Shadows of Inheritance
In the shadowed forest that lay as a no man's land between the embattled nations, a small band of Aurors huddled, their breaths misting in the chilled air. Michael Knight, the junior Auror and third son of Lord Knight, felt the weight of the war settle on his shoulders, a burden far heavier than he had ever imagined when he donned his cloak. The weeks since the declaration of war had been a blur of skirmishes, narrow escapes, and the constant, gnawing fear of being captured. Now, behind enemy lines and far from any hope of immediate rescue, that fear was ever-present.
Auror Captain Killian, a man who had always seemed to Michael as more force of nature than human, paced before them. His steps were measured, each footfall a testament to the discipline that had seen him through countless battles. "Men," he began, his voice cutting through the silence with the sharpness of a spell, "we are not merely fighting the French. We are proving our inherent superiority over these mongrels."
"We stand here, on foreign soil, not as invaders but as champions of a greater destiny," Killian continued, his eyes alight with the fire of conviction. "Our magic, our lineage, they set us apart. They make us superior. But remember, this superiority is not a mere birthright; it is a mantle to be upheld, a standard to be raised high in every deed, in every battle."
Michael watched as Killian's confidence swept through the ranks like a spell, binding them together with a shared sense of purpose. They were the elite, chosen by Merlin himself to uphold the honor of Albion, to demonstrate the might and right of their cause.
"Let us then strike with the precision and grace befitting our noble heritage. Let us show our foes the true strength of the Albion Aurors. In our unity, our skill, and our unwavering belief in our cause, we will emerge victorious."
In the shadowy hush that followed Captain Killian's rousing speech, the Aurors huddled closer, maps unfurled and wands at the ready. The mission was clear, albeit daunting: to infiltrate Paris and obliterate an enchantment facility that was pivotal to the French Ministry of Magic's war efforts. This was no mere skirmish or reconnaissance mission; it was a critical strike aimed at the very heart of the enemy's magical capabilities.
Michael Knight, emboldened by Killian's words, studied the intricate web of alleyways and boulevards that composed the ancient city of Paris. The facility, veiled by powerful enchantments and guarded by some of the Ministry's most formidable mages, represented a formidable challenge. Yet, the aura of determination that enveloped the group seemed to render the impossible merely difficult.
"We move under the cover of darkness," Killian whispered, his eyes scanning the faces of his team. "Our advantage lies not only in our superior magic but in our unity and our ability to adapt. We strike as one, fast and silently, leaving no trace but ashes."
The plan was meticulously crafted, with contingencies for every possible scenario. They would use a series of apparition points, each vetted for security and obscurity, to move closer to their target. Disguises and illusion spells would mask their identities, allowing them to blend in with the local populace. The final approach would be on foot, a calculated risk to avoid detection by any magical surveillance.
Michael felt a thrill of anticipation. This was the moment for which he had been trained, a chance to prove his worth on the battlefield and to affirm the superiority of Albion's Aurors. The thought of entering the heart of enemy territory, of facing unknown dangers for the greater good, filled him with a sense of purpose that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
As the group began their final preparations, checking and rechecking their equipment, Michael took a moment to center himself. He thought of his family, of the proud lineage he represented, and of the future he was helping to secure. With a deep breath, he steeled his resolve.
The Aurors moved out, a phantom force weaving through the night. The journey to Paris was fraught with tension, each shadow a potential threat, every whisper of wind a possible alarm. But under Killian's steady leadership, they pressed on, undeterred, united in their mission.
Under the cloak of an unnaturally dark night, the Aurors approached the enchantment facility, their movements as silent as the grave. At the forefront, Auror Frische, with a concentration that belied his years, meticulously began to dissect the layered wards with an expertise that made it clear why he was chosen for this mission. Each slice of his wand through the magical fabric was precise, a testament to his mastery and the intense training that had prepared them for this moment.
The air around them buzzed with contained power, the wards bending and twisting, seeking to repel the intrusion, yet Frische's magic was subtle, a gentle coaxing rather than brute force. The wards faltered, one by one, until they stood on the threshold of the facility, its defenses unknowingly laid bare.
With a nod from Captain Killian, they slipped inside, the darkness of the facility swallowing them whole. Their boots made no sound on the cold stone floor, their breaths were shallow, and their wands, though ready, held no light. They were ghosts, specters of war in the heart of enemy territory.
But the silence was shattered by a sudden, guttural growl. From the shadows emerged guard crups, their eyes alight with a feral intelligence and their fangs bared. The creatures, trained to detect and deter intruders, launched themselves at the Aurors with a ferocity that was startling.
The element of surprise lost, the Aurors sprang into action. Spells flew, casting eerie shadows on the walls as they engaged the crups. Michael found himself face to face with one of the beasts, its snarl a promise of death. With a calm born of countless hours of practice, he deflected the creature's lunge, his spell sending it crashing into the wall, its viscera painting a bloody picture.
The clash with the guard crups, fierce as it was, merely set the stage for the ordeal that lay ahead. As the final beast fell, its snarl fading into silence, the facility's alarms erupted into a deafening wail. The sound pierced the night, a harrowing symphony that heralded the arrival of the enemy in droves. With their cover blown, the team abandoned all pretense of stealth, their movements becoming a frenetic dash through the twisting labyrinth of the facility. Each corridor and sealed door presented a new challenge, met with a blend of quick wits, decisive magic, and an unyielding resolve.
The blaring of alarms filled the air, a relentless siren call that summoned the facility's defenders. Wizards adorned in the unmistakable insignias of the French Ministry emerged, their wands casting arcs of deadly light into the shadows. The ensuing battle was a tempest of chaos, a maelstrom of spells that illuminated the darkened corridors with bursts of violent color, their impacts sending shockwaves through the stone underfoot.
Michael and his fellow Aurors met their adversaries with a raw intensity, their spells weaving a deadly dance of light and shadow. The air crackled with the energy of their magic, filled with the scent of ozone and the sharp tang of fear. Despite their courage and the righteousness that fueled their cause, the Aurors were gradually overwhelmed, their numbers dwindling as the Ministry's forces pressed their advantage with relentless fervor. The ground became a tapestry of the fallen, each silent form a testament to the battle's ferocity.
Through it all, Michael and Captain Killian stood as pillars amidst the storm, their magic syncing in a lethal ballet that held their foes at bay. Yet, as the final echoes of combat receded, leaving behind only the ragged breaths of the weary and the wounded, they found themselves the last standing amidst the devastation they had wrought.
In the end, when the dust settled and the echoes of battle faded, only Michael and Captain Killian remained, standing amidst the ruin they had wrought.
“Captain… I-”
Captain Killian’s hand sliced through the air. “Do your duty first, Auror. We mourn when we return. After you set the runes, recover the fallen.”
Michael numbly nodded as Killian went upstairs.
Michael, his hands steady despite the adrenaline that coursed through his veins, placed the runes with precise care, a grim determination set upon his features. He gathered the fallen, ensuring their eyes were closed before heading upstairs to report.
A strange red light pulsed in the doorway. As Michael peaked through, he saw Captain Killian extracting the source of the light, a fist-sized red stone with a curious symbol of various shapes carved into its surface. He placed the stone in a box before turning around and finding Auror Knight.
"Captain?" Michael's voice, laden with confusion, cut through the silence.
“I thought our mission was to destroy this place. Why are you collecting-”
Without a word, Killian unleashed a spell of such swift brutality that Michael had no time to react. The spell struck true, and as Michael fell, his life bleeding out, his last sight was of his Captain invoking a dark rite, the air around him warping with the power of blood magic.
“For Helios.”
With a flick of his wand, Killian tore through the remaining wards as if they were mere cobwebs. He whispered something, but Auror Knight was already fading.
And then, with the facility crumbling around him, Killian activated a portkey, leaving behind only destruction and the echo of his betrayal.
The runes erupted with a fury that reduced the facility to rubble, a testament to the sacrifice and the dark deeds that had transpired within its walls.
In the dimly lit, stone-walled office deep within Gringotts, Harry sat opposite of Ripguff, the Potter Account Manager.
"Heir Potter," Ripguff initiated, his tone both gravelly and commanding, "your understanding of Albus Dumbledore's role as your guardian necessitates refinement. He is appointed as the guardian of the Heir to the House of Potter, not as your guardian in the personal sense."
Harry cocked his head.
Ripguff continued, his eyes narrowing slightly, "This means Dumbledore does not have automatic oversight over your claims to the Slytherin, Peverell, or Black legacies. Those rights are yours, independent of any guardianship Dumbledore holds."
Harry's suspicion, initially a mere flicker, began to burn brighter. "But why should I withhold this information from Dumbledore? Wouldn't his guidance be beneficial?"
The goblin's demeanor shifted subtly, suggesting a blend of caution and profound understanding. "Heir Potter, the realms you are to navigate are veiled in deception and complex loyalties. Even those who present themselves as allies may not always have your best interests at heart. It is prudent to approach all, including Dumbledore, with a measure of skepticism."
Harry's wariness deepened as he scoffed.
“You speak of mistrust. It is always difficult to determine who to trust and who not to. But who better than the Chief Warlock - a friend of my parents no less - can help me navigate these complexities?”
Ripguff leaned back. “It is up to you, Heir Potter. Discernment is a skill all Lords must learn.”
Discernment, huh? Perhaps this is an opportunity?
Harry thought for a long moment. “Can I appoint someone else to function as my magical guardian? Someone I trust?”
Ripguff paused as he considered the request. “Not to replace the Chief Warlock. Only a Lord Potter could replace your magical guardian with another. However, the other Houses you are Heir of do have some leeway. The Black line is more complex. I would need to do some research. The Peverell and Slytherin lines do not have an active Lord, so you may call on Mother Magic to declare someone as your guardian. If Mother Magic agrees, that person would become your guardian.”
Harry’s face scrunched up. “You speak as if magic is a living force. Mother Magic is a metaphor, is it not?”
Ripguff laughed but couldn’t quite reach Harry’s eyes. “The Albion Family Magics are complex. Who’s to say if there is a sentience governing them? All I know for sure is you may petition magic for an answer and it may respond. Guardianship is an oath, after all.”
Harry nodded. “Alright. I know who I want as my guardian of the House of Peverell. I will ask her to undertake the oaths.”
“That is your choice, Heir Potter. Remember that once you declare yourself Heir of multiple Houses, you will alert the Wizengamot to your existence. They may force you to reveal yourself.”
Harry nodded. “I understand. I have a plan for this. I will claim my rights as Heir of the House of Peverell.”
Ripguff stood from his chair. “Then let us claim your ring. Any further questions, Heir Potter?”
Harry smirked. “Just one. How can I declare myself a Lord before my majority?”
Ripguff locked eyes with Harry for a long moment. “I know of a few ways, none which are pleasant.”
“Please enlighten me.”
“You could get married, though that would require permission from your magical guardian. You could be formally challenged by a Lord of the Wizengamot to an Honor Duel. As the last remaining Potter, Peverell, and Slytherin, a blood feud declared against any of those Houses would immediately emancipate you from any guardian and promote you to Lord of said House.”
Harry suppressed a smile. An idea was forming. It’s all coming together.
“Good to know. Something to consider,” he said, standing.
Ripguff nodded.
“Let’s go to the Peverell vault, then, shall we?”
The descent into the depths of Gringotts was like plunging into the heart of the earth itself. The air grew cooler, the only sound the echo of their footsteps until they came to a halt before a vault that seemed to hum with a hidden power.
As Ripguff unlocked the vault, the door swung open with a heavy, ominous creak, revealing a chamber starkly different from the Potter vault. This was a sanctum of knowledge, with rows upon rows of ancient tomes that whispered secrets in a multitude of tongues, both known and esoteric. A palpable pressure filled the space, as if the very air was laden with the weight of centuries, making Harry's breath catch in his chest.
“What is this?” Harry couldn’t help but wonder aloud, his voice a mere whisper in the vastness of the vault.
“The Peverell vault,” Ripguff explained, his voice carrying a reverent tone. “It bears the intensity of your ancestors’ legacy. They may not have had wealth in gold, but what they possessed in knowledge and magic was unparalleled.”
Harry’s gaze was irresistibly drawn to a solitary book, hovering above a column of pure marble—the Peverell Grimoire, its surface rough as if carved from stone itself, with the symbol of the Hallows deeply incised into its cover. Approaching it, Harry reached out, and the moment his fingers brushed the tome, it flew open with a force that bathed the room in a blinding light.
“Pages made of stone… That is unique,” Harry remarked, awe coloring his voice as the illumination began to subside, gathering into a ring that danced around the Grimoire. Tentatively, he touched the ring, and it instantly materialized on his finger—a simple yet profound band of silver and topaz, the Hallows symbol suspended within the gem.
Then, without warning, a surge of energy coursed through Harry, a fusion of power as the magic from his Potter ring intertwined with that of the Peverell ring. It was a confluence of energies, where the depth of the Potter legacy met the intense focus of the Peverells. Harry's magic swelled, breaking the confines of his core, manifesting as a brilliant aura of azure that crackled around him, electrifying the air.
“Are you alright, Heir Potter?” Ripguff inquired, concern lacing his voice.
Harry clenched his teeth, the exhilaration of newfound power quickly turning to discomfort as his magical core expanded, straining against its limits. The sensation of his magic overflowing was overwhelming, bordering on pain.
I need to rid myself of excess magic!
With urgency pulsing through his veins, Harry, guided by instinct more than understanding, stretched his hands towards the vault's ceiling. His eyes, glowing with an ethereal blue light, mirrored the intensity of the storm brewing within him. Then, releasing a deep, guttural cry, he unleashed the excess magic in a cataclysmic bolt of lightning. The air crackled, charged with the raw power of the spell, as the bolt erupted from his fingertips and collided with the ancient stone above them with a deafening roar.
The impact sent shockwaves through the vault, a testament to the untamed force Harry had conjured. Stone and dust cascaded downwards, a rain of centuries-old rock threatening to bury them. Ripguff, with reflexes honed by years of navigating the perils within Gringotts, conjured his goblin magic, his hands outstretched. With a precision that belied the chaos, he caught the largest of the falling stones, suspending it in the air.
As the last of Harry's magic fizzled out, leaving the air tinged with the scent of ozone, a heavy silence fell over the vault. Harry, panting, his hands still raised in the posture of unleashing the spell, slowly lowered them, the glow in his eyes fading as the reality of what he had just done began to dawn on him.
Ripguff, setting the stone aside with a thud that echoed ominously in the now-quiet vault, turned to Harry. His expression was a mix of disbelief and admonishment, the severity of the situation etched in the lines of his face.
"Heir Potter," Ripguff began, his voice stern, each word a pointed rebuke, "such recklessness! This vault, these treasures, are ancient. Your actions could have destroyed much that cannot be replaced.”
Harry, still catching his breath, could only nod.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, Ripguff muttered a series of complex incantations. The air shimmered with magic as the pieces of stone began to levitate, fitting themselves back into the ceiling as if guided by an invisible hand. The cracks sealed themselves, erasing the evidence of Harry's outburst, the vault once again whole.
As Ripguff finished the repairs, he turned back to Harry, his expression softening slightly. "Let this be a lesson, Heir Potter. Power, especially of the kind you possess, requires control and understanding. It is not just a force to be wielded, but a responsibility to be borne."
Harry's expression hardened under the weight of Ripguff's words. "I didn't anticipate the ring's power to be so overwhelming," he admitted, his voice edged with frustration. "It surged through me uncontrollably, like a tempest. If I hadn't released it, it might have consumed me entirely."
Ripguff offered a noncommittal grunt, acknowledging Harry's plight. "You've managed to bind the ring to yourself, which is no small feat. The merging of two Ancient and Noble House rings within a single heir hasn't been witnessed in many centuries. Should the claiming of any future ring provoke a similar response, we'd be wise to allow ample time for preparation."
Sealing the Grimoire with a sense of finality, Harry nodded in agreement. "Clearly, I must fortify myself for what may lie ahead. The ring's attempt to overwhelm me felt almost... malevolent."
The latent energy of the Potter and Peverell rings continued to resonate within him, making his teeth itch.
"Use this as an opportunity to delve into your heritage," Ripguff suggested, his tone shifting towards the instructive. "The Peverell Grimoire is now yours to explore. It could hold the keys to understanding your unique legacy."
Harry tilted his head, curiosity piqued. "But I was under the impression that I couldn't remove anything from the vault until my majority?"
"That remains true," Ripguff clarified. "You'll come here to study the Grimoire. Be mindful, however, that its secrets are protected by potent Family Magic. Should anyone outside your lineage attempt to peruse its pages, they would find themselves cursed."
After a moment's contemplation, Harry nodded decisively. "Then I should prioritize learning what my ancestors have left behind. The depth of their wisdom could prove invaluable. I will also refrain from claiming another Heir Ring until I better understand the reaction I had."
"As long as we sidestep any further... incidents," Ripguff added, a glimmer of sternness returning to his voice, "any of my fellow goblins will be at your disposal to escort you here."
Harry nodded, gesturing to leave the vault.
With the echoes of his tumultuous encounter within the Peverell vault still resounding in his mind, Harry exited Gringotts, the vast doors closing behind him. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, lending an almost ethereal quality to the bustling thoroughfare.
Harry's thoughts were a whirlwind of ancient magic, hidden knowledge, and the unyielding weight of his lineage. Yet, amid the whirl of contemplation, a singular purpose crystallized – the acquisition of his own wand, a conduit through which he might better understand and control the burgeoning power within him.
The air of Diagon Alley was rich with the smells of potion ingredients, magical treats, and the dusty tang of old books and artifacts. Harry moved through the crowd, feeling both apart from and a part of the magical world around him. His recent experiences had left him feeling more connected to his magic, yet the intensity of that connection was something he knew he needed to learn to master.
As he approached the age-worn sign of Ollivanders, the shop seemed to stand apart from its neighbors, as if it existed slightly out of step with the rest of Diagon Alley. The windows were small and dusty, giving little away about the mysteries contained within. Harry paused for a moment before the door, taking a deep breath. The air here felt charged, heavy with the promise of magic yet undiscovered.
The interior of Ollivanders was a stark contrast to the bright, bustling alley behind him. It was dimly lit, the air thick with the musty scent of wood and a hint of something else—something ancient and powerful. Rows upon rows of wand boxes stacked haphazardly reached almost to the ceiling, casting long, irregular shadows across the narrow aisle leading deeper into the shop.
Harry's gaze adjusted to the dim light, taking in the sight of the slender figure emerging from the shadows. Mr. Ollivander, with his blind eyes that seemed to see more than most, moved towards Harry with an unnerving grace.
"Ah, Heir Potter," Ollivander's voice was a whisper, yet it carried through the shop with an uncanny clarity. "I have been expecting you."
Harry felt a shiver run down his spine as Ollivander stopped before him, those sightless eyes seeming to peer deep into his very being. It was an intrusion that Harry felt in his bones, a sensation both unsettling and profound.
"How do you know who I am?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ollivander smiled, a thin, knowing smile that did little to ease Harry's disquiet. "The Ollivander Family Magic, my boy. Mage Sight allows us to see not with our eyes, but with our magic. It grants us insights into the very essence of a person, their magic. And yours," Ollivander paused, tilting his head slightly as if listening to a distant melody only he could hear, "yours is quite unique indeed."
Harry swallowed, his curiosity piqued despite his unease. "Unique? How?"
"Your magical core," Ollivander began, his voice taking on a tone of scholarly interest, "it does not conform to the typical structure we see in witches and wizards. There is a... complexity to it, a depth that is exceedingly rare. It suggests a potential for magic that is vast, perhaps even untapped."
Harry was flabbergasted. He knew that his magic was different, changed as he was by the Aspect of Death. But to hear it spoken of in such terms, to understand that it was his magical core that set him apart, was a revelation.
"And you can see all this because of your family's magic?" Harry asked, his mind racing.
"Yes," Ollivander nodded, his expression solemn. "The Mage Sight of the Ollivanders allows us to perceive the magic of others in a way that goes beyond the surface, to the very core of their being. It is how we know which wand will choose which wizard. And for you, Heir Potter, finding the right wand will be a matter of utmost importance."
Harry gulped as Ollivander peered deeply into his chest. After a moment, a frown emerged on Ollivander’s face.
"I fear," he began, his voice tinged with a rare hint of regret, "that the wands I have here may not be suitable for you. Your core, Heir Potter, it's extraordinarily unique. To tune an existing wand to it... would be a monumental task, likely beyond my capabilities."
"What I can propose," Ollivander continued, his eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and solemnity, "is to craft a wand specifically for you. A wand that would truly be your own, using a component unlike any other, mixed with... your blood."
Harry recoiled at the thought, his initial instinct to refuse outright. There was something deeply strange, almost invasive about incorporating his own blood into a wand. Yet before he could voice his objection, Ollivander's gaze pierced him once more, delving into him in a way that felt almost like a violation.
"It may well be," Ollivander mused aloud, seemingly talking to himself as much as to Harry, "that only the Deathstick would be a suitable match for such a unique core as yours."
The mention of the Deathstick - the Elder Wand, one of the fabled Deathly Hallows - sent a jolt of panic through Harry. His breathing quickened, his heart raced, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead as he sputtered, "The Elder Wand? But that's—"
Ollivander's grin widened, his blind eyes sparkling with a keen intelligence. "Ah, so you are familiar with the Wand of Destiny, more so than most, it seems." His tone shifted, speculative and probing. "Could it be, Heir Potter, that you are more than just a wizard with an unusual core? Are you, perhaps, the Master of Death? That would indeed explain the inexplicable nature of your magical core. It would explain many irregularities encountered as of late."
Harry's mind raced as he struggled to regain control of his breathing. The title 'Master of Death' hung heavily in the air, echoing ominously in the silence of the shop. That title was responsible for the first resurgence of Dark Wizards in Europe after Voldemort’s final death.
NO! I will never accept that title again!
The panic that gripped Harry only intensified, the very air in Ollivanders seeming to constrict around him, laden with the weight of ancient magics and unspeakable secrets. With a desperate edge to his voice, thick with the burgeoning panic, Harry pleaded, "Please, don't speak of that artifact again. I'll... I'll let you craft the wand. Just, please, no more talk of… that wand."
Ollivander, his demeanor shifting from unsettling curiosity to an almost giddy anticipation, nodded solemnly, though the gleam in his eye remained undiminished. "Very well, Heir Potter. A most wise decision, I dare say." With practiced ease, he took a small lancet, collecting a single drop of Harry's blood, which seemed to glow ominously as it fell. This he mixed with an unseen object that he handled with a reverence and care that suggested its immense value and power. As he worked, an unsettling cackle escaped him, the sound sending shivers down Harry's spine.
Feeling the walls closing in on him, both literally and figuratively, Harry knew he needed to escape, to get away from the oppressive atmosphere of the shop and the unnerving focus of Ollivander's Mage Sight. With his heart racing and his thoughts a whirlwind of fear and confusion, he focused on a place he hoped would offer him an escape. "I need to calm down," he murmured to himself, drawing deep, shuddering breaths.
With a small pop that was almost lost amidst the echoes of Ollivander's cackling, Harry Apparated out of the shop, leaving behind the stifling air and the looming sense of dread that had overwhelmed him. The sudden freedom and the cool, open air of the sea did little to calm his racing heart or clear the fog of panic that clouded his mind. He knew he had escaped the immediate discomfort of Ollivander's probing and the disturbing offer to craft a wand of such personal significance, but the encounter had opened a Pandora's box of questions.
So many changes in magic… I still don’t understand what this Great Game is… Creepy old men talking of that most cursed of objects. A war! And I still have to think about getting married!
Harry sighed as his breathing slowed down.
Can’t get much worse, right?
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the room, filtering through the half-open window of the Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts. Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, the day's correspondence spread out before him, each letter and parcel sorted with meticulous care. Among them, a letter sealed with the insignia of Lord Nott caught his eye—a symbol that, in the wizarding world, often heralded matters of grave importance.
With a sense of foreboding, Dumbledore broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The words written in the crisp, formal hand accused the Heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter, young Harry, of wanton aggression and destruction of property. Dumbledore's brows furrowed in disbelief. That should be impossible as Harry should be with his relatives. Surely, there had to be some misunderstanding.
Resolved to seek the truth, Dumbledore stood, his mind made up. A brief swirl of his cloak, and he vanished with a soft pop, reappearing in the dimly lit, familiar surroundings of Privet Drive. The absence of any magical signature from the Dursley residence set a knot of worry in his stomach. Approaching the door, he knocked firmly.
Petunia Dursley, looking paler than usual, opened the door. Her eyes widened in fear upon recognizing her visitor, and she seemed to shrink back, attempting to close the door slightly, as if to shield the interior of the house from his view.
"Good evening, Petunia," Dumbledore greeted, his tone polite yet firm. "I'm here to see Harry. May I come in?"
Petunia hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper as she tried to concoct an excuse, "He's not... We haven't seen him—"
But Dumbledore gently, yet insistently, pushed past her, stepping into the house. "It is imperative that I speak with Harry. Please, take me to him."
Dumbledore's worry turned into a simmering anger as he demanded of Petunia, "Where have you been keeping him?" The coldness in his voice was something rare and foreboding.
Reluctantly, and with a sense of defiance in her posture, Petunia led him to the small, cramped cupboard under the stairs. The sight of it, so small, so clearly unsuitable for a child, saddened Dumbledore deeply. He had entrusted Harry to these people, hoping for kindness and care, only to find neglect.
Petunia, with a touch of bitterness, mentioned that the door had been locked until they found it inexplicably open one day. "It's his freakishness, I tell you. Normal people don't just vanish into thin air," she spat out, her disdain for anything out of her narrow scope of 'normal' clear.
Dumbledore barely concealed his disgust at her words, focusing instead on casting a series of intricate detection spells around the cupboard and the house. The magic in the air shimmered, revealing to him the traces of a single, powerful spell - Apparition. This was a sophisticated piece of magic, far beyond the accidental magic of a young child, yet it was unmistakably tied to Harry.
"It appears Harry has accidentally Apparated. Given his inexperience, there's no telling where he might have ended up," Dumbledore mused aloud, more to himself than to Petunia. The realization that Harry was out there, alone and potentially in danger, weighed heavily on him.
Dumbledore's gaze hardened, the twinkle in his eyes now replaced by a stormy severity as he turned back to Petunia. His voice, usually so calm and measured, took on a chilling edge. "Listen very closely, Petunia Dursley," he began, each word deliberate, carrying the weight of unspoken threats. "The neglect and disdain you've shown towards Harry will not be overlooked. You were supposed to protect him. If, upon my return, I find that Harry has suffered due to your actions—or lack thereof—I assure you, the consequences will be dire."
He took a step closer, and Petunia recoiled as if the air around him had turned frigid. "There are powers at my disposal that are beyond your comprehension, means to ensure that those who harm those under my protection pay a steep price.”
Petunia, now visibly shaken, could only nod, her earlier defiance crumbling under Dumbledore's icy resolve.
With that, Dumbledore stepped out of the house, his cloak billowing behind him as he followed the faint traces of Harry's Apparition. The trail led him to a nearby park, but there it dissipated, leaving no further clues to Harry's whereabouts. The realization that he might have to involve Lord Nott, given the recent accusations, irked him. Dumbledore knew the political delicacies involved in directly confronting a member of the Wizengamot without proper cause. Instead, he decided to pen a carefully worded letter to Lord Nott, hoping to glean some information without overstepping boundaries. Time was of the essence.