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Chapter VI — Master of Puppets
"The thing about Harry, is that instead of being like all of us, he loves magic. He breathes magic. In situations we would say 'yeah, that can't be done', Harry comes in, smiling like the devil, and asks, 'why the bloody hell not?'"
— Katie Bell to Angelina Johnson.
I creep back to my workshop under my cloak, the books in my bag are a welcomed weight. I follow the Marauder's Map dutifully, back to my workshop. Strange. The path back to it seems to be different.
No. It doesn't just appear different, it is different.
The room could usually be found two floors below Gryffindor Tower. Now, it was just a corridor away, next to the tapestry of a man fighting a murder of crows. I let my fingers trail the stone walls, a smile of appreciation on my lips.
"You've changed," I whisper. "For me?"
One might mistake it as a trick of the light, but near me, a suit of armor appears to nod.
I won't disappoint. I bolster my resolve, and then, aloud, I say "Thank you."
The night dissolves in is a blur of ink and the smell of old parchment as I greedily devour any information the Library had to offer about dragons. Magically resistant beasts, with a fiery breath that burns hotter than anything else this side of Fiendfyre; combine that with their scales as tough as steel and their size enabling them to overpower almost anything through sheer strength.
Some bloody breeds even ate elephants.
I close the book Crouching Sensibly, Hiding From a Dragon, that has the helpful advice of "hightail the hell outta here" to give about meeting one of the lizards, then lean back on the chair and plop my feet on the desk.
What can I do to win? I need a solid strategy if I'm going to come out of this relatively unscathed, as well as put on a good show for Dumbledore
Hell, the dragon isn't even the scariest beast I've seen, that honor belongs to the—
The front legs of the chair slam on the floor. Yes, that makes sense—for the plan I was toying with, at least. One thought settled on my mind with the weight of iron.
I need to practice.
Practice, and, even more, information.
Professor sharp gaze roams the classroom as she shuffles our essays. "Before you're free to go, I have something to tell you all. From now until the end of the year, you'll be forming groups of three, and each one of you is now responsible for a project. You shall create an entire new runic array, with a function of your choosing, and this is to be delivered at our last class. The groups-" she then picks a box from under her desk, "will be chosen randomly."
My attention wavers as she selects the groups, wanting it to be done so I could ask unrelated questions. My interest is piqued, though, as she says my name.
"Harry Potter, Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass," she says, giving a look at each one of us. "You will constitute the fifth and last group. That's all, class."
As everyone gets up to go, I catch the violet eyes of the only female of our group, Daphne. She pauses, giving me a scrutinizing glance, and then throws her hair over a shoulder, beginning a fast-paced conversation with Zabini in her way out.
That will be interesting.
"Mr. Potter," Professor Babbling walks to my desk. "There's something you want?"
"Actually, yes, I wanted to ask more about the uses of runes to enchant objects. More specifically, if it's possible to create a Golem from spell-resistant materials."
"That's a very advanced question, Mr. Potter. Well above the scope of subjects to your current year. Can I ask what material you've got in mind?"
"Magical creatures."
If my question has surprised her, she doesn't show it except for a slight raising of her eyebrows. Humming, she thumbs the books on the shelf of the classroom, then she picks a thin, well-worn treatise, and puts it on my desk.
"As you can see, here-" she opens it to a gruesome image of someone being eaten by an Acromantula, drawn in sickening detail. "It has been attempted. The obstacles are obvious: the magical resistance of the beast blocking the spell, for a start. Then, even if it is dead, there's the raw dissonance between the creature's inherent magic and the caster," Professor Babbling says, pointing at a line of the book. "Think of it as trying to light a fire with a wet cloth, as the results are often disappointing."
My enthusiasm begins to wither. "So, it can't be done?"
"I never said that," Professor Babbling says. "It can be done if one uses runes to chain the spell, as you have asked. However, as it happens, if the caster's magic overpowers the creature's own, the magical properties of the remains are wiped—no, washed out."
"What's about that, then?" I show her a paragraph under the drawing of a hard-faced, thin man commanding a three-headed snake against a bunch of grim-looking wizards.
Professor Babbling sighs.
"That's, indeed, the exception to the rule. Utilizing his connection to snakes through the magical ability of Parseltongue and an unknown array, this wizard-" She makes an expression of distaste, "the infamous Herpo, the Foul, commanded a reanimated Runespoor as his Golem during the Sundering of Creta. Supposedly, the beast turned into dust after only five minutes, but before that it was perfect. Practically alive."
"Interesting," I mutter. "Say, Professor, can you lend me this book for a while?"
"Just don't go tearing it apart, Mr. Potter."
"Harry! I din' expect ye until later!"
Hagrid's cabin is interesting, to say the least—the pure magic of the strands of unicorn hair, hanging from the ceiling in a thick braid, contrasts with the jar of Acromantula venom on his shelf and the small, long, and eel-looking creatures swimming in an aquarium at his counter.
"Er, Hagrid? I already know about the dragons."
A blush spreads over what I can see of his cheeks. "What do ye know, eh?" He says, running an enormous hand through his beard and smiling. "I musta forgot how sneaky ye are."
"Thanks." I give him a grin. Hagrid chuckles and begins to busy himself by picking some tea for us. The cauldron-sized mug clink before me as he put it on the table. "I wanted to ask you a question, though."
"Fire 'way."
"Can you tell me about how you go about harvesting magical creatures? I mean-" I wave towards his shelves, "those need to come from somewhere, right?"
"Havin' an interest in Care of Magical Creatures, are we now?" Hagrid beams, proudly, and motions at a box in his garden, hidden between two of these giant pumpkins of his. "Thumpin' good time to ask, too! I was just about to take a look inside some of the Skrewts," he says, sounding a bit disappointed. "Critters keep killin' themselves. So what ye say about coming wi' me and seein' what makes 'em tick, eh?
I glance at some of the living Skrewts, running around their pen and looking like amorphous crabs, spitting fire from one of their extremities as their stingers wave menacingly above them.
My smile is fake as they come. "Let's go, then."
"'Ere's a good lad!" Hagrid says and his slap on my shoulder almost bring me down to my knees. "Firs' thing ye need to do is to wear some thick, strong dragonhide gloves'—ye never know what' yer gonna find…"
I close the door and, with a wave of my wand, I dispel the Disillusionment and Levitation Charm cast on the load I've brought with me. A heavy thud echoes in the room as the crate slams on the floor, flickering back into view.
I eye the box with distaste, imagining all too well how the corpses of the Skrewts must look inside it—the disgusting lack of head and the multiple thin legs that give the illusion of movement, even in stillness.
Shaking my head, I pause to throw my Invisibility Cloak on the backrest of the chair and sit, spreading the Marauder's Map on the table before me. My eyes keep fluttering to the box, but there are things to do before I even have to touch that. Best to get on with it.
With a flick of my wand, a stuffed cat shoots through the air and I catch it.
"Anima Exerto," I whisper, and the cat's form ripples as my magic hits it—my Animation Charm bleeding into its fur and pressing the concept of movement and obedience into it. The residual, primal magic of the cat is rewritten, turning from the echoes of the cat's life to something else under the pressure of my magic.
I bring my face closer to the cat, my nose nearly touching its fur, entranced by seeing the shapes of the magic; they're a cross between a fractal and equation and a declaration of servitude.
The cat meows, lowering its head in complete subservience to me.
"Maybe if I add Weland's Spiral…" I mutter and, with my Sight firmly focused on the cat, I begin to change the spell, watching the threads reshaping under the tip of my wand and the incantation a whisper under my breath; the cat starts glowing.
"Bugger!" I Banish the cat away from me just in time as its edges start smoking and the magic glows a deep red. It explodes in the air, fur flying everywhere. Shaking my head, I eye the bunch of objects in the room as I Vanish the pieces of clay from my desk.
I clench my jaw. The first attempt was a resounding failure.
"Again."
I lean back in the chair and let out a deep breath. The room is full of noise and movement—the metal replica of a sparrow soars, almost touching the ceiling, as two toy soldiers wrestle in a circle on the ground. There's a suit of armor playing tic-tac-toe with an angry-looking fruit-bowl in a corner and, on my desk, a quill slithers like a serpent and hisses from time to time.
All of the objects are Animated—I let my gaze navigate through the now very, very familiar foundations of the spell I can see acting on the quill, and mark note in the parchment before me.
"Finite Incantatem," I cast and they all freeze in the middle of their movements, my magic drained from them. I brush the quill into a desk drawer and shove the Marauder's Map in my pocket.
A Levitation Charm puts the crate in the table, the lid sliding to reveal the contents within.
Rummaging through my bag, I find my dragonhide gloves and put them on.
The dead Skrewts exudes with a sickly-sweet scent of rotting meat, the numerous wounds that killed each one of them oozing a greenish liquid that pools on the underside of the box. I stop myself from recoiling and pull one of the reeking corpses out.
The sight of the white underbelly and the segmented insect legs make my stomach curl, but the magic of that thing is strong. It flows from every little, nauseating, part of the creature's corpse, flickering like a flame and forming a solid sheen of crimson on the magical resistant carapace. I'd been gifted them—Hagrid couldn't find anything useful and was going to just let them for compost.
"Anima Aexerto," I cast on it, taking note of how the shell deflects part of my magic, loosening the hold of my will on that thing. The Skrewt spasms, spluttering some flames just before it turns inert again. Narrowing my eyes, I repeat the Charm, time after time, tweaking it until it finally takes hold.
I frown, looking at the familiar sight of my spell corrupting the Skrewt's own residual magic, eating away the crimson barrier on its shell. That's not what I want. The little monster, now animated, gurgles by means unknown as my magic take hold.
That's was what Babbling was talking about. Useless.
I sigh and Vanish it.
I pick another dead Skrewt from the crate and, this time, I let my wand lie by the side as I put the body on the tabletop. I take a penknife from my bag, one with strong enchantments to cut through the hardest materials that I've used in the Ancient Runes Class, and get to work.
I start scratching in the shell—there's some resistance, this knife being barely more appropriate for the task than a normal one, but the runes begin to set after some minutes of struggle. Perthro, for penetration, chained with Algiz, divine consumption.
The Skrewt's magic trembles but I barely notice, starting to draw the Eye of Horus that Professor Babbling had shown us. To light the way…
I pay no attention to time as I focus completely on the task.
After what feels like an hour, I wipe the sweat from my brow and take a second look at the runes. They shine with golden light from within, carefully etched on the beast's shell, almost like a ritual preparation to an ancient funeral.
I point my wand and cast the spell. My magic coils from its tip and caresses the runes, taking a firm hold on the corpse. The magic of the creature remains intact, but I will hold my celebration until the end.
With an unearthly shriek, the carcass spasms. My spell is successful but doesn't mesh together with the Skrewt's magic, as if they're oil and water. A dissonance is clear between them, and the beast keeps convulsing until it turns to dust under the strain.
"Bollocks!" I Vanish the dust away, ignoring the scratch marks on the table as my anger supercharges the spell. I prop my head on my hands and try to find a way to pass through this newest obstacle—in hindsight, my error is obvious. The runes were carved by me, and the Skrewt's magic didn't accept it. It's too foreign to agree with its essence.
I need a medium to balance them.
I cringe as my elbow touches something wet on the desk. The bottom of the crate is dripping with that vicious, foul-smelling, liquid. I raise my wand to dry it and—I freeze in mid-movement.
My medium. I smile.
As I heal the little scrape in my finger, I let my mind wander.
Blood has power.
The penknife glints by my side, stained with mine and the Skrewt's blood, which I used to carve the runes in the little monster lying on the desk. No more golden or crimson, they shine with a coppery glow, a mix between my own magic and it's own.
The spell comes to my lips almost without prompting. "Anima Aexerto Vitae."
This time, as my magic goes through the corpse, there's no dissonance. The Skrewt's magic recognizes the traces of its own, even if only just, and allows the spell to take hold easily. The little beast shudders as tenterhooks of magic grab its essence and twist.
If my magic would destroy the beast's as my spell took hold, the answer for that was beautiful in simplicity, but only possible because I could see and understand the peculiarities of the creature's essence.
The spell starts devouring the Skrewt's magic as if using it as fuel. The creature magic is still present, still doing its job, because, after my tweaks, the spell isn't the source of power anymore. It's a framework, forcing the Skrewt's magic to cannibalize itself.
"Yes!" I punch the air and can't help but laugh at the still magical-resistant Skrewt staggers to its feet, ungainly. Even as I watch it, its body is already eroding little by little as my spell eats through its magic, yet, during this window of time, small as it was, I am its master. "Yes, you horrible, undead little monster, yes!"
It doesn't take much before the spell is done with the meager supply of magic and the body of the creature is completely consumed, like that Runespoor of Herpo, the Foul.
But it's a start, and I can work with that.
Possessed by a mad glee, I pull another Skrewt from the crate and—
"Shite!" I almost drop it as the thing's backside explodes.
Thinking fast, I throw it on a corner of the room and Transfigure a bit of clutter into a small fence around it, just as the abomination squirms back to its feet. It seems that this one was only mostly dead.
I make a face as it does a weird sucking sound.
"Gross. You best stay here-" I do my best to imitate McGonagall's stern tone and take the sparks erupting from its backside as agreement, "yeah, you do that, you little abomination you."
Then I turn back to the crate and start rubbing my hands together.
"Now, what's next?"
I wake up as something pokes my forehead.
Groaning, I crack an eye open and see a little airplane made of parchment floating around my head and dive-bombing me from time to time. Unsticking a page The Magical Butcher from my cheek, I yawn, my nose wrinkling as the smell of dead Skrewts piled near my desk hits me.
Brushing off the clutter from the table with the back of my hand, I catch the airplane and spread the parchment here. It's a note from Katie, asking me where I am. I take almost a minute to find my quill and some ink, still half-asleep, and scribble the directions to my room.
Tapping the parchment with my wand, it folds in the shape of an owl and soars through the windows. I rub my eyes and take another look at the room, that wouldn't do.
I Vanish the pile of Skrewts, their magic depleted and inert, and a wave of my wand send all the things to go to their right place. I take a minute or two to Transfigure a comfortable sofa from the suit of armor, on which I let myself fall.
The wards of the room tense as someone knocks on the door. "Harry?"
Recognizing the voice, I get up and open the door. Katie's here, leaning on the doorstep and still clutching the parchment on her hand.
"Please enter."
"Thanks," she says, pausing to give me a peck on the lips. "When I read that you were in a room near the tapestry of the wizard Edgar and his crows, I thought you were joking." Her gaze roams the room and she lets out a whistle as she steps inside. "I guess you weren't."
"I wasn't," I say, gesturing towards the room. "Welcome to the Potter Lounge."
"Getting a bit big-headed, aren't you?" she says, but suddenly stops dead in the middle of the room. I get behind her, snaking my arms around her waist, and kiss her neck. "Er, Harry?"
"Yes?"
"Why-" Katie is so still she appears to be frozen, "do you have a Blast-Ended Skrewt inside a playpen? And why," she says, pointing a trembling finger and looking pale and wide-eyed, "is the Skrewt wearing a top hat and a monocle?"
"Oh, this." I rest my chin on her shoulder. "This is Mr. Puffington."
I take an owl treat from my pocket and throw inside the pen.
"Mr. Puffington," Katie repeats, slowly. "You named it. Mr. Puffington."
"Yep," I say, stepping away from Katie and picking up a stick from the floor, which I use to begin poking the sleeping Skrewt. The creature makes a sound that resembles a screech just as his… backside? Yes. His backside explodes with flames. "By the way, Katie, he's saying hi."
She blinks. Then blinks again and shakes her head.
"Right," she says, wrenching her eyes from the sight of Mr. Puffington eating the treat and turning to me. "I just wanted to ask if you want to go flying, seeing that I have a free period now and you're never in the Common Room these days."
"Sure, just let me pick my broom."
"What have they done?" I mutter in shocked disbelief.
By my side, Katie's eyes are wide as saucers as she looks at the Quidditch Pitch. It's almost unrecognizable—the hoops had been taken off and, in the middle, there's a raised dais of stone, taking almost the entire length of the Pitch and peppered with rocks. The only part of it that's unchanged are the spectator's stands.
Katie manages to find her voice. "That's madness."
"Agreed," I say, still glaring at the Pitch like it's a rotting corpse.
Katie turns to me and her cheeks are reddening with anger.
"Do you know why they did this?"
"I think-" I kick a tuft of grass, "we have just found out where the First Task will be held."
Professor Dumbledore managed to find me coming back from the Pitch and cheerfully beckoned me to follow him. While we walk side by side towards some mysterious destination, though, my curiosity gets the best of me—not that it surprises me anymore.
"Where are we going to, Professor?"
"I am glad you asked, Harry," Professor Dumbledore says. "We're going to meet the esteemed Madame Abigail Malkin, who will be responsible for making your uniform for the First Task."
"So, glorified clothes shopping?"
"Basically, yes."
"Joy," I say and roll my eyes.
Professor Dumbledore raises an eyebrow. "If you have other matters to attend, you can, of course, leave after your measures are taken," he says, his smile getting wider. "I would be delighted to help her to decide the appearance of your uniform."
I take a look at his purple robes that are crisscrossed by green shooting stars.
"No, I'm all for clothes shopping sir," I say, raising my hands in defeat, and then add under my breath. "Not that being fashionable is going to help me against a dragon, mind you."
Professor Dumbledore pauses. "Am I to understand you have already found about the First Task?"
"Yes, I just used common sense. If there are big, flaming, pissed off dragons hidden inside the Forbidden Forest, of course, I'll need to fight one of them." I put a finger under my lips. "The fact there are three is kind of a big clue, too."
"A sound reasoning, indeed," Dumbledore says and enters a room. "Come in."
"Then there's the fact that Ananke has a friend that thinks the Swedish Short-Snout looks fetching. I mean—"
Madame Malkin don't let me finish the sentence, though, and ushers me to step on a stool. Her unnamed apprentice lurks on a corner, watching us and being barked orders at from time to time.
After that, it's an eternity of torment—one I endure because Professor Dumbledore is near us and eager to help. There's no I'm going to step onto the arena using robes of magenta and lilac, with some dashes of purpurine thrown in for good measure, thank you very much.
Finally, the portly witch nods. "I think that should be it, Mr. Potter," she then beckons the assistant. "Jacobs! Come here with the drawing!"
The mousy-looking assistant scurries in my direction, holding his drawing before him as if it had a nasty disease. I hum, studying it—it was good. Like my Quidditch uniform, but more streamlined somehow. Not that it will help to defend me from dragon fire—
I pause.
"Madame Malkin," I say, turning to her. "How good are you with more… exotic materials?"
The witch looks at me carefully. "If we have the materials in hand and you have the money, I do not think there will be any problem. We are rather good at what we do," she then narrows her eyes. "Why, Mr. Potter? Do you have any such thing for me to use?"
"Oh yes," I grin. "Loads of it, even. See, my idea…"
It took two days for me to finish the last preparations for the plan. Hell, I have run through three flasks of Mr. Hare's Energetic Draughts already, and I doubt the muck and grime will leave from under my fingernails anytime soon. Running a hand over my face, I take a look at the painting before me.
Then I take a deep breath and tickle the pear.
The passageway to the kitchens opens before me and I take a step inside. The house-elves never seem to let their hustle and bustle stop around here, always making something for the students to eat or preparing the ingredients.
"Sir!" someone makes a shrill scream and I turn to look at a house elf, his long-nosed face scrunched into a look of horror. "Please let we be cleaning these robes!"
I give him a kind smile. "I'll be sure to put it in the washing basket. But to be honest, I came here to ask you all for a favor."
The House-Elf snaps his finger and a chair and a table appear. Their magic is weird, subtler than any wizard and much less organized, tamed than any wand-magic.
"Sir bez wanting some tea?" A tray appears before me at another snap of his fingers. "Crumpets? Treacle tart?"
Seeing how much I want their help, I accept even as my stomach protests, giving him a smile of gratitude. "Thanks-" I take a sip of the tea. "Say, you like cleaning and all, yes?"
"Of course! Alfie be a proper House-Elf sir."
I nod, hoping that I haven't offended him.
"Okay, okay, just asking." I pause for a moment to think of the right words, and as I continue, my smile has just a hint of mischief. "So, how would you react if I told you there's a part of Hogwarts that's never been cleaned in more than a thousand years?"
There's silence, then.
Every House-Elf stops moving and one or two of them even shiver as if in the middle of experiencing some sort of religious ecstasy. I can almost hear their necks creaking during the process as they turn to me and form a semicircle around me. The one I was talking to has a gleam of maniacal, unholy enthusiasm, shining in his brown eyes.
"Sir," he begins, his voice trembling. "You must tell we. Please!"
I make a show of putting my cup back in the tray and get up. I sling the strap of my bag over my shoulder and, dramatically, pick an imaginary lint from my dirty and blood-splattered robes.
All of them wait with bated breath for my next words.
"I can show you. But you see... I need your help moving something."
"Anything sir. Anything."
I fight hard not to smile. Perfect.
The portrait of the Fat-Lady swings open and I enter the Common Room. I amble toward one of the sofas, where Fred and George are playing Exploding Snap with Alicia, Katie, and Angelina, a let my bag fall to the ground with a clunk.
"Hey Harry," Fred says, his eyes flickering towards me for just a moment. There's a beat of silence before he snaps his head back to look at me, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. "Merlin's saggy ballsack!"
"Mate, you smell," George says, scrunching his nose.
"Oh, this," I twirl a frayed patch of my sleeves in my hand. "That's nothing."
They don't look very convinced.
"You need a bath, like, now," Katie makes a distasteful expression, but comes closer to me. "Is this blood in your face? Harry, what in Merlin's name—"
Fred gestures towards me. "What Katie means is, if you need an alibi or something, you can count on us." He then narrows his eyes. "You… you don't need an alibi, do you?"
"You finally snapped and did Malfoy in?" Ron's pleads loudly from the corner where he's finishing his homework with Hermione, who's looking at me like I am a very interesting enigma. "Please tell me you did!"
"No, nothing of the sort," I can't stop my smile. "But sure, I'll let you know—"
"Harry," Angelina nudges my shoulder. "Your bag. It's smoking."
I turn to look at it and, true to Angelina's words, peals of smoke are coming from inside the bag. Crap. Shaking my head, I rummage the contents within it and pick up my two dragonhide gloves. They're looking fresh from a food processor, with scrapped patches and blotches of liquid billowing with acrid-smelling fumes.
"Well, they're beyond useless now," I mutter and get up, throwing them into the garbage bin, from where they disappear instantly. When I turn back to my friends, they are looking at the insides of the bag, with expressions of pure disbelief. "What?"
"Harry, old friend," George says, picking up a bloodstained cleaver from inside my bag and holding it to me. "There's anything, anything, you want to tell us?"
"I was joking about the alibi." Fred keeps looking from the cleaver to me and to the cleaver again. "Seriously, the hell were you doing? You disappear for two days and—"
"And I really, really need a bath." I wave his question off. "So, my bag?"
The twins share a look for a second. Then George raises his hands in defeat and Fred let the cleaver fall back in the bag, which he then throws to me.
"Thanks. See you all in a bit," I say, catching it and waving goodbye.
I get up to my dormitory, slouching slightly and letting out a tired breath. I let the bag fall near my bed and begin rummaging my trunk for a change of clothing, throwing longing glances at the comfortable, inviting mattress.
Tomorrow, I'll be tested with the First Task.
I lean on the windowsill and look at the Forbidden Forest. A plum of flames erupt from between the trees, tall and fierce, and setts the night alight. It's strange, but instead of fear, a sense of excitement burns inside me, like that dragon's fire is being poured right into my veins.
Tomorrow, I'll fight a dragon.
I still remember the oppressive feeling from the dragon's magic. I remember the sense of righteousness, emboldened by the sheer, raw power, that exude in waves from the beast. I remember it all and, for the first time since I've found them there, I find it lacking.
Tomorrow, I'll take my first step into legend.
I can hardly wait.
Thanks everyone for reading. Your reviews will be appreciated!