Chapter Twenty-Two
oooP1ooo
(Arcturus)
Sheets of rain hit the wall of large windows. Within the frame of the windows, past the rain, a distant beach was being swallowed by the raging waters of the Channel and lightning flashed across the dark clouds. The sky was near black as the sun set through the winter storm.
The crackling of fire and ornate sconces lit the wood-paneled study. One of the inner walls was filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Its opposite wall was lined with shorter bookshelves and a horde of paintings of similar-looking men and women. Deep green chesterfield couches sat before the fireplace. A large wooden desk was under the center window, facing the room instead of the view.
An oil painting of a medusa smiled coyly down from above the oversized fireplace and at the single occupant of the room. Her snake hair curled and slithered about her shoulders and neck, agitated by the raging storm. A steaming pot of tea sat forgotten at one side of the wooden desk. The smell of herbs attempted to cover a medical undertone but failed—not that the occupant still cared.
He had long ceased caring about anything really. Mellie was gone. What was the point of dragging on when his one constant had left him?
Arcturus Black, Pater of House Black, stared out the window with a dull feeling. His wife had died not two months ago. Pollux passed last year. His son and grandsons had been gone, or as good as, for years.
He still had his daughter. Pollux's youngest, Cygnus, was also still around. There were a few female cousins.
But what did that matter?
There was no future for House Black. No young blood held the name Black.
When he died, the seat and power of House Black, the title of Pater, and all the duties so few had the understanding and capability to deal with would pass onto some distant relative. Perhaps one of his Abbott great-grandchildren would be found worthy. Maybe some fool Weasley would be given the prestige—One of them had been found worthy for the Gryffindor seat; too bad the child had been executed by Death Eaters.—One or two of the Longbottom branches had enough Black blood to have a claim. He supposed a Burke would have the opportunity, even.
Merlin. A Burke heir, the very thought.
The Crouch family was as good as gone with no young blood left either. Of Cygnus's daughters, one had been disowned (and bore only a daughter anyway), one was likely barren by now, and the last had married another Pater. Magic would never allow the Malfoys two seats within the Council—the only good thing about the entire situation.
Of course, what did it matter to him now? He was dying. Soon he would join Melania.
Except she had insisted he stick it out, push through and find a solution. She had always believed there was a solution out there. Particularly one that freed their grandson.
He sneered out the window as he considered Sirius, the fool child. The boy had never understood what it meant to be a Black. The willful child had never wanted to understand. Walburga had been the reason behind the boy's insolence. She had never been able to understand, never quite sane enough to realize her actions raised the boy's hackles and caused his rebellions.
Arcturus sighed as Mellie's request to finally accept his own part in Sirius's self-exile surfaced in response to his thoughts: He had handed over the reins, in all but name, to Orion.
Orion hadn't handled the responsibilities well. Walburga forced her insane whims on his son. Orion had been a scholar. He had not been a leader. His son would have married his books over his cousin and would have spent his life digging through ancient scrolls instead of doing his House duty.
The elder grimaced at his reflection in the window. He hadn't realized until his son's death. He should have realized but he had only seen what he had wanted to see. By the time he had realized the truth, everything had been lost.
No one seemed surprised by Orion's apparent suicide. They didn't think it was strange at all. Perhaps it wasn't that surprising but it was wrong to just accept it.
Would it have happened if he had been around? Arcturus had been blissfully ignoring the outside world, focused on enjoying his self-appointed, reclusive retirement with his wife. Instead, he should have been acting the Pater he was and pulled the entire family under his wing.
He was still convinced Walburga had killed Orion. It had been easy for the crazed woman to kill him and claim suicide. One son had been estranged and openly fought the family, though apparently a secret death eater. The other simply gone. The rest of the younger family members crusaded in the name of a terrorist. There had been plenty of reasons to explain away a suicide.
And yet...
Circular thoughts helped no one, he reminded himself sharply.
The Pater Black turned his gaze to his desk and stared at the pile of letters he hadn't gone through in weeks, the stack of official paperwork to review, and the box Melania had requested years ago. It had everything about his grandson's incarceration. Copies of the evidence, the transcripts of interviews and the trial, witness statements: everything was in the box.—Not that he had ever looked through it.
He should have gone through it years ago, back when Melania had gone behind his back and requested it in his name. It was too late now. Overexposure to dementors was known to cause impotence. What was the point of finding some technicality if Sirius couldn't do the one thing he needed to?
It wasn't like Sirius would ever be mentally stable enough to take the headship either.
But Sirius was his grandson, the last of his son. Shouldn't he care enough to free the boy from hell on earth?
He hadn't cared. Still didn't care. (It was too bitter to think about everything that had burned down because of children—because he had failed.)
Mellie had cared, though.
Arcturus shook his head and picked up the letters instead. He was so tired. The thought of fighting such a political battle for a deranged death eater caused deeper exhaustion. Couldn't his last days be peaceful? (Mellie had asked him for years to just open that box. Now she's gone, couldn't he finally do as she asked?)
He flipped through the letters. Invitations for all the various Yule and Christmas balls.—A no would go out for all of them.
A Council meeting was set for December—He would not be going.
Malfoy was requesting his support for some inane law to restrict the hiring of Muggleborns.—Who cared?
A charity his wife donated to yearly wanted more money.—He paused over that letter and read through it properly. One last charitable act in the name of his late wife would be something she'd appreciate. And it was far easier to do than open the box about Sirius's crime.
The final letter in his immediate pile didn't have any wax seal to indicate who had sent it. Arcturus almost tossed it in the discard pile but then he spied the box at the corner of his eye. He spun his chair around to face the wall of windows once more and opened the letter. Anything to distract him from his wife's last request.
Harry James Potter
The Familia of Potter
First year, Hogwarts, Slytherin
10th November 1991
Arcturus Marcel Black
The House of Black
Pater & Seated member of Council
ooo
Pater Black,
I request a meeting to discuss a personal matter and, perhaps, I might aid you in one of your own endeavors. Please accept at your convenience. I hope to hear back in time for the Holiday.
Sincerely,
Harry James Potter
Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat
Arcturus read the letter multiple times, surprised. The-Boy-Who-Lived wished to meet him. The-Boy-Who-Lived was a Slytherin. The letter was short and to the point. He hadn't seen such a simple letter that had such detail in a long time.
He reread it once more, dissecting each section. There was no indication of the boy's heroic title or peacock puffing of the clout his name had. The child didn't try to stroke his ego either. He requested to meet over an unstated personal matter—what could he possibly help with? Dumbledore must be jumping to ingratiate himself with the boy.
Then the second half of that sentence stated without airs that the boy didn't just believe him capable but knew he had the ability or the connections needed to help Arcturus with a matter of his own. Equal trade offered without any pandering.
The boy bowed to the expectations of seniority right when he left Arcturus to set the meeting details. Yet he also gave both his immediate availability and the time frame he hoped to meet within. Whatever personal matter either had a time frame or the child considered it of some importance.
It was a beautifully detailed, simple letter any Slytherin would be proud of.
He was intrigued and it had the beauty of distracting him from other matters. Perhaps he would meet the boy. And perhaps the boy would be able to help with a personal matter after all. Pater Black called out in his gravelly voice, "Elmore, the genealogy book."
His aged House elf pop-clicked into the room with the required book. The creature set it on the desk with a soft thud and bowed before vanishing. Arcturus paid little mind to the creature as he turned back to the desk and flipped the large book open with a heavy bang. He had been through the book thousands of times by now. He knew exactly what he was looking for.
Near the end of the book revealed the list of distant, living relatives to House Black. He traced a bony finger down the page as he scored through the names. Hannah Aurelia Abbott, Henry Miles Abbott, Lucas Judd Abbott, Oliver Syrus Abbott...Humphrey William Longbottom, Draco Auden Malfoy, Arthur Tiberius Weasley, Octavius Henry Weasley…
He flipped through the pages as he scanned over the names. He frowned as he reached the less detailed ones. The lack of middle names implied an even greater distance from the main line of the House. The horde of Weasley grandchildren of Cedrella's took the entire page.
Against popular belief, he had never officially disowned Cedrella. She had married with permission, no matter what Walburga had liked to claim. In turn, Andromeda had not gained permission for her elopement. The fool child had gone to the very depths of impropriety when she married a muggleborn but he would have given her permission if she had requested it of him. At least she had married a magical, after all. House Black hadn't been in a position to toss out half the family.—Still wasn't.
The next page had a few Babblings, Blishwicks, and what made up the Familia of Bones. All these distant relatives were waiting for him to die. He imagined at least a few desired his House's power and prestige so they might rise from a mere Familia into true power.
Who would be found worthy by the House magicks when he was gone? None of them were acceptable to him. None of them were a Black. But perhaps he had an option.
The boy was young enough. He had to be here somewhere. Potters had intermarried with the Black House multiple times over the centuries.
Finally, near the end, he found it: Harry Potter.
Arcturus pulled his wand out and pressed the tip to the name. The tip glowed with his unspoken spell. Said light transferred into the name. Once he moved his wand out of the way, the pages flipped until it settled about three-fourths of the way through the book. This section of the book was the tree. A short scan of the visible section of his family's tree revealed the most recent blood tie between Harry Potter and himself.
It was quite distant but that didn't deter him. Janus Potter nee Black, 1468-1590 had married Mather Potter, 1465-1583. A long-lived couple meant strong magic. They had multiple children. Three died from illness and one had died in labor but one had lived till a ripe old age. And he had married an Ogden. That wasn't common. A Greengrass married the next generation. The one after was a Prewett. Four generations of Potter males, three married women from Houses.
It was centuries ago but it held promise. His tree didn't give more than that. He had no way to determine how many Potters married a House female. What he did know was that Harry Potter's name could only be in the book if the House magicks recognized him.
The blood connection was truthfully ridiculously distant and the House magicks were likely minimally visible in the boy. He would have never considered this a few years ago.
But he was dying. The boy was a Slytherin. And the opportunity had fallen into his lap.
There were ways to enhance the House magicks present in the boy. They weren't exactly legal, being rituals, but only the idiotic Houses and Familias had given up their rituals. No one would even think to ask how the boy showed so much Black magick afterward.
It just happened, nowadays, Arcturus thought disgustedly of his fellow wizards. So few understand House magicks now. It wasn't entirely happenstance when things happened the way they did. Children gained House magicks or were claimed as the next head by House magicks because the magick found some quality in the child it felt compatible with. Children born closer to the headship, in the bloodline, were more likely to inherit because magic is in the blood and because they are raised immersed in the magick of the House.
Arcturus Black turned back to the letter, all the while tapping at the visible part of the family tree in the book. Perhaps there was something Harry Potter could help him with. If nothing else, he could use the meeting as a chance to evaluate the boy. If he was acceptable, he could then call on the House magicks to weigh in on the idea.
The more he considered it, the more he liked it. House Black led to a new era on the back of The-Boy-Who-Lived. It would certainly change the House's status within various circles. It could be his last act.—A far better last act than freeing a guilty man from prison.
"Elmore, my embossed parchment."
"Finally decided to choose an heir?" called out one of the male portraits watching over him. "Tell me you didn't pick a Weasley, pleas–"
"Perhaps he should!" cried another portrait, his Great Aunt Elladora. "Choose a Weasley that would be willing to take the Black name. There's enough of them, you're bound to find one of Cedrella's grandchildre–"
The portrait of his infamous grandfather drawled out, "That's a ridiculous ide–"
"No, no! Hear me out!" cried Aunt Elladora.
Arcturus stifled a sigh, knowing they'd keep at it if he didn't cut in.—Or he could just silence them.
Elladora spoke over the grumblings of various old men, including her brother Phineas, "A Weasley boy takes on the Black name and magicks but will still have some of the Weasley magicks, which should mean multiple babies to expand the House!"
Arcturus flinched as his sister's portrait screeched back, "That's only if Weasley magicks have anything to do with fertility!"
Pater Black looked up from the book and watched his dead kin argue. Most were past Paters of the house hung in his office to offer direction and wisdom. Mellie had added the bachelorettes soon after they had married. She had insisted the ladies could give as good advice as any long-dead man and these particular ones had never had to expand their loyalties from House Black. It had ended up being helpful and a headache all in one.
He cut through the rising roar of voices with a sharp, "I am considering the Potter boy."
Painted faces twisted up in surprise and disgust and disapproval at him naming The-Boy-Who-Lived and a boy from a Familia that stood counter to House Black's politics since the passing of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. One face wasn't visibly horrified, though.
His grandfather, the long-dead Headmaster of Hogwarts, looked startled for a moment before a calculating gleam entered his gaze and twisted his lips into a smirk. That was not expected. His grandfather must have overheard something in the Headmaster's office.
"Grandfather...have you any news from Hogwarts?" Arcturus asked wearily, "Dumbledore molding the boy even with the unusual sorting? The boy more Gryffindor than Slytherin, already?"
Phineas Nigellus Black chuckled from his portrait, "Oh, there is nothing I could possibly tell you." He leaned back in his painted chair and folded his hand across his chest, looking far too pleased with himself. His grandfather usually looked annoyed at Dumbledore restricting his ability to speak of Hogwarts matters. Arcturus straightened and watched for any hint of what was going on. Nothing stuck out.
His grandfather simply continued to speak with that cat-got-the-canary smirk, "Though, The-Boy-Who-Lived is as Slytherin as anyone can be at eleven. His closest friend is, surprisingly, all Gryffindor too. A little unusual…or, perhaps, it shouldn't be. It's rather complementary, in hindsight...What were you planning?"
Arcturus stared. He wanted to demand what the hell the painting meant but knew it was pointless. Clearly, something was going on but it could be as simple, though unlikely, as his grandfather suddenly realizing he should have given a damn about the entire school of children instead of blatantly hating their guts.
He sighed and answered the question. "He has requested a meeting to discuss something I can apparently help him with. I plan to agree and assess the boy during the meeting."
"You believe what he needs of House Black is equal to him giving up his father's name?" Phineas drawled slowly, "Does he even know it properly? Perhaps a hospitium(1) ritual? If he can't fumble his way through something so simple, he's not worthy."
"Hear, hear!" shouted one of the many Sirius Black portraits hanging on the wall.
Arcturus frowned, not as impressed. "The boy won't know the ritual any more than he knows who he is. I'm trying to find an heir, no–"
"His magic will guide him through the simple ritual. If he fights against the ritual, he's fighting his magic. That is proof enough that he isn't worthy," Grandfather Phineas almost seemed to purr out.
"Fine," grumbled Arcturus, unwilling to admit beyond that that the idea was growing on him. If nothing else, the House Magicks would find the Potter boy wanting if he fought the ritual. It might throw the boy from his confidence the letter hinted at, too. Both excellent tests for a possible heir.
oooP2ooo
(Neville)
Golden leaves curling into brown fell to the table. A snip, snip preceded each dropped leaf. His eyes followed the leaf's floating, dancing fall. He peeked over the counter, toes straining against the floor to lift him high enough.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
His eyes dragged from the leaves and stared wide-eyed at the elderly man. Silvered threaded hair fell in a careful cut. Wrinkles that whispered of bygone days of laughter wrapped around kind gray eyes and a soft smile. His grandpa was a quiet man who usually looked at him with sorrow. That sadness was missing now.
"You take after me," the elder added just as quietly as before, "It would have been better if you had your father in you. The things you'll have to deal with...it is a heavy thing, being a Pater, and I thank every day I haven't been forced into the role yet...Augusta–" Grandpa shook his head and pulled out a stool. "–Hop up, I'll show you the finer points of herbology. You'll learn more as you grow but every Longbottom starts on a stool learning from family."
Grandpa brushed a hand through his small head of hair. He pressed his head into the touch. No one touched him. It felt nice, this connection. The loss, when the pat ended, rolled through the tiny child.
"It's instinct, you know. We're all connected together—the world, nature, us. The plants will tell you what they need, in their own way. All you need to learn is how to listen for their words."
Light pressed against his eyes. Fingers twitched as he tried to stir.
Everything hurt.
His head—His brain—His throat: Every nerve of his body seemed on fire.
The feeling couldn't be from the memories, the torture—tortures—the boy acknowledged groggily. It hadn't really happened to him again. It just felt like it, reliving all that horror and pain. This ache swallowing him whole had to be from something else but he couldn't think clearly enough to connect the dots yet. All he could think of was how he had lived with various forms of torture for years because he wasn't ever good enough.
Except he was good enough; he just had to fix his core and figure out what was up with his wand. Everyone else who wanted things from him, wanting him to be the second coming of Franklin Longbottom, could go–go–suck on a lemon.
Godric Gryffindor: Neville Longbottom. They were now interchangeable. (Had always been but now it felt right, normal.) Childhoods intertwined and wove together. He had become an older brother twice over but was also an only child. He had never known his grandparents, let alone his great-grandparents, but he also did. Just like he never knew his parents but had had them at his side through his entire childhood.
He had been incapable of magic and had been studied, healed, experimented on, and tortured in the pursuit of that elusive ability. His kin had attempted murder and had forced him through illegal and ill-understood rituals and potions while turning a blind eye to what was being done to him.
Godric was certain not even Pater Longbottom was fully aware of what had been done to him. Whether that was on purpose or due to misplaced trust in the various healers and experts brought in, Godric didn't know. He had been a blight on the family. They could have avoided knowing the details because of their desperation to "fix" him.
At the same time, he had been gifted and skilled in magic. He had been put through his paces and forced to learn discipline early on. His magic had been wild and difficult to control. Father had pushed him ever on, forcing him to learn and adapt so he might survive. Mother kept her distance and kept his sisters from him until he proved the control of his magic.
They had loved him: They had been terrified of his power.
In one instance he had been pitied and a disappointment. In the other, he had been feared but prized. Never had he been abandoned, though. (His father would have cut him down himself if Godric had never learned to control his powers. Pater Longbottom would have had him dropped into a muggle orphanage if he hadn't received his Hogwarts letter. Both had time limits for how long they would have kept him.)
His memories flowed and washed over him. He mentally ached as if he had spent a week straight trapped in a room with Salazar, Rowena, and Hardwin debating over warding or combining magical disciplines into one objective. (Gareth and Helga usually saved him from such hell.) It would take time for his mind to settle and absorb the once-forgotten memories but they came to mind with ease now.
Just laying in bed, eyes closed, pulled random moments into clarity without prompting.
"What are you doing here?" hissed his gran. She stood in the doorway like a wraith from one of Percival's stories, ready to wrap around him and strangle him. "You're not to be in here! I told you, I told you!"
He backed away in fright. His arm knocked into a small pot with a familiar, pretty little bush of golden leaves. It crashed to the ground, smashing the pot across the floor.
"Out! You horrid little klutz, out!—Egbert's..." Her voice cracked as he scooted around her. His gran dropped to her knees and scooped up the little bush. Her voice cracked as she said, "These are Egbert's. You're not to touch them." She turned towards him and her heartbroken expression twisted. She hissed, "Get out."
He fled. (Grandpa had been dead barely a day. Grandpa had said the little greenhouse shed would be his to care for when he was gone. Grandpa had lied.)
His gran was a–a–well...horrible, Godric thought before internally grumbling at himself. He was allowed to cuss in his own head!—a memory of Gran appeared ranting about foul-mouthed fools.
Godric groaned. The woman ruined cussing! He didn't know how he had ever convinced himself that she had actually cared. Had he ever had a good moment with her?
Neville slowly walked after his gran, reluctantly leaving all the purchase by the fireplace. Nothing could dampen his mood but Gran might do something odd. She had been odd ever since the letter had come. Not that the letter was a bad thing. He was going to Hogwarts! Gran had taken him shopping and they had gotten everything—almost everything.
The problem was that nothing good ever lasted. An entire day focused on him in a positive light, with only a little huffing and complaining from Gran, had been fantastic. That it was an entire day at Diagon Alley, where he had never been allowed before, had made it utterly grand.
But now, the other shoe had to fall.
Gran led him into her little sitting room and pulled a case down from its place of honor on the mantle of her personal fireplace. She turned to him, sliding the long case open, and held it out. Inside was a long silver wand.
"You've finally proven yourself," Gran announced as his hand hovered over the wand. "You are a wizard worthy of Hogwarts, Neville. I expect you to live up to the Longbottom name…"
Neville looked up at her seriously, desperate to prove to her that he was worth this.
Her expression drooped as she looked from him to the wand. "Franklin had such promise…" She shook her head and looked back at him and pressed the box closer. "Maybe you'll find something of him in you with this. It shouldn't just collect dust, not when he's still alive."
Shock rushed through him, cutting the excitement and thrill of being given such honor—perceived honor from a boy raised to think Franklin was the imagined figure he had to become—and turning a moment that had been a marvel, a sign that his Gran could care for him and believed in him into something far less pleasant. Magic almost hissed in outrage. Heated anger snapped. His eyes popped back open.
His wand wasn't his wand.
The room was brighter than it should be. Godric sprang out of bed and found all the torches burning brightly, flames licking at the ceiling. With a sharp breath, pull at his magic, and the lights snuffed out. Just the overly heated air and thin beams of predawn light remained.
Godric rubbed his face and groaned out a soft curse.
"Ugh," groaned Seamus in response. The boy, half awake, pushed open his curtains and tossed his various blankets to the floor. Then flopped back across his bed with a snort that turned into a snore.
The founder stalked around the room and flung open all the windows, letting the bitingly cold November air in. Magic on the window frames kept the wind from rushing through the tower room. Only a soft, bracing breeze kissed Godric's cheeks.
He slumped back on his bed and groaned out into a hand before sliding fingers through his hair. Frustration burned through him as he considered the truth about his wand.
Gran had given him his father's wand in the hope he'd gain something of his father through it. It hadn't been a sign of acceptance. It was just her desperation at having a version of her son back.
Ash and unicorn hair—ash is stubborn, whispered through his mind from a long forgotten lecture from Rowena, particularly when paired with unicorn hair—made up his father's wand, his still-living father's wand. (2)
What fool gave someone another's wand? His gran, apparently.
No wonder it didn't work.
A wand had its own magic that allowed the object to choose its wielder. Often more than one person could use a wand but only one or two were "perfect" matches. That didn't mean a person could pick up a random wand and expect it to work. It just meant there were usually a decent dozen people in the world the wand would match up with properly.—It had something to do with harmonizing with the person's core magic but Godric had never really studied wands.
Ash and unicorn hair wands were notorious for matching with, at most, three people in the entire wizarding world for its entire existence. There had been no possibility his father's wand would ever work for him. He wasn't that lucky. (He wasn't very lucky at all.)
Godric shook his head to try and clear the spike of worthlessness.—Ten years of hell and being reminded of how useless he was without magic was a hard thing to swallow. It was more difficult than expected to push it aside. He knew he was a master of ancient magical arts and helped found a school that was considered one of the premier options in the world. He just had to keep reminding himself of everything he had done. It'll stick eventually. (Maybe. Hopefully.)
He closed his eyes and focused on just breathing for a moment.
How had he ended up back in his dorm?
Hazel eyes popped back open and he looked down. He was in his sheep-covered pajamas. His gaze roamed over the room as his aching head slowly processed everything.—Even twisting his neck to look about sent a creaking ache down his spine.—The deep red velvet and polished gold of his dorm room furnishings gleamed under faint torch light. A large mirror was hanging above his bed's pillow, almost like a headrest.
Godric reached out a hand and nudged the mirror but nothing happened. It looked like a perfectly normal mirror. He wouldn't have given it a second glance except for the fact that it hadn't been over his bed last he checked.
The founder shook his head and tugged a hand back through his hair once more. This seemed like something to blame on Salazar. It probably did something useful too but he had no interest in figuring it out now. There were more important things to consider.
He had been trapped in torture-filled memories he had likely repressed soon after both incidences had occurred. A frown spread and his brow wrinkled. Someone had blocked the older torture from his memory. Both of the worst incidents were fragmented now. It felt like they weren't all there but if he focused hard enough he could piece it all together. Even then, it was hard to recall the sounds of the memories. There was this almost vibration-like sound...almost like hissing.
His lips thinned into a tight line.
There was only one way memories could end up like that.
Memory charms could cause a disassociation to the event if recalled or could cause the memory to stick in an almost obsessive sense to the front of his mind. A memory blocked by such charms could fray and become disjointed but they didn't break apart into fragments. Only someone using legilimency could cut a memory to pieces.
That meant someone had to have entered his mind recently. And he had witnessed the result of Salazar dampening part of a memory with parseltongue once. His brother had remarked that there would always be a faint hissing when the person, a traumatized child at the time, tried to recall the moment. It was something to help a person move beyond a really horrible moment in their life, or at least that was what Salazar had used it for.
Until now.
Godric was going to kill Sally.
The idiot must have used legilimency on him. (Sally had seen some of his worst memories where he wasn't good enoug–) Godric took a deep breath as the torches flared and slowly blew it out as he clawed his magic back under control. Pain flared with the moment loss of control, searing through his body along the various pathways magic traveled.
As the torches lost their orange glow, the founder frowned up at them. There was so much to take in with the ten years of his life in reach once more and what had happened at the end of his meditation but he couldn't help but note how easily the torches were lighting. They had done so before, with heightened emotions, but this felt different. It felt easy.
The Gryffindor founder hesitated for a long moment then got up and claimed the bathroom. The shower stall had very little flammable material. He took extra caution by turning the faucet on before stripping and sitting cross-legged under the water.
Deep breaths helped guide him inward. Instead of focusing on the mind within his metaphysical form, he focused on his core. Opening his eyes to the expected mess blinded him for a moment. It was so vibrant.
Whole swaths of the dark sickly colors of sludge were gone. It now looked like dark clouds trying but failing to cover the sun. Without the gunk hiding it all, it was clear his core was different from memory. The oranges and reds made it look like a sunrise. Around the warmth were halos that went from a deep red into brown and ended, somehow, with green.
The change felt oddly right. He wasn't just Godric Gryffindor, after all. Longbottoms had their own magic and he was a Longbottom.
Godric shifted closer and stared in wonder at the changes before focusing on the remains of residue. There was still plenty to cleanse with proper purification rituals but so much of it was gone. The edges of the closest dark clouds were curled like paper caught by flame but not entirely consumed.
Percival's voice echoed through his mind, "It can renew the land. It can burn away the dead and give space for new life to sprout."
Fire was an all-consuming thing but it was often thought of as a purifying consumption. Forest fires often allowed new life, as his cousin showed him on more than one instance. Godric had just never considered what that could mean in terms of magical purification. It also explained why his entire form ached. To burn away so much of the gunk had to have taken a great deal of elemental flames.
He could imagine how Salazar was going to worry at this turn of events. The damage he could have done to himself was unpleasant to consider. Only the innate aspect of one's magic not harming itself had likely protected him from actual core damage.
The founder refocused outward and blinked through the hot rivers of water falling across his face. His fire element had burned away most of the residue. He couldn't imagine how it had done it. He had never guided his elemental magic within his metaphysical form before. It would have been an uncontrolled, unconscious act by his magic.
What that meant hit him hard.
Bile rushed up his throat. He had lost control of not just his meditation for new memories but also his magic and fire. All the people he could have harmed. The very castle would have been in danger.
oooP3ooo
(Harry)
Salazar leaned against a wall as he stared around the circular room, careful to keep his weight off his damaged knee. Predawn light streamed through the wand-slit thin windows. The room was now frozen instead of a sauna. Stalactites and stalagmites had been formed from the molten rock. An impression of where Godric had laid was visible in the thin strips of light. The glass in the windows had melted and were now puddles of color on the sills.
A pull from the brother bonds had woken him up. Instead of having Godric rampage into the Slytherin dorms, he had come here. He probably should have gone to his ritual rooms or his suite but this was already half destroyed. He much rather Godric destroyed this room further than add more they had to fix.
His head throbbed in a vague back of his skull type ache. It wasn't a migraine but it was this constant pain that told him he had overdone it. He should probably take it easy for the rest of the semester. No mental magical arts at the very least.
It had turned out better than it should have, which probably meant he and Godric weren't running around with brains that were properly, physically eleven. Still, a proper break was probably needed. Every time he worked on something, he seemed to be attacked either physically or mentally. He just needed to take the remaining month before the holidays to focus on books or something.
Books were less likely to kill him.
Maybe he could sneak into the restricted section and search for anything on soul magic.
"Bloody hell."
Salazar turned to the stairs.
Godric stood there staring out at the mess of a room. The blond slowly took a final step down as he took it all in. Wide hazel eyes locked on to his own emeralds. "Sally, I melted rock."
"Yes," drawled Salazar, not entirely certain why Godric needed to state the obvious.
"I've never melted rock before!" snapped Godric.
Salazar straightened up at that, only to grimace at the pain that spiked up his leg, and leaned back against the wall. "I had thought–"
"Get off your leg." Godric stalked over and pointed at the floor. "Now."
The parselmouth reluctantly sank to the floor. His brother pulled his trouser up and scowled at the sight of the uncovered burn.
"It's fin–"
"I know burns, you dolt. Where are your bandages and the burn cream?"
"I ran out."
"Did you ask for more?"
Salazar's jaw jutted out in a stubborn line. "...Mipsy may get in trouble. We keep asking her to get things–"
"You keep getting into ridiculous messes!" Godric snapped back before he called out, "Mipsy."
"Me?!" scoffed Salazar, firmly ignoring what he had just been thinking himself, as he waved his hands out to encompass the room.
Godric rolled his eyes. "It's three versus one so far, isn't it? Spiders, selkie, trolls–"
"We are not comparing–"
Mipsy pop-clicked into the room and offered a relieved smile at Godric, flat-out ignoring Salazar. "Master Rie be needing healing things for Master Sally! Master Sally wouldn't let Mipsy collect them."
"Well, you may bring it all now," Godric stated and smacked Salazar's side when he tried to say something.
She nodded happily and pop-clicked out.
The two stayed silent, and both their gazes returned to the devastated room as they waited. Salazar really didn't want to go into all the insane things that kept happening to him. He'd rather stay focused on the newest event, particularly since it had happened to Godric this time.
It really was a mess and with Godric's revelation on not melting rock before—Salazar flicked his gaze back to Godric and said, "I had thought this was what you meant when you spoke of your loss of control as a child."
Godric sighed. "It never went this far, at least not like this. I burned down our house when I first awoke the ability. Nearly burned down a forest during a temper tantrum...It was always actual fire involved. This...how hot did my fire have to be to melt stone?" His gaze swept over the room before looking beseechingly at Salazar, "Were there any actual flames?"
Salazar rubbed his forehead to soothe the throbbing, dull ache that was slowly turning into a migraine centered around his scar. He shook his head in the negative and answered, "There wasn't any visible fire when I found you. Some smoke, that's it. I did look up melting points of stone but it varies on the type. It had to be at least 600 degrees Celsius."
"There wasn't much to burn in here. That's why I chose it." Godric reached out and traced the oddly smooth-looking, melted stone. "I don't melt stone. I didn't." He pulled out his wand and twisted it about in his hands as if inspecting it. "Did… did anything survive?"
"Only what you were wearing," Salazar answered before he nodded at the silver wand, "Whatever was in your pockets."
Mipsy pop-clicked back into the room, ending the conversation with the newest basket of medical supplies. Salazar knew they had to replace those sooner than later. Someone had to notice the missing supplies.
"Thanks," Godric offered the little House elf before he dug through the various items. Mipsy nodded, glanced between the two, and then pop-clicked out.
Silence stretched between the two founders as the blond cleaned, medicated, and wrapped the burn. As Godric worked, his expression seemed to darken. It was clear to Salazar that the melted rock no longer distracted him from yesterday's events. His brother was recalling why he had forcefully tugged at their bond to demand this meeting at the crack of dawn on a Sunday.
The Gryffindor founder asked, sharp and unforgiving as he tugged Salazar's trouser leg back down. "Any other burns?"
Salazar groaned but obediently tugged at his tunic. He knew better than to argue with Gryffindor when he used that tone. Salazar explained as he shifted up. "There's a few on my back. Nothing nearly as bad."
Godric climbed around him and helped pull his tunic up. It was when Salazar could no longer see him, that Godric finally spoke up about the issue that had brought them here. "So, I get it. You used legilimency on me to prevent the tower from collapsing...just...just don't make it a habit, Sal."
"Of course not," Salazar agreed, turning his head back towards Godric though he couldn't catch sight of his brother, "You know I don't–"
"I know. I just...Hold your shirt up or take it off," Godric said from behind Salazar. The parselmouth shrugged the tunic off. The sound of something being opened filled the room for a moment. A jar lid rolled across the stone floor as Godric spoke up again, "I just got the memories back. One of them had been behind a memory charm...They're my memories and I'd like to keep them now that I've got them. I know you wouldn't usually. I know...but..."
Salazar frowned down at the lid as it rolled onto its back. The little he knew of Godric's present childhood, what he had seen as he had cut various horrifying memories apart, all indicated the worst. With that in mind, it wasn't surprising that Godric seemed to have difficulty talking about it all. Godric also must need reassurance after ten years of betrayal. "Your mind is your own Godric. And proper families don't screw with each other's minds." Salazar turned entirely about to meet Godric's hazel gaze. "What they did to you was beyond wrong. I'd call a feud upon them if it could help the situation–"
"I will deal with my family," Godric interrupted. "They fucked up and some of them should be in jail...it's not going to happen since making certain a child has magic is a family matter and-and I think it's all legal.—Well, except for that red curse the woman cast at me…"
He scowled at his brother. "Legal? They were outright torturing you!"
Godric shook his head stubbornly even as he visibly seemed to wilt. "I'll deal with them. Now turn around."
Salazar huffed but obeyed, arms crossing across his chest in annoyance at being cut out. The Longbottoms had to pay for what they did to Godric. One final act against his brother, and the entire House would find out exactly why people tried to avoid feuds with any of the founders of Hogwarts.
His lips curled down as he considered the possible routes of revenge. Or would it be justice? Uncle certainly would have seen getting back at them as justice, particularly if it seemed karmic.
"How do you feel?" Salazar finally filled the silence. "I shouldn't have used legilimency on you at this age."
"Could be better but doesn't remind me of any past mental attacks I've experienced...It's more that I burned out all the pathways magic usually travels through the body. Don't know." Godric tried to explain as he rubbed cream across his shoulder.
They fell silent once more. Godric slowly worked from shoulders down, hunting each irritated spot partly hidden by all the tattoos. A hand traced one of his many tattoos for a moment, instead of bandaging the various burns. Salazar tilted his head in question but didn't say anything.
"Sally," his brother spoke up quietly, his voice held an etch of true concern.
Salazar hummed.
"One of your ritual marks is glowing off and on...almost pulsating, really. I think it might be the one to help evict a possession."
Salazar's back snapped up straight. "What?"
"I said–"
"I heard. I need a mirror." Salazar cut him off.
"Mirror?" Godric repeated, startled. "What you need a mirror for–"
Salazar called out over Godric, "Mipsy!"
"–Shouldn't you be able to feel a possession? What is even–"
Mipsy pop-clicked into the room and Salazar once more spoke over Godric's demands. "I need two large mirrors set in front of each other. Ones I can stand between."
"More mirrors, Master Sally?" asked Mipsy, clearly amused but confused at the request.
"Yes."
"–possessing you?!" Godric snapped out over the pop-click of the House elf leaving once more, "You-Know-Who was pushed out. The spirit fled...You don't think it came back while we were unconscious, do you?"
Salazar grabbed the wall and pulled himself up. Godric sprang up to help him and they hobbled over to the mirrors when Mipsy and Toofie reappeared with the large, standing objects.
"I'm serious, Salazar. I want answers here!"
His back was lit with the golden glow of one of his many tattoos, a clear sign that the magic embedded into his very being from the ritual was actively working. Godric was right, it was the sharp geometric marks of his protections against spiritual possession, and mind-altering enchantments and curses. The specific parts of the tattoo blatantly lighting up indicated a spiritual possession instead of a curse.
Salazar rubbed his forehead in frustration.
The spirit of You-Know-Who had been successfully removed from him within moments of possession. That was how it should work. Whatever was trying to possess him was either too powerful or had found some form of anchor that kept his ritual magic from succeeding. This left said magic continuously fighting the spirit. Eventually, he'd notice the strain of the active magic.—He should have noticed the ritual marks activate but yesterday had been exhausting.
Before his eyes, the tattoo lost its glow. Salazar's frown deepened and he tried to understand. He didn't feel any different—the throbbing in the back of his head might be letting up a little, no longer on the edge of becoming a migraine. But that was from his legilimency attack on Godric. Wasn't it?
"Sally?" Godric said, his tone implying the hundreds of questions his brother had.
"I don't know," Salazar responded, answering those hundreds of questions with an unacceptable answer. He stared, ill at ease, at his reflection. "I don't know."
His brother spoke up once more, hazel gaze stuck on Salazar's. "You're rubbing your scar."
Salazar stilled, realizing Godric wasn't meeting his gaze through the mirror. Godric was staring at his hand, palm pressed against his forehead. He jerked his hand away. Directly underneath was the sōwilō scar. Bile rose at the realization. It didn't take much to connect the dots.
"It reacted when the selkie used its mental manipulation magic on me," choked out Salazar as he stared at the irritated, partly reopened scar.
"And you were bleeding from it yesterday," Godric added. "Who knows how many times it reacted without you realizing it because you were busy dealing with a mental attack, or similar. The first time it reacted was–"
"The cleansing ritual right before school started." Salazar looked as ill as he felt. "What the hell is it–"
Godric hissed out in horror, "You woke it up during the purification ritual."
"Woke it–" Salazar snapped around to look directly at Godric. "The sludge would have to be an intelligent being to wake it!"
His brother began to pace around the circular room, dodging the pillars of stone. His round face set in grim lines, a startling look on an eleven-year-old. "Look at it all Sally! Some type of ritual occurred the night you were attacked by Voldemort. He was vanquished and you were left with that scar. Your scar contains something and it must have entered the scar that night. It started to react after the purification ritual woke it up and always in the presence of the spirit form of Voldemort within Quirrell–"
"That's stretching it–"
Godric snapped at him sharply, "How many times did you have migraines after DADA? Remember when I stopped you on the stairs? I was worried something was wrong–"
"–I just had a headach–"
"You were pressing your hand to that scar!"
Salazar grimaced. He couldn't say whether or not he had been. It was entirely possible.
Godric flashed a somewhat grim triumphant smile before he continued his train of thought. "Something about Voldemort causes it to react. Mental attacks also caused a response because it's living right by your bleeding mind. There's a prophecy about you and Voldemort where Dumbledore wants you dead at the end because of it...It's all tied together, isn't it? One connection can be coincidences but more?"
Salazar slumped back against a mirror and slid to the ground. "He wants me dead...Voldemort is a free-floating spirit.–" He reached out and traced the scar on his forehead as he stared at himself in the other mirror, ignoring how very pale he looked. Hogwarts's repeating what his dead kin had told her about the spirit rang through his mind. "–A free-floating spirit has to be tied to something in the world to keep them here."
"But Voldemort wants you as dead as Dumbledore does. I doubt you'd be much of an anchor if you were dead," Godric countered sharply, a hint of desperation coloring his voice.
He stared at the red scar in the mirror, unable to give Godric reassurance. "I somehow doubt Voldemort knows I'm his anchor."
Neither reincarnated man said anything after that pronouncement. They didn't have to remind the other that this was all conjecture. It fit together a little too well for them to be entirely off the mark, which kept both from making light of the situation either. Salazar hoped they were off step in a good way but knowing his luck in this life, it was probably worse than they thought.
And there was nothing they could do about the situation beyond what they already started.—At least until they decided to blow caution to the wind and make use of their legendary statuses within the Isle's magical society. That assumed revealing themselves would help the situation. It might not. It probably would only complicate it.
"I know why this wand doesn't work," Godric blurted out.
Salazar dragged his gaze from his reflection and stared up at his brother. A faint embarrassed flush had taken over Godric's face. The silvery wand he came to Hogwarts with held out between them. It was a blatant change of topic but a good one.
"Oh?" he asked, playing along with the change.
Godric walked over and sank onto the ground beside Salazar before he handed the wand over. Gryffindor's shoulder pressed against Salazar's as the blond got comfortable. "It's not mine. The wand belongs to Franklin Longbottom, my father."
"Inherited wands can work sometimes–"
"Frank is still alive," Godric interrupted, his gaze staring at Salazar through the mirror. Salazar's eyebrows shot up. That could explain the issues. "He and my mother were tortured into insanity...you probably saw a little of that."
Salazar gave a short nod, feeling uncomfortable. "I did."
"They're in the long-term spell damage wing of St. Mungo's. It's the primary magical hospital in London." Godric shook his head and added, "The wand is unicorn and ash."
"Ah," Salazar broke eye contact and twisted the wand about between his fingers. It wasn't surprising the wand didn't work between having Frank alive and what material made up the wand. "Well...we can get you a wand at least. Seems like the easiest thing out of everything we have to do."
He looked back up and found Godric smiling faintly. "Aye, I guess it would be. You know where to find wands nowadays."
"Diagon Alley," Salazar answered simply before he frowned, "Though I'm not sure how we'd get there before the holiday."
Godric's smile grew into a grin. "Leave that to me. We just need to head to Hogsmeade. Lucky us, I do believe half the school will be there next weekend to cover our presence."
"A week to recover some and for my detentions," mused Salazar as he stood up. "Though, I could get us to Hogsmeade within the hour if you don't want to wait."
He watched as Godric turned thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. "A week isn't going to make enough of a difference. I'll still have to do bleeding horrible on the exams to avoid suspicion." He grimaced. "And I'd rather recover some myself. Detentions?"
Salazar waved Godric off. His detentions with Snape were not something to worry over. The hateful man couldn't do anything terrible to Salazar and Salazar had dealt with plenty of assholes in the past.
Gryffindor huffed at him before an odd expression crossed his face. "So...you need to take a look at my core."
He straightened. "Did something more happen?"
"Yes, though...it's a good thing, I think."
Salazar held his hand out. "Let me see."
oooP4ooo
(George)
Their exorcism hadn't worked. They didn't know if it hadn't worked because it wasn't a way to exorcise someone or if Potter wasn't being possessed.
If the two firsties weren't being possessed...
George frowned down at his transfiguration book, not really reading it even though the homework was due in a few hours. He could feel Fred thrumming with the need to bounce and move and pace as he also considered their failed exorcism instead of the homework.
At least it was a decent prank.
Fred flashed a sharp grin at him. _It was._
That seemed to ease the energy thrumming through their connection. It made it a little easier to focus on the book before them. Turning a teapot into a tortoise was on the midterm exam. George couldn't help but wonder if they could tie it to a timer charm and mass-transfigure the pots during Afternoon Tea.
_Oh, that'd be grand._
George leaned closer as Fred pulled out their notebook of ideas for this year and flipped through all their notes. George reached out and caught the page when he spied it. There the detailed notes on all the various ways they had found the timer charm being used in the past. They could think of other ways to use it but establishing a baseline for its usage and versatility helped spark inspiration.
_If we could find the magic to tie the transfiguration to the end of the timer...when it hits zero, we'd be able to do it._
Fred scratched at the top of his head before pulling out one of the various library charm books they borrowed off and on.
They should be focused on school work or saving Potter and Neville but this seemed like so much more fun. There wasn't any easy way to sneak into the restricted section anyway—they've tried. Multiple times.
The twins had reached an impasse in their efforts. Neither of them could think of where to go from here. With the holiday coming, they had less time and less interest in it all.
_But we've only tried one thing._
George looked back up from the transfiguration book he had been staring blankly at again. Fred frowned at him from the notes he was taking for the next prank.
"I know," George said quietly, speaking out loud in the empty study room of the library. It felt more permanent saying it out loud and no one but Potter and ghosts were in the library at this time anyhow. "We aren't giving up...we just have to think of some other way to exorcise them. The library's out. None of the teachers will give us a pass."
"Oooooh! Ickle little pranksters needing something from the restricted section?"
Twin pairs of eyes met and widened at the voice. It could only be the castle's poltergeist. He was an interesting figure. They actually liked the pranking horror but neither George nor his twin knew if the poltergeist had to tell the founders about things or not.
George imagined the ghosts and paintings told the founders all types of things. Peeves was a different thing altogether. He might not have to say a thing.
The small, colorful figure materialized upside down and cross-legged in the air across from them, almost like he was going to sit at the table on the other side, joining them. Mischief glowed from orange eyes.
"Err…" Fred helpfully spoke up, "Morning Peeves. You need something?"
Peeves smiled, sharp looking teeth was revealed in the too-wide grin. "What you needing an exorcism for? Going to get rid of the Bloody Baron for little old me?" A sly look flashed across his sharp features and he added, "or maybe snores-a-lot Binnzie? Finally had enough goblin history?"
_Bugger._ reverberated through George as he and Fred thought the same thing.
A spark of an idea flashed from Fred and through George. He didn't catch the entire idea, as was often the case when Fred had inspiration for something. Most times his brother would explain but sometimes he didn't have the time.
Fred leaned back in his chair, shook his head, and offered a confident little smirk. "This is our prank, don't much see why you need to know the details. You'd just tell Binns or the headmaster–"
"Oh," cackled Peeves almost maliciously, "but you don't have the material! You can't do the prank without the know-how!"
Red flushed across Fred's face and he blustered, "We'll get the info! We-uh...Our…" He flashed his gaze helplessly to George.
George blurted out the first thing he could think of. "Our brother Bill will know!"
Peeves cackled, "A head boy giving away how to exorcise a teacher?" He leaned forward and his grin seemed to widen impossibly further. "Naughty, naughty but oh so funny!"
George and Fred relaxed slightly at that. Peeves finding it amusing should mean he'd keep mum about it.
"Binnzie is sooo boring," Peeves purred out, "I should tell his headship, I should. But replacing that old bore with someone to prank is much more entertaining." A sly look crossed his face. "I could get you the information you need. Then you wouldn't have to wait to hear from your head boy brother and how he'll not help you."
"You would?" spluttered Fred.
George shared a look with his brother. A short, almost instantaneous conversation passed between them before they agreed to offer a part to the poltergeist. "We'd let you help–"
"For a price," interrupted Peeves, "of a premium box of dungbombs."
Excitement at the idea of working with a poltergeist died.
Neither of them had much money. What they had was for a few pranking items and drinks at the Three Broomsticks. It wasn't enough for a regular box of dungbombs. They simply couldn't afford the trade.
"Bill," Fred stated, "will pull through for us...but we'll keep the offer in mind?"
Peeves sniffed and back-flipped onto his feet. "You do that. I'll be watching for the show!" Then he vanished.
They shared a look. Peeves could still be in the room. There was no way to know.
_You know, we really could ask Bill._
George slowly nodded. Bill might have an idea. Maybe he even needed to know how to do an exorcism because of all his work in tombs. But Peeves was right in reminding them that Bill had been head boy. Bill might not help without knowing the truth but the truth couldn't...shouldn't be written down in a letter.
Fred knocked his shoulder against George's. _So we ask without details first and then figure out how to explain it safely if that fails._
oooPooo
1. hospitium (Greek: ξενία, xenia, προξενία) is the ancient Greco-Roman concept of hospitality as a divine right of the guest and a divine duty of the host. Similar or broadly equivalent customs were and are also known in other cultures, though not always by that name.
2. Excerpts from the Wizarding World website of Rowlings:
Ash - The ash wand cleaves to its one true master and ought not to be passed on or gifted from the original owner, because it will lose power and skill. This tendency is extreme if the core is of unicorn. Old superstitions regarding wands rarely bear close examination, but I find that the old rhyme regarding rowan, chestnut, ash and hazel wands (rowan gossips, chestnut drones, ash is stubborn, hazel moans) contains a small nugget of truth. Those witches and wizards best suited to ash wands are not, in my experience, lightly swayed from their beliefs or purposes. However, the brash or over-confident witch or wizard, who often insists on trying wands of this prestigious wood, will be disappointed by its effects. The ideal owner may be stubborn, and will certainly be courageous, but never crass or arrogant.
Unicorn hair - Unicorn hair generally produces the most consistent magic, and is least subject to fluctuations and blockages. Wands with unicorn cores are generally the most difficult to turn to the Dark Arts. They are the most faithful of all wands, and usually remain strongly attached to their first owner, irrespective of whether he or she was an accomplished witch or wizard.
Minor disadvantages of unicorn hair are that they do not make the most powerful wands (although the wand wood may compensate) and that they are prone to melancholy if seriously mishandled, meaning that the hair may 'die' and need replacing.