A boy with a hawkish nose cradled a deep, royal purple dragon hatchling to his chest. He was unkempt but clean, and surrounded by a village not wholly unlike Carvahall. His room was a rope bed with layered blankets, a dirt floor, and a window with open shutters to let dawn light through.

A woman knocked on the doorframe, smiling broadly. The boy examined his right hand, then looked back to the dragonling. A silvery blotch covered the inside of his palm. He glanced up at the woman, her long features, and her pointed ears.

"What happens now?"

"You've been chosen to live a very special life," the woman smiled.

"Because of her," the boy realized, nodding to the purple dragon.

"Both of you," the woman corrected. "She chose you, but you were worthy of being chosen."

"Will I have to leave my parents?"

The woman with the long ears nodded. "Yes. But they may visit you and in time, you may visit them. And we needn't leave immediately. You are yet young, and the gift of youth is precious."

Harry pushed himself off his pillow. He put his hand to his scar. Normally, waking in the middle of the night after a strange dream meant a stabbing pain in his forehead. This evening, however, his scar was merely warm.

He looked down and frowned. He had not remembered throwing the Cloak over himself before going to bed. He had left it on a peg by the door to his room. The silvery cloth was cool, like the fresh side of a pillow on a hot night. As he became conscious of it, it warmed up again.

Who had the kid been? It wasn't Voldemort; Harry knew Tom Riddle's face well from Dumbledore's lessons. But who else could it have been. He did not have any other psychically-linked enemies to intrude on his dreams.

Harry groaned and hauled himself out of bed. Getting back to sleep after those sorts of dreams was impossible. His mind was too full to empty into rest again. He drew a bath and got clean in the darkness, conjured a robe, and headed out onto the balcony.

Even the late spring breeze had a bite to it. Harry twitched the Elder Wand. His bathrobe grew warm and dry, staving off the mountain air.

The castle grounds were dark. Harry gazed down with a pang of homesickness. Even in the dead of night, candlelight spilled from a smattering of windows in the other towers, or somewhere on the grounds as the House Elves worked to keep Hogwarts tidy.

The Groundskeeper's hut being dark hit especially close to home. The gentle giant never slept in total darkness. The hearth always burned in the dead of night, keeping his home warm. If he went down there now, there would be no Fang to greet him, no Hagrid to feed him rock cakes. Harry wondered if building the castle was not a mistake, if he was not just tormenting himself by living in a ghostly version of a place so close to his heart.

Far out to the south, barely visible in the sky, the smoke from Carvahall's chimneys stood against the velvet night. Harry sighed and fell into the lounge chair on the balcony. It was always something. Maybe the Statute of Secrecy was necessary everywhere. Harry rubbed his forehead. Was there nowhere in existence that a wizard could live happily ever after? Why did he end up here, where he wasn't free to be himself, where he had to hide such a crucial part of his identity for fear of another's greed?

Harry put his feet up on the railing. The Quidditch pitch taunted him. It was doomed to stay empty. He did not know how to make flying broomsticks, and he did not know thirteen other people to play. The sandy oval and its great big hoops waited for a game that might never happen.

Down below, Harry's new livestock rested in their barn. Getting everything worked out with Garrow had been a bit awkward. Without revealing his magic to the village, they had no way of explaining all the produce. Harry had taken about half of it back up to the castle cellars and sold the other half on to Morn, accrediting half to Garrow and the other half to himself. Morn had no reason not to believe him, but Harry was starting to get a headache remembering who thought he'd done what. If the villagers ever pooled all their information about him, Harry would be in trouble.

He'd had to barter with the money he got from Morn to buy livestock; Garrow didn't have mating pairs he could spare. Ansil was generous though, and provided what he'd asked for for what was probably cheaper than they were worth. Maybe he felt he'd underpaid Harry for the lumber and wanted to clear their debts. But every person he interacted with would tell a slightly different story about him, and if enough people put their heads together, they would start to see a pattern of inexplicable things. And that could be a problem.

How big it would be was uncertain. Brom had acted like his secret leaking would be the end of him. All he knew about the king was that he rode a big black dragon and liked magicians. Harry didn't have a good reading on how scared that should make him. It wasn't as if he was helpless, but he wouldn't invite trouble, either. He'd had enough fighting for a while.

Why had Brom been so worried? That storyteller had been awfully worried people might start paying attention to Carvahall. Harry would bet he had a reason to hide, too.

Harry checked the time. It was not long until sunrise. Reluctantly, he dressed for the day and headed down the tower. Brom had expressed interest in hearing some of Harry's stories. Harry had agreed to sit down with him if he came up. He wouldn't tell the man anything personal, but Harry was certain he could give him interesting enough tales to keep his attention. And use the conversation to probe him in return.

Except Brom had not shown up yet, nearly a week since he'd been in Carvahall last. Harry resigned himself to working on other projects.

Pepper-up potion required two mundane ingredients Harry could get his hands on, at least in theory. Honey and octopus powder. Octopus powder promised to be an adventure all on its own, but honey was possible.

Hagrid had covered a magical strain of bees (twice as big and thrice as vicious) in class, so Harry knew the basics. He could conjure the right netted garments, put together an apiary with frames, and throw up a field of flowers for the bees to pollinate. Moonbees had needed specifically Seleniums around, and those could not be grown with magic, but ordinary bees were subject to no such restriction. Hagrid had claimed orchideous would work just fine for a mundane species.

Harry strode out into the dawn and marked out a space near the wall. As the sun rose, he sketched plans on his rumpled map, further filling in the empty grounds. Fields surrounding an island of flowers, with the apiaries in the center. The fields, he decided, would grow actual food. Even if he did not need as much as they provided, he could just stockpile the excess in the cellars under preservation charms.

He worked through the sunrise, putting up fences to mark out the shapes of the fields in his imagination. He put up the apiaries in the middle of the central island. They were wooden boxes four by four feet and two feet high, stacked in three drawers and enclosed in a giant wooden case. Each assembly was on a base of stone a foot off the ground. Inside each drawer were a series of vertical frames, each two inches thick and with a handle on top. They looked a lot like Hagrid's. Now of course, he needed bees to live in it.

Harry was about to head out into the mountains when a familiar voice called out.

"Hail!"

Harry turned. Brom strode down the path towards him. That same bundle was across his back. What was in there? Probably not a sword, didn't people carry those at their hips? Harry snorted to himself. Maybe it was a baguette. But probably a sword. He tightened his grip on his wand. Now why would a storyteller bring a sword to an interview?

"Hullo."

Brom couldn't quite keep from gawking. The quidditch pitch in particular kept drawing his eyes. Harry found it flattering that he couldn't stop taking everything in, especially since Brom had probably gotten through the larger part of his astonishment right at the gate, when Harry wasn't watching.

"How long have you been here?" Brom demanded.

"I came into the village on the same day I arrived," Harry pointed out. "I had no food or supplies. The meal Horst gave me was my first in Alagaesia."

The storyteller's mouth worked up and down for a moment. His eyes honed in on the filling lake. "You must work fast," he said finally. "Is this all you intend to build? The walls led me to expect much larger."

Harry shrugged. "I have space to add whatever comes to mind as I think of it." He gestured at the apiaries. "I need honey for a healing potion, so go figure."

Brom paused and gave the bee boxes a long look. "Aye," he said finally. "I suppose that makes sense. And you did this by yourself?"

"Eragon helped a little," Harry admitted. "Inspiration. I probably wouldn't have thought of a metal shop or cellars if he hadn't suggested them."

"But not with labor," Brom muttered. "Yours must be an interesting story. Either you are extremely exceptional, or Britain is a place I can scarcely imagine."

Harry considered that. "A bit of both, probably." Britain wasn't exceptional in regards to Earth, but Earth in general and muggle civilization was far, far beyond farming villages. The wizarding world had magic and wonder on its side, but Harry would admit he thought it could be quaint sometimes, how behind the times they were. He always felt the tonal whiplash stepping off the Hogwarts express, going from gothic castles in the highlands to London, a maze of concrete, glass, and steel. He was wise enough to recognize that it was only his personal life that turned him off of modern muggle society. He had heard Dean Thomas complain loudly about missing telly and the radio, his cell phone, and pens and pencils.

"I would like to hear of them," Brom said.

Harry nodded. "Okay. Do you know anything about beekeeping?"

Brom raised a brow. "Why would I know anything about beekeeping?"

"I dunno. Just seems like you'd know a lot about everything."

"You're the one building apiaries," Brom shot back.

"Well yeah, but I don't know where to find honey bees around here. And I need them. Come on, let's walk and talk."

Brom let out a suffering sigh and followed him out the main gate. He seemed disappointed not to get to see inside the Great Hall. That was okay, Harry had a lot of stories, so there'd be plenty of time for him to see everywhere.

"Your plan is to wander in the Spine and hope to spot a hive?" Brom asked. He was probably already regretting following Harry. He at least had a walking stick. Harry didn't buy for a second that he actually needed it.

"Got a better idea?" Harry asked, grinning.

"No," Brom muttered through his teeth. "Tell me about Britain."

Harry smiled. "You're starting easy."

"Better to get them talking before pushing for hard answers," Brom admitted guilelessly. "How is Britain different from Alagaesia?"

"I've only been to Carvahall," Harry pointed out.

"Carvahall then."

"Well Britain is a whole country, and I didn't travel much. I lived in Surrey, which is an upper-middle-class area. So everyone was financially comfortable but not rich. All the kids were privileged, but I was an orphan and my aunt and uncle made it clear my cousin Dudley was worth more than me, so I was a mark for bullies in the neighborhood."

"Neighborhood," Brom tried the word. "I'm unfamiliar with the term."

Harry hummed, pushing a bush out of the way to head along the game trail headed east. Eragon had suggested there were tamer forests in the foothills that were a better bet for finding bees. "It's like a little village of only houses around a street. Everybody drives to work somewhere else. Even the shops aren't in the neighborhood. It's just houses and maybe a park."

"And this is how most people live?" Brom followed Harry much more adroitly through the wilderness. The Forest of Dean was a children's park compared to the rough hiking in the Spine. If Harry could not apparate, he would worry he'd get lost and never find his way back.

"Mostly, yeah. Some people live on farms or in little towns in the countryside. A bunch live in cities, usually in townhouses or apartment buildings, like dozens of little houses inside one big tall building."

Brom hummed. "How common is magic? Do all wizards live thusly?"

A fallen tree blocked Harry's path. He slashed his wand down and split it in two with a silent diffindo. Brom's gaze sharpened at the act of magic.

"No. They usually live rurally or in villages like Carvahall, except with a lot of magic," Harry explained. "There's a law where we come from called the Statute of Secrecy, and it covers the whole world. Muggles – people without magic – are not allowed to know magic is real. They think it's all a fantasy. So wizards and witches can't do magic near muggles. When they want to be able to be themselves, they have to live in the shrinking spaces they hid from muggles when the Statute began. I grew up with muggles, that's all. My parents lived in Godric's Hollow, a mostly wizarding community. But they died, so-" Harry shrugged. He left out that they were killed. That would lead Brom to ask uncomfortable questions.

"Places where magic is allowed are shrinking?" Brom prodded.

Harry sighed. "Yeah. There's about eight billion muggles and a few million wizards, by my reckoning. I could be wrong, there's not a very strong international wizard community outside of sporting, not like the muggles. But I don't think so. Muggles keep growing, taming more wilderness to build their expanding society, and getting better at finding us. They have eyes in the sky and cameras in their pockets. The places that still belong to us are becoming ever more precious, and more people choose to live there when they can. Something's going to give some day. I just don't know what."

Brom was quiet for a while. Harry wandered aimlessly down the game trail. As long as it kept sloping down, he was content to follow it.

"Eight billion is an exaggeration, right?" Brom asked quietly.

Harry shook his head. "The United Nations publishes the estimate every year. It's common knowledge."

"How could they feed so many?" Brom insisted. "There is not enough farmland in all of Alagaesia to support so many mouths."

"By muggles, too," Harry reminded. "No magic. They use fertilizer and great big tractors to farm huge farms with just a few people. There's plenty of food for everyone. If people are starving, it's because they're extremely poor in a poor country that can't afford to give them aid."

Brom shook his head. "I cannot imagine. It must be so densely populated, people from corner to corner of the world."

"Probably not," Harry mused. "There are towns nearly everywhere in Britain. You can't go a day's walk without hitting one. But Britain is rather small. Russia is gigantic and mostly empty. Australia's the same. They say half of all people live in cities."

"Four billion people in just cities," Brom said dubiously. "If you are going to exaggerate, at least give believable numbers."

Harry snorted. "I'm not lying. London is huge; miles of roads and apartment buildings and skyscrapers. The biggest city in the world is probably Tokyo, and that place is just gigantic."

The trail had not yet leveled off when Harry first heard the buzzing of a bee. He honed in on the sound and began to head towards it. Without glasses his eyesight was too blurry to hope to catch the bee itself, but his ears were as good as ever and led him through the sparser underbrush of the thinner foothill forest.

"When did you learn of magic, then?" Brom asked. "Did your parents die when you were old enough to remember, or did you always know while you lived with your aunt and uncle?" He followed Harry off the trail and into the brush.

"My aunt and uncle knew, but never told me." Harry heard the buzzing from different angles. More bees; he had to be getting closer to the hive. "A guy from Hogwarts, the magic school for Britain, he came to tell me and take me shopping for magic school supplies. Hagrid." he smiled fondly.

Brom caught hold of his arm. "Did you want to step right into the hive?" he scolded.

Harry froze and backed off. "Not until I put on netting." He caught sight of the hive Brom had pointed out. It was a blob of seething bees, integrated around a birch branch. Harry was glad he had not gone any closer.

He flicked his wand and conjured a suit for himself. Brom's eyes bulged when the clothing came out of nowhere. He touched his purple ring warily.

"Do you want a suit?" Harry asked.

Brom hesitated, then nodded. He studied as Harry flicked his wand again, watching the wand, his mouth, and his stance. What was he looking for?

They suited up. Brom took hardly a moment to figure out how a zipper worked. Harry conjured a box with a little hole in it and readied a plug for the hole. He sent a stream of smoke from his wandtip towards the bees until they grew drowsy. Then he conjured stilts for the bee box and set it beneath the hive. The conjuration made Brom uncomfortable every time. The storyteller was on high alert watching what he was doing.

It was not long before the first bees shook off their torpidity and began exploring the new box. Harry conjured a stepladder and got right up to the hive. "You never told me if you did know anything about beekeeping," Harry remembered.

"I didn't," Brom said. His tone did not betray his thoughts either way.

"Do you?"

"More than most, less than beekeepers." Brom watched him ascend the ladder. "You seem to know more than I."

"My eyesight's awful," Harry said. "Finding the queen is hard even with glasses. But I'll make do."

He turned to the hive. He didn't have to steal their queen, but it was the easiest way to go about it. Feed any female larvae enough royal jelly and they would become a queen. But he didn't have royal jelly yet. The first generation of his bees would go as normal in his bee box. Then he'd introduce them to the apiaries, make a handful of queens, and start producing honey.

The hive was swarming with bees. Harry gave them another douse of smoke and squinted, trying to force his uncooperative eyes to spot the queen's extra large abdomen and black back among the thousands of drones crawling over each other.

It was like seeking, except the snitch was the color of the sky and there were millions of other, nearly identically colored snitches flying around and confusing things.

He took a moment to observe the pattern before his eyes were drawn to a formation he subconsciously recognized as different from the rest. Harry zeroed in on a very slightly different looking bee crawling on the outside of the hive. "I think they're about to hate us," he warned. He flicked his wand and caught the conjured jar and its poked lid. He pointed his wand. "Accio."

The queen was plucked right off the hive. Harry slashed the jar through the air and caught her inside, fumbling with the wand. "Impedimenta!"

As if the queen were flying through syrup, she slowed midair. Harry had plenty of time to clap the lid on and screw it shut.

"Reckon that'll work?" Harry asked. Brom, who had been watching silently from beneath his netted, wide-brimmed hat, crossed his arms.

"You're the apiarist."

Harry groaned.

The way back was quite a bit harder. Harry walked aimlessly through the underbrush before finding that he was following Brom more than Brom was following him. When they were back on the trail, a punishing ascent through mostly wild terrain, Brom cast him a bemused look.

"Not a woodsman?"

"Merlin no," Harry panted, shifting his grip on the bee box. "The Forbidden Forest was easier to navigate."

"Why the name?" Brom asked.

"It was forbidden," Harry said dryly.

"I gathered," Brom growled. "Any particular reason?"

"Er, filled with dangerous creatures. There was a colony of acromantula – imagine horse-sized spiders – that was probably the most dangerous bit. But mostly the centaurs considered it their territory and routinely threatened to kill the students who trespassed." Harry reflected that going into the forest so often was probably stupid. The centaurs had seemed fully ready and willing to kill them. There might have been some sort of treaty with Hogwarts that didn't include nosy children clauses.

"How young were you when you first went there? Is there a story behind it?"

They headed in through the gate. Brom tipped his head back to look at the portcullis as they passed through. "You know, it's customary to actually close castle gates when one is away. That's why they're there, along with the walls and all. Keeps out enemies."

"I don't have any enemies," Harry frowned.

"If you don't intend to serve the King, you have one very big one," Brom leaned over and advised.

Harry grumbled. "It'd be a lot of work, raising and lowering it every day. Much easier just to lock the door to my room."

"So you were able to handle the horse-sized spiders?" Brom brought back up.

Harry snorted. "Most of them were probably bigger. Aragog was the size of a lorry. And they're all intelligent, they can even speak English. At least Aragog could. Ron and I were twelve when it happened. You see, it started with threatening messages, written on the walls in blood…"

Brom raised his cup of tea. "A tale fit for legend. And thus Slytherin's Monster was slain. The secret to the basilisk's creation is lost, correct?"

Harry winced. "Not quite. Pretty simple, really. You just-"

"No thanks," Brom interrupted. "I will be happy to know that knowledge will die with you. I am more interested in the diary. Tom Riddle lived on past the death of his body through a nonliving object."

Harry closed his mouth.

Brom raised a brow.

"We've had lots of trouble with that information," Harry said tightly. "Not really eager to share. Hermione could have told you more. She actually read the book on the thing." He was pretty sure she described it as the 'evilest thing she'd ever read,' which was rather impressive given she'd read the whole of Magick Moste Evile in search of a reference.

Brom sat back. "I get the feeling this was not the most impressive thing you've done."

Harry reflected. What would actually beat slaying a basilisk at twelve years old with a legendary sword? If he'd actually finished the job with Voldemort, maybe that would've done. Dumbledore did the heavy lifting getting the fake locket Horcrux, winning the TriWizard tournament wasn't half as impressive as slaying a basilisk (he'd only had to get around the dragon, after all) and the Ministry was a disaster of his own making, which only Dumbledore's timely arrival saved his life.

"It was up there," he said. He rolled up his sleeve to show the storyteller the scar, a sickle-sized circle in his bicep left over from when Fawkes had cried on it.

Brom grinned. "It's what legends are made of."

Harry sat up. "Now tell me a story of your own. Brom the storyteller," he scoffed. "Even if you tell stories, I'd bet my wand you made a few, too."

Brom scowled. "What makes you think you're entitled to my life story?"

"I didn't say that," Harry shot back. "I didn't tell you mine. Give me something. An adventure you had. How did you learn your craziest story?"

Brom turned sad. "Fine. I won't tell you that one, but this ought to entertain you. I learned it from a real elf when I was your age. They never leave their forest anymore, not since Galbatorix became King, but a few of them still run missions for their queen, and it was three of those I met. It's about an elf-woman named Linnea who killed her husband and turned into a tree. It all started with Linnea, and an elf named Anuir who was strong and clever and beautiful, but had a wandering eye. You see, Linnea fell in love with him and from their relationship, all their troubles stemmed…"

"...And then, consumed with grief for what she'd done, she sang herself into a tree. Literally. They say the Menoa tree is the largest one in all of Du Weldenvarden, and that Linnea is still in there, watching over the forest."

Brom sat back. "A rough retelling, but I had no pipeweed. I shall bring you seeds so you can be better prepared when I return."

Harry rubbed his chin. "I've never heard of a tree animagus."

"What's an animagus?" Brom asked.

Harry smiled mysteriously. "I could tell you, but it's part of a grand tale of a brotherhood of four, bonded by brilliance and a werewolf, shattered by betrayal and murder. Not a tale for dry throats."

Brom grinned. "You're catching on already. Anticipation is half the tension in a story. Give the listeners big questions at the start, then hold the answers close to your chest until the end. Answers turn listeners away."

"What happened to the other woman?" Harry asked.

Brom frowned. "She's not part of the legend."

He sighed. "Seems a bit wrong, to ignore her when she was the catalyst for Linnea's decision."

"Maybe he never told her about Linnea," Brom shrugged. "These things happen."

The hearth flickered. Harry levitated another branch inside. It caught with crackles and pops. He wished he had marshmallows and chocolate.

Brom tracked the movement. "You cast magic without words."

"Yeah." Harry wondered if that was what had Brom so on edge. Every time he'd cast silently, the man had acted like he was flicking a stick of dynamite instead of a wand. That was actually rather apt, given the history of the wand he was holding. "Is this unknown here?"

Brom shook his head. "Every tale of magicians I have ever heard says that they always, always use the Ancient Language to guide their spells. Supposedly, there was an accident before the language was made that nearly wiped out all life in Alagaesia. That was the catalyst for the Grey Folk to bind their language to truth itself. You should be impressed I know so much; this was so long ago that everyone has forgotten even the legends, and we are left with only the barest idea what happened."

"That would make a good story," Harry mused.

"I know!" Brom threw up his hands. "And it is lost to the sands of time. Impossible to reclaim."

Harry kept his mouth shut about Time Turners. "Are you planning on staying here overnight?"

Brom pushed himself out of the armchair and shook his head. "I won't impose on your hospitality."

Harry raised a brow and gestured to the enormous, empty castle. Brom scowled. "Rather, I do not want to be tarred with the same brush as you if Carvahall ever finds out about you."

Harry bobbed his head. "Fair. You think Horst won't tell anyone?"

"Horst is discrete. And he knows as well as I do how dangerous your secret is, Harry Evans. You'd be well-served to share some of his caution." Brom looked towards the door of the Great Hall. The hearth they were huddled around was the only one lit, a table, armchairs, and a rug clustered around it. "It will be interesting to see what comes of this place," he mused. "A castle such as this does not stay empty for long."

Harry thought about it. He had built the place for himself, but he could well imagine others living in the castle. Once it was a bit more finished, maybe he could let the secrecy slip. Invite other magicians in, and start building a community like Hogwarts. "That'd be brilliant," Harry said. And he meant it.

Eragon growled in frustration at the feather in his hand. He knew he was a magician, Harry had proved it, but no matter how perfectly he said the words, the feather would not float.

He had taken to practicing whenever he had a moment of privacy. He'd put a weed flat on the palm of his hand and whisper wingardium leviosa to it, only to see it refuse to move. Today he was gathering berries in the foothill forests and had brought one of their chickens' feathers with him to practice.

Yet no matter how strong his vision of the feather rising, it would not move.

Harry had suggested that wands drew out the magic in wizards for them. If that was the case, until Eragon found wherever his was, he'd never be a magician. He wracked his mind for something, anything that wasn't his internal monologue or the same prominent memories that kept returning to mind.

He felt like a blind man groping for a colored grain of sand on a beach. What did it even mean, to search his mind? It was like asking someone to describe the exact color of a mirror.

Frustrated, he threw everything he had into grasping at some random facet of his being out of the ordinary when he felt it.

Something odd, something that was not just himself. Like noticing that he was breathing automatically, once he recognized it, it was impossible to unknow.

Excited, Eragon dug in. He prodded at the feeling in his mind, feeling out its texture and shape. There was something behind it, he was sure of it. But no matter how he prodded at it, the strange feeling would not yield.

"Wingardium Leviosa," he tried. But the feather did not move.

Irritated, he pushed on the strange feeling. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said, firmer.

Angrily, he rammed up against that part of him and gasped as an invisible barrier gave way. Something surged forth, electrifying his brain and running through his limbs like cold, crackling water.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" he incanted. The feather in his hand blasted into the sky, throwing the treetop above him into disarray as it powered through. Eragon suddenly felt a wash of fatigue. He sat back against the trunk of a tree, setting his berry basket down next to him.

It was like vertigo and fatigue, mixed into one sensation of weariness that was different to any physical ache he'd ever felt. As he sat, the treetop settled into quiescence.

Then he began to giggle.

"I'm a magician," he whispered to himself. "I, Eragon, am a magician."

He laughed out loud, plucking a berry from the basket. "Wingardium Leviosa!" he proclaimed, ramming himself into the barrier once more. It gave much more easily this time, and the feather rose. Eragon tempered his enthusiasm and ordered the feather to rise only a foot. It obeyed his eldritch command. It hovered as still as stone, ruffling at the edges by the minute currents in the air, yet remaining unmoved.

Eragon cast about for the berry bush he had just harvested. The boughs were nearly bereft of berries. He remembered the spell Harry often used, visualized its effects and pointed. "Herbivicus!"

The accompanying wave of fatigue drove him to his knees. Eragon panted and put his head between his knees as his heart thundered in his chest.

"Eragon!" A voice cried.

A man knelt next to him. "Fool boy," the voice growled. "Can hardly believe it," he muttered. Eragon's lightheadedness passed and he felt well enough to sit up. Cold sweat beaded his limbs, leaving him feeling clammy and dirty. He shivered and pulled himself together.

"Brom?"

The storyteller had left his walking stick on the ground and wore only the long thin pack he'd had when he came to the farm. There was concern on his face.

"Aye. Toying with magic is more foolish than you know," Brom said, brows darkened. "Where did you learn those words?"

"Harry," Eragon said. His breathing had nearly subsided. "He never has this much trouble." Eragon looked up at the bush he'd targeted. Sure enough, all the berries were back, fat and juicy and ready for harvest. He pushed himself over to begin picking his bounty. "Not even when he did the whole farm twice over."

Brom's look only grew darker. "Aye, I'd give quite a bit to know how. But you are not Harry. Magic can be as dangerous to the practitioner as to his or her enemies. Do not ask me how I know this, but I shall tell you the three cardinal laws of magic. All spells take exactly as much energy to accomplish as doing them the normal way would. If you cast a spell that demands more energy than is in your body, you die. No exceptions. And if you try to raise the dead, you die. No exceptions. Do you get the pattern?"

Eragon nodded dumbly. The chill in his limbs returned. "Mess up and die."

Brom nodded grimly. "Such is the price of magic. Now I know any young person given a new toy will play with it. I would like to tell you to never use it again, but I know my advice would fall on deaf ears. Instead, always start small, and do not trust Harry's judgement on if you have the energy to accomplish a task. Every time you cast a spell, stop and think: am I willing to die if I get this wrong? For every magician of song and legend, there are a thousand like him who got themselves killed doing something stupid. Understand?"

Eragon nodded.

"Good. You were there when I told Harry why he ought to keep his mouth shut about magic. You know the stakes. Never do it in Carvahall, never tell a soul, except perhaps Garrow." Brom rose smoothly to his feet. Eragon was vindicated in his expectation that the man did not need a walking stick. The storyteller picked it up anyways, modifying his gait as he went until he walked like a tired man once more.

"Wait," Eragon called after him. "Why were you in the Spine?"

"Coming back from seeing the castle," he threw over his shoulder. "Harry's stories will put me in good business until I retire."

AN: Someone commented that they were worried I would homogenize the two magic systems between Harry Potter and Inheritance Cycle. Despite what this chapter may imply, that is not the case. They are still distinct(-ish). They are both still magic, and despite being in different forms, are cut from the same cloth. More information will be revealed later.

Someone expressed confusion as to why Harry was not using the Resurrection Stone to get information from the dead. He hasn't used it since right before dying in the Forest, and remembers the stories about how people who used it killed themselves to be with the dead. He is understandably wary of it. For those of you who read my first story and are now reading this one, remember that Harry is a clean slate once more. Things are going to go differently, things will work differently, and so expecting Harry to know what he did then, and to make all the same decisions, is wrong.