A/N: New Updated Chapter. Hope you all enjoy! We're going to have some training montages in the first few chapters just to show exactly what kind of spells Harry is dealing with but they will cut out soon enough. I do not own Harry Potter unlike J.K.
AU Changes: An entire wand black market and some insight into wand lore among other things. Spells in other languages.
Shoutout to our Beta Reader, BoredBarrister for going through and editing.
Enjoy the next chapter. Onwards.
The Tragedy of Harry Potter
By. Momento Virtuoso
Edited By: BoredBarrister
Chapter 4
The Price of a Soul
Scheduling transport through the British Ministry was an easier task than Harry expected with less bureaucratic hurdles to navigate in the Department of Magical Transportation than many other departments. He was amazed at the ease of getting to Bulgaria from Britain. Growing up isolated from the Wizarding World, with his only exposure being a few places outside of Hogwarts, Harry could see that magical Britain was quite insulated in many ways.
The wizard population of Britain wasn't one to mingle in affairs outside of their island despite the massive portion of the world that the muggle equivalent had ruled over.
Harry had arrived at the Bulgarian wizarding district within Sofia. The district was alive and bustling with commerce and trade just like Diagon Alley — potentially even more so. Wizards didn't dress with much dissimilarity on the Continent compared to Britain, Harry found. There were still a few figures out and about in muggle clothes.
Not knowing where the old wandmaker that he was seeking out was, Harry approached what appeared to be an Auror standing guard at a postal shop, with messenger owls sitting in boxes lined along the outside.
"Excuse me, sir, could you give directions to Gregorovitch's wand shop?" Harry asked the man. The guard looked at Harry with disinterest, "Anglichanin," the guard said, nodding his head towards a side street lying just up ahead.
Harry nodded his thanks and went down the pointed way. However, it only led to a dead end that was a dis-apparation point. Feeling that he had been made the temporary fool of, Harry turned away and continued down the street. How hard could the old wandmaker be to find really?
The district had a plethora of cultures that Harry had never seen. There was an influence of Greek, Celtic, Roman, Scythian, and Slavic cultures that Harry could see from passing glances. There were several wizards dressed in turbans and long, flowing, rich robes of silk from Turkey who were also managing carts and stores. One was offering discounts on flying carpets, a mode of transportation often ridiculed in Wizarding Britain but seemed to be booming everywhere else.
Several store and cart owners called out to Harry to come inspect their goods, from what he could discern from their hand gestures and facial expressions. However, not wanting to part with too much of the gold that Albus had given him, he passed them by offering shakes of his head and polite apologies.
Eventually coming across an old shack of a building — almost a condemned looking structure that leaned on its side at an interesting angle — the recesses of Harry's memory poked at him — had he been here before? Finally, it occurred to Harry. This was the building where the Dark Lord had confronted the old wandmaker inside about the Elder Wand, before murdering him.
Approaching and pushing the door to the shop open, Harry was greeted by a disaster of a store which made even Ollivander's seem quite organized.
"One moment! I'll be out in a minute," a voice called out in what Harry presumed to be Bulgarian. An old man who was getting on in years turned the corner, coming from the back of what looked like a workshop. He was wearing dark robes but his sleeves were rolled up. Wood shavings were sprinkled and intermixed with his long tangled gray hair. The man looked like he was sleep deprived. Upon his wrist was a tattoo of a single line, looking almost eerily like the Elder wand, Harry noticed.
"Are you Gregorovitch?" Harry asked, wanting to confirm that this was indeed the man he sought.
"Da, I am. And you are an Englishman? We don't see your kind here. Ollivander is your preference for my craft. No one buys my wands from there…" Gregorovitch said in suspicion, eyeing Harry up and down.
Harry nodded at the old man. He was beginning to think that the Bulgarians weren't too keen on seeing anyone from Britain around. Pulling out his wand, he showed it to the wand maker who gave it an inquisitive look.
It wasn't everyday that the old wandmaker got to inspect his rival's works up close. Gregorovitch took note of the craftsmanship and nodded in appreciation at his counterpart's ingenious methods.
"My name is Evans. I purchased this from Ollivander; it's to my liking, but I need one without a trace or limiting enchantment placed upon it. I was told you were the best alongside Garrick, so I came to see what you could offer," Harry said. The old wandmaker eyed the wand before him.
"Phoenix and holly… strange. I would not have suspected such a light wand as this to pair with you," Gregorovitch met Harry's eyes, staring at him for a moment. "It is a good wand, though, you see. The core is loyal. It will do what you ask. Wait for the trace to be removed when you next visit your ministry upon coming of age. As of the limiting enchantments, no need to ever cast such dark curses… you'd corrupt such a treasure," the wandmaker said in distaste.
"Dark curses can corrupt a wand?" Harry asked. Gregorovitch looked at the young man like he was a zoo animal who had done something interesting.
"Da, they are corruptible just like a wizard who steeps themselves too deep in the Dark Arts. Magic always has a price… it sometimes is borne by the wizard or their wand," stopping himself for a moment, the Bulgarian glanced down at Harry's wand. "It is good, no? Your wand is stronger than most… why the need for a new partner?" Gregorovitch asked with suspicion.
"It has what Ollivander described as a twin running around. The one who holds it is a dark wizard, so I'll always need a second wand," Harry explained the case of Priori Incantem, but he was waved off by the old man.
"Bah! I know of the phenomenon. Very rare, yes because we in the trade know not to make twins too often. But, it is not everyday one runs into two phoenix feathers," Gregorovitch supposed, trying to rationalize why Ollivander would make two such wands.
"But you are not a dark wizard yourself, no? Despite your wand, there is an aura about you… the wand you hold speaks of life, but your blood is a different tune. Your soul's song is more so…" the old man said slowly.
"I've only ever cast a few naturally dark spells — I've only ever killed directly once, too," Harry admitted, thinking about the fight in the Time Room; that is what qualified him as a dark wizard. He hadn't meant to kill the Unspeakable. He'd assumed the man would have been turned into a baby — instead he had simply vanished into nothing.
Gregorovitch shook his head at the young wizard before him. The poor boy obviously didn't get out much if that was his belief.
"No no, Dark Wizards are those who deal with blood and soul magic usually of nefarious purposes; there are some light spells that fall under this category as well which can qualify a dark wizard. They are simply put, the few wizards who surrender themselves to magic for a price, but are led on by its corruptive nature," the prestigious wandmaker tried to clarify.
A Dark wizard was a subjective term after all.
"Ok, but what about my blood and soul?" Harry asked, not wanting to get too far sidetracked. Gregorovitch shook his head.
"I can smell a basilisk in you. It's overpowering… if not for your current wand, I wouldn't sense the phoenix either in you —" the wandmaker took a moment to tune his magic in the air with a wave of his hand. "Your soul is different. It was ripped, but yet oddly still whole. There are but a few curses recorded in grimoires older than most of our countries today that could do such a thing… but the result would not be you," Gregorovitch stated warily with a curious eye, looking over Harry as if the boy was about to explode in front of him.
"You can tell that just by smelling me and my blood?" Harry asked with a stunned look. The wandmaker's eyebrows furrowed in a glare.
"I can sense the bonds you have with magical creatures through tuning my magic around you. All great wandmakers can do this, it is how I offer cores with wizards."
"Could you find a core for a wand for me in here then?" Harry asked once more. He needed a capable wand. His phoenix one would be a hindrance, unfortunately, in the fight to come.
"I can sell you a wand without the enchantments that bind you… but it is, of course, illegal to produce wands as such today. The craft is heavily regulated for this. However, I often come into wands who have lost their partners — to themselves, death, and time. You'll need to find an older wand," Gregorovitch explained how the transaction would go. "This is how it is done, you see. I cannot make you a wand that will accept you. You need to have one bond to you. The method can siphon off your magic completely, or it could be harmless."
Binding to an older wand was a dangerous affair if the person wasn't related by blood or magic to the original owner. Wands were among the most fickle things of magical sentience.
"If the other wands have the enchantments removed, then there is a process to undergo for the new ones to remove them after they are made, though. Right?" Harry asked stubbornly, holding up his phoenix-core wand.
The old wandmaker shook his head at Harry. "No. It is a foolish endeavor. Only extremely powerful witches and wizards can remove the enchantments placed upon them in any sort of safety. The runes are intentionally made to be hazardous to the offenders of the law. The only way to safely remove the opposing enchantments is through goblin magic, but best wishes for trying to convince one to do such a thing for you," the wandmaker smirked.
Like a sack of galleons, the reasoning for Griphook's insistence on the price for his silence hit Harry over the head. "A goblin took my wand!"
Gregorovitch cocked an eyebrow at the accusation. "I'd be unsurprised if one did. They are some of the biggest sellers in the black markets for illegal wands. Good quality wands with no limiting runes are seldom and rare finds. Any wands produced without them are usually from a back alley mass production and will last a week or so at best before the core burns out. Their cores and wood are subpar to the more hardy material that those legitimate in the trade use. If the goblin saw a way to snatch your wand, it'd do so for the profit if not for the prospect of a wizard using it to harm another wizard later on as well," the wandmaker nodded.
"So that's how dark wizards would get the wands they need… through either buying it from or extorting a goblin over it?" Harry understood better how the capable wands were around for those with less savory means.
He was curious why the goblin would need his wand, but beyond that it explained how some of the Death Eaters would have done the evil deeds they did in his timeline, if these laws were in place that prevented wands sold legally from casting dark spells. They all had second wands.
'Not Voldemort though, he would have been too prideful to use another wand,' Harry thought grimly, knowing the man would have still found a way to use his wand from Ollivander.
Tom Riddle would have found a way around the runes for himself and a few favored followers, potentially - all the more reason he needed the same advantage in not having an arm tied behind his back for combat when he faced them.
"How could I assure you that it won't be used maliciously and nefariously?" Harry implored the old wandmaker.
Gregorovitch stared deeply into Harry's eyes, inspecting the young man's character. Harry was expecting an attack of Legilimency, but the intrusion never came. The old man nodded only once.
"Hmm, you have the aura of a protector around you. I can sense the sacrifice…" Gregorovitch mumbled, looking over at the wizard. He could sense several interesting things around Harry.
It was never a precise art, introspection with wandlore. However, it was often more right than others wished to give it credit. Wandmakers were like seers, seeing too much of something they ought not, but they simply peered at what was before them rather than in the vortex of time.
"Light, but dark. Protector, shield — formerly peaceful, but changed to violence by jealousy — a deep seeded fear of inferiority," the old wandmaker stated quite surely, like he was reading off from a list in front of him.
The old man's eyes, which had always held a mad glint, looked completely crazed now, however their pits were a certainty within the dark and enclosed store. He retreated into the back of his workshop and approached carrying an old wand box. It looked like it had seen a century or two, from the dust covering and decaying wood.
"This will do you," Gregorovitch said plainly with no elaboration.
Harry, being used to having wands shoved in his hands by Ollivander and ripped out seconds later, took the box gingerly. Opening the lid, there was the wand housed inside a bed of midnight silk that was untouched by time it seemed.
The length was eleven inches, like his phoenix-wand. The wand was carved from a white birch, almost alabaster in color except for its darkened tip, appearing like it was held over a fire. Black tendrils slowly creeped down the white wood from the black tip like an infection until the growth stopped at the middle of the wand, as if going any further was violation. The dark lines looked like electrical burns to Harry's eyes. The handle was encased in a fine, silver ornate pattern with a base of a dark black stone.
The tendrils weren't cosmetic though. Harry could sense the dark magic emanating from the wand tip. Like the Dark Mark hovering over a murder scene, it brought a sense of foreboding if inspected too closely. The wand had once been purely benevolent it seemed, but it had since done dark deeds and seen more malicious occurrings.
"What's the core?" Harry was curious about the magical medium's workings.
"Two pieces. First, is the snake-hair of a Gorgon, plucked from the head of one somewhere in Ancient Greece, if rumor is to be believed. Then, the dark stone in the handle is the focusing stone for the stronger magic — however, it is not a mere stone but the eye of a gorgon as well. It is a method that is forgotten by most modern wandmakers; styles of this wand went out of favor several centuries ago," the wandmaker explained.
Having never seen a focus stone embedded into the handle of a wand before, Harry inspected it closely.
The gorgon's eye was a pitch of dark black with a purple and greenish hue highlight reflecting off of its smooth surface. A shiver ran down his spine, and if he hadn't been staring at the eye, he could have sworn it was moving around and gazing back, an abyss of judgment. His insides suddenly felt leaden — was this a remnant of the original power of the dark creature whose hair and eye was encased within the wand? 'Perhaps this had been the petrification of which gorgons were said to be capable,' Harry thought, rooted unshakably on the spot.
"Why has the practice fallen out of favor?" asked Harry, careful not to touch the wand yet as it lay unassuming in its silken bed.
"The more powerful the wand, the worse the corruption is for the wand, and the easier for it to overwhelm the mind of the wizard if they are not competent with the mental arts. This is known to all wandmakers, with no exceptions," Gregorovitch answered plainly, obviously uncomfortable himself around the magical piece. "Bar one," he whispered in Bulgarian.
"If it's been used before, what is the wand's history?" Harry asked, thinking of the Elder Wand's own bloody-handed history across the centuries. He didn't want to walk away with an object that'd just paint another target on his back for someone to try him for.
"This wand itself was last used fully by a noble woman some several centuries ago, if what I researched is true. She was a courtesan with a penchant for mind control and torture in the court of the last Byzantine Emperor, Constantine XI Palaiologos."
Both men eyed the wand speculatively as if the tale wasn't entirely truthful, but who could validate the claim? Gregorovitch continued with the wand's supposed story.
"It is believed she cursed the wand, leaving it for the Ottomans to find, before throwing herself from a high tower in the Sacred Palace as they butchered their way through Constantinople in 1453. It is a haunting piece, brought here by a Turk some hundred-sixty years or so ago now to my father before me — the Grand Vizier to the Sultan of the Ottomans at the time, Yusuf Ziya Pasha, also known as the Blind to his people," the wand maker recounted the tale. "He brought the wand to my father to inspect. Pasha believed it cursed, as it had just been held by three of his predecessors who all either took their own life or saw great misfortune befall them, losing their positions within the year. He left it in our care, not wanting to return the item to court for its potential dangers."
Staring down at the birch-wand, Harry could feel its alluring siren call. There was an itch somewhere in him that was longing for him to pick up the wand — as if it was the cure for all his troubles.
'That could just be the curse,' Harry thought to himself in trepidation. Deciding against what should have been his better judgment, Harry found he could not resist the pull from the gorgon-wand.
Harry lifted the wand from its home for the last century and a half, holding it before him. As his fingers wrapped around the handle, he was immediately assaulted by a cold magic invading his system - just as soon, though, the magic spread through him began to warm until he felt blistering hot, like it was cooking him from the inside out.
Gregorovitch watched as the wand adapted to its new handler. The Bulgarian wandmaker had never believed that wizards took to being the master of a wand, something that had only solidified after he had possessed the legendary Death Stick and felt the shrewdness burrowed within its own wood.
Wands were partners and they needed to be treated as such, something that this young man understood based on his relationship with the holly-wand bearing a phoenix feather.
The magic stopped assaulting Harry's senses, and soon the wand sat simply in his hand.
"Aha! The bonding has taken hold! The wand will allow you to use it — but it seems to be bartering for conditions?" Gregorovitch turned his head in questioning. The wandmaker leaned closely to the wand as if the two were sharing a secret.
"Conditions from a wand to be used?" Harry asked, thinking eerily of the Elder Wand's own terms. Harry wasn't fancying a trip to Turkey any time that day.
Gregorovitch nodded. His expression had turned from a madly glinting giddiness to solemn and serious.
"While this wand is willing to do the most vile of magic — more than willing it seems — it will only do so on specific conditions. You must not corrupt it further; it will not tolerate any abuse from the one who holds it," Gregorovitch stated firmly, but did not further elaborate on what constituted abuse.
The wandmaker looked like he was listening to a whisper, like that which friends would pass along, silently pushed together in class with the wand still. "Gorgons are despised and reviled creatures, but they are guardians from evil, if what little we know of the magical creatures is to be believed. They were hunted to near extinction sometime in the early Middle ages, according to most magizoologists."
Harry looked askance at the gorgon-wand.
"Like a basilisk, a gorgon can also petrify of sorts with just a glance. That is why it is a good magical match for you; it feels that within your blood. But it senses your will to drive an evil from a land… that is what sealed the bond. You shall combat an evil with another's… but you cannot lose yourself to the abyss that it will lead you towards. You wield a dark wand, my new friend — beware its volatile nature. It bears a curse for any who would misuse it again… perhaps that is what the Vizier spoke of? It will not take kindly to being wielded unjustly. It will petrify your enemies in its wake and strike fear into evil, but it will poison you just as easily," Gregorovitch warned the young wizard before him.
The wand may have been docile ,at that moment, in the boy's hands, but Gregorovitch could almost see the wand's past within the wood itself. The blackened tip spoke of casting a dark spell so corruptive, it almost overturned the protective trait of the gorgon within. Its creeping black tendrils spoke of the everlasting effects it had upon the wand to this day.
Harry waved the wand above his head, casting the spell that had always been familiar with him, and the spark to go on that he had needed, at times. "Expecto Patronum!" the young man chanted.
The silver stag exploded from the wand, feeling just as warm as ever. It was just as it always had been. The Bulgarian shook his head at the display.
"No, no. Blah! A dark wand will not prevent you from casting a light spell if that is what you are checking for, foolish Englishman. It is up to the wizard what spell he may cast. The wand will simply conduct the magic as it sees fit for the wizard."
That struck a memory from his escape from Privet Drive within Harry. Wanting to know more about what his phoenix-wand did that night, he questioned Gregorovitch.
"What if it wasn't up to the wizard though? What if a wand cast unrequested upon its own as soon as it saw its foe?" Harry asked, describing to Gregorovitch how his hand had spun in his hand and met a Dark Lord that night when six others had taken on his identity to confuse the Death Eaters.
The old wandmaker raised his chin in thought. "It would have had to be a familial wand which we already know it was — knowing its enemy through the magic of blood. Blood magic is binding, and none can hide from it. The wizard who attacked you was bound to you in some way, not even using another wand would protect them from such notice. Your wand recognized the affront to take your blood and responded appropriately to the perpetrator," the Bulgarian explained slowly, hoping he had interpreted the boy correctly.
It was an interesting study. He never much developed a use for blood magic in his craft, as it often led to undetermined outcomes with wands.
"Blood magic is an unknown art. There are no casual practitioners. Only those who are steeped in the lore would be able to answer for a certainty — but it seems your prior wand, and perhaps the new one you bare, would do the same if such was to occur again."
"A wand is always simply just a wand, an extension of your arm — until there is certain magic involved. Then, it is anything but simply a wand," the wandmaker whispered almost sagely, like he was sharing a deep secret of the cosmos.
Harry was utterly perplexed at the wand maker's explanation, but did not dare to ask for a more clarifying response. The profession was a hidden art in the wizarding world for a reason, and he wasn't entirely sure Gregorovitch would grant him an answer.
Holding out the gorgon-wand Harry inspected it further. Harry pictured the gorgon of his cores within his head. It was a snarling, dark creature, with golden scales for skin, and a head of weaving snakes from every spectrum of color. It was an unusual creature to carve a core from a wand, that much was sure.
The wand was warm, yet tempered by a fierce cold, like one would feel on a chilly winter night when the soft rain would be blown in your face at a slight wind. It held the ability to chill down to the bone with the slightest touch. It was a beautiful wand, in its own dark way.
"Begone, now. Tell no one how you came to such a wand. If you must, lie still. It'd turn out better for you," the craftsman said fiercely, tired of the young man before, but greatly happy he was leaving his shop with such an item.
Harry dug out some galleons from his pocket, placing them on counter of the wand shop for the wand. He was fortunate for Dumbledore's contribution.
Turning to the door, Harry prepared to leave but stopped himself, turning back to the old wandmaker whom he had witnessed murdered behind the eyes of Lord Voldemort.
"Mr. Gregorovitch, the Elder Wand. What did you learn from it?" Harry asked, wondering just how far the man's research into the Deathstick had been when he shortly possessed it before Grindelwald.
Gregorovitch's demeanor turned cold at the question, and the old man appeared to age, shaving a few years off his life span when he heard the words 'Elder Wand' leave Harry's lips.
"Like I said, Mr. Evans: a wand is a wand until there is certain magic involved. Then, it is anything but a simple wand. Your new wand, though, trust in it. It will not fail you like the phoenix-wand. It will strike true if you keep your word — now begone."
Harry nodded at the request, thinking of the famous wandmaker's parting words, leaving the famous wand makers shop and the country all together soon afterward.
The aging Lord Black stared across at his eldest granddaughter with a hard, stern stare, a look that had sent other Wizengamot lords and even Dark Lords backing away in fear for their lives at one time or another.
To say the Arcturus Black was anything but intimidating would be a severe understatement.
The man had led his family through the debacle that was Grindelwald's campaign against muggles and the rest of the wizarding world. He had served time in the British Expeditionary Forces himself under the IWC. Upon returning, he had brought fortune, respect, and prestige to the failing house he was born into.
Arcturus was made in the image of a Black, but the family now very much bore his image upon its face.
"Your aunt is an absolute cunt of a woman," Arcturus growled at Bellatrix, his anger spiking at the gall of the woman who married his first born son.
Bellatrix had all but barged into his study while he was looking over the family ring. The damn artifact had tried to take his life several times over the last few days while he was considering family business.
The artifact had thrown a visceral fit the other night, taking control of his hand to grab a letter opener to slice his own throat upon considering accepting an introduction sent to him by someone named Riddle. Arcturus had taken to wearing it around his neck on an enchanted chain after that nearly fatal mishap.
Learning that his granddaughters were being sold off like cattle instead of the gems they were, Arcturus considered the possibility of claiming his daughter-in-law's head to mount it like the stuffed house elves on the wall overlooking the staircase.
"You married for love, grandfather. You've always said you would approve of our matches first. The Lestrange brothers are more inbred than we are! Cissy may be smitten with her suitor but Andy and I deserve better!" Bellatrix hissed at the old man, pleading her case to his bleeding heart for the family.
Bellatrix knew that she'd have to play off her grandfather's emotions to garner him to her side. She knew something like wanting to marry for love would thaw the normally frigid lord.
The man was stone to anyone but the few in the family that he held a flame for. Arcturus nodded at his granddaughter.
"Yes, and it thankfully worked out. While the matches given out have some benefit — they are not for our house exclusively. They serve to further your aunt's ambitions, some of which have no place in this family. Nor will they ever again," the Lord Black growled.
He knew exactly of the pureblood movement Walburga was trying to align the family towards. These matches were politically aimed at just that; there was nothing that the Lestrange family could offer what the Blacks did not already possess.
While Arcturus had nothing against the ideals of the Pureblood movement, it was the methodology of the other families he disagreed with. He was hearing rumblings and covert whispers in the dark places of wizarding kind about some supposed Dark Lord, in recent years.
"I can rip up the contracts, but eventually she'll have her way. You know that, girl. She'll marry you off the minute you step back through this door, if she doesn't before you leave for school."
Bellatrix nodded. "I'm not against the idea of marriage, Grandfather, but I want this to be on my terms like you had. I may not be an heiress, but I am still a Black. This is my right, is it not?"
He snorted at his granddaughter's wit. He could see through her argument. She wouldn't be pleading this case nearly as loudly if it was potentially anyone other than Rodolphus Lestrange she was being offered to.
Bellatrix was right of course, she was a Black, so any marriage to another family would be a downgrade for them in a sense, Arcturus noted.
"I think I should just toss you in with Sirius and save myself the headache, girl. However, you'd murder the boy before the ceremony would even take place, and I'd rather not have Regulus bear the burden of the heir."
Upon mention of the heir, she eyed the ring hovering around her grandfather's neck. Bellatrix could see the Black Family crest depicted clearly on the dark purple jewel. It was a beautiful piece, and Bellatrix was more than a little saddened by the fault of never being allowed to inherit it and all its powers.
"So, you are going to make that deviant and outcast the heir, then. I was hoping Uncle Alphard had been jesting," scoffed Bellatrix. However, Arcturus's eyes resumed their natural glare.
"That boy may be uncouth and non-deserving of his pending lordship at the moment. But he is to be just that. Sirius will deserve, and outright demand your respect, girl. He is a better choice than his spineless father. Besides, it's already been done,"
Bellatrix's face could not hide her shock. When had the man done this and without anyone in the family being wiser?
Seeing her expression, Arcturus grinned. "Do you think your Aunt could just banish the boy with no repercussions? She wanted him gone — I ensured he would never be able to leave. The boy is better than she gives him credit for, that's for sure," the Lord Black declared.
Arcturus went back to inspecting the family ring dangling from its chain.
"Do not worry about your aunt. I'll deal with the harpy in my own time soon. Hell, perhaps I should hand her the lordship and have the ring kill her. She wouldn't last an hour with its current behavior…" Arcturus considered the idea in mirth; there was some merit to it indeed.
"Bring matches to me by Christmas for Andromeda and you, Bella. I shall approve them regardless of your parents wishes and we'll lock your Aunt out of her scheming. You girls won't have to worry about the Lestranges until you get to Hogwarts, at least. Now leave me — there is much I must do to prepare for a visitor later, and you're due for a trip to the Alley with your sisters soon."
Bowing low in respect as taught to her, Bellatrix exited the room with a graceful flick of her robes. She had successfully brokered a delay — and potential reprieve — from the ghastly prospect of sharing a marriage bed with Rodolphus Lestrange. However, now she had the daunting task of finding someone to replace her Aunt's machinations with. Hopefully, Andromeda would be successful in this endeavor as well. She knew her sister had a current fascination with a muggle-born, which wouldn't do anyone any good. Regardless, it was the making of an interesting Christmas break to be had this year.
Harry returned to the Leaky Cauldron with his new wand tucked up his sleeve. The Gorgon wand was within his robes, while his phoenix wand was hidden, tucked into the back pocket of his trousers.
He could practically hear the ghost of Alastor Moody berating him for the foolish hiding spot of his second wand, but he had nowhere else to conceal it at the moment, without first purchasing another holster. He'd just have to be careful about not lighting his ass on fire till then.
Upon his arrival, the barkeep had handed Harry a letter from Dumbledore about filling out which O.W.L.s he wanted to take, so that he could coordinate his last year at Hogwarts. The old headmaster had signed off on Harry taking them in two days' time at the Ministry, with two test examiners.
He now had business to conduct in Diagon Alley. Harry needed to send a response to Dumbledore, but, more importantly, he needed to find a way to advance his education beyond what he would learn at Hogwarts.
He needed spells, he needed tactics, he needed knowledge, but above all he needed to learn the practical aspects of how to properly defend himself and fight back.
His fight in the Department of Mysteries had been a coincidental and entirely lucky victory that Harry had once again stumbled into…
Just like his first year, when he had stopped Quirrell from retrieving the Sorcerer's Stone, only to be saved by Dumbledore.
Just like in second year, when he had killed a basilisk, only to be saved by Fawkes from the serpent's poison.
Just like in third year, when he and Hermione had been chased by a full grown werewolf, only to be saved by Buckbeak at the last moment.
Just like in fourth year, when he had been transported to the graveyard by Voldemort's scheme, only to be saved by the spirits of his previous murders.
Just like in fifth year, when he and his friends had entered the Department of Mysteries, tricked by Death Eaters, only to be saved by the Order of the Phoenix.
Just like in sixth year, when he had been pulled into the cold black lake by the dead, only to be saved by a weakened Dumbledore.
However, in his seventh year, there had been no one to save him in the end — he had died instead.
'No more,' Harry thought. 'It can't be any of those ever again.'
This time, he couldn't afford that luxury. He needed to be better. He had to be able to stand alone when Voldemort would finally realize the danger that he was and came for him.
Since the age of eleven, Harry had been a foolish, naïve child playing soldier when it had always been a real war. Harry knew that the interlude between 1981 and 1994 wouldn't last. He had lived and seen every moment of the second rise of Voldemort. The psychopath couldn't be allowed to do any of that this time.
Harry knew the toll that would be extracted if he allowed Voldemort to continue this time.
His parents … Sirius … Cedric … Remus … Tonks … Fred … Snape … Dumbledore … How many more whose names Harry didn't even know?
Harry knew he wouldn't find the kind of book he was looking for in Flourish & Blotts though. He'd need to go down into Knockturn Alley to retrieve a spell book on the more unsavory combat-oriented spells he'd need to defeat Voldemort.
He'd potentially find something at Borgin & Burkes, but Harry wasn't going to hold his breath for the store owners to sell anything to him. Harry knew just exactly who and what their clients were like. He, unfortunately, didn't fit that description.
Harry also needed to fetch his school supplies, new robes so he could dump the transfigured pair Dumbledore had made for him, and finally some additional supplies he'd need - like wand holsters, which Aurors had been known to use.
With his shrunken bag of gold from Gringotts on his person, Harry made his way into Diagon Alley from the Leaky Cauldron. It was to be an eventful day, Harry supposed.
After Harry had finished his errands at Madam Malkins, whose seamstress shop was still just as popular in this time as it was in the future, he made an effort to get potion supplies, knowing he'd probably have Slughorn again as a professor since the heavy-set man mentioned mentoring his mother in the past.
Crossing the alley in front of the The Magical Menagerie, though, was not something Harry had intended to do. Staring at all the owls in their cages in the store's windows, Harry felt a pang in his chest. Hedwig. His owl companion during all those long summers at the Dursleys had been a welcome respite from the treatment of his family, she had been gone for over a year now he supposed in a way.
Shaking his head at the treacherous thought of getting a new owl or familiar currently, he moved on. Harry just felt like it was too soon though, as if going inside to purchase a new owl would be dishonoring the memory of the only friend he had truly had during those isolated, terrible summers, disconsolately separate from everything magical that he loved.
Moving on with a lump in his throat, Harry entered Flourish & Blotts to purchase his school books and try to find a tome that could aid him in the future. Browsing his list for school books, he collected the sets rather quickly. Finding a book on magical combat however, proved harder than imagined in the familiar bookstore.
Checking out the books for the various subjects he would potentially need, Harry put them within a trunk he had purchased earlier to carry his things, shrinking it down to fit in his pocket.
Harry made his way to Knockturn Alley, searching for another store where he could make his more discreet purchases. Walking down the darker aligned alley was an interesting affair for Harry. Most of the occupants of the degrading alley were usually tied to less-than-savory business. A few witches tried to entice Harry over to them, while a few wizards eyed Harry warily from the shadows themselves.
Soon, Harry found himself in front of a bookshop that was a ways from the entrance to Knockturn Alley. The sign hanging in front of the building read, Yesca's Holdt.
Pushing the door open, Harry's arrival was heralded by a small bell. The shop was much smaller than Flourish & Blotts, lacking many of the shelves that the more acclaimed store possessed. This store's shelves were still lined with many books, tomes, and even a few grimoires all chained to the shelves with iron.
A small black Kneazle watched Harry curiously from the sales counter, its eyes a peculiar mismatch of a blind, clouded white and an unnaturally sharp, vibrant blue. Looking around, Harry couldn't tell where the owner of the shop could possibly be.
However, in this store, while browsing the first few shelves, Harry's interest piqued at a small handwritten pocket book — it was a cheaply published guide to dueling!
A second later, he held a copy of 'Dueling, Dos & Don'ts' by a world class duelist at the time, named Creon Renault. The author wrote competently enough, Harry judged as he glossed over a few pages; while this would teach him a bit of what he needed, it was regardless not a viable source of learning the spells he sought.
Harry remembered Remus chastising him for disarming Stan Shunpike instead of taking the Imperiused man out of the fight. "If you aren't prepared to kill then at least use a stunner," the old werewolf had chastised the young Harry. Yet, even stunners weren't enough.
Harry didn't want to blast people away back then, believing it made him too much like Lord Voldemort. Ironically, he was already like the man with the piece of his soul within him.
For a moment the gorgon-wand felt like a weight within his robes. How close could he get to being like Voldemort before losing himself? Voldemort may not have been directly affecting his soul anymore, but could Harry do what needed to be done and protect what was left from the influence the man had over him? He hoped so.
Browsing the shelves, Harry saw a few names that looked familiar: Magick Moste Evile by Godelot was on display, possibly a first edition if the age of the tome was anything to go by. While Harry knew he needed a book on dark magic, he reasoned that there should be a limit of what he looked into.
However, none of the books he glossed through seemed to jump out at him. He found several texts from around the world, from creating dark curses to binding magical creatures to his whims, and finally a book that dove into the art of Necromancy.
Shaking his head at the ever growing pile of texts he'd rather not devote time to for the preservation of his own sanity, Harry almost gave up his search. That is, until he saw an old green-bound book hiding behind several other dusty grimoires on a shelf.
It was old and bound in what Harry knew could only be Basilisk skin. The feel of it brought back memories that sent flames up where his arm bore the wound from the monster's fang. Killing Slytherin's monster had been, hands down, the stupidest yet possibly still greatest of his achievements to date.
The book bore a simple, plain title embedded into the leather with what appeared to be bone, Sayre. Opening the green book, Harry looked down at the text.
'Dear Niece,
If you should discover this, I am either dead or have chosen a solitary life far from the troubles of the world. I shouldn't apologize for the actions I have taken against you for your abandonment of me, and of our traditions, but you are the last of our house. My name shall live on in you; while I failed to be dutiful to my inherited name by rearing offspring, I shall prepare you, and thus your descendants in their turn.
I began this work, this grimoire only a few years after your birth. Inside, I have compiled for you all my hidden knowledge and dreams which I hold: all my magic, all my will, and all my ambition for our family. If you consider this an act of atonement, that is your prerogative. I am only performing what I believe best for our bloodline—and the magical world.
Inside, you shall find magics most powerful — that which few may ever fathom or bear to study. You are my blood, and the study of these magics is your right by that blood, which will forge you into a strong and mighty thing. You are an accomplished witch in your own right; of this I shouldn't have doubt.
Gormlaith,
1630'
Looking through the rest of the book, Harry saw dark summoning spells, a way to suppress and control Fiendfyre, potion recipes, and even some spells which were clearly used to curse entire bloodlines.
The instruction on how to control fiendfyre was enough to convince Harry. He had no intention of using the sword to destroy horcruxes again, and there were only so many fangs in a basilisk's mouth after all.
He approached the counter where the Kneazle sat with its long ears pointed up, still intently watching Harry. The wizard placed the book down on the counter and looked around, hoping that whoever worked there was in, so that he could make his purchase and leave.
Suddenly, the Kneazle jumped down behind the counter, turning itself into a tall witch. Harry had been watched by an Animagus the entire time.
The witch had long, flowing purple hair that spanned the entirety of her back. She stood a good head and a half over Harry himself. Her eyes were the same dead white and electric blue as the Kneazle she was before. She wore a simple red dress with a black boots, her wrists adorned with what looked to be goblin silver circlets, and a sneakoscope dangled from a necklace sitting still against her bosom.
"Hello darling, welcome to Yesca's. Find everything you need?" the witch purred down at Harry.
"Yes ma'am," Harry said blushing, pushing his purchase forward for her to check.
"Oh no, none of that. Just call me Yesca, dear. Yesca Burke. What do we have here?" Yesca said, picking up the green leather book Harry had placed forward.
The shop owner frowned down at the journal in her hand, looking it over from front to back, she flipped through a few pages before glancing down at Harry.
"And you can read this?" She asked Harry with a questioning stare, holding the book up.
Harry nodded but grimaced at the woman's comment. He had read the book's intro decently enough. He wasn't Hermione but he was still literate…
"Strange. Because I can't read a damn thing from this. It's in Parseltongue. All of it," Yesca informed, shaking the book in front of Harry's face.
Harry, however, was shocked. He had assumed he lost the ability to speak the magical language upon Voldemort separating his soul from the horcrux he unknowingly made in him. He hadn't found any snakes yet to test if he could speak it, though, as well.
"You don't look like a Gaunt. They were the last parselmouth speakers on the Isles," Yesca stated certainly while inspecting Harry's features. The lad couldn't be a grandson or something of Morfin, the crazy shit of a man he was. There wasn't a woman in the world that would let him touch them.
"No, I'm not a Gaunt. But I can speak Parseltongue nonetheless," Harry said, unsure just what to reveal at the moment. He was unable to play dumb with the witch in front of him.
Nodding, Yesca handed the book over to Harry. "Then it's yours kiddo. It'll only collect dust here. Hell I didn't even know I had the damn thing with how it was buried in here. At least it'll go to someone who can actually learn a thing from it rather than some collector who just boggles at it all day," Yesca offered.
Harry took the book from the purple-haired witch and put it inside the trunk he carried in his pocket. He would need to find some measure to protect this book, if it was accessible only to those who spoke Parseltongue. Harry didn't want to think what Voldemort would do to obtain something like this journal.
"Thank you Yesca, I appreciate it. Though can we keep this between us? I don't want it to be known that I can speak to snakes. I'm sure you know how taboo it is," Harry asked the shop owner for the favor.
Yesca nodded down at the young man before her. "Don't worry sir, I do the whole discretion deal with whoever shops here. Most of these books have stuff in them that'd land you and then me in Azkaban," Yesca admitted. "Between me and you — what's your name by the way?".
"Evans, ma'am, Harry Evans," Harry said, finding her unusually trustworthy for a Knockturn Alley resident. Yesca's electric blue eye zeroed in on Harry.
"I told you to cut the ma'am shit out, Harry. It's Yesca, or nothing at all. Either way, you were never here, between me and you," the heterochromatic witch assured him.
"Thank you Yesca, I appreciate this all once again. Perhaps I'll come back when I need some more reading material?" Harry told the smiling shopkeeper.
Yesca smirked at the thought of another frequent customer. She didn't get much business this far back in Knockturn Alley.
"See that you do, Mr. Harry. Good-day."
Departing the store feeling more relieved than before, Harry thought of where he could go to begin working on the contents of the Sayre Journal. Thinking of a place he hadn't been to in some time, Harry apparated away.
Harry stood in the Forest of Dean with his gorgon-wand held out in front of him.
He had been reading the old leather bound spell tome, which, it turned out, was written entirely by a mid-17th century witch identified only as Gormlaith. The knowledge the witch had left her niece was proving to be invaluable. Already, Harry had runes that he could create which would break the Vanishing Cabinet's enchantments in Borgin & Burkes. He now also had several jinxes and curses he wanted to try from the witches vast collection.
The journal itself went into great detail on how a spell should be used, and when. However, it was in the first book that Harry purchased, 'Dueling, Dos & Don'ts' by Renault that Harry could see the potential he could rise to if he combined both teachings.
The author, Renault, expressed the importance of immobilization before a combat spell - that to get the upper hand, the victim has to be trapped in some way so that they can't get the upper hand. If one wasn't capable of immobilizing, then they were to defend first before launching their attack. It was an approach that erred on the side of caution, but Harry saw the merit.
Dodging curses was hard when you were impeded, or casting near impossible for those unable to do so silently if their mouth was banished right off.
Closing the book, Harry wanted to try a spell that had been highlighted by Gormlaith as a way to capture and potentially kill an opponent, if they were weak enough, in one fell swoop. From the poorly-written description, Harry could see that it was some kind of binding spell that would leave the victim immobile but with some damage. There wasn't much more to the description of what the spell did, something that was a recurring theme in the witch's effort to record her knowledge.
Harry transfigured a boulder in front of him into a suitable target shaped like a training dummy.
Preparing himself, Harry steadied his feet. "Naithar fuip," Harry twirled his wand over his head, speaking Gaelic as clearly as he could. Suddenly a large boa constrictor shot forth from his wand, its fangs biting down hard on the shoulder of the training dummy, and beginning to coil itself around the target body and reel it toward Harry, crushing the victim along the way.
With another snap of his wrist, Harry dispelled the boa from existence and approached the dummy. Its shoulder was mangled by the serpent's fangs and the dummy's chest was all but caved in from the constricting force. 'A very lethal way to capture, indeed,' Harry thought.
Lifting back up his gorgon-wand, Harry tried another spell he had pulled from the journal. Spell after spell shot forth until he could feel his arm sagging from the weight of the newly acquired wand.
The birch-wood felt comfortable in his hand. He was unused to the gorgon's cold magic coursing through the magical medium he used, but it was also oddly comforting. Like Gregorovitch had said, they may have been reviled and dangerous magical creatures; they were also protectors.
Hoping that would be enough for him to stay away from the abyss that Voldemort himself had tumbled down when he immersed himself in the Dark Arts, Harry vowed to be a protector, a shield for others. That would be his shield for himself.
Nodding in satisfaction, Harry looked down at his timepiece. It was already dusk, and he needed to be ready for tomorrow. It would be an eventful day sabotaging the Vanishing Cabinet and questioning Borgin or Burke about Tom's location through the guise of searching for a locket of Slytherin.
Lord Voldemort watched the flames flicker inside the fireplace that he was seated by. His presence in the home of the Dolohovs was chilly and almost unwelcomed. The Russian wizards who had fled from the Revolution that tore through their home decades ago were well-to-do, having spent many galleons on improving their family seat and new home after fleeing their mother country.
Behind the Dark Lord's chair was the twitching and groaning body of Augustus Rookwood, his faithful and loyal Death Eater implanted within the Department of Mysteries to spy upon the various projects that were running out of the secluded Department.
They studied such fascinating things within the basements, it seemed. Memory, Time, Prophecy - even Death - among many other things, which Lord Voldemort held a chilling fear for yet a morbid curiosity about. He would never experience death himself, after all.
However, the Dark Lord was simmering with rage at his Death Eater. Rookwood had all but run into the Dark Lord's presence, declaring that someone had infiltrated and destroyed the majority of the Time Room - a place which the Dark Lord had a vested interest in. He couldn't allow Dumbledore, nor even the Ministry, to attempt the ancient magic against him; it also proved to be a good dumping ground for those whom Voldemort needed to be rid of.
Already he had bound some Aurors and Order members of Dumbledore's away from their magic, reducing them to husks of their former selves before handing them over to Rookwood to experiment on with the power of time.
Send a person back in time to die. It was an effective clean up method that Voldemort had been thankful for. While it was still needed for a statement and show of force now and again, it wouldn't do to have too many mutilated bodies in the countryside.
However, upon inspection of his ministry spy's memories, Voldemort had found nothing. Rookwood had only noticed that the wards to the Department had been tripped, with an empty Unspeakable's uniform the only evidence left behind. There was nothing else. Nothing at all.. No way of knowing how many rooms the intruder investigated before destroying the Time room. Rookwood hadn't even seen the intruder himself.
There was a report out about a missing employee, Filmore. His robes must have been the pair discarded in the wreckage. 'The man was likely dead,' Voldemort thought.
Stroking the white yew wood and phoenix feather wand in his long fingers, Voldemort considered everything. It would have taken someone of skill and know-how to get inside the Department of Mysteries alone, let alone navigate to the Time room. Then, to kill an Unspeakable…
The Dark Lord considered this new development and who could have been the player behind the move. He'd have to make some inquiries, in case it was one of Dumbledore's lot.
A/N: Hope you all enjoyed the chapter. Let me know if you see any blatant errors and we'll go about editing them out. Thank you readers!