equally nonplussed.
"Vlaicu referred us here," Petri said stiffly. "He said you sell divination supplies."
"Oh, Silviu sent you?" she said, her tone drastically altered, so that she almost sounded like a normal person. "And who might you two be? My name is Augustina Selene, the Starry Prophesier."
"Jochen Peters," said Petri. "This is my apprentice, Harry."
"The Harry?" Augustina asked, arching one thin eyebrow, "Not Silviu's protégé?"
"Er, I'm in the company, but I wouldn't call myself, er… that," Harry mumbled. Petri didn't look visibly offended at the notion, but neither did he relax the hard lines of his shoulders.
"Well don't just stand in the door like that, come in, come in," Augustina said, beckoning them further into the shop, past a thick velvet curtain that smelled strongly of incense. "What was it you were looking for today?"
The back area was fortunately less saturated in gaudy fabrics and heavy perfumes, and instead had the musty ambiance of a library with only the faintest touch of smoke.
"Tarot cards," Petri said. "Harry is building his first deck."
"Oh how wonderful!" Augustina cried, "Tarot is my favourite. The cards can tell you so much about a person. Here, my collection, all hand-painted."
Harry approached the indicated shelf a little hesitantly, ducking under Augustina's outstretched hand, and perused the display.
Petri had educated him somewhat on the structure of the deck before their excursion—there were twenty-two major arcana, which were the cards he was here today to select, and then four suits of minor arcana. The minor arcana were usually written in runic numbers, and it was best if he created them himself, but fortunately he wasn't expected to have enough artistic talent to personally render the major arcana.
"Death is my favourite card," Augustina told Harry. She snatched the skull artwork between her middle and index finger and held it out to him. "I love explaining it to my clients—it might be a skull but it doesn't mean you're going to die! An end to one thing is just the beginning of another. Death to a bad relationship means an opportunity to meet your true love!"
Harry frowned. In his experience, death was death. He took the card. It definitely looked like death to him.
"What's this one?" he asked, pointing to a fat man in overflowing red robes, wreathed by the shining sun.
"That's the Hierophant," Augustina said. Harry frowned. He didn't remember that one. "It stands for tradition and stability. And commitment, which is often what's missing in lacklustre relationships."
"That's a muggle card," Petri interjected, frowning.
"Muggle, wizard, I've got them all," Augustina said, waving her hand. "Don't you worry."
"What's the difference?" Harry asked.
Petri looked like he wanted to say something derogatory, but he restrained himself and muttered, "Convention."
Harry stuck to the wizarding arcana anyway. It turned out that there were significant differences, which made sense, since muggles wouldn't have cards like the Dementor and the Fountain of Fair Fortune.
Petri parted with twenty-two sickles, which seemed shockingly excessive for some cards, and then power-walked out of the shop, Harry jogging after him.
"That woman was such a hack," Petri complained as soon as they passed the threshold. "She's probably not even a witch, knowing the sort of rabble Vlaicu keeps around."
"But the cards are real?" Harry checked.
"They're cards," said Petri. "Nothing magical about them."
"Why were they so expensive then?" Harry demanded. Petri stopped and turned to smile wryly at him.
"It's important that your tarot cards mean something to you," he said.
Probably, Harry figured, Petri just wanted to have an excuse to curse him if he ended up losing interest. Reading tarot for a quarter hour daily would be a non-trivial addition to his schedule.
He wanted to start immediately, but they had to get ready to go to Mrs Figg's. Harry had spotted her reply to Petri's note lying about on the table the previous night, and had had to stifle his snickering with his robes. It had been something like:
Dear Joachim,
Merlin knows what kind of hovel you consider it fit to live in, and don't get me started on what you call "food." I will be expecting you at my house tomorrow at six o'clock.
Yours,
Arabella
They apparated to Wisteria Walk at six sharp and found Mrs Figg already waiting for them on the porch, enjoying the warm evening air with her cats. She waved at them cheerfully.
"Arabella, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to impose myself on you," Petri said to her immediately as they approached. "I thought…"
"Shush," said Mrs Figg, "You're doing me a favour. I need some sensible company once in a while, or I'll go batty. You're welcome to drop by anytime. You too, Harry. It's good to see you again—you've grown quite a bit."
As usual, Harry was not sure how to respond to Mrs Figg's words. She had a grandmotherly air about her, and that included the ability to carry on a conversation about him with herself.
Petri seemed to have no trouble. "I wish it was just a social call, but I did want to speak to you about something important."
"Of course, of course," said Mrs Figg, waving her hand dismissively. "I know you're always about your business, Joachim. Go on."
Petri hesitated and looked around, as if expecting to find a pack of eavesdropping muggles. The neighbourhood was silent except for the chattering of sparrows.
"It's about Harry Potter," he said. Mrs Figg leaned forward suddenly, sending a cat tumbling out of her lap. It yowled angrily and puffed up, before darting off into a shadowy corner.
"Joachim, please, please tell me you didn't do something," she whispered. "I'll have to tell Albus."
"Dumbledore knows what I've done," said Petri. "But I didn't realise you had anything to do with it. Was that why he sent you to live here? So that you could watch over Harry Potter?"
Mrs Figg gave an unhappy nod. "So what happened to him? Is he… all right?"
"He's perfectly fine," Petri said without looking at Harry. Mrs Figg relaxed a little at that, obviously trusting Petri's word. "What I don't understand—what he doesn't understand, and would like to know, is why Dumbledore needed you to be here."
"Can I see him?" Mrs Figg asked. "Harry?"
Petri turned to Harry and raised an eyebrow. Harry shrugged. He didn't have an opinion on Mrs Figg learning his identity either way. She had never been particularly bad or good to him, and she was a squib who probably couldn't murder him very easily.
"Let's go inside," Petri suggested. "I don't want to do anything where muggles could see."
"You've charms for it," said Mrs Figg. Petri sighed and took out his wand, sweeping it in an arc toward the front garden and muttering a rhythmic incantation. A faint blue light settled on the lawn some distance from them, and then disappeared. He looked a little out of breath afterwards.
"I'm not taking it back down," he said. "Serves you right."
Mrs Figg snorted, looking quite smug for somebody who was helpless to fix whatever damage Petri had chosen to do.
"All the neighbours are nosy biddies anyway," she said. "Never liked them. Especially not Harry's relatives—those were the worst sort of muggles. Well," she paused to peer up at Petri apologetically, "not the absolute worst, but nearly. Now go on, do whatever it was you didn't want muggles to see."
Petri nodded. "Rosenkol!" he called, and the elf popped up in a sea of cats, which startled and lurched away from him as if magnetically repulsed.
Mrs Figg rolled her eyes. She patted her rocking chair firmly, and a large white cat that Harry recognised as the reanimated Mr Tibbles leapt up onto her lap and purred as she stroked it generously. Harry grudgingly admitted to himself that Petri had done a good job with it.
"Rosenkol, introduce Harry to Arabella," Petri said.
Rosenkol glanced up.
"Master is meaning to tell the secret?" he asked in a very loud whisper. Petri nodded. Mrs Figg peered at them all in mild confusion, until Rosenkol said, "Mistress Arabella, this is being Harry Potter."
Mrs Figg blinked rapidly, and understanding dawned on her face. She rounded on Petri.
"Joachim, you unimaginable twat, you've been hiding him this entire time?" she demanded. Petri didn't pretend to be cowed, but he did keep a stoic mien. Mrs Figg sighed and dragged a hand across her face, ruffling her wispy grey fringe. "Never mind, that's exactly like you. I'm so sorry, Harry." She stared at him searchingly, but did not seem to find what she was looking for. "I wish I could have told you everything, since the beginning, but Albus forbade it."
"It's fine," Harry said, surprisingly indifferent. He took the opportunity to ask something that had been niggling at him for a long time now. "But what does Dumbledore have to do with all this? With me and with you?" He glanced at Petri as well. What could make a dark wizard defer to a school headmaster, international authority or not? He knew that Petri only followed the law when it suited him.
Mrs Figg looked hesitant, but then she shook her head and muttered, "The kneazle's out of the bag anyway, I suppose. Albus asked me to keep an eye on you in case any dark wizards tried to get their hands on you. After You-Know-Who disappeared, it took a long while for them to apprehend all his followers and supporters. And who knows how many walked free? In the end, though, nobody worse than your nasty relatives ever showed their face around here."
Harry blinked and then glanced quickly over to Petri. Mrs Figg did know that he was a dark wizard too, right?
She continued, blithely, "Albus didn't want you to know about magic while you couldn't use it yet. Thought it would spoil your childhood."
This sounded totally ridiculous to Harry, and he was momentarily too affronted to respond.
Petri snorted. "Thought it would be a security risk, I'm sure," he corrected, and Harry deflated.
"So you work for him?" he asked Mrs Figg, trying to get at the source of his continued confusion. "He pays you?"
Mrs Figg and Petri burst into laughter at the same time. Harry didn't understand what was stupid about that question.
"When a wizard as powerful as Albus Dumbledore commands you, you obey," Petri said.
"You said the same thing about the Dark Lord," Harry protested. "But they're against each other, aren't they?"
"It's a choice, certainly. The Dark Lord will kill you for opposing him, but Dumbledore will destroy your life," Petri said.
"Joachim!" Mrs Figg admonished. "Albus has his flaws, but he's a good man."
"Für das größere Wohl," Petri said softly. "I did not say that he was not good."
Mrs Figg shook her head, shooing Mr Tibbles away and getting to her feet on creaky knees.
"Enough of that. Dinner is getting cold," she said. "Come on in."
"Wait, you still have not fully answered my original question," Petri protested, even as he followed her inside. Mrs Figg ignored him, ushering Harry past the door and rolling her eyes.
The hearty scent of warm cheese and herbs suffused the house, mixing oddly with the musty fragrance of cat. Mrs Figg sat them around the compact kitchen table and produced a large ceramic dish from the oven. Petri raised his wand to try to help, but Mrs Figg stopped him with a glare.
Dinner was chicken that melted in Harry's mouth and gnocchi and mushrooms with cheese—a little bland, but heavenly after a whole day of nothing but experimental biscuits. Petri complimented Mrs Figg generously.
"Still living on soldier rations, I suppose?" she asked him. Petri nodded with some chagrin. "Ghastly," Mrs Figg muttered. "I understood back then, but now?"
"Habit," Petri mumbled.
"And what about Harry? Is he feeding you proper food?" Mrs Figg asked.
Harry felt inexplicably safe from Petri's irritation in her house, and so he shook his head. "No. Nutritive potions mostly," he told her.
"Joachim, he's a growing boy!" Mrs Figg was scandalised. "Do you even know the first thing about raising a child?"
"No," Petri admitted unabashedly. "I see no point in coddling my apprentice. Harry is very mature for his age, yes?" He directed this comment at Harry himself.
"Er, I suppose, thanks," Harry mumbled into his gnocchi. It was true that Petri was perhaps the only adult who had never refused him something because he was "too young." Everybody else was always so focused on his age.
"You're ridiculous," Mrs Figg huffed. "I can't believe I have to say this, but Harry, you're welcome here anytime if you want to have a proper meal. Joachim, I'll have you know that those muggle relatives of his used to starve him. Do you really want to be like that?"
Petri actually flinched, but then held his ground: "I am not starving anybody," he said. "There is nothing unhealthy about drinking nutritive potions. Their entire purpose is to provide adequate nutrition."
"Some people have a sense of taste," said Mrs Figg. Petri was silent.
"It's all right," Harry told her. "Rosenkol and I are learning to cook."
"Are you now?" said Mrs Figg. "That's wonderful. I could owl you some recipes later, if you'd like."
"Oh, thank you, that would be brilliant," Harry said. "Something simple, if you could." The only cookbook he had, Witch's Brew, was mostly about culinary spellwork, not cooking itself, and the recipes that were included were all frustratingly complex.
They finished dinner, and Petri insisted on doing the dishes with magic. Harry was still astonished by how genuinely friendly he was with Mrs Figg, despite his professed disdain for squibs.
"All right, I know you're dying to ask more questions," Mrs Figg said as they retired to the parlour to enjoy some tea. She sat down on her armchair and gestured for them to take the sofa.
"I am!" Petri agreed, "What you said before only makes everything more mysterious. If Dumbledore was afraid that the Dark Lord's supporters would make attempts on Harry's life, why on earth would he have left the boy with defenceless muggles? And you? What are you supposed to do against dark wizards? Maul them with kneazles?"
"They're his relatives. You know how Albus is about family," Mrs Figg said, taking no offence. Petri shook his head.
"He knows better than anybody how worthless family is," he protested, "and so do you. Don't tell me you didn't try to wring an actual answer out of him."
"He told me my concerns were unwarranted and that he had put up protections for Harry," Mrs Figg said. "Although I'm not sure how true that is, given how easily you whisked him away from right underneath our noses."
Petri waved his hand. "Harry chose to come with me," he said. "That would have rendered the majority of protective enchantments useless. But I don't understand what kind of protections you could put on a muggle house that wouldn't be better on a wizard's. No unplottability, no fidelius charm, or are there?"
Mrs Figg shook her head.
"What's left then?" Petri asked, throwing his hands up.
"He mentioned that Harry's mother had done something to protect him, and that it was important he be placed with a relation," Mrs Figg offered.
Harry suddenly had a funny thought. "You don't think it could be the protection of blood?" he asked. What were the odds?
"That would not have done any good." said Petri. "It only works against sympathetic magic."
"Maybe a variant of it?" Harry suggested. If he had learned anything from his study of charms, it was that everything was a variant of something.
Petri frowned. "It's not impossible," he allowed. "But Arabella, it still doesn't make sense. Why did Dumbledore need you here if Harry was already protected? Surely if dark wizards arrived to slaughter the muggles it would be obvious enough?"
"He told me to watch for anything out of the ordinary," Mrs Figg said. "There's no good in finding out about an attack after the fact. What are you getting at, anyway? Has Dumbledore called on your debt?"
Petri sighed. "He has, and for Harry's benefit." He glanced briefly to a bewildered Harry. "I want to know why he would have such a heavy interest in a boy."
"The Boy-Who-Lived," Mrs Figg reminded them. "Defeater of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
"And, so? Does he expect another miracle?" Petri challenged.
"Perhaps he feels that he owes it to Harry to keep him safe," Mrs Figg said. Petri's eyebrows rose into his hairline. Harry thought he understood his incredulity—nothing about his life so far had been what he would call "safe."
"I see he has kept us both in the dark again," Petri finally said.
"Would you have done as he asked, if you had known everything then?" Mrs Figg asked, her knuckles whitening against her teacup. She took a deep drink, not taking her eyes off his face.
Petri's lips thinned. "I—probably not. Would you have?"
Mrs Figg smiled more grimly than Harry would have thought possible for a kindly old cat lady. "Like you said, it's better than being dead."
There was a long silence after that. Harry shifted awkwardly in his seat and sipped at his lukewarm tea.
"I forgot," Petri said suddenly, "I have something for you." He pulled a small glass pendant out of his pocket, not unlike the anti-evil eye amulet that he had given Harry. This one was clear, perhaps meant to be a dove.
"What does it do?" Mrs Figg asked.
"Portkey, if you need to get away. It goes to Octavian's grave. The passphrase is his full name," Petri said.
"Illegal, I suppose," Mrs Figg said.
"Who will you tell?" Petri asked, smiling faintly, before he sobered. "Not Dumbledore, I hope."
"He doesn't know that we're still in contact," Mrs Figg assured him.
Petri nodded. They exchanged some last pleasantries, Mrs Figg promising again to send Harry recipes when she had the chance, and then they apparated back home.
Or rather, they apparated to the entrance of Diagon Alley, just past the brick archway that led to the Leaky Cauldron.
"So you can't apparate anywhere else in Diagon Alley?" Harry asked.
"All of the Alleys are concentrated in a single, physical alley," Petri explained. "That's the only accessible location to apparate into. Once inside the wizard space, it's possible to apparate anywhere."
He demonstrated by surprise-apparating them back to the graveyard. Harry swallowed convulsively to avoid bringing up his recent dinner.
"Can I learn to apparate?" Harry asked. It would be dead useful.
"When you are seventeen," Petri told him as they walked up the path.
"I've apparated before," Harry protested, "accidentally. When I was seven, or eight."
"I am surprised that you're still in one piece," Petri said. "Apparition is very dangerous. One mistake, and you could die. You're unlikely to have the appropriate magical volume for several more years."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean? I thought you said magical flow peaks at eleven, and that's why school starts at eleven!"
"Yes, the flow of your magic becomes fixed once you begin to use it regularly. But the flow is only the shape—magical volume also depends on speed. Apparition requires more than twice as much magic as you can hold in your body at one time. Do you understand?" Petri glanced back intently. "All the magic in your body to disapparate, and all of it again to apparate at your destination. Do you understand what happens if you cannot replenish it quickly enough? Your apparition attempt will fail and you will die."
"That's—all right, I get it, but what if my life is in danger anyway, and I need to escape?" Harry insisted.
Petri whipped around and cast some jinx with a circular wand motion, meeting Harry's eyes intently. It wasn't anything he recognised, so Harry elected not to panic, and waited for an explanation.
"Anti-disapparition jinx. It will be the first thing that anybody who wishes to imprison you will cast," Petri said.
"Oh," said Harry. "And you can't cancel it?"
"You must knock out the caster, or if it's an enchantment, destroy the object," Petri said.
"What about a portkey, like the one you gave Mrs Figg?" Harry asked.
"I could make you a portkey that comes here, if you really wish," Petri said, "but a simple finite will break the charm, and it's inadvisable to be caught with an illegal portkey. It's a fifty galleon fine and up to three months in Azkaban."
"What?" Harry demanded. "For a portkey? But what about Mrs Figg then?"
"She's a squib," Petri said, eyebrows raised. "Nobody would ever suspect."
"Squibs have witch and wizard relatives, don't they? Surely it's pretty common for them to have magical things?" said Harry.
"Squibs are the ultimate shame of their families," Petri said. "People will do anything to distance themselves. They plague the streets here, ever since the British Ministry made it illegal to kill them."
Harry's jaw dropped. "But you're friends with Mrs Figg."
"I am, yes. We're not related," said Petri, as if that explained it all.
Harry sensed that Petri had no desire to expound on this topic. He climbed down the coffin stairs after Petri and said, "All right, so no apparition or portkeys yet, but what about magic speed? Does it just get faster as you get older? Is there some other way to make it faster?"
Petri snorted. "Nothing like that—you misunderstand. The speed of magic is what it is for a given spell. The question is whether your body can withstand it. If the answer is no, then in the best case the spell simply backfires, and in the worst case you overextend yourself to the point that you fall apart. Enough on this." He sat down at the table and summoned Harry's new tarot deck to him, separating out the illustrated major arcana and banishing the fifty-six blank cards across the table. "Finish your deck," he said.
"With a quill?" Harry asked, trying not to think too hard about what it meant to 'fall apart' from overly ambitious spellcasting. Had Petri meant that literally?
"Did you have something else in mind?" Petri asked.
"Colour-change charm?" Harry suggested. Petri shrugged.
"If you find that easier," he said.
It wasn't easier, exactly, since instead of poor handwriting he had to contend with poor visualisation skill, but it was faster for copying parts of designs onto other cards. There were four suits—wands, goblets, stars, and swords—with fourteen cards each. Conveniently, runic numbers went right up to thirteen, and then there was also a knave in each suit. It took him the better part of the day to draw them all up to his satisfaction and assign meanings to each.
It was time worth spending, though, because it meant he could finally do a reading. The most basic reading, according to Petri, was the past-present-future reading, which involved placing any number of cards in three columns while keeping the same question in mind.
"Try to discover what you must do in order to postpone your death as long as possible," Petri suggested.
Harry thought that that was a good idea, but it wasn't the only thing he was interested in. He hadn't forgotten about the implication that he could achieve true resurrection. He flipped three cards.
The Tower, the six of wands, and Death reversed.
So something bad had happened before. The present was stable? And if he took it literally, he could thwart his death in the future. Harry frowned.
"Can I do another one?" he asked.
"Once a day," Petri said. "You're unlikely to get a better answer so quickly."
But the next day, and the next, also brought nothing new, though the exact cards that surfaced were different. No matter how thoroughly he shuffled the deck, his past-present-future reading came up with variations on the same message: there had been a disaster, and now he had to stay committed to his current course if he wanted to have a future at all.
Of course, it would help if he knew what exactly he was doing correctly, right now, that he was supposed to be committing to.
Sighing, Harry tucked his deck into its box and flopped onto his bed. His wand told him it was four in the morning, an awkward time when it was too late for a human to be up and too early for a vampire to be sleeping. Still, he had not fully adjusted to a nocturnal schedule and already felt his energy flagging.
He had closed his eyes for no more than a minute when he nearly whited out with pain. It was like someone had thrust a giant needle into his eye. He must have been screaming but he couldn't hear himself—there was muffled static in his ears, like they'd been filled up with cotton.
Then he couldn't feel his body, and everything was silent and black. After a moment, his sight returned, revealing flickering orange shadows—firelight. He heard crackling, felt too-hot tongues of warmth licking at his skin. The air tasted stale, like packed earth.
"Quirinus," he said, and sat up.
Quirrell, sans turban, was slumped on a roughly-hewn wooden chair by the fireplace, dozing off. At the sound of his name, his head jerked up, and then he leapt to his feet as if lashed.
"M-Master," he mumbled, eyes widening in awe. "It worked?"
"Did you doubt that it would?" Harry asked, carefully standing. Quirrell shook his head rapidly.
"No Master, of course not," he said. Harry reached out with a long, pale hand and beckoned for Quirrell to approach.
"You have served me well, after all," Harry said, "and so you will be rewarded. Come here."
Quirrell was smiling, as if hopeful, but his eyes betrayed trepidation and terror as he drew near.
Harry raised his hand and summoned something wandlessly—a small crystal phial, half full of ruby-red liquid. Quirrell's eyes widened in disbelief as it was presented to him.
"I have no need of this any longer," Harry said, thoroughly indifferent. "Do with it as you will."
"Thank you, Master," Quirrell whispered with heartfelt fervour. He stared at the phial for a long moment before tucking it into an inner pocket.
"That is nothing, only a taste of what you might receive, should you continue to help me. Your second reward, Quirinus, is a choice. You are a young man still, and I understand you have personal ambitions. You are free to go."
Quirrell's face was slack with confusion. "G-go?" he finally stammered.
Harry remained silent just long enough that Quirrell began to step back before he said, "Unless… you wish to stay? You are, of course, more than welcome."
"Yes!" Quirrell cried. His voice echoed feebly off the stone walls, and he cringed somewhat. "Yes, Master, please—I would be honoured to remain at your side."
"For eternity?" Harry asked, as if sceptical.
"Yes, Master, for eternity," Quirrell confirmed, not stuttering.
"How wonderful to hear that," said Harry, a faint smile tugging at his lips before the expression fell away abruptly. "Kneel, then, and give me your arm."
Quirrell did not ask which one. He lowered himself shakily, wincing as his knees met unyielding stone, and pulled his robe sleeve back from his left arm, baring the underside. It trembled noticeably, but his expression was resolute.
"This will hurt," Harry warned, taking the proffered wrist in hand and pressing the pale tip of his forefinger into the upper forearm. A tongue of black flame shot out and curled against the skin, and then Harry's head was on fire, his body was jerking uncontrollably, and a rhythmic thudding sound was driving daggers into his skull.
"Harry! Harry, wake up!" somebody shouted in his ear, and Harry opened his eyes deliriously to see Silviu's blurry, waxy face looming over him. He recoiled and slammed into the headboard. The pain in the back of his head distracted him somewhat from the pain in the front, and his vision focused as much as it could without the aid of his spectacles.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. His voice was thin and hoarse, and he felt suddenly freezing and very cognisant of the liberal amount of sweat that had condensed all over his body.
"I felt your pain through our bond," Silviu said, looking equally confused. "I thought—well, what's going on? Did you have a nightmare?"
Harry tried to think of what he had just been doing. Certainly not talking with Professor Quirrell. His ears were still ringing faintly, and his scar pulsed angrily with pain, but it was already fading.
"I wasn't even sleeping," he said, just to get that embarrassing possibility out of the way. "I think I had… some kind of vision?"
But now that he had a moment to reflect on what he had experienced, he thought that it was obvious enough that the vision had been of the Dark Lord. Nobody else was likely to be in the vicinity of Professor Quirrell, and Harry knew well enough by now what the Dark Lord's emotions felt like, so dull and intense by turns.
"You had a vision of the Dark Lord?" Silviu demanded, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Harry frowned and covered his eyes, even though he knew the vampire didn't need eye contact.
"That's priv—sensitive information," he said. He tried very hard not to think of anything else bad, remembered the strange thought about passing boats that Silviu had sent him once, and focused on that. Two boats, drifting in the moonlit water.
"Is he back?" Silviu asked. "I'd heard rumours that he was immortal, but I didn't know whether to believe them…"
Silviu sounded hopeful. Harry removed his hands from his face and blinked up at the vampire. His expression matched his tone. So he supported the Dark Lord. Why was Harry surprised?
"He's back," Harry said, not really seeing any point in prevaricating at this juncture. Maybe he could keep Silviu distracted enough not to wonder at why Harry was having mysterious visions in the first place.
"We have to prepare," said Silviu, and wasn't that exactly what Petri had said? Harry frowned.
"Prepare how?" he asked, ready for some cryptic half-answer.
To his surprise, Silviu said, "We'll have to call a company meeting. No doubt the Dark Lord will ask us to help finance his activities again, and we should have a plan laid out beforehand to deal with the goblins."
It was Harry's turn to gape. For some reason, when he thought of Silviu joining the Dark Lord, he had imagined an army of snarling vampires cresting a hill with the full moon at their back.
Silviu laughed at his expression. "Vampires would make terrible soldiers against wizards," he said. "We can only do magic at night, and none of our skills are suitable for self-defence."
"But you can do spells if you have a wand," Harry protested, remembering all the times Petri had lectured him about how outclassed a wizard was by an armed vampire.
"I can do spells because I used to be a wizard," Silviu said. "British wizards don't let themselves get infected, as a rule, so I can't say the same for the rest of the company."
"Oh," said Harry.
"Don't worry. We make up for it by being very good with money," Silviu assured him with a wry smile. "It's money that wins wars, not brute force."
"I guess I never realised. I thought that, er, goblins have all the gold," Harry said. He remembered vaguely from History of Magic that after the last goblin rebellions, it had been agreed that Gringotts would be the sole issuer of magical currency.
"All the gold, yes," Silviu drawled with derision, "savages that they are. They have no understanding of real value. Value lies in agreements between people, not in lumps of metal."
Harry wasn't sure what to say to that.
"Anyway," Silviu continued, "You're pretty sure that your vision was genuine? Yes, I suppose you are. I'll go call the board together."
"Er, I think I should talk to my master first," Harry said.
"Of course," said Silviu. "How about let's meet at eight? At the Coffin House."
"All right," Harry agreed.
"You'll be fine on your own?" Silviu asked.
"I've been fine," Harry said a little tetchily. Silviu nodded and left by way of his vampire apparition, melting away into shadow.
Harry sighed and rubbed at his scar, and then at the lump that had formed on the back of his head. The pain barely registered. He considered the merit of going outside and walking all the way to Crystal Wonders, before groaning and sinking his face into his pillow. Petri would be back in a matter of hours, long before eight. There was no reason to make the extra trip.
He woke to the creaking of the coffin lid and the click of shoes against the wooden stairs. Remembering suddenly that he had an appointment to keep, he sat up straight, heart leaping into his throat, and fumbled for his wand to check the time.
Seven. Harry exhaled sharply and leaned back. Petri, who had evidently just arrived and was stripping off his cloak, glanced to him questioningly.
"Hi," said Harry. "I, er, had a vision about the Dark Lord and Professor Quirrell."
"A vision," Petri repeated. "As in, a dream?"
"No! I wasn't sleeping. It was earlier. My scar really hurt, and then I sort of saw through the Dark Lord's eyes. He had his own body and he was talking to Professor Quirrell," Harry tried to explain.
Petri obviously did not know what to make of this, because he opened and closed his mouth several times.
"And, er, Silviu was here. I mean he came, because of our bond, he said? He said he felt my pain and I suppose he got worried," Harry added. "But he found out that the Dark Lord is back, and now he's having a meeting with the company at eight."
"Vlaicu knew you were in pain?" Petri asked. "That's impossible, unless—has he bitten you again?"
"No," said Harry, but then hesitated. "Not that I remember. I mean, obviously, he could have erased my memory again."
"Lie down," Petri said. "I'm going to cast the cruciatus curse and you can try to remember."
Harry's mouth suddenly went dry at this unwelcome news. Petri did not give him more time to be nervous—red light filled Harry's vision and then every nerve was on fire, and why did he ever think the pain in his scar was bad, that was nothing. Paradoxically, he could still feel the softness of the bed beneath him, and yet it did nothing to soothe the agony.
It lasted forever, but was really over almost as soon as it began. Harry was reeling, astonished to find himself perfectly well and in one piece on the bed. He tried to be angry, because Petri was a madman, except he also knew intellectually that Petri had acted with good reason, because it was the only way to break a memory charm.
He considered whether he had learned anything new, searching for some impression of Silviu's fangs in his throat, but there was only the single incident in the graveyard, already so long ago that he had trouble bringing up the details.
"There's nothing," he said, hoping Petri would not take that as a sign that he needed to try the cruciatus again.
There were three firm knocks at the door. Petri slid it open with a wave of his wand to reveal Silviu's scuffed black boots.
"Vlaicu, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?" Petri asked, peering up from the base of the staircase.
"Is Harry all right?" Silviu asked. "I sensed… distress, so I came to check on him."
Harry sighed and slipped out of bed, trying to smooth his rumpled robes. "I'm fine," he said. It was true; he was fine now.
Silviu crouched down to get a better look without actually coming inside, and gave Harry a searching look.
"All right," he said at last. "Sorry for disturbing you. I've been on edge tonight… see you in a bit, Harry."
Petri inclined his head and the vampire heaved the coffin door closed. They waited in silence for a few beats before Petri said, "Well, I suppose that proves that I'm an utter fool."
Harry blinked at him.
"All this time, I thought I had tricked him into thinking he had given you his blood, but it turns out I was tricking myself into thinking he hadn't."
"So is it bad?" Harry muttered, not really eager to find out the new estimate of just how close he was to becoming a vampire.
"It is what it is," said Petri, scowling. "You are connected to him. His magic will affect you more strongly, but thankfully you're no muggle and should still be able to resist his compulsions to some extent."
"He did promise not to do that any more, and he hasn't," Harry pointed out.
Petri's gave a reluctant nod. "Regardless, you're also defenceless against his legilimency, which is likely the greater problem. You said he learned that the Dark Lord will be returning?"
"Has returned," Harry corrected. "I'm pretty sure he has a body now."
"Has returned," Petri said with a strained voice. "And what did he think of that?"
"Er, he said he was going to get the company together to figure out how to, er, support the Dark Lord financially," Harry said.
Petri took off his glasses and rubbed tiredly at his face. "You realise that you are part of his company, and that will implicitly put you in the Dark Lord's service as well?"
Harry winced. "Maybe it's better that way? If I go against him, then we'll be enemies for sure, and he'll kill me. If I help him, then it doesn't make as much sense that he would kill me."
"He will kill you," Petri reminded him, "It is your fate. The question is whether you will die fighting or not."
Harry frowned. "No it's not. Almost everything I saw shows me fighting, doesn't it? So that's part of it no matter what."
"Hmm. I suppose that's true. Perhaps you should consult the cards, then," said Petri.
Harry glanced over to his tarot deck and was struck by sudden understanding. "That's what it meant! Commit to what I started. I already helped the Dark Lord get the philosopher's stone. If I want to live, I have to keep helping him. But… he's kind of evil, isn't he?"
Petri snorted. "Everyone is good in their own eyes. You have to decide where your definition of good falls."
"I don't know!" Harry cried, and was shocked to discover that he really did not. He had rules in his head for right and wrong, but he couldn't feel their compulsion in the same way as with other truths like 'the sky is blue'. "What do you think? I thought you said you don't support the Dark Lord?"
"I don't, but that's irrelevant," Petri said. "I think you should not make the same mistake that I did. Do not be defined by your loyalties. Act for your own sake. When you act for others' sake, you will inevitably suffer."
"Well my own sake includes not dying, right?" Harry muttered. It did not feel like a choice. It seemed obviously bad to aid the murderer of his parents, and yet it felt equally bad to throw away his life in order to avoid doing that.
It occurred to him then to wonder why Silviu supported the Dark Lord. What advantage would he reap if the Dark Lord were to succeed at… whatever it was the Dark Lord was trying to do? Take over the Ministry?
Silviu, it turned out, was delighted to answer these questions.
"I came to England because of the Dark Lord," he told Harry, ushering him into the back room of the Coffin House where a table had been set with tea. Nobody else was there yet, as Harry had arrived fifteen minutes early. "He really had a revolutionary attitude, at a time when all Europe was getting more and more conservative and cracking down on non-wizards. There's this thought that's deeply rooted in old wizarding families, that we're inferior and should only exist to serve wizards."
Harry tried to imagine how vampires could be useful to wizards and could not come up with anything.
Silviu snorted. "Vampires had a use too, as an easily controlled way of destroying a wizard's standing. We were nothing more than generations of illegitimate children and unwanted heirs. Really, I suppose we could have gone on like that indefinitely, but then they came for our wands."
Harry nodded, remembering that vampires were included in the international wand ban for non-humans.
"The Dark Lord promised to overturn the old order. No wand ban, no non-human registration, no forced integration or separation," Silviu said.
Harry thought about how wizards like Petri and Lucius Malfoy looked down their noses at non-humans, and could see where Silviu was coming from. But Malfoy had been a follower of the Dark Lord.
"Aren't some of his followers the same kind of wizards who think you're inferior?" Harry asked.
Silviu nodded. "It doesn't matter what they think about us. He's already promised them mud—muggle-borns. They can't ask for more than that when they need our help."
Harry blinked rapidly. "He promised them muggle-borns? What does that mean?" he demanded.
"It means they'll be expelled from society, returned to the muggle world, I expect," Silviu said.
"Really? It sounds like they'll be killed," Harry said, narrowing his eyes. He knew that dark wizards did not shy away from murdering their enemies, and he hoped Silviu wasn't trying to delude anybody. He felt a little cold. Could he really support the Dark Lord and save his own life, knowing that he would consign others to a horrible end? People he knew, like Hermione? People like his own mum?
Silviu winced. "Perhaps. The Dark Lord himself has no stake in the matter as long as his followers do not fight amongst themselves. From my limited interaction with him, I don't think he really cares about anything besides his own power. But he keeps his promises. That I am sure of."
"You've met him?" Harry asked, glancing away to avoid focusing on Silviu as he thought back to his own experience with the Dark Lord. It did seem consistent with what Silviu was saying—he wanted power over other people, and he was sincere about rewarding those who helped him.
"A few times," said Silviu. "He came personally to ask us for help, and he was very courteous—knew all about our customs."
"Customs?" Harry asked. "Er, are there things I should know?"
Silviu laughed and shook his head. "That was before I was chair. The company was a lot smaller and more traditional. I got rid of all that stuffy formality as soon as I could. There's no place for it in a modern company."
Harry got the impression in his mind's eye of a strict hierarchy, bows and handshakes, special titles, and rules about sharing blood. Apparently vampires would drink each other's blood, as a display of power. Silviu seemed to find this practice distasteful.
The shop's bell tolled mournfully, and a moment later Shy stepped through, clutching a sheaf of parchments and a wooden frame with columns of beads that Harry thought might be an abacus. She tossed the parchments onto the table and sat down on Silviu's right side.
"Hey. What's this about?" she asked. Silviu looked up at her and her eyes widened fractionally. "Oh." She glanced to Harry, but didn't say anything.
Annette, Leticia, and a blond vampire whom Harry had not seen before arrived in quick succession. Before Harry could attempt an awkward introduction, Silviu said, "Ness, I don't believe you and Harry have met. Harry is our newest member, and knows a few things about the topic of our meeting today. Harry, this is Ness, our secretary."
Harry stood up and clasped hands with Ness, reaching up from below as he remembered doing with Shy. "Nice to meet you," he said, a little distracted. He couldn't for the life of him tell if Ness was a man or a woman. They had a boyish face, long hair tied back in a ponytail, and wore billowing grey robes.
"Pleasure," said Ness, their voice somehow providing no further hints. Ness took a seat beside Shy. Annette sat on Silviu's left and Leticia settled across from him, right next to Harry. She grinned at him, and he smiled back hesitantly.
There was one last vacant seat on Leticia's other side. A minute later, a dishevelled Mr Moribund ran inside and sat down, his briefcase slamming into the ground with a thud. He ducked his head apologetically without breaking eye contact with Silviu.
"All right, I know this meeting was sudden, so let me just bring you all up to speed on what happened," Silviu said, clasping his hands together. He swept his gaze around the table, locking eyes with each person in turn except Harry.
"Questions?" he said, when he finished.
Ness looked to Harry, and then back at Silviu. "I don't mean to question your judgement, Chairman, but you're really sure that it was a true vision? I've never heard of wizards having them."
"I am sure that Harry was sure," Silviu said. "I don't doubt your word, Harry, but could you perhaps explain the situation a little more?"
Harry floundered for a few moments, not having expected the question. He couldn't exactly tell them how he was connected to the Dark Lord because he was Harry Potter. What else was there to the situation? He thought about what had happened and seized on a likely story. "I was trying to do divination," he said, which was true. "Then my head hurt and I was suddenly seeing the Dark Lord talking to my—one of his followers. I know that the Dark Lord is alive because he was at Hogwarts this year. He stole… something important."
"Oh, so regardless, we are sure that the Dark Lord isn't dead. That's good," Ness said.
Silviu nodded. "I do not know if he will ask us for aid again like he did before, but as it is we did provide him with a sizeable loan. Or perhaps I should say investment—I wouldn't dare to approach him as a creditor, but I would like to have another chance at getting the return we were promised. Freedom is priceless, after all."
"Do you remember how much it was last time?" Shy asked. "I'm not going looking for a decade-old write-off."
"Wait," said Annette, "Do we really think the Dark Lord can succeed after what happened last time? And even if he does, what exactly are we standing to gain? For all we know, his pureblood followers will just walk all over us."
"Last time, he somehow failed to kill a baby, and then just disappeared," Leticia pointed out. Then she giggled loudly, before coughing and continuing, "He sure didn't just run away."
Mr Moribund held up a hand. Silviu nodded and said, "We will make the contract more explicit this time."
"There's nothing holding him to any contract," Annette protested. "Even if it's magical—there are ways around them all."
"I don't believe that he would renege on any agreement," Silviu said. "I have never heard anybody so much as accuse him of dishonest dealing."
"Even when the agreement is basically to protect us from his other followers? You know that we will have to live in the same world as people like my father, out in the open, if he wins?" Annette said. She turned to the table at large and said, "A necromancer who treats people as his playthings? He could turn all of us into living dolls if he wanted. Do you really believe the Dark Lord will think it worth the effort to rein him in? What about the likes of Macnair? He would hunt us for sport."
"Those are all valid concerns," said Silviu, "but they would be equally valid or worse if we decided to withhold aid. I do not for a moment think that the Dark Lord would be dependent on our help. He has the wealth of a dozen pureblood houses at hand. We can provide him with better resources and procurement, but I hesitate to call that decisive."
"Again, he had the same things last time," said Annette, "and he didn't succeed after all. You can laugh all you like at the Boy-Who-Lived, there's no way that was just a fluke. Something happened to him, and somebody was behind that. It must have been some kind of trap."
"Let's get the pros and cons on paper—parchment, whatever," said Shy, slapping a blank piece of parchment down on the table and extracting a fountain pen out of her pocket. "Ness, let me copy your notes."
Ness rotated their parchment slightly, and Shy began to scribble furiously. "So the way I understand it, and correct me if I'm wrong, because I was just some muggle brat last time this happened, but the Dark Lord promised us that we wouldn't have to live in the slums like second-class citizens if he won, but he didn't win because of the whole Boy-Who-Lived incident. If we help him again and he wins, he'll probably keep his promise, but he has other followers who still think we're scum, who we're going to have to live with. If we don't help him and he wins, we're screwed, courtesy of those followers. If we do help him and he doesn't win, then what happens? We lose money? How much?"
"Something like two years of dark arts paraphernalia revenue," Silviu said. Shy winced.
"All right, that's pretty bad. Worse than I thought," she said. She flicked her fingers across the abacus and wrote down a few figures. "That's like, four thousand galleons."
"And how much is the enterprise worth?" Ness asked. "Fifty?"
"Forty-seven thousand," said Shy.
"We'll survive it," said Ness. "We won't survive refusing the Dark Lord if he wins. We may not even have a choice, if he comes to us. He might decide we're better off dead, or as entertainment for wizards."
They were looking straight at Annette, and obviously expecting a response. She sighed.
"You're right, but I still think we should be careful and leave ourselves as much of a way out as possible, no matter what happens. At the very least I think we should wait for him to come to us," she said.
"I'm aligned," said Silviu. "Any objections to waiting?"
Silviu made a round of eye contact again, before he nodded. "We'll wait. But we need to deal with the goblins as soon as possible. If they suspect we're fenerating they will move to block us from our accounts."
"What, are you serious?" Shy demanded. "That's so backwards. I don't know why I expected anything else. So what do we do? Liquidate mugglewise?"
Silviu nodded. "Your group can handle it, right?" Shy nodded. "Leticia, I'll need you to spread the word that we're in the market for shrivelfigs and sopophorus beans."
There was more rapid-fire planning, half of it telepathic, and Harry slumped a little in his seat, feeling very out of his depth again. Leticia pushed up the brim of her hat and shot him a crooked smile.
"Don't look so glum," she said. "Leave the plotting up to Silvy and just sit back and relax. It's his job to figure out what to do."
Harry nodded. He supposed nobody was expecting him to actually do anything. But then, why invite him to the meeting at all?
Apparently, he had been wondering too publicly, because Silviu finished his discussion with Shy and Ness and turned to him. "Harry, I don't want you to feel like you're responsible for any of this. You can just worry about doing well in school and leave company business to us. But if you do have another… vision, and you see something that could affect us, could you let me know?"
"Er, of course," Harry agreed, a little disappointed that that was all. Then again, didn't he have more than enough to worry about already?
The meeting adjourned soon after, but Shy detained him as he made for the door.
"Hey, Harry, Ness and I are off to the pub. You want to join?" she asked.
Harry wondered what had possessed her to invite him—he knew he must seem like a little kid to her—and judging by the placement of their eyebrows, Ness was wondering the same thing.
Shy slapped them on the shoulder. "Harry's brilliant, you'll love him," she said, and then winked at Harry.
"Cauldron or Wyvern?" asked Ness.
"Ha, you're funny," said Shy.
"I'm serious," Ness insisted, glancing to Harry.
"Don't let Ness baby you," Shy told him.
"Wyvern's fine," Harry said. Shy grinned. She grabbed Ness's hand and dragged them to the threshold of the shop, where she paused and winced.
"Sun's out," she said, indicating the morning rays peaking threateningly through the blinds.
"Let's just apparate home," said Ness. "I don't want to be stranded at the Wyvern."
Shy frowned, but then slumped in acquiescence. She shot Harry an apologetic look. "Sounds like a change of plans. You can still join us, though. C-10, remember?"
"Oh. If you're sure," Harry said.
Shy nodded enthusiastically. "Definitely. Meet us there. I'd take you, but I don't trust myself to walk anyone else yet…"
She let go of Ness and scrunched up her face, taking a step and then melting away. Ness nodded to Harry and disappeared after her in the same way.
Harry hurried down the alley, which was deserted as it always was at this time of day. He debated stopping at his coffin to let Petri know where he would be, but then decided that there was no point in doing that and made directly for the headstone marked C-10. Underneath were two names: Shivani Shyverwretch and Nim Van Ness. Harry hadn't realised that they actually lived together. Did that mean that Ness was a girl?
Harry knocked on the door of their wicker casket.
"It's unlocked!" he heard, so he opened it and descended the stairs. The space was smaller than his and Petri's, the default coffin house size, but it was packed with colourful furnishings and fixtures that ran all the way up the walls. In the back corner was a narrow bunk bed, the bottom bunk of which had been pulled out into a makeshift couch.
Shy and Ness were sitting there behind a wooden tea table which had been laid out with an assortment of glasses and some large, opaque bottles. Shy waved at him to take the low purple settee across from them.
"Welcome to our humble abode," she said, gesturing grandly with her arms. "Beats sleeping in a literal coffin. What would you like to drink? I recommend the firewhiskey."
"I don't recommend the firewhiskey," Ness deadpanned. They pushed the larger jug forward. "Try the butterbeer. I'm pretty sure you'll like it more."
Harry poured himself some butterbeer. It was golden and frothy and smelled strongly of butterscotch. He took a sip, and it was like drinking liquid sugar with a faintly bitter finish.
"It's good," he said. Ness nodded with a tight smile.
"We were just talking about the Dark Lord," Shy said. "I really don't know much about him so Ness was trying to bring me up to speed. Hey, weren't you like, barely born when the Dark Lord was last a thing? How come you're having visions about him or whatever?"
"Er…" Harry said.
"I was curious about that as well," said Ness, tilting their head like a bird. "I didn't know that humans could have visions. What was it like?"
Harry considered refusing to answer, but could not come up with a satisfactory reason why he should conceal every bit of information, and so he said, vaguely, "I sort of saw through his eyes."
This seemed to be the right thing to say, because Ness's eyes lit up. They nodded. "Oh, yes! That happens to me with the chairman sometimes. Sorry. I didn't mean to imply that you were making things up or hallucinating or anything."
"It's all right," said Harry.
"I can't get over how he vanished after trying to kill a baby," Shy said. "Just, what?"
Ness shrugged elegantly. "Nobody knows what really happened. Some people think his killing curse was reflected right back at him, but there was no body. Maybe it was some sort of cover-up. Everybody thought he was unstoppable. I mean, I certainly thought so. He had this… aura. You know when the chairman slips up and uses his gaze? That's how it felt when he was in the room, only he didn't even have to look at you."
"Scary," said Shy.
"Gaze?" Harry asked.
"I suppose the chairman hasn't done it to you before?" Shy asked. "Makes you feel really weak, like you're about to float right out of your body."
"Oh," said Harry, thinking to his memory of Nalrod's death and the afterimage of Silviu's burning eyes. That effect must be what Shy and Ness were talking about. Come to think of it, when he had seen Nalrod's death, that had been a vision too—Nic had said something to that effect. Hadn't he mentioned that it was due to sympathetic magic? But then how could Harry and the Dark Lord have any such connection, when they were both human?
"I really thought that the Dark Lord would take over, back then," Ness murmured, clenching their fists. "You didn't see what it was like, after he was gone. Crouch—he was the head of the DMLE—pushed for all kinds of horrible sanctions on non-wizards. Nobody could prove we were involved, but it didn't matter. Vampires were banned from holding public office, from buying property if a wizard wanted it instead. The aurors turned a blind eye when people ransacked our shops. Sometimes they would just turn around and arrest us for no reason."
"It's not that bad now, though," said Shy.
"Because we shut up and hid," Ness muttered, taking a measured sip of their drink. "All those laws are still there. You can read their naffing 'Guidelines for Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans' Promise it'll make you hurl. I just saw an article in the Prophet last week calling for the Ministry to legalise vampire-hunting."
Shy winced. Ness was not finished.
"You know, there's no reason we can't coexist with wizards, or have wizard friends. They can literally just take blood-replenishing potion. Just look at Sanguini. It's risky though. If Eldred reports him, he could be kissed."
"He'd never do that," Shy protested.
"I know, but still. They met in Italy. It's not as bad there. I wouldn't risk it here." Ness glanced to Harry uncertainly. "So what's the story with you and the chairman?"
"Er, I'm not sure," Harry said. Ness blinked in confusion. Shy quickly interceded with an actual explanation.
"The chairman told me it was an accident," she said.
"He's too old to be having accidents," said Ness sceptically, before turning to Harry again, "and you're not sure? Didn't you agree to be his friend?"
"Well, no," Harry said. Ness looked horrified, so he hastened to add, "but it's all right. We've cleared it all up. I think."
Ness took a long drink. "You're a wizard right?"
Harry nodded. Ness peered at him around their glass with one piercing grey eye.
"Just so you know, a vampire can be sentenced to the kiss—you know what that is?" Ness began, and Harry nodded again. "For biting a wizard against their will. It's battery, and I'm not saying it's not awful, but it doesn't deserve the kiss. Please remember that."
"I won't tell anybody about the chairman," Harry said. "Don't worry."
Ness nodded to him and set down their glass. "That's a relief to hear. We all depend on the chairman to keep us safe. There's nobody else in the company with enough experience to take over his position. I suppose you're one of us now, so for what it's worth, welcome." They raised their glass again, and Harry and Shy met them in a toast.
"To the company," said Shy. Harry echoed her and drank.
"So the chairman doesn't normally form a bond with anybody so young," Ness said. "I'm guessing that that was somehow also an accident?"
"Er, yeah," Harry confirmed. Ness sighed.
"Why didn't he inform me of this at all?" they asked nobody in particular. Shy shrugged.
"You know how he is. Thinks he can handle everything on his own," she said.
"We're not children any more," Ness said. "He needs to stop treating us like we are."
Harry found it somewhat heartening that he wasn't the only whom Silviu deemed "too young" to know things. Then again, it did not bode well for him that Ness, who was by all appearances an adult, was still experiencing this problem.
"Yeah, you're ancient," said Shy, poking them. Ness shoved her back, proving that they were, perhaps, still a little childish.
"How old are you?" Harry asked Ness. "Er, if you're all right with saying."
Ness caught Harry's eye and quickly composed themselves, going as far as scooting to the right and out of Shy's reach. "I'm thirty-seven," they said. "And you?"
"Almost twelve," Harry said. Ness raised an eyebrow.
"Almost?" they repeated. Harry flushed.
"At the end of July," he said.
"Sorry if this isn't a great question, but have you got parents?" Ness asked.
"They're dead," said Harry, "but I live with my uncle."
"He runs the new toy shop," Shy said. "Apparently he's some kind of big bad wizard like Ettie's old man."
"Like Yaxley? You mean, he's a necromancer?" Ness demanded. Harry sighed inwardly. This was the worst-kept secret ever.
"Yeah, that was it," said Shy. "So what's so bad about necromancers?"
"Er, besides that they can make you their mindless slave in ten seconds flat?" Ness muttered. "No big deal."
"What?" Shy looked incredulous.
"We're dead. Necromancers control the dead. Stellar combination," Ness said.
"You didn't mention that," Shy said to Harry weakly.
"I didn't think about it like that," Harry mumbled. He didn't think it was as easy as Ness was making it out to be, either. Petri had been reluctant to do anything major to Silviu, though now that Harry thought about it, he had given no explanation for why. Perhaps it required expensive ingredients.
"Well, I suppose he's been around for a while and we're all still fine, right?" Ness murmured to themselves. "Does he come into the alley often?"
"Don't you live practically next door?" Shy asked. Harry nodded mutely.
"What? In the plots?" Ness demanded. "How?"
"Er, my uncle pretended that he was half-vampire," Harry told them. "I really don't think he would hurt you." That wasn't strictly true, but he also could see no immediate reason why Petri would suddenly go about ruining the lives of their neighbours after living in peace for so long.
Just when he finished speaking, there was a knock on the door, and everybody's head whipped up, as if they might be able to see through the wicker. Actually, Harry remembered that he could. He adjusted his spectacles and got an unpleasant close-up view of Petri's lined face.
"Er, I think that's him, actually. I'll just go get the door," Harry mumbled, getting to his feet. He paused, but Shy and Ness were frozen in their seats, so he sprinted up the stairs and pushed open the door. "Hello, Uncle Jochen," he greeted.
"Harry. Vlaicu told me I could find you here. Care to introduce me to your hosts?" Petri said, crouching down so that he could see inside.
"Er…" said Harry, glancing back and forth between the vampires and Petri. Finally, Ness got to their feet and pulled Shy along, standing in front of her protectively all the while.
"So this is my uncle, Jochen," Harry said. "Uncle, this is Shyverwretch, from the poison shop, and Ness. They're part of Silviu's company."
"Thank you for watching my wayward… nephew," said Petri, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Harry wasn't sure what was so funny. Ness looked terrified—their mouth was set in a grim line. "I'll be taking him off your hands now. He has some studying to get to."
Petri stood up and turned to leave. Harry ascended the remaining stairs and waved goodbye to Shy and Ness, trying to give them a reassuring smile. Shy smiled back weakly.
Harry and Petri walked the twenty feet to D-12 and descended into their own coffin house in silence, Harry wondering all the while if he was in trouble for going off on his own.
But Petri only said, "I much prefer those two to Vlaicu. They clearly know their place."
Harry felt a little indignant on behalf of Shy and Ness, but at the same time had no way to contradict Petri's words. He settled for, "They're nice."
Petri snorted. "You think that about everybody," he said. "Anyway, I have some free time this morning, so I thought we could start the imperius curse."
"What?" said Harry. "Didn't we do that already?" He remembered spending extensive time last summer learning to resist it.
"I meant that you could start casting it. The imperius curse is a spell that suppresses the target's will. It's well-known as an unforgivable, but that only applies if it's cast on a human. Otherwise, it's… permissible, and is very useful for the next step of animation," Petri explained.
He summoned a piece of parchment to him, folded it into an aeroplane using a spell rather than his hands, and then enchanted it to drift lazily about Harry's head.
"The incantation is imperio, and there is no wand movement—you should keep your wand very still," Petri instructed. "Establishing the initial connection to the target is very natural. You must simply intend to take control, as if reaching out to grasp it. Go on and try it."
"On the aeroplane?" Harry asked.
"Yes," said Petri impatiently.
Harry had some trouble keeping his wand still when trying to target something that was moving, but he eventually managed by waiting for the aeroplane to come into his line of fire.
"Imperio!" he incanted, thinking, as Petri instructed, of grabbing the plane. Some strange warmth seemed to rush downward from his head and into his wand, connecting him momentarily with the plane as if he had really just touched it. The spell caught, and the plane stopped, falling to the ground. Harry blinked at this apparent success. He tried to pull it towards him, but this had no effect. "I can't move it," he said.
"You cannot use the imperius curse to make the target do something physically impossible," Petri told him. "The only magic in the aeroplane is my enchantment, so it can only act in accordance with that enchantment. That is the entirety of its 'will,' so to speak. You may end the curse."
Harry imagined releasing the plane, and he felt the mental connection wink out, leaving him oddly cold. The plane lifted off and began looping around him once more.
"That seemed… too easy," Harry said. "Is it harder on a person?"
"Not particularly, no," said Petri. "But there are some irritating limitations. For one, it is exactly as strong as your will to dominate, so your target either resists it or not. Worse, it's impossible to tell whether it's working. You can try casting it on me to see what I mean," said Petri.
"Er, really?" Harry asked.
"Yes, really," Petri confirmed, looking a little exasperated. Harry did not test him further, and raised his wand.
"Imperio!"
Petri's face twitched ever-so-slightly.
Harry felt the same flowing warmth, the same connection from his mind to his wand, as before. He tried to will Petri to spin in a circle. Nothing happened. Then, almost mockingly, Petri turned on his heel as if he were about to apparate.
"As you can see, the spell feels the same whether or not the target obeys. They can even pretend to follow your orders exactly, only to betray you at the worst instant," he said.
Harry ended the spell before he overstepped his bounds, and nodded. Out of morbid curiosity, and remembering what Ness had claimed, he asked, "So, say you want to, er, actually enslave someone more effectively. Is there a way to do that?"
Petri raised an eyebrow, but did not comment on the nature of the question and simply answered, "That is the main intent of the imperius curse already, so mastering the curse is probably the most direct option, but yes, I could think of some ways to improve it. For example, you could try to add a compulsion curse that penalises disobedience. I am not entirely sure if that would interact with the imperius the way you would want, but it seems possible. Would you like to try it?"
Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wasn't sure which would be worse, trying it on some innocent victim or 'trying it' as the victim himself.
"I take that as a no," said Petri, thankfully. "Why do you ask, then?"
Harry considered making some half-hearted excuse, but was overcome by his need to know. "Ness mentioned that necromancers could enslave vampires completely, and I was wondering how." Petri narrowed his eyes, and Harry hurriedly added, "We were talking about Yaxley. Annette's father."
"Ah, I see," said Petri. "Have you forgotten about the changing of fate? I suppose it's been some time since you attempted it. It's a way of modifying memories from a distance, by inserting or removing information. The dead can enter dreams, as you know, and we can borrow this ability to see into the past, as with reconstruction, but also to remove or insert what we wish. Vampires are uniquely vulnerable to the technique since it can be applied directly to them rather than through a departed friend or relative."
"So it's just changing memories?" Harry asked. He did vaguely recall trying to do something of the same name to a dead spider and failing miserably. Changing memories did not sound that bad. Petri nodded.
"Do not discount its usefulness. Memories and experiences form a large part of identity, and with access to all of them, it would be easy enough to make a slave out of somebody, as your new friend fears," Petri said. He wrinkled his nose. "I say easy, in principle, but of course it would be a lot of work to carry out, for little discernible reward. I would rather have a inferius."
Harry was a little relieved to hear that Petri did not seem interested in turning anybody into a puppet, and that his assurances to Ness and Shy were valid.
"Speaking of inferi," Petri continued, "You can practise the imperius curse on Ulrich's body tonight."
"Oh. All right," said Harry, a little nervous. He hadn't forgotten how Ulrich had died, and he wasn't sure he wanted a real-life test of his imperius curse just hours after casting it for the first time.
"I'm confident that you will manage it," Petri said. "You have made significant progress, and there are many more techniques open to you now that you can adequately do basic animation."
Harry nodded, pushing his reservations aside. This, too, was part of the course he needed to commit to, if he wanted to achieve the future he had seen in the mirror and read in the cards.
Notes: Canon Harry managed to cast the imperius relatively successfully on his first try, so I guess it can't be that hard...
In other news I won't be updating next week, since I will be taking a four-day exam, but will try to resume a schedule the week after.