Chapter 5:
"Marilyn and I have attempted to speak with the faerie guards to ask them why they are here. They said they do not know. They know only two things: that they are guard-faerie, and that they must protect the tomb from all who dare to enter. Marilyn does not recognise any of them from the Valley."
From the Diary of Merlinus Caledonensis; Earth, 537 Common Era.
At least he got his own room.
That was an oddity in and of itself. Because Harry had never had his own room. Ever. He'd lived in the cupboard under the stairs, he'd lived under trees, in alleys, and in communal sleeping spaces like the Bunker. He'd never had his own room.
It was the worst night sleep he'd ever had. He tossed and turned on the too-soft mattress, the sheets were so fine they scratched at his skin, and the pillow had no purchase. Not to mention the complete and total absence of sound. He estimated he got about three hours of sleep before he got up – that stupid illusion spell had finally worn off – and went down to the Gryffindor Common Room in his regular clothes again. He had thrown the red and gold bathrobe into the fireplace.
Everything was just so… gaudy. The tapestries, the oil paintings – and don't even get him started on the fact that some of them moved like they were TVs. When one of them spoke back to him, he'd almost had a heart attack. He could feed the Bunker for months with just what was in this room.
After pacing for two more hours, he went back to his room and tried to sleep again. They didn't know what to do with him. Put him with the Fourth Years, the group he should have been with if he'd gone to school at eleven like he was supposed to, or the first years, who were all years younger than he was. The solution McGonagall had devised was to put him in the Head Boy's room at the top of the spiral dormitory staircase. The current Head Boy was a Hufflepuff apparently, and as such, the room was vacant. It had its own living space and bathroom – like a tiny apartment. According to McGonagall, his father had used this very room when he'd been Head Boy. That gave Harry the chills.
He slept another two hours.
When morning came, he was summoned to the Headmaster's office first thing. He barely had time to say good morning to Ginny, Fred, George, Alicia, Katie and Angelina before a tiny creature with floppy ears had appeared in the middle of the Common Room and started prostrating itself in front of him. Actually, that was a misnomer. The House Elf – as Harry learned they were called – was actually bowing before Mak, not him. That had started a very long-winded tirade on Mak's part about how Harry ought to be showing her as much deference as Tippy the House Elf did. Harry had to resist the urge to swat her with a pillow. If the Gryffindor's found anything off with his clothes, they didn't mention it where Harry could hear.
The House Elf had taken him to the Headmaster's Office, before vanishing, and so Harry remained for the next fifteen minutes, in a room half obscured by mist.
He knew what evil Gandalf was doing. Making someone wait to show that they had power over you was the oldest trick in the book. Instead of being agitated or impatient, Harry used the time to poke through the Headmaster's stuff. He tried to enter the shrouded part of the office, but the mist reared up and increased its density whenever he tried to go up the stairs, forbidding his passage. Next, he went searching for the captured faeries. No luck there either. Dumbledore had moved all three into the mist since yesterday.
Next, he tried riffing through the old man's drawers. They were locked with magic. The foreign stuff. Supremely unhelpful. The bookshelves had proved promising. At first. He'd at least been able to touch those. But no book he opened was in English. He thought he recognised some French words in a few volumes, but the spelling seemed very bizarre. Harry hadn't had much opportunity to practice reading since his arrival in the Bunker, and before he'd left the Dursleys he'd struggled in his learning because of the poor over the counter plastic glasses Vernon had given him when his primary school mandated that he have a visual aid – owing to the fact that he couldn't see the teacher if they stood more than a handspan away. He supposed the language might be Latin. Bran said that was like an old-timey precursor to French used by scholars. He had no clue as to any of the others. Exhausted of options, he grabbed one of the spindly silver objects on Dumbledore's desk and tried to figure out what that did. This also proved fruitless.
He ignored Dumbledore when he came into the room, keeping his attention fixed firmly on the silver thing. It made the occasional 'ding' sound, so he assumed it must be counting something. Maybe if he bashed it on the chair?
Behind Dumbledore came Professor McGonagall, a tall, lanky boy wearing Hogwarts robes with bright orange hair and a multitude of freckles who looked about Harry's age, and a giant man with a long scraggly beard and tiny beetle-like eyes that had to be over eight feet tall. How had he stepped through the door?
"Ah, Harry! You're here. Fabulous. I've been speaking to Professor McGonagall, and we've managed to come up with a plan for your education," Dumbledore said, moving behind his desk and taking a seat.
"What is this thing?" Harry asked, shaking the gadget, "Because I don't think it actually does anything. It just makes a ding sound every time this cog here taps the slider."
Dumbledore smiled that creepy smile, with the freaky twinkle in his eye.
"You're quite right. It does, in fact, do nothing. It isn't even a measure of time, as the sounds created are random in interval." Harry placed the device back on the desk. He had a feeling he'd just passed a test. Bloody man.
"Firstly," Dumbledore continued, gesturing to his companions, "let me introduce you to Mr Ronald Weasley and Mr Rubeus Hagrid. Mr Weasley is the older brother of Miss Ginny Weasley, whom I noticed you struck up a friendship with last night. Hagrid is our gamekeeper and Care of Magical Creatures teacher." Harry forcing himself to be polite (Adam would be furious at him if he didn't make a good first impression) stood and walked up to the two newcomers, offering his hand to Ronald first, seeing as how he was standing in front of the giant man.
"Nice to meet you," Harry said, offering his hand to shake. The red-haired boy took it gladly.
"You too. It's just Ron though," Ron said, stammering slightly in nervousness. He was going to have to get used to that now.
"Ron it is then." Harry then reached past Ron to take the hand of Hagrid, who… did he have tears in his eyes? Regardless, the man's grip was like a vice, but Harry didn't let any pain show on his face.
"Quite a strong grip you've got Professor Hagrid, I don't suppose you've been drinking Ent-Draft, have you?" It should go without saying at this point that Harry had managed to see the Lord of the Rings movies and found himself quite enjoying them. It didn't hurt that Mak had admitted to thinking Aragorn was "quite dashing." As such, he made a conceited effort to compare anything he found out of the ordinary to Middle Earth, partly because it was fun, partially because it never failed to get a blush out of Mak.
"It's just Hagrid, I'm no professor. And… it's a right honour it is Harry. I knew your mum and dad, you know. Best people I knew." Harry found himself grinning for real this time.
"Fantastic. I know just the person to come see for stories then. I didn't even know their names until a few days ago, I'd love to learn more about them." He was surprised by how genuine he was as he said the words. He'd tried to compartmentalise it all. So, what if his parents were dead? Nothing crying would do about it. But… with all this knowledge about them at his disposal, he'd be a fool not to learn as much as he could. What could it hurt?
Hagrid pulled an enormous handkerchief out of the pocket of his overcoat and blew his nose.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, prompting Harry to turn back to face him.
"I'm certain now," Mak said softly in his ear, "He keeps one on his person, that's what I felt at the train station."
"Unfortunately, because Professor McGonagall will be in classes all day, I've arranged for Hagrid and Mr Weasley to accompany you to Diagon Alley, the Wizarding Shopping district, so you can purchase supplies for your tutorage with us. Because you haven't had any formal education in the Magical Arts, I'm afraid you'll have to start in the first-year classes until you get the hang of it. But I'm sure you'll be capable of moving up to fourth year before the year is out. I will allow you to select your electives early, however, and you'll go into third-year classes with them. Fortunately, the term has only just started, so you won't have any work to catch up on. You're more than welcome to remain in the Head Boy's quarters, but if you wish, you may move into the fourth-year boys' dormitory any time you please." Dumbledore withdrew a letter from his sleeve and handed it to Harry. The second his fingers touched the paper, his whole body exploded in agony. Mak screamed.
Waves of lava tore through his skin, while knives of ice drilled into his bones. His head felt as if it had been struck by lightning. The manacle on his right wrist began to blister his skin with heat. Harry fell to his knees, dropping the envelope, hands flying to his head in panic. Mak was crying out in hysteria. She slipped from his shoulder, crashing to the stone floor. Hands grabbed his shoulders, but he didn't care. The only thing that mattered was Mak, screaming her throat raw, curled up in a ball, mist curling around her. He tried to reach for her, tried to push away the pain. But it was as much a part of him as Mak was. He could feel her slipping away, the pain pushing at him, gnawing at his very essence. Trying… trying to push her away. His head hit the stone, then more hands were grabbing at him, pulling him upright. Someone was trying to push a bottle to his lips. He thought people might be speaking to him, calling his name. But his only thought was for Mak. She was wasting away. Her very body cracking apart and vanishing into the air. Her tiny face was creased in complete agony. He reached for her.
"Stretch forth thy hand." It was a mutter, a whisper of the softest variety, filled with anguish and distress. But it worked. Somehow, Mak heard him, and as her very body began to mist away, she reached out one tiny hand.
'Harry…' spoke her voice in his mind, on the very wind itself.
"Stretch for thy hand, Mak!" he screamed, the pain fuelling the words. His finger brushed her faint blue hand. A bright silver light erupted in Harry's vision, and everything went black.
When he came too, he was no longer in Dumbledore's office. He was lying on a hospital bed. It seemed some things were universal. Hospitals, magical or mundane, would always have white walls and smell of antiseptic. The crenulations were new though. He groaned, sitting upright, blinking his eyes to clear his head. He was still in Hogwarts, but there were dozens of hospital beds lining the walls either side of him. Sunlight streamed through the windows.
The face of a woman with greying hair, wearing a very old-fashioned nurses outfit appeared in front of him, and she began waving her wand in front of him in intricate patterns.
"Well you seem perfectly fine to me," the woman muttered, moving to consult a floating clipboard. Harry's hand began to heat up. He and the woman both looked down to Harry's right hand at the same time, where a blazing blue and silver light was shining out from within his clamped fist. He slowly uncurled his fingers, and Mak, fully formed in her silver armour, sword in hand, jumped from his hand. She increased in size in the space it took Harry to blink, becoming the same size as Harry was, a look of righteous fury on her face Harry had never seen before. The woman gasped in fright, back peddling. Mak had made herself visible.
The faerie didn't waste any time on the nurse. She stormed past her like God's own storm and advanced towards the large closed doors. Waiting there were Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall. Harry jumped to his feet and paused just long enough to see that the shackle was still on his wrist before running after her. There was no way this ended well.
"Tu puss culzar!" Mak screamed, placing her sword against Dumbledore's throat. It turned to mist as it touched his skin. Harry came up short. That wasn't any French he knew, though it sounded close enough. Was it Latin? Something similar? Dumbledore didn't look to know it either, judging by the confused look on his face.
"Mak, I presume?" He asked. Harry reached Mak's side but stood slightly behind her, not interfering.
"You may presume nothing, teneb ira," Mak hissed.
"I am Makani Masella de Tastheria, and I will have vengeance against you for your actions today! In the name of Ourans I will have it!" Then she vanished in a swirl of mist.
Harry folded his arms and stared at the Headmaster, who looked a shade whiter than he had been a few seconds previously.
"What did you do to us?" Harry asked, anger barely contained.
Dumbledore took a deep breath.
"I don't…" Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Did you forget? I can tell when you're lying Professor. A rather useful talent, don't you think? Your fancy bracelet can't stop me doing that." Dumbledore sighed.
"Albus, what exactly is going on here," McGonagall asked, trembling slightly, though whether that was from fear of Mak or anger for Dumbledore Harry wasn't sure.
"I… the Hogwarts letter, it had the trigger spell for the trace upon it, just like every other Hogwarts letter. I didn't think…" Mak's voice tingled in his brain like windchimes.
"Lie," Harry said flatly. Dumbledore looked at him. The sparkle was gone.
"I wasn't sure what would happen. I certainly didn't know it would cause any pain. Every magical child has the trace on them. It is not unique!" Dumbledore exclaimed, and McGonagall seemed to relax slightly. He was telling the truth at least. Harry would wager the crown jewels that it wasn't the whole truth by a shot as long as the channel, but it was the truth.
"Does that satisfy your companion?" Dumbledore asked him.
"You tried to place a tracking spell on us," Harry summarised.
"Yes, but your bond with… Miss Makani, repelled the spell. I imagine it would repel any spell that attempted to imprint on you using the Art of Enchantment. It requires further study…" he trailed off, looking thoughtful.
"Bond? Start explaining immediately!" McGonagall snapped. Harry very much wanted an explanation too, but not about the bond. He wanted to know what the "Art of Enchantment" was. Could it perhaps be the proper name for the magic all these Witches and Wizards used? The one that felt so foreign to him? At the very least, he had something he could try and research in the library. Affluent schools like this place had libraries, right?
"Harry, as you just saw, shares a bond with a faerie, granting him access to a series of six powers hidden from us ordinary magic users, Minerva. It's these skills he has been using for years. It's why no Owl could find him, and why the ward stones surrounding Britain that detect accidental magic weren't triggered whenever he used it." Shit. The Headmaster knew a lot more about him than Harry had thought. Dumbledore turned towards Harry.
"I don't suppose your bonding occurred on your seventh birthday did it?"
"I don't think that is any of your business."
McGonagall looked flabbergasted.
"A faerie? But that's impossible! They've been extinct for centuries. Trapped in the Expanse of Delusions by the Pact of Truth!" Harry snapped towards McGonagall.
"Pact of Truth? What's the Pact of Truth?"
"It was hundreds of years ago now. There used to be faeries all across Earth, beings of imagination born of the dreams and passions of humanity. Some faeries were helpful to wizards, but most were simply tricksters that placed curses on the unsuspecting, causing failures and deaths on those poor unfortunate souls to encounter them. The muggles certainly had no way of defending themselves."
"They became such a plague that Antioch Peverell, Nicolas Flamel and Ethric Malfoy devised an incredibly powerful spell that, when enacted, banished all faeries back into their homeland, a place we call the Expanse of Delusions, though they just called it …"
"The Valley," Harry whispered. Mak had told him of what little she remembered of the place.
"Professor Binns, the History teacher, could tell you more about it, but the point is, there shouldn't be a faerie on this side. It shouldn't be possible. The Pact is still in place, tied permanently to the Heart-stone. It cannot be broken."
"I do not know," Dumbledore admitted, "but you saw her with your own eyes. She has escaped. Who is to say others have not as well?" Harry narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Evil Gandalf knew damn well that others had escaped this pact thing, he'd captured them himself.
Dumbledore shook himself.
"Well, if that is all, there is still plenty of time for the trip to Diagon Alley?" Dumbledore suggested. Harry found himself nodding, he could really use some fresh air.
2 years ago,
Ginny stood behind her mother at the front desk of Flourish and Blots book store in Diagon Alley, watching as Gilderoy Lockhart signed her second-hand books. Gilderoy Lockhart! The famous dueller and explorer. He was a real hero! Like Harry Potter! Oh, she hoped she'd be able to meet him. No matter what Dad said, Harry was a hero. He went on secret missions according to Professor Dumbledore, so he must be. She hoped he would come to school that year. Ron was hoping so too she knew. She hoped he didn't get all competitive for his friendship like he usually did when she tried to do something he liked – she was still sore over their last game of Quidditch in the backyard.
Mum gathered up her books and, with a last lingering glance at Lockhart over her shoulder, turned towards the exit. Only then did they realise the commotion at the door. Ron was staring daggers at a boy with slicked back silver hair. Her father had his hand on Ron's shoulder, gripping like a vice. Ron's face was bright crimson.
Oh no.
Ginny followed behind her mother to the front of the shop, arriving at the same time a tall man, doppelgänger to his son with long silver locks that flowed down his back.
"Arthur, I hope nothing untoward is occurring," the man drawled in a thick aristocratic accent.
"Weasley almost attacked me, Father," the boy said, an evil smirk thick on his face.
"Nonsense," Dad said, "Ron just tripped is all Lucius. A bad bit of business."
"I didn't…" Ron started, but Dad increased his grip on Ron's shoulder, quieting him.
"I'm sure you're right, Arthur," the man agreed. Lucius. She only knew one person with that name. Lucius Malfoy. That made the boy his son Draco, the one Ron was always complaining about.
"I've been meaning to ask," Malfoy continued, "How have your raids been faring at the Ministry? I hear you've had a number of them reasonably. I hope they're paying you overtime." Malfoy leaned towards Ginny and plucked her transfiguration textbook from the cauldron hanging limply in her mother's hands.
"Apparently not," he said, raising an eyebrow at the tattered second-hand book. "Tell me, Arthur, what's the point of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?" He dumped the book, which looked a bit thicker than before, back into Ginny's cauldron, turned on his heel and left the shop, his son trailing behind. Her father's face was flushed red. Ginny let out a long shaky breath and followed the rest of her family outside and back to the Leaky Cauldron.
