...

HARRY POTTER IN:

ALL FOR LIGHTSPEED!

New to the Wizarding World, Harry Potter had already found his passion: duelling.

But duelling seems to be a rarefied pastime.

Montague, a criminal, told him of a Lightspeed - a useful but illegal duelling aid.

Now Harry's ventures forth to KNOCKTURN ALLEY, where the Auror Alexander Kneen told him not to tread.

What will he find there?

How far will our duellist go to follow his passion?

The draw of a Lightspeed - whatever that was - proved at first too daunting for Harry. The Shape of Modern Magic only brushed across Voldemort's Rebellion and 'the Boy-Who-Lived', but even he knew that being caught in Knockturn Alley would be catastrophic for his reputation at best, and a death-sentence at worst. I want you to promise me that you'll never go there . Was Kneen right?

Harry decided it didn't matter; he could shelve the topic, as he could pick up from his shelf - and practice - spells from any book he wanted! The Trace doesn't work in magical areas… At first, he'd been angry. He'd never felt like that before, even when Dudley had warned his classmates away from him on their first day at school. But the rage had burned quickly; and a burning desire had replaced it.

Harry didn't just want to learn. He wanted to do . At first anything - a simple light spell, Lumos, a nifty (but also seemingly useless) colour changing charm, a spell to levitate objects. Anything . Sometimes he imagined he could feel his magic flowing down into his hand, changing and morphing to his will…

But then the anything became something . He wanted to duel. He needed to know jinxes, hexes - maybe even curses. The bee-sting jinx was a long way from the bone-breaking spells that Montague had been throwing around (and the thought made him feel sick) but at least it was something. And he couldn't practise it, having no one to practise with.

The thought hurt him on more than one level. Never more had he wished for friends, at least since that fateful first day of school. Yet he couldn't just approach people for friendships' own sake. The mere idea made him shudder and redden with embarrassment. Even if he could, how on earth would he convince them to duel with him? No, that was a dud.

Nor could he approach Auror Kneen, who seemed to want him out of trouble - and besides, how would it look to the man, if Harry said he wanted to study combative magic before he'd even officially cast a spell? Would Kneen even approve of him circumventing the Trace? Late at night, when his doubts came, Harry wasn't even sure about it himself. The Trace was awfully unfair for Muggleborns.

Muggleborns, as it turned out, were also his motivation. It began one day when he was hanging around the mouth of Diagon Alley, by Smithson's Apothecary. The very old man at the cauldrons again, frowning at his reflection in their shining surfaces. Harry heard him mutter something about Danes.

Curious, Harry bucked up the courage and approached him. "Hullo grandfather," he said. He'd noticed that wizards often called their elders 'grandfather' or 'grandmother', regardless of blood relation.

The old man glared at him. "Hmphf!" he grumbled. "Good day young man."

He didn't sound like he believed it was a good day.

Already, Harry thought he'd made a mistake. "Um, sorry sir, I was just wondering… I've, er, heard you talk about the Danish a few times. I was wondering, if you disliked them for more than their shoddy cauldrons?"

On the contrary, Scandinavian cauldrons were renowned throughout Europe. Harry already knew this, but did not want to risk angering the old man further.

"Why, those forsaken Danes killed my brother! He never should've gone off to that war…"

Harry frowned. British wizards partook in World War II? And one was killed… by a Danish man? Still, he felt sorry for the old man, and said as much. "Did many wizards die in World War II?"

The old man blinked owlishly at him, laughed (which sounded like old sandpaper grinding together), and looked at him like he was an idiot. "World War II? No, it was the Great War!"

"Oh, World War I!"

"No, the War Against Napoleon, that little Corsican rat!"

The old man hobbled off, laughing to himself at Harry's foolishness. Harry himself watched on bemused. Just how old was he? Just how long could wizards live?

He remained deep in thought for some time, his young mind stretching out, imagining a life spanning hundreds of years. What would it be like to watch Muggle ages pass? To see old trees bloom and die? To see nations rise and fall? But it was pointless. His childlike mind had as much chance of conceptualising such a thing as a man might have of understanding the vastness of the stars in the sky.

The clicking of bricks interrupted his reverie. Diagon's portal was opening, each block rotating in perfect symmetry, spinning against each other like boxy ballet dancers. Harry watched, amazed. It was the first time he had seen the mechanism from the inside.

But what the archway revealed proved infinitely more interesting. A stern, severe-looking woman with glinting square glasses was standing beside a girl. She was observing the revealed alley with a sharp and uncompromising eye; but as she watched the alley, Harry watched the girl beside her. A Muggleborn, he knew, from the stupefied expression on her face. Is that what he looked like to Hagrid a few weeks ago?

She was gazing at the bustling alley with such awe, such vast incomprehension that Harry could not help but feel inadequate. What was he doing? Meandering around Diagon Alley, perusing for books in the shops, already knowing he would not find what he was looking for? He was a Potter - and whatever that meant, he knew already that he belonged to a family who themselves surmounted the fame of the-Boy-Who-Lived. From what he'd learnt reading The Shape of Magic , this awed girl would have a far more difficult time than he.

Yet here he was, scared to follow Montague's advice, terrified by a few gloomy shops. Shamed, Harry steeled himself, and planned.

First, he had decided that a disguise was required. How could he enter Knockturn, when at any moment he might be recognised? If, as Auror Kneen had implied, Voldemort's supporters infested the place, then it was imperative that he remain anonymous. Coloured contact lenses immediately sprung to mind, but even magical contacts were wont (he was told) to itch. Harry didn't really fancy that, apprehensive that massaging his eyes might draw attention to their false nature. Rather, he settled with dyeing and lengthening his hair. Apparently, jet black hair was common to the Potters, while he hoped to disguise his facial features by lengthening his hair. He'd seen that people looked very different bald, so why wouldn't it work the other way around?

A long-phase hair-growing potion from Smithson's Apothecary (their wares were apparently superior to Mulpepper's and Slugg & Jiggers') grew his hair overnight. He took the bitter antidote in the morning, then had his new - still black - tresses (and they could only be called tresses, having almost reached the small of his back) styled at Genarro's Barbers.

Dodging Tom the barman, he dyed his hair in the bath. Recently a hair-dyeing potion had been invented, but its effects were unreliable. Harry preferred the reputation of a dyeing serum, which wizards and witches had used to dye their hair for about a hundred years. Or so the bottle told him, anyway.

He did look very different with shoulder-length hair. Unfortunately, it also came out an intense and coppery auburn, which shone blonde in the light. He looked like a walking lighthouse. But it was too late to back out.

Almost as bad were the side effects. Long-phase hair potions made the scalp itch terribly, and tended to cause headaches as pressure and magic were diverted toward the skull. Dyeing ointments stank, and only made the itching worse. Harry laid in bed that night in agony, his head prickling and pounding. It was a teachable moment; the Shape of Magic had briefly discussed the concept of equivalent exchange, of repercussions and consequences, but he'd never experienced anything beyond casting strain before.

Next he knew he had to find Rosier's Trifles - and find it without actually going there. After all, where exactly was Rosier's Trifles? Who knew how large Knockturn actually was? He could be wandering around the alley for hours before he found the place! That Harry didn't want.

As he couldn't really ask anyone without appearing suspicious, Harry decided he required a map of Diagon Alley. That decision took him through most of the alley's book shops. It took nearly a day before he found a complete map. Complete being the keyword. Knockturn was technically a part of Diagon, but most maps simply discounted it. Eventually, he had tracked down a moth-bitten outline in the back of Synde's Second Hand Works. That had not come cheap (or so Harry thought - he still wasn't accustomed to wizarding prices).

Upon it Rosier's Trifles was neatly marked. Even the sight made him slightly ill, despite his resolve.

Yet it was the next day he dreaded the most - and he wasn't even planning to enter Knockturn yet! One word put a pit in his stomach; robes. Harry could accept some of the Wizarding World's eccentricities - the quills and the brooms and the exclamations of 'Merlin!' - but robes were a step (or perhaps a stitch?) too far. Tripping over reams of cloth wasn't his idea of fun, so he entered Alton's Apparel with some apprehension.

He meandered out an hour later, staring down at himself in bewilderment. He'd removed the Hideaway Patch beforehand, wielding his fame with as much elegance as he could manage (it was very embarrassing, he'd struggled to convince them not to give him discounted rates). But Harry had got what he wanted: tailored robes, and fast. The owner himself had cancelled a meeting to measure him up and modify each seam and stitch to his liking.

It was, to Harry's surprise, very comfortable. And almost impossible to trip upon. The forest green outer layers seemed tough and hard wearing, and were layered to protect against spellfire; while the Acromantula silk inner lining was soft and supple to the touch, and did not rub against his… tunic. Apparently, 'wizard's robes' really meant more than merely an outer garment. A wizard might wear under his robe a sort of shirt that they called a tunic. It was shorter than what Harry imagined a tunic to be, with neat folds creasing the arms and upper chest, and a band collar framing his neckline. Alton had given him a strange sort of trouser too, which loosened at the knee and only reached to his mid-shin. Apparently, they were intended to be worn with boots.

For a moment, Harry feared he'd been the victim of some complex practical joke, and he'd be laughed at as he left the shop. No such thing happened. Rather, Harry began to pay attention to the clothing of the wizards who passed him. Some wore Muggle garments, but many were clothed like him. Others were attired in garments that, while certainly not Muggle, differed significantly from his own robes. That made sense. After all, fashion wasn't uniform among Muggles; why would it be so among wizards?

Reassured that he wasn't walking around looking foolish, Harry took a walk down Diagon, just to test the feel of his new clothes. The boots Alton had given him were supple beneath his feet, and comfortable. His trousers never tightened uncomfortably either; they sat nicely on his belt-line. A frown marred Harry's face. He was almost hoping to hate robes. Why? Was he seeking something that Muggles did better than wizards, to appease the part of his heart that lingered in the Muggle world?

It was a worrying thought.

And, he realised, foolish. Wizards could enchant their clothing. How could that be competed with?

...

...

All that was left was an identity to fit the auburn-haired boy he'd become. After all, what if he were questioned? At first he'd considered adopting one of the more obscure family names mentioned in the Shape of Magic , but soon realised that he could easily come across someone who knew something of his chosen name. He could even meet a real member of his 'family'! That would cause more issues than he could handle.

It was, he thought, better to find a suitable foreign name, from a place no one would know. For a while he struggled, knowing few names to pick from. Eventually, Harry decided to adopt the name of one of the actors he had seen on television. Many of them were foreigners, and what Voldemort supporter had watched television?

He hadn't watched much television either, but that was beside the point. He quickly ruled out Spanish and Italian names; with his pale skin and northern features, he simply could not pass as a Mediterranean. A French or German name was ruled out too; from what he understood, the French and German state(s?) (it seemed to Harry that magical France and magical Germany might've once been split into many parts*) had a long and storied history with Britain. That left Scandinavia.

And Uncle Vernon's favourite film was The Hunt for Red October . Harry had never watched it, but he'd at least seen some of the credits. Listed there, he vividly recalled, was a man by the last name of Skarsgard*. Thus, Harry Potter became Harold Skarsgard.

It took only a small leap to explain why he couldn't speak Danish, Swedish or Norwegian - eventually, he settled for the latter. He was born to an English mother, who raised him in isolation in the wilderness of northern Norway. Conveniently, that would also explain his ignorance.

With his appearance changed and his story straight, he ventured out to Knockturn Alley. Or so Harry had hoped. He brushed the entrance, then lost his nerve, fleeing back to the warmth of the Leaky Cauldron. Another day passed before, at around noon, he finally mustered the courage to cross the boundary (which, itself, was a fuzzy thing).

Knockturn, as it turned out, was cobbled with the same stones as Diagon. Initially, nothing was amiss. The ground did not open up and swallow him up. Nor did a werewolf or vampire or hag appear out of some fog-filled alley to eat his heart and sell his essence. Harry didn't think Essence of Harry would be worth very much anyway. The shops, courtyards and townhouses appeared very similar to Diagon.

They all held the same aspect of antiquity, and stirred in Harry the same pleasant sensation of belonging. Wizarding buildings were so different to Muggle buildings, so much more characterful, so much more… real somehow. Each shop seemed to sing its own song; yet the alley remained in harmony, coherent. Not everything was beautiful exactly, just… right.

The occupants Knockturn also - at first - seemed little different that those of Diagon. Wizards and witches walked the streets, peering into shop windows, discussing, haggling and laughing. An old woman was smoking a long pipe out on a porch, watching the world pass by. Across the street, a child stared through a shop window at an elegant racing broom. Was this all Auror Kneen was warning him about? Could he have been mistaken?

Of course, Harry had noticed a few differences. The street could not be called empty, but nor did it have Diagon's bustle, the throngs of people. Some of the offerings for sale also seemed stranger, and the names of the shops more curious - older, too, he noticed. What jumped out at him most though were the robes; everyone wore full robes in Knockturn, unusual underlayers and all. That suited Harry just fine, in his own fine robes. He'd never felt more comfortable in his own clothes.

But like the Emperor's New Clothes*, that comfort was revealed to be a lie when he made a sinister turn, just as he'd memorised from Synde's map. Light didn't seem to penetrate Highman's Lane - and it was a lane, as no car (or more likely carriage) would ever fit down the narrow cobbles. The houses almost seemed to lean on each other, spreading shadows which clung to every surface, making inky voids on vast swathes of pavement.

Harry felt sweat break upon his brow; the enchantments on his robes must've been working overtime to keep him cool. They could do nothing for his sinking stomach though, or for the spark of fear which danced across his uneasy mind. Who knew what he'd find here, who knew what lurked in the darkness? Warnings of vampires, of werewolves, of hags and worse sprung unbidden to his thoughts. What they would do with Harry Potter…

Harold Skarsgard swallowed, straightened himself, and strode onwards. There was no way but forward. Rosier's Trifles traded out of a small building at the end of the road. He made his way there, very aware of the stiffness of his shoulders, of the rigidity of his gait. It was a constant battle to loosen up, to stop his head from swivelling from side to side, searching in the shadows.

Something skittered in the darkness, something with many legs. Harry felt himself go stiff. What was that? Dread began to build, pooling in his stomach like the first static of an encroaching storm. He wanted to turn and run out, never to return. What if Kneen was right, what if this was a terrible idea? What if this was a trap, what if Montague did hate him, what if he lied about the Lightspeed, what if he only told him to lure him here?

Harry felt dizzy. Something dark came out of the shadows. Harry lost his breath as something heavy barrelled into him. Only vaguely did he feel himself hit the ground. The cobbles were slimy beneath his back. Was that blood? Was this it?

The shape produced an arm, then an outstretched hand, and hefted him to his feet. "Sorry 'bout that fella," a deep-timbred voice said. Now Harry saw the whites of the figure's eyes, and the glint of his very white teeth. " Lumos ," he heard intoned.

The light revealed a dark-skinned man with a shining bald head and a large nose. He was wearing red robes. "Y'ohkay there son? Not taken' a nasty bash 'ave yer?'"

"I'm fine sir," Harry said warily. Was this also a trick? The man seemed nice, with a calming, amiable voice and gentle eyes, but appearances could be deceiving. The Dursleys were proof of that.

"That's good son. Wouldn't want that on me conscience. What'chu doin' here anyway?"

Harry paused. What could he say? "My uncle lives above one of the shops."

The dark man nodded. "Stayin' with 'im then? Lucky sod; 'ouses 'ere are expensive, even in Knockturn. Not sure about this place though. Funny, 'innit? Dun't seem t'like the light."

"It is sir." Harry's mouth had gone dry. What else could he say?

The dark-skinned wizard held out his hand. He smiled once more. "I won't keep you no longer. Look after yerself lad."

Harry took it cautiously. "You too sir. Good day to you."

"The same to you."

It took a few moments' walking, then Harry stopped in his tracks. Those last words, the same to you … he could've sworn his accent changed? Slowly, Harry turned. The man was gone. Had he imagined it? One moment, Cockney; the next, received pronunciation (or that was what his aunt called it, anyway).

Harry shook his head. It didn't matter. Rosier's Trifles was in sight.

As Synde's map had implied, it was a small shop. A wide bay window bulged out, making a deep porch into which was set a door painted a deep red. Above, a large sign proclaimed its name beside a coat of arms.

Now he felt safe, Harry allowed himself a musing; it was strange, he suddenly thought, noticing the wear on the building, the staining on the sign, that wizards would allow such things. After all, they could conjure from thin air. How could they be poor? And it wasn't just Knockturn either, but lesser travelled sections of Diagon…

Shrugging it off for later, Harry finally entered the shop.

The interior looked like a bomb had gone off inside yet - somehow - nothing had broken. Rather, the blast had scattered the detritus across the floors like a child flinging toys. The metaphor broke down when he considered piles of books, but that was beside the point. Harry's eyes struggled to take it all in. Nothing seemed organised. Books and potions and weird whirring bronze mechanisms; ingredients and rune matrixes and shimmering crystal balls; furniture and clocks and a strange wooden horse that went moo. Rosier's Trifles had everything Harry believed existed within its walls.

That included a small boy, perhaps a year younger than Harry, who was standing behind the counter, trying his best to look important. His expression was so haughty, Harry almost laughed at the absurdity.

"Good evening," the boy said (it was afternoon). Like his face, there was something comical about his attempt at an imperious tone.

Harry swept his eyes around the mess. Would the boy even know what a Lightspeed was? Where was the owner? "Hullo," he replied, slowly approaching the counter. He knew it would not do well to mention contraband so quickly. "I'm looking for a training aide. A small item, like so-". He put his finger and thumb together in a circular shape. "Do you know of one?"

The boy's eyes widened. "Ah, uh-". He backed up, squeaked - and his face slipped from its haughty mask - then fell. Or maybe slipped. Harry couldn't tell. There was a bang, then a few more tumbles, like rocks hitting the carpet.

Harry watched on, plain-faced.

A moment later, the boy poked his head above the counter, rebounding like he was made of rubber. His hair was all skew-wiff. "I'm fine," he cried, his voice cracking. "I'm fine."

"Idiot child," another voice said fondly, wafting in from a backroom. The owner soon followed. "Keep yourself balanced on those books, or sit on the counter. How many times have I told you?"

He was an unassuming grey-haired man, with small, thin spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. He was almost as thin as his glasses. Clever eyes were inset behind them. He could only be Rosier. He turned to Harry. "And you sir, the object you seek is not here. Good day."

Harry couldn't restrain the deep frown that creased his lips. After all that, was that it? He'd followed Montague's advice to the letter, dyed his hair and wore silly robes (ignoring, for a moment, that he quite liked them), all for a few sharp words and a dismissal! Montague had lured him in, told him nonsense, all to put him in danger! Monta- Ah! That was his last throw of the dice. "Really? Euan Montague must've been mistaken then. Perhaps he recommended some other shop."

Rosier's frown matched Harry's own. "Hmmph, perhaps we're at crossed wands. Let me take a look in the backroom…"

Harry hoped that being at crossed wands meant something good.

While Rosier left, the boy looked at Harry with wide eyes. "Wow," he said. "No one speaks to Uncle like that."

Harry doubted no one had ever spoken to the man like that before. Even so, it was flattering. He shrugged, blushing. "It, er, is nothing. Just haggling I suppose, in its own way." Could it be called haggling for information? He wasn't sure, but had to say something.

Thereafter, there was a long silence. The boy continued to stare. Harry tried not to fidget. Tension built. He could almost believe there was a real bomb in the shop.

Fortunately, Rosier soon returned. "Here you are," he said, holding out a small yellow sphere to Harry. "A Lightspeed. Difficult to find nowadays you know, with all those ignorant Campbellites banning the Sun and the Moon…"

Harry reached out for the dull yellow sphere. It was cool between his fingers, and smooth to the touch, like glass, and with it he felt a strange shiver shudder down his spine; then a sudden force, like the press of gravity after a moment of weightlessness. He twitched, and Rosier started. The Lightspeed fell into Harry's palm. What was that? Was that normal for a Lightspeed? If so, how had Rosier felt it?

"Wards!" the boy gasped. "Aurors!"

Oh, Harry thought dumbly, oh dear.

There was a strange sound that went right through Harry's bones, a great crashing - like the sound of two brass gongs had been bashed together. It was not a nice sound.

Rosier glanced at the shop window. Something out there was flickering in front of the glass. It took Harry a moment to recognise what it was - a great shield, sitting just an inch around the edges of the building like an invisible suit of armour. Another crash shook the shop, and the shield flared.

Harry felt himself take a long step back away from the streetside. "What's happening?"

"Siege spells," Rosier said grimly. "We're being raided. But why? They've never found anything before, it's a waste of their time and ours… Unless…"

Slowly, he turned back to Harry. Quick as a flash, he drew his wand, menacing it with intent. And in the tip of that wand, all the anxieties, all the tensions, and all the fear shrunk down into a sharp and unyielding point, aimed right at Harry's heart.

No, he thought, no . He couldn't be found here. While he was almost certain Rosier wouldn't hurt him (something in the man's eyes told him otherwise), he might cast spells to reveal his disguise. It would ruin everything… But before that…

He watched Rosier's wand spark threateningly..

"You- you- have you anything to do with this?"

"N-no!" Harry said tremulously, instinctively raising his hands in surrender. The Lightspeed - the evidence, his mind whispered - remained firmly clutched in his grip. He wouldn't hurt you, Harry reassured himself, he wouldn't hurt you… but the slight shaking of his hand, the heaviness of his breath…

Harry felt his own chest heaving too. Boom - his heart thundered like the spells which smashed against the shop's wards - Boom - boom - boom boom boom - "No-no, I promise- I - I just saw Montague duel and wanted to do it too and so I went to him and asked him about duelling an-and he directed me here an-"

Tears were welling in Harry's eyes. Was this it? Had he been too impulsive and stumbled on something beyond him? He thought of all the things he'd yet to do; this new world had just been opened to him, this beautiful, strange new world… He belonged there, with magic, as his parents had before him…

And now it seemed that this new world was going to unmask him - at best… At worst…

Rosier snorted. Then, blessedly, lowered his wand; upon his face his rage seemed to reach a terrible equilibrium. "Fool. You should not have come." As calm as still water, he turned to the door. "Never mind." Harry heard him say. "Hercules knows the way. Leave, both of you, out! Run!"

Then there was another great crash, this one louder than all the rest. Rosier strode toward it, wand at the ready. Harry watched him disappear between two heaps of books. Something clammy grabbed at his hand. The boy was holding onto him, wide eyed and panicked.

And what use have you been, Harry thought to himself, while Rosier is fighting for his nephew? He hardened his heart and took the boy by the shoulders. "Who is Hercules?" He demanded.

The boy stared at him dumbly.

"Who is Hercules!?"

Distant shouting snapped the boy out of his fear. "The mirror!" he blurted out. "We have to get to the mirror!"

Spinning, he pulled Harry with him, and they ran through the back door, past more books and potions and whirring bronze mechanisms, by more shimmering crystal balls and furniture. They darted and dashed, listening all the while to the sounds of the battle they had left behind. The boy would not let go of Harry's hand. The storehouse stretched onward, as though it had no end. Where were they going?

Eventually they stopped before a vast mirror, cold as black ice and black as an icy night. Their hands parted, and Harry heaved for air. "Da- Merlin," he corrected between breaths. "What did Rosier mean? Who is Hercules?"

The boy smiled sadly - strangely, even. "I am Hercules," he said, as though his name were a burden to be carried.

This time he offered his hand. It was small and delicate, uncalloused by time or labour. Harry took it, and Hercules led him toward the mirror. The surface rippled like water at midnight, bending to their touch, as cool as a summer wind, as serene as a mountain night.

They stepped forth into the glass.

Harry felt a sensation like running water, like a river atop a frozen mountain, like the smell of rain on a crisp autumn morning, like the first dew of spring. Rosier's curio shop vanished into a pool of spiralling water in which every colour was blue and blue was every colour.

And then the blasts of battle faded, and Harry stepped out somewhere else .

At once he fell to his knees, and there were blades of grass beneath him, brushing against his robes. His dyed auburn hair draped across his face. Once more he heard his own heart beating in his chest as he struggled to draw breath. He felt the sun on his back. Where were they?

Eventually, when enough air was collected in his lungs, he took an investigative breath. The air was bittersweet, and carried by a fresh and gentle breeze. It was the smell of the earth, and rain, and knew Knockturn Alley was truly far away.

He pushed his hair out of his face, revealing an old forest, tall and dense and shadowy, veiled by mercury leaves and darkly verdant branches. The sun was struggling against the boughs of the tallest trees, oak and ash and thorn*, and sent dazzling dappled light against the dim underbrush. Harry breathed in deeply once more.

"Where… where are we?"

"My home," Hercules answered. He was staring at the forest floor, downcast. "Or not. Not yet." For a long moment, his mouth was set in a grim line; it made him look much older. Within the blink of an eye it had vanished. "Come on!" he cried, then stopped. "Oh- wait."

He turned, picked up a rock, and threw. The mirror shattered, leaving an empty frame. Sunlight glinted dimly off the golden fluting. "We can't let the Aurors follow us," he explained. "Uncle Caudicus always said so."

Meanwhile, Harry peered around, taking his first long look at his new surroundings. Despite the strange denseness of the canopy, the forest appeared… just a forest. Birds were calling, singing and hooting; squirrels scampered up and down tree trunks, and the breeze blew gently on the boughlets of trees, which waved merrily in the wind.

It was not a bad place to be. Certainly, it was better than being in a dodgy shop in the middle of an Auror raid. Harry thought back, picking through the details of the past ten minutes. The dark-skinned man stood out as an oddity - more specifically, his miraculously shifting accent. Was he the real informer?

The chirping of birds drew him from his reverie. He needed to get up, to find out exactly where the mirror had dropped him, and get back to Diagon Alley. Hogwarts was less than a week away, after all.

"How did we get here?"

"Through the mirror silly!"

Was the boy right in the head? "I've never heard of travel-by-mirror," Harry ventured.

Hercules scratched his face. His cherubic cheeks puffed out. "Oh- right, I'm the silly one! That was a Lendish mirror. It's like a Vanishing Cabinet - surely you've heard of them?"

Harry shook his head.

"Have you been living in a cauldron?" Hercules pouted. "Uncle Caudicus has been trying to get his cabinet working for yeeaars, longer than I've been alive he says! But it never works."

He really, Harry could not help but notice, liked to talk. "You never explained what a Vanishing Cabinet is - or that Lenish mirror, for that matter."

"Lend-ish," Hercules said firmly. His squeaking warble only made further light of the matter. "They're all ways to travel quickly."

Harry began to suspect Hercules didn't know either.

"We went through it, and that's how we got - here!"

He gestured wildly at the wilderness. His squeaking had attracted the attention of a squirrel, which was looking at them with tiny, beady eyes, an acorn clutched in its little hands.

Harry felt his patience wear thin. "Where is here?"

"The Most Fecund and Noble Forest of the House of Rosier. My families' seat is just-" Hercules bit his lip, looking between the two directions they could take. Finally, he pointed away from the shattered mirror. "That way!"

Harry looked down the path. It was mostly flat, dusty, and curved gently left. Trees lined the edges as far as the eyes could see. It was no worse nor better than the other way. There was not a house in sight. What have I gotten myself into? He thought. "Okay," Harry said eventually. A knot had begun to form in his stomach. Despite his pleasant surroundings, this was bad. "Let's go that way."

"Okey dokey!" Hercules chirped, setting off at a pace befitting the size of his legs. Harry followed after him, easily matching his stride. They walked for some time in silence, trying their best to avoid the great divots in the dusty path. Occasionally, Harry would glance at the younger boy, to see him glancing back and fidgeting. It were as though Hercules were holding back a great swell of words, and all the excess was bleeding off through his anxious fingers.

Harry himself wasn't in the mood to talk. He was thinking about his mistakes - all of them. Now, he realised the whole enterprise was a mistake. Why hadn't he just waited until Hogwarts? Surely they would teach duelling there? Maybe they even had a club? Why would he take the advice of a criminal and sneak into a bad part of town? He'd been tempting fate.

Fate had duly bitten him. The thought bounced around his head endlessly…

Yet the knot in his stomach slowly unwound, soothed by the sun on his back, the gentle breeze through his loose-hanging hair and the pleasant warbling of the woodland fauna. The smell of nature was a balm to his fears, and Harry found himself relaxing; thus the shackles on his mind began to loosen once again. When he was comfortable, he finally turned to the younger boy. "What will happen to your uncle?" he said.

Surprisingly, Hercules shrugged. "Not much. We've been raided before. The Aurors are always trying to catch us out. But we're good at hiding. It's like hide-and-seek. Do you like hide-and-seek?"

Harry had never had any friends to play hide-and-seek with. "Yes," he said, thinking of Harry Hunting. He liked it when he won. He fished the Lightspeed from his pocket, holding it up for the younger boy to see. "Is this something they'd be interested in?"

"I think so," Hercules said vaguely. "I'm not too sure. A Lightspeed isn't much really - they only banned them… six months ago, I think? That's slap on the wrist contraband, Uncle Caudicus would say."

Harry looked back at the little golden sphere… and paused in his step. A moment ago, it'd shone with the sun. Now, it gleamed a dull yellow. What was happening?

He looked up. Hercules had stopped with him, his face paling alarmingly. The sun was dropping beneath the trees. How long had they been walking? Harry cast his mind back… and came up strangely, muddily blank. It were as though a mist was shrouding his recollection of the forest. Where had the time gone? He could've sworn the sun was high in the sky just half an hour ago…

Suddenly, the forest didn't seem so benign. Enchanting, yes, but perhaps in entirely the wrong way. A strange chill was cooling the summer air. Hercules had retreated close to him, almost brushing his shoulder. "Keep walking," Harry said. "We can't be far."

Hercules didn't move. His feet seemed frozen to the floor.

"Hercules?"

Nothing.

"Hercules!"

The boy jumped like Harry had kicked him in the bum. He spun around, revealing deep depths of the panic in his eyes.

It made Harry swallow hard. What was out here that had made him so afraid? What did he know that Harry himself didn't? "Come on," he said, nodding toward their destination… Wherever it was. "We can't be far."

He'd said that twice. It didn't make it twice as easy to believe.

Hercules nodded jerkily. "We- we should stay by the spell-path."

Spell-path? Harry thought, squinting for some sign. Nothing had implied the road was anything other than, well, a road. Perhaps Hercules wasn't all there… And then, after a long moment, he saw it. A faint golden ribbon meandered down the broader path in stuttering streams. It must've been hidden by the rays of the sun, or perhaps it only appeared at sundown.

Either way, Harry saw it pulse weakly, and got the distinct feeling it ought've been stronger. Whatever it was, the ribbon was sickly, faint… Fighting a losing battle against the encroaching darkness. It was dying.

Gritting his teeth, Harry fought down his own desire to panic. The younger boy was odd, cheerful and… Odd. Very odd - and definitely not street-smart. Harry didn't think he was either, but he was all Hercules had. He had to act. "Let's go," he said in his best commanding voice, taking Hercules' hand in his and pulling him forth.

For a while they were almost jogging, at least until that became too taxing. By then, the last light had truly vanished. Now the forest seemed to watch them with baleful eyes, staring jealousy at their life and inner light. Something rustled in the brush, and Harry swore he saw the outline of two glowing eyes; Harry went for his wand… And dropped it. Cursing, he bent down and snatched at the undergrowth. "Lumos! " he cried, not even considering the Trace.

A lethargic glow flickered at the end of his wand, revealing the outline of forked trees and razor-like leaves. And nothing else. Whatever had disturbed the forest-floor was gone - or hidden, just out of sight.

Beside him, Hercules was peering into the darkness with wide, frightened eyes. "Just stay- stay on the path," he stammered. "Follow the path, Uncle Caudicus always said, and we'll be fine." Hercules seemed to be convincing himself more than telling Harry. He was shivering. "Be brave, follow the path."

By then Harry wasn't even sure where the spell-path would lead them, but that had no other choice.

Renewing their journey, they stepped softly at first, as though any sudden or loud movements might wake whatever lay within the forest, waiting for them. Neither spoke; both stared into the trees, quick to see any sign of… Something. More than once Harry swore he saw other eyes staring back at him from the darkness. They were not human eyes.

Darkness was settling in, but down the golden path they continued, passing first over a gentle hill then down a small valley. The change in topography was a small victory; the forest seemed to stretch forever. The shadows grew larger, pressing against the besieged spell-path and Harry's faint Lumos. He began to push harder, setting a quick pace. "D'you know how far your house is?" he whispered.

Hercules jumped. It was the first time either of them had spoken in some time. "There's a lonely house on the way," he replied, not taking his eyes off the tepid border between the trail and the darkness beyond. "They'll tell us where to go."

Harry sighed. A lonely house? The name seemed as though it had some special meaning - like it was capitalised in the younger boy's head. Every question only led to more. He almost regretted asking.

"What's your name?"

Now it was Harry's turn to jump. "Harold," he eventually lied, wondering how the younger boy had gone so long without asking. He had, Harry supposed, a lot to think about. "Harold Skarsgard."

Hercules made an interested noise; Harry tensed. Was he about to be called out on his lie by a child even younger than him?

But Hercules made no comment; he turned the conversation down yet another avenue Harry would prefer to avoid. "What do you think's out there?"

Many horrible things immediately jumped to mind. Harry didn't know if all of them were real, or mere Muggle inventions. He wasn't willing to bet - and at that moment, didn't want to know. He said nothing.

"Werewolves, I'd bet," Hercules said with morose curiosity. "And vampires. And fae. Merlin, I hope we don't meet any fae. Some of them can walk the spell-path, you know?"

Harry still didn't want to know.

Soon they came upon a fork in the trail. The spell-path forked too. One path stretched on, while another bent toward… Something. The bittersweet scent of the forest gave way to something acrid on the pallet. Fire, Harry thought. The lonely house?

He began to run; Hercules began to follow. The meandering path slowly revealed a cottage, complete with a steadily puffing chimney. The walls were of old yellowed stone, the roof slate. Steady fires lined the clearing, burning aegis' against the darkness.

"Thank Merlin," he heard Hercules cry.

But Harry was barely listening. Boldly, he approached, knocking on the oaken door without a thought. He had to get out of the open! Away from the watching eyes, he had- he had to get out-

The door swung open by itself. "Enter," a distorted voice said.

Eagerly, Harry obeyed. He heard Hercules shuffle in behind him.

Two masked figures sat beside a crackling fire. Inside, the wood burned with a full, nutty scent, and the flames set dancing, gay shadows upon the wood-panelled walls. But it was the dark robes and silver masks Harry was looking at, frozen in horror. He'd already heard the stories; masked men in outfits resembling those before him… Soldiers of Voldemort… Death Eaters?

"You have come to this lonely house of ours, Hercules Rosier, with a stranger in tow. Why have you come?"

Harry could not tell which one of them was speaking. He could only think how strange it was - that he, Harry Potter, was standing before two Death Eaters, and neither were attacking him…

"We are seeking solace," Hercules promptly replied, as if in ritual.

"Solace you shall have, young master. We know of your plight. We know not the stranger."

Behind their faceless masks, Harry felt their piercing eyes watching him. He stood stock still, too scared to move.

"He's a friend," Hercules said. That sounded more normal, less rehearsed. "He just wanted a Lightspeed. Uncle was serving him when the Aurors burst in. We ran together through the Lendish mirror."

"What is your name?"

Harry forced himself not to stutter. "Harold Skarsgard."

As soon as the name left his lips, he felt his face flush. It was stupid, he thought, they'll know straight away I'm no-

"Very well, Harold Skarsgard. If you are vouched for, you may have the aid of the Order of Life."

Order of Life? Confusion quickly eclipsed Harry's fear. What earth was the Order of Life? Just what were they doing here, sitting around in masks? Did they wait there all day for someone to come? Just what on earth was going on?

"Usually we would floo you to safety," one of them intoned. "But that is not necessary in your case, young master."

Hercules nodded.

"Follow the other path and stick to it. You shall find your solace there."

Harry wasn't thinking about the path. Floo you to safety ; the words rang like sweet bells in his ears. He could explain, he could return to the Leaky Cauldron… he didn't need whatever this was…

He opened his mouth to speak… and paused. Hercules was looking at him with wide, imploring eyes. Guilt rose up from his stomach like a very hot, fat dragon. The words he wanted to say were lost. "Can't- can't you come with us?" He found himself saying instead. "This forest is… Strange."

One of the masked men shook his head. "We cannot leave our posts," he said. "Our vows demand it. Keep to the path; have courage."

Harry ground his teeth. It was honour, he thought, like Montague. These idiots, who did they think they were? Anger set hands hands to fists, and Harry opened his mout- Hercules yanked Harry away, pulling him out the door (which shut, with a heavy thunk, by itself) and back into the clearing.

The younger boy began to back to the path. The strange not-Death Eaters seemed to have given him courage. Harry cursed, glanced back at the cottage, then at the slowly shrinking form of Hercules, who was growing more distant by the moment. The cottage probably had a Floo connection... He could go back to the Leaky Cauldron... Hercules was almost out of sight, almost eclipsed by the advancing curtain of night. Harry gritted his teeth. "Dammit all!"

It didn't take him long to catch up.

"Hercules, stop! What's going on? Who were they? Where are we going, I don't understand?"

Hercules whirled around. "They're the Order of Life - well, two of them, anyway. Families… families like mine help them, and they help us, if we're in… Trouble. But we're not in that much trouble! Uncle Caudicus is bothered all the time, but the Aurors never get him!"

There he was, back to his cheery self. Harry didn't try to stop him talking.

"He knows the ways, you know? We never keep anything really bad in the shop, it's always hidden away. There's no chance they'll find anything, even if it's the first time they've raided us like that! Borgin always gets it worst, but that's because uncle says he's a-" Hercules scratched his cheek again, "-hehe, I can't really repeat that."

Harry frowned. Was he describing a smuggling operation? The Lightspeed in his pocket, previously forgotten, suddenly felt as though it weighed an imperial ton. Montague had said it was banned, and Hercules had said it wasn't important… After all, would the older man really recommend something dangerous to an eleven-year old? And if the Aurors weren't interested in the Lightspeed, what sort of things were so bad that they'd raid Rosier's Trifles? They wouldn't do that for no reason… Harry gulped, eyeing Hercules beside him. What sort of family were the Rosiers?

Something cracked in the underbrush, startling him out of his reverie. Whipping around, he saw… Mothing. An ugly tree seemed to sneer at him. "What is this place?" he muttered to himself.

But Hercules heard. Ever since the lonely house, he'd been a great deal more at ease. "Galleons," he said cryptically. "Once it was more galleons than we could count."

Harry didn't even bother to question him. Getting answers out the boy was like bleeding into the ocean.

Giving in, Harry set his feet forth, sticking close to the winding golden path as he was bade. The moon shone above the trees, white and cool and regal. The chill had become a bizarre cold which clawed at the boys; and darkness grasped at the dimly glinting trail, their lifeline.

Worst of all, Harry's feet began to hurt. Why had he done this? Why had he given in? If he'd just put his foot down and asked for the floo… If only Hercu-

Harry caught something in the corner of his eye. Or more specifically, a lack of something. Hercules was gone.

"Hercules!" Harry whipped around, just in time to see the boy leaning into a copse of trees.

Worse, the trees were leaning back .

Panic clutching at his heart, Harry leapt toward him. "Hercules stop!"

The boy ignored him; the outer branches brushed at his hair.

"HERCULES!"

Framed in the darkness, staring back at the boy, were two glowing eyes belonging to a very inhuman, misshapen face.

There was nothing more to do; Harry aimed… and prayed; "INCEN-" The first-year fire-making charm was totally inappropriate for combat. It was designed to create little more than a spark. Harry willed his all into it- "DIO!"

As he flicked his wand, nothing happened.

The thing stretched out an ugly, yellowed arm, and caressed Hercules' cherubic face.

No .

Then his wand kicked, and a stream of red fire leapt into the trees. The thing shrieked, and Hercules jumped, and both boys sprinted away. They ran and ran and ran until they could run no more. They stopped in a clearing, where the forest remained blessedly distant. Nothing was said for a long time as each caught his breath, and they mulled over just how close that had been.

Hercules had gone very white. "A Fae…" he muttered. "A child-stealer."

...

...

The fae did not return. They ploughed on, wary and weary, watching the forest as it seemed to watch them. Sections of the game trail degenerated into broken underbrush where the path became muddled, and the golden ribbon seemed to snap. Those were panicked moments, when the whistling wind blew cold, the smell of fresh rain and deep earth arose, and their surroundings felt more real, more present , than their own bodies.

But eventually the path broadened once more, and Harry let out a sigh of relief, and willed his aching legs onward. How long had they been walking? The sun had vanished, the temperature had dropped, yet by his judgement there should still have been light remaining. To take his mind off it, Harry began to consider the wild thing they had encountered, the 'fae'.

And the more he considered, the more he realised that it probably wasn't a fae at all. Creatures of Land, Deep and Sky , a broad compendium - and the only book Harry had read on the strange beings that inhabited the wizarding world - had barely mentioned the Fae. They were, according to the author (one Earnest Hike), mysterious but powerful creatures of many types, with kingdoms of their own beyond the human world. And tricksters, who liked to steal children and made them live in their courts in Fairyland, where their lives would be extended, but their souls would never leave. Harry shivered - and not just for the cold. What a horrible end… He peered back at Hercules. He looked like death.

Harry squared himself, and took his hand. "Come on," he said. "Let's go."

The trail was narrowing, winding now, seemingly ever deeper into the wood. How long had they been walking? All the trees began to look the same, with the same grasping branches, the same twisting trunks. With nothing else to do, Harry began to wonder. If that thing that had ensnared Hercules wasn't a fae, then what was it?

A mere first-year fire charm would never have dealt with a fae, who were rumoured to be vast of power. A haugbui* might live in the woods, guarding his master's tomb, or a radande. But weren't randande beautiful, and haugbui creatures of violence rather than guile? Its features resembled what Harry imagined a greater imp or a hag might look like, if Hike's book were to be believed. He wasn't sure about that either; Creatures struck him as a theoretical tome.

His musings were interrupted by Hercules' cry of victory.

Harry blinked, returning from his reverie. The path, he saw, had widened… solidified, even. Patches of old stone poked through overgrown clumps of underbrush. The golden shimmer, for the first time, had grown stronger.

They hurried their pace. Soon they came to a new fork, which revealed something far greater than a mere cottage. The corner of a vast stone edifice was peeking past the edge of the treeline. Harry breathed a sigh of deep relief.

But Hercules stopped in his tracks. If it were possible, his face grew paler still.

Harry blinked. "Hercules? You okay?"

He wanted to slap himself after saying that.

The boy bit his lip so hard he nearly drew blood. "Yep," he squeaked, "nothing wrong at all." He took to a jog to catch up.

Soon the whole structure was revealed. It was a gatehouse, once proud, now crumbling. Half a turret was scattered over the forest floor. Moss climbed up the battlements. To Harry, it looked like the corpse of a proud building.

And in the shadow of the remaining turret, a dim figure was waiting for them. A rusting lamp, set atop a moulding old chair, illuminated a feminine outline. "Good evening," she called. "Welcome to Halt End."

A/N

*A have no particular love or hatred of Stellan Skarsgard. He's a decent actor. I simply chose him because The Hunt for Red October was released in 1990. This makes it an appropriate movie to choose as Vernon Dursley's favourite - especially considering its content. It's a good movie too.

*Recall the famous story.

*Of course, France and Germany were both split into many parts. Harry, being eleven, raised by a neglectful family, and taught in a late 1980s early 1990s British primary school. Outside of this story, it is curious to compare the origins of the two nations. Both split from a single genesis; the great Frankish Empire, but one is a 'political-expansive' nation (perhaps the term empire might fit) while the other is a cultural-convalescing nation.

The French nation once occupied little more than the Pale of Paris, but spread through military and political might, slowly absorbing its surrounding vassals - gradually Francifying (to coin a term) them. Thus, the French identity follows French conquest of similar peoples.

The German nation, though to a degree materialised in the Holy Roman Empire, can more be considered a 'culture first' nation. Germany is a young state but an old nation, with the concept of Germanness solidifying long before the modern state.

Anyway, here's chapter II of The Duellist , and the beginning of a new arc, All For Lightspeed! What will this entail?

That would be telling. I hope you enjoyed your read.

Take care of yourselves,

JoustingAlchemy