Walking with Ravens
"He seemed to know her?" Hermione asked when Harry recalled the incident at dinner.
"Based on his reaction to the name," Sable commented, "I would believe so."
"He was not particularly coherent after that came out," Harry added, "So I marked the crystal and left. Speaking of which, you need to do one as well."
"Why, master?"
"Because I want him to make you a new wand" Harry explained, "Muffled, if he can get in touch with Mrs Frankenstein. A high quality, barely detectable wand in the hands of a witch of your calibre will be a potent asset in this war of mine."
"It was my war too," Hermione replied with a blush, "And Voldemort made it everyone's war. Now that you own me, my fight is your fight regardless, but I am happy with that."
"Really, Hermione?"
"I wanted to fight by your side, master." Hermione admitted, "This just gives me an excuse."
"You should spend more time in combat practice then," Harry asserted, "I can not waste a valuable researcher in a random skirmish either."
"This is our war," Hermione whispered, "Let us do what we can, master, please."
"The school is sending tutors tomorrow." Harry remarked, "Keep your afternoon schedule clear, after a full set of combat instructions we start on Passive Magic."
"Passive magic?"
As Harry had earlier suspected, Hermione's curiosity was piqued. Harry spent the remainder of the meal recalling Headmistress Ribbeck's lecture on magical types.
. . .
Monday was, in it's way, as special as Sunday on Azkaban. Whilst the council met with their lord in the Audience chamber as they usually did; before that, however, Harry, Hermione and Sable travelled to the temple. Most of the citizens would gather there at the beginning of the week, he was told, where it was traditional for the Lord to preside over a short dawn ceremony to bestow his blessings on the people for that week. The Stewards, naturally, had never even entered the building.
"I wonder if they have any idea what they missed," Harry mused as his coach pulled up to the magnificent building.
The temple rose above him in a sweeping spiral of gleaming white marble. A short walk removed from the drab décor of the town, it none the less stood out like a sore thumb, a clear landmark even when the dismal fogs wrapped around the spire. The base of that spire swept outwards to rest on five broad pillars of ebon beauty that rose from the cliff as if they had grown there. Strings of glittering black beads hung from the spire in lines that linked each pillar in a five-pointed star – a design that Sable called a pentagram. The bead curtains shifted in the gentle breeze, tinkling softly in the background.
Passing through the curtain Harry noticed that the beads themselves seemed to gentley radiate power, something which Sable confirmed. Each bead was individually enchanted, though none where useful alone. Combined, the subtle resonance of the many beads made this temple an intensely magical place and the spells woven into the curtains aided many of the rituals performed here. The central space was in the shape of a common pentagon, with uninterrupted bead curtains on every edge. At the very centre, below the peak of the soaring spire (looking up, Harry could see that it was hollow) an elaborately carved fountain was set into the floor. Crystal clear water soared from the twisted spire in many jets, falling into the pool. Seven channels carved into the stone floor flowed in a constant spiral from the pool to beyond the curtain, keeping it from overflowing.
Most of Azkaban's citizens had already gathered in the central area around the fountain, congregating in small groups and falling silent as Harry entered. The Ritual Master was waiting for them, standing next to the fountain and almost panting with anxiety. Sable stood with Hermione off to one side as Harry shared a few words with the man. After confirming the structure of the ceremony he stood back and waited for first light.
He did not have long to wait. As the first rays of Dawn filled the hollow spire and bathed the fountain he could feel the ancient magics of his temple stirring to life. Buoyed by the unexpected warmth Harry spoke:
"People..."
"All hail my Lord Caer Azkaban!" they replied with one voice, "Long may he rule!"
"Who brings the temple's potions this week?" he inquired to some confusion.
The potions were part of a practice that had replaced the Lord's blessing after the stewards had refused to take part, though Harry suspected that the ritual was much older, given the enchantments on the fountain. He had also decided to retain this particular tradition. Thirteen individuals stepped forward, tiny vials clenched in their hands which they presented to Harry. He accepted each with murmured thanks, adding their contents to the fountain. Each time the waters flashed as the potions were fed up through the fountain and washed through the pool. By the time he had finished the waters were a gentle glimmering silver. Waiting the prescribed 13 seconds to allow the potions to saturate the pool, he filled a shot glass and raised it to his audience.
"The Lord Azkaban drinks her health." he announced, downing the surprisingly mild potion.
Standing aside he watched the steady stream of citizens approach the pool and fill their own small glasses, most of them choosing to drink to his health. It brought a smile to his lips to hear that – the potions did not care what they said, after all, they affected the drinker. Once they were done, Harry stepped back into the early dawn light to continue the ceremony. Not having any announcements he felt a need to share with his people (that their lord had returned and freed them from the stewards was pretty much redundant by now) he proceeded strait to the close.
"The blessings of Azkaban upon be her people," he recited, feeling the magics of the temple stir in response, "May you serve me well."
The small circle of dawn light expanded as the ancient magic took hold, spreading to cover the entire area. All those touched by it felt the warmth blossom in their chests, a slight smile of contentment on their lips. Harry stood by the fountain as they bowed and departed through the curtain to leave him alone with Hermione, Sable, and the Ritual Master.
"My Lord," he bowed as the last echoing declaration of loyalty faded, "I have made progress on the tasks that you have set me. For the Horcrux cleansing ritual I need only instruct the Dementors on their part. Your Warden assures me that enough Dementors remained loyal, though their participation would strip the prison bare of their influence."
"We will have to risk it," Harry decided, "The sooner this gets done the better. What of the Hrafnsmál?"
"Ready as we speak, I need only a decision from you." he admitted, "There are two slight variations on the ritual, one which will infuse the power of the Hrafnsmál into your bloodline, and one which will affect only you. Which would you take?"
"The former," Harry asserted, "Infuse the power into my bloodline."
"Excellent, My Lord." the man smiled, "This is a simple ritual which will take thirteen days to complete."
"Thirteen?" Harry mused, "Is that not a little long?"
"Not at all, my Lord." he insisted, "The ministry mandated ritual for becoming an animagus lasts a full lunar month – at a minimum. 13 days for a power your bloodline will inherit is a trifle by comparison. Nor, contrary to ministry propaganda, is it Evil."
"The ministry has mandated that the power of Hrafnsmál is evil?" Harry wondered, "Why?"
"Not precisely, my Lord. It employs the number 13, which the ministry has deemed Dark Magic, and by extension, Evil." he explained, "The Lord of Azkaban, however, has blanket permission from the ministry to employ such magic."
"The Lord Caer Azkaban has, by long tradition, always been a Dark Wizard and a Light Lord." Sable added, "We of Azkaban have long employed arts that have been, rightly or wrongly, designated Dark. Thirteen holds considerable power, arithmetically, but as a large prime it can prove difficult to control. Rather than regulate it's usage, the ministry outlawed it entirely."
"I thought seven was the most powerful number?" Hermione asked.
"Amongst those allowed by the ministry, yes." Sable agreed, "It is both powerful and stable, being well within the capacity of the average wizard to manage. Thirteen is both more powerful and less stable, being beyond the capacity of what the ministry considers an 'average' wizard to comfortably manage."
"Not Dark, then, but Black." Harry muttered.
"My Lord?"
"Black is as Dark as is needed, no more, no less, but never Dark for it's own sake." he explained.
"An adequate summary of Azkaban's stance, my Lord." Sable agreed, "Though I should stress that a number of magics have been designated 'Dark' by the ministry for convenience when outlawing them, despite the magic in question having nothing that fits that definition or otherwise being illegal."
"That does not surprise me," Harry sighed, "So what does this ritual of Hrafnsmál involve?"
"Thirteen potions spread over thirteen days," the Ritual Master explained, "Each accompanied by the casting of a small spell. On the first day, as you swallow the potion or immediately thereafter, touch your wand to your tongue and speak the incantation Hrafnsmál. For the following day you will find yourself able to speak in the Ravens' tongue, should you wish, and it is imperative that you practice! You will not be able to understand their replies, however it is customary to walk amongst the Raven's flock to introduce yourself, and advise them what is to come. The second day is much the same, though you touch the wand to your ear rather than your tongue, and you will find yourself able to understand Raven rather than to speak it. Continue alternating tongue and ear until the final dose. As you swallow the thirteenth dose and speak the incantation, touch the tip of your wand to your chest, to bind and unite the powers of voice and and hearing within the core of your being, and the heart which pumps the blood which will flow through the veins of your heirs."
"Thank you." Harry replied, sure that both his girls had memorised the instructions, "When would be the best time to begin?"
"I would suggest Noon as a magically significant time." he suggested, "It is also easier to remember to keep the following doses timed."
Harry agreed and asked Hermione to take charge of the case of potion vials before taking his leave of the temple. Together with Hermione and Sable, they rode the coach back to the castle and the meeting with the council.
. . .
Despite his delay, the meeting went quickly. The commander of the guard reported that Luna had arrived that morning on the ferry and, per Harry's instructions, had been sent to the Psychiatrist for a full check up. Harry sent Sable to collect her in his coach, keeping her updated on the rest of the council through the rings. The Warden of the Prison reported that the first of the rogue Dementors had returned, so the prison would not be deprived of their influence whilst the few remaining loyal powered the ritual to destroy the Horcrux that afternoon. He promised to think of a suitable punishment for their misbehaviour for his Lord's consideration.
With nothing else of note to add, the council concluded and Harry retired to a small, sunlit balcony with a clear view of the town and the distant temple spire. Hermione laid a small table for morning tea before he banished her to the library. She had almost finished compiling her report on the various titles he had inherited, and he did not want her presence to distract Luna. The coming meeting would be troubling enough as it stood.
. . .
"My Lord Caer Azkaban," Sable announced his visitor a short time later, "Miss Luna Lovegood."
"I don't like that yucky potion your psycho made me drink," Luna jumped into the conversation as soon as she was introduced, "It makes me feel all dull in the head."
"An unfortunate necessity, Miss Lovegood." Harry informed her smoothly, attempting to echo Sable's polished airs, "It suppresses a number of compulsion charms that were affecting you, allowing me to speak with the 'Real Luna', so to speak."
"Well I don't have to like it," She grumbled as she flounced into the indicated chair, "I was happier hunting in Sweden."
"And yet here you are..."
"I'm on a Harry Hunt," she admitted, "Dumbledore's got everyone looking for him – I'm surprised it hasn't reached the Prophet yet."
"Why come here on your Harry Hunt?" he asked, coldly.
"I feel I've got a better chance here than Sweden," she smiled, "I need to find him and… and not tell Dumbledore?"
Harry sipped his tea and watched the expressions on her face as it twisted in confusion for a few minutes.
"I need to not tell him where he is..." she murmured, "The longer Professor Whiskers knows less, the better for us, for Harry… Why?"
"Did it never occur to you to ask why he left?" Harry pressed, "Or why he is being hunted?"
"He is the boy who lived," she shrugged, "I assumed that it was part of that fame he is always going on about hating."
"So who's side do you want to be on?" Harry asked her, "If Dumbledore is intent on setting himself against Harry, where will you stand?"
"With Harry, of course." she told him as if it were as obvious as the need to breathe, "I thought I made that clear when I joined the ministry six. He's my friend, a true friend, I can't afford to discard that… No matter what Dumbledore might say."
"Very well, Miss Lovegood," Harry agreed, noting the determined glint under the moisture in her eye, "I have called you here to offer you a post. The Seer of Azkaban has nominated you as his successor, and wishes to apprentice you immediately. The Psychiatrist also wishes to use you as a practice subject, to unravel the compulsions infesting your mind until you no longer need the potion to truly be yourself. What say you?"
"Will I be able to help Harry?" she asked.
"I believe so," Harry replied, "And if you come to feel otherwise, you are free to depart. Provided only that the decision is truly yours. Take this time to think on it, and let me know before you leave."
"Thank you, my Lord." Luna murmured, eyes distant, as Harry took his leave.
. . .
"So, step one of the Hrafnsmál ritual is to drink this and talk at the Ravens," Harry repeated to himself, looking at the blood red potion in his hands.
"Don't forget the incantation, master," Hermione added, "Noon is nearly upon us,"
"Our first noon," Sable interjected, "Solar noon is still an hour away."
"I hope this will suffice for this," Harry sighed, sliding his wand into his grip as he downed the vial of liquid, "Hrafnsmál!"
He could feel the magic taking effect, the potion flooding his system from within and the spell spiking it from without, drawing it up into his tongue. For several seconds he shivered as the magic shuddered through his body, but when the magic grew quiescent he turned to the Ravens of his aerie and attempted to introduce himself:
"Greetings, Ravens," he cawed, "I am Harry."
This prompted a storm of calls from the unkindness gathered about them as Harry tried desperately to talk over them, until a single loud caw silenced them all. A large old bird, clearly an alpha amongst Ravens, looked imperiously at the flock before nodding at Harry to continue. Grateful for the quiet, Harry thanked the Raven and told the flock about the ritual he was undertaking, warning them that he could not understand anything they were cawing (adding that tomorrow he would understand but be unable to respond in kind).
He then spent nearly half an hour describing his life. He was unsure why he ended up on that topic, but after introducing himself the words seemed to flow out of him. One by one, the ravens left their perches to huddle nearby, offering the boy what little comfort their wings could. Harry was absent-mindedly stroking the Alpha and describing the Dursley's beliefs when Sable reminded him that he had another ritual to attend.
"Sorry to cut things short, but I have duties to attend to," Harry's throat was somewhat coarse from the cawing, but he was still polite, "I'll return tomorrow when I'll be able to hear what you have to say, alright?"
The Unkindness of Ravens nodded, cawed, and took wing one by one, circling Harry Potter before sweeping out of the aerie in a black cloud. Soon there was not so much as a single black plume remaining of the ravens' presence, but Harry felt sure that they were watching.
Strangely, the feeling was almost comfortable.