The Palest Ink
A short time later, however, Hermione reminded him to take the potion that was the next stage in the Hrafnsmál ritual. With local noon fast approaching, Harry sent her to bring the potion to the rookery, before calling Sable on her ring and asking her to make preparations for lunch. At the stroke of twelve, Harry downed the potion left-handed, pointing his wand with right. A clear mutter of "Hrafnsmál." later he strode through the door to listen to his Ravens.
The Unkindness began yelling at him as soon as he entered. The racket was horrendous, the voices unintelligible, but fortunately the Alpha Raven was once again present. With one loud demand for silence he stilled the flock, letting him address Harry alone.
"Welcome again, Lord Human," he cawed at the boy, "If what you told us yesterday is true, you can understand us, but not reply in kind?"
Harry nodded in reply – he had noticed yesterday that the ravens seemed to understand and use that particular gesture.
"Then listen, Lord Human, and I will speak. I am Lord Raven, current Lord of this Unkindness you see around you. We still remember the tales of our ancestors, tales of humans who walked among us and spoke as equals. We are pleased that you have decided to follow in the wing flaps of those others. It has been to long that the Unkindness has been unable to truly serve Azkaban."
Harry spent a full hour in the rookery, listening to the Lord Raven telling the legends of his ancestors and their service to Azkaban, before Sable called him to lunch.
. . .
"So the Unkindness of Azkaban were traditionally her spies, as well as messengers?" Hermione asked when he recalled the conversation later.
"So they tell me," Harry agreed, "They were able to speak to the Lord of Azkaban, and so able to relate anything they saw when delivering their messages. More frequently, though, they would simply fly the length and breadth of the country and report on what they found."
"There are no records of such happenings in the archives of Azkaban, My Lord." Sable pointed out.
"It was probably one of those things you told me was never recorded, for security purposes." Harry replied, "Shared only with those who could be trusted and never shared. If the Ravens had not remembered, it would have been lost with the original Azkaban line."
"It makes sense, master," Hermione agreed, "They would not be very effective spies if everyone knew that they were."
"Lord Raven's description of some of their missions sounded more like scouts than spies, though." Harry mused, "Since the Lord Human could speak with them in turn, he could give them specific targets to scout out. It sounds like the allegiance of the Ravens was a critical factor in Azkaban's military successes, as well. Though that could just be Raven Propaganda."
"Unlikely, master." Hermione suggested, "As long as they can see and remain unseen, they would prove a valuable asset to any army."
"I am sure my Commander will agree." Harry replied with a wry smile, "For now, though, we keep that secret amongst the three of us."
"As you wish, My Lord," Sable acquiesced immediately, Hermione only a moment behind.
"This afternoon we study weapons, wand work, tactics, and whatever the good Headmistress has for us." Harry quickly changed the subject, "Hopefully the short notice was not problematic."
"I would have heard if it was," Sable replied, "She contacted me this morning to say that she would be conducting your early lessons herself."
"I shall look forward to it." Harry replied.
. . .
"When you said that you had completed your OWLs, I must admit I was expecting more," Headmistress Ribbeck informed him when she arrived later, "I've been checking with some of my contacts in mainland Britain, however, and found that educational standards have been declining for decades. Hermione's test results would be acceptable for one of my second year students; moving into third year for potions. My Lord, I understand that you studied neither Arithmancy nor Ancient Runes?"
"That is correct," Harry replied.
"You seem to understand the basic mathematics upon which Arithmancy is dependant, however." she replied, "You could complete an accelerated curriculum for the more magical applications. Other than your lack of knowledge in these two areas, your test scored similarly to Hermione. It may be quite some time before either of you two are at what Azkaban would consider 'OWL' level."
"Just teach us what you can," Harry asked, "Any deficiency in our prior education is not your fault."
"Thank you, My Lord." she handed them each a small book, "This is our ink book. For our first lesson, given that that you both have some experience with potions, we will be brewing an ink that should help you with your later studies. If you write something down in it, then wash the parchment clean and drink the run off, the knowledge so recorded will become a part of you such that you will never forget it. It helps a lot with mindless memorisation tasks, but less so with one's actual understanding."
"This would have helped a lot at Hogwarts these past few years," Hermione muttered, "Rote Memorisation is a big part of Ancient Runes, especially."
"Which is no doubt part of the reason standards are declining," Ribbeck guessed, "There are a couple of caveats to bear in mind, however. The words must be written in a clear hand using a clean quill, with the writer focusing as much on the meaning of the words as the words themselves. Being organic, the quill acts as a conduit for the magic of the ink, connecting the words as they are written to the writer's understanding of them. For this reason, the magic of the written words is highly personal, and it is usually best to drink only your own words. Attempting to absorb someone else's thoughts or understanding is often extremely confusing. This also means that there is no point using the ink to memorise something you do not understand, as you would merely remember your own lack of understanding. I would also caution against overuse, especially for memorising complex subjects. You will never be able to forget the words you drink, and there is no known antidote. Use with caution – in fact, we usually test this by having the students drink their own copy of the official safety guidelines. We rarely have problems after that."
"Because none of the students can forget the potion guidelines?" Harry guessed.
"Exactly," Headmistress Ribbeck smiled, "Please turn to page 13 for the recipe. When you have familiarised yourself with it, we shall begin"
. . .
The following day, there was a special visitor to the morning council session. The council reported that all was well on the island, with the Warden adding that they were mixing the rebellious Dementors into mortar for use in the rebuilding of the prison, fortifying the building with their horrific aura whilst depriving them of their freedom – freedom to betray Azkaban, to leave, or even twitch. Whilst he acknowledged that this would require additional manpower in the prison building, the Lord Caer Azkaban had already authorised that in response to their previous shortage.
"A most appropriate punishment, Chief Warden," Harry assured the nervous man, "Thank you. Is there anything further?"
"Actually, my Lord," he seemed to be getting even more nervous at the suggestion, "The Chief Dementor requests an audience with you."
"I take it that this is not a normal state of affairs?"
"No, My Lord." the Warden replied.
"Dementors have sought audience with the Lord Azkaban in the past," Sable whispered in the back of his mind, "Though this is not a common occurrence by any means. Azkaban herself will protect you, after all."
"Do you have any idea what this Dementor wants?" Harry inquired of the man.
"No, My Lord, I did not ask it what it wanted." he hesitantly replied, "It was quite insistent, however."
"How soon can we arrange this audience?"
"The Dementor is waiting outside," he replied.
"Send him in when you leave," Harry instructed, not wanting to expose his council to the Dementor's chilling aura, "Does anyone have anything further?"
Nobody did, so they all left and admitted the Dementor seeking audience. It drifted gracefully through the door, hovering a steady half inch above the floor. Once again the mist was conspicuous only by it's absence, as was the hideous rattling breaths Harry has associated with the Dementors in the past. Stopping in the centre of the room, the Dementor sank gently into a kneeling posture.
"All Hail My Lord Caer Azkaban," it rattled, "Long may he Rule!"
"What is it that you wish of me?" Harry asked.
"My Lord," it replied, it's hollow voice echoing in the confines of Harry's skull, "I wish to undertake the Rite of Ascension."
"I am afraid that I am unfamiliar with this Rite of Ascension." Harry commented, silently directing his girls to look it up, "Could you clarify the matter for me."
"Of course, My Lord." it replied, "The Rite of Ascension has been the focus of my life for some time now. A Dementor lives, at best, a hollow half life. We can only subsist on the misery of others, yet we must endure that same misery if it is to sate our needs. Everything that our victims endure, so must we, save that when they perish we must remain. Some choose to revel in suffering, growing addicted to the misery and seeking to spread it at all costs. Others, regrettably few in recent years, see it as a price for strength. Abstinence can not kill us, after all, only weaken us to the point we can no longer resist. We try to contain the desperate need to drain all we touch, to control our own insatiable hunger. Wrestling with our hunger is painful, My Lord, but so is enduring the suffering of everything in our presence. Those few who remained loyal to Azkaban did so because they find they prefer the former."
"I see," Harry nodded, for the Dementor's words did indeed make sense, "But how does that tie in to the Rite of Ascension?"
"It is the only escape from our torment for those of us who do not wish to succumb to their own hunger. It is an incredibly dangerous ritual intended to fuse a Patronus to a Dementor, finally alleviating the Dementor of it's demonic hunger. It is said that the Dementor's powers will all remain available, strengthened and broadened by the ritual, so I should continue to remain useful to you if I survive."
"I take it that this is the danger you spoke of?"
"Yes, My Lord. A Dementor requires complete control over her powers and malign nature to survive the ritual, as even the slightest slip will result in the Dementor being torn apart and dispersed to the four corners of the world. Not dead, precisely, but crippled for eternity. I believe that I have come far enough to survive the Rite, and my daughter will continue to lead your Dementors in my absence should I fail."
"Does she not wish to undergo the Rite?" Harry pressed, curious.
"It is the aspiration of all your loyal Dementors, My Lord, however none of them yet feel confident in their ability to survive the Rite. The path to the Rite is long and arduous. Shortcuts are fatal at best."
"Sable?" Harry thought into the silence, "Thoughts?"
"On what, My Lord?" she replied in like fashion, "I was unable to hear anything the Dementor shared with you. If you are referring to the 'Rite of Ascension' you asked me to look up, it is mentioned in the Archives as a Ritual that transforms a Dementor into an ascended form, though at great risk to the Dementor in question."
"Which lines up with what this Dementor told me. How soon can we get the Rite ready?"
"It must be performed at Midnight, so tonight." Sable replied, "Traditionally the Lord Azkaban is present to cast a Patronus, I suspect because he would not need it's protection."
"That does sound plausible," Harry sighed, "We seem to be going through a lot of Rituals lately. Make the arrangements."
"We will attempt the Rite tonight, if that is agreeable to you?" Harry spoke aloud, turning his attention back to the Dementor chief before him.
"I shall be as ready then as I ever can be," she replied, "Thank you, My Lord, for giving me this opportunity."
. . .
Before their afternoon lessons, this day they visited the Binder's Guild. Being a highly literary community, the Wizarding World had a huge appetite for quills, inks, parchment and especially books, long before the muggle world caught up. Azkaban was no different, and the Binder's Guild existed solely to sate that appetite. It also produced several books that sold well in mainland Britain, though most sales were to locals or Aurors. Hermione was delighted to find that they possessed enchanted presses for printing most of their books, and promptly engaged their chief printer in a discussion on the technicalities of Magical Printing. Harry, seeing her distracted, turned instead to the Guildmaster who was guiding them.
"Are you familiar with my assistant's book?" he inquired.
"Certainly, My Lord," he replied, "It is considered one of our Guild's very greatest works, and is a Case Study that all our journeymen are required to familiarise themselves with."
"It is safe to assume, then, that you have the specifications for it then?"
"It is indeed," he answered with a little trepidation, "Why, do you wish them destroyed?"
"Certainly not," Harry replied, "Would it be possible to create a modified copy?"
"A copy? Certainly," the Guildmaster sighed, "Modified? In what sense?"
"This book is linked to the Castle Archives," Harry explained, "Would it be possible to link one to the Library instead?"
"Easily. We could link one to any collection of texts, provided they are co-located and we have access to the location in question during the creation. Unfortunately, that does mean you would have to choose between Azkaban's public library and My Lord's private Library."
"Public Library," Harry decided after a moment's thought, "Just let me know when it's done."
"Of course, My Lord, I shall attend to it personally. If we may continue with the tour, however?"
Harry nodded and roused Hermione from her conversation with a silent order. He was determined to familiarise himself with every corner of his new domain, and they had lingered long enough.
. . .
For the third time in two days, Harry returned to the Temple of Azkaban. This time he approached as the moon rode high in the sky and the summer air was as cold as night. The Ritual Master awaited them outside with his apprentices, the Dementor Chief already lurked by the fountain within.
"We are ready, My Lord." the Ritual Master informed them, "Once the full Moonlight illuminates the core of the Temple we shall invoke the Rite. You simply need to cast your Patronus upon the Dementor as the light reaches it's peak. We will handle the rest."
Harry nodded in acknowledgement and followed the man through the curtains to begin the Rite . The Dementor knelt by the pool, silent and devoid of fog, and barely acknowledged their presence. With a murmured wish for good luck, Harry stood beside the kneeling Dementor to await the moon light. The Ritual Master and his apprentices took up positions around the perimeter, as did Sable and Hermione. Their eyes turned up, waiting for the light that would signal their start.
They did not have long to wait. As the first glimmer of moonlight appeared at the tip of the hollow shaft, the Ritual Master spoke a line of Ancient Brythonic, his wand clutched tightly at his side. On the second repetition his first apprentice joined him, speaking the same line in an Ancient dialect of Goidelic; with the final apprentice speaking in Traditional Anglo-Saxon upon the third refrain. As the moonlight began to run down the inside of the spire like white treacle Sable and then Hermione joined in, repeating the line in Greek and then Latin.
The moonlight crashed down upon the clear fountain like a waterfall, drenching Harry and the Dementor both. Looking upon the now white-clad Dementor, Harry was surprised to see it trembling as it lowered it's hood and turned to him. Not wanting to stretch it out any further Harry snapped his want out, uttering the words that would seal the fate of the Dementors' Chieftain.
"Expecto Patronum!"
The stag burst from the end of his wand, silver enough to drown out the moonlight as it bounded strait for the Dementor, who swallowed it whole without a beat of hesitation. Bright silver faded to pallid flesh, leaving the room seemingly bleak in the wan moonlight. The moment faded, however, as the gushing moonlight from above focused on the beleaguered Dementor and bright silver cracks began to spread over it's body. The other five maintained their chants as Harry watched the Dementor, shuddering violently, fall to the floor. Unfamiliar with the languages that melded into reverberating white noise, he none-the-less remembered the English words he had been advised were equivalent:
"Fall as Two, Beneath the Moon," he whispered as the Dementor rolled into the pool, "And Rise as One, to Greet the Sun."