This is a story I started and wrote upwards of a year ago and never quite got to either posting nor continuing. I hope that you enjoy reading it! I had quite a lot of fun planning and drafting it, particularly as I intend it to be a play on the usual 'time travel' and 'master of death' stories. Though parts of the plot still need to be properly developed, the underlying set of events going on will gradually come to be revealed. All mistakes are my own, and the chapter is unbetaed. I will likely return to fix them at a later point in time, as most of them are due to the sheer gap of time between writing and posting this.
Updating will likely be very slow, particularly given I'm currently preparing and will soon begin to post a long political Dolohov/Hermione post-war story, but will eventually be done. This story will likely have six chapters and will be a relatively slow build. As indicated by the tags, research and dark arts will eventually come into play.
"Into the granite city of Teloth wandered the youth, vine crowned, his fellow hair glistening with Myrrh and his purple robe torn with briers of the mountain Sidrak that lies across the antique bridge of stone. The men of Teloth are dark and stern, and dwell in square houses, and with frowns they asked the stranger whence he had come and what were his name and fortune. So the youth answer: — "I am Iranon, and I come from Aira, a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find again…"
'The Quest of Iranon', H.P. Lovecraft
Prologue
Harry opened his eyes and looked up at the white walls of the master bedroom. It was bright — midday, May — and the sunlight that shone into the room through its paned windows set the whites ablaze with light, open just enough to let a bit of the breeze inside. The house was almost completely silent, save for the sound of kitchenware moving about in the first floor - a sure-fire sign that Ginny had long since awoken.
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the great oak tree in the garden, planted decades ago and now only sporting a semi-abandoned swing. It had been like that for years now, or at least ever since James', Lily's, and Albus' leaving the family home, leaving only Ginny and him within. Its bright painted reds fading into easily missed pinks with the pass of time.
Harry pushed himself upwards, attempting unsuccessfully to sit himself up against the few remaining pillows on his bed. He grimaced, feeling nauseous and out of breath. He needed his wand, his first wand. Harry reached to his left, his hand brushing through the various objects atop his nightstand. A stack of old copies of the Daily Prophet, the old photograph of his grinning parents, two half-empty vials, and a tea-less mug to the utmost left corner, where—.
Harry smiled. There. Then, a wordless swish and a flick, and five pillows from around the room started stacking themselves up against the bed's headboard. He sighed, and allowed himself to sink into the neat stack. He felt exhausted, and though the Mediwizards had warned him to expect as much. Still, how long had it been since he had last left his room, or sat beneath that oak tree? The swing's colours had been still somewhat bright, then, the strings less worn out. The Mediwizards had been adamant that it wouldn't be long.
Harry's gaze went back to the window — half open for the breeze, just like Ginny knew he liked — and moved towards its left, going over the spotted armchair only to stop on the elaborate dresser. Harry's expression fell, mouth turning downwards. He looked away. Albus had been against the idea, but the Mediwizards had been clear. The cloak—
Harry's left arm spasmed with a sudden pang of pain. He tightened his fist, trying to dull the ache. The wind picked up speed, rustling the great oak tree's leaves. Light shone into the master bedroom, lighting the room in a joyous atmosphere. The two vials, half empty, remaining still and forgotten. The holly and phoenix feather wand fell onto the floor.
o-o-o
The train station platform was white, whiter than anything Harry had ever seen, with a damp coldness to it that permeated everything and got to one's very bones. A pale freezing fog enveloped all, hiding away the emptiness beyond. He could barely see anything.
Harry found himself walking down the platform instinctively, moving deeper into the impenetrable fog. The air grew denser as he progressed down the tiled platform. The light was growing, blurring the far edges of things. Harry saw a doorway at the far end of the station's platform – he had no idea how far he had walked. He frowned as he approached it. It looked familiar.
It was large, larger than any door he had seen before, with tall tuscan columns at its sides leading up to an elegant trefoil arch. Carved representations of intersecting vines in muted greens climbed up the columns, stopping at their very top. Between them, in the middle of the archway, was engraved a seemingly familiar saying — 'tempus edax rerum'.
Harry breathed in. He needed to get through.
The piercing whistle of a train suddenly filled the platform. Harry fell down onto the floor. The fog closed in. Clutching his hand, he felt a smooth stone set within a golden ring.
Chapter One
The matron's eyes darted to Harry as soon as the woman left the orphanage. The orphans around him stared in silence, stifling laughter.
The woman, one certain Mrs. Mary Riddle, was in disarray. Her hair, dripping wet, had changed from a long and straight near-black to a murky brown three shades paler and a whole ten inches shorter. Her dress was different, too. The elegant patterned reds and whites having instead changed to a solid dark blue.
Her car, a new-looking Rolls Royce Phantom II that stood out against the small town around it — at least according to what one or two of the orphanage's children had gasped hours earlier — was perhaps the only thing that hadn't changed. The car's chauffeur, an older man in a black uniform, opened the door as the woman approached, revealing the scowl on her face as she twisted to enter the vehicle. Far different from the scarce vehicles used by the local townspeople.
Harry forced himself to look away from the hall's only window and back at the people within, avoiding the greying wallpaper covering the walls. The golden ring and its black stone, hanging from his neck from a thin piece of string, felt heavier than usual. The string ever so coarser. Distractedly, he brought his left hand up touched the single painful-looking mark marring his forehead. Oddly, it had never prickled or hurt him even once.
Mrs. Woods' blue eyes narrowed into slits above her reddened cheeks. Her pudgy face was trembling with barely restrained anger, making hair fall out of the tight bun she always put it in. She wanted to say something, to shout — to punish someone for the spectacle that had befallen the St Catherine's Home for Orphaned Children's biggest donor.
Harry looked down, knowing fully well that Mrs. Woods eyes were boring into him. The other orphans did the same thing, staring with perplexed faces and wide eyes. It had happened yet again. It had to have been him, even if he didn't know exactly how, and Mrs. Woods and the other orphans thought the same thing.
He nervously pushed his round glasses up his nose bridge and quickly hid his quivering hands inside his pockets. Mrs. Woods still hadn't said anything.
The matron's jaw tightened, and her face twisted. "Evans! I have no idea what it was that you did, but you know what will happen if you do it once more."
Harry flinched. An older boy, thirteen-year-old Browne, chortled. Close to him, a girl wearing her white Sunday's dress instead of their usual grey uniform snickered.
Mrs. Woods lips pressing into a thin line, eyes darting to the thirteen-year-old boy. "Now out, all of you!"
The group of orphans ran, and Harry followed them out of the hall.
He walked through the front door with rushed steps, all too aware of the mixture of curious and evasive glances of the other children. Only coming to a stop as soon as he was a fair distance away from the white staircase that led out and away from St Catherine's main entrance. At a distance he heard the distinctive voices of Browne and another boy's, Richard Hill. The both of them talking boisterously without a care in the world, as if he weren't even there. Grinning wide, their voices dripping with disdain.
Harry's eyes darted at them. He hated it.
Hill was laughing. "Did you see Evan's face, Jack? The way he looked when that woman asked him if—"
He clenched his fists. It had to have been him, it could only have been him. Mrs. Woods couldn't prove anything, though. Nothing could tie him to what had happened to the rich donor. Nothing. Yet there they were.
The laughter suddenly stopped as another boy came through the front door and sped down the short staircase, pushing past Harry and diverting away their conversation. Tobias Clarkson — a tiny twig of a boy a full head taller than Harry and with the palest blond hair he had ever seen. Older than Harry by a year yet cursed with the particularly unlucky trait of consistently drawing the attention of Browne, Hill, and all of the other more mean-spirited boys in a way Harry never truly had.
The nine-year old's eyes widened as he saw the figure of Browne — imposing more by his posture and attitude than by his height — approaching with a telling smirk. He hunched over into himself, looking down, and grasped at his stomach with his right hand. That he was as tall as Browne himself did the boy no favours for all that he seemed to wound up bruised more weekdays than not.
"Hey, Tobias, you didn't think you could avoid giving us what you owed us forever, right?"
Tobias looked panicked, but the sequence of events was regular enough that nobody batted an eye, not even to watch. A group of nearby girls in pretty Sunday dresses snickered.
"Browne, I—, I—"
Harry looked away, and the first punch echoed across the garden. He began walking towards the lone tree in the orphanage's garden, a lonely and half-withered thing that was the only fully-grown plant within the relatively bare grounds around the orphanage.
It wasn't very good as far as trees went. Its branches were too few, with sparse leaves that left the tree's top almost fully exposed. It wasn't very tall, and the majority of its branches were a bit too thin to sustain too much weight. Still, it was the only tree around, the rest were either too far away or too tall to climb.
Harry quickly made to climb the tree, stopping only once he had reached one of the more unobtainable, higher-up branches. Lying back against the tree's trunk, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and allowed himself to relax. Forcing himself to forget about the rich donor and Mrs. Woods, about Browne and Tobias Clarkson.
He smiled. The view from above never ceased to amaze him, even if it fell somewhat short when it came to certain places, as it had been ever since he had climbed the tree for the first time. He pulled the gold inlaid ring from beneath his grey uniform's shirt. Absentmindedly brushing his fingers against its edges, just beneath the single black stone set within it as he gazed at the view around him.
St Catherine's Home for Orphaned Children, located in a small fishing town at Cornwall's utmost western shore, around 30 miles off to the west of Falmouth, was composed by a single large building. Despite its single entrance it was fairly large and was surrounded by a garden that was almost completely composed of bare ground and brownish grass — more than any other building in the town. All white walls fully surrounded by elaborate metal fences with peeling black paint that, at least, had no buildings crowding around them. It must have once been a sight to behold, to a degree, as large as it was whilst being located at the fishing town's southernmost edge, though no more. Its fences standing as testimony of what once likely was a more glorious past.
Beside it, across a small square, was a small catholic parish church. Beyond that, the town; most of it to the orphanage's north. A mostly damp thing with crowded buildings of either white or stone that meandered at the side of the jagged coastline. Its monotony only ever seemingly broken by the moving smoke plumes of the steam trains which connected the town with nearby cities.
The town would be almost entirely without beauty were it not for the grassy fields that surrounded the town. All leading up to jagged dark cliffs, beaches intersected by steps of rock once a part of the cliffs, a quay always in use by the local fishermen; and, far beyond it, miles to the south, the distant and dim view of Land's End. The green, yellow, and brown-grey of the fields, sand, and cliffs, together with the sheer blue of the ocean beyond giving the dour St Catherine's a somewhat more beautiful edge.
Were Harry and the others able to leave for the come-and-go beaches and jagged cliffs, there wouldn't be a soul within the orphanage walls. At least, once the weather wasn't as murky as March and April seemed be, they'd be able to leave for weekly trips to the beach. As they always had for the eight years he had been here, ever since his birth.
Harry looked away from the coastline and back at his ring, feeling his smile somewhat slip.
It was admittedly quite strange, with the gold bands designed in a way fully unlike any ring he had ever seen Mrs. Woods or any of the orphanage's donors wear. At its very top was a very small square stone made of a fully black material. Within it, just barely able to be seen, a triangle with a circle and a straight line within.
It was strange thing, dour and old. Entirely foreign when it came to what little Harry had ever seen. It was, too, entirely his own, and had been ever since he had been dropped at St. Catherine's eight years ago by the local policeman, one Henry Evans, who had found him — the same man whose surname had been used to give him his own.
Harry bit his lip and looked away from the strange golden thing. Choosing to focus instead on the jagged coastline again. There was something strange about it, something that was just off. It was strange as strange as he was — Sophia Read certainly hadn't hesitated in telling him that much once, and even if he didn't want to, he couldn't help but agree. It was true.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, clenching a fist around the ring. He let a few seconds go by, until he was sure that his eyes would only be slightly teary.
"I just don't belong here," he whispered. At least he didn't feel like he did. Not in this time or place. In this tiny fishing Cornwall town away from any of the advancements the 1930s had gifted the world.
Even the local primary school had revealed him as just another disappointment.
Tobias Clarkson was intelligent and the best student in their English class. Hill was athletic — easily the best in their class at sports. Then was Browne, who, somehow, had been the sole student to win a scholarship. And so on, going through the other children, until it came to him. 'Just Harry' Evans — remarkable only because bad things seemed to like to happen around him along with, perhaps, his weird lightning-shaped scar.
Harry pressed his lips together, feeling them turning downwards. At least, he thought, it wasn't too bad this time.
He let out a shaky breath and looked back at his ring. Placing it on his middle finger, he absentmindedly started brushing his thumb against its smooth surface.
o-o-o
The choir started singing as the acolytes and the other ministers, the deacon, and the priest returned in procession to the sacristy. Harry kept himself straight in his grey uniform, following with his eyes the slow procession.
The congregation followed the choir's lead, and Harry kept himself sitting in his grey uniform as their words started reverberating within the Romanesque stone walls. The words of psalm ninety-one were soft and familiar, an assurance of God's protection. It was the psalm that was sung the most at the church in front of St. Catherine's, the place where Harry, along with Mrs. Woods and the rest of the orphanage, heard service come Sunday.
He looked up at the tabernacle as the currents of people trickled away, its gold leaf coverings and small decorative paintings shimmering under the near candlelight. A stained glass window—one of the few in the Romanesque church—allowing rays of light to fall onto the main altar through the white dove depicted within. He had always thought it looked beautiful, even with the more sombre candle-lit decoration of the rest of the church.
Harry remained still as the members of the congregation started to leave. He didn't want to return to the orphanage with the other boys just yet, not when this was the only place that he could avoid his fellow orphans.
Harry grimaced and pointedly ignored the rows of similarly grey-uniformed orphans as they walked outside, followed by Mrs. Woods. It wouldn't take long for the choir to gather for practice.
A sudden voice took Harry out of his reverie, making him turn again in direction to the sacristy, close to the entrance to the church.
"Here again, Harry?"
Harry's eyes widened, surprised at the sight that was the priest's, Father Gregory Smith's, figure. A man with soft features and greyed out hair, closer to plump than he was too thin.
"I—," he stammered.
Harry breathed in and forced himself to push back the sour memory of Mrs. Riddle and the Matron's angry eyes. "I just wanted to hear the choir practice, Sir. Before heading back," Harry blurted out. He didn't want to return to St. Catherine's near-dead garden this early on a Sunday.
The priest smiled understandingly, though Harry got the impression that the old man had already known exactly why he had wanted to stay.
"You are welcome to listen in as much as you want, Harry," Father Smith just said. He was being honest, Harry knew, though…
Harry grimaced as the image of how glass shards had pierced through his english teacher's desk flashed through his mind. The man knew. He had to. He knew what the others had had to say about it.
"Thank you, father," Harry just said, feeling his face harden.
The priest remained silent, staring at him with a strange expression—worry, that is worry, but why?—and Harry didn't quite know what else to say.
Father Smith sighed and shook his head. Looking around, he directed his eyes to the ornate tabernacle. "You know, Harry—."
Harry's eyes widened. "I'm not insane," he fumbled, interrupting the priest. "I know what Mrs. Woods thinks. I know that that donor's hair and clothes were left a mess, but I—, I'm not—."
Harry clenched his eyes shut. He knew he was at the centre of all the strange things that kept happening. The little freak that caused it all. Even Clarkson thought so.
The priest shook his head, "you misunderstand me, Harry."
Harry opened his eyes and looked at the priest, forcing himself to stand up straight and against the back of the long, wooden bench. Browne and Hill were always standing with their backs straight. It was what gave them an edge over some of the other boys like Clarkson or that William whom he never quite saw — confidence.
"I do not know what Mrs. Woods or others might have said," Father Smith quickly continued, kneeling down in order to be at Harry's eye level. His brows were set in a deep frown, but not like the ones Mrs. Woods always had. No, his expression was far softer, closer to something like worry.
"You are much too young to know about the church fathers and of these things, but I can assure you at least of one thing, Harry," the man continued saying. "It is impossible for God to have created evil in this world. It was created good — as were all the things within it."
Harry frowned, not quite understanding what the Father was trying to say.
The priest, seeming to sense this, continued on. "Therefore, Harry, we can only reach one conclusion about all these things that supposedly keep happening around you. Do you know what that is?"
Harry shook his head. Father Smith's expression fell slightly at this and turned more sombre and grave. When he spoke, his words were more serious than Harry had ever heard, and he unconsciously straightened his back even further.
"Understand, Harry, that not one person is born evil or corrupt, and that we are all, regardless of our circumstances and abilities, quite capable of achieving the same salvation or condemnation…"
Harry nodded dumbly, not knowing what to say.
The priest pressed on. "…and this includes you, independently of the things that seem to happen around you." He then stood back up and gestured at the now fully gathered choir.
Harry followed his gaze. When had they all gotten there?
"Though with this, I believe I must go to listen to what my deacon has to say about our ongoing efforts to get the 'Absterge Domine' right," Father Smith finally said, smiling again, before walking away, towards the choir.
Harry only nodded and watched the man's retreat in silence. It wasn't long before the choir started to sing the same words that they had practiced on the last Sunday and on the Sunday before; slow and beautiful and, by now, familiar to Harry. 'Absterge Domine delicta mea, quae inscienter juvenis feci…'
Harry stood up and turned to face the church's entrance. Mrs. Woods was still there alongside all the other orphans, a clear frown on her pudgy face. Walking away from the altar, the song continued, somewhat haunting despite the frequent stops and restarts — 'O Lord, wipe away my faults in which I in ignorance committed in my youth, and forgive…'
Mrs. Woods nodded and quickly started walking away from the church as soon as Harry set his first foot out of the church. The other orphans quickly followed her, with Harry at the tail end of the group. He could recognise all of the faces around him. Browne and hill were close by, to his immediate right, talking about something animatedly. Their other friends, however, weren't anywhere nearby. Besides them, though not quite a part of their group, was a loud group of girls in pretty Sunday dresses, with Sophia Read in their midst. Tobias Clarkson was nowhere near in sight.
Harry glanced discreetly to his right, trying to make sense of what the other boys were talking about. Hill was talking in slightly harsh whispers, as if afraid that someone was spying in on him. His posture far more closed and detracted than what was normal in the now fourteen-year-old. Browne, however, looked significantly unimpressed.
"Two out of the three kids from that London orphanage came out of that cave screaming, Browne. What—."
"I know, Hill, so what?" Browne deadpanned, walking on. "So, they saw something in the cave and were scared. Why should I care? They were all nine years old."
Hill gasped and his eyes widened. "They still haven't said a word about what could have happened. Nothing. Besides, one of them — you know the one, you saw him when we were at the beach — almost seemed gleeful when he came out with the other two."
"As if," Browne spat. "I can promise you that that boy looked as serious as Mrs. Woods on a good day. He didn't look gleeful — he was barely smiling. If anything, he looked angry." His face then blanked. "You're imagining things, Hill. Mark my words, it was just an animal."
Hill scoffed. "You just don't want to think about it, Browne. An animal there? That high up within the cliffs? Please, nothing large enough to scare children could get in there."
He then looked around and, spotting Harry, immediately leaned in towards Browne. The other quickly mirrored his friend's actions and whispered something quietly. Harry turned back to look at the church, still remembering the sound of the choir's song.
o-o-o
The others screamed as soon as the maths books simply exploded, sending paper flying across the entire classroom.
The teacher, a young blonde, fell onto her knees, just barely managing to avoid the path of the flying chunks of pages that had flown in exactly her direction. Their flight coming to an abrupt end as they violently hit the blackboard at the front of the class. A girl in the front row wasn't so lucky, instead finding herself falling onto the floor—worn wooden chair included—earning a few snickers from the group of boys at the back of the class.
Harry flinched and sank into his chair, determinedly avoiding the shocked eyes of the teacher as they scanned the room from edge to edge maniacally. He his lips together before looking down at his desk, suddenly feeling far too clammy.
Raising a hand, Harry brushed his thumb against the golden band of his ring. Forcing himself to ignore the way most of his classmates were starting to look at him.
Freak.
o-o-o
Harry eyed the package suspiciously despite the fact that its bright red wrapping paper leaving no doubts as to what it was. A simple white envelope — a card, surely — was lying beside it, atop his bed's slightly coarse brown covers. He had been given it by Mrs. Woods in the morning without a single word about who it was from — the first time something like that had ever happened.
Harry frowned. A present — a surprising thing to see even if it was the 31st of July. Only few orphans ever received presents, most of them only a result of donations.
Harry moved to sit on his bed, right beside the bright package. He'd better open it then. It was directed at him, after all.
He picked it up and rested it on his legs. It was slightly heavy, but not too much. Rectangular-shaped and hard. He frowned and tore open the wrapping paper carefully, not wanting to damage the pretty red drawing-like patterns.
Harry's eyes widened. A book.
It was a hardcover, purple, with a huge depiction of a tree snaked with vines on its front cover. Over it, atop a black circle and coloured in gold, was the book's title — 'Grimm's Complete Fairy Tales'. Its gothic font seeming small by comparison to the drawn tree. It was a beautiful book, but not like the ones seen at the orphanage or at the primary school's library. No, those were either cheaper paperbacks or old and quite worn. This was new.
Harry opened it and looked through the first pages. Every page up to the table of contents was blank. There weren't any messages written within the book. It was a very complete edition, though. Harry had never quite read a book like this outside of schoolwork. He could recognise some titles like 'Little Snow White' or 'Bearskin' on the table of contents, but most remained a complete mystery. 'The Twelve Brothers', 'Godfather Death', 'The Three Snake-Leaves'…
He frowned but couldn't stop a small smile from spreading through his lips. Who could have sent this?
Harry's eyes darted to the white envelope and tore it open, quickly taking out the simple card inside. There was a brief handwritten message within, a 'Happy 9th Birthday, Harry. Remember to enjoy… and don't forget that…' that was paired with a phrase or two on the gifted book. His eyes widened as soon as he saw the signature at the bottom. Father Smith had sent the present. His first present, and even though it sounded like something written more out of concern, given his
Harry put the card down and turned his attention to the book again. It was the prettiest thing in the room now, save for his ring. The rest of his few belongings being only ratty notebooks, worn grey uniforms, and his old leather schoolbag. It even stood out against within room — small as it was with his and Clarkson's bed inside it.
Smiling, he opened it again. Glancing only briefly at the simple drawings that topped the pages as he turned them. Not stopping until he had reached the starting page of 'The Bearskin', one of the first stories appearing in the book. Harry lied back on his bed and begun to read, ignoring the good July weather reigning outside.
"Once upon a time there was a young fellow who enlisted as a soldier, conducted himself bravely, and was always at the very front when it was raining bullets. As long as the war lasted all went well, but when peace was made, he was dismissed, and the captain said he could go wherever he wanted to. His parents were dead, and he had no longer a home…"
o-o-o
The beach Mrs. Woods and other Orphanage workers took them on weekends during the summer months was located within an area littered with stacks of detached cliffs, far beyond the west area of the town.
It was a beautiful area, even if areas of the beach were rendered fully inaccessible and non-existent depending on the time of the day and the come and go of the tides. Golden sand a stark contrast with the sheer darkness of the marred and jagged coastline. It wasn't all unoccupied, however, and to the far northern edge of the town there stood a stone quay. Small only when compared against the nearby cliffs and surrounded by docked boats.
The stacks were massive, rising up from the thin golden sand as testimony to the unstoppable power of the sea beyond. They had been there for hundreds of years, eroded slowly up until the point when some barely managed to look like the cliffs that the town was built around. Subject, additionally, to landslides that had morphed their shape and colour. Leaving granite and had slate bare against the air and ocean.
The sea was cold at the best of times, but that didn't stop the huge majority of the orphanage's other children from attempting to swim. Dark and oppressive in the winter months, the sea seemed to turn into a more navy blue over the summer. The open skies and less frequent storms turning it shades brighter and marring with the heightened presence of the local fishermen's boats. Additionally, then, making it a popular location for the children of the local townspeople and any outsiders that came seeking its beauty.
It was in such a place that Harry found himself now, surrounded by the majority of the other children from the orphanage. It was noisy — noisier than what he found he could both enjoy and bear.
Mrs. Woods, covered neck to toe in her usual black-and-white dress with brown hair pulled into a tight bun, seemed even more unnerved by him by it. A fact that showed in her loud and repetitive warnings about what they could, and couldn't, do.
"Don't go too far!" the middle-aged woman called by way of warning. "Remember that I want you all back by twelve, else they'll be consequences if you wish to return on the next time."
The crowd of orphans muttered their assent and quickly dispersed into a particular type of organized chaos. The younger boys and girls running to the water as the older ones divided into small groups and went to the far edges of the beach.
Harry remained still and, whilst holding carefully his copy of the 'Grimm's Complete Fairy Tales', carefully took off his two black school shoes and pair of white socks. Quickly placing them within his shoes for good measure before, neatly, leaving them by a few other pairs that had been left by a few other boys. No one would touch them if they were left by the entrance to the beach; a somewhat thin and salient path that had been carved into the stone with the obstinate steps of local townspeople and fishermen through the centuries.
Smiling, Harry started walking towards the salient cliffs on the southern edges of the beach. There wasn't much sand in this area, not with how the beach tended to thin out against the tides, wounding up being pushed back against the increasingly semi-detached stacks of cliff.
He was sure that he had found another cave hidden amidst the cliffs just the last week.
The cave had been hidden amidst the cliffs far beyond the beach closest to town, far off from the orphanage. Its entrance—from what he thought he had seen, at least—standing virtually atop a sharp fall into the ocean and only accessible through slightly careful mountaineering.
He pressed his lips. The salient rocks weren't exactly the best to walk across, not even when compared to the other salient and climbable areas of the coastline, but they'd do. He had plenty of experience doing this, and he had even made sure to take off his black shoes for good measure. They were too worn and were barely able to keep on the typically wet rocks.
It was too, in all likelihood, the same cave where the three kids from the London Orphanage had been found.
"I can do this," Harry said to himself.
Harry took his first step across the salient rocks of the cliffs and quickly pressed on. Paying no mind to the rising wind and sharp sound of the ocean that quickly came to be far below him and focusing instead on the comfortable weight the ring hanging from his neck.
It was only after at least half an hour that Harry managed to get close to the cave's entrance. It was smaller than what he had expected, but by the way that the cave's outer entrance gave way to a seemingly pronounced fall it had to be deeper than what it seemed.
Harry inched closer to it, careful with his steps. It hadn't been exactly hard to get to the cave, but its height far more shocking than what he would have expected at the beach. Still, he could feel that the cave would be something worth seeing. Something worth exploring that simply had to be hiding something. Then — a jump, and Harry found himself at the cave's very edge.
He smirked. There.
Harry allowed himself to sit at the cave's edge and took a deep breath, ignoring as much as he could the steep drop into the ocean behind him.
He could feel his heartbeat thrumming in his neck, faster than he had ever felt it before. His hands were shaking and covered with cold sweat. He had done it. He had gotten to the cave. Even better, the sun still wasn't as high as it could be, and it was impossible for it to be noon already. He'd have enough time to remain in the cave for a while before returning to Mrs. Woods.
His smile grew. None of the other boys from his class or St Catherine's had been here before. None. Even if they hadn't stopped gossiping about it ever since the three London orphans had come out screaming.
Harry peered into the darkness ahead, squinting as much as best as he could though his slightly dirty glasses.
The cave was dark — darker than what he had first thought — but there was nothing that seemed to be particularly out of the ordinary. It was deep though, just as he had thought. Its entrance leading through a steep path to a far darker area that seemed much larger. Beyond it, a mass of pure black that could only be some sort of lake-like body of water with some form of island-like area at its centre. Nothing else could easily be seen, however, giving the entire area a strange aura. Even most stalactites and stalagmites were practically fully hidden from view.
Harry shivered. It was colder than outside, even at the entrance. Absentmindedly he grabbed at his ring again and brushed his fingers against its golden edge. He felt nervous.
Harry took a step forwards and started descending the steep path in careful and measured steps, barely noticing the quickly diminishing light. He started counting the steps inside his head. He grabbed his ring harder.
One. Two. Three. Four…
Harry yelped as he stepped on a sharp rock. The shock sending him crashing onto the cave's stone ground as he lost his footing. Harry's book fell with a loud thunk that was quickly followed by a noticeable snap as he accidentally broke the string that tied his ring around his neck.
Harry fell hard, nearly hitting his head on the same pointed rock he had just stepped on. Watching with horror as his only real belonging bounced away into the darkness of the cave.
Harry leapt to his to his feet and immediately gave chase to the ring, ignoring the pain in both his feet. Breathing a sigh of relief as he saw it come to a stop just a few meters up ahead. He immediately saw what was missing once he came to grab hold of it again. The stone — it had somehow come off. He immediately fell onto his knees and started searching the area around him.
There! Harry lunged forwards and grabbed hold of the stone. Quickly turning it a few times in his hands to see if it had been cracked and damaged by the fall, only to let out a long and shaky breath. The stone was still the same. He squeezed his eyes shut.
A sudden light illuminated the cave, and Harry's eyes snapped open. He felt his heart skip a beat.
There was a strange-looking woman by the lake's edge that hadn't been there before. Her body not looking quite right, as if it was somehow less substantial. If Harry didn't know better, he'd have thought her a ghost.
Harry's hands trembled. Just what is she?
She was unnerving, to say the least. As if she didn't quite just belong here. Still, Harry forced himself to breath in and pay attention to the strange woman. To her hooded eyes and her grave and sombre expression.
She was young, younger than Mrs. Woods, probably in her twenties, with eyes the same vivid green as his own and hair kissed by fire. Her clothes too old-fashioned to be considered normal.
Harry frowned. She looked oddly familiar, but he didn't know why.
"Who are you?" Harry asked.
The ghostly woman only raised her eyebrows, and simply stared, silent. She seemed to recognise him, at least if Harry went by the sad way in which she looked at him.
Harry frowned, forcing himself to get up and look straight at her eyes. "How did you get here?" he tried asking again. "Are you real?" he then added, minutes later.
The woman nodded sadly, but otherwise didn't say anything, and only kept staring at him in silence. Harry opened his mouth in an attempt to say something, to ask whether she knew him at all, but didn't know what to say. The woman's eyes, so green and familiar, felt uncomfortable on him.
The woman opened his mouth, as if to speak, but no sounds seemed to come out. It was only moments later, far after she had seemed to speak, that Harry heard a strange and raspy voice.
"The stone," the woman uttered, pointing at the black stone Harry was holding.
A cold sweat made its way down Harry's back. Who… what was she? How had she gotten there? How had he managed to be summoned someone that was probably dead?
The woman didn't stop, however, and soon was attempting to speak again. Repeated the same two words again and again desperately.
"The stone!" she rasped, "the stone!"
Harry felt his hands shake. "The stone? What?"
He took a step back and away from the woman, not wanting her any closer despite how familiar she looked. The woman's eyes widened at this, and she followed him. Her mouth opening and closing as she attempted to say something, only to not manage to speak at all. The ghostly woman lunged forwards, and—.
Harry closed his eyes and allowed the stone to slip away from his hand and into his pocket, and, just like that, the red-haired woman disappeared.
Opening his eyes again he found himself alone in the dark cave, with only the stone and his broken ring.
o-o-o
No one noticed until they heard the clatter of the candle stands as they hit the floor. Father Smith collapsing just as the congregation had started to leave, the package in his hands falling onto the stone floor with a loud thud. Harry stared with a horrified silence, much like the other orphans, as several of the older members of the congregation rushed forwards to help the priest. Mrs. Woods, he noticed, following them.
Harry glanced down at the floor. He knew just what was in that package, Father Smith had told him he had recently purchased it for him, after all — a book, 'European Myths and Legends'.
'Reading the stories and tales of heroes and learning from them are what allows us to develop into better people, Harry'.
The men who had rushed forwards shouted that Father Smith wasn't breathing. Harry tore his eyes away from the book to look at the fallen figure of the priest who had been so kind to him. He was pale beyond belief, far more than anything Harry had ever seen on another person before.
A voice at Harry's left whispered to another member of St. Catherine's who was sitting further away. "He's done it again, just look at him."
Harry clenched his fists with indignation. Why on earth would I have anything to do with this?
The voices continued before he could manage to say a word. Amongst the he recognized Tobias's distinctive weak own.
"He's so quiet too, he barely reacted at all."
"It's like he doesn't care. After Father Smith even gifted him—"
Harry glowered and scrunched up his face. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt a tear escape his left eye. His is nails dug into the palm of his hand. Within his pocket the black stone felt heavier than usual.
o-o-o
Harry sighed and resolved to, at least outwardly, keep himself as serious as possible as he read over the words and phrases written on the door to his shared room.
He could recognise the handwriting of most of the words written out — Sophia Read's nearly illegible scrawl and Hollie Page's bubble-like words. Browne's bulky capitals letters and Hill's oddly polished sentences. There were more, too, with some having even been carved into the wood. A new permanent fixture in his life ever since the death of Father Smith months ago, regardless of whatever Mrs. Woods had or hadn't said regarding orphanage property. A brand proclaiming aloud what was likely true.
Opening it as quickly as he could manage to whilst avoiding the sight of the insults carved and written on it. Once inside, he walked mechanically towards his bed. Ignoring the presence of Clarkson, who by the look of it was studying something on his bed, as much as possible.
The room, which had always seemed so bare and empty with its white walls and rudimentary furniture, was instead now relaxing. Something which was reinforced with how the room's single window overlooked only the distant edges of the town and the coast beyond.
The ornate and beautiful copies of 'Grimm's Complete Fairy Tales' and 'European Myths and Legends' were the two things that seemed different amidst it all. Their beautiful purple and glossy red seeming to bring a mystery and wonder to the shared room that'd otherwise not exist.
Harry sat down once he reached his bed, allowing himself to relax on its coarse brown covers. He took a deep breath in and reached for the first of the two, for the first true gift he had ever really received. He grimaced as soon as he held it. The edges of the hardback were starting to get worn, and there was a stain of ink on its side.
Harry sighed and let it rest on his side. Distractedly taking to look at his ring, so visibly devoid of its stone.
It was strange how, out of all of the stories compiled within the former, 'Godfather Death' had ended up becoming the most chilling story out of them all. Far surpassing even 'The Bearskin' or 'The Juniper Tree'.
He could recite the physician's life and failed lie entirely from memory, even when he didn't have the book around. Remember every part of the physician's pleas and Death's calm refusal and ultimate revenge.
"You don't even care, do you? About how he died."
Harry's eyes darted up and focused on Tobias Clarkson. The frown in his eyes and the twist in his mouth making him seem to stand somewhere between fear and disgust.
Harry felt his forehead crease. "Mind your own business, Tobias," he spat.
The other boy's eyes widened. "Just leave me alone, Evans. The others are bad enough, but you—. You—," Clarkson stuttered, his voice breaking before he could manage to finish his sentence.
Harry just lied down and turned, not wanting to see his roommate's eyes. He reached into his pocket and, once he had gotten the stone, brushed his fingers along its surface. Its smoothness and sharp angles almost soothing.
Clarkson's voice didn't follow until a few seconds later. "You're not normal," the boy finally whispered, his voice shaking. "Not at all."
Harry's fingers kept brushing the black stone's smooth surface until he fell asleep, right along the edges of its strange symbol.
o-o-o
Harry walked towards his bed and took off his shoes, sitting on it with his legs crossed over it. His hand moved unconsciously to his pocket — his right pocket — even as he looked at the glossy red book on his nightstand. Only vaguely acknowledging the drawings of mythological heroes and beasts on its cover as he took out his black stone and held it up high. Grimacing even as he took sight of it.
It was good that the room was empty.
Truth be told, he had barely managed to properly look at it ever since that red-haired woman had appeared before him, within that cave in the cliffs. Called forth by him already a full season ago.
Harry put the stone down and clenched his fist around it, wanting it out of sight despite its soothing smoothness. It was maddening to even think about.
He couldn't do it. It wasn't right. The stone was something that was — as the ghostly woman had shown — fully out of his control.
Harry bit his lower lip. If the stone was his birth right, his only tie with whomever had abandoned him at St. Catherine's, why shouldn't he use it? If the stone was his, wholly his — and Harry knew with a strange and fierce determination that it was — then, it only followed that he could use it. Particularly with what he could have accidentally done to Father Smith.
Harry frowned and opened his clenched fist. Gulping as he looked, really looked, at the strange angular thing.
Things had seemed to fall apart ever since Father Smith had died. Relatively, at least. Mrs. Woods and the other orphans… Even the teachers had begun acting differently around him once school had started again. They were so sure that he had—.
Harry's eyes widened. Yes. It would be wrong to hide away a gift like the stone and not use it. Not if he could attempt to right the situation that he had caused. He had never wanted to harm Father Smith. No, the priest had been one of the kindest people in the town.
Harry grit his teeth together and shut his eyes. He took a deep breath in and started turning the stone in his hand, trying to think about the kindly man that had very nearly convinced him join the choir.
One. Two. Three…
Harry opened his eyes at the third turn and gasped. Cold sweat starting to go down his back as his heart beat wildly. He smiled. The stone had done it, it really had.
In front of him, with the same strange body that the red-haired woman had had, stood the familiar and comforting figure of Father Smith. The man's soft features greyed out hair, and plump figure the same as Harry remembered. It was undeniable that the man looked strange, though. His etherealness standing in stark contrast to the normalcy of Harry's shared room.
Father Smith wasn't right. The man's closed eyes and expression — so close to seeming discomforted — stranger than even the ghost-like quality of his body. He barely looked like he belonged in the room or here at all.
The man's eyes opened suddenly, madly, and widened as he started looking around himself in a frenzy. "What am I doing here? Why am I…?" he muttered, sounding scared.
The priest's eyes were soon bearing into Harry's own. "Harry?" he asked, sounding confused.
"Father Smith," Harry said, trying to ignore the awful feeling that was starting to gather in his stomach. Something had gone wrong, but what?
The priest glanced at Harry's hand and suddenly froze. "What did you do, Harry? What is that?" he asked, eyes locking in place.
Harry attempted a smile. "It's a stone, my stone," he started to say good-naturedly. "The stone of the ring I was found—"
"No, not that," Father Smith interrupted. "What is that thing, and why does it look so—", his face twisting until he looked as if he was almost glaring at the black stone.
Father Smith remained still, then, eyes unmoving, and Harry started to feel his initial enthusiasm at the successful apparition of Father Smith dwindle away into nothing. Substituted instead by the ugly feeling gathering inside his stomach. Something had really gone wrong.
By the time Father Smith looked at Harry again, his eyes looked even stranger. "Why did you bring me here? I shouldn't—. No, I—."
"Father?" Harry asked, swiftly getting up.
The man fell into his knees and squeezed his eyes shut. His next words came out as a plea than a shout. "Send me back! No, I don't want to be here. Send me back, please!"
Harry pulled back into his bed, very nearly dropping the stone in fright. His back pressed against the white wall as the priest's pleas continued and escalated in tone. I must have done something badly. Perhaps I used the stone incorrectly and—, and—.
Harry glanced at the edges of the two hardcover books on his nightstand and grit his teeth. Father Smith wasn't here quite right. He had failed completely in his attempt to fix what had happened, even if the not-quite-person before him was physically the same that he had known.
Harry let go of the stone, and Father Smith's figure and pleas immediately disappeared.
He gritted his teeth and directed his eyes at his door, still carved and dirty on the outside, and grabbed his ring. Breaking the string that held it from his neck before throwing it at the door. Harry clenched his fists. It had all gone wrong. So wrong.
The ring crashed against the wooden surface of the door and fell onto the floor loudly, bouncing towards the centre of the room.
o-o-o
Harry was ten before he dared to use the stone again. The sheer horror of Father Smith's suffering and the rasping of the red-haired woman too fresh for Harry to quite be able to forget. Not daring to turn the stone until he found himself in a solitary area of the beach, tucked away between two tall stacks of detached cliff that always disappeared under the high tide.
Three turns of the stone later, Harry found himself breathing in with amazement and quickly forgetting about the distant sounds of the orphanage's other children. A figure had appeared before him at the third turn, just like before.
Three turns, that was all that it had taken again. Just three turns of the same angular and smooth black stone he had had for years on his ring.
Harry breathed in and and gazed at the figure who was now before him. A boy, this time, seemingly only a bit older than Harry himself. He looked strangely similar to Harry himself. His hair and eyes were of the same shade as his own, if, perhaps, a touch brighter. The only differences between them being his gentler features, freckled face, and generally tamer-looking hair.
The unknown boy raised his eyebrows at the sight of Harry. Crossing his arms with what looked like impatience as he looked over him.
Harry frowned slightly. At least he wasn't shouting. "Who are you?" he asked, after a few seconds of silence.
The boy smiled and uncrossed his arms. He shook his head with an air of disbelief. "I didn't think you'd summon me, you know? Perhaps my grandmother or that priest you became a friend of. Perhaps even mum or James, but not me."
"James?" Harry asked. What was the boy talking about?
The boy nodded. "Yes, James. Well, or Lily, if I think about it," he muttered, the corners of his mouth turning downwards.
Harry pressed his lips together as the boy then turned and sat down on the sand. Reaching into it and grabbing a big fistful's worth of it before letting it trickle down slowly. He knew his name, but Harry didn't have the slightest clue about what his could be.
Harry took a deep breath in and forced himself to relax. The boy had just been summoned with the stone. "You know my name," he finally said as evenly as he could.
The boy looked up at him somewhat bewildered, offering a lopsided grin. "Obviously," he answered, "else I wouldn't be here, Harry."
"And why are you here?" Harry pressed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I am quite sure that I don't know you."
The boy's expression hardened slightly, though he still seemed to be slightly surprised. "So you mean you don't remember?" he asked.
Harry's frown deepened. "I have never seen you, yet you still appeared when I used the stone."
The boy sighed and looked away. "Of all times for you not to… Well, there's nothing to do about it, I suppose. You at least know about magic, right?"
Harry's eyes widened. "Magic?"
The boy turned towards him, smiling again, and abandoned the fistful of sand. "Yes, Harry, magic," he said with a tone of certainty. "Wizards, the both of us. Or well. You, at the moment. You've seen strange things happen around you, haven't you?"
Harry grimaced, and contained a shudder. Still, he couldn't help but to gape at the words of the boy. "Magic? I—. Just—. Who are you?"
The boy shook his head, and his expression softened imperceptibly. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Harry, or even help you at all."
Harry turned to look at the stone in his hands, not quite knowing what to say. By the time he looked back at the boy's bright green eyes his expression had turned into something rather more sombre.
The boy sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tangling it up slightly. "I suppose…" he muttered. The boy shook his head. "Just don't use the stone if you can help it, Harry. Forget about it. It will bring you nothing but sorrow, as it already has."
"It just doesn't do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, I can't tell you any more than that."
o-o-o
Harry sat up and straightened his back as soon as the door opened, resting his school's history textbook on his lap. Glancing up, he saw the familiar figure of Mrs. Woods along with that of a burly and well-dressed man who was smiling jovially at Mrs. Woods. Tobias Clarkson, who had been writing on the other side of the room, gazed up curiously.
"As I said, I represent a school in Scotland to which Harry has been admitted to with a scholarship."
Mrs. Woods smiled tersely. "If you're sure, then, Sir. This is Harry," she said, gesturing at Harry.
The man smiled and nodded, but soon he was turning back to look at the front of the room's door. His pudgy hands moving behind his back to clasp at his wrists in an obvious show of discomfort.
He didn't look like he belonged at St. Catherine's at all. Not with his maroon velvet jacket and its silver pocket watch, or the waistcoat beneath. The three pieces of clothing alone more expensive than anything else Harry had seen before. His face was too clean and smooth. Completely unlike Mrs. Woods' own stressed and withered one, and the rougher complexions of the local fishermen. His ginger moustache too well-trimmed to fit.
Mrs. Woods followed the man's eyes to the room's door. "If you need anything, I will be downstairs, Mr. Slughorn."
The man's jovial smile kept itself firmly in place. "Thank you, Mrs. Woods. I am sure that this will not take long," he added.
Harry couldn't help but glance at the letter on his nightstand and smile as Mrs. Woods nodded vaguely and started making her way out of the room. Tobias Clarkson, still sitting on his own bed, made a low noise of disapproval that quickly attracted the man's attention.
"I presume you are Mr. Evan's roommate?" the strange man asked calmly. "I'm afraid that what I have to tell him about his scholarship can only be heard by Mr. Evans, here."
Tobias only scowled and glared at Harry, standing up slowly. "A scholarship? For him?" he asked, disbelieving.
The strange man — Mr. Slughorn — sighed. "The proceedings are something that, I'm afraid, however, only Mr. Evans ought to hear, but he indeed has."
Indeed. He has been awarded entry into the prestigious school I am representing here today.
Tobias shook his head. "How could he get a scholarship, he's the worst student in class!" he shouted, jerking his arms sideways. "I get better grades than him. Why on earth would he get a scholarship? I'd be more deserving of it!"
The man ignored the other boy and simply raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid this matter is only between me and Mr. Evans, Mr…?"
Tobias frowned. "Clarkson. Tobias Clarkson."
Slughorn nodded and smiled. "Then, Mr. Clarkson, if you could be so kind, I'm afraid that I'll need to talk about this scholarship alone with Mr. Evans here for a few minutes."