L.O.S.T
LAST CHAPTER: Harry and Susan venture into the Forbidden Forest on behalf of Daphne Greengrass, who is searching for a Poglotki, a strange cube that can counteract magic. They run into a strange Acromantula, but are saved – surprisingly – by Greengrass.
Harry side-stepped neatly, letting the flashes of orange light pass by his right shoulder. "Lower," he called across the Duelling Hall, "Rictusempra is a whole-body hex. It doesn't care where you land it, so aim for the chest, or the stomach."
Across from him, Greengrass – no, Daphne – bit her lip. She was improving steadily, but as of late Harry could not help but sense the breadth of skill between them when they practised. Strongsong's advice was, he believed, beginning to pay off; he felt quicker, stronger, more reactive than ever before. The only problem was the lack of competition. Even after the Christmas holidays, fewer than six people were willing to duel him. None of them could push the fight as far as he'd like.
Daphne cast a clumsy volley of spells his way, though they were at least aimed at his centre-mass. Harry returned with a pair of Stupefys, then a single Relashio. The stunning spells travelled so slowly, and he cast so quickly, that they almost flew in parallel. One shot to Daphne's right, the other to her left; the Relashio cut the distance between them.
Hemmed in, she tried to duck, but couldn't sink low enough. The Relashio hit its mark and the duel was over.
Harry lowered his wand, not feeling pleased at all. It was an empty victory. He wanted to fight McConnell again, strange as it sounded. "We should work on your Protego," he said. "A shield could've saved you, but you don't feel comfortable casting one in combat."
Daphne huffed, but agreed. "You don't miss a beat, do you?"
"I dunno, you're the musician."
She threw a stinging hex his way for his cheek, which Harry neatly sidestepped. Daphne had something of a temper, which he'd only really discovered in the past few days. It was strange, he decided, how experiencing danger brought people together. A week before, they'd never have bantered so easily.
But saving his life had changed things between them. After his embarrassing failure at battle Transfiguration (something he still wasn't comfortable with himself), Daphne's potion had proved debilitating to the malformed Acromantula. They'd been able to return to the castle at an easy pace… aided by their Invisibility Cloaks. Both of them.
Daphne's cloak was very different from his. Apparently woven from the hair of a Demiguise, it had a rough, pleated texture. It was like she was wearing a sheepskin; hers was even white… when it was visible.
"I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd done," she'd explained at the time. "Sending you to the Forbidden Forest was… was too much. I put you in danger."
At that moment, when they were both safe in Hogwarts' grounds, Harry could not help but forgive her. Daphne had looked like half the girl she'd been half an hour ago, small and withdrawn, staring at the floor. And it wasn't like he hadn't agreed to it himself. His desire to dispel the rumours about his ancestry – and to understand something more about his parents – had overwhelmed his good sense.
"It's okay," he'd said. "I've faced worse. But what was that thing you threw at it?"
Harry suspected Daphne's eyes had lit up at that moment… not that he'd been able to see them behind her dark glasses. "Essence of Serpent," she'd said. "Acromantulas fear snakes."
Harry had filed that information away.
Now, as he tried to critique Daphne's performance, something about it rankled him. Why did it matter that Acromantulas feared snakes?
The thought burned in the back of his mind. It'd been distracting him the last three days. There was a connection somewhere, but he just couldn't–
"–Harry?"
Harry came back to himself, just in time to see Daphne holding out a box wrapped in shiny green paper. A present. "Sorry Daphne, I was miles away. Who's that for?"
"You, idiot, for tomorrow. I know the House Elves can deliver it, but… but I wanted to give it to you myself. Happy Christmas Harry."
Daphne pushed the present into his hands, then fled the Duelling Hall at speed.
Harry watched her leave, bemused. Between her and Susan, who knew what was going through girls' heads?
Christmas Day turned out to be very quiet. Even the Weasley twins couldn't quite bolster the downcast mood at dinner. Professor Dumbledore's speech seemed more like a call to calm than a meditation on the season. Fear of the Heir had infected even the jolliest of occasions.
Harry had a moment of panic when he realised that Hermione wasn't at the table, but Madam Pomphrey assured him that she was merely ill and in the Hospital Wing. Alan and Longbottom had stared straight down at their plates as she spoke. There was, Harry suspected, more going on there than just illness; those three were investigating something, and it'd gotten Hermione hurt.
He waited until they dared glance back up, and stared them both down until they lowered their eyes again. Alan put up a fight, but Longbottom practically whimpered.
This time, there was no mysterious present from an unknown benefactor. Susan gave him what Wizards called a moving anthology, which was essentially a Wizarding picture book. Titled The History of the Duel in Pictures, it depicted scenes of famous duels from history – ending with the famous Duel of the Century between Professor Dumbledore and the dark wizard Grindelwald. "To inspire you," Susan beamed. It was inspiring. The detail was exquisite, and the captions useful. Most of the duels he'd never heard of; it was valuable research information.
He received a few other smaller gifts – Hagrid had sent him a large tin of treacle toffee – but the other significant gift… Well, he didn't quite know what to make of it. He'd unwrapped Daphne's green box eagerly, interested in what she might give him. They hadn't known each other long after all, so her choice of gift would be a good measure of what she thought of him.
Beneath the paper was a lidded wooden box, plain and unadorned, and in that box was a book. Harry's stomach flipped as he read the title.
Curses Most Terrible; a Compendium of the Dark Arts
"Harry," he heard Susan say.
He ignored her, tracing the shape of the words with his eyes. Compendium of the Dark Arts… It was almost certainly illegal. Daphne had gifted him an illegal book, a book on the Dark Arts. Harry frowned, torn. But isn't your Lightspeed illegal too? And what's wrong with that? Nothing, his better nature whispered back, but a Lightspeed isn't a dark curse. Get rid of it; throw it in the lake…
Then he remembered firing curses at the Acromantula, how useless he'd felt as they deflected off its hardened exoskeleton. With this book, that'd never happen again. With this book, he could safe himself.
Harry swallowed. He didn't know what to do.
"Harry," Susan repeated more firmly.
He looked at her. She was staring at the book, as though hypnotised. She was, he knew, going to tell him to report Daphne. They didn't really get along; in fact, they tried their best not to speak to each other.
"Harry, I knew this would happen eventually. You… you should take the book and… and make your own decision."
Harry blinked. What? Had he misheard that? "But, Sue, this book, it's…"
"It's something you're drawn to. And… and I can't take that away."
"I'd be in big trouble if I was found with this book."
Susan shrugged, her plaited her bobbing. "Then don't show anyone. I think… I think every duellist investigates this… this sort of thing. Do you think Professor Dumbledore hasn't studied it?"
"Yes, but… your aunt."
"Aunty Amelia is… practical."
What? The conversation was getting stranger and stranger. And he was trying to come up with reasons why he shouldn't read the book, he knew… Because he wanted to read it. He really, really wanted to read it. It would make him a better duellist.
He took the book from the box, revealing a note hidden beneath it sat atop yet another book. He read the note.
Hello Harry, said Daphne's elegant script,
I know that you're wondering if you should keep Curses Most Terrible. It is your choice, but I advise that you do – obviously, since I gifted you it in the first place!
Harry managed a wan smile.
The labelling of magic as dark or light is merely a political choice. Do not be afraid of the monsters Wizardkind has created. There are monsters enough already.
And do enjoy The Origins of Wizarding Politics, even if Aleister Crouch can be dry.
Thank you for your help. Poglotoki are more important than you know. I'll have your ancestry charted soon.
Merry Christmas,
Daphne Greengrass
PS. The box itself is enchanted to resist probes from wards, and can be locked. I'd recommend you keep Curses Most Terrible in this box when you aren't reading it. Harry, you cannot be found with this book. I've left another note inside the front cover detailing how to use it.
The note was formal, stiff, and very Daphne. Harry gave the note to Susan and closed the box. Better just to enjoy the day, he thought, and think about it later.
And enjoy the day he did.
Christmas dinner was splendid, with mountains of road potatoes and gallons of gravy. The rafters had been charmed to rain enchanted snow, which was warm and dry. They sang carols in their seats, while Fred and George bewitched their brother Percy's prefect badge so that it read 'Pinhead'.
By the time Harry and Susan returned to the Common Room, they were flushed with laughter, sated with glorious food, and pleasantly tired too.
They fell asleep beside each other before the brazier, lulled by the whir of the Awkwright Spinner as it sucked up the smoke.
…
…
Harry only opened Daphne's present again after Boxing Day. He stared at Curses Most Terrible (by Andrew Yaxley, he now saw) for a long time before turning instead to The Origins of Wizarding Politics. Even the title made him grimace, never mind Daphne's characterisation of the author. He'd already made three failed attempts at understanding Wizarding politics; each time his chosen tome had been almost incomprehensible. Why would this time be any different?
Still, Daphne had given it to him for Christmas. He had to try, at least. Reluctantly, Harry cracked the book open. There was no introduction, only a table of contents. It listed names, and dates beside the names. They were, Harry recognised, the names of famous Wizards, and the dates the spans of their lives. Most, it seemed, lived long lives.
Then his eyes caught a particular name, and he paused. The fifth name, Recimir, had died at around forty years of age. The name sparked something in his memory.
He turned to chapter five, and began to read.
VII. Recimir (445 - 487 AD)
Few figures in Occidental Wizarding history are as central or controversial as Recimir the Frank, also known as the Godhead and the Betrayer. Born on the Rhine in the waning years of the Roman Empire, Recimir was introduced to a new and violent world of Wizard and Mugglekind. The cross-pollination of Latin languages and Teutonic wandlore had instilled in Witches and Wizards new strength, and led in turn to an elevated status that Recimir would wrestle with for the rest of his life.
Little is known about his parents, except that they had migrated with their tribe, pushed like so many others by the Huns, to the lands of the Roman Empire. There Recimir was raised in the traditions of his people, learning the lesser incantations in Frankish, and wielding a wand in the Teutonic fashion. Yet unlike his ancestors, at some point Recimir received the gift of Latin, the greatest magical language devised. This is the story of many thousands of Witches and Wizards in this period, but the strength of Recimir's might and his indomitable will led him to draw conclusions whose consequences have rippled through the centuries, and propelled him to conflict with the other great Wizards of the age, Egica (see chapter VIII) and Adrian (see chapter IX).
Recimir first appears in history in the Folcmoot of 460 AD, where, at a mere fifteen years of age…
Harry read, and could not stop reading. He read, and read, and read; he only stopped at the chapters end, when he realised he hadn't moved for four hours. His head felt like it was filled with cotton wool and saw dust, so he left the dormitory and wandered the grounds.
It was a cool night, fresh with new-fallen snow, and the gentle breeze soon began to clear his head. Then Harry began to think. The Origin of Politics was a very different book to those he'd attempted to read previously. He didn't understand everything, but Crouch's focus on individuals allowed him to find a narrative without the muddying of political factions or vast families. Recimir was born; Recimir lived; and Recimir died. It was simple… yet not.
But it also explained a great deal. Recimir was, as he understood it, a sort of prototype Voldemort. Or perhaps that was unfair to Recimir? Or was it unfair to Voldemort? Perhaps Recimir was even more brutal, but Voldemort seemed to lack a sense of reason that Recimir certainly possessed.
Before reading, Harry had already known that 'modern' Wizardry was a combination of German wand-magic and Roman language. Latin hadn't evolved naturally; a group of Wizards had realised the power inherent in language, and had sought to mould their own tongue to better channel the powers of the arcane. However, they'd wielded staves in the Roman tradition. Staves were clumsy, reluctant instruments of power; stave-spells could take beyond a minute to cast.
Then Germans (or in Crouch's terms, Teutons) developed wands. Unlike staves, wands were fast. Wands far outperformed staves by every metric, and the Romans were quick to adopt them*. The advantages of Latin were less obvious, and – according to Crouch – were kept secret, so the Romans, with their Latin and their wands, dominated the Germans.
But after a few centuries, German sorcerers discovered the advantages of Latin, taught themselves the language, and the Roman superiority was over.
That was the world Recimir was born into; a world of warfare between Magicals and Muggles, where each side was developing more sophisticated means to destroy the other.
Recimir looked at this, and decided that Witches and Wizards were closer to gods than men. Then his parents sent him to Rome (apparently to try and teach him greater respect for Muggles), and, as they desired, he converted to Christianity… only to then proclaim that Witches and Wizards were closer to God than Muggles. He saw a world of chaos, of Muggle armies blindly murdering each other over land and the Imperial throne, and thought that Wizards, who he argued had more in common with each other than they did with their Muggle countrymen, should ally to dominate the Muggles, bringing peace to Europe for the Muggles' own good.
Suffice to say, not everyone agreed, and he ended up dead. The details of his opposition were a little hazy in Harry's head. "Probably because I read for four hours," he told himself wryly as he stared across the galley bridge.
Egica and Adrian, he recalled, were their names. He hadn't read their chapters thoroughly… but Harry's thoughts were elsewhere. The question nagged at him; what if Recimir had won? What if there hadn't been a Dark Age*? Harry couldn't imagine doing half the things Recimir had done – the thought turned his stomach – but Crouch's descriptions of the fifth century were…frightening.
Harry wrestled with the question until his eyes drooped, and he returned to the warmth of the Hufflepuff Common Room to play Exploding Snap, eat sweets, and exchange Lockhart impersonations with Susan.
Daphne was glancing at him throughout breakfast the next day. They had decided it was better if they didn't appear openly friendly. "She has something for me," Harry murmured to Susan.
He watched Susan's bright blue eyes flick to the Slytherin, then back to her food. "Are you sure… Are you sure you want to know? What if- you know?" She whispered back.
What if I am descended from Slytherin? Harry shrugged. "Then I can't publish my family tree." Not while half the school thinks I'm a lunatic, anyway.
He'd had months to come to terms with the idea that he could be Salazar Slytherin's many times great-grandson. It was no longer a frightening thought.
"If I am, we'll have to find another way to prove I'm not the Heir."
Despite his reassurances, Harry's stomach was doing flips as they ascended to the Duelling Hall. Daphne, he knew, would be following with news. Now he thought about it, she'd likely had the answer for some time, and had been waiting for him to complete his side of the deal.
When they arrived, they almost stepped into a puddle of snow melt. Harry looked at the rafters balefully. They'd begun to leak a few weeks ago. "Stupid thing."
Annoyingly, they couldn't report it, as they were technically not supposed to be there at all.
They settled in their customary seats, cast a warming bluebell flame, and waited.
Soon the door creaked open, then - splash. Harry sniggered at the sight; Daphne was looking down at her sodden foot with utter disdain, her mouth pursed almost like Professor McGonagall at a disobedient student.
"Thank you for the warning," she said as she sat.
Harry grinned. "Consider it training."
Daphne returned with a huff. "I think I prefer you before I saved your life."
"Too late now, Greengrass," Susan said. "You can't put the pumpkin juice back in the pumpkin."
"Thanks Bones, I've never heard that before."
Harry rolled his eyes. They could barely say a genuine word to each other. "Do you have any news, Daphne?"
She straightened, reaching for her bag, then placed a thick piece of parchment on the table. "I've been quick about it, completing what's known within Hereditary Cartographing as a sweep. The Greengrass archives have had a complete Potter family tree for centuries of course – and it's been updated, but there is always room for errors, for distant ancestors to be mistaken for others, that sort of thing. I've gone over-"
"-Wait, how have you been checking the Greengrass archives? Shouldn't they be in your manor's library?"
Daphne arched an eyebrow. "Do you want me to answer that? And we have a castle, not a manor house."
She's been leaving Hogwarts, Harry thought. Unless her parents have been doing her work for her... "No, carry on."
"As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, I've gone over all the sources of information we have, and I did find a few errors – one William Potter, born 1104, actually had a Dewsbury wife, not a Damsbury… but nothing important. The Potter's have no connection to Slytherin – which makes sense, if you know of Slytherin's strategy. I assume you do?"
Harry nodded. Slytherin had thought he could contain Parseltongue within his own family if only he had enough children, whose grandchildren could marry each other.
"Well, I was stuck. Your ability to speak to snakes seemed… inexplicable."
There was, Harry sensed, a but coming. His stomach sank.
"So, how much do you know about your mother's family?"
Harry blinked. His mother? She was a-
"Harry's mother was a Muggleborn," Susan said snappishly. "You of all people should know that."
Daphne didn't even flinch. "Was she? What do you know about her parents, her grandparents?"
It was, he realised, a great question; a mind opening one. He'd always assumed that avenue was closed, that his mother was Muggleborn, and that was that.
"I… I don't know," Harry finally admitted. He'd seen them in the Mirror of Erised, but that meant nothing at all. "I don't know anything about them."
"I thought so…" Daphne leaned forward, as if to tell a secret. "There is a potion," she whispered, though no one but Harry and Susan were listening, "a potion that can reveal the drinker's ancestry up to seven you would know for sure."
Her words seemed to light some invisible spark in the air; Susan drew grim, while Harry's mind raced. A potion? If it was that simple, then-
"Why haven't you told us about it before?"
Susan snorted. "Because it's illegal. Seriously illegal."
"Only," Daphne said, "if we get caught."
Susan pushed back at once, arguing that Daphne (or Greengrass, in her terms) only wanted to gain advantage, to get them into trouble, or to prove that Harry's mother wasn't a Muggleborn to support her own Pureblood bigotry.
But Harry let her arguments wash by like a gentle wave, soon receding. He'd already made up his mind – he'd made up his mind as soon as Daphne had suggested it. Only, he thought, if we get caught.
GLOSSARY:
Romans, being famously practical, were eager to adopt any practical advantage they could find from their foes.
The Dark Age narrative is complex, I know, but broadly true. And it isn't the focus of Harry's thinking… and he's already stretching his mind as far as it could reasonably go for his age. Postmodern questions about 'but what is a Dark Age' really?' wouldn't be very helpful.
A/N:
We're half way through the second year of Hogwarts, and it looks like Alan, Hermione and Neville are, well, 'doing canon', while Harry continues to search for the truth of his ancestry.
L.O.S.T is going to go into some pretty… dark places, and we're going to find out more of Daphne's character throughout.
As usual, there is a P-word if you want to support me, and the Discord link is here: /mw2vyjM45m
NEXT CHAPTER:
A 'potion' is drunk, something is discovered, and there is another attack…