The Passing
A/N
Apologies for the delay in posting once more.
The website has been a disaster recently, and the documents I've been trying to upload have been formatted to an unreadable degree.
Since it seems to be working, for now, I will drop a few more chapters.
Also, this story is available on my personal website, in full.
Link for the Dcord to access is at the top of my profile here.
Anyway, do enjoy,
TBR
Low-level hexes, curses, and jinxes are rather simple to cast due to the low input of effort required to use them and the speed with which they can be utilised.
However, they are equally easily defended against with the most basic of shields. This doesn't mean they should be dismissed as useless even by the most advanced practitioners.
Often, implementing simpler spells will serve a user better than attempting more advanced offerings.
It is important to remember that to be able to master more powerful feats of magic, a solid grounding in the basics is a necessity. They serve as a pathway to using advanced magic and should be treated as essential stepping-stones on your journey.
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
He had spoken with Hermione about this very topic and it was only reaffirming what he already deduced for himself.
"Offendo," he whispered, nodding once more as the blue spell collided with his desk.
The Tripping Jinx was one of the low-level spells he had learned throughout his weeks of being in France, and one that would eventually lead him to be able to cast others such as a Bludgeoning Curse.
"Langlock."
This would be a useful spell to use against any not proficient in using what one of the books he found described as 'non-verbal casting'. Harry had been attempting it, to no avail.
The idea was that spells could be used without the need of an incantation, but it seemed to be far beyond him for the time being.
Still, he would continue to work on it until he was successful.
For now, he would have to continue whispering the incantations as the very same book advised.
Placing his things back into his trunk, his gaze shifted towards the clock.
It was only eight am, so he had lots of time to prepare before he would be meeting Ron and the other Weasleys in Diagon Alley a little before lunch.
Harry was looking forward to it, but he liked it here in France.
The language was not so easy to grasp but he was making progress, and he enjoyed venturing out to practice with the local venders and store owners who had become accustomed to seeing him most days.
They were friendly enough and were patient with him as he muddled through his attempts to order food or ask questions about items he came across.
If it wasn't for Nicholas teaching him a basic translation charm to use on the books he purchased, Harry wouldn't be able to make head nor tails of them, thus making little progress with his efforts.
It was early days yet, and though he was happy with what he was achieving, Harry knew he had much work ahead of him before he would be consider proficient in any aspect of magic.
He was very much still learning the most basic of things, but every day he was getting better.
There was no denying he would miss France, and both Nicholas and Perenelle.
They had treated him with nothing but the utmost kindness, something Harry was not familiar with.
Nonetheless, it wouldn't be long before he would be returning to Hogwarts for his second year of magical education, and he was determined to make the most of it, to truly dedicate himself to being the best wizard he could be.
If he wished to survive Voldemort, he simply had to.
Even so, despite the necessity, Harry found that he enjoyed working on new things, and it only reiterated his desire for success having tasted it upon winning the final Quidditch match of the last school year.
It wasn't that he wished to so much boast of his achievements, it was that he found he thrived on the feeling of accomplishment, and the harder the task proved to be, the stronger the elation was when he'd managed it.
"Small steps," he murmured to himself as he left his room and headed to the kitchen for breakfast.
"Good morning, Harry," Nicholas greeted him in his native tongue. "Are you ready for your trip to London?"
It took Harry a moment to digest what the man had said, and Nicholas smiled as he responded, choosing his words carefully.
"I am looking forward to seeing my friends."
"You are getting better," Nicholas praised and Harry breathed a sigh of relief.
Having spent the past several weeks surrounded by people speaking the language, he was beginning to pick up bits of it.
Not that he could hold a conversation of substance, far from it.
"I will be joining you on your travels," Nicholas declared. "Not to Diagon Alley, but I have a few errands I wish to run in England. I know I need not remind you, but I must reiterate how important it is that no one learns of where you have been staying. I do not believe any of your friends would do so intentionally, but all it would take is one person to learn of your time here and you could find yourself in danger. There are those that still wish to possess the stone, after all."
Harry nodded his understanding and Nicholas offered him a smile.
"I won't say a word," Harry assured him.
Both Ron and Hermione had enquired as to where he was spending the remainder of the summer, but true to his word, Harry had not told them.
It wasn't that he didn't trust them, but as Perenelle and Nicholas had both said, twelve-year-olds tended to speak without thinking, and one slip could prove to be disastrous for Harry and the Flamels.
"Do you have your list?" Perenelle asked as she placed a large stack of pastries on the table.
"I do," Harry confirmed, patting his pocket. "There are a lot of books from one person. I don't suppose either of you have heard of Gilderoy Lockhart?"
"I cannot say the name is familiar," Nicholas replied with a frown.
"Nor to me."
"Well, he must be good if so many of his books are part of the syllabus," Harry commented as he helped himself to some food.
"You will be eating more than that," Perenelle insisted, adding to the food Harry had taken for himself.
Nicholas grinned and Harry rolled his eyes.
He had grown used to the woman feeding him up, so much so that he'd already had to send an order off for some new school robes.
Having tried them on the week before, his old ones were now too short and tighter around the shoulders.
If he was to remain here, Harry feared he would begin to resemble Dudley in only a few short months.
"You are a growing boy, Harry. You must eat," Perenelle echoed the same words she had spoken to him daily since his arrival. "Now, I want you on your best behaviour."
"I'm sure Harry will be fine."
"I was talking to you, Nicholas," Perenelle returned evenly and Harry laughed at the crestfallen expression of the man. "I know that Harry will behave. He is a polite boy."
"I'm polite!" Nicholas protested.
Perenelle hummed as she poured herself a coffee and Nicholas shook his head.
"Ahh, married life," he sighed. "If you ever have need of a wife, Harry, get one who is not afraid to keep you in line. It's good to be kept on your toes from time to time."
Perenelle quirked an amused eyebrow at her husband.
Marriage was something Harry had never even pondered, let alone considered.
It would be many years before that notion even popped into his head.
Nonetheless, he was always entertained by the antics of the Flamels. Even after six centuries it was clear they still made each other happy.
Harry couldn't imagine how much they had seen change around them. In the last two centuries alone the world had shifted to something entirely new to what it was.
The old photos in the local cafés were like a glimpse in the past of what Paris had been not so long ago.
Six hundred years was a long time for any, let alone the almost one thousand years Harry's cloak had existed for.
Instinctively, he checked his pocket to ensure it was with him, a habit he had gotten into.
He kept it on himself at all times now and still slept with it under his pillow.
The visions had slowed since he'd arrived, but they still came sporadically, though for the most part there seemed to be little to take from them.
Most were simply glimpses into the life of Ignotus Peverell, and as interesting as they were, they made little sense to Harry.
Again he reminded himself that it may change when he was older, but as things were, the meaning eluded him.
Still, it was nice to see that the man had not merely endured doom and gloom throughout his years. On the contrary, other than the undeniable paranoia he exhibited of Death coming to claim him, he lived a relatively normal life.
"We have a couple of hours yet before we must leave," Nicholas spoke once more. "What are you planning for the rest of the morning?"
"I'm going to work on some more spells," Harry answered thoughtfully. "I have to live and breathe it," he added, echoing the very same words Nicholas had spoken to him.
"Good," the alchemist praised. "There is the potential for greatness from you, Harry. Dedication is the key."
With a nod, Harry took his leave from the kitchen.
"It is such a shame," Perenelle murmured. "Every boy should have the right to a childhood."
"They should," Nicholas agreed, "but Harry is not so fortunate. He knows what is out there and I believe Albus when he says that it is only a matter of time before Voldemort finds a way back. Harry must be ready. I would not see him die in the pursuit of righting the wrongs done to him."
"Do you believe he will be successful?"
Nicholas nodded thoughtfully.
"I do. I have seen it within him, that very thing that separates being competent from being exceptional. Albus had it and so does Harry."
"Harry cannot be like Albus," Perenelle said worriedly.
"He won't," Nicholas murmured. "It is necessary that he is willing to do what has to be done. Harry must be as ruthless as the enemy he faces."
With a frown, he stood and put his plate in the sink.
It was difficult to envision the man Harry would need to be, especially when he was looked upon as the boy he currently was.
Over the coming months and years, Harry would change, and though Nicholas believed in him, he did not wish for him to lose his way and find himself on a path he cannot return from.
No, that would not happen to Harry.
Despite everything, he remained a kind though tortured soul at the very core.
The kindness would serve him well throughout his life, but he needed the warrior spirit to go along with it.
What would come was yet to be seen, but Nicholas chose to believe in the boy.
So long as he remained as dedicated as he was proving to be, there was no reason he couldn't emerge on the other side victorious and live a fruitful, happy life when all was said and done.
(Break)
Hermione had never had friends before she'd attended Hogwarts. She'd always been different to the other children at her muggle school, and not because she was a witch.
Things had happened around her due to her magic, but being of what she considered to be a logical mind; they had been put down to mere coincidences.
Like the time Hattie Green, a girl who had bullied Hermione regularly, had ripped her shorts all the way to the crotch during a P.E lesson, or when Jason Glynn's nose had begun to bleed and wouldn't stop after he'd made fun of Hermione's teeth.
All merely coincidences, or so Hermione had thought.
When Professor McGonagall had paid her and her parents a visit, these occurrences seemed to have been bouts of accidental magic.
Magic.
Hermione had been dubious, to say the least, when what she was had been revealed. But having taken the chance offered, she had been proven wrong.
It had been an opportunity to perhaps reinvent herself, but deep-down Hermione knew there was no escaping her desire to read and learn all she could.
She was an academic at heart, a scholar who loved nothing more than the written word.
As such, Hogwarts had almost been just like her muggle school.
None of the other students seemed to like her much, except for Harry and Ron.
The latter still teased her, but he was no longer outright horrible to Hermione.
Harry never had been.
Although her start had been shaky at best, Hermione knew she had found a true friend in Harry, and she treasured the friendship they shared.
He was quiet and shy for the most, and sometimes didn't try his hardest when she knew he could do better, but he'd always been kind to Hermione.
"I still find them uncomfortable," her father murmured, eyeing the goblin who had taken away a considerable sum of her parents' muggle money to convert into wizarding currency. "There's just something about them."
"Wizards and goblins have been at war many times," Hermione informed him. "They don't like us very much."
"I can see that," her father muttered, accepting the bag of coins offered to him. "Come on, let's get out of here."
Hermione was only too happy to follow.
She had nothing against the goblins, but they were outright unfriendly to humans bordering on hostile.
"Where are we meeting your friends?"
"At Flourish and Blotts," Hermione explained. "It is a bookshop just along the alley."
"Of course it is," her father chuckled amusedly.
Hermione offered the man a grin as they made their way to where they would be meeting Harry and the Weasleys where she hoped she would finally learn what had been happening with the latter since the start of the summer.
For weeks, Hermione had heard nothing, and just when she was truly beginning to worry about Harry, she'd received a rather ominous note.
Ever since, he had been in touch regularly, though he had offered no explanation for his initial silence.
"What on earth is going on there?" her father questioned.
Hermione frowned at the fracas occurring outside of the bookshop, and her eyes widened as she saw the sign in the window.
Gilderoy Lockhart will be signing copies of his long-awaited autobiography: 'Magical Me' from 1pm today!
Quite the queue had formed in honour of the man's appearance, mostly consisting of women.
It wasn't difficult to see why.
The life-size cut-out of Lockhart depicted a rather handsome man sporting a cheeky smile.
"He has good teeth," Hermione's father commented and the girl rolled her eyes.
Being dentists, her parents always noticed someone's teeth before anything else.
"It looks as though some are a little too excited."
Hermione watched as a scuffle broke out in front of the shop between a blond and a redheaded man.
"Go on, Dad, chin him!" someone cheered and Hermione recognised the Weasley twins as several people poured out of the shop.
"Arthur, that is enough!" a firm voice sounded.
The two men untangled themselves, both breathing heavily and sporting minor wounds from the fight.
The blond said something that Hermione couldn't hear from where she stood, but he threw a book into a nearby cauldron before turning sharply and storming off.
It was then that she noticed who was following along.
Malfoy.
The man must have been his father, and despite the fact he had just been in a brawl he certainly had not won, the boy smirked at her.
"Filthy mudblood," he commented gleefully.
Hermione had tried to ignore the boy for the past year, but she could not deny that the slur still hurt whenever it was uttered.
She was as much a witch as he was a wizard, and yet, she knew there were those that would never accept her because her parents were muggles.
"Mudblood?" her father questioned, "what does that mean?"
(Break)
Harry didn't think he would ever get used to travelling by portkey, and Nicholas's laughter at his unsteady arrival didn't help. The man had simply bid him farewell before leaving him near Gringotts, chuckling as he headed towards one of the nearby alleyways.
"Git," Harry muttered as he took in his surroundings.
Seeing the shop he wished to visit above all others, he made his way up Diagon Alley.
Ever since he'd had the vision of Ignotus writing about a wizard's bond with their wand, he'd been keen to discuss the matter with Mr Ollivander in the hope he could understand the concept further.
Harry had kept up with his routine of cleaning and polishing it regularly, and was working on using it more, even for the most mundane of tasks.
The wand seemed to be happy with the attention it received, but Harry still wished to discuss the matter with an expert.
If there was anything else he could be doing to strengthen the bond, he would.
Entering the little shop, he was pleased to find it empty.
Evidently, Mr Ollivander did most of his business for the new influx of first years earlier in the summer.
"Ah, Mr Potter," the man greeted him, his gaze roaming over Harry speculatively. "I trust there is nothing amiss with your wand."
"No," Harry assured Ollivander with a smile. "I was hoping you could spare a few moments to discuss it?"
"To discuss it?"
Harry nodded as he removed it from his sleeve and offered the wand to its maker.
Ollivander accepted it with a smile and nodded appreciatively.
"It is a fine wand," he commented as he twirled it through his fingers. "You are taking very good care of it."
"I clean and polish it often."
"I can see that," Ollivander praised. "What is it you wished to discuss?"
"Well, I read that a bond between a wizard and their wand is important and strengthening it will make casting magic easier."
Ollivander's eyes widened in surprise.
"It is not often that many consider their relationship with their wand," he sighed. "To most, it is merely a tool and they are content that it simply works for them. The initial bond that is formed when the wand chooses a master will remain, but you are indeed correct, it can be strengthened considerably. Doing so offers the benefit of loyalty, the ability of the wand to understand your intent when casting, and even an increase in the smoothness with which the casting occurs. It is an unending undertaking mind, a lifetime of dedication to one another."
Harry nodded his understanding.
"So, the more I use it the stronger the bond will become."
"Yes," Ollivander agreed, "but there is more to it than that. You must understand your wand, Mr Potter, truly understand its nature and what will make it thrive."
"Now I'm confused," Harry replied with a frown.
"Take your wand for example," Ollivander suggested patiently. "The core is a phoenix feather, a creature of immortality and of fire. You have done a wonderful job caring for it, but what do you think would help it?"
Harry frowned thoughtfully for a moment.
"Keeping it warm?"
Ollivander's smile widened as he nodded.
"Exactly," he confirmed. "It must be kept warm magically."
"How?"
"Well, the best thing would be a holster made from either phoenix feathers or the skin of the bird. An impossible task, I'm afraid. Being immortal, phoenix skin simply does not exist, and they do not part with their feathers lightly. They must be gifted and that in itself is a rarity."
"So, I'd have to find an alternative?"
"Indeed. I may have just the thing," he revealed before heading into the back of the shop, returning a few moments later carrying a box.
"There are other magical creatures of fire that I believe your wand would be content with," he explained as he placed the box on the counter. "Now, it is usually serious duellists that use holsters, but I expect you will find it useful. Ah, here we are."
He removed several pieces of what appeared to be leather and placed them in front of Harry.
"Let us see which one it prefers, shall we?" Ollivander asked excitedly. "Place the wand in each one. I am sure it will let you know when it has found a holster it is happy with."
Harry took the first and placed the wand Ollivander returned inside.
"No," he murmured a moment later. "The wand doesn't seem to like that one."
"Then move on to the next," Ollivander urged.
Harry did so and repeated the process another four times before he felt the wand grow warm within a green holster.
"Interesting," the wandmaker commented when Harry nodded. "The Common Welsh Green."
"It feels right," Harry confirmed.
His wand was had certainly reacted positively to it.
Ollivander hummed.
"Well, it may merely be a coincidence, but if I remember correctly, the Potter family roots are deeply embedded in Welsh origins. Perhaps your wand recognises that and the skin itself does too."
Harry nodded.
The Peverells had been Welsh, which likely meant both sides of his Potter heritage had begun there.
"How much do I owe you?" he asked.
"Ah, that will be 2 galleons, Mr Potter."
Harry reached into his pocket and handed over the coins.
"You are doing a fine job with your wand," Ollivander praised. "Keep it up and it will serve you admirably."
"I will," Harry assured the man. "Thank you, Mr Ollivander."
With that, Harry took his leave from the shop as he attached the holster to his arm.
After a quick stop at Madam Malkin's, it was time to meet with the Weasleys and Hermione.
He'd already replenished his Potions ingredients over the summer whilst in France and purchased almost everything else he would need for the upcoming school year.
The required reading was all that remained, though as he approached Flourish and Blotts, he frowned at the large queue that had formed, and the heated exchange that had occurred at the front where he spotted Hermione.
"Filthy mudblood."
Malfoy.
Of course he wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut and felt even braver insulting Hermione in front of his father.
Removing his wand from the holster, he discreetly levelled it towards the smirking blond.
"Offendo," he whispered.
The burst of blue light was well-disguised by the throngs of people, but it hit its mark and Draco tripped, yelping in surprise as he slammed into the cobbled street.
Harry did his best not laugh as he approached the downed boy who was being stared at, most of the onlookers unable to hide their amusement so well.
"Get up, boy!" the man who Draco resembled uncannily hissed, tapping the pavement with the cane he carried irritably.
"How clumsy," Harry commented as he pulled Draco to his feet. "You should watch where you're walking. There we go. Oh, you've split your trousers."
"Get of me, Potter!" Malfoy snapped, flushing bright red.
"I was only trying to help," Harry replied, holding his hands up.
"I don't need your help!"
"How very rude," Harry commented, his gaze shifting towards Draco's father. "I would think a man of your father's calibre would have taught you some manners."
Turning away from the duo, Harry's face almost split in two from the grin that formed.
"Come, Draco!" he heard the man demand, and another yelp escaped the Slytherin as he was dragged away from the commotion.
"Hello, Hermione," Harry greeted his friend who had watched the entire scene unfold.
Immediately, the girl threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him.
"Thank you," she whispered gratefully.
"For what?"
Hermione stepped back and Harry rubbed his neck as she raised an eyebrow at him.
"I saw what you did."
"I have no idea what you are talking about," Harry denied. "Is this your father?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, but decided it let it go for now.
She would bring it up again though. Of that Harry had no doubt.
"It is," she confirmed as she gestured to the confused man standing behind her. "Dad, this is Harry."
The man simply shook his head before offering is hand politely.
"Dan Granger," he introduced himself. "Our Hermione speaks a lot about you, Harry."
"Not that much!" Hermione squeaked.
Her father chuckled and Harry accepted the proffered limb.
"It's nice to meet you, Mr Granger."
"What did that boy mean with that word?"
"Nothing," Hermione answered before Harry could. "Can we go and get our books now?"
Mr Granger frowned as he was all but pulled towards the shop by his daughter, followed by an amused Harry.
There was nothing in life more exciting than books to Hermione.
"Please, ladies and gentlemen, there is no need to push. Gilderoy has promised to stay and sign all of your books."
"I bet he has, the pompous prat," one of the Weasley twins commented. "Harry!"
"What's this all about?"
"Lockhart," the twin snorted. "All of the women have just about wet their knickers!"
"GEORGE! Do not be so disgusting," an irate woman who could only be his mother chastised.
"I'm Fred," the twin replied.
"Sorry, Fred."
The twin smirked as the woman turned away.
"Works every time," he said with a wink. "Where have you been? We tried to free you from your relatives earlier in the summer."
Ron had mentioned their efforts in one of his letters, much to the disbelief of Harry.
"It's a long story," Harry replied, beaming as he spotted Ron pushing through the crowd to greet him.
He did so by thumping Harry on the arm enthusiastically.
"It's mad in here," he huffed. "I've never seen so many witches in one place."
"Ah, if only you were a few years older, you'd appreciate it all the more," the other twin said whimsically as he joined them, eliciting a snort of amusement from Mr Granger.
"What does he mean?" Ron asked confusedly.
Harry shrugged and Hermione's cheeks had turned a little pink.
"Maybe we should just get our books," she suggested, trying to find her own way through the converged witches of magical Britain.
Again, Harry found himself following her, and just as he managed to obtain each of the volumes listed on his piece of parchment, he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder.
Looking up, he saw the wide, toothy grin belonging to the man who had written almost all of his required reading for the year.
Immediately, Harry did not like Gilderoy Lockhart, but before he knew it, he was being paraded in front of the entire gathering within the shop with the man holding onto him firmly.
When they realised who he was, they all began to gawp, and Harry understood what this was.
Lockhart was trying to use him for his own gain.
With a grin, Harry removed his wand once more and pointed it towards the man.
"Langlock," he whispered.
When Lockhart attempted to speak only a second later, his eyes widened as only an incoherent noise escaped him.
The crowd looked on confusedly and the man began to panic, grasping at his mouth, the noises he was making becoming rather desperate as he began flailing.
Harry took his opportunity to escape Lockhart's presence, and the few men who had been seemingly dragged into the shop began to laugh hysterically at the plight of the famed author.
"What a prat," one of the twins exclaimed gleefully. "Nice one, Harry."
"I didn't do anything," Harry denied, though he did a poor job at hiding his smirk.
"Do you think he'll be alright?" Hermione asked worriedly as the shopkeeper attempted to restore order.
"Who cares?" Ron snorted.
Harry was in full agreement with the redhead.
"Shall we get some ice cream?"
Ron's eyes immediately lit up as he nodded.
"Dad, can we go and get ice cream?"
Mr Weasley was rather amused by the ensuing chaos and simply nodded his consent.
Along with a thoroughly confused Mr Granger, Harry led Ron and Hermione from the shop and towards Florean Fortescue's. He remembered enjoying the offering Hagrid had brought him the previous year and was looking forward to experiencing it once more.
(Break)
Spending some time with his friends in London had done the boy some good. Since returning to France in the later afternoon, Harry had been in high spirits, just as any child should be.
Now, however, it was time to broach a topic Nicholas wished was avoidable.
Harry was doing very well with his studies and was being as diligent and dedicated as he would need to be over the coming years. The alchemist was pleased to see it, but unless he immediately began to truly understand what it was he faced, Nicholas feared Harry's efforts would be for nothing.
Clearing his throat, he removed a package from within his pocket and slid it across the kitchen table, eliciting a questioning look from both Harry and Perenelle.
"They are for you," Nicholas explained to Harry. "I acquired them today."
He watched as the boy unwrapped the sizable parcel, ignoring the look of alarm sent his way by his wife.
"Nicholas…" she protested.
He held up a hand to silence her.
Perenelle would not like this anymore than him, but it as a necessity for the path that lay ahead of Harry.
"A Comprehensive Guide to the Darkest of Dark Arts," Harry murmured, reading the first title of six books.
Nicholas nodded.
"It is an exceedingly rare tome," he explained. "I wish it did not have to be this way, Harry, but you will need to have an incredible understanding of that magic. Voldemort does, and he will use any and all weapons he can to ensure his victory."
Harry's expression immediately fell, the joy he felt from his outing all but evaporating immediately.
"Isn't this illegal?"
"Not illegal but heavily frowned upon," Nicholas pointed out. "I do not think it would be in your best interest if anyone outside of this house knows that you are in possession of such books."
Harry nodded his understanding.
"What do I do with them?"
"They are books, Harry, what else would you do with them?"
The boy offered Nicholas a weak smile.
"Should I learn them?"
"That will be your choice. You need never use the spells you may find within them, but it is absolutely necessary for you to know them, understand them, and learn how to defend yourself against them. Magic is just magic, Harry. It is neither good nor evil by nature, it is what you choose to do with it that makes it one or the other. Your actions will define you, but I would be remiss in my duties as someone who cares for you if I shielded you from this. Albus will not approve, but if you wish to live, then what you can learn from those books will go a long way in ensuring that. Do you understand?"
"I do," Harry whispered as he looked at the cover of each of the books Nicholas had acquired, some of which he was fortunate to happen upon.
"Good," Nicholas whispered as he reached across the table, his heart filling with sorrow.
Taking Harry's hand, he gave it a squeeze.
"Remember, your journey is your own, and you will have to make difficult decisions from time to time. I am not encouraging you to be like him, Harry, because I know you never would allow yourself to do so. I am merely providing a tool that you can use. My advice would be to study those books and make-up your own mind. Your enemies will one day be plenty and none will hesitate to cut you down by any means necessary."
It was guilt that filled the alchemist as the boy took his leave from the table, and as he often had over the six centuries they'd been together, he turned to his wife for solace.
"Did I do the right thing?" Nicholas whispered.
Perenelle nodded.
"It pains me to acknowledge it, but Harry must be prepared. Albus will not do what is necessary and it would be a shame to see Harry fall because no one gave him what he truly needed."
"Then why does it feel so wrong?"
"Because you are a good man, Nicholas, and Harry will one day thank you for it."
"I hope so," Nicholas replied, his gaze shifting towards the ceiling to where Harry was somewhere above them. "A chance. I'm giving him a fighting chance," he reminded himself.
(Break)
I feel it breathing down my neck.
Each day that passes, I grow weaker in mind and body.
My time to greet him will soon be upon me, and I cannot pretend that the very thought does not terrify me.
For our sins, my soul is damned, and Death will take no small amount of glee in claiming me. All that is left is to decide how I greet him.
I will not cower in fear.
I shall embrace him as an old friend and not the enemy he has proven to be.
Come Death, come…
Harry gazed into the looking glass, offering his reflection a smile.
He truly was old now, the colour in his eyes milky with age and the lines of his face deep.
His life had been much longer than that of his brothers, though not without the constant fear hanging over him.
"It is you again, isn't it," he whispered, his fingers brushing against the reflection. "I can feel you there, yet I know not who you are. You are like me, but also like Cadmus too. Perhaps it is you who is the destined one Death spoke of. I'm afraid my works are incomplete, but I have done all I can for you to understand the magic our line has been plagued with. You will come across my findings in the church where we summoned him so many decades ago now. If it is the will of Fate, you will find them. Live well and without fear of Death. All men must bow to his whims in the end."
Harry felt himself pulled from the void, deflated and flat from the vision he'd had.
However, instead of being returned to his bed, he found himself in one that did not belong to him, looking up at a younger man.
"Drink, Father," he urged, holding a goblet to Harry's lips.
Harry shook his head.
"No, I have had enough," he sighed. "I have drunk my last, my son."
"Don't say that! There's life in you yet."
Harry chuckled weakly.
"No, mine is all but done, but you have much to live for. I do wish I could have seen the birth of my grandchild, but I have every confidence in you."
Harry watched as a tear broke from and rolled down the younger man's cheek and he reached up, cupping it before wiping it away with his thumb.
"Do not weep, Gawain," he whispered. "I need you to listen. The tears can wait until I am gone, yes?"
The man nodded, a watery smile cresting his lips.
"You stupid man," he sighed.
"You have no idea," Harry murmured as he reached underneath his pillow and removed the cloak.
He looked upon it in a mixture of fondness and regret before presenting it to Gawain.
"This is a truly exceptional relic," he said seriously. "I need your word that you will keep it safe, and when the time is right, you will pass it to your own child. Promise me, Gawain!"
Gawain nodded confusedly.
"What is it?"
"My biggest mistake but most precious material possession," Harry murmured. "It is a cloak of true invisibility, gifted by a power I could not hope to understand. It will hide you from anyone, even Death himself," he added, glancing towards the door. "And now that I am no longer hidden, he has come for me."
And there it was, the very figure he and his brothers had summoned so many years prior, waiting for Ignotus Peverell to join him at long last.
"What are you talking about, Father?"
Harry waved him off.
"I would greet him on my feet, Gawain. Help me up. It is time I was reunited with your mother and my brothers."
Gawain was confused, but he took the hands in front of him and helped his father to his feet.
It took all of his strength, but Harry managed to shuffle towards the cloaked figure, turning before he reached him and offered Gawain a final smile.
"Despite everything I have done, you are my greatest achievement. Never forget that, my son."
As the cold grip of Death's hand closed over the shoulder of Ignotus Peverell, Harry felt himself pulled through the void once more, this time appearing on his bed in the Flamel home.
It was a sense of grief that washed over him, and confusion as he pondered what he'd witnessed.
There was no longer any denying that somehow, Ignotus Peverell had known he was there.
He'd even told Harry where he could find the book he had spent hour upon hour writing in.
Still, it was not that Harry was focusing on.
Ignotus Peverell was dead, and as with each loss of the man's siblings, he felt the weight of it as though he had just lost a close relative.
He swallowed deeply as he wiped away the tears.
Through Ignotus, he had experienced the joys and horror that life brought, and though his twelve-year-old mind struggled to understand much of it, the emotions he was experiencing now were very real.
However, if there was anything Harry had learned through the visions, other than some important lessons, it was that those that he held dear were to be treasured, and that he truly had missed out on so much by not having a family of his own.
Perhaps one day he would, but before that could be a possibility, he had a seemingly insurmountable task to overcome in the form of a Dark Lord that wished nothing more than to murder him.
Releasing a deep breath, his gaze shifted to the stack of books Nicholas had gifted him.
He'd thumbed through one of them briefly and had decided that he did not wish to have any part of them.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
If it would see him live and experience some of the joy Ignotus Peverell had, why should he not make use of them?
Voldemort would undoubtedly do his utmost to kill Harry, and the prospect of returning the favour was daunting, there was no escaping the truth.
If Harry wished to live to have his own share of joy in life, he would have to kill the man that murdered his parents.
Somehow, though as difficult as it seemed to be, he felt little guilt as he reached for one of the books and began to read, absorbing each and every word as he went.