Late on Saturday evening, a bored looking second year delivered a note to Harry's room. The note was written in the same hurried scrawl Snape liked to use when he was grading essays, and consisted of a single line – 'the broom is here.' Harry threw down his transfiguration textbook like it was on fire, and rushed out to collect his parcel.
After the fastest walk of his life - one that turned a few heads in the hallways - Harry arrived at Snape's door. He didn't suspect anyone had ever been this excited to see the man. Oddly, the potions master didn't seem to share his sentiment. He looked haggard, with dark circles underneath his eyes and an all around unkempt appearance.
"The package is on that table. Take it and get out."
"Thank you, professor."
Harry did as he was told. By now, he knew not to disturb Snape when he was in such a mood. On top of that, the prospect of unwrapping the package was so exciting that he did not wish to linger. A few minutes later, he was at the door to the Slytherin common room. He tried to walk directly to the boy's dorm, but the distinctly broom-shaped package drew some attention from a couple of third years.
"Hey Potter, what do you have there?"
He was so flustered from half running back to the common room that he couldn't think of a genuine sounding reply.
"Nothing..."
"Come on, let us see it…"
"You'll see it when we play the 'Puffs next weekend."
Harry tried to step around the boy closest to him, but he moved to block his path. Harry thought about drawing his wand, but realized the odds were not in his favor.
"Leave him alone, Slade." He turned around to see Gemma staring at the other boy, arms on her hips. Slade sighed loudly and stepped aside. Harry waved to his prefect and quickly stepped into the dorm. As soon as he reached his room, he shut the door behind and placed the package on his bed. After tearing the brown wrapping paper off, he couldn't help but gasp as he took in the broom.
Instead of twigs, as with most of the other brooms Harry had seen in the store, this tail consisted of large black feathers bound together with silver wire. Two metallic grey footrests protruded from the band joining the tail and the body of the broom. The shaft was made of a dark wood, and polished to a glossy sheen. The very tip of the shaft – about ten centimeters in length – was capped with silver and embossed with an arrow.
Harry gingerly picked up the broom. Immediately, he felt a stark difference in sensation compared to the comets in the broom shed. This broom felt more alive – even hungry… if that was possible. Closer to a wand than anything else. It also felt twice as heavy as the broom that had caught fire. Nonetheless, it had a very streamlined look about it, and Harry was eager to try it out.
He contemplated heading out to the pitch, but it would be far too dark out to see anything. The shopkeeper had said unlocked brooms could be dangerous even in good conditions, so Harry decided not to push his good fortune. If he knew Slytherin, word would have gotten out by the very next morning, and Theo would undoubtedly drag him out to the quidditch pitch by lunchtime at the latest.
Instead, he put away his broom and grabbed his transfiguration book and writing supplies. McGonagall had assigned an essay the previous week, and he couldn't count on having much time to work on it on Sunday. Fortunately, nobody stopped him on his way out of the common room. When he reached the library, he was unsurprised to see Hermione at her usual table. Oddly, Neville and Boris were sitting with her. She saw him just as he saw them, and beckoned Harry to their table.
"Neville, 'mione, Boris… I see you feel a thirst for knowledge on this fine evening." Harry plopped his bag down next to Neville and began unpacking his quill and parchment.
Borris scoffed. "No thirst here – I just want to finish this stupid Transfiguration essay, and Hermione here is my only chance at a passing grade."
"It's NOT stupid, and you should have more confidence in yourself." Neville rolled his eyes as Hermione shot back at Boris.
"Really? When am I ever going to need to transfigure something into a flock of birds? And I have plenty of confidence – just not in Transfiguration."
"Well, you might need to do it for the final practical at the end of the year? Don't you care about your marks?"
"Come on guys," Neville pleaded, "let's just get through this essay, and then we won't have to even think about transfiguration until Tuesday."
"I'm with Neville on this one. How far did you guys get before I got here?"
Hermione turned towards Harry. "I finished the essay last night. I'm helping Neville and Boris with the introduction, so you can catch up quickly."
"Fantastic."
The essay took them most of the evening, with the Gryffindor trio finishing slightly before Harry. When he got back to his room, he fell asleep as soon as he hit the mattress, dreaming of snitches and brooms.
As Harry had predicted, all the Slytherin first years knew about his broom by Sunday morning. When he sat down for breakfast, Theo didn't waste any time in grilling him.
"Did you get the Cleansweep?"
"Nope."
Draco clapped Theo on the back. "I told you he'd go with the Nimbus."
"I didn't."
Draco turned around, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. "Surely you didn't buy a comet?"
"No, I got a silver arrow."
"Never heard of that. Is it a new model?"
"It's this really old broom – my grandfather has one in his collection. He says it can go really fast, but he never lets me touch it," answered Pansy, pouncing on the chance to inform Draco.
"I think I've heard of it. They didn't make very many of them, and it's been discontinued since ages ago. I don't think it was ever meant for quidditch, but you might be able to make it work. I still don't get why you didn't buy the Cleansweep though."
Theo's reference to the Cleansweep launched another round of debate about which broom was superior that didn't simmer down until after they had finished breakfast. By then most everybody at the table felt like playing quidditch, so they decided to have a scrimmage. Harry, Draco and Theo walked down to the dungeons so that he Harry could fetch his broom. The two other boys were trading jabs along the way.
"I'm going to have father send me a Nimbus. I can give you one of my older models if you like?"
"Very funny Draco. Sure, you can give me a Nimbus. Maybe I'll teach you how to ride yours."
They kept up their banter all the way to the shed, and by the time they got there, Harry was anxious to take to the skies. Vincent, Greggory, Runcorn, Pansy, and Millicent were already there, brooms in hand. One of them had even found a quaffle. As the two house quidditch players, Harry and Draco got to pick out their teams.
Harry got Theo, Greggory, and Millicent. He had never played the role of captain before, so he wasn't quite sure what to do. Fortunately, Theo was more than happy to take over as strategist so that Harry could focus exclusively on beating Draco to the snitch.
As soon as Harry kicked off the ground, he realized how difficult his new broom was to control. It was much more sensitive than the comet he had been using. When he tried to go up, he would go UP. He flew a couple of practice loops around the pitch, trying to weave in and out between the stands. Halfway on the second go, he nearly decapitated himself on one of the beams. A bit shaken, he abandoned his laps and joined Draco in looking for the snitch. They weren't playing with bludgers, so at least he didn't have to worry about that.
A few meters beneath him, their Slytherin friends were busy with the quaffle. None of them had any serious experience, so the game quickly devolved into keep-away. Theo was constantly shouting directions at Millicent and Greggory, but the latter two looked content with ignoring his instructions.
After about ten minutes of circling around, Harry spotted the snitch moving diagonally down towards the northeast corner of the pitch. He immediately dropped into a dive. His heart skipped a beat as acceleration of his broom pulled his body backwards. It had to be going twice as fast as the Comet. Near the ground, the snitch veered to the left. Harry cursed, and yanked the broom handle towards the snitch. He realized his mistake a split second after as the maneuver sent him into an uncontrolled spin. He wrestled back his balance – just barely – but by then Draco had a lead.
A quick glance towards the center of the field revealed that quaffle play had stopped and both teams were watching the snitch pursuit. Harry bent down over his broom and willed it forward. This time, he was expecting to be jerked back by the acceleration, so he was able to counter it. With each second, he chipped couple of few meters off Draco's lead. Soon, he was a hand's length away.
Unfortunately, the snitch chose that moment to pitch upwards. Draco easily pulled up, but Harry's attempt to follow suit put him into a sloth roll. Before he could recover, the other boy had caught the snitch. They landed on the ground, where the rest of their teams were waiting. Draco's chasers started congratulating him, while Theo approached Harry.
"What happened out there? You were flying like an owl that's gotten into the firewhiskey."
Harry shrugged. "I think my broom is more sensitive than I'm used to. It's fast as lightning when I'm flying in a straight line, but as soon as I have to turn, I tend to lose control."
"OK. Well, keep at it."
They played three more games. To his disappointment, Harry caught the snitch only once. At the same time, it was clear as day that his broom was much faster than any of the school brooms. The only issue was controlling it, and that would come with time.
On Wednesday morning, Snape was feeling better than he had in weeks. The end was finally in sight. The hard work was over. All that remained was to wait two more nights before adding the final ingredient of the potion – the vampire's blood collected by Dumbledore. Not only that, but his time-saving modifications to the potion would likely gain him a page or two in an international potions journal.
As he was walking out of the great hall, Snape felt a presence at his side. Turning, he realized it was Hestia. He had been so busy with brewing and teaching over the past couple of weeks that her existence hadn't even crossed his mind.
"What do you want, Jones?"
She pouted back.
"Is that how you say hello? You've been sulking lately, so I'm just checking if you are OK?"
"I don't sulk – I've been busy with a potion. Besides, you made it clear you don't care for my presence."
Hestia sighed heavily. "Are you still brooding over the dueling club? Seeing as how you've been so busy lately, it's probably better I didn't ask you to help, no?"
Snape shrugged. "Perhaps. What about you? What have you been doing lately?"
She smiled brightly. "That's more like it! I've been busy too. I have to plan lessons as I go along – what with being a new professor. The dueling club takes up most of the rest of my time. "
Snape yawned, and Hestia narrowed her eyes at him.
"I'm going to be accompanying the third years to Hogsmeade this weekend. Seeing as how I've never been there before, I thought it might be handy to have another professor accompany me. I was going to ask you, but it seems like you find me boring…"
"It's not that… I'm just tired," Snape blurted, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "I should be done by this weekend. Just drop by my office when it's time to leave."
"Merlin, Severus. We haven't even been to Hogsmeade yet, and you're already inviting me to your quarters."
Snape jerked up his head, scowling. "Five seconds after agreeing, and I am already starting to regret it…"
"See you this weekend!"
Hestia left Snape's side, and he continued walking towards his office, slowly shaking his head. Potions could be complicated, but women were downright unsolvable.
Just before noon on Saturday, Dumbledore received a floo call from Snape. He deactivated the security spells, and the potions master stepped through the fire place. Oddly, Severus was dressed in nicer robes than the ones he typically wore, and his hair appeared to be recently washed. In his hands, he held a small crystal flask containing a few drops of a pitch-black liquid.
"Good Morning, Severus. I take it this is the tracking potion?"
The man nodded curtly. "Yes. When you drink the contents, you should feel a tug. Follow it, and it will lead you to Quirrel."
"Thank you… I understand completing this potion is a cause for celebration, but I still can't help but wonder at the cause for your attire today," Dumbledore added with a smile.
"I am going to be accompanying the third years to Hogsmeade."
"Ah, to be young and free. Perhaps you will meet a nice witch at Hog's Head."
Snape stared back blankly. "Perhaps you will drink the potion now?"
Dumbledore frowned. "Is it time sensitive?"
"No… but calling it a complicated potion is an understatement. I want to be around when you drink it in case something goes horribly wrong and I need to apply the counter-potion."
"Ah, how reassuring. In that case, I will keep you in suspense no longer." Dumbledore downed the flask with a practiced movement.
"How do you feel?"
Dumbledore smiled. "I can't say I care for the taste, but physically I feel fine." His eyes widened a bit. "I feel the tug now."
"Very good. Take this vial. Drink it when you wish to cancel the effect of the tracking potion."
Dumbledore took the second vial, and waved to Severus as he stepped back through the fireplace. With a flick of his wand, he reset the security charm. Fawkes flew from his perch, and landed on the headmaster's outstretched arm.
"Ready for an adventure?"
The phoenix cooed softly, and the duo disappeared in a flash of flames.
When the phoenix-fire vanished, Dumbledore found himself in a dense forest at the base of a valley. He recognized the trees as old growth oak and beech. The canopy above him was think, blocking out much of the sunlight.
With a soft hoot, Fawkes disappeared in a burst of flames. Phoenixes as a rule did not like dark or confined spaces, and Dumbledore saw no reason to keep his companion at hand for the time being. After all, their mental connection made Fawkes easily accessible should his aid be needed.
Alone, Dumbledore pressed on through the forest. His progress was hampered by the foliage and debris covering the ground. Consequently, he had to clear his own path using a variant of the severing charm. Despite this, he found the experience enjoyable. The air had that unmistakable earthy scent found only in the woods, and the birds chirping all about him produced a rustic melody that reminded him of his childhood forays into the countryside.
If it weren't for the steady tug of the potion working its magic, Dumbledore might have forgotten he had a job to do. As it was, the tug was incrementally growing stronger. Proportionally, Dumbledore felt a rising unease. He focused outwards, attempting to sense any magical traps or hazards in the surroundings. There was nothing. As he pressed on, he landed on the source of his discomfort. The birds had stopped chirping.
Light too was growing scarcer with each meter he walked. He had set out on his journey at midday, so it was far too early for sunset. Undoubtedly, whatever kept away the birds was responsible for this phenomenon as well.
Just as the tugging sensation of the potion was beginning to feel unbearably strong, Dumbledore saw something different. A curved line of trees jutted out of the ground just ahead. Their trunks were twice as large as any before them. The bark was crumbly and rotting, but they stood upright as if defying death.
Dumbledore raised his wand, and a pulsing orb of red light emerged from the tip. Slowly, he turned sideways and squeezed through a gap between two of the tree trunks. On the other side, it became apparent that the strange trees were arranged in a circle of two dozen meters in diameter. At the center lay a raised mound. It was a bit shorter than Dumbledore, but quite wide.
He walked around the mound. As he did so, he noticed it was getting harder to see. The orb of light he had conjured was dimming quickly. Strange. This sort of magic-dampening effect was uncommon. After a few seconds of deliberation, he realized what he was looking at.
It had to be a tumulus – an ancient barrow used by shamans and primitive wizards during the bronze age. Those were trying times, and no one was safe, not even the dead. Sapping wards such as this were used to deter necromancers and pillagers. The practice had died out during classical times; the rituals used to create the barrows were long forgotten. On top of that, no two tumuli were exactly alike.
He had no idea what Quirrell was doing in such a place, let alone how he could have found one. These barrows were exceptionally well concealed. On the other side of the mound, Dumbledore discovered the entrance – a stone lined hole about a meter in diameter. He would have to crawl through.
With a weary sigh, Dumbledore sent out a mental call for Fawkes. The Phoenix would be able to illuminate the small passage far better as its magic would not be sapped by the tumulus' wards. When nothing came, Dumbledore redoubled his efforts. Two minutes and one migraine later, Fawkes appeared. The wards were stronger than he would have expected considering how long they must have lain dormant.
After a quick look at the dark surroundings, the phoenix ignited its feathers. The profusion of light cast wild shadows around the edges of the barrow. Dumbledore gestured towards the uninviting hole.
"After you, my friend?"
Fawkes glared at him for a few seconds, then raised its head haughtily.
"I promise you a month's supply of treats. Surely you will help an old man?"
The phoenix remained silent for a minute. Ultimately, it hoped into the tunnel. Dumbledore slowly lowered himself to his knees, silently cursing his aging joints. The walk here hadn't been easy, and it didn't look like the day was going to get any better. The tunnel inclined downwards in a spiral, and Fawkes hopped along just a meter ahead of its master.
After what felt like an eternity of crawling, the tunnel widened to reveal an antechamber. The carvings on the walls depicted bronze age scenes, consistent with Dumbledore's hypothesis. He couldn't suppress a small smile. That minor triumph fled all too quickly as his eyes fell on the still figures lying on the ground just underneath the walls.
He moved towards the nearest one, beckoning Fawkes to follow. As light swept over the figure, Dumbledore realized that the head had been removed, and the body was drained of blood. The skin was withered and the muscle emaciated. Either it had been lying here for a very long time, or the wards were feeding on the residual magic of the corpse. A deep bite mark on what remained of the neck confirmed that it was the latter scenario.
This had to be Quirrell's doing. He must have fed on the bodies for sustenance. Dumbledore grimaced. He was hoping that Quirrell would have been able to control himself – at least long enough for help to arrive. The letter the man had sent was coherent and would have required at least some shred of sanity to write.
Shaking his head, Dumbledore stepped over the body and towards the next tunnel. This one was much larger than the first had been. He would no longer need to crawl, but merely had to hunch over. Fawkes did not need to be asked to lead the way.
After thirty seconds of walking, Dumbledore emerged into the main chamber. It was a large dome about a quarter the size of Hogwart's great hall. A large stone sarcophagus dominated the center, and smaller tombs were scattered in a circle around these foci.
"Avada kedavra!"
Dumbledore slashed his wand upward, simultaneously throwing himself to the floor. Four tomb-lids hurtled towards him, forming a square around his prone body. He expected to hear the sound of cracking stone. Instead, he heard Fawkes' agonized screech as he burst into flames. He tried to jump to his feet, but rising seemed oddly exhausting.
"Save your strength, old fool."
"Quirinus?"
Dumbledore flicked his wand downwards, and the tomb lids dropped to the floor. He whirled about, keeping his wand ready. It was impossible to see anything in the pitch-black chamber. With Fawkes gone, the only light source were the Phoenix's smoldering ashes.
"Agghh"
A sharp pain exploded in the side of Dumbledore's neck. He raised his wand above his head, closing his eyes.
"Solis erupto!"
Through his eyelids, he could still see the blinding flash of light. A guttural screech from behind reassured him that the vampire was at least temporarily disabled. He pressed his off hand against his neck to stem some of the flowing blood, turning around as he did so. The skin on his hand felt taut. If he made it out of this mess, he would have one hell of a sunburn in a few hours.
After opening his eyes, he could vaguely make out a figure by the glowing patches of burnt skin. While the spell had hurt Dumbledore, it had done far greater damage on the vampire. Dumbledore tried to take a step backwards, but nearly collapsed on the floor. Using any magic seemed to be costly indeed in the magic-sapping environment of the chamber.
The Vampire was breathing heavily, pained by his wounds - horrid looking burns down to the muscle. "You… fool. Didn't you read… the letter?"
"I did."
"Then what… are you doing here?"
"Did you really think I wouldn't check up on one of my employees leaving under such suspicious circumstances?"
The vampire leaned against one of the tombs Dumbledore had opened with his spell. He pulled out a mummified limb, then crushed it in his hand.
"Bone dry… It's been weeks since my last meal. The locals here know better than to wander through this valley. It has had reputation of being cursed for for as long as they can remember – my escapades here certainly did not… improve things."
Dumbledore took a step back, appraising his options. He nearly smacked himself on the head when he realized what he had overlooked. Slowly, he began to reach for the inner pocket of his travel cloak.
"Why did you do this, Quirinus? I saw that woman's memories – you risked your life… your humanity… to save her. I would have made sure no harm befell you when you returned to Britain."
The Vampire laughed hoarsely. "And do what? Spend eternity in a… dusty coven? Forever under the watchful eye of the ministry… not to mention yourself… I think not. Besides, you are missing something."
"Oh, what's that?"
"Quirinius isn't here…" With a roar, the vampire lunged forward. His inhuman speed was inhibited by his injuries, but he was nevertheless impressive to behold. Dumbledore slashed his wand, repelling the vampire back with a burst of air. It was a conservative choice, but the spell still sapped a good deal of his remaining strength. The blood he lost with each heart-beat was not helping either.
"That's it, old man. Keep… wasting your strength. The… great Albus Dumbledore, unable to use magic."
"What do you mean, Quirinius isn't here?"
The vampire laughed once again, this time off to Dumbledore's right side. The headmaster finally had the device in his hand. He clicked the button.
A bright orb of light burst into existence and rose to the ceiling. With the room suddenly bright as day, Dumbledore could see his enemy clearly. Some of Quirrell's features were still there, but they were marred by advanced vampirism. There was something else too… another influence.
The vampire snarled, shielding his sensitive eyes with one hand. "How can you do this? The wards in this place should sap all magic."
Dubmbledore smiled cordially, now reaching for another pocket. "It's a deluminator – or I suppose a illuminator in this instance. One of my inventions. It stores electric light – a muggle source of illumination. It is less magical than anything I can produce with my wand."
The vampire growled. "Even so… it is already slowly fading."
Dubmbledore took another step away from the creature. He nearly tripped on a tomb, but managed to catch his balance before he fell.
"Too true. I answered your question, will you answer mine? Where is Quirinius?"
The vampire lowered his hand, and stared at Dumbledore once more. The waning light cast shadows under his brow. "I suppose… there is no harm in telling you now. After all… the great Albus Dumbledore will be dead soon. Quirinius' body stands before you, but his mind is locked away. I AM LORD VOLDEMORT."
Dumbledore felt a brief shock surge through his chest, but between blood loss and magical exhaustion, he was too weary to panic. His hand was nearly on the other wand, the one that called to him every waking moment, and in his dreams too. The one he had sworn he would not use.
"Do you fear me now… old man? Your magic cannot save you. I will rend your throat. Your blood will heal my wounds. With you gone, I will return to Britain unopposed."
Dumbledore could not hear Tom's taunting. Now that his hand was wrapped around the knotted wood, he heard another, louder voice in his head.
"Killll himmm"
The vampire – Tom – Quirrinus, took another step forward. It was all too confusing. Dumbledore could barely think, let alone block out the siren-like song of the elder wand. His reluctance shattered by pain and imminent doom, he gave in to the wand's call and pulled it from his cloak.
With a wide sweep of the cursed wand, he tore the main sarcophagus off the ground, and threw it over Quirrel. The vampire struggled against his stone prison, but there was little he could do. After all, the wand was death incarnate. Even the magic sapping wards of the tumulus could not negate such sheer power.
"Gooood. Sunder him… crush his bones into dust. Seal his broken body beneath this poisoned soil…"
Dumbledore struck his temple with his palm, tears of desperation trickling down his dusty cheeks. He knew that if he gave in now, the voice would only grow louder. It would grow stronger with each death until it would be impossible to ignore its command. Much about the wand was a mystery, but one thing was certain – murder made it stronger, and it could never be sated.
A string of destructive curses was on his lips. With every last fiber of self-control, Dumbledore uttered another incantation – one turning the stone of the sarcophagus into impregnable crystal. He fell to his knees, tiredly crawling towards the trapped vampire.
"Kill me… I will rise again… for I am Lord Voldemort… and you are but a man."
Dumbledore rested his back against the crystal sarcophagus. "I shall not kill you." He placed the death stick in his cloak with a trembling hand, it's presence screaming in his mind as it faded away – still present but muted.
"I will die here, Tom. You were right about that. I will go to whatever lies beyond. You, however, will not rise again. You will rot in this tomb for centuries before you succumb to thirst."
The vampire sneered, his face distorted through the crystal. "I cannot die… you fool. Be that as it may… I do not wish to linger here for centuries. Quirinius' corpse will keep you company. I… will find a more suitable host."
Dumbledore fell to the ground, turning his head towards the sarcophagus. He saw Quirinius' body shudder, and a translucent mist emerge from its chest. The soul attempted to escape through the sarcophagus. It promptly bounced back.
Minutes ticked by as Tom repeatedly tried to escape, each attempt more futile than the last. He had no doubt figured out that his prison was no ordinary crystal, for it had been conjured by death itself. As the magic-sapping ward tugged at the unprotected soul, Tom tried to return to Quirinius' body, but it was minutes too late. As Tom faded into oblivion, Dumbledore heard the elder wand's cry of triumph in his mind. The wand had claimed another soul. Another mark in its long list of victims.
As Dumbledore began to drift towards the afterlife – he felt something blocking the way. He shuddered when he realized it was the wand. The parasitic entity would not let him die without a new master. Bolstered by the fresh kill, it had the strength to keep him alive for the time being.
After what felt like an hour in purgatory, Dumbledore heard a faint rustling coming his way. He ignored the aching in his neck and turned his head towards the source. It was a baby chick – Fawkes – hopping towards him. At least his friend would live on.
Dumbledore stirred as the Phoenix reached him. His eyes widened when he realized what his familiar was about to do. Grown Phoenixes could produce tears that could heal nearly any injury, but the freshly hatched Fawkes was not anywhere near that stage. He could still heal, but at price. Fawkes could save Dumbledore - at the cost of his own life.
Dumbledore tried to shake his head side to side. "No… Fawkes. Leave… me."
Fawkes ignored the command and hopped towards the bleeding neck wound. Dumbledore involuntarily groaned with relief when the bird produced tears directly over the bite. Within minutes, he had the strength to rise to his elbows. Fawkes, on the other hand, was dying.
Its breast was still rising and falling, but the Phoenix was growing colder by the second. Dumbledore quickly scooped up his friend, and began to crawl towards the exit. By the time he got to the antechamber, he was walking, albeit painfully. Fawkes, on the other hand, was dead.