It was far too early to be in this much pain. He knew that for certain. It was also far too early to be picking himself off the ground time and time again. And yet, here he was.
Damn this training.
"What have we learned today Harry?" The old man, his tormentor and his Headmaster asked of him.
"That I will never beat you." Harry responded. The statement had been true up until this moment, but for the life of him, he could not see himself ever besting the venerable man in a duel.
"Well, perhaps. Don't sell yourself short. Remember that I have more than a century more experience with my magic than you. Add to that, I know a great many more spells than you. You are gifted, but at 15 years of age, the amount of spells that you know are limited to classroom instruction and some of the spells that you have taught yourself." Dumbledore, ever the humble one, responded with a smile.
"Sir, you beat me with household spells. I can still taste the dish soap." Harry spoke, spitting to the side to emphasize his point. It truly had been humiliating to get destroyed with spells that he had witnessed Mrs. Weasley use to prepare for and clean up after dinner.
"Technically, what we had was more of a one-sided duel. I let you use whatever spells you wished, and I relegated myself to using only household charms." Dumbledore started with a chuckle, before glancing at Harry and turning solemn, "What we are preparing you for is to fight. Not to duel. The difference being that the opponents that you will find yourself facing – and it will be inevitable – will never take in consideration your age and what you may or may not know. They will be out to cause you as much pain as possible, and if allowed, to kill you. I know that as a young man, you have a bit of a rebellious streak. Because of that, I want to change the way that you think and the way that you perceive magic and the spells that you use."
"That..that actually makes sense." Harry replied, comforted in the fact that he was not being truly tormented, but instructed.
"The burden that you carry is heavy. All that I have ever wanted to do was to lighten this burden for you. I would carry it for you if I could. I declared that before you were ever a student in my school, and when you were only an infant that tugged on my beard. Now, seeing the young man standing in front of me, with a heart as pure as the best Goblin gold, I know that I would lay my life down for you. That, Harry, is the power of love." Dumbledore spoke, placing his hand on Harry's shoulder. They were nearly the same height now.
"Love, of course, makes one do some great things. Likewise, it can force one to do some terrible things. You have the power in you already to do all that you must. What most people won't realize is just how different this war will be from the last war. Voldemort is much more dangerous now, and more powerful. We live in a bigoted world, and some people will use is rise to power as a way to manipulate events to their benefit. You will have enemies on all sides. Most don't know this, but I have so many titles because I want to always know what's going on, and hopefully effect change for the greater good. Am I perfect? No, not even in my wildest dreams. However, the best that you and I can do, being imperfect, is to be the best people that we can be for the most people possible."
"But how am I supposed to fight him. He can literally duel you to a draw, and you just wiped the floor with me using only household spells. There's a gap, Headmaster, and it's not getting any smaller." Harry spoke.
"All true. However, I stand by my faith in you. Your instinct for magic is far greater than even Tom's. Think of how much you've learned in the days since you were ambushed by Bellatrix. All it takes is a bit of effort."
"I suppose I never truly tried." Harry muttered, reflecting on his hurried days. He hadn't even taken time to process it all.
"And I suppose I could have given you a reason to want to try. My plan, Harry, was to have you come to Hogwarts humble, happy, and healthy from a loving family. You were healthy, in a fashion. You are humble, but that's only because you have never felt anything to truly be proud of. How could you, if your relatives would simply take it from you? Because of that, you were not happy." Dumbledore spoke, turning slightly to answer Harry.
"But sir, I…." Harry tried, but was silenced by a raised hand from Dumbledore.
"Let me finish Harry. Where was I? Ah, yes. You were not happy. And yet you stood before a troll to save the life of a young girl you hardly knew. You battled with a legendary creature with naught but a sword. The Dementors. The Tri-Wizard tournament. And even last year you overcame vast odds to rise up and teach your fellow classmates how to defend themselves. Simply marvelous."
"Thank you, sir. I wouldn't have made it without my friends."
"You are truly on the path to become the greatest wizard of your age Harry. It's not always about power and using it to manipulate and lord over people. No, if anything, power is being able to invoke such a feeling in others that they are able to be better than they were before. Power is knowing when to use it and knowing when to use other means. Love is power Harry. That is why you have my complete and utter faith in all that you do."
"Thank you, sir. That really means a lot to me."
"I am flattered, Harry, that you still have such a high opinion of me despite the hardships you could lay at my feet. It speaks volumes, even to the death. Back to much more pleasant thoughts, how do you think you've progressed?"
"I'm still not sure Professor. I mean I obviously can't beat you, but how much does that account for? I had never thought of that before. How many people have ever beat you? So, I have to weigh that with the fact that I am nearly 16 years old now. From my readings at the end of the year, and my studies this summer, I think I understand magic better. As it relates to me that is. I find that with all of this training, I am catching on to spells easier."
"Ah yes, not many people have had magic expressed and explained to them in a manner that is custom fitted to them. How much better would a Neville Longbottom be, if he had the same opportunity?" Dumbledore spoke. Harry thought that was an interesting question.
"Can't you talk to him?" Harry asked. It made sense, sort of. Harry watched as Dumbledore seemed to think the question, while giving his wand a slight twirl and conjuring a rather comfortable looking chair. The headmaster sat before he composed his answer.
"I can. I have, instead, delegated the task to different professors with whom he has a better relationship. Some still see me as some sort of mystical figure. Further, his grandmother, Merlin bless her, is a strong-willed woman, and we have not always agreed on the best approach. Specifically, in Mister Longbottom's case, his grandmother holds him in comparison with his father. Their upbringings were completely different, and as a result, they, too, are completely different."
"Ah, I see. Neville has mentioned her once or twice before. She's on the Wizengamot right?" Harry asked.
"That is correct, Harry. She is a formidable woman, to both her allies and her opponents. But, let us digress. Do you remember how we spoke of how the Ministry of Magic uses different classes to decide how powerful a witch or wizard may be?" Dumbledore asked.
"Yes, of course, sir. You said something about there are different levels, but that it was not a precise, er science?" Harry asked, tapering off towards the end.
"Yes, more or less. It is not precise due to the fact that measuring magic in a person, at any given time, is nearly impossible. Sure, one could feel the magic in another user, especially once they become more attuned to their own magical signature. However, it must be noted that some magic users don't develop a discernable aura, for lack of better words. Augusta Longbottom took the readings far too literally, and has attempted to shape Neville into a wizard that he may not need to be. So, just because a reading says that a child may or may not achieve a certain level of, let's say magical affinity for this case, does not mean that they would be more or less powerful than their predecessors."
"So the pureblood propaganda means what then? Does blood not truly matter? Magically, that is?" Harry asked, completely interested in understanding the root of a lot of discrimination in the magical world.
"Ah, such a difficult question. Purebloods are neither right nor wrong in their beliefs of blood superiority or inferiority. A lot of purebloods, not so many generations ago, believed that they were closer to the true ideal of magic, that they were more powerful, and that they would be traditional in the use of their magic. The truth of the matter is far more complicated of course. Some people are simply more talented, and the use that talent. Others, are talented, and do not use their talents. Some people are simply stronger, and others weaker. The ancient bloodlines, of course, are able to produce an exceptionally powerful and talented witches and wizards when the right circumstances are aligned." Dumbledore spoke. Harry sensed there was more, so he stayed quiet.
"And yet, for each and every Voldemort, there is a Cornelius Fudge. Not to say that Cornelius is not a capable wizard, but his talents lie in a different area. Tom Riddle for all of his faults and crimes is one of the most gifted and powerful young magic users that I have ever encountered. His circumstances, in conjunction with such talent, led him down a road to becoming Voldemort. Let me take a step back, I have personally seen purebloods of the highest order produce what they would consider a lesser magic user, or, to put it politely, one who would put shame on their family's name. Remember, some families can trace their roots back to the Founders themselves, and other legends of magic before them. To them, that purity, that family history is more important than anything. And yet, I have witnessed two muggles produce a child that is extremely powerful and talented."
"You mean, like Hermione?" Harry asked, his mind flickering to his bestfriend automatically. He was sure she was the brightest witch of her age, not just due to the way that she studied, but that way that she strived to understand magic.
"Exactly. The long and short of it is that magic cannot truly be predicted. We can measure how strong a spell, ward, or enchantment is, but not necessarily how strong that person's next spell or enchantment will be. Circumstances change everything. Originally, Miss Granger, on a sheer power scale, may not be the most powerful witch in the world, but due to her diligent work, and her innate magical ability, she can outperform nearly all of her peers. Does that make sense?" Dumbledore asked.
"Yes. At least, I think so. The way that I see is that there is both talent and power, but your blood doesn't really affect the level directly. Some people, I think, are simply better or er, more proficient with certain fields of magic. Which doesn't mean that they're not capable of using other fields of magic. Right?" Harry paused, but continued before his headmaster could respond. "It's like some muggles are rather gifted with playing a musical instrument. It doesn't mean that someone else can never learn to play, just that some people are more… well, skillful I guess. For the second person, the person that learned, well it seems like that is where their intelligence comes into play. They are smart enough to learn the words to music, so to speak, and therefore can apply them in a given order and create some sound."
He paused there, not just to catch his breath, but to catch up to his rambling mouth. It made sense, to him at least. Some people understood magic more so than others, which made their instincts and grasp of magic that much more noticeable. The talent aspect, of course played a vital role. A trained violinist would probably never measure up to one who simply understood music at a very fundamental level and personalized it instinctively.
"You speak of, essentially, aptitude, intelligence, and talent. I would add in that willpower comes into play when using magic, and learning magic." Dumbledore added.
"And effort!" Harry inserted, before explaining at the urging of the older wizard. "Well, you can have the aptitude, the intelligence, the talent, and the willpower… and yet you can be as lazy as a Flobberworm and it would mean nothing. Someone with more eagerness in their studies could potentially catch or match this gifted person. I think." Harry finished with a laugh. Were conversations on magic always this exhilarating? If so, he could see why the Headmaster continued to study, and wanted to spend his days around knowledge.
"And what will you do with this information? Earlier I asked you, how would you rate your progress. Has your answer changed?" Dumbledore probed, his twinkle evident in his eyes.
"I'm not sure I have an answer for that Professor. It's not an easy question to answer, and I've asked myself before what was stopping me from being great. I could never answer it. It's hard to be impartial when I am speaking of my own faults."
"I see." Came the reply. Then there was silence. "Well, as we spoke of before, not everyone has the same connection to their magic. Or rather, it may be simpler for me to say that no two magic-users are born with the same aptitude for magic. We have already established that. A very small percentage, across the world mind you, have such an intuitive grasp on magic. Answer me this, Harry, how would you describe the way your friends use magic?"
"Ron… well, I'm not sure that Ron puts forth the most effort to be honest. Not to say that he's lazy, but he's easily distracted and frustrated, and I'm certain that doesn't help his proficiency. He is extremely emotional, and has a tough time overcoming that. Once he gets a spell though, he usually has no problem with it." Harry spoke, thinking of the gangly redhead. He was shocked at his own admission though, and wondered how his friends approach to magic affected his own.
"And Miss Granger?" Dumbledore asked with a small smile.
"Hermione studies every aspect of a spell, from its creation to whenever it was first used. She'll look up the eti- umm, what's the word?"
"Etymology." Dumbledore supplied.
"Yes, that one. She'll have all this background knowledge, and I guess the spell seems familiar to her when she first does it. Even if she didn't get it right on the first try, she's usually the first to get it done, and perfected. It's quite a sight to see to be honest."
"Very astute. The professors have expressed some of the same information that you have, but from a far more technical standpoint." Dumbledore started, and then seemed to pause, his eyes twinkling madly. Harry had a feeling on the question he was supposed to ask, but dreaded the response that he would receive.
"And what do they say about me Professor?" Harry finally succumbed. It was inevitable, and just like Dumbledore to never actually answer the question, unless he asked directly.
"It's funny that you ask that my boy. Quite a few professors are of the mindset that you are holding yourself back, not supplying your true skills where they may be used. Some say that there are times where you do not even practice a spell until you have seen Hermione perfect it. Others say that you spend a great deal of time trying to not be the first person done with a spell. We go back to the idea of effort that you mentioned, and your apparent lack thereof. May I ask why?" Dumbledore spoke. A small gesture from his wand and another chair popped in for Harry's use. He sat down, his eyes not seeing any of his present surroundings. He was taking himself back to the Dursley's before he went to Hogwarts.
Damn.
It was a tough question. Dumbledore had just asked him to dissect himself and offer up the remains. He wasn't sure that he could do that. If he took a good look at things, he could be frightfully honest with himself. He didn't try. He had many more years of being successful in his learnings and being punished for the effort, than he had with being rewarded.
It was ingrained in him to be subpar.
For more than decade, if he was being honest with himself. It wasn't just the comments from his Aunt and Uncle, but the fact that he had convinced himself that he was better off if he did not try his best. He needed to understand the material enough to elude the notice of his instructors. He had at least convinced himself of that fact. If he pretended that he knew the material necessary, he would be able to slip their notice and avoid a tough punishment from his relatives. They were dead now, but did their influence of his life still continue? He'd have to answer that question later.
"I guess, I have always been that way." Harry finally answered, still feeling a bit awkward while talking to his Headmaster on such a tremulous topic. It wasn't every day that he was able to be this vulnerable in front of an authority figure.
Dumbledore was silent, his blue eyes hiding his true response.
"The Dursley's were…tough to deal with. It was a lot of hatred in every action, and nothing that I did seemed to please them at all. It was hard, Professor. My instincts were always to protect myself, but never be a nuisance. From a young age, they were instilling in me the idea that it was best to listen to them. I had no other influences beyond the words of the people that I had believed had my best interest in heart. I believed that they were going to take care of me, to protect me, and to nurture me. I hadn't experienced or witnessed the same from any other family I had been around. I was used to giving up sir." Harry spoke, his shoe kicking a rut in the dirt beneath his feet.
There was silence for a long moment.
"I am sorry Harry. More than you can understand. I'd offer explanations, but they'd appear to only be excuses on my end. I can only hope that I can redeem myself in time. I think that –" Dumbledore spoke, his eyes somber. He made to continue only to be interrupted by a brilliantly bright light speeding towards them. Harry stepped in front of the sitting Headmaster with his wand raised. Dumbledore made no move towards his wand; only a smile graced his features.
In front of them stopped a silvery-white Lynx. Harry recognized it as a Patronus immediately.
"Wait, what's a Patronus doing here? Who conjured it?" Harry asked as Dumbledore stepped forward.
"You can do a great many things with a Patronus, Harry. I will have to remember to show you how to manipulate the magic to suit your needs. This one has a message for me." Dumbledore spoke, before directing his attention to the creature before them. "Albus Dumbledore." He continued, his wizened voice seemed to carry.
"Albus, we have a situation. You should get to the Ministerial Manor as quickly as you can." The deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt sounded from within the Lynx.
Dumbledore's face seemed to drop for just a bit, before he turned towards Harry. "Alas, Harry, we must part ways. As hesitant as I am to say this, I do believe you are capable of making the right decisions without being constrained to the House of Black."
"Are you saying that, I can –" Harry started, nearly unbelieving, but Dumbledore cut him off.
"Yes, but within reason. I will have an Order member nearby. As gifted as you are, there are uses to have a second set of eyes looking out for you. I'm sure you'll enjoy the unique anonymity of this person. I must leave you now. We shall keep to our usual schedule, I haven't had this much fun in ages."
"Yes sir. I'll make sure to not die." Harry spoke with a grin. With nary a sound, the Headmaster disappeared from right in front of him. In all of his years in the magical world, he would probably never get used to that.
Even though he was about to do the very same thing himself.
With a slight POP he reappeared in his chosen destination. Dumbledore, when he had taught him the basics of Apparition, had instilled in him that no two people apparated the same. It was even a fact that some adult witches and wizards would go to great lengths before Apparating. Some people could never get over the uncomfortable feeling of being squeezed through a tube. Portkeys were an option, as well as the Knight Bus, a common broomstick or even a magic carpet despite those being outlawed. He seemed to be fairly gifted with it, if one refused to count the time he left a bit of his pinky behind. Once done with that mishap, he had quickly gotten the hang of it. It was discomforting yet quick. A necessary menace. As a plus, it allowed him to run should he ever need to.
It made him wonder about Anti-Apparition jinxes and what his options were then. He'd have to rely on his feet. But the question would follow him for a bit.
He turned his thoughts to his current location and saw the bustling of the very first Wizarding Centre he had ever known. Diagon Alley was the same, and yet it was different. It had been some time since he had been here, especially alone. Molly had usually done most of the shopping for him.
The Alley was still busy but it felt different, and it took a moment for him to really put his finger on what was wrong. And then he had it. There was a palpable tension in the air. He could see the parents clutching their children closely. There was little to no sound, and he saw that some of the shops had been closed and boarded over. It unnerved him, but that was the effect of Voldemort.
He started his journey, his first destination at the very end of the alley was Gringotts.
It did not take him long to get there. He kept his wits about him, making sure he watched the area around him. Entering the golden doors, he nodded to the goblins guarding the entrance, their deadly sharp spears slanted at a precise angle. He shivered thinking of how quickly they could turn those spears upon him. Could he reach his wand in time? He walked past without having to find out.
He approached the goblin at the end of another long walk, thankful there was not a line.
"And what can Gringotts do to serve you, wizard?" The goblin, Sharptooth the name tag read, asked rather gruffly.
"I was asked to be here." Harry spoke, and noticing that the goblin looked nonplussed, quickly added, "My name is Harry Potter. I'm a bit early, but I can't afford to take risks."
"Follow me Mr. Potter." Sharptooth intoned, hopping from behind the towering desk and immediately walking away. He didn't look back to ensure he was being followed, and Harry hurried to catch up. They passed many other goblins, each busy with their work. After many twists and turns, Harry could've sworn that he had seen some of the same doors more than once. Finally, they arrived. The door itself was nondescript, and the goblin wasted no time entering it.
"Wait here." Sharptooth intoned. He moved forward to another door that Harry was just seeing and disappeared within. Moments later he opened the door and beckoned Harry with a long, sharp nail. Entering, Harry saw that another, slightly larger goblin inhabited the high-backed chair. The rest of the office was lavish, with golden instruments and statues placed in a decorative manner. The goblin, Harry assumed, seemed to be one of great importance.
"I am Ragdog the Fifth, Account Holder for the Potter family. You are Harry Potter, here at my request. We have a great many things to discuss. Please, have a seat." Ragdog spoke, his voice just as gruff as every other goblin Harry had encountered.
"What am I here for?" Harry asked. From all his interactions with goblins, they were never ones to mince words. They simply got to the point, and it was a welcome change for Harry.
"You are very wealthy Mr. Potter. The Potters, and the lines they descended from, were always valuable customers to the Gringotts. That wealth had dwindled over the years due to war of course, but it still leaves you very well off. You could, if you so wished, not have to work a day in your life, and still have money for generations. The Black vaults added to that, nearly tripled your holdings." Ragdog spoke. "Gringotts is in the business of growing your gold, and therefore, our own. I enjoy being in a power of prestige by having so much gold to manage. I would rather not lose that position."
"And how do I fit into this?" Harry asked, wishing he knew more about dealing with Goblins. It sounded like he would be in over his head very soon.
"I help you, and you help me. It is quite simple actually." Ragdog replied, eyeing Harry carefully. Not an expert at reading facial expressions, Harry was nearly an expert at noticing if he was in danger. He did not get such a sense from Ragdog, but he could feel the goblin sizing him up, assessing his value, and determining his worth.
"Let's talk business then. I assume you have a list of what's in the account?" Harry asked.
"Accounts, Mr. Potter. Plural, as in more than one. Tell me, have you ever received any of the literature that we sent over to you?"
"The first letter that I received was right before my 11th birthday, and it was my Hogwarts letter."
"We assumed as such. We are not able to do anything with your accounts without your express permission, even though you were not of age according to the Ministry."
"So, can you tell me about my vaults now?" Harry asked, filing away questions that he didn't think were urgent now. When had he come of age according to the Ministry? Did his recent battle with Bellatrix and his subsequent death have anything to do with it? He had been using magic nearly all summer with no response from the Ministry, a thought that still troubled him.
"Perhaps, they are a bit busy with a new and improved Voldemort to worry about." He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. What with the way that Fudge had been operating, he was uncertain if there was any true response from the Ministry.
"According to Gringotts, you have been considered an of age magic user once you entered into a legal binding contract."
"Wait what? What contract?" Harry asked, heart pounding.
Nothing would ever be the same. She was unsure of how she knew this for a fact, but it was a feeling that she could not displace. Nothing would ever be the same, at least not since the visit. The images and sounds would forever haunt her.
Her family had just sat down to an exquisite dinner, despite being fairly early in the afternoon. For once, it hadn't just been her sister, mother, and father. Her grandparents had surprised them with a visit, bringing a litany of young cousins from the continent. It had the makings of a joyous occasion.
And then they came. The wards hadn't been tripped, though truthfully, they hadn't been the most impressive set of wards as the family didn't often fear an attack. Yet and still, most people tended to not show up unannounced.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and with a feral look in his eyes, Fenrir Greyback was who she had noticed first. His smell preceded him, and his presence sucked the breath from everyone preparing to dine. What was worse was that he was not alone. There had to have been eight more of his kind, each of them licking their lips at the sight of the young children. It was sickening. As bad as his presence was, Fenrir was not the most dangerous person in the room.
That title easily belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange.
The woman still had remnants of her former beauty. Her high cheekbones had lost some of the baby fat, her hair hung across her head haphazardly, and her robes were of the deepest black. If one stared at them for too long, they could get lost in the blackness.
They made eye contact, and suddenly she felt as if Bellatrix, The Torturer, could see right through her and into her deepest desires. It was without a doubt that she could sense the fear that permeated through the room. Bellatrix licked her lips, and in some ways, it was far more terrifying than the werewolves doing so. She felt the fear in the pit of stomach grow to consume her body.
"Well, well, well… what do we have here?" Bellatrix has asked as she casually sauntered about the dining room. "A family dinner. How...quaint."
"We don't want any trouble." A deep voice, her father, had responded. Even with his courage, she could tell that her father was uneasy and nervous. It made her stomach tighten with thick knots. She subtly grabbed her sister's hand under the table.
"We are not here to cause trouble. In fact, you could say that we are here to prevent trouble. The Dark Lord has returned." Bellatrix spoke, her voice starting in a singsong manner, and quickly into a hiss of adoration upon her final declaration.
The adults in the room flinched. They had all read the paper when Minister Fudge had been forced to eat his bowler hat so to speak. They all knew that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned, they had hoped that it would pass them by, quietly. Their family did not deserve a war. The family did not deserve death.
"We have never been involved with the Dark Lord. We have always kept to ourselves. Why must this concern us?" Her father asked again.
"There will only be two choices this time." Fenrir spoke, stepping further into the room. She had just realized that they had surrounded the dinner table. She squeezed her sister's hand tighter. "You're either with us or you die."
Bellatrix laughed. It froze her blood.
"My Lord is not a patient man. We will give you 24 hours to make a decision. No decision is a decision." Bellatrix continued.
Her grandfather stood up, wand in hand, and with an angry visage. "My family does not bow to the threats of a madman!"
Bellatrix cocked her head to the side, as if she had found a particular thought that she could not dislodge from her head. She slowly began to smile, and then her smile turned into maniacal laughter. Suddenly her wand was in her hand.
"Are you making your decision today? Do you speak on behalf of everyone you hold dear? You're a miserable old man, whose best years is behind him. We will tear your family asunder, pillage your accounts, and destroy your bloodline. You cannot -" Bellatrix started before suddenly having to shield a vicious looking black bolt of magic from her grandfather.
There was silence, and then all hell broke loose. One of the werewolves jumped clear across the room, heading towards the side of the table where her cousins were gathered. A blasting spell from her father nearly tore the beast apart. She drew her wand, and yanked her sister from the table. She desperately flung her wand towards the table.
"Depulso!" She cried. The large, heavy table jerked in response to her desperation, rising, conveniently, to block several curses that turned the table into a pile of splinters. A forceful twirl, flick and thrust from her father turned the splinters in 3-inch nails that shredded two of the werewolves too slow to move. It was a gruesome sight, and one that would haunt her memories forever.
Suddenly she felt herself grabbed from behind. She responded by kicking backwards with as much force as she could muster and twirled around with her wand slashing towards the assumed assailant. A strong hand caught her wrist and her eyes met those of her father.
"Daddy! We have to get out of here!" She cried, still flinching from the sound of spell fire and the occasional growl of the werewolves nearby.
"Grab your sister. Run to the cellars below. In the furthest room the back, there is a tunnel that will get you out of here. They have wards up and we have no time to break through." Her father spoke quickly, his wand still flashing to and fro. She hadn't known that he could fight this well, but then again, there was a lot that she didn't seem to understand.
"But…" She stammered. He pushed her roughly in the direction of the cellar door.
"I said go! Make your way to Gringotts. There is a note there that we received years ago. Hopefully, it still works. And keep your eyes open! We will hold them off as best as we can." He turned back towards the fight.
She, as scared as she was of the happenings around her obeyed the desperation in her father's voice. She found her sister seemingly frozen due to fear. Grabbing her hand, she yanked her along. She could not afford to be gentle at a time like this.
"We have to leave now!" She practically screamed. The battle around them continued to damage the house that she had grown up in. She didn't have the time to watch the battle ensue. She had almost always obeyed her father, and today didn't seem to be the night to stop doing that. She spared a glance a quick glance around and noticed that in the confusion most of the other children had been able to get away. It was the adults that occupied the attention of their attackers. She wasn't sure how much longer the fight would last, but she knew that she didn't want to be on the receiving end of any of the spells being thrown around.
Hurriedly, she ran, dragging her sister along behind her. Her mind was elsewhere but her feet knew the familiar wooden floors she had spent more than a decade traversing. She would not get lost this night.
The cellar, dark as always, seemed a world away from the battle above. Once past the thick oak door, the sounds seemed to disappear. All that she could hear was the breathing of herself and her sister. The high ceilings were stone, as was the floor beneath them. The cellars were truly built into the foundation of the manor. She felt a bit safer now, but still heeded the words of her father. Following the memorized path, she arrived at the door that her father spoke of.
As a kid, it had always fascinated her. It was a tall door, as nearly as tall as the ceiling, but as dark as the night. For the life of her, she could not guess what the door was made of, but she knew it was old, and had many enchantments upon it. She pressed her hand against the door, and it flared a brilliant white before easing open with hardly a sound. Her father had told her years ago that it only responded to the master of the house, so she had never dared to touch it. Now, even in the heat of the moment, she was sure she was told that to keep from trying to see what was on the other side of the door.
Through the door, she dragged her sister, who still seemed to be in some form of shock. It certainly didn't make the escape any easier. The tunnel that she entered was surprisingly well lit with torches coming to life with every step that they took. However, the tunnel seemed to stretch on for forever and time seemed to slide past her as they continued to the destination.
Suddenly, they were at another door. It was not as well kept as the door they had originally come through but it was still thick and tall. Again, she pressed her hand to it, this time to exit. It was very dark on the other side, and it took all of her willpower to not turn and run back into the door she had just exited… only there was no longer a door there. They were in a forested area; the sky completely shrouded by tall trees. She wasn't sure which direction was the right direction to go.
Her mind was not yet processing the location of the any of the copse near her home. Her heart started to beat faster, and she could feel her anxiety worm its way through her body. She wasn't just scared. She was terrified.
'Make your way to Gringotts.' Her father's voice echoed in the recess of her mind. It startled her. It was enough for her to take a deep breath.
'Okay, think. We're still near home. We couldn't have been walking for more than 10 minutes. Gringotts is a safe place. That's step one.'
There was only one branch that she knew of, and it was located in Diagon Alley. The question was, then, how would she get there? She could not Apparate, did not know how to make a portkey, was without a broom, and there was not a fireplace in sight. She took a few hesitant steps forward, only to trip awkwardly in the darkness. With one hand still clutching her sisters tightly, she threw out the hand holding her wand to try to steady herself.
BANG!
A cloud of smoke accompanied the sound and suddenly her answer slammed on its brakes in front of them. The Knight Bus had arrived.
"Where too little miss?" A tall man spoke, not unkindly. He barely looked at them as they boarded the bus and made their way to the back after quietly whispering her answer. Once at their seats, she wrapped her sister in her arms while still tightly clutching her wand.
"It's going to be alright. You'll see. Everyone will be fine." Her words seemed to have the opposite of the intended effect, only serving to make her sister whimper and cry silently. She felt it in her soul.
The subsequent trip to Diagon Alley peacefully, and she regained some of her calmness, though only an abrupt loud sound to relapse. It was maddening. Diagon Alley, despite her expectations, was quiet. It was far later in the day than she had thought. It was likely that many families had been sitting to dinners, much like her own.
She quickened her step. The only sort to be out at this time of night were those that she did not want to attract. Everything she saw seemed like a threat. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was unsafe. She had grown to trust such instincts, honed from childhood games with friends. Her fears amounted to nothing. She safely made it into the shadow of Gringotts.
Even the goblins scared her. Usually she included them in the general background, and never acknowledged that they, too, were people. They were usually below her notice. It had gotten to the point, where she had once walked straight through a group of them, forcing them to scatter. She hadn't noticed it until her father had pointed it out earlier.
Now, she noticed the precise angle that their razor-sharp spears were slanted. She noticed the suspicious glint in their eyes and the distinct tightening of their hands along their weapons. They too, it seemed, was scared of her. She couldn't wrap her mind around it. Maybe it was the ragged clothing she and her sister wore. What had once been her favorite blue shirt, was not a tattered, dirty mess of cloth. Her sister looked worse, having caught a few cuts from stray spells.
Once inside the renowned bank, the process was much smoother. A drop of blood was enough to prove her identity, and for once she hated the jerking of the cart as they traveled. Her sister was still mute, and she didn't know how to get her to relax. This was the safest that they'd been since the arrival of their "guests".
The vault itself was the same that it had always been. Towering mounds of gold, bookcases with prior family grimoires, and old clothes from centuries past met her eyes. None of it registered. While she would certainly take some of the gold - happy that her father had authorized her - she was sure that her father had not sent her here to see their gold. She let her eyes roam further, taking in the portraits, those animated and those that weren't. Her eyes traveled to the far back of the vault, where a box caught her eyes. She was standing in front of it and prying it open before she registered that her feet had moved.
All that lay inside was a note, the handwriting sloping and neat. It looked vaguely familiar, but she could not place it for the life of her. She read it quietly to herself, eyes disbelieving.
"Sanctuary may be found at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, home of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black."
'The House of Black? I wasn't even aware there was some history there.' She pondered. She had no idea where to find the house, but was sure that magic would aid her in some way. She spent a few more minutes within the confines of the vault, making sure to grab as much gold as she could. She had no further knowledge of this Grimmauld Place, the condition, or if it were even habitable. Unbidden, words from her father seeped into her thoughts.
'You are strong. Stronger than I could have ever hoped for. I trust you to do what's best for yourself and the family.' She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and headed to the exit.
Her sister still hadn't spoken, and as she looked closely, she could see the faraway look in her eyes. She was so distracted that she had never even noticed the person she bumped into. The hand that held the slip of paper released its grip and it fluttered slowly to the floor. She was too disturbed by the person in front of her that she didn't even notice.
In front of her stood Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.
