3.

For centuries, Conjuring was a discipline of magick that was revered. Those associated with the craft were thought of as amongst the most clever and intelligent of sorcerers. One must have a deep understanding of Cartography, Ancient Runes, Astrology, Charms, and Arithmancy as well as impeccable artistic skills (drawing one line of a pentagram incorrectly would make the difference between a well-contained dæmon and one able to rip your limbs from their socket).

Beyond that, conjurers must be patient and be able control their emotions: succubae could entice you with their bodies, djinns with riches, dæmons with power, and baby-like imps with disarming innocence. One must be bold enough to conjure such entities and brave enough to face them. Even behind the protection of pentagrams, such an endeavor could result in what is commonly thought of as 'a fate worse than death'. The witch or wizard to call such beasts must have flawless understanding of logic; one misplaced command may allow a dæmon to turn the tide to their favour. One loophole and the conjurer could end up dead.

Aside from the vast knowledge, mental facilities, and strength of character needed, the strain on the body to tear open a rift through dimensions, yank a powerful entity from its domain, and keep them bound to your will long enough to issue a command is nigh-unthinkable. Witches and wizards have dropped dead from the strain of an extended conjuring with a less-than cooperative creature.

At first glance, Peter Pettigrew wouldn't seem the type capable of mastering the strenuous art of conjuration. He has always been associated with being weak and cowardly, easily bullied and effortlessly controlled, lazy and winded by the simplest physical exertions. Yet, here he stands in the damp and hidden catacombs of the Yardas-Caves ten miles from Kirby-Lonsdale, protected from prying eyes and ears of Muggles by wards both ancient and infallible. He is set in the center of a perfectly-drawn pentagram, facing what appears to be a massive fire, strong enough to melt bone.

Surrounded by a second pentagram, the flames grow in intensity, filling its side of the room with dark, billowy smoke before finally dying out. The smoke continues to spread throughout the high ceilings and wide breadth of the cave's apartment, turning a shade that almost seems blacker than black, if that is even possible.

From deep in the center of the dark clouds, two angry, yellow eyes flicker. What appears to be a surfeit of sharp, blood-stained teeth shines with arcane might older than history.

"Who dares summon me?"

The voice is low, rumbling like the thunder of an impending storm. Peter can feel the shockwaves resonate through the very blood in his veins. Impressive and frightening though it was Peter stands stoic and still. Impressive and frightening though it was Peter stands stoic and still, even as the room fills with flashes of lightning and the torrential downpour of a monsoon.

With a deafening timbre, the conjured beast roars, more slowly and calculated than before, "Who dares summon me?"

But Peter Pettigrew will not answer that question. Names have power to dæmons. Even a short-sighted wizard like Tom Riddle knew that; he changed his name to Lord Voldemort, after all, hadn't he? To give a conjured entity your name gives them power over you and that could prove fatal; they would have protection from even your worst magick. Controlling such a beast would be next to impossible. Should they, in turn, tell other dæmons and magickal entities your name, your life would be as good as forfeit.

"Recreant dæmons," Peter says, in a quiet voice.

He knows the dæmon must hear him out now it has been summoned and trapped in the pentagram. The quieter Peter is the fewer ruckuses the conjured beast can make. True to this knowledge, the storm fades. Only the smoldering billow of smoke, the heated eyes, and the gnashing teeth remain.

"You have been called and you will be thus charged," Peter proclaims, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes before continuing. "I'nuck."

As if someone had flicked a light switch, the cavernous room becomes almost barren, save for Peter and the entity in their respective pentagrams. The dæmon's appearance now, however, is a far cry from what Peter expected. He expected fur and fangs, tails and talons. Instead, he sees the soft flesh of a featureless human, as if a mannequin were made real. Its look is beguiling; it seems as though it hadn't the power to harm a child, let alone a fully-grown wizard. But Peter knows that to be part of its deceit. In fact, the seeming defenselessness of the monstrosity worried him. He quickly scans around both pentagrams, hoping that he hadn't made a mistake in the drawing of the runes or the spelling of its name, either of which would allow the dæmon the chance to punch through the wards and rip Peter to shreds. He finds no errors.

"You know my name," it says despite not having a mouth that Peter can see, "only fair that I know yours, conjurer."

"Hardly fair, that," Peter smiles.

Its head cocks to the side, slightly.

"Oh, what of that British politeness? Surely things haven't changed since last I laid eyes on this world?" it asks with a light voice, utterly devoid of its previous majesty and ferocity.

"You are not here for tea and crumpets, foul beast!"

Peter spits the words with a grimace stretched across his face. Realizing that he is losing his temper, something the I'nuck can use against him, Peter takes a deep, calming breath. Peter could feel the gentle tug on his conscious. He knew the fiend was trying to scour his mind for an image he fears.

"You have been called, I'nuck, and you will be thus charged."

"And what would you have me do, master?"

Even as it spoke, the air around it began to shimmer and ripple, like calm waters after a rock had been thrown into it. Peter's eyes narrowed, hoping his last outburst hadn't given the dæmon ammunition to use against him. As if by cue, the form in front of him begins to shift and morph, turning first into some semblance of a tall, slender man with slitted eyes and almost flat face. Peter isn't flustered.

"You are to acquire Le Grimoire de Selene from the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic, London, Britain."

As if giving up on the first image, the dæmon's appearance begins to shift again into a shaggy-haired dog, the size of a wolf. Peter's eyes widen, slightly, but he does not falter.

"You are to do so unseen and undetected by any and all inhabitants."

Even before the transformation is complete, fur is already giving way to sparkling silver and blue robes and a long, grey beard. Human eyes begin to form, complete with half-moon spectacles.

"You are not to answer the call of another summons save mine."

I'nuck has already abandoned that image, choosing instead a much smaller, slender figure. Grey hairs turn raven-black. The half-moon spectacles change to more rounded, wider eyeglasses. Once the lightning-bolt scar forms on the image's forehead, Peter's words stumble.

"And… and you … are…"

Thunder claps, lightning flashes. The room is again filled with a burst of flame the size of a bonfire. Laughter reverberates, bouncing from every wall around Peter, who has finally managed to break a sweat. Then, as if being directed by the wind, the smoke shoots towards Peter's pentagram.

Closing his eyes, Peter falls to one knee and whispers, "I'nuck."

Instantly, the illusion is lifted. Peter opens his eyes to find Harry Potter standing in the pentagram before him, with a devilish smile drawn on his face. The chimera is uncanny – nigh perfect, save for the red eyes where there should be green. Peter is almost offended at the colour. Lily Evans deserved better than to be mocked so by a lowly dæmon.

"You've more conviction than I thought, wizard," I'nuck says in a sycophantic voice that sounds like a thousand Harrys speaking slightly out-of-sync. It's an eerie effect, but one that was wholly expected. "I was looking forward to searing the flesh from your bones and feasting on its marrow."

For a brief moment, Peter ignores the threat and allows himself the luxury of letting the beast's words of praise stroke his ego before remembering that to do so would show another sign of weakness. The monster knew too much already, both his greatest fear and utmost disappointment.

Peter steadied himself before issuing the command again, "You are to acquire Le Grimoire de Selene from the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic, London, Britain. You are to do so unseen and undetected by any and all inhabitants. You are not to answer the call of another summons save mine nor may you reveal the nature of the task or the conjurer who so summoned and charged you. You are to complete this task within the anointed astrological time on the pentagram and return here when summoned. Failure to complete your task shall result in your eternal banishment to the Hell of Hells."

I'nuck tuts with wicked sarcasm, "That's an awfully powerful book, wizard. To own such a thing will call attention to you from beasts and wizards far worse than I. Why take such risks?"

"That is not for you to concern yourself with, beast," Peter says, with conviction in every syllable. "Your concern is the task at hand."

I'nuck's smile, stolen from Harry, widens.

"To hear," it says with a bow, "is to obey."

•Š•

"… Cedric?"

I didn't have to go very far to find him. Cedric is standing along the curved stairwell that leads to the Hufflepuff's common room. His back is turned to me, but I can see that he's holding the letter from his mother that Rita Skeeter read aloud. His back is hunched over and, occasionally, I can see his back twitch. Cedric Diggory is... crying?

"Cedric?" My voice is soft, almost weak. "Everyone's waiting for you."

"Let them wait!" he yells, turning his head to face me. I can't clearly see his face, but I can see lines burrowed deep in his forehead. He's angry and hurt, and I know exactly how he feels.

He turns back to the letter, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. As I walk closer to him, there's a moment of awkward silence that seems to tighten around my throat.

"Rita Skeeter's a hag, Cedric. Don't let her get to you."

"Have you ever wondered if parents love you," he asks as his head tilts upward to look through the window, "only because they have to?"

"I…"

I'm surprised by the question and even more stunned when his eyes meet mine and he answers it for me.

"No, I suppose you haven't had the chance to ask such things."

There's venom in his eyes when he says this, as if he's almost jealous of me. Jealous of what? That my parents were brutally murdered by a madman? I'd gladly trade you, Cedric. I'd rather have a distant mother I can still touch than one that I can only dream about. The thoughts must be drawn on my face. Instantly, Cedric's lips curl under; his eyes twitch and blink in rapid succession.

"Oh, no, Harry. I'm so sorry."

I throw him a weak smile.

"No worries, mate. I understand." Yeah, I understand that even someone like Cedric can be a bit of a tosser, sometimes. I figured he was immune to that, better than that.

By now, I'm standing beside him, staring out the same window. But Cedric is still looking at me, and not surreptitiously. I begin to fidget.

"Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Harry?" he asks, straight out.

I've heard this question posed by almost everyone that I've come in contact with since that fretful moment when Dumbledore called my name, the only exception being Colin Creevy, surprisingly. It makes me appreciate him more, actually.

"No," I answer with gritted teeth and far more bitterness than necessary.

Suddenly, Cedric grabs my shoulders and forces me to face him. He hunches over, leaning dangerously close to my face – and my lips.

"I want you to listen to me," he says so fast that it almost seemed like one long word. "You need to be very careful, Harry. Someone is obviously out to get you. Even though Professor Dumbledore has said that they have safeguards in place to make sure none of the champions get hurt. But if what Professor Moody says about the Goblet is true – if only a powerful wizard could have hoodwinked the Goblet – then we can only assume whoever put your name in the Goblet of Fire can also bypass those security measures."

Cedric's grip is tight as he talks, getting tighter as he progresses.

"Cedric, why are you— "

"Listen to me," he says, shaking me a little as he does so. "Someone put your name in that Goblet because they obviously had some plan to hurt you. You must be careful. Promise me you'll look out for yourself"

There's a frantic desperation in his voice; I don't know whether to be flattered or scared shiteless.

"Ok. Yeah, sure."

He leans in closer, still and his eyes scan my face.

"Promise me."

And this time, his voice is soft even if his eyes are still piercing, shooting straight through me.

"I… I… Yeah, ok."

I want to kiss him. I've never wanted to kiss anyone so much. His lips look slightly chapped, like he'd wet his lips before flying in the winter's sky. Despite that, I can't help but lose myself in their curves and how red they are. I wonder if he wears lipstick. I smile at the thought of Cho pushing him down on a bed and painting his face with her make-up. I realize, to my horror, that I'm quite hard.

I push away from Cedric with one final, resolute 'I will.' I hope I look more put-off than turned on because that would simply be the limit! 'Oh, hey, Ceddie! Just thought you should know the thought of you all poofed up in make-up makes me randy. Care for a bit of how's your father?' I'm sure that would go over really well!

"We… We better go," I stammer on. "It's time for the wand weighing."

I turn to walk down the stairs when he stops me, grabbing my arm. Again, with the grip! When I turn to face him, however, his expression has changed. It's softer than it was earlier, the creases in his face have smoothed out. His grey eyes shine like silver. Heat flares in my crotch again and my mouth goes dry. Now I'm the one who can't stop blinking. The moment seems to last forever before he walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Undone.

•Š•