Chapter 24
A Promise Given
Chapter Twenty-Four
……
The Gryffindor team was in high spirits, their voices bouncing off the stone walls of the castle as they marched back to the tower, basking in their victory. Ron was leading the charge, dramatically recounting one of his saves with exaggerated arm movements, while Ginny and Demelza giggled at his antics. The twins, taking full advantage of their status as no-longer-students, had already veered off toward Hogsmeade for celebratory drinks. Even Katie, who had been quieter since returning to the team, was laughing along with Jimmy Peakes as he mimed his Bludger swing that had nearly unseated a Slytherin Chaser.
Harry trailed behind the group, his Firebolt slung casually over his shoulder. The exhilaration of the win was still buzzing through him, though it was accompanied by a creeping soreness that was settling into his arms and legs. He smiled faintly as he listened to the team’s chatter, letting their energy carry him forward.
He was so caught up in the moment that he barely noticed the hand that shot out from a shadowed alcove. Before he could react, it grabbed his sleeve and yanked him sideways.
“What the—” he began, stumbling as he was pulled out of the corridor and into the narrow, dimly lit space.
“Shh!” hissed Daphne, her eyes sharp as she glanced past him to ensure no one had noticed.
Harry blinked, his brain catching up with the sudden shift. “Daphne? What—”
“What am I doing?” she interrupted, her voice low but cutting. “What were you doing, Potter? Trying to get yourself killed out there?”
Harry stared at her, completely thrown. “What are you talking about?”
“The Bludger!” she snapped, her tone as icy as her expression. “You were one second away from having your head taken off! Do you have a death wish, or are you just that reckless?”
Before he could respond, her hand shot out and delivered a sharp slap to his arm.
“Oi!” he yelped, rubbing the spot, though it didn’t actually hurt. “What was that for?”
“For being an idiot,” Daphne said, folding her arms and glaring at him. “Now that I’ve got your attention—what were you thinking?”
Harry scowled, trying to shake off both his surprise and the slight sting of embarrassment. “I was thinking about catching the Snitch,” he said defensively. “You know, my job?”
“You were sloppy,” she retorted, her voice cutting through his protest. “You’re not sloppy on a broom, Harry. I’ve seen you play for five years—you’re better than that. And yet you still didn’t think Slytherin might pull something even after the whistle blew?”
Harry gave her a lopsided grin, trying to diffuse the tension. “It’s Quidditch, Daphne. Close calls are just part of the game. And… have you been secretly admiring me all this time?”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Close calls? Your pretty little face nearly got smashed like a watermelon!” she shot back. “Do you even think about the fact that people care about you? Or are you so used to throwing yourself into danger that you don’t care anymore?”
Her words hit like a Bludger to the gut. Harry blinked, his grin fading as the weight of her statement settled in. “I’m fine,” he said quietly after a moment. “It’s not like that Bludger was going to kill me.”
“You don’t know that,” Daphne said, her tone softer now but no less firm. “And even if it wouldn’t, it could’ve knocked you unconscious. For Merlin’s sake, Harry, can you stop treating yourself like you’re expendable?”
Her words lingered in the space between them, heavy and uncomfortably close to truths Harry didn’t want to think about. He let out a small sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll be more careful next time,” he said, his tone somewhere between sincere and placating.
“You’d better,” she said, though her lips quirked into a reluctant smile. “You Gryffindors think you’re invincible, but you’re not. Remember that.”
“I’ll add it to my list,” Harry replied dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching back into a grin.
Daphne rolled her eyes, but the frustration in her posture seemed to ease. She stepped back, her expression softening as she regarded him. “Go enjoy your party, Potter. Try not to break anything—or yourself.”
“Noted,” he said with a chuckle. As he moved to step around her, he caught a flicker of conflict in her eyes. He hesitated, ignoring a fleeting instinct to kiss her for the concern she’d shown, but before he could fully process the thought, she grabbed his wrist again.
Harry stopped, glancing down at her hand, and then back up at her face. Something seemed to shift in her expression, a quiet resolve settling over her features. Without warning, she leaned in and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek.
The contact sent a jolt through Harry, leaving his thoughts scrambling to catch up. She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush.
“See to it that it is,” she murmured, her voice low but steady.
Harry opened his mouth to respond—what, he wasn’t sure—but the words didn’t come. Instead, he found himself standing frozen as she stepped back into the shadows of the alcove. For a moment, he considered following her, but the distant sound of the Gryffindor team’s celebration reminded him of where he was. Typical.
With a shake of his head and a faint, bemused smile, Harry turned and jogged to catch up with his teammates, the sting of her slap long gone but the memory of her kiss lingering stubbornly.
“Oh and you were far too nice to Malfoy, next time just leave him on the ground” she smirked as she walked off.
…
The Room of Requirement shifted and reformed, molding itself into the perfect training ground. Its stone walls stretched high, adorned with sconces glowing with flickering blue flames. The air crackled with latent energy, charged and expectant. At the center of the room stood Harry, his wand gripped tightly in his hand, his jaw set in determination. Opposite him, Amelia’s portrait hung from a tall, ornate frame, her expression sharp but encouraging.
“Alright, Harry,” Amelia’s voice rang out. “We’re going to revisit Arcanis Fulmen. The arcing spell requires precision—more than raw power like you tried lastime. Imagine the energy as an extension of your wand, not just something you’re firing off.”
Harry nodded, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. The spell was complex—meant to conjure and guide a bolt of magical lightning that could seek multiple targets in succession. He’d managed to summon it twice now, but controlling it? That was another story entirely.
Taking a deep breath, he raised his wand and began tracing a deliberate arc in the air. The movement left behind a faint shimmer, as though his wand was cutting through the fabric of reality itself. He focused on the three conjured dummies arranged in a semi-circle before him, each glowing faintly as targets. The magical current began to hum in response to his will, a spark forming at the wand’s tip.
“Good, good,” Amelia encouraged, leaning forward in her frame. “Now, don’t rush it—guide the current. Let it flow naturally.”
With a flick of his wrist, Harry released the spell. A jagged bolt of white lightning leaped from his wand, arcing toward the first dummy. It struck true, sending the wooden figure shuddering before bouncing toward the second. But before it could reach the third, the bolt fizzled out, leaving behind a faint puff of smoke.
Harry groaned, his shoulders slumping. “Why does it keep dying before the last one?”
“Because you’re trying to force it still,” Amelia said with a small smile. “You’re thinking of the dummies as separate targets instead of letting the spell link them naturally. Ancient magic thrives on intent, Harry. Focus not on each target individually, but on the connection between them.”
He nodded, determination flickering in his green eyes. “Alright. Again.”
Raising his wand, he tried to clear his mind, focusing instead on the rhythm Amelia had described. The dummies weren’t obstacles; they were part of the same flow, the same current. He began to trace the arc again, slower this time, and released the spell with a steady exhale. The bolt shot forward, brighter and more controlled than before, striking the first dummy, then the second, and finally snapping into the third with a sharp crack that echoed through the room.
“Yes!” Harry exclaimed, grinning as the last dummy collapsed into a smoldering heap.
“Well done!” Amelia applauded, clapping her painted hands together. “Now, let’s see if you can replicate it.”
The next few attempts were a mixture of success and failure. Some spells fizzled out mid-arc, others struck too wildly, scorching the stone walls or missing the dummies altogether. Harry even managed to knock over one of the sconces, sending a cascade of blue flames tumbling onto the floor. The Room of Requirement, ever-adaptable, extinguished the fire almost immediately, leaving Harry muttering an apology under his breath.
By the tenth attempt, his arm ached and his hand felt heavy with the weight of the wand. Sweat plastered his fringe to his forehead, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. He collapsed onto a conjured bench, glaring at the dummies as though they’d personally wronged him.
“I don’t know if I can do it again,” he admitted, shaking his head. “It’s like the magic just… slips away.”
“That’s because you’re overthinking it,” Amelia said gently. “Take a moment. Rest. Ancient magic isn’t about brute force, Harry. It’s about balance. Your frustration is clouding your focus.”
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to suppress the irritation bubbling inside him. Resting wouldn’t defeat Voldemort. Resting wouldn’t save Daphne or anyone else he cared about. But even he couldn’t deny that pushing himself too far now might do more harm than good.
Amelia’s voice softened as she watched him wrestle with his thoughts. “You’re making excellent progress, Harry. Truly. You’ve already achieved more than many would in your position.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, but her words steadied him, nonetheless.
After a few minutes, he rose again, his determination renewed. “Alright,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Let’s go again.”
Amelia smiled, a spark of pride lighting her painted features. “That’s the spirit. Let’s add a twist this time. Try weaving the arc between moving targets.”
With a wave of her hand, the dummies began to shift, gliding across the floor in unpredictable patterns. Harry tightened his grip on his wand and focused, his eyes narrowing as he began to trace the arc once more. This time, the spell surged from his wand like a living thing, crackling with energy as it darted from one moving target to the next, striking each with precision.
When the last dummy fell, Harry let out a triumphant laugh, lowering his wand as a wave of satisfaction washed over him.
“Excellent work!” Amelia said, beaming. “It seems a change of pace is all that was needed”
Harry’s grin faded slightly as he looked at her. “It’s still not perfect. Voldemort won’t give me this many chances.”
“No,” Amelia agreed, her tone serious. “But progress isn’t about perfection—it’s about resilience. You’re learning, Harry, and that’s what matters. Now, let’s move on to the next challenge.”
The Room of Requirement shifted once more, the walls blurring and morphing until Harry found himself in a vast, shadowed arena. The air grew colder, thick with tension as Amelia's portrait watched him from a nearby pillar, her painted features sharp with concentration.
“Deflection is your next challenge,” Amelia announced, her voice steady yet charged with urgency. “This isn’t about brute force, Harry. Ancient magic is as much about reacting as it is about attacking. You need to redirect energy, not block it.”
Harry turned as shadowy figures emerged from the walls, their forms coalescing into specters of swirling black smoke. Each raised glowing hands, their palms crackling with ominous power. A bolt of magic shot toward him without warning, crackling like a whip through the air.
Harry barely had time to dive aside, the blast striking the ground where he’d stood and scattering a spray of sparks. The second followed immediately, forcing him to raise a hasty Protego. The shield flared, but the impact reverberated through his arm, leaving his wrist stinging.
“Don’t just defend!” Amelia urged from her frame. “Use their energy against them!”
Gritting his teeth, Harry steadied himself. The next bolt came hurtling toward him, and this time, he focused his will, feeling the ancient magic within him hum to life. Instead of resisting, he let the energy enter his shield, then funneled it into his wand. It felt wild and untamed, but he forced it outward, sending it back toward the specter in a shimmering arc of blue light.
The figure disintegrated on impact, the room echoing with the sound of its destruction. Harry exhaled, his chest heaving as more specters stepped forward, their hands glowing with fresh attacks.
“Stay calm!” Amelia called. “Anticipate their rhythm!”
Bolts rained down, faster and more unpredictable. Harry dodged and deflected, the air around him crackling with energy. Some blasts went wide, striking the walls or floor, while others found their mark, shattering the shadows with bursts of light. By the time he felled the last specter, he was drenched in sweat, his wand hand trembling.
“That’s it!” Amelia praised, her voice warm with approval. “You’re learning to adapt. But there’s no time to rest—on to the next challenge!”
The arena dissolved, and the floor beneath Harry’s feet shifted. Columns of stone erupted around him, rising and falling unpredictably. Patches of the floor glowed red, radiating heat that made the air shimmer. Above him, floating platforms hovered precariously over a yawning chasm that stretched endlessly into darkness.
“Sometimes, your environment is as much a threat as your enemies,” Amelia said, her tone firm. “This trial is about manipulating your surroundings. Use the platforms to cross safely.”
Harry surveyed the room, his pulse quickening as he spotted the distant goal—a glowing doorway suspended high above. He raised his wand, focusing on a nearby platform. The ancient magic within him surged, responding to his intent. The platform shuddered, then began to glide into position.
Carefully, he leaped onto it, wobbling as it swayed under his weight. Another column shot up beside him, narrowly missing his foot as it slammed down with a deafening crash. The heat from the glowing floor licked at his robes, and he jumped to the next platform just as flames erupted below.
“Keep moving, Harry!” Amelia shouted.
Gritting his teeth, he extended his wand again, summoning a bridge of golden light to span the final gap. It flickered uncertainly, but he pushed forward, crossing the precarious span before the magic faded behind him. Reaching the doorway, he dropped to his knees, his chest burning with exertion.
“Well done,” Amelia said, her expression softening. “But remember, Harry—magic like this takes its toll. You must learn to pace yourself.”
The room transformed once more, and Harry found himself standing within a glowing rune circle etched into the floor. A deep rumble shook the air as the stone beneath him split open, and a massive construct rose from the ground. Its body was made of jagged stone, its eyes glowing with eerie light as it fixed its gaze on him.
“You’ve fought constructs before,” Amelia reminded him, her voice steady. “Now, you’ll summon one of your own to help you.”
Harry nodded, sweat beading on his forehead as he stepped into the circle. He traced the ancient runes with his wand, murmuring the incantation Amelia had taught him. The air shimmered, and the ground quaked as a smaller construct materialized beside him, shaped like a wolf with sharp, angular edges.
The larger construct roared, charging toward them with heavy, earth-shaking steps. Harry directed his creation with a flick of his wand, willing it to intercept the enemy. The two clashed, stone scraping against stone as Harry fired bolts of energy to support his companion.
“Good!” Amelia encouraged. “But don’t forget—controlling a construct is draining. Stay focused!”
The wolf construct lunged, sinking its jagged teeth into the larger opponent. With a final surge of magic, Harry directed a blast of energy at the enemy’s core, shattering it into a shower of rubble. His wolf crumbled moments later, fading into dust as Harry staggered back, breathing hard.
The room grew silent, the challenges fading as Harry stood alone in the center. His robes were singed, his limbs aching, but his wand still glowed faintly in his hand. Amelia’s painted face appeared on a nearby wall, her expression a mixture of pride and concern.
“You’ve done well, Harry,” she said softly. “Each trial has pushed you further, but there’s still much to learn.”
Harry nodded, his exhaustion tempered by a growing sense of purpose. “I’ll be ready,” he said, his voice steady despite the strain.
Amelia’s painted features softened into a smile, a flicker of warmth crossing her face. “You’re improving, Harry. Keep this up, and this Voldemort won’t know what hit him.”
Harry let out a long breath, collapsing onto the floor in a mix of exhaustion and relief. “Good, because I don’t think I could hit anything right now. That spell just about took everything out of me,” he groaned, turning his head toward Amelia. “Was it like this for you? Did no one actually teach you how to use ancient magic the way you’re teaching me?”
Amelia tilted her head, a wistful look passing over her face. “No, not really. What I’m sharing with you now is pieced together from my own experiences and what little guidance I received. Most of my training wasn’t about learning to wield ancient magic—it was about the importance of protecting its secrets.” She leaned back in her chair, her posture both relaxed and thoughtful. “The Keepers… they were paranoid. Understandably so, I suppose, given what happened with their last student.”
Harry frowned, remembering the story of Isidora Morganach, the Keeper who had turned ancient magic into a tool for extracting pain, with devastating consequences. “Do you think it was because they were so selective about what they taught her? I mean, if they’d trusted her with more, maybe she wouldn’t have gone the way she did.”
Amelia considered his question, her expression turning serious. “Most likely, yes. Isidora’s aims were noble, at least at first. She wanted to help people, to ease their suffering. But she forged ahead without doing her due diligence, and in the end, she caused more harm than good.”
Her gaze drifted for a moment, and when she spoke again, there was a hint of vulnerability in her voice. “In some ways, I wasn’t so different. I used ancient magic freely, especially in combat. It felt… natural, like it was waiting for me, ready to answer my call. In the heat of battle, it flowed through me like a river, powerful and unrelenting. But if I’m honest, I never truly controlled it.”
Harry sat up slightly, intrigued. “What do you mean? You seemed like you had it mastered.”
Amelia shook her head. “No, Harry. I was merely a vessel for it. Ancient magic is alive in its own way, and it demands respect. When you wield it without understanding, it wields you in return. That’s why control is everything. And why the Keepers feared it so much.”
Amelia’s painted expression shifted, her usual composure faltering as Harry’s question hung in the air. She seemed distant for a moment, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the frame of her portrait.
“There’s something I wish to share with you, Harry,” she began softly, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. “A story that I’ve held close because… well, it isn’t easy for me to talk about.”
Harry sat up straighter, sensing the weight of her words. “I’m listening,” he said gently, not wanting to push but eager to understand.
Amelia folded her hands in her lap, her painted eyes lowering for a moment before meeting his. “You’ve heard me mention Sebastian before—my closest friend at Hogwarts. He was brilliant, resourceful, and fiercely loyal. But his loyalty could sometimes blind him to the cost of his actions.” She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It wasn’t just my story with ancient magic, Harry. He had one of his own.”
She leaned forward in her chair, the flickering candlelight from the room reflecting in the oils of her portrait. “Sebastian had a sister, Anne, the person I told you about curing before my death. She was everything to him. Sweet, kind, and… cursed. A dark curse struck her during an attack by goblins, leaving her in constant pain, her magic diminished. No one at Hogwarts or even St. Mungo’s could cure her. Sebastian… he couldn’t accept that. He believed if he searched hard enough, he’d find a way to save her.”
Harry’s brow furrowed. He knew that desperation—the helplessness of wanting to protect someone you cared for, even when the odds seemed impossible.
“At first, his pursuit was admirable,” Amelia continued. “He scoured the library, interviewed healers, even questioned the professors. But when all the usual paths failed, he began looking into the darker ones. Forbidden spells, lost knowledge… and eventually, dark artifacts.” She sighed heavily, her painted hands gripping the armrests of her chair. “That’s when things began to spiral out of control.”
“What happened?” Harry asked quietly.
Amelia hesitated, her voice dropping lower. “Sebastian became obsessed. He found a spell—a ritual, really—that could potentially transfer the curse from Anne to another object or even a person. But it required ancient magic to fuel it. He begged me to help him. I had already begun experimenting with ancient magic, and he believed I could make it work.” Her voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly painful.
“I wanted to help him, Harry. He was my best friend, and seeing the way Anne suffered…” She broke off, shaking her head. “But I knew the risks by that point, I knew what Isadoria had done. Ancient magic isn’t something you wield lightly. I tried to reason with him, to make him see that even if we succeeded, there could be consequences we couldn’t foresee. But he wouldn’t listen.”
Her expression darkened, shadows falling over her painted features. “We argued. He accused me of not caring, of abandoning him when he needed me most. He said I didn’t understand what it was like to watch someone you love waste away.” She looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. “He was right, in a way. I didn’t understand. But I also knew what he was asking… it could destroy him. Or Anne. Or both.”
Harry felt a lump form in his throat, watching the pain play out on her face. “What did he do?”
“Sebastian was one of the closest friends I ever had,” she began softly. “But he was also the most stubborn person I’d ever known. He would have walked through fire to save her—and, in some ways, he did.”
Harry watched her, his breath caught in the raw emotion radiating from her.
“At first, I supported him. How could I not? I believed in his determination, his love for his sister. But as time went on, I started to see how that love… twisted. Sebastian became consumed by his quest to break Anne’s curse. He turned to magic he didn’t fully understand, magic he shouldn’t have used—Unforgivable Curses, relics tied to the Dark Arts. And when Anne and his best friend, Ominis, tried to stop him, he ignored their warnings.”
Amelia paused, her voice tightening. “To answer your question the worst of it came when he found a relic—something he believed held the power to reverse Anne’s curse. It wasn’t ancient magic, but it was bound to dark rituals and required a terrible price. Ominis and Anne begged him to leave it alone, but Sebastian…” Her voice faltered, and she pressed her painted lips into a thin line before continuing. “Sebastian saw only the chance to save her. He wouldn’t let anyone stand in his way. Not even his family.”
Harry’s brow furrowed.
Amelia’s eyes closed briefly, as if shielding herself from the memory. “His uncle, Solomon, found out about the relic and tried to destroy it. Solomon wasn’t a cruel man; he was desperate to protect Sebastian and Anne from the consequences of Sebastian’s growing obsession. But Sebastian saw it differently. He believed Solomon was standing between him and Anne’s salvation.”
The firelight from the Room of Requirement flickered across Amelia’s face, and when she spoke again, her voice was heavy with sorrow. “In the end his uncle attacked us, I managed to defeat him and disarm him but Sebastian used Avada Kedavra—on his own uncle. To protect the relic.”
Harry’s breath hitched. “He… killed him?”
“Yes,” Amelia said simply, though her tone carried the weight of that one word. “And for what? The relic didn’t save Anne. If anything, it made her curse worse. What's worse is that Anne saw it, in her fury and grief she destroyed the relic. After that, she couldn’t even look at him. She left, walked away from the brother she had loved so much, because his choices had made him a stranger to her.”
Amelia’s voice wavered, her gaze fixed on some faraway point beyond the room. “I was furious. Not just with Sebastian, he killed his uncle who was unarmed at the time who was trying to protect him, but also with myself. I had seen the signs, Ominous had warned us, warned me about our friends' limits, or lack thereof, and I watched him stray further and further into darkness. But I thought I could reason with him, that I could pull him back before it was too late. I was wrong.”
Harry swallowed hard, his own emotions swirling. “What happened to him?”
Amelia’s eyes shifted back to Harry, a deep sadness in them. “Sebastian was never the same. The guilt ate at him, Harry. He’d given up everything to save Anne—his family, his friends, his soul—and in the end, he was left with nothing. He carried those scars for the rest of his life. In the end we turned him into the aurors, he murdered an innocent man, he died in Azkaban” She shook her head.
The room fell into a heavy silence, Amelia’s words sinking into the air like lead. Harry felt a lump in his throat as he thought of Daphne, of her curse, and of the lengths he was already contemplating to help her.
“Amelia,” he said softly, breaking the silence, “I… Thank you. For telling me this.”
Her painted smile was faint but bittersweet. “It is an offering of trust, Harry, so that you know I am not hiding anything from you. Because if there’s one thing Sebastian taught me, it’s this: the price of magic—any magic—is never what you expect. Be careful. For yourself, and for those you love.”
Harry nodded solemnly, the weight of her story settling over him like a heavy cloak. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the soft crackling of the fire.
……
Until next time.