Chapter 35 - Changes

Through a long bridge, the train travelled, so fast that those trees of the hillsides that could be seen from afar looked like black spots over a green picture. Below it, a large, wide river flowed; its water so pristine it had no trouble reflecting the sunrays. A flock of birds flew by the train's side for an entire minute before giving up; they reminded Ron of Gerd, who had disappeared as soon as the journey back home began so he could enjoy a bit of privacy with his friend.

The train's machinery emitted almost as much noise as smoke came out from the first wagon; yet it could not triumph over Tracey's words. "And that's what happened," the girl sighed. "Honestly, I had no idea what to do. I could, perhaps, deal with Daphne, but she was taken out of Hogwarts and it was Blaise Zabini, that damned idiot, who I was left to deal with." What a bloody mess, indeed. "Without you, the group crumbled in just a few hours. I tried to hold us together, I really did, but it was worthless."

As he had lain petrified in the medical wing, his friends had lacked the time to jump at each other's throats. In truth, what Tracey had told him made all the sense in the world. To Ron, it was no surprise that Blaise Zabini had refused to risk his neck to help others. Yet it had both disappointed and hurt him to hear what happened, for it had been his life, the one Blaise had refused to save.

At first, Ron had been far too tired and immersed in his own world to give it more than a single thought. But as the days had passed and Blaise had continued avoiding his eyes, reality had hit the redhead like a bludger. That idiot had ruined their group for good. Not because of how he had acted towards Ron, for Blaise had warned them all about his intentions towards the Heir of Slytherin, and even if it took him time, let it be a month or a year, Ron could have forgotten all of it. However, that would be impossible unless Blaise decided it was time to man up and accept the consequences of his decisions.

"Look," Ron said as he raised a hand to interrupt his friend. "Don't stress yourself so much about it, okay? What has been done, done is. And Blaise knows that far too well. There will come a day in which he'll slap himself and come to us with tears in his eyes and pleads of forgiveness in his tongue. But, meanwhile, there is nothing we can do about it."

Tracey just looked at him with surprised eyes, and Ron didn't even huff in response. Obviously, she had no idea how much he had changed during his months of petrifaction; how could she? Tracey had no idea about what had happened in Scala ad Caelum, and much less about his talk with Gerdnyaram. Tracey had no idea he could understand Blaise well enough to not detest him, because, just like him, Ron's stupid actions had caused damage to other people. Tracey had no idea that, if Blaise had refused to fight against the Heir, it had been Ron who had allowed that bastard to hurt as many muggle-borns as he had pleased.

At that moment, there was no one in this world who detested Blaise more than he himself did—and there was no one in this world who understood that better than Ronald Weasley, for he felt the same.

The redhead just laid back on the comfy seat of red leather and looked around to avoid Tracey's look. It was a large cabin, and it looked even bigger since there only were two occupants in it. Between them there was a wooden table, of a lighter shade than the walls, with a set of cards over it; the game they had played had been quickly dropped after Ron wiped the floor with his friend in the first three hands. Across the glass door, the trolley lady strode through the corridor, who was quickly intercepted by Alaine Baldwin and some of her friends.

"Then, we just wait for him to man up?" Tracey mused.

"Yes, now we wait until he takes the first step." The unsure look she tried to hide from him told Ron how much of a bad idea she thought of it to be. However, even if she refused to accept it, only time would bring a hot-headed bastard like Blaise Zabini back. And, meanwhile, in regards to Daphne, well, firstly he would need to know what was going on with the blond girl.

Instead, the journey continued, external to his problems, and the train reached King's Cross station after a few hours. The loud horn notified them it was time to hop out, and, in no time at all, Ron found himself walking towards the exit, luggage in hand, as he lost his mind over another problem. He was about to meet his parents once again. His parents, who still thought of his boy as a victim; like a poor soul who happened to be in the Heir's way. Hell, due to how nice the Headmaster liked to talk of them, maybe they thought for their son to be a hero who had confronted that evil bastard.

If only they knew.

Yet all those worries were blown away the moment his mother embraced him; like a sunrise, it dispelled the darkness, like a sunrise, it warmed him. And then came her words. "Oh, my dear Ron! I was so worried about you! We all were! Albus told us what happened. Oh, I am so very proud of you and your friends!" A sudden pat on his shoulder let Ron know his father was also there.

And so the darkness came once away—and so the sun was covered by a thick cloud.

"I'm also very proud of you, Ron," Arthur said as he tightened the squeeze on his son's shoulder. "Welcome back home."

Soon enough, Ginny came, and they received her with open arms, yet there were no words about the Heir or the Chamber with her. They didn't know, Ron noted. And Ginny played her part very well, for her smile didn't falter for a single second as she embraced their parents. However, when they turned to receive the twins, she went pale and serious once again. I need to talk to her. I need to know what happened. Ginny felt his eyes on her, and so the smile came back; fainter this time, even though she ignored how much his brother knew about her involvement.

Suddenly, Gerdnyaram came to him and landed on his shoulder; her eagle form, proud and regal, wasn't discarded, and so, it freaked him out a bit when her serious voice came out the animal's beak. "Just like you, she feels as much guilt as a person can withstand," the Essentia said. "However, if yours goes towards those people you attacked, two of your friends and one stranger, hers goes towards you, her own brother, whom she set up. I would say she has it worse."

Those words angered him. It wasn't the same. Whereas Ron had almost killed three students, Ginny had only passed the diary to him. Then he remembered another two names: Justin Finch-Fletchely and Colin Creevey, those who were petrified first. It happened to him quite often; there were some memories which seemed to disappear from his mind, especially those which came from his possession. Yet Ron remembered those he wished to forget, those he hated the most. After all, Harry's and Hermione's scared faces visited his dreams all the nights.

Many students had already reunited with their families; some with warm embraces and loud laughters, while others with much more formal greetings. Still, there was a lot of noise, loads of conversation and many diversions for Ron to divert his mind from his sister.

"Fortunately, she is not aware of the fact you know way more than you have shown," Gerdnyaram continued. "Because then, her guilt would be the very last of our problems." On that, the redhead agreed. Ginny wouldn't be able to look at him eye to eye if that happened; not when silence could bury those traumatic experiences. Unlike him, who had the nerve to act around Harry and Hermione as if he had not attacked them.

"Now, do not punish yourself, for I know what is eating your mind at this very moment," she went on, much to his surprise. "Your friends have forgiven you. They know you only were a puppet controlled by a mightier force. Just like your sister, though she ignores what really happened to her. All Ginny knows is that some cursed diary made her attack two muggle-born students, and that the words she wrote on it almost cost the lives of three of her friends. One day, you will tell her the truth, for she deserves to know about it. However, for the time being, we must not make your sister hate herself more than she already does."

As it was said, time heals it all. Or so he bloody hoped. Her sister did not deserve to suffer like that. Though Ron did, for he should have resisted Tom's manipulations. He had pushed both Gerd and his friends away, making it easier for Tom, dancing to his bloody tune, like a well-oiled puppet. Unlike her, he should have resisted. Hell, he had failed despite knowing how bad the future looked!

It ain't Tom who controlled me. No, his real name is no other than Lord Voldemort, and I should remember it each minute of my life, for this is just the beginning. A sudden gasp came out of his mouth the moment he realised what he had just thought—he had just pronounced Voldemort's name! And most importantly, rather than fearful of its mention, he felt furious.

Fortunately, his gasp came at the same time as a new voice piped into the conversation. "Hello, my name is Tracey Davies." When the redhead turned around, he found his friend introducing herself to his parents, who greeted her back with wide smiles and loud laughs.

"Nice to meet you, Tracey," Arthur said. "Ron had talked to us very, very well of you. And your father helped us a lot when my son was, well, when he got petrified. Marc moved heaven and earth so Dumbledore wasn't sacked, just as he tried to give us, the parents of those petrified children, as much information as he could provide us with."

A short man of thin hair came into the scene, his hand placed onto Tracey's shoulders. His robes were very elegant, of a grey colour, with a certain emblem sewed on his left breast; some red apple and a dark knife. A very odd coat of arms, if someone was to ask Ron about it. "Please, it was nothing," Marc Davies said—lord Marc, Ron thought. "It is my duty as one of the twelve Governors. Besides, after all Tracey told me of young Ronald , I felt that I owed it to his family." His head turned to look at him, a bright smile on his face. "It is a pleasure, by the way. Trust me, my daughter has you on a pedestal; you are very dear to her."

All the adults let out a loud laugh as Tracey reddened like a cherry. On his part, Ron was far too used to his parents trying to embarrass him in front of others to care much about the situation. In fact, he even smirked a little at Tracey's expenses, though it died as soon as he looked around to observe his sibling's reaction. The twins had disappeared, and maybe that was good news, but Ginny had set her eyes on the station's floor, totally unconnected to the amusing situation.

A woman came from inside the train, wearing a bright, green dress with a dark cloak over it, and taking a child by his hand; when she made it to where Tracey and her father stood, she kissed the man's cheek before smiling at the Weasleys. Now Ron could see where Tracey's looks had come from. Her mother wasn't a gorgeous and curvaceous woman like some of the older students were, but she, certainly, was pretty; perhaps, just as much as warm was her smile. "Hello to all of you," she started. "My name is Irene, and this is our son, Darren."

At that moment, Ron remembered that, long ago, Tracey told him something about a brother of hers. The boy must have been around ten years old, of brown hair and eyes, and of short stature, like every member of his family, but of easy smile. "Hello there," he greeted. "The train is awesome! I can't wait to hop on it next year! And to play Quidditch at Hogwarts, of course."

"First years can't play Quidditch," Tracey told him. "But I will be there to sweep the ground with you, Darren. Who knows, you might be able to win me a game for the first time ever."

The boy ignored his sister and set his gaze on Ron. "And what about you, Ronald Weasley? Are you good at Quidditch?"

"I would say so," Ron smirked. Darren Davies was a mirror image of his sister, both in physical appearance and character. It would be fun to have him around for the next year, although, just like Tracey, he didn't pose as a Slytherin. Well, I never thought I would get sorted into Slytherin, and look at me now. Life is full of surprises. Though it was about time for them to be the nice kind of surprises. "I'm a keeper, so be ready to get your shots stopped."

Darren just smirked back at him. "We'll see!"

"What are you saying, little brother?" A new voice piped in. The twins were back. "If I remember correctly, the last time we played you had a bit of trouble stopping our shots, didn't you? And we aren't the best shooters ever, precisely. In fact, we aren't the best shooters of our very family."

"Oh, but that doesn't make him a bad player, Freddie," George added. "He ain't bad at all. It is just us, who are incredible." The twins made a very exaggerated courtesy in front of Irene and Marc Davies, who observed them with a raised brow and an amused smile on their faces. On the contrary, Darren just looked as puzzled as he had ever been. "Pleasure to meet you all," Fred went on. "I like your daughter a lot, milord—she's incredibly good at throwing snowballs." Now it was George who jumped into the conversation. "Damn right my brother Fred is! My arm remembers her accuracy well enough!"

They had done once again—the whole Davies family looked at the twins as if they had just grown a new head. Even Tracey looked a bit lost.

"I'm so sorry," Molly said as she sent a murderous look to her sons, who were wise enough to help Arthur carrying the luggage towards the family's enchanted car. "They always do that! Oh, one day I'm gonna make them regret it!"

"Oh, please, do not worry about that," Irene laughed. "That was amusing!"

Meanwhile, Darren walked towards Ron. "Are they good on their heads?" The boy asked, still looking a bit freaked out.

"Who knows?" Ron snorted in response. "I'm not sure even George and Fred think they are sane."

"Still, they are Gryffindor's beaters, right? And from what little my sister told me about Hogwarts' teams, they are the best pair."

Many of the families had already left the platform, and Molly was exchanging the last words with the Davies. "I mean, they are," Ron agreed. "At least, they are good at something. Ah, since you'll attend the school next year, don't ever trust them. For anything at all. And don't even think about accepting anything from them."

Now it was Ron whom the boy looked at with a puzzled expression. "You better listen to him," Tracey came to his help, grabbing his brother by the arm as her family walked to the platform's exit. "The Weasley twins are the most infamous duo at Hogwarts; they are the best pranksters to ever live, and they won't hesitate to turn you into a target just because you are just some poor first-year student. Trust me, I've seen what they can do, and it ain't pretty."

Darren's eyes quickly scanned the station, going from one direction to another in a matter of seconds, but the twins were out of sight; most likely, trying to escape from their mother's scolding. Still, Tracey's words did the trick, and her brother allowed her to walk him away. "Well, I guess this is goodbye," the girl snickered, sending a look of complicity at Ron. "You'll hear from me this summer; there is just no way we aren't playing a real game of Quidditch with your brothers. I need to be in shape for next year. Only Merlin knows what will happen!"

Ron snorted in response as he bid her farewell with a gesture of his hand—not even Merlin knew what fate had prepared for them! Though, as he observed how Darren made his sister laugh, the redhead hoped for it to not be as awful as the events of the Chamber were. That boy reminded him of how Ginny was before attending Hogwarts, and it only made it all worse.

Whatever it might happen, this time, he would not lower his guard.

The creek near The Burrow was the perfect place to practise magic; not so close for Ron's parents to spot him, and not so far for them to worry about his whereabouts. In fact, a simple mention of a stroll around was all he had needed to get his mother's permission; neither a single question asked nor a quizzical look had been sent in his direction. Perhaps, she really expected him to be in a more depressed mood.

Wearing shorts and some old shirt, sweat fell all over his forehead; and into his eyes, which were starting to sting. Why was it so bloody hard? Some weak currents of water rose over the pond, like thin tendrils; less than half a metre, that's it. Ron was putting all his might into the task and that was all he could achieve. "I insist that this would be far easier if I could, I don't know, use a certain spell which was invented to levitate things," the redhead complained in a barely audible whisper. Talking louder would make the weak currents crumble like damped paper.

"Of course, and, while at it, you might as well shout the incantation to the skies so everyone can hear you," Gerdnyaram answered, a bit haughty. It was very rare to see her losing her patience like that, but, as Daphne used to say, there wasn't a person in this world who Ron couldn't irritate. The Essentia flew over the pond, observing the currents of water, those weak poor tries of his, with an analysing look. Her bright silhouette was hard to see as it let the sun rays seep through it. "When you use a spell or a curse, and it does not matter which specific use you give to them, your opponent will be able to read the flow of magic with ease. However, if you learn to control your raw magic, like you are doing right now, then it will be much harder to read the flow. At this moment, I feel a weak amount of magic, yours, being directed at the lake, just as I can see the currents of water you just created, but, if you chose to do anything else, like creating a bubble or exploding the water, I would just feel a variation in the amount of magic used. There would not be any evident hint for me to follow or whatsoever."

That made sense, he reckoned; just as he did during her past explications. Still, what the Essentia asked of him was quite tough, for he had just reached the minute mark of this exercise. "You can drop it." After those words came out of her, Ron finally allowed himself to relax; he just let his body down and fell to the ground to lay down on the soft grass. "Very well done, Ronald. This was not an easy feat to accomplish. Now you rest."

On that, he agreed; though it still felt so slow. "I can go again," the boy said, his breath coming out raggedly. "No, I must go. That's what I wanted to say." Never again would he allow himself to be controlled by Voldemort, and much less to allow him to hurt those who he loved. Two times had been enough.

"You will rest now," Gerdnyaram commanded, appearing right in front of him. With a sudden push of her hand, the wind pushed Ron down, softly yet efficiently. "You did well, don't screw your progress by burning yourself out."

Ron was ready to argue back, but a simple look from those blue, cold eyes shut him up before any complaint could come out. "Okay, I will rest for a few minutes."

Her features relaxed just a tiny bit, though her smile expressed relief and complacency. "Once, I was just like you," she commented. "Young and talented, and full of ambition. I was shown by my mentor how amazing the world of magic was; the door opened, and once I peeked inside I could not avert my eyes from all those wonders. True enough, my circumstances were very different from yours, far batter, for the War had just ended and the world seemed at peace. Still, I wanted more—I wanted to climb that mountain faster. Oh, and I failed quite miserably, for no one can run before learning how to walk."

This woman sure loved speeches, Ron thought with an ironic huff. Though, like always, Gerdnyaram was right. About most of her points, at least. "I might be ambitious, but talent ain't one of my fortitudes," the redhead laughed, mirthlessly. Voldemort had proven that to him during his time as the Heir of Slytherin.

"Oh, I'm afraid I have to disagree here. Certainly, you are not the most gifted wizard I have ever seen, and not by a short margin, but, however, there are very few boys of thirteen who can reach your level of magical mastery. In fact, I doubt there is a single one of your year-mates who can imitate what you just did with the water."

Well, if reckoned from that angle, then, just maybe, he was alright. "Nott and Hermione are better than me," Ron argued back, instead. "And Harry, if he tried enough, too. Hell, even Daphne would beat me if she wasn't the most complacent witch I've ever seen."

"Far too many conditionals in that sentence," Gerdnyaram huffed, exasperated. "Tell me, what is the point of being talented if you do nothing with it? Neither Harry nor Daphne try hard enough, thus their supposed talent means nothing. Now, on the contrary, there is you, Ronald, a wizard who squeezes every last bit of talent he has, and even when that is not enough, he still pushes forward and surprises everyone—and surprises me. This foolish matter is finished. I will not have another word about this. Trust me when I say that none of those people you just named would have resisted Voldemort's diary."

Ron took a very long breath, and then another one, even longer, to calm his temper. He needed to listen to her words. Gerdnyaram knew what to do, and most importantly, she knew which path was the best to take. All Ron needed to do, in order to not hurt others for a second time, was to follow her lead and make sure the Essentia did not betray their pact.

Still, that would take so much time.

"Tell me, isn't there a way to become stronger in way less time?" Ron asked with a tired sigh. "No matter how hard I push myself, no matter what, even after getting stronger with each fall, I always lose. I have yet to win a duel against Nott; when Voldemort tried to kill us last year, it was you who saved us; and I'm not gonna mention what happened with Tom and the diary. I've seen the way you fight, Gerd, and I need that—I need to be able to protect my people when the time comes."

Gerdnyaram just stared at him, so keenly her eyes seemed to go through his very soul. "There might be a way for me to share my powers with you; to lend them for a short period of time, I should say" she finally mused. "I do not know if it is even possible, for it is something I have never looked into—you are the one and only wizard I have Linked. Moreover, I do not think you are ready; after all, very few wizards thorough history could withstand this blessing and curse of mine, which goes by the name of Great Sight, and even fewer could save their minds from madness associated with the Talent of Anticipation."

Those words confused Ron. The Great Sight was, from what little he knew, the ability that allowed the Essentia to predict the future—a greater power that,sometimes, when it pleased, bestowed her with visions of unknown usefulness. In theory, it was the said power that made Gerd face Herpo—a duel she lost, a duel that changed the Wizarding World for the worse. It had also made her choose Ron as her partner, and the boy did not know if that decision was bound to become another fatal mistake. And because all of that, the future and the Great Sight was an element he wanted to avoid at all cost.

However, if it could help him to save his loved ones…

"Tell me about it," were the words which came out of him.

"When the time comes, when I'm sure it is possible and you are ready, you will know as much as there is about it," she said. "I still have many doubts, but I will consult them with Kayle. If there is a way to do it, she must know. Besides, she is the closest we have to an ally; at least, we know she is no enemy of us."

If there was a way to fight, to move forward, Ron would make use of it to its fullest. Far too many times had he already failed. Gerdnyaram had used him for so long, in search of a better future, and he would use the same coin if given the chance.

There was no room for another mistake.

With a firm hand, Daphne moved the rook across the chessboard; the piece ate Marcel's bishop, but it would be taken out in her cousin's very next play. Still, it was a necessary sacrifice.

"That was bold," he pointed out with a monotone voice. His brow rose to accentuate the taunt.

"That was clever," Daphne corrected him, using the very same tone. "If I was in your place, I would pay more attention to the board. Who knows what you'll find?" In their family, chess was serious business; and for the two cousins, who had played countless games between them, a defeat was inconceivable. Pride was also a very important trait.

Still, Marcel had yet to win her a game since he came to Greengrass Manor; even after more than a few hundred games, he had yet to put her under the robes. Though Daphne would play as many games as it was needed, for her cousin wanted, needed, to distract his mind.

His father, Ludwig Larsson, a very reckless wizard who loved fighting above all, had been hurt, quite severely, during one of his dangerous ventures. In theory, from what little they've been told, he was alive; barely alive. In fact, the situation was so grave that Daphne's mother, his sister, had gone to Sweden so she could take care of Ludwig. Because of that, Marcel had been brought here so he could spend time with her.

On her behalf, Daphne didn't even want to think about her uncle. Ludwig was the bravest and strongest man she had ever known; perhaps, that she would ever meet. To think someone else—or something—was powerful enough to hurt him so much made her want to hide under her mother's skirt.

And also, because it reminded her of another situation, that of Ron Weasley and the Chamber of Secrets. In a very different way and scale, Ron had also looked invincible to her eyes. Back in the first year, he was all that stood between her and that wraith the night it tried to steal the Stone of Life; he did not doubt and just shielded her and Granger with his own body. And when the shadow of the Heir rose and threatened Hogwarts, he did not hesitate to go against him.

Like her uncle, Ron had fought until there was no ounce of strength left on him. Like her uncle, Ron had been about to bite the dust.

Definitely, as Thomas Greengrass, her father, often said, one must know when to stop.

"Check," Marcel suddenly said. That brought her back to the game, immediately. The situation wasn't the best, but the game needed to be treated with the respect it deserved. Every member of their family knew that well enough.

Daphne just moved the piece, the white king, her mind already thinking about the next play. "You should pay attention to that knight of yours," she just said.

Piece for piece, the game continued in silence, just for it to finish within the next ten minutes. "I win," Daphne announced. It was check-mate; probably, her favourite word.

"You win, again," Marcel sighed, half exasperated, half defeated. "When did you get this good? I mean, you've always been better than me, but not this much. I swear we've played more than two hundred games and this was the closest I've come to victory!"

"At Hogwarts, I used to play with some boy, Ronald Weasley was his name, on a daily basis. We were pretty equal, although, if we were to count all the games, I think I'd have more victories than him. Honestly, sometimes he just moved the pieces forward and attacked me with all he had, no thoughts or whatsoever behind those moves. The first game we played, he demolished me—and my pride, along the way—just because I couldn't grasp the logic behind his playstyle. It made me learn that, sometimes, it was better to improvise and follow what your instincts told you."

Marcel was about to reply, but a sudden noise made them avert their eyes from the board. Rayne, one of the house-elves who had served the House of Greengrass for more than two generations, stormed into the large room; not without directing a very elegant bow to them, of course. "Lord Thomas has requested her daughter's presence in his office at this very moment." Its sharp features, a bit wrinkled, gave him an aura of elegance very few house-elves possessed. Rayne wore elegant robes, a white, tucked shirt and some black trousers; an attire which announced him as a servant.

People could say many things about Thomas Greengrass, but he took care of his servants like no one else.

The two cousins shared a confused look between them, and it was Marcel who took the word first. "Come on, go see your father. I'll play another game against the pieces, I guess."

"If the little lord does not consider my proposal as an insult, I can offer my skills for a game," Rayne said after bowing for a second time. "When I was a young elf, I played many games against lord Thomas' father, just as I did with him when he started to get fond of the game."

Daphne, as confused as she had ever been, left the room without further preamble; a storm of questions assaulted her mind. At that moment, after the way he took her out of Hogwarts, when Ron and the others most needed her, she was not on good terms with her father; and maybe, that was a far too light way to describe the situation.

In truth, Daphne Greengrass was not only furious with her father. No, over all, she was furious with herself, for it had been up to her to stand her ground, and just like always, that silly and scared girl of hers had taken the easy way out. In no time at all, Daphne went through the many corridors which separated the chess' room from her father's main office; halls whose floors were made of grey marble slabs and walls of dark wood, decorated by warm torches and many sets of expensive paintings. She crossed some house-elves in the way, who stopped cleaning and taking care of the very few plants her mother had managed to bring inside, to take a bow at her.

Daphne just knocked once on the door before storming inside. "Here I am, father." Those words came out of her before she could regret them. Never had she talked to her father so rudely, and much less stormed into his office without permission.

The office was a large room with walls made of dark wood, almost black, and a floor covered by a long, grey carpet; an oak of thick log and dense thicket, their House's coat of arms, had been sewed over it. It was barely illuminated since the only window it had was covered by some green curtains, and only the feeble light of the chandelier repelled the penumbra. There was a very elegant table of brownish wood with uncountable documents over, and right behind it, sat on a chair of high back, lord Thomas Greengrass stood, folding some letters as if her daughter hadn't just banged into the room.

"Take a seat, Daphne," he just said after an entire minute of silence.

The girl did as told, trying to conceal how angry she felt; a futile attempt, most likely. For the first time in more than a week, she looked at his father. Surprisingly, he had not cut his beard, and that untamed hair, with the very first specs of grey decorating it, gave him the appearance of a man who didn't care about his looks; a sight Daphne thought she would never behold. Still, everything else, from his sharp eyes to his cold and calculated facial expression, remained the same.

"Look, I know we aren't on the best terms right now, precisely" Thomas started as he leaned back into the chair, ignoring her ironic huff. "But one day, as you grow older and wiser, you will realise I made the correct choice. Hogwarts was a dangerous place, even for a witch of your heritage, and I couldn't allow that. Over all else, I am your father, and I love you dearly. If I have to go against you to keep you safe from any harm, gaining your hatred in the process, then I will welcome it with open arms and a warm embrace. No matter how low the risk might be, no daughter of mine will suffer any pain."

All the sharp words Daphne had reserved for this moment were erased from her tongue. She was speechless—utterly and completely speechless. Her father had never opened up to her like this, and much less he had expressed those kinds of feelings to either her or Astoria. In fact, he looked as tired as he had ever been, almost defeated, though he refused to look weak in front of others; to him, it did not matter if that person was his first daughter.

"I don't like your friends, as you already know from the many times we've already discussed the matter," he went on. "Back then, a few years ago, I did not like Draco Malfoy, and as of today, for completely different reasons, I do not like Ronald Weasley. I believe you put yourself in danger because of that friendship, and trust me when I say that I tried, because I really did, but when he got petrified that's where the line was drawn."

This conversation was one they had already repeated a dozen times; different words yet the same purpose. It did not make sense at all.

And when she voiced out those thoughts, her father finally came back to his old self. With a mirthless hint of a smile, he said: "Because I really want my daughter to not hate me forever. Usually, it is your mother who deals with these kinds of problems, but, when the time comes, a father has to do what he needs to. Anyhow, you were right. I did not call you here to discuss such a repetitive matter. I know you will hate me even more after this, but you will not attend Hogwarts for the next year."

It was a simple affirmation, but it took Daphne a while to process it. "I will not attend Hogwarts," she repeated. Since when did her father joke? Indeed, mother's absence was starting to take a toll on him.

"That's right." Then and only then did the realisation hit Daphne. Her father had never joked about such a serious matter, and he never would. The next sentences came in a blur, like a distant echo, to a point in which she almost missed them. "Your friendships are not the only reason behind this decision. Truth be told, they are not the main ones, even if you have trouble believing my words. Many things are gonna change in Hogwarts this year, and they will change for the worse."

Daphne just nodded her head to acknowledge those words, though they still felt hard to understand, as if they belonged to a foreign language. The faces of her friends and the many good memories they had shared were all her mind could really focus on.

"For the first time since he took control of the nation, Cornelius Fudge isn't on good terms with Dumbledore," Thomas continued, raising a brow at her lack of response. "After the debacle of the Chamber and the Heir, along with some very questionable decisions he took about more mundane matters, has left his name tarnished beyond help. It all facilitated Lucius Malfoy's way, and his whispering into the Minister's ears increased, louder and more venomous. They want to take down Albus Dumbledore from his seat of power, to reduce his aura of greatness. And to accomplish that, he will send to the School some of his most loyal subordinates; a project led by some hellish witch by the name of Dolores Umbridge. My first conjecture is that Fudge wants to expose how poorly things are done in Hogwarts, and how Albus Dumbledore needs to take a step back so the country can prosper. All in the name of a better education for the next generation of British wizards, of course."

"It is because of these many reasons that, as your father, I must watch over your future," he finished with a much tougher voice, one as cold as that he used with other pureblood lords. "I know you better than anyone else, Daphne Greengrass, even better than yourself, and I know you will ruin your future if I do not move you to another School. I cannot say that I'm sorry, daughter, just as I will not ask for your comprehension. The time in which you understand what I did will come; then and only then I will ask for your forgiveness."

Daphne just laughed, loudly and mirthlessly, at those words. A sudden sob got mixed with the laughter, until the tears won the battle against the guffaws. It all made sense now! Why her father had tried so hard to win her favour back during these past days; why that decision had been taken in a rush, so unlikely of him, while her mother wasn't there to help Daphne; and why her sister had avoided her for the past few days.

It all made bloody sense now!

Gathering all the dignity and might she could, Daphne stopped crying and looked at her father's eyes. "Don't worry, lord father, I get it," she said, colder than ice itself, before Thomas could open his mouth. "I get that you don't trust my friends, just as I also get that you don't trust me. I'm not the perfect and regal heiress you have always dreamt of me to become, eh? Poor Daphne, who can't even beat some simple muggle-born girl at the school. Poor Daphne, who was never good at making allies for the family. Poor Daphne, who is so stupid that needs her perfect lord father to take her life by the reins so she doesn't screw it all up!"

She stood up, not bothering if the chair fell to the floor with a loud thud. One last look to her father was all she needed to know that, no matter how much she cried, how loud she screamed, he would never change his mind. After all, in his mind, she had probably wasted all her chances to become the daughter and heiress he has always wanted her to become.

As Daphne was about to exit the room, Thomas took the word once again. "You must decide now: Ilvermorny or Beauxbatons." Some more few words reached her ears, crap about him always making the best for her future, which she ignored, and others she could not. "Even if you hate me, I will always love you, Daphne."

Daphne stormed through the halls, sobbing and shedding tears under the shocked eyes of those house-elves she found on the way to the gardens. Maybe, this is what I deserve for leaving my friends behind when they needed me the most. Had I fought against my father to stay at Hogwarts back then, maybe things would have been different. That was utter crap, and the girl knew deep inside her.

To not see her friends pained Daphne, but what hurt the most was to leave them behind knowing she had turned her back on them. It had taken her many years to finally be able to call another person a friend, and when she had three of them, it was her cowardice that had laid waste to that friendship, to that perfect world.

In the end, it was true that a person got what it deserved.

Atop the clear sky shone a flaming sun, like a reddish disk of fire. Without any doubt, it was the hottest weather Harry had ever experienced; around his head there was a humid veil, damped with cold water, so the heat couldn't become a real problem.

At least, he was having so much fun that it barely bothered him.

To his side, also crouching down behind some dry bushes of thin leaves, Sirius chuckled. "So, let me get this straight," he said. "One of those furry bastards once took your lunch from you right when the girl you wanted to impress was around. That, my friend, is where I draw a line. Oh, trust me, you did well moving on from her—and she did even better by not answering your next call."

"Oh, come on, shut up," Diop groaned, clearly exasperated. He was a tall man with dark skin and eyes, and also, with a great sense of humour and a vast knowledge about the African fauna. Just like Sirius and Harry, he wore robes of light colours and a damped veil over his forehead. "Those little devils are much worse than you think." Obviously, the guide wasn't wrong.

For the past two hours, the three of them had tracked down a couple of firecats, furry and evil felines of reddish fur which enjoyed messing with humans. Despite the extreme heat of the area, the thick fur not only didn't bother them, in fact, it helped the creatures to accumulate heat so it could be transformed into energy. Or so Diop had told them, at least.

The largest one, a feline bigger than a large hound, was one of the most beautiful sights Harry had ever witnessed. Its fur, reddish than a Weasley's hair, was crossed by many lines of a fairer shade of fur, almost yellowish, forming a very intricate pattern of spirals and rounded curves. A female firecate, while, to its side, there was a male, of smaller shape and whose fur followed a pattern of straight lines.

Indeed, the Wizarding World hid many wonders, and Harry couldn't wait to experience them all.

"Trust me, that firecat has messed with me enough times to know it took a weird liking to me," Diop huffed. "I named her after a very famous dragon, Ashes, which is known by everyone around here. To be honest, nobody knows if that dragon really existed or not, but it is a tale which every child is told about. My mother heard it from my grandpa, and I will do the same with my children. Now, I really hope for it to be a thing of the far future—Magic knows a kid is the last I need right now!"

Sirius couldn't help himself but to chuckle at the comment. "On that, I agree, my friend."

"I've never seen a dragon," Harry said, suddenly. That was a blatant lie; partly, at least. He had seen a dragon, and Norbert had been his name. However, such a little specimen couldn't be considered a dragon. He wanted to see a real one, those which exhaled a river of flames, powerful enough to melt solid rock, those large enough for its wings to hide the sun, and with scales tough enough to resist the mightiest of the spells.

Far from them, the female firecat jumped atop of the male one. For a few seconds, the two of them seemed to perform a very elegant dance, one of claws and sharp teeth, before their furs bristled. Ashes the Firecat was enveloped in a spiral of flames, and her companion ran from them as if possessed by the devil. The flames left a furrow of burned ground around Ashes as it ran forward, in pursuit of the male Firecate; as the fire increased its speed, the reddish furrow lost most of its brightnest.

"There it is, finally!" Diop almost exclaimed as he stood up, abandoning their bush cover. Harry imitated him, and his knees cracked in relief. "That's what I wanted you to see with your own eyes! Firecat's use their fur to collect heat from the sun, and once they need it to defend themselves, or to assert their dominance like Ashes just did, it is released in the form of fire. If it reaches a point in which the fur loses all its brightness, becoming as dull as a bronze coin, then it means the firecat can't use its best weapon." The two creatures became a little, red spot in their vision as they ran and ran, towards the horizon of the endless savannah. "Among my people, it is said that the end of the world will come when the sun is to be obscured by a huge dragon of black scales and crimson-red eyes—and the firecats will be the first to announce it, like heralds, for dragons are the most ancient of their enemies."

Sirius let out a loud whistle, impressed, while Harry shook his head in disbelief—how on earth could firecats pose a threat to creatures like dragons? Indeed, the Wizarding World was a weird yet fantastic wonder.

The tour ended and Diop got paid for his good work; both in gold and promises of a drinking night with Sirius. There were many ways to get back to their motel, but Harry chose his favourite one: to fly atop of a broom through the dusk, a yellowish picture that made the sun disappear behind some far and high mountains. The air felt warm, but in a good way, and Harry finally discarded the veil he had worn for the entire day. To his left, Sirius did the same as he got some beer can out of his robes. From where he had got it was a mystery to the boy, but he had come to learn that Sirius was a master of magic; he excelled even in the most unorthodox aspects of it.

"This is life," the man just said. "A day full of fun and adventures, into a relaxing night of summer. I'm gonna miss that bastard of Diop; he was a nice bloke."

Certainly, the guide had been a very nice person to be around with. "I swear I won't forget when the firecat stole his launch. I've never seen a man running so fast!" With each second, the light became fainter. From the dusk's yellowish tonality, it became pale, thanks to the bright moon which started to rise over the far horizon; the savannah, an endless picture of brownish grass decorated by a few trees of high, thin logs.

"I'm glad you had fun," Sirius smirked. "This was an adventure I had been planning for so long. You know, many years ago, your father and I had this place in mind to visit; among many others, of course. Fortunately, it didn't let me down."

It was very rare to see Sirius talking so openly about his late friends, but Harry had observed it troubled him less and less with each day. Back when they first met, the man just changed the topic as soon as Harry brought it to the conversation. Thankfully, Sirius had come to learn, slowly but surely, that Harry yearned to know any bit of information he could about James and Lily Potter. Very few people knew them well enough to fill all those blank spaces in his mind, and even fewer could provide such valuable details as his father's best friend could.

However, even if telling stories about James and Lily made Sirius happier, there was one line which could not be crossed. Under any circumstances, should the name Peter Pettigrew be mentioned. The traitor who got his parents killed, that was him—and also, one of their best friends. That scoundrel had sold the people who loved him in exchange for Voldemort's favour. All the more, after Sirius confronted him at Godric's Hollow—a story the man had refused to talk to him about—Peter Pettigrew had managed to trick the entire Wizarding World and make them believe he was the hero of a tragic story, framing Sirius in the process.

A full moon now stood atop of the dark sky—a sky so filled with stars that both black and white fought for control. Harry just enjoyed the view as he let the wind carry him. "One day, I will find Peter Pettigrew, and then, I will ask him if he regrets any of the decisions he took." Those words came out of Harry before he could contain them. All those thoughts about Peter and Voldemort, along with the recent events of the Chamber, which still lingered in his mind, made him push the matter. "I don't know why, but I just wanna do it. I think it is what my parents would have done."

Sirius just jugged what was left of his beer at once; then he just leaned forward, into the broom. "Yeah, that sounds like them," he commented in a sour voice, his eyes set on the bright moon. "Can't say the same for me, though. It's time to be honest, even if what I'm about to say embarrasses me greatly. Since I was freed from Azkaban, all I could think about was Peter—the way he eluded his fate at Godric's Hollow, and the way he had betrayed us all, his people. Oh, I just wanted to close my hands around his neck at the Wizengamot, during our trial, and when I learned about his escape, I almost went into a frenzy and destroyed everything. Fortunately for me, I was far too weak to do it. Remus found me and talked to me about you. Little Harry, my godson, had spent his entire childhood with Lily's family, and only Merlin knows how much I despise them!"

A solitary hawk flew past Harry, quick and regal, before it descended with the speed of a Nimbus. "I found you, and only thanks to that I managed to put those thoughts of vengeance at the back of my mind; forgotten yet not erased. But then you went to Hogwarts, and that blood lust came again. And I just answered the call. For many months, accompanied or in solitude, I searched every corner of the globe for that scoundrel of Peter. But, oh, that bastard had not forgotten how to run! It was all I could think about, but then came the news of your petrification; yours and Ronald's, the boy who, unconsciously, returned me back to life. I felt ashamed; worried, but, overall, ashamed."

"That's some bullshit if I've ever heard one," Harry cut in with an exasperated huff. "Why would you feel ashamed? There was nothing you could have done, and, besides, I don't think anyone could blame you for wanting to find Peter Pettigrew so hard. I mean, if that ever happened to me, if Ron, Hermione and Neville were betrayed by someone we trusted, I think I would lose my head, too." That was something he had thought about many, many times since he learned the truth about the man who betrayed his parents. A man like Albus Dumbledore, greater than all else, might have seen it with bad eyes, arguing that one must not surrender to those primal instincts, but there were times in which all Harry wanted was to find that man and ask him why he did it.

"Maybe you are right, maybe not," Sirius sighed as he stretched his back. He didn't look so depressed anymore; though the credit for that could have been given to the two beer cans he had just squeezed empty. "All I know is that I feel much better after telling it to you. That, and the fact I'm having the time of my life here."

Needless to be said, Harry was also having the time of his life. And, after the events of this year, he had welcomed these adventures with open arms. Still, far too many thoughts lingered at the back of his mind. It didn't matter if it was a firecat or a dragon, nothing could vanish them away. Especially one, the loudest of them all, a certain question: what will come next? During his first year, it had been the theft of the Stone, and the next came the Heir of Slytherin and his Chamber. Different matters at first glance, yet they shared a common denominator: Lord Voldemort.

Harry dispelled all those problems to the back of his mind, adding them to what seemed like an endless pile of headaches. Instead, he smiled at Sirius. "Let's just forget all this crap and race back to the tents. If those few beers didn't knock you out, of course."

Sirius' laughter triumphed over the silence of the night. "Boy, not even twenty of those would take me out." The man kicked the air and his broom cut through the sky, like a rocket, towards the west.

Harry just smirked and did what he did best—he flew atop his broom, ploughing through the winds, the only place where no worries could find him.