1,069Harry had just cast aparecium for the twelfth time in search of the elusive 'heliopathy' keyword, to no avail, when somebody whispered from right behind him, "Are you looking for information about heliopaths?"
He jumped a foot in the air and found himself pointing his wand threateningly at a slip of a Ravenclaw girl—Luna, he thought her name was.
"Sorry," he muttered, pocketing his wand. "Yes, I am. Am I looking in the wrong place?" He glanced at the placard on the end of the row: 'Defence Against the Dark Arts'.
"There won't be anything in here. My daddy says the Minister of Magic has suppressed the information so he can build an army of heliopaths in secret," she said with wide, serious eyes.
Harry frowned. That was an unwelcome revelation. "Oh. Does your dad work for the Ministry?"
Luna shook her head. "He's the editor of the Quibbler," she told him, reaching into her pocket and producing a rumpled magazine which she held up proudly with both hands. Harry frowned deeper at the sight of the multicoloured cover, emblazoned with a variety of alarming headlines like, 'AZKABAN BREAKOUT ENABLED BY BLISTERWUMP INFESTATION' and 'ROTFANG CONSPIRACY STRIKES AGAIN'.
Uncertain how he should respond to the strange periodical, he asked, "Can you tell me about heliopaths, then?"
"Of course," said Luna. "They're spirits of fire—great towers of flame that devour everything in their path. Nobody's seen one in the wild in centuries because they've been part of the Minister's private army for generations…"
Harry wondered now if Vince had given him the wrong name entirely.
"Actually, I don't think that's what I'm looking for," he said, tentatively holding up hand to pause Luna's enthusiastic description. "I must have got the wrong term. I was looking for a special ability to sense magic. It runs in some families."
Luna just nodded along, completely unperturbed. "Oh yes, that's what they want you to think. Heliopaths can disguise themselves as wizards, you see, and that's part of what makes them so tricky to find. But the one thing they can't hide is their attraction to wild magic, so they pass it off as a blood gift."
Harry was beginning to suspect that Luna might be full of it. Vince had thus far shown no signs of being a giant fireball, and the possibility that Draco was one was even more remote. And now that he thought about it, hadn't she been talking about some other imaginary creature the other day at lunch? However, she still looked entirely serious, so Harry felt it would be rude to contradict her.
"Right," he muttered, looking down. At this point, he noticed that her bare toes were peeking out from the hems of her too-short robes. "Why aren't you wearing shoes?"
Luna followed his gaze and wiggled her toes. "Walking around barefoot is liberating," she said.
Harry, remembering that the Dark Lord did not wear shoes either, could not dismiss this opinion outright. He shrugged. "I've never tried it."
"Your shoes don't mysteriously disappear sometimes?" Luna asked, her eyes wide and earnest, so that Harry had to consider the possibility seriously.
"No. They're not enchanted," Harry finally said. Self-walking shoes sounded good in principle but were probably horrible in practice.
Luna smiled brightly. "Enchanted shoes! Wouldn't that be lovely? But what would they do? Perhaps they could always point north."
"I imagine it would be a bit hard to walk," Harry said, and got the image of somebody crab-walking because their shoes refused to rotate.
"But you'd never get lost," said Luna, nodding sagely. "A worthwhile trade-off."
"Hmm," Harry mumbled.
"You don't have to agree with me," Luna told him, staring him directly in the eye. "Most people don't, so I'm used to it."
She didn't sound offended at all, so Harry was forced to conclude that she meant it. He tried to smile, but he felt a muscle twitch in his face, so he moved to focus on the matter at hand instead.
"Why do you think it's better to never get lost at the cost of not being able to turn your feet?" he asked.
Luna's eyes twinkled. "Well, that wouldn't be the best design, would it? I imagine the shoes would only try to point north without forcing the wearer to turn around. How does that sound?"
Someone cleared their throat, and Harry whirled around guiltily to find an older Ravenclaw at the end of the stacks—Patil, the ex-seeker.
"Sorry," Harry whispered reflexively.
"You do realise that saying 'point me' makes your wand point north, right?" said Patil, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh." Harry felt weirdly embarrassed, but Luna seemed delighted.
"Does it? Point me," she said, holding her wand horizontally. It twitched in her loose grasp and she gasped. "I suppose we don't need those shoes after all."
"What happened to your shoes?" Patil asked, glancing down at Luna's feet.
Luna shrugged.
Patil looked vaguely alarmed. "Did you blow them up experimenting?"
Unease flashed across her face for a moment before she shook her head. "Nothing so exciting," she said. "I've simply lost them."
Patil's dumbfounded expression exactly reflected Harry's feelings on how likely that story was.
"Perhaps I could summon them for you?" the seventh-year offered. "Ah…"
"Luna Lovegood," said Luna, sticking out her hand at a low angle. Patil had to bend over to shake it.
"Varun Patil. We're in the same house."
"I'd noticed," said Luna with a bright smile.
"And you… you're in Padma's year, right?" asked Patil, turning to Harry. "She's my little cousin."
Harry nodded and introduced himself.
"You don't have to," Luna told Patil. "I'm sure they'll come back eventually."
"It's no trouble," he said, raising his wand. Then he seemed to think better of casting spells in the library and gestured for them to follow him outside. "Do you have some general idea of where they might be?"
"Oh, they'll be somewhere in Ravenclaw Tower," Luna said. "The nargles never go too far."
Looking a little puzzled, Patil nevertheless nodded and cried, "Accio Luna Lovegood's shoes!"
With a faint pop, a pair of heavy-duty leather boots materialised in front of them and dropped to the floor with a solid thunk. Patil stared at them in consternation. "Sorry," he began, but was cut off by Luna's delighted cry.
"There you are!" She scooped up the boots and hugged them to her chest. "Thank you!"
"Those are your shoes, then?" Patil asked haltingly, but it was apparent enough that that was indeed the case.
Harry was bursting with questions of a different sort. "Was that a fifth series summoning charm? What was the wand movement? How do you summon something without having seen it beforehand?"
Patil mock-groaned. "You sound like a NEWT practice exam. Been reading ahead, have you? That was sixth series actually—it allows summoning with much less information, though it's also much more likely to go wrong. It's nice because you don't even have to be able to identify the target by name. All it needs is a name that someone could identify it by."
"That's brilliant," said Harry, even though he knew the summoning charm in more than its most basic form was still beyond him. One could dream.
"Well, you've reminded me—I'd better get back to homework. I'll see you two around," Patil said as they reentered the library. He quickly disappeared behind a stack of books.
Harry remembered that he had got sidetracked from looking up heliopathy. He had to find something before dinner. Luna's claims had been outlandish, but one thing she had said had given him an idea of what to look for. He wandered over to the history shelf.
"Aparecium blood gift," he muttered. Faint light peeked out from underneath a handful of books. Harry grinned.
Later that evening, having lost all track of time and missed dinner, he barrelled through the ugly burgundy curtain into the classroom where his friends were waiting and slammed a pair of books down on a chair triumphantly. As it happened, it was one of the chairs he had blown up that morning and made only a superficial attempt to fix, so it promptly collapsed into rubble.
"The Pure-Blood Directory?" Hannah read upside-down, her eyebrows rising into her hairline.
"It's for Vince. I found him earlier, and we talked," Harry said, trying to be as vague as possible. He would leave it up to Vince whether he wanted to tell the others exactly what had happened. "Anyway, he finally explained why he was acting so weird. His dad threatened to take him out of Hogwarts if he didn't get better at this one ability that his family has. So we're going to help him out. You're in, right?"
"Take him out of Hogwarts?" Hannah repeated, eyes widening. "That's horrible. Of course we'll help! Right Neville?"
"Yeah," said Neville. "But how are we supposed to help with a blood gift? They're, well, the point is that they run in the family, isn't it? It's extreme and all, but I sort of understand why his dad would want to teach him himself."
Harry bent down and picked up the Pure-Blood Directory, dusting it off with a few firm smacks that probably would have given Madam Pince an aneurysm. "It's called heliopathy, and it shows up in several families, even if it's supposed to come from the Crabbe family. There's nothing to teach, anyway. It's an affinity for powerful spells, and I think Vince just needs practice."
"Never heard of it," said Neville, frowning.
"Yeah, it was pretty hard to find," Harry said. "These were the only two books that mentioned it explicitly. It's not as obvious or flashy as metamorphmagic, I suppose."
"I wouldn't know what that was either if I hadn't met Tonks," Neville said. "When people say blood gift you usually think of parselmouths or seers."
Harry shrugged, not so eager to reveal his parseltongue gift. According to the books he had just consulted, it was widely considered to be evil. He was lucky that everybody who knew he was a parselmouth was either as ignorant as he had been or also arguably evil.
Just then, Vince appeared in the door, poking his head awkwardly through the gap in the curtain. He looked nervous, so Harry smiled at him and waved him inside.
"Look, I found books on heliopathy," he said, gesturing to the titles that Vince couldn't read. Nonetheless, recognition, of the unpleasant sort, dawned on his features.
"That's the list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight!" he cried, pointing his finger at the book in Harry's hand.
"It's that book?" Neville asked, frowning in disapproval. Harry stared back and forth between them, nonplussed.
"What does that mean?" He drew his wand. "Aparecium sacred twenty-eight." A good portion of the last half of the book lit up.
"It's a list of the purest of the pure. The houses that haven't ever dirtied themselves with non-wizard blood," Vince explained. Harry flipped to the very end of the book, where a final list was proudly featured within an elaborate gilt border. The first name stood out immediately.
"Abbott," Harry read, raising an eyebrow at Hannah. "Isn't your mum muggleborn?"
She nodded, frowning.
Neville sniffed. "That book's really old, and it's all codswallop anyway. Gran says there aren't any families left that haven't got some muggle blood in them."
"That's not true," Vince said, looking up sharply. "Most of the Sacred Twenty-Eight are still pure. Maybe just not the Abbotts." He shot Hannah an uncertain look.
She scoffed and crossed her arms. "Who even cares about that stuff?"
Biting his lip, Vince looked to Harry, who shrugged. "I only checked out this book because it talks about blood gifts. It says that you either have one or not—there's no in between, like a metamorphmagus who can only change their hair. So if you're a heliopath, you should be able to do everything heliopaths are supposed to be able to do. You just need practice."
"My father says it only works with powerful magic," Vince said.
"Right, that's what this book says too," Harry agreed, pointing to the second book he had brought, Gifts of the Blood, which was still askew on the floor. "But it doesn't have to be you casting the magic—it works on any powerful magic that you get close to, like other people's spells, or cursed objects. Actually, detecting cursed stuff is what it seems to be most useful for."
"Really?" Vince asked. Harry blinked at his surprised tone. That application seemed pretty obvious to him.
"What does your father use it for?" he asked.
"He says it's good for using really powerful spells that are normally hard to control," Vince said.
"What do you mean, hard to control?" Harry asked, frowning. Wasn't that the same thing as hard to cast?
"Like curses that could turn on the caster," Vince said.
"There are spells like that?" Harry asked, appalled. Regular backfiring seemed bad enough, but this sounded even worse. "Why would you want to use them?"
Vince shrugged.
"I've never read about that," Harry mumbled.
"You're starting to sound like Hermione," said Neville, exchanging wry smiles with Hannah. Harry frowned, unreasonably annoyed that his friends were making light of this. There was just so much he didn't know!
"Whatever," he huffed. "So you're saying that your father wants you to learn one of those spells then?"
Vince nodded. "That would convince him I'm making progress, I think."
"Do you have something in mind?" Harry asked.
"Fire spells, cursed fire," Vince said, and Harry was unwillingly reminded of Luna's claim about heliopaths secretly being fire spirits.
"No way!" Neville cried, looking pale.
"I know, I'm thick, not mental. I wasn't going to try that on my own. That stuff could kill you. So that's why I tried with the blasting curse first, but that didn't work out," Vince said.
"The blasting curse is obviously no joke either," Hannah said, crossing her arms. Neville looked away guiltily, but she didn't appear to notice, focused on Vince as she was. "I think you're all looking at this wrong. Vince's dad wants him to do something completely unrealistic—we should be convincing him that he's got it wrong, not trying to do it against all common sense."
Harry, for whom trying to convince adults that they were barmy had never once worked out, scoffed. "And he's going to listen to a bunch of random twelve-year-olds when he won't even listen to Vince? What are we going to do, write him a strongly-worded letter?"
"Well what was your idea going to be?" Hannah demanded. "Let me guess, ignore everybody's warnings because you know better and go try deadly spells?"
Harry grit his teeth, because that was pretty much what he had in mind, but Hannah was still wrong. "You're basically saying we won't help because it's too hard."
"That's not what I'm saying. There are ways to convince people," she said.
"Like the confundus charm?" Harry asked. "Actually that's not a bad idea, maybe we could learn the confundus charm instead, though it's supposed to be really difficult."
"Harry, no!" Hannah yelled, pulling roughly at her hair. "Not everything can be solved with charms!"
"I know that, I'm just saying—"
"Guys, don't argue, please," Neville said in a small voice that nevertheless cut through the room. "Let's just say what we're thinking, and then Vince can decide."
Harry and Hannah both froze, glancing awkwardly at Vince. Harry's chest still felt fit to burst, but now that he noticed how quiet the room suddenly seemed without their heated voices, his anger was quickly giving way to awkwardness.
"Yeah," he mumbled glancing guiltily to Vince, who looked lost. "Maybe Vince can suggest some ideas too."
Vince shook his head hurriedly, holding up his hands. "I don't know. My father told me about the blasting curse, but obviously it wasn't enough."
"Wait, your dad made you learn that curse?" Hannah demanded. Harry felt vindicated. Perhaps now she would understand that trying to get Vince's father to change his mind would be a pointless endeavour. Adults and children just did not see things the same way.
"Yeah," Vince said, clearly a little intimidated by Hannah's sudden fury. She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
"I've got it," Harry said. "Write to your dad, like Hannah suggested, and ask him for a different curse. Make it a whole list of them so we can pick the best one."
Harry figured it was a rather good compromise between their two ideas. Hannah evidently thought otherwise, because she huffed loudly in disapproval. Neville stood hastily.
"How about we find another heliopath to ask for advice? Not your dad, someone else. For a second opinion," he suggested.
Vince nodded slowly. "We can do all those things, can't we? I could ask Father for some different spells to try, like you said, Harry." He turned to Neville. "You can ask your friends if any of them know any heliopaths."
Neville nodded, smiling in relief.
Vince glanced to Harry and Hannah. "No offence, but you two are half-bloods, so you probably wouldn't know as many gifted people as Neville. Harry, you like books, so maybe you can look in the library."
"I'll look in the library," Hannah said firmly. "Harry, you should try asking a professor about this. Professor Flitwick, maybe, and I'll ask Professor Sprout. Actually, we can all ask our heads of house. Well, maybe not Vince. Professor Snape didn't really seem to approve of what you were doing."
"That's putting it lightly," Neville said, shuddering.
"Great," said Hannah, clapping her hands. "We have a plan. Now can we please work on the potions essay? I still have four inches to write and I already talked about three different volatile potions."
"Three? I only gave two examples," Harry said, unfurling his completed essay on the floor and pinning it down with his elbow.
He compared his composition to Neville's and Hannah's, but in the end, decided not to make any changes. Instead, he took out his defence homework—an exposition on how Lockhart had received his Order of Merlin, Third Class, and began to write a conclusion.
Neville stared over gloomily. "How did you get ten inches on that? I tried to look it up but there's only a short article on it in an old Daily Prophet."
"Have a look," Harry said, tossing his mostly complete essay over. "I just made some stuff up about how impressed the committee was with his handling of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf."
"The essay is literally about Lockhart. You can't just invent stuff and assume he won't notice," Hannah protested.
Lockhart clearly begged to differ—Harry's liberally embellished story received a glittering blue 'O' and pat on the shoulder from the flattered professor, who went as far as to pull him aside after the lesson.
"Excellent work, Mr Potter. Worthy of the front page of the Prophet. If I recall correctly, the paper spent far too little time covering my receipt of this distinguished award," Lockhart said, shaking his head. He smirked conspiratorially and produced an additional piece of parchment. "By the way, here's the pass that I owe you. I hope you find what you're looking for."
"Thanks, sir," Harry said, taking the parchment with bewilderment as Lockhart ushered him out of the classroom.
"Anything for one of my star students," Lockhart said, swaggering down the hall. Harry glanced down to find a form printed in green ink and signed in blue:
Access to the Restricted Section of the Hogwart's Library requested by Harry Potter for the following book(s) [title and author]:
Deepeste Risinges, by Fleta Peverell
Course: Defence Against the Dark Arts
Signed: Gilderoy Lockhart
For half a stupefied moment, Harry was stuck wondering why Professor Lockhart would sign him a pass for a book he had never even heard of, let alone requested. Then his wits caught up to him and he remembered who was really controlling the defence professor.
Of course, that realisation offered no further explanation for why the Dark Lord saw it fit to assign him reading. Was it in response to what had happened in the forest with the dementors? Or was he expressing a desire to continue the previous year's lessons?
What he did know, however, was that it was not good for one's health to ignore the Dark Lord's directives, so Harry went straight to the library. Defence had been his last lesson for the day, anyway.
Madam Pince inspected his pass with narrowed eyes and pinched lips, going so far as to produce a monocle and press Lockhart's signature to her nose, as if looking for a secret message in the flourish of the capital G. At length, she said, "Wait here," and disappeared into the forbidden stacks behind the rope and placard marking the Restricted Section. A minute later, she returned bearing a dusty tome bound in ancient, brittle leather.
"Thanks," Harry said. He got a condescending stare for his trouble. Resolutely, he turned around and lugged the heavy book to one of the secluded desks on the other side of the stacks.
As he set it down, he discovered that half its weight had remained behind. His whole body felt like something was dragging it down—not enough to hinder his movement, but undeniably there. He eyed the book with some trepidation, gingerly opening it to the first page.
An inky rendition of a dementor reached out at him, its mouth open in a pitch-black O that expanded and contracted languidly, as if it were taking deep breaths. The text beneath was dense and written in a cramped hand. He licked his lips, frowning at the subtle heaviness that seemed to radiate from the words. No; it wasn't weight, but a sense of hopelessness, only far milder than that induced by a real dementor. He squinted at the first line.
"Alle the deepeste risinges whiche witches knowe are done beste afore the fouleste of creatures, the dymentor, whiche drinketh the lyf and soule of man and torment him with grete despeir."
Harry groaned. This book with its archaic spelling was doing a fine job already of tormenting him with great despair. He tried to glean some information from the pages without reading the words, but the dementor-like aura overpowered any other impression he could get. That, or his wizard reading skills still needed work.
As he muddled his way through the introduction, he found himself unwillingly ensnared after all. This book was about conjuration, in the necromancy sense. Harry was almost sure of it. What else could 'rising soules' refer to? Then there was the fact that dementors were involved—he remembered that Petri had told him that one of Harry's predecessors, Horst, had been kissed by a dementor while learning conjuration.
Petri had promised to start teaching him over the winter holiday, if his transfiguration was up to par, but surely it could not hurt to read up on the topic beforehand, especially when it was something the Dark Lord apparently wanted him to know.
Most likely it was the first part of the book that had inspired the Dark Lord to refer Harry to it. The author had rightly assumed that most readers would not have prior experience wrangling dementors, and had written in great detail about where to find them and how to make them cooperate safely. Harry did not have a convenient dungeon lying around with 'walles drenched in torment and payne' and 'filled with sorweful muggeles' to barter with, so he skipped ahead to the section on using his own soul. Peverell did not recommend this method, but considered it important to know in case one's supply of disposable muggles ran thin at an inconvenient moment.
Harry thought the next passage must describe what the Dark Lord had done in the forest: "The dymentor is a most curious creature. His wille is to knowen youre thoughtes and dreems, and for this cause he seketh to devouren youre soule. You sholde given him from youre soule withouten the taking of it from you. Offre to him your memorie of childhede and tymes of blis."
There was even a diagram of a witch pushing back her pointed hat and allowing a dementor to kiss her forehead.
It was important to share happy memories, Peverell explained, because dementors preferred to eat them first. They were uninterested in memories they had already consumed, so by making a copy to give to them, one effectively protected those memories from harm. The spell to copy the memories had to be done beforehand, in a separate location, as the dementor's presence made it difficult to cast magic.
Harry frowned. The Dark Lord seemed to have managed it just fine even while surrounded by a whole swarm of dementors. Then again, it was the Dark Lord, who seemed to have godlike magical prowess.
Noting that the spell Peverell cited was the same liquid thoughts charm Harry already knew, he figured it would be a good idea to carry some spare happy memories around with him in case he had another run-in with the dementors around the school. They certainly were not going away any time soon. He reached into his pocket, hoping to find a suitable container, and his fingers closed around smooth glass.
He pulled out his hand and saw a vial of blood. Right.
Glancing around to make sure that he was out of sight of Madam Pince's hawk-like gaze, he uncorked the vial and pressed it to his lips, tossing it back. A frisson of warmth passed through his chest as he swallowed, and he shut his eyes guiltily, savouring the metallic tang that lingered on his tongue. There was definitely something wrong with him, but somehow nobody else seemed to think so, not Petri and not Madam Pomfrey.
"Scourgify," he muttered, casting at the vial before he could give in to the temptation to lick it. Then he pointed his wand to his temple and paused, drawing a blank. What counted as a happy memory?
Nothing from the Dursleys was worth keeping—the dementors could have it all. Petri wasn't getting any teaching or parenting awards either. Harry thought about flying. Flying was wonderful, but there wasn't any particular memory that stood out to him. Surely a dementor couldn't deprive him of the basic understanding of how it felt to fly without actually eating his soul? Uncertain, he pulled a few strands of memory out—his first time on a broom and his race with Draco—and let them dribble into the vial.
Lord Voldemort hadn't given the dementor happy memories, anyway. As far as Harry recalled, he had just shoved a large portion of both their childhoods at it. How old was the Dark Lord? Harry remembered seeing flashes of some ancient-looking cars, which supported Dumbledore's claim that Voldemort was a half-blood.
Harry's growling stomach reminded him that dinner must have already started, so he reluctantly shut the book and took it to the counter to be checked out. Madam Pince informed him brusquely that it was already out under his name, and shooed him out of the library.
Not wanting to be seen with a dark arts book, even one he had obtained perfectly legitimately, Harry trudged all the way to Ravenclaw tower to put it away before heading downstairs. By the time he reached the Great Hall, dinner was halfway over and he had to sit by himself at the end of the table, as there was no room near the other second years. 'By himself' was perhaps inaccurate—Luna was also there, absently sipping pumpkin juice with her face buried in a book.
"Hello, Harry," she greeted without looking up. Harry ladled himself some vegetable soup and paused expectantly, but Luna did not seem interested in further conversation, so he turned his full attention to his meal.
When he finished and stood to leave, however, Luna snapped her book shut and followed him.
"Where are you going, Harry?" she asked.
"Common room," Harry said. The second week of school had brought with it an onslaught of activity as clubs and societies began to recruit in earnest, and Hannah, who seemed to be involved in every group Hogwarts had to offer, had no time to spare for study sessions. Without her there to organise, Harry and his friends had fallen back to working with their housemates instead.
"How lucky," said Luna. "That's where I'm going too." She hummed a dramatic tune as they climbed the stairs.
"What song is that?" Harry asked.
"The Erlking's Song," said Luna. "Do you like it?"
"It's nice," he murmured. "Do you mean erkling?"
"No, Erlking," Luna repeated. "King of the elves."
An image of Rosenkol reclining on a golden throne and stroking his long beard popped into Harry's head, and he had to hold back a snort.
"Though erklings are said to be his descendants. They must have mixed up his name. What do you think, Harry? They say when an erkling takes your hand, you cross over into another world," Luna said. "Doesn't that sound wonderful?"
"I think they mean, cross over, like you die," Harry said. He was pretty sure erklings ate children who got lost in forests.
Luna shook her head. "No one knows for sure. There aren't ever bodies."
"Because they're eaten," Harry suggested.
"Wouldn't you leave something behind even if you ate someone?" Luna insisted. "All those bones would be tough to chew up."
Harry did not have a good answer for this. He thought of the string of little bones that Leticia kept around her neck. Luna seemed to take his silence as agreement and began humming the Erlking's Song again.
"Where do conjured objects come from?" asked the Ravenclaw knocker as they cleared the last steps. Harry furrowed his brows, trying to recall if they had discussed this topic in Transfiguration yet.
"I think they must come out of nonexistence, which is the mirror image of existence," Luna said after the barest moment of contemplation.
"Insightful," said the eagle, and the door swung open. Harry's jaw dropped for a moment. If anything, that answer had been more cryptic than the question!
Luna waved goodbye to him as soon as they entered, disappearing upstairs. Harry looked around the strangely sparse common room for his yearmates and found only Sue and Michael playing a miniature game of gobstones.
"Where is everyone?" he asked, wandering over, though he kept some distance for fear of being sprayed with gobwater. They were using one of the low tables, and had put up a fence of note cards to prevent the marbles from rolling off the edge. Sue shot a red marble right into a green one with a loud click. Michael shoved his arms into his face to shield it from the disgusting blast of liquid.
Still dripping, Michael looked up at Harry and rolled his eyes. "Quidditch," he said.
A little alarmed, Harry asked, "Tryouts?"
"Saturday," said Michael. "But they've gone to get some practice in, I suppose."
Harry glanced to the notice board and confirmed the time—Saturday at eight. He would have liked to go flying too, but didn't fancy walking all the way downstairs again, so instead retreated to the dormitory to finish Deepeste Risinges.
The next chapter was finally about 'rising' and started right off with some practical instructions.
Step one was to obtain a smooth stone from a riverbed. Harry frowned. He supposed that meant he wasn't going to be resurrecting the dead any time soon, given the lack of rivers in the vicinity. Perhaps a stone from the lake would do just as well?
Next, the stone had to become saturated with a dementor's magic. This required about a month's worth of skin contact with a dementor. Peverell suggested convincing one to wear it like an amulet around its neck, or even to swallow it, though getting it back out could be tricky. With that, one had the basis for a rising stone, which could be used to store a conjured soul for easy recall.
Alas, there were no instructions for how to actually conjure the dead. Peverell assumed that the reader already knew, and the whole rest of the book seemed to be about how to improve the fidelity of an existing conjuration with the aid of a dementor and the rising stone. Harry skimmed it in disappointment, though he was briefly excited when he recognised some of the immaterial conjurations that Petri had asked him to study. He almost took his wand out then and there to give them a try, but was interrupted by the arrival of his loud and sweaty housemates.
"Reckon I still need to work on tightening my turns," Terry was saying as he stripped off his robes and shoved them into the laundry basket.
"Looked pretty good to me. I still don't get how you're supposed to fly with one hand," Oliver said, shaking his head. "Do you really think I have a chance?"
Terry nodded emphatically before he wandered into the bathroom. "You'll never know if you don't try."
Anthony caught sight of Harry sitting awkwardly on his bed. "Hey Harry, where were you? Didn't see you at dinner."
"Library. Lost track of time," Harry muttered. "You lot went flying?"
Anthony nodded, grinning ruefully. "Terry's idea, really. He's set on getting everyone to try out. Doesn't want the team to be missing out on talent."
Harry rolled his eyes. "You'd think he was quidditch captain, with that attitude."
"Actually, I think Stretton put him up to it," Anthony said. "With Patil and Birch gone, there's some question of whether we'll be able to keep our winning streak. Us second years are untapped potential or something."
"I'm sure he'll find some good replacements," Harry said.
"Are you trying out?" Anthony asked.
Harry shrugged. "Maybe."
Anthony let the topic go in favour of claiming a spot in the shower queue, but Harry wasn't able to escape scrutiny for long.
"I think you should go for seeker," Terry told Harry as they walked down to breakfast the next morning. "This is an opportunity you can't pass up! You'd be a perfect fit. You're ace at flying, and just look at your build. Fast, light…"
"Scrawny," Lisa added, smirking as she caught up to them. Harry scowled.
"I don't know. I haven't got my own broom, and besides, I don't know if I'll have time," he said.
"Excuses," Terry muttered, shaking his head. "You can always owl-order a broom after you make it onto the team. And what are you so busy with anyway? We've barely got any homework."
"Yet," Lisa reminded him.
Terry waved his hand. "Harry can handle it. He's a clever chap."
"Don't you want to be seeker?" Harry asked, privately doubting that Petri would consider a trivial thing like getting on the quidditch team to be adequate justification for spending a fortune on a broomstick. "You'll have less competition if I don't go."
"I just want Ravenclaw to win the cup," Terry said.
"How selfless," Lisa drawled. "Maybe you shouldn't try out either, then."
"I'm wounded," said Terry, placing his hand dramatically on his chest. "Have you so little confidence in me?"
"Stretton will probably make Cho seeker, since she was reserve last year," Harry said unsympathetically as they entered the great hall. He glanced briefly at Cho, who was sitting with Marietta as usual, and then looked away quickly in favour of finding an empty spot.
Just as Harry had helped himself to some porridge and was about to take a bite, an owl swooped down and dropped a note in front of him. He snatched it out of the air before it could land in his bowl and unfurled it curiously, finding familiar, slanting handwriting. It was a note from Professor Dumbledore, informing him that his first private lesson would take place this Saturday at eight. He felt a simultaneous surge of disappointment and relief.
"What is it?" Terry asked, trying to read the note over his shoulder. Harry let it go and it sprang back into a tight roll.
"I've got to see Dumbledore on Saturday at eight. That's during quidditch trials, so I suppose I can't go anyway," he said.
"What? Let me see that," Terry muttered, snatching up the parchment before Harry could stop him. "Private lessons, are you serious?"
"You've got private lessons with the headmaster?" Lisa demanded. "How did you manage that?"
Harry shrugged. "I'm not sure. He just sort of offered."
"What is he teaching you? Alchemy?" Lisa leaned forward, her eyes wide. Harry shrugged again.
"I'm not sure about that, either. He didn't say," he said.
"The headmaster randomly offered to give you lessons on an unknown topic. That's completely mad! You have to tell us all about it later," Lisa demanded.
Harry nodded helplessly.
"That's too bad, mate," Terry said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I hope whatever it is is worth missing out on seeker for."
Given that he probably wouldn't have made seeker anyway without his own broom, Harry thought that learning literally anything from Dumbledore would be time better spent than having his hopes crushed by bludgers.
Dumbledore's office was on the seventh floor, not too far from the transforming room of rubbish, and apparently located behind an extremely ugly gargoyle. On the appointed day, Harry approached it with some trepidation, but it did not so much as twitch in reaction to his presence.
"Ice mice," Harry told it, following the instructions that had been included in the note. The gargoyle leapt to the side with alacrity, sending Harry stumbling back as the wall behind it split open and revealed a stone staircase. Hurriedly, he ascended the steps, only to find that they ended just around the bend. With a rumble, the short staircase began to spiral upwards on its own, like a lift, until it slotted into place at the very top of the tower.
Disorientated, Harry stepped off and knocked on the polished wooden door in front of him. It opened by itself almost at once. He entered slowly, looking around the bright, airy room in wonder. The walls were covered with portraits of distinguished-looking men and women, many of whom glanced to him in undisguised curiosity. Below them, on little tables, a variety of silvery instruments puffed and whirred. He vaguely recognised the shape of one or two of them from Petri's shop, but their function eluded him.
Professor Dumbledore smiled genially at him from behind an enormous desk. As Harry turned to shut the door behind him, he caught sight of a magnificent, fiery bird on a golden perch, dozing with its head tucked under its wing. Forgetting himself for a moment, Harry stared open-mouthed.
"Ah yes," said Professor Dumbledore, and Harry whipped around hastily. "Don't mind Fawkes. He's quite the heavy sleeper. Please, have a seat."
There were two comfortable-looking chairs situated in front of Dumbledore's desk. One of them slid backwards a few feet at these words. Harry sat down gingerly, glancing back one more time.
"What sort of bird is he?" Harry asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
"Fawkes is a phoenix. They're marvellous birds—they can carry surprisingly heavy loads, their tears have healing properties, and they make very faithful pets," Dumbledore explained. "I am fortunate to have him as my companion. Now, am I correct that you have been wondering what exactly I have planned for these lessons?"
Harry nodded. "Yes, sir."
Dumbledore's hands came together to rest on the desk. "It is perhaps erroneous to call them lessons at all. More accurately, I hope they will be a fruitful exchange of information. Now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to attack you eleven years ago and continues to drive his interest in you today, I have decided that we should embark together on a journey of investigation. The facts begin with that fateful night in Godric's Hollow and end with Lord Voldemort's successful use of the philosopher's stone to resurrect himself. In between lie the murky waters of speculation, into which I plan for us to dive headfirst."
"You mean, sir, how he survived the backfired killing curse, and he was doing up until he possessed Professor Quirrell?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore nodded. "Among other things. Before we begin, however, I have some questions for you. Please answer honestly—I promise that you will not be worse off for it, whatever the case may be."
He paused, so Harry said, "Of course, sir," burning with curiosity and some trepidation.
"Very well. First—you mentioned that you were placed under the imperius curse. At that time, did you see Lord Voldemort in person, in his own body?" Dumbledore asked.
That was an easy question. Harry nodded. "Yes, sir, I did."
"And you were able to see his face?" Dumbledore added.
"Yes, sir," Harry confirmed, uncertain as to where this line of questioning was leading.
Dumbledore hummed. "Did he leave you with the means to contact him?"
Harry looked up and met Dumbledore's eyes for the first time. They peered at him earnestly from behind half-moon spectacles, a cool and serene blue. Though the question might have been alarming in principle, he sensed no threat in the air. It was nothing like the piercing judgment of the Dark Lord's crimson gaze.
"Not directly, sir," Harry said. "I think I could get a hold of him, though, if I had to."
He maintained eye-contact and did his best to relax and not think too much. Strangely enough, it was easy to keep his mind clear in Professor Dumbledore's presence. There was no sign of legilimency.
"Thank you, Harry," said Dumbledore, closing his eyes for a moment. "Please understand that I do not wish to place the burden of secrecy on your shoulders. The information that we learn here is yours to do with as you like, though naturally, I advise you to practise some discretion."
Was Dumbledore basically giving him blanket permission to tell the Dark Lord everything, if pressed? Harry felt some tension that he had not even been aware of leave his shoulders. "Thank you, sir," he said, though he still had no intention of letting slip more than he needed to Lord Voldemort.
Dumbledore smiled sadly. "It would be terribly unfair of me to demand otherwise, especially as I shall be relying on your help. As you have correctly supposed, our aim is to learn what exactly happened to Voldemort after his failed attempt on your life. More precisely, we should hope to discover the mechanism of his survival and the means of disabling it."
"Sir, you want to find out how to kill him?" Harry demanded, sitting up straighter. "Permanently?"
"It is my wish that you should be equipped to face your fate on an even playing field," Dumbledore said, which Harry took to be a more elegant confirmation of his assumption. He nodded.
"That makes sense," he said. "But, pardon me for asking, sir, if even you don't know how he managed to survive, how am I supposed to help? You must know so much more than I do about magic that could do that sort of thing."
"I do, indeed, have one or two theories in mind," Dumbledore agreed. "Theories, however, are worth little without evidence, and I find myself sorely lacking evidence one way or another. Forgive me for asking this of you, but you have seen Voldemort both before and after his resurrection. I would like you to add your testimony to my collection of facts, then, so that my guesswork might move closer to the truth."
He stood and turned to a cabinet behind him, extracting a shallow stone basin which he set carefully on his desk.
"Are you familiar with this object, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry nodded. "It's a pensieve." It was larger and more elaborately decorated than Petri's, but still recognisable. "Do you want me to show you some memories?"
Dumbledore beamed. "Actually, I was hoping to share one of mine."
He produced a small glass jar and uncorked it with a flick of his wand, tipping its silvery contents into the basin, where they pooled and began to exude an ethereal mist. Harry wondered briefly why Dumbledore stored memories outside his head, but then remembered that he was now guilty of the same practice.
"Shall we enter together?" Dumbledore asked, holding out a weathered hand. Harry took it cautiously and bent forward in tandem with him until their noses touched the liquid memory. Then silver mist overtook his senses, and they were falling, their hands still firmly clasped.
The ground materialised under their feet, and Harry looked around rapidly, trying to orient himself. They had appeared at the front of a terraced auditorium with red brick walls, harshly lit by rows of gas lamps. Though the seats were filled with witches and wizards, it was silent in the hall except for the whirring of silver instruments on stage—the same ones from Dumbledore's office, it seemed. They were arranged on a curved stone table in front of which were two steaming gold cauldrons, one small and one enormous, which an elderly man with scraggly curls was stirring simultaneously with great concentration. Across from him stood an auburn-haired man—Dumbledore, Harry assumed, though without the flowing beard and colourful wardrobe, one had to look to the crooked nose to see the resemblance.
Harry took a closer look at the old man. There was something familiar about him, too. Just then, the man glanced up, and Harry gasped.
"Is that Nicolas Flamel?" he asked. But he looked so ancient—the Nic Harry had met had seemed at least several decades younger.
Dumbledore, the real one, hummed. "Indeed it is," he said. "How did you know?"
"We met once," Harry said a little hesitantly. "Is he… I heard he…"
"Yes, he has indeed gone on to his next great adventure," Dumbledore confirmed. Harry glanced at his calm face, a little bemused. He made death sound so pleasant. "Right now, I would like to draw your attention to the back row."
Harry turned to the audience, his gaze meandering up the centre aisle. The majority of attendees were ancient and wrinkled, but there, at the top, one could find a line of fresh, smooth faces. A blond wizard in particular stood out—Harry almost thought he was looking at Lucius Malfoy, only this man was stockier and wore a more pleasant expression. They had to be related somehow.
"Do you see anybody you recognise?" Dumbledore asked. Harry scanned over the other faces quickly, but found little to go on.
"Not exactly. That man looks a lot like Lucius Malfoy, though," he said.
Dumbledore hummed. "Yes. That would be Abraxas Malfoy, his father. The man to Mr Malfoy's left—is he in any way familiar to you?"
Harry studied the indicated figure. He was pale, even paler than Abraxas Malfoy beside him, something that was only accentuated by his dark hair, which had been parted and combed back with severe precision. Unlike his neighbours, who sat passively as if they were watching some plebeian spectacle, this man was leaning forward in rapt attention, his eyes fixed unerringly on Dumbledore—the one on the stage who was puttering about, moving instruments here and there. That was all Harry could glean from observing him.
"No, I've never seen him," he said, wondering what he was missing.
"Interesting," Dumbledore said. "That is Tom Riddle, though I am sure he had already begun going by his new name at this point in time. I presume the Voldemort you encountered had a very different appearance, then?"
Harry stared at the alleged young Dark Lord for a few more bewildered moments, trying in vain to find some trace of that waxy, mask-like visage in his handsome features. He shook his head. "He looks really different. His eyes are all red now, he's bald, and he doesn't really have a nose. And he's very thin, like he hasn't eaten in ages, but he's still strong. Physically, I mean."
"From your description, it seems to me he is as he was immediately before his death—or rather, incapacitation. Most curious," Dumbledore said.
Harry glanced up to him in confusion. "Why is that curious, sir? Doesn't it make sense that he would look the same as before?"
In lieu of answering, Dumbledore gestured up towards the stage, where his counterpart had picked up his wand. Harry wasn't sure, but he thought it looked different than Dumbledore's current wand, darker and smoother. Young Dumbledore pressed it to his throat and suddenly his voice resounded through the auditorium.
"Distinguished witches and wizards, I apologise most deeply for the delay. There was a bit of a mix-up earlier with some international portkeys, I'm afraid, but we are now present and finished with our preparations. Today, I am fortunate to assist renowned alchemist Nicolas Flamel in the demonstration of a ground-breaking experimental result. No doubt many of you have already read all about the acceleration of the homunculus in Transfiguration Today or Sorcery, so I shall spare you the arcane details… those who are curious or wish to refresh their memories can find a copy of the article on the back of the seat in front of you."
There was a rustle across the auditorium, and Dumbledore chuckled.
"I believe, however, that you will find what we have to show you much more interesting than a few dry charts and equations. May I direct your attention to cauldron B?" Dumbledore twirled his wand in a complicated motion, and the larger cauldron turned transparent.
Harry gasped as he saw what was inside—it was a baby! What else could it be, with its oversized, bald head and curled little limbs, suspended in bubbly red fluid? He glanced questioningly up at the real Dumbledore, who looked perfectly unfazed. Well, it was his memory, Harry supposed.
"Préparez-vous," murmured Nicolas Flamel, tapping one of the silver instruments with his wand. It shuddered and spat out a particularly thick glob of red smoke. He tapped several others in quick succession and they chimed in a concordant scale, spewing smoke in all colours of the rainbow.
Dumbledore nodded. To the audience, he announced, "Observe the perfect harmony of the seven vapours. This is the indication that the white stone is ready."
Flamel set down his wand and picked up the small cauldron by hand, tipping its contents into the cauldron with the baby. For a second, nothing happened, but then a large lump tumbled out and landed in the red liquid with a splash, glowing radiantly as it sank to the bottom of the cauldron and left a trail of bubbles in its wake. At once, Dumbledore began casting silently, thick brows furrowed in serious concentration. Clear steam rose from the cauldron, drifting and billowing about the room in great swathes. By the by, from within the mist, a shadow coalesced, and Harry gasped along with the rest of the audience as he made out a blurry head and shoulders. Somebody was coming out of the cauldron!
Flamel shouted something unintelligible as he joined in with his own spell. Eerie red light enveloped the burgeoning form, streaming from half-formed orifices. The steam turned darker, and the silver instruments, nothing more than the faintest silhouettes, spun and clinked with ever fiercer intensity, stuttering out a haunting melody.
The steam settled, and a final chime rang out, high-pitched and unpleasant. A body hung suspended by the force of two wands, fully formed and naked. Harry flushed and looked up at the man's face. His jaw dropped. It was the Nic Harry had known, with sleek blond hair and unblemished skin. Though his eyes were open, his expression was utterly vacant—Harry could not help thinking that he was unconscious.
"Bravo!" said the old Flamel, beaming at Dumbledore. He turned to the audience, which was applauding heartily. "As you can see, he lives and breathes. He can even walk."
They lowered the apparent clone of Flamel and he took a few mechanical steps. Though the rise and fall of his chest was evident, there was something disturbingly doll-like about him that sent a shudder down Harry's spine. Even an inferius had more life to it.
The room decohered into a soup of colour, which bled away to silver and finally black as the memory ended. Harry blinked rapidly as they resurfaced from the pensieve, rubbing at his temples.
"Sir, what was that?" he blurted, full of questions he wasn't even sure how to articulate.
"That was the transmutation of a homunculus, an artificial human, if you will, using the philosopher's stone. It is what we logically must assume that Lord Voldemort has done in order to procure himself a body," Professor Dumbledore explained.
Harry had almost forgotten that their meeting was about Voldemort, completely distracted by what he had just witnessed. Still, the dead look in homunculus Nic's eyes haunted him. He chanced an academic question. "Since magic can't make will, does that mean the homunculus doesn't have a soul?"
Dumbledore seemed to do a double-take. Harry looked down, a little intimidated by the sudden intensity of his gaze.
"That is an extremely insightful question, Harry. Alas, the answer is not simple. We know that at the moment of its creation, the homunculus, like a newborn child, has no soul. However, we cannot decisively prove that it would be unable to develop one, just as any ordinary baby would over the course of its first year."
"Babies don't have souls?" Harry demanded. A faint smile tugged at the edges of Dumbledore's lips.
"Forgive me, I'm afraid I was momentarily lost in the technicalities. I should have said that their souls are immature, and have yet to take shape," he said.
Harry frowned. "But which one is it? If a homunculus is supposed to be like a baby, then you're saying, sir, that actually, they do have souls?"
"Nothing escapes you, I see," said Dumbledore, though he looked pleased. "I have been remiss in not starting from the beginning. So—let us rectify that error—can you define for me, Harry, what a soul is?"
Suddenly nervous, Harry thought anxiously back to Petri's disparaging rants about his least-favourite word. "A soul is who you are? Your identity?" Even as he said it, he knew it was not quite right—he knew that a faulty memory charm could destroy one's identity without harming the soul.
"Close. It is one step further back from that," said Dumbledore.
Harry stared at him in bemusement. "As in, something that holds your identity?" he asked.
Dumbledore took pity on him. "Do not make the mistake of thinking of the soul as a mysterious, intangible object. We are concerned with something much more commonplace. The soul is simply one's grasp of one's identity. The understanding of the difference between self and other."
He paused there. Harry nodded. "I see, sir."
"I hope I am correct in assuming that you have no recollection of being an infant?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry nodded.
"As far as we know, nobody old enough to speak of it has ever had such a recollection, at least, not one which could be replicated in a pensieve, nor can anybody realistically claim to understand what it is like to be an infant. This fact does not, of course, demonstrate that infants do not have souls, only that whatever they may possess is distinct from our souls as we know them. So you see, for practical purposes, whether they have a nascent soul or no soul at all is largely irrelevant," Dumbledore said.
"Okay. Well, what do you think, sir?" Harry asked. "If you just waited, would a homunculus grow a regular soul? Has anybody tried?"
"I can tell you that simply waiting will produce no results, as a pervasive problem with homunculi is their propensity to die, inexplicably, within weeks of their creation without continuous maintenance. I suspect, though I cannot confirm, that there is a critical time shortly after birth during which the seeds of a healthy soul must be planted and nurtured. For a fully grown homunculus, that time would be long past, but if one were to create an infant homunculus and successfully raise it as a child, perhaps it would be indistinguishable from a human. Neither Nicolas nor I have ever gone down that avenue of experimentation."
Harry wanted to ask why, but he sensed some weight behind the pleasant smile with which Dumbledore had ended his answer, and felt that it might be impolite to press on. They lingered in silence for a few moments.
"Now, I believe we have veered quite far from our original topic," Dumbledore said.
"Sorry, sir," Harry mumbled, reddening slightly.
"Do not apologise, Harry. Curiosity is a wonderful thing, and to indulge it, the purest expression of our nature," said Dumbledore. "In any case, I wished for you to view that memory so that you could best understand what I suspect Voldemort has done to regain his body. I find that seeing something with one's own eyes is often superior to any explanation, however detailed."
"I think so too, sir," Harry agreed. "But I don't understand why Voldemort needed to make a homunculus in the first place. You can reanimate bodies—I mean, I'm sure Voldemort can reanimate bodies, so why didn't he just use some inferius?"
"Certainly, creating a homunculus is not the only way of procuring a functional body. The difficulty for Voldemort lay in obtaining a body that his soul could inhabit for any length of time. You will agree, I hope, that your sense of identity includes something about your physical attributes?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry nodded.
"For that reason, occupying the wrong body puts a terrible strain on both the soul and the body. As I believe you know, Professor Quirrell was only able to tolerate Voldemort's possession for so long by drinking unicorn blood regularly to prolong his life."
Harry frowned. He had been so sure that his anonymous tip last year had been, well, anonymous. "So the homunculus would have been similar enough to Voldemort's original body that he could live in it without problems? I did notice that the homunculus you made looked a lot like Flamel."
"Here is where I am hoping for your help, Harry," Dumbledore said. "As far as I know, and I do not believe it is arrogance to say that that is as far as anybody knows, there is no body other than one's original body which can naturally house one's functioning soul. A homunculus comes close, but is insufficient. This is the reason why Voldemort needed the philosopher's stone, and why, for that matter, Nicolas needed it. In order to keep his soul and body in harmony, he required a monthly dose of an elixir freshly brewed using the stone. The recipe for this elixir was known to two people alone—Nicolas Flamel and his wife, Perenelle. Even I have never been privy to the secret."
Harry felt his heart sinking rapidly.
Dumbledore continued, "You understand, then, that news of Lord Voldemort's resurrection and continued good health came as somewhat of a shock to me."
"I'm sorry, sir," Harry blurted, "It's my fault. I gave him a book that Nicolas Flamel gave me. I mean, I lent it to Professor Quirrell, before I knew…"
Dumbledore held up a hand to stop him. He did not look at all angry, merely curious. "Would this book happen to be titled, Secrets of the Hieroglyphical Figures?"
Harry nodded dumbly. Dumbledore waved his wand and a book zoomed off a shelf into his outstretched hand. Harry glanced down and confirmed his suspicion that it was another copy of the book in question.
"Rest assured, Harry, that I am quite familiar with this book, so I can confidently say that there is no mention at all of instructions to brew the elixir of life. It does, however, explain how to safely handle the philosopher's stone. I admit, considering that this book went out of print before Tom Riddle was even born, that I had some hope of hoodwinking him into misusing the stone and destroying himself, but it was a slim hope at best." Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Do not trouble yourself with thoughts of what might have been, and instead let us focus on what is."
Harry nodded, a little abashed. "Thanks, sir. Sorry for jumping to conclusions. So Voldemort couldn't have found out from anybody how to make this elixir. But couldn't he have figured it out himself?"
"I do not wish to underestimate Lord Voldemort, but the likelihood of his having engineered the recipe in the span of a month without even a sample to work from is low. It took Nicolas the better part of his life to create it, and he was perhaps one of the greatest alchemists to have ever lived," Dumbledore said.
Harry wasn't so sure. He distinctly remembered Voldemort handling a red potion in his vision, one very similar to the one in Dumbledore's memory in which the homunculus had been suspended. Unless…"The potion to make the homunculus, that's not the elixir of life?"
Dumbledore looked surprised at this line of questioning. He shook his head. "No, it is not. The red water is simply created by dissolving the stone in water. It acts as a catalyst for transmutation when mixed with other substances."
"I saw Voldemort with that red water," Harry said by way of explanation. "But I suppose that doesn't mean anything then. If he doesn't have the elixir, maybe he found another way? Could he be drinking unicorn blood still?"
"While Voldemort was perfectly content to leave the heavy consequences of drinking unicorn blood to his servant, I very much doubt that he would be willing to accept those consequences onto himself. No, he is using some other method, something I hope you can aid me in discovering," Dumbledore said. "I believe his appearance will give us some hints. I found it strange that Voldemort should not more resemble his younger self. Do you now understand why?"
Harry thought for a moment, then nodded. "If he grew himself a body from a baby, then it doesn't make sense that he would want it old or deformed."
"The only ready explanation that I have for why Voldemort chose to retain such features over those he was born with is that they are a fundamental part of his identity. At a minimum, he considers them strengths rather than infirmities," Dumbledore said after a moment of contemplation.
"Is he wrong, sir?" Harry asked. It was clear that the man had once been very handsome. For Voldemort to have given that up, he must have had a compelling reason.
"Voldemort has always been attracted to certain kinds of power, the sort to be found in pursuing the extraordinary to its extremes. Naturally, I disagree with his outlook. There is much to be gained in living life alongside others rather than apart from them," Dumbledore said.
"You mean, having friends, sir?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore nodded. "Precisely, Harry. The love we have for our friends and family is a power that transcends any other magic. This is something that Voldemort has never understood."
"I'm not sure I understand either, sir," Harry confessed. "Do you mean that having friends who can help you is better than just being magically powerful?"
"On the contrary Harry, I mean entirely literally that the most powerful magic there is is magic cast with love. That you are sitting here before me today is a testament to that claim," Dumbledore said.
"Because my mum died for me," Harry said, feeling a painful tightening in his chest. "But sir, there are people who would die for Voldemort. Even though he's an awful person, there are people who love him. Some of his followers."
What else could the source of Barty's fervent devotion be? Harry had seen it before only in Rosenkol's eyes when he looked at Petri—the purest joy in another's presence.
"You may very well be correct," said Professor Dumbledore with a grave mien, "and they are ever more formidable for it. Lord Voldemort himself, however, has always been dismissive of this type of magic, and I am confident that his means of survival lie elsewhere. For his methods to have warped him physically, not as an unwanted side-effect but intentionally, suggests that he has tampered extensively with his soul."
"Like a horcrux," Harry said, before he could think. The twinkle disappeared from Dumbledore's eye and the lines in his face deepened.
"I suppose Joachim has mentioned horcruxes to you?" he asked severely.
Harry nodded with haste, relieved to shunt the headmaster's disapproval onto Petri.
"There are some pieces of knowledge so vile and dangerous that I wish they could be lost forever, and knowledge of the horcrux is one of them." Dumbledore sighed. "Alas, it is our duty to arm ourselves with the same information as our opponents, and you would be correct to assume that Voldemort is more than capable of having created one. Even a horcrux, however, does not adequately explain the facts as they are. Do you see why?"
Harry was about to protest that he didn't actually know that much about horcruxes, only that they were basically a copy of a person, before the answer came to him: "He's the original Voldemort."
"Exactly," said Dumbledore. "I thought as much when you mentioned that he told you coming after you had been a mistake. And the ease with which he was able to leap from possessing you to Professor Quirrell suggests that he was not dependent on a cursed object, as a horcrux would have been. We can only conclude that Voldemort truly survived his failed attempt on your life—bodiless, weakened, but not dead. And whatever his means of survival was then, it may be the same mechanism he is using now to bind himself to his new body."
"But you don't know how he's doing it, sir?" Harry asked.
"I do not," Dumbledore confirmed, pressing his fingertips together. "But I believe the answer lies buried in his past. There is a period of ten years during which Voldemort's whereabouts are completely unaccounted for. At the end of it he resurfaced to apply for a teaching position at Hogwarts, which I refused him, and not long after he began to wreak systematic havoc on Great Britain. From then on there can be a reliable record of his movements. I do not think he would have shown himself so publicly, had he not believed his immortality to be secure. We must therefore uncover where he was and what he was doing during those quiet years."
At first, this sounded like an impossible task to Harry, but then he remembered that even he knew something of finding out information about somebody's whereabouts in the past. "Through divination, sir? Scrying?" he asked.
"That is indeed one possible avenue," Dumbledore agreed. "If you are interested, perhaps you could work with our divination professor, Professor Trelawney. With your fate and Voldemort's so closely entwined, you may be in a unique position to see clearly into his past. We can compare notes in a few weeks' time."
"What are you planning on doing, sir?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore smiled reassuringly. "When one gets as old as I am, one finds that one has acquaintances in every corner of the world, if one only cares to look."
Harry remembered, then, that Dumbledore was the leader of the International Confederation of Wizards.
"You think Voldemort was out of the country, then, sir?" Harry asked.
"Oh, most assuredly," said Dumbledore. "Since its establishment, the Ministry of Magic has always placed tight restrictions on research into altering souls. All meaningful progress on that subject in the past few centuries has been made abroad."
Harry frowned. "Why? Is it really that dangerous?" He could not help thinking guiltily to what he had done to Silviu without even meaning to. Yes, perhaps it was precisely that dangerous.
"It is extremely dangerous, certainly, but that is not the reason for its prohibition. There are a great number of dangerous magics that we can and do practise for the sake of intellectual advancement. The difference here is that the very act of experimentation on the soul is itself repugnant in the eyes of many," Professor Dumbledore explained.
Harry considered his words carefully. There had been a measure of ambiguity in that response. "Do you agree with that, sir?"
Dumbledore gave him a considering look before he spoke. "I believe that much good can come of understanding the soul, but nonetheless, yes, I agree that any experimentation involving direct alteration cannot be ethically undertaken."
"I see, sir," Harry said, staring down at the grain of the polished wooden desk. The bright reflection of the lamps was almost blinding, and he realised suddenly how dark it had got outside and how deathly silent the office seemed.
"I believe that is all for tonight. I have been remiss in keeping you so late," Dumbledore said after a moment. He removed a sheet of parchment from one of his desk drawers and wrote a short note, passing it to Harry, who took it numbly. It was a pass for being out past curfew. Had it really been that long already?
"Thank you, sir," Harry said, getting to his feet.
"I will let Professor Trelawney know to expect you in the coming weeks," Dumbledore said.
Harry nodded. "Where is her office, sir? Does she have office hours?"
"Professor Trelawney resides in the topmost chamber of the North Tower. You will find her there almost all hours of the day, and I am sure she will be pleased to see you whenever there are no Divination lessons in progress," Dumbledore told him.
Harry thanked him and took his leave, eyes lingering on the phoenix's slumbering form as he passed into the stairwell. There was an unsettling feeling in his chest, like someone had pinched his heart and was tugging it downwards. It persisted until the stone staircase settled onto the bottom of the tower with a rumble and spat him back out in front of the gargoyle.
Shivering in the drafty corridor, he made his way hurriedly back to Ravenclaw Tower, feeling distinctly exposed, as if he were doing something illicit. He clutched the note in his hand more tightly, glancing around every corner with nervousness, with the result that he nearly jumped out of his skin when a pearly-white ghost drifted into the next intersection at speed.
"Oh, pardon me, young man," said the ghost, stopping in place with unnatural abruptness. His head promptly flopped off his shoulders, exposing a flash of silvery gore. It was the Gryffindor house ghost, Nearly-Headless Nick.
"Sorry, sir," Harry said, not sure what was he was apologising for. "I've got a pass." He held up his slip of paper.
Nick popped his head back into place and stared at him in incomprehension. Harry reflected that perhaps the daily passage of time seemed much less relevant when one was a ghost.
"Never mind," he mumbled, making to go around.
"Wait!" said the ghost. "Are you coming from the headmaster's office?"
Harry nodded.
"Is he still there, then? I was hoping to catch him for a chat, but he's been awfully busy lately."
"He's probably still there," Harry said.
Nick drew himself up with sudden alertness. "Excellent. Thank you very much, young man. What is your name, by the way?"
"Harry."
"Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington, at your service," said Nick with a graceful bow that led his head to teeter precariously. "Now, I must make haste, but I am certain we shall meet again, young Harry."
Harry stared after his swiftly floating form for a moment in bemusement before he hurried on his way.
He found Lisa and Anthony playing exploding snap in the common room when he arrived. Lisa dropped all her cards immediately, blowing up the whole deck in the middle of the table, and sprang out of her seat to meet him.
"Well, what did Professor Dumbledore teach you?" she demanded. Behind her, Anthony gave the ruined game a long-suffering look and slowly shuffled over to join her.
Harry frowned, feeling suddenly awkward. What was he supposed to say? The matter of discovering Lord Voldemort's secrets was, well, rather private.
"It turned out to be something personal," he said truthfully. "Not advanced magic or anything. He… wanted to share some things about my parents. Since I've never met them."
This lie sounded lame once he voiced it, but Lisa's mouth formed an 'O' and she nodded.
"Right," she mumbled, smiling sympathetically, "I suppose that makes sense."
Harry glanced around, half expecting Terry to jump out and bemoan his missing Quidditch trials, but the boy was nowhere to be found.
"Where's Terry?" Harry asked.
Lisa promptly rolled her eyes. "Sulking in his bed."
Harry snorted. "Who's on the team then?"
"Jason—third year Jason, I mean, is beater, and Cho is seeker," Anthony reported.
Harry wasn't surprised at all by this outcome. Still, he went upstairs and dutifully listened to Terry's play by play of how he had failed to see the snitch anywhere, on account of it being too dark.
"Quidditch games aren't ever at night, so it's unrealistic," Terry complained, swinging his legs against his wooden bed frame. Harry smiled and nodded, not all there. He couldn't stop thinking about the things that Dumbledore had said about Lord Voldemort and about magic.
He understood well enough why it was wrong to mess with somebody else's soul. What he had done to Silviu—it hadn't hurt him, exactly, but the results had gnawed at Harry in a visceral way nonetheless. But what was wrong with changing one's own soul? It sounded like a bad idea, in the sense that there were many obvious ways to cause permanent damage, but that wasn't what Dumbledore had said. He had said that it was not ethical. Harry turned it around a few times in his head but could not make heads or tails of the reason why.
And then there was the matter of love and friendship. That had been frustratingly vague and a little 'wishy-washy,' as Neville's gran might put it. Still, Dumbledore was apparently one of the most powerful wizards ever, and Petri was definitely afraid of him. Harry couldn't just discount his claims about magic because he had a hard time understanding them.
Perhaps he could ask more about it next time. After all, if love really was powerful, beyond self-sacrifice, and something Lord Voldemort didn't know about, then it might be useful for him to study it, if only to gain some small advantage.
"And then I saw it by one of the goal posts—I swear I saw it first, but Cho just appeared out of nowhere and cut me off—are you listening to me?" Terry demanded.
Harry, who realised that his face was screwed up in concentration, relaxed his mouth and nodded. He held up his hands and mimed Terry's flight trajectory, slamming the fingers of his left hand into his right palm.
"We didn't crash," Terry protested, and Harry dutifully repeated the motion, swerving at the last moment.
"Classic trick," Harry said, grinning as he thought over the story. "I reckon she hadn't even seen the snitch, just noticed you changing direction and went to stall you."
Terry sighed deeply. "This is why I wanted you to try out. How was Dumbledore's private lesson?"
Harry repeated the same thing he had told Lisa. Rather than reacting dismissively as he had half expected, Terry gave him an awkward grimace.
"Oh. That's really thoughtful of him," he said. "Hey, our parents were probably around the same age, right? Maybe I can write my mum and see if she knew them at all."
A strange warmth pooled in Harry's chest. The dim, featureless forms of his parents, indescribable and yet crystal-clear as they had been in that golden mirror, swam into his mind's eye. "That would be really nice, thanks."
"No problem," said Terry. His mouth remained open, as if he wanted to continue, but finally he pivoted to slump into his mattress without saying anything else. Harry lay back on his own bed, closing his eyes.
If he learned to conjure spirits, he might really be able to brings his parents back. Not permanently, not with only what he could learn from Petri and from books, but even an ephemeral conjuration was something. He could see them, speak to them.
Still, a seed of worry crept into his heart. Would they approve of him? They had loved him—that he lived while they had died was incontrovertible evidence of it. But would they still love him as he was today?
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