The Lightsaber
By: Tellemicus Sundance
#03: Return to Hogwarts
September 1, 1995
The train was gathering speed, the houses outside of the window flashed past and they swerved where they stood. The trio of friends had just managed to catch the train on time, but still needed to find a compartment, or at least Harry did. Ron and Hermione reluctantly shuffled off to the Prefect carriage, Hermione trying to give a feeble reassurance that they'd probably be allowed to come join him later on. But the reassurance didn't help much. He felt an odd sense of loss since he'd never traveled on the Hogwarts Express without Ron.
He and Ginny struggled off down the corridor, peering through the glass-paneled doors into the compartments they passed, which were already full. Harry could not help noticing that a lot of people stared back at him with great interest and that several of them nudged their neighbors, pointing him out. After he had met this behavior in five consecutive carriages he remembered that the Daily Prophet had been telling its readers all summer what a lying show-off he was. He wondered bleakly whether the people now staring and whispering believed in the stories.
In the very last carriage, they met Neville Longbottom. Neville's face was shining with the effort to pull his trunk along and maintaining a one-handed grip on his struggling toad, Trevor. "Hi, Harry…Hi, Ginny…Everywhere's full…I can't find a seat."
"What are you talking about?" Ginny asked, who had squeezed past Neville to peer into the compartment behind him. "There's room in this one, there's only Loony Lovegood in here—"
Neville mumbled something about not wanting to disturb anyone.
"Don't be silly," Ginny laughed. "She's all right." She slid the door open and pulled her trunk inside it. Harry and Neville followed soon after.
The girl beside the window looked up. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty blonde hair, very pale eyebrows, and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. Harry knew at once why Neville had chosen to pass this compartment by. The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her ear for safekeeping, that she'd chosen to wear a necklace of Butterbeer caps, or that she was reading a magazine upside-down. Her eyes ranged over Neville and came to rest on Harry. Then she simply nodded.
"Thanks," Ginny said, smiling.
Harry and Neville stowed the three trunks and Hedwig's cage in the luggage rack and sat down. The girl called Luna watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She didn't seem to need to blink as much as a normal person. She stared at Harry for a long while, even after he'd taken the seat opposite her and now wished he hadn't.
"Have a good summer, Luna?" Ginny asked.
"Yes," Luna said dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. "Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You're Harry Potter."
"I know I am," Harry said, causing Neville to chuckle.
Turning her gaze to Neville, Luna finally blinked and then narrowed her eyes faintly, as though trying to see something. "I don't know who you are, but…a touch of destiny has happened today."
"What?" both boys asked, blinking and staring at her in confusion. But Luna merely retreated back behind her magazine, not sharing any further words. Looking at each other for a moment, both boys shrugged in confusion. Harry stood up and pulled out the old leather-bound book he'd been cradling under his arm the whole time, opening it to its front page and started reading.
'The art of Sorcery is the ability to draw in the ambient magical energy that surrounds and is created by living beings. Drawing this latent energy inside the Sorcerer's body, using it to enhance their magical power and even their physical strengths to certain degrees.' Harry read from the book he had taken from Grimmauld Place. 'When a Sorcerer is suitably trained, they can sense the different auras given off by others and can detect when a person or creature is nearby, even if they're actively trying to remain hidden. Luminous beings that shine with depths of their power cannot remain hidden to a Sorcerer, not matter the magic they use.'
"Empower them…? This sounds… a lot like…the Force," Harry muttered to himself. 'Could…Could George Lucas be a Sorcerer too?'
"What does, Harry?" Ginny asked from where she was seated next to Luna.
"This book here," Harry said, turning it slightly so he could share the text with her and Neville who had peered over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of it himself. "It talks about using the magical energies of the environment to increase a Wizard's power. Look here, 'Luminous beings that shine with power'. That sounds a lot like the Force in the Muggle television movies called 'Star Wars.' I wonder if the creator of the movies knew about this."
"I don't get it," Ginny said, looking very confused. "What's 'Star Wars' exactly?"
And thus began a very long discussion between about Star Wars, with Harry having to draw a lot comparisons from old world technologies to help Neville, Ginny, and even Luna to better grasp what he was trying to explain. Thus, the Millennium Falcon became a sailboat, the Death Stars were castles that could shoot huge Avada Kedavra beams to destroy whole cities, stormtroopers and blaster rifles became Death Eaters, the Jedi were like Aurors, and the Force was like magic without needing a wand.
Needless to say, Harry was pretty sure that his listeners were probably very interested in seeing the actual movies, just so they could understand his descriptions better. Harry was more than eager to resume his reading by the end of it. But sadly he was interrupted again shortly into it when Ron and Hermione finally arrived. The two of them quickly settled in with the group and before long things were going smoothly. Harry decided to put the book aside to read later.
The four long House tables in the Great Hall were filling up under the starless black ceiling, which was just like the sky they could glimpse through the high windows. Candles floated in midair all along the tables, illuminating the silvery ghosts who were dotted about the Hall and the faces of the students talking eagerly to one another, exchanging summer news, shouting greetings at friends from other Houses, eyeing one another's new haircuts and robes. Again, Harry noticed people putting their heads together to whisper as he passed. He gritted his teeth and tried to act as though he neither noticed nor cared.
Luna had drifted away from them at the Ravenclaw table. The moment they reached Gryffindor's, Ginny was hailed by some fellow Fourth Years and left to sit with them. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville found seats together about halfway down the table between Nearly Headless Nick and Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown. Parvati and Lavender gave Harry airy, overly friendly greetings that made him quite sure they had stopped talking about him a split second beforehand. And if his new eyes weren't fooling him, both of them gazed at him a touch longer than was necessary.
He had more important thing to worry about, however. Turning his gaze towards the staff table, he looked over the heads of the many students to try and catch a glimpse of a friend who was missing for some reason. But Hagrid wasn't seated at the staff table either. "He's not there."
Ron and Hermione scanned the staff table too, though there was no real need. Hagrid's size made him instantly obvious in any lineup. Sounding slightly anxious, Ron said, "He can't have left."
"Of course he hasn't," Harry said firmly.
"You don't think he's…hurt or anything, do you?" Hermione asked uneasily.
"No," Harry said at once.
"But where is he, then?"
There was a pause, then Harry said very quietly, so that Neville, Parvati, and Lavender couldn't hear, "Maybe he's not back yet. You know—from his mission—the thing he was doing over the summer for Dumbledore."
"Yeah…Yeah, that'll be it," Ron said, sounding reassured. But Hermione bit her lip, looking up and down the staff table as though hoping for some conclusive explanation of Hagrid's absence.
"Who's that?" she asked sharply, pointing toward the middle of the staff table.
Harry's eyes followed hers. They lit first upon Professor Dumbledore, sitting in his high-backed golden chair at the center of the long staff table, wearing deep-purple robes scattered with silvery stars and a matching hat. Dumbledore's head was inclined toward the woman sitting next to him, who was talking into his ear. She looked, Harry thought, like somebody's maiden aunt: squat, with short, curly mouse-brown hair in which she had placed a horrible pink Alice band that matched the fluffy pink cardigan she wore over her robes. Then she turned her face slightly to take a sip from her goblet and he saw a pallid, toad-like face and a pair of prominent, pouchy eyes.
"Don't know," Harry admitted. "Maybe she's the new Defense teacher?"
"Nice cardigan," Ron remarked with a smirk.
A few moments later, Professor Grubbly-Plank appeared behind the staff table and worked her way over to the place that was normally Hagrid's seat. That meant that the First Years must have crossed the lake and reached the castle. And sure enough, a few seconds later, the doors from the entrance hall opened and a long line of scared-looking eleven-year-olds entered, following Professor McGonagall.
After an unusually long song from the Sorting Hat, followed by the Sorting itself, and a very satisfying meal, Dumbledore got to his feet to address the school at large. Talking ceased immediately as all turned to face the headmaster. Harry was feeling pleasantly drowsy now and wanted nothing more than to rush over to his waiting bed. But he forced himself to pay attention as the headmaster began to speak.
"Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices. First years ought to know that the forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students—and a few of our older students out to know by now too." Harry, Ron, and Hermione all exchanged smirks at that last remark. "Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things. All of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch's office door."
"We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons. We are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."
There was a round of polite but fairly unenthusiastic applause. Dumbledore hadn't said for how long Grubbly-Plank would be teaching, which was very distressing for Harry, Ron, and Hermione as their worry for Hagrid grew slightly.
"Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the—" Dumbledore broke off, looking inquiringly at Professor Umbridge.
As she was not much taller standing than sitting, there was a moment when nobody understood why Dumbledore had stopped speaking, but then Professor Umbridge said, "Hem, hem," and it became clear that she had gotten to her feet and was intending to make a speech. Dumbledore only looked taken aback for a moment, then he sat back down smartly and looked alertly at Professor Umbridge as though he desired nothing better than to listen to her talk. Professor Sprout's eyebrows had disappeared into her flyaway hair and Professor McGonagall's mouth was as thin as Harry had ever seen it. No new teacher had ever interrupted Dumbledore before. Many of the students were smirking; this woman obviously didn't know how things were done at Hogwarts.
"Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome," Professor Umbridge simpered. Her voice was high-pitched, breathy, and little-girlish. For some inexplicable reason, Harry felt a sudden and very powerful rush of intense dislike towards her that he couldn't explain to himself. All he knew was that he loathed everything about her, from her stupid voice to her fluffy pink cardigan. She gave another little throat-clearing cough ("Hem, hem") and continued. "Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!" Her smile revealed very pointed teeth. "And to see such happy little face looking back at me!"
There were no smiling faces looking at her. Mostly because all of the students couldn't believe that they were getting addressed by her as though they were five-year-olds. Professor Umbridge paid that little detail no mind as she continued with her speech.
"The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young Witches and Wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching."
Professor Umbridge paused here and made a little bow to her fellow staff members, none of whom bowed back. As the toad-like lady continued her speech, Harry's attentiveness ebbed. The quiet that always filled the Hall when Dumbledore was speaking was breaking up as students put their heads together, whispering and giggling. Professor Umbridge didn't seem to notice the restlessness of her audience. Harry had the impression that a full-scale riot could have broken out under her nose and she would have plowed on with her speech. The teachers, however, were still listening very attentively. Hermione seemed to be thinking very hard on Umbridge's words, and judging by her expression, she didn't like what she was hearing.
After several long minutes, Dumbledore stood back up when Umbridge finally ended her speech. Though the staff gave a short, quiet applause, very few students joined in since they hadn't even noticed the speech had ended. At least, not until Dumbledore spoke up and regained the students' attentions again. "Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating. Now, as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held…"
"Yes, it certainly was illuminating," Hermione said in a low, almost dangerous voice.
"You're not telling me you enjoyed it?" Ron asked quietly, turning a glazed face upon Hermione. "That was about the dullest speech I've ever heard, and I grew up with Percy."
"I said 'illuminating', not enjoyable," Hermione pointed out. "It explained a lot."
"Did it?" Harry asked in surprise. "Sounded like a load of waffle to me."
"There was some important stuff hidden in the waffle," she said. "Stuff like 'progress for progress's sake must be discouraged' and 'pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited'."
"What does that mean?" Ron asked impatiently.
"I'll tell you what it means," Hermione said ominously. "It means the Ministry's interfering at Hogwarts."
Now Harry knew for a fact why he'd taken such a strong, seemingly irrational dislike to the new professor so quickly.
History of Magic was by common consent the most boring subject ever devised by Wizardkind. The ghostly Professor Binns had a wheezy, droning voice that was almost guaranteed to cause severe drowsiness within ten minutes, five in warm weather. He never varied the form of their lessons, but lectured them without pausing while they took notes. Or, more accurately, gazed sleepily into space. Harry and Ron had only managed to scrape passes in the subject by copying Hermione's notes before exams. She alone seemed able to resist the soporific power of Binn's voice.
Since he knew what to expect, Harry didn't even bother trying to pay attention. He just pulled out his leather book on Sorcery and began reading again, quickly becoming deeply immersed by what he found inside. As he had first thought Sorcery was extremely similar the Star Wars portrayal of the Force. But there was a fair number of differences that Harry spotted as well. Not necessarily in how the ambient magic affected the Sorcerer and could be used for, but in the tone of the text itself.
It was clearly written by an experienced Sorcerer (which Harry guessed the infamous pirate must've been), but there were certain phrases and the way in which Sir Morgan described using Sorcery. Little keywords that made Harry begin to realize that Sir Henry Morgan had also been a Dark Wizard. He spoke of how the Sorcerer had to absorb the magic, shape and break it, mold it to fit the Wizard's desire and intent, how the absorbed magic could potentially amplify a Sorcerer's emotions and thus increase his strength and connection to the ambient magic. But what really hit it home was the simple phrase that Morgan spoke of when he was explaining how to first touch and access the ambient magic through the use of an obscure potion.
'Anger is a Wizard's greatest strength. And the stronger our anger, the greater we can summon and control the ambient magics.' Despite himself, Harry couldn't help agreeing with that opinion. It was true after all. Every time he'd ever cast a spell when he was especially angry or had some strong emotion powering him, he'd always been able to use his magic much more easily and cast surprisingly stronger spells.
All-too-soon the class ended and Harry was forced to stow his book away into his bag. It was only as he was gathering up his things that he realized that Hermione and Ron were both glancing at him with questioning gazes in their eyes. They knew he'd been distracted all throughout class, and they were reluctantly curious by what it was. Harry could help quietly chuckling at them in embarrassment. For so long he'd been keeping secrets from them (not necessarily earth-shattering, in his opinion) out of habit to avoid embarrassment or discouragement, but it seemed that they had started to catch onto him doing so. He'd have to fix that sooner or later, he realized.
Defense Against the Dark Arts had always been a favorite of Harry's. And yet now, he could clearly see that his love of the subject was in serious danger of a grisly and untimely death. All at the hands of a Ministry pawn who'd been forcefully placed into the position. Partway into the class, after having been forced to study the theory of defense, the entirety of the class had more or less taken a much more active interest in the verbal sparring match that had been understandably instigate by Hermione.
"I've got a query about your course aims," Hermione had started out, causing Professor Umbridge (and admittedly most of the class) to raise her eyebrows.
"And your name is…?"
"Hermione Granger," she supplied.
"Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully," Umbridge said in a voice of determined sweetness.
"Well, I don't," Hermione said bluntly. "There's nothing written up there about using defensive spells."
There was a short silence in which many members of the class turned their heads to frown at the three course aims still written on the blackboard.
"Using defensive spells?" Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. "Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?"
"We're not going to use magic?" Ron ejaculated loudly.
"Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr.—?"
"Weasley," Ron said, thrusting his hand into the air.
Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned her back on him. Harry and Hermione immediately raised their hands too. Professor Umbridge's pouchy eye's lingered on Harry for a long moment before she addressed Hermione. "Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"
"Yes," Hermione said. "Surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?"
"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" Professor Umbridge asked in her falsely sweet voice.
"No, but—"
"Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the 'whole point' of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—"
"What use is that?" Harry asked loudly. "If we're going to be attacked, it would be in a—"
"Hand, Mr. Potter!" Professor Umbridge sang in that sweet voice that was really starting to grate on his nerves. Harry didn't even bother trying to raise his hand as the Professor promptly turned away from him anyway. Instead, she found herself suddenly bludgeoned by several other people who had raised their hands. "And your name is?"
"Dean Thomas."
"Well, Mr. Thomas?"
"Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?" Dean said. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk-free—"
"I repeat," Professor Umbridge said, smiling in a very irritating fashion at Dean. "Do you expect to be attacked during my classes?"
"No, but—"
And thus Professor Umbridge exposed her true self to the class and school as a whole. She openly condemned her predecessors, even calling Lupin 'an extremely dangerous half-breed'. She bluntly refused to teach or allow them to practice any of the necessary spells needed to pass their OWLs, claiming that studying theory was enough to guarantee a perfect first attempt at any spell cast. All the hypocrisy and her all-but-stated desire to have them all fail perhaps the single most important exams of their lives quickly stoked Harry's already volatile temper into a raging fire. Until, finally, he just couldn't hold his silence anymore.
"And what good's theory going to be in the real world?" he demanded loudly, his fist in the air.
Professor Umbridge looked up. "This is a school, Mr. Potter, not the real world."
"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting out there?"
"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter."
"Oh yeah?" he said, a dangerous tone in his voice.
"Who do you imagine want to attack children like yourselves?" inquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.
"Hmm, let's think…" he said back in a mock thoughtful voice. "Maybe Lord Voldemort?"
Ron gasped, Lavender Brown uttered a little scream, Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Professor Umbridge, however, didn't flinch. She was staring Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter."
The classroom was silent and still. Everyone was staring at either Umbridge or Harry.
"Now, let me make a few things quite plain," Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned toward them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk. "You have been told that a certain Dark Wizard has returned from the dead—"
"He wasn't dead," Harry said angrily. "But, yeah, he's returned!"
"Mr.-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-House-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself," Professor Umbridge said in one breath without looking at him. "As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark Wizard is at large once again. This is a lie."
"It is not a lie!" Harry snapped. "I saw him! I fought him!"
"Detention, Mr. Potter!" Professor Umbridge declared quite triumphantly, as though fulfilling a goal she'd set for herself. "Tomorrow evening, five o'clock. My office. I repeat, this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark Wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming with fibs about reborn Dark Wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, 'Basics for Beginners.'"
Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk again. Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at him. Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated.
"Harry, no!" Hermione hissed at him warningly, tugging at his sleeve, but Harry jerked his arm out of her reach.
"So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead on his own accord, did he?" Harry asked, his voice shaking from his barely restrained anger.
There was a collective intake of breath from the class, for none of them, apart from Ron and Hermione, had ever heard Harry talk about what happened on the night that Cedric had died. They stared avidly from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and was staring at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face.
"Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident," she said coldly.
"It was murder," Harry corrected hotly. He could feel himself shaking. He had hardly talked to anyone about this, least of all thirty eagerly listening classmates. "Voldemort killed him, and you know it."
If he'd had a cooler head on his shoulders at that time, Harry would've known that she had been baiting him all along. But just the same, his temper got the better of him and a wide kaleidoscope of thoughts, accusation, raging theories, and random ideas were racing through his mind as Professor Umbridge sent him with a note to Professor McGonagall. Thoughts like how Voldemort was a seemingly all-powerful Dark Wizard. The willful blindness of the Ministry to Voldemort's return was now being used to actively sabotage him, his friends, and his classmates when they needed defensive skills the most. That Voldemort was a genius and expert in the Dark Arts and had 50 years to refine and expand his powers in it. How he, Harry, had survived thus far on pure dumb luck. In a simple one-on-one death match between the two of them, Voldemort would swat him aside like a fly on the wall. That even with his new lightsaber throwing the odds a little better in his favor, he was still horribly outclassed in every manner.
When he reached McGonagall's office door, he had had a slight epiphany. He needed to learn something powerful, something so exotic that even Voldemort would've have learned and mastered it. And, even if it was written by a Dark Wizard, perhaps the book on Sorcery was his ticket to finally evening out the odds by giving him a wild card to throw at the Dark Lord?
September 10, 1995
If ever there was a time that Harry truly loved the weekend, it was now. The homework given by the professors was simply massive and only continued to pile higher. His weeklong detentions for that evil toad-faced excuse for a Defense Professor only compounded things. And practically having the whole school believing the rubbish that the Ministry was having the Daily Prophet print was just the icing on the cake. In all, his first week back to Hogwarts was a horrible experience with his temper very, very close to the surface.
It was Sunday and Harry had finally managed to get away from everyone and have some personal time. As such, he had claimed a long deserted classroom in the unused dungeons under the North Tower as his private sanctuary. Thanks to his Invisibility Cloak and laying some Notice-Me-Not runes around his chosen room, not even the Slytherins knew of his presence down in their domain. No better place to hide than right under your enemy's nose after all.
Now he doing something that was both arguably dangerous and utterly foolhardy. He had set up his workshop again, complete with his extra potion supplies, several books on advanced Runes, Transfiguration, Charms, Wards, a large collection of junk metal and plastics he'd collected back in London, and a bulletin board that he'd be pinning his various designs and ideas on. He was finally able to continue with his promised project of helping Dudley get his vengeance on Voldemort.
At least, that was his intention with this workshop. What he was actually doing was brewing a certain potion that he'd found in the text of the Sorcery book. The potion itself was nothing too difficult, only needing a couple of strange ingredients but nothing he hadn't ever handled before. In fact, the potion itself probably wouldn't have even ranked as a Third Year exercise. But it was what it was capable of doing to a Wizard that made it so unique. If the text was correct, the potion could forcefully open a Wizard's many magical pressure points, a vital first step to learning to how to absorb ambient magic. The text didn't imply that the process was painful, only disorienting the first time it was used. And it had to be taken on a weekly basis for about a month before the magical pressure points of the Wizard's body would finally adjust to remaining open. Thankfully, the potion had a shelf-life of six months before it deteriorated and became worthless.
Completing the strange potion took less than ten minutes of careful brewing and before he knew it, Harry was already ladling the potion into several preservative vials. Taking the last ladle's worth of potion, he carefully filled the tin goblet with it. Setting aside his equipment and storing the potion vials in one of the desks that remained in the room, he walked over to where the goblet sat and picked it up, again rereading the section in the text about the potion's properties and how the 'first touch' was supposed to feel.
Sighing to himself, Harry looked down at the goblet for a moment with indecision. Did he really wanna do this? Why did he want to this? What was so important about this obscure branch of magic that he felt so compelled to learn it? These questions and more filled his mind for several long minutes, echoing and bouncing off one another. His indecision caused him to falter, stop and rethink everything.
"I want to be strong," Harry said to himself, trying to reassure himself. "If I'm not strong, I can't protect anyone. If I keep playing by Voldemort's rules, I'll never beat him. We're playing a game, and he's already got decades more experience at it than I do. I need an advantage, and my lightsaber won't be enough help to fight him…not by itself." Sighing again, he quickly brought the goblet to his lips and drank it before he could change his mind again.
Once the goblet was emptied, Harry set it back on the desk by the book. He took a few cautious steps backwards before settling himself on the ground, sitting cross-legged as he waited for the potion to work its magic. 'Concentrate on your breathing,' the text said. 'Focus on drawing in and pushing out.' As he was doing so, he could feel his body start to…tingle. It felt like little strands of fine silk were brushing over his skin, all across his body. 'Concentrate on breathing.' And then little pinpricks of pain began occurring, like someone was pricking with him needles all over. Although not entirely painful, it was an unpleasant experience all the same as it began spreading. 'Breathe in.' He took a breath and suddenly everything changed.
In a moment of time, Harry found himself utterly unable to move, like he had simply been frozen in time. He instinctively tried to fight against whatever it was that was forcing itself inside of him and trying to corrupt who and what he was. But the battle was over before it even started. The invading force was simply too overwhelming, too powerful, too forceful for him to possibly have any hope of repelling away from. In that moment of time, he stopped struggling, giving up and awaiting the inevitable to occur. In that moment of time, his magic completely dropped away.
In that moment in time, Harry felt the flickering candle's flame of hope he had kept throughout his journey of the past few months snuff itself out. Hope that he could somehow manage to survive, to win, that he could defeat Voldemort once and for all, that he could manage to truly bond with his long-estranged cousin after 14 years of strained and bad relations. In that moment of time in which time seemed to slow and stretch on into infinity, Harry felt a part of himself collapse in on itself. Like a star with all of its fire snuffed out, it faltered and caved in on itself.
Then, when he had almost let his hope slip away like a breeze through his fingers, the next moment of time slammed into him with the force of a star going nova. In that next infinitesimally short yet monumentally tangible moment in time, Harry felt something occur within himself that his mind could not truly grasp or explain yet was unquestionably real. It was like the crack of a shattering crystal, or the flash of light from a camera. It happened so fast he almost didn't catch the moment of change, yet he would never be able to forget what happened. In that moment of time, Harry could 'collapse' no further. Like a nuclear bomb at critical mass, it released the energy it could no longer contain.
And, suddenly, he was gone. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the estranged Wizarding hero, the boy with the largest target on his back for Voldemort and his followers, was suddenly no more. In his place, a new boy was born. Harry Potter had finally awakened to a new power that he had never known before, and yet somehow was so intimately familiar with.
Norway
The frigid forests of the far northern lands were usually thawed by this time of year. Summers were very short, but there was generally a bit of greenery to be seen in the absolutely breathtaking beauty of the lands. Yet, in this small, remote portion of the peninsula, winter held an eternal grip upon the lands. Snow was only lightly layered on the ground and trees, but it was still very much present. As the elderly man who was fell upon it face-first knew firsthand.
He had a shaven head and an ageless face, making it extremely difficult to determine whether he was in his early twenties or late sixties. But his dark eyes held a vast swath of experience in them as he rolled himself over and looked up at the one who'd caused him to collapse in the snow in the first place.
The figure was dressed in a black robe, with a metallic chest plate and broad pads on his shoulders. A ragged cloak hung under his armor and helped insulate the being from the cold. The being's face was hidden under a deep hood, shrouded in shadows. Held at his waist casually in one hand was a broad sword, sharpened to absolute perfection and its blade was glowing an ominous and unnatural blood-red aura, as was the blood gem that was locked in the sword's pommel stone.
"My answer is still no," the fallen man declared, utterly unconcerned about the armored figure who loomed threateningly over him. "Now, return to your master, slave."
"That is your final answer?" the armored figure demanded coldly, ignoring the man's jibe.
The fallen man merely nodded as he pulled himself up to his knees.
"Very well." The blazing red sword jabbed forward, burying itself into the fallen man's chest, straight through his heart. The man barely had time to look surprised at the suddenness of the unexpected attack before the blade was extracted and he toppled over onto his side, dead. With a casual flick of his wrist, the armored figure swept the corpse's blood from the blade and then smoothly sheathed the broad sword.
As the armored figure was turning away, it glimpsed a hazy figure suddenly appear before two meters ahead of him, ghostly blue-white and partially transparent. Recognizing the being ahead of it, the figure instantly dropped to his knee, head bowed. "It is done, my master."
"Truloc refused?" the ghostly figure inquired, looking over its servant's shoulder to see the body sprawled on the ground. Turning back to his servant, the figure said, "There has been an Awakening. Have you felt it?"
"Yes, my master."
"Journey to Great Britain," the master ordered. "And deal with this one. Be cautious. This one is…unusually strong."
"It shall be done, my master."
(Author's Note) Heh, my muse is really working overtime for this story right now. Let's hope it keeps up for a while longer. I wonder how many of you can guess where I was inspired for this last scene of the chapter.