/ 6 /
Ahh so someone brought up the good point on how ambivalent the government was on Harry's time travel – there is a reason for that, but the flip side is that historically the government is transitioning from Hoover's admittedly quite useless administration to Roosevelt's complete upheaval of like everything about it, so they don't exactly have their shit together, or quite frankly the time or effort to deal with her when they have an economic crisis to fix.
Harry dotes on him all week, to the point Tom debates faking illness just to hold her complete attention. It's rather nice; he is suddenly the acute center of her entire world, and he finds he likes it quite a bit. Of course Harry cares for him, but she's very busy and always has something she needs to do. For the duration of his bed rest all those events seem to fade into inexistence, and suddenly he is the only thing that matters. He would prefer not to give it up, but school begins again on Monday and he's feeling antsy at the idea of missing too many classes. Who knows that they're learning now—he may be the best in his class, and has read most of his text books front to back, but he doesn't like the idea of missing class time anyway.
"Are you sure you're feeling alright?" Harry asks, worried, fussing over him for the umpteenth time that day.
Tom practically preens. "I'm fine," he insists, but he wraps his arms around her and tucks his head against her shoulder anyway.
Harry does not seem particularly convinced. "It's just another day," she says, frowning. "And that nice girl gave you all her notes."
At the idea of Margaret, Tom makes a face. It was true though; a fat owl had rammed itself into the window and startled them all earlier that week, carrying a pouch stuffed full of notes in a most distasteful shade of pink parchment. He supposes the gesture could be considered something 'nice', but the idea of calling Margaret that was laughable.
Tom shakes his head. "No, I want to go back to school."
Harry's lips tilt into a brief, amused smile. "Well, alright then. You better start getting ready then, huh? I'm going to get breakfast started."
Tom pouts when Harry removes herself from his grip, but he immediately brightens at the thought of food. "Waffles?" He asks, hopefully.
Harry laughs. "Again? Well, if you insist."
He nods readily, before following her and trotting out the room to his own bedroom, intent on getting ready. In all honesty, he is getting a bit stir crazy and is feeling well enough to brave the tedious circus that is primary school, but he is also itching to return to the library. Wolcroft doesn't have any limitations in regards to banned books, but they are very strict on their age restrictions. Sometimes he forgets just how young he is, if only because the faculty of the school treat him as an adult and hold their students to such a high standard of maturity that it makes Tom believe himself to be a lot older than he really is. Tom has a feeling that the vast library halls have the books he's looking for, but unfortunately those same halls will be inaccessible to him until he is older. And Tom isn't even sure if he's going to be here when he's older.
He shuffles into his seat just as Harry puts breakfast on the table, an armful of Spot in his hands as he tries to tug the rest of him from underneath the table. Spot does not want to move, and he does not want to go outside and catch his own food, even though the weather is far more amenable than usual. Harry finally gets fed up with the lazy snake and uses magic to untangle him from the table legs and toss him out the porch door. He makes droopy sad faces at them from the other side of the glass, but Tom ignores him because Harry is doting on him once again, grabbing him glasses of milk and juice and making sure he's comfortable.
Tom doesn't even bother with the pretense of pushing her away; it has occurred to him during the duration of his illness that he does not want Harry to dote on anyone else but him. And if that is the case, he really ought to be more receptive of it, otherwise she might think he doesn't want her and find someone else to fuss over. That sounds like a fate worse than death, so he has decided he doesn't have to act like he does with his peers with Harry. Harry is already the exception to his general disdain for humanity, so he supposes one more small concession can't hurt anything. He hugs her very tightly before he leaves, and while she seems surprised, she returns it with equal fervor.
Tom returns to school in good spirits, batting away the harpies that approach him the moment he walks in the door, and scuttling over to the relative protection that is Margaret; the other girls don't bother her, and leave him well enough alone when he sits next to her.
"Tom!" She brightens immediately. "How are you feeling? Did you get my notes? Was it enough, or should I have wrote more on the principles of condition damage—
"They were fine." Tom cuts in exasperatedly, before she can really get on a roll. And then, with great effort and significant disgust; "Thank you."
Margaret grins at him. "You're welcome." She says primly, fluffing her hair.
Wesley and Washy join them after a moment, and then Ruth comes skipping along to plop right next to Margaret, and the two push their heads together to gossip and giggle. Nothing appears to have changed with his absence.
Tom is having a fine day, until his professor mentions something about graduation. It is an off hand remark, as graduation is still so far away, but it reminds Tom that the school year will be ending. They have not started their finals yet, but surely are moving towards them.
What will Tom do next year? He has every intention of returning to Wolcroft next year, but what of the one after that? Hogwarts starts at age eleven, and he'll turn eleven this upcoming December. He doesn't know if he will return to Wolcroft, or attend Hogwarts. Hogwarts is literally in his blood; it is an intimate part of his heritage. He can only imagine the secrets that lie in that sprawling castle—and he had heard stories about it from Harry ever since she first mentioned it. It sounded amazing, and very different from Wolcroft. But… he was content here. He knew all his classmates, and while he held them all with indifferent regard he could respect some of them, and they certainly respected him. He liked his professors. He couldn't wait to start taking some of the advanced classes.
He wondered what the other schools were like. The infamous rivalry between Salem and Wolcroft gave him some idea, but they were of no comparison to some of the other schools. The two were fairly traditional, with curriculum and class structures a lot like the modern school system of the muggles—but he'd heard that not all magical schools were like that. After all, what constituted as a school? The Naztec and Inca, along with most of the ancient tribes around the South American mountain range had their own educational system that they refused to share with anyone else; the Babylonian Institute of Magic started at birth; and apparently even attempting to get into the Emperor's Imperial Institute in Luoyang required a multitude of trails and tests, and they somehow expected you to be at a level twice your age, but did not accept anyone over the age of seven. Tom wasn't sure what to make of it; would Hogwarts be more like Wolcroft? Or would it be so bizarre he won't know what to do with himself?
Harry went there, he rationalized, and it was in Europe, so it would stand to reason that the structure would bear great similarity to his own school. There was a boy in his class who had come from Durmstrang, and he didn't appear to have any issues transitioning into his new classes, and Durmstrang was also in Europe, wasn't it? Perhaps he was just better off asking Harry about it; although Harry tended to be rather tight-lipped about her time at Hogwarts.
All the same, it felt as if his heart was set on Hogwarts. He couldn't imagine passing up the opportunity.
And besides, he thought to himself with finality, as he followed his yearmates to their next class; if he didn't like it, he could always come back.
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Harry steps out into the cold, and immediately pulls her trench coat tighter around her, adjusting her scarf to completely cover her neck. It was far colder in this era than it was in the future, she digressed. Well, she supposed the seasons were different every year after all, so this was to be expected. Boston in the future had been a mild spring, while Boston in the 1930's had been besieged by another blizzard. Then again, of course it would take Harry by surprise; she intentionally stayed as far away from this time period as possible.
Aside from being in her house—which didn't quite count as the past, and didn't quite count as the future—or engaging in some sort of event, she did not spend any time here at all. Quite frankly, it depressed her. And it was difficult enough attempting to acclimate enough to society during the brief periods it was necessary; she didn't quite feel up to having to do it all the time. Harry was quite aware that many things had changed in what could be considered the relatively short time period of eighty years or so. It wasn't as if Harry didn't know this. She had researched the topic deeply before creating the rift in time and space, and knew how to act among company, at least in theory. The problem was that it was so tiring, and Harry had little patience for social niceties, and no inclination at all to indulge others. She could only keep up the charade for so long before she gave up the pretense entirely. After all, this was not her timeline.
Hermione had expanded on the topic enough for her to at least understand it in a theoretical sense. She remembered their third year, and Hermione's time turner—it only went back a few hours. This was true for all time turners, although occasionally the more powerful ones could do full days at a time. But time was a rigid and complex thing, as Hermione had explained it, and even with magic it was nearly impossible to bend it further than a couple hours. Even then the consequences could be catastrophic—and that was only a handful of minutes. Imagine a handful of years!
But it was impossible. Time was irreversible—at least, her time was irreversible. But there were many Harry Potter's that existed, in other parallel dimensions. When Hermione had told her that it actually made her quite maudlin; was there a Harry Potter who lived with both parents? Who grew up in love and affection? Apparently it was statistically plausible that the majority of her parallel counterparts were boys. The thought was amusing; what would she look like as a boy? Then again, she couldn't imagine every incarnation of her as a girl to look the exact same either.
At any rate, the fate of Tom Riddle had been set in stone long before she was even born, and there was nothing she could do to change that. For that Tom Riddle, at least. This Tom…
Harry shakes her head, clearing her thoughts. She could not even begin to imagine what these radical changes will bring to the future of this timeline, but she could only hope that the outcome would be different than her own. Different, but positive.
She tightens her trench coat closer around her, moving with the tide of people; they all appear sullen and downtrodden, dispossessed and empty. She turns her gaze away, fixing it to the brick sidewalk. She can't do anything to help these people. This is part of history—an inevitable and necessary part of history, Hermione referred to it as—all she can do is be thankful she is not one of them, and continue on. The further she moves into the city, the more lively it gets. There are buildings here full of businesses that have survived through the chaos, and out of them pour people dressed in fine work clothes, speaking avidly amongst each other. There are restaurants and bars that are not boarded up and covered in dust.
Harry ducks into one of them.
She peers at the inhabitants; the interior is sparse, but then again it is that ambiguous time between lunch and dinner, and most of the patrons are most likely back at work. There are a few people sitting close, speaking in hushed voices. She recognizes one of them; an objectively handsome man, with soft chocolate hair and piercing dark eyes. Harry will admit that it is difficult not to find him attractive; also, apparently Ginny was right about her having a type. Oliver, Cedric… maybe she did have a thing for the tall, dark and handsome.
Harry shakes her head, moving further into the restaurant.
"Sorry—I'm not late, am I?" She smiles as she removes her sunglasses.
Ralph stands up the moment she nears, pulling her chair out for her. She nods her thanks, unfastening her coat and laying it on the chair beside them. It is far too hot in the establishment, and she resists the urge to fan her blouse. "Not at all," he replies smoothly. "I just arrived as well. Would you like something to drink?"
"Oh, um," she looks down quickly, suddenly hit with the realization that she had never dined in a restaurant in this time period, and surely etiquette would be different here. "Yes, I'd love a glass of water. It's a tad stuffy in here."
He nods once, before calling the waiter over. "A water for the lady," he says, "and an Opus for the table."
Harry smiles awkwardly, occupying herself with looking at the menu. To her total lack of surprise, Italian food does not seem to have changed much in the past seventy years or so. It appears that Bolognese and chicken will never let her down.
"Thanks for meeting me," Harry starts, in a rush. "I just—I wasn't sure who else I could talk to."
"It's not a problem." His smile is pleasant enough; sharp, perhaps even a bit unnerving.
She returns the smile with a weak one of her own. "I suppose I am being a bit preemptive with this… but sometimes I think Tom grows up so fast, I really ought to know these things beforehand so I can give him some answers when he asks."
Ralph tilts his head. "You were rather noncommittal on the subject when I remarked on it earlier." He points out. "And there's no such thing as preemptive when it comes to higher education."
"Well, yes." She agrees, hesitating. "I don't like the idea of making any decisions for him—even if I think they're beneficial. But at any rate, I thought it wouldn't hurt to know."
The man makes a noise of agreement.
"My sister mentioned he shows an aptitude for alchemy?"
Harry laughs. "He shows an aptitude for everything, if that's not too callous of me to say."
"Not at all," he assures. "That just means he'll have more options. Perhaps I should have phrased it differently; what subjects does he show interest in?"
Her brows furrow, as she fights not to fiddle with the ends of her napkin. Instead she draws her hands into her lap. "Also everything," she huffs, almost as if exasperated. "He seems quite drawn to blood magicks, but on other days I would swear he had aspirations as a Necromancer."
"Interesting choice of fields," Ralph remarks, diplomatically.
Harry sighs, sparing him a withering look. "Interesting is putting it lightly." Even in Dark Arts circles, blood magic and necromancy were niche subjects. This wasn't to say Harry disapproved on the idea of them merely because they were quite controversial—but that polarization makes finding a job out of school all the more difficult. Harry isn't even sure what a necromancer does outside of nefarious undead business, or teaching classes. "I'm very curious; what does a Necromancer do, exactly?"
"Do?" Ralph raises a brow, as if this should be obvious.
"Occupationally." Harry adds.
He hums politely. "Well—nothing directly, occupationally." He adds, with a pointed look. Yes, Harry could assume there were a great many things a Necromancer could do, and none of them were legal. "But interacting with the undead, and creatures and spirits from other realms does come in handy; Richard could tell you more on that subject—wrathful spirits and the undead are quite common in his line of work."
"Curse breaking?" Harry blinks in surprise. Well, now that she thinks on it, she could imagine that being the case.
"Yes… the undead tend to guard their precious artifacts, even from beyond the grave." Ralph shrugs. The waiter returns with drinks and wine; Harry has never really understood the etiquette of wine tasting, so she allows the waiter to pour her a bit but makes no move to take it. "However, most people tend to overlook the most integral part of Necromancy in favor of, well, the necro part." He smiles. Harry blinks, curious.
"It might seem counterintuitive, but Necromancers are most adept at regeneration and healing arts."
"Really?" Harry had not expected that.
"A good Necromancer can summon armies of undead to fight for them." Harry refrains from mentioning that Tom already does summon armies of undead. Undead squirrels, at any rate. "But only a very powerful one will be able to sustain them for an adequate period of time. As you can imagine, without magic they deteriorate quickly."
She nods, even as something like trepidation grows in her stomach. Wolcroft may hold their students to a far higher standard than she remembered Hogwarts holding her, but all the same despite their advanced education Tom still stood out. She wondered if she had only accelerated this, placing him an environment where his intellect and thirst for knowledge would only be nurtured and grow tenfold.
"So the true power of the Necromancer comes from their healing and regeneration spells," he continues. "And there are a great deal of fields that those skills will be useful in."
When he puts it like that, it doesn't sound all that hopeless. She wonders how many of the mediwizards and witches she knows have dabbled in that art. Maybe more than she would think.
"Oh," Harry says, still surprised.
Ralph smiles at her roguishly. "See? The Dark Arts aren't all that bad."
Harry flushes a bit. "I never said they were," she pointed out.
"No, I suppose you didn't." He agrees. "But surely the stigma is there nonetheless."
"I don't think they're bad," Harry allows. "But I do think they're dangerous."
"Is that why you moved here from England?" Ralph asks, surprising her. "So your ward could attend an institute that provides a more liberal education?"
She eyes him slowly. "Yes." She grows concerned as she wonders if it is truly that transparent, or Ralph had done his research on her—and more to the point, why there would be research on her to find at all.
"That's really rather admirable of you, to move so far away from home for him to attend this school."
Harry is saved by the reappearance of the waiter, giving her time to mull over her answer as he fixes the plates in front of them. He is fishing for information, which isn't surprising. It's his motivations that concern her—everything about that family seems too systematic and perfunctory.
"I just want to give him the best education possible," she smiles bright and fictitious.
He smiles back. "Well, there's nothing wrong with that." He concurs. "As for higher education, I would give Amherst a look—it's quite close, and highly esteemed. Are you looking abroad?"
She ponders this question. "I suppose I'll look at anything." Is it too much to hope for a standardized process?
It's still years away and yet she already doesn't want to think about it.
"Any suggestions you have would be gratefully appreciated."
"Well in that case, the Viennese Academy of Alchemy is also held in high regard; as for Necromancy, well, unfortunately the Babylonian Institute of Magic would be the best, but they choose their students at birth and raise them there. As a perfectly acceptable alternative I would suggest Alexandria. Very exclusive, but renowned for their contributions to the Necromatic arts."
She's already feeling overwhelmed.
"That's exotic," she comments faintly, as it occurs to her that she should have expected something like that— there is an entire world full of mages and specialized fields.
He must read the surprise right off her face, for he chuckles a bit. "If you're looking for something with a broader and more uniform education, I would stay domestic. Either that or uproot yourself again and move to the Henan province."
"I'll pass," she replies quickly.
Oh Merlin, she thinks. What has she gotten herself into?
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.
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"Hi Tom," Harry calls over her shoulder, when she hears the fireplace roar to life behind her. Spot hisses delightedly, slithering off her legs in favor of a more receptive host.
She turns around to see Tom hauling the snake into his arms, walking into the kitchen. "How was school?"
"Mmph." He says, burying his head in her side. Spot protests this loudly, squished in his arms, but Tom ignores him.
Harry cocks an amused brow. "Is that a yes, it was good, or a no, it was horrible?"
"Neither," he replies, voice muffled. "It was alright."
Harry smiles down at him, wondering what has happened to put him in such a good mood again. At any rate, she doesn't want to press the issue. To her surprise when she begins to move away he clings even tighter, making an unhappy noise.
"Are you feeling okay?" She asks, immediately concerned. Maybe she shouldn't have let him go to school today… it wouldn't surprise her if he forced himself to go even when he was still feeling quite ill.
"I feel fine," Tom replies, truthfully. His head hurts a bit and he still feels a little stuffy, but it was nothing that bothered him. Regardless, he didn't let go.
Harry wasn't quite sure what to make of this. It felt both normal and yet surprisingly uncharacteristic of the boy, and she didn't quite know how he wanted her to respond. She chanced a glance at Spot, who was watching her with a nonplussed expression of total exasperation. He looked as if he was attempting to remind her of their prior conversation; Harry looked back down at the feathery head burrowed into her hip, before she leaned down and wrapped her arms around him. Tom made a noise of approval. Without further ado she grabbed him by the waist and lifted him up into her arms; he threw his own around her, much to Spot's deep displeasure. The squished snake began to whine pathetically, but Harry only swatted him away.
"Are you sure you're okay, Tomcat?" She asks, when he rests his head on her shoulder.
"Mmhmm," he mumbles, not appearing to be all that willing to give her a more sufficient answer.
Well, she supposes she really shouldn't push her luck, and took it in stride. "Okay—well maybe some soup would be good anyway."
Tom makes an interested noise. "What kind of soup?"
"Tomato soup?" Harry suggests.
"Okay." He agrees. He makes no move to get down, however.
Harry moves into the kitchen, tapping him lightly. "I need to use my hands, Tom." She reminds, teasingly. He makes a disgruntled noise, but does not resist as Harry drops him on the counter.
He watches her idly as she moves about the shelves, rummaging around the cabinets for a can of soup.
Meanwhile, Harry could feel herself slipping into an existential crisis for what could possibly be the hundredth time this week. Why did she ever think being a parent could be a good idea? Why did she think she was even remotely cut out for it? It was the most stressful—albeit rewarding—task she'd ever taken on. She spent half the time worrying incessantly on Tom, if she was giving him too much freedom, not enough guidance. If she wasn't there enough as his guardian, if she wasn't doing enough to be more involved in his life and his schooling. She had always assumed that the best approach to handling Tom Riddle would be a hands-off approach that gave him almost complete autonomy. What was surprising was that Tom didn't appear to want complete autonomy; more importantly, Harry was starting to feel that having such a disengaged strategy wasn't actually a viable option.
She was never going to be the Dursley's, fawning over Dudley and coddling him through every instance of his life. But she did remember how invested they were in his future, in a way that always made her bitter. They cared so much about where he went to secondary school, where he would go off to university (it was always laughable that they thought he would get into a university) if he was hanging in the right crowd (he never was), if he was getting good grades (also laughable) and in general worrying over whether he was happy or not. Molly Weasley was similar, always pestering her boys on what their plans would be once they graduated Hogwarts, wanting to make sure they all ended up well cared for.
Harry shook her head, heating up the pan while absently raising a hand to pull glassware out of the cabinet above. As they flew down to settle on the counter she moved towards the refrigerator, grabbing a pitcher of water.
Maybe she should be more involved in his life.
She had met his teachers at least once or twice, and most of them had nothing but glowing remarks to give her. All the same she didn't trust that for a minute; and anyway, if Tom was up to something he didn't want her to know about, she probably wouldn't be able to figure it out. She would most likely just have to wait it out and see if he told her on his own. She paused. That was a rather hands off approach, wasn't it?
Hell. She was thinking herself in circles.
"Harry?"
"Hmm?"
"The stove is on fire."
Harry whirled around, cursing under her breath as she whipped out her wand and dispelled the flames. It was a harmless little thing—a bit of something on the surface that had caught on fire—but all the same she should have been paying more attention. At any rate the soup had long been heated up to an appropriate temperature; she turned the stove off, looking up to see Tom laughing at her from his spot on the counter.
"I know you were perfectly capable of putting that out yourself." She glowered.
He shrugged. "But it was funny to see you get so worried about it."
Harry didn't even bother to comment on that one, rolling her eyes.
Tom smiled, but hid it behind Spot, who had curled around his shoulders. They discussed other light topics, like the weather, vague instances of Harry's job, Spot, and how to motivate him into being less lazy, and Tom's schooling. So it shouldn't have been surprising that Harry would eventually bring this up, but it caught Tom off guard nonetheless.
"So, Tom, have you thought on where you want to go to school?" She asks idly, after they had sat down at the table.
It only seemed so surprising that she brought it up because it was the same subject he had been deeply thinking on for most of the day. Could Harry read his mind or something? Washy had told him this horrible story about a vampire teacher in the secondary school who could read peoples minds. He wondered if the boy had been serious or just pulling his leg.
"Um, not really." He confesses. Which was a lie, but a necessary one, as he had been thinking on it a lot but hadn't quite come to a decision, "I was thinking Hogwarts, I guess. I don't really know if I'll like it."
Harry makes an interested noise. "And what about after?"
Tom blinks rapidly, looking up. "After?" He repeated, blankly.
"Of course." Harry laughs. "You're not going to be in Hogwarts forever, silly."
"But that's so far away," he points out.
Harry smiles at him, and though it was a beautiful thing it was tinged with nostalgia. "It'll be gone before you know it." She says, softly.
Tom snorts. Unlikely. As of now, time couldn't be moving any slower. "I'm sure I'll figure something out." He reasons, not particularly concerned over the matter; especially not when there were more pressing matters to attend to.
Like this whole Deathly Hallows thing, and whatever conspiracies were held within it.
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.
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Harry's head was still reeling from her meeting with Ralph, even though it had been days ago now. Honestly she felt as if she should have been taking notes. Unfortunately she was no closer to figuring any of this out, but she at least has a direction to take.
Tom had given no indication that he had even spared the idea a thought. She supposed it really was a lot to ask from a ten year old child—no matter how gifted and mature the child may be. Seventeen would seem like eons away from him, and why would someone who had the world at his fingertips be all that worried about a career after him?
But this was exactly why she was worried.
Tom was brilliant, there was no question about that. He was growing into a great wizard, who would do great things.
Terrible things.
The farther he soared and the more his capacity for greatness grew, so did his capacity for great evil. What would have happened to her world if Lord Voldemort had received even an ounce of the attention Tom did; not just from her, but from his peers and his teachers, all encouraging him to keep getting better? What would happen if Lord Voldemort had been given such a gifted education, at such an early age? She had no idea.
And while she did hold a great deal of faith in Tom, and that he would grow up to make all the right choices—and she hoped her faith wasn't misplaced—she still felt compelled to… make it easier for him to choose the right path, she supposed. And she didn't mean 'right side' as in the 'light' side, as if light and dark were really all that different. She just meant the right path as in, well, whatever path that wasn't him becoming Lord Voldemort. And be that reclusive Necromancer in the bowels of Egypt or some kind of curse breaker always immersed in the darkest of artifacts, then that was fine. Anything he wanted to pursue was fine, as long as it made him happy, and had nothing to do with being a rampaging dark lord.
She checked her watch again, making sure she had plenty of time. She did. Tom wouldn't be home from school until the afternoon, and she still had taken the day off for this little venture of hers. Afterwards she adjusted her scarf, and stepped out of the floo parlor, taking a long sweep around. The room was vast and gilded in gold and fine marble, sparkling in the glowing light. It did not remind her of Hogwarts, nor of Wolcroft. The embellishments were intricate and designed with such fine detail she couldn't tell if the furniture was meant to be seen as work of art or meant to be used as an actual piece of furniture. There was an element of regality and refinement that neither Hogwarts nor Wolcroft quite achieved. As if this place was not a place of learning, but a work of art. Or a bit of both.
Harry drew wide eyes about the room, before stepping into the silent chamber and making down the hall. She took a moment to admire the breathtaking sight she found at the end of it; a crystal water fountain centered in a vast, glass dome. Around the walls was a truly magnificent mosaic of gold leaf, diamonds and decorative shapes, patterns and colors all coalescing into a moving piece that seemed vaguely familiar to her. If not in subject then in style; organic, natural forms shimmering in the light. She drew close to the walls, gazing up into it.
"Are you a fan of Klimt?"
Harry jumps, startled, feeling something cold drop into her stomach.
She almost doesn't want to turn around, but she was never one to run from the inevitable. She takes a breath, sparing a pleasant smile towards a figure behind her.
A strikingly handsome man leans against a pillar, dripping in shadow. Even still, it is not difficult to discern his piercing, electric eyes through the gloom.
The Viennese Palast die Wissenschaft was a fitting work of architectural prestige—so much so that Harry thought it only natural to turn around and find Gellert Grindelwald seizing her in a gaze so charged it made her uncomfortable. Were all Dark Lord's this intense, all the time?
It was then she remembers he asked her a question.
"Oh—well, yes. Isn't everyone these days?" She laughs weakly.
The man pushes off the column, waltzing into the light. "You'd be surprised," he returns, low. "Personally I am more of a fan of Mucha, but it is impossible not to commend him on this masterpiece. Of course, he was certainly fortunate in his patrons." The man gave a nod to the illustrious work glittering on the wall.
"I didn't know he was a wizard," Harry confesses.
"An alumni as well," Grindelwald smiles.
He may look as if he belonged here, among all this gilded luxury and opulence, but she still did not know what on earth he was doing here. Why would he be wandering about the lavish entryways of the Palace? Ralph had suggested this to her as a location to look into to further Tom's school—and he had also mentioned that it was both prestigious and infamous. Maybe it wasn't so surprising to see him here. Surely the board of this school was just as influential as the board of Hogwarts, or the board of Wolcroft. She appraised him carefully.
He tilts his head. "Would you like a tour?"
Harry blinks quickly. She most certainly does not, but she cannot think of a polite way to decline him. "I think I'm meant to get one with the headmaster," she hedges quickly. "I booked an appointment, you see."
He laughs. "With Count Schloss? Great man, excellent alchemist—incredibly boring, I must admit. You'll fall asleep before you even reach the atrium." His smile turns sharp. "I can assure you, I'm just as well versed in this school as he is."
Harry swallows thickly. "Well, if you insist…" For some reason, his invitation did not seem voluntary.
"I do insist," he holds his hand out. "How much do you know of Alchemy?"
Absolutely nothing. "I'll admit I'm not very well read on the subject," she confesses. She very tentatively places her hand in his and tries not to cringe. It was so strange, holding hands with a dark lord. His palm was warm and dry, inviting, almost. His fingers curled around her with a familiar curvature. They were… peculiarly normal.
"Most people are not," he nods. "A very obscure field, Alchemy. Alchemists are such hermits, you know, they rarely ever deign to speak with the outside world. They're always holed up in their labs, searching for—
"The Philospher's Stone," she cut's in, surprising the both of them.
"Yes, exactly." He agrees.
Harry quickly wracks her brain. When did Nicholas Flamel create the Philospher's Stone? Well, he was very old, was he not? Surely he already had. "I thought Nicholas Flamel had already made one?"
"Well, that is how the story goes," Gellert replies. "Supposedly he and his wife Perenelle drank from the Elixer of Life, and achieved immortality."
Harry spares him an alarmed look. "Would you?" She asks quietly.
"Hmm?"
"Drink the Elixer of Life to achieve immortality?" She continues, finding herself very invested in his answer.
The great dark lord is not looking at her, leading them through riveting archways of glass and gold, sparkling light shimmering across the floors. Her trepidation grows the longer he doesn't answer. "No," he says, finally. "Living forever sounds like eternal purgatory."
Harry breathes a sigh of relief.
He turns to her, smiling enigmatically. "Death is only the beginning."
Harry can remember another man saying those words to her. A man both she and Grindelwald were very fond of. She wonders if it was truly something original from Dumbledore, or if perhaps her old headmaster had taken the words from the man in front of her.
"Just outside these doors is the Ringtrasse," he confides in her, rather conspiratorially. "Supposedly the doors are made from solid goblin gold—stolen gold, at that."
Harry makes an impressed noise. "And they got away with that?"
"Of course not. I'm sure the goblins were compensated for it somehow." Probably with a couple deaths or two, knowing just how the goblins took to thieves.
She scoffs. "They should have known better than to cross the goblins."
"That, I agree with." He says, heartily. "Clever little creatures; far too clever than most wizards would give them credit for."
Harry blinks, not quite expecting that. She studies him closely, as they seem to aimlessly float down the ethereal halls.
"You could say that about most magical creatures," she adds, slowly, waiting for his response.
"Yes, that's true. Most magical creatures are far more clever than all wizards combined, I suspect."
Now that, Harry definitely hadn't bee expecting. Harry was silent for a long moment, mulling it over. Before she knew it Grindelwald was pulling her into another vast chamber—this one vaguely resembling some kind of lecture hall, but held more similarities with a vast theater or opera hall. It was far more luxurious than any lecture hall she'd ever been in; where there were old, crooked wooden desks with the distasteful drawings of Fred and George Weasley, there were instead marble desks with opulent, golden chairs, all neatly aligned in descending rows until they reached what could only be considered a stage.
"This is a classroom?" She balks, surprised.
"Yes, but never mind the desks," Grindelwald says, pulling her gaze upwards with a pointed finger.
Harry looks up, gasping in surprise. A lovely angel strumming a harp smiles down at her from a scene full of angels and heavens and flying cherubs of all things. It is certainly a beautiful masterpiece, made even more breathtaking as all the cherubs flew together, and the angels with their harps and trumpets seemed to play a melody audible in the silent air. She let out a long breath, still staring up into the moving, mesmerizing display.
Finally, she gathered enough of herself to say; "That must be very distracting to have in a classroom."
He barks out a startled laugh. "Well yes, that's one way to look at it." He agrees. "That's an Ingres original, you know. All the galleons in the world couldn't buy that." He comments idly.
Harry doesn't know what that means, but is not at all surprised to find that Grindelwald is well versed in the arts. It seemed only… natural, for him to be so refined and cultured. To walk her around this palace of magic and science so casually, the halls empty and yet so grand, even with all the students on holiday. She could only imagine what it must be like when classes resumed. They wander around this strange, surreal place, part palace, part academy, part museum. Everything about it was a work of art, and Grindelwald made sure to show her every famous painting and statue on the grounds. There were not nearly as many as in Hogwarts. But each and every one of them was a priceless work of art, clearly handpicked by a very selective curator; definitely no screaming fat lady to be found here.
By the time they make it into what appears to be a main hall, Harry has begun to notice a pattern.
"You know, you haven't actually shown me much of the school," Harry points out, amused. "You've certainly showed me the school's admittedly impressive art collection, but I've yet to learn a thing about Alchemy."
"Well, to be fair, you wouldn't have learned much about Alchemy from a tour of the school, anyway."
"I'm sure Count Schloss would have loved to fill me in on the finer details of the subject."
"But that would only be after he had bored you to death." He counters. "Well, go on, ask away. What questions do you have for the Grand Master Alchemist?"
She spares him a sly look. "You are an Alchemist?"
"No, not in the slightest." He ripostes cheerfully. "But I'm sure I can answer any question you have."
Harry laughs, finding herself amused by this dangerous man. At the very least, he has proven himself far more entertaining than the last Dark Lord she had an 'acquaintance' with. And charming, for that matter. He's kind of an evil, horrible human being, Harry reminds herself. She shouldn't be giving him the time of day.
"I know they are considered similar, but how different are Potions and Alchemy?" She decides upon, after a beat of thought.
Grindelwald hums thoughtfully, not stopping their impromptu tour of every art movement of the 20th century. "Well, do you know why some fields of magic are considered dark arts, and some are not?"
Harry pauses. "No. To be honest, I always assumed it was some arbitrary decision, or perhaps there was a witch or wizard infamous enough to coin a certain spell or branch of magic dark."
An amused look passes his face, and he chuckles under his breath.
Harry finds herself strangely embarrassed. "What?" She says, hotly.
"Nothing—Well, at least you didn't tell me they were evil or something of the sort." He replies, still laughing a bit. "I'm sure they became notorious for the reasons you mentioned, but no, that is not why they are called dark."
"You see, there is actually something quite integrally different about the dark arts. They require… intent."
"Intent?"
"Oh yes. They are intrinsically tied to your thoughts and feelings."
"I see." Harry nods, voice colored with recognition. "Like Star Wars."
"Like what?"
"Oh, nothing." She was not about to attempt to explain the differences between the Jedi Order, who valued integrity and did not believe in allowing emotions to cloud ones judgment, or emotions at all, and the Sith, who seemed to operate on negative emotions alone. Or at least, she assumed the principle was the same. "So the reason they are considered dark is because… they have quite the capability of going wrong? If they're charged by emotions, that is."
"That's correct. That alone makes them dangerous, as it is all too easy to get lost in those emotions. It's a form of… payment, you could see. You cannot use dark magic without giving up something of equal value—in most cases, you are giving the spell your emotions as a form of payment. You've heard of the Patronus charm, yes?"
"Yes." Harry nods.
"That's considered the dark arts; the charm takes your happiest memories."
"But it returns them, too!" Harry protests.
"Well of course it does. Your emotions are always returned to you—whatever form of intent or payment is not taken from you entirely. Or at least, not in most cases. There are some exceptions."
"Like the killing curse." Which takes a part of your soul.
"Yes," he agrees. "Like the killing curse."
Harry was almost relieved when they turned the corner into a domed hall that could either be considered an entrance or an exit, but was probably neither. Their conversation died out at the sight. At the end of it were towering stained glass doors. It felt as if they had been wandering around the palace for hours; it certainly hadn't looked that big from the outside. And everything inside was utterly enormous.
"Ah! Here we are. Come Harry, this is the one I wanted you to see."
Harry, glad for the change in conversation, readily follows him. She hadn't thought she would open such a strange can of worms… with Grindelwald, of all people, relieved that he had so successfully moved onto other subjects.
The young woman found herself taken aback by this last painting, more so than the others. As he gave enthusiastically told her a bit of history on it, it occurred to her that this was undoubtedly his favorite of any of the works they'd seen thus far—and all of them had been utter masterpieces. It wasn't to say that she didn't think this one a masterpiece, it was just simply so… different. She would have expected Grindelwald to hold the staunch authentic antiquity in high regard; the austerity of the figures, stern and powerful, all grander than life, all involved in some sort of epic scene either in the heavens or in battle. It wouldn't surprise her to find him partial to that sort of thing; the egotistical, heroic self-centered protagonist.
But this was… breathtaking.
That wasn't to say all the others were not, that they weren't fine works of art, but…
"Sorry, what did you say it was called?" Harry asks, belatedly, too caught up in the fading planes of color and shadow to recall his words, all of them blended together so masterfully, soft shards drifting in strokes of paint.
"This is Feininger's Barfusserkirche, often considered his finest work." He pauses. "I believe the translation would be; The Church of the Minorities."
The church of the minorities. How ironic. Was Grindelwald not standing on the side of history that meant to slaughter all minorities?
"It's beautiful," she says, softly, for there are no other words she can come up with to describe it.
"Feininger has always been my favorite expressionist painter—I'll admit I'm normally not fond of the style. At any rate, for a muggle, he is clearly talented."
"A muggle?" Grindelwald's favorite painting was painted by a muggle?
She realized then that she had been associating Grindelwald and Hitler synonymously in her head. Everything she assumed of Grindelwald was entirely based on her assumptions on Hitler. She was probably right about the latter—he probably would have burned this masterpiece just because it dared not to be about German superiority—but it seemed she had missed the mark a bit on the former. Harry didn't doubt that Grindelwald was a dangerous, cunning and ruthless wizard. But he certainly wasn't Hitler. Harry wasn't sure if that was enough of a distinction to overlook the fact that he was still an impartial party to the man's plans.
"Surprising, no?" He sighs. "Wizards have never been much for the arts, I'll admit. The muggles have passed us in that regard."
That was surprising—but far more surprising was that Grindelwald would even admit that aloud at all.
"On the subject of Feininger, he did make one attempt in the fine field of sculpture—it's quite hideous, you'll love it. It's out on the Ringtrasse outside, because I suppose there is no better place to put such an unsightly piece of art than outside for all the public to see."
Harry laughs at that, and doesn't quite have it in her to protest as the man continues their grandiose tour out into the blinding sunshine of Vienna.
"Hideous, you say?" She comments. "Just how hideous are we talking, here?"
"Simply appalling," he replies. "In fact, I really don't think a woman of your stature should have to witness such a tragic sight."
Harry laughs. "I'm sure I'll be able to handle it. As long as it doesn't turn me to stone or anything—
They are erupted by what could only be considered a war horn. Harry wasn't sure what else to call it. The courtyard just past the palace was quiet and devoid of anyone but themselves, and there were no people to be seen along the winding road that cut through it. Harry looked around; by her side, Grindelwald had gone curiously quiet. "What is that?" She turns to him.
But she does not have time to get an answer from him, as soon enough a low hum pervades behind the horn. It grows in decibel, until it becomes recognizable as the sputtering of an automobile, accompanied by the clattering of horse hooves—many automobiles, and many horses, at that.
Her first and only reaction is something cold and hollow settling in her stomach, leaving her throat dry and her thoughts numb with shock. Afterwards is a rolling tide of sickness and disgust, accompanied by an impotent fury. The troop of muggles in their ostentatious parade do not acknowledge them, most likely because they are still standing within the Palace wards. All the same, they may not have seen her, but Harry had seen them. It was impossible not to recognize them—what they meant, the reality of it all. Charming and funny he may be, but he was still a man capable of evil.
"Ah, the Nazi party," he remarks offhandedly.
"I've heard of them." She says, hollow.
"Have you?"
"They're despicable." Harry said, with so much heat he looked surprised. She had forgotten that at this point in time Austria was practically synonymous with Germany, and right now Germany was absolutely under the Nazi party. Just thinking about it made something cold and furious settle in her stomach.
The courtyard was long deserted, as the men in their elaborate carriages and dead-eyed horses marched off into the rest of the city, leaving the two of them alone.
It was unbearable, suddenly.
This man next to her was culpable for what was to come; at the very least, he did nothing to stop it, and used it to his advantage. In fact, though he had no personal hand in it of his own he would most likely protect them, as an incidental cause beneficial to his.
And it reminded her just how awful war could be. Just how awful this war was going to be. She had so casually remarked to Hermione that she had no intention of meddling with history, but just how easy would it be for her to live up to her own words?
And most importantly, just who this man next to her was.
"Who, the muggles?" He asks lightly, as if in jest. But they both know it is not muggles as a whole she is referring to.
"The Nazis." She replies, flatly.
"For someone who has never been to Germany, and makes it a point to stay away from politics, you certainly seem far more educated than you let on."
"It's hard not to be, when it comes to them." She says, stiffly. And she doesn't remember ever telling him she had made a point to stay away from politics—even if it was true. That was disconcerting. Just how many listening ears did he have, for him to know that much about a girl he had only met for the span of an hour? "It's disgusting; everything about their cause is vile."
"And what cause would that be?"
Harry turns incredulous eyes to him. "The extermination of an entire people? The idea of reigning supreme across the world, destroying it in its wake? Pick what you like."
"The muggle world, you mean." Gellert points out. "And they're muggles. What more did you expect?"
Harry spares him a long, dark look. "They are muggles, yes. Just as mortal, corrupt, destructive, and evil as wizards, I would say. We are all human—one of us is not above the other. We're not any better than them, and trying to kill them won't accomplish anything."
His eyes flash, but then cool considerably. "Is that what you think my cause is about?" He says, finally addressing the elephant in the room; what he is involved in, and the fact that Harry was well aware of it.
"Isn't it?" Harry turns, searching. She isn't quite sure what to think of all this, but nonetheless she does surreptitiously have her wand at the ready. She has dealt with a Dark Lord before after all, and she can do it again. Even if this one has proven to be interesting and entertaining. "Wizards reigning superior against the muggles? Because they are filthy and beneath us?"
Grindelwald observes her closely, expressionless.
He remains inscrutable for some time, standing in the affectionate light spilling into the courtyard, handsome features somewhat obscured by the dark casting of shadow that follows the line of gold across his face. Finally he tilts his head, smiling, and the complex play of light and shadow drift away.
"Oh Harry," he says, and it is with far too much fondness. "Wizards already reign supreme, haven't you noticed?"
She frowns. "How do you mean?"
"The President of your country is a wizard," he points out, before pausing. "Well, no. The PM of your country is not a wizard, but nonetheless the British government is not without its imprint of magic."
Harry's brow rose.
"I'll admit, tensions between the British Ministry of Magic and the British muggle government are far more strained than most, but it is still not without correspondence." He shrugs. "I digress. The point is that some countries have approached muggles with more isolationist policies, and some are more integrated."
Harry swallows. "Then I'm afraid you have me at a loss. What is your reason for starting all this, then?"
"Overthrowing policies," he replies, with a smirk. "The muggle world is meaningless—the wizarding world isn't fairing all that much better. We have… stagnated, becoming complacent. Our governments have become ineffective and useless, overrun and corrupted by the rich and powerful. Something needs to be done."
"And if the deaths of millions just happen to be a peripheral price to pay, it doesn't matter?"
"I have no fondness for muggles." He returns. "And the worthwhile ones will know to stay away."
"And the rest?"
He studies her deeply. "People die in war, Harry. Change is never easy."
"Yes, of course. Death is nothing to be concerned over; but unnecessary deaths of that magnitude is something I really can't stand for."
Grindelwald makes a thoughtful noise. "I find that rather surprising. I can't say those are the words I would expect from someone so closely associated with Wolcroft and certain… social circles."
Harry glowers. So he had eyes in that party after all. "It's to be expected they would remain neutral—as the rest of America is, I will remind you."
"So you intend to stay away from the conflict?"
Yes.
But Harry already knows the answer to his question. She knew it all along.
"No." She says, with resigned finality. "I don't think I could ever sit by and watch something so catastrophic happen without doing anything to help."
Grindelwald sighs deeply, running a hand through his silvery blonde hair in a manner that is surprisingly human. He actually smiles at her, which is also deeply surprising. It is not the sort of smirk he had been sporting the entire day, but she would not quite call it warm either. If anything it looks… hollow. And determined.
"Then I'm afraid that would put us at odds, wouldn't it?"
"I'm afraid so."
"You're a very wonderful woman, Harry," he says, with a certain fondness. A very familiar wand appears in his hands. So familiar it takes Harry by surprise, even if it shouldn't. "It pains me to do this."
"You'll kill me?" She asks, casually, not making a move to draw her own wand.
He points the deathstick at her. "You're too dangerous to keep alive."
Something flashes in his eyes. For a long moment, Harry wonders if he has it in him—it is all so sudden and abrupt. Will he really kill her, after spending so long in her company, laughing and idly wandering through a palace made of light and paradise?
And then he says it; "Avada Kedavra."
.
/
For some unfathomable reason, Harry honestly thought he wouldn't do it. She wasn't sure what compelled her to think that—Grindelwald had shown no indication he was worthy of such consideration. If anything, she should have thought the opposite. He is the most terrifying Dark Lord to ever exist; certainly that was a title that was not thrown around without merit.
But then, he does, and Harry can do nothing but blink in genuine surprise.
Surprise, Gellert notices. But no fear. Perhaps she had really meant it when she had said death did not concern her: how strangely endearing.
And then, finally, something like fear grows in her wide eyes. Fear, and realization. Those eyes are the same alluring color as the curse speeding towards her, uncannily so really, glowing with the same unnatural power as the spell leaving his almighty wand.
In the space of a second Harry had drawn her own wand, raising it up.
He wondered what she would do. What could she possibly do to stop the killing curse? Nothing. And she made no move to jump out of the way. In a most absurd manner, she hadn't even moved from her spot.
It happened so quickly.
The curse it her square in the chest, a brilliant green light blinding and burning, making it difficult to see anything else. It seared against his eyes in a way it never had before, which would explain how caught off guard he was to see the curse redirecting back to him. The rest of his surprise came from the conclusive fact that the killing curse could not be stopped. Nothing short of a physical barrier or a missed shot could stop the famed unforgiveable—and certainly there was nothing in the history of mankind and magic that could make it absorb into someone and then promptly regurgitate it back out. Harry shouted something, then, and all of a sudden a great barrier of stone erupted from his feet, blocking the curse from hitting him.
He blinks, stunned, staring into the flagged surface.
It crumbles with the force of impact from the curse, sending him stumbling backwards and onto the ground.
He hears someone calling his name, and then Harry is by his side, examining him with alarm and perhaps even a bit of worry. This above all else was truly absurd; why would she be worrying over him?
"I just tried to kill you," he points out, belatedly. "Why are you so concerned?"
"Hell if I know," Harry replies, bitterly. All of a sudden she bursts into laughter; it was the saddest sound he'd ever heard. She laughed so hard she actually brought tears to her eyes, her face the pale pallor of someone who should be dead. But she wasn't dead, and neither was he.
She shakes her head. "I guess it really don't matter where in the universe I go after all." she sighs, mournfully. It is resigned and full of regret. And then, in a haunting whisper; "They will always be mine."
"What?" He gets out, not following at all, still a bit hung up on the fact that she was still alive, and he had almost died.
Her expression clears, leaving something cold and calculating in its place. "I'm assuming you tracked me down here to kill me. I suppose the opportunity was too good to pass up; this is Austria, after all. I'm sure you have their Ministry in the palm of your hand."
He doesn't deny it.
Harry tilts her head. "But why?" She asks, genuinely curious. "Why me? You don't even know me."
It is very odd to be sitting here with his head in the lap of the girl he had tried to kill mere moments ago. Too absurd and surreal to be part of reality—but then, perhaps that is the point. When has reality been nothing but absurd and surreal?
Though the curse did not physically hit him, he could feel the aftermath of the residual magic all the same, like the intensity of a cruciatus curse drawn out for eternity, until it felt as if all his strength had been turned to dust. How did she not see how dangerous she was? Did she not realize that magic itself seemed to bend out of her way, as if time, matter and space were all meaningless to her? That the rebounded killing curse had returned to him tenfold from what he had originally intended.
She is dangerous.
Far more than he could have ever anticipated.
Even now, he does not know what to think; he is still awestruck and unable to process her lack of death, and his almost death.
Harry removes him from her lap, with a movement that is far too gentle. She should be throwing a killing curse of her own at him—but she doesn't even seem to be acknowledging his existence at all. This would annoy him, but as it is he can do nothing but stare up at her blankly. She runs a hand through her fiery curls, looking so sorrowful in that moment it makes his own chest constrict. Finally she stands, still lost in her own thoughts, looking out into the shifting panels of light, seeping in through the buildings. The courtyard is silent, so silent, and she is not making a sound.
And then, after an eternity or so, her eyes glance over him briefly, as if passing judgment. He doesn't know what conclusion she comes to, but he can see the dismissal in her eyes before she disappears.
Have you read Tsume Yuki's fineshine? Haha if you are a fan of Harry/Grindelwald I would definitely recommend it... I'm kind of obsessed really.
ALSO: crawlersout has a website, which is half the reason why this chapter took so long. It's got artwork, and character bios, and notes and stuff - ffnet keeps ruining my hyperlinks so I'll try again its spacesmuggler dot wix dot com slash crawlersout
Please review! I love to hear your thoughts, and sometimes (most times) they're the only reason I update at all *.*