Returning to Glory

Promises Kept

22 December 1991

Harry's boots thudded on the floor. The sound was loud in the silent dining room. Holly framed the ceiling and Poinsettias were woven into vine that framed the windows.

The grounds were covered in a thick sheet of snow and the lake was frozen over. The sky above it was gray and full of thick clouds.

He came to a stop at Grindelwald's right. "Your Majesty."

Grindelwald sat down and Harry followed.

Per their yearly tradition, roast duck with bread dumplings, red cabbage, and a bottle of Riesling were on the table.

Grindelwald began filling his plate. "How was school?" was asked in German.

"It's warm outside here," Harry said as he looked on. "I imagine Greece will feel like hell."

Grindelwald smirked. "That didn't answer my question."

"Classes are fine. Everything else is cold and miserable." He shook his head. "The sun is gone and I've never seen so much snow."

"But that didn't keep you off your broom, did it?"

Harry smiled. "Nope."

Grindelwald cleared his throat. "Have you been keeping an eye on the Triwizard Tournament?"

Harry made a face. "No, the very thought of it makes me sick."

Delphine Lestrange had been chosen by the Goblet as a representative for Beauxbatons. Everyday he hoped and wished she'd lose or be eaten by a beast.

He looked at the ceiling. "Why Godric's Hollow?"

"What would you prefer I do with my ceiling? Show your grandfather's defeat?"

Harry paused in filling his plate to look at him. "That was not in the spirit of Christmas. And I was asking why you went there in the first place."

"To visit my aunt"

Harry peered at him over his glasses. "You went during the school year and stayed. And Mrs. Bagshot said you barely knew each other. Why would you visit an old woman you barely knew during a time all your peers were in school?"

"She talks too much," Grindelwald spat.

"What's in Godric's Hollow?"

Their eyes met and, in a rare move, Harry looked away.

"Oh? You are not so bold today? Or do you wish to keep your secrets?" He laughed. It was low and sinister. "Ollivander sent a note to Albus last June. He mentioned you showed interest in a wand –'a wood and core combination' – that was more powerful than any other."

"He talks too much."

Grindelwald nodded. "Indeed," he said. "If he wasn't under Albus' protection, he would be dead already."

"Like Gregorovitch?"

"Yes," Grindelwald drawled. "Just like Mykew. They want to prove they are smart, so they run their mouths. You're not so foolish. Just ignorant. It must be corrected before it's too late."

Harry exhaled. "Why kill him?"

"Why not?"

"Because he wasn't a threat."

Grindelwald nodded. "Correct. He was a liability." He laughed a little. "And if there is something to be found in Godric's Hollow, I'm certain nothing I say will stop you from unearthing it."

Harry raised his glass. "Thank you for your faith."

"Now I shall ask you an invasive question: where is Bartemius Crouch Jr.?"

Harry shrugged. "I really don't know."

"Have you ever met Bartemius Crouch Jr.?"

Harry blinked. "Did you spike the wine?"

"A genius who doesn't know how Veritaserum works?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I've never met him."

Grindelwald exhaled. "You shouldn't lie for you're in Germany and it is close to Christmastime. Krampus will be roaming about in search of ill-behaved children. I will send him a note about you."

Harry snorted. "Why would you send a note to yourself?"

Grindelwald snapped his fingers twice in rapid succession. Two dark purple boxes flew towards him. "Merry Christmas."

"What? No books?" Harry asked as he opened the box. Inside was a golden key with a stag head with broken antlers. "A key to…" His eyes widened. "Oh…thank you." He hesitated, looked at the other box, then said, "The broken antlers are a bit much."

Now he just needed to figure out how to rebuild it.

"He went to my house and melted my wolves," Grindelwald said. "You're lucky I didn't put his antlers to bed."

"Didn't he do that after you destroyed Potter Manor?"

Grindelwald waved a dismissive hand. "Frederick should've minded his business. The branch in the states wasn't even on my mind then here he comes." He sat up and pointed his finger. "Your people…take nothing to do with what they're supposed to, but just as soon as someone so much as thinks of harming a muggle they're ready to call the banners and mobilize every Potter from New York to Sydney. Self-righteous."

"Kings of the Forest." He cleared his throat. "You're welcome by the way."

Grindelwald was all astonishment and Harry wanted laugh.

"For what?"

"That self-righteousness made every Potter from New York to Sydney take up arms against Tom Riddle," Harry replied. "Ethan and Albert, I'm sure, sends their best."

Grindelwald just curled lip. "Does Harry Potter?"

"No, I'm certain he doesn't. Like at all. I'm more certain of that than I am of my own name."

"I meant the one who consorted with Bartemius Crouch."

Harry tilted his head. "I don't know anything about my grandfather consorting with Barty."

Grindelwald leaned forward. "One day you will tell me exactly what happened to that boy."

••

Ignotus Peverell

23 December 1991

"Good morning."

Cassiopeia sighed. "I despise everyone who taught you how to break and enter."

Harry sat down at the table, which was in a room with lilac walls and dark wood flooring. Draco and his mother, Narcissa, a tall, beautiful blonde, were there as well.

"That's…" He counted names. "That's about five members of your family. Six if you include yourself. Ooh, seven. Nymphadora."

"What do you want, you insufferable know-it-all?"

Harry smiled at her. "I'm traveling and needed some place to stay."

"What was the point of me introducing you to your family?"

"Charlus is wherever your sister is," Harry said. He glanced at Narcissa as he said, "Henry is somewhere with your aunt."

Cassiopeia sat back. "Certainly you don't mean…"

"Er – Crouch's grandmother?" Harry shrugged. "The Blacks are like an infection Charlus can't get rid of. It stinks."

Draco inadvertently snorted. His cheeks pinked when the other three turned to look at him.

Cassiopeia pointed to the door. "Get out and you," she said as she pointed at Draco, "have some pride."

"I'm here until thirteen hundred."

"Why not stay for lunch?"

Harry waved his hand. "I have things to do."

"I thank you for making time to see me in your busy schedule."

Harry nodded. "You're welcome."

"How was school?"

He shrugged. "Fine."

"Draco tells me you're having difficulty with your potions professor?"

Harry didn't look up from his toast. "Hardly."

"You're not criticized every class?"

He shrugged. "I'm also given four point fives on all my potions."

"I get fives," Draco announced.

Harry, at last, looked up. On his face was an amused grin, which seemed to surprise everyone. "You remind me of another boy I know. Simeon Smith?"

Cassiopeia coughed.

"Bella used to do that to me," Narcissa said casually. "Call me a Rosier."

Harry nodded. "I can see how you and Estelle are a lot alike."

Cassiopeia laughed out loud.

Narcissa pinked and her eyes widened. "How dare – you are still a nasty, little swine."

Harry grinned. "I was raised by the Blacks. I have no choice but to be." Narcissa looked at Cassiopeia and he said, "She can't help you. She's proud of the way I am." He looked at Cassiopeia to see that she was, indeed, amused and pleased. "See?"

Later, while Harry was getting dressed Cassiopeia paid him a visit. They were in his bedroom, which was all shades of black save for the gold 'veins' in the wall paint and the gold chandelier and drapes,

"I see you have learned to handle criticism and goading like a respectable person of society."

Harry snorted. "I don't need to have go at Narcissa Malfoy? That's still her name, yeah? She's lost enough."

"It's Black now. And how kind of you."

He sighed. "I'm trying."

"I was asking about your professor? Draco has mentioned some of the things she's said to you."

Harry laughed softly. "Thanos upped her criticizing 'cause I told her she was light work. She still is compared to Snape. She has a line she won't cross." He pulled his navy blue trousers over his white dress shirt. "Malfoy gets to prep and brew at a nice pace. I came in with the fourth best score all-time on my potions entrance exam. Thanos is making me prep and brew quickly and demanding I do it well."

Only Rolf was prepping anywhere close to as fast as he and that was because he wanted to win the potions tourney, too.

Harry was coming close to accepting that one day he might have to accept Rolf was a better brewer.

"She wants you to win the potions tournament. Ahh." She nodded. "What did you come here for?"

"I need help." Cassiopeia stepped forward to tie his tie as he said, "You know a lot of my secrets and I'd like to keep them."

"Are you asking me to teach you occlumency?"

He nodded. "Please? Grindelwald is asking questions."

"I will be here, so we can begin on Boxing Day?"

Harry nodded. He then picked up a vial of green potion that came out like jelly. He patted over his head then grabbed a comb to give himself a side-part and comb it through.

"Where in Merlin's name are you off to, Bartemius Potter?"

He smiled. "I'm having lunch with Adalbert Waffling then I'll head over to Bartemius'. We need to speak then I'm going to Bathilda Bagshot's."

Cassiopeia exhaled. "You are carrying a heavy loud labeled Potter. I hope you're rewarded for it."

Harry considered asking her how to rebuild a house, but thought better of it in the end.

"I hope you change clothes – or at least refresh yourself – between now and this evening. I don't want you in anyone's home musty. You have told too many people we are associated, so it would be a poor reflection of me."

Harry shook his head with a smile on his face. "Thanks, Aunt Cass."

He stepped inside moments later to find the interior had polished, dark flooring and soft gray walls. The upholstered chairs were bright teal with dark wood frames.

"Waffling," he said to the maître d'.

The woman, short and blonde, led him over to a table where an ancient man sat. He had amber eyes and a long, white beard. His robes were red and little, silver snowflakes twinkled on his matching, pointed hat.

Mr. Waffling stood up and held out his hand. "It's nice to formally meet you, Mr. Potter."

"Good afternoon, sir, and same."

They sat down to order their food. Harry's plate had asparagus with a poached egg and dukkah spice, something he was fond of from his trips to Alexandria. Mr. Waffling started off with smoked salmon. Watercress dressing had been drizzled on the plate.

They spoke on menial things until Mr. Waffling said, "I'm surprised by your continued interest in divination. Most people, especially those you're compared to, outright dismiss it."

"I'm mostly interested in the history," Harry replied.

"But you wish to prove astrology is something to take seriously."

Harry made a so-so motion with his hand.

Mr. Waffling tutted. "I have it on excellent authority that you are interested in proving the importance of the planets and stars in potions. Have you looked up any of the experiments."

Harry nodded. "They've all been conducted in a musty cellar."

Mr. Waffling looked at him with amusement.

"We know the moon affects smaller masses more than larger ones," Harry continued. "We know the moon affects objects closer to it than the ground. So it doesn't make sense to see how potions brewed in a cellar under Aries or when Mercury is bright affects humans who drink it in that time frame. Instead, someone should pluck a jobberknoll when Mercury is bright and/or simmer Veritaserum in the mountains, then compare it to a Veritaserum brewed in a musty cellar."

Mr. Waffling leaned forward. "Have you spoken to Professor Thanos about this?"

Harry laughed. "I don't have the time."

"She's from Crete. It is but a floo ride away from Corfu." He leaned back. "You should speak with her."

"I'll think about it."

Mr. Waffling pointed at him. "Do."

They ordered their mains next. Harry grabbed a dish with lobster and cod covered in hollandaise. Off to the side was a baby green salad. Mr. Waffling had aged, braised beef cheek and carrot puree with a side of smoked broccoli.

"What happens after you win your tourneys?" Mr. Waffling asked.

"I'll start working on the broom," he answered. "Or the animagus transformation."

Mr. Waffling raised his eyebrows. "Broom?"

"My friend asked me if I was going to make us a broom," he said. "I'd like to. I've already started learning how to enchant objects to fly unaided."

"You love to fly," Mr. Waffling mused. "You realize the animagus transformation is based on personality rather than personal interests?"

Harry shook his head. "No, I didn't actually, but I don't want to be a bird anyway. I'll be able to fly on my own before then."

Mr. Waffling smiled and tipped his wine glass. He cut into his beef and cleared his throat. "I'm all about encouraging students…"

Harry closed his eyes, which elicited a laugh.

"No pressure, but the journals and a number of organizations have yearly competitions. Children mail in research and winners receive a monetary award among other things."

Harry opened his eyes with a contemplative look on his face. "Like – err – Hector Dagworth's Young Extraordinary Potioneer award? Leandros mentioned that one to me."

Mr. Waffling inclined his head. "Yes, among others. If you're ever chewing on something and wish to investigate, just send me a word and I'll give you some information on who to send it to. No, pressure, of course. Just something to mull over while you're dueling and competing on the practical level."

"Is that how Dumbledore – err His Majesty – won gold for alchemy?"

"Yes," he said. "Do you believe you'll ever be interested in alchemy?

Harry exhaled. "Give me four years and I'll get there."

"I look forward to seeing everything you do in the time between."

Harry spent another hour with Mr. Waffling before leaving the restaurant and flying low until he spotted Crouch House. With the pen knife Arcturus had gifted him many years ago, he slipped inside the gates and the front door.

The main parts of Crouch House was all ivory wall paper with dark wood, bottom paneling. The ceiling was rib-vaulted and crystal chandeliers hung from it.

He found Bartemius in his office. The polished dark, wood floor continued, but the walls were gray and the chairs were indigo.

Naturally, his desk was in order. Papers were stacked into two, neat piles of the same height. He had a set number of quills and always put it back when he was finished. The picture frames and the desk itself were well polished.

It was too much for Harry, so, per usual, he picked up a book and placed it on his desk.

"Why must we always do this dance?"

Harry scratched his arm. "'Cause every time I come in here I get hives."

"So why do you enter?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "We need to talk."

"What do you want?"

"Are you alone?"

Bartemius looked around. "Do you see someone else?"

Harry huffed. "I'm not stupid. I know she's sometimes hiding behind a door it's why I stay so long sometimes. It's funny to imagine her getting annoyed in a cupboard while I refuse to leave, but now is important."

Harry was amused to see Bartemius' neck redden.

"She is not here."

"Grindelwald asked me about him again. I asked Cassiopeia to help me since you're going to be at work. I just wanted to let you know to be on your guard, Auror."

Bartemius nodded. "Thank you." He looked Harry up and down and even leaned forward to look at his boots. "Well done." He placed his quill back in its holder then leaned back in his seat. "The Ogden's are throwing a Christmas party tomorrow night. You need not stay the entire night, but I'm demanding you join me. Smile for a picture or two and maybe dance."

Harry looked at the ceiling. "What time?"

"Begins at nine. Prepare to have a late supper."

That evening, Harry paid a visit to Mrs. Bagshot. Godric's Hollow was a charming village full of lookalike cottages on both sides of a narrow road.

Over beef Wellington, Harry asked, "I've been listening to my friends who take Magical Design. Are their magical architects?"

Mrs. Bagshot nodded. "Of course. There are interior designers, contractors. George Abbott is an excellent one. He lives down the street."

Harry nodded, internally rejoicing at getting exactly what he wanted. To appear more casual, he continued to inquire about the career. When he felt it was appropriate to move on, he asked, "Can you tell me about the new gods?"

Mrs. Bagshot smiled. "Henry Potter, Aldrich Lestrange, and Fatin Jalali – "

Harry grinned. "The other new gods. Your nephew and his friend."

"What about them?"

He frowned. "What made them come together?"

"Two brilliant minds; two handsome boys looking for a like-minded equal," she answered. "I had no reason to believe they were planning what they did for they began by arguing over charms and transfiguration. They settled down in their love of history and lore."

Harry leaned forward. "Lore?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "They were obsessed with a fairytale: The Tale of the Three Brothers."

"Were they real?" Harry asked. "The three brothers?"

She nodded. "Very much so. They lived in the twelfth century, I believe."

Harry waited, but she didn't offer a name. Interesting. "Do you think their toys were real, too?"

She peered at him for a long while and Harry stared back with all the audacity he possessed.

"I know the wand has a bloody history and I believe I have seen it for myself," she admitted. "Therefore I must believe the cloak and ring are, too." She picked up her napkin to fiddle with. "But just as I know the wand isn't unbeatable, the cloak cannot provide immortality nor can the ring bring back the dead. Now, may I ask you a question?"

Harry nodded.

"Who first read you The Tale of the Three Brothers?"

"Your nephew."

She smiled, but there was no happiness behind it. Only frustration. "He did that for a reason."

"Yes, but I don't know what that is."

"But you will find out one way or another, won't you?" She shook her head. "Take care, Harry. You are but a little boy."

A few hours later, Harry walked the sidewalk of the narrow road. Snow crunched under his boots and his gray cloak billowed behind him. He had his hood pulled up and gray, leather gloves covered his hands.

The chimneys of the cottages puffed out smoke. Many of them had decorations up. One cottage had lights hovering above it and the lights shifted to various Christmas related images. At present, Santa in a sleigh guided by reindeer circled the cottage. Another house had several snowmen swaying and singing carols.

Harry made his way across the town square to the cemetery. According to Bathilda, the old church it had been connected to had been torn down. More tombstones of dead wizards had replaced it in the years since.

"Lumos."

He walked the cemetery, taking in every name; every family emblem. As he walked, he focused on the magic of the graveyard instead of his own.

He came across a number of Abbotts and Belbys. He saw some Fawleys and Bulstrodes, too, but it was Dumbledore who made him pause.

Kendra.

Harry wondered if she was his mother. The date of birth worked. She'd died young, though. Too young. Even by muggle standards.

He had no idea how long he'd been there searching for something, anything, but at last he felt something different. It was an old, weathered tombstone. One far in the back of the cemetery. An original amongst the field of dead witches and wizards.

Harry stooped down. He used his gloved hand to wipe snow away so as to be able to read it.

"Ignotus Peverell. Who are you?"

••

The Ogden House

24 December 1991

Oakland Court had a straight, narrow driveway lined with oak trees. It led to a large, Elizabethan manor that was only lit up on the ground floor.

Harry, dressed in a forest green suit with a matching cloak billowing behind him, walked beside Bartemius, who wore all black save for his crisp, white shirt. John Dawlish, a self-assured looking wizard with short, wiry hair, walked in front of them. Gawain Robards, a beefy man with golden curls, walked behind them.

When they reached the doorstep, both turned to face the gates as Harry and Bartemius stepped inside. The walls, save for the tapestries, which depicted children playing in various woodlands, were crimson-colored. The floor was a black and white checkerboard.

"Minister Crouch," an ancient looking man said. He wore deep red robes and his thinning, white hair framed his face. "Welcome."

As the two men shook hands cameras flashed from somewhere on both sides.

Bartemius placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Thank you for inviting me. Harry, this is Grand Warlock, Mr. Tiberius Ogden, Mrs. Virginia Ogden, and their sons Cadmus and Porcius." To them, he said, "This is Harry Potter the Second."

Harry stepped forward and held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir," he managed in English.

Mr. Ogden raised his eyebrows at the accent, but shook Harry's hand nonetheless. "It's nice to meet you at last, Harry Potter."

Bartemius led him into a grand ballroom where more cameras flashed. "Relax."

He led Harry to a table with the Secretary of Defense, Madam Amelia Bones, a tall woman with short-cropped, graying-red hair and cornflower blue eyes; Head of the Auror Office, Rufus Scrimgeour, a rough-looking man with yellowish eyes and tawny hair that framed his face like a mane; and Head of the Hit Wizard Office, Gideon Prewett, a stocky man with flaming red hair and familiar brown eyes.

Harry wanted to sigh.

Rufus Scrimgeour, who Harry hadn't formally met, held out his hand and introduced his companions. He then asked, "How do you like Durmstrang?"

"It's cold."

Mr. Scrimgeour laughed a little. "That's not what I asked."

Harry smiled. "Fine. Fast-paced. I like it."

"I imagine you're fighting to sit at the table, too?" Mr. Prewett asked.

Harry shook his head and opened his mouth to explain why, but Mr. Prewett spoke first.

"Too busy with quidditch to bother with academic pursuits?"

Harry looked amused. "It would be dueling, but I'm first in my year. I'm already at the table."

"Dueling?" Bartemius said. "I didn't realize you were serious. I could've offered my assistance."

"No, thank you, sir," Harry said. "I already have Karkaroff tossing me around and enjoying it."

Bartemius smirked. "You would deny me pleasure and satisfaction?"

"Yes."

"Dueling?" Madam Bones asked.

Harry nodded. "The tournament."

"The boy wants to be the youngest to win," Bartemius said. "Thirteen or fourteen?"

"Thirteen," Harry said.

Mr. Prewett looked at him and Harry braced himself. "You think you'll be able to take on seventh years from around the world?"

Harry smiled. "Most third and fourth year Durmstrang, Uagadou, Almalja students take on seventh years from the other schools easily."

"Mafalda said you struggled with dueling your first class?"

Harry nodded. "Yup and I've since spent three hours every Saturday evening with Karkaroff."

"You believe that'll make all the difference?" Mr. Prewett asked.

Harry grinned. "Yes, I believe being able to meet someone with Karkaroff's past spell for spell for about a minute for three hours once a week will make all the difference against students not half as skilled."

"A Potter through and through," Mr. Prewett said softly.

Harry heard him and smirked. "Yes," he drawled. "I'm good because I'm arrogant and I'm so very arrogant because I'm so very good."

Mr. Prewett opened his mouth, but Bartemius decided to intervene. "The boy was being modest, Prewett. Madam Marchbanks has spent the past sixth months bemoaning my inability to get him to Hogwarts for a reason."

Mr. Prewett raised his eyebrows as Bartemius drank some wine.

"His exam scores rivaled Grindelwald's with him having the highest charms, dark arts, and astronomy scores of all time," Bartemius said. "And from what I understand from Morozov – he's an old friend," he told Harry, "he's the best student he's seen in the twenty-five years he's been there."

"He was also published last October," someone said offer his shoulder.

Bartemius looked up and held out his hand to a weedy man with dark gray hair. "Croaker. Harry, this is Professor Saul Croaker, Head of the Department of Mysteries. Croaker, Harry Potter the Second."

"Published?" Mr. Scrimgeour asked.

"Yes, on unaided flight," Mr. Croaker said. "Sounding a lot like his great-grandfather. He's the one who snatched me up from Accidents and Catastrophes."

Harry tilted his head. "What do you do now?"

"Study magic."

"Like?"

Mr. Croaker held a hand to his lips.

Harry sighed. "I get enough of that at home."

Mr. Croaker laughed. "I can't tell you that, but we do have internships. Come speak to me when you turn thirteen."

Mr. Croaker soon went on his way and a few more people came to speak to them before dinner. After dinner, when the band began to play, Bartemius took him for a spin around the room. He was introduced to a number of dignitaries and their daughters.

He even danced with a few of them, including…

"You remember my great-granddaughter? Marcella?" Madam Marchbanks said. "Go enjoy a dance with each other."

Harry looked at her. "I swear I won't propose when we're finished."

Marcella, a slender brunette, laughed. "Deal."

••

Morning Hangovers

25 December 1991

"Where have you been?" Henry asked.

His hair was a mess. He was a mess. He'd lost his tie, his shirt was wrinkled and had long been pulled out of his trousers, and his boots were scuffed.

He also smelled of alcohol and smoke.

Still, Harry stumbled from the fireplace and onto the sofa beside Charlus.

The entire family was there as well as a number of Smiths and Sirius. Simeon was on the floor opening his presents with his cousin, Zacharias, who was less handsome than Simeon. Though he was fair, he had a pointed, thin face and lacked the dimples.

"I'm reminded of years gone by," Charlus said. "I use to hobble in sloshed from a night of debauchery…" He paused then said, "And you are far too young to slipping in here in the wee hours of the morning smelling of whiskey and Merlin knows what else!"

"Where is he coming from?" Henry asked Charlus.

Charlus shrugged. "I don't know. I was at Cassiopeia's until this morning."

"He went to some party with Minister Crouch," James answered. "I didn't know he'd be getting pissed, though."

Naomi inhaled. "Last night was Christmas Eve."

James nodded. "Naturally." He looked around to find most eyes on Harry. "What?"

Sirius, who was beside Charlus, laughed. "Listening to the girls chat would help you not feel so lost right now, Jamsie."

"You went to Oakland Court?" Charlus asked. "You've been sipping on the finest Firewhiskey all night?"

Harry looked at him. "Must you be so loud?"

"Answer me."

"Yes."

Sirius laughed.

"How?" Charlus asked.

Harry touched his forehead. "I was dancing with…Marcella. Marchbanks. She took me over to a table with her friends and then some boys joined us, McLaggen? Marcella is his cousin's best friend and he started whispering to her." Harry snapped his fingers. "Willow. Willow Ogden. Then a bunch of us slipped out to the cellars. They kept giving me cups. They wouldn't stop."

"And it was impossible to say 'no?'" Henry asked.

Harry nodded. "I don't speak English."

There was pause in the conversation until Charlus started shaking, which led to Sirius cracking up. James had his head bowed.

"Harry…" Henry said. "Say 'no' in French."

"Non."

Henry nodded. "Say 'no' in English."

Harry did his best to struggle with the word, which made Charlus, James, and Sirius laugh harder.

Harry turned to Charlus. "Do you have the spiced or honey flavors."

Charlus sobered. "You go anywhere near my stash you will rue the day."

"So you do have them."

Sirius wiped his eyes. "Spiced is his favorite. He has a bottle in every house he's been in. They're behind all sorts of enchantments, though."

"Because none of you knew how to drink in moderation," Charlus said.

Harry tossed Sirius a galleon. "There's a good lad."

Sirius caught the gold coin, but Charlus snatched it. "You are not to give away my gold or drink my whiskey. Understand?"

"No," he said in his poshest English accent.

Charlus closed his eyes and did his best not to laugh.

••

Occlumency

26 December 1991

"Emotions and thoughts are natural," Cassiopeia said. "Every mind wanders. You cannot prevent these things every second of every minute," she continued. "The purpose of learning occlumency is to learn how to compartmentalize; suppress, restrain, and limit mind wandering and extreme emotion."

Harry stood before her in her living room in England. The coffee table had been pushed off the side, but she remained seated in an armchair.

"In order to be a true master of occlumency, you must be able to do three things: identify when your mind is under attack, keep an attacker away from any given thought and memory, and, most importantly for you, create false memories."

Harry nodded.

"We're going to start gently and build our way up," she said. "I'm going to make you laugh, but you're going to do your best to stop me."

He nodded again.

Without further warning, Cassiopeia said, "Legilimens."

He immediately felt happy, but he also managed to realize it was a foreign feeling. Of course he knew it wasn't his, but he could also separate the feeling from his own of determination and curiosity.

So he focused on the former and all he needed to accomplish by June. He thought of all the books he had to get through and everything Karkaroff and Morozov had lined up for him.

Suddenly, he felt giddy at the prospect.

One step closer to winning the tourney.

But why would reading twenty or so extra books make him giddy?

The giddiness died down, but he still remained happy. He was a fantastic wizard and would do it. He'd win.

Harry felt amusement add itself to the foreign happiness. Cassiopeia was trying to play up his arrogance.

Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by amusement and burst into laughter.

"What did you do incorrectly?"

"I let myself be amused by you," he said. "I shouldn't have acknowledged it."

She nodded. "Good that you can recognize the feelings aren't your own even when the presence is subtle. Now I'm going to make you hateful. Legilimens."

For a couple hours, she played with his emotions. The more they did it they better he got for the ensuing headache frustrated him. He had to fight to keep himself calm and fight off Cassiopeia's false emotions.

"How can I do that in a duel?" Harry asked.

She handed him a vial that contained shimmering, red liquid. "Drink."

Harry uncorked and subsequently downed the potion. "Yuck." His headache subsided almost immediately, though. "Thanks."

"While dueling you will have to compartmentalize. Think of something else while simultaneously throwing out a spell," she said. "The latter must be almost subconsciously done. It's a difficult thing to do."

Harry nodded. He intended to practice that whenever he got the chance. As he had both Karkaroff and Regulus at his disposal, he'd have the opportunity often.

••

Quirinus Quirrell

28 December 1991

They and Emmeline Vance, a lovely looking brunette with hazel eyes, sat down at an oval, dark wood table for Lancashire pie. In the dining room the walls were pale lilac with white accents and the floor was polished, dark wood. White, silk drapes framed the windows, which overlooked the street below.

Harry was drinking butterbeer when Bartemius asked, "Have they told you who the man was?"

Emmeline looked at Harry then back to Bartemius. Harry rolled his eyes, but stopped when he found Bartemius staring at him.

"Quirinus Quirrell," Bartemius told her.

Emmeline scoffed. "Quirrel? I mean he wasn't an idiot by any means, but he never managed to make his nerve match his wand and wit. I cannot fathom how a skittish, weak boy could find himself in such a position."

Bartemius narrowed his eyes at him until Harry made a face. He then pointed to her though his eyes remained on Harry. "You know this man." He pointed at Harry. "But you don't?"

"Should I?"

"The Flamels were attacked last night."

"Barty!"

Bartemius shook his head. "Dumbledore only just got there in time," he said. "But he didn't kill Quirrell. According to Dumbledore, he dropped dead after something fled his body."

Harry met Bartemius' eye then shook his head. "No, I don't know that name." He sat up. "He found a body."

"He doesn't have any markings," Bartemius said with a glance at a specific bracelet on Harry's wrist. "But I wanted to make certain," he said. "That forest isn't safe."

Harry tilted his head. "Albania?" Grindelwald and Bartemius had both told him they suspected Tom was in an Albanian forest, but, "He went looking for him?"

Bartemius smirked. "That's what Dumbledore suspects, yes. Why do you ask?"

"No one stumbles onto Tom Riddle," Harry said. "You'd feel him way before you see him."

Emmeline stared at him.

"You know how you can feel Dark magic?" Harry said. "I've been around it enough to know it. The cellars of Delphinium House scream. The pain of everyone tortured down there is still in the walls. You can even still smell the blood. I threw up the first time I entered. Anywhere Tom is, you feel the magic, but it's like he has his own signature. I felt that at Malfoy Manor before I even knew what a Dark Art was. Any adult should be able to feel it, too."

Emmeline was pale by the time he finished.

"A child he may be," Bartemius said, "but he's a useful expert on Tom Riddle."