-5-

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1992

Albus appeared in one of Hogwarts' dungeons in a bright flame of phoenix fire. He wasn't the least bit surprised to find his Defence teacher already there, kneeling in front of the Mirror of Erised, the stone thankfully still safe inside. The school year was almost over and he had suspected that Quirrel would make a move for the stone soon.

What did catch him by surprise though, was the blood-curdling scream that resounded in the chamber and the spirit that seemed to be in the process of removing itself from the back of the teacher's head. The turban Quirrel usually wore was lying on the floor discarded, the smell of garlic heavy in the air.

Blood red eyes, so full of hatred, for him, for the world, for the creature itself – to call the being human would be blasphemy –, stared back at him.

"Albus," the spirit all but hissed, "so we meet again."

'Tom', Albus wanted to say but couldn't.

Tom was a lonely boy in an orphanage.

A brilliant student.

A murderer at the age of sixteen.

A charismatic but cruel young man.

A middle-aged man marked by life, scarred by dark magic.

A megalomaniac, sadist, dark wizard.

Above all Tom was a man.

Albus couldn't bring himself to call this sad, distorted shade of a man by that name.

"What have you done to yourself?" He asked instead, eyes fixed on the malevolent spirit, while he started waving his wand discreetly.

Its high-pitched laughter reminded Albus of fingernails scraping down a chalkboard.

"What have I done? You dare?" It screeched. "This… this is what your precious saviour reduced me to. A bodiless wraith, just strong enough to talk, to possess…"

Albus twirled his wand hurriedly in small circles, and razor-thin threads of pure light fled from its tip and sank into the ground.

"But now… what will you do now Albus? Without the child of the prophecy to hide behind, what will you do?"

The tendrils of light had nearly reached the ground right below the spirit when it suddenly shuddered as if it had felt their approach.

"Trying to cage me, Albus? Me? You fool."

With one last pull, followed by an inhuman shriek of Quirrel's, Voldemort left his servant and fled through the wall on the opposite side of the chamber. At the same time, Albus gave up all pretenses of inaction and moved his wand to the front, spinning it between his fingers rapidly, urging the light threads to travel faster, to touch, to cage – but he was too late.

Voldemort was gone, Quirrel's lifeless body the only reminder of his presence.

.

"Diffindo," Harry said and a few steps from where he was lying in the grass, soaking up the summer sun, several flower heads fell to the ground.

"Wingardium Leviosa."

They rose high up into the air and Harry directed their flight like a conductor guiding his orchestra.

In the beginning, he'd only been able to levitate single, very light objects over a short period of time, but it seemed the old muggle saying "practice makes perfect" was also true for magic, and by now Harry could use the charm on several objects simultaneously. The heavier ones were still a bit tricky, but he was getting there.

For Harry, the knowledge that magic was real, that he could use it, was still wondrous and he practiced it every day; sometimes so much that it annoyed even Al, who, at least in the beginning, had been obsessed with watching Harry perform magic.

Harry often wondered why Al didn't perform magic himself. Once, a few days after receiving his wand, Harry had asked Al outright if he even was a wizard because he had never seen him perform any magic. The atmosphere in the cosy kitchen had grown tense in the blink of an eye.

"My blood is pure enough," was all Al had said, and that had been the end of the matter - at least for the old man. To this day Harry had no idea what Al had been talking about.

"Sweet mouse, stay still, sweet, sweet mouse…"

Harry stood, looking for the source of the voice. Soon he found the snake in question. It was an adder, like all the other snakes Harry had encountered in these woods so far.

It was slithering through the grass, completely focused on the hunt. Harry didn't see the mouse the reptile was speaking of, but he was sure it was there. He'd watched snakes hunt often enough.

They were deadly predators, superior to their prey in every way. They moved so quietly that not even the sensitive ears of rodents could pick up any noise, they moved so fast that even the quickest mouse had no chance of escaping.

That was what had captured Harry's attention, his fascination in the first place: As soon as a snake set eyes on its prey, it had no chance.

And that was even without taking their poison into account.

The adder was moving more slowly now. It was a beautiful specimen, with scales of a light brown that glistened in the morning sun as it moved, and a dorsal zigzag pattern of such a dark shade of brown that it swallowed any light it was touched by.

Harry didn't dare move, afraid he would scare away the mouse or distract the snake in a crucial moment.

"I smell blood… warm blood."

The snake was completely still now and Harry held his breath. Then, so fast that Harry didn't even really see it, it stroke. The next moment Harry heard the desperate squeaking of a mouse in mortal agony. He could see it now, squirming in pain while the adder's venom worked through its body.

He didn't feel sorry for the mouse. It was just like Al had said: The stronger ones triumph over the weaker ones. Such was life. Such was the natural order of things.

.

1993

"Are you finished?" Al asked somewhat impatiently and Harry, who had just swallowed the last bite of his breakfast, looked up in surprise.

"Yes," he said and scrutinized the old man carefully. Al was never impatient; there was just no need to be when one lived in the woods, far away from civilisation.

"Great," said Al and reached for the kitchen shelf. He took a small parcel from the upmost board and handed it to Harry.

"Happy Birthday."

Harry stared at the parcel in his hands in wonder. The wrapping was a yellowed piece of parchment decorated with inky fingerprints and wax stains. Harry knew it was probably just a discarded page, but to him, it looked like a treasure map.

"Well, open it," Al grumbled.

Carefully, Harry pulled on the string that held the package together and the wrapping fell open. Inside was a knife.

Its handle was made of soft, dark leather, the colour not unlike the one of Harry's wand, and ended in a pommel of steel decorated with small symbols.

A barrier between handle and blade made sure that the hand couldn't accidentally slip onto the blade, and given how sharp the two-edged blade looked, Harry thought it was a necessary precaution.

"A knife?" He asked as he picked it up to try out how it felt in his hand. The leather was warm as if another person had been holding it for quite some time before him. The blade, only slightly longer than his hand, had wave-like patterns, reminding Harry of oil on a water surface but lacking the typical rainbow colours.

"A dagger," Al corrected him. "Every man should know how to wield one. At thirteen you're old enough to learn. Take it and follow me."

"Thanks, Al." Harry grinned and scrambled to his feet to follow the old man outside.

Three hours later Harry returned to the kitchen bemoaning his fate. Of course, the old man he lived with had to be the fastest, trickiest bastard in Britain. People Al's age were supposed to sit around carving wood and complaining about their eyesight, they were not supposed to be able to beat the shit out of teenagers!

Harry was only glad Al had had the decency to use a wooden stick instead of a real dagger, or he would be a few body parts short.

In the privacy of his mind, Harry added yet another mystery to Al's persona. Where had he learned to fight like that? And why?

Over the next couple of weeks, Harry spent a few hours each day training with his dagger. Sometimes Al would join him and show him new stuff, other times Harry practiced alone.

Al taught Harry several arm and leg movements to avoid attacks; they changed depending on the body part the opponent went for.

If Al for instance tried to hit the right side of his upper body, Harry now knew he had to move towards the right side with his right leg and then use his right arm to displace Al's attack.

It was complicated and after a few hours of this Harry's brain felt worse than it had after a full day of school back when he'd still been living with the Dursleys.

By September they were using real daggers in their mock fights and Harry thought his progress was quite acceptable, even impressive. Many of the movements Al had taught him had become so familiar to him over the daily repetitions that he didn't even have to think about them anymore but reacted instinctively with the right maneuver.

Al did not agree.

"You hesitate too much! Use your full strength this time."

Harry nodded and concentrated on Al's movement, trying to predict where the next attack would strike. Al went for Harry's left ribcage and Harry instinctively moved forward intercepting Al's arm with his left hand. Now he had an opportunity to strike, he should strike… but he didn't want to hurt Al. What if…

"No, no, no!" Al shouted. "You can't hesitate like that. Attack, god damn it!"

"I was about to-"

"Too slow. Too much thinking."

Al took a few steps back and scrutinized Harry carefully.

"Have you actually used your knife for real yet?" He asked after some time spent in silence.

Harry looked at Al incredulously. "Um, every day for the past two months?"

Al shook his head in exasperation. "No, I mean have you ever seen what that knife can do? On a living, breathing, body?"

"What? No. You're the only person I fight with, you know that."

Al rolled his eyes. "Not on a human, stupid." He looked at his watch, then back at Harry. "Well, maybe that's the problem. We still have three hours until the sun goes down. Come along."

Al limped into the woods, Harry at his heels.

"Bloody knee," he cursed. "Don't ever grow old. Not worth the hassle," he said through clenched teeth while he picked up a long branch from the ground. With his new walking aid, they moved much faster.

Now watching Al, Harry could hardly believe that Al had managed to hide his obvious pain during their fight – but then again, today was not the first time this had happened.

Harry had once asked Al how he could just ignore an injury when they were fighting, it didn't make sense to Harry. When you were in pain, you were in pain. There was no way around it.

'Determination. Prioritization. You'll learn in time,' was all his teacher had said.

Soon Harry realised where Al was leading them. This was the path they took when Al was hunting for game.

Not much later they reached a small clearing, and indeed, a few deer were grazing on the meadow, enjoying the mild evening sun.

They were still far enough away not to scare the deer off, though the silencing charm Harry had to put on their boots regularly probably also helped.

"Summon one," Al said pointing in the direction of the animals.

"Summon?" Harry watched the deer closely. All of the animals for fully grown, he'd never summoned anything this heavy before. He was about to protest, but the irritated expression on Al's face stopped him in his tracks. Determined he pulled out his wand. He could do this. It was no different than summoning firewood. Only about a hundred times heavier and alive. He gulped.

"Careful," said Al, apparently noticing his distress. "Don't knock yourself out. I won't carry you back."

How comforting. Harry briefly glared at Al and went back to his task.

"Accio," he uttered reluctantly, wand pointed at one of the smaller specimens. It didn't even so much as flinch.

Al sat down on a moss-covered tree stump to rest his leg and watched Harry with eagle eyes.

Bloody great.

"Accio," he said again, more forcefully this time. The doe in question was yanked in his direction for a few meters but got away in the end. It took off in the opposite direction at high speed.

The rest of the deer was nervous now, many moving to leave.

"Hurry," Al grumbled.

"Accio!" Harry tried for a third time. By now he was in a bad mood. Al was expecting too much. The summoning charm was one of the hardest he'd learned so far, especially when it involved great distances or heavy targets. He was tempted to tell Al to shove it and try himself if he thought it that easy, when suddenly the animal he had focused on, a young stag with hardly visible antlers, zoomed at him.

With a cry that had the rest of the deer running in fright, Harry jumped out of the way and the stag crashed into the tree behind where Harry had been standing only seconds before.

The stag dropped to the ground, animalistic screams of pain echoing through the woods like slowly building thunder.

Harry had never heard anything like it. The panicked squeaks of a mouse or rabbit right before their death didn't bother him anymore, but they were nothing compared to this.

He had the sudden urge to block his ears with both hands and close his eyes, or better yet, run away, but he knew Al would never accept him showing weakness like that.

"What now?" He asked, forcing his voice to remain steady.

"Now," said Al, who seemed to remain completely unaffected by the suffering animal on the ground, "you'll get to see what that dagger can do. Kill it."

"Kill it?"

"Yes. You'll be putting it out of its misery if that makes you feel any better."

Harry ignored the mocking undertone in Al's voice and grabbed his dagger. "How?"

"Slit its throat. Makes them bleed out pretty fast."

Harry clutched the dagger in his hands so hard that his fingers became numb. He walked towards the stag slowly. He had never killed a stag, or any deer for that matter, before. They were too strong, too heavy, too grand for him. Only Al ever hunted them.

The animal was trying to get to its feet, but apparently, its wounds were too severe.

With its cries still ringing in his ears he bent down, and with a quick move – the image of a striking snake flittered through his mind unbitten – he slit the stag's throat. The blade cut through the fur, skin, and muscle tissue like butter.

Bloodshot out of the wound like water out of the garden hose in aunt Petunia's garden, when Dudley had been standing on it while the water was turned on. It covered his hand and drenched his undersleeve, even splashed on his face, but Harry took no notice of it.

He was watching the stag's eyes. They were of a deep brown, shining with desperation and fear, moving around erratically until suddenly they remained fixed on a point behind Harry. It was like he could see the intelligence, the life, leaving them, but Harry wasn't disgusted or even scared by this as he had expected to be, no he was fascinated.

He was the reason these bright eyes dulled. He was the reason they would never see him again. He was the last thing they'd seen.

He, Harry, the too-small boy from Number 4, was superior to this strong, fast, majestic animal. He, his magic, his determination had triumphed over the King of the Woods.

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