Disclaimer: I own a lollipop. Nothing else matters.

AN: 1. The conjuration in this chapter is straight out of the Latin version of Clavicula Salomonis, or the Key of Solomon. That being said, if you believe in that sort of thing, I wouldn't advise reading it out loud ;) I took a few liberties with the interpretation of the conjuration, and hellebore is traditionally used for summoning demons, not human spirits, I believe. But what the hell (pun intended) – it's fiction, right? On that note, watch out for the huge Latin blurb, which you may want to skip over. Some may find it annoying, while others may find it amusing; either way, I did it on some inexplicably strong impulse…think of it what you will.
2. Last but not least - thanks, ye who enjoy, and moreover, ye who review! Reviews are just so fun to read...

Chapter 17: Of Dabbling and Dead People

Harry sighed, listening to the boring music playing in Mrs. Granger's car.

"So," she began, more than a little awkwardly, "You're one of Hermione's school friends?"

"That's right."

"From…the boarding school, in Scotland."

"From Hogwarts, yeah."

She nodded, a little more sure of herself. "You live in Surrey, so are your parents…"

"Muggles?"

She nodded.

"No, they were magical. I live with a muggle aunt and uncle, my parents are dead."

Mrs. Granger gasped. "Oh…Hermione didn't mention…I'm so sorry –"

Harry shook his head. "Don't worry about it. They died when I was a baby – I don't even remember much of them."

Mrs. Granger nodded, though her eyes were still soft with maternal empathy. "So how did you meet Hermione?"

"Uh…right before the sorting. We sat in the same boat, on the way to the castle."

"Ah, right…Hermione said that you are sorted into different school houses on the first day. She said that she was sorted into Gryffindor."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Even though Hermione's brilliant –"

Mrs. Granger beamed proudly.

"- Gryffindor's aren't exactly known for their academic prowess – more for boldness and courage. Supposed to be a pretty noble lot, too. Anyway, my house, Ravenclaw, we're sort of the bookworms of the school – so even though we're in different houses, we spent some time together, usually in the library."

Mrs. Granger nodded eagerly. "She told us all about the study group, and how you both tied for top marks. We were so proud! She also said something about a project…?"

"Yeah, that's what we're going to work on. Muggle devices don't work in Hogwarts, because electricity goes wonky around concentrated magic. We want to find a way to get around this, or else replicate electricity with magic."

"That sounds like a very complex and demanding endeavour."

"Oh, it is. It will combine several disciplines, and may take a few years just to plan. But it will be worth it, in the end."

Mrs. Granger smiled at him, pulling into the driveway of a large, tidy house with a simple, but well kept garden lining it. "I can see why she likes you so much."

Harry snorted. "You mean barely puts up with me?"

Mrs. Granger shook her head knowingly, and locked the car doors, ushering Harry up to the front door, and opening it. "Hermione," she called, "Your friend's here!"

Suddenly, the bushy haired girl darted down the stairs, flying over to embrace Harry.

"Oh Harry! I missed you!" Suddenly aware of what she was doing, she drew back, coughing slightly, glaring at her mother when she started snickering.

"Missed you too, even though it's only been a little more than a week," Harry said with a raised eyebrow.

"Well it's a long time to wait, after seeing you every day for nine months!" she snapped.

"True," Harry conceded.

Mrs. Granger smiled between them. "I was planning to head over to Mrs. Welling's place for a while, will you two be alright on your own? There's milk in the refrigerator and cookies on the table, and my pager number's taped to the wall if you need anything."

"We'll be fine mum," Hermione said.

"Of course you will," she turned around, heading for the door, "Stay out of trouble!"

Hermione sighed loudly as her mother shut the front door.

"Cookies first," Harry said immediately.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, ushering him into the kitchen.

"It's a nice place," Harry commented, sitting down at the table and grabbing one of the chocolate chip cookies off the plate. "Very...homely."

"I suppose," Hermione said, fetching the pitcher of milk and two glasses. "I've lived here my whole life, so I don't really have anything to compare it to."

Harry nodded.

"So," Hermione started, pouring the milk into the glasses, "Professor Babbling already sent a reply?"

Harry pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. "Yeah, she seemed quite surprised by the letter, but answered quite promptly and enthusiastically, nonetheless."

Hermione immediately snatched the letter out of his hands, eyes promptly gluing themselves to the paper, brow furrowing in unbreakable concentration. It took her only a few minutes for her to finish both pages of the letter – and when she looked up, her brown eyes were positively glowing with excitement. "I only understood half of it, but it sounds brilliant! Combining runes as a sensor and arithmancy as memory to replicate muggle electrical equipment – I assume that's what it's doing, because it's obviously not creating an electrical current…"

Harry nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "Basically, using an arithmantic matrix to hold the code, and some simple charms to determine the binary true/false operation, tiny runestones are used to pick up a person's magical signature when they touch a part of the keypad – the small amount of energy is transmitted to the matrix and then the charms determine the outcome."

Hermione blinked. "You actually understood all that?" There was a tone of jealousy underlying her voice.

Harry shrugged. "I've studied runes for a long time, and some arithmancy as well, so I'm familiar with some of their simple applications. I've only got a general idea of how the system works, nothing definitive."

Hermione definitely looked jealous now. "How do you know runes and arithmancy? It's not taught until third year!"

Harry sighed. "I've been reading up on them since I was nine or something – I'm only familiar with a few of their applications, not the theory behind it."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You knew – you knew about magic, back then, before your Hogwarts letter?"

Harry nodded.

"But you said your relatives are muggles!"

"They are, and they hate magic, in fact. The reason I started to learn to control my magic was so that I could torment them properly -"

Hermione's jaw went slack, horrified.

"- you know, not just petty pranks, but actual scariness."

Hermione swallowed thickly, resolving to ignore that last comment. "But how did you learn about it in the first place? About real wizards, not just psychics or something?"

"My marmalade sausages told me one morning."

"Harry!"

He sighed exasperatedly. "It's just…well, it's a little difficult to explain, and it's a really long story –"

Hermione opened her mouth to interrupt, but Harry continued quickly,

"And it's private."

Hermione nodded, disappointment evident on her face. "I understand. Then…then you won't be taking Ancient Runes and Arithmancy with me in third year?"

Harry's eyes widened. "Of course I will! I told you, I only know a few applications – I can't wait to learn about the theory behind it all."

Hermione grinned. "Neither can I! I wish we didn't have to wait a whole year…unless…" She eyed Harry pointedly.

"What?" Harry asked through a mouthful of cookie.

"You could teach me what you know."

Harry choked.

"Oh, come on, it's a good idea!"

"I really don't think you'd be interested in what I know."

"I'm interested in everything! Well, everything but those awful curses you always go on about. Honestly! Why would you even want to make someone's heart explode by replacing the blood in it with wine!"

"It'd be a tasty way to die...sort of..."

"Don't change the subject!"

Harry sighed. "I only know of runes' and arithmancy's uses in divination, Hermione."

She blanched. "Divination? I heard it's a sort of spotty, wishy-washy practice – why on earth would you be interested in that?"

Harry scowled at her, trying not to feel offended. "The problem isn't the art, it's the people who practice it."

Hermione frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that the amount of untalented frauds out there has given divination a bad name, is all."

"Well, the older students I spoke to seemed to think that even the Divination Professor couldn't make a decent prediction if she tried –"

"She's probably a bloody fraud too, old hag."

"Harry!" Hermione scolded. "That's an awful thing to say about a teacher!"

"But it's probably true. My instincts with teachers are usually good - remember Quirrell?"

"That was different!"

"Anyway, people seem to think that if they know all there is to know about divination – which isn't really possible – that they can actually use it."

"Well why couldn't thy? That doesn't make any sense!" Hermione scowled.

"Yes, it does. It's in a person's blood, their magic. You're either born with the ability, or you're not. Simple as that."

Hermione looked absolutely horrified. "You believe in all that blood purity talk…?"

"No! Not like Voldemort's followers, of course not, I think it's ridiculous. Honestly, you could make half of the purebloods in our year cry like a baby in a duel. But think of it this way – how could someone born deaf become a great singer? How could a person born lame become a swimmer? There are some things you're born with, Hermione – there are plenty of people who work as hard as you, but will never be as intelligent as you are. I'm not being a prejudiced bigot for saying that, I'm just being honest."

Hermione hung on to his every word, brows furrowed thoughtfully. She nodded slowly. "So…there are some people who are born with a natural affinity for certain types of magic? It's nothing to do with inferiority, or superiority?"

Harry grinned - trust Hermione to accept something that most adult wizards couldn't set straight. "Exactly! Humans with magical abilities all have some sort of ancestral connection with higher, non-human powers, muggleborns too – and this is what gives people different sorts of unique abilities. Divination is an extremely rare ability to have, making any reliable practice very rare."

"But…this isn't common knowledge, is it?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"You can't find this in the Hogwarts library? People don't know about how obscure the art of divination really is?"

"Exactly – couldn't have said it better myself."

Hermione bit her lip. "Then how do you know?"

Harry froze, suddenly realizing his mistake. In his passionate exposition on divination, he had thoughtlessly revealed more than he should have; and Hermione, of course, picked up on it. Would she believe an excuse? Not likely. Would she let it be? Of course not. Could he trust her? He took a deep breath, swallowing the growing lump in his throat. He wanted to. "Can you keep a secret, Hermione?"

"Of course I can."

"No, I mean really – never, ever tell anyone."

She sucked in a deep breath, but then nodded eagerly.

Harry sighed. "Fine…then…I – I'm a Seer, Hermione, a real one." Wow…that actually felt kind of good…

Hermione blanched, a calculating coming over her face, but then laughed lightly. "Oh, Harry, you had me going, for a while…"

Harry only shook his head.

She froze, her eyes meeting his bright, sincere ones. "Oh…oh. You're telling the truth? You…you can see the future." Shock and the slightest incredulity were evident in her voice.

"Not just the future – the past, the present too. Divination isn't seeing the future – it's harnessing the transcendent, the divine, and witnessing it."

A troubled look crossed over Hermione's face. "But…but how's that even possible? You can't just…it doesn't make any sense…and what's the theory behind it? How can you be sure everything you See is true?"

Harry sighed. "It's…it's complicated, alright. And...it's sort of private. Big family secret, and all that."

Hermione appeared to be somewhere between being understanding and being indignant. "But I…I don't…."

"Look, how about a demonstration?" Harry suggested, grinning uneasily.

Hermione's round, brown eyes widened. "Really? You'd show me?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Sure. I've been meaning to actually practice on someone." He pulled the Minor Arcana out of his back pocket. "I still can't do this properly – sifting both decks together, so you'll just have to settle for this."

"Are those…tarot cards?" Hermione asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry smirked. "Special ones. Now, cut the deck, and as you do, think about your past."

"My past?"

"Yeah – I thought it would be best for me to do a reading on your past, because you could verify it right away. It won't be an actual spread – I'll just pull out three cards, and interpret from that."

Hermione nodded, taking the cards. "Why three?"

Harry shrugged. "Three is often believed to be a number of completeness – the Trinity in Christianity, a sacred number to the Norse…." He gestured for her to continue.

She cut the deck, and handed it back to Harry, who immediately began to shuffle it. Hermione looked on curiously, enthralled by his smooth, focused motions, watching intently and analyzing his movements as the cards the cards flowed through his fingers and into each other – she jumped when he suddenly stopped, placing the deck on the table and dealing three cards face down.

He flipped over the first card, revealing the nine of swords. "It means grief, loss, despair – associated with death, often." His hand drifted over to the next card, turning over the ten of cups. "Happiness, fortune – usually a symbol of family and perfect love." His hand moved over to the last card, which he turned over to reveal the seven of wands. "A card of ambition – of holding onto one's standing, position, or advantages, and fighting for it…it symbolizes determination. On the other hand, it can also symbolize guilt, desperation, and insecurity." He did not lift his gaze from the cards, breathing deeply before he shut them, and leaned back in his chair, brows knitted slightly in concentration. "You…very early in your life, you, or your family, experienced loss – a death…perhaps of a sibling?…but you had a good early childhood – your parents loved, no, love you unconditionally, nourishing you and encouraging you to grow. But they weren't around as often as you would have liked, and when they were around, you were desperate to please them. It carried over to school; you didn't have many friends, and were determined to show your worth by flaunting your intelligence – you made sure that you were recognized for your intellect, and always worked very, very hard to keep it that way." He opened his eyes, uneasily taking in her shocked face – her mouth hung open, slack, her eyes round and wide, vulnerably, sincerely exposed.

He cleared his throat slightly. "Er…how did I do?"

She blinked, snapped out of her daze. "I…" her voice cracked, choking slightly as she blushed heavily. "My twin sister…she was stillborn. And the rest of what you said – I…I was always at the top of my class. My parents were always so proud…I loved that, I really did….I guess…I guess I really was desperate for approval."

Harry bit his lip, shifting uneasily. "Sorry – I suppose that was rather inappropriate of me, invading your privacy like that."

Hermione shook her head forcefully. "No, it's alright. I wanted it – and I believe what you said." She smiled encouragingly. "You're good at it – you really do have gift, you know. I don't suppose you'd have any advice for my future…?"

Harry smirked. "Sure, but I'll be charging a fee."

She scowled and slapped him. "You can forget it then. I'm not paying to know something that I'll find out eventually on my own."

Harry laughed. "Good answer. Very…Gryffindorish."

"I hope there wasn't a hidden insult in there somewhere…"

Harry shook his head. "There isn't. Now, about our project…"

Hermione jumped. "Oh! I'd forgotten all about that! That's why you came in the first place!"

"Well, that, and the cookies."

"You didn't know there'd be cookies," Hermione pointed out.

"I Saw it in a dream," Harry said airily, smirking.

Hermione glared at him suspiciously. "Sure. Now – should we try to use this system Professor Babbling described? Or are we going to actually try to generate electricity so we can use normal muggle devices without altering them?"

Harry's brow furrowed musingly. "I…I think we need to do more research first – you know, to get a clearer picture of what we're dealing with."

Hermione nodded. "I agree. We need to research both arithmancy and runes, as well as some charms theory. And we should really do some research on electromagnetism – my parents have a lot of books on the sciences, so that shouldn't be hard."

"Right, so – I'll do some more research on arithmancy and runes, and you can take care of electromagnetism…I was always really good at math, in primary school, but science wasn't really my favourite subject. Bloody teacher never let me blow anything up..."

Hermione sighed and shook her head.

"Anyway, you should familiarize yourself with some basic runeology, as well – I'd try the library, for starters."

Hermione nodded eagerly. "Then we can meet again, and compare our notes, then we can make an outline of our ideas, and then…"

Deep in conversation, Harry and Hermione barely noticed when Mrs. Granger returned home at quarter past four. She literally had to pry the two away from each other, and both children looked disappointed when she informed them it was time for Harry to leave. Before allowing Harry to shut the car door, Hermione had made sure to lecture him on taking clear, concise notes, as well as creating an unbiased evaluation of any theories he came across. Harry reluctantly agreed.

Instead of being driven back to Privet Drive Harry requested that Mrs. Granger drop him at the gardening store. While she seemed very confused at the question, she acquiesced, letting Harry off at a small greenhouse outside of Surrey. There, Harry purchased a packet of hellebore seeds before port-keying back to Jean's Hollow.

The blonde man in the portrait visibly jumped when Harry materialized in the room, causing Harry to smirk.

"Damn! Forgot all about your new toy!" He squinted, noticing the small packet in Harry's hand. "Wha's that?"

Harry glanced down at the seeds. "Hellebore seeds."

Jean blanched. "Hellebore."

Harry sat down and nodded.

"What're you gonna use that for?" he asked warily.

Harry picked up his B3, beginning to shuffle through it, searching for something. "I was wondering, Jean, what you could tell me about necromancy."

Harry could easily tell, without glancing up, that the portrait's glare was furious. "It's dangerous, that's what. And illegal, for a reason. You're nowhere near ready to attempt something like that! You –"

"Jean," Harry interrupted. "Don't worry, I'm not planning on raising the dead." He grinned slightly, pulling a matchbox and a small silver bowl out of the bag.

Jean raised an eyebrow. "Good. You've really got everything in there, don't you?"

Harry shrugged. "I was wondering about spirit invocation, in particular. I've read some of the texts in your trunk, and apparently it's not nearly as risky as corporeal necromancy –"

"But still far more dangerous than any other method of divination you could attempt. One little mistake…"

"But that's actually what my question was about."

Jean frowned curiously.

"What would happen, for example, if you tried to summon the spirit of someone who wasn't dead?"

Jean blinked. "Nothing. Nothing would happen. The spell would utterly and completely fail, as though you had mumbled a bit of nonsense and lit some dandelions on fire. There are no invocations I know of geared toward ripping a soul out of someone's living body. Only the killing curse can do that."

Harry nodded. "Right, then you've got nothing to worry about."

"Woah, woah, woah, wait a second! What the hell're ya talkin' about?"

"Peter Pettigrew."

"What?"

"I'm talking about Peter Pettigrew."

"Sorry, I'm so not gettin' this…."

Harry sighed. "Long story short, Sirius Black's conviction is pretty much contingent on the truthfulness behind the demise of Peter Pettigrew. I need to see if he's really dead, and if he is, I need to question him – so I'm going to summon his spirit."

"No, no you're not. What did I just say about necromancy? Were you even listening?"

"Of course I was listening. But here's the thing, Jean, I really don't think Peter Pettigrew is dead – in fact, I'm somewhere around eighty percent sure he's alive."

"Eighty," Jean deadpanned.

"Well…more like eight-two point five…"

Jean sneered. "And what makes you say that?"

"He was killed in an explosion, Jean – no one actually saw him die. And all that was left was a finger – no teeth, bones, limbs, or even ash. And get this – no one else who died in the explosion was disintegrated."

Jean frowned. "That's ….suspicious. But not enough to risk something like this. Sorry, brat, not going to happen -"

Suddenly, the table in the middle of the room flew into the wall, and on the other side of the hollow, a window shattered. Jean started, his gaze snapping towards Harry, whose eyes were alight with a cold fury.

"Yes, it is, Jean. Sirius Black is my godfather and my cousin – if he's innocent, then I will have him acquitted, no matter what. In fact, I can't think of anything I want more right now. But if he isn't...then I'll make sure he's a dead man, one way or another."

Jean stared at him, unnerved and conflicted, for a good few minutes, before sighing. He began, voice stiff and lecturing, "Necromancy is different from every other form of divination – not only does it draw on Apollo's and the Fates' powers, but Death's as well. The power behind magic is Will – without it, any spell will either fail or backfire. The more powerful the spell and the caster, the greater the chance of a backfire. The magic of divination works by directly offering one's will and mind to the gods, and opening it up for manipulation – if one's will is sincere and strong, coinciding with the information requested, then appropriate knowledge will be granted." He paused. "But it's different with necromancy – you're offering your Will to Death (in the invocation, you use another deities power to plead for his presence)…which forms a paradox. Death is the weakness of every man, and saps away the Will – if this cannot be overcome in some manner, and Death is not satisfied, then one of several things could happen: failure, the spell could completely fail, leaving you magically exhausted, possibly near death or permanently weakened; Death could take the caster's soul as payment instead; or, the Will could be too weakened by the time the spell completes, and the caster will be too weak to command what they have summoned…this usually results in being eaten or possessed. The risk is least for summoning the body of an animal, greater for summoning a normal spirit, even greater for summoning a human body, and greater than that is summoning human body with its magical core and primal Will intact. The greatest risk occurs when summoning demons."

Harry was silent at that, his face gone pale, his eyes fixed on the grey wall in front of him as he endeavoured to keep his hands from shaking.

"Do you think you can do that? Overcome Death and plead with him with a pure, confident heart to grant you what you ask?"

No…no, no, no, NO! Harry's mind screamed, but to no avail. "Yes," he replied hollowly.

Jean swallowed. "There'll really be no talking you out of this, will there?"

Harry shook his head. "No."

"You sure you don't want to...maybe...wait? Prepare?"

"I have everything I need here."

"You know what the risks are, Harry," Jean pleaded, "It's not worth it –"

"It is."

Jean sighed. "Fine…it's not like I can stop you – but if you're going to do this, you'll damn well do it properly. You'll follow my instructions exactly."

Harry nodded determinedly.

"Good. You got a copy of The Key of Solomon?"

Harry nodded, reaching into his B3 and drawing out the old, heavy, tattered book.

"Ok, go to the last part of book one, on Pentacles. Right…now find the first pentacle of Mercury."

Harry flipped through the pages, eyes coming to rest on one depicting a symbol below a short paragraph. "The first pentacle of Mercury – it serveth to invoke the spirits who are under the firmament."

"It's a simple, general, but powerful invocation circle. You'll be drawing it in your own blood."

Harry blanched. "But why? Pentacles don't need to be blood –"

"Because," Jean interrupted, "It's more powerful that way, and deities tend to cut you more slack when you offer your own blood. Now, are you going to get started? It's Wednesday, so the ritual needs to be done by…about six."

Harry sighed, pulling out the pocket knife in his back pocket – one of the items he had stolen from Vernon out of spite over the years – and sliced into his hand, dipping his fingers into his blood and drawing the pentagram on the dusty concrete floor, and then the first circle around it. He dipped his fingers in the blood gathering in his palm once again, drawing the five symbols between the arms of the pentagram, and then the second, larger circle around the first. Between the circles, and at each vertex of the pentagram, he drew five more symbols. As he finished, he drew back to appreciate his artistic abilities.

"Drip some of that blood into that silver bowl now."

Harry frowned, but nevertheless, applied pressure around the wound, causing the crimson liquid to well up, flowing from his hand and staining the silver. Once the bottom of the bowl was coated by a thin layer of blood, Harry retrieved some bandages from his B3 and wrapped his hand up.

"Good…now, mix in the hellebore seeds."

Harry ripped open the packet, pouring the seeds into the bowl, swirling his finger about, causing the two substances to mingle thoroughly.

"And now light a couple of matches and lay them inside. Right…don't burn yourself! Good…" Jean sighed. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Harry nodded assuredly.

Jean sighed again, and then closed his worried eyes, brow furrowed as he began to mumble something rapidly.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Praying to Saint Michael – he's the angel of the hour of Rana on Wednesdays, I believe. And Saint Uriel – according to some traditions he's the archangel of Wednesdays."

"You're…praying…?"

"Yup."

"You're praying?"

"You'll need all the luck you can get."

"I'm thrilled you have such confidence in me."

Jean scowled. "Just turn back to page twenty-eight. And make sure to insert the spirit's name at the beginning."

Harry flipped through the pages, and then blanched. "It's so long! I've seen much shorter rituals than this one…"

"Use this one," Jean said adamantly. "It's safest, alright? A tried and true beginner's method."

"It's Judeo-Christian."

"Duh, it's from the Key of Solomon. Which makes it safer – invoking Judeo-Christian powers is much safer, when possible, than invoking others, namely Greek and Norse, because historically, they're less petty and less likely to screw around with your contacting Death."

"Right," Harry sighed, setting the silver bowl, from which thick, greyish smoke was pouring out, in the middle of the pentacle, before glancing down at the text, pronouncing carefully, "Conjuro vos Spiritus Peter Pettigrew's, et adjuro per infinitum verbum quo cuncta creata sunt, cum dixit Deus fiat et facta sunt, conjuro te et requiro te, adjuro vos qui ibidem extra circulum estis, quod visibiliter appareatis per bonitatem Dei, qua Deus hominem ad imaginem suam creavit, et vos per justitiam propter Vestram superbiam damnavit et ejecit de Caelo, et per justitiam qua primos nostros parentes salvavit, per misericordiam et Virginitatem et humilitatem Mariae sacratissimae Virginis Matris Domini nostri Jesu Christi, et per justitiam qua locis summis vestris spoliavit et cruciavit, ut mihi de quesitis à Vobis per me fideliter dicatis, conjuro vos O Sapientissimi Spiritus per obedientiam quam superioribus vestris adhibere tenemini, et per hoc Sacro Sanctum nomen Tetragrammaton veraciter servetis obedientiam mihi virtute hujus Sanctissimi nominis, in quantum permissi estis, celeriter faciatis, et si poteritis, immediate recedentes per aspersionem sanguinis Jesu Christi alium vel alios adducatis qui potestatem habent et scientiam ut stetis firmiter, et non in cutiatis mihi timorem, nec mihi noceatis, sed veraciter absque fraude ad me veniatis, ita prope, ut non sit spatium inter vos, et nos amplius quam duodecim pedum, et mihi respondeatis fideliter de singulis rebus quas voluero, et sine quacunque fraude vel simulatione meum desiderium veraciter et videliter ad implete, ipso praestante cujus virtute et Sapientia Salomoni peririssimo vos sibi obedientaliter subjugavit, et hoc auctoritate illius, qui imperat, qui sine fine vivit et regnat et Conjuro vos O Sapientissimi Spiritus per obedientiam quam Virtute hujus semper benedicti nominis Dei Tetragramaton Deo et mihi fecistis, et per eiusdem ineffabilem nominis potentiam, et per Michaelem Archangelum qui Daemones subjecerat infernales, et per annunciationem Beatae Mariae Virginis, Matris Domini nostri Jesu Christi, et per ejus nativitatem, passionem, mortem, est resurrectionem, per ascentionem, et lachrymas beatae Virginis Mariae, et per scissuram Veli templi in ejus morte, et per omnia, quæ unquam facta fuerunt, in Caelo et in terra, et inferno, ut mihi jam de omnibus quae interrogavero à Vobis sine fraude, timore et mendacio qualicunque mihi fideliter respondeatis, ut cantus in meis quaestionibus effectus, ipsi summo Deo, Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto uni Deo, vivo et vero laudes referam et gratiarum actiones Praestante spectabili Trinitate, qui vivit, unus Deus est, et erit in aeternum, Amen."

The faint light in the silver bowl flickered slightly and then was snuffed out, and the hellebore-blood mixture began to sizzle, along with Harry's magic – but suddenly, it all went silent, and still.

Both Harry and Jean held their breath a few moments longer, before blinking, shifting slightly.

"It didn't work…" Jean mused. "The connection wasn't even made…"

Harry grinned. "And you know what that means – Peter Pettigrew is alive."

When Harry woke the next morning, he felt like something grudgingly brought back from the dead. The previous night, after finding proof the Peter Pettigrew was alive, Jean went and spoiled his triumphant mood by pointing out that if he wanted any answers, Pettigrew would have to be found. At first, Harry thought this would be easy – he could just use the same locator spell Jean had used to find him – but then he discovered that most reliable locator spells required the blood of the person to be found (or a relative), and on top of that, were illegal.

Thus, Harry found himself quite preoccupied and not tired at all – and then, when he finally dozed off, his sleep was more than a little disturbed. Now, wakened by the sound of the Dursleys in the kitchen, he blinked blearily, hand reaching for his glasses, which sat upon the photo album he kept beside his bed at all times.

"Harry…" he could hear Jean's voice, calling softly. "Better get up – it's your first day on the job…"

Harry's eyes snapped all the way open, and then to his watch, which read nine hundred and twenty hours. He swung his legs around, off the tiny bed in his cupboard, hissed the password to his trunk, and began to rifle through his belongings.

"Thanks for reminding me…I almost forgot," he mused, pulling out the white button-up from his Hogwarts uniform, along with one of his tidier pairs of black jeans.

Jean chuckled. "What are big cousins for? Aw…my little coz, off to his first job."

Harry scowled as he buttoned up his shirt, and then reaching back into the chest, pulling out a hairbrush.

"Ooh…he's even combing the rat's nest – this job must be pretty important to you."

"Of course it is," Harry said, running the brush through his resistant locks. "It's quite the place, really – I'll learn a lot, both about the job and other things…"

Jean raised an eyebrow. "If you say so."

"I do." Harry then began to braid the curly strands, fastening them tightly in the back. "How do I look?"

"Like you're going on a date," Jean replied immediately.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I suppose that's acceptable. I'll see you in a few hours."

"Right. Good luck – don't kill any customers!"

Harry smirked and touched the pendant on his wrist, intoning, "Raido."

He felt the familiar tugging sensation of the portkey, closing his eyes, only opening them when he felt his feet touch the ground again, stumbling slightly. Looking around, he found himself in the backyard of the Leaky Cauldron; but instead of proceeding into Diagon Alley, he went back into the building, marching through the back door and up to the counter.

"Tom?"

Said elderly man spun around, eyes widening when he saw Harry. "Blimey, Mr. Potter! It's an honour to see you here again!"

Harry smiled. "I was hoping that you could fix me with some breakfast – some bacon and eggs perhaps?"

"Oh, of course Mr. Potter! Take a seat, and I'll go fetch your breakfast."

Harry nodded, taking a seat at the counter and glancing around the pub. There were a few quiet customers seated down in the corner, but otherwise, the place was empty; it had not changed at all since the previous year – indeed, Harry mused, it probably hadn't changed much in many years, considering the décor. Most of the paintings on the wall seemed quite old, and the furniture and light fixtures were clearly antique; the walls were cracked and worn in places, cobwebbed in the corner. And yet, Harry could not help but take note of the friendly atmosphere.

Suddenly, a scrumptious smelling plate was set in front of him, startling him from his musings.

Harry grinned at the greasy, seasoned bacon and eggs on the plate. "Thanks Tom, looks delicious." He shovelled some into his mouth and moaned.

"Glad you like it," Tom said, smiling toothlessly. "If I may ask, how was your first year at Hogwarts?"

"You may," Harry said through a mouthful of bacon, "It was very eventful. Long story. Though, I suppose, I could say that I started the year being sorted into Ravenclaw, and finished tied for first for the highest marks in my year."

Tom looked absolutely thrilled. "Oh, you don't say! Ravenclaw? Top marks? Brilliant, Mr. Potter, brilliant!"

Harry fought down a blush and only shrugged, washing down his last bite of bacon with the glass of milk Tom had brought him.

"And you're looking mighty handsome today – meeting someone special, perhaps?"

Harry shrugged again. "I suppose you could say that." He glanced down at his watch. "In about fifteen minutes, in fact – I really should get going. How much do I owe you?"

Tom started. "Oh, ten sickles should do it."

Harry reached into his pocket, producing the appropriate number of silver coins and laying them on the counter. "Thanks for the meal, Tom." He slipped off his seat.

"Oh, anytime, Mr. Potter – it was an honour, an honour!"

Harry chuckled as he made his way back into the backyard, reaching over and tapping the correct brick, watching the bricks fold apart, revealing the thin, but lively morning crowd in Diagon Alley.

Weaving his way through the bustling early morning shoppers, Harry did his best to remain inconspicuous as he slipped down into the dark, narrow passage that was Knockturn Alley, ignoring the various dubious characters leering at him from the shadows. Ere long, he found himself in front of Borgin and Burke's shop once again, and stopped in front, taking a deep breath and straightening his shirt before he marched through the front door.

He glanced around the quiet, shadowy shop, taking a moment to admire a few of the more obscure iron torture devices in the corner. "Mr. Borgin?" he called softly.

"You're early," came an oily voice from behind him.

Harry spun around, finding Mr. Borgin leering at him from behind the counter. Harry's lips twitched. "Better than being late."

Borgin looked over him appraisingly. "Indeed." But then the man froze, eyes suddenly fixed on Harry's forehead. "That –"

Harry subconsciously reached up, finding his bangs swept to the side, revealing his scar. He glanced up at Mr. Borgin uneasily.

"Harry," the man whispered, "Harry Potter."

"Yes," Harry replied blankly.

The man quirked an eyebrow, glaring at Harry piercingly. "No matter. You work hard, and you could be Albus Dumbledore for all I care."

Harry nodded gratefully.

"Now, best get started. As you are to be employed here at least temporarily, you should know exactly what you're doing. This shop was established in eighteen sixty-three, by myself and Caractacus Burke, my partner – it offers confidential valuation service for unusual and ancient wizarding artefacts, such as may have been inherited by the best wizarding families."

Harry's eyes were starkly focused on Mr. Borgin as he nodded firmly.

"In other words, we research and outline the value of antique and rare magical objects for an appropriate fee, and also buy and sell said artifacts; we do not distinguish between the uses and 'legality' of these artifacts – we simply deal with them according to their value. As I just stated, our services are confidential." He leered at Harry. "Snitching to the Ministry will get ya skinned alive, Boy-Who-Lived or not."

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now, you can come in for a few hours every second day; your duties will be keeping the shop tidy –"

Harry grimaced as he glanced around the dusty, unkempt place.

"- managing the shop when I'm out, aiding customers and dealing with simple transactions." He pulled out an enormous, bursting leather bound book from behind the counter. "This is the inventory. Each object has a tag with a number attached to it, referencing to this inventory. In the inventory, you will find the price we paid for the object, its approximate value, what we would like to sell it for, its uses and description, and its legal status. I expect you to be discrete and insistent when you make sales – NEVER lower the price for a customer more than fifteen percent. When you make a sale, you cross the item out, fill in a receipt for the customer, and write out a copy in here." He produced a much smaller logbook. "Understood?"

Harry nodded, mind furiously working as he filed away everything Borgin said.

"Now," Borgin continued, "Don't try to buy anything when I'm not present, and if any of the customers give you trouble, simply order them to get out, and the wards will throw them out."

Harry blinked. "That's rather brilliant."

Borgin sneered. "Yeah, well, we have our share of unpleasant, unreasonable clients – extra security measures are necessary. Now, everything clear?"

Harry took a deep breath, silently running through everything Mr. Borgin had told him. "Yes sir."

"Good. You can start by sweeping."

It took a good half hour to sweep the floor – weaving between the tables and merchandise, making sure to sweep up all the dust. Afterwards, Borgin had him start on dusting.

While the work was indeed boring and somewhat degrading, it gave Harry a chance to familiarize himself with the shop, especially when Borgin went to do some work in the back. For the most part, Harry's shift was eventless – he took a short reprieve to fetch some lunch for him and Mr. Borgin around noon, and then returned soon after, being asked to take a break from dusting and polish the counter. It was not until fifteen minutes before the end of Harry's shift that a customer entered the shop – an elderly woman wrapped in richly embroidered black robes, her greying black hair pinned behind her neatly. She entered the shop with a graceful gait, with an air of familiarity, but seeing Harry polishing the counter, she suddenly froze.

"Pollux…" she whispered hoarsely.

Harry blinked, not quite sure what to say to that.

"Ah, Miss Black – it's been too long," Borgin's oily voice came from behind, the man emerging from the shadows of the back room.

The woman, Miss Black's gaze snapped toward him. "Borgin, who is this boy?" she demanded.

"Why, he's our new employee – Harry Potter," Borgin said, grinning subtly.

Understanding dawned on the woman's face, as she turned to Harry, a delicately sculpted eyebrow raised, regal curiosity drawn over her features. "James Potter's son?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Harry replied quietly, curiosity evident in his voice also.

"James Potter was the son of my sister, Dorea," she stated neutrally. "He was a spoiled, self-righteous brat, if I remember correctly – just like his father."

Harry choked out a laugh at the description of his father and paternal grandfather, before frowning thoughtfully. "Then you must be…Cassiopeia Black." During his research at Hogwarts, Harry had read some genealogies concerning the old pureblood families – he had been surprised to find a number of living, though distant relations through the Black family, including one Draco Malfoy - who had been rather appalled by that fact.

The woman smiled slightly, as an eager, calculating look overcame her pointed, defined features. "Indeed." Her eyes drifted over to Borgin. "You wouldn't mind, Borgin, if I borrowed the company of this young man, for a time?"

Borgin shook his head. "His shift's almost done anyhow." He looked over to Harry. "You're free to go – be here Saturday at the same time."

Harry nodded gratefully. "Thank you Mr. Borgin. I'll see you Saturday." He glanced up at Cassiopeia expectantly.

She nodded at him. "Come along, then."

As they left Borgin and Burke's, striding down the alley at a steady, quick pace, the elderly woman began,

"I must say, I am not impressed that a great-nephew of mine would be working like a common shop-boy at Borgin and Burkes, of all places."

Harry swallowed. "I'm looking for something there. Something important. There are worse things than menial labour. Like brussel sprouts. And dead trolls." He shivered.

"Indeed," the woman drawled amusedly, "You are a difficult young man to find, Mr. Potter. One would think you were hiding in a cave in Brazil or something like that."

"Please, call me Harry. But I'm not sure what you mean."

"After your parents' demise, a number of pureblood families connected to the Potters tried to gain custody of you – my niece, Walburga, and her father Pollux were at the forefront. However, the Ministry was very closed mouthed about your whereabouts," she said distastefully.

"The Blacks wanted to adopt me even though I'm a half blood?"

Cassiopeia raised an eyebrow, scoffing airily. "There are much worse things, Harry, than being a half blood – after all, it obviously did not affect your magical prowess, if rumours are to be believed," she said pointedly.

Harry did not reply to that, but asked instead, "Why did you ask me to come with you?"

Cassiopeia hummed thoughtfully as they halted. "I originally went to Borgin and Burke's to exchange one of my late brother Pollux's old books for an item I have been interested in for some time…the entrails of a rather infamous dark lord of the seventeenth century – but it turns out I found something far more interesting – a Potter working on the magical black market. Please hold onto my arm tightly."

Harry frowned but did so without a second thought, and was suddenly startled when the sensation of being squeezed through a small tube came over him, leaving him standing in the entrance hall of a dark, dingy house.

"Y-you just apparated," Harry choked out, instantly recognizing the signs of the magical method of transportation, and barely able to resist the urge to vomit as he took in his surroundings frantically.

"I did."

"You just kidnapped me!"

"I did no such thing," the woman sneered, "You held onto my arm willingly."

"Yeah, but I didn't know what you were going to do! I did so on false pretences – false pretenses that you perpetuated," he said, pointing at her accusingly.

"I thought it was quite obvious," she sniffed. "And don't point, it's undignified."

"Undignified my arse! You think it was obvious? You would, wouldn't you – getting a bit senile in your old age! Mistaking me for someone who's dead, and then kidnapping me!"

"Are you calling me old?" Cassiopeia snapped.

"You are!"

Both of them glared at each other for a good two minutes, before they both burst out in raucous, cackling laughter.

"I have no idea why this is so funny…I just got kidnapped…" Harry managed between his chuckles.

The elderly woman smirked at him.

"Well, where did you kidnap me to, then?"

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London," Cassiopeia said.

"Aunt Cassie? Is that you?" called out a voice suddenly.

Cassiopeia followed the voice, Harry behind her, toward the stairwell, stopping in front of a rather large, nearly life-sized portrait of another black haired woman.

"I brought a guest, Walburga," Cassiopeia said, "James Potter's son." She gestured toward Harry, who stepped forward cautiously, bowing respectfully.

"James Potter?" the portrait sneered, "Blood-traitor filth! Scoundrel, corrupting my –"

"Walburga," Cassiopeia interrupted firmly, "This is the boy you wanted to adopt – Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter," the portrait echoed in a whisper, "The boy who defeated the Dark Lord." There was a wistful look on her face.

"I'm sorry," Harry began uneasily, "I was under the impression that the Black family supported the Dark Lord."

"We do," Walburga's portrait snapped, "Ridding our world of mudblood filth, blood-traitors and scum who have no respect for the old ways! He was right, what he said; the Dark Lord said he would do what no one else would –"

Cassiopeia looked down at Harry. "The Dark Lord commanded a charisma and confidence – as well as a knowledge of the old ways that the old houses had not seen in years."

"So powerful!" Walburga exclaimed, "Terrible, and great! He struck fear into the hearts of all those snivelling fools at the Ministry, the filthy mudbloods, blasphemous blood-traitors too!"

"But in the end," Cassiopeia interrupted, "He killed more purebloods and halfbloods than mudbloods and muggles. Both at his own hand and for the sake of his uncompromising ideals." She shook her head sadly. "In the end, the Dark Lord would betray everyone but himself."

"My sons," Walburga moaned, "He took my sons from me…my beautiful baby boys, my only hopes, gone…"

"Blood comes first," Cassiopeia concluded, "It took us too long to realize that that means that family comes first, and should be protected at all costs. We have paid dearly for this."

Harry glanced between the two women, finally nodding in understanding, closing his eyes in deep thought. Was that really what the war came down to? It wasn't some grand battle between good and evil like it was described as in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts? Was it really just a society trapped between two paradigms? Torn between the evils of the old and the new? It was…a civil war, a failed revolution. He opened his piercing, vivid green eyes slowly, fixing them on the portrait in front of them. "I am very sorry for your loss, Lady Black."

Walburga sniffled slightly. "What a sweet boy…if only my Sirius would have been so respectful, ran off like a blood-traitor Gryffindor hooligan, he did, ungrateful boy… he was always calling me awful things like old hag, and wicked bitch…he never called me Lady Black. What a cute, sweet little boy you are," she crooned, as Harry shifted awkwardly.

Cassiopeia sighed. "Are you alright then, Walburga, with him?"

The woman in the portrait looked over Harry appraisingly. "Do you go to Hogwarts, boy?"

Harry nodded.

"And what house are you in?" she asked primly.

"Ravenclaw," Harry replied cautiously.

"And you do well?"

"Top marks in my year."

"Excellent. And how do you hold up in a fight?"

"I don't fight. I curse people, and they never know what hit them."

The old woman cackled gleefully. "Wonderful, wonderful! And you show no quarter."

"Of course not. Quarters are for Gryffindors and pie."

The woman in the portrait grinned rather viciously and nodded. "Very good. He looks sort of like Regulus, doesn't he?"

Cassiopeia nodded amusedly. "Rather like Pollux, I thought."

"Yes, yes he does. Very good indeed."

Cassiopeia then turned to a very confused Harry. "Follow me, Harry."

She led him around to the den, ignoring Walburga's sudden ranting on how brave a boy Regulus was, stopping in front of the hearth, fetching a small dagger and a book from between two candles. The dagger was clearly an old, ceremonial dagger, and the book had the crest of the House of Black on it. Cassiopeia then set the book she had been carrying since Borgin and Burkes, Funerary Rites of the Ancients, down on the table, turning to Harry.

"I do not have much longer to live, Harry, only a few months, at most. I…I need someone to come take care of poor Walburga's portrait when I'm gone – she gets so lonely, it will drive her mad, eventually – after all she suffered during her last few years, I'd hate to see the only memory of her fall into ruin. I would like to include you in the blood wards around the house, so that you can enter whenever you like. If you could come…just sit with her every so often…" She grimly opened the book in her hand, revealing pages and pages of bloody fingerprints, and held out the dagger to Harry.

Harry took the dagger without hesitation, cutting his finger, and pressing it into the book. "Is that alright?" he asked, as the wound immediately healed.

Cassiopeia nodded. "Unfortunately, I do not doubt that someone from the Ministry has wards up wherever your current residence is – they would notice were you to leave permanently. But consider this place yours; I am the last living Black – all the others are dead, married off, or disowned – and so though I do not have the authority to make you the Black heir, I am leaving all this to you…only you, currently, can gain access to this house."

Harry gasped, but then nodded solemnly.

"Kreacher!" Cassiopeia called suddenly, causing an old, decrepit house elf to appear beside her. "Kreacher, this is your new master – you will listen to his orders, and wherever he calls you, you will go to him, and apparate him here if he asks. Is that clear?"

Kreacher bowed deeply. "Yes, Mistress." He turned to Harry, and bowed also to him.

"Hello Kreacher," Harry said softly, "I'm Harry."

Kreacher eyes widened, and he bowed even deeper.

"Do you need him to take you home?" Cassiopeia asked.

Harry shook his head. "I've got a portkey. I am curious, though, Miss Black – why me? I mean, surely you could have chosen several other relations to bequeath this house to…"

"Please, call me Aunt Cassie," she said, before a fond, amused look came over her face, "A few years ago, I met a Seer, a very talented one, by reputation, who conducted a reading for me – he said that I would meet the one who would revive the House of Black to greatness on June twenty-fifth of the year nineteen ninety-two. I wasn't inclined to put much confidence in the statement – but when I saw you…I could not help but recall it..."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "The Seer...was he a blonde American, by any chance?"

"Yes, he was," she replied, eyebrow raised. "Jean Alliette was famous, or perhaps a better word would be infamous, in certain circles. A pity he died so young."

Harry eyes widened curiously. "Huh…well, it was an honour meeting you…Aunt Cassie."

"And you as well, Harry."

Harry nodded, but glanced over at the book Cassiopeia set down earlier. "Was that the book you were taking to Borgin and Burke's? It looks very fascinating."

Cassiopeia blinked, but then picked up the book and handed it to him. "If that is so, then you may keep it – I have no use for it."

Harry smiled gratefully. "Thanks Aunt Cassie, for everything."

She smiled softly back – a countenance that seemed out of place on her sharp features – as Harry tapped the pendant on his wrist. "Othila."

A moment later, he found himself in Jean's Hollow, alone.

"Well, that was bizarre."

And in case anyone's interested the conjuration basically invokes the spirit using the power of God's creating word (Greek NT: logos) and unspeakable name, also appealing to the purity of the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ, and the fierceness of the archangel Michael to bind the spirit. The spirit is requested not to fear the caster, but rather to faithfully answer any given question without fraud or pretence. The idea here (in my AU), is that the conjurer pleads, drawing on another transcendent being's power to intercede with the spirit (the communication with Death would occur purely by the Will put toward the spell).

*sigh* I really should stop with this whole ranting thing...meh. Anyway, you know how I feel about reviews *tired smile*