Chapter 4: Curses

My god it's boring in here. John thought to himself as he gazed up at the ceiling of the medical wing. He could hear Ginny off in the supply closet, organizing everything, and he knew Kara was asleep in the bed beside his. He, on the other hand, was feeling extremely restless and wanted out. He couldn't believe Ginny had kept them overnight in here. After all, it wasn't like anything horrible had happened. They'd only nearly drowned and suffered severe oxygen deprivation. What was the big deal?

John sighed. He hated to admit it, but had to admit that if he'd been in Ginny's place he'd have done the same thing. Still, that didn't stop him from being completely and totally bored.

Luckily, at that moment Harry and Ron decided to pay him a visit. "Oh good, you're awake John." Harry greeted.

John gave them a little wave. "Hey, what are you two doing here?" By way of answer Harry picked up the gemstone-bladed sword that John had used down in the pens the day before.

"Ah thanks for bringing it back for me." Harry placed it on the foot of the bed John was in.

"What exactly is that sword made of?" Ron asked, running a hand along the flat of the faceted blade.

"That is the Diamond Blade, it's been in my family for eight-hundred years, passed down from father to eldest son. It's blade was forged from the heart-scale of a Korean Diamondback Dragon."

"It's beautiful." Ron commented as he grasped the hilt.

"It's also cursed." Ron let go of that hilt so fast you'd have thought it was on fire. "Relax Ron, it's only a curse on my family."

Harry shot him a confused look, "What do you mean? What sort of curse is it?"

John leaned back against the pillows propped up in his bed. "Well, eight hundred years ago, or so the legend goes, my ancestor was the leader of a particularly savage and brutal tribe of nomads. They were the absolute worst sort of pillagers and plunderers, murderers and thieves you could possibly imagine. Well, one day my great-great-great-whatever grandfather came upon a woman carrying her possessions to the marketplace, one of which was this very sword. My ancestor took one look at that sword, and seeing it's beauty desired it for his own. He demanded it from her, and she refused. So he took the sword from her by force, and killed her with it.

What my ancestor didn't realize was that this seemingly innocuous woman was a Fateweaver. Before she died, she placed a fate's curse on this sword. First, that my ancestor would have a son, and that son would kill him in the defense of a woman, with the sword. Secondly, that all of his descendants' first born children would be male, and each would be drawn to a woman in need of his protection."

Harry looked thoughtful. "So this curse has been an eight hundred year lesson in Chivalry then?"

John smirked wryly. "Something like that. After about the fourth or fifth generation, the lesson must started to take effect because it didn't really feel like a curse to us anymore." He glanced over at his wife, still sleeping peacefully. "No, I'm pretty sure the lesson's fairly well set in by now."

The Halls of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place were dark as a lone figure crept through them. He'd never been here before, but the doorway was always unlocked to wizard's with the right blood in them.

Procyon Black looked around at his family's ancestral home, at his own history, and he hated the sight of it. Procyon had always hoped that the rumors about the kind of wizards his family had produced weren't true, but he could see now that they were.

He trudged up the stairs and into the family drawing room. There he saw, stuck onto the wall, an old tapestry that was tattered, frayed and faded. It looked like moths, or maybe Doxies had gotten hold of it at some point. Despite this, he could still tell that it was the Black family tree. He noticed the family motto, and smirked sarcastically at it.

"Toujours Pur." He muttered. "Right. 'Toujours Mal' would be more appropriate." Nevertheless he stepped forward to examine it more closely. His eyes scanned down through the centuries, through names he'd never heard before and couldn't put a face or a history to if he tried. Finally he reached a name he did recognize. Occasionally he would see what looked like a cigarette burn in the cloth, he decided these must have been people who'd been kicked out of the family. "Probably for being decent." He muttered. Then his eyes fell on a name that sparked some interest.

"Regulus Black." He muttered. "Says here he died twenty five years ago. But that's not right. He disappeared twenty-five years ago, but Voldemort didn't catch up to him until five years later. He was halfway to Berlin by then." He looked again at the tapestry.

"Well, well, well. I'm not even on here. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the family didn't know about dear old Reggie's illegitimate son now, should I?" He paused to consider the tapestry for a moment. Then he pointed his wand at it and a fine gold thread shot out of it and changed the date of Regulus' date of death. Then he embroidered his name, Procyon Black, right below the name of his father." He stepped back to consider his handiwork. He had to admit it looked good, considering he'd never embroidered before. Satisfied that he'd upheld tradition, he promptly raised his wand and blasted the name right back off the tapestry. Having done that, he turned to leave the room.

He headed down to the kitchen, hoping that the plumbing still worked. He needed a drink of water, he turned on the tap and a lot of muddy brown water splattered into the sink, but after he let it run for a little while he was pleased to see clean water run through the tap. He got a glass from the cupboard and filled it. He sat down at the kitchen table and sipped the water thoughtfully. It didn't take long for his mind to wander.

It was his first year at Durmstrang Institute and his Metaphysics teacher Professor Gorbeichev was explaining about Elementalists.

"In other words, a person who is naturally able to control one of the twelve elements of magic. Can anybody name any of the twelve? Yes, Ms. Volkanov?"

Procyon turned to regard the dark haired young witch as she paused to think before answering. "Earth, Fire Wind and Water." She said. Professor Gorbeichev nodded.

"Yes, yes, those are the four main elements, can anybody name any others?"

A blonde boy in the row in front of Procyon raised his hand. "Metal, Lightning, Storm, Smoke and Sand."

"Very good. Okay, there's three left. Anybody?"

"Ice?"

"No, Mr. Capis, that's not one of them."

"Light and Dark."

"Good, Good and the last one?"

Procyon raised his hand. He had known them all, but he didn't want to look like he was showing off. "Life."

"Excellent Mr. Black, Excellent." Gorbeichev continued with the lecture explaining that Elementalists were very rare and usually born to pureblooded families, and (true to Durmstrang's Pureblood Doctrine) the older the family the more likely that an Elementalist would appear in the bloodline.

"Is it possible for an Elementalist to be born with the ability to control more than one element?"

"No. That's not possible." That caught Procyon's attention. Obviously his Professor had no idea what he was talking about, not that he was likely to mention this fact. It was never a good idea to demonstrate unique abilities in Durmstrang. There were far too many people who were all too eager to exploit poor gifted fools.

"Now, those who can control an element have access to certain abilities depending on what that element is. For instance, those controling the Sand element are able to summon a sandstorm."

Wrong! Procyon thought to himself. Completely wrong, sand magic is the magic of Time.

"And those who can control smoke" Continued the Professor "Are able to turn invisible at will."

No, no, no, no! Smoke is the magic of Dream Control, you fool!

Procyon took another sip of water. Gorbeichev always was an idiot. And despite all his attempts to conceal it, Headmaster Karkaroff eventually found out about Procyon's ability to control the twelve elements.

He looked like it was raining Galleons when he caught me practicing. Procyon thought bitterly. He was going to use me to become the next Voldemort. In fact he dragged me to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament, hoping to sneak me into the contest despite Dumbledore's precautions. Imagine, a twelve year old in that contest? What an idiot.

Although, Harry Potter didn't do so bad. Procyon reflected as he drained his glass. Not bad at all, despite that annoying streak of nobility. That would've gotten him killed in Durmstrang.

Never a dull moment down Knockturn Alley is there? Draco Malfoy thought to himself as he perused the items in Borgin and Burkes, he paused to look at the Hand of Glory which, even after thirteen years, was still sitting in the dingy old shop. There was small cough behind him and Draco whirled around to see who exactly it was.

"Ah Young Master Malfoy, a pleasure to see you once more in my humble shop." The smarmy mister Borgin, hunched over in a subservient posture as usual.

"I'm not so young anymore Mr. Borgin." Draco replied with that patented sneer of his.

"Yes yes, of course." Mr. Borgin stepped behind the dusty counter. "So, can I interest you in anything?"

Draco ran a hand along the counter. "As you probably know, I'm taking a teaching job for that fool Dumbledore this year, defense against the dark arts. I thought I'd cover cursed items in my class, and everyone knows that Borgin and Burkes is the only place for cursed items." He held up the gnarled and twisted Hand of Glory. "I'll start with this. Anything else?"

Mr. Borgin rummaged around behind the counter and withdrew a number of seemingly innocent items. "This," He said lifting up a cotton Hawaiian Shirt, "Is an Acid Shirt. It causes severe burns to whoever wears it."

Draco examined the shirt for a moment. "Cute, but not what I'm looking for." Borgin looked disppointed for a moment, but dug something else out. This time he withdrew a pearl necklace.

"This has killed over two dozen muggle owners to date. It was created two hundred years ago by a Pureblooded wizard, a member of the Dolohov family if I'm not mistaken." Draco fingered the pearls in the necklace.

"Yes, this'll do nicely." Draco pocketed the necklace and the Hand of Glory.

"Excellent, Excellent." Mr. Borgin nodded profusely. "That will be forty-five Galleons for both items." Draco threw down the money, grabbed his items and walked out of the store without another word.

He was heading down the street towards the far more respectable Diagon Alley when he was suddenly body checked from the side and knocked into a dark side alleyway.

"Draco M'lad, how are ye this fine day?" Draco blinked as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, then he saw a large man who sported a wild mane of red hair and was built like an oak tree.

"Morag MacDougal. How are you?" Draco put on his most charming smile.

"Back from a seven year stint in the Hells of Azkaban, thanks to you." The burly Scotsman grunted, "Ye betrayed the lot of us. And I gotta say, we dinnae appreciate it, Draco."

"Hey, Voldemort was on the way out. I was smart enough to realize that. I was just looking out for number one!"

"How very Slytherin of you Draco." Said a voice behind him. Malfoy turned around to face the speaker and was faced with a willowy woman with startling green eyes and long dark brown hair.

"Blaise Zabini. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see you here." Draco snapped, as he reached into his back pocket.

"Looking for this Draco?" Blaise asked, twirling his wand between her long slender fingers. Draco glared, furious because now he knew he was in trouble. The sinking feeling in his stomach just got worse when a number of other figures were stepping from the shadows.

"Draco, I'd like ye to meet a few mates of mine. Crabbe and Goyle ye know. Then there's Marcus Flint, another ole mate o' yours."

A penetrating cold feeling set in over Draco, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. "Oh yeah." Morag continued. "The Dementors have been dyin' t' meet ye as well." Malfoy's vision was blurring then he fell to the ground as darkness descended on him.

Harry stared intently at the chessboard in front of him. The pieces were all looking up at him intently, waiting for his next move. Harry had been playing wizard chess for over fifteen years now, but he hadn't gotten much better. "Knight to E-three." He watched as the knight slid to the ordered square. Then he glanced up at Ron expectantly.

"Queen to E-three." Ron ordered and his Queen struck down Harry's Knight with one swipe. Harry stared at the board hopelessly, looking for a move but not seeing one. Ginny, who was watching the battle with mild interest, leaned forward and whispered in Harry's ear. Harry face lit up as he ordered his Bishop into position to make the checkmate on Ron's king.

"That doesn't count!" on huffed. "Ginny helped you."

"I did not!" Ginny looked indignant. "What I told him had absolutely nothing to do with chess."

"Oh really?" Ron's eyebrow cocked in an inquisitive manner. "Than what, exactly was it about then?"

"Now, if I'd wanted you to know that, Ron, I would've said it out loud." In truth, it had been about the chess game, but he wanted Ron to think that Harry had beaten him fair, and it was too much fun to irk him off like this.

Ron grumbled some more as Harry put away the chess pieces. Suddenly a large barn owl swooped into the Burrow's open window and a letter landed right in front of Harry, and he immediately recognized the handwriting in the address. "It's from Dumbledore."

Mr. Harry Potter.

The Living Room of the Burrow

Ottery St. Catchpole.

"How does he always know exactly where you are?" Ginny wondered. "I mean, it was kind of impressive when we were kids. Now, it's just creepy."

Harry shrugged as he tore open the envelope and took out the letter inside.

Dear Mr. Potter

I am writing to you to ask you of a favor. A few days ago, Mr. Draco Malfoy, who was slated to take over the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher here at the school has gone missing. We believe he's been kidnapped. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is looking into that but that's not why I'm writing. I am writing to ask you for a favor. I need you to take over as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher until Mr. Malfoy can be found. You showed remarkable talent for the subject here in school and your Auror training more than qualifies you for the position.

You need not worry about your duties as a member of the Guardian Project. If an occasion arises in which you have to leave for a mission, no matter how abruptly a substitute teacher will be found. Even if that teacher is myself. I look forward to your response in this matter.

Sincerely;

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"How does Dumbledore know about Project Guardian?" Ron wondered as Harry read through the letter again.

"Ron, don't be a prat. Dumbledore is part of the International Confederation of Wizards, who control Project Guardian. Of course he knew about it." Ginny rolled her eyes exasperatedly. Ron shrugged.

"Malfoy's gone missing, Hard to believe the Curse of the Defense Teacher hit him this early, usually it doesn't strike until at least third term." He looked over at Harry. "You're not actually thinking of taking the job, are you?"

"Maybe I am, the curse isn't always something terrible happening Ron, it just means that the teacher won't be back the next year. Look at Professor Lupin, nothing bad happened to him."

"Harry, he's a werewolf!" Ron muttered.

"Yes, but that wasn't because he took the teaching position, he was already a werewolf long before that."

Ron shrugged. "I guess you're right. Well, Hermione'll be happy."

"Plus, if I take the job, maybe I can find out what happened to Malfoy."

"Why do you care about that snake?" Ron looked incredulous.

"I don't, but it's my job."

Better you than me." Ginny muttered.