36PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS
CHAPTER SEVEN: BRIGHT LIGHTS, CITY LIGHTS
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.
Thank you to wrackspurts_nargles for amazing work as a Beta Reader.
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—AvydReedr
Rain poured heavily onto the tarmac, forming small puddles where the cement was uneven. It sprinkled against the foggy windowpane, and Harry cursed. With his inside voice, of course. It wouldn't do for his mother to scourgify his mouth again...
He had always hated the rain, he guessed. Not because he minded getting wet, or because it was actually raining. He didn't mind those things at all, in all honesty. The pitter-patter of the water droplets was soothing, and there had been fun times spent in the drizzle, running around and pretending he was somewhere else - someone else. A pirate sailing west during a thunderstorm, perhaps. Or maybe a knight riding through the northern highlands off to save a princess.
Harry sighed and rubbed his thumb against the misty window, drawing a tree. More often than not, rain meant that everything was closed and that he wasn't allowed out of the house, lest he returns with muddy shoes. It was rather strange, now that he thought about it. Surely mud was taken care of by cleaning charms?
Harry rubbed the tree with the palm of his hand. It looked like it was on fire now. He looked around wistfully at the rest of the room. The problem was that rain days meant staying at home, and staying at home meant having to find something to do. After eight years of growing up in Tutshill, he had exhausted every possible alternative to entertainment to be found around the house. Most of the books he'd been given were already read, and the toys were no longer fun, especially with no one to share them with. No one was allowed over, and he couldn't go anywhere, either. His parents didn't really spend that much time with him, even if they were always there. They always had something to do: If it wasn't working, it was regarding his scar.
The rain always brought back solitude, he supposed. Maybe that was what he hated. And boredom of course. They went hand in hand.
"Harry! Have you showered yet?" came his mother's muffled call.
"No, Mum!" he called back, before lifting himself off the padded pillow he had laid against for the last few hours and heading off towards the bathroom. The rain always seemed to bear down on his mood. Maybe a shower would fix him up.
He stepped into the shower after disrobing and let the water run over his head and down his back. He felt the throb of the water and imagined that he was out in the street, sprinting down the sidewalk, laughing his head off while his mother and father chased him, both drenched and with large smiles on their faces.
After scrubbing himself spotless, he left the bathroom smelling of mint and walked towards the middle of his adjunct hotel room. There was a door near the corner that led towards his parents' dormitory, but that was closed. Harry ignored the dripping on the carpet and made his way towards the birch wardrobe before pausing.
"Mum! Mug or Wiz?" he called out. He wanted to make sure: it wouldn't do to go to a wizarding establishment dressed like a muggle. Or the other way around, he reasoned.
"Muggle, Harry. Muggle," came the reply.
Nodding to himself, he picked out a clean and simple muggle outfit. He knew he didn't have a knack for clothes but figured that watching the muggle kids in his old school had given him a better sense of dress than either of his parents could manage. He knew how to dress in wizarding clothes too, but that was harder to pull off here in Berlin - it wasn't the main magical hub in Germany, and there weren't many places where robes could pass as normal.
Looking back, they had been staying in Berlin for almost a week now, though Harry wasn't exactly sure why. It was probably because of the location: it was certainly easier to get around Germany, which would help with the search for information on Horcruxes.
Harry shivered involuntarily, though if it was because of the thought of another soul in his body or his damp hair, he couldn't tell.
The door to his right opened suddenly, and Harry looked up from the corner of the bed where he was sitting down with a raised eyebrow. It was his mother.
"Are you ready yet? If not, hurry up. We have to be out of here…" she cast a Tempus and frowned. "In ten minutes. Will, are you sure it's at seven?"
There was a muted "Yes, honey," from the other room, and Harry's eyes flicked towards his mother's neck. His face flinched, and a bitter feeling arose in his throat.
He looked at the necklace he had 'retrieved' from the Grimm's tomb. A sparkling green and black ornamented socket held a small, clear crystal, and it laced around the neck with a thin black chain. It wasn't overly large or extravagant in any way, but he had no doubt that it was very expensive.
His parents didn't seem to think so, though: they were under the impression that he had bought it in Diagon Alley. Harry didn't feel the need to mention otherwise. It was a gift, regardless.
Harry tugged on a shirt and frowned as his mother made to turn away, and his mind trailed to the day he had returned from the Black Forest - for the second time. In foolish hopes that it would somehow dissuade his mother from unleashing all parental hell on him for breaking a very strict rule of not wandering off without supervision, he had given her the necklace, together with smiles and hugs and several "I love you, Mum". His father had gotten a similar present, although it had been a silver ring with a canine (or was it lupine?) head on it.
He finished getting dressed and made his way through the door. Spotting his father sliding on the silver ring - and casually, at that! - he scowled and turned around towards the main door to wait.
He had returned from the forest quite dirty, and after a quick trip to his room to unload everything, he had found his parents and given them the necklace and the ring as presents. Not for any particular reason, though...
His parents - in a suspiciously Slytherin manner - had accepted the gifts with smiles and hugs, patting him on the back and telling him what a wonderful son he was. Then, they had told him to hurry and get changed for tea lest he missed it. Harry shook his head and laughed silently. What a fool he had been.
He had gotten comfortable and begun to feel quite safe about the entire ordeal: He had eaten a few scones, drunken an entire cup of tea, and cosied up next to the fireplace before his parents finally struck.
They took away his wand and the promise of lessons, and managed to look angry about it too! Something about being disappointed, but Harry was hardly listening at that point. He'd curled up in the chair in distaste. Whatever lesson his parents were trying to teach him about responsibility, he'd soon forgotten in exchange for another. 'Never gift for free. Always demand something in return.'
After that, Harry spent the entire next few days with an alarmingly good scowl on his face.
Now, he guarded all of his possessions with frightening intensity, never letting them out of his sight, or out of his pouch, for more than a couple of minutes at a time.
And if he had ever thought about showing his parents the dagger or the horn or anything else, he didn't dare to now. It would just lead to even more questions, and he would be in even deeper trouble than before.
At least his parents didn't know about the tomb. Or did they? Probably not, Harry reasoned. Only that he had gone into the forest. But he still didn't know how they did it. Probably a bloody tracking charm. Or maybe his robes had been dirty? He shrugged.
'At least they let me keep my pouch,' Harry thought ruefully, turning around as his father slipped into black shoes and grabbed his wand.
After much-continued fussing, the Portwoods then slipped out of the room and walked down the stairs, preferring the wooden flights instead of the muggle 'elvenator' or whatever it was.
They made their way past the front desk, and Harry nodded to the muggle woman sitting there, but she didn't return his greeting. Rude.
Walking out into the rain, his father made a discreet - and playful - offer to Alicia, raising his wand and gripping it with all his fingers.
"May I cast a 'Brella Charm, my lady?" he said in a strange voice, leaning in and kissing his wife's knuckles. Harry made a face at the display.
Alicia looked slightly pompous at the words, as though she might've denied the request just to spite him. Her smile wiped it away, though.
"You may."
Harry rolled his eyes at the odd exchange. His parents were being romantic again. Great. He stuck out his tongue to show them how he felt about it and walked in front of them, pointedly staying out of reach of William's Brella Charm, and getting soaked for his efforts.
They walked for a little while more, with Harry in the lead, although he would constantly turn around and look at his father for directions, who would then refer to his mother, who seemed to be in good cheer despite the weather and the constant badgering.
Soon, they turned a corner, and William had to pull Harry over.
"We're going to a Muggle restaurant today, remember? No talking of magic, understand?"
"Yes father," Harry answered with a sullen look towards what appeared to be a particularly large puddle. "I understand."
"Good. Now, head on inside. We'll be right behind you."
Knowing that his parents wanted to go 'kissing in the rain', Harry sauntered off towards the entrance and was about to grab the handle when his stomach churned. Apprehensive, he looked back at his mother for support, only to see her and William kissing passionately over by a lamppost.
Harry averted his eyes just as a madly gleeful thought sprang through his head.
He pinched his nose and called out in a nasal tone, trying his best to sound like an irritated old woman. In imitation of what he'd heard Randolph say when he'd caught the couple kissing, he called:
"Bleurgh. Get a closet, you two!"
Alicia had quickly separated from her husband and was now looking around alarmed while his father had a dejected look on his face. With an evil cackle, Harry ducked his head and darted into the restaurant, banging his shin on the steps while he was at it.
"OW! Bugger!"
"Harry! Language!"
Harry sat at the edge of his parents' bed, wistfully staring at the bedside lamp. It was the end of the day, and he was feeling rather tired after hopping all around Berlin after lunch. His father was in front of him, organizing his belongings with his head stuck in the wardrobe. His mother was in the shower.
Feeling optimistic, Harry piped up from his artificial light-soaking. "When can I start classes again, dad?"
William leaned back, his face coming into view. There was a stern look in his eyes, but it softened somewhat at the equally determined gaze Harry had levelled at him. This question had become almost nightly, and the young boy wasn't ready to back down.
Tonight, however, his father refrained from answering with a closed dismissal and a reminder that the decision to stop his lessons had been final. Tonight, he actually threw a question back at Harry, one that caught him rather off-guard.
"And why should we do that?" he pressed, raising an eyebrow. "You've proven that we can't trust you with a wand. So why should we continue with lessons?" He had now fully removed himself from the wardrobe and was looking expectantly at his son.
Harry bit his lip. He briefly considered explaining why he'd gone out to the forest but discarded that thought after the notion that he'd have to tell the truth about his findings in the tomb. He had a bad feeling about telling his parents that he'd found the grave of Jacob Grimm. He could almost feel his wand jolting in accord, even though he didn't have it on him right now. He had to settle for the alternative, then. A compromise.
"What if I only continue the theory lessons?" he asked, innocently. "And those without spellcasting? You know...Herbology, Creatures and Potions? I promise I won't touch my wand, either. Not until I'm ready to use it." At his father's considering look, his hopes soared.
After a moment of thought, William gave a long-suffering sigh. He rubbed his temple with his index finger and thumb, as though trying to prevent a migraine. It probably was a migraine, Harry reasoned. Though he couldn't imagine why. His father was very healthy. He hadn't eaten anything heavy for lunch, and he never had eye problems before. Although, he hadn't been sleeping much, lately.
He must have noticed Harry's concerned stare, as he waved him off with a stern look. "Harry, look at me."
Harry scrunched up his face. He had been looking.
"You do know why we cancelled the lessons, right?" William asked.
Harry gazed back at him, confused. "Because I wandered off and I wasn't supposed to?"
"No. Well, er - yes, but not only that. The Black Forest is dangerous. Why did you wander off when you weren't supposed to?
Harry blanched. His father would know if he lied. He'd managed to avoid the topic of the Grimm Tomb so far, and now he'd been caught. Bugger.
William didn't seem to notice the look on Harry's face, for he continued, unfettered. "You wandered off because you thought that you could handle whatever the forest threw at you - and that was because you'd been learning magic, and thus felt like your wand would save you. What would you have done if an Erkling showed up? Or a Werewolf? A Vampire?"
"It wasn't a full moo-"
"Doesn't matter. The point is that you thought just because you knew magic, that you'd be able to deal with anything that came that way. That is beyond foolish, Harry. I thought we raised you better than that. Merlin, Harry, we could've lost you. Your mother was worried sick. So was I, and Randolph."
Harry felt a pang of emotions. He felt terrible making his parents worry. He'd been trying to do exactly the opposite, and he'd failed spectacularly. On the other hand, a smidge of glee at not being found out sparked, but soon sputtered out by the guilt that hit him like a sledgehammer.
"I— I'm sorry, father. I didn't mean to worry you, and I thought—I thought I could handle it." Even if he felt terrible about it, he could settle for not saying everything. Even if he really wanted to.
Silence reigned absolute for a few minutes as William inspected his son's face, which appeared to be - and was - genuinely repentant. With another sigh, he pulled Harry into a hug.
"Promise me you won't go looking for trouble again." Harry scrunched his face up in distaste. "And apologise to your mother tomorrow. Merlin knows she was terrified when we couldn't find you."
Harry felt another metaphorical punch to the gut and he flinched, before nodding.
"Good, now, off to bed."
Harry made to pul away and was almost out the door when he was interrupted by his father's voice.
"Oh, Harry? If you can show me you're ready for it, I might take you up on your offer. After talking to your mother, of course. Even then, no promises. Show me you can be responsible, Harry."
Harry's mind, young that it is, disregarded completely that the offer might not work out, and clung to the hope that it might desperately as he walked back towards his room with an elated look - and wide grin - on his face. A quick look through the window confirmed that it was still raining, but the thought put no damper on his mood. He'd - maybe - be learning magic again!
He gave a large whoop and pumped the air with his fist, feeling very much like a pirate captain finding treasure or a shining knight rescuing a maiden might. He changed and slid into his bed, feeling very content with himself as the giddy feeling of warmth spread throughout his body.
With a sigh, he cocooned himself in his blankets and fell asleep to the lulling pitter-patter of the rain.
Harry stood in front of the stone bust with a confused expression. The museum's pamphlet had said that there was to be an exposition on The History of Dark Magic, but the plaque in front of him threw him off.
"Mum, what's a Dark Lady? Is she like the wife of a Dark Lord?"
"I should hope not!" his mother harrumphed, looking strangely disgruntled, as though someone had just offended her. Harry couldn't imagine why, but she answered regardless.
"While that does make sense in theory, a Dark Lord is usually not a Noble Lord, and therefore the subsequent terms of lordship do not apply to them," she amended, giving her son a pointed look which convinced him to pay better attention.
"They are granted the social title of Lord due to certain circumstances, which in the case of Dark Lords, are more often than not viewed as horrible by the wizarding world. In general, you could say a wizard is named a Dark Lord for having made significant advancements in that particular area of magic or pushing a certain political agenda that favours practitioners of Dark Magic."
She paused, running her hands through his hair. "While some wizards like Emeric the Evil have pushed the boundaries of morals and magic both, others like Grindelwald and You-Know-Who gained their titles through a combination of terror, politics, and the danger they pose to functioning society. Not to say that either is less of a Dark Lord - both have made their mark on wizarding history, for better or for worse."
Harry made a face at the last statement. "How can a Dark Lord make something better?" It didn't seem reasonable at all in his mind, and the thought was justified, considering the past two decades Britain had been through.
His mother hummed in thought. "I think there is one case that comes in mind. The Dark Lord Humball was responsible for hundreds of horrific abductions and was accused of torturing his victims - which turned out to be true. Upon death, however, the Ministry of Greater Iberia found that he had been using the bodies for research - and subsequently had developed a cure for some obscure magical disease transmitted by tapeworms in the Nile River. The cure was then mass-produced, and it has become a household potion in the regions close to the Nile River. It saves over a hundred lives each year."
Harry frowned in thought. "So, Dark Magic isn't evil?"
His mother seemed to consider this for a while. "No, I wouldn't say so. Dark Magic is an umbrella term, and it defines different types of magic in different situations. The most common one, though, is the notion that Dark Magic is focused on inflicting pain on another, or requires pain to be successful. Other attempts at specifying it states that Dark Magic requires a higher toll than Light Magic to be used - whether it be an external sacrifice or damage to your own being. I find that one to be the most eloquent way of viewing things, but you will find others who disagree. Take this example - if I were to use Wingardium Leviosa to raise you high in the air, and then drop you - what is the difference between that and a Dark Spell like the Killing Curse?"
Harry didn't have an answer to that.
"There are differences, of course. But you don't see the Levitation Charm being hailed as Dark, do you? That's because it wasn't designed with that intention in mind. The Killing Curse was - this thinking follows the 'common' notion that Dark Magic seeks to cause harm. It is also reflected in the other theory - the Killing Curse is said to cause heavy damage to the caster's soul when successful, while the Levitation Charm does not. Another difference between Light and Dark Magic."
Harry tried to write down everything she had pointed out, but it was slowly becoming too much for the eight-year-old, so he had to take a few minutes before he continued down his pre-written list of questions.
"Is there anything worse than Dark Magic, Mum?"
She stopped running her hand through his head. "And why would you want to know that, young man?" She looked down at him over her nose, her eyes alight in mock anger, while her smile became much more foreboding.
Harry stammered, and she let go of her stern look, laughing lightly instead, much to his chagrin.
"It's called Black Magic, Harry, both words capitalized," she noted, looking down at his notes. "Very few spells or rituals fall under that category though, and the only reason no-one publicly advocates for its use is because that kind of magic is the vilest and disgusting thing wizardkind has ever come up with. It has no possible good uses, and unlike Dark Magic - it is completely selfish." Alicia paused to point out a spelling mistake in his writing before continuing, confident in her teachings. "You wouldn't be far from the truth in saying that Black Magic is evil."
She then gave a long, hard look towards her son. "However, it doesn't matter what I or anyone else thinks. The important thing is that you have to live and learn through your own experiences, Harry. Only then can you truly think for yourself…"
Harry squirmed, but she continued with her lesson, unfettered. "Magic can be as hard as stone, and as fluid as water. In a raging current, it's impossible to see one, and you can't touch the other without the risk of falling through."
"Is that a quote, Mum?"
"Indeed." Alicia gazed off into the distance, and seemingly grew older by the minute. "Come now, Harry - we have much more of the museum to see - this does count as lesson time, you know. Don't get sidetracked. Now, look here," she said, pointing at a portrait in front of them.
"This was the Dark Lady Viutrianna. She was notorious for her unethical experiments. She wasn't so much a proper Dark Lady as a huge international outlaw and thief that dabbled in unethical breeding - until one of her 'experiments' got loose and claimed over a thousand lives. After that, she was quickly named a Dark Lady by four different countries - Germany, Britain, Greater Iberia and Italy. She was on the run after that. Eventually, they caught her holed up in some corner down in Lecco..."
"I thought wands were the only things wizards used," Harry commented as they passed by the corridor on magical foci.
"Not at all," his mother said with an unreadable expression. "Would you like to take a look, Harry?" She pointed down the corridor.
"I suppose we can...right?"
Alicia hummed her approval; they set off down the short corridor towards the exhibit at the back before stopping in front of a bronze plaque.
"What do you know about magical foci, Harry?"
Harry hesitated. What did he know? He hadn't read much at all on the topic - it rarely showed up in his books, and only briefly during A History of Magic or Magical Theory. He did know a couple of general points, though.
"They've been around for over one thousand years, and wands are the most widespread foci in the modern age?"
"Correct on both accounts."
There was a pause before Harry asked his first question, as he was leaning over a glass casing and a variety of stones in them.
"Why do modern wizards only use wands, Mum?"
Alicia sighed, setting her purse down on a nearby bench and sitting down slowly. She gave a long, approving look at her son, seemingly happy at the questions he was asking. Harry was still looking over the exhibit, clueless to the approval.
"Why do you think that?" Alicia asked
Harry turned around, brow furrowed. "Why do I think what?"
"Why do you think modern wizards only use wands?"
"Well, my books said that wands were the most widespread foci in the modern age, so I assumed…" Harry frowned as the words left his mouth. "Oh, I see."
Alicia smiled slightly. "Ask another question, then."
"What kind of foci exist, Mum?"
"Oh, I suppose there are many, and undoubtedly I do not know all of them. Some, you will find, are relatively common, and others are either strictly regulated or fell into disuse."
"Could you give me some examples?"
Alicia patted the bench next to her. Harry walked over and sat down, leaning into his mother and closing his eyes as she ran her hand through his hair.
"There is the wand, which is the most widely-known and well-used focus in modern time, if not history. There are staves and sceptres. Rings can be used as well, I suppose. Any kind of jewellery, for that matter. Some swords double as magical foci, too. I'm sure there are countless others that I'm forgetting."
"What's the difference between a stave and a sceptre?"
"I think it's the way they hold their cores, but I'm not sure. I assume that the staff - or stave - is somewhat like a wand in terms of its construction - a certain type of wood and then a core inside of it, hidden and infused. Sceptres, from what I know, display the core openly, and more often than not it is a stone or jewel. I think they gather magic differently, too," Alicia smiled and dropped her hand to Harry's side. He pouted petulantly but leaned in closer, content to be spending time with his mother.
"You said they gather magic differently. What does that mean?"
"Oh, dear. I don't know the answer to that. Only the makers might. But we do know that they do." She paused for a minute. "Or rather, we don't know how they do, but we know the different ways they do."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I'm sure it doesn't. From what I know, wands are more apt to the conservation of magic, and it is why they are more widely used than other foci. It is why they have been the most widely-used foci in centuries. Others, such as the staff or the ring, don't function exactly as the wand does, and either require much more magic to properly use or aren't as subtle as a wand. It's the reason only the most powerful - or mad - wizards and witches carry anything other than a wand."
"Oh, I see." Harry didn't see it. "But why wands?"
"You'll have to ask the wandmakers, Harry. And I doubt they'll give you a straight answer - the secrets of wandlore are exactly that - secrets. Guarded fiercely by those who know them, and regulated heavily by the governments they work under. And not only wands, either. The creation of magical foci is something that the ICW takes very seriously."
"If I wanted to, could I make a focus of my own?" He said, leaning forward in excitement.
A smile tugged at the corner of Alicia's lips. "I have no doubt that you could, dear. Now, would you be allowed to use it? That is a grey area at best, in the law. Selling it? Very unlikely, unless you want to go through the countless legal hoops to do so." She seemed to consider something for a moment, tilting her head as if listening to a voice. "Although, it differs slightly from country to country, and then only between the ICW-aligned. Those outside the ICW enforce their own regulations."
"Oh," Harry said, looking crestfallen. "Bugger."
"Language, Harry," Alicia said softly.
"Sorry."
Alicia resumed running her hand through his hair while idly scratching him behind his ear, and continued her lecture unprompted. After a while, Harry continued asking questions, endless that they were.
"How do you know you're powerful enough to use a staff?" Harry said, looking up at his mother with a grin.
"You can cast a Levitation Charm without passing out," she answered in a deadpan tone. Harry's grin faltered.
"Mum, I'm being serious."
"Mmm. And what makes you think I'm not?"
He didn't know how to answer that, so Alicia spared him the trouble and answered it again, this time with more specifics.
"Well, there are a couple of ways to let you know if you're able to use a staff, but none of them has anything to do with power. Instead, it's all about control. You see, when casting a spell with a wand, it conserves your magic for you, and allows for a more or less consistent amount of magic to be pushed through at all time. The staff amplifies your magic instead of controlling it. This means that the wizard has to do all of the controlling, instead. There are ways to determine your magical ability, which does factor in control, but also many other things."
"One example is the Niel-Parker Test. It's independent, but people have been using it for years, and it's reliable. I've taken it twice - the other was the mandatory BMAT as soon as I hit my age of majority. It's around three days of testing, and they factor in hundreds of aspects of your magic."
Harry was intrigued, to say the least. He let it show. "What score did you get? What kinds of tests are they? Do you know everyone else's scores?"
Alicia smiled. "1310 on the Niel-Parker, and EE-9 on the BMAT. This was ages ago - around the time I left Hogwarts, maybe a year later for the second Niel-Parker. Although, I'd like to think I'd get better scores if I re-did the tests now."
"I'm under oath not to tell you what kind of tests they gave us specifically, but I can say a few things. They test you for wandless magic," Harry's eyes went wide. "They test your magic under Dementor influence, your casting speed, and there are a couple of written exams, too - those were probably some of the harder parts for me, I think. It's hard to remember after ten years."
"Oh, and no, Harry. I don't know everyone's scores. I do know your father got 1290 on the Niel-Parker, but an O-2 on the BMAT. Honestly, I think the BMAT's a load of rubbish because it's almost purely knowledge-based, much like the Ministry's OWL and NEWT exams. He could've studied for hours before taking it, which should be counted as cheating," she huffed.
"Oh, and I suppose that there's the rumour going around that Albus Dumbledore - yes, that Albus Dumbledore, has a score of over ten thousand on the Niel-Parker."
Harry's grin grew at the thought.
Miles away, one ancient white-bearded Headmaster sneezed extraordinarily loudly and succeeded in dropping the Sherbert Lemon he had been contemplating peacefully.
"Oh, dear. That was my last one, too. I'll have to order more now, I'm afraid," Dumbledore said - almost mournfully - staring at the yellow treat on his floor with undisguised sadness.
"I best be off then," he sighed, leaning over his desk to write a notice to Professor McGonagall informing her that he would be away for important business.
Harry leaned against the window of his hotel room, leafing through the pages of Dragonology: A Complete Guide by Dimitri Racô with unfiltered interest. His parents had left him at home, with a note saying that they'd be out for the entire day and that there was frozen dinner in the minifridge, with instructions to heat it up inside the micro box when he was hungry.
He grabbed his third slice of cheese flat-pie and carefully managed to take a bite without letting the oil spill onto the pages of his book. He didn't know if the volume was bewitched properly, so he was hesitant to touch it with his greasy fingers. He had placed it in between his legs and was currently flipping through it with his grease-free right hand.
They'd been in Berlin for almost two weeks now, and his parents had begun to pick up the search for information on Horcruxes with the same enthusiasm again. During the hours that they were out, Harry would usually spend the time waiting by the window, where he could either curl up with a book in hand or watch the people below scuttle about their day.
His mother and father had, on their 'free days', taken to exploring the city, and he tagged along most of the time. Museums, both Magical and Muggle, were a must for his mother, although his father wanted to visit all the best food spots instead. Harry wasn't partial to either one and so the Portwoods alternated destinations when on outings.
Harry sighed and went over the minute print that layered the book he was reading. It was a paragraph on draconic terminology - apparently, what most ignorant wizards referred to as a dragon had several different subspecies, and all had their own names and identifying attribute.
"There are three main subspecies in the Draconic Family, and all others are either found through breeding or years and years of evolution. These are the Dragon, recognisable by its four powerful legs, heavy and large scales, and two additional wings. The dragon has a relatively short body and carries relation to the Fae. The Wyrm carries none of the above features; it has no limbs, no wings, and its scales, while still hard and spell-resistant, are smaller. The Wyrm is proven to be related to the Sea Serpent and the legendary Quetzalcoatl, which was declared extinct in 1934. It is suspected, but unknown that the Wyrm carries some familiarity towards the True Basilisk, though this also applies to all members of the Draconic Family. Lastly, we have the Drake - usually smaller than the Dragon, it does have four sturdy legs, but no wings. Usually, of a lighter colouration, it also lacks the ability to breathe fire, though some species are renown for their poison. They carry ties to the famed Hydra, native to Greece, and the Kirin; which was long thought extinct until 1953 when Marcus Goldberg stumbled upon a stray herd. They have since been under watchful care, and are returning to previous numbers. Many other examples of the Draconic Family include the Wyvern (and thus the Cockatrice), the Lindwurm (and its cousin the Salamander), the Lung-dragon and the rare hybrid the Amphithere - which the breeding of was outlawed in 1840 by Britain, Germany, Albania and France in a bid against the then Dark Lord Sansa."
Harry closed the book with a snap and took a deep breath of exasperation. Why did everything good become ruined by Dark Lords? Why were people so ban-happy? With a sigh, he put the book down and shovelled the rest of the flat-pie into his mouth, keeping one eye on the street below in case he spotted his parents.
To his dismay, nothing particularly interesting happened. There was the odd couple entering the Italian restaurant, and a motorcycle zoomed past the street unhinged, probably breaking whatever speed limit had been set on the narrow street. The only odd thing consisted of a middle-aged blond couple walking hastily out of the old and decrepit Number Two with a scowling child in tow. They were all wearing very expensive robes, Harry realised - most likely wizarding purebloods - and carrying something covered by a dark cloth. They walked with their noses turned up somewhat, before slowing down to a strut as they took a left. Harry didn't see them after that, though he wondered what wizards were doing here, of all places. It was decidedly muggle.
Their point of departure had also been very strange. Number Two, according to the nice hotel lady downstairs, had been abandoned for years.
Harry carefully set down Dragonology: A Complete Guide, and instead picked up, a new copy of Most Macabre Monsters, but something seemed off about the couple and the old house.
'It's probably nothing,' he assured himself, trying to focus instead on the depictions between the Greek Six-Legged Salamanca Basilisco and the European Serpentine Basilisco Hibrido. Both hailed from the now-extinct Rey Basilisco, apparently. They shared ancestry with the cockatrice, though Harry wasn't sure how that worked since they apparently hatched from a chicken's egg under a toad, he was eager to find out.
Harry peered through the dirty window into the small corner store. He rubbed his sleeve on the windowpane in an attempt to clean it, but nothing came of it, and so he had to crane his neck to get a clear view of the dimly lit shop inside.
"Is this it?" he asked his father.
"Yes," William said, and strode into the shop, opening the door as a small bell-chime rang through the air. Above the door on a weary sign lay the words Apherd's Pawn Shop for the Curious displayed in a spindly silver lettering. Harry made to follow his mother, and together they entered the dinghy store. His father pointed towards a small chair next to a bookshelf towards the right, and Harry made his way over to sit down and stay out of sight.
His parents had warned him beforehand to not touch anything lest he breaks it, but he reasoned that he could be careful enough with books, so he sat down on the rickety chair and pulled a slim book out of the shelf. It was certainly bewitched with the Thief's Curse, so Harry made sure not to read too far in, changing the book in question every so often for a new one, never getting more than a dozen pages in. He learnt of some rather questionable things, but nothing too Dark. Those books were probably kept under lock-and-key, with them being illegal and everything.
After flipping through several books, he had laid his hand on a slim mauve novel called The Fair Maiden's Retreat and was about to start reading when he was interrupted by a sweet, sing-song voice.
"Hello there, sir. Would you be interested in buying some sweets?"
Harry looked up from what was slowly becoming a raunchy witches' novel and stared into the face of a young pale woman. His breath hitched, and the book loosened in his grasp, falling onto the floor softly.
The woman laughed lightly, her eyes twinkling with radiant beauty. She leaned in close, her soft black hair falling loosely around her shoulder. She brushed it aside with a finger and knelt down, coming eye level with him. Harry could smell her breath. It was unnaturally minty.
"Sir?" She repeated, looking concerned. "Would you like to buy some sweets?" She reached out to touch his arm and he jolted, becoming aware of his surroundings, though his eyes never left her. She was carrying a basket of candy in her hand, a wonderful collection of colours and shimmering packaging displaying the enticing sugary delight inside. Harry barely acknowledged those, however. His eyes were completely on her, and the blood-red gobstopper that she was holding out for him to take.
He reached out for it and she placed it in her hand. "I do hope you enjoy it," she said. "I made it myself." Her blood-red lips curved lightly into a smile, and her dark eyes twinkled once more. Harry took a deep breath in and nodded, entranced.
She was beautiful, he mused. Cold, and a little bit scary, but beautiful.
She laughed lightly again, as though she had read his thoughts. Maybe she had. Maybe he had just said it out loud. It didn't matter.
"Eat it," she prompted, pointing towards the sweet in his hand. He looked down at it, reluctantly tearing his gaze from her heart-shaped face. It was already unwrapped. He looked back up towards her and she pouted, her eyes watering as though she was about to cry.
Her voice was wavering now. "Do you not like it? Oh, well, I guess I should've expected it - no one ever likes my sweets." Harry silently doubted that very much. How could anyone not love her? Or her sweets? He blinked. Even his thoughts were jumbled now. Why was she crying?
He croaked out a response and she laughed once more, smiling brilliantly at him, all semblance of sadness wiped away. His heart fluttered and he reached down to pop the gobstopper in his mouth.
His hand stopped mid-way towards his mouth. It was his father, and he had grabbed his arm. Why was he back? He looked around and saw that the pale lady was gone. Why did she leave? He looked up at his father once more.
William had the gobstopper in his hand and he looked it over before sliding it into his pocket. He heard voices arguing somewhere behind an aisle but they were muffled, and he blinked in an attempt to clear his head. What had happened? Where was the pale lady? Confused, he took his father's offered hand and stumbled out of the shop, his mind a muddled mess.
After returning to the hotel room, William sought out his old potion equipment and materials, taking out his copy of Identification Proliferation Volume IV: Potions and Draughts. Leafing through the copy for the correct recipe, he set down to making it, beginning with the ground daisy seeds.
After settling the cauldron above the Collapsable Campfire, he regulated the intensity of the flame for the Identification Potion with a couple of well-placed spells and set out to prepare the rest of the potion. He opened the window behind him to allow the fumes to air out but regulated the room temperature with another wave of his wand.
It was a quick half-hour later when William finished, pouring the potion into many thick vials. In one of these, he dropped the gobstopper, and set it down in front of him after shaking for a full minute. He let it sit for another three and then flipped the recipe page to take a look at the continuation, where the colour chart was printed.
After comparing both, he realised, with a scowl, that the blood-red sweet had been indeed harmful. The Identification Potion was a general analyser - it couldn't tell you what specific potion was used, and there were some obscure or specific effects that it didn't even catch at all, but it did show a general indication of the intension of the potion used. And the light green-purple in the vial showed that it had been laced with a compulsion of some sorts. Probably to make the drinker extra susceptible to suggestions, or something of the sort. He shook his head at his son's absolutely terrible luck and made his way into the adjunct room. He gave a long look at Harry, who was currently wrapped up in blankets, and Alicia, who was sleeping together with his son for the night.
William kissed both on the forehead and walked back towards his room where he began cleaning up his station before collapsing onto the single armchair in frustration. He ran his hands through his hair and swore, burying his trembling finger in between his long hair in an attempt to ease himself, but the thoughts plagued him nonetheless. What if he hadn't been there to stop her? Harry would have been taken, and there would have been nothing he could've done to protect him. He cursed his own incompetence and got up from the armchair, pacing slowly before stopping.
He then sat at the edge of his bed and closed his eyes, his hand gravitating towards his hidden pendant, a gift from his late grandmother. He began muttering words of comfort under his breath.
"Vancanna dameforsa. Parmi fil e esposé, te pido - dameforsa par protegolos, e finita el cur ponido enmi fil, e dameforse para-poder crea el regalo de-los Otros, el regalo de-la Magia. Est te lo pido."
Sighing, he changed and promptly fell asleep, wondering about what the future would hold.
Harry leaned over the tip of the cauldron and took a cautionary sniff before leaping back and holding his hands to his face as his nostrils and eyes erupted in flames.
He swore violently and blinked the tears out. Who knew that the Sleeping Draught had such terrible mid-brew fumes? Harry paused. His father did. He looked up towards his potions mentor and scowled; something that was becoming increasingly common these days. William was laughing his head off from his seat.
"It's not funny," Harry cried. "My nose hurts! My eyes too, damn it!"
"Language, Harry," came the muffled call from the other side of the door. His mother had opted out of teaching Potions and was waiting in the other room for the lesson to finish. Something about the fumes being bad for her hair.
"Come now, Harry. You know you're never supposed to put your face over a cauldron. It's a safety risk." William proceeded to go into 'lecture' mode; this time about proper safety procedures when brewing.
Harry huffed. "But the base is lavender - it shouldn't smell bad! It's a ruddy Sleeping Draught!" he whined.
"Yes, but you forget that after the Standard Ingredient, you added two blobs of Flobberworm Mucus, which nullifies the scent of the lavender, even if it doesn't counteract it completely. Valerian Springs is one of the final steps - only after that does it actually begin to smell fine again."
"I hate potions," Harry grumbled, moving around the cauldron and keeping a good distance from the fumes rising from the brew.
"Doesn't matter, it's a core subject. You'll find that you just need practice. Now, come, gently heat it for half a minute."
Harry glared at the cauldron but heated the brew regardless. By now the pain had subsided, and he managed to concentrate on his potion, which turned out relatively okay for the fourth attempt.
After finishing with the mixture, he collected it inside a vial and passed it towards his father, who was sitting on a conjured chair inspecting his every move.
Nodding towards the colour of the finished product, he passed it back to Harry.
"Drink up."
"But what if it's not good?"
"You won't die, so stop whining. At most, we'll have to scourgify your tongue to get the taste out. Now drink up."
Harry downed the dark purple potion and shuddered. It tasted awful, but he did feel a certain numbness spreading through his limbs, and he relaxed.
"Mmmm. It feels nice, but I don't think it worked." He frowned. "I'm not sleepy at all."
William laughed and told him to clean up after himself, while he rose to help with the same.
Harry lay in bed that evening thinking of the potions lesson he had just had. He was pretty sure that it was an 'in-the-moment' decision: neither his father nor his mother had any qualifying experience with potions, even if his father had earned an Exceeds Expectations for his Potions N.E.W.T.
He shuffled to the side of his bed and his mind wandered to the day before, and the woman in the shop. His father had explained to him before the lesson what had happened; apparently the woman had wanted to give him a laced sweet and then take him away. It seemed odd to him, considering she was very nice and very pretty - not at all like the villains in The Greedy Goblin or the Hunched Snatcher, who were ugly and mean and who mother said took misbehaving children. He hadn't misbehaved, right? He hoped not.
Opening the only drawer in his bedside table, he removed his mokeskin pouch and sat up, adjusting his pillow. He opened it slightly and took a peek inside: everything was still there.
Feeling content at his sound luck at finding treasure, he curled up with the pouch in hand and quickly drifted off to sleep, dreaming of finding more rare artefacts and ancient books, even if they weren't from the Grimm tomb. It felt good to have things that were his own, he decided. It showed that he was independent. And if they were magical, that was a bonus.
After all, they had been gifts. He was sure of it.
Gifts.
Gifts from Mr Grimm.
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