Harry had been right. As soon as Horst managed to corner him, Eragon received many difficult questions. He could only be grateful that he'd had some time to get his story straight. Horst had asked him about the tracks, the marks from Saphira's spurs, and the egg. Eragon had gone back and forth on the story he'd sell the smith, but he'd decided on an easy path.
"I hardly remember anything." Horst gestured for him to continue. "You told me to go to the ca- Harry's." Eragon cursed himself for nearly slipping up. "I ran as fast as I could, but Garrow didn't want to come. I only went a ways into the forest when I heard the strangers attack. I ran back as fast as I could, but-" he swallowed.
The emotions were not hard to fake. He merely had to draw upon his worry for Garrow. "But they were already gone. I don't even know what happened to my legs. I just got Garrow out and started dragging him to Carvahall. I never even noticed until the blood started running down."
"Gertrude said your legs had been bandaged," Horst pointed out.
Eragon growled. He was pinned with no good way forward. "I don't know. It's all hazy. Maybe I did it. I had bandages from Harry."
"You never saw him?" Horst checked. Eragon shook his head. That was true, at least. Where had the wizard been?
Eragon stuck to the story, citing foggy memory and giving only a bare outline of events. "Can you explain the sound you heard that made you turn back? Was it a beast, magic, or-?"
He shook his head again. "Just- loud."
Horst worked to piece together the load of dung Eragon had shoveled him. "The stone," he said finally. "They were after it. Did they find it? What happened to it?"
"I got rid of it," Eragon lied. "I didn't give it to Harry or anything. I just put it deep in a hard spot to get to in the Spine. Nobody will find it."
Horst sighed. He clearly had more questions, but he let Eragon go. Eragon felt the heat on the back of his neck rise. Sooner or later, there were going to be questions he could't answer.
Was the best course to run? If he ran, would the villagers just follow him to the Spine and discover Harry's castle? He could flee even further, pursue the strangers, bent on revenge. He just didn't know.
Gertrude came hurrying from the upper level. Eragon had been prepared to steel himself for bad news, but her demeanor made it immediately apparent that something miraculous had happened. "He's likely to make it," she beamed. "Your friend is amazing. I'll watch over him tonight, then I expect he'll wake up the next morning. He's got a long road to full recovery, but he'll live."
Eragon staggered against the wall with relief. It nearly drove him to his knees. He knew Saphira would feel it; the emotion was too strong to be ignored no matter how far apart they were. From far away, he got back a sense of grudging approval. She still disliked having to give blood.
"Can I see him?"
"Of course." Gertrude shooed him up the stairs. "You're doing much better yourself, aren't you?"
Eragon nodded. "My legs are tender, but I can walk on them without too much trouble."
Gertrude said she had to bring over her things to watch over Garrow in the evening and headed out. Eragon mounted the stairs eagerly. Harry was packing up. Eragon spotted his wand on the table. "She knows?"
"It was an unpopular choice," Harry said dryly. "Yes." He held out his hand. The wand zipped off the table and into his grip. With a flick, his potions and tools packed themselves in an open suitcase. The case snapped shut and folded into itself, becoming nothing more than a matchbox with a red cross on it. He turned to Eragon.
"Garrow will still have painful wounds for the next few weeks. He'll be in no condition to do farm work, and the two of you have no place to live at the moment. Have you given much thought to your next steps?"
"Some," Eragon admitted. "I, um, didn't expect Garrow's situation to be a consideration. Thank you."
Harry waved it off. "Thank Saphira; she made it possible. You can stay with me, Garrow too, if you're willing to take the hit to your reputation. And Saphira, if she feels safe enough around me. I won't ask her for more blood, not unless someone else's life is at stake."
Eragon decided he would leave that request to Harry to make when that time came. He nodded. "How is Garrow going to get up to the Spine in this state."
Harry put the matchbox in his pocket. "I've been meaning to get working on the carpets I bought. Just let me know and I'll figure it out. I'm staying at Morn's until Garrow gets better."
Eragon had no idea how carpets related to transport, but he understood the offer. "I will."
Once Harry departed, Eragon went back to thinking. A part of him wanted to chase the strangers down and get revenge. Who did they think they were, coming into Carvahall and destroying, attacking, without provocation? The more he thought about it, the more it made his blood boil. Someone doing that with impunity deserved what was coming to them. He had his bow, he had Saphira, he was confident he could catch them.
…But Garrow was not dead. The farmhouse and barn could be rebuilt. They could buy a new horse. He would miss Birka, but gods willing, no one would die at the strangers' hands.
He headed outside for some fresh air. Elaine urged him to bring his crutches, but Eragon did not want to carry around a reminder of what had happened. He just went beyond the hill and sat on a bench near the square.
"You're a foolish boy," Brom's gruff voice said. Eragon looked up at him. "After all this, you still leave the safety of Horst's house to sit alone outside."
"Brom," Eragon breathed out. "What are you doing here?"
"Horst had questions for you," Brom said.
"Aye, what of it?"
"I have my own, and I expect you to be much more forthright with me. Come to my house."
Eragon let himself be helped to Brom's. The storyteller's house was in disarray. Bags and books were everywhere, half emptied things cluttered the floors. The fireplace was choked with the burnt remains of paper. "Did you get robbed?"
Brom snorted. "No, I'm preparing to leave."
"Where to?" Eragon toed a stack of old books that were being used to prop up the other side of a broken table.
"Wherever you go."
Eragon worked his mouth for a moment, but nothing came out.
"Can I ask why?" he managed.
"You may," Brom said. "But it might not do you much good. I'm going to tell you that as the village storyteller, it's my duty to be there when stories happen to learn new ones. I don't think you'll believe that, but it's the best you're getting. After all," Brom fixed him with a piercing gaze. "What better story than that of the next Dragon Rider?"
Eragon had wanted to sputter denials, call Brom crazy, all the things one did to try and get an idea out of someone else's head. But he knew Brom wouldn't buy any of it. He was too wily, and knew too many secrets already for such denials to hold water.
"How did you know?" he asked glumly.
Brom raised a brow. "You mean besides the many, many questions you had on dragon care?"
Eragon blushed. "Oh."
"You should always consider people's motivations," Brom advised. "The world becomes much clearer when you are able to discern men's self-interests." He stooped to pick up that bundle he had worn when he first came to meet Harry. It went into a growing pack of supplies. He peered at Eragon. "I might have expected you to storm off into the Empire with your dragon, wroth with fury for their unprovoked attack on your uncle. But you seem to have more prudence than I'd expected."
Eragon endured the backhanded compliment. "Garrow's going to make it," he said, by way of explanation.
It was one of few times he had seen Brom truly surprised. "Truly?"
"Harry managed to make a cure with dragon blood," Eragon told him. "So now I don't know anymore. I still hate them, but not enough to run recklessly after them, especially when Garrow will need help to recover, our home is gone, and Saphira is barely big enough to carry me."
Brom's expression showed surprise for a moment. "Saphira," he murmured under his breath. The emotion was gone as soon as it came. "Well you're not as stupid as most boys your age." he pointed his pipe at him. "Don't let that go to your head. That's a very, very low bar."
"Mobilicorpus!"
Garrow floated off the bed. It was an eerie sight, the way his body moved in the air. It put a lot more stock in the old ghost stories they told about elves, spiriting away human children in the night.
"This is definitely going to turn Carvahall against you," Eragon hissed at Harry. The wizard shrugged.
"When Garrow is better, he can go visit and tell everyone he's fine. Or better yet, you can start inviting others to come and see him."
"Ahd that won't make it very obvious that you can use magic?" Eragon wrapped the dangling blankets over his uncle. Harry gestured at the external wall of the bedroom with his wand. The wood planks melted away, revealing the frigid spring evening air. Harry mounted his broom while keeping his wand generally trained on Garrow. Carefully, he navigated his way through the hole in the wall and conducted Eragon's uncle after him.
It was less of a concern for him. Since nobody knew about his magic, he was in no more danger. And Eragon knew he had to leave. He was not about to ditch his uncle, but sooner or later the villagers would ask questions he could no longer answer.
A chilly gust drew shivers from Garrow's sleeping form.
"He's going to freeze," Eragon hissed.
Harry flicked his wand again. "Warming charms," he whispered back. "Are you coming?"
"I'm not dressed for the cold."
With another flick, there was a bundle of dark clothing on the bed Garrow had just vacated. He picked up the garments, a jacket with a hood and a zipper, and a pair of loose, insulated pants. Eragon quickly discovered how to use a zipper and suited up. He crept to the edge of the hole and dangled himself by his hands, then released his grip and fell the last six feet to the ground with a grunt. He noted that Harry had not answered what he would do if Carvahall discovered his magic.
Harry repaired the hole in the wall exactly as it had been before. He drifted slowly along so Eragon could keep pace at a jog, hovering four feet off the ground. Garrow's sleeping form coasted after him, mimicking every bob and sink of the broomstick.
Eragon picked up the sound of boots crunching in the snow, steps not his own. He froze, waving for Harry's attention and pointing towards the noise. Harry cursed. He drew a circle in the air with his wand and muttered under his breath. "Repello muggletum."
They waited with bated breath, little plumes of fog from their mouths in the frigid air.
The creaking snow got a bit closer, nearly veering close enough to come into sight. Then it curved away. Eragon breathed out. They waited a bit longer, just in case. When it was clear the person was gone and they could hear nothing, Harry dispelled his magic with a gesture and floated on.
Once they were out of the village, Harry was able to coast ahead and let Eragon run to keep up. They no longer had to watch how much noise they were making. Once they were behind a hill and in cover, Harry turned to Eragon. "I can take Garrow all the way back much faster if I'm not waiting for you to keep up. Do you want to wait for me to come back? I can cast the same spell on you." He gestured to Garrow's floating form.
"No need," Eragon said proudly. He sent his mind out towards the forest. Saphira! He called. I need you!
He received affirmation a moment later. It was hardly a few minutes before a dark shape swooped out of the sky. Eragon climbed onto her back, enjoying the surprise on Harry's face.
"Let's go."
Eragon reflected that if anyone were able to see them, they must look like the oddest group. A wizard on a broomstick, spiriting an unconscious man behind him, escorted by a Dragon Rider, gliding through the night.
The castle was a beacon in the dark, candlelight pouring from every glass window, lantern, and streetlight. The lanterns lit the long castle walls, the cobblestone paths and footbridges, and the lake pier. Their light danced off the water in the fountain out front. Closer to the main entries, braziers held bowls of rainbow flame, crouched over by gargoyles, dragons, and other creatures Eragon had no name for. A thousand dots of fiery light lit the darkened castle grounds. From the sky, it looked magnificent.
They both landed to walk through the gate at Harry's warning. If they crossed the walls without going through the gates, protective magic would strip away any magic that allowed for flight. The only way to be excepted from the rules was to be written into the register or to travel through the main gate. Harry did not know if dragons needed magic to fly, but the prospect of crashing into the ground seemed too dangerous to risk.
"You haven't added yourself to it?" Eragon wondered.
Harry gestured to Garrow. "I haven't added him. I don't want him to fall out of the sky behind me."
Eragon swallowed. "Good idea."
Once Saphira was through the portcullis, and Eragon had waved at the suits of armor guarding it, she took off again and coasted across the grounds. Her talons clicked on the stone square by the Great Hall's grand doors. Opening, they spilled cheery light across the grounds. A thousand everburning candles kept the room bright save for nighttime, when most of the candles hid within alcoves in the walls to keep the Great Hall dim for weary eyes.
Eragon got off Saphira. They both followed Harry towards the guest dormitories. "Kicking myself for not building a hospital wing," Harry told them. "That's exactly the kind of place you really need to have before you need it."
He helped Harry get Garrow into one of the other beds in a dorm room. They were a lot nicer than Eragon remembered. Harry yawned. "We can deal with whatever comes up tomorrow. I'll let you explain the castle to Garrow. And Saphira."
Growling came from just outside in the lounge. Saphira did not fit inside the dorms. Eragon groaned and stuffed his face into the pillow of his bed. He was right about one thing; they had a lot of explaining to do in the morning.
"-agon. Eragon. Eragon!"
Eragon smushed his face into the pillow. "Mmph." he groaned into the fabric. "'S a bit longer, uncle."
"Eragon!"
Eragon struggled against the weighted blankets of torpidity. "Wha-?" he mumbled. His bed had a real mattress, a stuffed pillow, and piles of soft, clean bedding. Waking up seemed like a sin.
"Where are we?" Garrow's voice hissed. That jolted him into wakefulness.
He propped himself up on his elbows and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Garrow had pushed himself up against the headboard of his bed. His eyes were darting around the dorm room. It took Eragon a moment to place his discomfort. He had gotten used to the unimaginable luxury in the castle, at least enough that it wasn't astonishing every time he saw something new. Garrow had never gone further than Therinsford. And he didn't know of any castles so nearby.
"Harry's," Eragon said. He got up and got dressed. He was unsettled to find that his clothes had been cleaned overnight, and were still warm and fluffy.
"Harry couldn't have a place like this," Garrow denied. "He hasn't been here long enough, he isn't rich enough, he doesn't have the right connections, and someone would have noticed if he bought this all from the traders."
Eragon shrugged. "It's magic."
He realized then that Garrow did not have clothes with him.
The wizard left things for you, Saphira said. Outside.
Eragon crossed to the door and pulled it open. Saphira was coiled in a circle in front of the door, head on the flagstones looking towards the hallway to the lounge the dorms split off from. She unfurled herself and moved aside enough for Eragon to get by. With her tail, she indicated a strange chair. Instead of legs, the chair had wheels for feet, and raised footrests. There was a pile of clothes on top of the seat, and a note on top of that. Tied to the note was a pair of tiny vials of green liquid Eragon recognized as having saved Garrow's life.
Harry brought this? I wonder why he didn't bring it inside. He did my laundry overnight, too.
Saphira gave a lazy growl. He did not. I did not allow him inside.
Oh. Eragon picked up the note with a prick of shame. He had hidden his illiteracy well enough. He did not want Harry to think about it and think he was an idiot. Eragon wheeled the chair in. Garrow raised a brow. "Can you read this?" Eragon asked glumly, handing over the note.
"Clothes and wheelchair for Garrow," Garrow read aloud. "How considerate. "And two more vials of Wiggenweld. Will probably fix Eragon's legs and help Garrow. There is a bit more left, but if Saphira does not want to donate in the future, they are best saved for emergencies."
His uncle frowned. "What does a dragon need to donate? And what does Wiggenweld do?"
Eragon took the note and crumpled it up, chucking it into the rubbish bin by the desk. "Harry's potions are weak unless they're brewed with dragon blood. Saphira gave some to save your life. This must be what's left over."
Garrow was quiet for a moment. "Then I owe her my thanks, too."
Saphira was plainly angry at the wizard. Eragon said nothing about the note, but she had heard Garrow as well as he had. Eragon understood why: Harry was, intentionally or not, making it clear that if people were wounded, Saphira was ultimately responsible for whether or not they got cured based on her willingness to do what she saw as selling herself. Eragon was a bit angry about it, too. He was polite, but the message was obvious.
Drink the potion, she snarled.
Eragon obeyed. A refreshing coolness ran down his throat, falling through his body until it reached his legs. There was a brief moment of heat on his wounds, and then the pain was gone. He tested out his legs, stretching, prodding, eventually jogging in place. It had worked. He was perfectly healed, and it had only taken a mouthful of potion and a couple of seconds.
Garrow mimicked him. A second after swallowing, his uncle let out a deep sigh of relief. A great deal of tension left his body. "Miraculous," he murmured.
Eragon helped him get dressed and into the wheelchair. It took hardly a moment for the both of them to figure out its operation. He wheeled his uncle out the door, whereupon he caught sight of Saphira curled up on the ground and went rigid in his seat.
"Um, is she trained?" Garrow managed.
Saphira snarled. "No more than you or I," Eragon said, a bit more snippily than he'd meant it to come out. "She says hello."
No I don't. Tell him he looks poorly trained.
"That was a lie," Eragon corrected. "She says you're poorly trained."
Garrow adjusted quickly. "It's an honor to meet you, Saphira." he offered her an attempt at a bow while seated that amused Saphira out of her irritation at being called a dumb animal.
They were fortunate that everywhere they might need to go was on the ground floor, for Eragon had no idea how the wheeled chair device was supposed to mount stairs. Garrow gaped at everything they passed, his eyes nearly popping out in an effort to catch sight of every wondrous frieze, mosaic, painting, tapestry, and statue that went by. Eragon went slowly and paused for the ones he recognized as new. Harry had obviously gotten better at making his artwork; there was clear progression in the newer pieces on the walls.
From the start, the art had been very true to its subjects. Now, Harry seemed to have learned how to elevate his pieces with carefully added touches of exaggeration, stylization, and shadowing. Saphira paused by an enormous glass display case that took up a hundred feet of a corridor. There were lights in the ceiling casting the interior with bright light. Stretching from one end of the case to the other, a gigantic stone dragon lounged on a marble pedestal.
'Made from stone' was underselling it, though. It was made from stone in the same way that a beautiful portrait was made from paint. The largest part of the dragon's body was made from glossy, carved onyx. Polished brass plates adhered to the underbelly, fitted together in a mimicry of true scales. From the back of its head to the tip of its vicious tail, long, gleaming sharp marble spiles adorned the beast, running the length of its spine like Saphira's, only much more pronounced. Its mouth was open in a fearsome snarl, the inside of its mouth and its tongue crafted from a rosy pink quartz. Real rainbow flame flickered in the back of its throat, casting a faint, toothy shadow on the far wall.
Fearsome, Saphira decided, but not half so beautiful as I.
"Incredible," Garrow breathed. "Harry could make a fortune selling pieces like this."
"There is little Harry would need to buy that his magic could not provide," Eragon told his uncle. "The first day I came up here, this place was just an empty patch of cleared land. A bit less than a year ago."
"So quickly," Garrow marveled. "Who else lives here?"
"Just Harry," Eragon echoed. "Brom and I have both visited. I don't know of anyone else."
"Then he could buy the allegiance of men," Garrow said. "Workers, guards, even just company."
Eragon pointed out a gleaming suit of armor standing in its alcove. It had a bow in its mailed gauntlets and a quiver slung over its breastplate. The suit saluted the three of them. Garrow startled. "He has guards. And I'd bet he could put them to work if he needed to."
"Company, then," Garrow said.
"Maybe."
Eragon wheeled him through an extremely tall, arched hall with stained glass windows. They depicted six people smiling and laughing with their arms around each other. A pair of orange-haired people, one with bushy blonde hair, one with wispy white, one with mousy brown hair and a sturdy build, and a figure Eragon recognized as Harry. A great big banner hung over their heads, two words printed on it in gold on crimson.
"It moves!" Garrow delighted. He was right. The figures' chests rose and fell with silent laughter, glancing between each other and smiling. As many silvery creatures darted in and out of the scene, peering around someone's legs, popping in from a side of the frame, or drifting through the air over their heads.
"What does the banner say?" Eragon asked.
"Dumbledore's Army, senior members," Garrow read off. There were smaller banners by each person in the stained glass window. "Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter."
"Harry Potter," Eragon tried out. The name fit oddly in his mouth. "It fits, I suppose."
"His real name?" Garrow guessed. "I felt Evans fit better. Perhaps because we've known him by it for a year already."
"Maybe," Eragon agreed.
The next hallway was less artistically and technically impressive, but produced one of the most amazing effects. Two floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered either side of the dim hallway. There were no candles inside, and the sunlight from further down the hall seemed unable to reach within the mirrored section. The mirrors were used cleverly to reflect each other endlessly. Only, they reflected something that wasn't inside the hallway itself. Great big shelves stretched from a hundred feet up to the floor. The ceiling itself was made unnaturally dark, so dark it was like looking into the void, as if the ceiling did not exist and the roof went on forever.
On every single shelf, repeated to infinity in the mirrors, uncountable millions of glowing blue orbs swirled with white mist. Most were vaguely defined in the repeated reflections or out of focus in the mirrors. One in particular was cast in sharp detail, conspicuous for its absence atop its brass placard.
"S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D.: Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter," Garrow read off.
They hurried through that hall. Saphira was unsettled by the infinite copies of herself in the reflection hall, each moving in perfect sync with herself. They weren't alone, either. Black-robed figures in silver skull masks peered around the corners of shelves, darting between the aisles shrouded in black smoke. Eragon caught sight of a figure who must have been Luna Lovegood, sprinting down an aisle between two shelves. A figure with familiar messy hair dove for cover clutching the missing orb. Flashes of different colored lights zipped by near the shelves.
Look, Saphira urged. This hall is not what it seems.
Eragon glanced behind him. She was right; the whole hallway they had already passed was still visible behind them, much, much longer than it had seemed going in. He looked onward and found that the far end of the corridor kept receding as they continued.
"Do we press on?" he wondered aloud.
"These feel like…memories," Garrow murmured. "This feels like an invasion of privacy."
"He invited us here," Eragon reminded his uncle. "And I am curious where this ends."
The hall grew more lighthearted soon. They passed a gigantic mural of a redheaded figure with his back to the frame, sitting atop a flying broomstick in red robes. "Weasley," Garrow read off the back of his jersey. Ron, Eragon supposed. He held a victorious fist aloft, a big red wooden ball under his other arm. Three iron hoops on stilts were in the foreground. Eragon recognized them from the Quidditch pitch outside, as if the painting were a window from right behind the hoops.
The stands around the pitch were filled with indistinct faces jumping up and down, waving red and gold flags and shooting off sparks of the same colors. The spectators in silver and green were a bit more muted. He picked out one head in particular, a giant lion's head chewing on a snake, worn on the head of a girl with a blue and silver scarf wrapped around her neck.
As he stared, Eragon thought he could hear a faint noise in the back of his ears. Mixed with the ardent adulation of a thousand cheering mouths, clapping hands, and stamping feet, a chant. "Weasley is our King! He did not let the Quaffle in! That's why Gryffindors all sing: Weasley is our King!"
"What do you think?" Harry's voice asked.
All three of them startled, nearly jumping out of their skins. Or in Saphira's case, scales. Harry gestured up at the painting. "I tried letting the painting just make noise, but then you could hear the chants all the way back by the D.A. section. Neat how you only hear it when you're focusing on it, huh?"
Eragon turned around guiltily. "We, uh, got lost."
Harry nodded. "Careful which route you take. I've got a theory about this place. The more magic I add, the bigger it gets, the more attitude this place has got. Sometimes I find myself getting lost, and I'm the one who built the place!" He grinned. "This is the Hall of Memories."
"Yours?" Garrow guessed.
"Yeah." Harry turned pensieve. "At first I was doing it to keep the memories of my friends fresh, and to immortalize the best times we had. But the memories turned darker. I found that making these displays was a good way to get them out of my head. And it makes for pretty artwork," he added offhandedly.
Eragon had to agree. The scenes, the people, and the emotions, especially the darker ones, they felt very raw and genuine.
"Did you have much practice with art before?" Eragon wondered.
Harry shook his head. "Magic makes this very easy, and I've not had much else to do over the winter."
Harry started throwing out very careless descriptions of scenes as they went by. "This was the Second Task, I had to rescue a friend from merpeople beneath the Black Lake. That's the cupboard under the stairs – not a lot of legroom, I'll tell you that much – and over there's my godfather, pretending to be a stray dog at a playground. Dementors beneath the underpass (don't recommend those, no fun at parties), and over there is the Wizengamot, the legislative body of the Ministry of Magic."
He pointed to a tiered auditorium, crafted from the perspective of looking up from below. They wore plum robes and odd clergy hats, some short, some fat, with many different hair styles, but only one face. A stern looking woman standing up amongst an utterly faceless crowd. "Amelia Bones," he smiled. He turned solemn. "She was killed not a year after this."
Ask him about this, Saphira sent Eragon, accompanying the request with a mental image of three figures riding the back of a pale grey-white dragon as it flew over a lake. Ugly scars crisscrossed the dragon's scales, and the eye that was visible from their perspective had been put out, a mass of scarred tissue. The hair on the figures on its back rippled against the wind. Even as they watched, the three figures leapt from its back and plunged into the lake. The dragon flew off into the wild.
"Oh." Harry seemed sad. "That was a dragon Hermione, Ron and I freed from Gringotts while we were robbing the bank. The goblins had it chained in a deep tunnel, guarding the oldest bank vaults."
Saphira's lips tightened, baring her teeth with a low growl.
"They had deliberately blinded it and then tortured it while ringing these 'clankers,' so when they rang them, the dragon expected pain and shrank away to let them pass and get stuff out of the vaults." There was a bit of disgust in Harry's voice now. "We broke its chains and climbed on its back, hoping it'd fly out of the bank."
Did he kill those responsible? Saphira demanded. Eragon relayed her question. Garrow listened solemnly for the answer.
"Not personally," Harry shook his head. "The dragon got a bunch on the way out, and then when Voldemort found out what we'd stolen, he went on a rampage and killed loads more."
"What did you steal?" Garrow asked.
Harry pointed towards the three figures on the dragon's back. One of them clutched a tiny golden cup.
"Is that why you had to leave and come here? The law was after you?" Eragon asked. Harry snorted.
"Nah, they were after me already by then. Nobody but the goblins and Voldemort were mad at me for this."
Good. Saphira flicked her tail.
"Who's Voldemort?" Eragon asked.
"Doesn't matter," Harry grunted. There was a stretch of unfinished hallway, half-finished art pieces still under construction. Harry hurried them past one last, chilling piece.
It was made from two layers of glass. The background was an ominous nighttime forest, with tall, deep green trees that seemed to be curving in like shark teeth. Below their boughs, legions of those black cloaked, skull-masked figures stood in wait. They were all made to be larger and taller, looming over the hallway. It was a theme among the darker moments; Eragon got the feeling Harry knew well what it was like to feel small.
In their center was a monstrous, snakelike man with red eyes, pale skin, and slitted nostrils. But when he focused his vision just right, Eragon was able to make out what was hidden in the second pane of glass.
When his eyes were unfocused, the figure's features were covered by a black hood, leaving only the vivid red eyes to stand out. And where a familiar pale wand had been in his hand, a scythe was in its place.
Death. He knew it without thinking. He felt it in his bones. Then his eyes adjusted and it was gone, hidden behind the glazed glass.
"Come on, let's get dinner," Harry muttered.
When they got back to the Great Hall, there was someone already there waiting for them.
"Brom?" Garrow's face contorted in confusion. The storyteller had a gigantic backpack looped over his shoulders, nearly too much for a man on foot to carry.
"You really kicked the hornet's nest," Brom growled, stomping the snow from his boots and pointing at Harry. "The villagers are certain you stole Garrow away in the night-"
"I did."
"And that's a bad thing!" Brom roared. "Do you understand what that means for you? Long time member of the community Garrow, spirited away in the night by a mysterious stranger? For once, all the idiots in Carvahall are actually drawing the right conclusion: you are a magician. And now that you've taken Garrow in their eyes, any sentimental protection they might have given you is gone. What do you think they're going to do to see justice done for Garrow?"
Harry realized with a plunging sensation that Brom was absolutely right. "They're going to get the big bad Empire to save them."
"Exactly," Brom hissed. "They know you live in the Spine, and this place is impossible to miss." He palmed his forehead. "Why, oh why would you not just wait until daytime to offer to house him?"
Eragon winced. The expression drew Brom's attention. "And I suppose you were in on it too?"
Guiltily, Eragon nodded. "The method of transport we used is best enjoyed while unconscious," he said.
"Riding dragonback can't be much worse than horseback," Brom growled. "Did you dangle him by his foot or something?"
Garrow was politely curious. Harry shook his head. "I just levitated him the entire way, and flew on my broom." Eragon's uncle turned a bit green at the thought.
"I thought my dreams were intense," he murmured. Harry was reminded of his weirdly vivid dream back by the shore of the Bay of Fundor. He noted with some surprise that Eragon had reacted as well. What had he been dreaming of?
Brom shook his head. "I've spent the entire morning trying to convince everyone that this wasn't what it seemed. Horst is defending you too, and Gertrude, bless her soul, has it in her head that Garrow is in good hands if you did take him. What. Were. You. Thinking?"
Harry took a seat at the nearest table and gestured for everyone else to follow suit. Saphira took up a spot at the end of the table where there were no benches. Eragon helped Garrow out of the wheelchair and onto the bench. They looked an odd group, four mismatched humans and a dragon, huddled around the end of a long table in the mostly empty hall.
"I was thinking that Garrow was on track to be dead rather soon, and people would notice his very sudden turnaround, connect it to my presence, and surmise I was a magician. If he wasn't at Horst's, they wouldn't notice his recovery," Harry started. "I also want to point out that he's hardly healed. If he's here, I can use all the magic I want to accelerate his healing."
Brom drummed his fingers on the hewn table. "That doesn't explain why you did this in the night."
Harry sighed. "Carvahall would not have let me do this, and there was no easy way to transport Garrow into the mountains in his state without magic. I left a note-"
"I saw." Brom was utterly unimpressed. "'Garrow came with Eragon and I for housing and recovery.' Full of assurances."
Harry shrugged.
"It was so shortsighted of you!," Brom exclaimed suddenly. "It does not take a prudent or cautious person to recognize how idiotic this idea was. It would have been better to simply use magic openly to heal Garrow than steal him away in the night. Then, at least, they would not think you are an enemy."
Harry shrugged again.
"Is that all you have to offer?" Brom demanded. "Shrugs?"
Harry nodded. Brom threw his hands up. "Finally! A clear answer," Brom ranted.
"What do you want me to say?" Harry asked. "I'll acknowledge I messed up. It was stupid. We all thought Garrow was going to die. My emotions got the better of my judgement. I was so relieved he would survive that I went too far in ensuring his recovery. Am I not moaning and gnashing my teeth enough for you to understand that I regret my decision?" Irritation tinted his tone.
"Yes!" Brom cried. "I accept the factors that explained your monumentally foolish decision, but you are still missing a crucial consequence of this act."
"What's that?" Harry challenged. "The Empire will know I exist. So be it. I've got a castle and a bunch of living suits of armor to guard me, and magic to use besides. The King will send a handful of men, I stun them, take their armor and weapons, and fly them unconscious back to Carvahall. The King decides he has better things to do than siege a castle for a single hermit wizard. Yes?"
"No!" Brom said. Eragon would later admit, even he thought Harry's reasoning was flawed. Law enforcement did not just give up. If criminals thought after beating the chase, all was forgotten, they would have no fear of the law. It was the law's staying power, its permanency that granted it the strength needed to deter crime. A thief might steal something and run from a village. But even years later when he might return, if a guard still recognized his face, he was still on the hook for what he stole all those years ago.
"Is this how they do it in Britain?" Brom wondered. "Your Minister's men give up after their first attempt is rebuffed?"
Harry shook his head. "No, but-"
"Then why would you think the King would be like that?"
"Because I'm just one guy!" Harry cut across. "How many thousands and thousands of magicians are out there that going after me will be worth his time? Especially once it's clear that he has to take a castle to get to me?"
"It is for exactly that reason that the King would pursue you forever." Brom swept his hand around the Great Hall. "This is not something magicians can do. There is no legend or tall tale of somebody managing to build a castle out of nothing in a year. That is power you alone have, and it is power the King will want. And all of that is beside the point. There is another reason Galbatorix will never give up trying to get into this castle."
He pointed at Saphira. "And it is because of her."
Saphira reared back a bit as if to say who, me?
"What?" Eragon was confused.
"Think, boy," Brom urged, knocking on his skull. "There is one single living dragon in Alagaesia. The King's mount Shruikan. Saphira represents the only other dragon alive, and a female to his male, to boot. A breeding pair represents the ability for the King to breed his own entire new order of Riders, all enslaved to his will, a permanent chokehold on Alagaesia for the rest of time."
Garrow, who had been looking back and forth as the heated conversation went on, went white at the thought.
Brom pinned Harry with a piercing glare. "In case you were harboring delusions of weathering the oncoming storm, let me remind you that Galbatorix has personally killed hundreds of dragons. He has the largest army Alagaesia has ever seen at his beck and call. He has thousands of magicians bound to him, and even they are not your greatest threat. He has shadowy servants, the kinds of creatures that are supposed to exist only in nightmares. I mentioned Durza in my story that night, did I not? The Shade who helped Galbatorix begin his murderous rampage a century ago? Durza is not gone. He was eclipsed by his student long ago, and now does Galbatorix's bidding as perhaps his most dangerous servant. The strangers who came to Carvahall, they too heel to the King. These all and more are what you're up against. There is no spell or ward that can stand up to his might. And you have brought the eyes of all these things upon us."
There was a long moment of silence as the true scope of the peril they were in sank in. Brom caught his breath from the shouting match and sat back on his bench. Nobody had noticed him standing. Saphira licked her paw and acted like the world was beneath her.
Harry began to look sheepish.
"What?" Brom demanded shortly.
"Weeeeell…" he trailed off. "There is one spell…"
Harry reemerged from the main bathroom with a pensive expression.
"Is it done?" Brom asked.
He shook his head. He looked weary. "Not yet. It's not as simple as chucking up a spell. There's more to it, and we need to talk about what comes next before I decide how to do it."
All four of them turned to Eragon. Even Saphira, which was a dismal sign. He'd hoped she would offer some kind of guidance.
My blood tells me to fight, Saphira mused. But that is not an option. That is my wisdom, partner of mine.
Which was not particularly helpful. Eragon couldn't help but feel like anyone but him should be making this choice. He was the youngest, least experienced of the men present. But Saphira's presence lent his words weight. Eragon supposed he had better get used to it.
"I would have liked to get vengeance on the strangers," Eragon started. "But none of the damage they did is permanent, so I feel less compelled to give chase. But-" he shot Harry an apologetic glance, "-nor do I want to spend the rest of my life inside the castle walls."
Harry did not seem to take it personally. He was a very go-with-the-flow sort of person, and did not stand particularly firm on much. Eragon thought he was a bit like a lazy fish, willing to let life's currents take him where they would.
"There are other missions to take up in Alagaesia than killing Ra'zac." Brom's eyes were glazed over, poking his cheesy mashed potatoes.
"Like what?" Eragon wondered. He filed away the name for later.
"Killing the King, for one," Brom said humorlessly. "The elves, dwarves, and Varden all want him dead, and would leap at the chance to bind you to their side. For that reason I would not go to them until you are experienced. They will demand things of you that you cannot yet give, and politicking is an ugly game. But their goal is of special importance to you, for else Galbatorix's servants will never let you rest unless you join him."
"That sounds impossible without the help of the factions you named," Harry noted.
Brom stroked his beard. "True," he hemmed, "but there are ways to harm the Empire that do not require the Varden's aid. More poignantly, it is rather difficult to garner practical experience as a Rider while holed up behind walls. And if scrutiny is brought upon this range of the Spine, Saphira will still need to hunt, unless she is willing to eat what you grow. Far easier to evade notice while moving across the vast Empire than when dodging searches in a known area."
If needs must. Saphira pushed indifference towards Eragon, but he could still sense the undercurrent of acute dislike at the prospect.
"You may think on it," Brom allowed. "We have some time. They would not send a great force for rumors, and nor would Galbatorix himself fly out. If we are lucky, the Ra'zac will come to confront us again on our home turf. If we are not, it will be Durza." he twisted his ring around his finger, a grim expression on his lips. "In either case, we may be able to repel or slay the first party. Then we will be forced to depart."
He turned to Harry. "Does that answer your question, o' wizard?"
Harry shrugged. "So who is staying here? Do you want me along? I'm interested in exploring Alagaesia, but I'm not about to sign up for a gigantic war." He nodded to Garrow. "Are you going to go with them, Garrow? It sounds like they can wait for you to recover. If you're not, I'll just make you the secret keeper. If you are coming with, then the castle will be empty and anyone but me can be."
"Can you explain this ward you intend to use?" Brom asked. Harry's face twisted into an unsettling smile.
"The ward is called the Fidelius Charm. It uses trust to hide a secret within someone's soul." Harry gesticulated. "The person who holds the secret is called the secret keeper. They alone can reveal the existence of the secret they hold. Because the spell is founded on trust, I cannot be the keeper of my own secret. The caster also can't be the keeper, but in this case that's not a problem since I am already ineligible."
"But what does it actually do?" Brom pressed.
"It makes the secret unknowable except by the secret keeper choosing to tell someone." Harry rolled his wand against the table. "You can't see or touch or sense it in any way, because the knowledge that it exists is impossible to touch without being given to you. At least that's the way it was explained to me. I've practically observed entire houses being not just invisible, but gone in a way that invisibility alone doesn't explain. It's remarkably seamless, too. The spell hides even the fact that something is missing. You simply cannot make the connection in your mind that the hidden thing is there."
He gestured towards the doors. "If I cast it on the building inside the walls, people might think it was odd that someone put up walls and grounds around nothing, but they wouldn't even be able to follow the road up to the doors."
"And what does being secret keeper entail?" Brom puffed his pipe.
"Basically nothing," Harry said. "Well, except responsibility. When I give away the secret, it's hidden even from me until the secret keeper tells me. So theoretically, if the secret keeper betrays the trust of the owner, they have basically pulled off the perfect theft, since I wouldn't even know I was stolen from. They are the only person who can share the secret, so they have to be willing to tell everyone who needs the secret, or else write it down and share the note very carefully. They have to exercise good judgement in who they tell the secret to, since once someone's been told, you cannot take the secret back except by taking down and recasting the whole ward."
Then, as an afterthought, "And they have to avoid being killed. When the secret keeper dies, everyone who knows the secret becomes keepers themselves, and can share the secret as they choose, as well. I've, er, heard stories of keepers being assassinated. It's apparently not uncommon." Harry rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Any volunteers?"
Harry sat in the Secret Chamber with the Resurrection Stone in his palm. He hadn't used it yet. The model of his castle shimmered, arcane representations of the protections on the castle rippling gently over the soap bubble wards.
The last time he had felt such guilt was in the summer after Sirius's death. It had been so inexorably his fault. The mirror he had never unwrapped, his quitting Occlumency lessons, and finally falling so fully for Voldemort's ruse, every step of the way that led to disaster could be laid at his feet.
He had done it again.
It was not Eragon's responsibility to tell him what they were doing was a bad idea. He had offered, he was in a mentorship role by teaching him magic, and he was older.
Now, he had potentially doomed Eragon to living on the run for the rest of his life, all because of a shortsighted decision he'd made.
It was an awful feeling, like there was a void in his chest that ate away at him. At least this time, nobody had died. Though, Harry thought pessimistically, there was still time. What could he do? Bring Garrow back to Carvahall and leave him to answer all the questions the villagers had? Admit he had magic? Start giving out tours of the castle to the villagers?
For now, the best thing to do was what he could, and that was to turn the stone in his hand over thrice and see if the Unnamed Spirit he'd been thinking of as Morgan knew how to cast the spell he had in mind.
"Idiot!" she exclaimed the very moment she had corporealized in the Secret Chamber. "Foolish boy. Why-"
"If you were watching," Harry interrupted hotly, "You will know I have already been chewed out by Brom as to how dumb I was. You may have also noticed that I already feel guilty enough to never forget this lesson."
Morgan's baleful gaze lasted a while longer. "Very well. I will not draw the parallels you have certainly already thought of. I know what you're thinking."
"That it won't work?" Harry guessed. "It's too big, or what?"
"No," Morgan paused. "I was actually going to say it was a decent idea."
"Really?" Harry was surprised. Morgan was almost always disdainful of him and her stingy praise, when it came, was always backhanded.
"In our world, the muggle military kills to keep certain secrets." She made a circling gesture with an arm. "The location of submarines, deployment of nuclear weapons, certain key technologies and the critical discoveries underpinning those advantages over other nations. The exact formulas and mechanics that go into arms and munitions. They classify critical advantages."
Morgan was lost in thought. "The Romans once held the Fidelius charm in the same way. The mere knowledge of its existence was jealously guarded. Only those who would personally interact with it were told, and even then only what the spell did in vague terms. You know how strong its protections are and you actually know how it works. Imagine not only not knowing how places were disappearing from your ability to perceive, but not knowing that was happening at all. Can you imagine it? Roads, supply depots, villages, even entire armies, imperceptible until they were in position to attack. We-"
She cut herself off, angry at herself for the slip. "It was nearly impossible to fight back. Muggles have the impression that the Romans were overt in their discipline, formations, and visible in their approach. The reality was very different. Imagine the terror of knowing there was an army in your territory, waiting for the attack to come, and then being attacked with no warning. And when anyone tried to counterattack, it was like stabbing at shadows."
It was a sobering perspective. Harry had very much considered the fidelius to be a defensive charm. It created islands of safety in an extremely hostile Britain, allowed him and his friends respite from a wizarding world that was very much Out To Get Him.
He fidgeted with the Elder Wand. "How do you cast it?"
"There is a continuum of ways to invoke magic," Morgan said. "This is not as simple as charming a little townhouse or cottage. You wish to protect a castle."
Perhaps it was too big, Harry surmised.
"What are the ways?"
Morgan ticked off on her fingers. "In theory, it is possible to cast any spell through any medium. Magic is magic, no matter how it is invoked. In practice, there are severe limitations to most mediums. You know of wanded magic, potions, enchanted objects, and now rituals."
"Hang on, are you saying I could create a fidelius with a potion?" Harry asked.
She scoffed. "In theory. Listen better and I'll get to that. All forms of magic have advantages and drawbacks. Potions are powerful but simple, wands sacrifice a bit of power and all their independence for maximum versatility, convenience, and a good deal of complexity. Enchanted objects may hold magic too complex to fit in a single spell or mind at once, but are weaker than all other forms. However, the best possible way to use magic is with a ritual, because a ritual uses the best of everything."
"The deepest truth about magic is that it is just a force that follows our whims. All these other forms are ways for humans to interpret the world, structure our ideas, and guide our power." Morgan swept her hand towards the faded blood chalk circle where Harry had cast the castle wards months ago.
"Ritual is just a word to describe doing a bunch of odd things together in a certain way to achieve an outcome. In that way, even wandwork could be interpreted as a ritual. The kind most think of when they hear the term is best because it allows for as much preparation, empowerment, and specificity as you please." She nodded to the runes. "You can literally write out exactly what you want the ritual to do. You can empower it however you please; with sacrifice, sex, spellcasting, emotion, or magical ingredients, whatever. It is the most versatile form of magic because it has no definition besides your unifying and directing presence as the caster."
"Why don't they teach this at Hogwarts?" Harry asked.
Morgan snorted. "Convenience. And safety."
"We hate those around here," Harry grinned. "Safety third, after fun and some other stuff."
"Idiot," Morgan said again. But this time, there was a fond smile on her face.
AN: Before anybody hates, everybody makes mistakes. I tried to represent the reasons why they made the mistake here. I've made dumb decisions in my life, you've made dumb decisions in your life. So before everybody starts ranting in the comments about how dumb that decision was, remember that you have made mistakes in your own life, and a perfect character is no fun to read or write about.
I also wanted to mention how JKR kind of ruined the fidelius by letting Bill and Arthur be secret keepers to their own houses. If the secret keeper can live inside their own secret, that ruins the counterbalance of the charm. It's a perfect protection. Therefore I have a few headcanons I'm putting in to fix this.
Bill Weasley does not own Shell Cottage. It was a wedding gift for Arthur and Molly, and Arthur still owns it, so he was able to 'entrust' Bill with the secret. Likewise, Septimus Weasley technically owns the Burrow and the land it's on. Both of them living inside secrets they keep, regardless of the real owners, is weakening the protections, but they're both relying on obscurity to stay safe.
Something else amusing I saw recently. There's a setting for FFN that lets you set guest reviews to go to a screening queue before they actually show up on the story. I turned it on for this one unhinged reviewer who left seething reviews about how terrible my story is (and he hasn't missed a chapter yet). I think he noticed this, because I just saw a review in the moderation queue that said:
"If you can't handle the reviews, you shouldn't be writing."
It completely changed my view on that person because I realized: what a sad, pathetic life you must live to genuinely believe that other people's thoughts should dictate how you try to better yourself and what kind of creative works you make.