Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Harry Potter.
Chapter 27
Ariana's scar twitched, ever so slightly.
"How odd," she huffed crossly as she folded her arms across her chest in discontentment, her manners slightly off kilter from the strange familiarity that everyone was displaying towards her, "It seems as if all the people here already know who I am."
The masked wizard gave a mysterious chuckle, a rich and soothing sound that was carried far and wide in the warm wind that curled and swept past them, before giving an apologetic bow of his head from the sight of the poorly hidden exasperation.
"Forgive my brusqueness, Lady Peverell," he began in charming voice as he knelt down on one knee and reached out with a gloved hand to take one of hers gently in his, "But it is unbecoming for one to ignore the belle of the ball, no?"
Ariana blinked twice before she realizing his statement was directed at her, "P-Please sir, just call me Ariana," she managed to stutter, internally cursing a hue of crimson that delicately graced her face against her will from the overflowing abundance of charisma, "And… and may I inquire as to who you are?"
The masked man gave an attractive grin as he stood back up, dusting his robes dark, glossy robes dramatically with one hand, "Ah, now that would defeat the purpose of the masquerade, no?" he replied with a perfect smile as he tapped the side of his silver vizard, one which was absent of eyeholes and only covered the upper half of his face.
The image of a snarling wolf embossed onto its surface was baring its sharp teeth so convincingly that Ariana felt a vicarious thirst for blood rise up within her at the mere sight of it.
Obviously, the mask's enchanted in some way. Ariana thought to herself with interest as she chewed her lip, stealthily put up a precautionary Occulumency shield to protect the lower levels of her mind in the process; a weak shield – but possessing just enough power to stymie the effects from the odd-looking mask.
All of a sudden, she noticed a book that was balanced precariously on the balcony's balustrade, obviously belonging to the wizard in front of her. All her cautionary behaviour went out the windows as childlike curiosity filled her being – as always – when she recognized the title of the book from the inscription on its red velvet cover.
"Oh… I know that book!" Ariana exclaimed excitedly, pointing to it.
The masked man turned on the spot and elegantly snatched the said book up before the wind could claim it as its own, turning back and tilting his head to the side after, "Truly?" he replied with a hidden tone of amusement, the single word mellifluous enough to cause her ears to tingle.
Ariana nodded eagerly in response, "De tranquillitate animi, written by Seneca in 62 AD. It's one of my favourite books of all time," she chatted brightly and without pause, her guard lowering as she leaned closer, "So, which part are you up to?"
The masked man became silent for a few seconds as he observed the spirited child, seemingly thinking the current situation over and not moving not a single muscle in the process. Before anything else could be said, one of his arms suddenly waved lazily in the air, invoking the magic of conjuration as two luxuriously looking chairs appeared out of thin air. After gesturing to the young witch to sit – of which she hesitantly complied, he then took residence in the seat he conjured up for himself.
"To answer your question," the masked man started smoothly as he settled down in the comfortable chair, his voice cutting effortlessly through the air as a knife would butter, "I've just finished reading through the chapter where Seneca details the eristic nature of Plutarch's syllogisms."
Ariana's eyes lit up in recognition, the jet-black curls of her hair bouncing hypnotically under the golden rays of the sun as she moved her head, "Ah yes… Plutarch, the literary genius from ancient Greece," she chirped as her eidetic memory kicked in, recalling the exact contents of the manuscript she chanced upon one night in the Room of Requirement, "My favourite section by far is when he paraphrases the famous muggle warlord, Alexander the Great. I think it goes like this."
"Upon hearing that there were other worlds…"
"…Alexander wept, for he had not yet conquered one," the masked man softly interrupted.
The two then sat in contemplative silence and stared as each digested the other, the masked man appraising the precocious child that sat across him, and the young witch assessing the obvious polymath, who was also clearly a refined member of the gentry – evidence enough by his genteel mannerisms.
"Isn't the phase beautiful?" Ariana breathlessly asked, the first to break the silence as a radiant smile blossomed across her face, looking down onto a glorious expanse of grass and meadow flowers from her vantage point, the verdant swathe rustling gently en masse in the summer breeze.
I can't describe it. He feels so… painfully familiar somehow.
I wonder if it's rude for me to ask him to take off his mask…
"What aspect of it do you find so enchanting?" the masked man asked curiously, his voice snapping her out of her thoughts as he uncrossed his legs and leaned forwards seemingly in rapt attention.
A wistful look took over Ariana's pretty face, "To believe in worlds other than the one we currently reside in," she replied dreamily as she tilted her head at him, "Doesn't the thought of it just exhilarate you?"
To her surprise, her words only made the masked man stiffen in what looked like surprise… or was it fear?
Voldemort took a deep breath as he calmed his nerves down, his muscles slowly loosening as one.
So, this is the fabled Child of Flame, one whose soul is beloved by the Fates.
The one whom is also referred to as…
…the Calamity.
The words of the wise Elders he had once convened with somersaulted its way to the top of his mind as he watched the vivacious young witch before him continue to chatter, gesturing and moving her body to match her spirited words as she chatted away to her heart's content, oblivious to his inattentiveness.
"I sense no 'great power' within this child," he murmured under his breath in confusion, the silver vizard on his face hiding the look of uneasiness that crossed it, "Did I misinterpret what the Centaurs told me, perchance?"
He then focused inward as he brought back a deep, well protected memory of when he leaned one of the many prophecies spoken only in hushed whispers amongst the Elders, repeating the words he learned that night once more in his head.
The loyal servant, soon, will slaughter his master,
the handmaidens turn on their leader and king;
a daughter will rise – against her own mother,
a son – against his father's name.
Under a blood moon, the madness will descend;
and all that remains of the world will be a kindling of fire;
Ash – to ash returns.
Soul – ascends to soul.
Voldemort's fists tightened in anger from the ambiguity of the beasts' prophecies, knowing full well that although they were harder to decipher than the prophecies Seers would normally create, they were notably more accurate once interpreted correctly. This prophecy, the one which foretells the end of the world, was particularly worrying.
"It mentions a blood moon," he muttered audibly to himself, a thousand and one questions burning bright within him, "It obviously refers to the 'lunar tetrad' phenomenon – where the moon turns red during one of the four lunar cycles. However, only seven ever occurred in the past century. How can I even begin to predict the next one's exact date?"
"Then, who is the servant, and who is the master?" he continued under his breath as he switched his train of thought, unable to stop his mind from conjuring up new theories and scenarios with each passing second, "The daughter obviously refers to the girl before me… but then who is her mother? Who is the son? Leader and king… is that a reference to the old fool that sits atop Hogwarts? Why is…?"
Voldemort was a being of higher learning, an erudite almost unparalleled in his respective fields thanks to decades of research, experimentation and polemics in the way of the ancient and Old. However, all his prowess over logic and reasoning failed him now as the stubborn riddle that were the prophecies themselves refused to prostrate and reveal their secrets before him.
Rapid movement out of the corner of his eyes abruptly interrupted his quiet mutterings as he realized that a small hand was waving frantically in front of his face. Able to see it clearly through his mask, which was also enchanted to hide his magical signature and subtly modulate his voice, he lifted his head up in acknowledgment, glancing amusedly upon the person the offending article was attached to.
"Sir, did… did I by any chance say anything that offended you?" the Child asked in visible nervousness after she retracted her arm, obviously perturbed by his inactivity as her large green eyes gazed worriedly at him.
Voldemort continued to be silent as he gazed upon her, thinking extremely carefully about what course of action should he take henceforth regarding this young witch before him. Brown, desiccated leaves scudded across the rough balcony floor and took small flights into the air, dancing together in union akin to a ballerina performing a graceful pirouette. It took a while before the transient breeze settled back down into quiescence, but when the leaves slowly fluttered back down onto the grey granite that called the floor their home, the Dark Lord's ruminations finally came to a decisive end.
"Who do you think controls the Wizarding World?" he suddenly questioned, the abruptness of the change in topic and the loudness of his voice causing the Child to jump slightly in surprise.
The young witch's eyes lit up beautifully when she realized she had finally elicited a response and scooted back to her chair that had been conjured for her, plopping herself back down on the seat with alacrity.
The Child then tapped her lip lightly with a slender finger as her eyes looked off to the side thoughtfully, dissecting the question in her mind. She gave a small frown at the obviousness of the answer, "It's surely either the Minister of Magic… or to some degree, Wizengamot?" she replied in uncertainty.
"Wrong," Voldemort replied calmly, scoffing internally at her naivety as he gestured in the direction of the ballroom, one which contained all the Pure-blood families from the Sacred Twenty-Eight celebrating the coming-of-age celebration, "It is them. The outcome of every political action, every plebiscite, every referendum, is ultimately decided by them. Taxation, policies, promotions, trading laws and all others of their ilk, are all borne of their design."
Before the young witch could even open her mouth to reply, he had already fired off another question.
"Now, imagine this hypothetical scenario," he started casually, the coolness of his attitude a stark juxtaposition next to the momentous claim he had lain down, "If all the Pure-bloods in that particular room were to suddenly… vanish off the face of the Earth, what do you think will happen to the Wizarding World?"
The Child's had grown nervous from questions that called to a higher school of thought. A school that only those serious about changing the constitutional status quo would attend with ardour. Her eyes were darting about as her mind worked overtime, "If... If what you say is true, the Minister of Magic then will finally hold power," she enunciated slowly, "With it, he or she can then allot manpower–"
"You think too small," Voldemort cut in, waving a hand in the air expressively, "Come, let's start with basic economics."
"If all the Pure-bloods are gone, that means all the wealthy elite are gone. If so, where then do our taxes come from? Do we force them out of those who carry financial instabilities? Do we borrow from other magical communities? Do we plunder and loot? Answer me young one, what do we do?"
The Child chewed her lip before answering, "I think the first step would be to borrow–"
"That was a trick question," Voldemort interrupted coolly once he realized he wasn't getting his answer.
"Do you really think the rich in the room next to us – though purportedly known for their largesse – actually pay taxes?" he sneered, "Did I not mention the cabal which really controls the legislation within this country?"
"Why do you think our cracked streets are blackened from grime and soot, sweat and blood? Why do you think our apothecaries and warehouses are disused, abandoned and rotting? Why do you think our market is grossly inflated and illiquid? Why do you think our closest allies, Ireland and Scotland, do not trade with us of late? Why do you think our banks try to hide from the public the rising number of 'toxic' debts and assets?"
"We are nothing as we are right now, a shell of our former selves," he continued bitterly, "The current Wizarding World is lost to us. It's once lush and fertile lands are now diseased, decaying… dying. And the reason for that–"
"NO," the Child near shouted as she interrupted him, her voice unnaturally bright as she suddenly stood up.
"It… It will get better," she continued as her voice quietened down in volume, speaking powerfully – as if speaking the absolute truth, "As long as we work hand in hand with the Muggle-borns that are starting to integrate with our society, we can flourish in years to come."
"We will flourish."
Her large sea-green eyes glowed bright, even under the mid-morning sun, gleaming with such an intensity that even the great Voldemort himself physically rocked back a little from her powerful gaze. He collected himself and leaned forward once against, this time with heightened interest as the beginnings of a smirk curled upwards at the corner of his lips.
You hide many secrets, Child.
For instance, why is your mind linked to mine? Why can't I find any information about you or your past? Why are you part of the prophecies? Why any of this at all?
Voldemort gave a soft snort in amusement, realizing that the more he thought about answering the questions he had at the tip of his tongue, the more it gave rise to other questions.
Regardless of the countless truths and untruths that surround your anomalous existence, all shall now be revealed.
Your mind is mine to witness.
The Dark Lord readied himself. On the off-chance that the young witch was trained in the art of defending the mind, he decided to use a low-powered mind invasion method, one which could only work on the mind of a lesser beast… or a child's. Needing not a spell or incantation for this unique method, he slipped quietly into her mind, breezing past a rather sturdy-looking first line of defence – already impressed that someone so young could already create this.
Pushing past the emotions she felt on the surface, her burning curiosities about him, her limitless intrigue about his questions, her endless wonderment about his answers, he arrived at the layer in the mind of where he wanted to be: her old memories. Without a second thought, he plunged inwards through the mist.
At first Voldemort thought he was dreaming as a fog wrapped around him like a blanket, almost tangible, suffocating and shrouding everything in a thick white veil. He almost pulled out of her mind in shock once he realized what was happening.
Does this girl… not have any memories of her past? He thought in complete amazement.
Deciding that this was not some kind of trickery after a few more seconds of rooting about in her mind, he pulled his consciousness back into his own body, leaving the rest of her mindscape intact and untouched. It seemed as if a few minutes had elapsed but in reality, time had slowed down to a crawl: only a couple of seconds had passed.
The Child it seemed, was blissfully unaware of the mental intrusion as she was still talking away, donning a flushed and energized face in the process.
"…and from what you've been talking about, I'm guessing that you're aiming for a position with political influence… the Minister of Magic perhaps?"
Voldemort blinked once as he registered what said, catching only the last few sentences. After a second, he gave a loud laugh, a rich and melodic tune that played across a few octaves in an instant, before calming himself and settling back down into comfortable passiveness.
"Young lady, you're too clever for your own good," he complimented with a warm smile, his mask hiding the undiluted amusement in his eyes when he saw the young witch try to hide the blush which spread across her face, "Posters, newspapers and all others of their ilk shall soon have both my face and name plastered across them, it shall be hard to miss my coming," he finished cryptically.
The sight of the Child then stirred something deep within Voldemort's soul. Something that had been kept locked away for decades, beating upon the rusty cages of his heart, the prison of which he himself built to keep it there. He soon realized that he was strangely… enjoying himself, just by simply being in the mere presence of the Child. He had no clue why, but it felt as if his soul was singing in harmony – as if meeting a long-lost friend, a melody that purred into the murky depths of his soul, piercing through and engulfing him from within.
The Dark Lord grit his teeth in anger at the foreign feeling that pervaded his body and quickly slammed down an Occlumency shield. After a few seconds, the strange sensation disappeared as quickly as it came.
"T-that's only because you made it easy for me, sir," the Child stammered in response as the flush of her cheeks lessened, completely unaware of his odd episode.
She suddenly stopped talking as her face then took on a slightly pinched look, her large eyes drifting to the side as they glazed over.
Voldemort then forgot about the weird feeling he had just experienced and raised an eyebrow in curiosity at a rather odd spectacle that was unfolding before his very eyes. The young witch had closed her eyes fully and was starting to repeatedly pat the sides of her head in what seemed like extreme annoyance as she muttered something under her breath. After a few seconds she froze, only to open her eyes and carry on as if nothing had happened.
"Anyway," the Child resumed, speaking with a little more confidence now, "To be willing to carry the burden of so many atop your shoulders, it is a most commendable endeavour – for that path only leads to sorrow and solitude," she paused and gave him a fleeting look of admiration, "But I sense that you have what it takes to become the Minister of Magic. You have the drive, the mindset, and you seemed to have planned this whole thing out from start to finish."
Voldemort turned away and looked off into the distance to hide the pleased smile on his face, gazing down upon the swathe of greenery as the sun shone down from its zenith in the sky – signalling that noon was nigh.
"Precocious brat," he murmured under his breath before giving a small chuckle, "You speak with wisdom far beyond your years."
He then whirled around to face the young witch, displaying only coolness and calmness in light of what was said, "So, you agree with me then that the Wizarding World needs to be… revamped?" he almost sang, gaily and into the wind.
The Child gave an earnest nod, "From your words, I've only just realized that everything about the current system is… is… poison," she emphasized passionately after finally finding the word best to describe it, "The inequalities, the cronyism, the pathetic excuse of our judicial system, the tax evasions, the complete absence of a Laissez-faire system, the way women are abused, the ostracization of magical races, and even the way they treat those guilty as seen by the law – where witches and wizards can be thrown straight into Azkaban... sometimes without a trial," her chest heaved heavily as her small figure trembled.
At the mention of Azkaban, Voldemort noticed with mild interest that her hands were suddenly clenched tightly in a show of poorly suppressed anger. He gave a low hum and opted to stay silent as she unclenched them after a few seconds, intent to let her finish her emotional diatribe.
"How could I have been so blind," the Child ranted, an upset look marring her the delicate features on her face, "I've always known the Ministry was corrupt, but never seriously given any thought to it. I was so foolish, just like the rest of the Wizarding world, thinking that brute force and the person in charge – the Minister – has the power to change anything. No, the fault within this broken system lies solely with one group: the oligarchy of Pure-bloods."
Voldemort couldn't help himself; he gave a loud clap.
He couldn't deny it: he was thoroughly impressed. What took weeks and sometimes months for his Death Eaters to fully understand even with rigorous re-education, this young girl had figured out on her own in under a mere hour.
This, was one new development he could not ignore.
"Don't you worry, Ariana. Once I'm in charge, their little cabal will get what's coming to them," he promised as he moved towards her and knelt to her eye level, "When they in band together in terror against me, neither their silver nor their gold will be able to save them from my wrath," he whispered, his voice turning soft and dangerous.
A fleeting look of cruelty flashed across his face, "Them... and the others, of course," he added with emphasis, the mere thought of Muggle-borns desecrating their sacred society sending a wave of rage coursing through his veins.
"The... others?" the young witch echoed, a puzzled look planting itself on her face.
"A story for another time," Voldemort returned as his anger returned to a level state, prevaricating as he waved a dismissive hand in the air.
The Child's eyes were burning bright with passion as she came back to the main point, "Don't worry sir, in the next election I will be convincing everyone I know to vote for you," she vowed, gazing into the mask of the silver wolf, somehow knowing that the wizard could see her as clear as day through it, "And I pray that your campaign will be heard throughout all the four corners of the Wizarding World. They need to know the truth."
Voldemort raised an eyebrow at the bold statement, "You know neither my name nor the face that lies beneath my mask," he challenged, "How would you know who to support?"
The young witch shrugged, the action causing her resplendent violet dress to rustle ever so slightly under the warm rays of the sun.
"I will know," she simply replied, gazing fearlessly into the savage snarl the wolf bore on his mask.
The corners of Voldemort's lips upwards against his will.
You, Ariana Peverell, are a most curious creature.
The Dark Lord gave a soft snort and was about to stand up and leave, for his business here was on the cusp of its conclusion, but froze mid-way as he spotted something out of the corner of his watchful eyes: a very light burn mark beneath an odd-looking bracelet the Child wore on her left wrist.
He leant forward with one arm outstretched in with the intent to examine the injury but paused at the very last second, as every single instinct in his body screamed at him to stop. His arm started trembling against his will as his finger, which was a mere hairsbreadth away from her skin, refused to budge in the air.
Instinctively, he yanked his arm back with force and cradled it protectively before nosily clearing his throat, ignoring the quizzical look the young witch was giving him for his actions, "Child, would you let me perform a healing spell for your wrist?" he asked politely, refined in almost every manner.
The Child seemed surprised for a split second before mechanically lifting her wounded arm up to her face, "Oh!" she exclaimed cheerfully after realizing what he was talking about, "Don't worry, I can do it myself."
Time seemed to slow down for Voldemort as the young witch slowly brought up her other arm and shot out what seemed like a ball of light from her palm into the injured wrist; the skin magically healing completely from it. To a neophytic eye, the burst of luminance would seem white. But to him, it was an amalgamation of every single colour mankind could possibly imagine, all blended together harmoniously in a ball of scintillating, swirling starlight.
The Child turned as pale as chalk once she'd realized what she'd done in front of him. Her eyes and her mouth were frozen wide open in an expression of undiluted panic.
"T-That was just accidental magic," she cried out after she regained her senses, realizing that he had witnessed her display of underage magic, "It's nothing to–…"
Voldemort was not listening however, to whatever the young witch was saying. His pupils were dilated, his eyes were impossibly wide, and his breath came in short gasps as he almost forgot how to breathe, his entire being in total shock from the an oh-so familiar scent of magic that wafted over his being.
"No," he breathed, his eyes now darting around wildly for something specific unknown to the young witch that was currently agitated and spluttering.
"Where is it? Where is your source?"
The Child's floundering stopped as her countenance turned into one of perplexity at the sudden change in mood and the seemingly bizarre question. His voice then grew more aggressive when she didn't answer immediately, his thought process accelerating to a terrifying speed.
"ARIANA, WHERE IS YOUR SOURCE?"
Ariana' scar twitched once again, but ever so slightly.
"S-Source… what do you mean source?" she squeaked in confusion, the synapses in her brain firing off rapidly as her mind hastily tried to reorganize itself.
She saw shock register across the masked man's face from her truthful response before he could hide it. He ignored her as he stumbled backwards with an almost tangible air of disbelief, choosing to sit back down as his hands then steepled and were placed upon his mask, the tenseness of his sculptured muscles signalling that he was very clearly in a state of distress.
"Um… sir?" Ariana timidly asked with a small voice as she got up from her chair, inching slowly closer.
It took a lot of effort for the young witch to pretend she was scared and nervous, for her brilliant mind had already somersaulted in joy as she had deducted that this mysterious wizard in front of her knew something about her secondary source of magic. The familiar way he referred to her 'white magic' – or so she calls it – could mean that he might just be the key to unlock at least one of the enigmas surrounding her new body that have been constantly hounding her day and night.
"Sir?" she repeated softly, padding softly across the balcony floor as she moved even closer to the masked wizard's still form.
Realizing that she was not going to get an answer for now from the sustained silence, she turned her thoughts inwards as she reviewed what had just occurred. As she replayed the scene in her mind, she gave a small start as her brain realized something else. She raised her healed wrist to her eye-level.
It's been a few months since my silver band has seriously burned me; I'd almost forgotten what it felt like.
Does… does this mean I'm getting better control over my magic? She realized with a gasp of joy, almost tempted to burst out in a celebratory jig in victory from just the mere thought of it.
Her elation was then interrupted as the masked wizard, whom she was sure was either Harold Minchum or Millicent Bagnold – the two Ministers who were in power from 1975 to 1990 – moved his hands away from his face and turned his head towards her.
"Child, do you know what is… Old Magic?" he murmured, his naturally smooth voice now flecked with hits of wariness and intrigue.
Ariana furrowed her brow as she contemplated the question, thinking of the many books she had read in the Room of Requirements and the Potter Library. Thanking her eidetic memory – another mystery she had yet to solve– that although she remembered chancing upon that specific phrase once or twice, it was never really explained in any of the ancient texts, manuscripts and tomes she had spent countless hours perusing through.
"No, sorry," she confessed with a small shake of her head, her stag and doe earrings sparkling under the midday sun as they swung to and fro, "Is that term related to curse breaking?"
"Not quite," the masked man answered in a low voice, his mannerisms and style of speech almost betraying his hesitance to continue the conversation.
A growing fear within Ariana's heart was then quelled as her new friend suddenly straightened his back as a charming grin spread across his face, a palpable sense of purpose visibly ignited within him.
"But somehow, I have this strange feeling that you want me to continue," he drawled loudly before giving an all-knowing hum, his mask tilting down to look at her in amusement as he recognized the hunger for knowledge that burned within her eyes.
Ariana had enough decency to look abashed when she realized her convincing act was instantly seen through.
Nothing at all escapes this wizard. She thought with amazement.
He seems so knowledgeable, so determined, so… passionate about everything.
I wonder… could I possibly convince him to join the Order?
She hid a small giggle behind her hand at the boldness of her thought before refocusing on the patiently waiting wizard, whom had only met for a short while but was already accustomed to her quirks and quiddities.
"Yes, please sir."
The masked man nodded in response and stood up in one fluid motion. He then clicked his fingers and with a wave of nonverbal magic, the two ornamented seats that had given the pair comfort and poise throughout their conversation disappeared in a flash, causing a curious thrush that was resting on the balustrade to give an indignant squawk and take to the air.
"Stand by me, child," he motioned with an elegant wave of his hand.
As they approached the end of the balcony, they leaned against the cold hard stone, both of them relishing in the fact that the distant clinking of wines glasses and murmur of gossip died into sweet nothingness.
"Now, before I begin," the masked man started as he gazed down at her face, "Can I trust that this information stays strictly between us?"
Ariana felt a slight pressure behind her eyes but dismissed the feeling as she nodded violently back, "Of course," she promised earnestly, her thirst for the truth trumping all other desires.
The masked man gave a look of approval and raised one finger elegantly in the air, the chiselled muscles of his body showing themselves through the fabric of his robe, "The lesson... begins," he began dramatically, his movements charismatic, purposeful and exact.
"Tell me Ariana, how does one cast a spell?" he started briskly, his pedagogic roots showing through as he adopted the tone of a cultured emeritus.
"Energy stored within a magical core is transmuted from one form to another according to the user's intent," the young witch replied immediately, the answer instantly popping to the top of her mind.
The masked man titled his head, "A very precise description," he acknowledged, "But perhaps too general; break it down into its respective processes."
Ariana's eyes glazed over for a split second, "A spell is a concentration of magical energy… which has been funnelled through our physical bodies," she replied slowly, "And stabilized through the usage of a wand."
"Excellent, this now leads on to the next question," he masked man replied in pleased tone as he clasped his hands together, "Can wizards and witches perform magic without the use of wands?"
"They can," came the reply without pause, "Wandless magic is not uncommon for those who persistently train or for those who are naturally gifted."
The sides of the masked man's lips curled up from the instantaneous answers, "Very well, now to tie those two questions together," he carried on, "Is it possible for one to cast a spell without the use of both a physical body and a wand?"
Ariana's mouth opened and closed silently a few times like a fish as she deliberated the intriguing question. She scrunched her face in thought, her expressions all animated and spirited as she tried her hardest to come up with an answer.
"By… by tapping into the confluences of magical ley lines?" she guessed desperately, stabbing wildly in the dark once she realized that her mind for once had failed her.
"You're on the right track, child," the masked man encouraged soothingly, his charismatic voice flowing like warm honey into her ears, "To give you a clue, think about this. Apart from magical geoglyphs and megaliths, how else can magic manifest itself in the material world?"
Ariana's eyes grew wide when she remembered encountering one particularly troublesome scenario whilst exploring the depths of the restricted section in the Hogwarts Library the year before.
"Of course, cursed books," she gasped in recognition, "The author of a tome could imprint some of their magic into the pages with the intent to maim or kill the reader," she continued breathlessly.
A bewildered look then crossed her face, "But… but how is second-hand magic related to the one that lives within me?" she continued in confusion, looking downwards as she grasped tightly at her chest, crinkling the violet fabric violently as if to rend the secrets from her beating heart and display them for all the world to see.
The masked man wagged his finger at the impatience of his student, "Remember that magic imbued within physical objects are invariably one-dimensional. Their effects, whether harmful or beneficial, are always pre-ordained by the witch or wizard that casts the spell," he explained clearly, "Old Magic differs however, and is the only other source of magic out there that requires neither a wand nor a beating heart to use; allow me to elucidate."
He stood to his full height, all traces of warmth and levity vanishing from his face as he looked upwards at the brilliant star that shone down on him, his sun-kissed hands strangely clenching and unclenching. After a pregnant pause the masked man then looked back at Ariana and did something it seemed he was born to do: orate.
"In this world, there are some magics that even the greatest scholars cannot explain," he began strongly, gesturing dramatically as he spoke, "These phenomena are triggered by events and powers endemic to the fundamental forces of reality; for example, the disruption of the natural passage of time, attempting to raise legions from the dead, and to some extent, great acts of…" his lip curled in disgust, "…sacrifice."
Ariana's hand immediately jumped to the scar on her forehead but didn't interrupt the talking wizard as she stood there wide-eyed, absorbing information that she knew only few in this world were privy to.
"Studied extensively by the Department of Mysteries, the effects of Old Magic can range from near-impenetrable shields that safeguard against all types of magic – as proven from the skin of dragons and giants – to more unique side effects, such as the ability to see spirits. Additionally, there is a way to…" he wavered for a second before the line of his mouth morphed into a vicious grin, "…claim this magic for ourselves."
"By purposely committing acts that tear against the very fabric of nature itself, we can tap into this near limitless pool of magic and sequester it, either temporarily or permanently, inside special objects," he continued with an air of intensity about him, growing visibly more animated as he spoke, "Instead of petty curses and trivial hexes that wizards of yore would deposit within artefacts, we can store magic that has a life of its own within physical items – as untameable as the roughest seas, and as powerful as the brightest sun."
"With the power to nullify or emit the most potent spells mankind has to offer, it is even able to stop the breath of the most ancient creatures alive: dragon fire," he carried on passionately, "It is a weapon like no other, a shield like no other… a magic like no other."
"Succinctly put, Old Magic is magic drawn from the corruption of nature itself. The protean nature of its ineffable existence gives us a window into creation itself," he finished solemnly, his voice dropping into a whisper at the end of his sentence.
At this point Ariana had couldn't help but to interrupt the elocutionist as her curiosities reached its critical limit, "Why isn't this taught to us in any of our classes?" she blurted out loud breathlessly.
The masked man gave an offhanded shrug, "Perhaps it is the very same reason why rituals and invocations aren't taught in school; the instability of their magical structures was considered too volatile for many," the masked man guessed.
Ariana gave a small, contemplative frown, "Even so, why isn't Old Magic part of our everyday magic then?" she reiterated emphatically, "And why have I never come across this topic before?"
"Well, apart from the fact that the Department of Mysteries actively confiscates all books related to that matter," the masked man explained patiently, "It is an ancient technique that has almost completely been lost to the sword of time; its arcane secrets are known only by a select few in the Wizarding world."
This only made the young witch more confused.
"If this information is so rare then… why? Why tell me, a stranger, any of this?" she pointed out in absolute wonderment as she tilted her head back to gaze at the enigmatic wizard.
A look of realization crossed the wizard's face before he could hide it. He turned his face away from her and stayed silent for a few seconds.
"I wonder that myself," he finally uttered, so quiet that it was almost lost against the wind.
"Now, back to you, Ariana," he carried on with a louder voice as he turned back to her, crouching down so they were both eye level, "Where are you drawing this power from? Where is your source?"
The poor girl was so overwhelmed by the mountain of information that she couldn't even respond coherently, the circuits in her brain overloading as thousands of hypotheses and theories thundered through her mind without any sign of stopping.
"I…I am… it is–"
"The dominant theory is that you are the somehow the source itself," the masked wizard interrupted, talking mostly to himself as he struck up a contemplative pose, "Is it because… nature recognizes you as an anomaly? No, no… impossible…"
A beat of sweat trickled down the side of Ariana's head as she gulped nervously.
This wizard… he... he is getting too close to the truth.
"You could be mistaken you know," she said carefully, "Accidental magic is often–"
"Child, don't insult me," the masked wizard snapped, interrupting the young witch yet again but this time causing her to jump in shock from the first sign of anger he had displayed all day, "I know exactly what I saw."
Ariana bowed her head and clasped her hands across her chest, "I'm sorry," she cried out in a quavering voice, strangely terrified for some reason from the sight of the angered wizard.
Through the transient darkness her jet-black hair provided as it tumbled down past her face, she soon heard a deep sigh through it that somehow sounded oddly old and young at the same time.
"My apologies, Ariana. It was not my intention to frighten you," the masked man murmured with a softer voice, "I only seek to liberate ourselves, from our wild curiosities."
Ariana peaked timidly through strands of midnight onyx and true to his word, the wizard had no signs of displeasure nor annoyance on the exposed parts of his face.
The masked wizard then continued in the same tone, "How poetically fitting, that the one with the power of Old should inherit the earth," he muttered absently.
Ariana made a noise of confusion in the back of her throat as she tilted her head.
The masked man ignored her as head turned skyward, looking directly into the celestial body that was sun and noting that it was directly above them, the absence of lengthy shadows heralding that it was the day's noontime.
"Alas, our riveting conversation must come to an end, as all good things must," he announced with an air of sorrow as a sombre smile graced his face, exuding only refinement and poise in his mannerisms.
"Farewell for now, Child."
Ariana blinked twice from the abrupt termination of their discussion, one which was almost reaching its crescendo.
The mysterious masked man's visage was still gazing up at the blue empyrean above as he mumbled something under his breath, the noise sounding strangely sibilant before he vanished on the spot, not even waiting for a response as he left one young girl extremely confused behind with a million and one questions coursing through her mind, each imagined scenario more bizarre than the next.
To an observer, the masked man's final words would sound like an odd string of hisses, but in reality, it was spoken in a language only two people living on this mortal plane could understand. Unbeknownst to young Ariana, her mind was in such a disorganized state that her mind registered those words as English; adding one more mystery added to her already full list from the utterance of his true parting words.
Ariana Peverell, the Child of Flame… the Calamity.
I wonder, what will you do when the time finally comes?
Will you be the one to lead us to our salvation…?
…or to our complete destruction?
A/N: Foreboding prophecies, complex plans and ancient powers have finally come to light in these new developments. Stay tuned as they all unravel!
P.S. Love the continuous feedback. Thanks for reading!
