January 1, 1992

Tears pricked at his eyes, but Harry brushed them away with the back of his hand. Compared to his usual gait, he was making an awful racket, but the guards were likely still recovering from their celebrations from the night before. He remained undetected as he stormed through the small copse of trees behind Blackriver.

It just- it couldn't be. How could she have done that to him? What sort of person could do that and live with themselves? How did she look herself in the mirror?

Harry tried to focus on his anger, on his mounting rage rather than on the pain of such a fundamental rejection. Why hadn't Father told him? Harry was- well, it would have hurt, regardless, but having his expectations crushed in such a way was somehow worse.

He sniffed once, then again. No! She didn't deserve his tears. No doubt she'd never shed any for his sake, after all. That thought elicited a choked sob before he was able to again force his emotion back.

A deep breath helped. The frigid winter air, the distant gurgle of the Volga River, and the tranquility of the late hour brought a moment of clarity. Harry inhaled again, feeling marginally better, but when he closed his eyes he heard Masha's words, repeating in his mind over and over, his heartbreak leaving him feeling taut and strung out.

"What a bunch of- of fucking shit," he whispered, hardly brave enough to utter the naughty words any louder.

He needed a distraction.

Digging around inside his heavy cloak, Harry eventually produced his wand. Only, the familiar white maple wood didn't offer any of the comfort he normally felt. He didn't want to experiment. Didn't care about creating something new.

No, the only thing he wanted was for her to have made a different choice. A better choice. Didn't she know how special he was? How could she- and for what?

"Stop it," he muttered to himself, violently shaking his head as if to dislodge those traitorous thoughts. Focus on the magic.

That was where the real truth lay. After all, sometimes things just happen. Randomness, chance, unpredictability. It was all chaos, everything was, really. He had to take the good with the bad. Trying to control other people's decisions was impossible, it ran contrary to the way the world worked.

His mouth quirked with the barest hint of a smile. Right. And it wasn't like he even knew her, so what did it matter, really? It's not as though Harry needed her, he'd gotten along just fine up til now, hadn't he?

The reassurances helped, enough at least for him to extend his wand, looking around the woods for something to direct his magic towards. There - a particularly large branch fallen from a tree, weighed down no doubt by previous snowfalls. Harry sighted his bent wand, squinting through the darkness as he lined up his target.

For several seconds, he stood still, hand and wand extended. Eventually, though, his arm dropped to his side and dangled there listlessly.

What was wrong with him? He needed to stop thinking about this! Harry's lips pursed in frustration, the words from his earlier question echoing over and over in his mind, taking on a new meaning as he silently repeated them.

What was wrong with him. Wrong with him. Wrong with him.

Maybe… maybe she'd thought there was something wrong-

"SHUT UP!" he cried out, wand snapping up to a ready position and this time, unlike before, the chaos rushed through him, fueled by grief and anger and resentment. The wild magic, aimless and lacking direction, filled him to overflowing, surging through every pore of his being.

Harry screamed as his world detonated in a vibrant, violet storm of energy that lit the horizon.

December 30, 1991 (Two days prior)

Albus wiggled his toes, an absentminded smile forming on his lips as he stared at the unusual footwear he'd purchased not long after arriving. Though they certainly lacked the support his normal boots offered, and were decidedly not as cushioned as his night slippers, these sandals offered the most delightfully strange sensations.

What a shame he'd likely never have a chance to wear them after he left. Scotland's weather, even in the summer, hardly made them a practical choice. Ah well.

He took a sip from the tasa in front of him, the rich and velvety coffee sliding down his throat. It would never replace a warm cup of Earl Gray, but Albus had to admit the coffee here was another unexpectedly pleasurable discovery.

If he was lucky, the local clothing and cuisine wouldn't be the only discoveries he made on this trip. With that in mind, Albus replaced the small cup back in its saucer and picked up the journal that had led him here.

Rivas was going home, Perenelle's flowing script read. He knew the end was near, and desired to meet his end at the place he'd began. There was but a single remaining step on the path before him, and he told me that he intended to take it in the marshes of Maracaibo.

"Mr. Dumbledore! There you are!"

Albus set down his book, greeting the official from the Venezuelan Ministry with a smile. "Good afternoon. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me."

The portly man took a seat, withdrawing a handkerchief from his robes to mop at the sweat dripping from his brow. "The first visit by a Supreme Mugwump to our country since we joined the Confederation? For this, time is no issue!" He looked around the small village, taking in the buildings constructed on stilts, rising above swampy terrain. "Strange, though, to meet with you here. Surely you'd be more comfortable in the magical districts in Caracas?"

Pointless politicking, naturally, was unavoidable at times. "I'd be delighted to take in the sights and meet some of the bright minds of your country…"

"Excellent!" The Minister's deputy clapped his hands. "Then come, let us-"

"… After I complete my business here," Albus finished.

The other wizard was no fool. There was only one reason for a wizard to come to a village like Aguas Muertas. "El Relámpago del Catatumbo? I suppose it is quite a sight. Sin Regalos, the ah- how do you say… 'muggles', yes?… find it quite marvelous."

Albus finished his coffee and set the tiny cup to the side, leaning forward. "The Confederation's reports say the phenomenon is centered on an island. What can you tell me about it?"

The Deputy Minister sighed. "It is quite mysterious. Come, let us walk."

The two rose from the table in the tiny cantina, walking through the village streets, paved only intermittently with rough stones. There were frequent gaps in the road, revealing wet, marshy ground easily deep enough to sink to ankle-depth mud. Slowly, carefully, the two wizards walked to the settlement's edge.

"Aguas Muertas straddles the mouth of the Catatumbo River, where it empties into Lake Maracaibo." He gestured towards the huge body of water before them. "Further beyond is the sea."

Albus reached into his robes, pulling out a pair of omniculars and gazing out into the water. Even with the enhanced zoom, he could discern no landmass rising from the lake's surface. "How far out is this island?"

"If you've read the ICW reports, then you know the Catatumbo Lightning's classification."

"'A site of chaotic entanglement'," Albus quoted.

"Si, this is so. It should be no surprise, then, that the island sometimes is there, and sometimes is not. Its appearance is random."

"So it has never been explored? No one has made land on it before?"

"Visitors have set foot there. But the unpredictability its appearance have made such expeditions short-lived and infrequent. No one knows what would happen if a person was present when the island 'blinks' out. Not to mention, the constant lightning when it appears."

"I see." Albus raised the omniculars once more. "When it is present, where is the island located?"

The Deputy Minister reached out and directed the omniculars to a spot forty degrees from where Albus had been looking. "In this area."

"How long does each appearance last?"

"It varies. Sometimes several hours, sometimes less than one. The longest sighting has been fourteen hours, in 1943."

"Should I prepare myself for a long wait?"

"I think not. When you've satisfied your curiosity, you can find me here." The Deputy Minister passed over a slip of parchment with apparition coordinates. "Good luck, Mr. Dumbledore."

He vanished with a muted crack, and Albus made his way back to the village. He purchased a few tourist mementos and a pamphlet of the "Lighthouse", as the locals colloquially referred to the phenomenon.

Hours passed, and it wasn't long after night fell that the show began. The sky began to flash, illuminating clouds that hadn't been there earlier in the day. At first, the lightning confined itself to the heavens, dancing in the sky, zipping back and forth among the clouds. Soon, though, lines of electricity began hammering the lake's surface, striking over and over again.

Albus reached into his robes, withdrawing a pocket watch and his omniculars. Glancing at the time, he peered out over the water, seeking any sign of the island amidst the storm's bright conflagration.

Nothing yet. He idly glanced down at the watch, noting the current time and doing some mental calculations. Roughly twenty strikes per minute.

Another hour went by before the island made an appearance. The storm was up to more than eighty bolts per minute, so it was with some trepidation that Albus conjured a rowboat on the shore. He clambered inside, took a deep breath, and cast an animation spell for the oars to row themselves towards the island.

As he neared the center of the lake, Albus took stock of a remarkable aspect of the storm - beyond snaps and cracks of the lightning hitting the surface, there was no sound whatsoever, no thunder or wind. The calmness of all other elements only confirmed the unnatural feeling he felt as he approached the shadowed blob of land.

With only two dozen meters to shore, a strong Shield Charm in place, Albus pulled out his watch one last time. Twenty-seven strikes in just ten seconds. He hopped out of the boat, grabbing hold of the wooden rim and dragging it to ground behind him.

The island was unlike the land around Aguas Muertas. Whereas the village was low-land, marshy, and muddy, this island was dry, little more than a mass of stone. Albus reached down to touch the surface, feeling sharp and pointed edges. Was it… obsidian? The entire island?

His shield flared, absorbing a bolt of lightning, and Albus stumbled from the blast effect. Best not to tarry, he decided, continuing his advance.

The island itself was small, not more than one hundred meters across and fifty wide. There were no structures. As he advanced into the interior, the lightning only accelerated its pace.

There! A… pit, of some sort, just ahead. Albus hurried along, his sandals slapping on the hard rock surface. He paused at the rim of the depression, trying to peer down inside. Only blackness greeted him. Despite the near-constant flashes of light from the storm, he could not perceive anything below.

It was growing harder and harder to concentrate, the energy to power his Shield Charm forcing more and more of his attention as several bolts per second hit the island. He had to make a decision: turn back now and try again tomorrow, or dive in with both feet, figuratively and literally.

Albus stepped off the ledge.

His Featherlight Charm abruptly cancelled out halfway down, making for a rough and tumble landing. He lost one of his sandals in the darkness, but when he cast a silent Lumos, no light emerged from his wand. Instead, a pool of stink-sap dribbled out, coating his hand in the viscuous and foul-smelling substance. A second attempt produced naught but a whistling sound.

"What the…?" he murmured, stunned at the repeated misfire of a spell he'd cast tens of thousands of times.

Inside the depression the lightning ceased entirely, bathing him in complete darkness. Albus raised his wand again and attempted to conjure three blue-bell flames to rotate around himself in tandem. This time, his spell worked.

The pit was unlike the island above. The ground was firm, but lacked the jagged and harsh edges of the obsidian stone from before. Albus stepped forward, the flames lighting up more and more space around him.

It was much larger inside than it was out, easily the size of half a quidditch pitch. Wait - Albus looked up to the sky, and found the storm was gone. Instead of the constant lightning, there was only a dull, dark purple above him.

Was he still in Lake Maracaibo? What was this?

His foot nudged something on the ground, and Albus glanced down to take in the sight of a human skeleton, the calcified remains fused to the ground around it. His eyes narrowed. Everything about this felt like some sort of-

Whirling around, Albus' blue-bell flames disappeared, his complete focus on conjuring a bend of stone in time to intercept a jagged streak of violet lightning. The stone elongated, growing in length to engulf him in a sphere of rock as more bolts of lightning struck from all direction.

Several seconds went by before the onslaught came to a halt. His wand at the ready, Albus dismissed his protections, carefully observing a glowing pillar of electrical energy a half-dozen paces in front of him.

It was… writhing, coiling and uncoiling, bulging in places and receding in others. An unearthly, disquieting sound emerged from within it. Was this the origin of the Relámpago?

Chancing a glance around himself, Albus could make out movement in the darkness around him, hints of black appearing within the purple sky above him. It was like the depression he was inside was blinking. Time was running out.

Well, he'd come this far, hadn't he? Albus took a step forward, then another, eyes locked on the violent electrical disturbance. The noise intensified the closer he came, as the movement seemed to coalesce. It wasn't until the face took shape, formed from violet electricity that Albus was able to identify what the sound was.

Screaming.

And then, in an instant, it was gone, and so was Albus. The lake soaked through his robes, forcing him down below the water's surface before he was able to shrug them off. Bobbing in the center of Lake Maracaibo, Albus swam towards where his conjured boat waited, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach over what he'd just witnessed.

At least he'd survived. That alone was-

"Drat," he swore. He'd lost his other sandal.

January 1, 1992

"C'mon kid, let's go."

"Huh?" Harry looked up from the transfiguration primer his father had sat him down in front of to study, under threat of an impromptu pop quiz that evening. The choice to abandon it took little debate. "Where to?"

Mundungus grinned. "On a'venture. Get yer 'splorin clothes, and don't forget to dress warm."

An adventure? In Kitezh? The new year was off to a great start! Harry hurried over to his wardrobe, digging out the ragged and threadbare cloak he'd had Dung procure for him all those years ago. He'd long since outgrown the other pieces of the outfit; oh well. It was in the dead of winter, he'd have little reason to remove his outer layer.

Emerging from his room, Dung pressed a wide-brimmed hat on top of his head. It was too big by several sizes, almost obscuring his vision. "Right, quietly now."

Together, they trod silently through the manor. Truthfully, Harry didn't much see the point of such secrecy; his father was away, showing Masha a jobsite for her to potentially start at after graduation, and the guards were all sleeping off the previous night's festivities.

Still, practice makes perfect, and one can never be too good at sneaking.

In the entrance hall, Mundungus held out a matchbook. Harry pressed a finger to it, the expectant sudden jerk behind his navel carrying him away from the Volga and towards the Invisible City.

Like the last time he'd been, Kitezh was orderly, quiet, and bor-ing. He and Dung made their way through the main street and the market, the city's denizens pointedly not making eye contact with the shabbily dressed pair, though they were stopped twice by mercenaries along the way. Each time, Dung merely raised the brim of his own hat and stated he was on business for the Volga Lord. No further questions were asked.

They moved into the residential area of the city, coming to a halt before a nondescript home. Harry followed Dung to the rear of the house, where he opened the unlocked cellar door and gestured him forward.

It wasn't a cellar at all, but a secret tunnel! Harry practically bounced up and down as he clambered inside, Dung's wand lighting the path before them.

"This passage looks old," Harry remarked.

"That's 'cause it is," Dung replied. "From back before the city sank."

"Where does it lead?" Harry's bet was on a hidden treasure room!

Rather than reply, Mundungus extinguished his wandlight. Without the Lumos charm going, Harry could see flickering shadows beyond, signalling a torch further ahead.

"Listen…" Dung started, speaking quietly. "I need your 'elp."

"Okay," Harry agreed easily. "With what?"

"Thing is, I 'ave a bit of a problem. With betting, y'know."

Harry let out a short laugh. "What, with winning too much?" It was Dung who'd taught him the sleight of hand to cheat in any card game, after all.

"Oi!" That jibe earned a gentle cuff to the back of the head, knocking his hat forward over his eyes. "S'not like that, no't'all…"

Dung abruptly went silent, like he was trying to find the words to continue. "It's a demon, kid. Gamblin's got its hooks in me my whole life. 'Alf the time I find myself jammed up, it's 'cos I owed some money to somebody." He kicked at the tunnel's wall with a boot. "It was never enough. Sometimes it felt like I weren't even playing to win, but playing t'lose."

Harry stayed quiet, and Dung went on. "And when I'd lose and lose big, people'd get hurt. Sometimes me, sometimes other people. An' I can't- won't do that anymore. I'm gonna beat this demon. Decided it last night."

They continued their walk through the tunnel, approaching a door illuminated by wall-mounted torches. Inside, close to a hundred wizards and witches were engaged with various types of ongoing games. Dung kept a firm hold on his shoulder as they entered. "New year - no more gamblin'."

"But… today's the new year," Harry pointed out.

"'Xactly!" Even in the dim light of the casino, the sudden grin on Dung's face was easily seen. "Never let 'em see you coming. Misdirection. Now stay quiet."

Two burly wizards halted their progress. "Fletcher," the one on the left spat. "You know you can't play til you pay up."

"C'mon, Yevgeny Alexeyovich! 'Member the time I sang your praises to that tavern maid? You owe me!"

"I remember that she still rejected me," Yevgeny groused.

"Well, that weren't my fault, now were it?"

"Regardless," the other man said, "The bosses said not to take anymore bets from you until you make good on your debt."

Dung patted Harry on the back. "Ah, but I ain't 'ere to bet. Just escorting my friend so that 'e can. Bet your boss didn't say I couldn't do that, now did 'e?"

The guards shifted their gaze to Harry. "What is he, twelve years old?"

"Whoa!" Dung leapt between Harry and the guards, his arms outstretched as though to separate the three of them. "Settle down, mate! 'E din't mean it, 'onestly!" Leaning towards Yevgeny, Dung loudly whispered, "Don't go insulting 'is 'eight, it's a bit of a sensitive subject, y'understand?"

Beyond confused, Harry simply relied on Mundungus' prior instruction: 'stay quiet'.

The guards looked sceptical. Eventually, Yevgeny grunted and asked, "Does he have any gold, at least?"

"'Course 'e does!"

Just then, panicked cries from further inside reached them.

"Please! Just one more hand! I swear I'm good for it, on my mother's grave!"

Yevgeny turned to his compatriot and nodded in the direction of the pleading gambler, who drew his wand and waded into the crowd. "Fine. Wands. You know the rules, Fletcher. Make sure your… small friend does, as well."

They passed over their wands, and just like that, they were in.

Harry marvelled at the sights and sounds, taking in the rows of tables, neatly dressed dealers obscured by clouds of cigarette smoke, scantily clad waitresses dodging groping hands while levitating trays of drinks, and crowds of sweating, anxious players.

He started off in the direction of the nearest poker table, but Dung held him back. "No no no. No card games, not 'ere."

"Why not?"

"Security's too good, and too mean. You're good, kid, but I'm better and I couldn't get away with it 'ere."

Harry wanted to protest that he didn't need tricks to win at cards, but a glance at Dung silenced his words before they left his mouth. The older man's face was shadowed, worried, ashamed… but his eyes gleamed with wanting as he peered at the games of chance all around them.

"So what are we going to play instead?"

"First, we need to get you a bankroll." They walked up to a wall, covered in carved runes, a narrow window facing out. "Hey, you awake in there?"

A face appeared in the window, only the nose and mouth visible. "Cashing out, or exchanging?"

"Exchanging." Dung dug into his pocket, and handed over a single Galleon and a few Sickles, receiving one blue chip and two red ones in return.

Keeping a tight hold on him as they pressed through the crowds, Dung led him past the tables and towards a dim corner, populated by a noticeably rougher crowd than the main floor. Three separate circles of people seemed to be playing some sort of dice game.

"Okay. This is our first stop," Dung said, passing the chips to Harry. "You ever play dice?"

"No," Harry replied, adjusting his glasses as he watched the men in one of the circles play.

"It's easy, I can 'splain it in no time." Dung pointed to the man rolling the dice in one hand. "That fella, there, 'e's the shooter. The players roll for it, higher roll gets to shoot. You with me?"

"Uh-huh."

"Shooter decides the bet, the other player's got to match. A seven or an eleven wins outright, and the shooter keeps the dice and makes another bet."

"Alright." That sounded easy enough.

"Now, if you roll a two, three, or twelve, you lose the bet but keep the dice. Still with me?"

"Um… yea."

"If'n you roll any other number, that becomes the shooter's point number, 'n you'll need to roll that before you roll or a seven in order to-" Dung paused, perhaps noticing the way Harry's eyes were glazing over. "You got this, kid."

A simultaneous cheer and groan came from the players two games over, and Dung hustled them over as the winner collected his chips. "Ready for another match?"

"Da," the man said, though he quickly did a double-take as Harry, not Dung stepped forward to challenge him. "Is joke? He is only a boy!"

Dung jammed his hand into his pocket, quickly withdrawing a pair of dice and passing them to Harry. "Exchange these with his - keeps either side from cheating."

Harry dutifully did so, and the grumbling gambler reluctantly set up for the next match. The man's dice were slick with sweat, the sharp edges of the cube digging into Harry's palm. He stared down at the makeshift 'board' (in reality, chalk marks on the ground in front of the wall), noting the size of his opponent's bankroll in comparison to his own paltry three chips. The odds weren't in his favour.

He watched carefully at how the other man rolled Dung's dice, giving them a toss forward to bounce off the wall and come to a stop inside the drawn boundaries. Five and three makes eight.

Mimicking the other player, Harry tossed his own dice, eyes following them as they bounced first off the wall, then settling in the playing area. Two sixes is twelve.

"Great!" Dung crowed. "'Member what I said, now. You're the shooter. Place your bet first, then roll. You need a seven or an eleven-"

"Come on, come on, time is money! This is not primary school!"

Harry dropped all three of his chips into the pot. After an amused snort at such a small bet, his opponent matched it. He threw the dice again, scoring a five and a two.

"Seven!" Dung cheered.

Since doubling his winnings had worked the previous round, Harry picked up all the chips in the pot, then placed them all back down, staring expectantly at the other player. With laughter, the man matched the bet.

"Let's see that again, little boy."

Harry rolled; six and five makes eleven.

"Beginner's luck!" The other man said, though now his face showed annoyance as Harry doubled the bet once again.

Four and three is….

"Seven! Yes!" Dung was practically dancing a jig.

"Give me my dice back," the other man demanded. Harry obediently handed them over, and the man examined them in the torchlight, looking for any modification. His suspicions assuaged, he returned them for Harry to roll again - after doubling the bet, of course.

"A five! Annnnnddd… a two! Seven!"

Scooping up the dice and his winnings, Harry doubled the bet yet again, but this time, the man refused, holding out Dung's dice and taking his own back before storming away. Another challenger stepped forward.

Over the next hour, Harry's crash-course on playing dice taught him many things. First, that showmanship and bravado were integral to the game - Dung's nonstop crowing and cheerleading were matched with similar attitudes from his various opponents. It gave the game a bombastic, masculine quality that was fun and exciting.

Secondly, dice was inherently low-stakes, as Harry learned when he tried to put thirty Galleon's in the pot. Mundungus reached and took half the chips out, whispering to Harry that 'No one's gonna match that with your streak going'. The bets topped out around seventeen or eighteeen Galleons, and even then many players balked at the amount.

Last, and most importantly, no one wants to go up against the hot hand. Harry didn't win every match, but he did come out on top in a clear majority of rolls. When his last opponent dejectedly gathered his remaining chips and exchanged dice to leave, Harry looked up to find there was no new challenger. The crowd around their match melted away, dispersing to try different games or observe the other ongoing matches.

Dung was counting out their winnings, wearing a grim look.

"How'd we do?" Harry prompted.

He flashed a brief grin. "You did great, kid. But… this ain't quite enough. Feel like trying your hand at a table?"

"Okay!" He much preferred cards to dice, and thus was a bit disappointed when Dung led him to a table that seemed to be a more formal, more complicated version of the dice game they'd just left.

Dung leaned down, speaking into Harry's ear. "This is actual craps, the real deal. The betting system is a bit different, and you've got to wait your turn to be shooter. You remember the rules, right?"

"Um, right."

"Good lad. Now, you've gotta bet every round to keep your place at the table, so keep your wagers low 'til your go as shooter, got it?"

"Got it."

"The main thing you need to know about craps is there're a 'ole lotta other bets besides just a winning roll. Keep it simple - 'pass' and 'don't pass' bets only."

Harry's brow furrowed, trying to remember the terminology from his impromptu lesson an hour before. Dung gave him two handfuls of chips, leaving Harry to shoulder his way to a spot at the table on his own.

He managed to observe a single roll before the betting started. It was slow, much slower than the dice game they'd just left, and bets were placed on almost every aspect of the dice roll. Three dealers took bets from all the players, laying out chips on a complex board noting who'd wagered what, where.

It was overwhelming.

"Bets, bets! Make your bets!" The dealer wielding a slim, long stick called out, gathering the dice and passing them to the next shooter.

Harry tossed out a blue chip, making a simple pass bet (that the shooter would roll a seven or eleven). After another long wait, including at least ten seconds of the shooter rolling the dice, blowing on them, and rolling them again before he made the throw. Two threes.

"The point is six! Six is the point!" The dealer called, and a number of transactions were made for players who'd bet on six and who'd bet on pairs.

Harry, having lost his bet, reluctantly placed another Galleon down, then settled in to impatiently wait for the next roll.

He lost again.

This was infuriating, he thought in frustration. It didn't make any sense that he had to put gold down on someone else's abilities! How was he supposed to know if the other player was any good or not?

Both the bets and his losses continued, and the game lengthened. The cheap tobacco smoke burned his eyes, causing them water behind his glasses, and his throat felt dry and scratchy. Wearing his heavy cloak and wide hat made him feel overheated and sweaty.

He hated craps.

"New shooter, new shooter!" The stickman called, and at last, the dice came to a stop in front of Harry.

Going over his severely diminished bankroll, Harry put eight of his remaining eleven Galleons on a simple pass bet once more. He picked up the dice, but was forced to put them back down and wait - always with the waiting! - for the other players to place their own bets.

By the time he rolled a four and a three, he hardly even cared that he'd won. Still, at least he was actively playing again.

Only this time, after his eighth roll, instead of replacing the dice in front of Harry, the stickman leaned over to confer with the other dealers.

"Table's closed!" they called out, and the other players gathered their chips without objection and moved on.

What the heck? Why'd they shut it down?

Dung appeared as if out of the ether. "You're too lucky, kid."

"What was that about? I'd barely started playing!"

"The 'ouse always pulls the plug if someone gets too hot. Le'me see 'ow you did." Harry obediently passed over his winnings for Dung to count. "Damn! Still short!"

"What do we need so much gold for, anyway?" He was growing tired, and his head was throbbing.

"To fix somethin' I messed up. Somethin' awful." Dung looked him over, raising the brim on Harry's hat to take in his condition. "Listen… I really hate to ask, but-"

"It's okay," Harry said. If Dung needed his help, he wouldn't quit. "Let's find another table."

"I, uh, I doubt they'll let you back at a craps table. You win too much."

"So what does that leave?"

Dung was quiet for several seconds, then: "Cards."

"Yes!" Harry pumped his fist. Finally, a game he actually knew how to play!

"Y'don't understand, 'arry. The card tables…" Mundungus leaned down to speak into his ear. "The 'ouse cheats. The dealer actually plays 'ere, and they 'old all the cards. I don' mean that figuratively. But I s'pose we got no other options."

"I can do this."

"I jus' need forty-eight more Galleons. Understand? That's it. Get that gold 'n cash out."

"Got it." Harry collected his bank from Dung and walked determinedly to the nearest poker table.

Poker took even longer than craps, but at least it held his interest. Pushing his physical discomfort to the back of his mind, Harry focused completely on his cards and opponents. As the first hand came to an end, he confidently laid out his cards.

"Straight."

"A straight from the black hat loses to my flush," the dealer said nonchalantly, gathering Harry's bet and adding it to the house bank.

He'd lost? At cards?

That had never happened before!

Harry raised his hand to be dealt into the next round. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mundungus speaking urgently with a waitress, receiving a sharp and glowering rebuke for his trouble.

"Place your bet," the dealer chided him, and Harry absentmindedly slid forward several chips.

The round came to a close, and the dealer laid out a four of a kind, conveniently beating Harry's full house. His eyes narrowed. Two hands in, and the amount he needed was now just over seventy Galleons.

Two more rounds went by, with Harry betting conservatively. The dealer won a third time, and a different player won once.

Dung was right. The game was rigged, it had to be. Any time the pot grew past a certain point, the dealer somehow always managed to edge out the best hand, losing only when the pot was below a certain monetary threshold.

Harry won a hand, adding nine Galleons to his bank. It didn't compensate what he'd already lost.

Two players cashed out, replaced at the table by new faces - and bigger pots. Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in anticipation as the next hand was dealt. This was his moment. He could feel it.

Harry glanced at his hand, then tossed out two cards and called for two more. The dealer slid his new cards towards him, but Harry left them on the table. He pushed his entire bank into the pot.

"All in," he called out cheerfully, then picked up the cards to look at his hand. The new players, unimpressed by his confidence, matched his bet.

The dealer appropriately maintained his poker face, though his eyebrow twitched at Harry making such a wager blindly. He hesitated, then folded, abandoning the small bet he'd made to that point.

Yes! Without the dealer to tip the scales, Harry's three of a kind was more than enough to win out over the others. He'd won! And he'd done it with strategy, not with luck!

Running a quick tally of his winnings, Harry cashed out. He'd made the seventy-two Galleons he needed with six to spare.

"Great job!" Dung said, embracing Harry so fervently he knocked his hat off. "I knew you could do it!"

Harry giggled. "Let's just get out of here. I've got a headache."

"You got it, anything you like. C'mon." They returned to the small window cashier. "We'd like to cash out, my good man."

Dung passed the chips over, and a few moments later, gold coins stacked in tens were returned.

"'Ere's your cut," he said, handing Harry the six extra coins. "Now, jus' one more stop."

Harry followed him through the casino. After some searching, Dung found who they were looking for - the same waitress he'd approached earlier. As they neared her, her eyes regarded them with disdain and suspicion. Dung gestured with his hand for her to follow him to a more secluded location.

Though he was unable to make out the exact words, it was plain to see the way her manner shifted when Dung passed her their winnings from the day. Her lips trembled and tears welled up in her eyes. She embraced Dung, who gently returned her hug before gesturing to Harry.

The woman came closer, and Harry was able to see the layers of caked-on cosmetics, make up designed to disguise the age lines and wrinkles. She was- well, if not an old lady, at least older than his father.

"Spasibo. Spasibo bolshoi!" she muttered fervently, before clutching the gold and hurrying away.

"Time to go," Dung said quietly, and at last they left the underground casino.

Harry sucked in lungfuls of fresh air, the biting cold refreshing (at least until his sweat dried) after the claustrophobic heat they'd just departed.

Mundungus smiled fondly at him, taking the hat off Harry's head ruffling his hair. "Thanks."

"I'm still not even sure what I did. I thought we were trying to clear your debt?"

"Nah," Dung waved away that possibility. "I told ya, I- I'm done betting. That was just some unfinished business."

"What did that lady need the gold for?"

"She owes- well, owed a debt to the gang runnin' that show. They were forcin' 'er to work to pay it off, 'cept 'er wages didn't even cover the interest they were charging."

Harry frowned. "That's not fair."

Mundungus barely reacted to his interjection, clearly on a roll. "An' it was my fault to begin with that she got mixed up with that lot. She used to work in the market, at the fishmongers. But 'er 'usband was sick, and she needed gold for his potions. 'Ere I come, one day, mouthin' off 'bout my winnings the night before, 'n the next thing you know, I'm leading 'er 'ere to try 'er own luck."

"Why didn't you ask my father to help?"

"And admit I'd been visiting an illegal casino for the last several months? Anyway, all's well that ends well. I informed the magister yesterday morning about this spot. Tomorrow, Sirius' crew is going to raid the casino and shut it all down. I jus'- I couldn't let her get caught and locked up when they bring the hammer down. Not when she was there 'cos of me."

"Oh. Alright." Did that mean everyone else was going to be locked up?

He was pulled out of his thoughts when Dung took hold of his shoulders, kneeling down to meet his eyes. "Listen, what you did today - it meant a lot. Maybe jus' small stuff, compared to the things you've done and what you'll do in the future. But it weren't none o' your business, and you helped just 'cos I asked you to. I ain't rich 'n powerful, and I don't 'ave no special abilities like you, but if you ever need anything- anything, you come see ol' Mundungus and you've got my support. No questions."

"Sure," Harry said, pushing away his worries. He'd done a good thing today. He helped win back that woman's freedom. Because he was special.

Another quick portkey trip, and they returned to Blackriver. Harry, his head still pounding and reeking of cigarettes, went upstairs to shower and lie down before dinner.

"Solnyshko, it's time to wake up."

"Hm?" Harry mumbled, blearily opening his eyes. Masha sat on the edge of his bed, smiling fondly at him. "Wha- what time is it?"

"You slept through dinner. That man, Fletcher, he said that you were not feeling well."

Stretching his arms over his head, Harry threw off his blankets. "No, just a headache. I'm fine now. How was your day?"

"Very good. Your father introduced me to the magister, and she says she will have a position for me come June."

"That's great! So you'll spend the summer here, too?"

"Da. Thanks to you and your help."

"I didn't do much."

"You did enough," Masha said firmly, and that was that. "Did you enjoy the New Year's celebrations?"

"I guess," Harry replied. "It seemed like the grown-ups were having more fun. Are there any leftovers from dinner?"

"I'm sure one of the elves can bring you a meal-" Masha started to say, but Harry quickly interrupted her.

"No! That's alright. I can fix something myself."

"I'll join you. There's something I wanted to tell you, anyway."

"Alright," Harry said, and together they marched down the stairs to the kitchen, where Harry began digging around in the cupboards and the chiller for a snack. "What's on your mind?"

"It's about your mother," she said, and Harry froze, the apple in his hand held up to his mouth, mid-bite.

"What… what about her?"

"I don't think you should ask your father for more information. It would probably be best to leave that topic alone."

"Why?"

Masha took his arm and sat him down at the kitchen table, plopping down next to him. "Just trust me. Sometimes things are better not to know."

"She's my mum, Masha. I want- no, I need to know what happened to her."

"And when you find out that the answer is not what you wanted to hear, then what? You cannot unlearn what you know, then. It will be too late."

Harry was still for several seconds, eventually setting the apple on the table and turning to face her. "What did you find out?"

"Harry-"

"Tell me."

"I don't think-"

"Are you my friend, or not? I thought we helped each other, and now you're going to keep secrets from me?" Harry fumed. What right did she have to keep information about his mum from him?!

"I'm on your side. Always, no matter what," Masha said. "I just thought… well, better to spare you from painful knowledge."

"What's painful?" he whispered, dreadful imaginings running through his mind. "What's so bad?"

Masha placed her cool palm against his cheek, delicately cradling his face. "I learned what happened to your mother. Why she isn't here." Harry tried to speak, to ask her to tell him, but the words wouldn't come out. Masha didn't keep him waiting for long. "She gave you up willingly. Allowed your father to take you in exchange for gold and control of a business in England. She didn't want you, Harry."

"No…" he mumbled. "Th-that's not true. Father would have-"

"Your father is the one I learned this from. After he spoke with you, several days ago, the remorse drove him to drink. I'm not making this up."

"But…" But she was- she was intelligent! And beautiful, and charming, and… and she was loyal, that's what his father had said! Why- why would she abandon her own son? Shouldn't she have been loyal to him?

"Your father was very distressed," Masha said, her thumbs brushing away the tears that began to fall from his eyes. "I think it's probably for the best that you don't push him any more than you already have. You know how much he loves you."

"I-" his voice cracked. "She- we've already got lots of gold, though. Why couldn't she- why not be with us? Why wasn't I enough?"

"Shhh," Masha slipped her arm behind his neck and pulled him flush against her. "Sometimes it's not about the wealth. Sometimes, it is about ambition. There are people who would do anything to get ahead. Not like you and me."

'Your mum was ambitious, and she worked hard to realise that ambition,' his father's words from before echoed in his mind. 'She was determined to make something of herself.'

It was true. It was all true. Wealth wasn't enough. He wasn't enough. She gave him up for- for- what had Masha said? A business?

His breath was rapid, coming in short gasps as the realisation dawned on him. That was why his father always told him how special he was, even before he harnessed his magic. Trying to- what, make up for his mum- for his mother abandoning him?

"It's alright, Harry," Masha said, but Harry pushed her back. He couldn't- he needed to be alone. Grabbing his cloak off the rack near the entrance hall, Harry tore out of the manor and ran into the woods.

A/N: super-long chapter. Been a challenging time for me. My dog died, and honestly I have wondered whether i'd keep writing at all. I don't feel much joy in it the way i used to. A couple of days ago, though, I sat down and just started writing this chapter. It's probably not as polished as my usual stuff, and maybe i'm not pacing things as well as i'd planned. But it's something.

Thanks to everyone in my discord for their kind words. You guys have been great.

~Frickles