P*T*E*N Page is up and running, slightly ahead of FFN and AO3. This pace will change to significantly ahead of FFN/AO3 once we reach the next hiatus point (at the end of the Durmstrang Arc). Visit P*T*E*N / 521dream if interested. Posted stories include A Flaw in Fate and Sacred Sight (A King's Path Rewrite/Remaster).

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The next chapter will be published the Saturday after next.


Harry Potter: A Flaw in Fate

The Desolations of Destiny

XV. Godric's Hallows

Harry tore through the hall, sprinting up a set of stairs and down a corridor to the left. A lone door sat at the hallway's end, taunting him like voices in the night.

"Tempus," he panted, waving his wand wildly. He sighed with relief upon inspecting the ghostly numbers.

Only a few minutes over.

He strode toward the door, fixing his collar the best he could. Harry caught his reflection in a window on his left. Tired bags sat beneath his eyes, and his hair was even more of a mess than usual.

I need to look presentable.

His skin brightened. Harry watched as his appearance shifted ever so slightly into something more presentable, doing his best to ignore the familiar aching of his chest. He straightened his robes carefully, coming to a stop only when his fingers got caught on something shoved within his robes' pocket. He removed it carefully.

Two graves stared up at him. Harry fought to keep his expression still.

Doesn't matter. You got over them a long time ago.

Harry shoved the picture back into his pocket, pulling the wooden door open with a mighty swing.

"You're late," Karkaroff noted as he stepped inside, "A poor choice from one representing their school."

Harry scowled.

"I had a hard time falling asleep," he muttered irritably.

I imagine hanging around Kalddød until six in the morning does that to people.

"Restlessness is a common pest, Harry," Dumbledore smiled from the other side of the room, "Your plight has plagued us all."

Harry nodded, stepping toward the other champions. He ignored the speculative look Gabrielle sent his way.

"Now then," Professor Dumbledore began, stepping forward, "The Wand Weighing Ceremony has always been a more private occasion. Our wands are, after all, quite intimate, as I'm sure Mr. Gregorovitch would agree."

"I would indeed," an old man croaked by the mantle. Harry watched as he slowly limped forward, drinking in his pale features.

"For those of you who may not know, my name is Mykew Gregorovitch," the man said slowly, "I worked as a wandmaker for many decades. Though I retired only a few years ago, I felt it prudent to re-enter the fold, so to speak, and ensure that your wands are all in working condition. Enough of that, though, enough of that . . . Mr. Krum, if you would?"

Victor Krum slouched forward, holding out his wand. Gregorovitch examined it carefully.

"One of mine," he smiled faintly, "Hornbeam and Dragon Heartstring, quite rigid. A master of Transfiguration, should its partner prove equally proficient. It is clear to me that you are that and more."

Something akin to pride flickered in Krum's eyes as he swayed back and forth. Gregorovitch tapped the wand against his thigh.

"Do you still remember the day your wand found you?" the man asked curiously, "I know I certainly do."

Krum nodded.

"I was one of your very last," Krum said slowly, "I visited on the last day your shop remained open."

"And? How did it feel?"

"Wonderful. Like soaring through the clouds."

"You would know, I've no doubt about that," Gregorovitch grinned, "I'll just have to take your word for it."

"You have never flown?" Krum frowned. Harry could almost hear the disappointment in his voice.

"I do my best to avoid it," the wandmaker admitted casually. He turned the wand around again, "Even in old age I remain wary of the fate of Icarus. Some things are not meant to be possible."

Gregorovitch held the wand up in the air, his lips parting.

"Avis!"

A bird burst from the tip of Krum's wand. They watched as it soared through a window and out of sight.

"Good, very good!" Gregorovitch clapped appreciatively, handing the wand back to Krum, "Miss Delacour, if you would?"

Gabrielle nodded politely, stepping forward. She carefully presented her own wand, a long thin instrument of ivory.

"A rather unique wand," said Gregorovitch curiously, "Aspen wood, unless I'm mistaken. And a rather unusual core . . . the hairs of a Veela?"

"My grandmother's," Gabrielle whispered. Gregorovitch nodded slowly.

"A powerful wand, no doubt," he decided, "But not yet sure what to make of itself. Aggressive yet uncertain . . ."

Gabrielle shifted uncomfortably. Her hands tapped nervously at her side, clearly prepared to snatch her wand back the moment the opportunity arose.

"So very different from your father's," Gregorovitch mumbled thoughtfully, "I made his, you know . . . your grandfather insisted on it. Brought him all the way up to Scandinavia for it."

"I know. My father told me, once."

"Did he tell you what his wand was like?" Gregorovitch asked, leaning closer. Gabrielle slowly shook her head.

"His was strong but firm. Controlled. The perfect wand for a Delacour, the dirigeants de la rébellion. Your grandfather was very pleased."

"And mine?" Gabrielle frowned.

"Different. Very, very different."

The wandmaker held the wand up to his closed eyes, nearly rubbing it over his long, thin nose.

"So very powerful - eclipsing even your father. But she's lost. Stumbling blind, holding onto the wall of the maze in the desperate hope of finding the way out . . ."

He took a deep breath, opening his eyes once more. The wandmaker smiled at the confusion in Gabrielle's expression.

"Life is short, you know," Gregorovitch warned, "Take it from me. We all step into the unknown eventually . . . the only difference is how much time we waste wallowing in the dark."

He rolled the wand through his fingers, closing his eyes.

"Incendio."

Flames sputtered into existence, basking the room in waves of glowing blue light. Gregorovitch handed the wand back with a smile.

"In perfect working order, as expected."

Gabrielle snatched back her wand with an expression of utmost politeness. Gregorovitch turned once more.

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry stepped forward, carefully handing out his wand. The wandmaker palmed it eagerly.

"Another bird feather core," the wandmaker exclaimed, holding it up to his eyes, "A phoenix, too. This is one of Garrick's works, no doubt."

"How could you tell?" Harry asked curiously.

"No other wandmaker could make such remarkable use of a Phoenix feather core," Gregorovitch exclaimed, "No they tend to be too emotive, too stubborn, too volatile. Even I stay clear when possible."

Gregorovitch palmed the wand, rolling it back and forth between his fingers.

"They're hard to come by, phoenix feather wands," he said knowingly, "Even at Hogwarts you'd only find a few dozen."

"Can't imagine there are too many phoenixes flying about," Harry grinned.

"Perhaps," Gregorovitch frowned, "But you won't spot a dragon every few minutes. Unicorns aren't common, either. No, I reckon they're just picky."

"How so?"

"They've got standards, phoenixes," Gregorovitch said, "Lofty ones, too."

"Like what?" Harry leaned closer, "Do you need to be, like, gifted, or strong?"

"No, no," Gregorovitch waved a hand dismissively, "You could be the weakest wizard in the world and still be chosen. No, you need to want something. They're birds of lust, phoenixes. Passion and fire . . ."

"Want what?"

Gregorovitch shrugged.

"But here's the kicker," he smiled, leaning closer, "People like to think phoenixes are creatures of virtue. Compassionate, honorable, and moral."

"But?" Harry murmured slowly.

"But they're not, of course," Gregorovitch grinned, "They want nothing more than to birth the fire that burns the Earth, for better or worse."

Harry's mind whirled, watching as golden flames reduced the trees of the Forbidden Forest to ash. He frowned uncertainly.

"Is there such a thing as better?"

"Can be. The burn of righteousness and the hope in the hearth are concepts with a kind of power neither you nor I will ever truly understand. But it's all about obsession, in the end."

"Is that why my wand chose me, then?" Harry frowned, "Obsession?"

"Of course not," Gregorovitch admonished, "But it will journey down the windy road of obsessive lust by your side, its head held high. Not all wands can say the same. A unicorn would've given up on you by now."

Harry stared at him.

"Sorry?"

"Don't be," Gregorovitch said seriously, "Innovation is born in the depths of despair. Even your headmaster knows that."

A frown settled upon Harry's face.

Obsession. I'm not obsessed.

The picture in his pocket felt heavier now. Harry grit his teeth.

"Let's see her in action," Gregorovitch pointed the wand into the air, "Expecto Patronum."

A silvery corvid burst to life, circling Harry thrice before landing by his feet. Harry examined it curiously.

"All three wands are in working order," Gregorovitch announced, handing the phoenix feather wand back to Harry, "I wish all three of you nothing more than the utmost luck. The tournament is exactly a month away now . . . you'll soon be needing it."

-(xXx)-

"You seem sad."

Harry turned. Cerise Rosier was watching him carefully, a slight frown on her face. Harry blinked at her.

"Shouldn't you be at the fifth-year table?"

"I am. Look around, Harry."

Harry did. Countless decorations hung about the dining hall. Bats fluttered overhead, their eyes enchanted to glow like the light of candles. Large pumpkins jumped about the hall, spitting out food through jagged mouths carved upon them with knives. Harry watched as several fifth years at the other end of the table roared with laughter.

Fifth years.

"Fuck," Harry swore quietly. He pushed his plate away, rising to his feet, "I should probably go back to my table -"

Cerise's hand pulled him back down with surprising strength.

"You're here now," she said kindly, "That's all that really matters."

"Right."

Harry dipped his spoon into a bowl of pudding. He tipped it slightly, watching as the thick liquid dripped back into the bowl.

"Do you want to talk about them?"

Harry looked up.

"Them?"

"It's October thirty-first," Cerise said faintly, "Halloween."

Them.

"You know about them?"

"The entire world does, Harry," Rosier frowned, "You'd be hard-pressed to find someone who didn't."

Harry nodded. He slowly turned around, his gaze gliding across the fourth-year table.

"Looking for someone?" Cerise frowned.

"Not quite," Harry muttered, "Just wondering if anyone else remembered . . ."

Several sets of eyes quickly glanced away, pretending as though they hadn't been watching him at all. Harry's brows furrowed with confusion.

"Weird."

"What is?"

"They remembered," Harry frowned, "I didn't think they would."

"Who all is included in 'they'?"

"The Hogwarts lot, obviously," Harry said, "I knew Astoria and Luna would, but the Weasley twins . . ."

Granger and Parkinson, too. Weird.

"Some are better at hiding than others," Cerise smiled pleasantly, "You missed a spot."

"Who?"

Cerise leaned closer, cupping her palms over her mouth.

"Delacour."

Harry began to turn, only for Cerise to grab him by the collar.

"There isn't an ounce of subtlety in you, is there?" she snapped quietly.

"Like it matters," Harry argued, "For all she knows, I caught her when I turned around the first time."

"You're thinking about you," Cerise muttered, "I'm thinking about me."

"Oh," Harry exaggerated the nodding of his head, "You don't want her to know that you pointed it out."

"Figured it out eventually, I suppose."

"What's the issue with you two? I remember you said something similar in the library a few days ago."

"Between us? Nothing," Cerise frowned, "It's our families who don't like each other. We're just caught in the midst.

"But we're losing sight of the issue," the girl noted, "Do you want to talk about them? I can listen if you'd like."

"No," Harry said firmly, "No, I don't. It's hard to miss what you've never had . . ."

The idea of it, though . . . that perfect little dream.

He pulled Nagel's picture from his robes, flattening it atop the table. Cerise stared at the image in horror.

"You drew -"

"No, of course not," Harry snapped, "Someone else did."

"That's awful," Cerise muttered, staring at the drawing of the two gravestones.

"Not really," Harry shrugged, "He meant well."

"Have you ever visited them?" Cerise asked, nodding at the drawing. Harry shook his head.

"I'd like to, though," Harry admitted, "If only to say hello . . ."

Cerise nodded slowly.

"It's a shame Godric's Hollow is so far," she sighed, reaching for another helping of chocolate pudding, "No chance apparating there. The Scandinavian Ministry's got a tight leash on portkeys, too."

"I could fly," Harry suggested thoughtfully, "I reckon Krum would lend me his firebolt."

"Would he?" Cerise's eyes brimmed with curiosity.

"Probably," Harry nodded, "Karkaroff would put a stop to it, though."

"Maybe not. He'd probably love it if you got marooned somewhere on the other side of Europe."

"I won't get marooned anywhere," Harry laughed faintly, "It's a broom, not a car. It's not like I'm going to run out of petrol."

He ignored the confusion etched across Rosier's expression, picking up Nagel's drawing.

"What's on the back?"

"Huh?"

Cerise reached over, turning the image around. The image of Nagel's home sat before them, surrounded by a sea of dementors.

"Is that Azkaban?" Cerise whispered.

"No," Harry frowned, "Someone's home."

"What sane person would live there?"

Harry snorted.

"I don't think Nagel is sane, to be fair," he laughed, "He spends far too much time drunk out of his mind, singing that stupid song over and over again - how does it go?"

Oh, take me home, take me home . . .

The smile slipped from Harry's face.

No way.

"Is something wrong?" Cerise asked worriedly. Harry shook his head.

"No. No, I don't think so."

Harry pocketed the photograph, glancing around. None of the staff were watching him.

"Cover for me, will you?" Harry whispered.

"How?" Cerise asked, bewildered, "Harry, where are you going?"

"Home, obviously."

He rose to his feet, heading down the length of the hall and through the large doors. Once out of sight, Harry broke into a run, sprinting off into the Durmstrang Grounds. He finally stopped near the Hogwarts Express, now out of breath.

Showtime, Nagel. Let's see if you're more clever than I gave you credit for.

Harry pulled out the photograph, holding it out carefully.

"Oh, take me home, take me home."

Harry felt a hook latch onto somewhere behind the navel, and with a flash of bright light, the surrounding Durmstrang Grounds dissipated into nothingness.

Wham.

Snow shoved itself in between his eyelids. Harry blinked furiously, pushing himself up to his feet. He felt his heart leap from his chest.

Our home.

Graffiti coated the nearest gate, surrounding a large brass sign. Harry read it carefully.

'On this spot, on this night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives.

Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse.

This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.'

Time slipped by. The falling snow buried Harry's feet as he looked on, transfixed, at the tattered ruin before him.

A gentle hand closed around his shoulder.

"Walk with me, Harry," Dumbledore said softly.

The pair made their way down the lonesome path and into an empty lot nearly a block away. Dumbledore opened the peeling black gates with a flick of his wrist. He stepped in, closing the gate behind Harry before leading him further into the graveyard.

"You're going the wrong way," Harry whispered quietly, "It's alphabetized, I think. They'll - they'll be near the middle."

Dumbledore didn't listen. The old man hobbled near the very front of the cemetery, eventually coming to a stop before two large gravestones. Harry followed after him, reading the gravestones as he approached.

'Ariana Dumbledore

1885 - 1899

Kendra Dumbledore

1851 - 1899'

Harry stared at the tombstones in shock.

"It took decades for me to visit, you know," Dumbledore muttered, "Only once Gellert had been locked away did I dare see them again."

"Why?"

"Fear," Dumbledore whispered, "Ariana, she wasn't like most others. She was . . . different. Unable to control the magic that dwelled within her. Aberforth, my brother, used to be able to calm her down, but he couldn't be there all the time."

Albus paused, a single tear sliding down his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it away.

"One day, something went wrong. I wasn't there. Aberforth wasn't either. We had to bury my mother that night. From then on, I was to be Ariana's guardian. After everything Gellert and I had dreamed of . . . of all the things to stop us, I had not expected it to be this. I resented it. I resented my mother for pawning Ariana off to me.

"It didn't matter, in the end. Ariana died that very same year. Gellert, Aberforth, and I - we got into a fight, you see. Ariana was caught in the crossfire. To this day, I do not know which of us cast the curse that took her life."

"And you think Grindelwald did," Harry surmised faintly.

Dumbledore nodded.

"I began visiting after Gellert's imprisonment," he said, "You must not mistake my actions for late-blooming bravery. I believed, or hoped, that there was a reason Gellert had not told me which one of us had killed her. I hoped he had said nothing simply because it was not me."

The two of them stared at the graves. Harry wiped away the layering snow with a wave of his wand.

"I have lived much of my life in fear, Harry," Dumbledore admitted, "I implore you to face yours. Do not doom yourself to the life I have lived."

They strode on, stepping from one tomb to the next. By the time they had stopped, Harry felt his heart sinking further in his chest.

'James Potter

1960 - 1981

Lily Potter

1960 - 1981'

"I wonder what they'd think of me," Harry admitted faintly. He conjured two bouquets, levitating one atop each of the graves, "I wonder if they're disappointed."

"They have no reason to be," Dumbledore said sincerely, "You are growing into a man both James and Lily would be proud of."

"A man whose first friend was the woman who killed them?"

Silence blanketed the cemetery. Harry stared blankly at their graves.

"I haven't talked to her since," he muttered, "Not like it'd be easy . . . but there's Bellatrix, too. As I'm sure you know . . ."

"I am aware of your choices in friends, Harry."

"And you're - you're just okay with it? As if two of my best friends aren't the most notorious murderers in all of fucking history?"

"It worries me," the headmaster admitted, "But I have faith in you."

"And Bellatrix? Voldemort?"

Dumbledore paused.

"I was once equally as lost, Harry," the headmaster reminded him, "By the time I left Hogwarts, I was already a mass murderer, one possibly guilty of parricide. Would you have had faith in me?"

"No," Harry said honestly.

"And what about now?" Dumbledore asked. Harry said nothing, "We are all capable of change, should we want it with every bit of our being."

"So you think they'll change?"

"I hope so. But if they do not, I pray that you will realize before it is too late."

"And if I ignore it? If I pretend nothing's wrong?"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"I got lucky with Gellert," he said, "I fear luck may not strike again."

Harry sighed, a stream of emotion leaving him all at once.

"I just - I feel like I've wasted so much time," he admitted, "I haven't fought against them, or for them, or anything."

"And why is that?"

"Because I don't know what I want," Harry sputtered, "I keep thinking I can just forgive it all and move on. And I can, for now. But what if that changes? Do I have to regret it for the rest of my life?"

"You and I both know the answer, Harry."

Yes. A life doomed to regret.

"I can't live like that," Harry decided, "I won't. I need to do something, anything - I need to know that if I get tired of this stupid game I can fuck up the board."

His eyes returned to his parent's graves.

"Astoria was right," Harry whispered, "Life's too short to waste it pussy-footing around."

Ring.

Dumbledore tapped the silver watch wrapped around his wrist with a frown. It quieted at once.

"I am needed," he said apologetically, "You are welcome to remain for as long as you like. I trust you to return on your own time."

The aged headmaster turned on the spot, vanishing without a sound.

Harry wasn't sure how long he stood there. By the time he had come to his senses, the snowing had grown harsher. Harry shoved his palms into his pockets, desperate for warmth -

Something was already inside. Harry pulled out Nagel's drawing, holding it before the graves of his parents. The drawing was surprisingly accurate.

"Maybe you're not just a drunk," Harry said thoughtfully, "Maybe I ought to give you a chance . . ."

Time to do something I know I won't regret.

"Oh, take me home, take me home."

Nothing happened. Harry stared at the photograph, bewildered.

"Er - untake me home?"

The world spun. Harry slammed into the Durmstrang grounds with a loud thud.

"I fucking hate you, Nagel," Harry snarled darkly, pushing himself up to his feet. He brushed the dirt from his Hogwarts robes, turning to face the vague outline of Durmstrang Castle. An uneasy feeling slipped beneath his skin.

Just imagine what's possible . . .

"Absondere."

Harry's skin rippled into nothingness, blending with the trees that surrounded him.

Perfect.

He headed up toward the castle in silence. He was on edge - every sound stopped him in his tracks, every little flicker of movement tightening his hold on his wand. The large entrance doors opened knowingly as he approached, closing softly behind him.

Empty halls stretched on for ages. Harry made a left, then a right, and hurried forward, barrelling down to the end of the corridor -

The Scarlet Tower loomed before him. Women stood on either side, robed in the finest white silk. Silver chains hid their faces from view.

Harry took the slightest step forward. One of the women looked around, peering out into the darkness.

Silence me.

The world started to blur as he forced his magic to bear fruit, but when he took his next step, not a sound could be heard.

"Is something wrong?" one of the women asked.

The other slowly shook her head.

"I am not sure . . ."

Harry slipped past them, hurrying through the archway that lined the tower. A large metal door sat before him.

You better be right, Nagel.

Taking a deep breath, Harry pulled the door open.

A long, thin hall stretched on. The walls were dark and fluid, a construct of black liquid impossibly held together. At his feet, the glossy floor shimmered a scarlet, blood-like color.

"You're late."

Harry froze. He watched as a hooded figure emerged from the other end of the hall.

"I - I'm sorry," Harry lowered his eyes, "I -"

"Do not lie to me, boy," the Truest crooned. She waved her wand wildly, dragging Harry across the hall and down to her feet, "What is your purpose here?"

"I - the room," Harry stammered, struggling to push himself off the floor, "The hidden room."

The pressure loosened from around his neck. Harry rose to his feet, breathing heavily.

"The hearth," the Truest murmured, sliding across the hall, "The birthplace of our order. Durmstrang was built upon its very foundations."

She came to a sudden stop. Harry watched as she pressed her fingers along a crack in the wall, closing her eyes.

"My predecessors whispered of it, you know. The Ancient Garden. The nursery of our precious flower . . ."

Flower?

"Speak," the Truest snapped impatiently, "If you possess the arrogance to break into our home, you must possess the foolishness to speak."

"I - I don't understand. What flower?"

"Our flower. The final vestiges of the Truer World."

"I - what?"

"A rose," the Truest spun around, leaning closer, "One that granted its owner the unnatural ability to peruse the future."

"A flower that shows the future?" Harry muttered, surprised, "Surely there are other, easier ways?"

"Perhaps. But there are none better."

"And it's in there?" Harry asked, his mind racing.

It could show me how to make the changes I desire. Maybe that's what Nagel meant -

"No. It was stolen long before I was born."

Harry's heart sank.

"How do you see the future now, then?"

"As you said, child, there are other ways . . ." the Truest murmured, "Imperfect, no doubt. A mere fraction of what once was . . ."

Her pale fingers pulled her hood to her shoulders, removing the golden chains that hid her face. Milky white eyes stared off into nothingness, framed by smooth skin and silky dark hair.

"A painful sacrifice," the Truest crooned, "But a crucial one. To glimpse the future, I may no longer see the present."

Harry frowned.

"An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."

"A muggle's saying for a muggle world," the Truest said, turning again, "But no matter . . . come here, dearest."

Harry stepped closer. He winced slightly as the Truest took his palm, pressing it tight against the wall.

"What do you feel?"

Harry closed his eyes.

Welcomed.

"I can feel the room," Harry breathed, looking around, "It's inviting me in . . ."

Not her, though. Just me.

The Truest let go, backing away.

"Our flower's home is not what it once was," she murmured, "I am fortunate to have never seen the many ways in which the room has been desecrated. You must not mistake the follies of man for nature's lost beauty."

And with that, the Truest stalked off, disappearing into the darkness. Harry pressed his wand tighter against the wall.

"Let me in."

The stone shifted. Blue light peered through the cracks as the wall clawed itself open, revealing a vast chamber. Harry slowly stepped forward, watching as the wall closed behind him.

He was in a large, circular room. Hundreds of pages lay strewn about the floor: excerpts from books, newspapers, and articles from perhaps a century prior. At the center of the room sat a patch of dried, withering grass. It was covered by a large glass cloche.

Where the rose once was.

Thousands of scratches lined the black wall, each glowing a light blue. Harry squinted through the darkness, his eyes widening as he leaned closer.

They're words.

"'Three brothers, traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight reached a deep treacherous river where anyone who attempted to swim or wade would drown'," Harry read aloud. Confusion settled in his chest, "But - The Tale of the Three Brothers?"

The glowing lights flickered. Harry winced as the room suddenly went pitch black.

Lumos.

Nothing happened. Harry held his wand aloft, speaking clearly, "Lumos!"

Nothing.

"Lumos Maxima!" Harry roared.

Small patches of light flickered across the room. Harry stared, entranced, at the ten words that continued to flicker in the darkness.

'The Elder Wand'

Another patch of light lingered near the middle, reading:

'The Resurrection Stone'

And finally, four final words glimmered on the patch of stone wall just to Harry's right:

'The Cloak of Invisibility'

"The Deathly Hallows," Harry murmured, stepping back.

Crinkle.

Parchment crumpled beneath his feet. Harry glanced down. He crouched slightly, his fingers shifting through heaps of photographs that lay on the floor. One in particular stood out to him.

"Gellert Grindelwald," Harry murmured, clutching the photograph carefully. He stared as the image shifted, the two-dimensional likeliness of Grindelwald pointing his wand high into the sky. Pale blue flames blanketed the sky, taking the shape of a giant eagle.

Harry studied the image closer, his eyes falling upon a familiar beaded wand.

Dumbledore's wand . . .

He summoned another photograph from the cold stone floor. A bespectacled boy's head hovered in the air. Harry watched as the boy unraveled a silvery cloak, his minuscule body returning to view.

Like me. He looks a bit like me.

"They're real," Harry murmured, his heart racing in his chest, "The Deathly Hallows are real."

But that means -

An intricate drawing lay in the corner of the room. Harry summoned it toward him with a hurried flick of his wrist, holding it up to his eyes.

A black stone, shaped like a rhombus, covered most of the page. A silver emblem was inlaid upon its front: A line within a circle, surrounded by a triangle. Harry's eyes fell to the inky inscription at the page's bottom.

'The Jester of Death's Court'

Elation thrummed in his chest, his knees threatening to give way. He neatly folded the drawing in two. It was not Dumbledore's wand that excited him, nor the voices that whispered just how similar he looked to the bespectacled boy on the floor below -

Grindelwald's sapphire. The one in Moody's dream.

Harry unfolded the drawing, inspecting it again. A genuine smile stretched across his face.

"You were right, Nagel," he laughed," Death doesn't have to be the end . . ."

One step closer.

Harry pocketed the drawing, and with one last glance, departed from the desecrated remains of what was once a flower's home.