Chapter 6 - Arc 2 - A Man Named Wulfric

The day was dying, drawn out and agonizing, a red slash of blood came dripping down the horizon.

At least the air is fresh, Harry thought filling his lungs. It was sharp and crisp and stung like hot needles inside his chest. He would miss this. Miss the glowing sun, orange and gloomy, and burning gloriously low in the sky. It's the little things… A gentle breeze carrying the chill of night kissed his cheek and ran its fingers through his shaggy hair. I need a haircut, he decided. Grindelwald had offered to shave his head, but Harry refused as he'd taken to using the tangled mess of his fringe to hide his scar… and he was likely to slice open his scalp if he tried a trim himself. I still don't know if I can trust him with a wand. He would never lend his own, either. It called to him, and soothed him with its warm touch. He had taken to holding it whenever possible, and the times he did not, it felt as though a part of himself was being torn apart.

Harry turned, stepping carefully down the crest of the hill, before turning over his shoulder to take a final look at the mountains at his back. They rose like giants from the earth, unkempt with wild growth. It was a brilliant green expanse, speckled with color by the blossoming flowers. Trees shot up the slant like pickets, shadowing the landscape as the sun slipped behind pointed peaks with grey caps sitting on their heads. They had been shimmering white only moments before.

A week had passed since they had first checked into a shabby muggle inn at the base of the Pyrenees. He'd been told the establishment was called something that roughly translated to 'Falling Waters Suites,' named after a nearby waterfall that had run dry centuries ago. It made no difference to him, it stank like shit, was infested by mold, and the thin mountain air howled through its cracked walls and loose windows keeping him up at night... amongst other things. But at least the food is decent. Harry had taken on a new appreciation for food, and the brief stirrings of happiness it brought with each bite. And the whiskey too. It was no Ogden's, but it worked well enough. It was a shame Grindelwald put that to an end after the second night where he returned to their room stumbling and sick and half-conscious.

The clanking of a rusted old bell announced his entrance to the pub, the door slamming shut behind him. Cut off from the outside world, wafts of stale vomit and spilt ale tickled his nose. He caught sight of the backside of the rotund barkeep, shuffling out behind the bar and into the pantry. The sight of Harry seemed to put the fright of God into him. There were only so many smoking breaks a man could take in a day.

"You 'eading up to zee monastery tomorrow." A voice coughed from someplace to his right. A balding man in his middle ages sat nursing a beer. Joining him at his table were the same two men he shared company with every evening. Each had told them their names, but he didn't bother remembering them.

"If the weather allows, yes." Harry said, stepping up to their table. The men were all under the impression that Harry and Grindelwald were holy men making some sort of pilgrimage up the mountain, like so many before. The memory of their enquiry still almost made him laugh. Oh the horror on Grindelwald's face. They weren't so friendly now.

"Say a prayer for me, non?" The red moustached one said, and spat yellow phlegm to the floor, mushing it beneath the heel of his boot. "Your kind go up and down zat mountain all ze time, but I never see any crosses. Païen."

Harry had already walked past the men, pushing their suspicious glares and biting words out of his mind.

Shaded in a corner booth, half-seen and cloaked in wisps of shadow was Grindelwald. Walls sat on both his left and right side, shielding him, and providing an open view across the sparsely populated pub. A stub of a candle sat burning in front of him, flickering oddly on his face.

"They don't like us," Harry said, taking a seat. He didn't need to point behind him.

"We don't particularly look like priests… or act like them for that matter." In the low light, his eyes were dark holes that passed over Harry. "Even muggles begin to notice things when thrown directly in their faces. Most of the wizarding population that pass through here hardly linger long enough to be more than an oddity that is easily forgotten. We've stayed for too long."

"And who's fault is that?"

"Not mine." Grindelwald looked at him sharply. "Time moves differently for our mutual friend, and days for him likely blur together." He pulled a letter from the folds of his grey woolen robes. "The fat man brought me this."

"You mean the bartender who ran away when I walked in?" Harry asked, taking the letter into his hands. Grindelwald's grey lips quirked into a smile. Whatever he threatened him with must have been bloody terrifying. The parchment itself was creamy to the touch, certainly expensive, and even with his glasses Harry had to squint to read the neat and tiny scrawl.

"It's unsigned," Harry said pointedly, setting the letter on the table between them.

"He is not one for names. An oddity for sure, but we are already acquainted so it matters not."

"Obviously not well enough for him to trust you." Harry tapped the folded letter with his finger.

"He was Albus' friend, not mine. We are fortunate enough that he's agreed to meet us." Grindelwald picked the letter up and lowered its body to the flame. White smoke floated first before the fire caught, blackening the edges as it curled up and collapsed into a burnt husk. "If we wish to enter the school then we must follow his directions. I will admit, you are the sole reason we are allowed to set foot on those mountains."

Alic, a British history student looking for an apprenticeship, he wanted to laugh."I don't see how this will work. I'm pants with history, and the moment this librarian sees my face he'll know who I am. That's not even mentioning Maxime."

"Play your role, and all will be well."

Coming from the man safely hiding underneath my cloak. "You could just tell me who this man is, and why you both are so confident this won't fail." Harry said, not even trying to keep the irritation from his voice. He'd long stopped caring for those things.

The man cast his gaze across the room once more, focusing for a moment on the three mistrustful locals stumbling out the door. Likely heading home and back to wives who would scold them for drinking too much. Light fluttered in front of them, with the flame nearly being extinguished by the breeze whistling in. When it stilled, Grindelwald stood slowly and replied. "And relieve you of the opportunity of working it out for yourself? I think not."

Of course. "I think I figured out why you and Dumbledore got along so well. You're both unbearably annoying at times." And you both hide your secrets and true motivations behind well-kept masks, Harry did not say. He stared at the chipped wooden table for a time, somber and brooding. Dumbledore was first and took it all to his grave… I wonder which of us will be next? Let's hope there is enough justice left in this world that you'll die before I do.

Empty air sat before him when he lifted his eyes, touching his scar. Grindelwald had already gone. Harry looked around the near empty room and craned his neck towards the stairs, and saw nothing. He checked a second time just to be sure. Another night alive. I might as well celebrate it, he smiled a bitter smile. Hidden behind the shelter of the booth, Harry could see the barkeep return, re-tying his stained apron around his bulging belly. Stepping forward to the counter, still unnoticed, a floorboard beneath him creaked. With the stud of a cigarette stuck between his lips and ash still on his fingers, the man turned around with eyes the size of boiled eggs. Before Harry could so much as open his mouth, the man was back in his pantry with another cigarette in hand. If this keeps up, I'll be the reason he gets cancer. He kicked a stool over in frustration, listening a moment as it bounced and scraped along the floor, before stomping up the stairs.

He didn't dare look at Grindelwald when walking into their room, knowing the bastard would be smiling.

That night he dreamt of death. Of blood and war and horcruxes. He dreamt of a stag, still and freshly slain, its blood and viscera spilling over a white flower field. A phoenix wept overhead, and tears spilt were crimson drops on his pale skin, but when he looked up it was to Justin's twitching corpse. At his feet sat Susan in a spray of copper tresses, though her eyes were grey and haunted, and peered at him through a veil. It was Annabelle's face in front of him now, wet and dripping from a storm, vacant and unfocused and lost with nothing but an empty void laying beyond her gaze. Silver hair flashed in the moonlight as twisted hands reached for his throat. But when he touched them, they melted away into molten pools of burning flesh that bubbled to the floor. He saw a diary and a locket, a cup, a ring, and a strange crown. A great snake slipped around his limbs, constricting and binding him before a towering mirror. Green eyes stared back into his own, and a wand rose towards his reflection. The snake tightened its hold, and just before the flash of green, his eyes were red as blood.

Sweat clung to his body and stuck to the sheets that wound around his twisted frame. His chest was heaving, bringing in gulps of stale air that filled the room, making him want to gag. His scar was throbbing, and sunlight beat in through a window as another headache was well on its way.

"Good. You're up. We leave in five minutes." Grindelwald was a blurred shade standing at the foot of his bed, staring down at his shaking form. The door to the room snapped shut behind him not a moment later, leaving Harry alone and aching while he slipped on his glasses.

He wasn't hungry that morning, his stomach tight and throat filled with the taste of salt, bile, and blood. Grindelwald didn't say anything when Harry passed over the full breakfast waiting at their table, but he didn't need to. Let him think what he wants. The rising din of the waking crowd forced his eyes shut in pain. The sound of knives scraping, and forks and plates clattering together seemed to be amplified tenfold. His head was a drum pounding away, dancers stomping to its rhythm against his skull. Grindelwald paid with the money he'd had hidden away in the house in Berlin. He had bought too much food, whole plates left steaming and untouched between them, but then again he always did. He certainly is enjoying his freedom… it's a shame I can't enjoy what's left of mine.

The sky was a blue canvas stretched above the Pyrenees, with lazy white clouds that looked as though they had been painted on. The image was fit for a postcard. Wet and glistening, and colored a comforting green, the mountains were topped with blinding gold caps. A strange place for a school, he thought to himself. Nestled somewhere within the bosom of those ancient monstrosities sat Beauxbatons. He knew a fair bit about the school and its almost immeasurable beauty, their students being much more forthcoming with information than those of Durmstrang. If it's as beautiful as they say, then maybe it belongs here after all. A flock of birds rushed overtop the winding dirt path they were on, chirping their waking song and chasing each other through the air. Each step took them higher, and Harry could hear himself panting. His head was a touch dizzy, but much of its aching had faded, leaving only a dull pulsing that matched his heart.

Darkness slowly fell over them; the path having taken them into an area sheltered by towering trees, that filtered the sunlight into scattered yellow beams. They were isolated and cut off from the civilization they had left behind. Anyone looking in or out saw only rows of forest and its shaded cloak. A muggle would have walked through this section of trail without a second thought, following its twists and turns to a rocky cliff that looked over the valley below. But magic lurked deep in these mountains. From the trees to the leaves, to the moss and grass and roots below, each shifted and shimmered before their eyes. It was a mirage, melting together and never looking the same from one moment to the next. It was disorienting. But no sooner that his eyes began to swim in their sockets, did the forest fade behind them.

A royal blue carriage stood before them, gilded carvings of the fleur-de-lis weaving across its body like growing vines. It was large and cushioned, and pulled by a single brilliant white horse. Muscles rippled underneath its enormous wings as it shifted in its place drinking from a barrel of what Harry knew to be single malt whiskey. A smile split across his face.

They were off in a gallop and two mighty bursts from the Abraxan. Harry whooped, though the sound was lost in the cutting winds whipping over them. I'm flying! He wanted to shout. It had been too long since he'd last felt the familiar burn of wind across his face, and had his hair swept wildly behind him. He was happy, for the first time in far too long.

The carriage was rattling, making a sound that was all together horrible, beautiful, and violent. Each joint was on the verge of being torn apart. If not for the magic piecing it all together, they would be in pieces. The white horse was gliding lazily, blending in with the moving clouds, its wings spread wide without a care in the world. Higher and higher it took them up the mountain. We'll fly over them in a minute at this rate. Each powerful flap sent the carriage shaking and lurching through the air, and threatened to thrust them up and out of their seats. Looking over its side and down below past the clouds, the mountainous landscape shot by in a greenish blur.

I wonder what would happen if I jumped off? It was a sudden sobering thought. And a mad urge to open the carriage door and let the next bump throw him out took hold of him. He'd fallen off his broom countless times, where the feeling of weightlessness and rushing air sent your stomach up to your throat, and you could feel the pressure of the approaching earth sink into your bones. He needed only a moment to think about it. A fall from this height would see him faint before he hit the ground. At least I'd die with a smile on my face.

The carriage jumped with another beat of the Abraxan's wings, and suddenly the mountains were growing larger again. The clouds were above them, and dark green splotches and stripes of blue were separating into trees and fresh runoffs of mountain water. The air no longer slapped his face, but was now brushing it with delicate fingers. His thoughts of jumping vanished, and just off into the horizon a great plateau stretched at the joining of five great masses that loomed overhead. The mid-day sun caught something off into the distance, nearly blinding them in their approach. Rubbing his eyes until his vision cleared, Harry opened them to see the palace of Beauxbatons and its golden doors.

Dust flew up in a swirling cloud when they impacted the ground, choking the air. The landing was not near as clean as the takeoff, but they made it out of the carriage in one piece. Gravel crackled underfoot as Harry stepped off onto a narrow landing strip. It was surrounded in every direction by the palace's immaculately kept gardens. It's almost too pretty, he thought taking it all in. He could feel the presence of Grindelwald at his side, hidden beneath his cloak. A gust of displaced air nearly knocked Harry over, and looking up he saw the Abraxan horse flying up and away, disappearing into the sky. In front of them a dozen feet away, an old man wearing queer white robes stood at the foot of a paved path.

"Monsieur Alic, a pleasure to meet you." He was old, very old, though what age Harry could not place. His skin hung from his face like a leathered sack, wrinkled and wind burnt, and the grip of his handshake was rather frail. "The students and Headmistress Maxime are assembled for lunch, I figured you would like to settle yourself in first before meeting them all." He turned and shuffled away with a stoop to his shoulders.

Harry jogged to catch up to the departing man, having not been given the opportunity to so much as reply. "Might I ask your name, sir?" Can you tell me what the bloody hell is going on? The question remained unsaid.

Old eyes stared back at him. "You may call me Wulfric if you wish." He spoke dismissively, though there was something else in his voice.

Something hung over his head, unseen and just out of his grasp. It was the vital piece that would make sense of this puzzle that surrounded him. It's clearly not his name… but why use one of Dumbledore's? Was it meant to make him trust the old man? Or was he simply being mocked? It was infuriating.

"Why are you lying to me?"

The man looked back to him, never slowing in his shuffles, and acted as though he was surprised. But Harry knew he was enjoying himself. "I did not lie. I said you may call me Wulfric, I never told you that was my name. I could give you a number of others, if that would please you. A name is just a name, whether false or true. You could be Wulfric if you wish, and I Alic, it matters not to me. Your visit is far more important than simple name calling, is it not?"

"It is," Harry replied curtly. This visit could mean my life. A bubble of something burst in his chest. Fear or hope? He couldn't be sure.

They'd passed rows and rows of neatly trimmed hedges, decorated with moving statues who posed for them as they stepped by. Some were tasteful and elegant, while others were downright vulgar. One carving of a wizard wider than he was tall, raised his robes and bent over in front of them, showing off the natural cushions he carried with him everywhere. The old man – Wulfric – chuckled to himself, finding it particularly humorous. They don't have a gate, Harry noted with surprise. From the gravel strip to the golden doors of the palace, that were still some distance ahead of them, not a single obstruction stood in place hindering the impressive view of the school's grounds. It was not built for defense like Hogwarts was. Then again, it's almost impossible to get up here in the first place.

"The Flamel fountains." The old man broke the silence that had been held between them. The largest fountain Harry had ever seen stood at the center of a courtyard they'd just entered. It rose from the ground like the shell of turtle emerging from the sea. Great pumps were gushing crystalline water from the mouths of seven species of dragon, carved likenesses of frightening realism. Smaller streams twirled upwards like ribbons, their droplets a shower of shining pearls. The swirling pool had a sheen to it as well, reflecting rainbows into the eyes of those who tried to gaze into its depths. "It is said to have healing properties, though none of my studies have found evidence to support this." I could drink the whole damn thing and it wouldn't heal me, Harry thought.

He could still hear the splashing of water behind him by the time they were climbing the steps to the front of the palace. The golden doors of Beauxbatons glowed in front of him, before parting silently to permit their entrance. Cool air hit him like a slap in the face. He hadn't realized how warm it had been outside until now. It took a moment for Harry's eyes to adjust to the interior lighting. The halls looked as though they were decorated for royalty. Precious stones of amber and jade, jet and ruby and lapis lazuli were inlaid in the walls painted with golden finery. A fresco stretched endlessly across the ceiling, and between pillars of cut marble were vases nearly at a height with him. This really is too much. It hurt his eyes. Harry much preferred the cold stone of the strong, solemn walls of Hogwarts.

He could hear the distant chatter of students, but rather than lead them further into the heart of the palace, Wulfric stood by a whole in the wall where a pillar had previously been. "This way," he said, his voice echoing down the stairwell that led into a dark pit below. Every school has its dungeons, Harry laughed to himself. The passageways worked just as they did in Hogwarts, taking them farther and faster than they had any right of doing. They were rats scurrying through the deep black, unseen, unheard, and unknown in the bowels of the palace. His nose caught the scent of something he could only describe as burnt. It grew stronger and more distinct as they continued to travel for what felt an eternity. Finally, keys clanked and a door swung open to reveal a laboratory.

Though a laboratory might not have been an apt way to describe what he walked in on. It was huge. Much larger than any laboratory had any right to be. The walls and ceilings were extended magically beyond a point he could begin to estimate. I can see them, but if I walk I know I'll never reach them… It was breathtaking. Harry couldn't care less about the grounds or how pretty the castle looked, this was better than all of that. Strange instruments puffed with colored smoke, wheezing and sneezing, before spitting out strips of paper with strange numbers and letters and symbols. They reminded him of those that used to sit in Dumbledore's office, but these were far more intricate with thousands of tiny parts, and squarely put his to shame. A pit was dug out of the stone floor and filled with burning coals, on top of which lay a row of stones glowing from the heat. At least I know what I was smelling, Harry considered as he sniffed. Though now a bold new stench wafted over, something old and rotted. Harry turned, his nose twitching, and wandered passed shelves overflowing with potions supplies and metallic tools. He stopped and stared, and his stomach gurgled. Hanging from red-stained hooks in the ceiling were rotting corpses, cut open and left hollow. And beyond that was what appeared to be a vault made of oily black stone. He stepped back queasy, not caring to find out any more about what was hidden away in this area.

He found Wulfric hovering over a grey-stone bowl heated by flashing purple flames. The man was spinning its contents with his wand, but stopped when he drew close, turning and staring at Harry. "I should kill you where you stand for all that you've done, and the pain you caused Albus." Harry's eyebrows shot up. What!? His heart nearly stopped.

No, he realized his mistake, Wulfric was staring just off to the space beside him.

The air shimmered for a moment, and the cloak fell away to the floor, exposing Grindelwald. "Nicolas… we found ourselves at odds before we ever met. Can we not let old matters lie?"

"Old matters will lie when you are dead and buried in the ground, and I have spat at the foot of your grave."

Grindelwald frowned, and the two men stared at each other with faces as hard as granite. They were two old men, but there was power about them.

"Flamel?" Harry said, and the man formerly called Wulfric turned to him. "Dumbledore told me you were dying without your stone."

"Dying, yes. We all are. Though some of us much slower than others." There was a natural pause to his speech, but it stretched for much longer than it should have. Grindelwald had not been joking when he said time moved differently in regards to Flamel. Looking at the hunched little man, it was unbelievable to think that he'd lived for over six hundred years. But still, there was a spark of youth within him. "But without my stone? No." He eventually continued. "My stone is undamaged; it was my wife's you destroyed."

Harry's hair stood on its end under his ageless gaze. "What happened –"

"She's dead."

Oh, Harry thought. That was not good. "I'm –"

"Yes, yes," he said, cutting Harry off again. "Albus already passed on his apologies from the both of you. Though it was our fault to begin with." He turned his back on them and returned to stirring the contents of the bowl.

Harry bent to retrieve his cloak, but found that Grindelwald's hand was already on it. Harry tugged. He wouldn't let go. Harry tugged again, harder this time, and slowly it slipped from his clenched fingers. Flushed with anger, Harry looked to Grindelwald. But the man was staring daggers into the back of Flamel, oblivious to everything around him. Forcefully, Harry shoved the cloak back into his pocket, his hand hovering protectively over it.

Behind them, one of the stones roasting in the pit crackled and burst, oozing out a molten green liquid that fluoresced in the dungeon light. "Harry Potter." Hearing his name, Harry's attention was brought back to Flamel who was tossing fine powders into the purple flames. "For the love Albus held for you, I've agreed to this meeting. What is it that brought you to my doorstep?"

Harry swallowed, and a lone trickle of sweat wept down the base of his neck. "Before Dumbledore died…" Harry started, but stopped. Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a slip of parchment. "Before he died, Dumbledore passed this on to me."

Flamel snatched the paper from his hand, surprisingly quick given his halting earlier movements. "He speaks about the Deathly Hallow," he said after reading. "I always did warn him against that foolish boy's dream." Grindelwald shifted beside him. "Without context, the rest means nothing to me I'm afraid."

Dread settled over Harry, icy and uncomfortable, as if someone had just poured cold water down his back. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. He could hear his heartbeat pounding through his ears. Thumpthump. His heart skipped, and a sickness filled his stomach. "Did Dumbledore ever speak to you of Horcruxes?"

The ancient man eyed him keenly. "I must admit, I did worry when Albus showed an alarming interest in the topic in recent years. Though he assured me he had no wish to live forever. I had good reason to believe him, given how he never once hinted at the desire of having his own stone over the decades we worked together. I was the one to provide him some literature on those unholy things."

Thump. Thump. It was echoing in his skull. "Voldemort made them," Harry said.

"I had assumed so. I am not a man whose interests lay in the happenings of the world around me, but some news is difficult to miss: the rise of a dead man, the death of an old friend, and the escape of a rat from his own prison." His gaze was serene, but cut like daggers.

"He made seven of them," Harry spoke slowly, and Flamel nodded along. Thump. Thumpthumpthump. Thump. "And I'm –" Harry's voice caught in his throat, choking him as it clenched shut. Thumpthump. "I'm –" Again the words wouldn't form. I'm a dead man. He'd never said the words out loud before. If he did, would it make them real? "I'm… I'm one of them. I'm a horcrux." His hand unconsciously went to touch his scar.

Seconds passed by in silence, so long that he had lost track in counting. Perhaps it had been minutes. His chest was aching, and his scar was throbbing, and it felt as though the enchanted walls reversed, and were now closing in to crush him. I need fresh air. Panic was flooding his system, pumped by his heart and rushing through his veins instead of blood. Faster and faster his chest was rising and falling. I need to fly. The memory of riding the Abraxan pulled carriage came to mind, with the wind kissing his skin and the rush of freedom only flying could bring. He clamped down on the memory and others so much like it. They played like a film in his mind, forcing him to remember what it felt like to have a broom between his legs and chase the golden snitch. Slowly he felt his pulse begin to settle. Breathing came easier to him now. I don't want to die, he wanted to weep, please…

Suddenly, it was as if steel encased his heart, hardening and taking away its feeling. He wouldn't let them hear him plead. He wouldn't let them see him weak. Straightening, his gaze met that of Flamel's.

"That is… unsettling," Flamel said, though his sagging face did not show it. He looked at Harry as though he was a particularly fascinating puzzle, his eyes gleaming with piqued curiosity. If he listened very carefully, Harry was certain he could hear the whirling of Flamel's mind. Or was it those silver instruments of his? "And you are asking me to find a way to save you?" He opened the slip of parchment, humming underneath his breath as he read it again, before storing it up his sleeve.

Harry nodded, feeling so small in that moment.

"A living horcrux? I've read through histories of possessed hosts, thralls chained to the whims of the master of the original soul, but this different. You aren't possessed are you?" Flamel had taken to pulling and prodding Harry's face, and tapped the scar with his forefinger as he spoke. "No? I didn't think so," he muttered to himself, taking a step back and peering at Harry through squinty eyes at different angles. "An accidental horcrux, the first in history… fascinating. Albus should have brought you to me ages ago. You would have been excellent for research." His voice was filled with reverence. Harry had to hold back the urge to flinch, his mind flashing to bloody hooks and hanging corpses swinging somewhere behind him in the lab. This man is mad, and nothing could convince Harry otherwise. "To destroy a horcrux, you must destroy the anchor. But to destroy the soul itself and save the host…" Flamel turned to a desk and rummaged through a mountain of loose papers, none of which seemed to satisfy him. "Impossible." He finally said, and Harry could fell death's hands at his throat. "A word I have heard thrown about by scared men who are afraid of failure. It seems a unique and interesting project, and one I will take on."

Before Harry breathe his thanks, a high pitch scream, like that of a tea kettle burst out to their right. A puff of blue smoke was leaking from a spinning wheel of silver and gold, and through the cloud a white ball hurtled towards them. It stopped inches in front of Flamel's nose, and unfurled itself. "Ah, yes, it is time Wulfric brings his new charge to meet Headmistress Maxime." He snapped his fingers and the paper was incinerated. "It would not due to keep the lady waiting, Alic." With his white robes ruffling behind him, the alchemist shuffled over to his bowl and spooned out an inky sludge. "Come eat, we don't have all day."

Harry stared at the man as if he were crazy. He is, he reminded himself."I'd rather not, sir."

"Yes, and I'd rather you not have broken my wife's stone. Would you deny an old man after that?" It jiggled as he moved. "You've certainly been fed worse, I assure you."

He lied. It was horrid. Whatever it was, it went down with a wet slurp, and crawled up and down his throat as if it were alive and trying to escape. Grindelwald was silently laughing off to the side. Despite his best efforts, it refused to come back up, even after he heaved for the fourth time.

Finished with the slop, its bitter taste still sitting heavily in his throat, he turned to see Flamel reach into the coals and pull out one of the red-hot stones. Stop! He wanted to yell. But the urge vanished with shock when he saw that the man's hand was unburnt. Maybe it's not that hot. But cinders could be seen falling from its glossy surface. Flamel came walking towards him, and reached for his face as if to poke Harry with his fingers again. Though it wasn't his finger this time. Pulsing in his leathery grip, he jabbed the stone into Harry's scar. His eyes flashed white, blinding him, and for a moment he was numb. And then the world burned.

AN:

Another update! It seems as though the shorter chapters are working well for me.

I'm glad many of you are enjoying my characterization of Grindelwald. He's a lot of fun to write! And I hope you'll like where that storyline ends up.

The next chapter is already written. I don't know when I'll put it out, but I think you'll like it A LOT.

EDIT: I apologize to some of the readers who might have noticed mistakes when initially reading the chapter. For some odd reason, FFN chopped up a few of my sentences and pieced them together randomly. All should be fine now.