The Island
"You must understand the difference between this magic and others, Harry," Ignotus reiterated for the umpteenth time. "It is not like the dark magic you are already familiar with. This is much more dangerous."
"How did you learn it?"
Ignotus snorted as he shook his head.
"My brother, Antioch," he said sadly. "He travelled quite extensively during his youth. He was always seeking knowledge, and when we concocted our foolish plan to…well, the less I say the better, he sought out anything that might help us in our endeavours. He happened across a strange man in Athens, and the two of them struck up something of a friendship. As a parting gift, the man allowed Antioch to peruse a peculiar tome he had acquired. This tome belonged to a rather infamous wizard…"
"Herpo the Foul."
Ignotus quirked an eyebrow at Harry.
"How…?"
Harry released a deep breath as he removed the book Salazar had given him, and cautiously handed it to Ignotus, who shuddered at the very touch of it.
The man cursed under his breath.
"It is exactly as Antioch described it," he murmured. "Made of human skin and feels akin to death, but somehow worse. How did you come to possess this?"
"Salazar gave it to me."
Ignotus hummed.
"If there is any man able to source such a thing, it is Salazar Slytherin," he replied thoughtfully. "Tell me, Harry, what do you know of Herpo the Foul?"
"Not very much," Harry admitted. "I have read that book and I can tell he was rather disturbed, lacking empathy, and willing to do whatever was necessary to achieve his goals."
"Indeed," Ignotus agreed, "but there is much more to his tale. You have heard the rumours surrounding myself and my brothers, but there are similar ones pertaining to our friend here," he revealed, holding the book aloft.
"What rumours?"
Ignotus chuckled humourlessly.
"It cannot be denied that Herpo wasn't without his talents. I expect he is one of the most brilliant wizards the world has ever seen. Uncouth in his ways of magic, and likely disturbed, but brilliant, nonetheless. The rumours are, however, they he summoned something he should not have, that he pledged himself to this being, and in return, it provided him with the knowledge in this book. It gave him powers, Harry, powers the world had never seen. There are those who believes he yet lives, but there is nothing to suggest he is. Such a man would not fade quietly into the night, not when he went to such lengths to become what he did."
"Do you believe the rumours?"
Ignotus frowned before nodding.
"There is truth in all rumours," he returned. "Whether or not he summoned a being he should not have doesn't matter. He achieved incredible things with or without it, and I can say that I have never felt anything like this before. The magic is extraordinary."
It was.
Harry had read it from cover to cover to see if there was anything else that would assist him with the task of destroying the dead, but there wasn't.
According to Herpo, only those who raise them can end the magic, or they must be killed to break the connection between them and those they'd risen.
Even then, there was no promise that the dead would simply become lifeless again.
That was why Harry was here, learning a spell none should unleash upon the world.
"It is," Harry agreed. "There is something about it I cannot quite grasp, but it feels as though it doesn't belong here."
Ignotus nodded.
"When you cast the spell, you will truly understand that feeling, Harry. That is why I am preparing you as I am. Any damned fool could summon the fire, but it is the innate ability to control and snuff them that is most difficult. You must be aware of what is going to happen and what you must do."
"What will happen?"
"The magic will try to invade your own. Those who have a poor understanding of themselves will eventually succumb to it, be intoxicated by the power they are wielding, and be unable to prevent themselves from being lost to it. The human mind is weak in comparison to what this magic is, Harry. Yours is stronger than most, and that will be your greatest asset when using the fire. Your power will be required to snuff it, but it is that control with your mind you must maintain."
"You speak as though the fire is alive."
"It is," Ignotus said darkly. "You will summon it, but it is sentient, much like you and me. You must tame it, and that in itself is no easy feat. It almost consumed me the first time I summoned it and were it not for my brothers being there to assist me, it would have. Between the three of us, we managed to tame and control it."
"But I need to do that by myself."
"And you will," Ignotus said reassuringly. "Harry, you truly are an exceptional wizard, not just because of your ability with the magic you wield, but because you are tougher than any other man I have met. You could've crumbled after all you have endured, but it has made you stronger. You are quite unaware of your own incredible talent. I would not be here with you now entertaining the idea of you wielding the fire if I did not believe you capable."
Harry nodded.
"I will do my best."
"Then you will be successful," Ignotus said confidently. "Soon, we will venture away from here to begin casting it. I know of a place we will be quite alone and able to do so. For now, continue strengthening your mind. It will be your strongest tool against the magic."
"I will," Harry promised.
"Good," Ignotus praised. "Go on, I can see you are keen to return to your wife. Perhaps tomorrow we will truly begin."
"Am I so easy to read?"
Ignotus chuckled.
"You love her, and you make no attempt to hide it. She is a remarkable woman, Harry."
"Remarkable?"
"In all ways you can imagine," Ignotus said fondly. "Her own magic is like nothing else I have encountered, and there is a darkness to her, much like your own, but you seem to balance one another. She loves you just as you love her. It warms an old man's heart to see such devotion between the two of you."
Harry nodded.
"She is amazing."
"I do not doubt it," Ignotus chuckled. "Go on, I would not keep the two of you apart."
Harry nodded gratefully and retrieved the book before making his way back towards the river.
He was learning much from Ignotus Peverell, getting a better understanding of himself and his magic in ways he'd never considered.
He truly was a brilliant man, and yet, there was a lingering sadness to him, and a magic that Harry often felt within himself; a cold magic that mingled with his own but remained distinctly different from it.
Was this the lingering effects of what Ignotus and his brothers had done the night they had been bequeathed the gifts they possessed?
Ignotus remained silent on the matter, but Harry knew enough to know that there was indeed considerable truth to the rumours surrounding him and his siblings, which was more concerning than a relief.
To him, it just meant that there was likely truth to the rumours surrounding Herpo, and whatever demonic being he had pledged himself to in the pursuit of his own brilliance.
Harry couldn't help comparing him to Voldemort, who had admitted he had done things no other would in the pursuit of immortality.
Having read Herpo's book, Harry had come across a few ideas the man might have taken inspiration from, and if he were honest with himself, none rested easily with him.
All that Herpo had done gave credence to the moniker he had been given, and Harry could not imagine delving into such things.
Only a man who'd taken leave of his senses and humanity would do so, and yet, here he was, readying himself to replicate something Herpo had undoubtedly done on several occasions if his musings on the spell were anything to go by.
"I think we should go east."
Harry frowned as Morgana broke into his thoughts upon his arrival at the cabin.
"Now?"
Morgana nodded.
"I need to get a feel for the magic," she explained. "I need to know what it is we will be facing when we find the dead. I need to understand what was done to raise the dead."
Harry frowned thoughtfully before nodding.
"We will go in the morning," he replied. "Maybe I missed something whilst it was happening."
"Good," Morgana declared, placing a kiss on Harry's cheek. "How did it go with Ignotus?"
(Break)
It was a misty morning that found Arthur leading a large column of men through the English countryside, heading north along a dewy, beaten path that had undoubtedly been used by many a man seeking to claim the lands before them.
None had left a lasting legacy, and power had shifted from one conqueror to the next since the Romans had taken their leave of British shores.
Arthur would be different.
Even if he didn't have it all figured out yet, he would be the man to unite the country under a single banner.
'So, I am to be left here, weeping by the window until you return?'
'It is not safe for you to come along with us. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you. Camelot is safe. There will be enough men here to defend the keep.'
Guinevere had not spoken to him since that conversation.
She was furious that she was indeed being left in the safety of the castle whilst Arthur left to begin his campaign.
It wasn't that he didn't want his wife by his side.
He wanted that more than anything else, but he could not afford to be distracted by the unending worry of the danger she would be in.
"You did the right thing," Arthur," Myrddin assured him. "The battlefield is no place for a queen."
Arthur nodded.
It had been Myrddin's suggestion that Guinevere remain in Camelot, and in truth, he'd not expected such a response from his wife. Arthur had never seen her so angry, and she only became more so when he'd refused to leave a personal guard of her choice with her.
Arthur needed his best men at his side, not guarding a queen in a castle that was secured in every way possible, by himself and by Myrddin.
"There's another keep ahead," Bors declared, pointing to the small castle on the hill a short distance away.
"Probably another abandoned one," Lancelot sighed.
They'd come across three already along the way.
Everything not secured had either been broken or stolen, and the fields had been liberated of their crops. Little had been left behind, and Arthur did not have the men to garrison and repair the keeps.
Not yet at least.
Each one would be restored to their former glory as soon as possible, but Arthur knew he needed to secure the lands he intended to take before doing so.
"This isn't like the others," Lancelot murmured as they approached the broken gates of the keep.
He drew his sword and signalled for a group to follow him, and Arthur halted the rest of the column. It would not do to be ambushed before the campaign had truly begun.
Listening intently for any sounds of disturbance coming from the keep, Arthur waited for Lancelot to re-emerge. When he did, he shook his head, and as Arthur reached him, he did not miss how pale his friend was.
Reaching the top of the hill, he could see the ocean to the west, and as he entered the keep, he immediately understood why Lancelot was so unsettled.
"They took their time doing this," Bors growled.
Arthur nodded.
Hanging from dozen of makeshift gallows were dozens of people, but it was the sight of the heads impaled on poles in front of the door to the castle that was most disturbing.
"They did not die well," Gawain declared.
He was right.
The expressions of agony and the crude cutting meant that they were likely beheaded slowly whilst they were still alive.
"The Irish," Myrddin sighed. "This is what they do."
Arthur's nostrils flared.
Harry had sent a message explaining that the Irish had passed by the Welsh coast and continued north. Now Arthur knew where they had landed.
Even so, he'd seen no ships in the bay, but the blood on the ground surrounding the heads had not yet congealed.
It was fresh, which meant the invaders had only departed shortly before he and his men had arrived.
"Search the keep," he commanded.
Once that had been done, they would continue along their way, and if they were fortunate, they would catch up with the Irish before they were able to do this to any other innocent men, women, and children.
Arthur didn't understand it.
He could not fathom why they had decided to come so far north when whatever gripe they had was with Tristan.
Had they struck a deal with the rulers of Northumbria?
Worse yet, had the Northumbrians reached a treaty in light of what was happening across the country?
Arthur did not doubt they had their own scouts spying on the other kingdoms, and if they had learned of what had happened to Cnut and equally what Guthrum had done, it might just be enough to inspire them to unite.
Where the Irish came into the equation, Arthur didn't know, but he had no doubt that he would learn of it soon enough.
(Break)
"It's not so far away now."
"I know, I can feel it," Morgana said darkly, frowning as the magic permeating the air only grew stronger with each step they took.
Harry had brought them a few leagues away from the ritual site, but the moment they'd arrived, she'd felt the sinister nature of what had happened here.
It was unlike anything else she'd ever experienced, and she was no stranger to magic and rituals that most would be horrified by. The marking etched into her flesh told her story to any well-versed enough to read it, but the story here was something else entirely.
Morgana had always stayed clear of any pertaining to necromancy.
She believed that what was dead should be left well alone, and that belief only became firmer since she'd been in the east of England.
"There it is," Harry announced, nodding down the hill towards a clearing where the ground had been disturbed.
With a nod, Morgana approached, shuddering as the coldness seeped into her very essence, her frown deepening as she came upon a cluster of runes, some of which had been washed away by the rain, but they were eerily similar to those in Harry's book.
He'd shown it to her shortly before they'd left Wales, and although Morgana was undeniably fascinated by what was within, much of it were things that no man or woman should delve into.
It went against the very nature of the best bits of magic and evoked another side that should not be indulged.
It was darkness itself, a stain on the purity of all other magics, an intoxicant most were not strong enough resist the allure of if giving the slightest of tastes.
"It's vile," she whispered. "The corpses are just that. There is nothing of the men and women that had once inhabited them. Their very essence has been replaced by something that wishes only to destroy and consume, a magic that no man can truly control. It is its own being."
"How was it summoned? I know sacrifice is a part of it, but it cannot be so simple."
"It isn't," Morgana murmured, swallowing deeply. "It is unwavering devotion to the source of the magic. It is believing in it so devoutly that it is all that is right in the world. To be so twisted is to accept this thing, to give yourself to it entirely. I suspect the witches that did this are not what they once were, Harry. I think they have been infested by what they called upon to create the corpses. This isn't just necromancy. It is so much more."
"So, killing the witches won't be enough to destroy the magic?"
Morgana shook her head.
"No, but it will destroy the vessel that controls them. Whatever this is will not be easy eradicate, and that is what must happen. The dead, and the witches must be extinct."
"And the child one of them likely carries?"
"Is no babe," Morgana said grimly. "It will be whatever this magic is from birth, given flesh and bone."
"Great," Harry grumbled. "Will the fire be enough?"
"It will certainly destroy the dead, but then we are left with the threat of the witches. If they have truly given themselves, they will wield considerable power between them. They will not be so easy to burn, not when they can likely control the fire better than any other, if they know of it."
"Bloody hell," Harry huffed. "We will need plans within plans."
"We will," Morgana agreed, "but…"
She broke off and closed her eyes, once more feeling the magic around her.
It was stark compared to the feeling of the trees, the plants, and even the air, but Morgana focused on that vile remainder of what had been done.
Releasing a deep breath, she unleashed a wave of her own magic, and though it was no easy feat, she felt the vileness begin to dissipate.
"How did you do that?" Harry asked.
Morgana's breathing was laboured as she opened her eyes.
"The fairies," she answered. "They gave me what I needed to do it."
"Do you think it will work on the dead, or even the witches?"
"I don't know," Morgana answered truthfully.
What she had just done had been difficult enough, but to do so on such a scale was another matter entirely.
"I need to prepare for it," she decided. "Maybe if I become familiar enough with the magic, I will find a way to destroy it in case the fire proves to be fruitless, but I need more of it."
"I know where we can get it," Harry replied. "I'll take you to where Strenger's men were killed. There was plenty of it there."
Morgana nodded, and the two of them left the clearing.
Wherever the dead were, it wasn't here, and they hadn't been for some time.
It was a concerning observation, and the more Morgana pondered all that occurred here, it only became more so.
If one of the witches had indeed fallen pregnant using the magic of this ritual, things could certainly become increasingly worse in the years to come as that child grew.
Morgana would never justify the murder of a babe, but for the sake of the world, it may just come to that, preferably before it was born.
She couldn't even begin to fathom what such a babe would be, let alone what it would inevitably become if it was nurtured by such women.
Did Guthrum know what he had done?
No, the man would never have agreed to it if he had, and if he did, he was just as guilty as any other for his part in what had happened here and what was to come.
The madness needed to be stopped, and though she was not sure how, Morgana was determined to see it so, no matter what it took.
(Break)
"It is an impressive camp, is it not?" Lancelot chuckled, turning the chicken he had skewered above the fire to ensure it would cook evenly.
Arthur nodded as he gazed into the flames.
He'd not been able to take his mind off what they'd seen in the keep on the Northumbrian border the day before, and he'd marched the column through the night and much of the following day in pursuit of the marauding Irish.
"It's strange to see my army carrying my banner," he replied. "There are so many of them."
"Almost four thousand men," Lancelot declared. "More will join us along the way. "What are you thinking?"
Arthur released a deep breath as he shook his head.
"That I would sooner find a peaceful resolution here and save the fighting for when we need it."
"Is that possible?"
"Perhaps with either the north or south, but not both. The Danes have the south and the Saxons the North. If they haven't reached a treaty between them here, both will die when either Cnut or Guthrum head this way."
"The Danes will never be your ally, Arthur," Bors chuckled. "Not after what you did to Cnut."
"Or that might just be the reason they would do so," Lancelot broke in. "If they believe that they cannot hope to defeat Arthur after what happened to Cnut, they might just seek a truce before any fighting can begin."
"What do you think, Myrddin?" Arthur asked.
"I cannot be certain," he sighed. "There are so many variables, and as we have seen, the Danes are rather unpredictable in their ways, but I am sure of one thing, the Danes only care for other Danes. If you can reach an accord with them, it will only last for as long as you are useful to them."
"What of the Saxons?"
"They will sooner bleed out on the battlefield than strike concede anything. They are proud, and to them, you are an invader from the west."
"And yet they are allowing the Irish to do what they are."
"Indeed," Myrddin concurred, "which only begs the question who the Irish have aligned with here. I would suggest the Danes. I cannot fathom the Saxons and Irish coming to terms with one another. There has been too much bloodshed between them. No, the Irish are here because Eadwulf allows them to be."
"What is Eadwulf like?" Lancelot asked curiously.
"As violent and bloody as any Danish man must be to become a king of his people," Myrddin answered.
"Great, more mad bastards from across the sea," Lancelot snorted, frowning as the sound of galloping hooves came from nearby.
"My king! We have found the Irish camp. They are around four leagues northeast from here."
Arthur immediately stood upon receiving the scout's report and looked towards his most loyal men.
"What do you say we announce ourselves to Eadwulf?"
"Aye," Bors agreed as he stood. "The shits deserve to have their skulls bashed in for what they did back there."
Gawain followed suit, and soon enough, all of them gathered around the fire were standing, offering their support.
"Then let us do it," Arthur declared. "Ready the men. We will kill the Irish swine and take their camp for ourselves."
(Break)
"This magic doesn't belong here," Morgana said grimly as she allowed just the smallest amount to connect with her own.
Oddly, the foreign magic quickly retreated, and she frowned thoughtfully as she pushed against it.
It retreated again, and Morgana nodded to herself.
It was the magic the fairies had gifted her that it seemed to have an aversion to, and that meant that there was a way for her to repel it entirely, or better yet, contain it.
Still, this was no ordinary magic, and she knew she must tread carefully. Given that this was only ambient remnants of what had been present in the east, there was no telling just how resistance she would find herself up against when confronted with it at full power.
"What are you thinking?" Harry asked.
"I'm thinking that I must find a way to contain it so that it can be contained or destroy it entirely. Regardless of what I believe will be best, the witches must die, and the dead must be eviscerated."
"None of which will be easy."
"No, it will not," Morgana agreed, "and if we fail, they will hide to protect that child."
"Are you certain…"
"Yes," Morgana cut in. "Any child conceived under such circumstances with this kind of magic fuelling the ritual will be a cursed one, cursed itself, and a curse upon the world. I am certain, Harry. I wish there was even a shred of doubt so that it might be saved, but it will only be a product of this magic."
Harry nodded his understanding and gave her shoulder a squeeze.
Neither wanted to contemplate harming a babe, whether or not it had been born yet.
Both had endured their share of trauma over the years, and had experienced dreadful upbringings, but Morgana was certain of her thoughts on the matter.
It would not be a babe at all but a monster born of the vilest of magicks.
"I have to go," Harry announced, taking her by the hand. "Ignotus says we still have work to do."
"Then do it," Morgana urged. "We must be ready for this, Harry. In every way possible, we must be ready and certain of ourselves in what we are doing. I will come up with a way to do what must be done."
"As will I."
Morgana nodded and squeezed his hand in response.
"Be careful," she pleaded. "This magic…"
"I know," Harry broke in gently. "I know what it is I am up against."
He said nothing else, and Morgana watched as he stepped through the thicket of trees surrounding the cabin.
Perhaps one day they would be allowed to enjoy a semblance of peace, should they be granted such, but for now, with the way of the world and so many things unfolding around them, it wasn't to be.
Nonetheless, Morgana held onto hope that it would be different in the future.
She and Harry would be able to live out their days in the forest with their several children, until they were both old and their bodies returned to the earth they were born from.
That was her hope, and that was all she wanted from life.
It may be simple to most, but to someone who'd lived through such turbulence for so long now, it would always be more than enough for her.
(Break)
"Lancelot, I want you to take half of the men and circle to the rar of their position," Arthur instructed.
"Should I not stay with you?"
Arthur shook his head.
"I will be fine," he assured the man. "I need you to lead the second group."
Lancelot nodded and began rounding up his men before leading them away through the trees.
It would take several minutes for them to travel the distance and set up their formations.
Arthur intended to pincer the Irish, crushing their smaller force between the two halves of his own, overwhelming them before they could properly defend themselves.
When they were wiped out, they would rest here for a day or so to recover from the long marches before pressing further north.
"What is your intention here, Arthur?" Myrddin asked.
"To punish them for what they did along the way," the king answered, "and to send a message to the others in the area. We are coming for them, Myrddin, all of them, and they will either choose to fall in under my banner or they will die. I must be decisive now. I cannot hesitate in my decisions. I will bear the burden of the consequences."
Myrddin nodded.
"That is wise, my king."
It was, but it was Harry that had given him the advice.
He had pointed out that none would follow a man who was unsure of himself or what he was doing, that Arthur needed to make decisions he would rather avoid, and he must stand by them, no matter what happened after.
"Lancelot is in position," Bors murmured, carefully removing his enormous axe from the pack attached to the side of his horse.
"Then there is no reason for us to linger."
Bors nodded and made to step in front of Arthur, who placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You will follow me," he said firmly. "The men must see that I am willing to fight for them and not hide behind others. If they are to follow me, they must see me lead. If they are to respect me, I must afford them the very same respect."
"Fuck your flowery words. If you're going, go. My hands are itching."
Arthur chuckled humourlessly.
"Let's," he agreed, drawing Excalibur from its sheath and leading the charge towards the unsuspecting Irish.
It was Bors roaring for blood that caught the attention of the men they had been chasing down. Immediately, Irish gathered their weapons in a bid to form something resembling a defence, but they were not granted such time.
Arthur was indeed the first to reach them, and he ducked below the wild swing of a hammer wielded by a man as large as Bors, who crumpled to the ground as his leg was removed by the king.
To ensure the man would not find a way back onto his remaining foot, Arthur stabbed his sword through the plate armour of his chest, eliciting a spurt of blood and a gurgle from his downed opponent.
He, however, did not pause to admire his work.
Parrying a blow from another eager man, he struck three times, twice at the chest before bringing Excalibur down on the man's head.
He too fell to the blade, and it took considerable effort for Arthur to remove it from his skull.
When he did, it was in the nick of time to block the efforts of another attacker, though not quite all of it.
Arthur felt the head of the axe collide with his shoulder, and although it didn't manage to cut through his armour, it certainly left him with a dull ache to contend with.
Still, he wouldn't be deterred.
Determinedly, he fought on, each moment becoming a blur from one to the next as he cut down each man he found himself opposing. At some point during the melee, he was cut deeply along the length of his cheek.
The blood flowed freely, but most that ended up coating his armour was not his own.
Arthur grunted as he swung his sword, cheered internally as another fell to Excalibur, and lusted for much more as the fighting continued. It was odd to experience such euphoria in the heat of such danger, and yet, the king could not deny that it continued to grow within him, that he wanted the violence to last.
It was not meant to be, however, and soon enough, his men had flooded the camp.
The surviving Irish surrendered when they realised there was little hope they might win, and Arthur took a moment to look upon them as they were put on their knees before him.
There were around one hundred left, and they stared at him fearfully.
Arthur imagined he made for quite the sight. He was covered in the blood of his enemies, and his sword continued to drip with it.
"Who is your leader?" he demanded to know.
"I am."
The man who'd spoken accent was thick and barely discernible, but Arthur did not miss the expression of defiance he wore.
"What are you doing here?"
"We came to join the Saxons. We promised to help them in exchange for them helping us to kill you," the Irishman chuckled before spitting at Arthur's feet.
Arthur nodded.
"Well, your plan has failed, and you will be punished for what you did to the people back at that keep."
The Irishman shrugged carelessly.
"I'll go to my god proudly."
Arthur hummed.
"Execute them all," he commanded, "but not this one. I'm going to send his head to the Saxons."
The Irish were taken aback by the sudden instruction and had evidently not expected such a brutal response.
For Arthur, however, there was no alternative.
These men had murdered men, women, and children, and there was only one sentence they deserved.
He watched as his instruction was carried out, but he took the leader's head for himself, idly remembering that he'd forgotten to ask the man's name.
Not that it mattered.
He would not be remembered in the years to come but would serve his purpose as a warning to the waiting Saxons that Arthur Pendragon was on his way to their lands, and he would not be stopped.
(Break)
The cold was the very first thing Harry noticed upon arriving on what appeared to be a large, rocky island. The fog here was as thick as any other he'd encountered, but it was the unnatural, familiar chill that concerned him.
Immediately, he drew his wand and Ignotus held up a hand.
"They call this place the Island of the Wraiths. This is where they come to breed, but as you can see, they are not here."
"They were," Harry murmured, scanning the sky for any sign of the dementors. "They were here recently."
Ignotus nodded.
"Not that it would've mattered if they were. You have the means of repelling them, Harry, and the magic you use to do so is rather extraordinary, much like the magic that brings us here now, even if it is different."
Harry frowned in confusion.
"Control," Ignotus explained. "You have the power and even the ability to resist whatever may attempt to breach your mind, and even the control. You just have to take the plunge and summon it."
"Is that so wise?"
"It is necessary," Ignotus replied. "You do not want the first time you do so to be when your very life depends on success. That is why I brought you here. We have spent much time together, Harry, and you are more ready than I ever was in my own efforts. I am merely here to assist you if it is needed. You know how to do it."
Ignotus took a step back, and Harry stared at the wand he held in his hand.
It had changed since he'd first received it from Ollivander, but at the very heart, it was the same one that had saved his life many times, still connected to the fiery phoenix he shared a bond with, and with the basilisk too.
Nodding to himself, he released a deep breath to ready himself.
"Fiendfyre!"
It was almost as though a dark cloud formed around him, that he'd summoned darkness itself to engulf every part of his being.
As the fire erupted from the tip of his wand, the cold permeating the air immediately vanished, and the flames began to take shape, seeking something, anything to consume.
For some time, Harry could not discern the fiery figure, and he fought to control it whilst fending off the vile magic attempting to invade his senses.
It was not unlike what he'd experienced whilst witnessing the ritual in the east, but this time, it was more personal, almost as though the magic wished only to take control of him.
Harry would not allow it to, and despite it continuously probing at him, seeking out any weakness it could exploit, the vile magic was kept at bay.
It was the angry squawking of the fiery bird that caught his attention next, and with all of his might, he managed to guide the crow towards the edge of the island dozens of feet away.
Truthfully, it was a terrifying piece of magic to wield.
It was almost like trying to keep a furious dog on a long lead, but the dog cared nothing for its master and would happily maul him too. It made it difficult to control, but the longer Harry had to get familiar with it, the more he began to understand what he had at the tips of his fingers.
The fire was indeed not natural, and it certainly had a mind of its own.
Even so, Harry continued to fight to control it, doing his utmost to ensure it never broke from is grasp, and equally ensuring it could not turn on him.
"End it, Harry," Ignotus instructed.
That proved to be the most difficult part of the process.
When the fire realised it would be extinguished, it fought ruthlessly against Harry, flailing and flapping to resist his call to return from whence it came.
It took a few minutes for the last of the flames to vanish into the tip of his wand, and even when it was gone, Harry could still feel it trying to escape, commanding him to let it loose once more, but he did not yield.
Instead, Harry focused on steadying his breathing and wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Excellent," Ignotus declared proudly. "You did exceedingly well, Harry."
Harry could only nod in response as he eyed the melted rocks around him.
The island had been scorched almost entirely flat, save for a few large ridges, and as the cold returned, he was reminded of only one place.
Looking towards the crashing waves, he shook his head and chuckled humourlessly to himself.
"What is it?" Ignotus asked worriedly.
"This place will one day become a prison," he answered. "They will use the wraiths here to guard the people inside."
"Unthinkable," Ignotus scoffed.
"I know," Harry agreed, "but the world will be much different one thousand years from now. Not that we will be there to see it."
"We will not," Ignotus sighed, offering Harry an understanding nod, "but we can leave this one a better place than we found it. What comes after us is on those who live it."
"I like the sound of that," Harry murmured, shuddering as the cold ran down his spine once more.
"You still miss it."
Harry frowned thoughtfully.
"I miss the people I left behind," he admitted, "but not the world. I had no place there."
"But you do here, Harry. Here, you have family and people who care about you. This is your home."
"It is," Harry agreed. "I just sometimes wish I had closure, the chance to say goodbye to those who mattered."
"Perhaps one day you might," Ignotus comforted. "We have both seen the strangest and fantastical things magic can do. Perhaps this is not all there is for you."
"Maybe," Harry agreed, unable to forget that somehow, some way, the world he left behind was still moving on without him.
Perhaps Ignotus was right, but even if he was wrong, being here and now was much easier than being back ever could be, not if it meant leaving behind the life he had built for himself here or the people he'd met along the way.