THE WARLOCK OF LIGHT
August 30
Diagon Alley, London
Harold had barely exited Knockturn Alley before sensing a familiar and unwelcome presence behind him. He held up a hand to command his new guard dog to halt.
"Your parlor tricks don't work so well on me anymore, Dumbledore," Harold sneered at the invisible wizard.
"I see Tom did not waste his time with you," the senior wizard observed as he allowed light to strike and reflect off his form once more.
"To think my power could have been at your disposal, if you didn't fear me," Harold taunted as he continued strolling through Diagon Alley.
"Fear you?" the gray-robed chief warlock asked.
"Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite," Harold sniped.
"Ah, Tom spoke those words to me twenty-seven ago," Dumbledore sighed. "Although his idea of greatness had left him a red-eyed, black-veined, corpse-pale parody of a wizard."
"I remember you calling my master by his lordly moniker last time," Harold noted.
"Only to properly forewarn you of his malevolent nature," Dumbledore explained. "Although I presume his perceived triumph over death helped inspire his latest name, he must have considered Vastator Mortis would prove more alluring to a child than 'Lord Voldemort'."
"What 'allured' me was how he rescued me from the wretches you let enslave me!" Harold shouted. Not that anyone heard him, he knew, given the sound-deflecting and attention-averting wards the world-renowned wizard maintained around them.
"I admit, I let my fervent desire to place you with your last remaining family blind me to their cruel nature," Dumbledore allowed. "For that, I apologize."
"I am not connected to dirty-veined mugglesss in any way," Harold snarled. "My mother transcended her origins when she gave herself fully to magic."
"Is that how Tom taught you to justify his prejudices?" Dumbledore remarked mildly.
"Salazar Slytherin understood some true witches and wizards may be cursed with undesirable parentage," Harold rallied. "When we sever all connection to the lower kind, we join the pure. Surely your Potions professor mentioned this in his confessionals?"
For reasons that eluded the boy sorcerer, his dog growled at the last sentence. However, he reserved his attention for the esteemed Headmaster of Hogwarts' response.
"Professor Snape confessed to a deeply-regretted deed that afflicted his mother with mortal grief," Dumbledore admitted.
"A true witch would have disposed of the muggle personally, and she would only lower herself to a wretch's bed if there was not a single wizard to have a child by," Harold scoffed.
"You will not express such disrespect towards your professor and Head of Hogwarts House," Dumbledore reproached sternly.
"I do not fault Professor Snape for his birth," Harold clarified. "His devotion to his lord, however, is less than inspiring."
"Many would find your loyalty to the man who killed your parents and attempted to murder your infant self rather revolting, I daresay," Dumbledore commented.
"My master told me every positive thing I know about the Potters," Harold shrugged. "He held them in rather high regard…"
The boy sorcerer lost his train of thought when Padfoot began barking up a storm.
"Forgive my associate," Harold apologized for the wolfdog. "He is somewhat excitable."
"A most unique companion you have acquired," Dumbledore appraised. "Did you procure him in this alley, I wonder?"
"As if a second-rate shopping street could offer a scion of Peverell anything of worth," Harold scoffed.
"Except perhaps for your academic supplies," Dumbledore countered.
"I doubt I will learn anything this year, or the year after that," Harold stated. "But if I must."
"You will discover something new every day, so long as you keep an open mind," Dumbledore replied with a cryptic smile.
"In that spirit, may I ask why we are walking when you can dematerialization travel us to wherever you are leading me?" Harold huffed.
"And leave your wonderful companion behind?" Dumbledore asked.
"Even muggles can be taken as passengers," Harold pointed out. "Surely this one would be no trouble."
"This is true," Dumbledore allowed. "But did you consider that I would need to know the precise contents of your suitcase to transport it along with us?"
Harold harrumphed and fell silent.
Unnoticed by those they passed by, the "Champion of Wizardkind" and the "Boy Who Lived" weaved their way through Diagon Alley until they reached the British Isles' central wizard bank: Gringotts Bank.
"Ugh," Harold groaned when he saw goblins in complete control of the establishment with not a wizard manager in sight. "You're all fools for keeping your money here. Even muggles know these creatures are duplicitous fiends."
"Our goblin counterparts constructed the second most secure fortress in Europe," Dumbledore offered. "In exchange for protection from human conflicts, they have offered to host our valuables within their walls."
"How kind of them," Harold muttered. Perhaps being the apprentice of a terrorist dark lord jaded him, but he would not leave his valuables in the hands of creatures prone to malicious mischief. He would study the wards Slytherin erected at Hogwarts and build his own bastion once out from under Dumbledore's thumb.
"Good day, Griphook," the senior wizard greeted the chief manager. "I am here with Mr. Harry James Potter, who wishes to inspect and make a withdrawal from his vault."
"Does Harry James Potter have his key?" the middle-aged goblin inquired.
"I have safekept it for these past twelve years," Dumbledore announced as he produced a long gold key.
"Which I am most grateful for," Harold followed, swallowing his rage to take control of the conversation. "But now that I am thirteen years of age, I shall personally manage my vault activity henceforth."
"We have not facilitated any withdrawals from the Potter vault for the past twelve years," the goblin manager drawled as he inspected the key. "But if you would like to inspect your holdings, Mister Potter, proceed forward to a catacombs wagon."
Biting back a vicious response to the contempt shown to him, Harold reclaimed his key and proceeded alongside Padfoot to the wagons. Behind him, Dumbledore reengaged the presumptuous goblin in conversation, this time in a strange gabble that seemed to be the creature's native tongue.
"I wonder how much time he wasted learning those imp noises," Harold remarked to Padfoot. "If those things engaged in dishonest business concerning me, I would just Imperio and Crucio the truth out of them."
Padfoot whined at the curse incantations.
"I meant what I said earlier. Treat me well, and I shall treat you well," Harold repeated. "You are an ally; I will not turn on you unless you betray me first."
Padfoot gave a tentative woof as they boarded a wagon with a waiting wagon operator.
"You've had the Cruciatus cast on you before, and more than once," Harold deduced. Seeing his dog's affirmation, the boy sorcerer continued. "So have I. It is…agony. Every pain receptor set alight, every muscle spasming, every body function spiraling as your heart pounds so rapidly you forget to breathe. Even a few seconds can be fatal, did you know?"
Padfoot whined mournfully.
"But you're here, aren't you?" Harold reminded his dog. "And once you endure a well-delivered Cruciatus, can any other pain subdue you in battle? Shattered bones? Lost limbs? Fire even? Would you roll over in surrender if your enemy cursed you so? Or would you fight till all traces of life left your body?"
Padfoot gave a sharp, affirmative couple of barks.
"This is the strength I took too," Harold shared. "I hold no fear of Hogwarts, although students from each house will try their wands against me. For who among them could compare to my master? Who poses a threat to the Harold of Death? Or his Hound of Darkness?"
Padfoot gave an exasperated woof at his designation.
"Oh please," Harold sighed. "If you would not allow me to give you a fearsome traditional name, then at least allow me to give you a worthy title."
Padfoot barked in a manner that sounded like laughter.
"Vault 687," the nasally-voice of the driver announced as the wagon came to a stop. The trio disembarked and walked to the safe door, at which point the goblin demanded the key.
The boy sorcerer considered ignoring the creature's dictation and opening the vault himself. He then considered that the conniving race must have made themselves invaluable to the banking system, and that the surest way would be to craft the vaults to be inaccessible to wizards, key or not.
"Here," the last Potter provided. Seconds later, he beheld the riches his blood had bought him.
Harold appreciated the mounds of galleons before him, evidence of the respectable legacy of the Potters. He committed the sight to permanent memory and resolved to eventually triple the initial contents with alchemical transmutation. But for now, his interest lay not in the wealth of the Potters, but the rich history of the Peverells. The senior line of descent inherited the signet ring, but surely the Potters possessed an heirloom of one of history's greatest dark lords.
"What would a Master of Death leave to his heirs?" the boy sorcerer pondered as he canvassed the vault.
"Woof!" Padfoot sounded from the back. Harold nearly dismissed the call before sensing a faint trace of familiarity from the wolfdog's direction.
"What is this?" Harold wondered as he suddenly noticed a speckled, silky cloak hanging in a back corner. The translucent fabric shimmered like a star-spangled banner, yet simultaneously distorted all light around it. Almost as if…
"Invisibility!" Harold shouted. "Of course! What more legendary power do lords of death possess in the land of the living?"
Just as the Ancient Hellenic hero Perseus once wore the Helm of Hades, Harold now draped himself in the Cloak of Death.
"My powers," the boy sorcerer gasped. "This is why I can hide myself during daytime—kind of—occasionally. It comes from Ignotus!"
Harold beamed at the hereditary power that did not stem from his master. It made him feel like a worthier asset to the Destroyer of Death – like he added something to the equation. He wondered if his blood gave this power to his master; he hoped so.
"Hold a minute," Harold questioned. "I didn't see the cloak at first — I saw it only once my powers connected to it. How did you perceive it before me? You're obviously not a Peverell."
Padfoot cocked his head.
"I wonder, could our power be…compatible?" Harold speculated. "You clearly possess some blessing of magic, and you resemble an age-old symbol of death. Most familiars are created by their masters, but I wonder…"
The boy sorcerer gazed into his pet's eyes for a long moment.
"We will explore this later," Harold determined as he packed two hundred galleons into his suitcase. "For now, I must subject myself to a mudblood shopping trip with the esssteemed headmaster."
Ollivanders Wand Shop, Diagon Alley
"Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.," Harold read the store sign aloud. "And you white wizards claim to not value heritage. Aren't you worried the mudbloods will cry in the face of such purity?"
"No Ollivander has turned away a customer on the basis of their blood," Dumbledore replied. "I dare say this helped establish their reputation as the most renowned wandmaking family in Europe."
"You and your Ministry probably blacklisted everyone else," Harold sneered. "And let me guess. His shop gives the mudbloods a spectacular discount in exchange for a generous subsidy from the Ministry?"
"I remember a particular Slytherin orphan benefitting from that arrangement some fifty years ago," Dumbledore riposted.
"If your Ministry cared for wizard children, my master would never have been abandoned to a muggle cesspit," Harold hotly retorted.
"Perhaps the callousness you endured during your childhood is not a uniquely muggle trait," Dumbledore suggested.
Harold snarled and stormed into the wand store.
"Now whatever did my door do to you, Mr. Potter?" asked a wizard on the cusp of elder age.
"Fifty-five years ago, you sold a wand to a wizard named Tom Marvolo Riddle," Harold addressed brusquely. "Which in your present collection is most akin to that one?"
"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter," Ollivander stated mildly.
"And I am forever marked by the wand you sold him," Harold rejoined, flipping his arced bangs to reveal his famous scar.
"If you could perhaps indulge the boy, Garrick," Dumbledore requested as he entered the store.
"Very well, Albus," the wandmaker deferred. He walked between the shelves directly behind his counter, stopping a quarter-way down the aisle to procure an elongated black box.
"The phoenix whose tail feather resides in this wand gave just one other feather, one which resides in the wand of the greatest dark lord these Isles ever produced," Ollivander uttered somberly.
Harold snatched the box and seized the ivory-colored wand within. Immediately, a frigid gale howled through the store, and all light from the windows dimmed. Yet the flames within the Victorian lamps and chandeliers grew taller and sharper, as if they were valiant knights roused to fight the tide of darkness.
"Curious," Ollivander murmured as the room returned to normal after six seconds. "Very curious."
"Indeed," Dumbledore concurred.
"I think it is clear we can expect great things from you," Ollivander declared. "Perhaps equally as great as He Who Must Not Be Named."
"Lord Voldemort has no equal," Harold corrected as he handed over seven galleons.
Padfoot faintly growled at the declaration. Perhaps his former owner was one of the faithless Death Eaters? All the same, the boy sorcerer could not allow his dog to maintain such disrespect for the Destroyer of Death. But he would leave the matter till after Dumbledore left him.
Leaky Cauldron
Having completed the day's shopping, Harold Mortis sat across from his soon-to-be headmaster for an evening meal.
"Have you decided on what you would like to order, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.
"That is not my name," Harold grumbled.
"Your mentor publicly answered to the name Tom long after his inner circle addressed him by other names," Dumbledore informed. "Such are the sacrifices made by young dark lords."
"I have no intention of becoming a lord," Harold refuted.
"Just his lieutenant," Dumbledore countered. "You should know that his favorites, from Randolph Lestrange to Lucius Malfoy, presented themselves as model students."
"Even Bellatrix?" Harold wondered.
"Highest marks of her year, prefect, a favorite of her mild-mannered Head of House," Dumbledore answered.
"Fine, I'll play nice with your precious lions," Harold smiled bitterly. "But there will be those who know who I truly am. And yes, I am ready to order."
"A fair forewarning," Dumbledore resumed after their ticket of cottage pie, hunter's chicken, and two banger sandwiches went to the window. "During his own Hogwarts years, Tom barely found a coven's worth of devotees for his radical brand. And you don't have a Black, Lestrange or Rosier to stock your ranks with."
Given how those families gave his master seven of twelve Hogwarts disciples, Harold knew this might pose a complication. But he had faith the years of Death Eater radicalization had nurtured fervent devotion to magic in other families. After all…
"Most of my Slytherin yearmates have a parent or grandparent who swore to my master," Harold returned.
"Do not forget, your own parents fought Tom to their dying breaths, and here you are," Dumbledore challenged. "Could the reverse not occur?"
"If I find a red tie who voluntarily sits with a green tie, I'll consider this," Harold proposed. "Present company excepted, of course."
"The House divisions were not severe in my student days, in spite of Headmaster Black," Dumbledore sighed. "Only in the aftermath of Tom's fifth year did we begin to witness the fracturing that characterizes Hogwarts today."
"Have you ever considered it's the influx of bumbling mudbloods and muggle lovers that is the problem?" Harold questioned.
"You will have to learn to stop saying such words, if only in your own interest," Dumbledore remarked. "But to answer your inquiry, yes, there is a time I considered that."
"What!" Harold exclaimed. Had Dumbledore not been continuously warding away attention, his outburst doubtlessly would have turned the heads of everyone seated near them.
"I graduated Hogwarts with just about every accolade a young wizard could have bestowed upon him," Dumbledore reminisced. "But underneath the face of a star student boiled deep resentments. Resentment for the Irish muggles who inflicted a grievous injury on my family. Resentment for my mother who convinced my father to live among muggles. Resentment for those who thought wizards and muggles to be of one race. And resentment for a brother who I believed held me back."
Harold gaped. Surely, this could not be real. Surely his master would have told him?
"After my graduation, I dove into the dark arts, deeper than you have perhaps," Dumbledore admitted. "It brought my family to the brink of ruin, and could have destroyed much more if my brother did not make me see reason."
"You gave it all up?" Harold wondered in disbelief. "You could have been the dark lord of your age, and none would have been strong enough to challenge you until my master."
"Interesting you should put it that way, for that is often how a dark lord's reign ends," Dumbledore commented. "Did you know a fair share of our community suspects you may be the next dark lord, and that Tom hunted you so you would not grow to displace him?"
Harold momentarily shivered, remembering his master's explanation of why he visited Godric's Hollow 11 Halloweens before.
"How could I, culmination of the greatest dynasty to walk the earth, find my match? Some of my greatest abilities descend from the Masters of Death. When I realized a boy was born to this line, carried in the womb of the greatest witch of her generation, I saw a challenge to my power."
"He knows I will not challenge him now," Harold declared. "But perhaps it's only natural for wizards to fear my might. I am, after all, descended from one of history's greatest dark lords."
"Perhaps the Peverell brothers best demonstrate what awaits those who give themselves to the dark arts," Dumbledore pronounced. "Three brothers who sought to conquer death: the first with a wand more powerful than any in existence, the second with the power to recall whoever he wished from the grave, the third with an item that would allow him to go forth without being followed by death. But what fates awaited them?"
"Antioch Peverell declared himself invincible, and for a while his boasts seemed true," the headmaster continued. "That is until, one night, his wand was stolen and his throat slit. Cadmus Peverell sought to reverse death, but found his stone could not close the barrier between the living and the dead. Instead of treasuring who he had, among them his own child, he obsessed over who he lost until he decided to join them."
"But Ignotus Peverell, your own ancestor, spent many years evading death at every possible turn, until he recognized the gift of life gained meaning only when shared. He spent his final years raising a son; and he found such joy that when death caught up to him, he greeted it as an old friend and went gladly," Dumbledore concluded.
"I don't fear death, and I don't have anyone I'm interested in calling back," Harold dismissed. "They lost their right to life the moment they passed through the Veil."
Padfoot seemed offended by this statement, but thankfully the timely arrival of their food allowed the boy sorcerer to silence his temperamental dog with a half sandwich.
"I suspected Tom never used his ring for that precise reason," Dumbledore remarked. "Even when one of his favorites falls in battle, he moves on to the next before the day is out."
"They failed him by dying," Harold shrugged as he dug into his cottage pie.
"I do hope you consider treating your future friends with more regard," Dumbledore advised. "No matter what common ground you may find, they will first and foremost remain people with feelings. Feelings rather easily hurt in their adolescent years."
"So long as they remain useful, there will be no issue," Harold stated.
"On the topic of issues, I have a gift you will find most useful," Dumbledore claimed.
"And what would that be?" Harold asked with narrowed eyes.
"I assume Tom kept you in a stronghold saturated with dark—no, black magic," the headmaster replied. "Even if not, your unnatural pallor suggests a deep immersion in the dark arts. Without the proper protections, you might find your first months at Hogwarts a painful experience."
"Isss that a threat?" Harold hissed, nearly slipping into the sacred tongue.
"Just advice from a one time dark wizard to a current one," Dumbledore alleged.
"Are you claiming your pet lions will attack me once they sense my aura, or that I might choke on the atmosphere of your school?" Harold pressed.
"Professors make it their duty to protect each student, and most Hogwarts ghosts and portraits keep watch over the school. However, projecting your magic signature as is could prove dangerous for you," Dumbledore insisted. "And yes, you will find the ambience of Hogwarts to be—shall we say overwhelming—if unprepared. Imagine spending your life in a polar winter, then suddenly moving to a tropical forest in midsummer bloom."
"You have several students from families much darker than the Ministry standard," Harold resisted.
"Harry," Dumbledore said softly. "I have not seen a boy so visibly corrupted by their magic since a young Gellert Grindelwald. And he was years older than you when I met him."
Harold beamed at the compliment. "True power transforms," he declared.
"Is that how Tom justifies the rapid deterioration of his host bodies?" Dumbledore questioned. "What if I told you that if he kept his original body after his visit to the Hollow, he would have lost it by now to his reckless indulgence in the blackest arts?"
"There are ways to come back from that," Harold sniped back, before slamming a hand against his mouth in horror as he realized what he admitted.
"Do not feel as though you have betrayed him; I always assumed he would find a way to create a suitable body in time," Dumbledore assured. "If you may allow an old man some speculation, did he use your blood as a stabilizing agent?"
The boy sorcerer remained silent, but this proved enough for Dumbledore. Incredibly, Harold believed he saw triumph flash in the headmaster's green-gold eyes.
"He used the white magic in your blood, particularly that from your muggleborn mother, to counter the deficiencies he inherited from his mother's family," Dumbledore explained. "From the look in your eyes—no, I do not need legilimency to see this—you are wondering why he did not do this immediately after taking you to his abode. I suspect he wanted to immerse you deeply in the dark arts to see how well your body would endure it."
"I'm proud of how I look," Harold defended himself. "The lessers behold my glory with just a glance."
"If it were not for your yet unmarred display of your father's features, as well as your mother's brilliant eyes, passerbys would wonder if you belong in a morgue," Dumbledore critiqued. "Do you truly wish your schoolmates to stare at you wherever you walk?"
Harold harrumphed.
"In any case, I will not force you to put this on," Dumbledore stated as he placed a gold phoenix-pendant necklace on the table. "But I assure you, it will make your time at Hogwarts easier — whatever your intentions."
With a heavy heart and mind, Harold finished his meal in silence. At the end, he accepted both Dumbledore's offer of a Leaky Cauldron two-night stay and possession of the amulet.