A/N: Thank you to Aequitas for her beautiful beta-ing and to Fantasium for her help on the ahem "Northern Delicacies".
Chapter 5:
Eyes of a Griffin
And many thousands of miles away, the very object of Lanette's extensive research was surrounded by a different form of brilliance. Harry Potter was encased in a circular room with a domed roof of midnight blue. The walls were paneled in silver and marble encrusted with gems of extraordinary value. They created interweaving designs that gave the impression of raging winds and crashing waves. The dancing light that reflected off their smooth surfaces came from windows in the cupola, which were cut in the shapes of stars and crescent moons.
In the center of the chamber, a dais rose from the mosaic tiling of the floor. Upon it was a table, and at its head a golden throne. It was the occupant of this throne that had Harry so enthralled. For she was more magnificent than any human he had ever seen—if mortal she was at all. Lustrous hair, the color of caramel, tumbled around her bronzed shoulders in waves. Her eyes were very round and were, if possible, an even brighter gold than her throne, with pupils that were strangely dilated—eyes that might have suited an eagle.
Eyes of a griffin, he thought, remembering the keyhole.
They were set under a pair of straight, dark brows that extended upwards on both sides of her face, like wings. Both her cheeks and lips were round and alight with a natural glow that softened the straight line that was her nose. The gown that hugged her torso was of the same cream color that Harry's guide's had been, but of a fine velvety material. Clasped over the hollow of her throat was the most curious wardrobe item of all. It was a cape, but unlike any cape the young wizard had ever seen; it seemed to be made entirely of golden feathers. The ensemble only added to her already ethereal appearance, and Harry could no easier look away than leave.
"You seek our help..." The voice that had first struck him as musical, now hit him like an entire symphony. She set two bronze hands into her lap and stared at him through those bird-like eyes.
"That's right."
"And if you found it, what would you do with it?"
Of course Harry knew what he'd do with it, but when the question hit, he felt entirely unprepared to answer. Finally, he drew a breath.
"I would save the world." It was a brave statement, almost foolhardy, but it felt right. She straightened in her throne at this statement.
"Then you do not wish something for yourself? Knowledge of your romantic future, perhaps? Knowledge…of your past? Your parents?" she said, watching him with a calculating gaze.
She's testing me, he realised. She knows my weaknesses and she's testing me.
"I may wish it," he replied after a long moment, "but it is not what I ask. I only ask for what can help me defeat the Dark Lord, Voldemort. This isn't for me; it's for the entire future of wizarding kind."
She said nothing, only watched him.
"I know you can help me—us," Harry said, keeping his back straight, despite his kneeling position. "Your Council... it's supposed to hold secrets and knowledge that isn't supposed to even exist. You're the only ones that can help me."
"We're also dangerous enemies when we want to be," she challenged.
"I'm willing to take that risk."
For the second time that day, Harry felt himself being scrutinised from head to toe. He held his head high, and was sure that his voice had been clear, but he felt as if those giant eyes of hers could see into the very depths of his soul. Perhaps they can, he realised, shaken at the thought. He noted though, that he had felt nothing invade his mind as Snape—traitor, his mind growled—had at Harry's Occlumency lessons in his fifth year. At last, the griffin-eyed lady seemed content with her findings.
"Rise, boy."
He obliged, and as he did, he noticed for the first time that several other women were seated around the table. The ladies possessed skin of every color, hair that shimmered in every hue, features that held every variation of beauty. None, though, held the radiance that their leader shed in abandon. It was their voices, though, that awed him the most. They played their vocal cords like harp strings, even as they merely murmured among themselves. He suspected that they were deciding what to do with him, but he was too wrapped up in the concert of their voices to care. He stood for what seemed like seconds but which was truly minutes while they made a decision.
"We know of what you seek, and your words have urged me to give further thought to your predicament. I do, however, wish to consult with the rest of the Harpyiae Council more on this issue." Her voice was unreadable. "I'll have Idel show you to your rooms. She will be your guide for as long as you remain here. We will send for you when we have decided your"—he found his eyes encompassed in hers' again—"fate."
The air hung heavily between them for a moment as the finality of the word swept over him. She blinked, and he was released, feeling slightly faint.
"Of course," he said, bowing his head slightly.
He found himself being swept out of the Meeting Hall, and into a set of corridors much different than the ones he had been led through before. They were lit with pale blue lanterns that never flickered, and Harry was reminded of the fluorescent lights of Muggle grocery stores. The floor was at a slant, and though not steep, was definitely carrying them downward. Suddenly, he and his guide emerged into a vast chamber, and Harry immediately threw up his arm to shield his eyes.
"Athera," his guide – Idel – shouted. At once the dazzling light dulled around him and Harry could see. Before them was a spiraling pathway that lay suspended in midair and led forever upwards. When Harry glanced up, he saw a great blazing sphere— what seemed to be a miniature sun. The pathway seemed to lead to this, though Harry had no idea, even in the dulled light, how any creature could get close enough to the sphere to enter it without being blinded.
"The spell will wear off shortly, come," his guide said. She began to ascend the pathway and Harry followed her. True to her word, the spell did begin to wear off, and Harry's head began to ache with the brightness around him. He did notice though, that though the pathway fell away on both sides, there seemed to be doors hovering in the air beside them. When Harry thought he could bear the light no longer, she opened one of these doors and guided him through.
He blinked, and found himself in a normal-looking set of rooms. He immediately noted that there were again, no windows, and found himself wishing to see anything outside the confines of this mystical fortress.
"Your rooms. I'll have a meal sent to you shortly. I suppose also that you wish to wash. A bath has been drawn for you."
"How long before they send for me?" he asked her, not hiding the harshness in his voice.
"Hours, days maybe," she said noncommittally. "Your rooms are outfitted with any needs you will require. If you find yourself wanting, however, send for me and I'll do my best to accommodate you." Harry sighed, realizing that he was in no position to argue.
"Thanks."
She disappeared then, and Harry took a moment to examine the quarters he had been given. They seemed so comfortably normal and out-of-place in this foreign world he had been shoved into. There was a sitting room and a bedroom, both outfitted in a handsome blue and creamy white. He also found a bathroom, and in it, a tub with steaming water. It was such a happy sight after his long journey that he immediately shirked off his damp and grimy robes and stepped into it, gasping at the water's heat. As he lay back, he let the warmth seep into his skin, and cleared his head of all the chaos that had been swirling around inside its walls. For many minutes he just lay there enjoying the first semblance of comfort in days. He then found a terrycloth hanging on a silver stand near the tub and soaked it thoroughly. Slowly he worked the cloth over his body, ridding his pores of the sweat and grime that had accumulated there. He found soaps and shampoos and washed his hair. Eventually, he felt clean enough to step out of the tub and don a white bathrobe that had been placed on the rack. He was very pleased to find that in front of an ornate mirror, someone had thoughtfully placed a sharp blade for shaving.
"Don't stand around, use it!" the mirror told him. "All that patchy hair on your face makes you look like a turnip."
"What is it with mirrors and their comments," Harry grumbled. "And how do I look like a turnip?"
The mirror remained silent, and Harry grudgingly looking into it, raising the blade to his skin. The moment he met his own eyes in the mirror, he paused, stunned. He couldn't remember the last time he had gazed at his own reflection, but he realised that time was less of an issue, and rather his experiences in the past few months that had changed him. For changed he was.
He would never be tall, but he no longer had the disproportioned, awkward look of his childhood. His limbs and muscles were hard with training, though they would never ripple nor bulge as some of his fellow trainees' did. His face itself had lost all of its boyish roundness and vulnerability. The skin was pulled taught across his bones which gave his features a defined, sharp appearance. His eyes had taken on a terrible hollowed look, with the same gaunt look of the "Wanted: Sirius Black" posters that had surfaced a few years ago shadowing his features. The stubble over his lip and around his jaw was indeed patchy, and the hair on his head had grown even more wild and unruly – though at least it was now clean. He looked… intimidating, rough, fierce. Harry Potter, the boy, was gone. In his place was a man, hardly recognisable as the child who had graced so many front-page stories in the past seven years. Harry turned his head from side to side and looked at himself out of the corner of his eye.
I like how I look, he decided. Dangerous. Like someone that could actually defeat a Dark Lord.
Harry was almost sorry to see his stubble disappear as he slid the blade across his cheek. Maybe when it was even enough all the way around, he could grow a beard…. Like Dumbledore, he thought with a humorless grin. Then the grin fell away almost immediately, and he drew a sharp breath. The thought of his recently departed Headmaster had come on without warning. His chest tightened, and at the same time, the blade slipped in his fingers, cutting a long gash on his cheek. Harry let the breath out in a low hiss as the blood began to swell. He grabbed the wand from his tattered robes on the floor and pointed it at the cut with an "Amendo." The cut healed in an instant, but there was blood all over the bathroom, the grimy travel clothes on the tiles, and the white bathrobe he was wearing.
"Scourgify," he muttered over and over again, trying to get at least the worst of it up. When things were clean enough, he attempted to finish his shaving job in a hurry, earning more small nicks in the process. Eventually he finished and disposed of the blade, cursing himself for not knowing the magical way to go about this annoying task.
"Pain in the arse, that's what it is," he grumbled to no one.
"Yes, but you look the better for it," replied the mirror.
Harry glared at it in response and then turned to his sorry robes lying upon the floor. There was no hope for them―they would have to be disposed of―but before thrusting them into a waste bin that had suddenly appeared, he drew a small leather sack from one of the pockets.
Carrying the sack, Harry emerged into the bedroom. It was furnished with a chest of drawers, several cushioned chairs, and a three-legged dressing table. Most of the room was taken up by a four-poster which must have been twice the size of his bed at 4 Privet Drive. It was here that Harry placed the recovered object. He drew his wand and nudged the leather with its tip.
"Engorgio," he rasped. The little bag at once enlarged itself into a rucksack, and Harry drew from it a fresh set of old robes that had been rolled into a ball. As he unrolled them, an object fell to the floor with a loud clang. Harry bent to pick it up, making sure to handle it carefully. After all, it was an incredibly valuable object, amoung other things. Looking down at it warily, Harry decided the best course of action was to wrap it in his Invisibility Cloak and shove it under his pillow; there was no point in it being discovered by anyone yet.
He donned the robes that had hid the object. They were worn, old, and at least an inch too short, but at least they were clean and not covered in shaving-induced blood. He wished they had been a little nicer, for all that he was in such a grand place, but the war had prohibited him from acquiring new robes, especially on such short notice as this trip had been.
The contents of Harry's rucksack having been stored in the dresser, the young wizard made his way back into the sitting room. He was surprised to find a fire crackling merrily in the hearth. As he relaxed into the heavily-cushioned couch before the fire, he was immediately drawn into his memories of his days at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, when he would so often sit in front of a fire like this, conversing with his two best friends―Ron and Hermione. They would be worrying. He wished he could let them know that he was all right: clean, dry, and safe for the moment at least, if not particularly sure of what was to come. He knew, though, that it would not be in his best interests to ask a favor of that sort to the people who housed him. Despite the seemingly friendly atmosphere of his chambers, he knew it was really only a pretty way to keep him imprisoned while they determined his future.
After a while, Harry became restless and started to pace. He wanted to do something, see Falcor maybe. The rooms were well enough as rooms went, but there was nothing to placate his mind—nothing to stop him from thinking of his friends, of his recent losses, of his dark future, nothing to keep him from pondering what the Council's next moves would be. Hermione would have told him that pondering their moves should be the first thing on his mind, but she wasn't there, and he wasn't about to listen to non-existent voices when he didn't have to.
Oh, Hermione, he thought, realising that he truly did wish she was here. Ron, too. He remembered that originally, they were going to have done all of this together. The war, though, had had different plans for the three young warriors. The training camp at the old Hogwarts Castle needed Hermione's intellect and Ron's strategist skills, and in turn, the duo needed all the training they could subject themselves to. The two of them could not be spared for this mission, not when the situation at home was so dire.
"Besides, they couldn't have accompanied me here anyway," he said out loud as he sat before the hearth. He watched as the gold flames wove throughout the ruby ones, crackling and spluttering. No, this mission was for Harry Potter alone.
A young girl—a lärling, she told him—then arrived, with a platter of hot food. Harry accepted it gratefully, and the girl nodded, thin-lipped and staring at him wide-eyed. He shifted uncomfortably, registering that she was actually fearful of him. He was about to dismiss her when he had a thought. He relayed it to the child and then excused himself. She bowed to him, palms against her thighs, eyes to the floor, and scurried from the room.
Shaking his head, he returned to his place before the fire and examined the dinner that he had been given. There was a big square sheet of flat bread, sprinkled with bits of boiled potatoes and onions. Beside them was a glass of milk. It looked rather unappetising, but he was terribly hungry, so he ate all that was there. Beside the milk, there was a can of something, though the language on the label was unfamiliar.
"Sor…strum..ing," he read, sure he was pronouncing it wrong. He shrugged, and pulled open the lid of the can. At once he was overcome with a terribly putrid smell—as if all the Dursley's neighbor's compost heap had been shoved into his chambers. "Gahhhh!" he yelled, shoving the can of the awful-smelling red meat away from him. "What is that!"
"A northern delicacy," said a familiar voice from the doorway. Harry looked up to see Idel had returned. "Surströmming. A special type of herring."
"Delicacy!" he half-shouted. "It smells like rotten cabbage! I thought you all were going to discuss my future, not kill me as soon as I got here!"
The lady raised an eyebrow, and with a swish of her wand, the smell dispersed, though the can remained.
"We were under the impression that you were up for anything. I apologise for wasting such a gift on you."
Harry growled, picked up the can and a utensil off the table, and shoved the fish into his mouth. His eyes bulged and his stomach rebelled at the rotten taste, but he forced it down. He was going to prove himself in whatever way he could—even if it meant suffering this kind of torture. After he managed to swallow a few bites, he grabbed the glass of milk and gulped it down with a single swallow. When he set the glass down, he looked back at Idel, with a fiery determination in his eyes. He could have almost sworn she looked impressed.
"You called for me?" she merely said.
"Yes," he nodded, wishing the awful taste would leave his mouth. "I just wanted to know if it would be possible to see my Thestral. A witch at the gates told me he would be taken care of."
"I don't believe that would be a problem," she told him, "but you will need to change into different robes." She looked down her nose at him, and he frowned back at her.
"These are all I have."
"I will have something brought to you, then." She turned from him and raised her wand. The silvery unicorn he had seen before extracted itself from her wand and stampeded off. He stared in wonder, realizing that indeed, it was a Patronus.
"Do you mind if I ask you a rather personal question?" he ventured.
"Ask."
"Er, well… I was just wondering how it is possible you have a unicorn for a Patronus. I could have sworn that mystical beasts cannot be committed to a wizard's—or witch's—Patronus. I mean, at least, that's what…" he trailed off, suddenly feeling very stupid.
"Well, we Council members aren't exactly normal witches, are we?" she said, staring at him significantly. He refrained from pursuing the topic more, if only because he feared what would happen if he upset her.
An uncomfortable few minutes passed by without another word. Harry paced the sitting room, and Idel stood primly just outside his door, as if on guard. At last her unicorn returned to her, carrying a package in its teeth.
"She apologises for the wait. Our stores do not include many items fit for a man."
"That's fine," he mumbled, accepting the package. He stood there for a moment, unsure exactly of what to do. Idel remained where she was, so he went to the tubroom and closed the door.
The package contained a set of midnight-blue satin robes that reminded him of the domed ceiling in the Council's meeting chamber. He discarded his worn robes and slipped on the blue ones, suddenly feeling very fine. Harry emerged from the bathroom, his shoulders set and his chin held high.
"Let's go," he said firmly.
A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed this new installment! We're finally back to Harry and getting a few answers... and of course, more questions. What is in store for Harry when he visits his Falcor? Find out next time onnnn Spirits of the Storm.
And thank you everyone for your wonderful reviews! It's so nice to have faithful readers. Every time you review, my heart flutters. Cookies for all my reviewers!