Chapter 33

Nature had begun to reclaim the now lifeless manor. Rodents and insects scurried along the tattered floors and through the demolished walls, leaving trails of prints, puddles, and watermarks from the elements they had tracked in. Vines and smaller vegetation protruded through shattered windows and torn portraits, their tendrils creeping along the silent halls. The only source of light came from the faint glow above Harry's head as he made his way through the abandoned property.

At the end of the corridor stood a figure bundled in heavy robes, examining a ripped portrait of a long-deceased Malfoy ancestor. The man looked up, his calculating gray eyes locking onto Harry.

"You're late," Arran said, raising two fingers in a subtle signal, to which Harry responded with four.

Harry lowered his arm and shrugged. "Let's make this quick."

"Agreed." Arran tossed Harry a roll of parchment. "Scrimgeour is still dealing with the fallout from the security breach and the ransacking of our government agencies a few months ago. A few more key positions have been vacated and are being filled by people with close ties to Riddle."

"Figures," Harry muttered as he unrolled the parchment. "We know that Voldemort has begun mobilizing his full force for an attack. Based on what's here, we'll know when." Reading the parchment, Harry looked up. "Within the week?"

Arran nodded. "It's expected that the full Wizengamot will be there. Scrimgeour has enough votes to put you away."

"Have you made provisions?"

"I command a small force, all of which will be prepared to fulfill their duties in protecting the Minister. We will set precautions per our last discussion."

Harry tossed the parchment into the air, watching as it ignited and burned on its ascent, the ashes gliding back down. "Good, we'll need every advantage and then some."

"And you're certain?"

"Without a doubt, it will be then. There are too many variables, but that won't change."

Arran's cold eyes followed a rat scurrying along the wall. "And your variables—any developments?"

"We've neither heard nor found a single trace of him or his family."

A crack of lightning jolted Harry awake. Stretching, he sat up on the large rug they had been flying on. Rain fell in a heavy downpour, but none of the elements were felt. In the near distance, lightning crackled and flashed through large, round clouds. Below them, at a significant descent, was a lake, but they were not flying toward that. No, they were heading directly toward the mesmerizing lightning storm.

"We've arrived," Dumbledore said jovially. "Welcome to Lake Maracaibo, the seat of Cloudbound."

Harry strangely remembered bedtime stories of Dumbledore's adventures in the west, of which there were many, during the years of Grindelwald. Yet, he never heard of cloudbound.

"Yet, we don't seem to be approaching any land," Shacklebolt remarked as the clouds thickened around them.

Harry's eyes struggled to adjust to the dramatic flashes of light between each crack of lightning. Rubbing his eyes, he could swear there were black specks surrounding him. A crack of lightning directly in front of him turned everything white for a moment as they ascended higher.

Approaching them—no, surrounding them from all sides—were riders on winged Thestrals. The Thestrals themselves were eerie yet majestic, their skeletal bodies and leathery wings casting ghostly silhouettes against the stormy backdrop. Each rider was cloaked in dark, weatherproof robes that seemed to blend seamlessly with their mounts. Their hoods were drawn up, shadows obscuring their faces, but the occasional flash of lightning revealed glints of steely eyes and the contours of stern expressions.

The riders wielded long, slender spears that seemed to command the lightning to follow them as they rode. Their hands, gloved in dark leather and a metal-like substance, held the reins with practiced ease, guiding the Thestrals through the turbulent skies with precision and grace.

As they drew closer, Harry noticed intricate patterns etched into the riders' cloaks, shimmering faintly with each lightning strike.

One of the riders, distinguishable from the others by his larger spear, signaled to the others. The Thestrals adjusted their formation, creating a protective circle around the flying rug. The lead rider pulled back his hood, revealing a gigantic man with sharp features and piercing hazel eyes that seemed to reflect the storm itself.

"My name is Burner," he called out, his voice carrying effortlessly over the roar of the thunder. "Who approaches the Strals?"

"You have grown quite large, Burner," Dumbledore said, his voice warm and respectful. "It goes without saying that I wish to share my condolences about your father; he was quite the king."

Burner seemed unfazed, simply stating, "The king is dead. Queen Rhea reigns now."

Dumbledore nodded. "We would like an audience with her."

Lightning cracked in succession around them, casting eerie shadows and illuminating the intense expressions of the Strals. Burner looked over to two other riders, who turned their mounts to fly away. He then focused back on Dumbledore and his companions.

"You will stay here," Burner commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

As they hovered amidst the storm, Harry couldn't help but feel a mix of awe and apprehension—he had never seen anything like this. The Stormwings exuded an aura of raw power and discipline, their Thestrals flapping their bat-like wings with an almost unnatural grace. The storm raged around them, but within the protective circle, there was an eerie calm, as if the Stormwings controlled the very elements themselves. The other riders maintained their positions, their eyes fixed on Harry and his companions.

"I've never seen anything like this," Harry whispered to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore replied, "We are not so lucky for such unorthodoxy in our day-to-day lives."

It wasn't ten minutes later that the winged riders returned. Burner spoke in their native tongue before turning back to them.

"The queen has permitted an audience. You will follow me."

Burner waited until the riders reformed into position before leading the group through the storm. The clouds grew denser as they flew deeper into the heart of the tempest. Harry could barely see through the sheets of rain and flashes of lightning, but the Strals and their mounts moved with ease.

As they ascended higher, the storm seemed to recede slightly, the lightning becoming less frequent, the thunder more distant. The darkness of the clouds gave way to a soft, glowing light that seemed to emanate from above. Harry squinted, trying to make out the source of the light as they broke through the final layer of clouds. The rain and lighting broke to an eerie quietness, serene almost.

They found themselves approaching a village nestled on the clouds. The structures were simple yet sturdy, built from straw, sticks, and wooden beams. The roofs were thatched, and smoke curled up from small chimneys, dispersing into the clouded sky. It was an entire community existing in the sky.

The villagers moved about their daily routines with a calm, almost timeless rhythm. Women washed clothes in basins filled with water collected from the clouds themselves, the soapy water trickling down the sides of the fluffy white ground beneath them. Children ran and played, their laughter echoing softly as they chased each other through the narrow paths between the huts. Men, not dressed in the same garb as the riders, were busy leading and taking care of Thestrals that were guided up and down the village.

The riders led them toward the largest structure in the village—a communal hall made of sturdier wood, with walls reinforced by tightly woven reeds and a roof patched with large leaves. It stood at the center of the village, surrounded by smaller huts and open-air spaces.

As they approached the communal hall, Burner signaled for the group to descend. The flying rug gently touched down on the surface that was surprisingly sturdy. The Stral riders landed beside them, their mounts' wings folding neatly as they came to a stop. Burner dismounted and gestured for the group to follow him into the hall.

Harry, Dumbledore, and Shacklebolt exchanged glances before stepping off the rug and onto the cloud platform. The surface beneath their feet was surprisingly solid, with just a slight give that made each step feel light and buoyant. The air here was crisp and fresh, carrying the scent of rain and the earthy aroma of the village. Lightning shot beneath them as they stepped.

Burner led them through the open entrance of the hall, where they were met by a group of villagers dressed in simple, practical clothing. The villagers, mostly elders, regarded the newcomers with curiosity but also with a certain wariness. They bowed respectfully as the group passed.

The interior of the communal hall was warm and inviting, with a large fire pit in the center and seating arranged around it. The walls were adorned with woven tapestries depicting scenes of life in the sky—storms, Thestrals, and the cloud-bound village itself. The roof was open in places, allowing the soft light from above to filter in, casting dappled shadows across the floor.

At the far end of the hall, seated on a raised platform, was the queen of the Strals. Unlike the regal figure Harry had expected, Queen Rhea was a woman of simple beauty, dressed in a gown of finely woven fabric that flowed like water. Her brown hair was braided and adorned with small flowers, and she had one eye, her right covered with a patch, while her hazel left eye stared deeply at them..

"You now stand before the Queen of the Strals, Sovereign of the Cloudbound Dominion," a soldier announced with reverence as they approached. "Her dominion spans the vast skies over Lake Maracaibo, safeguarding the highlands of Venezuela, the mountains of Colombia, and the winds of the Caribbean."

"Welcome to my realm," the queen began, her voice smooth and resonant, "What brings you here, seeking an audience with me?"

Dumbledore, stepped forward with a respectful bow. "Your Majesty," he said, "We come seeking your wisdom and aid in a matter of great importance. The world below is on the brink of war, and we believe that your unique position and resources could help tip the scales in the fight against a great darkness."

The queen's eye narrowed slightly, a flicker of amusement crossing her features. "The world below is always on the brink of something, Albus Dumbledore," she replied, her tone almost playful. "Wars, crises, conflicts… They rise and fall like the tides. Why should I, or my people, concern ourselves with the affairs across the pond?"

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, his voice as gentle as ever, "Your Majesty, your words hold wisdom, as they often do," he stopped due to a momentary cough that briefly interrupted his speech. Composing himself, he continued,. "However, the shadows that gather in this conflict are not bound by the earth alone. This war, like a tempest unleashed, seeks to engulf all it touches. It is a storm without borders, and if left unchecked, it will not be satisfied with merely the lands below. It will reach for the skies, and in its insatiable hunger, it will seek to claim even the dominion of the Strals."He paused once more, "And perhaps, Your Majesty, there is something to be gained, not just for those you protect, but for the legacy you wish to leave behind—a legacy that stands not only for strength, but for the wisdom to know when to act, and the courage to do so."

The queen leaned back in her seat, her fingers lightly tracing the armrest of her throne. Her expression remained inscrutable. "You speak of legacies, Albus," she said, "and of the wisdom to act at the right time. But tell me, what legacy do you seek to preserve in this? Is it the legacy of a man who once came to these skies not to aid, but to learn, to experiment, and to shape a society for his own ends?"

Dumbledore's expression did not falter, though a shadow passed briefly over his eyes. "There was a time, I thought I understood the world, and believed I could bend it to my will without consequence. The foundation I helped lay here was born out of that hubris, and while I saw the potential for greatness, I also failed to foresee the true cost of such endeavors."

The queen's lips curved into a knowing smile, though there was little warmth in it. "You helped create something powerful, yes, but then you left it to fend for itself, to grow on its own without your guidance. You sought knowledge, Albus, and in your pursuit, you gave us the tools, but not the care. We have thrived despite your absence, not because of it."

"I cannot undo the past, nor would I attempt to claim credit for the resilience and power your people have forged on their own. But I come to you now, humbled and with a genuine plea—not for myself, but for the countless lives at stake. This war is not like the others, Your Majesty. The darkness that rises threatens to consume all in its path, and it will not stop at the borders of the ground."

The queen studied him for a long moment. "And if I were to consider your request," she said slowly, "what would you ask of us? What role do you see my people playing in this war of yours?"

Dumbledore met her gaze, his expression earnest. "The supremacy of the air, Your Majesty," he said, "is where your people's strength is unmatched. Voldemort, our enemy, has allies who command the skies—dragons, and other dark creatures that can turn the tide of battle with their mere presence. We need aerial support, guidance, and the might of the Strals if we are to stand a chance."

The queen remained silent. After a pause, she asked, "And for our risk, what are you prepared to offer?"

Dumbledore nodded respectfully. "As you can see, I am not as spritely as I once was" he began, "It is not for me to dictate terms, but to facilitate the connection between those to come after." Turning gracefully toward Harry and Shacklebolt, he continued, "These two, Your Majesty, are the ones empowered to honor and fulfill the promises made here. They will ensure that your rightful terms are not only anticipated but met with the respect and commitment they deserve."

The queen's gaze shifted to Harry and Shacklebolt. "Very well," the queen finally said, "You have my attention."

Harry stepped forward. "What are you prepared to ask for, Your Majesty?"

The queen leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "If we are to join your cause, I require a binding agreement from your government—recognition of our sovereignty, protection of that sovereignty, and a landed territory across the pond that belongs solely to our people. This is non-negotiable."

Shacklebolt, standing tall beside Harry, nodded in agreement. "The Ministry will recognize and uphold your sovereignty. We will work together to secure the land you seek, and we will ensure that your people are protected from foreign and foreign interests and in this exchange you will work with the ministry in patrolling the skies of our territories."

The queen's eye did not leave them, silence filled the hall as they stood, awaiting her answer. Finally, she nodded, a small, calculated smile curling at the edges of her lips. "Very well," she said, "You have my word that the Strals will aid you in your fight and beyond. But know this," she added, her tone sharpening, "if any of these promises are broken, if the sovereignty of my people is threatened in any way, you will wish you never stood before us."

Dumbledore inclined his head, "Your conditions are understood, Your Majesty. We will honor them with the utmost respect."

Harry felt a momentary relief as his shoulders relaxed, but the queen's voice cut through the silence, sharp and unyielding.

"Lastly, we know you, Albus, and we respect the history between us," the Queen said, her gaze shifting to Harry and Shacklebolt. "But if we are to follow either of you, my people must witness your strength firsthand. My brother Burner will duel one of you, in front of the very armies you seek to command. Tonight. Lead them to their chambers to unwind and prepare."

With her decree delivered, there was nothing more to be said. Soldiers and guards moved in, guiding Harry, Shacklebolt, and Dumbledore away from the queen's presence.

The guards led them through the winding corridors of the communal hall, the tension thick in the air. Harry could feel the weight of the queen's words pressing down on him. He glanced at Shacklebolt, who met his gaze with a calm, resolute expression. Dumbledore walked slightly ahead of them, his steps measured, his demeanor as composed as ever.

As they reached the chambers prepared for them, the guards stepped aside, allowing them to enter. The rooms were simple but comfortable, with soft bedding and a small hearth already crackling with a warm fire. The walls were adorned with tapestries similar to those in the hall, depicting the fierce and majestic history of the Strals.

Once the door closed behind them, Harry watched as Dumbledore's strength seemed to drain away, and he quickly reached for seat.

"I'm quite alright," Dumbledore said, reassuringly, as Harry guided him to sit down near the bed. "I require but a moment."

As Harry looked at Dumbledore, he couldn't help but notice the weary lines etched deeper into the old wizard's face, evidence of the toll the past few months and his condition had taken. Each day they spent together, Harry's anger simmered, though he wasn't sure if it was directed at everything on his mind, Dumbledore's condition, or perhaps all of the above.

"Well, wizards living in the cloud," Shacklebolt remarked, leaning against the hearth, "I doubt Scrimgeour will take kindly to our proxy diplomacy."

Harry unclasped his traveling robe. "I doubt it will matter if there's no government left at all." He turned to Dumbledore. "What are their strengths?"

"They are formidable riders," Dumbledore began, his voice steady despite his weariness. "But their true power lies in their gear. Their spears and gloves are embedded with Thestral hair, which allows them to channel and control the elements. They don't cast spells as we do; instead, their magic is a raw connection to the forces of nature, which they wield with remarkable skill."

Harry stretched his shoulders before turning to Shacklebolt. "You or me?"

Shacklebolt responded with a coy grin. "I think we both know the answer."

An hour later, they were gathered and escorted out of the halls. As they walked, Harry found himself beside Dumbledore.

"You never told me about this place," Harry remarked.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "You know as well as anyone, Harry, that it would take a lifetime to explain everything I've encountered in this world."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "The more I learn from you, the more I realize just how vast this world is—and how small I am within it."

"That is my greatest desire—that as you grow, you find yourself feeling smaller in the vastness of this world," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling with gentle wisdom. "For it is in that shrinking, in the humbling before the enormity of life, that true greatness is found."

Harry smiled wistfully. "I can't imagine doing it without you."

"And you never will," Dumbledore assured him, pointing at Harry's heart. "For I shall always be here, Harry. More than raising a soldier, I have had the privilege of guiding a soul who embodies what it means to be a true Dumbledore. And that, my boy, is a legacy that endures far beyond my presence.

"Your words won't make it any easier," Harry said, flatly.

"Not right now, no," Dumbledore acknowledged, his tone gentle. "But in time, they will seep through, like rain into parched soil. The heart, you see, often longs for conditions it cannot control." He paused, studying Harry with a knowing gaze. "I suspect that I'm not the only thing occupying your mind lately."

Harry's mind briefly wandered to Daphne, but the familiar surge of anger quickly returned. "No," he replied, "But as you've said, it's better if I don't dwell on what I can't control."

"Matters of the heart are not distractions, Harry," Dumbledore replied, "They are what give us strength, what remind us why we fight. In the darkest of times, it is love, compassion, and even the pain of unspoken feelings that light our way. Do not fear them, my boy; embrace them, for they are as much a part of you as the wand you wield."

"I'll try."

"And that, Harry, is more than enough."

They were escorted to a vast, oval-shaped arena, its high walls made of smooth, polished stone that gleamed faintly in the diffused light filtering through the clouds above. The stands surrounding the arena were packed with soldiers, their robes glinting with the faintest trace of lighting shaped sigils that were aboduent. Above them, Strals circled on their winged Thestrals, their dark silhouettes cutting through the sky as they watched with silent intensity. Some of the Thestrals perched on the ledges, their riders as still as statues, eyes trained on the figures below.

The arena floor was an expanse of tightly packed clouds, firm enough to stand on but with a slight give that made each step feel almost buoyant. The center of the arena had been cleared, leaving a wide, open space where the duel would take place.

As they entered the arena, Harry's gaze was immediately drawn to the queen, who stood poised at the center of the vast space. She wore simple yet elegant raiments, a golden crown resting atop her head, its tips tinged with a subtle blue that seemed to shimmer as she moved. Flanked by soldiers, Burner among them, she approached with a calm, measured grace. As she drew nearer, Harry could see her more clearly—she was taller than he had anticipated, her single, unblinking eye fixed intently upon them.

"Which of you will represent your party today?" she asked.

"I will," Harry replied without hesitation, meeting her gaze as the queen turned her full attention toward him.

A slight, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips as she studied him further. "You're rather young, aren't you?" she remarked, her eyes narrowing as she examined him more closely. Then, as recognition dawned, her eyes widened in surprise. "You're the Boy Who Lived?" she asked.

Harry made a sweeping motion as if to bow. "At your service."

The gesture seemed to irk the soldiers flanking her, their expressions hardening, but the queen's reaction was different. A faint smile curved her lips. "Well, let's not prolong this any further," she said, "Best of luck to you."

"Don't get comfortable, my Queen."

The queen swept past Harry, her robes whispering against the arena floor as she made her way to her place in the stands. Her soldiers followed closely behind, except for Burner, who lingered, his gaze locked onto Harry. With a deliberate stride, Burner moved to the opposite side of the arena, positioning himself for the upcoming duel.

Dumbledore and Shacklebolt exchanged a brief, reassuring glance with Harry, each giving a nod of support before they, too, took their places in the stands. The arena, now vast and echoing, was left to Harry and Burner—two figures standing alone in the center of the storm.

The queen's voice resonated through the arena. "The rules are simple," she declared. Burner had already drawn his spear, its tip crackling with lightning. Harry tore a small piece of cloth from his robe, his eyes never leaving his opponent.

"One of you will leave this arena unconscious or dead; the other will be the victor," the queen said.

The arena fell into silence.

"Best of luck to both combatants," the queen added, her voice cutting through the stillness.

Harry readied himself, clutching the piece of cloth tightly in his hand.

"Begin."

Burner thrust his spear forward, unleashing a torrent of lightning from its tip with a deafening crack and a blinding flash. Harry quickly turned his head, avoiding the dazzling light, and raised his wand just in time to redirect the lightning's path. As the redirected stream crackled through the air, Burner lunged, driving his spear into the spot where Harry had been standing mere moments before.

Burner retrieved his spear with effortless grace, wielding it as though it were weightless. In one swift motion, he hurled it toward Harry with such force that the sheer wind from its passage blew Harry's hair back. Harry reacted instinctively, waving his hand to cast a protective spell that sent him flying backward, just in time to avoid the spear's deadly arc. As he steadied himself, Harry could see the spear pulsing with electricity, the energy crackling along its length, ready to strike again.

"Are you planning to run the entire fight?" Burner taunted, sending another stream of lightning crackling through the air.

Harry swiftly redirected the lightning with his wand, rolling to the side as Burner drove his spear into the cloud with such force that the resulting gust nearly knocked Harry off balance once more. The wind whipped around him.

"When you wake up," Harry said, rolling into a crouch, "try not to be too shocked."

In a flash of frustration, Burner swung his arm, channeling lightning from his fingers directly at Harry.

"It was nice dueling you," Harry quipped as he threw the piece of cloth into the air. With a swift wave of his wand, the cloth transfigured into a pane of glass. The lightning struck it with a sharp crack, shattering the glass into countless shards.

With another wave of Harry's hand, the shards flew toward Burner, embedding themselves into his skin. Burner let out a scream of pain as the glass dug into his flesh. Harry dashed forward and with a decisive flick of his wand, sent a white light surging toward Burner.

Burner screamed as the white light struck him, lifting him high into the air before slamming him back down with a resounding crack. The arena echoed with the sound of his impact, and Burner lay unconscious on the ground.

Harry wiped the small bead of sweat from his brow before turning his gaze upward, locking eyes with the Queen. "I told you not to get comfortable."