A somewhat short yet supremely interesting chapter. Feel free to share your thoughts.
P*T*E*N Page is up and running, slightly ahead of FFN and AO3. This pace will change to significantly ahead of FFN/AO3 once we reach the next hiatus point (at the end of the Durmstrang Arc). Visit P*T*E*N / 521dream if interested. Posted stories include A Flaw in Fate and Sacred Sight (A King's Path Rewrite/Remaster).
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The next chapter will be published the Saturday after next.
Harry Potter: A Flaw in Fate
The Desolations of Destiny
XIX. The Flower of Foresight
Cross the right, then the left, then right . . .
His fingers gently twisted Astoria's blonde hair into a simple, braided pattern. He nodded all the while, easily satisfied with his work.
"You really ought to make it more even," Luna whispered from beside him.
Harry turned. The dreamy-eyed girl was one of many others in the common room. He watched as her eyes swept across the opened pages of the Quibbler (which, not for the first time, she held upside down).
"Astoria said she's okay with it being a little uneven -"
But Luna shook her head.
"Not for Astoria's sake," she explained, nodding across the room, "Pansy looks like she's going to be ill."
Harry looked over. Sure enough, Pansy was sitting in an armchair by the mantle, her horrified gaze fixated on the back of Astoria's head. Her palms, clenched against either side of her seat, had gone deathly pale.
Smiling faintly, Harry's fingers returned to work, braiding each strand of hair more haphazardly with every twist. Pansy's features quickly turned a very sickly green -
Wack.
"Find another way to antagonize Parkinson," Astoria snapped irritably as Harry massaged his wrist, "You'd best not ruin my hair before the feast."
"Feast?" Harry frowned, "There's a feast?"
"Obviously," Astoria said, "It's our last day here, isn't it? It's not like they're just going to send us off without a proper goodbye."
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
The last day at Durmstrang.
"Went by fast, didn't it?" Luna said. Astoria nodded slowly, "Although I suppose that makes sense, seeing as we're meant to spend the least amount of time at Durmstrang."
"That's for the best, I reckon," Astoria sniffled, "Beauxbatons will be loads better than this place -"
"Not a fan of Durmstrang?"
The three of them turned around, watching as Fred and George Weasley strode through the main door.
"Where have you two been?" Luna frowned, watching as Fred brushed snow from the edges of his coat.
"Exploring," George yawned, "Anyway, what's this about not liking Durmstrang?"
"I didn't say that -" Astoria started indignantly, but George didn't seem to care.
"You know, you'd probably like Durmstrang a fair bit more if you stopped to smell the roses."
"What?"
"He means if you really explored the place you'd enjoy it more," said Luna helpfully.
"Explored?" Pansy repeated from her armchair. The others all turned to her, "What all is there to explore in a place like this?"
"Loads of things," Fred said, "There's the High Order's quarters, for one -"
"Right," Pansy's expression had turned to something sour, "And for those of us who aren't interested in being hanged?"
"There's all sorts of villages nearby. You've already seen the biggest one - the one the Hogwarts Express passed on the way. There's twelve others, I think."
"You seen them all?" Harry asked curiously.
"We have now," Fred grinned, "Just visited the last one today."
"Took us a while," George added, practically glowing, "I swear the Durmstrang lot were trying to hide the damn place from us. But we got there in the end -"
"Where?" Astoria pinned.
"Kalddød," Harry muttered. The twins fell silent, their earthy brown eyes falling upon him.
"You've been," Fred said. It wasn't a question.
"I have."
"Where'd you go?"
"Same as you, probably," Harry said thoughtfully, "The Silver Spire's the most lively place in the village, after all."
Fred nodded.
"It was interesting," he agreed, "Eye-opening. Reminded us of just how little we know."
"It's a good thing you got that all done, then, isn't it?" Luna asked, closing her copy of the Quibbler, "It was your last chance, after all."
"That's why we did it, Lune-Lune," George sighed, "Just think - we'll be headed for Beauxbatons early tomorrow morning. Greengrass must be ecstatic."
"I am," Astoria snapped, "I could use some sun for a change. My skin's been pale for far too long -"
"You know, when Fred and I were ten, we weren't all that concerned about getting a nice 'ol tan -"
"I'm twelve, thank you very much."
"Forgive us Greeny. Two whole years. What a tremendous difference -"
Harry droned their voices out, his mind fixated on a single, oppressive thought.
The last day. It's the last day . . .
His mind whirled, conjuring an image of a shining black stone. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows was carved deep into its surface. Around it, the glowing walls of the Scarlet Tower gleamed with unnatural power.
I won't be able to access the room after tonight.
There was all sorts of information in there. Countless articles littered the room's stone floor, accompanied by heaps of notes and photo prints. Harry's heart lurched as the thought, beating heavily in his chest -
I want them.
Dozens of particular pages popped into his mind. Each detailed the very same thing: the stone he'd imagined, the one he cherished so dearly -
The Resurrection Stone. The Jester of Death's Court.
Harry grit his teeth, resolve building in his chest as his mind fixated on the pages strewn about the hidden room.
I don't want them. I need them.
"Harry?"
He blinked. The others were all watching him worriedly.
"Sorry?"
"Nothing," Astoria said worriedly, "You just spaced out for a bit. Are you alright?"
A placating smile stretched across his features.
"Of course I am."
-(xXx)-
Clank.
Cold utensils slipped from Harry's fingers, clattering against a plate of silver. Harry stared curiously around the room, examining the strange table he sat at. The wood was shaped to match an oversized serpent. Over a hundred meters long, the table snaked through the dining hall, leaving little room to waste.
Almost identical.
"It's impressive, isn't it?" Cerise said softly from his side. Harry nodded slowly.
"It is."
His eyes came to rest on the serpent's head. Harry shivered slightly.
Like the one in the chamber. The basilisk.
"How old is this table?" Harry frowned, slowly reaching for his fork and knife.
"Centuries at least. I heard some of the Durmstrang lot saying it once belonged to your head of house."
"Snape?" Harry sputtered, bewildered. Cerise rolled her eyes.
"Your first head of house. Salazar Slytherin."
Oh.
"That explains a lot," Harry muttered thoughtfully.
Definitely explains the similarities.
"Why doesn't Hogwarts have it, then?" Astoria's voice quivered from opposite them. Cerise gifted her a gentle smile, shrugging.
"Durmstrang must have bought it. You haven't got to worry about them not treating it with care, mind you - they only ever use it for special occasions."
Harry nodded, glancing around the table. The aged wood, likely millennia old, seemed nearly new.
"Was our arrival not a special occasion?" Astoria frowned.
"Not exactly," Luna said dreamily, "The Durmstrang lot didn't know us then. But now that they do, there's much more for them to miss."
Harry stared at her.
"How've you been, Luna," he asked cautiously, "Been sleeping well?"
"Of course I have," Luna smiled.
"No more nightmares?"
"Not recently," the grin slipped from her face, "I think that'll change, though. Soon."
"The man from before?"
Grindelwald.
Luna nodded slowly. To her left, Astoria was watching Harry with narrowed eyes as though he were a puzzle she didn't much like.
"I suppose that makes sense," Harry said, sighing, "We are going to Beauxbatons after the feast."
Grindelwald was just a student at Durmstrang. He fought a war in France.
"Makes sense?" Astoria frowned, "What do you mean, makes -"
Harry silenced her with a silent flick of his wrist. His eyes latched onto hers, his mind clutching desperately onto a single thought -
Not now, not here.
Astoria's eyes widened. Harry ignored her, reaching for a bowl of lamb that sat before him. His neck prickled as he lowered the lamb to a plate of his own, completely aware of Cerise's suspicious gaze. Behind her, a flash of silver glowed.
If it isn't silver-hairs.
Harry watched as Gabrielle poked at her food, looking thoroughly unenthused. She sat at the tail end of the table, eating alone. The few who sat nearby ate with half-glazed eyes.
"No one she's in a foul mood half the time," there was a touch of sympathy in Cerise's words, "The way they're looking at her . . ."
Harry nodded, focusing his gaze on the side of Gabrielle's skull.
This ought to get her attention.
He delved gently past her blue eyes, peering into a glowing mind. Gabrielle twitched, looking wildly around the hall. The connection snapped almost instantly.
"You're an idiot, you know," Cerise muttered as Harry waved in Delacour's direction, "A complete, total idiot -"
Deep blue eyes latched onto his own. Harry watched as the anger melted away at once, twisting into a potent mixture of intrigue and annoyance.
"She won't come over."
Harry ignored Rosier, motioning toward the silver-haired girl at the other end of the hall. Gabrielle frowned.
"Come. Here," the words slipped faintly from his lips as Harry mouthed it in an exaggerated manner, "Come. Eat. With. Us."
Gabrielle frowned, her gaze slipping from Harry to the few surrounding him. She slowly shook her head.
"Told you," Cerise stole a bite of lamb from Harry's plate.
"Why are you sitting with us, anyway?" Harry asked, turning to face the dark-haired French girl.
Cerise shrugged.
"Is it a crime to eat amongst friends?"
"No," Harry frowned, "I just thought you'd be with yours."
"I am," Cerise smiled. Her head tilted slightly as she spoke, her gaze focused on a group across the hall, "As for my others, I felt it wasn't my place to invite them."
Harry nodded.
"I'd love to meet them," he said earnestly, raising a forkful of lamb to his lips, "I'll admit I've been a little curious."
"You can meet them any time you'd like, especially at Durmstrang. We have free seating during meals there."
"I guess I'll find out tomorrow."
Tomorrow. When we're at Beauxbatons.
His lips felt dry. Harry lowered his knife back to the plate, reaching for his goblet. The vague image of the hidden room flickered in his mind.
The very last chance . . .
"You should go, you know."
Harry looked up. Luna was watching him with a slight frown.
"Sorry?"
"I said you should go," Luna repeated, "Go wherever it is you want to go."
"How do you know he wants to go somewhere?" Cerise asked, bemuse. Harry felt his heartbeat quicken -
"The Nargles. They whisper things to me when I'm asleep."
He let out a heavy sigh of relief. Harry laughed silently to himself as he brought another forkful of lamb to his lips.
Thank Merlin for her riddles. She'd take years for even Dumbledore to figure out.
Harry weighed the options in his mind.
"You know, Luna, I think you're right."
"The Nargles, Harry, not me," Luna reminded him.
"Right. You thank them for me."
He rose from the table, lazily straightening out his robes. The others stared at him.
"Where exactly do you think you're going?" Cerise asked curiously.
"Wherever I want to go," Harry yawned, "See you at Beauxbatons, Frenchie."
Harry confidently strode out the large doors and into the left side hall. After a few more turns, he found himself face-to-face with a tower he'd seen many times in his more recent dreams.
The Scarlet Towers.
Harry approached it. There were no guards waiting for him tonight. His fingers wrapped tight around the ornate handle, wrenching it open with a mighty heave.
A familiar hall sat before him. It was long and thin, surrounded by dark, fluid walls akin to smoke. The same glossy, blood-like floor Harry remembered shimmered underfoot.
Yet not all was as before.
Dozens of Scarlet Prophets lined either wall, their heads bowed in subservience. Not one turned his way as Harry entered. Each stood, transfixed, staring at something at the hall's end as though it were the will of the divine -
"Harry Potter . . ."
A woman sat at the far end of the hall, her folded robes placed neatly beside her. Her nude body shone. Countless scars littered her pale back. To her right, a blood-covered dagger lay on the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood.
"Witness their work," the Truest rose to her feet, turning around. Milky white eyes stared directly at where Harry stood, "See what they have done to us."
"Who?" Harry whispered faintly, forcing his gaze not to dip below her shoulders. Pale breasts glimmered in the corners of his eyes.
"The rose thief," the woman muttered, bending over. Harry looked away as she plucked the dagger from the floor, raising it up, "Fate's forgotten son."
She turned around. Harry let out a sigh of relief.
"Will you punish him for me?"
"The rose thief?" Harry frowned. The Truest slowly nodded.
"The one who stole my eyes," she murmured in agreement, "Will you blind him for me?"
"I don't even know who he is."
"You will," the Truest said with an air of certainty, "But will you blind him, dear? Will you avenge me?"
"I told you the other day," Harry frowned, stepping forward, "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind -"
"SILENCE!" the Truest screeched. The heads of each guard snapped up, turning to Harry as one, "Come here, boy. Look at me."
Harry stood still, his heart beating frantically -
"LOOK AT ME!"
His head snapped up. The Truest stood mere inches from him, her breath falling upon his face. She was very beautiful; only her lifeless eyes marred an otherwise perfect face.
"Look at what he did," she breathed erratically, her breasts pressing against Harry's chest as her palms wrapped around his head, "Look at what he took."
"You said the rose was stolen long before your time," Harry whispered.
"They stole my destiny," the Truest breathed, "I was to be a rose tender. A peacekeeper. I was meant to witness the wonders of the Truer world - wonders seldom else might ever see . . ."
She staggered slightly. Her long, thin fingers slid over her thin stomach, pausing on the dozens of scars that marred it.
"A voodoo doll," she cried, "That is all I am. A woman covered in needles, forced to crawl through hell and back for the slightest aftertaste of what is to come."
The Truest fell to her knees, the pool of blood splashing as she pressed against the floor.
"Witness what great lengths we must traverse to mimic a fraction of our former," she whispered, "Witness, Harry Potter, what I have become. Are my asks truly so inhumane?"
Harry slowly shook his head. The Truest rose to her feet.
"Will you, then? Will you blind them for me?"
"I won't."
The dagger slipped from the Truest's palm, clattering against the glossy floor. A single tear slipped from the woman's ruined eyes.
"But," Harry continued, "I'll retrieve your flower if I can."
"If you can," the Truest murmured, "If you can, if you can, if you can . . ."
She went silent. Harry watched as she slowly turned around, walking over to him with her head held low.
"Thank you," she cried, her head pressed into his neck, "Let me be the last, Harry Potter."
"I - I'll try."
The woman nodded, waving toward the hidden room. The guards on either side stepped out of his way.
"They're the same, you know," the Truest told him, straightening up, "Your stone and our rose."
"Sorry?"
"The Resurrection Stone," the Truest repeated, "It's like the rose. A remnant of the Truer World."
"What does that mean?"
"Figure it out."
She stepped out of the way. Harry strode past her, disturbed, heading for the hole that was quickly growing in the wall. It shivered as he stepped through it, closing behind him. The Truest and the Scarlet Prophets all faded from view.
Pages lay scattered about the room, just as he remembered. Harry flicked his wand through the air.
Organize only the ones I need. I want the most important at the top.
The room became little more than a whirlwind of parchment. Harry watched as the sheets organized themselves, eerily reminded of the sea of envelopes that had flooded the Dursley residence some three years prior.
How nostalgic.
At last, a short stack of papers sat before him. Harry scooped them off the floor, moving to dump them into his pocket -
He paused. Magic slipped over his skin.
What the fuck?
Harry pulled the topmost parchment from the stack, holding it aloft. A wave of refined magic brushed against him. Ignoring it, Harry read:
'Welcome to my room, Harry Potter'
There was no note. Signed on the bottom of the parchment was the same emblem Harry had seen on the graveyard and in the room before: a circle in a triangle, with a line intersecting the two.
"The Deathly Hallows," Harry whispered, "No, I don't understand -"
Who made this?
Harry desperately pointed his wand at the parchment.
Reveal its secrets.
Nothing happened. Harry grit his teeth, pushing the magic out from beneath his skin -
The parchment shifted. Harry felt the enchantments coating it fall apart, an intense ache rapidly growing in his chest. Inky black writing began to cover the parchment clenched in his palms:
'Grindelwald's Study, est. 1898
The wards created on the 7th of September, 1898, grant entrance only to the following:
Gellert Grindelwald
Klaus Nagel
Harry Potter'
His heartbeat quickened. Harry vaguely felt the parchment slip from his grasp, a horrid feeling settling in his chest.
7th of September, 1898.
"A century before I was born," Harry whispered, "But . . ."
He stooped down, hastily plucking the slip of paper from the floor.
"Have the wards been changed?" Harry asked.
Nothing happened. Beads of sweat trickled down his neck, the air in the room suddenly feeling oppressively hot.
"I asked you something," Harry said more forcefully. Magic traveled from his chest down to his fingertips, leaving behind a heavy ache, "Have the wards been changed since 1898?"
The words shifted. Harry stared at the two letters they formed:
'No.'
Harry felt dizzy. He forced his mind calm, focusing on the magic that prickled beneath his skin.
"Then how did you know I'd be here?"
'The hags called it the flower of foresight. I know it as the Midnight Rose'
"You're the flower thief," Harry realised aloud. The parchment shifted once more.
'How does one steal that which can not be owned?'
An uneasy thought slipped through Harry's mind.
It's too sentient. Like Emily's diary.
"Are you enchanted to answer my questions?" he asked, his voice quivering slightly.
'Not quite.'
"Then how are you responding?"
'I'm not. You're doing most of the work, really.'
The pain in his chest began to swell. Harry desperately wiped a trail of sweat from his forehead.
"How?" he barked.
'Intent.'
Harry stared at the parchment, perplexed.
"That's pure magic, isn't it? Magic without words or wands?"
Inky black letters swam across the page.
'You know more than I anticipated. Odd.'
Harry hunched over, out of breath. He soothed his aching chest with his palm, realization slowly stretching across his features.
"That's how you're responding," Harry murmured, "Pure magic. You're drawing upon me."
In a way. I wasn't lying when I said you were doing most of the work, you know. You seek a response and are creating one. I am simply enchanted to ensure the answer you produce represents my thoughts rather than your own.'
"Your thoughts," Harry repeated, "Who are you?"
'I think you know the answer, Harry'
Eyes flashed before his mind, coloured grey and blue. Harry took a deep breath.
"Grindelwald."
Harry could almost see the man's smile, reflected on the sheet of parchment as though it were a photograph. Black ink curved around the page, drawing out a detailed, intricate flower. A short inscription lay waiting underneath:
'Make haste, garden boy. You've got a flower to chase . . .'
And the parchment twisted on the spot, crumbling into nothingness.