Staking out a bank turns out to be a mind-numbingly boring pursuit. Not all that surprising in hindsight, but true nonetheless. Hour after hour and day after day since the start of July, I have spent staring at the burnished bronze doors and the diminutive guards flanking them.
Not in preparation for a break-in mind. As vertically challenged and magically inept as the goblins may be, they have a reputation for being vicious little critters for a reason.
A small part of me would like to see the utter chaos, a noble scion and the boy-who-lived at that dying by goblin hand would cause. A sure-fire way to clear the board of any preparations and plans the major players have in place.
Idle thoughts aside, I'm not about to risk it no matter the size of the proverbial biscuit. Fortunately, I don't have to. One way or another, be it Dumbledore's or Voldemort's agents, one of them is going to remove my prize from the bank for me.
I have a lot riding on that someone being Hagrid, anyone else would only add to the difficulty of the task. On Dumbledore's side, a more magically proficient and frankly less simple-minded courier would make it unlikely to separate them from the stone in the first place, much less without them noticing.
Quirrell or whoever else Voldemort might send on the other hand would open up a whole new can of worms. He probably wouldn't be able to get away, much less make it back to wherever the Wraith of Voldemort is spending his days, but any degree of success is a danger to my own plans.
To put it bluntly, secrecy is key. I simply can't deal with Dumbledore mobilising and on guard, even if it is against someone other than me. Not while I have yet to establish a power-base of my own. Any whisper of the Dark Lord trying to regain his body would polarise the population at a time when I need them to be complacent. That is even more relevant where Dumbledore is concerned, him remaining confident in his own plans and predictions is vital going forward.
That he didn't check on me in the past decade either through the wards or in person is definitely a good sign. A Dumbledore convinced of his own infallibility is all the more likely to dismiss minor details and early warning signs, as long as events continue to proceed as he envisioned them on the whole.
Not for the first time, I wish I could just continue to leave the surveillance entirely to the house-elves like I have done earlier in the year and still do on occasion while I grab a bite to eat. With both the time of the pick-up and the identity of the courier unknown, however, my judgement and mage sight are indispensable for a decent chance at success.
Stuck as I am in the shadows of a minor alley overlooking the bank's entrance wrapped in shadows and covered by a glamour and notice-me-not enchanted onto a random necklace I can't help but marvel at the ironic cruelty that is forcing goblins to guard wizarding gold.
Oh, they get their pound of flesh in fees and what-not, but compared to the numerous streams of income even some of the minor Houses have access to it doesn't really amount to more than a trickle.
And in exchange, they are confined to live out their lives in the bowels of their bank forced to mine, smelt, mint and guard our currency in perpetuity. Subjugating other species really is a favourite pastime of wizardkind. Speaking of which, someone has to have recorded the major ritual that bound the house-elves and subjugated the goblins. There is no way a ritual of that scale is a one-person job.
But honestly, nothing less than they deserved for the way their reach exceeded their grasp. They had a good thing going, attaching themselves to the expanding Roman Empire as miners and metalworkers allowed them to outcompete their equally vertically challenged but significantly more magnificently bearded rivals - the dwarfs. To the point of having control of all the contested mountain regions west of the Rhine and south of the Alps and Danube.
With the Urals being giant-territory since time immemorial and the Carpathians teeming with dragons the dwarfs are left with little more than their foothold in the Alps and the sparse highlands of Central Europe, only the mountains of Scandinavia providing any kind of secure heartland for their people. There were rumours of an exclave in the Greater Caucasus, but with the insular nature of magical societies, they might have been overrun centuries ago with no one the wiser.
The goblins on the other hand riding the coattails of wizards and muggles spread all the way from the Zagros to the Atlas and north into the Scottish Highlands. Greedy little creatures that they are, however, upon the collapse of the empire they got ambitious, no longer satisfied with their place they waged war on their benefactors with the goal to establish their own nations. Predictably, they failed. And failed again. With every new treaty, their position grew worse and still belligerent buggers that they are one of their number would inevitably cause another incident and spark renewed hostilities.
Until wizardkind had bled enough and decided to recreate the ritual that once bounded the elves into eternal bondage. And incomplete as the reconstruction turned out to be, nowadays the goblin nation is little more than a tributary vassal with its members unable to so much as injure their betters except in very specific circumstances such as in protection of our gold.
The ping from the wards signalling the arrival of a post-owl feels like nothing short of salvation at this point and a more than welcome excuse to take a well-deserved break from kicking my heels.
As I make my way deeper into the dimly lit alley in search of a spot where my disappearance remains unobserved, I magically signal for the elves to take over my vigil and restrain the bird. I get that my circumstances are likely unique or at the very least quite rare, but how did no one think to include a way for me to actually send my answer?
The situation being what it is, I'm glad to not receive a visit from McGonagall. The lack of thought is no less insulting, however. Did they expect Petunia to find her way back to the Cauldron decades later to send my response? Assuming of course she ever visited Diagon in the first place.
Thankfully, before I can delve deeper into all the scores I have yet to settle, I reach a sufficiently deserted corner and still covered by charms and living shadow I flame directly into my bedroom.
I can't be certain that spending so many nights in 4 Privet Drive was required, but better safe than sorry on that front. An unauthorised owl getting fried by the wards at Potter Manor would be awkward to explain. Even worse, it might not be leaving me to justify how I could possibly answer mail addressed to my ancestral seat. So really spending some nights in Surrey is a small price to pay.
My order to stop the bird from leaving might have been worded just a tad too vague. It certainly makes for an interesting sight to have a large bird of prey frozen stiff, letter in beak, waiting for you as you open the front door. Floating the post-owl along with the letter back to the bedroom may well be overly paranoid, but it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you.
Especially with the shenanigans, I have been using enchanted objects for fresh in mind, I'd be more than tempted to never turn my mage-sight off. Maybe I should look for a way to hide the unfortunately distinctive golden halo ringing my irises while I have it active.
An overly thorough examination later, the letter turns out to be free of any harmful magic. A bit surprising and another mark against the Dursleys that their canon reaction was seemingly unaided by any compulsions. Though seeing as they all but signed their death warrants a long time ago, it hardly matters at this point.
For a couple sheets of parchment to be so life-altering seems almost surreal, even with everything that's already happened holding the Hogwarts letter address to Henry Potter somehow makes it all seem that much more real.
Rather than indulge in melancholy, I set to penning my response. With no obvious machinations on Dumbledore's part, I see no reason to make my reply any more elaborate than basic courtesy dictates. No reason to piss off McGonagall after all. Feigning ignorance doesn't strike me as the savvy play either, only drawing unnecessary attention to myself. I'll have to confront the dear old Headmaster soon enough in any case, no reason to tip him off beforehand.
Feeding and watering the owl to soothe any ruffled feathers, I send my reply on its way across the country.
Speaking of which, while magical children across the nation celebrate their own acceptance letters, it is back to lookout duty for me. I'll have to make some time to indulge myself at some point - all work and no play makes Harry a dull boy after all.
-oOo-Mother Magic is indeed merciful; it's only a day later, the early morning of July 25th, to be exact. A ridiculously suspicious-looking half-giant makes his way towards the bank. I'm sure he is trying his best but at twice the height of the average man his attempts to blend into the crowd only make him stand out more. And to think he doesn't even have the stone on him yet.
Now, as far as couriers go, you could certainly do worse than an eleven feet, magically resistant walking tank. If only this particular model didn't inherit his intellect from his mother's side of the family.
How did he even come about in the first place? I'm almost convinced someone deliberately played at being Frankenstein. Sure, with the right incentive and a bit of persuasion you could get a sufficiently depraved wizard to stick his dick anywhere, be it a giant or a goblin, like in Flitwicks case. That alone does not however new life make, least of all a magic-wielding one.
Especially not when talking about witches and wizards. Magical conception being a biological process only in the most technical terms. Like with all magical phenomena, intent is key - without mutual intent, the poor wizard's wand may as well be shooting sparks. Under normal circumstances, a witch wouldn't even be able to conceive with a muggle seeing as he lacks the necessary magic to kick-start the process. Thinking about it, what kind of infernal brew did Merope feed her muggle lover to birth old Tommy-boy in the first place. No wonder he turned out so rotten.
Maybe I'm overthinking the half-breeds and some twisted wizards just had a taste for particularly exotic partners. At least they are pretty much guaranteed to be the mules and ligers of wizardkind.
Before my thoughts can veer further into the reproductive habits of our more exotic fellows, Hagrid re-emerges from the bank all but screaming to the world that he made an important withdrawal with the way he is protectively clutching his coat pocket.
Now or never, I guess. While I would prefer to stick to the shadows to take advantage of the Shadow Raven's ability to blend into them, I can't be sure how he intends to leave the Alley and having him reach the portkey-points across the plaza before I can get to him would throw a serious wrench in my plans. The glamour and notice-me-not will just have to do as I hurry to catch up to him.
Before I manage to close half the distance, I meet a sudden obstacle, or rather it meets me as a little blonde-haired girl walks straight into me. With the difference in our sizes, the impact only staggers me slightly while she lands squarely on her behind. Despite being rather pressed for time, I extend my hand to help the wide-eyed girl, staring right at me, up, the weak charms having been dispelled from the collision.
The liquid fire surging through my veins as she takes my hand is entirely unexpected, even more so however is the heat settling decidedly too far south for comfort. How did I manage to get turned on now of all times? Time running short, I barely acknowledge her mumbled reply to my question about her condition or my sudden amorousness, and channelling magic through my necklace I reactivate my charms, blending back into the somewhat sparse morning crowd.
Thankfully, with his massive size, Hagrid is impossible to lose sight of, on top of slowing his own progress.
Coming up with a way to stop the guy was the source of many a sleepless night. Ultimately, though, I'm quite proud of my solution. Instead of the futile attempt to use magic directly on him or the package, I opted for a more circuitous approach.
A quick burst of telekinetic 'Wild Magic' raises one of the cobblestones, paving the plaza just enough for a random passerby to stumble into the half-giants way.
Ouch. That looks broken to me. Ah, well, he must have done something to deserve it, and if not, his sacrifice at least served a good cause - mine. Like clockwork, a crowd of early morning shoppers turns into a gaggle of overly curious onlookers. Still, mostly unnoticeable, I manage to elbow my way to the front just behind a distraught Hagrid trying to help the guy back to his feet.
Never let anyone tell you pickpocketing is not a useful skill and my slight kleptomania isn't colouring my opinion in the least, I assure you. Having the use of my inventory as an added advantage, it is no trouble at all to slide my gloved hand into the pocket containing the stone, storing the package and replacing it with a replica that should pass at least a cursory inspection.
The ongoing distraction makes it all the easier to leave the scene in the direction of the 'Leaky Cauldron'. If my little gift-wrapped surprise works as intended, Hagrid should be following shortly and having just injured a guy even makes for a good excuse. Who would begrudge our large friend a drink or three after all the excitement?
You see, constant repetition has made me quite adept at enchanting compulsive knick-knacks. Not nearly enough to work reliably, or for any length of time, on even a weaker specimen of wizardkind, much less a magically resistant half-giant. Convincing an avid drinker to indulge for a moment instead of returning immediately with his delivery on the other hand is just about possible.
As much as I would like to keep the stone, the gains wouldn't outweigh the cost of alerting Dumbledore to foul-play. And considering I know where it will be for the foreseeable future, I'll stick to the safe move for now.
Safely ensconced in a vacant room of the 'Leaky Cauldron' I set to unwrapping my early birthday present. As expected, the package is littered with tracking, monitoring, and anti-summoning charms. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for our dear Headmaster mage sight is frankly broken when it comes to bypassing charms without triggering them.
By the time a house-elf informs me that Hagrid has ordered his first drink, I have the stone liberated from its troublesome packaging. It looks remarkably unremarkable, all things considered. Oh, it certainly looks the part of the blood-red ruby, but without mage sight, it would be little more than a hefty crystal. With it, however, it is breathtaking.
This might just be the most magically intricate object I have laid my eyes on yet. All over the surface and embedded into the very structure of the Philosopher's stone are minuscule runic engravings speaking of a master's handiwork and natural formation simultaneously.
I could likely spend years and decades studying the thing and not come close to understanding all its intricacies, much less making even a haphazard attempt at replicating a working copy of my own. And that is of course assuming there isn't something involved in its creation rendering it functionally or actually unique.
Now, without insight into the person of one Nicolas Flamel or the circumstance by which the stone ended up in Dumbledore's custody in the first place, I can't say whether that is in fact the case. Assuming, however, Flamel is not trying to commit suicide by lost artefact I would expect him to have a spare lying around or at the very least the means to produce one. No amount of trickery or leverage on Dumbledore's part should be able to separate him from his stone otherwise.
Regardless, in order for my own little ruse to work, I don't have to come anywhere close to producing a working replica. All my counterfeit needs to do is pass a cursory inspection without raising any flags. A cursory inspection by some potentially highly qualified individuals but if they look that deeply into the replica I likely attracted suspicion beforehand and at that point the stone is the least of my problems.
Thankfully operating the Philosopher's stone doesn't require anywhere near the sophistication duplicating it does. In fact, if you ignored the way Flamel's creation casually disregards some of the most fundamental magical principles, its function could almost be called simplistic. Essentially, one of the most sought-after artefacts of magical and indeed muggle society is nothing more than a very efficient catalyst.
Contrary to popular opinion, transfiguring lead into gold or anything into precious metals for that matter is not impossible. Just ludicrously, laughably inefficient. Both the requirements on time and magical power to produce even small amounts of gold are so astronomical that despite some enterprising individuals using outright slave-labour for the task they still failed to make the undertaking in any way feasible, ultimately retooling their operation for potion-brewing.
Even more frustrating is the fact that any gold you manage to produce is simply going to revert to its original state sooner rather than later. By the looks of it, however, both problems are solvable with the right tool, namely Flamel's stone. A transfiguration catalyst of the stone's calibre renders a previously impractical task merely labour-intensive not to mention permanent, apparently.
Frankly, there couldn't be a less useful function. Literally minutes away lies all the gold I could ever spend just waiting for me to claim it.
Like many others before me, the stone's ability I'm after revolves around a much more precious commodity than mere gold. The Elixir of Life.
Despite by most competent accounts not providing protection against being killed nor being particularly effective at restoring already lost youth, the ability to extend a wizard's lifespan by double or triple with only minor losses in power late in life is invaluable. For a species as long-lived as wizardkind in particular it opens up the possibility of easily living half a millennium, with the full millennium while not likely no longer impossible depending on how early you happen to come across it.
It does cause functional if not physical addiction, which is a clear downside, withdrawal killing you within a year at most if the sparse accounts and canon are any indication. On top of seemingly having a very short shelf-life even compared to other potions and elixirs, otherwise Flamel would have to have been a moron to not stock up decades' worth in advance. How lucky then that I have a method of storage at my disposal entirely free of temporal interference - my inventory.
By the time the house-elf on duty informs me that Hagrid is about to finish his early morning pub visit I managed to produce some two dozen vials of elixir by the simple process of channelling my magic into the stone - talk about user-friendly. Thinking about it there should be other uses for magic condensed into a liquid, but that can wait for later.
For the priceless elixir to be just that seems almost poetic. Then again, despite the Elixir of Life being just magic purified and condensed by the Philosopher's stone, its properties change to a degree as to render it clearly distinct from the source of power wizardkind is so intimately familiar with.
Rather than risk rousing suspicion in even someone as dimwitted as Hagrid by causing another incident, I'll resort to the ever popular bump'n'lift or bump'n'switch in this case. A brief moment of contact covered by the increased crowd and the stone is back in the half-giants coat pocket like it has never left with the incriminating replacement safely stored in my inventory joining the vials of precious liquid that was the whole purpose for this cloak-and-dagger operation.
-oOo-
Luna LovegoodLittle Luna Lovegood had always been considered a bit of an oddity, both by her few friends and her parents. The way she would stare at you intensely and yet unfocused, as if looking right through you one moment and off into the distance the next had unnerved many of the people she had met in the course of her short life.
None more so, however, than herself. Where others would see an overly affectionate matron, she would see creatures of sickly green and yellow, of greed and envy, and recoil in disgust. Where others would see a grandfatherly smile, what she saw was the devious grimace of a half-rotten corpse surrounded by the dark purple spectres of deeds best forgotten, making shivers of dread crawl their way up her spine.
Her macabre visions were accompanied by glimpses of truth just outside of view, ethereal like mist under the morning sun. And not enough to be cursed with the monsters stalking her day they followed her even into the night, into her deepest dreams where they enacted a theatre filled with gruesome and revolting displays of human malice, leaving her to wake covered in a cold sweat and filled with dread but having no recollection as to why.
But amongst those that grew increasingly wary of her oddities and the creatures haunting her every moment, there was always her mother, her kind and understanding mother, her light in the dark, and her shield against the world. None of the creatures dared approach her mother and looking at her all she saw was a soft golden light enveloping her in its warm embrace and shining brightly while keeping the darkness at bay.
Her beautiful mother greeting her with a smile each morning while preparing the pudding for the day's dessert. Her mother holding her when she was too afraid to fall asleep, comforting her with her presence and whispered words until she would drift off. Her mother always there until one day she wasn't.
A freak accident, they called it. For a spell-crafter of her mother's skill to overlook such a simple precaution, but she knew better. She had killed her mother. She was the one to distract her while she worked. The reason her mother didn't trigger her fail-safe, too preoccupied covering her daughter's body with her own, when she noticed the spell go critical.
She had lain there; her dying mother atop her, crying desperately, when her mother's light was snuffed out. Until exhausted blankness claimed her. Waking up the next morning in her bed, she had almost convinced herself it had been just another of her terrible dreams, when her hope shattered upon entering the kitchen and finding not her smiling mother, but instead her father slumped against the counter, surrounded by empty bottles in a puddle of his own sick.
She didn't speak that day nor did she eat and by the time the sun set on the first day on which no one held her as she cried she was dreading falling asleep for surly without her light the darkness would swallow her whole. When she awoke with the clear recollection of events most mundane, a naïve hope sprang to life inside her. Had her mother taken the terrible darkness with her when she died?
Only days later her hope lay shattered and dead like the body of her mother being lowered into the cold ground. Her days had been filled with an unshakeable sense of déjà vu as the events of her dreams would repeat themselves in her life, idle curiosity had her attempt to prevent or alter the outcome she had foreseen but as more and more elaborate attempts ended in failure, she became resigned to being a helpless spectator to her own life.
Months went by as she retreated further and further into herself as the dreams that had previously shown the great evils of the world now showed much crueller visions of her own future.
More and more she would learn of the loneliness that would accompany her throughout her life, the bullying and abuse she would suffer at Hogwarts, the increasing neglect and distance from her father and his death on one of his increasingly suicidal expeditions in search of creatures that only existed in her own head.
She saw the darkness threatening to envelop the wizarding world, the hardships and struggles she and others would overcome in holding it at bay, the triumph of the light that still saw her standing alone unable to meaningfully connect to her fellows.
Saw her wedding, a small affair, not having anybody to invite. Her marriage to a man so consumed by his obsession that her descent into despair appeared to him as endearing quirks. The birth of her twin sons and the horrifying realisation as she gazed down onto their small faces that she had long ago forgotten what love felt like, much less being able to feel it herself.
Culminating in the vision of herself dangling in the Rook's basement workshop upon the recognition that she would never be the light in her own children's lives that her mother had been in hers. Her mother's sacrifice ultimately in vain as looking back the entire Lovegood family had died on that fateful day.
Wandering through the Diagon Alley midday crowd as her father had again lost sight of her in his absent-mindedness her ever sombre and static life gets thrown out of balance much as she is landing painfully on her rear after colliding with someone in the crowd.
The usual rant about her inattentiveness remains absent however instead she finds herself captivated by the most striking emerald eyes she has ever seen, reaching out for the offered hand without averting her gaze from the blinding presence in front of her leaves her paralysed when searing fire flows through her veins as silky shadows glide almost sensually over her skin.
After a mumbled reply that she was in fact alright, the boy melds back into the crowd, disappearing from view as if their encounter had been nothing more than a fleeting vision. It had been real, however; she was certain. Not only was this encounter the first surprising event since she began dreaming of her future, she also had the unshakeable feeling it would open up a new chapter in her life.
Making her way to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour where her father would collect her sooner or later, she had a spring in her step for the first time in nearly a year and was looking forward to dreaming for the first time ever.
Falling asleep proved easy when not dreading the dreams, and moments later she saw true hope. Where before her dreams would make her experience the tragedy that was to be her life over and over again, she today for the first time, saw a fork in the road.
On one side the well-trodden path of loneliness and despair on the other bright emerald eyes promised her visions of sisters and children, of a husband that cherished her, and she could love in turn, of happiness and pleasure, of peace.
A morning that never before had come so quick saw her wake with a smile on her face. The skip in her step persisted even as she made her way downstairs and started rummaging through her father's packed equipment. Minutes later, a now broken pair of custom omnioculars made their way to the bottom of the garden pond. The now delayed trip would be her father's last, but he would be happy to be reunited with her mother.
More importantly, however, how would she go about convincing her future husband that she should be his wife?
-oOo-Hiking through the English countryside for the fifth day now leaves entirely too much time to ponder the eccentricities of Magic. Frankly, the thought of some unseen ethereal force with a semblance of sentience pursuing its own goals seems utterly terrifying to me. Admittedly, it could just be family magicks and among them the Potter magicks in particular that possess an unwelcome sense of adventure, but somehow I doubt that.
Whatever the case may be, it doesn't change the fact that instead of simply assuming the Lordship of House Potter at the arbitrary age of eleven, I instead have to track halfway across the country in some personal rendition of the quest for the holy grail. True my particular constitution and the existence of wizarding-tents offset any hardship that would be associated with the trip otherwise, the time lost, however, by having me wander through the relative wilderness instead of revealing the journey's goal in the first place is something I'll never get back.
I'm sure whoever set this up in the first place had some good reasons likely involving some metaphorical survey of one's future demesne or poetic struggle against nature, maybe a time for self-reflection away from the usual comfort. Assuming, of course, the whole idea wasn't spawned from the family magicks' nascent sentience.
Regardless of who set this in motion, I'm more than through with it. To waste precious time and energy on futile sightseeing seems utterly pointless to me, more so considering the crucial time I find myself in. The family magicks, however, will not be denied leaving me with little to do but follow the subtle nudges to my magic guiding me towards Griffin's Roost the Potter family's place of power.
It is quite remarkable how deeply a family's magic can be intertwined with a physical location. To the point that throughout wizarding history numerous, maybe even the majority of established families have chosen to fight, and in cases very literally die, on their hill. Case in point, the Potters themselves. Even disregarding manipulations from senile old men and my father being the quintessential Gryffindor, for even part of our family to abandon the isles was likely never a viable option.
Just the loss of prestige alone would have been a bitter pill to swallow, but risking an almost two millennia-old connection to the land and its magic was completely out of the question. The stigma of being an exile weighs heavily on a house even centuries later. Oftentimes those houses then overcompensate in turn in a bid to gain acceptance from their new peers.
The houses following William the Bastard in his conquest are probably the most well-known examples. Malfoy, Lestrange, Rosier and a number of more junior houses beside were instrumental in William ascending to the English throne. They certainly earned their nobility, but no royal mandate could gain them entry and recognition into the Great Houses' inner circle. Only quite recently, maybe in the last century or two, did they become a mainstay of Wizengamot politics.
Missing elevation to the rank of 'Ancient' by a mere 80ish years didn't help their resentment any and played a large part in them, ending up as some of the most ruthless and ambitious families of magical Britain. Being denied by the 'old boys' club' seems to be a major chip on the shoulder of both Dumbledore and Voldemort now that I think of it. They certainly did, and continue to do their best to tear centuries and millennia of tradition down in their respective bids to stand at the top.
And with the paranoid secrecy bordering almost on taboo that surrounds family magicks and places of power, they likely don't even realise the ultimate futility of their actions.
There is a reason every attempt at centralising authority in magical society is accompanied by granting the old families additional privileges and dispensations. Be it the 'Venerable' houses that predated Roman Britain, the 'Most Ancient' houses that bestowed Arthur with his crown, the 'Ancient' houses that founded the Wizard's Council or the 'Elder' houses necessary to pass regulations on all magicals in the form of the 'Statute of Secrecy' no one ever truly 'ruled' Britain however loosely without elevating a crop of new families to the rank of 'Great House' and further elevating the incumbents.
For a very simple, but no less fundamental reason - wizarding society doesn't function without its aristocracy. We control by far the largest share of capital, even excluding ownership of land and businesses, but maybe more importantly virtually all raw materials, except for the rarest, are produced on the fields, greenhouses and pastures of not even a hundred families.
Those very families would become an unassailable obstacle in the event they decided to abandon wizarding society at large and retreat behind the centuries old wards of their manors and castles. Individual power may be highly prized, but any attempt at assaulting even a handful of entrenched 'Great Houses' would result in disastrous and unsustainable casualties.
There is a reason most victims of high status in Voldemort's uprising fell to treason and ambush. Even facing them in open combat would have been a less one-sided affair, despite the Dark Lord's considerable magical power. Assaults on manors made headlines precisely because they were limited to a few high priority targets, the Potter's included.
Though considering their belief in their own invulnerability and unwillingness to forgo the comforts they had grown accustomed to, was the main reason such a relatively small insurrection, numerically speaking, even posed the threat it did in the first place - a mixed blessing at best.
Well fuck, that looks like the end of the road to me. And here I was hoping for magical navigation to be more reliable than GPS.
While woolgathering night had fallen, and I had continued on, a nifty little contraption pinned to my coat casting a low-powered 'Lumos' to light my way. That is until I crested a small rise and found myself standing on a sheer plunging cliff overlooking the sea, nothing around for miles but the steep fall below.
Just as I'm about to start setting up the tent for the night, the level-up notice catches my eye. Seems the clock struck midnight, marking my eleventh birthday. It's high time I get to properly celebrate one of these, but this one is not it, unfortunately.
As I turn, folded tent in hand, I catch a glimpse of a shadow in the distance outlined by the recently full moon. I'm almost certain there was nothing there even a minute ago. Regardless, channelling magic to improve my eyesight, I can make out an island some distance from the shore surrounded by rocky cliffs where before there was nothing but open sea. Was it absolutely necessary to wait until I turned eleven to even show me my destination? I would have preferred to make the trip in the daytime, but with all the things I have yet to do today, I don't have the time to wait for sunrise.
Re-pocketing my portable accommodation, I transform into my phoenix form, launching myself off the cliff for the short flight over. A much shorter flight than expected as it turns out not even 200 yards from the mainland I lose all ability to maintain height rapidly plummeting towards the water. Not wanting to test the buoyancy of my avian form, I revert back to human just in time for a midnight swim.
Why, oh why does it insist I claim my magical inheritance by completing a mundane hike, swim and rock-climb of all things?
Drenched to the bone, I settle into a regular stroke, heading for the next leg of my involuntary triathlon. With low visibility and choppy sea, complicating what should have been a relatively brief trip, even lacking flight, I'm thoroughly fed up by the time I pull myself onto a small rock shelf at the base of the island's cliff.
Over the years a number of things have accumulated in my inventory, rock-climbing equipment is unfortunately not one of them. Free-climbing it is then. With my stats being what they are keeping a firm hold on, even small outcroppings isn't that much of a challenge despite the spray doing a wonderful job at turning them slippery.
Just over half-way up the close to vertical surface the going gets easier with more distance from the water the cliff-face is more rugged not having been polished smooth by erosion to the same extent. Picking up the pace as I grow more comfortable with the skill required, I can almost make out the top when in my haste I miss a hold being loose breaking off as I put weight on it. By pure instinct I reinforce myself with magic and thrust my hand into a narrow crevice, leaving my dangling in the wind instead of plummeting back to the bottom.
Repositioning myself for stability I finish the last yards much more carefully taking burden off my left arm that got somewhat scraped up despite the reinforcement. With a final heave, I pull myself over the crest, taking a moment to just stargaze.
That took much more time and effort than expected if today keeps throwing curveballs at me, getting everything done in time is going to be a tight squeeze.
After a brief rest to catch my breath and to let my arm finish healing, I move towards the island's centre. The thick forest makes it hard to pinpoint any landmarks, but with the size of the island being on the small side, I have to stumble across my goal at some point. Considering the wards that have been prickling my skin since I set foot here nearly rival Hogwarts in strength, I'm definitely in the right place.
Fighting my way through the dense under-brush of the ancient forest, a musky kind of smell catches my attention. A disturbingly animal-like smell and coming from further inland to boot. Moving forward steadily and carefully, moonlight starts to peek through the canopy with the enormous trees slowly giving way to form a clearing.
Immediately my eyes are drawn to the very literal castle on the hill, starkly backlit by the moon. Before I can even start crossing the glade to make my way up the steps hewn into the hill's bedrock, a cry somewhere between a screech and a growl stops me in my tracks.
All around the clearing, pairs of bright yellow eyes framed by snow-white feathers open in my direction. I was really hoping the castle had been named for something a little more allegoric than the actual herd of griffins obviously roosting on the island.
Doing my best to remain as still as possible refraining from any sudden movements I silently call on Merlin and Morgana and whatever else may be out there that whatever is preventing flight isn't inhibiting transformations entirely. If the slowly approaching griffin towering at easily over two metres flanked by an additional handful of slightly smaller though no less dangerous specimens intend to throw down, I need more than just my squishy human form.
In preparation for a potentially explosive outbreak of hostilities I draw heavily on my magic infusing muscles and bones as well as sharpening my reflexes, all the while preparing my transformation teeth and nails sharpening ever so slightly. Coiled and ready to if not strike at least evade at a moment's notice I observe silently as the herd alpha steps right up to me hot musky breath ruffling my hair.
We spend a long moment then two just staring each other down past the creature's long sharp beak before it lets out a low rumbling sound that while not friendly per se is still a far cry from the warning and aggression contained in its first screech. As the alpha relaxes its posture and turns to the herd, I almost sag in relief, tension and magic draining away.
While the herd holds council, I browse my inventory for some kind of peace offering. I don't carry around raw meat, obviously, but hopefully they don't mind some of the half-eaten dishes I have been storing in there over the years. Busy piling up food in the clearing, I nearly startle when one of the group comes sniffing around the growing mound of edibles.
A suspenseful moment later it emits a low chirping that seems to be an affirmation of some sort, judging by the herd converging on the food source led by their young who look almost eager in their charge. One of the smaller ones in its youthful exuberance goes so far as to nib the food right out of my hand before joining its fellows in their midnight snack.
Cathartic as it may be to watch them demolish the pile of food, not to mention the opportunity to gain their trust and future assistance, I'm on a tight schedule and already running behind. Keeping my movement and posture non-threatening in order to not startle the herd, I make my way to the stairs winding up the hillside. It's hard to make out in the low light even with my magical nightlight, but the steps appear to have been polished smooth by centuries of use and erosion.
The ascent doesn't take very long and is uneventful despite the soul-deep thrumming in time with my heartbeat growing stronger the closer I get to the top. Compared to the magnificence of Hogwarts or the luxury of the manor, the hilltop castle looks almost plain. It doesn't feel that way, however, if anything the degree to which everything from the stones and wooden beams to the great oaken doors baring the entrance is infused with the land's magic gives it an almost imposing aura.
With the nudges to my magic becoming steadily more insistent, I don't waste any time and place my hand on the oak door, finding barely any resistance, the heavy doors swinging open almost eagerly. Passing through the gatehouse I find myself in the castle's bailey where a number of structures like a granary, stable and forge while clearly weathered from disuse, remained in remarkable sound condition.
Letting the pull on my magic guide my steps, I bypass the great hall instead heading clear across the ward towards the keep situated at the island's highest point overlooking the sea hundreds of yards below. Strikingly there is no ostentatious splendour, just solid, unshakable construction seemingly merging with the very rock it is built upon. To my surprise, opening the reinforced doors baring access to the keep reveals the inside to be lit by perpetual flames lining the walls at regular intervals.
Making my way through the antechamber sporting some ominous openings in the high vaulted ceiling, I pass a second doorway, its reinforced double doors standing open. The central chamber too is furnished much more utilitarian than its place in a noble estate would make you expect. Being ancient well-preserved antiques they are likely priceless despite their seeming simplicity though.
Two solid stone staircases located at opposing ends of the chamber spiral their way towards both the higher floors and the undercroft. Following the by now insistent pull I descend into the cellar forgoing exploration in favour of reaching my destination just that little bit sooner.
My increasingly hurried steps take me through and past storage rooms, pantry, wine cellar and what looks, in passing, suspiciously like an armoury before I come to a stop in a circular room situated centrally between the two staircases.
Walls and vaulted ceiling above covered entirely in rich murals depicting scenes of almost religious character give the chamber an air of transcendent grandeur that leaves me rooted to the spot in awe.
Long moments pass until I manage to tear myself away from the depictions of what on closer inspection turn out to be the pivotal moments in the history of my House and family. Considering the closest thing to religious practice in magical society is a semi-romanised amalgam of Celtic and Germanic traditions centred around the worship of nature and one's ancestors likening the chamber to a chapel or temple wouldn't even be that far off.
My eyes are drawn to what can only be described as an altar in the middle of the room in stark contrast to the colourful depictions all around its brightly polished marble surface appearing simultaneously out-of-place and oddly fitting. More specifically the conspicuous stone bowl and ornate dagger resting on top.
With the pulses of magic feeling more and more like physical sensations, I approach the altar. The bowl seems to be just that: a plain stone bowl made of some darkish rock. The dagger on the other hand is much more distinct. Its construction of spell-forged silver, rubies embedded in the short quillons and pommel, and broad patterned blade etched with runes mark it as a ritual dagger if the location didn't give it away already.
Invitation clear, I reach for the dagger. Considering the mischief someone could get up to with willingly given blood I'm rather reluctant but as much as I would wish otherwise this won't be the last time I spill my blood both willingly and not. Where safer to do it than in the very nexus of my family's power.
Decision made, I draw the dagger swiftly across my left palm, the ever-sharp blade leaving a deep but clean cut. Blood flows readily into the bowl, only requiring some small effort to prevent my regeneration from sealing the wound prematurely. As the bowl fills up half-way I let the cut close up, fascinated by the blood seeping into the very rock holding it, leaving not a drop behind.
Before I can even start wondering about the next step originating from the bowl's base, the veins of the marble altar turn a familiar shade of red rapidly spreading all along its surface. Focused on the unfolding spectacle, the strongest pulse of magic yet catches me off guard, nearly making me stumble.
Apparently not the only one affected, the striking white and red patterned altar begins rumbling before tons of polished stone start moving under their own power. Just a dark chasm at first quickly reveals itself as a steep staircase leading deeper into the hill the castle rests upon. I briefly consider replacing the dagger, but it's not like there's anyone else to use it, and besides, it might come in handy.
Light source still pinned to my coat, I descend carefully, one hand bracing against the rough stone wall. I'm just noticing the slope levelling out somewhat when with a renewed rumble what I presume to be the altar moves back into place, blocking the exit. Simultaneously lanterns ignite along the path, illuminating the tunnel hewn into the island's bedrock.
It is some time later, after having traversed a considerable distance, when an arched doorway marks the end of this leg of my potholing. Stepping through the ground levels out entirely. With the ominous sound of stone scraping across stone the archway closes up, blending into the cave walls seamlessly.
The large domed roundish chamber with its rough, but clearly worked walls occasionally breached by gargantuan roots is certainly impressive, my focus however rests almost entirely on the massive megalith in the centre. Approaching the dark rock towering a good two dozen metres into the air, reaching over half-way towards the chamber's roof, I notice the innumerable runes covering the behemoth along its entire height and circumference.
Looking up at the menhir from my spot at its base, I absent-mindedly reach my hand out, still covered in blood from my previous offering, caught up entirely in the inexplicable feelings of nostalgia and belonging radiating from the stone. Immediately upon contact with its surface an irresistible force locks me in place while all over the gold inlay seemingly melts from the carved runes converging where my hand touches the monolith.
As the liquid gold reaches my outstretched hand, I can feel my awareness slipping, all thought focused on the searing heat creeping up my arm. Thankfully rather than the blistering heat of molten metal it is the all too familiar sensation of powerful magic so close to the feeling of channelling my own but infinitely greater.
My mind is drifting all indistinct impressions and dreamlike vistas. One moment I feel as if something vast is assessing me, judging me, but before I can try to grasp the implications it is gone, replaced by something else the next. Something more distant, ethereal, primordial and if anything even more immense.
Time passes as I glimpse visions of places near and far, present and past before without quite realising when I find myself back in the chamber hand on stone just as the molten gold retreats back to filling the runes leaving an amorphous ring of liquid metal around my left pinky.
I try to remove my hand but find it still stuck to the stone as the liquid ring shifts to form rings of silver in rapid succession one replacing the previous all signifying heirship of a magical house - Evans, Black, Peverell, ending on the seal of Hogwarts representing the four Founding Houses - before shifting a final time to a now golden ring bearing at its centre the griffin segreant reversed engraved into ruby and inlaid in gold - the seal of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter.
It's a strange feeling to have claimed my legacy, my lordship, after all these years. I don't feel any more powerful and I shouldn't but at the same time I feel so much more in tune both with my own magic and the magic coursing through every piece of rock and vegetation on this island.
Expecting the process to have concluded, I again try to remove my hand from the monolith in order to start my search for the exit, only to find myself still stuck instead. Despite the otherwise successful expedition, I'm getting increasingly annoyed at being restrained even by a benign, even benevolent existence. Sure there are worse places to be stuck in and one of these days spending significant time exploring all the secrets this island has to offer sounds rather appealing for now however I really have to get a move on.
I don't even get to formulate a plan to free myself as the stone's surface just now solid rock turns liquid in an instant swallowing my hand to the wrist and begins to draw in the rest of me with the same force previously rooting me in place. More on instinct than real hope of success, I channel magic to enhance my strength - with predictably poor results.
Only moments pass, and I'm barely keeping my head from being engulfed as well. Straining against the pull however proves futile and taking a last gulp of air, I'm swallowed whole. Disoriented, I try to navigate the viscous fluid pressing down on me all around, searching for a way to escape.
The darkness is all-consuming until just as suddenly it isn't the weight lifts, and I can just make out a light somewhere I presume to be above me. No longer surrounded by molten rock, I swim towards it, coming dangerously close to testing my ability to survive without breathing. Lungs straining from lack of air, I breach the surface, treading water for a moment while I catch my breath.
Huh, didn't expect a water elevator of all things, but judging by the moon peaking through the canopy, I ended up back in the forest. Faster than making the track back on foot sure - a little warning would have been nice though. A short swim later, I pull myself back onto dry land at last.
Had I known the number of times I would go for a swim today, I'd have chosen something else to wear. Thankfully magic ever helpful provides the solution, and a short muttered drying charm later, I return my temporary wand back to the inventory.
Looking around, it's definitely a glade in the same forest I traversed on the way to the castle. The most distinctive feature coming into view as I turn around to face the pool of crystal-clear water I had just climbed out of - a gargantuan tree. And when I say that, I mean easily over a hundred metres with what I had assumed to be the forest canopy in reality being just this single mammoth tree's crown.
In fact, thinking about it that must have been where the roots all the way down in the chamber originated. On closer inspection, their darkish colour blending with surrounding trees and underbrush in the dim moonlight were a number of standing stones ringing the massive tree and the pool at its base. While they didn't stand nearly as tall as the one below, seeing them next to this colossal and likely ancient oak tree made them appear outright tiny.
A full-blown druid circle was not what I was expecting to find. It's admittedly not entirely out of place, my impression of the Potter family and wizarding society as a whole did not read as being particularly spiritual much less religious, however. Maybe a relic of a bygone time then. Further things to look into later - my to-do-list doesn't seem to shrink for some reason.
Deciding that I have spent enough time sightseeing, I walk off towards the closest access to the sea. Even with the Lordship now claimed flight restrictions seem to still apply with the notable expectations of the griffins living on the island. Wards this old also seem a lot less user-friendly, making leaving on foot the fastest option.
Just as I pass between two of the standing stones, a falling branch nearly clocks me, only some quick reflexes saving me the headache. I don't want to ascribe sentience much less sapiens to either trees or magic, but that felt far too close to someone throwing a branch at my head.
Eh, might as well pocket the thing no use leaving highly magical wood lying around to rot. With twilight breaking, I have to hurry to get everything done - for now I have to see a goblin about a dragon.