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— Chapter 4 —
Swimming Upstream

WHEN I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, the world beside my window lay slumbering, still drenched in a haze of purple starlight. Only the trees rose to greet me. Shy things, trees were. They peeked from behind moss-covered boulders, waving timidly with fingers gnarled with age.

Hello, I said.

Hello, they responded.

Thorne's door parted, and the world splayed out before me. It felt like a dream. A second chance. I didn't have to be alone anymore.

A neon noodle popped out of the dirt at my feet. Its head bent forward into an upside-down L. It looked around with an experimental swivel: left, right, up, down. When it saw me, it jerked — an exclamation mark! — and screamed with delight in a high-pitched voice full of wordless wonder. It burst from the dirt and swam away, flowing through the air like water. Without a second thought, I followed it. As I passed them, the trees waved again, and I put my hand on their gnarled, old trunks as thanks for their morning greeting.

The forest breathed me in.

Leaves kissed my cheeks, bark grooved beneath fingertips, and moss clung to my clothes. The noodle split into two, then three, then four. They dropped to the ground, slithering beside me, forming a glowing path through the underbrush to guide my way. I heard running water, a burbling river in the distance.

Why do you want me to go there? I asked, but the forest only shook its head and laughed, pushing me along with playful low-hanging branches. A break in the trees loomed ahead, and dusty moonlight peeked through. The water grew louder, the leaves grew fewer, and my pace quickened. The noodles buzzed, practically vibrating as they zoomed forward to the end of the trail. When I reached them, when I finally stepped past the break in the trees, the noodles spun around me one final time, screamed, and dove back into the ground with an overwhelming sense of victorious finality.

I was on an embankment, standing at the apex of a gentle decline. A warbling river flowed below, and on the bank of this river slept a boy whose hat lay draped across his face. He wore blue overalls, a yellow plaid shirt, and black galoshes. To his left was a fishing rod, propped on a collapsible metal stand. A compact toolbox lay open on his right, its contents spilling forth onto the ground below.

"You don't need to stand all the way back there."

I froze. "Sorry?"

The boy yawned. "You can come sit if you want. I don't bite."

After a moment of hesitation, I joined him on the riverbank. The smell of wet earth filled my nose, and damp grass clung to my fingertips.

"Didn't know anyone lived 'round here," said the boy.

It was strange that the forest had led me here. Was this boy a wizard? Was I allowed to speak to him? Did the forest want me to?

"Quiet type, huh? That's fine. My brother's the quiet type. Always readin'."

Remember, I told myself, this is your new life. You can do this. Talk to him.

"You fish?" the boy asked.

Right, of course, I thought. The boy is fishing. We can talk about fish! Brilliant!

"No," I said. "Do you?"

"Every morning for a couple years now."

"What's it like?"

"S'fine. Salmon passin' though at the mo'. Salmon are good. Better than Trout. You ever eaten Trout?"

"No."

"Tastes awful. Like mud. It's the worst when all I catch is Trout."

"Do you eat all the fish you catch?"

"'Course," said the boy. "A guy's gotta eat, don' he? Fish for dinner, seven days a week. Been that way long as I can remember. You like fish?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, no."

The boy laughed. "Yeah, me neither. Say, I like you, what's your name?"

"Err — it's Harry. Harry Potter."

The boy froze. He removed his hat and placed it on the ground next to him. Red hair, freckles, a smudge of dirt on his nose. "Too right you are." He extended a hand. "Ron Weasley."

We shook. Ron's hands felt rough and calloused like sandpaper lay beneath his skin.

"So that's where..."

"Yes," I said quickly. "But I can't remember it."

Ron flopped back down, annoyed. "That was rude."

I looked down. "Sorry," I muttered.

"Not you," said Ron. "'Course I wasn't talkin' 'bout you. What would mum say, honestly? You, newly arrived, and me, gawkin' at you like you're a hippogriff in a zoo." He shook his head. "My bad, mate. Honestly."

"It's fine, honestly."

I needed to get this conversation back on track.

"I mean, I just remember a lot of green light, but not much else."

"Awful," said Ron with a shudder. "Actually, wait a mo'. Now that I think of it, I seem to remember mum sayin' summit 'bout you last night. My grandfather, too. Billius is his name, not sure if you met him, but boy did he talk about you. Old as dirt with one foot in the grave and he still insisted on going. Mum had a cow. You're too old, she says. You're brittle, she says. But he wouldn't hear it. Kept on rambling about tradition." Ron rolled his eyes. "Codger."

There was something... easy about Ron. Something that made me like him. He didn't seem... complicated. Not like Thorne, not like Daphne.

"So you're with her now, yeah? Thorne?"

I nodded.

"She's let me family fish on her land for ages. That's why I'm here, see. Most folks with tons of land — folk like her — they charge. My folks offered, but she wouldn't hear it. Great witch that Thorne, my mum always says. Never met her myself, though. What's she like?"

"Err..."

How in the world do I describe her? A hurricane-in-human-form. A bloody-scary-bubble-spewing-hell-demon.

"...overwhelming."

"Guess most folks like her are," said Ron. "Gods."

"Yeah... that."

While we had been talking, the shimmering silence of dawn descended upon us. The grass beneath my fingers grew warm, and honey flowed across the sky. For a time, we sat in silence, listening to the burble of the river and the buzzing of the bees.

Ron picked up his rod and gave it a little shake. "It's not going well for me today."

He reeled the line in, and when it came out of the water, I saw there was a tiny blue fish attached to the end. Ron held it close to his face, inspecting it from all angles. "Yeah... this isn't working for me."

With scientific precision, he set the rod in his lap, grabbed a knife from the toolbox lying open at his side, cut the end of the line, spooled out more, grabbed a new yellow-fish-thingie also from the toolbox, tied it to the line along with two metal-looking-thingies, fiddled with a complicated mechanism at the bottom of his rod, pulled his arm back, and cast the line back into the river again.

My mouth dropped open in awe. "Wicked."

Ron gave me a weird look. "It's just fishing. I'll teach you if you want."

I nodded eagerly. "Yes, please."

Silence stretched between us, but I didn't like it this time. Watching Ron's line bob in and out of the water made me anxious. I wanted to keep speaking, wanted to learn more about him.

Okay! I'll ask him another question. Uhm...

"Do all wizards fish?"

"Most," said Ron. "Magic can't make food, so... we gotta get it off the land."

Oh. That was a new one.

"Magic can't make food?"

Ron shook his head. "Nah. There's some rule about it. Dude named Grunt... Gramp... Grorp... learned about it in lab, but I'm dumb as bricks, so obviously, it didn't stick."

"You don't seem dumb as bricks to me," I said.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, mate. 'Course you haven't met my brothers, though. Sharp as tacks. Me? I'm... patient."

Yes, I realized, that's what it is — that's what I like about him. His nature... it's patient!

Ron jerked the rod and reeled it in a little. "Most of my family hates this. My brothers, they're not mornin' people. And with fishin', it's always 'bout the mornin'. Only time for it, really. Actually, that's not true. With magic, you can do it anytime."

"You can fish with magic?"

There was so much I didn't know.

"'Course," replied Ron. "Most wizards use magical tackle. Either a potion... or a charm... or summit. Fools the fishies. Makes it easier. I don't do it that way, though. I'm more of a do-it-myself kinda guy. Doin' it with magic has always seemed like... cheatin', I guess. Gotta meet them fishies on an even playin' field."

He pointed to his lure. "Below the surface, you have all these fishies swimmin' down there, lookin' at everything — fishie stuff, hell if I know what it is — and my tackle is meant to look like a little fishie. To fool 'em. Logic is that if the fishie bites the tackle, I win, cause I fooled it. And it's fair because the fishie I caught would've killed the smaller fishie had it not been the tackle."

"So why so many kinds of tackle?" I asked.

Ron's face lit up. "Strategy, mate. Strategy. The fishies, they're not dumb. They know we want 'em. 'Course they do. If I was a salmon... pfsh... I'd never leave me house. Or I'd eat m'self." He laughed a little at that.

"That's why it's a battle between me and them. Pure wits. None of this fake intelligence bookyness, neither. A fishie can tell a book person from a mile away. They won't bite, 'cause they don't respect 'em. You gotta be patient, think things through. My brothers, when they came out here, they were always lookin' to get the job done, go back home, and sleep. Not that I blame 'em."

He yawned. "It's so bloody early. Startin' the day before the sun's even up? Bloody travesty, I tell you. But it's like my dad always says. If you gotta do something, might as well do it right."

"But what happens if... if you don't catch any?"

Ron had a knowing look in his eyes. "That's the doubt talkin'. I don't listen. I'm always patient, so I always catch the fishies. It's just the way things are. Fishies try n' swim away, I try n' catch 'em. I win cause magic likes me more."

As if to prove his point, the end of his rod jerked and wriggled. "Aha," Ron cried. "Gotcha!"

An intense dance began. Ron would reel the line in, and then let it go. Reel it in, and let it go. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and sweat dewed on his glistening forehead. It was so intense I hardly dared breathe.

And then—

"It's salmon!" Ron crowed as a wriggling fish broke the surface of the river. "'Course it is. Salmon! Oh man, I thought I was gonna get stuck with Trout again. This. Is. Great!"

The morning passed easily. The way Ron thought, the way he spoke to me — it made talking to him easier than anyone I'd ever met. Ron asked me questions about the muggle world and, in turn, told me about the wizarding world. Before I knew it, the sun had risen, and the river bank was bathed in the wholesome glow of daybreak.

"You hungry?" Ron reached into his toolbox and pulled out four sandwiches, wrapped neatly in brown paper. He tossed one to me. "Eat up."

"I can't take this. It's yours," I said, but Ron wasn't listening.

"It's Roast Beef," he moaned. "Why is it always Roast Beef? Soggy lunchmeat don't belong. Makes the bun lose its integrity. Nice and firm, that's what it should be."

I wanted to laugh. "You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?"

"Oh, don't give me that look. I know, I know, I am grateful. Thanks, mum, and all that. But it's just... she always packs me Roast Beef. Trust me, you'd be doing me a favor by taking one of 'em off my hands."

He looked me up and down. "Also, no offense, mate, but you look like you could use all the sandwiches you can get."

I frowned, trying to figure out if I had been insulted.

But I never got a chance to ask, because a rustle in the trees had Ron turning to the forest at our backs. "The valiant Cassanova returns!" he cried. "Come to regale us, eh, Blaise?"

Blaise Zabini had a careless quality to the way he walked, an aura of confidence that could pull off walking through the woods half-naked. He was just... cool. Tall and lanky, with olive skin, high cheekbones, and lips that were lush and full.

"Kicked you out, did she?"

Blaise sprawled on the grass, grabbed the sandwich Ron was holding, and started to eat with gusto. "Fuck," he mumbled with a mouth full of food. "This is so good. Your mom is a goddess, Ron."

"This is Blaise," said Ron. "Been my best mate since... pfsh... prolly since I was ten, even though he's three years older. Blaise, this is my newest mate, Harry Potter."

Blaise raised a hand. "Nice to meet you." Little crumbs of bread flew from his mouth, spraying Ron with a deluge of crumbs.

"You're disgusting."

Blaise smiled. His teeth were dazzling. "Jealous?"

"It's beyond me how any girl could find you attractive."

"Have you seen me?"

I had to admit, the man had a point. He had more confidence in his pinky finger than I had in my whole body.

"So... she did kick you out?"

Blaise grunted.

"Sorry? Didn't hear you."

"Fine," Blaise grumbled. "She kicked me out. Happy?"

"Blaise has a bit of a thing with Thorne's other apprentice," Ron explained. "You prolly know her on account of — "

"Oh, right," said Balise with a look of dawning comprehension. "You're Thorne's other apprentice."

Daphne. Yikes.

Ron sniggered. "I know that look. Pissed her off already, did you?"

I nodded. "She hates me."

Blaise ruffled my hair — he was the kind of person who could pull it off. "Nah, mate. It's not you. She hates everyone."

Ron slung an arm around Blaise's shoulders. "She even hates Blaise, and they shag on the regular."

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Ron."

"You're weak."

"Whatever asshole. Give me my potion."

Ron rummaged in his toolbox for a moment. "Where is it?" he muttered. "Know I brought it with me this morn — ah! Here it is." He withdrew a corked vial filled to the brim with a strange neon-green mixture that swirled with large clusters of interspersed air bubbles.

"I've got acne," Blaise explained as Ron handed the potion to him. "This here's a boil cure remedy. Ron's mum makes it for his brother." With a grimace, he uncorked it and downed its contents in a single swallow. He shuddered and handed the empty vial back to Ron. "Thank your mum for me, will you?"

Ron snorted. "Thank her yourself. She was just talkin' 'bout you this mornin'. Says it's been ages since she's seen you."

Blaise gave me another one of those cool-guy looks. "What can I say? Been busy."

"Mum's sweet on Blaise," said Ron. "I'm positive she only makes Roast Beef because he loves it."

I looked down at the sandwich Ron had handed me earlier. "Take it," I said, trying to give it back.

Ron shook his head. "Nah, mate. I gave it to ya. Sandwiches seal friendships. It's a rule. Plus, I hate roast beef."

I sat, stunned. Had Ron said friendship?

Oblivious, Ron turned back to Blaise. "See how nice he is?"

"Maybe he feels bad for you. Merlin knows I do."

Ron made a rude hand gesture.

"Oh, that's attractive."

"Fuck off, Zabini."

I blinked. Zabini... I recognized that surname. The woman in the auction, the one who saved me. Could this be her son?

"Your... your mom..."

"Ahhhh," said Ron knowingly. "Mon amour. Sweet, sweet Arabella."

Blaise looked horrified. "Oh, no. What did she do?"

"Nothing!" I said quickly. "She... Mistress Zabini... she saved my life!"

It was silent for a moment.

"...mistress?" asked Ron quietly.

I looked between him and Blaise. "That's what she said... I should call her."

Another silence.

Ron looked at me. I looked at Ron. Ron looked over at Blaise. "Mistress," he said evenly. "Well, that's certainly... interesting."

Blaise buried his face in his hands. "I wanna die," he whispered. "Why is she always hungry?"

Ron roared with laughter. "Your mom is so fetch, Blaise."

"Don't call her that!"

"What can I say? I speak for the masses. You'd hit that too. Right, Harry?"

My cheeks felt hot. "Of course not," I mumbled.

"Oh, Merlin." Ron started tapping Blaise on the shoulder, almost hopping up and down with glee. "Oh, merlin, Blaise, look!"

Ron was pointing at a boy who was jogging on the opposite side of the river. He was very handsome, with wavy brown hair, a strong jawline, and more muscles than I could count.

"Hey, pretty boy!" Ron bellowed. "Oi, pretty boy, over here, pretty!"

Blaise put two fingers in his mouth and wolf-whistled. "Take off the shirt and give us a show, Ced."

The boy on the other bank stopped. "Fuck. Off. Assholes," he hollered back.

Blaise laughed. Ron blew kisses. The boy made a rude hand gesture and jogged off.

"That's Cedric," said Ron.

"Local heartthrob."

"Adonis."

"Witch's wizard."

"And all-around swell guy."

"Oh, Cedric," said Blaise in a girlishly high-pitched voice, "do you need some help oiling those big muscles?"

"Oh, Cedric," simpered Ron, "do you need a rub down after that long run you just took."

"Oh, Cedric," moaned Blaise with a gasp of surprise, "where does that trail of hair lead!?"

"Oh, Cedric," Ron almost screamed, "yes... Yes... YES!"

They dissolved in peels of laughter.

"You'll see him eventually," said Ron once they'd calmed down. "There's a bridge a few miles ahead where he loops around."

And so the morning progressed. Blaise and Ron bantered back and forth as the sun slowly rose above us. Ron continued fishing. Blaise provided commentary. When Ron reeled in nothing, Blaise would say he had as much luck finding fish as he did chasing girls. And when Ron caught something, Blaise would stick his nose in the air and say the fish were just taking pity on him.

Just as Ron predicted, Cedric eventually passed us. When he did, Ron threw him the last Corn Beef sandwich — "Give us a show, Ced!" — but Cedric just unwrapped the sandwich, threw the wrapping paper back at Ron, waved at me, and kept on running.

It was the best morning I had ever had. I didn't say much, and no one asked me to. I just smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled. The muscles in my face hurt from it, but I didn't care.

"So, this is where you've been."

It was Thorne.

Ron and Blaise fell deadly silent.

"Dude," whispered Ron, "that's her."

I looked at them sideways. There it was again—the silent fear.

"Come on," I said. "I'll introduce you."

I took a few steps towards Thorne, but they didn't follow.

"Dude... that's..." Ron's voice was quiet. "I dunno."

"She's a god," said Blaise emphatically.

"Hardly anyone's seen her."

"I'm at her house all the time, and I've never even seen her."

"She's nice," I said. "I promise."

"It's just..." Ron shifted from foot to foot, staring at the ground. "She's a god. She's on a chocolate frog card. I own her chocolate frog card. It doesn't seem... appropriate."

I decided then and there that I hated it. I hated the way wizards spoke about gods, hated the way power was irrevocably linked with fear, hated the way Thorne played into it by keeping her distance and not coming to join us.

"Fuck appropriate," I muttered and marched off towards Thorne.

After all, if people couldn't talk to her, what did that mean for me? Was this what my life was going to be like? Were people going to avoid me, refuse to speak to me, because of power I didn't even want?

No. No way. This was my new life — my reinvention.

"Look," I said as I reached her. "I'm sorry if this is rude, and you can punish me for it later if you want, but I think the gods are stupid, and I think the prophecy is stupid, and I don't think you're scary, and I'm not going to be either. So" — I grabbed her hand — "come with me."

Each step towards Blaise and Ron felt like a victory, a big "fuck you" to the stormcloud hanging over my head. Thorne was saying something, but I wasn't listening because I just didn't care. I wouldn't be abnormal. I was going to have a normallife. I was going to have friends. People weren't going to look at me with fear anymore.

"This is Thorne."

Ron's face had lost all color. Blaise's mouth hung slightly open.

Thorne's lips curved into a smile. "If memory serves," — she pointed at Ron — "you're Ronald Weasley. And you're" — she pointed at Blaise — "the boy who makes the headboard of my apprentice's bed bounce against my bedroom wall."

Blaise made a squeaking noise that sounded like, "oopsie doopsie."

"It's nice to meet you. Now, as for you, shortie," — Thorne tapped my temple — "we've got things to do today, so let's scram."

"See?" I said to Ron as she led me away. "Told you she was nice."

"Harry?"

I turned back.

Ron waved. "See you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah," I said. "Tomorrow."

A bubble of happiness swelled up inside me.

"So," said Thorne as we walked back to her house, "what did you get up to this morning?"

"I think... I'm not sure... but I think the forest helped me make my first two friends."

Thorne ruffled my hair. "Good for you, kiddo."

I smiled, and it felt like the forest smiled back.

BY THE TIME FIVE O'CLOCK ROLLED AROUND, the elation of my morning seemed like a distant memory.

Thorne's expression was blank, wiped clean by surprise. "I'm sorry — could you repeat that?"

The Wandmaker Gregorovitch bowed to her. "I'm sorry, madam, but it appears I am unable to find your apprentice a wand because he" — he turned to me — "because you do not believe yourself worthy of one."

"I don't... understand," I whispered.

Diagon Alley was a wizarding street in London, located behind a pub called the Leaky Cauldron. Shops lined the cobbled street on either side, selling every sort of magical ware imaginable. We had spent the afternoon here, buying items that, according to Thorne, were essential for any young man's magical education. By five o'clock, these included: a pewter cauldron, three handsome feather quills, a supremely flamboyant (in my opinion) assortment of wizarding clothes I was certain I'd never wear, two books inscribed with glyphs in a language unknown, a trunk with brass fixings, and a tiny golden ball called a snitch.

Only one item remained on Thorne's list: a magic wand.

"Gregorovitch is a bit prickly," Thorne warned as we walked to a shop at the very end of the alley.

The moment we stepped in, I felt it — magic. A thousand scents, a thousand tactile sensations. It was unexpected and so ferocious that I had cried out and fallen, overwhelmed at the sheer amount of information circulating through my head. And the pressure — sweet god — it made everything I'd felt up till then seem lightweight by comparison. Had Thorne not intervened when she did, had she not put me to sleep, I don't know what I would have done.

When I next opened my eyes, I found myself lying on a leather couch in a room that was mercifully devoid of sound. Gregorovitch, a heavy-set man with hungry eyes and thin lips, had introduced himself and explained we were in his workshop. The first wand he placed in my hand had been yew and dragon heartstring, eleven-and-a-half inches. The moment my hands curled around the burnished handle, a bolt of scorching electricity shot up my arm, causing the wand to burst into flames.

Five more of Gregorovitch's creations met the same end.

After that, he'd declared I was a tricky customer and that he would craft a wand for me finer than any seen before in Britain. Following that pronouncement, I had spent several minutes staring at my reflection in an ancient silver basin filled to the brim with reflective black water.

Gregorovitch took notes during this, and every once in a while, he would mutter, "curious," in a voice filled with wonder. Finally, he placed my hand on several different materials to determine the material my magic was most resonant with. If his test was any indication, my magic was compatible with nothing, as all the material he placed before me varied from thoroughly unpleasant at best, to downright painful at worst.

His conclusion shouldn't have been surprising. It certainly shouldn't have had me expelling the contents of my lunch onto the floor of his workshop. But as I sank to my knees in the vomit I'd just expunged, all I could hear were his words repeating over and over again in my mind.

You're not worthy of a wand.

I don't remember Thorne cleaning me up, but she did. I don't remember leaving Gregorvitch's workshop to stand in the alley outside his shop, but I did. I don't remember Thorne asking him to repeat the conclusion she'd already heard him say three times, but she did.

All I could remember was the wandmaker bowing to us as he said, "I'm sorry, madam, but it appears I am unable to find your apprentice a wand because he" — he turned to me — "because you don't believe yourself worthy of one."

"I don't... understand," I whispered.

What did that mean?

Thorne's hands never left my shoulders as we walked back to the Leaky Cauldron. They never left my shoulders as she spoke to the Leaky Cauldron's bartender in a voice too soft to make out. They never left my shoulders as the bartender led us through the pub to a room in the back lined with flour from floor to ceiling.

Pressure. Being squeezed through a tight tube. Biting wind.

Cold night air, too cold for summer. Snow dusting my face. Oh, we weren't in Britain anymore. My breath filled my ears — loud, too loud — it was all I could hear.

Thorne in the snow. Thorne kneeling in front of me. Are you okay?

I looked away. I didn't feel like it. No, thank you.

A pair of hands on either side of my face pulled me — dragged me — back. Thorne's face, drenched in snow. Are you okay?

No — I didn't want to. No, thank you. I said I didn't feel like it.

My knees grew cold. Snow drenched my legs.

A pair of hands on my shoulders, dragging me — yanking me — back. Thorne's face, her eyes, her stitches. Snow everywhere. Are you okay!?

Thorne's pressure — roses and bark. Oh, well, hello there, magic. What was she trying to do? It surrounded me, my mind. I felt it try and pull me under, pull me back down.

Hm. I don't really want that. No, thank you.

I smashed it. Smashed it as hard as I could.

Warmth, fire.

Oh — Fleur. No, wait, not Fleur. It didn't come from the rope. It came from... wait, what?

Fleur's face, her blonde hair, her soft lips.

That didn't make sense. She was out of place. Fleur belonged in my mind with the rope.

You're not meant to be here, I told her.

Fleur and Thorne. Fleur next to Thorne. Fleur talking to Thorne. Thorne nodding at Fleur. Thorne responding to Fleur. Thorne talking to Fleur.

What was happening?

What were they saying? I couldn't hear — my breath was too loud. God, why were we here, anyway? Thorne didn't live in the snow. Couldn't we just go home?

Fleur's hands on either side of my face. Fleur's warmth. God, she was so warm. Fleur's eyes, her deep blue eyes. Her mouth moved, but no words came out.

Oh — hello, rope. Were you trying to get my attention?

Tug, tug, tug. If Fleur was here, why was she tugging? Maybe I was going crazy.

Tug, tug, tug. Fire. Fire on the other side of the rope. I remembered the fire. Remembered the Dark Lord, his eyes, ash and manure. Oh — that's right. I had chosen fire.

"Harry!"

I smiled lazily. "Hello, mystery girl."

"Harry. Look. Down!"

...what?

"Harry! You'll! Kill! Us!"

Thorne's hands on my shoulders. Fleur's hands on my face.

Oh... oh, I see. They were holding on. They were in danger. I'd put them in danger.

"Harry — you have to let go. You have to let Thorne bring us down. We're too high. The storm's too strong."

Let go? Let go of what?

Tug, tug, tug. Fire. Thorne. Fleur. Hands. Face. Snow. Fleur. Wind.

Tug, tug, tug. Fire — yes, right, fire! Fire on the other side of the rope.

Tug, tug, tug. What was in my hand?

The rope. My hand on the rope. My hand was holding the rope in place. My hand was tugging on the rope.

I HAD TO LET GO OF THE ROPE!

...I let go of the rope.

I blinked.

My feet were on the ground. My arm was around Fleur's shoulders, her hand was around my waist. Dragging me. She was — how was she doing that? She wasn't that strong, was she?

Fleur's voice, thick and accented. Bells, it rang like bells. Fire, she was the fire. "Is it much farther?"

Strange — she didn't sound fatigued at all.

Thorne's voice. Light and bubbly. "Just up here."

At least my ears were working again. Thank God for small favors.

Thank god. Thank... me.

I giggled.

A house atop a mountain braced against the wind. Straw — so much straw — and stained glass windows shining with warm, golden light.

Fleur stopped at the door. I let go of her waist. She turned to me. Her face, her eyes, her lips. I'm alright, I tried to say, but Fleur didn't hear me.

I tugged on the sleeve of Thorne's dress. She looked down, face tight with worry.

The door opened, revealing an older man with wispy, white hair and deep gouges where his eyes used to be. His head moved from Fleur to Thorne to me, as if he knew exactly where we were standing.

"So, you've come." It wasn't a question.

Thorne's voice was tight. "Garrick."

The old man stepped aside. His home was like Gregorovitch's store. Wands. Wands everywhere. Lined with boxes. No noise, though. I didn't like noise. No pressure, no smell, no touch — nothing.

Hello, kitchen.

Goodbye, kitchen.

Oh, hello, sitting room.

Those animal rugs are lovely, I thought. And so are those weird chairs. I've never seen a fire with green flames before. What are we — wait, no!

Fleur's legs were on either side of mine. Her heat, all of her,lay flush against my back as she wrapped her arm around my stomach, holding me in place. The world spun. Spirals, shapes, colors, folding, bending, twisting, turning. Where was I going?

The rope — where was the rope?

"Harry."

Fleur's mind pressed against me, smothering me. I saw the world through her eyes like I'd never seen it before. I saw Thorne, saw her differently in a way both beautiful and terrifying; I saw the old man whose eyes burned like two lumps of flaming coal; I saw myself, saw my thin elbows and wrists, felt my ribs against my fingertips.

The old man was watching us. "So that's..."

Thorne nodded. "Yes."

"Incredible," the man whispered. "Such times to be living..."

"Do you know who he is?" I asked.

"Ollivander," murmured Fleur. "Garrick Ollivander. A Wandmaker. Perhaps the greatest."

"We need your help," said Thorne.

Ollivander just smiled and rocked back and forth in his chair. "Holly and Phoenix feather. Thirteen-and-a-half inches. It's served you well?"

Thorne smiled slightly. "It has." She extended her hand, palm-up towards the wandmaker. Running down the middle of her forearm was a bump — a long, thin patch of raised skin held together by several crude stitches.

"Yes," whispered Ollivander. "Yes, I remember it well." His eyes drifted to Fleur, and through her, to me. "I would have thought... but no, perhaps not. The explosion..." he shivered. "I felt it in the air, the earth. Terrible thing, magic."

"Garrick," said Thorne, "will you help us?"

"Magic has a curious will." Ollivander reached a hand, palm up towards Thorne. Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his. The old man's eyes fluttered shut. "I see," he murmured as he released her. "I see..."

"Is he right?" Thorne sounded terrified. "Is Gregorovitch right?"

"Gregorvitch is a great wandmaker," said Ollivander. "A great wandmaker, a greater man. He risked much."

"Garrick. Is — he — right?"

"The wand chooses the wizard, Miss..." — Ollivander stopped, tilting his head to the side — "Mister..." — he stopped again, tilting his head to the other side — "there is more of you now." A terrible laugh bubbled past his lips, a laugh that made his yellow teeth gleam. "More of you. More thorns on the rose. Less rose, more thorns. Yes, yes. I see. Very good. Time is almost up."

"Please, Garrick," begged Thorne, "please."

Back and forth, back and forth, it was a wonder the chair didn't break. "The wand chooses the wizard," Ollivander whispered again. "Always chooses the wizard. But what if the wizard can't choose a wand? Why can't the wizard choose? Magic wants to be chosen, wants to be used. It's selfish. The magic is angry."

His face twisted terribly. "Angry! I can feel it." He giggled, a drunk sound. "Does the magic serve its wizard? Does the wizard hate his magic?" Abruptly, he fell silent and stared into the fire for a long time. "Does the wizard hate himself?"

Thorne turned to look at me, at my unmoving form that still lay in Fleur's arms. "Does the wizard hate himself?" she repeated quietly.

I squirmed, trying to get out of Fleur's mind so I could respond, but her warmth squashed me like a bug. In her eyes, the stitches holding Thorne's face together seemed alive. I watched them slither through their sutures like a snake chasing its tail.

"What's wrong with her?" I asked, but Fleur didn't answer.

She was staring at the wandmaker. "What does he have to do?"

The old man smiled sadly. "Magic is expressive, protective — why else would obscurials exist? Magic knows... how to rattle the cage. It must be taught... focused. The boy's magic was angry. Very, very angry."

Thorne buried her face in her hands. "I don't know what to do," she whispered. "Merlin help me, I don't know what to do. His magic, it..." she shuddered. "I couldn't do anything — I couldn't reach him. Even the Dark Lord, I've never felt..."

"It was black," agreed Fleur. "Wild."

"It was close, Garrick." Thorne held up her index finger and thumb, leaving a fraction of an inch between this. "This close. Seconds more, and he would have been an obscurial. I had hoped a wand would stabilize him, but now..."

Ollivander threaded his long, knobby fingers together. "Wandlore is complex, ancient. Wands are not created, they are discovered. Phoenix feather... dragon heartstring... unicorn hair... in four thousand years of study, we have found nothing more stable than what magic created before our own existence.

"Length, wood, core. Two finite, one infinite. No two wands are alike. No two unicorns, phoenixes, or dragons are exactly alike. It is curious that a unicorn might choose its wizard centuries after that unicorn has passed from this life. How does the unicorn know? How does a wand choose its wizard? The elder wand: choice through succession. Hand, to hand, to hand. Does the unicorn choose, but not the elder?"

Ollivander started to rock again, more gently this time. "Wands learn. Magic is not a utility, and wands are not a tool. They are alive. The elder wand learned to choose its successor. Death, after death, after death, after death, after death. So, too, did the unicorn wand. Until it reached its owner's hand, until it connected with the wizard destined to wield it..."

"...it didn't know how, until it did," finished Thorne. "It learned."

"Harry Potter is no ordinary child," whispered the wandmaker. "He is a child of prophecy. Magic favors him. It wants to be used. It has learned how to be useful. Magic is our fundamental form of expression."

"Magic is our most fundamental form of expression," echoed Thorne.

"It will treat us the way we believe we deserve to be treated. If Harry Potter continues to treat his magic as a defection, an abnormality, it will continue to help him express those thoughts."

"And since Harry's magic is part of him," continued Thorne.

"Then every spell he casts, no matter the intention behind it, will attempt to do him harm," finished Ollivander. He hummed softly to himself as he rocked. "Magic as metaphor. Marvelous. It truly does choose. Truly.

"His training, whatever it may be, must be slow. The boy is too old for parents. And yet his magic is young, a child. It needs nurture, discipline. It does not have a sense of safety. And yet..." he raised his hands to the heavens. "And yet he is a child of prophecy. He is chosen. Our chosen."

Fleur made a sound of disgust.

Ollivander turned his head towards her. "No history is without succession," he said gently.

A low sound came from Fleur like two rocks scraping together. "Do not lecture me." Her thoughts shimmered, changing color, whizzing by in a language I didn't know.

The burning coals in Mister Ollivander's eyes sputtered and became blue. "Ah..." he said softly. "I see. Yes. You are one of the ancients."

A sharp, booming crunch came from Fleur, followed by a rasping, snarling crack. Then another. And another. And another. And another. And another. Fleur's shoulders, my shoulders, lurched forward. I watched her shadow, once a familiar silhouette bathed in light from a flickering fire, become longer and thinner. Her throat convulsed as —

Pain...

White, hot, boiling pain seared through —

Warmth. A shield.

The pain stopped.

Fleur's eyes opened.

Blue sepia soaked the world. My vision expanded, growing wider and... warped at the edges, somehow — I couldn't exactly explain it. The detail was overwhelming. I could see every strand of hair in the animal rug at our feed, every ember of green flame that crackled in the hearth, every ridge in the wood planks that constructed the roof.

Ollivander looked up into my — Fleur's — eyes. "Incredible," he whispered. "Such times to be living." He started to rock again.

"Do your friends know?" asked Thorne.

When Fleur spoke, her voice rumbled like rolling thunder. "No."

"Is he in danger?"

Fleur shook her head. "No... I... have not. I... will... not."

"That's not my concern." Thorne paused. "I believe it possible you are the reason he did not dissolve today."

A deep rumble. Resignation, determination, regret. "It cannot exist... in... the same place as I..."

"So you're keeping his Obscurial at bay?"

"It... does not... like warmth..."

A nod. "Forgive me for asking, but... you must understand, you hold his life in your hands. All our lives..."

"I... care not... for wizards." Fleur's voice — or the voice of the creature who possessed her — darkened, crackling with lightning. "Wizards took everything from me. But, I will... give... him... warmth." Melancholy — a dreadful, hurricane of grief. "Maybe... I should not have come here today. Maybe... I was being selfish."

Fleur ran her fingers through my hair. Lock after lock, each strand rose and fell beneath her fingertips. I saw it all, etched in detail beyond mere realism; a single moment that, for Fleur, seemed to go on forever. One thing was clear — I was not the only passenger in Fleur's mind. Something deep and dark lived with her, a shroud of thought so multifaceted, so dense and eldritch in nature, its understanding lay beyond my comprehension.

I tugged on the rope.

"What are you?" I asked, but Fleur didn't respond. All her attention was on the question Thorne was asking.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Anger, resentment. "We do not possess the ability to lie. You took that from us."

Detail faded from the world — Fleur was changing back.

Thorne sighed and rubbed her eyes. "How can he learn magic without a wand?"

Ollivander made a small sound and looked skyward. "If magic wills it, he will find a way." He chuckled. "The boy is gifted, we both know this. Magic calls to him. The world is stirring. You've felt it, too. The Old World," — he nodded at Fleur — "the world of the Ancients has taken notice."

Thorne nodded slowly. "I have heard the Bone Carver is on the move."

Fleur hissed.

"The Bone Carver..." Ollivander's voice was thoughtful. "Now that's a name I've not heard in a very long time. The last time he walked among us... those poor Peverell boys. They did not anticipate how his gifts would haunt them. If what you say is true, if Bone Carver walks among us once again... the others will soon follow. I fear there may be more at play than Muiry has divined in his prophecy." Ollivander sighed. "Any news from Albus?"

"Still a eunuch," said Thorne with a wry smile.

"For one such as he to live without magic..." Ollivander trailed off. "To willingly live without magic. Unthinkable."

"The world burns while he sits idly by."

"He must do as his conscious demands. As must we all."

Thorne closed her eyes. "Do we stand a chance, Garrick?"

It was oddly reminiscent of the question I asked last night in her kitchen.

The old man chuckled. "We will, if magic wills it. And will it, it must. The Dark Lord must not win."

"The Dark Lord must not win," echoed Thorne.

Ending Note:

[1] Beta'd by Jarizok.