Chapter 17:
"Preservation and Ruin are the next two, and according to the mystery woman's notes, these two powers have been intertwined for centuries. They built a planet – Scadrial – together, then something happened that isn't clear, and now they are waring over it. And it seems that Ruin – a god of destruction and entropy – is winning."
From Albus Dumbledore's Notes; 20th Century, Earth.
Harry saw through 'Professor' Slughorn's charade within five minutes of being in the man's company. That being said, and this was the kicker, Harry had decided he didn't care if the man was only interested in helping him because of his name. Everyone wanted to use him for some reason or another at this point, so Harry couldn't bring himself to feel anger or annoyance at the grey-haired, pot-bellied Potions Master. The man was a million times better than Snape had been, and he had a connection to Harry's mother. Apparently – and Harry had independently checked to prove Slughorn's claims – Lily Evans had been one of his star students.
So, Harry put effort into his classes with the man, and they immediately began paying dividends. Harry was a quick learner, and Potions was not all that different from the rudimentary medicines Nylah created in her workshop in the Bunker. Though the ingredients were undoubtedly more exotic. With Slughorn's private tutoring, Harry flew through first- and second-year potions – most of this was theory, rather than actual potion-making. By the time the Winter holidays rolled around, he was making headway on learning the more intricate third-year concoctions. Ginny, Daphne, Fred and George were incredibly jealous of him. The twins said they'd taught themselves potions practically on their own to aid in their goal of starting up a joke shop and judging by the variety and ingenuity of their products, Harry thought they had a fair shot at succeeding. He was actually considering giving them some of his seemingly endless piles of money, his only hiccup being how to get the twins to accept the funds.
Mak really liked Slughorn. She was fascinated by him for some reason Harry didn't understand, and she would frequently ignore him to fly around Slughorn, watching him as he guided Harry through the best potion-making techniques.
So it was that Harry found himself leaving Slughorn's private potions lab on the ground floor after his final lesson before the Christmas holidays, walking beside the ex-teacher as they made their way to the Great Hall. Slughorn often did this, eating with Harry in the Hall. It was obviously a tactic, both to ensure he was seen with Harry, and to make himself available to any student who was brave enough to come up to him. Harry actually couldn't fault him on this, as Slughorn genuinely seemed to enjoy helping students accelerate themselves and make connections outside the school – so long as he got some recognition out of it of course. Harry himself thought that, if the Professor wanted to help the students, he was more than welcome to. It was more than most of the Hogwarts teachers did.
"Oh come on Harry, you must have lines of women lined up to be your date to the Ball," Slughorn said as they walked amidst a throng of students, "I remember your father, oh it must have been in his fifth year, had people asking him to take them to my annual Christmas Party almost every day! But he turned them all down, following your mother around like a lost puppy, going out of his way to help her with every menial task he could think off. I must admit, from an academic point of view, of course, that it was amusing to watch. Your mother, she must have turned him down more times than I can count!"
Harry laughed at that. If there was anything Slughorn was good for, it was stories of his parents. In fact, it was Slughorn who had revealed that his mother had actually been close to Snape of all people during school. Harry had a feeling he understood the man's hatred of him a little more now.
"Well, maybe not lines of people," Harry replied, "But there certainly have been a fair few."
And by a few, he meant at least ten a day. The Ball had only been announced three fucking days ago!
"I had thought as much. And you turned them all down?" Mak flew around Slughorn's head, giggling uncontrollably. She found the whole thing very amusing. Harry certainly did not.
"Yes," he said, using all his willpower not to blush. Some of them had been very extravagant. A first-year Hufflepuff named Emma had sung him a poem, Demelza Robbins had actually created a collage for him, and Cho Chang had given him a double-decker box of very expensive Wizarding chocolate – laced with love potion. Mak, in revenge, had tricked the girl into eating one of her own chocolates, and now, according to Harry's groupies from Ravenclaw house, she spent hours staring at herself in the mirror and sighing.
"Ohho ho! Do you have your eye on someone then?" Blast! He must have given himself away somehow. What had… Oh, bloody hell. His feet had started smouldering in his shoes. He really needed to stop doing that, he was going through innersoles at an alarming rate.
"Ah! There is a girl. Tell me, is it, Miss Greengrass? I know her father, and he is quite the adept lawyer, though I don't need to tell you that. Perhaps Miss Delacour? Or even Miss…" He trailed off as they reached the Great Hall. Sitting at the high table beside Dumbledore, was someone Harry had never seen before. He was a tall man with a hard, square face. He wasn't overly muscled, but his frame bespoke high fitness. The only indication of his age was the grey hair that dominated his temples and sideburns.
But what held Harry entranced was that the second he stepped into the room, the man locked eyes with him. Harry stopped dead in the doorway, eyes narrowed. This person did not dress like a wizard. He wore black clothing with an odd symbol Harry didn't recognise emblazoned across the breast in white. A cloak fell around his shoulders that appeared to be a blend of both black and silver. Resting by his chair was a giant curved sword that looked like it was made of glass – easily longer than Harry was tall.
Mak shrieked, before bursting to mist and vanishing.
"Is that… it can't be Nicolas Flamel!" Slughorn breathed. Then he grabbed Harry by the shoulder and ushered them both forward through the centre aisle. The Hall was just as noisy as it always was, but now that he was looking, he could tell that almost all the discussion in the room focussed on the mystery man.
Flamel. Dumbledore's secret partner. Oh fuck.
"Nicolas!" Slughorn exclaimed, throwing the arm that wasn't holding Harry out wide.
"Horace! Good to see you, my man." Flamel rose from his seat and rounded the table. Slughorn finally let go of Harry to shake the man's hand. As he came close, the colours around Harry and Slughorn seemed to become richer somehow. More vibrant. If he didn't know that Magic existed, he would have thought he was imagining it. But no. There was a noticeable difference between the flagstones around them and the rest of the Hall.
Harry stared at the man incredulously, trying desperately to get his brain into gear. What the fuck was this guy?
"And this must be the Harry Potter I've heard so much about." Flamel turned to Harry, offering his hand. The gesture turned Harry's eyes to the man's belt. Three glass vials hung there, each filled with some sort of golden-brown solution with flakes of solid pieces floating within. Sheathed beside them was a silver dagger in a black sheath.
Harry's stomach threatened to upend everything inside it on the floor. He did not take Flamel's hand.
"You have me at a disadvantage, sir," he managed to say, keeping his words as even as he could, "for I do not know who you are."
"Ha!" Flamel exclaimed, taking back his hand and slapping Slughorn over the shoulder.
"Let me introduce myself then. I am Nicolas Flamel, the oldest man on Earth, creator of the Philosophers Stone and inventor of the Pact of Truth." Harry felt as though a sledgehammer had just been swung into his head. The Pact of Truth. He invented it?! Then that meant… oh fuck, fuck, fuck fuck.
"Is that a suitable introduction Mr Potter? Or does your faerie require a more in-depth tale? I warn you, it is a long one. Comes with being 700 years old, I'm afraid."
The only thing that stopped Harry from putting a lightning bolt through the man's chest right then and there was that he was sure if he tried, Flamel would have him dead before the energy left his fingers. He wore a smile on his face that seemed to all the world completely authentic, and Harry knew, deep in his bones, that nothing he'd faced had prepared him for whatever this man was.
So, for the first time since he was seven, he ran like a coward.
"That's… um… quite the resume, sir. I'd love to speak with you more, but I've got to go and… uh… meet with some people to… arrange… a… uh, a murder." Then he turned on his heel and strode back the way he'd come.
"Send my regards to the soon to be corpse!" He called after him. Harry all but ran from the Hall. Then, once he was certain he was out of ear-shot, he jumped into the sky, and flew straight up to Gryffindor Tower, locking himself in his room. Only then did Mak reappear, curled in a ball, body trembling, weeping.
Gabrielle was apparently 'not allowed' within sight of her elder sister. She assumed – she hadn't actually spoken to Fleur since they'd argued in the Great Hall – that it was because of all the rumours surrounding Harry having spurned her for Gabrielle instead. Fleur's friends appeared to be making a game of blocking off places in the Beauxbatons carriage off from her at the exact times they knew she'd be there. Their favourite haunt was the girl's bathroom, and Gabrielle had now been forced to go an entire week without a decent shower.
It was petty and cruel and stupid. Which was precisely what she had expected would happen.
The rest of Beauxbatons had mixed opinions on Gabrielle's relationship with one Harry Potter. Her friends all supported her, thankfully, and most of the younger years were just as enamoured by Harry as the Hogwarts kids were. The older kids were split. Some thought being Harry's friend risked Fleur's chances – they apparently didn't trust her not to reveal Fleur's plans to him, though when she questioned them on this, they did not have terribly good answers as to why this was important or relevant. Others thought it was against school spirit. The majority, however, simply didn't care. If she wanted to be friends with Harry, good for her. Why should they give two shits? So long as she didn't actually sabotage Fleur, she could do what she wanted. Madame Maxine had no opinion one way or another, and her father had actually sent a letter suggesting she try to seduce him into the family. Well, she'd tried that avenue, without very much success. Not that she particularly minded. She may not have inherited her mother's 'love sense', but an idiot could see that Harry quite clearly fancied Ginny and that Ginny was utterly smitten with him in return. Harry had actually asked for her opinion on his plan to ask her to the Yule Ball, and while Gabrielle couldn't help feeling a little bit jealous, mostly she was just happy for her friend – and she definitely considered Ginny a close friend by this point.
None of these factors were behind Gabrielle's current sojourn to behind one of Hogwarts greenhouses though. No. She was here because, ever since she'd bonded with Vel, she'd begun having dreams. Strange dreams. Dreams of an unnatural place. A place she could swear she'd been too before. A dark cavern, a beam of light, slime on the floor, and a woman of fire.
She sat, head on her knees, staring at Vel as he followed a beetle scuttling across the cobblestones. He was very childlike and found it difficult to say more than a single word at a time. She found his innocence kind of refreshing actually, compared to everything else going on in her life right now. He reached out to touch the beetle, but his hand passed through it, and he pouted, before slumping down to the ground. Harry and Ginny said that Mak and Ember had been much the same in their first few months, only gaining proper brain-function after about a year of being together. They weren't sure, however, if Vel's lack of memory was related to his imprisonment or something to do with how he'd crossed from the Valley – the realm of the faerie.
She sighed, leaning back against the wall of the greenhouse.
There was something else she hadn't told Harry, Ginny or the others. She was sure something was following her. She'd glimpsed it first in a dream. A purple light, in the form of a dark shadow. This thing was the only aspect of the dream she'd remembered perfectly. Whatever it was, it was intelligent, and after the first time, it had disappeared. She'd caught sight of it a few more times, twice more while sleeping, and then, that morning, she'd seen the creature while awake.
A creature, hidden in shadow, with a purple cast to it. She wasn't ashamed to say she was scared of the thing. Why follow her? If it was some faerie creature, why not follow Harry around. He was making far more noise than she was after all.
Gabrielle shivered, then started taking deep breaths, calming herself. She needed to tell Harry about this. She had been so sure she was imagining things, hadn't wanted to put more on his plate. Now she couldn't ignore it. She shivered again. What would she even say? Harry, I'm being followed by a purple thing hiding in shadows that I saw in a dream. No, I can't prove it.
Merlin, it was hopeless. She should just ignore it.
"Gabrielle!" Gabrielle jolted back into her right mind as Ginny, with Ember gliding ahead of her, came running around the corner in a panic.
"What? What's wrong?"
"Pettigrew! He's escaped."
Diagon Alley, London
Emily sat at Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour, staring out at the incredulity of Diagon Alley for the eighth time in two weeks. She kept coming back here, despite how much the place unnerved her, on the off chance she'd catch a glimpse of Harry, or hear something that could help him. Magic. Magic was fucking real. It made her feel sick. The complete and total wrongness of what these witches and wizards could do. She'd spent the past month reading book after book after book about topics as bizarre as Transfiguration, Alchemy, Potions and Care of Magical Creatures. If this was a hoax, it was a brilliantly crafted one that thousands of people apparently bought into. But what had her confused was why it felt wrong. Harry's powers had never made her want to vomit like she did whenever one of the stupidly dressed people cast a spell with their wands. Why? Was it because of Mak? Was it because Emily was a… a 'muggle?' (It went without saying that she found the term very offensive.) Was there another reason? Or was she just imagining it?
Emily – and by extension, the others who remained in the Bunker – knew a lot about the Wizarding World. But they were no closer to any way to save Harry. Or even finding him. They knew he was in some castle called Hogwarts. Oh, and he was like more famous than fucking Oprah in this world. Although, they couldn't seem to decide whether he was wizard-superman or wizard-Jesus, so there was that at least.
She held to his letter like a lifeline. "Tell Emily that I'm sorry." She would rescue him. They couldn't send him any messages, and they'd received no news from him either. All they had, all she had, to know he was okay were the Daily Prophet articles. This latest one displayed an image of Harry, flying above a tornado of fire, Mak dancing around him as a ribbon of light. Apparently, he'd fought a dragon. A FUCKING DRAGON!
She ignored the sickening feeling that had begun to grow in her stomach, the nauseating, horrible, twisting fear that he hadn't sent a message for a reason. He was rich. He was famous. Why would he want to remember the people from back when he could barely eat and had to sleep in ratty old sleeping bags on the floor. He lived in a castle now. He was a hero. Emily had always known he'd had it in him. It was the thing she loved the most about him. He wouldn't abandon them, would he? But why wouldn't he? They were nothing. Dregs on the edge of society. Wastes of space. Useless. He was right to want nothing to do with them. NO! She would not go down that road. She would find Harry. For better or for worse.
An elderly man slipped into the seat beside her, and she eeped in surprise, dropping her ice-cream as her hand jerked towards her coat pocket – where the gun she'd bought with Harry's money rested in its holster. She would not be caught unawares again.
"Tell me young-miss," the man said, sparkling blue eyes beaming down at her from a kindly face, "what has been bringing you here every days these last few weeks? Looking for someone perhaps?"
Emily shivered, hand tightening on her weapon. What she thought she'd actually be able to do with it she wasn't sure, but it was comforting to know it was there.
"What do you want?"
The old man sighed, leaning back in his chair.
"Child, if I had wanted to do anything to you, I could quite simply have turned you into a mouse, then carried you away, and no one would be any the wiser." Emily's heart began to thump loudly in her chest, and her free hand began to tremble.
"Relax, young-miss. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm simply, curious, as it were. My name is Ollivander, I own the shop just over there, and I couldn't help but notice you on your frequent visits this past month." Emily did not relax. Not in the slightest.
"Who are you looking for? Perhaps I can help you find them."
"I'm looking for my friend. He was… taken… by your people. I don't know how to find him," she whispered, staring into those peaceful eyes, hoping, praying, that he might give her some answer. He didn't seem threatening. In fact, he seemed quite nice. But Emily had lived on the street her whole life, and she knew full well that the people who appeared to be helpful, were the ones who could be the most dangerous.
"A close friend I see," the man mused, stroking his chin, eyes thoughtful, "Well, if this young man was taken by my people, I can think of only two places he could be. St Mungo's Hospital if he was injured, or, the far more likely, Hogwarts School. Both places a young-lady of your nature would be very noticeable to the proper authorities."
Emily remained rigid, scanning the man's face for any clue to his nature. He sat there in the chair across from her for a good minute, saying nothing and gazing into the distance. Then, he snapped his fingers, and a smile appeared on his face. Emily immediately jerked back, pulling the gun free of its holster, though she didn't draw it, wary of any magic the man might try. But she couldn't see any immediate change, nor did she feel queasy.
He reached into his pocket, before drawing out a small red velvet sack.
"This," he said, a soft smile touching his lips, "is a bag of Floo-powder. You can use it in a fireplace connected to the Floo-Network to transport yourself across the country, muggle or wizard alike. You see those fireplaces over there?" Ollivander pointed towards the entryway to the Alley, where, in a closed-off section, about a half dozen large-gateless fireplaces lined a wall. Emily had watched countless witches and wizards use the fires to appear or vanish but hadn't been able to figure out how the things worked. She hadn't been willing to go over to them, lest she be observed as an oddity, and outed as human, then subsequently mind-wiped. Undoubtedly her greatest fear. She'd lost count of how many nightmares she'd had since the attack on the Bunker.
"Step into a fireplace, say the name of the place you want to go, and throw some powder at your feet. Nice and easy." She continued to stare at him, not answering.
"But you'll still be caught inside Hogwarts… unless you go when the securities are down…" Ollivander's smile grew wide indeed then, "Do you perhaps have any evening ware young-miss?"
