Desolation

by souein

From a very young age Harry Potter learned to hide and suppress his emotions. It was vital for his own survival, a way to deal with all the pain and hurt he was forced to live with. He was determined to eliminate them completely, he didn't need emotions. Not even if the principles of magic said otherwise. Not even when a certain snake warned him against it. HPLV

15. Chapter 15

Narcissa Malfoy put the letter on a small table and watched as Harry arranged the tea, while Dobby fussed over the biscuits. The pitiful creature addressed Harry Potter as his true master, not even sparing a glance her way. No matter. That house elf was always difficult, and Harry handling him was only for the better. Thank Merlin for Mindy, at least someone among the house elves still retained some common sense.

Narcissa trailed her eyes over the room. There wasn't much to catch her eye; what Harry did to his room was too unusual compared to the rest of the Malfoy manor. Even the sitting area looked devastatingly plain, but she couldn't deny how comfortable the armchairs were as she took a moment to relax. The lack of any decorations was initially too baffling for her; she even argued with Harry, advocating for more elaborate designs. But she got used to it with time. The typical luxury of a traditional pureblood household could be tiring without one even realising it. The unassuming approach was easy on the eye, and now that she learned to see beauty in simplicity, she loved it.

Undoubtedly, it was neither the first nor the only thing unusual about Harry Potter.

There was hardly anyone in the wizarding world who didn't know of the Boy Who Lived. He was put on a pedestal and revered as a hero by society. He was loathed by the most faithful Death Eaters and secretly admired by those with a change of heart. But underneath it all, there was always a thin layer of fear. Not everyone admitted or even realised it, for what was there to fear about a child? A child who vanquished the most powerful Dark Lord of their time. The golden symbol of victory for the Light, a shameful reminder of loss for the Dark.

Following their Lord's demise, the chaos and panic were unavoidable among the Death Eaters, but Narcissa wasn't one to be easily swayed by the masses. Her beloved husband, too, was a Slytherin to his core, with masterful skills in deception and ability to adapt to the situation with most advantage. If it meant making an Imperius excuse believable, appearing weak or disgraceful to their former comrades, then that was what it took. An image was everything to Malfoys but losing face was better than rotting in Azkaban. Her dear sister Bella would disagree, but she was a lost cause by many standards. At heart, Narcissa's loyalty never wavered, but there was loyalty, and there was reason. Sometimes, compromises had to be made in order to survive.

Many believed that the Dark Lord wasn't truly defeated, that he would return one day in all his power and glory. Fear was deeply entrenched within society, Dark and Light alike, covered by the blinded joy and cheers for the new hero, hopes all placed on one small child.

Years before his demise, the Dark Lord was already not the same lord they all pledged their loyalty to. He was rightfully feared, his fury escalating to the point where it was impossible to predict what would anger him. He was consumed by madness, there was no clear purpose anymore. Those who found pleasure in mindless torture and murder rejoiced, those who cherished different values recoiled.

Narcissa was an expert in reading people, she also knew how to adjust her own presence to appear unprovocative; a skill she exploited heavily in public, which allowed her to weave through intricacies of social moods and gather secrets that weren't openly talked about. It became useful in avoiding her Lord's ire as well. She was also valued for her healing skills; understanding how an individual's mind worked was natural to her, and so when it came to easing the damage after Cruciatus, she was always the first one to be called upon. Having her own mind cleared, she evaded sharp corners like water.

Her standing among Death Eaters was ever solid, but at the same time she was hardly ever suspected by the Ministry. She was often underestimated as a frail woman hiding behind her husband's back, which suited her just fine. Lucius' ingrained self-preservation, for the most part, allowed him to sneak his way around the Dark Lord as much as it helped with clearing his name in court.

With the Dark Lord losing himself to insanity, the situation they all ended up in was disagreeable and complicated. His mind was deteriorating, there was no doubt about that, but just as clearly, it was something outside Narcissa's competence. Mind healing was her craft, yet she could never dare to even breach the subject to the Dark Lord, sure that it won't achieve anything good for her or her family.

Malfoys weren't the only ones who felt a certain sense of relief upon the Dark Lord's demise. And that, in a way, branded the Boy Who Lived as a saviour among some Death Eaters too. Granted, their pride along with dread of the Dark Lord's eventual return didn't allow them to openly admit to it.

Narcissa was a prideful woman herself, but she also had a wider vision than most, preferring to have a grasp over circumstances rather than yielding to wherever they took her. Harry Potter was a unique child, valuable to both sides. He could be a saviour, or a martyr. Regardless, he was an asset, and she could be the one to exploit the benefits.

It was true that Blacks valued family, but only when it was agreeable with their beliefs. Narcissa wasn't only a Black, but also a Malfoy, and Malfoys knew how to take advantage. Acquiring a guardianship over Harry Potter would have solidified their position at those uncertain times, making their family untouchable by the Light forces. And if the need arose, presenting the Boy Who Lived to the Dark Lord on a silver platter to become distinguished among the Death Eaters.

It was a low chance, of course, that their family would be chosen for a guardianship among other candidates who thought roughly along the same lines. Everyone wanted a piece of Harry Potter, only to be let down, for the boy still had close family among muggles.

He was secretly trained to become a shining hero, just like his parents, that's what everyone believed. The first crack in that belief appeared when Harry Potter got sorted into Slytherin. It was also a sign for the next logical step, like it was meant to be, for Harry and Draco to become the best of friends.

Alas, it never truly happened. Instead, unexpectedly the role of Harry Potter's friend fell upon her, which she didn't even have to play. She was Harry's friend.

With their first interaction, Narcissa recognised instantly that Harry Potter was a skilled player too. He had his own collection of masks and executed them near perfectly, showing only what others expected to see. She was confident in her ability to recognise deception, and shockingly, there was little of it coming from Harry when he talked to her. They connected over superficial topics at first, finding mutual entertainment in conversations over nothing particularly important, which was freeing in a way. There was no need to bare the soul around each other. All the while, they could leave the masks off, staying real on the surface, without the need to uncover what lay beyond. Harry clearly knew exactly how open he wanted to be, and Narcissa respected that, refraining from outright reaching inside his mind.

There was no secret that both of them were after their personal gain. Just as association with the Boy Who Lived was beneficial to Malfoys, their influence was useful to Harry Potter. For a boy who grew up with muggles, he had a surprisingly deep understanding in the workings of the wizarding world, not limited to the teachings Light families usually gravitated towards. It became evident that Harry Potter did not receive any prior training like it was believed, yet he wasn't as unaware as those who used to live among muggles.

And how peculiar the minds of those muggles were. Harry Potter didn't have to bare his soul for Narcissa to pick up on details that remained untold. A little inkling, and she couldn't help but imagine the worst of how the muggles might have treated the boy. But imagination was a tricky thing, and Narcissa preferred to operate with facts. To avoid leaving traces for any prying Aurors afterwards, she couldn't use magic as much as she'd like but people and information were her scene. Very few wizards of her standing would lower themselves to actually talk with muggles, even fewer would know how to do so without suspicion, but it was hardly a challenge for Narcissa. A few harmless charms here, a handful of speech patterns there, a pleasant smile, and she could be anyone's trusted friend.

The town Harry Potter grew up in was painfully boring. Nothing ever seemed to happen there. Except, two people died. In an accident involving snakes. And those were Harry Potter's relatives. Not surprising in the least.

What she found surprising was that Harry Potter almost didn't exist until that accident, and then, seemingly overnight, the tables turned. There was no mental tempering involved, yet Narcissa could easily pick up on the pure, almost effortless, manipulation over the entire neighbourhood, where Harry was in full control of the game. It was a different case with a local squib, already knowledgeable enough about the wizarding world. Dumbledore's spy, how uncouth. Narcissa could only gleam so much under the unassuming disguise without raising suspicion, but the entire conversation left a sour taste in her mouth.

But of course the picture wouldn't be complete without whatever Harry's aunt had to say, whose deteriorating health Harry was supposedly concerned about.

When Narcissa asked Petunia Dursley to tell the truth about Harry Potter's life with her, she received an almost imperceptible lie. With the loss of her immediate family, it made sense for a poor aunt to find solace in her only remaining nephew, to pamper him and share what little knowledge there was about the wizarding world. Narcissa didn't know how she herself would cope if she ever lost her husband or son. The story was clear-cut and practised, but still a lie. For a muggle to be able to lie to Narcissa, it meant something else, more powerful, had a hold over her.

"And before your husband and son died? How did you treat your nephew?"

"He was always part of the family. He reminded me of my sister, who I dearly loved."

The sickly pale woman had difficulty speaking, she looked like she was ready to pass out any minute. It was easy to believe she would soon die, Harry's concern not unwarranted. Yet, the words were clear and convincing. If it wasn't for an already rooted suspicion, Narcissa might have found them believable.

Petunia Dursley's mind wasn't providing any information either. Even when Narcissa risked delving deeper, the mind appeared scattered, similar to those who harboured a mental illness.

Narcissa could be tenacious when it came to gathering information; there was another link she learned of, which was only logical to explore. And what a foul can of worms it led her to.

Marjorie Dursley was everything anyone would despise about muggles, and even Narcissa struggled to keep her composure around the horrendous woman. There was no sweet-talking, no resistance in that ghastly mind of hers. Finally, Narcissa got confirmation that her imagination wasn't playing tricks on her. Only, the truth turned out to be so much worse. Harry Potter was a severely abused child, unloved and scorned. Even a glimpse into the relevant memories was enough to grasp that. The loud woman showed no attempt to hide her opinion about Harry either. Resentful and spiteful, she had not a single kind word. Her bulldogs grated on Narcissa's nerves, but Narcissa was a rational woman and knew how to keep her cool, even when the righteous anger boiled within.

Fortunately, this woman lived nowhere near Surrey, which would sooner or later become of interest to Aurors because of association with Harry Potter. So Narcissa was less hesitant with the use of magic. The Dark Mark, while not as active as in good days, still retained its function, preventing the immediate detection of magic performed around muggles. An ingenious string of spellwork, created by the Dark Lord to protect the Death Eaters. They basically had a free rein in their dealings without ever alerting the Ministry, unless they chose to send a Morsmordre into the sky. Needless to say, Narcissa wouldn't choose to do such a thing. And if Marjorie Dursley were to be found dead, it would be deemed an accident, of course. After all, the vile woman was surrounded by just as vile dogs.

Initially, taking a guardianship over Harry was about mutual beneficial arrangement, not a sentimental one. With his background less of a mystery now, Narcissa became adamant in seeing this through. It wasn't only about escaping Dumbledore's influence anymore. No child, let alone a magical one, deserved to be treated the way Harry was. A mere thought was infuriating.

Harry still never talked about any of it, lacing his own version of the past for those around. Whatever he did, he managed to wrap it so none would question further if they were to check. He didn't account for Narcissa checking even further so. With how Marjorie Dursley never even visited the funeral of her brother and nephew, because apparently there was no one else to watch over her precious dogs, it was understandable for that weak link to slip Harry's notice. It was also understandable why Harry wanted to uphold an image he chose for himself, so Narcissa was only too happy to aid him in cutting the loose end.

She never mentioned any of it to Harry either. They weren't supposed to force their way into each other's mind, after all. Nonetheless, without much effort, they both gradually became more open, comfortable enough to let the surface layers drop.

What many people still failed to realise, Harry Potter was no hero, no Gryffindor at heart, nor was he a saviour or a mindless child. Bit by bit, the image of the Boy Who Lived was peeled before her eyes, and something else got revealed. Something that even she couldn't quite place with absolute certainty.

Lucius once expressed the idea that Harry Potter might be possessed by the Dark Lord himself. Such nonsense. She was confident in her ability to see the difference. While the darkness lurked behind those eerie emerald eyes, it wasn't anything foreign to the person who Harry Potter was.

Most certainly, he was a child, mistreated by muggles and overlooked by wizards when convenient, yet still expected to abide by the flawed concepts heaped upon him. But also, he was a child, who had to grow up too fast. It was striking to think that the boy was only Draco's age. Despite any of this, she couldn't quite view Harry as a son, too independent and mature he was for that.

Unlike Lucius, she never felt intimidated by Harry. That was just another clue of him wielding all sorts of masks. But she could empathise with the notion. With all that she grasped surrounding Harry's past, failing to connect the dots was almost incomprehensible.

The sequence of deaths that befallen his relatives, was all too convenient for Harry rather than unfortunate. Boring disgraceful muggles, one wouldn't look twice upon, irrelevant, so easily brushed off. Sure, it was a huge leap to put a blame on an outwardly innocent child, a symbol of Light no less. Only Slytherins so far were aware of Harry Potter being a Parselmouth. Still, in general, people weren't used to seeing past their ingrained beliefs, and that's what made Harry Potter a frightening figure to be reckoned with. Her instinct told Narcissa that Harry Potter could do anything and get away with anything.

Understandably, he couldn't do everything on his own. It was no trouble to support him with the endeavour of acquiring a change in guardianship. The influence Dumbledore held over him was always troubling, and with how desperately Harry seized the opportunity to escape it, it almost felt all too easy to find a common ground. It wasn't limited to aversion of falling into Dumbledore's grasp, there was also an unspoken but undeniable support of the Dark Lord.

While some secrets were inevitable to remain secret, Narcissa could tell Harry allowed her to see an unfiltered side of him. With the ever present pressure and expectation to be someone else, Harry appeared at peace around her.

It wasn't so much about the entertainment of their conversations at this point. Narcissa could barely remember when was the last time they even discussed new fashionable collections or trivia from the balls. The thought was only somewhat disappointing, since that was great fun. Possessing a curious mind by nature, Harry often found an interest to be engrossed in, so much there was for him to learn. But quite often, too, when he learned enough, it was enough.

One such interest turned out to be portrait making. Narcissa gave the letter she brought a cursory glance, turning her attention back to Harry. For a while now they sat in complete silence, a steaming cup before her, the warmth preserved by the charm.

She picked it up, getting a whiff of pleasant aroma, and smiled. This particular tea was also a novelty in her house, per Harry's suggestion, and now she loved it too.

"So what's this I hear about an Artist apprenticeship?" She enquired lightly, taking in the little changes in Harry's expression. "Monsieur Perrot contacted me requesting an official permission, and I must say, I am intrigued."

Apprenticeships were on a whole different level in terms of dedication, in some cases they even cost money not everyone could afford. Artistry was one such case, and taking it up professionally wasn't something one chose to do on a whim.

Harry looked back at her, eyes calm and considering. Narcissa could tell he weighed his next words carefully. She took a long sip of tea, narrowing her eyes slightly. Surely, Harry wouldn't dare to disrespect her with a rubbish excuse.

His voice held no hint of humour when he finally spoke. "The field I truly strive to master is Necromancy."

The explanation was so outlandish, one might mistake it for a joke. It didn't make sense to her yet, but she knew Harry enough to call him on a lie, and it wasn't a lie. So she stayed silent conveying her intent to listen.

"Not much is known about Necromancy," Harry said slowly.

Narcissa nodded, trying to recall what little she knew herself. The common perception was that of Necromancy being the darkest of arts, and those few attempting to master it played a dangerous game with Death itself.

Harry leaned forward, placing his cup on the table. "Not everyone can become a Necromancer, but I can." He didn't leave his eyes from Narcissa, vividly green like never before.

"And yet, the portraits?" She asked nonchalantly, as if it wasn't the most bizarre conversation she held in a while. But she had no reason not to believe Harry, and thankfully he was willing to make sense of it in detail.

"Necromancy is the field connected to the realm of Death. Where is death, there are souls. I was always curious what the portraits are; could it be that the painted image is in fact the actual person, a soul? When I saw the ritual Monsieur Perrott did, it only confirmed my suspicion. The art of creating portraits must be a form of Necromancy, that's why I have to study it."

In just one breath Harry relayed more information about Necromancy that was generally known for centuries.

Narcissa put her cup aside, breaking from a thoughtful daze. She leaned forward a bit too, watching Harry with unconcealed interest. "Why did you suspect the portrait ritual to be the form of Necromancy?"

"Because for the ritual to succeed, a potion had to be used. The one that suppresses emotions. And that's the one basis required to pursue Necromancy."

It didn't take long for the true meaning to sink in, and her eyes widened.

"Necromancy requires suppressing emotions? But that's…" She looked at Harry, reevaluated him, when something finally clicked. "You suppress your emotions." That's what always felt not quite right about Harry, now she was certain. "You do. You always do. And without any potions."

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "It's not even so much about suppression. At this point, I practically don't have them."

The statement once again surprised Narcissa, but it also made perfect sense. "I must say, Harry, this explains a lot."

Harry arched an eyebrow, only making her smile.

"Harry, you are an excellent actor. You smile, you frown, you look the part. But anyone who gets to see closely, really see, it becomes evident…" She paused, not quite sure how to perfectly describe it. "Like there's a wall, between what you allow us to see and what really is there. Which is not unusual in itself, we all wear our masks. But under yours, there is nothing."

Harry didn't say anything, but she could tell her assessment was accurate.

Narcissa shook her head, gathering her thoughts. "I don't know if I should be impressed or concerned. Is Necromancy worth it?"

"I didn't exclude my emotions because of Necromancy. It's how I am, how I chose to be."

She truly didn't know if she should be concerned, impressed, or apprehensive. Having emotions was so inseparably ingrained within one's life, personality, magic. Rejecting emotions seemed impossible, not something a regular wizard would casually consider doing, if at all. A defence mechanism, her mind helpfully supplied. Not something a loved child would resort to, either. There was a sudden tightness in her chest, only soothed by the fact the muggles responsible already got what they deserved. On the other hand, a person without emotions ought to be inherently dangerous. Unpredictable, uncontrollable, unremorseful.

But Narcissa didn't express any of that; another thought occurred to her. "Without emotions, you cannot do the basic magic. Neither Light nor Dark. And yet, no one noticed."

"You know, I'm a Parselmouth, right?" Harry waited for Narcissa to nod before continuing. "It doesn't only entail speaking with snakes, but there's also Parselmagic. It doesn't require emotions, but works on instinct and intuition."

Now that was something completely new, she never heard of such magic. The only other Parselmouth was the Dark Lord, his magic so powerful, she never stopped to think of nuances within the magic he wielded.

As an answer to Narcissa's obvious question, Harry took out his wand, pointing it at the tea cup; with a perfect flick of motion and verbal Vingardium Leviosa, the cup smoothly went up in the air. If Narcissa didn't know better, she wouldn't have bat an eye, so naturally it resembled the day-to-day magic all wizards did.

When the cup was guided back to its plate on the table, Harry put the wand aside. He glanced briefly at Narcissa to gauge her reaction, before concentrating on the cup. It repeated the same path in the air without a hitch.

She just witnessed a casual display of wandless magic, achievable only to exceptionally powerful wizards with deep understanding of magic, who wielded it for years through deliberate and vigorous training. She knew from experience, too; it took her a lot of effort and years to achieve a form of subtlety in the mind magic.

Narcissa looked up at Harry, stunned. Were he someone else, she would normally expect to see a smug expression for showing off such a feat. Yet Harry remained unbothered, like it was the most basic thing in the world.

"Harry, I always knew you were special. But this. You are extraordinary."

The poor boy didn't know how to react, so he drank his tea to avoid that. Narcissa hid a smile behind her own cup, regarding him fondly.

"No need to be shy, Harry. It's only the truth."

"Most spells are relatively easy to fake so far." Harry shrugged. "Well, manageable. I do well on exams."

Narcissa laughed, tipping her head back. "I wouldn't expect anything less. And you already know so much about Necromancy."

"I still know relatively nothing. I only learned of Necromancy not long before Cygnus Black died, and I found only one book on the topic." Even one book on the topic sounded like a rare find, but Harry didn't seem satisfied. "The more I read it, the more I realise it's only an introduction. There should be so much more. And I already searched all the Malfoy and Rosier libraries."

"You haven't searched the Black library," Narcissa replied without much thought to it, but it made her think of something.

Harry's eyes widened. "Would I find something there?"

"I'm not sure. I never searched through all the library." And she actually had to roll her eyes at that. She was never a bookworm, that would be her sister, and even then, Andromeda wasn't very keen on the contents. "Besides, as long as Sirius is in Azkaban or, well, until he dies, there'd be no access to that. No one can enter the place until the magic welcomes the new Head of House."

"And he received the title after he was already imprisoned," Harry summarised the core of the problem. It was almost as if the house also ended up in prison, along with the family tree and the library. No wonder her mother was so mad about it. As of now, it was of little consequence.

"There is a book I just recalled, we have it here in Malfoy manor too. I used to read it to Draco when he was younger."

"It's a children's book, then?"

She nodded. "That's why you probably overlooked it, and at a glance you wouldn't even know the connection. The Tales of Beedle the Bard contain a story about the three brothers who had an encounter with Death."

"Doesn't necessarily have to be connected to Necromancy," Harry agreed.

"True. But the legend surrounding the story expanded to all sorts of beliefs, revolving mostly around the Deathly Hallows, the gifts the three brothers received from Death itself. One such belief is that these powerful objects do actually exist and there wasn't literal Death involved, but the Peverell brothers created them, as Necromancers."

---

The Tale of the Three Brothers itself wasn't quite informative, but Narcissa's hint about Deathly Hallows opened a new direction for him to look through. In one book in particular he learned about invisibility cloaks and how normally they'd lose the properties over time becoming more opaque and not as useful anymore. His was as good as new despite being passed down from his father, and most likely even through generations before. He could also tell it was of an exceptional quality, something far superior and lacking common drawbacks described in the book. To assume his Invisibility Cloak could be one of the Deathly Hallows seemed preposterous and coincidental, yet the more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed.

Since Path to Death was written by a Peverell, Harry had little doubt that the mentioned Peverell brothers were Necromancers as well. While fascinating as a story, he couldn't quite imagine the abstract concept of death appearing as a corporeal being.

The more he thought about it, the more his mind strayed to the Veil of Death. He had to get there and see for himself, the pull only intensifying as the time went.

With Tom's outburst in the Ministry his energy ran short, and slowly but inevitably he faded out, only able to communicate through the diary. Harry promised to find a way to replenish his life force, but he wasn't in a hurry to do so before returning to the Veil first. Without Lucius or Tom, at that. He didn't need them to stop him again.

Harry grasped at the useless badge from the Ministry twirling it around in his fingers. It was no longer glowing, rendering the permission to enter the Department of Mysteries moot. He could feel the dagger around his arm, swirling impatiently. Commanding it to his hand, he put the thing on the table. It vibrated slightly, the small dark mist oozing from it.

If you want this, make it happen, he thought, picking at the badge with the sharp tip of the blade. It left no scratches, instead the tip went through smoothly, making the badge flicker rapidly several times until it steadied into a continuous glow. It wasn't supposed to happen, not really. Yet instinctively, Harry expected it to.

Permission granted, Harry was ready to take another step in preparation for his plan to work.

He left the manor through the fireplace to the Leaky Cauldron right after breakfast, telling Narcissa he had some business to take care of in Gringotts. It wasn't even a complete lie.

The goblin only raised an eyebrow, reading through his will, and methodically guided Harry through the process of sealing it. A drop of blood here, a signature there. A ride down in a cart, and he was standing before his personal vault. Carefully, Harry placed the diary on the shelf among the sizable towers of galleons.

"I will come back, I promise, Tom." He hissed quietly, closing the door to the vault with a soft thud.

Nothing was going to stop him now; he took a now familiar route through the Ministry with confident steps, not slowing down until he reached the lift. That was a trick he learned long ago, to appear like he belonged so that no one would pay him any mind. The halls were half-empty with only a few employees lazily passing by, and Harry managed to reach the Department of Mysteries without any trouble. It wasn't long before he stood in the dark room with the Veil of Death in its centre.

Harry didn't hesitate this time, reaching with his hand to the fluttering veil. To him, it didn't feel any different from simply touching the air. With an encouraging thrum from the dagger, he closed the remaining distance and went through.

---

Harry is prepared to fall, yet it never comes. Disoriented, almost weightless and light-headed, it's like he's ready to fly off at any moment instead. The sensation is so abrupt and confusing, he takes an unsteady step, trying to find his footing.

The surface he's standing on is coated with shadows, swirling about in a cloudy mass. It can hardly be called a floor, but a thick dark material supports Harry, and carefully he makes another step.

The dagger around his arm practically buzzes and eventually flies out in a swirl of vague shape, joining the surrounding shadows as if reuniting. Harry tries to adjust his vision to the darkness, watching it disappear. Soon it flies back towards him, but now shaped as a small black dragon, its shadowy wings slowly flapping about. It sits on Harry's shoulder and despite the oddity of it all, Harry is encouraged to go ahead.

With another careful step, the shadows separate before him creating a clear path.

As he goes further, there are fewer shadows, the place getting visibly lighter. There are no clear shapes anywhere, Harry has to make sure his glasses are still on. He takes them off to check if there's a difference, but everything is the same blur. The lingering shadows and the dragon still follow him, and soon it gets easier to decipher the surroundings. The clear whiteness seems endless, yet it isn't anywhere blinding, appearing soft, still partially cloaked with darker shades. More than anything, the place is peaceful.

"I see you haven't gone extinct." A voice makes Harry turn around to be faced with striking violet eyes, assessing him curiously. The longer Harry looks, the clearer the rest of the figure becomes, and Harry can see it's a person, a woman with long silver hair. Her face is youthful, yet the eyes seem ancient; she looks ageless.

Her overall appearance is similar to how Tom was when he first appeared outside the diary, the edges of her shape soft and blurry, somewhat see-through and otherworldly. Yet still different from a ghost, with a full shape to her and distinguishable colours. This is how an actual soul looks like.

Now that his attention is drawn, he notices another figure behind her, that of a man with a shabby appearance and befuddled expression. At a distance he can see even more souls watching but none approaching.

"You are a Necromancer." The woman states, and the Shabby Man's mouth hangs open.

"What's a Necromancer?"

Violet Eyes glances at the man, amused. "A Necromancer acts as a bridge between two realms, that of living and dead. To meet one who is still among the living is a once in a lifetime occasion these days."

"Oh." Shabby Man blinks at Harry full of wonder. "Now I almost feel better for dying just in time."

"Have you ever met another one?" Harry asks, not bothered by the attention, watching the woman with interest. A mysterious smile is his answer.

"Eustace has been waiting for you." She acknowledges instead.

"Eustace?" Harry echoes.

"Your predecessor."

Harry's thoughts come to a halt. Can it be Eustace C. Peverell, the author of Path to Death, written in the 17th century? If so, Necromancers must be even rarer than anyone assumes.

"What happened to him?"

"He remains here, among death."

It seems like a roundabout way to say that he died, something Harry doesn't really have to doubt, since everyone in the realm of Death must be dead.

The unusual phrasing still prompts him to make sure. "You mean, he died?"

"No, dear." Violet Eyes gives him a long considering look. "Necromancers don't just die."

"How so?"

"The realm itself preserves you."

"Yet Eustace is not among the living."

"So are you. Not until you go back." Her eyes are vibrant, meaningful. "He has no reason to do so, that's all."

The explanation sounds deceivingly obvious, but Harry gets no chance to question it. Another figure appears suddenly, a tall woman with foxy eyes and twin braids. "You shouldn't stay here for long."

Harry's first impulse is to protest. Here is a well of knowledge on Necromancy before him, and still so much to learn and explore.

As if sensing his hesitance Twin Braids continues, "It's your first time here. You shouldn't risk getting overwhelmed."

"I'm not overwhelmed."

"Good." Violet Eyes affirms. "Still, it's better for you to return. We aren't going anywhere but the realm of Life might."

He then feels a light prickle at his scar, like a calling, making Harry nod in agreement.

"Eustace shall talk to you next time." Twin Braids reassures in a softer voice. "Come again when you are ready."

"How will I know?"

"You knew it this time, did you not?"

Harry finds his way back to the Veil, none of the souls following him, the shadows clinging all around but not stopping, allowing him to safely pass through.

---

Back in the Ministry room, Harry stumbled to the floor behind the archway, suddenly feeling heavy, the gravitation pulling him down. Head spinning, he sat on one of the stone benches. It was cold, and he shivered, curling the robe tighter around himself. He wasn't exactly overwhelmed, but the shock of interacting with the other realm came crashing on him.

There was a steady weight on his shoulder, soothing and warm, and Harry blinked at the dragon. He wondered how he was supposed to go around with a dragon now, and it responded by changing into a dagger, finding its way around his arm as usual, emanating the familiar thrum.

Only mildly confused, Harry shook his head, deciding to think about it later.

As soon as he managed to get used to the dim light and reality of the room, Harry stood up, checking if he could walk again without stumbling. Steadily, he made his way towards the doors.

For some reason, the Ministry was now more lively than before. People ran around, countless alarms blaring, paper aeroplanes flying faster in all directions. It all looked very much like the whole building succumbed to panic. Harry proceeded to walk between the crowds unnoticed, dodging anyone who threatened to bump into him, but suddenly someone took a hold of his shoulders.

"Harry!" He looked up to be met with Lucius' eyes on the edge of barely contained panic. "Where were you?" Not waiting for an answer, the man turned around, saying with authority, "We are leaving." And with the same air of confidence guided Harry through the crowds towards the exit.

"What is going on?" Harry asked.

A newspaper was shoved at him. The front page practically screamed with huge letters:

SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPED FROM AZKABAN.

"When did this happen?" Everything was fine just minutes ago.

Lucius didn't allow his expression to lose its mask, but to Harry he seemed totally frustrated.

"Under what rock were you all day? Thank Merlin, I found you. Narcissa is worried sick."

"Why?"

"Why?" Lucius stopped, turning to Harry. "We agreed you could leave the manor during the day if you return before dark. It's already past midnight. On top of it, Sirius Black is out there looking for you."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. How was this possible? He wasn't in the Death realm this long. Was time flowing differently there?

Soon they reached the apparating area, and Lucius made to take Harry's hand for a side-along.

"Wait. Lucius, I need to go to Gringotts first."

"Weren't you already there today?" Lucius' eyes narrowed.

"I was. I left something there, and now I need to get it back."

"What could possibly be so important at this hour?"

"Something that I promised to keep safe."

Harry stared at him heavily, standing his ground. Dark grey eyes flashed in recognition, but Lucius still appeared conflicted.

"You don't really think Sirius Black is out there robbing a bank now too?" Harry prodded. "That would be absurd."

"Fine." Lucius gave in, apparating them to the Diagon Alley. Sure enough, it was dark outside, but fortunately, Gringotts worked at all hours of day and night.

"Back already, Mr Potter?" The goblin asked once they were inside.

The bank was noticeably empty at this hour, and it must have put Lucius at ease. He still drummed his fingers impatiently on the cane, staying behind in the foyer, while Harry followed the goblin into the cart.

Once the diary was in his hands, Harry soothed its cover, getting an echo of apprehension through the scar. He clutched it close to his chest in reassurance, before hiding in his inner pocket.

He didn't mean to leave Tom there for so long. Harry was prepared for the possibility of never returning, that's why he signed the will, writing off all the contents of his personal vault to Tom Marvolo Riddle. The horcrux rightfully belonged to him, and Voldemort had to have a way of knowing its whereabouts in case Harry's venture ended up with his death after all. Harry didn't believe it would, but there was always a possibility. Since his intuition wasn't wrong, the will wasn't necessary now, but Harry mentally shrugged, deciding to keep it as it was.

At the manor, Narcissa indeed looked worried, giving Harry a brief hug in greeting, looking him over from all angles.

"I'm fine, Narcissa." He tried to sound reassuring. "But I may have lost track of time."

"Oh, really?" Lucius huffed beside him. "What were you even doing in the Ministry? And you registered your wand in the morning. Even I don't spend so much time in that place."

Narcissa eyed Harry speculatively as if seeing right through. "Were you in the Department of Mysteries again?" She shook her head. "We'll talk about it later. For now, I'm glad you are unharmed. With the news of Sirius escaping…"

"Should I really be concerned?" Harry read the article while following Lucius through the Ministry, and the main focus was on how dangerous of a criminal Sirius Black was, set on finding The Boy Who Lived to finish You-Know-Who's work. This could be quite a hassle to deal with, but already having experience in finding the truce with the Death Eaters and Voldemort himself, Harry wasn't particularly disturbed.

"You can never know, Harry," Narcissa said, squeezing Harry's shoulder once more.

As soon as Harry was in his room, he opened the diary. A string of words was already written there.

"You went back to the Veil."

"Yes. Past the Veil is the realm of Death. I was able to return."

"Good to know." The bitterness was practically seeping through the page.

Harry probably should have warned Tom beforehand, but he was determined to reach his goal without anything deterring him. While Harry was proven right, returning from the Veil alive, it was the possibility to finally share his thoughts and experience with Tom that brought more of a relief.

"The flow of time is different in the Death realm, it felt like only several minutes passed there. I didn't mean to leave you in Gringotts for so long, but don't worry, even if I didn't come back, I made sure Voldemort would be able to access my vault."

There was a long pause as Tom was mulling over the words.

"I wasn't worried about being left in the vault."

The reply made Harry's hand hesitate, the droplet of ink gathering at the tip of his quill, ready to fall.

"I knew I would return." Harry finally wrote.

"I'm glad you did. Just-" Another pause. "Be careful, Harry."

---

Shortly after his thirteen's birthday Harry had his first lesson with Monsieur Perrot. The artist's studio was located in a small cottage in France. There was no trouble for Malfoys to acquire a permit for international portkey, which also got keyed by Olivier Perrot himself for an extended use, not limited to a single visit.

The countryside looked lovely from what Harry could see around the cottage before he was ushered inside. The place held a strong smell of paint, and it was just as chaotic one might expect from an artist. There were noticeably no portraits displayed on the walls, but some beautiful landscapes caught Harry's eye. The painted trees actually moved with the wind, the water wasn't still, and the occasional butterfly flew by.

Without much ado, Harry was tasked with painting a still life, the set-up already arranged in one of the rooms along with the blank canvas. Harry had no idea what else he expected, but he went along, trying to capture the ornate jug and the fruits. He wasn't given any directions, Perrot simply watched him inconspicuously, going round from time to time to evaluate Harry's progress.

It was the first time Harry ever held a brush in his hands, and he gave it his best effort, not exactly concerned about disappointing the artist, since that was already inevitable. Instead, he let his mind wander, thinking how to breach the subject of his actual reason for being here.

When Harry was nowhere near done after a couple of hours, Monsieur Perrot hummed thoughtfully.

"I see that you're quite caught with the details," he commented, focusing his eyes at the canvas intently, and Harry stopped what he was doing, trying to gauge the artist's reaction. He didn't quite see the disappointment yet, but there was a sharpness to his eyes.

"Not a bad attempt," the man continued. "But in art the details are the last thing you should be concerned over. What matters first is the general form, the composition. The shapes formed through light and shadows. Whether this jug has any cracks or ornament, or whether the position of the grapes is accurate, is not so relevant."

Harry was doing just that, meticulously trying to recreate exactly what he saw with little success, while also being very slow about it, so he could see the point in that assessment. Well, he wasn't actually aspiring to become an artist in the first place. He sighed, putting the brush away. There was no point in dragging it further.

"I must admit, sir, that my interest in this apprenticeship doesn't stem from an aspiration to become an artist."

"No?" Monsieur Perrot actually looked surprised. "Oh boy. Was it too harsh? You don't have to feel discouraged over little critique. Everyone starts somewhere, and there's definitely potential."

Harry glanced at his work again and then back at the man, not really seeing it. He wasn't daft. While he could appreciate the beauty in the things around him, Harry was clearly not talented enough to recreate any of it. Olivier Perrot sighed and suggested taking a break in the kitchen.

"So, no aspiration for the art?" He started, as they sat at the rustic table, two steaming cups of hot cocoa between them. He didn't sound as disappointed as Harry anticipated, but more resigned. "I knew it was too much to hope that I'd stumble on another Leonardo, but you did remind me of him somewhat…"

"Leonardo?" Harry couldn't help but ask.

"Ah, but he resents when I call him that." The man chuckled like it was a running joke. "He's the brightest student in my Art class in Beauxbatons, a natural talent, he is. Such a curious boy too. There's also something in you, I can't quite place…" He observed Harry's face like he wanted to dissect it akin to a painting, or probably it was just the artist's eye. But then he waved a hand, taking a sip of cocoa. Harry gave it a taste as well, appreciating the rich chocolaty flavour.

"Is Leonardo your apprentice too?"

"Leo, no…" The man shook his head solemnly. "Even though I approached him multiple times and offered to take it up for free. He could be legendary."

"And he still refused?"

"Something about strict parents. A shame."

Silence settled where each mulled over their thoughts for a while.

"I must be honest with you…" Harry decided the truth was often the best approach. Not necessarily the entire truth. Olivier Perrot perked up, watching Harry expectantly.

"What I'm actually interested in is the ritual you did for breathing life into the portrait. You see, I've been researching different magical rituals, and this one is so exceptionally unique…"

Harry bit his lip to appear bashful, hoping this would work.

"And I wondered how peculiar it was that Harry Potter ended up so deeply interested in art!" Any lingering solemnity vanished, and the man's eyes lit up. "Of course, just by looking at you one can tell you have a fine taste, but I see, I see… so the magic itself was what fascinated you."

"Yes!" Harry added enthusiasm to his voice. "So I was wondering if it's absolutely necessary to do the art itself in order to perform the ritual… Maybe then-"

The man cut him off, holding up a hand. "Normally, I wouldn't cover the ritual part so early, Harry, you must understand. For someone who wishes to become a proper artist this would come only after years of practice and once they proved their passion for art…"

"But there shouldn't be any difference in who does the portrait, and who activates it? One doesn't have to paint in order to do the ritual." Harry was guessing there based on what he previously gathered from the man, who was now nodding in confirmation, his thick brows furrowed.

"Theoretically, yes. Some shady artists even go as far as to use the photographs. But it's nothing but a scam. I have no respect for those!" The French accent was now coming out stronger with passion. "That's why we have such strict policies in choosing an apprentice, and why it must come with a cost."

Harry nodded in understanding. This particular apprenticeship required a considerable payment, but it was hardly a concern to Harry. Even though Narcissa kindly offered to cover all the costs, Harry refused, wishing to do it with his own resources.

The bit about the photographs caught his attention, it wasn't something he considered before.

"What makes the photographs different? Can't they already maintain the movement?"

"They are only capturing a trail of magic in a moment. They'd never be able to represent the essence of a person. A trace of moment won't be able to hold a conversation either, however realistic it looks. It's similar to what you can see in my landscapes here."

Indeed, Harry wondered. No one would expect the trees to talk; after all, they wouldn't even have a soul. The nuances of different magic captivated Harry, but he had to hold all his jumping questions for another time, determined to settle the proper deal with the artist first.

"So…" Harry had just an idea that might be a good compromise. "If different people can work on two parts of the process. Would you consider taking another apprentice?"

That was clearly not something Monsieur Perrot expected. "Another one?"

"Someone who is much better than me with art, a natural talent. That I promise."

"Taking another student is double the work, Harry. I already made some notable adjustments in my schedule just for you."

"It won't be a double work. You'd teach the same material. Only we split, she does the paintings, and I do the rituals." It sounded perfectly in Harry's head, but seeing the reluctance Harry added. "Same time you planned for me alone, but I'll pay for both."

It was already turning out more expensive than his deal with the Weasley twins, but everything had its price, and Harry was prepared to pay what it takes as long as he got what he wanted.

The offer did little to change Perrot's mind, he still looked unsure, which made Harry realise with a newfound respect that the man really wasn't a money hunter. He made his decisions carefully and if Harry himself was somewhat of a special case, taking someone he had never seen before was a fair risk.

"Look, I can guarantee that she's great." And Harry had just the idea on how to prove it. "Would you like to join me for dinner at the Malfoy manor? Then you'll see for yourself."

Olivier Perrot flipped his pocket watch more for a show than anything else, barely glancing at the time. He at least seemed intrigued. "Dinner sounds fine."

Afterwards, with pleasantries exchanged and a nice dinner, Harry led the man to his room, pointing at the wall where a large picture was proudly displayed.

"The girl I told you about, sent me this as a birthday present."

And it was truly breathtaking. The striking Basilisk covered almost the entire canvas, mostly black and white, with only hues of green and silver scales shimmering throughout the entirety of the Serpent's massive body. At first glance, it could seem like the Basilisk also had wings, but it was actually a snowy owl descending behind from the dark background. Upon even closer look, a tiny bowtruckle could be seen perched on the very edge of the Basilisk's tail. It was a stunning image of Ananta, Hedwig and Benjamin. And now it was the only decoration honoured to stay in Harry's room.

Monsieur Perrot stood silently, taking in the details of the picture, his mouth slightly agape. Finally, he gave a verdict. "It's a masterpiece."

He focused his excited eyes on Harry. "Very well, Harry. Let's do as you suggest." He then clicked his tongue. "And no need to overpay. We'll keep our arrangement as it is. But next time, bring the girl."

Harry grinned, satisfied. The only thing left now was to actually inform Luna about any of that.

---

Luna was more than enthusiastic at the idea. It turned out, Olivier Perrot was a renowned artist, whose work wasn't limited to portraits but also widely featured in art related magazines. Working with him was practically like a dream if one ever aspired to become an artist. Luna seemed not to believe this was actually happening, even as she finished her test painting under the watchful eye of Olivier Perrot, who was more than satisfied with the result.

As the days went on, Harry and Luna attended art classes several times a week. It was fascinating watching Luna in the process of creating a masterpiece, catching interesting tips along the way, learning of different ways to use charmed brushes and colour-changing paint, even giving another attempt at painting something himself. Olivier Perrot was always nice in his assessments, still trying to encourage Harry to explore his potential, despite the previous argument about doubling the work.

While it wasn't the worst way to spend his time, they had yet to move on to anything related to the ritual. Harry could wait, he wasn't expecting everything all at once. But he still needed to grasp more knowledge, he had to go back to the Veil.

He also wanted to make it up to Tom, who was stuck in the diary, but Harry was, too, somewhat stuck in the manor now that Sirius Black escaped. The news articles were getting only more speculative and alarming.

Harry wasn't all too concerned about Sirius Black, but Narcissa suggested that it was wiser for Harry not to go around alone anymore even during the day, which basically meant, Harry wasn't allowed to. It was stemmed from a place of worry, so Harry acquiesced for a time being, deciding to wait until the general panic died down. With the manor's wards, he couldn't just slip out at night, and Narcissa would certainly deem it even more dangerous. Harry didn't want to worry her more than he already did. He couldn't just say that he had to kill some muggles, could he?

Harry eyed Narcissa as they sat in the garden, enjoying the nice summer weather over their usual cup of tea. So far Narcissa was nothing short of accepting; she was a Death Eater, what was a muggle life to her? Harry mentally swatted that thought. He was only thirteen, the same age as her son, and Harry was already pushing it with shocking revelations. The whole idea of him casually venturing through the Veil of Death was still chilling to her, and only seeing Harry doubtlessly alive managed to reassure her. There was also hardly any good explanation for his murderous streak without mentioning Tom, and it was only partially Harry's secret to keep.

The issue had to be approached from another angle.

"What is it about Sirius Black that makes him so dangerous?" Harry asked nonchalantly, taking a long sip of his tea, which was actually one of Tom's favourites and now became a hit with Malfoys too.

Narcissa gave him a searching look. It was fairly obvious that this wasn't Harry's actual question. The dangers of Sirius Black were listed in the newspapers on a daily basis. Treacherous villain, ruthless murderer, savage criminal, notorious Dark wizard, vicious Death Eater, fearsome fugitive. Sirius Black betrayed Harry's parents, who were his close friends, then killed another friend of his along with twelve muggles. A spy for the Dark Lord, he gained the trust of James and Lily Potter, who named him a secret keeper for the Fidelius Charm that was supposed to keep them hidden from Voldemort. He basically allowed that infamous tragic night to happen, and to make amends after twelve years in Azkaban, there could be no other goal for him than to capture and kill the Boy Who Lived. With how dramatic everything was described, Harry almost expected the guards from the Ministry to pop around him at any moment, but thankfully, at least somewhere their incompetence was proving to be useful.

"To be frank, I had never seen Sirius at a Death Eater meeting," Narcissa started. "Not that it's saying much, if he was secretly serving as a spy."

"Can't he be convinced that we are on the same side?"

"Do you honestly believe he can be reasoned with?" Narcissa's eyebrows rose, like it was truly something hard to believe in. "It is of little consequence what he was or wasn't, or which side he is on, if he still committed the crimes like a madman." For a moment her eyes turned distant before she continued carefully in a lower voice. "The thing about Blacks, we aren't quite immune to mental instability. I am fully aware what an insane Black on the loose is capable of doing, but at the same time, it's impossible to predict. You'll never know. That is why he's so dangerous."

Harry could see it wasn't an empty claim, the thought seemed truly terrifying to Narcissa, and she wasn't taking it lightly.

"Well," Harry drawled after considering the possibilities. "Unless we ever talk to him face to face, we won't know for sure."

"If you ever get a chance to talk before it's too late." Narcissa sharply looked at Harry, who only shrugged making her sigh. "You really want to return to the Death realm this much, do you?"

"I really do. And I have an Invisibility Cloak." That wasn't really news to Narcissa, but he had to emphasise. "How dangerous could it be if I'm not even seen? If I happen to spot Sirius Black, I won't engage."

"Am I to believe you won't ever take it off?" Narcissa could read him so very well, but he didn't have to disclose everything, she could understand this much, too.

"By then I'd be beyond the Veil of Death." Harry smirked. "Unless Black accidentally falls through there too, he won't find me. And, well, there he'd be of no danger to anyone."

Narcissa laughed, shaking her head a bit. "Fine, Harry. I'm not your mother, do as you wish." She relented, attempting to look like she didn't care, which didn't fool Harry one bit.

Narcissa clearly cared about Harry's wellbeing, but she never tried to mother him, that was true. Not that Harry would know what it was like to have a mother. Though Narcissa could fill the role, he didn't think of her as such. As a guardian, Narcissa took her responsibilities seriously, but she was also a friend. Harry knew with clarity that he wouldn't want to see his friends in danger too.

So he repeated a promise he already made on a page of a diary before. "I'll be careful."

---

Going through the Veil for a second time is much the same as the first one, only now Harry's steps are more confident since he knows what to expect. Once again, his dagger transforms into a small dragon, flying ahead, grazing at the shadows as if greeting old acquaintances.

As Harry walks along, a swift whisper accompanies him, souls watching attentively but none approaching. He catches their eyes, searching for a familiar face, that of Violet Eyes, Twin Braids, or even the Shabby Man. He wonders fleetingly if his parents are here, not sure if he even wants to meet them. What he finds eventually is the face of a young girl with twin pigtails and rounded glasses.

"Harry!" In her usual enthusiasm Myrtle swishes towards him, nearly colliding but stopping just in time. She looks different, no longer a ghostly pale trace of her existence in the Life realm, but an actual soul. Harry can distinguish the brown colour of her eyes, the blue of her Ravenclaw tie and the slight redness to her cheeks. She seems livelier in Death than Harry ever saw her before.

She brushes at his shoulder lightly, happily circling around. "You actually kept your promise and came to see me!"

"Yes, Myrtle." Harry ignores the faint chill he senses at the brief contact. "That is exactly why I'm here."

"Oh, you silly girl." Violet Eyes chides, suddenly appearing in a mist of shadows tangled with her dark indigo robes, her presence appearing far more prominent than that of other souls. Myrtle yelps in surprise, floating to the side. The woman pays her no mind, eyeing Harry with the same regard as before. "Eustace shall be here any moment."

Any moment turns out to be the very next moment. A shift in the air, more murmurs around, the souls parting to make way for another soul. Yet, not a soul at all.

The contrast is striking, instantly recognisable. Just as Harry, the man unmistakably has a living breathing body. He is tall with long black hair, falling down over the pale face. Not young, but not old either. His deep black eyes fall on Harry, uncaring.

"Waited a while for you," Eustace says, voice blank. "Let's talk then."

He motions for Harry to follow, already turning towards a different direction. Harry finds himself following the man towards a path that appeared to lead down. Not a single soul dares moving after them, only Harry's shadowed dragon keeps its close distance behind.

"Which one was it?" Eustace asks, once they reach their destination. It's very much the room, but at the same time not. The shadows encompass everything, giving the impression of a secluded space. They settle beside each other on the rocks, which Harry suspects aren't actually rocks but another form of shadows. There isn't a concept of comfort in a place like this, and Harry still feels pretty much weightless.

Harry doesn't quite understand the question, so Eustace repeats. "What book did you read before coming here?"

"Path to Death," Harry doesn't hesitate to answer. "The one you left in the Chamber of Secrets."

"Ah." The man's eyes don't express anything, apart from recognition. "I was only seventeen when I wrote that. Not much knowledge to gain there."

"Yes." Harry agrees.

"Only you aren't a descendent of Slytherin."

Harry eyes the man speculatively wondering at the certainty of that statement. "No, I don't think I am."

"Another soul of yours is." Eustace hums contemplatively, before reaching out to trace the scar on Harry's forehead. The touch is warm and tangible, proving without question that the man is alive, flesh and blood. "Nasty business, a horcrux is." Eustace observes simply.

"Is it dangerous for a horcrux to be here?" Despite only more questions rising Harry concentrates on the most crucial one, recalling Tom's reaction. He may have hidden the diary in Gringotts, but there's nothing to be done about his scar. At least, the horcrux still remains there despite Harry's crossing through the Veil of Death back and forth.

"More or less."

Harry stares at the man, expecting him to elaborate.

Eustace watches back, unfazed, before a long moment passes and he continues. "Normally, a soul who isn't a Necromancer wouldn't be able to withstand the journey through here and out. But a soul so thoroughly attached, even the Death realm can't take it away… It is in no more danger than you are."

"Am I?"

"Genevieve already told you, Necromancers don't stay among the living for too long. So long as you are infinitely here, you are as good as dead for the world. You decide." The gaze of deepest black is mesmerising, as if it sees right through him. "But you are only what, thirteen?"

Harry titles his head in confirmation, puzzled at the easy guess. Eustace looks to the side distantly, taking away the charged focus from Harry.

"Too early." His voice gets just as distant. "So young, and already so far on the path of Necromancy…"

"I only just started."

"The start is the most fundamental. There isn't a particular end to strive towards. Necromancy is a continuous process. One that cannot begin without intention. There is no turning around. There is no rush, either."

"I'm not in the rush," Harry says carefully. He isn't.

"You followed your intuition, and it took you here." Eustace agrees. "Necromancy is now accepted as an integral part of you, however early it is."

He appears deep in thought, and Harry hesitates to ask, but does it anyway. "Why are you here? Can't you go back to Life?"

"Nothing is there for me. I have no reason. No desire. Nay emotional connection."

Harry is starting to see why it can be dangerous to pursue Necromancy, but it does little to trouble him. There is no rush, he still has time. "You haven't lost all that right after you became a Necromancer," he concludes.

"The younger you are, the more there is to learn in life, curiosity and general interest can carry you a while. Yet eventually… it'll pass."

"So only after it happened, you stayed here."

"No, mine interest passed long before that. I remained here after my wife died."

"Were you emotionally attached, after all?"

Eustace shakes his head. "Magically bound. The marital bond grounded me, so I always remembered to go back to my wife."

"Until she died."

Eustace nods, turning back to look at the lightning-bolt scar.

"Both your souls dazzle strongly. Separate, yet intricately connected. It might ground you for now, as long as the rest of the soul stays among the living."

As if on cue, Harry feels a soft tug at his scar, remembering that indeed Tom is waiting for him. "Even just a small part of this particular soul wouldn't want to stay among Death for long."

"Naturally. It wouldn't have become a horcrux otherwise. 'Tis one way to avoid death, albeit not the best, nor the most stable. Especially attached to a living being."

"It was mostly an accident."

"More reason to doubt the effects it might have."

They fell into a stretch of silence, each lost in their thoughts.

"Who is Genevieve?" Harry has to make sure. She must be the woman with violet eyes, who greeted him here first as a Necromancer.

"My wife." Eustace admits. "She refuses to pass on even though there's hardly anything to do here."

Pass on? Harry's mind picks at the new information only briefly, when another thought encompasses his senses. It is peaceful here. He can't explain it, but he already feels like he could stay here longer. If he just closes his eyes-

"You should go, Harry." The voice startles him at the same time as small tingles run along his scar. And how does Eustace know his name?

"With time, you learn to know everything."

Everything?

"You also learn to be selective about it."

Harry doesn't say anything, taking it in. He recalls the instances when he seemingly knew what to do, relying on his own intuition. Once can be a feat of luck, twice a coincidence. More than that? A pattern.

Harry lets out a sigh. There are still so many questions, but he has at least one thing he has to ask before leaving.

"What about the dragon?"

Eustace's eyes snap to the small dragon still perched on Harry's shoulder as if only now noticing it.

"So you have it already. Good." He hums assertively.

"What exactly is that?"

"Shadow Dragon."

That sounds like a straight to the point name, yet perfectly fitting. Eustace holds out his hand, and now it is Harry who gets to notice another dragon nearby. Landing on Eustace's outstretched hand, it then transforms into a long black bow and arrow with a dragon motif.

"A weapon," Eustace explains. "Unique to each Necromancer."

Harry wills his dragon to turn into a dagger for Eustace to see.

"You are not the first Necromancer who lost a connection with his wand," The man says matter-of-factly, and Harry doesn't correct that, even though he hardly had any connection from the start. "Sooner or later, the Necromancer shall search for a weapon. Shadow Dragons manifest from shadows of this realm as a unique weapon of choice for a Necromancer who has a goal to find it."

"I bought the dagger in a shop, it seemed like it was there for a while."

"That's what it made itself to look like in order to appear on your path in the most inconspicuous way. The power of the Dragon itself supplies a suitable story to explain its existence and the circumstances that would make the most sense to you." Eustace twirls the arrow between his fingers, drawing Harry's attention to the black shadowy scales scattered along its length. "I found mine on the battlefield among the fallen foes."

"It didn't actually belong to Morgana then?

"In a way it did, as her legacy. Morgana was the one who thought of a thing like this. Necromancers can't rely on the wand unless they channel emotions from other entities, they need to defend themselves somehow. It is also the closest thing to a Familiar bond you will ever get."

Harry isn't surprised to hear that, already suspecting as much. For a Familiar bond to work one has to develop a deep emotional connection.

"Is it alive?" Harry watches as Eustace's weapon shifts back to the dragon, its shadowed wings slowly flapping about, and allows his to do the same.

"No." A simple answer, and Eustace falls into silence once more.

Harry interprets it as his cue to leave, so he stands up.

"Don't bother going all the way to the Veil." Eustace stands as well, motioning to the dragon. "Shadows are the natural connectors between realms. Now that it has familiarised itself with both, you can use the dragon to cross the border."

"Where would it bring me?"

"Anywhere you like. There are no borders within the Death realm, points of entrance and exit are irrelevant."

Harry's eyes widen at the implication. "It can be used as a form of transportation within the Life realm."

"Indeed. If you master your connection with the dragon and shadows, you can enter from anywhere and return to anywhere. There's only a disparity of time to keep in mind."

Harry nods, ready to give it a try. He summons the dragon closer, putting a hand on its head. It doesn't feel like the scales of a living creature one might expect. Thick shadows softly gather around Harry's fingers, but they are solid enough.

He glances at Eustace not quite sure what the next step is. Deep black eyes bore into him unblinkingly.

"You shall figure it out." It sounds more like a promise rather than an encouragement.

Harry closes his eyes, thinking about the corner in the Knockturn Alley where Tom usually apparates them to. With the last look at Eustace, Harry feels encompassed by the shadows, his body getting lighter than ever before, he is almost prepared to disappear, to dissipate into non-existence.

---

Harry opened his eyes to the familiar alley, and drew a sharp breath, hitting the hard cobblestones, his glasses dropping to the ground with a clank. Using his arms for support, Harry breathed, seeing stars.

It took several long minutes to adjust his vision to distinguish more shapes, while his head felt like spinning cotton. He rubbed at his eyes, blinking a few times. Fortunately, the glasses were protected from damage and he safely put them back on.

When he got himself back to his senses, Harry noticed with confusion that it wasn't as dark outside. By his estimation, this time he spent longer in the Death realm than before.

Only when he retrieved Tom from the vault and wrote him about it, he realised that it was already the early evening of the next day, which the goblin also confirmed, pointing at the large clock in the foyer.

Harry instantly thought of Narcissa. While he warned her about the difference in the time flow of the Death realm, he doubted it was enough to lift the concern. She even made a portkey for him out of a silver key on a chain in case he found himself in danger, so he could immediately return to Malfoy manor. It was linked to his magical signature, so no one else would be able to follow. He traced it under his robe, considering using it regardless for easier transportation. Mastering the shadows would undoubtedly take time, and he wasn't yet prepared to repeat that in one day.

He wrote a quick note that could be summarised as him being still alive and sent it to Narcissa with a postal owl. He couldn't go back to the manor just yet.

Hidden by the Invisibility Cloak, Harry aimlessly paced through London streets, uncertain of the next destination. He didn't really have a solid plan of how to pick the victim, the idea of a completely random muggle didn't sit well with him. So far he heavily relied on Tom's ability to scan the minds, but this time he would have to trust only his own judgement.

Learning Legilimency wasn't something that he attempted yet. It was also impossible to replicate Imperio with Parselmagic. He already tried after Tom demonstrated the spell, and while it was achievable while using someone's emotions, it was too complicated to fake. As of now, there wasn't even anyone around he could channel emotions from. Apart from Tom. But Harry wasn't about to ask when Tom had so little life force left. He had to somehow figure it out on his own.

Eustace talked about learning to know everything like it was the most natural thing, but obviously Harry was still nowhere near that point. He should have asked about the Invisibility Cloak too. The Deathly Hallows, and the portraits. So many things that genuinely slipped his mind. He felt like he could talk forever with the man. But if he stayed there forever, where or more like, when would it be left for him to return? Eustace was right, and Genevieve too. He shouldn't get too overwhelmed with the Death realm. Maybe eventually he would also figure out how to balance the both worlds more efficiently.

For now, Harry was on his own.

With each turn, Harry kept an eye on the surroundings and contemplated his options. There was also a vague thought sprouting at the background of his mind, not ready yet to form clearly. Necromancy dealt with death closely, he already made some observations during the previous kills, but he needed more information, which essentially meant extending the purpose of murders for his own experiments too.

His legs brought him to a filthy part of London, the overall stench and drunken noise making Harry appreciate that he remained invisible. He steered away from a more public area, the streets getting quieter and darker as he went. A sharp scream pierced through the night, only to get muffled and cut out for good. Looking around in all directions and not spotting anything out of order, Harry followed the sound.

What he witnessed in one of the narrow alleys was a man attempting to assault a woman; with a quick reflex, Harry released the dagger. It cut cleanly at the man's neck, enough to startle, but not enough to kill. The woman screamed again but didn't look back, as she hastily ran away.

The dagger returned to Harry's hand, clean from blood. He approached the man who was lying on the ground now, clutching at his throat, blood spilling between fingers, his exhales coming out short as he struggled to breathe, eyes wide and glassy with terror.

"He's not dead yet," Harry said quietly, taking out the diary to place it on the man's chest. "Do your thing, Tom."

He was careful to avoid staining the diary with blood, but then a thought occurred to him. "Won't the blood amplify the effect?"

"I'm not a bloody vampire." Tom appeared just to glare at him, looking more translucent than Harry was used to seeing him lately. But he wasn't holding himself back with taking the life force, the form returning to him quickly.

Harry took out his notes and the quill from the expandable pouch, observing the unconscious dying man. "Who was he?"

"A deplorable muggle, nothing to concern yourself over. We'll have to do another one tonight."

Harry hummed, scribbling down his observations as the man rapidly became paler. "Try making it a squib next time." He suggested. There wasn't much information to be gained if they were only to target muggles.

"Fine," Tom agreed, just as the glassy eyes of a bleeding man stilled, and all the movement froze. He was dead.

Harry stood, only briefly glancing back at the man. Removing any traces would only raise more suspicion, since they already had a semi-witness.

"Have you grown taller?" Tom suddenly asked making Harry look back at him.

He shrugged. "It's only been a few weeks."

But looking at Tom, Harry suddenly got a sense like he hasn't seen him for ages. He took in Tom's appearance, who now appeared more solid than minutes before, just enough for muggles to take him for an actual person. Not that they needed to see them at all.

As he threw the Invisibility Cloak over both of them he couldn't help but notice that the height difference wasn't as drastic anymore.

---

When Tom tried looking through Harry's memories of that day, everything beyond the Veil was inaccessible to him. Not because of Harry's sudden influx of ability, but it seemed there was a barrier Tom couldn't go through just like he wouldn't go through the Veil, even though it didn't elicit the same sense of dread. Harry suspected that a living soul wasn't supposed to know of the Death realm, just as portraits might be forbidden to disclose anything pertaining to it.

Harry wasn't about to have secrets from Tom, so he told him of his experience within the Death realm in detail, partially to test if he'd be able to. He was; it seemed he could talk freely about everything.

Tom was pleased to know that his scar horcrux didn't perish and was even of help to Harry. He also admonished Harry for not asking more, but it was easy to say having only the perspective from the Life realm, where for Harry, it was easy to come up with numerous questions too. Out there, on the other side, it was like time didn't exist at all. Harry wasn't in any hurry to know everything right away, only considering what was before him. There was no rush, he reminded himself, and Tom had to agree.

They resumed their usual Occlumency lessons, and Harry kept going to the art classes with Luna.

By Harry's invitation, she got into the habit of staying for dinner at the Malfoy manor. It was easier to tweak the already existing portkey rather than issue the international permit for her individually, the Ministry requiring to go through endless procedures even in less hectic times. Since the portkey was keyed to the manor, Luna had to go through the place anyway. She was a bit apprehensive at first, but since Narcissa was only ever polite, Luna wasn't as quick to retreat home as the days went.

When she first agreed to attend dinner, Luna looked a bit uncomfortable even though the table wasn't served as lusciously as when the Malfoys hosted either more important guests in status, or simply more guests in number.

Lovegood was from a pureblood family, yet she still struggled with the forks and spoons glancing over at Harry for hints. Harry caught her eye, attempting to look encouraging, and she smiled, relaxing a bit. Draco quietly snorted to himself, but it was the extent of what he'd dare to express in his mother's presence. Lucius looked a bit put out, his eyes darting to Narcissa now and then. Harry had to hide a smile of his own; Narcissa might not be the Head of House in title, but she was one in every other way.

Narcissa watched, attentive but with a completely relaxed expression on her face.

"That's not quite right, dear." She corrected, picking up the smaller spoon. Luna blushed, changing the spoons, her fingers getting clammy, as the silver made a clattering sound.

"Sorry," she said trying to be cheerful. "My dad doesn't do this sort of thing."

"What does he do, your father?" Narcissa pointedly didn't pay attention to Luna's struggle, letting her know it wasn't a big deal.

Luna visibly became more comfortable. "He runs a magazine. The Quibbler."

Narcissa took a moment to recall the name before slightly shaking her head. "I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to read it before. What is it about?"

"This and that, there's no one topic, we publish all sorts of interesting stories and theories."

"It does sound interesting, coming from you." Harry pointed out. "We should subscribe, Narcissa."

"Certainly, Harry." She glanced at Lucius, who nodded with a 'consider it done' attitude.

Luna seemed to fully relax at last. She still made a few mistakes here and there but wasn't so stressed about it anymore. Narcissa taking a genuine liking to Luna certainly helped.

"It's almost like having a daughter" Narcissa confessed after a few other times Luna stayed for dinner. "Such a lovely girl."

And they actually did look quite alike, both with white silky hair. Only Luna's were long, cascading in waves all the way down her spine, while Narcissa usually kept her hair up with only a few strands tastefully arranged around her face. They both resembled delicate porcelain dolls, although Narcissa was more collected, her eyes gleaming with sharp wit, while Luna was all over the place, her eyes wide and shiny, and not entirely there.

Reluctantly at first, but Luna joined in on their dancing lessons with Draco too. She seemed to have loads of fun stepping on their toes or adding moves that weren't supposed to there, which only made Narcissa laugh in delight.

"Dancing is supposed to be fun!" She smiled at the sceptical looking Draco and Harry, while proceeding to seamlessly incorporate Luna's bizarre ideas to all the proper pureblood dances. Luna's laugh rang like a bell throughout the hall.

She was in good spirits all day long, and even Potions essay wasn't able to ruin that. Harry had done all his summer homework long ago, so he didn't mind taking the time to help Luna with hers. He found himself at ease, as he went through the minor points on the Draught of Living Death, that usually got overlooked. His monotonous voice could perhaps compete with the sleeping potion itself, as it made Luna's eyelids droop. She sent him a lazy apologetic smile, but then blinked, eyes wide, as she looked to Harry's side.

"Is that a dragon?" She reached out, but stopped before touching, suddenly hesitant.

Harry was vaguely aware of his mind straying elsewhere, so the transformation didn't particularly confuse him. If he was comfortable with Luna seeing it, he didn't mind sharing the whole truth with her. At some point, she had to know the real reason for his interest in portraits too. Might as well be now.

"It's a Shadow Dragon."

Luna looked at him with piqued interest, so Harry continued. "It is also a weapon."

He willed the dragon to transform into the dagger, and Luna actually jumped from the chair, startled.

"Whoa, I haven't expected that!" She sat back, eyes focused on the dagger. Harry picked it up gingerly and made it turn back to the dragon on the fly. Luna was fascinated but still avoided getting too close. "For some reason, I'm scared to touch it," she admitted in a whisper. "But it's such a lovely creature. Where did you get it from?"

"It manifested for me. And it's not really a creature."

She cocked her head to the side.

"Not a living being," he elaborated. "But an entity from the realm of Death, formed from the shadows."

Luna didn't appear shocked, still mostly curious, eyeing the dragon in wonder. "The realm of Death," she repeated thoughtfully.

"I went there."

"Because you are a Necromancer."

Her shiny eyes locked with Harry's, and for a long moment they just stared at each other.

Luna let out a long breath, amused. "I saw what you did with Binns," she explained. "And you just told me about the Death realm. But you are here now, not dead. If there's any magic that deals with death, it's Necromancy."

Harry nodded, and then explained the major concepts. Luna was, too, familiar with the Tale of the Three Brothers, and many speculations surrounding it. Her father Xenophilius Lovegood was a firm believer in Deathly Hallows, and she showed Harry the symbol, representing the Invisibility Cloak, the Resurrection Stone and the Elder wand. She said he ought to be on a look out for it if he wanted to find anything related to the Hallows. Harry shared the true nature of Necromancy, how it was mistakenly considered dark and how actually the lack of emotions was required.

He demonstrated the spell in the same manner he did to Narcissa. With Occlumency, focusing on Parselmagic became ever so easier for him. He could separate the thoughts and images, making groups of other thoughts, all at the same time, so one part of his mind was near constantly roaming with snakes.

Luna showed no concern or fear, appearing solely impressed. She easily accepted everything Harry said and seemed enamoured with the dragon.

"How do you call it?" She asked after watching it for a while.

"I have to only think, and it responds."

"No, I meant what is its name?"

"Should it have a name?"

"Wouldn't hurt."

Harry gave an indifferent shrug. "I don't know, sometimes I think of it as Shade. It can be its name."

Luna eyed him somewhat dejectedly. "I'm almost surprised you didn't name Hedwig just a Snowy Owl." She giggled.

"I can be plenty imaginative," Harry replied defensively. "And Snowy Owl wouldn't be a bad name."

It only made Luna chuckle again. "See, that's what I'm talking about. I bet you just heard the name Hedwig somewhere and barely gave it a thought."

"Well, I did happen to read the history book at the time and the name seemed to suit her." Harry had to admit.

"Alright." Luna was still smiling, but her eyes took on a bit more serious look, as she observed the little dragon, humming thoughtfully. "This fellow looks like Roger to me."

Harry blinked just as Luna slowly blinked back with wide earnest eyes.

"Roger?" He mouthed in disbelief, face blank.

It made Luna burst into full on laughter, clearly having too much fun at his expense.

"I think I'll stick with Shade," he decided.

---

As promised, Fred and George sent him a detailed business plan on several long scrolls, and Harry suggested a meeting at Gringotts sometime during the week. Exactly a thousand galleons was a minimum amount to open up a new vault, so the twins did that, adding their bit of savings to the mix as well. The deal was settled, leaving Fred and George giddy with excitement. They talked animatedly about the future Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes over the celebratory ice-creams at Fortescue's.

Days later a letter from Hogwarts arrived with Harry's exam scores. Same as last year, all Outstandings, except for two Exceeds Expectations in Charms and Transfiguration. He also had to choose at least two electives out of five new subjects.

Harry smoothed a fresh parchment to write a reply to the Deputy Headmistress. He picked Care for Magical Creatures, easily, the Ancient Runes, because it was useful for rituals.

"Arithmancy is also useful for rituals," Tom commented, peeking over his shoulder. Harry looked sceptical, and Tom rolled his eyes. "Yes, its most popular use is for Numerology, which is a form of Divination, but numbers are important."

"For the rituals."

"Yes."

"Fine," Harry added the subject too. The letter said they had to pick two electives, but it never mentioned anything about the limits. He didn't want to study Divination. But he had to, had he? There was this whole Prophecy about him and all that. 'Learn your enemies, Potter', a voice much like Parkinson's sounded in his head. He looked up at Tom, who shrugged. With a sigh Harry added Divination as the fourth subject, not even considering Muggle Studies, and folded the letter into a scroll to sent it back to Hogwarts.

On September 1st, at the platform 9¾ Harry spotted Neville, who was trudging a heavy trunk along the station.

"Need any help?" Harry offered, once he approached the boy. Neville looked relieved and nodded eagerly.

"Thanks, my Gran usually puts a lightweight charm on it after dropping me off. But she's been busy lately, and I forgot to remind her."

"Ah, the new Chief Warliene?"

Harry wasn't too keen on politics, but it made the news not long ago that Fudge was finally relieved from the additional title he was holding in Wizengamot. He was only temporarily acting as the Chief Warlock after Dumbledore got voted out. While the old man regained some of his previous reputation, the majority decided that they could use a change, especially with Sirius Black escaping. The consensus fell in favour of Augusta Longbottom as a neutral party. Frequently an opponent to Malfoy and considered a Light Family, she wasn't a blind Dumbledore supporter either.

"Yeah." Neville let out a sigh. Through letters Harry knew it had been quite troublesome for the boy in the past weeks. Harry took the trunk from the other side and frowned.

"Why don't you use one of those shrinking ones?" Harry was aware that it was on more of an expensive scale, but surely Longbottoms could afford a bit of indulgence.

Neville scratched his head sheepishly. "Well, this one belonged to my father, just as my wand, and they didn't sell trunks with that feature back then."

That gave Harry a pause. "What do you mean your wand belonged to your father?"

Neville only shrugged, and they made it on the train without saying much else. They were out of luck in finding an empty compartment, so they settled on the one with only a lone man sleeping inside.

Later Blaise and Theo joined them, disgruntled about Draco being too whiny too early in the day. Blaise told that he got a new dad over the summer, and jokingly complained about their insistence on blood adopting him as if it would make any difference.

To Harry's questioning expression he smirked. "Well it makes it easier for me to inherit stuff, and I can send a prayer on Hallowe'en, which I won't."

"Doesn't it change anything about your appearance?" From what Harry could see, Blaise looked the same as he always did, with his smooth dark skin and fair features.

"You'd think so, right? I kinda start to believe that blood doesn't matter at all."

Nott gave him a wide-eyed look.

"What?" Blaise responded with a teasing arch of his brows. "Not everyone's a mama's boy. You should really stop listening to everything she says."

Harry became curious, while Neville practically held his breath listening silently to the whole conversation. Blaise scoffed, rolling his eyes. "His mother is one of those, pureblood fanatics."

Theo looked quite uncomfortable and tense. "She's not. And I don't listen only to her, my father says the same thing."

Zabini laughed. "Yeah, another fanatic of a lost cause."

It made Theo bristle, but he held his chin high. "That is yet to be seen," he muttered quietly, the tone not quite matching the confident posture.

Blaise only scoffed again shaking his head. But he didn't say anything more, casting a glance over to Neville and the sleeping man.

With an abrupt whistle, the train stopped. As if the light switched off, the compartment became too dark for the middle of the day and too cold. They all froze watching the chilly puffs of their stilled breaths, no sound heard apart from something creeping closer.

The door to the compartment slowly slid open, revealing the dark creature. It almost looked like the Veil itself, exuding shadows similar to those from the Death realm. It approached, and Harry felt the urge to stare it in the eyes, but under its dark deep hood there was nothing, only dark emptiness. Shade was tingling slightly around his hand, not apprehensively so, and Harry reached out, a thin shadow crawling from his sleeve, as if in greeting.

Then, there was a bright light, and Harry snapped out of his trance, watching as the creature flew away, and the previously sleeping man held his wand up.

"What was that?" Zabini stared with wide eyes.

Neville was almost passed out, shivering.

"It was a Dementor," the man said offering Neville a bit of chocolate.

"I know what a bloody Dementor is." Zabini turned to look at Harry, and then at Theo. "Did you see that?"

"W-what?" Nott was confused. "I didn't catch anything odd. Other than a bloody Dementor on a bloody train, that is." His voice pitched up higher.

Harry glared, sending Zabini a warning look, and he dropped it for now, still eyeing Harry strangely.

The man, Remus Lupin, turned out to be their new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. He explained about the Ministry's measures regarding Sirius Black. Apparently, the Dementors will be guarding Hogwarts this year, which everyone in the compartment agreed was a tad bit too excessive.

Harry looked over the somewhat poor appearance of the new Professor, who seemed exhausted and slightly ill. He also sent Harry an occasional curious glance, but Harry was used to those. Since Lupin could cast a powerful Patronus to ward off a Dementor, maybe at least this year they'd be finally taught by someone competent.