Hi all

This is a slightly shorter chapter than those that I usually post. I enjoyed writing it rather a lot. Obviously, there's less content, but the content it does contain I found fun to play around with.

Hope you enjoy it.

Thanks

The momentum of the year, it seemed, had finally begun to take hold and soon the days the passed at a kinder pace. Time soon swallowed the last of the frosty mornings in the early spring, leaving mornings of light rain, gentle breeze and glittering sun.

April passed quickly, May arriving in the light footfalls of Eikthyrnir, as the grass grew softer, the mud less compact with the warmer weather. Harry, in his minute wisdom, had tried to join his friend in jaunts about the grounds, though that was soon abandoned, with Harry left winded and the deer left irritated at such a slow pace.

On one such morning, with Harry desperately drawing wind into his aching chest, his body damper than the dew-covered leaves on the trees, Dumbledore spoke to Harry again. In recent times, just as the cold had disappeared from view, so too had the Headmaster. The inquest into Crouch's death had began to lose traction, with neither evidence, suspect nor witness becoming available. Harry had imagined that, with a dead end inevitable, Dumbledore's energy could've been directed elsewhere, though it appeared that the Minister thought differently.

"These early mornings are magical, Harry, though I would've thought that there were finer ways to enjoy them," said Dumbledore, as he came into Harry's sight, his back flat against the ground. "Walking is more entertaining by far."

"I suppose I know for the future," Harry said with no effort to move, content to feel the cold ground against his spine. "Eikthyrnir was restless."

Dumbledore peered into the distance, where Eikthyrnir loped about easily, before chuckling. "He is restless still, my boy," he said. "In truth, I grow restless too."

"Sir?"

"I worry about Barty's demise," Dumbledore said, his voice deliberate. "Though, I fear even the best of intentions would not solve such a problem. And it was not within his character to die in anything other than a complicated fashion."

"Did you know him well?"

"It is difficult to not know of him if you've worked as I have for as long as I have, Harry," Dumbledore said. "With his son's incarceration, and his success in spite of it."

"Do you think he might have angered someone, politically?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "The sorts of people that he fought against would not attack in the manner that occurred," he said. "It is difficult these days, with the growing unrest, to allow events to go unconnected, however."

Harry finally moved, sitting up to address the Headmaster. "Do you think Voldemort had something to do with it?"

Dumbledore hummed. "It would certainly seem so," he said. "Barty imprisoned one of Tom's finest in his own son. Perhaps Barty knew more than he should have; it was one of his many talents."

Harry sighed. "What do the rest of the Ministry think?"

Dumbledore smiled. "That I'm a mad old fool, shouting at ghosts and fighting shadows," he said. "Truthfully, with the evidence currently possessed, they have every credit to think as much."

"I believe you, Headmaster." Harry said.

"Thank you, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Now, my intention in this visit was to offer some information, not simply complain to you."

Harry sat up fully then.

"There is to be a gathering; well a party, in truth," Dumbledore began, a frown appearing upon his face. "This to be for the champions, yourself obviously included, to be celebrated and to be told of what you will face in the final task."

"I see." Harry said.

"I suppose you do," Dumbledore replied, the lines of his frown falling further into his face. "Now, given your circumstance, you're to be given the choice of not attending, if that were preferable."

Harry paused for a moment, allowing the words to marinate in his mind.

"Am I supposed to tell you now?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore shook his head. "No," he said, before a chuckle. "That's the rather luxurious aspect of absence."

Harry smiled, grateful.

"I apologise that you're placed in this position once more," Dumbledore continued. "I shall get out of your way and allow your friend to exhaust you again."

Harry stood up. "There is actually something I'd like to talk to you about," he said, before adding. "If you're not too busy."

The Headmaster smiled. "Not at all," he said. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I could much use something slightly less mundane than what I'm currently occupied by, though I must ask we move to a slightly warmer location - my old bones don't take the cold as well they once did."

Harry agreed and he gave a look as to the whereabouts of Eikthyrnir, though the great beast had long since gone off to entertain himself. Harry's legs however were not so agreeable, faltering immediately as they wobbled above the grass.

"I think, perhaps, I may have a smarter method," Dumbledore said as he watched Harry struggle. He offered Harry his sleeve, to which Harry took immediately. "Much fun though it may have been to watch you struggle."

In an instant, Dumbledore moved the pair from open air to office with nary a sound and, thankfully for Harry, without exertion upon either of them.

"Now, what exactly is it that is troubling you?" Dumbledore asked, as he sank into his chair in a manner that struck Harry odd. Disconcerting even, for there was a need to the action, as if the seat were an oasis.

"It's about my magic-"

"Is it your wand?" Dumbledore asked, with a worry in his voice.

"I'm not entirely sure," Harry replied. "It's about Charms."

Dumbledore reclined in his chair slightly. "I had thought that the Elder Wand had cured you of that particular issue," he said, with pondering in his voice. "Perhaps it was simply a temporary fix to a deeper problem."

"Is that possible?"

Dumbledore smiled. "We are of magic, Harry; everything is possible," he said. "Perhaps you mean are there similar cases?" Harry nodded. "Well, there are cases of people that struggle with a subject, be that from lack of effort or lack of aptitude, though I doubt you belong to either case. Would you mind a demonstration, just to clarify?"

Harry agreed, brandishing his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa," he intoned carefully, directing the spell toward a quill upon the Headmaster's desk.

Harry felt the magic move through him then, from deep within him and through his wand into the world. And, just as it had done lately, the process felt horrid, as though pinpricks were being dragged through his veins along with the blood that sustained him. And, just as he expected, the outcome was equally unfortunate.

The issue was such that his very being began to ache to even begin to raise even the light object. The magical sense, much like the eyes when staring into the Sun, burned from such use. The sensation was entirely oppositional to what Harry had felt when performing Transfiguration, where his entire body felt lightened and his being felt emboldened.

"Stop, Harry, that is enough," Dumbledore declared, in grace. "I feel I may have a hypothesis."

It took Harry several tries to understand the Headmaster's words. Dumbledore watched him with quiet concern, choosing to allow silence to grow for moments to allow Harry to recover.

"Are you familiar with the study of the long-term effects of Dark magicks?" Dumbledore asked. Harry nodded, with slight delay. "As you know, the more one uses them, the more one is likely to use them again and the more one is likely to only use them."

Harry's mind finally caught up with the world around it.

"Isn't that because Dark magic ellicts addiction? And, therefore, none-use or use of other magicks causes withdrawal symptoms that are often painful?" Harry asked, rhetorically. Dumbledore nodded, nonetheless. "Are you suggesting that I'm somehow equally addicted to the Northern Magicks?"

"That was not my initial idea, though it is not impossible," Dumbledore replied, before a smile. "I believe this to be a physical manifestation of our shared, long-held idea. In truth, my idea is the opposite."

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"I recall our conversations at the very beginning of your endeavour in the Northern Magics," Dumbledore stated. "I stated then that Northern Magics sought to harness the 'Soul' of magic, of it's essence. I said then that modern magic sought submission, service from magic, rather than life."

"I don't understand, Sir." said Harry.

"I do not wish to hoist greatness or wonder upon you where it is not deserved, but I think I have an idea that I think bares fruit," explained Dumbledore. "Simply put I think that, just as a Dark warlock would, as you have experienced the Northern Magics, you wish to use them more, though I believe the reason to be oppositional. I think that modern magic is the force that is damaging. I believe that your being has finally experienced true magic and finds enormous distaste in returning to such a thing. And, I believe that it would be a terrible idea to enforce that you do such a thing."

Harry sat shocked as he listened to the Headmaster.

"You believe that magic, as we know it, is negative?" Harry asked, after a moment's gaping.

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly. "I do not think it is positive, rather than it being negative," he said, carefully. "It is the reason I rarely use spells or wand motions for that matter. I feel like we have sacrificed magical purity for ease and for most this would be a non-issue. But it is not for me. And it is not for you."

"Have you experienced this before?"

Dumbledore stood, walking over to the bookcase closest to him. "Not nearly as acutely as you have, but yes," he said, his index finger skimming the spines of the leather-bound books. "Otherwise I wouldn't go through the effort of avoiding such aids in casting spells," he settled upon a small book, much worn and easily missed. "I fear though that I do not know how to solve the problem without forcing you to give up much of the more technical and subsequently more unnatural aspects of magic."

The Headmaster thumbed through the pages of the book. Harry noted that most of the pages had the top corners folded, as though to remember.

"Do you know of anyone that might?" Harry asked, a worry beginning to form in the front of his mind.

Dumbledore smiled, though it was not a comfortable one. It was warped, sad and tragic.

"I do," he said, his eyes never leaving the book. "And, it seems that for all life has given me, it will no-doubt be forced to take in equal measure."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, the worry growing.

"There is a third person I know that experienced this issue," Dumbledore explained. "Unfortunately, that man is currently imprisoned in Nurmengard, and has been for the past fifty years."

"Grindelwald?"

"I'm afraid so," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet, his eyes still never leaving that book. "Gellert, for all of his faults, was a genius. Even his most dogmatic detractors could not dissuade themselves of that idea. He recognised the dangers of Dark magic and never fell prey to them, though now I know that was simply him not wishing for any force to hold power over him. And, as he sought great magic just as we have, when he returned to mundane magic, he noticed the very same discomfort that we have felt."

"Did he solve it?" Harry asked, leaning forward in his sight.

"Not in the time I knew him, or the time I opposed him. I suspect that may have been the reason that our duel caused so much amazement, for both of us refused to use any of the commonly known magicks due to this," Dumbledore stated. "Perhaps, in his seclusion, he has discovered a solution to the problem."

Finally, Dumbledore's eyes moved from the book and he placed it upon his desk, his blue eyes tinged with worry as they met Harry's.

"However, I think now you have to question if it is problem truly worth solving, or even putting forth the effort to solve," Dumbledore said. "Tell me; what do you want from magic?"

"I don't know how to answer that, Sir, other than the obvious," Harry said, after a while. "I want to live with it."

Dumbledore smiled brightly. "Now, which magicks do you feel make you feel most alive?"

"The Northern Magics."

"And, in your life, do you foresee a problem that can only be solved by highly-refined Charms?" Dumbledore asked. "Because, in my life, outside of incredibly specific and personal situations, I have not regularly used charms for anything other than making my life easier."

"But what of the Patronus Charm, Sir?" Harry asked. "Or the Arresting Momentum Charm? Or any Charm that might save my life?"

"The latter, I feel, is easily replaced, just as many like it. It does not take a spell to slow your speed down. It takes a force and a force can be created by many modes of magic, not just Charms," Dumbledore explained, his voice taking the slow, kind tone it often took when he began to educate. "As to the former, I do not know. Truly, I don't. Have you ever attempted the Charm?"

Harry shook his head.

"Perhaps it may be an outlier in your experience; only time will tell," Dumbledore replied. "The theory is very simple and that is often the great issue people have with it. It is a pure expression of feeling. Again, perhaps, the outcome desired may be able to be achieved in another method."

"Is that even close to likely?" Harry asked.

"I do not know," Dumbledore answered, dimming Harry's eyes. "In truth, it is entirely up to you. Magic is infinte and so too is your potential. What becomes of those things is entirely your doing."

Harry smiled at the kindness. "That's not relieving," Harry said. "Especially given the result of not being able to do that is losing my soul."

"It is good that you are you then," Dumbledore said, with a reassuring smile. "If it were anyone else, I would worry."

Dumbledore's hand skimmed the book once again. He cleared his throat.

"You know, this is the only thing of Gellert's that I held onto. Other than that wand, I suppose," Albus said, gesturing to the Elder Wand. "For years, I had thought it was haunting me. Perhaps now it can be of some use," he slid the book across his desk to Harry. "Though it will never be of use to me, it may be to you."

Harry let out a quiet gasp. "Are you sure of this, Headmaster?"

"No, I'm not," Albus said, his voice odd to Harry's ears. "But that does not matter, Harry. That book does greater good with you than it does with me and so you must have it."

Harry had nothing to say.

Dumbledore stood. "I don't think I'm going to learn anything new from that, but you shall," he said, as he began to walk out from his office and through the door that led to his personal rooms. "Be careful with it, though. There are dangerous ideas in there and even the finest minds get drawn in," he opened the door to his chambers. "I fear I've grown tired, Harry, so it will have to be farewell."

"Thank you." Harry said, confounded, before leaving the office, dog-eared notebook in hand.

The next few days were odd for Harry. With Dumbledore's approval, an abstinence from Charms had taken a weight from his shoulders. To know that even if you were outside of the norm and yet still be validated was a great comfort, especially when such validation came from Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore's point regarding magic's purpose weighed upon him, though. From the moment he discovered Magic was real, his ability had meant freedom. The freedom from his relatives, his lot in life. For him, magic had never become a utility. And, for Harry, he hated the idea that it would ever become so.

Upon its warmer winds, Spring too brought Tonks with it, her presence more frequent in its brighter mornings and later evenings.

Gone, then, was the weight of their encounters for Harry. In the winter, her presence had been thrilling, of course, but it was the bright spark in the dark days. Then, as they sat in the warm afternoon, the bright hues of her mingled with the light of day, her presence became comfortable and safe.

Tonks' head lolled from side to side as she spoke then, her head resting upon Harry's leg, her arms tracing fanciful drawings in the sky. "The other day, when we were at Abe's," she began, her tone as light as air. "What actually was going on?"

Harry moved his glasses from the bridge of his nose to rub there, paused in thought.

"My new wand is part of Dumbledore history," Harry said, before adding. "I don't think it is my place to say much more."

Tonks' nose wrinkled, irritated but understanding. "I do find it difficult sometimes to put the two versions of you together," she said. "You've changed so much."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when I first met you, you avoided attention like the plague," Tonks began. "Now you're in the middle of the most famous family in our world."

"I still avoid attention like the plague," Harry spoke, his eyes looking down at Tonks. "The Headmaster just enjoys making me suffer."

Tonks smiled. "Still though," she continued. "Even when Abe confronted you, you spoke clearly and you didn't stutter, and he's not the least threatening person around. It's amazing."

Harry's skin warmed, though it was not Spring to blame.

"I still get worried," Harry said. "I still don't like being around other people. It's just sometimes there's more important things to worry about."

Tonks frowned. "I don't want you anywhere near those important things," she said. "It's not your job. It's barely mine."

"After this tournament, I'll be nowhere near them," Harry said. "I can get back to happier times."

"Avoiding people?" Harry nodded.

"Exactly."

Grindelwald was an awful writer.

Harry had no doubt the man was formidable, but his grasp of the written word, he imagined, paralleled the grasp he held on his own moral compass. In his book, his mind seemed to sprawl, its path goalless and his focus ever-dimming, self-grandeur coating every word. That did not diminish the intrigue the book offered, though.

As Harry traversed the narcissism however, there were limits to be found, his grasp on truth never leaving him. He knew that no wizard could command the world alone, without support. And he knew that no wizard could manipulate magic alone, without the proper tool. For the proper tool to lie beside Harry as he read it then was equal parts odd and astounding.

Tonks' words did stick with him, then. He was just a teenager, cast in this position so central to Dumbledore's grand and illustrious life. He could not possibly understand why Dumbledore saw it fit to offer such a powerful, world-shifting power to him. Was it simply the means to Harry's problem being solved?

Harry had never felt as close to the real force of magic as he did then, with the Elder Wand in his hand, though he knew know that the wand no doubt offered that to whatever master it retained. With Grindelwald, the wand had offered him power beyond power, at the end to his own detriment. With Dumbledore, the wand had allowed him to write the world as he wished. It made Harry feel immature, then, that all the wand had given to him was simply his own core sorcery, reflected back upon him.

Nonetheless, Dumbledore did speak true in the book's contents. This was not a textbook, offered like McGonagall would in the beginnings of his first year, the first touch of magic that had captivated him so. There were no real spells to see, but rather the visceral reactions the man felt as he played with magic and its power.

Grindelwald, even as he sat, dormant, in the bowels of some long-forgotten jail, brought fear into Harry, simply for how similar he found the man to be to him. Grindelwald drew great comfort from seclusion, the rest of the world tedious to his mind's own imaginings. Until power took grip on his heart.

Harry had looked upon the Elder Wand oddly, then. The man, it seemed, had a madness that only he could conjure, but this weapon had been the catalyst in such an event. He didn't know whether or not the wand would, in time, push him to his worst.

Furthermore, they shared a fascination with the mythical, Gellert's mirroring many of his contemparies at the time, with his fascination in the occult. In his youth, he'd attempted to derive the power of Thor, drawing war and lightning into his wand, his results successful through his own ingenuity, rather than by any esoteric study. In his later years however, he'd found more folly with Freyja, the Goddess of fertility.

He'd worn her emblem upon his lapel, a warm front upon his own cold desires. He'd read of her amulet, Brinsingamen, upon which his power could live and thrive and amplify, an enchanted ornament beyond any that bore its likeness. It itself held no power, but through such an amulet, power lay at home, and without it, Freyja could not find comfort.

With that too, he'd had success, though he'd ignored such a thing in later life, when all but the Elder Wand seemed useless in comparison.

Nonetheless, the idea gave Harry pause. Perhaps, this was to be his salvation. There was no fault in magic, for magic was itself faultless, beauty infinite. However, the issue laid with his own perception of magic, or rather his perception of his own magical ability. Perhaps, through moving the media through which he interacted magic, he could find solace.

However, Harry was saved from such thoughts by Neville Longbottom, a surprise in all truth.

"Harry, mate, we've got an idea," Neville began, his tone light, his eyes hopeful.

"Who's we?"

"Gryffindor," Neville replied, his hand raise to stop Harry's response. "Now, I know you aren't massive on house pride, but most of us think it's pretty cool that one of us is basically winning the Triwizard Tournament-"

"I'm second-"

"Only because you're being cheated by the judges," Neville retorted, before pressing on. "Look, I know you're not big on Gryffindor, or parties in general, but a lot of the younger years basically worship you and it'd be nice for them if we had a party to celebrate your success."

"There is no success," Harry replied. "I haven't won anything yet, and I didn't even want to be in it in the first place."

"Harry, you killed a dragon," Neville said, his voice laced with conviction. "You're fourteen and you killed a dragon. You're gonna go down in Gryffindor history for that alone."

"There's still one task left, though," Harry interjected. "Wouldn't the celebrations make more sense to happen after I make sure I don't still die."

Neville smiled. "Well we'll have one after, too," he said, as he watched Harry's face, his voice then turning more serious. "Look, Harry, I don't mean to pry, but you spend a lot of time alone, and I like to think we're mates. I just want to make sure you aren't slowly going mad up here."

Grindelwald's book loomed large in Harry's mind.

"Alright then," Harry said, to Neville's surprise. "But there's no assurance that I'll be any fun there."

"We'll see," said Neville, with a smile, before his face fell into a stoic mask. "I am sorry for what happened with Sirius."

"Right people at the wrong time, I think," Harry said, after a moment's thought. "Is he alright?"

"He's better than he was," Neville replied. "Off visiting some parts of the Black family that aren't so deeply set in hating muggles. He's with a healer a lot of the time."

"Do they help?"

"I don't know," Neville said, the confidence that he so deeply held, faltering. "Being with dementors that long does things to the soul that can't be understood. He keeps going, though, so that's something."

"Any luck in finding Pettigrew?"

"He's a rat; hiding seems to be a talent of his," Neville said, disappointed. "Sirius is hoping to get a more permanent home soon. I think after that it might make everything easier."

For Harry, it seemed, life did not seem likely to be getting easier. Sirius though, perhaps he would be so lucky. After everything, he may deserve that.

Soon, however, life would hopefully begin to de-entangle itself, for Harry. Soon, the tournament would be over, and all of the trappings it brought with it coming to an end too. With any luck, it would be Neville that was brought into the spider's web of fate and not Harry. He seemed to handle it with a degree of grace far beyond himself.

"Do you think it'll ever stop?" asked Harry, to Neville, as his thoughts began to cascade.

"What, with Sirius?"

Harry's head moved from side to side. "Sirius, the Ministry, everything," he furthered. "Do you think it will ever settle; will your life ever settle?"

"Will the world suddenly just be better?" Neville asked, to then answer. "No, I don't think so. There's always bad people, and in our world, bad people can make the world bad easily. Doesn't mean we're gonna stop trying to change that though," Neville ran a hand through his hair. "Personally, I don't think I want it to settle. I've never wanted a boring life; seems like life gave me what I wanted."

"But aren't you tired of it yet?"

Neville laughed. "Never," he said. "I don't care about prophecy, but I know what I was made to do, and I know what's right. And I'll never get tired of doing what I need to do."

With that, Neville allowed Harry has isolation, upon which Harry turned his mind anew, vigour returned as he turfed through the collection of materials he'd collated in his room over the year. Perhaps, in this den of his, he may too find such purpose.

A/N: I have deleted chapter 32 from this work. A full explanation is on my profile, but essentially I didn't think it fit the story, and it's probably the biggest reason I haven't written any more of this fic as I don't think I can continue to write it from the point that I left it.