Chapter 31 is out!

This is a much shorter chapter, akin to that of a novel more than one of this fic. I cut parts of it because the other POVs didn't really have anything to do with what was told here, and had I decided to write the chapter as I first planned, it would have taken me much more time to finish it; besides, it would have also been a quite long chapter. The good part is that I have a few thousand words already written in advance for the next two chapters.

The past month of May was the first month I didn't post a chapter, or so I think. Nothing happened to me, I was just living my best life. Even if it sounds stupid, I write more and better when I'm stressed or feeling not so good; yep, that's me.

Also, the second year will finish soon, even though there are many things to close and shit to be done. I never thought I will reach this far, but I'm certainly happy with my progress and the hobby I discovered. I'm gonna shut up now, so I hope you enjoy this little chapter!


Scala ad Caelum

Chapter 31: A woman dressed in white

Ashram POV

Saturday 17th April 1993 (North of Spain) - Early night

The hot soup steamed and its good smell poured into Ashram's nostrils, just as the many other scents that came from those tables around him. A few dozen people or so filled the tavern with their voices—some louder, others quieter; some he could understand, many he could not. He took a spoonful of his soup, enjoying the taste of the hot liquid and the bits of pork which added flavour to the dish.

Seated in front of him, across the round, wooden table with a red tablecloth over it, Peter did the same. "People are looking weirdly at us," he said in a timid whisper as his eyes scanned the whole place. "Do you think…?"

"Of course they would look at us in such a way," Ashram cut in. "Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? We look like vagabonds, and we probably smell as such." For the first time in his life, Ashram had grown a long beard; it was very annoying and did nothing but to make him look like a beggar. However, in these past months, they've had very little time to do anything but survive and continue their search for Lord Voldemort. Personal hygiene could wait a few more hours.

"Well, I'm well aware of that fact, and don't get me wrong, I can live like this if it means no one will cause any harm to us," Peter went on. "But why are we here, Ashram? We've been avoiding other people for months, especially…, well, since that old friend of yours betrayed us—I'm not saying it is your fault or something similar, of course, but… I'm surprised, that's all I mean."

Ashram gave his companion the hint of a smirk—Peter Pettigrew was nothing but a coward, but he certainly knew how to survive. For that, Ashram respected him; just a tiny bit, of course. "Your dear English friends have been quite busy lately," he started. "The Ministry and Dumbledore himself are neck deep in shite with that bussiness of the Chamber of Secrets, and so, those people who have tried to hunt us down for so long now can do nothing but to remain chained to their country."

Ashram eyed the tavern in an instant—it was a large establishment with dozens of tables, which were as packed as the bar was, over a floor made of wood planks. Yet no one sent them a single glance; not counting those sour stares because of how out of place they looked, of course. "Say, do you really think any random person would recognise you with a simple look? Our identities are safe here, Peter. Besides, this will be the only night we will rest under a warm roof. Tomorrow, we will go back to our old routine."

Peter took the plate to his mouth and drank the soup in one go as if he feared anyone would take it away from him. "Still," he said after gulping the soup down. "I don't like it."

A shame your opinion does not count in the making of my decisions, though. Just by sheer fortune, Ashram freed his companion a year and a half ago—all he had wanted were ears inside the Ministry, instead he put his hands onto a mine of gold. Peter Pettigrew was a spineless rat, but he was a man who should have been kissed by Dementors—another fatal end he had survived, one of many. Peter could and needed to become a wake-up signal to those followers of the Dark Lord who still hoped for his return. Not at that moment in which they were under a low profile, of course, but once Ashram found the Chosen One…

Oh, a new age would finally come by the hand of Lord Voldemort—an age of prosperity for the magical might!

Ashram raised his hand into the air to call the waitress, a pretty woman of big eyes who wore a white apron over her blue shirt. "Would you bring me a cup of wine, please?" Ashram asked the woman, trying to enunciate the words as best as he could for her to understand. She just nodded her head and left without uttering a single word.

A pair of wizards entered the tavern. Dressed with black robes and cloaks, they took a seat at the furthest table from the entrance and the closest to the bar. Peter's eyes quickly fell over them, a shade of terror clearly visible on them. "Fear not, my friend," Ashram sent him a funny look. "They are not looking for us."

"How can you know it?"

"They reek of amateurishness," Ashram sentenced after the waitress brought him the cup of wine; it was of a shade a bit darker than blood, with a great scent that made his throat thirsty. "Besides, if it comes to it, I will get rid of them." Although he did not mind getting his hands dirty, Ashram hated to spill magical blood; let it be pure, half or tarnished by the muggle one, a sin was a sin. If the need arises, who am I to shy away from what must be done? After all, it was his fate and duty to service Lord Voldemort, he who would restore the might of the Ancient Wizards.

"If you say so," Peter finally gave up. They fell into a comfortable silence—one drank his cup of wine as the other eyed all the faces around them. The Animagus opened and closed his mouth in a rapid succession a few times until he found the words. "I don't know if you've come to notice it, but… Someone has been following us for the past few days."

Ashram raised a brow to those words. He had indeed felt the said presence—in fact, very few things had troubled his mind in that week more than it did. "Last time we were tracked, when your friend Ivan and Severus Snape joined forces, it came out of nowhere; from one moment to another, I had a boot stepping on my neck," Peter continued, now looking at him eye to eye. "However, our pursuer hasn't tried to hide its intentions. Whoever it is, the bastard just follows and observes us from afar. They want us to know we are being watched. Do you think the red-haired woman who also fought against you is the one following us?"

Those were very justified doubts, indeed. Ashram hesitated a moment before answering. "No, I don't think so," the man let out a tired sigh. "Although both auras are really peculiar, that woman's magic felt different than the one of this pursuer. Honestly, I don't know a damn shit about who this individual could be." Memories of the last battle came to his mind—Ivan, Severus Snape and that mysterious woman had really driven him to his limits. Hell, he had needed Kadir's powers to escape alive. He shook those thoughts out of his mind. "I can only hope for whoever it is to not be our enemy."

Peter gulped down a bit of air; drops of sweat had started to damp his forehead. "I'm not sure if that's possible," the Animagus whimpered. "For us, there are only two sides, Ashram. We, who try to find the Dark Lord, and those who want us dead or imprisoned."

"Wise words those are, Peter, but I think you might be wrong. This presence has been following us for more than a week, and yet here we are, as alive and well as we can be—no other person came close to us, no one tried to attack us, and we did not spot any Auror or mercenary on our way to Spain. I say we wait and see what our fellow pursuer has in mind. Meanwhile, we must resume our search for the Chosen One." Ashram's word was law, and so, Peter compelled despite the grimace his face wore.

In the next two days, as they abandoned that magical settlement in search of the Dark Lord, the presence did not lose track of them for a single hour. On the third night, after sending away the Animagus with orders of scouting the area, Ashram patiently waited for the presence to meet him. The wizard sat on the ground, which was covered by a layer of fresh, green grass, with his back leaning onto a thick pine. The night was warm and cloudless, with a bright, full moon crowning the sky, so there was no need to light a fire—whoever was to come into the clearing, they would not go unnoticed.

Ashram felt Kadir's aura nearby; watchful and silent, like a bird of prey. The Essentia had adopted the appearance of a Dementor once again, of a deep-red colour that resembled blood itself. If he's around, we are invincible. However, Ashram was nervous. It didn't matter how many times he tried to tell himself otherwise. One mistake, that was all his ambitions and dreams needed to crumble. The Dark Lord was as weak as he had ever been, and hopefully as he would ever be—Lord Voldemort needed his help, and Ashram needed to answer the call.

If this pursuer of us turns out to be an enemy… He shook his head before the doubts could fully swarm his mind—it could not be an enemy. At least, whoever it was, their actions did not fit into the profile. Yet the wizard tightened the grip on his wand, still hidden under his black cloak.

Ashram waited and waited—the only audible sounds were those of insects and owls, which broke the night's silence. Finally, after almost an hour of great tension, a white gleam caught his eye. It came from the thicket, a place covered by the shadows. One step after the other, a hooded figure came into the clearing and under the moonlight. She wore dirty, white robes that reached down to the ground, and only her hands and the lower half of her face could be seen. The woman had a very pale skin, almost ghostly, but full and red lips which accentuated her sharp chin and round cheeks.

Even though Ashram felt no ill intentions from her, he still readied himself for battle if needed. Seated on the ground, he tensed his back; a gesture the mysterious woman ignored. She just walked forward, not uttering a single word.

Ashram felt a weird sensation coming from his Link—Kadir was…, nervous? Or maybe, tense was the most adequate word—after all, what on earth could disturb the Essentia? Much to his surprise, Ashram realised he had yet to exhale a breath. By the time he took a gulp of air, the woman dressed in white had just conjured a seat of leaves out of thin air.

He had not even considered the possibility of defending himself against a possible attack.

"Greetings, young wizard," the woman said with a silky voice. Half of her face remained covered under the white hood, but it couldn't have bothered him less—Ashram could not avert his eyes from her round lips as they moved with each word she uttered.

"Who are you?" Ashram asked, straight to the point. "What do you want from me?"

"Who am I?" The woman repeated. She sounded amused, he noted, but that was all the man could grasp. Her voice was just as ageless as it was emotionless, at least for him. "I have been known by many names—some forgotten and many I repudiated." Her stoic face was brightened by a faint smile; a gesture which stole the moonlight for itself. "Today, you can call me Helena."

"Helena," Ashram replied in a faint whisper. It was a beautiful name—a beautiful name that fit her looks, indeed. Dread fell over him the moment he realised his wand had been stored back in his robes' pockets. Ashram did not find any reason to unsheath it, and so ignored that moment of fear. "What do you want from me, Helena? Why have you been following me for so long?" He paused for a moment, until the right question came to him. "Are you an enemy?"

"I am not your enemy, certainly," Helena answered. "In fact, I must say I am quite interested in you and the path you have taken, wizard."

Amidst the conversation, the noise from the owls and insects had been extinguished. Now it was just the two of them. "And which it's the path I have taken, If I may know?"

"The one that serves Magic the most, I believe."

Silence enveloped them. For the first time since she introduced herself, Ashram managed to get a strong hold of his wand—just to flick it between his fingers again and again. He tried to meet her eyes, but they remained covered. The wizard raised his gaze and saw the few butterflies which were flying around the woman. "You, wizard, are in search of the Dark One," Helena stated. "Many have tried before you. Some came in his aid and others tried to end him when he was at his weakest. Though none succeeded. None but me."

Those words took a few seconds to be processed by his mind. Then, Ashram stood up from the ground with a surprised jump. His wand appeared in his hand, and it was pointed at the woman. "Who are you, Helena?" Ashram questioned with a cold voice. "Answer me. Truthfully, this time."

She got up and her hood was put away by a streak of wind, revealing a curtain of blak hair. A calm smile and some bright, green eyes stared back at him—eyes circled by each painting, of a black tonality, that resembled the round leaves of some unknown tree. Like her voice, it was an ageless face—but hell if it wasn't gorgeous! "The answer to that question will depend on whom you ask about it," Helena said. "For many, I am nothing but a regular woman. For others, I am an enemy, just as I am a saviour for those who oppose them. For you, I can be a precious ally. And for myself… Since the moment I was born, I have always considered myself as a slave—and freedom is all a slave should seek."

Her words were carried away by the wind, and just like it happened when Helena revealed her presence, Ashram felt at ease with her. Safe from any harm that might have threatened him in the past days. "You must take a decision, wizard," the woman said as she walked away from him, towards the end of the clearing. Ashram yearned to see her face again, but it was her voice that captured him instead. "If you want to find the Dark One, you must come in my search. The one who is known as Lord Voldemort shall be reborn for the balance to be restored. He shall come to life again for me and my people to be free once and for all."

Helena was enveloped by the thicket and the shadows.

That night, Ashram had trouble finding rest; it didn't matter how tired he was. All he could think about was that woman. Helena was her name, if she had not lied about it. Who was she? Who were her people? He could not find an answer to those questions, even though the wizard tried and tried. Finally, sleep found him. And so did the dreams.

Dreams about her—dreams about the Dark Lord, too. Peter and Ashram himself were also there, around Lord Voldemort and by Helena's side. The three of them acted like three tall columns of light which circled a snake made of black smoke. The Chosen One needed them all in equal measure, now he knew it. They had a role to fulfil; one of great importance for the world to change. For the world to become a better place for the magical race.

Then it all changed and Ashram found himself in a world made of pure light. He stood there, speechless and frozen, as his eyes tried to catch a glimpse of what could be found at the far horizon, if there was something to see. Suddenly, a black mist was formed around him. At first, it did not go past his ankle's height, but, bit by bit, centimetre by centimetre, it started to raise. The mist circled him, banishing the world of light, and many images were formed on it—some he recognised, while others did not make any sense.

A snake coiled itself around a tall tree that started to bleed—or maybe, it cried—golden sap from its log and the thousand of branches it had. Other silhouettes came to its aid—a thunderbird, a phoenix, a lion and a deer. Many more followed them, but those he could not recognise; much littler in shape and importance. All the figures attacked the snake, which cried and roared in equal pain and fury. Until a dragon descended from above as it let out a thunderous roar which dispelled all the silhouettes of mist; a growl that sent shivers down Ashram's spine—it was a roar of freedom, of that he was sure.

The mist banished, and so did the world of light.

Ashram opened his eyes to observe a majestic castle. The wizard had never been there, but he knew very well what place it was: Hogwarts, the pride of magical England. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Until the black mist appeared once again; could it be following him? It poured from every window and between the bricks and stones that formed its structure. Hogwarts bled mist. Chunks of the castle started to fall around his figure—close enough to startle him, but none came to graze his body.

The black mist condensed in front of the wizard. It took the form of a grey wolf with red eyes and sharp, black fangs; a wolf almost as big as the castle itself. When the wolf spoke, the world rumbled to the sound of a familiar voice. "You must find the Dark One." It was Helena's voice, loud and clear, that told him what to do. "You must remain by his side for the forthcoming future, for those who oppose him will not falter in their efforts to end his fate. At his weakest hours and at the pinnacle of his power, you must remain by his side, or else he will know defeat."

The voice went away as the mist banished. Ashram now laid in the soft grass of a forest. It took him an entire minute to realise this was not a dream. No, he was back in the real world. The wolf… It felt so mighty and powerful. His thoughts were put aside as soon as he realised something was off—Peter wasn't snoring as he always did.

Ashram quickly turned his head to look at the Animagus, who stared back at him with haunted eyes. "You also dreamt tonight, didn't you?" Peter asked in a hoarse voice. His lip trembled a little, but he managed to contain his fear; as best as he could, at least. "I felt you there. Don't ask me why and how, but I did. You were by my side as those creatures attacked the snake." A guttural sound came from his throat, but Ashram had no problem understanding the words that came next. "The snake… It was the Dark Lord, right? We were those pillars of light, right? We… We must do something… Who was the third presence I felt, Ashram?"

Ashram stood up without answering. His eyes looked upwards, to the blue sky the dawn had just brought. "That, my friend, is something I plan to know very soon," the wizard threw his knapsack over his shoulders. "Get up and get ready to move. We won't eat breakfast today."


Ashram walked through the streets of that wizarding settlement with an iron resolution. His eyes scanned face after face, thing after thing; so far, it all had been pointless, but it needed to be done. By his side, he could hear Peter muttering words of amazement under his breath. He could totally understand why.

For the Animagus, a man who had never ventured outside of England, back when he wasn't the most searched individual in the said country, contemplating those colourful and lively streets and plazas of Spain should have been truly an experience. Although Diagon Alley and the rest of the districts which formed Wizarding London were one of the most developed and fascinating centres of population in the world, they lacked…, spirit, that would be the most adequate word.

Under his feet, an uphill road of cobblestone led them through the settlement. Both to the right and left, many shops, restaurants and even some little motels attracted people in equal measure—it was a hard feat to accomplish, but none of them had been made with the same materials or even the same colours. Some had a white facade and a roof made of black tiles, like the tavern situated at the crossroad. Laughter came from a tea shop with a blue front and large windows decorated by green paintings of different kinds of plants. Ashram tried to ignore it, but the delightful scent of tobacco poured into his nostrils; with an upwards look, he realised many residents were smoking on the little terraces of the houses, their pipes filling the streets with a nice scent.

A group of kids played a game with a round ball and their feet—it was called football, if he recalled correctly, a muggle game in which players needed to introduce the ball through an arc; how could people be so simple?Ashram wondered for the thousandth time; how could they down themselves to play such a pathetic game?. The ball came in his direction, but Ashram just ignored it. Where the hell is that woman? The trace gets much weaker here. Helena had clearly led them to this little town, like a game of tag; a game in which they could do nothing but walk blindly.

One of the kids shouted something at the two wizards—probably, asking them to pass him the ball back. Ashram just went on with Peter walking a few steps behind him. Come on, bloody woman, I don't have much time to spare in your silly games. That very morning, news from England had reached his ears. Albus Dumbledore had put an end to the Chamber of Secrets. Hogwarts was a safe place once again. It was just a matter of time for that old man and those bastards from the Ministry to pursue him and Peter again like the filthy hounds they were.

From the corner of his eye, he appreciated a crowd near the crossroad—then he felt the wave of magic. By sheer instinct, Ashram prepared himself for the worst, but thankfully, his mind quickly took the control back. This was a wizarding settlement, of course there would be strong sources of magic everywhere. "Follow me," he just told Peter. The Animagus sent his companion a weird look, but trailed after him either way.

Entering the crowd, Ashram used his shoulders to shove a few locals out of his way; they cursed at him in whispers, but they also were clever enough to stop at that point. At the door of the tavern of white facade and black tiles, there was a black wizard who wore very extravagant robes—of a brilliant, red colour, some trousers covered the man's legs, while his open torso was partially covered by a blue, sleeveless jacket with golden, undone buttons. What the hell?

The wizard moved his hands as if drawing invisible paintings in the air, followed by thin jets of fire. "No hay misterio más grande que el origen de nuestra historia," he said with a big smile on his face, eyeing all the faces in the crowd one by one. "There is no greater mystery than the origin of our history." With a sound clap, the fire danced and formed a round sphere—soon enough, some parts of it started to change colour. Most of the flames adopted a blue tonality, while others took the green—it was the planet Earth, Ashram realised. Each time the man opened his mouth, he spoke in Spanish, just to translate it to English a few seconds later. "Many scholars think Magic existed before us, while only a few believe we came prior to it—those who think Magic was a creation of us, humans! Can you believe it?"

"Because I do," he sentenced with a dramatic pause. The melody of a flute enveloped the crowd—above them, at one of the tavern's balconies, a young woman of similar appearance to the man's played the instrument with great mastery. It was a slow melody; slow but seductive. "I believe in Magic, the God and Goddess, for it had no sex, our ancestors from the Ancient Times worshipped! I believe in Magic, our cure and salvation, but also our curse!" The flames morphed again—this time a faceless silhouette was born, and from it came two more. Of white flames, a human with long hair, and of red flames, a creature with four wings, six arms and two eyes. "Magic was fair and just, and also loved this world."

The melody's pace increased—to its sound, countless figures of fire, smaller than those created before them, were born of the one called Magic, just as many as the colours used in the flames that gave life to them. "Many races were created with the sole purpose of increasing the beauty and diversity of our planet—like us, the magical race; like those who form the muggle world; like the Allidasep, that are long gone… But Magic, due to its human nature, was also stupid, for it did not understand we all could not live in peace. Power has always been the sweetest of the nectars, and we all want to drink it—the more we delight ourselves in it, the more it poisons us." All the figures condensed in front of the wizard, who looked at the round fireball with sad eyes. He flicked his fingers, and it exploded in a rain of flaming colours—only two silhouettes remained; the faceless human and the winged monster.

"For years and years, we all killed each other," the wizard continued. The melody got slower, adapting to the man's voice. "Many races perished, and with them died their achievements and traditions. Only the strongest, only those who tarnished their souls the most, survived. And they, my friends, were our ancestors—our ancestors and the Allidasep, that were, later, wiped out." The man's eyes glistened with tears. He paused for a moment, and no one dared to break the silence. "Magic, overwhelmed by the greatest suffering and guilt imaginable—emotions so strong that we can't even comprehend—took the decision to abandon us. Its actions, its desire of creating more life, had done nothing but spill countless amounts of blood. And so, it left us alone with its blessing; magic as we know it. Its blessing and its curse."

The wizard bowed as a weak streak of wind carried the flames away. People started to throw money at him, over the little cap which had been placed in front of the man; knuts, sickles and galleons were given to him, but so were other kinds of currency Ashram had never used. It had been a good story and a much better show, that was an understatement. The things that man had said, even though they differed from those Ashram believed, had plenty of truth; way more than those of a simple story to earn a few coins.

Magic wasn't human. No, although it was bound to their nature, it was way superior to them—even to those who could be considered as chosen beings, like Lord Voldemort was. However, the storyteller had been right on one thing: Magic was gone, and it was their duty as the magical race—the superior race—to bring it back so they could prosper. Just like the wizards and witches from the Ancient Times did, who died in the name of Magic; to make it greater, to make themselves more powerful.

"Come one, we need to go," Ashram said as he turned back, not bothering to wait for Peter's answer. In another occasion, if he wasn't a convict, he would have given a galleon to that wizard, but in these tough days which loomed over Ashram, he needed as much money as he could get.

"To where, Ashram?" Peter asked with a huff as soon as he caught up with him. "There is no trace of that woman you told me about! We've been looking for an entire day, and we are as lost as we started. Honesty, I'm not saying you made her up—you know I'd never question you—but this is starting to become such a waste of time. Dumbledore will be onto us in no time at all! We should get out of this population, where we might get recognised by anyone."

Ashram turned back with the speed of lighting. His eyes were the only weapon he needed to tame a coward like Peter Pettigrew—it only took a second for the Animagus to lower his head as his body trembled a bit. "Know your place, you pathetic excuse of a wizard," Ashram hissed. He could feel the rage boiling inside of him, even though it was more of a light anger—after all, it was all a little man like Peter could cause to him, a wizard fated to save Magic. "You've grown quite confident lately. Make no mistake here, Peter. I need you, and I'm sure you will be important for the future, but you still have many debts to settle—not to me, but to the Dark Lord we both serve."

Peter whimpered like the rat he was, and just when Ashram was about to turn around, the Animagus raised his head. Suddenly, his eyes didn't look troubled; it was surprise that they showed. "I can feel it now," he whispered, so low that Ashram almost missed it. "A presence has just appeared!" Their gazes met but no words were uttered. Out of the blue, Peter started to walk; past his companion and onwards, the little man ignored the pair of eyes that settled over his frame. "The voice… It is calling me."

Ashram just took a hold of his wand before following Peter—Helena's aura felt way feebler to him, another trick of hers, probably. Despite all the doubts and questions the wizard had, at that moment there was nothing he wanted more to do than strangling that mysterious woman. How did she dare to play so many tricks on him? If she wanted to help the Dark Lord as her words swore, what was the point of that silly game of hide and seek?

They abandoned the crossroad, entering a narrow street with much less people circulating through it—still, there was a little group of old men playing some game of cards at the only establishment opened. Seated over some scratched stools with a carton box in the middle, only one of them turned around to send the pair or wizards a sour look. The Red Bull, could be read on the sign above the wooden, old door. This must be the third rate tavern of this town, while the other one was the richer. The windows were very dirty, but a few full tables could be seen through it—dirtier and nastier, those kinds of places always attracted very specific groups of people, and their owners knew it very well.

Peter went past it, not even sparing a single glance to the place nor to those who played by the door's side. Soon enough, he reached the end of the tavern, where a much dirtier and narrower passage was born; a back alley. "This way," the Animagus muttered. "It's calling me, Ashram. Oh, her voice is so sweet…"

Indeed it was; Ashram could vouch for that statement. Still, Helena was a complete mystery to him, and the wizard was sure there were far too many things about her he ignored. Despite her words from the previous day, she was not an ordinary woman. Kadir, are you there? He could not communicate with the Essentia like that, talking through their minds, but it was more of a silly fixation. However, there certainly was a special connection between the two of them—a Link, he called it—that could be used to transmit emotions and simple signals. In less than a second, the answer came—the Essentia was ready; out of sight, but close and ready.

Ashram realised a bit too late that Peter had already entered the dark alley. Focus, you fool. Wand ready at hand, the wizard followed his companion. The passage was so narrow his shoulders made contact with both the walls at his side; the one of the tavern and the one of a block. Each time his feet touched the ground, something cracked; were those cockroaches? Finally, Peter came to a halt, and so did Ashram after him. "What's the matter?" He asked.

"Here," Peter said as he pointed at something in front of him.

It was so dark that Ashram had completely missed the door in front of them—of a wood darkened by dampness and dirt, the door could barely be seen, even with the sun brighting like a candle atop of the sky. "Open it," he commanded. "Let's end this stupid game for good."

Peter gulped, but he didn't hesitate; he did as told and the door was opened with a loud squeal. "Lumos," the Animagus muttered. Guided by the brightened point of his wand, they went downstairs. The wooden steps cracked as the two wizards put their weight onto them. The faint light allowed Ashram to observe the place. A way down, almost as narrow as the passage had been, welcomed them, but much stinkier and dirtier, if that was even possible. The curved ceiling above them was made of grey stone, with hundreds of damp stains.

Finally, after more than a dozen steps, they reached the basement. There were cobwebs everywhere; on the barrels, covering the corners… Hell, even the bloody rats might have been wearing cobweb tunics. Ashram looked around as Peter let out a disgusted huff. Everything looked to be in order. And Helena wasn't there; nor could he feel her aura anymore.

He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the basement had disappeared. His legs moved by themselves, completely ignoring his shock, carrying his weight through a large and illuminated corridor—with bright torches of flaming lights and elegant walls of reddish stone, that place had nothing to do with that hellish tavern. His brain felt way slower than usual, and probably because of that, it took him a few seconds to identify that location. Koldovstoretz. The school he attended as a child.

The hell is happening here? Despite his confusion, it felt so natural to be there—somehow, it was the correct place and moment to be. A few voices could be heard from far away, too blurry to make up whatever they said. His head turned around, and there he found his friends: Ivan, Irina, Pollina and Alec walked by his side, chatting and laughing like any other day. "Did you hear the news about this new dark lord?" Those words came out of Ashram's mouth before he could even think of them.

The good mood died in a matter of seconds. "Here we go again," Irina groaned. Had her face been so round and pretty? And her hair so golden? Ashram could not remember. "Every time a mere rumour appears, you are the first one to spread it."

"Come on, mate, knock it off," Ivan sighed. He looked exactly as Ashram remembered—however, for a fickle instant, his face was replaced with that of the man he killed not long ago. With that of the man who betrayed his friend. Good riddance. He had the talent to travel the same path as mine, but he lacked the spirit to reach glory. "No serious dark wizard will come in the near future. Not after what happened to Gellert Grindelwald—if he couldn't take over the world, who else will?"

"I'm telling you," Ashram repeated. How could they not understand the power and might of Lord Voldemort? How could they not understand he was the key to a new, better world? "From what I've heard, the British Ministry is very, very scared of this wizard. He is known as Lord Voldemort; pretty cool name, if you were to ask me."

Suddenly, Alec shushed them both into silence. With a calm stride, a man dressed in a full tunic of half black and half white colours strode past them. With their faces hidden under the cloth of the tunic, the guardians of Koldovstoretz patrolled the castle on a daily basis—with the current Headmaster, it was well known which topics were or weren't appropriate for the students to talk about. Unfortunately, the raising of a new dark wizard wasn't in the good list.

Ashram sighed in relief, and just when he was about to thank his friend, Ivan grabbed him by the neck of his robes. His body impacted the wall with force; the air was pulled out of his lungs with a sudden exhalation. "You need to be way more careful, you fucker," Ivan hissed, his eyes almost as red as his face. This was a memory Ashram could not identify. "Just one slip. That's all we need to be expelled! Hell, they could even put us in jail! You better keep those stupid dreams of glory for yourself, Artem, or else, I swear I will kill you."

At that moment, Ashram noticed there wasn't anyone else in the corridor—it was just Ivan and himself. His friend's grasp softened a bit, just as his eyes and facial gesture did. "Come on, mate," Ivan almost pleaded, a few tears starting to gather in his blue eyes. "You need to start thinking with that head of yours. Don't you realise that your dreams will end our group? We've known each other for seven years! Is this what you want?"

Was that what Ashram wanted? I want to help the Dark Lord. Then he will restore magic's might as it was during the Ancient Times. He had yet to answer the question, but Ivan tightened the grip on his robes once again. "What I want is…" His hands no longer held Ashram by the neck of his tunic—now they took a hold of his neck, taking the oxygen away from him. "What I want is to make magic mighty and great again."

Ashram raised his arm, barely grazing Ivan's neck with the tip of his wand. A river of blood fell over him as the body of his friend fell to the reddish floor. There even was blood in his eyes; the world looked way different when looked across a red curtain. He had killed a friend for a second time—he had killed Ivan Dolgov for a second time. The screams and shouts didn't take long to be heard—Alec, Irina and Pollina now stood in front of him once again. Their faces showed nothing but the utmost fear and revulsion. "Murderer!" They screamed time after time—they called him traitor, also. Not bothering to look at his former friends, Ashram went past them.

Suddenly, the reddish and faultless corridors of Koldovstoretz were replaced by a very familiar place—a place he had tried to erase from his mind many times. The scent of flowers almost made him vomit, yet it greatly paled when compared to the face of the person who stood in front of him. "Mother," Ashram said. This time, those had been his words; uttered under his will and not due to the trance he was immersed. Wait, am I in a trance? Really? Those big eyes of the woman who gave birth to him showed pure happiness.

"Oh, my boy, you came back," she said in a whisper. At the same time, she enveloped him in a tight embrace. It was the warmest Ashram had felt in years. Unconsciously, he returned it. "I warned you about it, didn't I? The world is a dangerous place, and we must stick to those we love so we can all protect each other." She rubbed his back in a comforting way. "I knew you would not leave me alone like your father did. Oh, I was so sure of it…"

My father? Indeed, he had a father—a man whose face Ashram had never seen. He could remember very well how his mother used to talk about him—a great man, he was. A kind and generous person who was killed by a filthy werewolf; the leader of a pack that was later exterminated by him as soon as he graduated. Oh, now he remembered it all. All the times his mother had pleaded him to not abandon her, begging Ashram to drop his delirium of vengeance… His eyes looked down, to that face hidden under a cascade of black hair. Her perfume poured into his nostrils. Her voice tried to tie him to a place he swore to never return.

Is this what I want? No, it was not. I abandoned this life many years ago. This is the life of a lesser man. The life of Artem Ganeev. Not mine. Ashram pulled his mother away from him; softly, but with a grip of steel on her shoulders. "I have to go," he just said while turning around.

"No…" she muttered. "No, please… Don't leave me alone! Please. I beg you! Don't abandon me like your father did… NO!"

Her cries reached his ears—oh, they sure did. Yet Ashram kept moving forward; step after step until he reached the exit door. A voice inside his head told him to turn back one last time, but he ignored it. Had he done that, he, maybe, wouldn't have been able to leave his mother behind a second time. The door was opened, and the brightness of his old home disappeared. His eyes needed a few seconds to get used to the penumbra, but as soon as they did, Ashram realised he was back at the filthy basement.

Moreover, Helena was also there.

The woman, who sat over a barrel at the other end of the basement, wore the same white robes as she did when they first met, even though her hood was not covering her beautiful face this time. She welcomed him with a bright smile. Over her lap and covered by her two hands, a golden sphere rested; the artefact had many white lines carved into its surface, which also glowed. It emitted a faint, golden gleam, way superior to the white one from its lines. Around Helena, a dozen little spiders ran away from her in every direction—whether it was because of her aura or that golden artefact was something he ignored. "Congratulations, Ashram the wizard, you have proven yourself to be a worthy ally," Helena almost sang with that melodic voice of hers.

The awe Ashram felt just by looking at her was slowly replaced by rage. You say that after playing with me so much? After this last trick of yours? He could still hear his mother's voice—they echoed around, just like Ivan's gurgling as the blood came out of his sliced neck. His legs trembled, but the man didn't know if it was because of his rage or due to those two nightmares he had just experienced.

Helena ignored his gaze and the way his wand was flicked between his fingers. "Congratulations, Peter Pettigrew, you have proven yourself to be a worthy ally," she repeated. Ashram followed her eyes, and there he found Peter, kneeling on the cold floor with a pool of vomit around him.

The man's breath came out raggedly—he didn't look to have enough strength to stand up. "You…" He muttered as his eyes raised to meet hers. "What have you done to me, monster? I… I-I saw them again. It felt so real… Oh, it hurt so much."

"I needed to test your willpower," Helena replied. For a fickle instant, her green eyes had just gleamed in the darkness of the room—Ashram had a feeling she did not care whether he had acknowledged it or not. At that moment, the woman looked giddy enough to shame any silly girl who had just received her first kiss from the boy she liked. "Now I can really trust you two."

Even though a strong feeling told him to not take any stupid actions, Ashram still raised his wand to point it at Helena. "Why do you need to trust us, woman?" He asked—better said, he threatened. "Answer me! Who are you? What the hell have you done to us?"

"Who am I?" Helena repeated the question. "That is quite simple to answer. Like you, I am just another humble servant of the Dark One. And now that I know you two are worthy of serving him, I will take you to him." She stood up from the barrel she was sitting at. Her long dress-tunic fell in waves to the floor until it covered every inch of her skin. Those piercing eyes of hers had lost its giddiness, replaced by a cold seriousness. "If you want to meet your Lord, all you need to do is trust me." As those last words echoed around, barely whispers, Helena extended both of her hands forward—the golden sphere was nowhere to be seen.

Ashram doubted—hell if he doubted. He had been searching for the Dark Lord for month after month without finding a single trace of him. A weaker man would have already walked back home, but he needed to be successful. Do I trust her? She's like nothing I've ever encountered; dangerous and unknown. The night of dreams she had caused him… Those fucking visions he had just experienced… It was all her fault, of that he was sure. Do I roll the dice here? Ashram hated the concept of luck with all his soul; to him, it was bullshit. A man always got the result of his efforts, and fortune could only say so little about it.

But, maybe, had it been his efforts finally rewarded? Could Helena be the solution to his problems? After all, he had these very same dilemmas when he first met Kadir. Back then, Ashram chose to trust. It turned out to be the best decision he had ever taken. What should I do? Fucking hell, I knew this was a tough path, but… Suddenly, Kadir's presence appeared nearby. The wizard did not need to turn around to see his frame of Dementor; the aura of the Essentia was like a beacon to him.

"Do not trust this woman, but you must follow her," Kadir's voice echoed around, even though only Ashram could hear it. "Fate has this bad habit of throwing stone after stone in the path of those destined for greatness. This could be the biggest boulder we have ever found, but who knows what we will obtain once we crush it to dust? Not me, certainly." Ashram felt the Essentia's aura envelop him. It was a warm sensation, but not nearly as good as his mother's hug had felt—it was more of a warmness fueled by raw pursuance and ambition. "Accept her proposal. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here. Together, we will crush every obstacle into dust, then we will reap the rewards."

Ashram sheathed his wand without a second thought. First, he looked at Peter, who stared back at him with open eyes and mouth. Then he turned in Helena's direction. There it was, that arrogant smile brightened her face once again. Ashram just took her hand—much to his surprise, it was ice cold.

"You have made the correct choice," Helena whispered into their ears once Peter grabbed her other hand. "The Dark One awaits us."

The familiar feeling of Apparition enveloped him, and the world started to spiral. The dice have been rolled. Let's hope it was a good throw. Just like that, the basement disappeared—the next time Ashram opened them, the Dark Lord had to be in front of him. That had been his bet.