Chapter 13: Discovery and Taxonomy of a Wizard
The train slowed down and finally came to a halt, its whistle echoing through the night. The excitement and chatter of the students inside turned into a hum of anticipation as they prepared to disembark. People pushed their way toward the main doors, and soon the train's occupants spilled out onto a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered as he felt the chill of the cold night air. He followed Hermione closely, with Ron and Neville trailing behind, each of them dragging their suitcases off the train and onto the platform.
The platform was dimly lit, with shadows stretching long and eerie under the sparse light of a few lanterns. Then, a large lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, casting a glow over the sea of anxious faces. A deep, gruff voice with a strong accent boomed out over the crowd: "Firs'-years! Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!"
A towering figure emerged from the darkness, looming over the group of nervous first-year students. His massive frame dwarfed everyone around him, casting long shadows that seemed to swallow the small figures of the children. He wore a thick, patchwork coat that looked as if it had been stitched together from the hides of various animals, each piece weathered and worn with age. His wild, unkempt hair and beard tangled together, framing a broad face that, despite its ruggedness, held an undeniable warmth. His small, gleaming eyes crinkled with kindness as he spoke.
"Name's Hagrid! I'll be yer guide ter Hogwarts! C'mon, follow me – any more firs'-years? Mind yer step, now! Firs'-years follow me!"
Slipping and stumbling, the group of first-years followed the giant man down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. The darkness was thick on either side of them, and Harry imagined that dense trees must be lining the trail, their branches reaching out like shadowy fingers. The only sounds were the crunch of gravel underfoot. Nobody spoke much; the air was thick with a mix of awe and nervousness. Neville, the boy who had lost his toad earlier, sniffed quietly once or twice, his anxiety evident.
"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder. His deep voice carried through the darkness, offering a small comfort to the anxious students. "Jus' round this bend here."
As they rounded the bend, the path suddenly opened up, and there was a collective gasp of awe. The narrow trail had brought them to the edge of a great black lake. The water stretched out before them, smooth as glass, reflecting the starry sky above. On the far side of the lake, perched atop a high mountain, was the vast silhouette of Hogwarts Castle. Its many turrets and towers reached towards the sky, their windows sparkling like jewels in the night.
A chorus of "Oooooh!" rippled through the group as they gazed at the magnificent sight. The castle, illuminated by the soft glow of starlight, looked like something out of a dream. It was both imposing and welcoming, with sharp lines and warm lights.
"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances before climbing into one of the boats, followed closely by Ron, who dropped himself in rather hard, and then Neville, who hesitated for a few seconds before reluctantly pulling himself onto the boat.
Hagrid's enormous hands, rough and calloused, gestured towards the small boats waiting at the water's edge as the last few students boarded their boats. His movements were surprisingly gentle as he guided the students, his deep voice echoing with care and authority.
"Everyone in?" Hagrid asked with a shout. He had a boat to himself, his large frame making it necessary. "Right then – FORWARD!"
With that command, the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding smoothly across the lake's dark surface. The water was so still that it looked like a sheet of black glass, perfectly reflecting the stars above and the towering castle ahead. Everyone fell silent, their eyes fixed on the majestic sight of Hogwarts growing larger with each passing moment.
As they sailed closer to the cliff on which the castle stood, the enormity of Hogwarts became even more apparent. It towered over them, its ancient stone walls solid and mysterious. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation and reverence, each student lost in their own thoughts about what lay ahead.
"Heads down!" Hagrid's voice rang out as the first boats neared the cliff. Harry ducked instinctively, and the little boats glided smoothly through a curtain of ivy, revealing a wide opening in the cliff face. The tunnel they entered was dark and cool, the sound of the boats echoing off the stone walls as they were carried deeper beneath the castle. The journey through the tunnel was brief but filled with a sense of mystery and excitement.
The tunnel opened into a kind of underground harbor, where the boats gently bumped against rocks and pebbles. The students clambered out, their feet slipping slightly on the damp stones as they took in their surroundings.
Harry could not believe the beauty of the glittering castle now that he was so close. His breath caught in his throat, and he found himself completely speechless as he gazed up at his new home. This was where he would grow powerful, where he would find his place in the world. Here, he would learn how to protect himself, to become self-sufficient, and to ensure he would never suffer again.
As the boat had glided closer to the harbor, Harry had glanced down at the inky black waters of the lake. For just a moment, he could have sworn he had seen a set of glowing eyes flicker in the depths. They were gone a second later, and Harry shivered, wondering if they were the same glowing eyes he had seen in the pond at the Flamel residence. The thought sent a chill down his spine, but he pushed it aside as he followed the others onto solid ground.
Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the towering castle door. The sound echoed through the night, a deep, resonant thud that seemed to vibrate in Harry's chest. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing a tall, black-haired witch dressed in elegant emerald-green robes. Her posture was straight and imposing, and her stern face bore an expression of authority that left no doubt about her command. Harry's first thought was that this was not someone to cross.
"The firs'-years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid, his voice gentler than Harry had expected, given his massive size.
"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here," Professor McGonagall replied, her voice crisp and clear. She pulled the door wide, and the first-years were greeted by the sight of an enormous entrance hall, its grandeur almost overwhelming.
The Entrance Hall was so vast that Harry felt as if he had shrunk just by stepping inside. It was big enough to fit an entire house within its stone walls, which were lined with flaming torches that cast flickering light and shadows across the space. The ceiling was so high that it vanished into darkness, leaving Harry to wonder just how tall the castle really was. Directly opposite them was a magnificent marble staircase that seemed to spiral endlessly upwards, leading to the upper floors of the castle.
Professor McGonagall began to lead them across the flagged stone floor, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous hall. As they walked, Harry could hear the distant drone of hundreds of voices coming from a doorway to the right—clearly, the rest of the school was already gathered.
Without a word, Professor McGonagall led the first-years into a small, empty chamber just off the main hall. The room was dimly lit, with shadows clinging to the corners, and the first-years crowded in, standing closer together than they normally would, their nervousness palpable.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall, her voice cutting through the tense silence. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses."
Her words hung in the air, and Harry felt a flutter of nerves in his stomach. This was the moment he had been both dreading and anticipating. The Sorting Ceremony was something he had read about, but now that it was about to happen, it felt more significant than he had imagined.
"The Sorting is a very important ceremony," Professor McGonagall continued, "because while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room."
As she spoke, Harry felt the weight of her words. The idea that one decision could shape his entire experience at Hogwarts was daunting. Which house would he belong to? And what would that mean for him?
"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin," Professor McGonagall explained, her tone taking on a hint of pride. "Each house has its own noble history and has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."
Harry glanced around at the other first-years, noting the mixture of excitement and anxiety on their faces. Everyone seemed to be wondering the same thing: Which house would they be sorted into?
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school," Professor McGonagall continued. "I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."
Her sharp eyes flicked over the group, lingering for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened crookedly under his left ear, and on Ron's nose, which bore a smudge of chocolate. Harry, feeling a sudden rush of self-consciousness, nervously tried to flatten his perpetually messy hair, though he knew it was a futile effort.
"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly." With that, she turned and swept out of the chamber, leaving the first-years alone with their thoughts.
A fearful silence stretched between the nervous first-years. Harry tried to prepare himself mentally for what lay ahead. His books had described the Sorting as a simple process involving a magical hat that would decide their fate, but Harry couldn't shake the feeling that there had to be more to it than that. What if the hat decided he didn't belong in any house? What would happen then?
As these anxious thoughts swirled in his mind, something unexpected happened. Without warning, several people behind Harry screamed, and he jumped.
"What the –?" Harry gasped, spinning around to see what had caused the commotion. The other first-years were equally startled, their eyes wide with shock.
About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall, their pearly-white, slightly transparent forms gliding across the room as if they hadn't noticed the first-years at all. The ghosts were deep in conversation, seemingly oblivious to the stunned children watching them. They appeared to be arguing, their voices echoing in the small chamber.
One ghost, who looked like a fat little monk, was saying, "Forgive and forget, I say. We ought to give him a second chance—"
"My dear Friar," interrupted another ghost, this one wearing a ruff and tights, "haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name, and you know, he's not really even a ghost—oh, I say, what are you all doing here?"
The ghost in the ruff had suddenly noticed the first-years, and his gaze swept over them with a curious expression.
"New students!" exclaimed the Fat Friar, his face breaking into a broad smile. "About to be sorted, I suppose?"
A few of the first-years nodded mutely, too awed and nervous to speak.
"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" said the Friar cheerfully. "My old house, you know."
"Move along now," said a sharp voice from the doorway. Professor McGonagall had returned, her presence immediately restoring order. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."
One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall, their arguments forgotten as they drifted out of sight. The first-years were left in a state of nervous anticipation, realizing that their sorting was imminent.
"Now, form a line," Professor McGonagall instructed, her tone brisk but not unkind. The first-years quickly shuffled into place as instructed.
Feeling as though his legs had turned to lead, Harry got into line behind a boy with sandy hair. Hermione stood directly behind him, her face a mixture of determination and nerves, while Ron was behind her, looking pale and tense. At the very back was Neville, his head down and his hands shaking slightly as they clutched his cloak.
The group of first-years walked out of the chamber, back across the vast entrance hall, and through a pair of grand double doors into the Great Hall. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight before him.
The Great Hall was even more magnificent than he had imagined. Thousands of candles floated in mid-air over four long tables, casting a warm, golden light that glittered off the golden plates and goblets laid out before the students. The tables were filled with the rest of the Hogwarts students, all of whom had turned to watch the new arrivals with keen interest.
At the top of the Hall was another long table where the teachers sat, their faces illuminated by the soft candlelight. Professor McGonagall led the first-years up to the front of the Hall, where they came to a halt in a line facing the other students. The teachers sat behind them, their expressions ranging from curiosity to encouragement.
Harry felt hundreds of eyes staring at him, and the pressure of all those gazes made him feel strangely exposed. The candlelight flickered across the faces of the students, making them look like pale lanterns in the dim hall. Ghosts, now scattered among the student body, shone with a misty silver glow.
To avoid the overwhelming intensity of the staring eyes, Harry looked upwards and found himself gazing at a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. It was as if the Great Hall opened directly onto the heavens, the illusion so perfect that Harry could almost believe it was real.
"It's bewitched to look like the sky outside," Hermione whispered from behind him, her voice filled with awe. "I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."
Harry nodded, too mesmerized by the beauty of the enchanted ceiling to respond.
Name after name was called, echoing through the vast hall. Each student stumbled or walked to the sorting hat, sat with the hat placed over their head and, then a deep, ancient voice would shout out a house.
The student would yank the hat off, their expression a mixture of relief and apprehension, before nervously heading towards their applauding house table, finding a seat as the next name was called up.
Harry watched the process carefully, studying the hat as best as he could from where he sat. It appeared to be alive, shifting slightly on the student's head, moving just enough to suggest some sort of engagement. But Harry couldn't make out any specific details of what was happening, as the hat covered each student's face enough to obscure their expressions.
He shifted his attention to the faces of the professors at the head table, searching for any clues about what might be happening under that hat. From what he could tell, none of the professors seemed nervous or concerned for the students. If anything, they looked rather disinterested, as though this was a routine task they had seen countless times before.
Harry then scanned the faces of the students at the various house tables, looking for signs of stress, apprehension, or hints about what might be happening. He saw nothing but boredom, excitement, and joy when a student was selected for their house. There was nothing to suggest that the sorting process was difficult or taxing.
'It can't possibly be that the hat is just a simple selector,' Harry thought, his mind racing to make sense of it all. 'What's the point of houses if there's no real test or metric for sorting? Is it random?' He struggled to understand the purpose of the whole system, his thoughts a jumble of confusion.
"Harry Potter."
The hall was instantly filled with whispers, the murmur spreading like wildfire as every eye turned to his small form. Harry stood up and strode forward, back straight, his movements smooth, just as he had learned from his mysterious teacher. He held his chin up, ignoring the whispers and chattering as he walked to the chair.
The hat was placed on Harry's head, and immediately, that deep, ancient voice that had announced the houses began to speak inside his mind.
"Hmmmm," the hat mused, its deep voice gravelly and ancient.
"Your name has come up in many students' thoughts long before you came to me yourself, young Harry Potter."
"Can you hear me?" Harry asked aloud, unsure if everyone in the hall would hear him.
"Don't worry, Harry," the hat's voice rumbled inside his mind. "You can speak freely; no one else will hear. Now, where to put you... hmmmm…"
"Before you do anything else, can you tell me what this is? How do you choose? Do I get a say? And what's the point of the houses in the first place? Why put kids into houses based on personality? That seems like a weird thing to do, and what does it accomplish?"
The hat let out a deep, gravelly laugh. "You have some Ravenclaw in you, I see. Not many students ask me that question. You are a bright lad, and your curiosity will get you far... unless it kills you first."
The hat made a low humming sound, as if deep in thought. "I will answer your questions, but only once I choose your house. That is my first and most important job."
"You have strong and consistent characteristics from three of the four houses," the sorting hat began anew, its ancient voice reverberating through Harry's mind. "You are brave and daring like a Gryffindor, and you would have many loyal friends in that house. You are inquisitive and curious like a Ravenclaw and would gain an advantage in your learning and magical strength there. In Slytherin, you would grow powerful and strong, and you would likely master your darker sides alongside powerful allies. However, you do not belong in Hufflepuff. You lack the loyalty and kindness that define such a house, though you are not completely hopeless—you could develop those traits, should you choose to work on them. Hmmmm...where to put you. Do you have any preferences?"
Harry hesitated, his mind racing as he considered the options. Many of the students seemed to believe that Slytherin was a house for dark and evil people, though Harry wondered if that were true.
"No, I do not have any preferences," Harry said slowly. "But I do want answers to my questions."
The hat hummed thoughtfully, its voice rumbling like distant thunder. "I think Gryffindor is too brash and impulsive for you. It is between Ravenclaw and Slytherin."
Suddenly, the hat began to make a strange gurgling sound, as if something were caught in its throat. Alarmed, Harry asked, "All good up there, Mr. Hat?"
But the hat continued to gurgle and choke, its ancient fabric trembling on Harry's head. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the hat let out a loud, echoing scream that filled the Great Hall: "SLYTHERIN!"
Harry's heart plummeted. "Wait, I didn't get any answers, wait!" he protested, but it was too late. The hat was swiftly pulled off his head, and he was left blinking in the stunned silence of the Great Hall.
Dumbledore stood silently before his Pensieve, his hands gripping the edge tightly. The room was dark, he preferred darkness when he needed to focus and think. There was something deeply unsettling about the conversation he had just had with Nicolas Flamel, something that gnawed at him. He needed to see it again, to relive the memory and scrutinize it closely. Perhaps then he could discern what had been bothering him so much.
With a deep breath, Dumbledore dipped his face into the silvery substance of the Pensieve, feeling the familiar sensation of falling as the memory enveloped him. The scene solidified around him, bringing with it the sights, sounds, and emotions of that moment.
He found himself standing in one of the elegant offices at the Flamel estate. The room was richly adorned, with walls lined with ancient tomes and artifacts collected over centuries. Nicolas Flamel sat behind a magnificent redwood desk, his hands folded in front of him, his posture calm and elegant. The chair he occupied was an exquisite piece, upholstered in deep, luxurious fabric, befitting a man of his status. Behind him, a large radius window offered a view of a beautiful sprawling garden outside.
"Dumbledore, thank you for coming," Nicolas began, his voice carrying a tone of gratitude laced with exhaustion. "I wanted to thank you for helping me with the restoration of the Weasley home. I have been drained lately and I would have been exhausted if I had to finish it myself."
Dumbledore, standing opposite him, nodded. His own expression was one of gentle concern. "Of course, Nicolas, it was my pleasure. It was the least I could do for the Weasleys. They have been tremendously loyal over the years. Terrible, what happened to Molly. Have you detected anything yet?"
Nicolas shook his head slowly, his weariness becoming more apparent as his eyes darkened with the weight of his thoughts. "Nothing yet. But I suspect I know who did it."
Dumbledore's eyebrow rose sharply, his bright blue eyes narrowing as they bore into Nicolas's. "Well, are you going to share?"
Nicolas shook his head again, more firmly this time. "No, I don't want to say, in case I am wrong. It is potentially someone I care about, and likely a mistake."
Dumbledore's shock was evident in the way he straightened, his gaze sharpening. "A mistake, Nicolas? How could it possibly be a mistake? Someone blew up Molly Weasley and half the house, leaving the home in flames! If it was a mistake, they wouldn't have left with the fire still burning!"
Nicolas looked up sharply, his eyes suddenly igniting with crackling magic that flickered around them like lightning. The room seemed to hum with the intensity of his power, a reminder of the formidable force he kept so carefully restrained.
"There were three people at the scene of the blast, Dumbledore. Three. I might or might not know one of them—I am still verifying. But the other two, I have no idea who they were. And two of them were animagi! There aren't many of those, Dumbledore, and the two animagi were in their animagus forms during the blast. That much I was able to detect!"
Dumbledore was taken aback by Nicolas's strong response. His surprise was quickly masked, but not before Nicolas caught the fleeting expression.
Dumbledore nodded finally. "Alright, my old friend. I will trust you for now. But please, if you get more leads or information, loop me in."
Nicolas's magical aura dimmed, his energy fading as quickly as it had surged. The powerful presence he had exuded just moments before retreated, leaving him looking as tired and weary as he had at the beginning of their conversation.
Dumbledore lingered for a moment longer in the memory, absorbing every detail—the weariness in his eyes, the strange mixture of reluctance and urgency in his words, thinking about what he had just seen for the second time. Then, with a deliberate effort, he flung himself out of the memory, the scene dissolving around him as he emerged from the Pensieve.
Back in his office, the pieces of the puzzle began to align in his mind, the picture becoming clearer. He now knew what had been bothering him.
Paranel and Nicolas Flamel were not known for their involvement in the affairs of the wizarding world, especially not directly. They attended parties, hosted events on rare occasions, but rarely did they intervene in matters of conflict or strife. During the war with Voldemort, their presence had been minimal, their actions subtle, almost invisible. And yet, here they were, suddenly involved in a very public and very dangerous situation. That was suspicious—highly suspicious.
Nicolas was covering something up, Dumbledore was certain of it. Whatever it was, it had to be of extraordinary importance to draw the Flamels out of their usual seclusion and into the spotlight. But what could it be? What could have driven Nicolas to take such a risk?
Dumbledore's thoughts raced as he pondered the possibilities.
With a deep breath, he straightened up, his decision made. He called softly, and a burst of beautiful, golden-red fire flared in the air, materializing into his loyal phoenix, Fawkes. The magnificent bird settled gracefully on Dumbledore's shoulder.
"Take me to Grindelwald," Dumbledore commanded.
Fawkes let out a melodious cry, and in an instant, the office vanished in a swirl of fire and light.
Peter Pettigrew scurried through the dense underbrush of the forest, his small rat form darting between the roots of ancient trees and the thick carpet of undergrowth. His tiny heart rattled in his chest, each rapid beat a reminder of the terror that drove him forward. As a rat, his senses were heightened—he could hear every rustle around him, every distant cry of a nocturnal creature, and the faint sounds of insects all around him. The world loomed large and threatening as he crashed through it, but there was a strange comfort in this form, a sense of safety in his smallness, his ability to disappear into the shadows at will.
Peter had discovered that remaining in his animagus form afforded him certain advantages. In this diminutive state, his need for food was greatly reduced; he could survive on mere scraps, nibbling on seeds, roots, or the occasional insect. Hunger was a distant concern, something that only gnawed at him when he dared to return to his human form. When he did, the pangs of hunger were sharp and insistent, a constant reminder of how vulnerable he was in that state—how much he needed to find sustenance, to stay hidden, and to remain on the move.
He had been on the run ever since that fateful night, the night that had ended in disaster—the night of the Weasley explosion. The memory of it haunted him, replaying in his mind over and over again. He could still see the flames licking at the walls of the house, hear the screams of pain, and feel the searing guilt that had taken root in his gut.
Guilt was not something Peter Pettigrew often allowed himself to dwell on. He had made his choices long ago, and he had chosen power over loyalty, survival over friendship. He would bring back his master, the Dark Lord, without a moment's hesitation. He would kill any of the Weasleys if commanded to—he was certain of that. But certainty did not erase the pain, the deep, gnawing hurt that came with knowing he had betrayed the family that had unwittingly sheltered him. Even if it had been an accident, even if he hadn't meant to bring destruction upon them, the weight of that betrayal sat heavily on his soul.
But it wasn't his fault, not entirely. It was the woman's fault—the woman who had attacked his potion, the woman who had pursued him relentlessly ever since. No matter where he ran, how far he traveled, or how carefully he concealed his presence, she would appear, her arrival marked by that distinct, ominous "pop" of apparition. It had become a nightmare, a chase that seemed endless, with Peter always on the losing end.
She was always close behind, never more than a few steps away, no matter how many spells he cast to cloak himself, no matter how deeply he delved into the dark magic he had learned in the years since he had betrayed the Potters. This woman—whoever she was—possessed magic more powerful than his own. She wielded spells that defied his understanding, methods of tracking that seemed impossible. How could she find him, time and time again? How was she able to close in on him, no matter how far he fled?
For weeks now, Peter had been apparating across the globe, each jump leaving him more exhausted, more drained. He barely slept, too afraid of the dark corners where she might appear. The few moments of rest he allowed himself were plagued by nightmares—visions of her finding him, of the flames that had engulfed the Weasley home, of his master's cold, unyielding gaze.
It seemed that with every leap through space, his pursuer took less time to locate him. The intervals between her arrivals were growing shorter and shorter, until now it was mere minutes before she appeared, like a shadow that he could never fully outrun. The relentless pursuit had worn him down, body and soul. He was a husk of the man he once was, running on fear and instinct alone.
'She is playing with me,' he thought again, the idea chilling him to the bone. She could catch him if she wanted to—he was certain of that. But she didn't. She followed at a pace slower than he expected, always giving him just enough time to slip away. It was as if she were toying with him, pushing him, forcing him to act increasingly desperate.
'Maybe she expects me to lead her somewhere important,' he thought, not for the first time. What was she after? Was she trying to force him into a corner, to drive him to reveal his secrets, to betray his master?
There was a place he could go, a refuge where he might find safety, even from her. But dare he risk it? What if that was her goal all along? What if she was trying to lure him into making that very decision?
The forest around him was silent, the night air thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. The moonlight filtered weakly through the dense canopy above, casting ghostly shadows on the ground. Peter paused for a moment, his tiny body quivering as he considered his options. The weariness that clung to him was almost unbearable, and he knew he couldn't keep running like this forever.
But could he afford to stop? Could he afford to take the risk that this might be the endgame she was leading him to?
Aravas Scamander sat across from his grandfather Newt Scamander, staring intently at the glowing blueprint spread out on the table. The blueprint, a magical map of a circular building with multiple levels, pulsed softly with a blue light. It was intricately detailed, every line marked with numbers and writing that shifted and moved as they prodded it with their wands.
"We are so close, and yet so far," Newt said finally, looking up at Aravas with a serious expression. "Time is running short. The end is near, and our ark is nowhere near ready. We need Harry Potter."
Aravas sighed, his gaze meeting his grandfather's. "He's in Hogwarts now. We missed our chance, Grandfather."
Newt's eyes remained steady, though there was a deep concern in them. "Where there is a will, there is a way, Aravas. Gather the others. We must try, even with the boy protected in a place like Hogwarts. We have no choice. If we don't do something to accelerate this soon, at least activate the skin, we're likely going to be too late."
Aravas nodded, rising from the table where the complex blueprint continued to shift and glow. "I'll do as you ask, Grandfather."
Newt stared at the blueprint as Aravas left the room. There had to be a way to succeed before time ran out. There had to be.
A/N: I apologize for the longer-than-usual delay. My work is in a major busy season, and I've had some important things to tackle, like getting my condo ready to sell, trying to find a new place to move, and juggling my job with university responsibilities. It's a lot to handle, and that's not even counting the dozen other things I'm involved in. Fear not, this story is a high priority, and I should have the next chapter out faster.
As always, please review and let me know if you have any constructive or kind feedback. Remember, your feedback makes the story better for everyone else!
Onwards! :)