James watched out of the window as Flitwick and the Beauxbatons Radio Club made their final checks for a truly massive enchanted mirror that would be connected to three golden Snitches, each of which would follow their every move and broadcast it for the audience. Unlike the First Task, all three competitors needed to be broadcasted simultaneously, which came with its own challenges.
He glanced at the other competitors. He wasn't spying on them, exactly… or maybe he was, just a little (and maybe trying to work up the courage to talk to Fleur, too) but he thought it strange that they were looking for quite narrow topics of reading since about two weeks ago. He'd seen Viktor on three different occasions with three different books about dragons, and Fleur seemed to have a budding interest in unicorns all of a sudden. It had been a stroke of luck that James had caught his old Headmaster stick his face into the Black Lake for about twenty minutes before re-emerging without a care in the world and returning to his personal chambers. At least now he had a clue.
He did consider Gillyweed, but he preferred the Bubble-Head Charm, Cedric's original approach, for two reasons: first, the bubble acted like a pair of goggles, letting him see clearly underwater; and second, he could still speak and, therefore, cast spells verbally. His nonverbal was quite advanced by this point, but greater precision and power from the invoked incantations was still too big of an advantage to ignore. The variant of the Bubble-Head Charm necessary to withstand such underwater pressure turned out to be a rather obscure spell that he'd had to trawl the Hogwarts library for, but worked admirably when he tested it out in the prefects' bathrooms.
The rustle of the flaps snapped the three competitors out of their trances as Professor McGonagall leaned inside the tent. "Champions? Come with me."
"Well," said James, "may the best wizard — or witch — win."
Fleur shot him a grin, remarkably warmer than her first interactions with him, but still quite sharp. "That will be me, then."
Even Viktor wore a ghost of a smile as they stepped forward, squaring their shoulders and marching forward with bravado. Emerging from the tent, to flashes of cameras and the dull roar of the crowd, felt like stepping out onto Wembley's turf. A few people even asked for their autographs, which was politely declined, and a blonde girl with a bright smile leaned over the velvet rope.
"Hi! I'm Kara, from Black Cat Courier, do you think you could — wait, come back —"
James shot her an apologetic look as Viktor walked right past the intrepid reporter without the slightest indication that he'd seen or heard her. It seemed that the following for the Tournament had grown bigger since the First Task, with even publications outside Europe paying attention, and James had heard from Fred that the official brokers attached to the British Quidditch League had begun putting up odds for each champion as well.
They stopped by a gate, right underneath the massive enchanted mirror, and in front of the auditorium. The judges' box was front and center, and James saw something that briefly made him forget his nerves.
"Oh, come on," James uttered, and Professor McGonagall snorted a little.
Gilderoy Lockhart was beaming as he strutted in front of the other judges, and his stupidly smug face was magnified on the mirror. He was dressed in plum robes with gold trim and probably under more variations of teeth-whitening effects than all of Essex combined.
"Welcome, students, guests, all!" he said. "The day of the much-anticipated Second Task has finally arrived, and today's challenge is the Retrieval of the Scrolls!"
James turned his head, scanning the crowd, and smiled when he saw Larissa leaning dangerously over the stands, with Victoria and Lyra keeping her in place, and he waved back. He could feel Viktor and Fleur's gazes upon him, their expressions unreadable.
"There are five scrolls that need to be retrieved," said Lockhart, flipping his hair. "And each of them contains a clue for the third task! These scrolls have been distributed in the following: the Owlery, Greenhouse Number Seven, the acromantula colony, the unicorn herd, and finally, at the merpeople village in the Black Lake."
The spiders would eat him, the unicorns would probably gore him, Number Seven was Sprout's most dangerous greenhouse. James immediately turned to the Owlery, only to find a Hebridean Black coiled around the conical rooftop of the tower. Well then. Merpeople village it was — good thing he'd had the foresight to check where in the lake it was, just in case.
"In the First Task, you were all graded based on your speed through the obstacle course, and the flair with which you accomplished it," said Lockhart. "Viktor Krum, completing the course in a stunning fifty-three seconds, and with a total sum of seventy-three Style Points, will be going first. James Stark, completing the course in five minutes and twenty-three seconds, with sixty-five points, will start four minutes and eighteen seconds after Krum. And finally, Fleur Delacour, who finished in six minutes and forty-nine seconds, with an incredible eighty-eight points, will begin sixty-three seconds after Stark."
James tried not to grimace. Viktor had, in the two weeks prep time running up to the First Task, carved himself a bloody broom. 'My father is a broomwright', he'd said. He hadn't even bothered to fight the creatures, he'd just flown over their heads.
"There is no scoring system for the Second Task," Lockhart said, grinning. "You must simply gather as many scrolls as you can, to provide you with as many clues as possible for the final task, and in turn deprive your competitors of them!"
"Now, competitors, if you are ready," Bagman's voice boomed. "Viktor Krum, you are the first to begin."
A moment passed in silence as the audience held their breaths, and a firework shot into the air. Viktor immediately turned and went for the Owlery. James tapped his foot on the ground, working off some nervous energy, before turning to Fleur.
"What are you going for first?" he said, and Fleur glanced at him.
"You first."
"The lake," said James, and she hummed a little.
"That is far away from the others."
"I reckon I can finish that in good time. I know where the Merpeople village is, approximately. And I don't think it's as unpredictable as the other areas."
"Since Viktor is going for the dragon, I will start with the greenhouse," she said. "And once that is done, I will go to the Acromantula nest." She shivered. "I know at least the unicorns will not give you men the time of day… I can safely leave this until last."
James frowned. She wasn't wrong, but he'd never gotten to meet unicorns except for that one particularly bad-tempered stallion in Care of Magical Creatures a few years back, and it didn't let any of the boys go near it, almost charging at Fred when he tried. What he'd expected to be a magical experience was instead spent sitting in a circle with the other blokes playing Exploding Snap while the girls fawned over the preening horse. What did the girls even see in that horny jackass, anyway?
"James Stark, to the starting line!"
He took a step forward, waiting underneath the gate, and after a moment, another firework shot into the air. He tried not to trip as he ran downhill. As he ran, he breathed out the incantation for the Bubble-Head Charm, covering his face in ever-fresh air, and he dived into the water. After a brief moment of shock as the cold water froze him, he began to swim, layering various warmth spells upon his robes to keep him moving through his first obstacle.
The Black Lake.
A loch about two miles long and a quarter of a mile wide in a sickle-like shape, it wrapped around the hill that Hogwarts sat on. Like the nearby forests, it was teeming with life mundane and magical, and even seawater creatures somehow made their home here. It was entirely untouched by pollutants, and was a popular place for students and staff, and it wasn't unusual to see students swimming or sailing in the warmer months, or sitting on the edge with fishing rods in hand. And yet, for its placid and agreeable surface, it led to uncharted depths, until sapphire waters gave way to dusk and then to night, whence this lake received its name.
But for now, closer to the surface, James floated for a moment, watching curtains of light shift with each gentle wave, gently illuminating the sediment hanging in the water. He slowly pulled himself in deeper, using the rocks as handholds, and the forests of hornwort began to thin to reveal a landscape of sand and jagged stone. He saw the golden Snitch following him, swimming remarkably well with its wings, lazily beating the water in a marked contrast to its hummingbird-like movements above the surface.
Fish barely as wide as his hand swam up to him, nibbling at his robes, before they parted around him and swam away; coral thrived upon bedrock despite the minimal salinity. The deeper he went, though, and the darker the waters became, the coral and schools of fish disappeared. Cuttlefish shifted and disappeared into the background at his approach, spider-like crab stalked the floor, and a few moray eels (should they even be that big?) watched him pass by, their jaws slack enough to reveal their many teeth.
It was then that a shadow covered him, and James looked up; his heart skipped a beat as the Giant Squid appeared from nowhere, an alien mothership silently slipping out of the Oort Cloud. Its skin was a mottled grey, making nary a ripple as it cut through the water, and James froze as a single onyx eye the size of a hula hoop locked onto him. Then a single tentacle reached up and bopped him on the head with remarkable restraint, its serrated suckers lightly scratching at his hair, before the massive creature continued on, and all hundred or more feet of it once more glided back into the darkness with remarkable ease.
James shuddered, and he took a deep breath of magically sterile air that didn't do much to calm his nerves, before he turned back to the yawning seas. As he reached a darkness applicable to twilight, he began to encounter grindylow, more often individually than in packs, but a quick Stunning Charm was usually enough to remove them as a threat, sending them bobbing away in the underwater currents.
The Merpeople village was much larger than he'd been led to believe. It was far more primal than human constructions on the surface, with circular, carved holes appearing all over rock formations. It reminded him of the cave dwellings of Cappadocia, mounds of carved and weathered stone looking a little like termite nests. This was stretched out as far as he could see in the, admittedly low-visibility, underwater landscape. Hundreds, if not thousands, of merfolk must have been present in this small town. The most opulent dwellings, it seemed, were closer to the surface, to the light, while the lesser ones were deeper down, in valleys or carved into the walls of crevasses.
Their homes had no doors, only doorways; circular holes painstakingly drilled into rocks, and spiraling engravings in Mermish wound tight around these entrances. The letters were simplistic arrangements of straight lines, easier to etch on hard surfaces and easier to read, and were arranged vertically and read from bottom to top, for it was easier for a Merperson to swim 'up' than in reverse.
But right now, it was a ghost town. He could feel their eyes upon him, but they disappeared back into their caverns as soon as he tried to pinpoint them. He could only see two Merfolk, who appeared to be waiting. One, a warrior, holding a flint-tipped harpoon, watched him with empty, unblinking eyes, ritual scars marking his skin. The other, a wise-woman, holding a rosary made of black pearls, and adorned with a headdress of coral. James floated in front of them, taking in their details, mostly eyeing the harpoon, but before he could speak the wise-woman nodded and began to swim in the opposite direction. James followed, out of the village and onto open ocean plain.
The hostile and wary gazes of the Merpeople winked out one by one, like stars hiding behind clouds, leaving only James and his two escorts. The wise-woman gestured with her hand, webbed fingers tightly clutching her black pearl rosary, at the gate. Perhaps once it had stood proud and tall, holding up a lintel depicting celebrated scenes of their myths and history; but said lintel was on the seafloor now, snapped in half down the middle, forgotten, forsaken. Meanwhile, the two stone pillars that had held it up had collapsed into each other, still standing with precarious physics, arranged in a near-equilateral triangle.
The Merfolk did not speak, but James understood their intent, as grave as they were. Slowly, he floated towards the collapsed arch, which began to loom over him, having hidden its immense size in uncanny perspective. Taller and taller they grew, until each pillar was as tall as the Owlery at Hogwarts, and he briefly looked behind him. The Merfolk had not wavered their gazes, and continued to watch him, their stares placing silent pressure on his back.
The stone archway, faded but still clearly illustrating scenes from merpeople myths, reminded him of a Torii. The Torii represented a gate between the sacred and profane, and to step through such a structure was to walk into the land of the dead and divine. What, then, a broken arch represented, James was uncertain, but it made him hesitate for a moment.
He swam through the arch, and found a small trail of polished pebbles guiding his way. He could not truly call it a path, since nobody had actually set foot on it, but the intent was the same. James glanced back briefly, and his escorts were still there, though they had not followed him through. He followed the trail, winding around rocky outcrops, steadily going down, until the light from the surface became fainter.
As James reached a depth that seemed to represent twilight, he came across a massive crater, so massive that it should not have reasonably fit in the Black Lake. It looked wider than the narrow width of the dagger-shaped loch would reasonably allow, yet he had to resign himself with the knowledge that magic warped perceptions and reality both in ways that could not be explained, so he began making his way down towards the bottom of the hemispherical cavity.
There was still just enough illumination at the bottom to make out a single hole at the deepest point of this pit. James felt a shiver run down his spine as he approached the hole. It was a circle, appearing eerily perfect to even his limited human sight, and as he reached out to touch the edges, it felt impossibly smooth, almost glassy, yet no glass that James knew of would be as smooth as this.
His fingers struggling to find purchase on the impossible surface, he propelled himself into the hole, perhaps a full metre wide. Though he'd never been prone to claustrophobia, this unnerved him; upside down, without any room to flip over should he come across a dead end, he had no choice but to swim down. Soon, he discovered what felt like handholds on the black walls, and he grasped his wand between his teeth and pulled himself down bit by bit, wary of cutting himself on the strangely sharp carvings.
The corridor wasn't too long, and he realized that he had reached the end when he reached out for more handholds and found nothing but water. He pushed off the ceiling and righted himself, and took his wand in his right hand. The Bubble-Head Charm had survived the journey, and he used this opportunity to reinforce it; and then, he created a light from the tip of his wand. And he saw nothing.
An absolute blackness of the likes he'd never seen before. He could see his own skin, glowing pale, but the ceiling from which he'd emerged was also made of a basalt-like black stone that seemed to greedily drink in his light. He looked around, but as he expected, he found nothing, could find nothing. He'd briefly, foolishly, hoped that perhaps there would be some sort of sign, but that wouldn't be cryptic enough, would it?
He let out a shaky sigh that emerged as small bubbles, and were crushed immediately by the pressure as soon as it crossed his magical field of ever-fresh air. Reluctantly, he began to swim downwards once more, and during this time, he had only his thoughts for company. He could've traveled mere minutes or hours; there were no landmarks to judge his passing. He simply swam, the motion mechanical, and he couldn't tell if he were even moving or simply flailing on the spot. He wondered if the Golden Snitch were still following him. It had been swimming rather adeptly before, but he couldn't detect its presence now, or perhaps the all-crushing depths had simply desensitized him.
The deeper James dove, his mind whirled and his body ached, frantic thoughts pounding at the inside of his skull and his fingertips slowly mossed over with pins and needles — he could imagine himself as a car with all sorts of warning lights flashing.
The timid light of his wand barely illuminated his own hand, swallowed by the Stygian waters around him. Each kick and stroke reminded him of his own solitude as he traversed through the empty abyss, and he wondered if he was the only living thing around for miles, and if anyone would come to save him should he be lost.
He was blind save his hands, and deaf to all but his own heartbeats, and the water was neither warm nor cold, leaving him deprived of even the sensation of touch, his skin enveloped in numbness. And in the depths his sense of balance and direction too were gone, the lack of light and gravity removing petty concepts such as up or down, dissolving fundamental things like time and geometry. Only the unrelenting void remained.
The weighty darkness only seemed to close in, nipping at the edges of his meagre light, shadows swirling in unseen and unfelt and unheard currents. His breath seemed to escape in shallow bursts, disappearing forever as soon as it was out of the light, perhaps devoured by beasts of irreality lingering beyond the borders of his magic; and his heart hammered a maddening rhythm, an irregular music that presented an affront to all things orderly and real. And each fitful beat struck at his protective cocoon of Occlumency, forming hairsbreadth cracks from which his dubious sanity leaked, and James continued to dive deeper and deeper, not knowing which way was deep, deathly afeard that without this Sisyphean journey he should lose all reason for existence and dissolve into foam.
As his wand-light finally touched the bottom of the lake, details were revealed to him. It was an underwater auditorium that he found himself in, a globular room of immense proportions, with designated seats — or whatever the closest concept was that Merfolk possessed — on both the lower and upper surface of this chamber. And on the far side was a massive carved seal, a platform of power surrounded by sculptures, from which the speaker would address the crowd. This seal, however, had been cracked in two by a chasm that appeared ink-black to his eye, so deep and yawning as it was.
As he swam closer, he could make out more details of the sculptures. It was the only thing in this forsaken place that was not made of black stone, and for that reason they stood out more. Like bleached coral, they were a pale white, and carved in magnificent detail to depict Merfolk — or perhaps Merfolk ancestors, whose snouts were more elongated and prominent, whose scales were harder and larger, like fishes' mail. Each of these figures seemed to be in various stages of agony, from frozen screams to stoic, pained grimaces, so vivid that he wondered if perhaps the sculptor had simply Transfigured real Merpeople into stone.
Shaking away his thoughts, he floated in front of the seal, and the cavern, which split not only the seal but the entire chamber with no end in sight. With a shaky sigh of resignation, he kicked his way towards the darkness once more. Thankfully, it was not very deep, certainly not compared to the arduous journey behind him, and he was able to find a single pedestal, which had seemingly fallen into the gaping maw.
And on the pedestal was a single object. A crown, James saw.
It was of the same black stone that he had become now uncomfortably familiar with, an oily sheen despite feeling dry, and so black it seemed to drink in the light and darken its surroundings. It was a piece of masterful craftsmanship — James could make out every detail that had been meticulously chiseled into the stone. It was in the shape of a serpent biting its own tail, with each individual scale visible, writhing in its own grip, the blind eyes unseeing but somehow conveying an expression of agony. On each scale was a single rune, runes that he could now recognize at a glance; runes that had been branded into his mind after that fateful first trip to Azkaban. Like every other time he saw it, it unnerved him the longer he stared, and his fragile psyche began to crack.
James had had the privilege of seeing some powerful magical artifacts before. The Diadem was an object of great power, containing all of Rowena Ravenclaw's wit beyond measure. It was undoubtedly a masterwork before, but now that it was a Horcrux, containing a piece of a soul, it gave off a hint of something other. The Resurrection Stone, too, felt alien in a way James could not put to words, just a vague sense that something more than mortal hands had been involved in its creation. This crown was the same. It felt special, somehow.
It caused within him a mixture of both fear and awe. He found himself drifting closer, though he was certain he'd never moved; and the snake seemed to writhe and shimmer, or perhaps that was a trick of the light and the water. It was not power, not necessarily, that it radiated. It simply inspired… wonderment. Curiosity.
James did not even realize that he had reached out and touched it.
It was as though he had suddenly submerged himself in an ice-bath, so cold that everything went numb and he couldn't move anymore. His body began to unravel, thread by thread, and what was left of him was a vaguely person-shaped goop of consciousness, held barely together by force of will from simply dissolving into the universe. Without eyes, he somehow saw more than he ever did; he saw ultraviolet and infrared, the violent static that always made up the universe, unseen and unheard to most mortal beings, and his perspective soared as though he were in his raven form, spreading his black wings.
It was all too much. Too much information, far too much than any mortal sense could perceive, than any mortal mind could comprehend. The history of the universe burned into his mind, the details of every atom and quark, filling his mind with white noise until it couldn't hold anymore. With the last of his strength, he pulled his mind about himself, armoring it in his Occlumency, and mercifully, the noise died down. The countless stars and quasars and black holes winked away, until he could only see himself far below, a single speck of life, a single light of consciousness so delicately shining on in the darkened chasm.
A crevasse that, the wider his perspective grew, looked increasingly familiar. A crevasse that looked as though it had been gouged from the Earth, the frenzied carvings of a madman —
And suddenly, he could see more, for this grotesque gash was not alone; all around him, all around that tiny light that represented his lonely self in this Plutonian ocean, there were more runes, and each seemed to pulsate with malevolent sentience, containing maddening secrets ever eluding mortal comprehension. They writhed like worms in the dirt, as though they sought to escape the confines of his feverish mind and make themselves real.
With it came the realization that he had seen these runes before, in the exact same pattern. He could see that these wounds inflicted upon the Earth matched with the carved runes on each scale of the blind, stone serpent, and with this understanding the runes seemed to spin an intricate web from every nightmare he'd experienced. A representation of infinity, of eternity, an immortality of death and rebirth, of which he was now a part —
And with that, his spirit was dragged back to his failing body, and he awoke.
Lyra moved through the halls at a brisk walk, her expression set in stone. Even some of her favorite students, if she came upon them, meekly stepped out of her path. She reached the Hospital Wing and pressed her hands against the heavy wooden doors, and it opened with barely a whisper. The infirmary within was empty, which made the conversation all the more distinct.
"You got awfully lucky," said Madam Pomfrey, appearing remarkably less stressed than she had two days ago when Dumbledore had fished James out of the lake. "You received a visit from the maledictologist at St. Mungo's." She gave him an unimpressed look. "He said the remnants of the basilisk's venom likely slowed the new curse just enough for me to keep you alive. Ironic, isn't it."
Lyra watched her go about her duties with the efficiency of someone with decades in the trade. It was still humbling for her to realize just how much expertise even a seemingly unimportant witch or wizard wielded. The depth of skill one could master in a field of magic was so expansive that even Dumbledore stepped aside for Madam Pomfrey when it came to magical medical knowledge. Lyra prided herself in the fact that she was one of the most powerful witches in Hogwarts, likely in the top one percent; but the few who were greater than she would wipe all the castle's floors with her.
"You'll need to keep exercising that arm," said Madam Pomfrey, planting a stress ball into his left hand. "You might still be alive, but it's still partially calcified, and you run the risk of losing all sensation and movement if you don't rebuild your strength."
"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," said James, holding up his near chalk-white arm. It seemed perfectly normal, all his features still present, save for the fact it looked as though the color had been blanched out of him up until about mid-forearm, where the scar from his encounter with the basilisk still remained.
"Professor Malfoy," said Madam Pomfrey. "I take it you're here to see about your student?" There was just the slightest emphasis on student; many of the other staff members were similarly sardonic regarding Lyra's employment as a professor of Hogwarts, though a few of them had over the months begrudgingly admitted that Lyra belonged in their ranks. Certainly, she was doing better than the vast majority of Defense professors in the past twenty years already.
Lyra offered a slight (perhaps tight) smile. "Something like that. He's doing fine, I take it?"
"Oh yes, quite fine now." Then a grim warning came over her features and she added, "But he will need to be more careful from now on. Magic can fix most things over and over again, but these kinds of curses… They have ways of leaving a dark impression on the body and mind."
"He should stop being an idiot, is what you're saying?"
"Perhaps in part," she said, directing it to both her and James, who pulled a face. "But I mostly wished to say to not underestimate magic. The things you teach or learn in Defense Against the Dark Arts, as I'm sure you're well aware, only explore the most common hazards. Some, while rarer, are significantly more dangerous." She thinned her lips. "And Muggle-borns, though of no fault of their own, are usually more susceptible to them."
"The organizers wouldn't have actually killed me, would they?" said James. "I mean, people have died in past tournaments —"
"And they were discontinued as a result," said Madam Pomfrey, clicking her tongue. "One of the stipulations in restarting this event was that the safety of participants would be guaranteed. The Headmaster would never have stood for anything like this." She took a deep breath. "Now, I shall take my leave for some much-needed rest which, as it happens, you also require, Mr. Stark. Try not to excite him too much, Professor Malfoy."
Lyra waited until the matron had turned her back to flip her the bird. Then with a flick of her wand she conjured a cushy recliner that she sighed herself into. Sitting down in a recliner in the quiet and warmly lit Hospital Wing felt like the first bit of peace and quiet she'd had in some time. Only the grandfather clock near the entrance filled the silence, and the distant birdsong from the Forbidden Forest. There was a little something at the edge of her mind, a slight nudging, almost as if some subconscious instinct was rousing, though for what Lyra didn't know. But that happened here or there, ever since the Incident (Azkaban breaking her mind and pulling her through the fabric of space and time into hideous realms of existence). And then she realized it was a real buzzing sound, not a hallucinatory one, which disappeared when she gave a twirl of her wand, blasting whatever foolish insect dared intrude across the room. The Hospital Wing was otherwise empty.
She let out a breath, then raised her eyebrows at James.
"How do you get yourself in here so often?" she said. "I don't think I've been in here once, and I'm much more reckless than you." She hummed. "Skill issue, I suppose."
"You have the luck of the devil." That actually got a little laugh out of her. A glint of appreciation flashed across James' eyes, and he said, "Poppy actually said I was lucky."
Lyra raised her eyebrows, the humor not quite gone. "Oh, it's that bad?"
James gave a noncommittal shrug.
"Hmm." She'd let him talk when he felt like it, but in the meantime… "You're sure popular, aren't you?" On his bedside was a stack of cards and treats, and even a bouquet. She reached an arm out and lazily moved them about, looking for any of those orange or strawberry chocolates that Honeydukes had absolutely struck gold with, until the stack teetered dangerously. At the very bottom was parchment with familiar handwriting.
"What are you even looking for?" he said. "Your cousin hasn't sent anything, if you were worried about that. No, she said she'd make it more personal."
"Uh huh," she said. "What's this?"
It hurt to look at. Her first thought was that James' handwriting had suddenly degraded to the same level as Ron Weasley's, and she had to squint and go over every line thrice to find the meaning. After painstaking effort, the letters swam into view into what was probably the correct order.
"Seekers of godhood…" Her frown deepened. "Here lies in slumber… the Lord of the Deep Dark. Blessed be His faithful, and greatest are they who… they who seek the elder wisdoms… the pursuit of the immortal soul… to seize victory and escape mortal coil… and achieve Descension…" She looked up at James. "Your handwriting is so bad I think it just gave me dyslexia. What even is this?"
He looked at her, his lips moving soundlessly, and the color seemed to drain from his face.
"…What are you talking about?" he rasped.
She waved the parchment around. "It isn't your handwriting?" she said with a clear doubt in her voice.
James didn't even register the waving parchment, continuing to stare at her. "It's — you can read that?" he said, his voice small.
Lyra blinked at him, and looked back down. As she turned her full attention upon them, the letters shifted and squirmed before her eyes, wriggling like base creatures trying to escape her notice, and a profound disgust suddenly bubbled up inside her, and she dropped the parchment as though she were burned. "What the hell?" But from the ground she could still read them, as they slid slowly into comprehension:
"And those who come from under the Eye: despair! Here its protection dies, for it has led you to Twilight, where He sleeps and rules in His dreams, the Great —" The letters suddenly were illegible, turned to an ugly gash across the page, as if someone had jerked James' arm as he'd written it.
Finally, Lyra tore her eyes from the parchment, her breathing heavy as she met James' gaze once more, but he averted his eyes almost immediately, wandlessly Summoning the parchment, and placing it face-down on the table, hidden from view.
"What the hell?" Lyra repeated, her words coming out quieter than she'd expected.
From outside the Hospital Wing there came muffled voices. One was Dumbledore, and the other — surely not, thought Lyra, frowning as she twisted to look at the doors, waiting. When they opened, three people came through: Dumbledore led the way, and Lyra couldn't help but immediately notice Fleur slightly behind him; and next to Dumbledore was a familiar old man with short white hair.
"Flamel?" whispered Lyra, glancing back at James with a surprised frown.
"Good afternoon," said Dumbledore as they came up to them. "I'm glad you are already here, Professor Malfoy. Most excellent."
Lyra gave him a polite smile (she still felt a little silly being called Professor Malfoy, especially by him). "Headmaster." She nodded to Fleur and then bowed her head to Flamel. "Fleur, Nicolas."
Nicolas Flamel responded in kind and said, "A pleasure to see you again, my dear!"
Fleur blinked, glancing between the two, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion or disbelief — Lyra wasn't sure.
"And how do you feel, James?" said Dumbledore.
"Well enough, sir."
"Good! There's something we must speak about, in regards to the Second Task and what occurred there. First, however, I believe Mademoiselle Delacour wished to speak to you."
Fleur glanced warily at the two older wizards, who casually turned around and began pacing down the length of the Hospital Wing as they made conversation. She let out a shaky sigh, a scroll clutched tight in her hands, and she fell into a nearby chair.
"Nicolas Flamel," she said faintly. "I spoke with Nicolas Flamel."
"You've never met him?" said James innocently. "I thought he was one of the biggest sponsors of your school."
Fleur shot him a glare, though its effect was somewhat lessened by her still reeling from meeting a living legend. From a lick of Legilimency Lyra caught a little bit of regret at arranging this conversation with James, something Lyra had to fight to not smile at.
"That is not what I wished to speak of," she said, and instead thrust the scroll into James' arms. "It was from the village of the sirènes. I 'ave not opened it. You should 'ave it."
James pushed it back towards her, much to Fleur's annoyance. "You found it, you keep it."
"Non , I will not accept this. I 'ave heard… the sirènes, they did not act as they were supposed to. They should 'ave simply given you the scroll when you reached the village, as they did for me, but instead they sent you elsewhere. For what reason, I do not know, but you reached the village first, so you must take it."
"Oh, alright, if it'll make you happy." James took the scroll, and unfurled it. "Freshwater creatures despise the sea, and sea creatures despise freshwater. Huh."
Fleur had clapped her hands over her ears, but judging by her mulish expression, she had likely heard the clue in its entirety. "You were not supposed to speak it! Imbécile!"
Lyra and James both laughed, and after a moment, even Fleur gave a grudging smile.
"I was content to give you this hint," she said. "But now that you have told me — and you only have your own stupidity to blame — I will use it. You understand this, yes?"
"You could trade me one of the other hints," said James, and Fleur looked at him like he was scum at the bottom of her shoe.
"No."
"You're lucky Vicky is socially inept," said Lyra.
He glanced at her in annoyance, but he didn't have a counter to that, and he knew it. Lyra sat back, crossing her arms, feeling a little smile touch her face.
Fleur sighed after a moment of silence. "I shall consider it," she said finally, to him. "And… I am glad you are well, James."
"Thank you," he said, and Fleur stood, leaving without another word, pausing only to give Lyra a nod of acknowledgement. A silence stretched between them, now, their brief respite from madness ended. Lyra frowned as she thought she again heard some sort of buzzing sound. She stretched out her mind, casting a net of perception, listening for any whispers in the still waters of thought. She could feel James' familiar harmony pluck at her strings, and then a near-silent hum from both Dumbledore and Flamel, which both disappeared in a split-second within sensing her. Then her web unraveled, tightly strung wires of her will falling apart under the full weight of Dumbledore's presence, burning like a towering phare in her mind's eye.
A look from Dumbledore told her he had already sensed what she suspected, followed by a small, reassuring smile.
"Ah, perfect," said Flamel, and he sat on the stool that had been until so recently occupied, and Dumbledore stood behind him. He settled his heavy gaze on James. "Now, let us talk. You are a very interesting young fellow… Perhaps not because of who you are, but the places you find yourself in."
"Brutal," said James, as Lyra gave a startled laugh.
"Don't take it personally. When you live as long as I have, you tend to become difficult to impress," said Flamel, turning to Dumbledore. "Why, I remember the first time you approached me —"
"Yes, as do I," said Dumbledore. "It's a story that has been told many times, I need no reminder."
"It will be the first time for these youngsters?" said Flamel, smiling, but Dumbledore stared at him flatly. "Alas! You truly have turned into an old curmudgeon."
"Shall we return to the point of this meeting?" said Dumbledore.
Nicolas Flamel sighed out his nose as he sank deeper into his chair. "Must we?" he said. "Talking about your early apprenticeship days are so much more pleasant than talking about… well. I suppose we must get on with it. Lad, do you have any idea of what it is that you found?"
James glanced at Lyra, who hesitated, before giving a slow nod. If Moody had found out about that snake statue they'd found in the Gaunt Shack and the ceremonial dagger in the Chamber of Secrets, then surely Dumbledore knew as well, no matter what Moody said about not being Dumbledore's underling. They had their disagreements, and loudly too, but Lyra knew there was a long history between the two of them, longer than even Kingsley for example knew about.
"Is it religious?" said James. "I've found other things like it."
"So you have," said Flamel. "So you have." He rubbed his chin for a moment, choosing his words, and he finally said: "They do appear to have religious significance. Belonging to shamanistic cults as old as civilization on Earth, if not older. Of the religion itself, we have no records, but the remnants of them may be scattered across various later mythologies."
James shared another look with Lyra, one she couldn't quite decipher, before he turned back to the Immortal Alchemist. "Does it have anything to do with Parselmouths?"
A ghost of a smile flitted across Flamel's lips. "Perhaps I should not be surprised. The Dark Lord who cast so wide a shadow that people are still afraid to speak his name was famously a Parselmouth, was he not? It would make sense you English would make the connection so quickly."
He trailed off after that, staring but not speaking, as though mulling the words over in his mind. James glanced at Lyra again, this time his discomfort more apparent. Lyra wished he hadn't; she could see Dumbledore's attention on her now, likely wondering yet again if she was hiding something.
"Remarkable indeed, for you to have accomplished the things you have," Flamel said softly. "But, if you would heed an old man's advice… I suggest you avoid it from now on. In most cases I would love nothing less than to foster a young man's curiosity, but these relics are keys to a door that should remain unopened. And understand this: the door wants to be opened from the other side."
Flamel stood up, and gave a smile that looked a bit hollow to Lyra. "Nonetheless, James, be proud. You have performed admirably under such circumstances, a performance to be envied even by those who deal with such things for a living. That is all I wished to say today."
"Sir," said James, and Flamel raised an eyebrow. "Before you go, do you know what this says?"
The scrap of parchment was passed still face-down, and Flamel scanned over it, his other eyebrow hiking up to join the other. Then, carefully, he folded it in half, placed it in his pocket, and smiled.
"The usual rot about how their god is the greatest there is, I suspect," he said lightly. "It's not a language I've practiced in some time, of course, so I could be wrong. I advise you not to worry overmuch on it."
With that, he left, leaving both Lyra and James unsatisfied, yet there was little they could do. Dumbledore hummed, and turned to Lyra.
"I know you sensed the same thing I did earlier," he said. "Not to worry, I shall see to it. As for you, James, I wish you a speedy recovery. I also don't suppose you would have any of those raspberry chocolates, do you?"
Lyra couldn't help the slight laugh that bubbled out of her lips upon seeing James' expression. "I'm pretty sure I saw some earlier," she said, before James could get a word in. "When I was looking for the orange ones."
"Teachers bullying students," he scoffed. "Crippled students, at that. I could humble the pair of you very quickly if I called for Madam Pomfrey."
"I'll Silence you before you can even try," Lyra said. James pulled a face, knowing full well that she would do that.
She hummed to herself as she set aside a tin of Mrs. Weasley's mince pies (she's have to steal a couple of those before she left, too) and popped open Honeydukes' Grand Gallimaufrey box, which contained about forty odd truffles. Truth be told, she was craving a bit of chocolate after all that. There weren't any dementors about, but they could probably use some cheering up. She wondered if Dumbledore had thought of that as well, or maybe his sweet tooth was just itching again.
Lyra held aloft the orange truffle, holding it up to the light and admiring the burnished sphere, before she met James' eyes and dropped it into her mouth. Or, tried to. It zoomed away from her just as she let go and into James' hand, and he quickly shoved it into his fat, slobbering, piggy little face before she could snatch it back.
She scowled. He smiled.
"Ten points from Ravenclaw for disrespecting a professor," she said, and James laughed.
"Ten points to Ravenclaw for an excellent display of wandless magic," Dumbledore said idly, picking out the raspberry chocolate.
Lyra glared at Dumbledore, then huffed. "Okay, whatever. I guess I deserved that. Maybe," she added at the end, to James' incredulous look. "I still want the strawberry one, though."
"Sure, sure," said James. "Ooh, I want the chestnut one."
Lyra held out the box for him, and he thanked her as he reached over and plucked it. As soon as it passed his lips, she twitched her wand and it shot down his throat before he could swallow it.
"That's what you deserve," Lyra said smugly, as he hacked himself to bits. "Feel like sharing now, you little pissant?"
James gasped as he finally managed to swallow the irritant, and glared at her. "Fine," he muttered, and Lyra hummed, accepting his defeat gracefully. "Just pass those raisin clusters, won't you?"
Lyra glanced at the chocolate-coated raisins, which fell apart into their individual selves. "What, these?" she said, holding one aloft.
He narrowed his eyes. "Yes. I want those ones."
"Well, there are six little raisins here," said Lyra, feeling a slight smile tug at her lips. "You don't mind if I take a couple, would you?"
As she raised the chocolate-coated raisins to her lips, she watched his eyes track her hand almost in slow motion. His offended expression was almost as delicious as these chocolates were undoubtedly going to be…
But when she saw that dark satisfaction flash in his eyes, it was too late.
The raisins shot up her nose.