31 July 2014
While Harry's birthday celebration in London had been primarily so that his magical friends could attend, the celebration in New York was for everyone who could make it. "Everyone," in this case, meant Dad, Louise, Sirius, all of the Avengers - Thor had flown in from London with Sirius on an aeroplane and apparently found them fascinating vehicles - Pepper Potts, Dad's friend Rhodey, Happy, a woman from S.H.I.E.L.D. named Maria Hill, and several of Harry's tutors.
"Everyone" did not, unfortunately, include Hermione or anyone else near his own age. A couple of other kids had joined in their tutoring in mundane subjects, but since they weren't cleared to know about either the Avengers or magic, they couldn't be invited, and Hermione was still in England with her parents.
Not that he could be angry with her about that. Since Dad and Uncle Steve and Sirius and the others had come into his life, he understood what it meant to miss your family, and to actively want to spend time with them.
Speaking of Sirius….
Harry glanced around the room again, frowning. He'd left Sirius just as the man received a text message, but he wasn't here yet. Most of their friends were here, so who could Sirius be having such an intense text conversation with?
As if summoned by his mental question - and Harry didn't think magic could do that, exactly - the lift opened and Sirius emerged, phone in hand, thumbs flying over the keyboard, and cackling. Actually cackling.
"Oh, that can't be anything good," Steve murmured beside him, and Harry nodded.
"New rule," Dad called. "Anything that makes you laugh like that, you have to share with the rest of the class."
Sirius looked up, tears of mirth in his eyes, and glanced around as though surprised to see so many people present. Then he half-shrugged.
"You won't believe me if I just tell you," he said. "So, JARVIS, will you put the first text - and only the first text - of my current thread on a screen somewhere?"
The screen over the fireplace lit and Harry read the words displayed, closed his eyes and shook his head, then opened them to confirm that, yes, he really had read what he thought he read.
212-555-0000: At the hospital. Jake set his butthole on fire again.
Silence reigned for almost a full minute before Clint Barton laughed. "Jake must have some epic farts."
"The really disturbing part of that," Maria Hill said, "is the word again. Why would you do - whatever - a second time?"
"Why would you do it the first time?" Steve asked in a tone that spoke of morbid fascination.
"Drunk, maybe?" Rhodey offered.
Sirius grinned evilly. "Want to see the rest?"
Harry wasn't the only one who shouted, "Yes!"
SB: OMG! So sorry! What happened?
212-555-0000: Usual. Got drunk, took a dare.
SB: Didn't learn his lesson last time?
212-555-0000: Last time was just ER for burn ointment. This time 3rd degree burns. Moving him to semi-private room now.
Harry was laughing so hard his stomach hurt, and he didn't appear to be the only one. In fact, the only ones who weren't laughing - Pepper, Maria, and Uncle Steve - wore horrified expressions and were probably too shocked to react otherwise.
"Truly," Clint gasped between chuckles, "epic farts."
Dad's laugh trailed into a cough, and when he spoke, he sounded remarkably sober. "JARVIS, track that number. I want to know which hospital they're in."
"Lenox Hill on 77th Street," JARVIS answered promptly. "Though I am uncertain why you wish to know."
"Stupidity like that cannot go unacknowledged," Dad declared. "I'm sending him a case of Beano."
"What's Beano?" Harry asked.
Before Dad could answer, a vertical circle of fire appeared in the middle of the room.
Dimensional portal? Harry wondered, even as his wand slid into his hand, certain the other magicals in the room also had wands and would be ready to fight if needed.
At the periphery of his vision, he saw armor encasing Dad's hands, Uncle Steve shifting to guard Pepper, Mjolnir flying into Thor's hand, Natasha producing twin pistols, and how the heck did Clint suddenly have an arrow nocked in a bow?
A stocky man of indeterminate Asian origin dressed in a burgundy and purple tunic over black trousers stepped through the portal and into the room, apparently unfazed by the number of weapons arrayed against him.
"The Ancient One wishes to speak with you," he said, and stepped aside.
A…person? Harry thought was female, but that impression was based solely on bone structure, as…she? Yeah, she…was bald and her figure was hidden by saffron-colored robes…stepped through the portal and into the room looking as if she owned the place.
Harry raised his wand.
The…Ancient One simply smiled a little. "You will not need that. And in fact, I bring you a birthday gift, Harry Potter."
"Uh - sorry," Dad put in, "but consulting hours are-"
"Please, Mr. Stark," the woman said. "I mean you no harm, and if I did, I would have already done it."
Harry swallowed. "I - um, sorry for being rude, but I thought only friends and family brought birthday gifts, and I don't know you."
"No," she agreed, focusing on him once again. "But you've only recently come into my…territory, perhaps. Or sphere of influence if you prefer. A welcoming gift is appropriate. That it comes on your fourteenth birthday, a time of change leading to independence, is even more appropriate."
Harry was about to protest - he'd been in America almost a year - before he remembered that they'd only come up to the Avengers compound in upstate New York a week ago. Maybe that was what she meant?
Or maybe to her a year was recently?
Harry glanced around the room, taking strength from the sheer number of people ready to defend their home, before saying, "Okay, I guess."
She smiled. "I see you use a wand to channel and focus your magical energy."
"Yes," Harry said, and the woman shook her head.
"Such silliness. You do magic naturally until you receive a wand, and then they force you to use that wand. Understand this, Harry Potter - wandless magic is not as difficult as you've been told. You simply must change your way of thinking. But until you do, you deserve a better wand than you have."
"But - this was the one that worked for me at Ollivander's," Harry said.
"And it is the brother of the wand that killed your parents, and that is a horrible thing to carry," the Ancient One replied, and Harry wondered how she could possibly know that. "So, to welcome you to your new independent life, I offer a wand unique to you."
She flicked her hand and a mostly cylindrical piece of wood appeared in it.
"Made of what?" Harry asked.
"Baobab," she answered, and Sirius groaned.
"What?" Harry and Dad asked in chorus.
"Baobab is probably the most spiritual wood there is," Sirius replied. "It speaks to ancient awareness, divine blessing, spiritual power, and the ability to transition to and from the spirit world."
"None of that sounds particularly awful," Dad offered.
"Nor is it," the Ancient One agreed. "But it is unusual."
"Great," Harry muttered. "I'm a freak even in the magical world."
"Don't ever use that word to describe yourself again," Dad aimed a finger at him. "I'll have to institute a swear jar for that word if you do."
Harry ducked his head. He hadn't meant it that way, at least he didn't think he'd meant it that way, but he couldn't blame Dad for his reaction.
"I won't," Harry promised, then turned back to their visitor. "What's the core?"
"It has none at the moment," the Ancient One replied. "The best will be the whisker of a grim."
"A what?" Dad looked to Sirius, who, for once, looked - well - grim.
"A type of Hellhound," he said flatly.
"Not entirely correct," the Ancient One said. "Yes, a grim is Death's creature, but it is in no way associated with Hell."
"Um - sorry," Harry said, "but where am I supposed to find one of those?"
Sirius heaved a sigh. "It had to be a whisker."
Then he shifted into his animagus form. The Ancient One approached him and with a flick of her fingers, one whisker came loose from Sirius' muzzle.
As Sirius shifted back to his human form, rubbing his upper lip, she rested the whisker along the wood, and Harry watched, amazed, as it sank into the wood and the wood reshaped itself into something resembling a long, slender fang. He shivered at the resemblance to the fang that had bitten him at the end of his second year, unconsciously rubbing the scar on his arm.
Then Ancient One offered the baobab wand to Harry, grip first, and Harry reached for it hesitantly.
It was almost anticlimactic when Harry's hand closed around the wand. There were no sparks, no gust of wind, just a faint tingling through his body.
"Use it well," the Ancient One said. Then she and her escort turned for the portal behind them.
"Wait!" Harry said, and they turned back. "You said a wand isn't necessary. Will you teach me how to do your kind of magic?"
"My role in your existence has only ever been to provide you this wand, though even it is not the wand you are destined for," the Ancient One replied. "Perhaps my successor has another role in your existence. It is not for me to see."
Then she and her escort were gone, the portal closing behind them.
"Well," Dad said after a long moment. "Pretty sure any other gifts will be anticlimactic, but there are still a bunch of them, so you should get started."
HP – HP – HP – HP
It really was too bad Bertha Jorkins had had to die. She'd been enjoyable company in the restaurant and even more enjoyable in bed after. So enjoyable that Jasper had delayed a couple of days in bringing her back to Voldemort for the ritual to give him a new body.
If what Voldemort had now could be called a body.
Certainly, it was a physical form as opposed to the wraith he'd been before the ritual, and in that sense, it was a body. But it wasn't a body such as a toddler, even a baby, had. It was, rather, a proto-body, and far less appealing than Bertha's body had been.
Still, helping Voldemort helped Hydra - if only tangentially - so Bertha's death was necessary.
And, if sometimes Jasper privately wished for a bed warmed by more than the charms woven into the structure of the magical tent he'd bought, that was nobody's business but his own.
Tonight, proto-Voldemort was propped in a chair across the table from Jasper while they ate dinner. Thankfully, nutrition potions could be spelled into its - no, his - stomach, sparing Jasper the need to feed him as if he were a baby.
Jasper himself had eaten most of his dinner before he sat down at the table. He'd made the mistake of eating a hearty meal in front of his … companion … the night before, and while proto-Voldemort couldn't do much more than complain at length and volume in a high, cold voice that promised retribution on everyone and everything, a fully-restored Voldemort could make Jasper's life very unpleasant indeed.
Which thought made him reconsider the wisdom of his actions - not just joining with Voldemort, but in taking a leave of absence from S.H.I.E.L.D. to do so. Oh, Hydra had big plans that Jasper was determined to be a part of, but they wouldn't come to fruition for a few more years, so in that respect he could afford to be absent for a while.
But an absence would surely be noted, and Jasper wasn't certain he wanted that kind of note made by anyone.
Then again, having Voldemort to assist them would be worth the slight risk to his cover.
He hoped.
"I will say it again." Voldemort's high, cold voice yanked Jasper out of his musings. "Your choice of sacrifice was … supreme."
"Pure luck," Jasper demurred, taking a sip of cheap local wine. He'd assured Voldemort he would never drink something exquisite - in taste or value - unless Voldemort could join him, so Voldemort allowed him this one indulgence.
"Or a sign that Fate is on our side," Voldemort replied. "The Triwizard Tournament - it's a perfect way to get at the Potter brat."
Jasper looked up at that. "What do you mean?"
"The tournament - three trials, spread over nine months, including the selection of the competitors. Three times three - a most auspicious sign." If proto-Voldemort had a full body, he'd likely be tapping his fingers together in glee. "Don't you see?"
"I'm afraid not."
"I will force the Potter brat to compete, and make certain that he wins, so that he is saturated in magic at the same time he is weakened by the trials," proto-Voldemort explained. "The prize cup will be made into a portkey that will bring him to the ritual site. There, you will use his blood to resurrect me, and I will kill him."
Oh, that plan had one very big flaw that proto-Voldemort wasn't aware of. Jasper had to make him aware of it in such a way that fully-resurrected Voldemort wouldn't be eager or even tempted to mete out revenge for informing him.
He cleared his throat. "Are you aware that Potter isn't his real name?"
"What? Of course it is!"
"It's the name he's known by," Jasper allowed. "But James Potter was not his biological father."
"What? What do you mean?" Proto-Voldemort's voice got even higher with shock.
"Somehow - probably some sort of sperm donation agreement - a man named Tony Stark is Harry Potter's biological father."
"Why does this matter to me?" There was an edge of irritation to the question that Jasper didn't like, and so strove to negate.
"How much money does your richest follower have?" he asked. He waved a hand to stop an answer. "The answer doesn't really matter because Stark is one of the richest men in the world. He's got a net worth in the millions of Galleons." Jasper did a quick mental conversion. "Thirteen or fourteen million, to be precise."
Proto-V stared at him. "Impossible!"
"Hardly." Jasper downed the last of his wine and reached for the bottle to pour another. "He's an inventor - a craftsman, if you will. The United States government bought a lot of his inventions at very high prices. Add that to the wealth he inherited from his father, and you get a hundred billion dollars."
"Impossible." But Proto-V sounded less certain than before.
"But that's not all. Remember that I said the U.S. government bought a lot of Stark's inventions?" Jasper didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "That means he's got contacts in very high places."
"Muggles." Proto-V sniffed disdainfully.
Jasper snorted in return, and proto-Voldemort glared at him. Jasper shrugged. "That kind of wealth buys a lot of influence, as you know. Plus, the knowledge that he's Harry Potter's biological father is not exactly secret. Making him an enemy would be … unwise. I respectfully suggest you choose someone else."
"No, it must be Potter."
"Why?" Jasper demanded. Proto-V's glare made him add, "If you don't mind the question."
Proto-Voldemort considered that long enough that Jasper finished his second glass of wine. Finally, he said, "There's a prophecy that says Potter has the power to vanquish me."
Jasper poured himself a third glass of wine to buy time to hide his reaction. Despite Hydra's flirtation with the occult and his own status as a wizard, Jasper was deeply suspicious of prophecy.
Certainly there had been credible seers in the past - notably the Pythian at Delphi, the Sibylline Oracles of Rome, and even Michel de Nostradame - but in modern times? Jasper could count the number of verified prophecies on one hand and have enough fingers left to play a French horn.
Still, if Voldemort gave a prophecy credence, he would, too. That didn't mean there weren't other ways to approach the topic, though.
"I understand the need to eliminate Potter," Jasper said. "But there are other, quieter ways to do it. I work for an organization that can get access to Stark. Access to Stark means access to Potter. I can slip a portkey on him at a time when they won't be expecting an attack - as they most certainly will if Potter is entered into the Triwizard Tournament while he's living and going to school in America."
Proto-Voldemort snarled. "He's in America?"
"Stark's an American. He took Potter there last year."
Proto-Voldemort let out a string of curses so creative that Jasper was tempted to take notes. When he finished, Jasper said, "Is there anyone else that might be suitable?"
It was a long time before Voldemort allowed, "Perhaps."
"Who?"
"Another boy - Something Longbottom. His parents fought the Death Eaters many times."
"We'll find him, then, and use him for the ritual," Jasper said.
"Understand - I do not fear this Stark person," Voldemort said. "I simply do not wish anything to go wrong with the ritual."
"Of course," Jasper agreed without a hint of mockery or irony in his tone. Then he cleared his throat. "That's still months away. What do you say about a little mayhem in the meantime?"
"Mayhem?" Proto-Voldemort looked interested. "What are you suggesting?"
"The Quidditch World Cup is being held in England next month. I'm sure we can think of something."