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Of Knowledge and Wind
Harry inhaled heavily and slumped into the backrest of the sofa, dragging her with him. "Good thing it was you to tell him to get the hell out of our house then, because I would probably have punched him in the face and broken his nose."
Relief flooded every inch of her body as she started to laugh loudly.
"These are the books I referenced when researching the ritual," Hermione said and dropped a good dozen books onto the small table in the Blacks' library. A cloud of dust puffed out of the thicker and older tomes. "And this one," she grabbed the top most book perched on the teetering pile, "is the one where I got the instructions for the rituals itself from."
She young witch handed it over to Lily, who smirked at the title. "Foul Charm to F'rtune*. Sounds old."
"It is old," Hermione sat down across from the readhead as she took another book from the pile. "It's from the 16th century, I believe. It's actually quite amazing that it's still in such a good shape."
"It's from the 16th century?" Lily frowned as she studied the young witch flip through a much thinner and newer book. "Why did you choose to use such an old ritual?"
"It was the only one really promising what we needed," Hermione shrugged and looked up at the still frowning woman across from her. "Why?"
"Wizards back then used different magic, Hermione," she pushed a strand of red hair behind her ear as she studied the old book in her lap. "They had different magical educations, different basic knowledge and most likely also a different understanding of magic than is being taught nowadays. It is more than risky using a ritual – or even just a spell – from an era so different to yours without at least adjusting it slightly."
Lily looked up and into the paling face of her son's girlfriend. "That might be the reason why the consequences are as severe as they are turning out to be. You said you researched the ritual very thoroughly and I trust that you did everything in your power to make sure that what you were planning to do was safe and you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into. You checked the ingredients multiple times, you checked and rechecked the incantation, the movements and the timings, but did you look at the era the ritual comes from and how things were back then?"
She didn't need Hermione to answer as she knew just by looking at her horrified face that she had not done so. Lily inhaled deeply and forced her breath out of her lungs at such a slow pace that she was feeling as if she was suffocating.
"I'm not blaming you for this, Hermione," she said in a calm voice, "but this is one of the main reasons why it is so dangerous to use old magic. That combined with Harry's blood only makes it more complicated to fix. It's not impossible," she hurried to add as her counterpart's eyes started to glisten with unshed tears, "but it might take some brainmatter to figure out exactly what went wrong."
"You mean it really is my fault that Harry is dying?"
Lily jumped up and hurried around the table to the devastated witch. She placed her hands on Hermione's and talked slowly and with a voice as confident as humanly possible.
"No, I'm not saying that it was your fault. You didn't purposefully manipulate the ritual. You didn't decide to do a ritual that would harm Harry." She squeezed her hands slightly, hoping to be able to convey just how much she meant what she was saying.
"This isn't your fault, Hermione. It could have happened to everyone."
"But it didn't happen to everyone, it happened to me." Hermione sniffed as a lone tear slid down her pale cheek. "I meant to help and I mucked it up and just because I didn't research it enough. This is my fault, Lily. I know it is."
Lily shook her head, readying herself to disagree.
"I should have known this could happen," Hermione interrupted her. "I'm a fully trained witch. I should know something as obvious as changing magic throughout the centuries. Hell, I don't even need to be a witch to know that! That is common sense, and yet I disregarded it completely and – "
"Now, stop it, Hermione. Do you even listen to yourself? Yes, it is something that could have been avoided. Yes, it is also something that should have been mentioned during your and Harry's education, but to be completely honest I don't blame you one bit for not knowing. I only know of that problem because of all the reading I have done while we were in hiding.
"I didn't have anything better to do, not being able to leave the house or simply not wanting to leave the house with Harry there. I never left my son's side during those months. The fear James and I went through got us talking and we figured out that we couldn't just sit there and wait and hope that Voldemort might not find us. So James went out and got books on charms and rituals and wards, on anything that could be useful. Don't ask me where he got those from because, frankly, I'm not sure I want to know."
A wet snicker escaped Hermione and Lily smiled softly at the young witch.
"What I want to say is that I pretty much became an expert on everything that could have been used in some way to protect my little family. Back then, I read and reread everything James could get his hands on and that was a lot. In one of those books – one, Hermione, one out of dozens – I found an annotation mentioning the differences and changes that occur throughout time. It wasn't about rituals per se, it was just a general information about the magical community.
"So don't blame yourself that you haven't read that book. You have done an incredible job and have managed to do the impossible, which is to give both my husband and me a body. You have done so much for us, for Harry, that we cannot thank you enough. With the problem that we are now facing, though, I think I might have an idea."
Lily stood up and started to walk to and fro in front of the small table. She needed to think and she had always been able to think best if she was moving. "Considering everything you have researched, what the ritual was supposed to do, what it did do and how it should have been changed, I'm sure we will be able to find a solution to this. But first," she turned around and smiled at the brunette, "we need to change it how it should have been changed before. We need to manipulate the incantations, wand movements as well as ingredients in a way that makes this old idea compatible with modern magic."
She clapped her hands once, picked up the tome that had fallen onto the floor before, and grabbed a discarded quill and a roll of empty parchment. With her eyes twinkling madly, she set to work removing the pile of books from the table.
"You're not alone with this, Hermione," she said as she spread the parchment on the table and opened the book to the page indicated. "And since I can actually touch and move things now," she grinned as she tickled Hermione's nose with the end of her quill, "this will be done so much quicker. Let's get to work."
*~*HP*~*
A grin so wide it looked painful nearly split the older Potter's face in half as he ran around the kitchen. A pile of red and white Quidditch attire sat on top of the crude wooden table, his son's broomstick lying right next to it. James couldn't say what excited him more – the broomstick or his son being the Seeker of the National Quidditch Team of England.
He remembered that one time his dad had taken him to the World Cup, watching England and Scotland have a go at each other. It had been an experience like no other. Having seen English Quidditch League matches before, he had thought he had known what would come his way, but he could not have been more wrong. The magic in the air, the screaming fans, the shows of the teams right before all hell broke loose – it was, for the lack of another word, magical. He had screamed himself hoarse, leaving him unable to talk properly for a solid fortnight.
His mother had had a fit as the annual Potter family gathering had been scheduled three days after the match and he had been supposed to hold conversation with everyone invited. Alas, he had not been able to do so without sounding as if he had swallowed a frog and chewed on a Filibuster Firework. Euphemia Potter had made him help the house elves with the cleaning and rearranging of the furniture after the guests had left the manor, but it had been so worth it. Even now he couldn't manage to regret his shouts of excitement and he really had to force himself not to make a fool out of himself for today's practise, as it was just that – a practise.
Lily had told him all about the newpaper article and Harry's try-out match, so he couldn't wait to see his son fly for the very first time. Back when he had still been in Hogwarts and on the Gryffindor Quidditch team – youngest player in a century! He couldn't be any prouder – he had had to rely on Lily's running commentary and analyses on moves, tactics and fouls. It had been more than annoying and frustrating to not be able to see everything with his own eyes, but he would take it if it meant that at least Lily had been able to see their son play the sport that his father loved so much.
He hadn't had a doubt in his mind that his boy was good enough to join a professional team as their first Seeker, but not even he had dared to hope that that professional team might be the National Team.
The National Team consisted of the best Quidditch players England had to offer. James had read every article he could get his hands on, which hadn't been that many. The season was yet to start, so the Daily Prophet was still focussing on the English League teams rather than those who would participate in the World Cup next year.
He forced himself not to think about the World Cup, though. He was sure that, together with Lily, Hermione would find a way to break the connection both he and Lily had with their son, and therefore send them back to Godric's Hollow. Each of those witches was brilliant on their own, but combined he was sure that they literally could do anything. Considering the genius of his wife and future daughter-in-law, he wouldn't be able to watch the match, cheering for his son. Maybe both Lily and he would find a way to project parts of the match or find a wizarding family in the village listening to the live commentary over the wireless, but he refused to think about that now.
James was pulled out of his reveries by his son, who stumbled into the kitchen, hair still wet from his shower, cheeks flushed with excitement. His green eyes were bright and twinkling as they looked at the other black-haired man standing in the room, looking equally, if not more, excited.
"You ready?" Harry asked as he grabbed the clothes from the table and jammed them into a bag, which he slung over his shoulder.
"As ready as you are," James grinned and grabbed his son's broom.
They hurried up the stairs like second years about to join their first ever Quidditch practise, and were on their way out of the house as James thought of something essential. He groaned, reprimanding himself for not thinking of this sooner as he held his son back.
Harry turned around, eyebrows shooting towards his hairline, silently asking his father what he wanted.
"I think I should apply some charms to keep myself from getting detected and you from getting into massive trouble with the Ministry," said the latter and slapped his flat hand against his forehead.
Acting on instinct, James reached into his pocket and pulled out his mahogony wand. He couldn't believe how much damage they could have done if he hadn't thought of this on time. Lily would have his head for this if she were to ever find out. After a quick wave over himself, his black hair changed into a light brown, flattening itself into a presentably tidy mop, his hazel eyes darkened, turning the soft doe eyes into a more intense set, and his rectangular glasses were exchanged by modern horn-rimmed ones. Nobody would even think of him as a relative of Harry's. He smirked, satisfied with the result, and turned towards the door, ready to leave.
He faltered as he didn't hear Harry following him and turned around, a cheeky remark already on his lips. Before he could get the word out, his eyes widened and he dropped his son's broom. With a loud clatter, polished wood hit the cold stone floor as the young father hurried to his son. The young Potter had his eyes closed, a frown on his paling face, as he desperately clutched at the kitchen doorframe to keep himself upright.
"Harry!"
"I'm alright, I'm alright," Harry waved away his fretting father as the latter tried to push him onto the floor.
"It's okay, son, just put your head in between your knees and breathe for a second, okay? That's a thing Muggles do when they have blood sugar problems. Or was it blood pressure problems? I can never remember which contortions they do to solve certain medical problems. It's just way easier to down a potion than to remember what you should do with your legs and -," James gasped loudly and hit himself in the head again.
Harry could only watch him, slightly aghast, as his father jumped up, hectic blotches on his cheeks, and ran up the stairs into his and Lily's bedroom. Not fifteen seconds later, he was back again, clutching onto a small vial filled with a light yellow liquid.
"Pepper-Up Potion?" Harry dubiously eyed the vial James had pushed into his hands. "Is that really necessary?"
"Yes, yes it is," James said and reached over to unstop the small bottle. "I am so sorry for using magic. I completely forgot in all that excitement of finally being able to watch my son fly."
He smiled sheepishly and pointed at the lightly bubbling potion in his son's hand. "Trust me, it's not poisonous. Your mother brewed it," and with that comment, Harry didn't hesitate any longer and downed the entirety of the potion, much to the amusement of his father.
"I see how much trust you have in me, son," he snickered and went over to the spot where he had dropped the Firebolt before. Picking it up, he quickly looked it over to check for any possible damage.
"How are you feeling, National Team Seeker?"
Harry grinned and pushed himself off the wall. Steam was shooting out of his ears, but he ignored this peculiar side-effect. He grabbed his bag, threw it over his shoulder and walked over to the front door. Coming to a stop next to his dad, he smiled widely. "I feel fine, dad."
"That's the spirit!" the young Marauder exclaimed. He grabbed onto Harry's arm and pushed him out of the door.
They stood on the top step, staring at each other.
"I don't know where that stadium is you were talking about and even if I did, I won't make the same mistake another time. Your mother would literally kill me."
Harry laughed loudly, truly enjoying this one-on-one moment with his dad – just the two of them for the whole morning, talking and playing Quidditch. He couldn't wait to show his dad what type of a flyer he was. He was not going to lie to himself – he wanted to show off just a little bit to see that proud grin on his father's face again. It was quickly turning into something that he was aiming for, no matter what he was doing.
So Harry thought of the stadium, standing proud in the middle of a field, nowhere near any villages, magical or nonmagical alike, and turned on the spot.
*~*HP*~*
The first thing he felt when his feet hit the ground was the hefty wind trying to knock him over. He teetered dangerously as he clutched his son's arm. Harry wasn't fairing any better. He had not seen it coming, so apon landing, the only thing keeping him upright were his father's strong hand on his biceps.
"Oi, there you are, Potter!"
Both Potter men turned to see a tall, brown haired man in England's characteristic red-and-white Quidditch uniform fight his way through the storm towards them. His hair was cut short, his blue eyes squinting as he clapped Harry on his back.
"Don't worry," he said and grinned a grin so wide, it showed off all of his perfectly white teeth, "it's just as bad in there as it is out here." He pointed towards the stadium, nearly toppling over. "And who are you?"
"Oh, that's my – t-that's –" Harry bit his lip as he glanced to his innocent looking father. They had completely forgotten to think of a cover story for him. He cursed their stupid magic bond that had messed up their morning as he silently begged the charmed wizard to come up with something, like, now.
"Nice to meet you, Captain," James put on his most charming smile and confidently held out his hand to a befuddled looking Stinicle. "My name is Robert Cooper and I'm a friend of Harry's. I live up in Scotland, too rainy for my liking to be honest, so I decided to pay our friend here a visit and now he's got to drag me everywhere he needs to go to because I didn't send him an owl in advance informing him of my visit."
Stinicle blinked, looking slightly dazed. "Well," he cleared his throat multiple times and seemingly had trouble taking his eyes off James. "Well, welcome in England then, I guess. You should be used to this kind of weather, I assume?"
"Oh yes, certainly. I was quite surprised that the sun was shining when I arrived last week."
The Beater laughed loudly and clasped a hand on James' shoulder, clearly smitten with the wizard. "Well, if that's the case, I guess you can join the practise today. It's usually not something I allow, as one can never be certain what reporters or other teams come up with next to find out our strategy and flying tactics, but feel free to watch."
Sending a slightly flirtatious smile his dad's way, Harry watched his new Captain saunter off towards the entrance of the stadium. Flabbergasted, the young Potter turned towards his father, gaping.
"What just happened?"
"You have a lot to learn, my son, because you were just witness to Messr Prongs getting what he wants." James grinned proudly as he took off and fought his way over to the stands.
"I can't believe dad just flirted his way into practise," shaking his head, Harry couldn't help but see the genius behind it. His dad truly was a Marauder.
*~*HP*~*
As Harry came out of the Changing Rooms after practise, he was nearly knocked down by a very excited James Potter.
Practise had been anything but successful. There had been lots of crashes due to the storm. McMillan, one of the Chasers had actually been caught off guard by a rather powerful gust at one point, which had therefore let him to miss the Quaffle that had been thrown his way. McMillan himself had been blown into the stands where his broomstick had gotten stuck in between seats, pinning him down to the wood and making it impossible for him to get up. It had taken Stinickle as well as another Chaser to pull him out again. The missed Quaffle had changed directions with the wind and had hit the back of Keeper Strout's head, knocking him out cold. Somehow, he had managed to land in the right hoop, saving himself from falling all the way to the ground, all the while unconscious.
Harry himself had only been able to catch the Snitch since the wind had literally blown it right in front of his face. It had been a bloody desaster.
By the end of the three-hour practise, the whole team was exhausted and frustrated. Thankfully, nobody had been seriously hurt in the whole process.
"That was bloody awesome!" James jumped up and down, grinning from ear to ear. "A blood bath and painful to watch, but awesome!"
"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," Harry grumbled as he wrestled with his sports bag. The wind was doing its best to rip it off his shoulder, so the young wizard pulled out his wand and cast a Sticking Charm to his own shoulder to keep the bag in place.
"Let's get back home," he yelled over the howling wind, which seemed to be picking up, even though he had doubted that would have even been possible. "We should probably get back and see whether Hermione and mum found something."
"Mr Potter! May I ask you a few questions?"
James, who had been following his son out of the stadium, turned around to see a witch fight her way towards them. Her left hand grabbed onto a piece of parchment and a struggling Quick-Quotes Quill, her right hand was desperatedly trying to keep her hair in place.
"The Daily Prophet," he muttered into Harry's ear, who picked up the pace and all but ran to the apparation point, his father close on his heels.
"HARRY! ONE WORD!" the obnoxious witch bellowed. Her high heels kept her from running after them.
The last thing Harry saw just before James grabbed onto him was how the reporter struggled to pull one shoe out of a puddle of mud, before the world swirled around them and whizzed them back to Grimmauld Place.
*"Foul Charm to F'rtune" – early modern English (English language used from about late 15th century to mid 17th century) for "Foul Magic to Fortune"
Well, seems like the two brightest witches of their age have found a solution..
Until next time - see ya!