CHAPTER – 7 SHOWDOWNS

Snape's well-worn copy of Extreme Incantations was an audacious tome, particularly in its descriptions of spells with questionable origins and effects. This choice of content was hardly surprising, given that the author, a certain Violetta Stitch, was a war veteran who had lived through the Grindelwald era.

As Snape had mentioned, the pages were adorned with hastily scribbled notes in the margins. Most of these notes were mere additions or modifications to the existing text, offering insight into the spells' nuances. There was even an entire section dedicated to various iterations of the Shield spell. Harry found himself puzzled by phrases like 'Diabolica surpasses Maxima' and 'Horribilis might as well be a curse,' but he decided to finish reading the book before diving into the finer details.

He turned the page and came face to face with the hide-piercing curse, the same spell Victor Krum had employed against the dragon during the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament. In hindsight, Harry couldn't help but think that choosing a different strategy, similar to Krum's, might have been a more sensible approach than going along with Moody's reckless plan of flying past a dragon.

After all, attempting to outfly a dragon was a rather audacious endeavor, considering that dragons were naturally equipped with wings.

Turning the page once more, Harry encountered the spell "Ossio Fragmen" – the bone-breaker. This offensive spell was a fusion of two sister spells – "Confringo," also known as the blasting curse, and "Reducto," the disintegration curse. "Confringo" worked by disrupting the forces of attraction within objects, causing them to disintegrate into individual pieces. "Reducto," on the other hand, lived up to its name by disintegrating objects into minuscule fragments. By combining these two spells and reducing the area of effect, the Bone-breaker allowed the caster to fracture, if not completely disintegrate, a bone with a single precise strike.

"This could be quite useful," Harry murmured to himself as he traced his fingers over the page. A small postscript at the bottom mentioned the use of Skele-Gro for healing bones affected by the curse. Following that was a note from Snape regarding a related spell called "Ossio dispersimus," which could entirely remove bones at the point of application. Originally intended as a healing spell, Grindelwald's followers had shamelessly employed it during the war to instantly paralyze Hit-wizards.

A hand-drawn, animated illustration of a wizard running and subsequently falling due to the sudden disappearance of their kneecaps accompanied this information.

Harry shuddered, realizing that his own boneless episode during his second year had taken on a far more sinister connotation. Whether Lockhart had intentionally caused it or not was another matter entirely.

Nevertheless, Harry acknowledged the usefulness of this spell. While not on the same level as the infamous Killing Curse, it was a valuable addition to his rather limited arsenal of spells.

Silently, Harry memorized the wand movements. Every wizard's spell, whether modern or ancient, could be traced back to magical languages like Elder Futhark, Sumerian, and Egyptian Cuneiform. The older the language, the more potent its magic.

This revelation explained why most spells taught at Hogwarts were in Latin or pseudo-Latin. It was a relatively new language, easy for young students to grasp and safer for practice. Conversely, more potent spells—especially those related to healing or destruction—drew from older languages. The bone-breaker curse, for instance, incorporated three symbols from Egyptian Cuneiform. When combined in a specific configuration, they matched the wand movement necessary for casting the spell.

Over time, witches and wizards had come to favor subtlety and precision over brute force. For example, the Killing Curse, derived from Turkish roots with "kedavra" meaning "cadaver," had once been associated with early Aramaic script that emphasized spiritual creation. However, arithmancers from the late nineteenth century had proven that a word linked to spiritual creation could hinder the functionality of a curse designed to annihilate. Thus, it had become known as the Killing Curse, or, as lay-wizards put it, a curse of unmaking.

All in all, it had been a captivating read. Harry couldn't help but wonder why the intricate aspects of magical theory weren't discussed in Professor McGonagall's class. He would have relished the opportunity to delve into the reasons behind the seemingly arbitrary wand movements they were taught.

Instead, they practiced turning matches into needles and buttons into pincushions, which were considered more fulfilling learning experiences, apparently.

With that, Harry decided to put the book away for now. He needed a break from all the studying and opted for a different pastime.

Still in the afternoon, Sirius had left for some significant "shopping," which involved tasks like house renovations, discussions with builders and wardmasters, and even a visit to Gringotts for various matters that Harry found too tedious for his liking. Consequently, Harry had chosen to stay behind and engage in spell practice until Sirius returned.

Taking in the vast, eerie surroundings of the Ancestral House of Black, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. The place was dark, foreboding, and seemed to live up to its ominous name. Whether the street had been named after the House or if some eccentric Black had chosen to name their home after a Muggle street was anyone's guess.

Regardless, Harry couldn't shake the strange feeling that staying here was unsettling. It brought back memories of the Dursley home, a place that was supposed to have powerful protective wards. These wards had instilled a sense of safety and comfort in him, despite his deep-seated loathing for the Dursleys and their abode. As a child, he had never fully comprehended these conflicting emotions, but in the past two years, he had begun to grasp their significance.

He despised the Dursley home with every fiber of his being – the house itself, what it represented, the people inhabiting it, and even the cupboard under the stairs that served as his living space. Yet, paradoxically, he also harbored a strange affection for it. His cramped cupboard, though far from ideal, had felt oddly comforting. The Dursleys were hostile and rude, yet the house, fortified by its wards, had provided him with a sense of security whenever he stayed within its confines.

In retrospect, it made him wonder why he had never attempted to escape sooner. Aunt Petunia likely wouldn't have cared, and the less said about Vernon, the better. Their apathy was somewhat understandable, but their unwarranted hostility had always puzzled him. Why had they treated him with such aggression? It was evident that the underlying reason was his magic, but their reaction seemed disproportionate.

Could there have been more to his suffering in the Dursley household than met the eye? And why did the Black House invoke memories of Number 4, Privet Drive?

Deep in thought, Harry frowned. He had stayed in various magical dwellings before, and none had triggered this peculiar feeling. The Burrow had felt like a welcoming sanctuary compared to the Dursleys' home, and Hogwarts had been the epitome of warmth and comfort. Hogwarts, with its literal mountains surrounding it, had evoked feelings of safety and belonging.

There was no reason why the Black House, which belonged to his godfather Sirius – a man who was actively trying to provide him with a semblance of a normal life, a childhood, and a sense of family – should feel so eerily reminiscent of the Dursley household.

"You're just imagining things, Potter," Harry muttered to himself, shaking his head. He contemplated the possibility of having his mind examined – first by Ollivander and now for these unsettling feelings. Perhaps whatever he had encountered in the graveyard had somehow affected his mental state.

Pushing those thoughts aside, he returned his attention to the book on hand. He had marked a couple of spells for practice. In their fourth-year Charms class, Professor Flitwick had taught them the standard stunning spell, "Stupefy." According to the book, this spell delivered a controlled electrical discharge directly into the target's nervous system, temporarily rendering them unconscious – a state referred to as being stunned. However, the book contained various modifications and enhancements to the stunning spells, none of which seemed to result in mere temporary unconsciousness.

The grandfather clock chimed again.

Harry decided it was best to explore these spells another time and promptly closed the book. He needed a break from intense study, and the half-open tome on the sofa suggested a perfect diversion.

"Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests."

Say what you would about the fraud, but he certainly had brilliant taste. Whoever he had duped into compiling this book was truly a genius on the subject. Perhaps some kind of magizoologist or expert, though, of course, not anymore. Not after Lockhart had unfortunately crossed their path.

The book brought to mind the doxy infestation on the first floor. Sirius had sealed off that entire area, instructing Harry to leave it be until he returned from his errands. Although Harry was curious about what his godfather was up to, he didn't want to pester the man.

He glanced at the stairs.

Harry had dealt with doxies before in his third year. They were essentially like Cornish pixies but darker, madder, and deadlier. Their venom caused victims to hallucinate or worse. He knew Sirius had stored several vials of doxy antidote in the kitchen. The last thing he needed was to collapse and start hallucinating in this eerie house. He might end up reliving the nightmare of the graveyard.

"You know what? Killing doxies is exactly the kind of distraction I need," Harry mumbled, unfazed by the fact that he was talking to himself. He had spent countless hours as a child trapped in a cupboard engaged in that very activity.

It was a miracle that no one at Hogwarts had ever found out about that particular tidbit. So far, he had been called a liar, a dark wizard, and a gloryhound, among other titles. Adding "nutcase" to the list was something he hoped to avoid.

Standing up and stretching his hands, Harry quickly made up his mind and strode out of the room, moving with determination as he headed for the stairs.

It was time to go hunt some doxies.

If he had paid closer attention to his surroundings, he might have noticed the darkness just outside the room beginning to stir.

The corridor felt like a graveyard, as if the very air held the echoes of someone's final breath. Soft hissing sounds and old-fashioned gas lamps flickering to life on the walls welcomed Harry into a large, gloomy room. Cobwebs adorned a chandelier overhead, portraits hung crooked on the walls, and the peeling wallpaper and worn-out carpet contributed to the eerie atmosphere. Harry thought he heard something scuttling along the baseboard.

"Alright... what next?" Harry wondered aloud. Pulling out his wand, he raised it while his other hand rested on the edge of the door, ready to pull it back shut at the slightest noise.

"Lumos Solem!"

Doxies were creatures of wyldfae origin that thrived in cold and dark environments, which made old and dilapidated houses the perfect breeding grounds for infestations. So when a blinding white orb of light burst from his wand and shot toward the center of the room, the doxy swarm reacted with a deafening shriek.

The ensuing noise was unlike anything Harry had ever heard. It wasn't just loud; it was beyond anything he could have imagined. It felt as if he had been submerged in an enormous vat of jelly, his senses overwhelmed, his skin prickling with pressure, and his ears in agony. His balance vanished, and he doubled over in pain, his entire body shaking as if he had been drenched in icy water. And as he finally realized, there was a mass of inky blackness composed of thousands of doxies, reptilian, winged, and fanged, their dark, hungry, feral eyes fixed on the intruder.

The only defense between him and death by poisoning was a dwindling sphere of glowing sunlight.

A defense that was slowly shrinking.

But the damage had been done.

Cursing under his breath, Harry grabbed the doorknob, momentarily forgetting his fallen wand. He yanked the rickety wooden door, attempting to shut it again to keep the doxies at bay—

Thud!

The door stopped.

Harry froze.

Translucent hands, passing through his chest and pressing against the door, prevented it from closing completely.

What the—

An icy fear spread across Harry's chest. Against his better judgment, he turned around. Suspended in the air, mere inches from his face, was the spectral figure of a woman. She wore a high-necked shirt and a long, dark skirt, and despite being see-through, she seemed solid. Her face, pretty in a strained, bony manner, stared at him with large, bulging eyes. Her hands continued to pass through him, pressing against the door.

In the silence of the moment, Harry could hear his wand slowly rolling away across the dark room.

Away from him.

The glowing ball of light finally faded.

The spectral figure continued to stare at him, then threw her head back and screamed. It came out as a deafening, bestial roar that shook the walls, her voice loud, strong, and grating like a rusted sword being dragged over stone.

"FILTH! SCUM! HOW DARE YOU DESECRATE THE HOUSE OF MY ANCESTORS?"

The doxies attacked.

Being a Seeker had its advantages.

Acting on pure instinct, Harry threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his hands and pressing his face against the floor to avoid debris and stay conscious. If he had his wand, he would have tried to erect a shield. Without it, he could only do so much.

Explosions were peculiar in that they were not just loud; they couldn't convey the sheer violence of the act. Harry felt a tremendous power in the air. The doxy swarm slammed into the wooden floor with a forceful impact, sending shards of stone and wood flying in all directions.

His hearing was the first casualty, a constant high-pitched tone ringing in his ears, reminiscent of the TV broadcasts in the Dursley home. Harry tried to move, but his muscles protested against his commands. His senses were in complete disarray. He knew how to stand and where to go, but actually doing it seemed like an impossible task.

This wasn't Harry's first encounter with a ghost or pixie-like creature, but nothing about the wraith or the doxies felt normal. He couldn't quite put it into words, but he knew he was in grave danger.

So, faced with these perilous circumstances, Harry did what he did best: he reacted.

He sprang to his feet and bolted toward the staircase. After all, a moving target was much harder to hit.

Clutching his wand, which was sizzling with pain from the wooden shrapnel embedded in his back, Harry raced down the stairs, stumbling over a few steps in his haste. His right hand instinctively reached for his wand, but he realized it was missing. It had been obliterated in the explosion, unable to withstand the force.

The doxies pursued him, their cries and talons grating on his ears. Doxies were carnivorous creatures that feasted on dead and decomposing flesh. Lockhart's book had made it clear that they especially enjoyed hanging their prey until it rotted and emitted a foul odor, making it perfect for their consumption.

In other words, if they found him, they would make him dead, painfully dead.

"BLLOOOODD TRAITOR!" the vengeful wraith's voice echoed behind him. Her high-pitched screams felt like nails on a chalkboard. As if the doxies weren't enough. "YOU DARE BESMIRCH THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS?"

A malicious aura slithered up Harry's spine like a venomous serpent. He could feel the wraith's hatred, and it was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It wasn't the irrational anger of a fellow student, Snape's fluctuating contempt, or even Voldemort's indignation at being thwarted by a child. It was something entirely different, a potent poison that threatened to suffocate him just by being exposed to its sheer malevolence.

Now, this malevolent entity sought his destruction. To hurt him, break him down, and relish his suffering. Nothing he said or did would alter her intentions. He, Harry Potter, was something to be eradicated in a manner that would amuse her.

The wraith knew neither fear nor mercy.

And she was closing in.

Harry increased his pace even more. Running was a skill he had honed to perfection over the years, whether escaping Dudley and his gang or hiding behind gravestones and tombs as dark wizards hurled deadly curses at him. Now that he thought about it, running had saved his life in nearly every life-threatening situation. Today was just another instance to add to that tally. Hopefully.

He turned a corner in the corridor, only to slip on draping curtains along the wall.

"Damn it!" he cursed, scrambling to his feet. But that momentary lapse was enough for the doxies to get close. Grabbing a fallen walking stick, Harry swung it wildly, smashing it into several doxies and dropping them.

"Blasted fuzzy little pests," he muttered. "If there were only a few of you, Hedwig would have you for breakfast."

He ducked two more kamikaze-style attacks from the swarm before swerving in a different direction. Running through the Black household was like playing Quidditch, except he was on foot, and instead of catching the Snitch, he was avoiding angry Bludgers. Thousands of them.

"Maybe if I survive this," he panted, "I'll try out for a Chaser!"

He rounded another corner, but a small group of doxies blocked his path. As they swooped toward him, Harry grabbed a nearby walking stick, whirling it around and striking at several doxies with it.

"Silly household pests," he muttered.

But his momentary victory was short-lived. A frosty, ethereal force closed around his neck like a noose. It felt silky yet as strong as iron shackles. Before he knew it, he was being pulled backward, unable to break free.

Harry tried to claw at the spectral hand around his neck, his legs kicking and stomping as he struggled to escape her grasp. But the enraged female spirit didn't yield. Instead, she flung him through a nearby door, sending him crashing into a room filled with antique furniture. Pain surged through his ribs as he slid to the floor.

His ribs hurt badly.

Somewhere between the sensation of wet blood on his back and his mind rebooting, everything snapped into focus. There was a vengeful wraith in this house, much like the ones he'd encountered at Hogwarts. She was a woman, a fanatical purist, and she was furious.

And she had just attempted to feed him to the doxies, who were eager to devour him alive.

One doxy, in particular, swooped down toward him. Harry's instinct took over, and he swatted at the creature with whatever he could find. He felt the sting of its talons, but he also felt a surge of adrenaline as he fought back.

Voldemort and his Death Eaters, the basilisk, and countless other dangers he had faced seemed like nothing compared to these household pests. The fifteenth talon sank into his neck, causing him to thrash in agony. For the first time in a long while, even though he knew it wasn't, Harry felt completely helpless. He was stunned, his ability to counter this seemingly ordinary foe rendered useless.

It reminded him of St. Gregory's Primary School, where he had been surrounded by Dudley, Polkiss, and their gang. He had been bullied, bruised, and beaten day in and day out, with no way out. The helplessness he felt now was reminiscent of those vulnerable moments. And instead of his bullies surrounding him, there were countless poisonous pests.

Several dozen doxies hovered in the air before him, their talons poised for attack. Harry realized that he might not survive this, but he needed a plan, something to hide, something—

The Cloak!

As Harry faced the swarm of doxies and the vengeful wraith, his determination burned brighter than ever. With his life hanging in the balance, he remembered a moment from his past, a time when he had to use his wits and sheer determination to overcome adversity. It was a memory from his childhood, a time when he faced bullies without a wand or magic.

He recalled the moments when he was cornered by Dudley and his gang, desperate for a way out. A sudden idea flashed in his mind, a method he had used before to escape danger. With every ounce of his willpower, he focused on that memory, on that act of desperation and survival.

"I've been through worse," Harry muttered, summoning his Gryffindor courage.

The wraith unleashed a wave of force, knocking him down, but Harry refused to give in. As the wave subsided, he pushed himself back up, his body battered and bruised, but his spirit unbroken. He sprinted toward the doxy swarm, ignoring the pain and the poison coursing through him.

The wraith stood between him and the door, but Harry had made up his mind. He couldn't allow himself to be defeated here. He ran straight through the wraith, wrenching open the doorknob, and raced down the hallway.

His vision blurred, and his eyelids drooped as the effects of doxy venom took their toll. The swarm pursued him relentlessly, closing in. He knew he had to keep going, just a little further.

The wraith's voice taunted him, claiming he was alone and helpless. But Harry's experiences had taught him that he could find a way, no matter the odds. He had faced darkness, survived danger, and overcome adversity before.

His legs wobbled, and the swarm closed in. He wished he had his wand, but he couldn't dwell on what he lacked. Instead, he focused on a memory, an act of survival from his past. It was something he had done when faced with bullies, a desperate move to escape danger.

And now, in his direst moment, he summoned that memory and determination. Harry knew that if he had done it before, he could do it again.

In the face of overwhelming danger, Harry refused to back down. With his body battered and his vision blurred, he confronted the vengeful wraith and the swarm of doxies, drawing on his inner strength and determination. He invoked his past experiences, the battles he had fought and the challenges he had overcome, reminding himself of his courage and resilience.

As the wraith and doxies closed in, Harry made a defiant stand. He asserted his identity as a wizard, listing his feats and triumphs, declaring his refusal to be a victim. He reminded the wraith that this was the Black House, his godfather's house, and that she didn't belong there.

With his words as his weapon, Harry defied the vengeful spirit and her swarm, refusing to let them intimidate him. In a final act of desperation, he allowed darkness to engulf him, using Apparition to escape their clutches. He was transported back to his room, where he had left his silvery cloak.

Even as the wraith and the doxies pursued him, he managed to pull the cloak over himself, disappearing from their sight. The wraith's rage and frustration were palpable as she burst into his room, only to find it empty.

With the cloak concealing him, Harry lay on the floor, his body exhausted and battered. The noise of the doxies and the wraith grew fainter as they searched for him in vain. Harry knew he had won this round, and a small, defiant smile played on his lips.

"I win," he whispered, knowing that, for the moment, he was safe. He allowed his body to relax, aware that he might not have much strength left. But the doxies could no longer reach him, and Harry had once again defied the odds and survived.

As his eyes closed and darkness claimed him, he knew that his adventures were far from over, but he had proven once more that he was a survivor, a wizard who could face the darkest of challenges and emerge victorious.

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