Marks of the Master

Harry wasn’t sure whether he remembered, knew or foresaw the things that happened on the other side, because the chronological order of events was confusing at best and headache-inducing at worst. Time did not run the same for the two parts of his existence and, to make matters worse, he suspected that his perceptions of time did not run synchronous either.

On one hand Harry really wanted to sort this incomprehensible mess out once and for all, but on the other hand he thought it wouldn’t make any meaningful difference if he had the answer.

For clarity, he decided to go with ‘remembering’, treating any new insights as if they had happened mere moments before he received the knowledge, unless—and only unless—the memory itself contradicted that assumption.

An inelegant solution, but it would do, he supposed.

Harry turned around to take in the dark room he was in right now, eyeing the peeling wallpaper stained with substances he didn’t want to know and the mould-covered spots in the corners for a bit, before resuming his pacing. He hadn’t thought it possible, but in one single year the interior of Grimmauld Place seemed to have deteriorated to an even sorrier state than before the Order of the Phoenix had ever set foot in the old Black family home.

That was in a way quite impressive, Harry thought, and he was pretty sure that his observations held an understatement of epic proportions somewhere. Sure, he’d never seen what the house looked like right before the Order made it their HQ, but the graphic detail in which Sirius tended to explain anything he had strong feelings about—Sirius being Sirius had hardly had any middle ground and had dealt only in extremes: positive and negative, so that had more or less translated to simply everything—meant that Harry actually had a pretty good idea of just how much it had resembled a haunted house.

But it mattered little, in the end, because it still served its purpose—his two best friends were sleeping downstairs in the living room, worn out by the events of the day, and Harry himself had things to see to.

The teen stopped next to a wall, closed his eyes, took a second or two to clear his mind and then soundlessly called a specific soul from the other side.

Were he still the same as he was before his seventeenth birthday, Harry wouldn’t have noticed the miniscule change in atmosphere, or that behind him a spot of dark-black shadows had appeared in one corner next to the fireplace.

Harry didn’t need his eyes to see; his senses told him everything he needed to know.

Footsteps sounded, or would have if they made sound, but Harry could sense them as clearly as if the one approaching was stomping with heavy boots on a creaky surface. To anyone else, the person crossing the room was unnaturally inaudible, to the point that even the rustling of clothing was absent.

Harry waited silently, patiently, until the footsteps stopped behind him, the visitor remaining a respectable distance away from the human. At that point Harry opened his eyes and took his time to study the painting that was hung on the wall in front of him.

It had been pretty once upon a time, showing a forest scene bathed in light, but this painting too hadn’t escaped the decay that had also ruined the rest of the house—its canvas was torn, dirty, damaged and utterly still like its muggle counterparts, missing more than half of its once-golden frame while the remnants were tarnished beyond repair.

A mere thought ignited the wood in the fireplace to light up part of the room in flickering orange light, casting shifting shadows that followed the contours of every piece of the furniture clustered together at that end of the room. It was not enough light to make all the darkness go away, and with everything that crowded around and near the fire—the chairs, rug, low table, cabinets—its reach was limited even further, but it was enough to see by, somewhat.

Harry turned around to face the one he’d called.

Abraxas Malfoy took the appearance of a young man with the trademark white-blond hair and grey eyes of his family line, seemingly older than his grandson Draco by a few years, but younger than his fully mature son, Lucius. The clothing he wore was the modern Slytherin version of the standard Hogwarts uniform that Harry was familiar with—complete with the green tie and the Slytherin emblem sewn to the front pocket—although Abraxas’ current form made him look too old to be a student.

Harry was not surprised by the way the man had chosen to manifest—it was a reflection of how a soul saw itself, and would not everyone prefer to see themselves as they had been in what they considered their prime?

The age and dress were the only aspects that made Abraxas look human, because the rest definitely didn’t help reinforce that image at all. He had a wash of shadow over his form that made him look dark and looming, despite the pale skin, light-coloured eyes and even paler hair. The colours were not actually dark or dull, but they did appear washed-out somehow, as if he was something from a black-and-white picture that had been put in a colour photograph—a monochrome figure in a full-colour environment.

As one of the dead, Abraxas was fully free of all earthly attachments, but he still bore some unnamed weight on his shoulders that darkened his eyes and gave him the look of a world-weary youth. Harry knew what weight the soul bore; it was the price of Abraxas’ choice in the past, when he had stood to be Judged and had first answered ‘no’ and then said ‘yes’.

Until the deceased Malfoy had paid his price in full, it would remain the soul’s burden to carry and it was not Harry’s place to meddle with that—especially considering that he was the other party in the exchange.

In addition to that load, the man also bore the strain of displacement, of being one of the dead dwelling in the living world—a realm he no longer belonged to. His markings as an Envoy eased that strain to a great extent, but a fraction of discomfort would always remain, in part to remind the soul of the fact that this was no longer his world.

Abraxas kneeled before Harry as a valet would before their king, performing a solemn genuflection meant for the mortal’s eyes only, a privilege that only Harry had. When the former Lord Malfoy deemed the drawn-out bow had lasted long enough, he raised his head and straightened his shoulders but kept his gaze on Harry’s feet in deference.

Even then Abraxas remained silent, waiting to be commanded, a grim spectre ready to serve.

“Your grandson is in need of protection,” Harry intoned with the echoing cold voice of the other world. Abraxas’ stance tightened just the slightest bit, but he held himself rigidly still.

“Find him,” Harry continued. “Protect him.

Abraxas still did not move, and Harry instinctively knew that it was because he hadn’t dismissed the soul yet.

“Your son and daughter-in-law are also under my protection. You are to keep an eye on their status as well and, should the need arise, lead them to safety.”

Harry momentarily brought his hands together in an unconscious gesture reminiscent of a ruler addressing their court while seated on a throne, a posture that meant they had only their hands free to move as they wanted.

“Lastly, your son’s friend, teacher to your grandson, is a master of masks and lies—and he too falls under my purview. You will see to his continued health, but he is not to know of your existence.”

The side of himself that was not human didn’t care about names or titles beyond the very basic ones and preferred to use other designations to address or refer to people, hence the use of the somewhat odd and indirect manner of speech.

In the silence that fell Harry made to face the ruined painting again, before remembering the presence of the kneeling figure. He made a sharp gesture with his hand.

“Be gone,” he ordered.

And in the next moment, Abraxas was.

When Ron and Hermione came looking for him in a state of panic in the morning, they found their friend in that same room, seated in near-darkness before the dying fire in the fireplace. Harry told them he had just needed some time to think, which was mostly true as he had spent the majority of the night watching the fire be reduced to smouldering embers while planning and thinking—once the part of the night dedicated to summoning Abraxas was over and done with.

As expected, both Ron and Hermione took it to mean that Harry had needed the time to digest the chaotic events of the day before, put away the memories of the fighting, the disorder, the running, the panic and the worry.

They knew him well, too well sometimes, but Harry knew them even better—he saw the things that plagued them as if it were written on their faces.

Hermione looked harried, the worry over her parents she’d sent away to Australia a nearly visible weight on her shoulders.

Ron was equally strained, and in his case the attack on his family at Bill and Fleur’s wedding ate at his mind most of all.

Harry thought they really needed a distraction, and set his mind to work to provide one.

Soon, Harry managed to divert their attention to exploring the house, mainly the rooms of Sirius and his younger brother Regulus. They made several interesting discoveries, most of them personal enough that they crossed right into emotional territory, at least where Harry was concerned.

The younger Black brother seemed to speak to Harry through his belongings, the metaphorical voice loud enough that the Trio decided to call Kreacher and ask about his late favourite master.

In the conversation that followed it became clear that Kreacher was utterly terrified of Harry, shown in the way he cowered before the wizard, didn’t look him in the eye, didn’t dare to disagree with anything Harry said, tried but miserably failed to increase the physical distance between them and eventually settled on just staying as far away as permitted.

These details made Hermione give Harry suspicious looks, as if she was wondering what kind of depraved things Harry had done to the house-elf in just that one year since he had inherited him from Sirius to get the little thing so afraid of his new master.

Harry didn’t say anything, knowing that it was the way his magic reeked of death that terrified Kreacher, and the wizard didn’t think he could explain any of those circumstances without alienating either of his friends. One thing explained would lead to another and anything he left out would raise questions, prompt them to prod and poke until he gave in and told them everything, which then would eventually get to his true awakening only the night before last night, and then everything would be shot right to hell.

No, it was best to leave that revelation right where it was, for now—possibly forever.

Yet more hidden truths came to light when Kreacher came to tell the story of Regulus’ last orders and the circumstances of his near-certain death—eventually leading to the realisation that the locket Harry had handled during the clean-up of Grimmauld Place was actually one of Tom’s seven horcruxes.

As soon as they could, the Trio sent Kreacher on his way to collect Mundungus Fletcher, unanimously and nonverbally in agreement to not wanting to force the house-elf to endure more of Harry’s presence than strictly necessary.

Hermione had visibly been gearing up to interrogate Harry for the duration of the conversation, but she would never get around to actually unleash it. At first she was distracted by discussing the new insights talking with—or maybe it was more listening to—Kreacher had brought. Then it was planning, gathering information about the current state of Magical Britain, worrying over the long time it apparently took Kreacher to get Fletcher and the possibility that the house-elf had betrayed them again.

That last option was unlikely, however, seeing as he was not only terrified of Harry, but also fond of the new master that had gifted the house-elf the replicated locket that had belonged to his beloved former master Regulus—and between those two very different, yet extremely strong emotions, Kreacher shouldn’t have incentive to betray Harry either way.

Two days later Harry feared that Hermione would erupt like a volcano—he might’ve even spotted a wisp of steam coming from her ears, though it was most likely his imagination—but she was this time interrupted by an unexpected visitor at the door, which turned out to be Remus Lupin.

The ex-professor said he’d come to check up on them, independently, what with the usual ways of communication between Order members in shambles in the aftermath of Voldemort’s violent takeover of the ministry. Hogwarts was at that very moment being set up as a stronghold in the middle of the Scotland region, with other safe zones being created elsewhere for the rest of Britain.

Remus offered Harry the assistance and the protection he could give on the young man’s future travels, feeling conflicted all the while. Harry was the only proof left that his two best friends had lived, the one his chosen sister-in-law had died for, but his own unborn child was just as much physical proof of the mutual love between Remus and one Nymphadora Tonks—and Remus couldn’t be with both.

But Harry, clever little Prongslet that he was, saw right through his excuses—and ruthlessly crushed them all.

As hurt as Remus was by the sudden unveil of his insecurities, as bitterly awed of the man James’ son was becoming, the elder wizard was also very sad by the implications of the observations the werewolf had made over the few years he had truly known the teen.

The fact that Harry’s maturity did not match his age was very telling, a clear indication of having led a hard life, and Remus couldn’t help but be engulfed in a mixture of rage, guilt and depression whenever he allowed himself to think about it.

Only days earlier Remus had decided to make up for the years he had wasted with self-pity, mourning and hurt, but he now found himself sent right back to his wife and child before he could even start. Yet another sad truth to add to his list of reasons that fuelled his self-flagellation, but not nearly the one that stung the most.

Harry, Remus had already realised a long time ago, was an independent child and was on the verge of becoming an even more independent adult—life had taught the boy how to survive without help of any kind, be they adults or other people in general, and he would likely never be able to let himself be taken care of; that ship had sailed a long time ago.

No, Harry had no one when he needed somebody, and now that there were a couple of people, no matter how few their number—Remus among them—that would take care of Harry if only he asked, it was much too late.

The window of time in which Remus could have become Harry’s confidant had been so much smaller than expected—and he hadn’t even known, had to find out the hard way when they met again in Harry’s third year. Now Remus knew that he’d missed the opportunity completely, and there was no salvaging a bond that had never existed, there were no second chances for this sort of thing.

The best he could do, now, was earn Harry’s respect as a fellow adult, bond as friends or colleagues, a senior at most, grow close to the teen on an equal footing—because Harry would never accept anyone trying to claim authority over him, hurt as he was by people whom had abused their power as authority figures too many times to count.

That realisation had broken Remus heart several times over since he’d come to that conclusion, but he would survive, as he always had.

Right now he would respect Harry’s wishes—which, incidentally, also helped avoid the impressive temper that the teen had inherited from his mother—by returning to ‘Dora and supporting her.

After an epic row the likes of which they had never had before, Remus left with his (at the moment metaphorical) tail between his legs, clearly unable to stand up against Harry’s arguments and the emotional manipulation the teen wielded as deftly as if he had been sent to the Snake Pit instead of the Lions’ Den in his first year.

If Remus had even noticed the unexpected mastery of underhandedness, he was much too distraught to comment on it—Harry had very effectively guilted the man back to Tonks—but the two friends by Harry’s side had most definitely not missed that their supposedly quintessential Gryffindor best friend had somehow whipped out a distinctly Slytherin skill, and used it like a pro too.

They had known for a long time now that Harry wasn’t 100% a Gryffindor, but that didn’t help much when they were only now confronted with this much undeniable proof without warning and in such an intense manner.

They didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because that was when Kreacher returned, dragging a very unwilling Fletcher along to be interrogated. The elf was so excited at the prospect of the thief that stole from the House Black getting punished for his crimes that Harry being in close proximity barely fazed the house-elf this time. The crazy little thing even brandished a saucepan at the sneak that had stolen everything valuable he could get his grubby hands on—whacking him upside the head a few times to loosen up his tongue.

What they got out of Fletcher was decidedly less pleasant; he’d handed Umbridge the locket when she’d caught him in Knockturn Alley—which meant that the Trio had a ministry under Voldemort’s control to infiltrate, unless they could somehow hand the job over to the Order without letting the knowledge of the horcruxes spread, which was highly unlikely.

The Daily Prophet that Lupin had brought along and subsequently left when Harry’d sent him fleeing back out the door was only noticed when they had sent Fletcher away again—and the most note-worthy article it carried was an announcement on the set-up of a commission that was ominously named the Muggle-Born Registration Commission. Harry didn’t really need the accompanying text that was filled with propaganda of the Pure-blood supremacy variety, or the discussion about what the underlying purpose of the entire thing was, to know that it couldn’t mean anything good. Neither did he need to be told that the rag of a newspaper was by now firmly under Voldemort’s control.

It made their task more urgent than ever, and they set right to work.

Around that same time, at Hogwarts, a single teenage wizard stood alone in a certain room on the seventh floor.

Draco sighed while he put the tomes he’d read back on the shelf and bowed down to pick up the top book of a pile near his feet, exchanging the book he had stopped reading halfway through for another that he hoped would give him the information he needed. The Room of Requirement—as this place was apparently called—had kindly given Draco a nice bed, two tables and a few chairs, all arranged to give the place a bit of a homey feel.

Draco had initially resigned himself to long boring days with nothing to do but sleep and eat the food that was brought by a house-elf, because the room was apparently unable to provide it, but he hadn’t had to worry—rows upon rows with books filled the rest of the room, offering him all the information he could want for in this situation.

Hidden away in this chamber for the summer, Draco had been doing research that had been long overdue—in search of a likeness of the very sigil he carried on his skin, over his heart. There were uncountable variations of such symbols, but no entity would ever use another’s, only ever their own, and that had made the job slightly easier.

Eventually, he had found it—a picture of the flame-like mark that darkened his own skin. With hope hammering in his chest Draco had hurried to read the accompanying text, holding his breath in expectation.

The book had identified the entity it belonged to as the Master of Death, a title Draco had recognised from the popular children’s tale he had enjoyed so often in his youth, a familiar figure that was apparently much more than the mere legend it was widely believed to be.

It had gone on to describe some of the known cases in history where someone had been found to carry the veve of the Master of Death, and how their lives had unfolded and eventually ended. Draco had been about to close the book, having gotten his most important questions answered, for the moment, when he had noticed another mark—no, its size had made markings a more appropriate term—featured in the next part of the article.

It had been a lot bigger and far more elaborate, adding many more lines, curves and shapes to the basic design, but was otherwise the very same black fire/plume hybrid blooming on his own skin—and the knowledge had shocked Draco like nothing else had before in his life, since no Deity would deign to use a mark so similar to another’s that they could be easily confused, but somehow there apparently was one that did not mind the enormous potential for mix-ups.

If Draco hadn’t known better, he would have said that the two marks were meant to substitute for one another.

The description that had been given for the second mark had painted age-old tales of people reappearing that had already died, who had all worn these large distinct markings across their backs—and that all these dead people had been confirmed as not being given their marks by the (suspected) Master of Death of that time, but nonetheless obeyed them without question.

The author of the book had gone on to speculate that the likeliness of the two sigils meant that the two forces that owned them were closely related, or even collaborated as a matter of course. Thus, even though it was not confirmed, only speculated, the second seal’s owner had been given as Death—since it was the only known Deity that could possibly fit, the only Ancient Force that could reasonably be expected to allow the Master of Death to use Their contractors as if they were Their Own.

The tangent of rambling that had followed had held nothing more of interest to Draco and subsequent books he had read over the following days had had nothing new to offer.

Draco had his suspicions about the whole ‘Death shares with Master of Death’ affair, though, mostly because he thought that something just didn’t add up right. Potter was not merely a human with power—he had seemed much too powerful to be a mere human when Draco had seen him in the abandoned bathroom.

No, to Draco’s senses and instincts Potter was an otherworldly power locked in an unassuming human form and Draco’s fearful awe had not been lessened in the least by the one meeting he’d had with the Gryffindor right before being set up in the Room of Requirement.

The likeliness of the two insignias only gave more credence to Draco’s theory that Potter was more than just a human whom happened to have collected a few special relics.

Suddenly, Draco had a thought, a thought so terrifying that it seemed to freeze the world in place.

Could it be that there was no separation between the two forces in the first place?

That would explain… a lot.

If that were true, the situation was so much more complicated than Draco had thought—and the possibility alone caused an icy shiver to go through him, up his spine, leaving cold clinging to his heart.

Even years later Draco would not be able to pinpoint what made him look up from his book, rip his attention away from the potentially world-shattering theory he had just formed, and search the room for something that had changed—precisely at that moment.

There was a stranger standing in the shadows of nearby shelves, far away from where the only door of the Room of Requirement that led outside would appear. The stranger was a man with the same shade of white-blond hair and grey eyes that Draco saw in the mirror every day, wearing the very same type of black robe that Draco had worn for six school years now, and going by his age Draco estimated him to already be out of Hogwarts, if only by a few years.

For a lack of a better word, the man was… unsettling.

He looked like a Malfoy in everything, from his physical genetics to his stance—but Draco knew that man couldn’t be family, despite the uncanny resemblance to both himself and his father.

There were only three Malfoys left, and this stranger was not one of them. Draco had no older brother—he couldn’t be the heir to the Malfoy name if he wasn’t the oldest son to the current lord—and both his father and grandfather were only children, thus the man being a cousin was also out.

The stranger showed the Malfoy class that the family had down to a fine art, which ruled out the possibility of him being an unknown bastard child, and any legitimate family on Draco’s mother’s side would have similar class, but be of Black blood instead of from the Malfoy line.

Just who was he?

“Draco,” the man said softly, and as if his appearance hadn’t unsettled Draco enough, even the voice sounded wrong. Despite the perfect, if somewhat bland, intonation, despite sounding exactly like the young man barely out of school he appeared to be—it somehow didn’t fit.

It felt like the stranger’s voice was too high, too childish, for his body—that this person wore a form not his own and his voice had changed to match if for no other reason than to avoid confusion.

What was worse, Draco decided—once he was over the shock of hearing his name fall from this individual’s lips—was that there was at once an onslaught of emotion and no emotion at all in that single word, the two opposing states somehow coexisting in an disturbing mixture of impossible.

Like there was some force at work set to stripping any and all emotion from his voice and yet not quite succeeding at this task.

It was when the man set a foot forward that Draco was startled away from his internal panicking and was left to numbly watch as the figure completely emerged from the shadows that were cast by the shelves.

Draco was too shocked by the situation to consider whether to attack or to flee when the maybe-Malfoy steadily approached.

The moment he could, the man reached out to cradle Draco’s head in his hands with great care, swiping his thumbs over the teen’s jawline. The stranger’s face was set with affection and sadness.

“I am sorry that I was forced to leave your life so early. Had I been given the choice, I would still be here now.”

The man gave Draco a bitter smile.

“For the time being, I am here for you—as I should have been all along.”

Something in the words, in the tone—combined with all the things about sigils, Death and the Master of Death he had read in the last few days—caused the knut to drop for Draco.

“Grand… father?”

Before Draco’s eyes, the now-smiling figure changed drastically. At first Draco panicked, still on edge from the possibility that he could be right and equally tense from the just-as-possible option of being wrong.

It took a few seconds into the transformation until Draco could actually comprehend what was happening: the man was aging, gaining years with every second that passed—and the longer it took, the more heart-wrenchingly familiar he became to Draco’s eyes.

Soon, who was stood before Draco was his very own paternal grandfather, exactly as he’d been—if seemingly much more healthy than—when he had passed away from Dragon Pox years ago. Draco had still been little then, but he remembered his grandfather well enough to tell that this was him, this was the very same man whom his parents had always addressed with the title of ‘father’, who had doted on Draco as a young boy.

And for several long minutes, Draco Malfoy did nothing but cling to the dress robes Abraxas Malfoy now wore, and cry a river of bitter-sweet heavy tears.

At Grimmauld Place, the monotony of gathering information on the ministry was only briefly interrupted by a particularly bad collection of news pieces in the Daily Prophet that slandered the name of Albus Dumbledore and everyone known to be on his side, Harry himself included.

Included was also an article on Hogwarts, one that said the ministry actively discouraged sending children there because of ‘the multitude of unsavoury people present at the school’. The Trio took that to mean that the Order had likely relocated there.

An edition of the Daily Prophet of several days later held a list of muggle-borns that hadn’t shown up for interrogation—Hermione’s name among them.

Harry didn’t summon any other souls to help with the information gathering and neither did he speak to Abraxas again.

He could’ve hidden it easily, what with how driven, distracted and consumed Ron, Hermione—and, Harry supposed, himself—were by the task. He could’ve done it without repercussions, without needing to fear either being scolded or punished for breaking rules of the natural order.

It was just that this job was not part of his domain, had nothing to do with the dead, and to put souls on spying duty would cheapen the end results. And thus, he didn’t.

When the first of September came around a contingent of Death Eaters appeared outside, and set to guard the perimeter of the house they could reach, likely meaning to catch the Trio if they were there and attempted to leave through the front door.

Idiots.

The seventh-year students left by apparition, disapparating from the specifically designated apparition room of Grimmauld Place, to land right before the gates of Hogwarts, where they were welcomed inside without much fuss.

Once past the threshold of Hogwarts itself, it became clear that the castle had become a hive of activity since they had left at the end of the school year. Students of all years, both newly graduated and those about to graduate, professors, Order members, civilians and complete families that looked like they were about to keel over from stress where everywhere.

Pending the availability of somebody able to inform them of the situation, Harry, Ron and Hermione went to organise an immediate DA meeting with all members they could get a hold of—which turned out to be nearly all of them, including the majority of the graduates. They debated intensely for what felt like hours, but was in reality only two at most, about the takeover of the ministry, Voldemort, the defence of Hogwarts and what they could, should or would do about it all.

With the Golden Trio being very well known and easily recognisable high-profile targets, Luna, Ginny and Neville had apparently been planning for the eventuality of absence of any or all of the DA’s leaders over the summer holidays—plans that they now presented to Ron, Harry and Hermione.

Hermione was especially delighted with the forethought, and Ron was impressed by the good use of strategies for each and every possibility the sixth years (and one seventh year) had thought of, while Harry felt more secure in the knowledge that his group of defence students would be capable of fending for themselves in the eventuality that he wasn’t around to lead them.

What the three of them didn’t say was that they were likely to be heading out regularly throughout the coming school year (and possibly future years too) for the sake of tasks that the rest of the DA couldn’t accompany them on. Also, hunting the horcruxes was very likely to end up solely on Harry’s—and therefore the Trio’s—shoulders, not that the three seventh-year Gryffindors so much as hinted at any of that.

Luna, Ginny and Neville were instantly named substitute leaders, and schedules were rapidly put together to teach the two younger students and the Trio’s classmate everything they would need to know about running the DA and how to verify when they had to take over or hand the reins back.

Once that was done, the meeting was considered to be over and the students scattered about the school again, though there was a fair number that stayed behind in the large unused classroom they had commandeered for the occasion.

Harry led the way back to the entrance hall, but before they reached their destination the three Gryffindors ran into somebody they hadn’t expected to meet at Hogwarts—Harry included himself in that group because while he knew that this person was at Hogwarts, he hadn’t expected their paths to cross like this.

The sight of Draco Malfoy had the effect on Ron akin to waving a red flag in front of a bull—or shoving a Malfoy in the face of a Weasley, as was the case here.

The redhead stormed forwards and attacked the other pure-blood with remarkable ferocity, grabbing onto the front of the other’s school uniform, then violently shaking the Malfoy heir back and forth like a ragdoll.

“You! What are you doing here, arsehole?” Ron raged, now apparently doing his damned best to choke the Slytherin with the double-handed hold the redhead had on the other’s collar. “You poisoned me! You cursed Katie!”

It was a minor fortune that Ron was too incensed to think of drawing the wand he still wore in his arm holster and that Malfoy seemed to have no intention of retaliating by using his.

“Yes,” Malfoy answered with an impressively steady voice in the face of all that fury, while somehow managing to pull off the impression of a drowned, kicked puppy without losing any of his aristocratic air.

In the end, it took Ron four hours of shouting and swearing to get all the pent-up hate off his chest and he did not at all let up on the hold he had on the Slytherin for the entire tirade.

Hermione had sniffed somewhat imperiously at first when they had spotted the Slytherin, but had offered no comment on the young Malfoy’s presence, apparently preferring not to add more to the scene that Ron had already created—whether it was because she had already missed her opening to do so before Ron had broken loose or couldn’t muster the energy for it after having to wait for hours or had other things on her mind with far higher priorities… Well, that all remained up for debate, in Harry’s opinion.

Harry himself had silently stayed on the sidelines, not willing to draw attention to himself, and had then quietly drawn Ron away as soon as the hostilities had wound down, leaving his childhood rival to stand alone in the hall—said Slytherin still wore the odd look of befuddlement on his face that was produced some time after the first hour of his session up close and personal with Ron, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend that all the hostilities had ended without actual violence.

Just before Malfoy was out of view, Harry managed to unobtrusively mouth ‘until next time’ to the Slytherin over his shoulder, which he disguised as giving his rival an expected glare.

Hermione may have been the only one to have noticed that titbit, but if she did, she didn’t say anything.

A lot of food from the buffet served at the Great Hall—now furnished with many small round tables instead of the usual House tables—brought Ron right back to normal, though it had the side-effect of starting a new tirade of sorts.

“I can’t believe that I lost it like that,” Ron said in-between bites. “Dunno what about the git made me go off, but can’t say I’m sorry about it. Not entirely.”

Harry gave his best male friend a half-smile in reassurance—Ron seemed to need it at the moment.

“You doknow that Malfoy’s likely to be in trouble with his family over his desertion?” Hermione asked Ron with a vaguely questioning look.

“Ah yeah, I know. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s a git, or that he’s caused a lot of pain.” Ron paused there, thinking over his next words before he continued. “Look, I know that he was the one that gave us the info about You-Know-Who’s plans, but the point is that it isn’t because he wants to make amends or something. No, he’s scared to die, doesn’t want to be used as a pawn and then tossed aside. And that would have happened eventually if he hadn’t changed sides.”

A goblet full of pumpkin juice was emptied next into Ron’s metaphorical black hole of a stomach.

“My point is, he sure as hell isn’t sorry about anything he’s pulled over the years and that makes me angry. Malfoy is only gonna put up with us because we’re the least likely to kill him; we’re just the better chance to live through the war.”

Where all the other food had gone, a plate of pastries now followed.

“Don’t get me wrong, tho. I despise him and I don’t like slimy snakes in general, but I can’t say that I blame him completely,” Ron mused softly, then whispered gravely: “I wouldn’t wanna die either.”

In a more normal tone Ron continued: “I can get where he’s coming from, sorta. He’s a snake, not a lion, and the ponce is going about survival the Slytherin way—self-preservation and everything, yeah. Solving his problems as a Slytherin would—the path that is both logical and natural for him.”

Done with eating at this point, Ron’s flow of words seemed to be slowing down too. He was now less ranting and more grousing.

“Git’s just trying to save his own skin and his secondary priority is probably saving his mum and dad, but I can’t imagine him having any plans to help us. I don’t expect him to, really, but it would’ve been nice…”

The redhead drew in a single deep breath, then exhaled, long, slow and controlled.

“Lemme just say: I can tolerate him as long as he isn’t being a bloody arse—well, deliberately. But that doesn’t mean that I have to like him,” Ron finished, almost childishly petulant.

Hermione gave him a very bright smile that spoke of the fondness and pride of a long-term friend.

The Trio was quiet then, letting the sounds of people coming, leaving, walking to and from the food tables and eating at the round tables—deliberately devoid of House colours—wash over them. The murmurs in the background were somewhat soothing, reminding them that these people were safe for now, still alive, still had a chance to emerge from the conflict whenever it would end.

Ron, Harry privately mused, had done a lot of growing up while he hadn’t been looking—the thought of this mature Ron that the redhead was becoming, evidence of which had been shining through the words of his friend’s monologue, filled Harry with pride and happiness.

The feelings were strong enough that even his other part sat up and took notice of the situation, which in turn caused Harry himself to be filled with the familiar mix of otherworldly superiority and smug satisfaction.

The him here and the him there influenced each other heavily, some times more so than other times, and if there was something in either world that drew both their attention strongly enough, the normally linear connection would devolve into a feedback loop that kept amplifying their feelings ad infinitum—until they somehow ‘manually’ sorted out their connection to bring it back to its normal state.

Harry couldn’t quite grasp how his connection to his other half worked. It was completely unlike his tie to Voldemort—the only thing both links had in common was that they allowed to carry information between the parties it connected.

Harry’s understanding of this bond was full of holes and bizarre bits that did not make sense at all, plus all sorts of the strangest things that conflicted spectacularly with each other, which made it extremely hard for Harry to pinpoint precisely what it was and how it worked. He couldn’t even imagine trying to explain it to someone else—in such a way that he was understood, mind you—because it was entirely possible that the right words, the right definitions, simply did not exist.

It was a link, a bond, a connection, yet not. It essentially connected Harry to himself, but they were also separate entities/people/beings/whatever the right word was. The other part of him was essentially also Harry James Potter, while at the same time it wasn’t named Harry James Potter.

They (he) were (was) the same… something, yet both parts/aspects/personalities/halves/alter egos were perfectly capable of functioning separately—of should he say that they could do two things at the same time? They handled their respective areas independently and shared every bit of information (knowledge, memories, feelings, perspective) as they did it—the timing of when they actually received the information was as unclear as Trelawney’s crystal ball, but they assumed that the sharing would be immediate if it wasn’t for the odd quirks of time displacement between the two worlds.

They weren’t friends, nor acquaintances—could not be, because how could one befriend oneself?

They might function as if they were two people, but thought as one, and the two of them would never meet, not even when Harry’s life would come to its inevitable end. They as a whole, on the other hand, could never die, were (was) usually a singular entity with the exception of relative short periods of time.

It was entirely likely that Harry would never be able to take anyone into his confidence—and his inability to explain this connection of theirs was only one of many reasons.

All too soon Harry and his counterpart had to intervene into their bond to quell the waves of ever-strengthening emotions that were now on the verge of becoming overwhelming, and because Harry was doing this mostly on instinct it meant he was just mentally poking at the connection until it calmed—while feeling that he was flying completely blind (like every other time so far) yet somehow managing to get it done.

Their meal was finished without another word being spoken and the empty plates, just-as-empty goblets, cutlery and bowls (including the few leftovers there were) disappeared from the table as soon as the Trio stood up—leaving the table once more immaculate and ready for the next group that would sit there to eat.

In unspoken agreement Hermione, Ron and Harry went their separate ways for now. Hermione was undoubtedly headed for the library, Ron went to find whomever of his family had come to Hogwarts and Harry was in dire need of some alone time—which he eventually got in a very remote high-up hard-to-see alcove that had a good view of the main staircase below.

Hedwig had showed up about ten minutes after Harry had settled himself in the alcove and had landed onto a protruding stone of the wall Harry had pressed himself up to, carefully chosen for its close proximity to her human and its perfect height for comfortable petting without forcing Harry to overreach.

My clever girl, Harry had thought adoringly before starting the requested petting that he would not stop until it was time to get back to his friends. In response, Hedwig had begun warbling notes in as close of an imitation of humming a melody as she could, continuing the song for the entirety of their stay in that alcove.

So they had sat hidden from the rest of the castle, silently looking out over all the people going up and down the moving staircases.

The rest of the day held nothing noteworthy, except when—for the first time that day—the three Gryffindors returned to the common room in preparation for bed. Gryffindor Tower had been expanded to give about a fourth of the refugees a place to sleep, and it showed with the many doors that now littered two of the walls of the significantly enlarged common room. Each of the new doors led to a narrow hallway with yet more doors that held bedrooms and bathrooms.

The comfortable Tower suddenly felt rather cramped with so many people around. If there was a system to how people were assigned their rooms or even in which House their lodgings were, none of the Trio could see it. The only thing that they could reasonably be sure of was that family was placed together, but that was it.

The actual student dormitories were unchanged and so was their assignment, which was the only positive thing about the Tower’s current situation in Harry’s opinion. He pointedly did not want to think about the problems of having to share the dormitory with that many strangers would cause—even if it would only be a relative small portion of the total—he might just scream bloody murder.

Compared to last year, Harry had many more secrets to hide and he did not need yet more people witnessing his visions and nightmares at night, or ogling his belongings at day. He definitely did not need people staring and gawking even at one of his last safe havens at school.

His relief, Ron’s reassuring snores and Hedwig standing vigilant over him from on top of the footboard eventually lulled Harry to sleep.

The next day, starting from early in the morning, was filled with conversations with many people—with the Order, with students, with refugees—varying from acquaintances to total strangers, all wanting to know about the Trio’s plans or them to know about their plans. The Golden Trio bravely weathered the stream of people and did nothing else for the entire day—with the single exception that was caused by a brief vision Harry had of Voldemort searching for someone named Gregorovitch in a manner that left a trail of bodies behind him.

Luckily, it happened in between talks so that they could discuss the possible reasons that Voldemort would want another wandmaker when he already had Ollivander kidnapped—Neville had told them of this earlier that same day, as well as his theory about possibly being the man’s very last customer.

Hermione wasn’t happy about Harry’s continued receiving of visions since it—in her mind—indicated that Harry wasn’t putting in enough effort to occlude, possibly not at all. Harry wished he could tell her that he no longer had anything to fear from the connection since his awakening, but he couldn’t settle on how to tell her without touching upon the rest of it.

It was Ron that put an end to the discussion, telling both of his friends that they had to pull themselves together and that they didn’t ‘have time for this right now’, so the subject was dropped for the moment, and the three of them went back to the flood of people.

Then, at last, they were able to converse with Professor Dumbledore near the end of the day.

“Ah, but you see, dear children, I cannot leave Hogwarts,” Headmaster Dumbledore said. “Or perhaps it is better to say that I cannot afford to vacant the grounds at this point in time. Tom will undoubtedly have the school under watch, waiting for an opening to wipe out the competition, as it were. To get rid of anyone that could possibly jostle him out of his position of power.”

The old wizard held up his cursed hand for a moment. “Aside from that, I am presently undergoing treatment for this bit of cursework, carried out by our skilled Professor Snape and our capable Madame Pomfrey—who have decided to join forces for this particular project.”

Dumbledore made an expression that would have been described as ‘pouting’ if it had been just about anyone else in his stead.

“They have, in their infinite wisdom and shared expert knowledge, determined that I am not to venture outside for the time being—all for the sake of my own health and continued living, of course. The wards of Hogwarts are currently supporting my weakened constitution—similar to what the muggles would refer to as life-support, I believe—and provide the pair of them with more time to work on the curse.

Thus, I am afraid to say that I must leave the actual searching for the horcruxes to the three of you, as I am to remain here for the time being.”

There was not much that could be said to that.

“Excellent. Now, I am afraid that we must cut this conversation short for the moment, so why don’t you three return to your plans? I have given you all the current information on the horcruxes that I have available at this point in time so I’m afraid that I cannot do more for you youngsters.”

The headmaster gave them a blinding smile coupled with the famous eye-twinkle and deposited a handful of his trademark lemon drops into each of his students’ hands before he waved them to the door of his office.

Just before they actually reached the exit, Professor Snape entered, carrying a goblet from which smoke rose continuously—a sight very much reminiscent of when he would regularly deliver Wolfsbane potion to Professor Lupin in third year. It was likely a different potion, though.

Harry had sensed the gloomy man coming a long time before now, so he was the only one (besides probably the headmaster) that had expected Snape to show up. He pulled Ron along quickly, letting ‘Mione follow on her own initiative, dragging his friend down the moving staircase and away from the office.

In an out-of-the-way hallway that they had first thoroughly warded, Ron, Harry and Hermione converged to have a discussion of everything they’d heard and seen throughout the day.

They had been lucky enough to get the missing information about the ministry’s workings, layouts and schedules from Order members and non-members alike, enabling the three Gryffindors to finalise their plans earlier than expected—which made them set the date of execution much, much sooner than before.

That night, however, Harry dreamed of the confrontation between Voldemort and Gregorovitch that had been in the works. Harry demanded something from an upside-down-held Gregorovitch in a high and cold voice that felt completely different from Harry’s actual other voice. The man repeatedly said ‘I have it no more’ and that ‘it was, many years ago, stolen from me’—and then Harry saw a memory of the man running to a workshop where a golden-haired young man sat perched on the window ledge, who stunned the owner of the memory before escaping to outside, laughter echoing behind the figure. One more demand in the cold voice, one more reply begging for mercy, and then green light filled Harry’s view.

With screaming in his ears and green colouring his vision, Harry woke up while his heart raced and his scar throbbed. Ron was standing by his bed, pale and worried, his hands resting solidly on Harry’s upper arms.

Not a second later, Hermione came running inside, having been called by one of the other three boys—Harry couldn’t tell which—as was standard procedure in case of Harry having a vision of Voldemort.

And that it had been another vision was a certainty that Harry would not bother denying.

Dean and Seamus left the dorm room to give them some space, while Neville stayed inside. It was a rule the then-sixth years of the dorm had established that anyone was free to stay if they wanted to know what cruelties Harry had witnessed that night. If they didn’t want to know they would step outside for long enough to let the story be told while they couldn’t hear it.

Neville had so far never stepped outside, while Dean sometimes stayed and Seamus usually left.

But, whatever the extent of their knowledge, all of them knew enough to know not to let it spread.

And so Harry recounted his latest vision to Neville, Hermione and Ron, while also trying not to succumb to the lingering headache that was left in its wake. Hermione wore another disapproving frown, but seemed to have realised that Harry had decided on keeping his visions for now and that no amount of nagging or scolding would change his mind.

Halfway through the discussion that followed his description Harry recalled receiving Gregorovitch and sending the man on his way through one of the many doors leading beyond. He spared a brief thought about how the time discrepancy randomness had unexpectedly gone in his favour this time.

The aged wandmaker had worn the appearance of a young child and had obediently let himself be sent on, subdued from the violent circumstances of his death. With his presence in the realm, Harry’s other self was now aware of every last bit of the soul’s life, up to and including even the tiniest detail.

That golden-haired man had not died yet, or at least hadn’t yet appeared before him to be Judged, though he nevertheless seemed familiar to Harry. However, the man’s name being Gellert Grindelwald opened up yet another can of worms that Harry wasn’t yet ready to touch at this time.

As for the thing that had been stolen, well, it was the very wand that Harry had safely hidden away in another holster. He couldn’t help musing that it was so like Voldemort to only focus on the wand, on pure power, and disregard both stealth and knowledge in the process.

The exact form of the story that went around in this day and age was not known to Harry, but he knew all (most?) versions that had come earlier—something that should be rectified at some point, but that was a thing for later. However, Harry shouldn’t know any of that, so he acted as if he didn’t know anything beyond the bit about the wand the headmaster had told him last year and didn’t realise its importance.

Neville Longbottom knew more than anybody else of Harry’s friends that were not Ron or Hermione, but less than all the other people in on the knowledge. That was not enough to stop him from drawing his own conclusions or filling in the gaps on his own somehow.

The Golden Trio had a task to do this year, one of vital importance from what Neville could tell. It was likely more of Harry’s job than anything else, shoved off onto his shoulders because ‘he is the Chosen One’ or some other similar reasoning, and then picked up by Ron and Hermione—as much as Harry would let them, anyway—because they were good friends like that.

Neville had often wished he could do more, offer more help than a listening ear or being an attentive friend, no matter how scary the things that he would have to face would be if he did join Harry’s fights. He just wasn’t as clever like Hermione (‘the brightest witch of her age’) or as ready for adventure anytime like Ron (‘fifty points for the best played game of chess’)—not to mention that Neville couldn’t hold a candle to Harry himself; the bravest, kindest, humblest, most heroic person he knew or would ever know.

No matter how often Harry had told Neville that the latter would surely be ‘a great wizard someday’ and that what Harry did ‘wasn’t all that special’ Neville couldn’t really believe the words. It was nice of his friend to say that, but that didn’t make it true.

Still, since the Battle of the Department of Mysteries Neville had participated in two years back, his self-confidence had been steadily increasing. Neville had joined Harry for the ride on the thestrals to the ministry, had fought in its bowels, had come out alive and victorious, if injured—and all entirely on his own merit.

Now, with all the knowledge and experience he had accumulated, Neville thought that he was beginning to understand what Harry had been trying to say over the years.

For all his many virtues, being good with words was not one of Harry’s talents, but it was only half of the reason why it had taken so long.

Neville hadn’t been able to see it, not then, weighed down under the strain of his many insecurities as he was, but now he had matured enough to leave that self-destructive mind-set behind. He was no longer fettered in his growth, and now he could see what Harry had always meant to convey.

Neville had the potential to be great, had a promise of obtaining strength in exchange for putting in enough effort, while Harry had grown up so much faster than anybody else because his life’s circumstances had forced it long before he would be ready—it had required Harry to be ready years before his natural time.

Everybody had their different talents and wildly varying potential for strength, and Harry—with his insight born from this early maturity—had long since seen the kind of strength Neville already possessed, that he had only needed to nurture for it to bloom.

Armed with this realisation, Neville felt he was now ready to do his part in fighting for the Light in this war, determined to do the most good he could.

And so, over the summer Neville had come up with ways to ensure Harry’s freedom to move independently from the DA and the Order, away from Hogwarts if necessary, without losing the option of backup—ideas for which he had recruited Ginny and Luna’s help to realise.

Their plans had gone beautifully, which had bolstered Neville’s confidence further and had fanned his metaphoric fire of determination from an unsure flickering flame in the red-hot range right into a resolute steady blaze in the white-hot stage.

Neville’s last tiny doubts over the path he had chosen had been all but obliterated when Harry had quietly praised his ideas at the DA meeting and had later in private said in no uncertain terms that Neville was doing good, that he was shaping up into the amazing wizard that the Potter (and Black) heir had always known to be lying dormant inside the Longbottom heir.

And this time, Neville believed every word.

Seeing as the discussion on Gregorovitch, the thief, Voldemort—and whatever the object was that all of them either used to have, stole or wanted—stalled quickly, the four students decided to just go back to bed for a few more hours of sleep. Harry had taken care not to give anything of his knowledge on the wand away—not yet sure of how to talk about his ownership of it without messing up.

They settled on the theory of Voldemort wanting to know more about how Harry’s wand kept reacting with his even when another wand was used. It was by no means certain, and both Ron and Hermione knew it, but as long as Harry didn’t figure out how to give the information he had, there wouldn’t likely be another way to come to the right conclusion.

The next morning the three Gryffindors set out early after having eaten a hearty breakfast, leaving the leadership of the DA in the safe hands of their substitute leaders.

Hermione hadn’t liked it at all, but they had been forced to conclude that the Order members were completely useless, with how busy they were right now and the need for secrecy on the subject of the horcruxes—so she, Harry and Ron would infiltrate the ministry alone and without immediate backup.

They completed their mission of infiltration on enemy territory without much grace, although they did manage to steal the locket horcrux in the end. With how many people the ministry was short now, even with the added Death Eaters to the ranks, things had been extra busy and everybody at the ministry was overworked, which meant that three well-prepared determined seventeen-olds pretending to be random people working there wasn’t noticed at all.

They finally caught Umbridge when she was on her way to her designated courtroom on level ten for ‘questioning’ of some kind in her capacity as Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission, Harry managing to stun her and snatch the locket from her neck just as she stepped out of the lift.

Immediately afterwards, Harry told the huddled muggle-borns and half-bloods waiting on benches outside the courtrooms to run, hide, save themselves, be anywhere else than at the ministry, even as both Ron and Hermione cast patronus charms to chase the dementors guarding them off.

Harry refrained from calling upon his own patronus because he knew that the horcrux he was holding would likely negatively impact him if he tried. Besides, the otter and terrier were enough for the number of dementors present. He couldn’t shake the thought that without the extra in-depth intelligence they had obtained and the reassuring, unconscious knowledge that there was Hogwarts—a safe haven—to return to afterwards, everything likely would’ve gone a lot messier and would’ve been so much riskier.

Harry continued carrying the locket all the way back to Hogwarts, inwardly shuddering at the foul energy the thing emitted and refusing to let it so much as come near either of his friends. Unfortunately, Ron got caught by one of the tendrils of power just enough to make him fight with Hermione and stomp off once they were back at the castle. While ‘Mione ran after Ron as soon as she realised he had taken off, Harry took the opportunity of being left alone to conjure a special cloth and wrap it around the soul container, rendering the dark energy at least somewhat contained.

The Boy-Who-Lived visited with Alastor ‘Mad-eye’ Moody in the infirmary for a bit to drop off the retired auror’s magical eye that the student had liberated from Umbridge’s office door. The bedridden man was understandably wary of Harry when the eye was held out to him, but eventually accepted the object he was handed.

As soon as his back was turned, Harry heard Moody mutter detection spell after detection spell to find out in what way—in the paranoid man’s mind if at all was never really considered to be an option—the eye had been tampered with. The Gryffindor had to hold back a snort of laugher despite the seriousness of the situation.

In the days afterwards, the black magic clinging onto Ron tightened its hold, making the moody teen even more volatile than usual, despite Harry’s best efforts to pry it loose. This clearly indicated that its source, the locket, had to be destroyed—or unmade—first, because it would hold on for as long as its origin existed.

There was a way to separate the soul and the container, but Harry didn’t think humans knew the ritual for it any longer. It was possible that the centaurs still remembered, but there was little chance that humans would think to ask and neither was there much chance that the centaurs would (pretend to) give up the knowledge, willingly or otherwise.

That left him only two options: employ the usual method of destroying the horcrux or find a way to perform the ritual secretly. The latter method would be significantly more difficult to pull off, as Harry would have to make up believable enough reasons to do the ‘destroying’ of the horcruxes alone and unobserved, if necessary arrange for fool-proof ‘destroyed’ substitutes and hide the liberated containers where they wouldn’t be found for the time being.

While the option of doing the ritual was much more difficult and probably not the best route to take if he wanted to keep himself free of more secrets that could be discovered by others, Harry had a bit of a preference for doing it anyway.

This had nothing to do with either of his roles—the Saviour and the Guardian—no, this was purely a desire of his human self, to set right what had irked him ever since that final private lesson with Dumbledore last year.

He did not want to let Voldemort get away with not only tainting the rare artefacts he had undoubtedly used as soul vessels—among which were likely to be a lot of the Founders’ items—but also causing the items to be irrevocably lost in the process of vanquishing him, since the point of destroying an horcrux was making the object uninhabitable for the soul piece, meaning that the vessel would have to be ruined beyond repair.

Harry didn’t know yet what direction he would choose and while he wavered over what to pick, the pressure on their group was rising towards its breaking point.

A somewhat impromptu visit to what had once been Wool's Orphanage in London yielded zero results, not that Harry had expected any, and returning to Hogwarts this time meant dodging the swarm of dementors that had descended on Hogsmeade like some exceptionally black cloud of depression taken physical form on the ground.

Sneaking past them required the Trio to lay off on summoning their patronuses, which Harry had no choice but to be unwillingly grateful for—this way, Ron and ‘Mione wouldn’t be forced to take note of the locket horcrux’ destructively demoralising influences on the psyche of anyone who so much as dared to come within range of its magic.

Merlin forbid if either of them were to experience the malevolent effects of actually handling it—which was the exact reason that Harry made sure that he was the only one to ever touch or carry the locket.

It couldn’t hurt him, precisely; the influence of the other world that was always present prevented anything harmful the black magic could (try to) do to him, but this did not mean that it was completely without its effects.

Harry felt constantly nauseous, though it was more like an echo of the actual state than anything else—best described as feeling it mentally without having any of the accompanying physical reactions—and he was also in an endless state of unnatural exhaustion. He felt so tired, was always carrying a weariness that went soul-deep—and it too was, again, some disturbing sort of mimicry of its real counterpart.

Neither could be cured with regular methods like plenty of food, rest, medicine or similar things—he knew it wouldn’t help at all and so Harry didn’t even try to take that route—the contact between Harry and the locket would have to be broken for that, either by ending the existence of the horcrux (not necessarily brought about by its destruction) or by spending long enough without (and far away from) the locket that Harry’s magic could wean itself off the negative influence.

Their next clue for their horcrux hunt came when Harry, Ron and Hermione happened to overhear a conversation between Ted Tonks, Dean Thomas, a wizard named Dirk and two goblins by the names of Griphook and Gornuk. The group of humans and goblins were discussing what had led to each of them deciding to hide out at Hogwarts—how Dean had ended up in their company was a mystery and his story didn’t clear that up at all, but it was not important right now because what the goblins had to say was much more interesting.

Gornuk said that the bank was ‘no longer under the sole control of my race’ and that someone had demanded of him to ‘retrieve’ the Sword of Gryffindor for them, which he had refused as it was ‘a duty ill-befitting my race’ and he was ‘not a house-elf’. He gave more details about the situation, to which the trio of eavesdroppers also paid close attention.

Eventually, the Golden Trio reeled in the Extendable Ears and retreated to the far back of the storeroom they had happened to be in when they had heard the mixed-race group talking.

Voldemort apparently wanted the sword, but it couldn’t be to make more horcruxes as he had already reached the number he wanted—likely not knowing that two were already gone and that one more was about to follow—so why would he waste resources on getting another pretty trinket now?

They managed to catch Dumbledore—who happened to be in the company of Professor Snape at the time—not too long afterwards to ask him about the sword and Voldemort’s interest in it with such an odd timing. The headmaster only twinkled his eyes at them and somehow made Snape pull out the sword of thin air to hand it over to a dumbfounded Harry— actually, it was more Snape roughly dumping it into Harry’s hands while wearing his usual sneer—without giving the man so much as a word or a signal.

“I believe Miss Granger can more adequately explain the properties of Goblin-made blades,” the aged wizard said with a wink. “You may already need to put the sword to use I see. Good luck,” the headmaster added, giving the spot where the locket hung underneath Harry’s uniform a sharp look.

Then, both adult wizards took their leave while the three speechless students were left standing in the hallway to gape at their disappearing backs.

“So,” Ron eventually said. “Any idea what that barmy old coot meant?”

Even Hermione’s automatic cry of “Ron!” didn’t discourage the redhead from pulling the answers out of their mutual female friend with all the considerable energy and stubbornness he was capable of.

Hearing Hermione’s usual long-winded explanation, of which the most important part was ‘Goblin-made blades imbibe only what strengthens them’ quickly led to the realisation that since Harry had killed a Basilisk with the sword in second year, it would now be impregnated with Basilisk venom—a substance strong enough that it could destroy a horcrux’ vessel.

Harry was swept along with the excitement in the wake of knowing that they had the means to destroy this horcrux, as well as the rest of them as soon as they got a hold of their containers, though he still had mixed feelings of indecision about it.

Ron was the most driven about getting around to ending the horcrux, perhaps precisely because he subconsciously felt the strong, dark influence he was under.

None of them were keen on releasing the highly dangerous magic of the locket during its destruction in a place as populated as Hogwarts, but they couldn’t think of a place where the risk wasn’t as great. With the dementors’ presence surrounding the school and stationed in Hogsmeade, they didn’t want to risk being caught when sneaking past them any more than they had to.

Besides, who knew what nasty side-effects being so close to so many dementors—more than would ever have been stationed at Azkaban at any given time, from what the Trio could gather—too often could have?

No, they preferred to find a spot somewhere in the castle, if they could find one. The Forbidden Forest would’ve been their immediate preferred location, but it just wasn’t feasible in this situation—the trip over the grounds would leave them too exposed, and the various creatures of the forest could either be harmed by the black magic of the locket or be a threat to the students themselves.

An abandoned corridor, secret passage or out-of-the-way room would not do either—there was always a chance that somebody would stumble upon it—and the two rooms that the Golden Trio could think of that were sufficiently isolated were not suitable for other reasons.

The Room of Requirement was at risk of having its integral magic damaged by the process of destroying the horcrux and there was also a real chance that the black magic residue of the room they would have it turn into would seep through to the other variations of the room—not to forget that those were also frequented by other people than just the three Gryffindors.

The Chamber of Secrets, on the other hand, could quite possibly be uniquely suited for the job—as far as the space Harry had killed the Basilisk was concerned—but it was possibly hiding some nasty surprises that could pose a danger to the seventh years if they went there for horcrux-breaking. If they were going to use it at all they would have to scout out the entire chamber and make sure everything’s safe, which would cost time and resources they simply didn’t have. They might even need a curse-breaker or two—and trying to maintain the secrecy in that scenario would be an absolute nightmare.

So, in short: they were really in need of a place somewhere.

After a day of fruitless searching, Harry decided to spend his very late evening with a walk through Hogwarts’ halls, for the first time since he’d returned to the castle. Only one hallway in he was already joined by a certain female ghost.

“Hey, Harry,” she smiled at him. “You’re back.”

“Hello, Myrtle,” he returned, feeling his spirits lift somewhat by her mere presence. His current frustration and the ever-present exhaustion appeared to ease up a bit because of the pleasant company.

“I’ve found many new places since last time. Do you want to know?”

Harry agreed easily—her stories were much more interesting to listen to nowadays, and the two of them got along much better with all the bonding time the human and the ghost had had together. Also, Myrtle was cheerier and much less prone to crying ever since he had introduced her to the concept of regularly taking a stroll outside her bathroom.

Accompanying him had had a good effect on her, which was why he had eventually suggested she try it on her own, and she had taken to the idea with then-unimaginable joy. Apparently, nobody had thought to clue Myrtle in on that she could leave her bathroom in a different way than only through the plumbing—that though ghosts were tied to a place, it didn’t mean they couldn’t temporarily leave.

Anyone would get depressed if they were practically imprisoned inside very the same room they’d traumatically died in, not to mention that the rest of Hogwarts’ ghosts hadn’t as rigidly stayed where they’d died either—Harry had asked.

Myrtle rattled off a long list of hidden spots and deserted corners that she had investigated over the summer, each and every one of them accompanied by an anecdote or two.

She smiled and laughed often during the spinning of her tales, clearly overjoyed to have an audience that attentively listened to her. Harry couldn’t help but smile back at her, all the while encouraging the little ghost to entertain them both with yet more stories.

“So, Harry,” she eventually asked him. “What are you doing now?”

She had taken to asking him this question as a sort of counterpart to Harry’s usual question of ‘what have you found this time?’ because Harry didn’t really go on his walks to explore the castle—Harry walked to relax, to focus on his senses in a manner that was similar to meditation; he wandered wherever he felt like and went wherever he wanted.

Normal meditation didn’t suit Harry—it was one of the reasons that Occlumency hadn’t worked out at all—he was much too energetic and had too much of a chaotic mind for that sort of thing. Harry was not a thinker; he was a feeler, a wizard ruled by his instincts, and ordering him to clear his mind was like asking if Voldemort could be tickled into submission—theoretically possible, but not a feasible method to reach the intended goal.

Myrtle understood enough about Harry’s version of a walk that she never bothered with asking for whatever he might have seen, and therefore she always asked after his current life instead.

Harry was about to launch into descriptions of his activities of the summer, starting with being shipped back to the Dursleys, when he realised that he might possibly have found a solution for his current problem.

So he began by getting her up to speed on his latest task without going into too much detail—for example, he described the horcruxes simply as extremely dark artefacts of Voldemort’s that made him powerful enough to keep himself alive (which was all technically correct; just not the whole story)—while still giving Myrtle enough information that she had a reasonable understanding of what Hermione, Harry and Ron were looking for and why their first options didn’t meet their needs.

“Myrtle, would you know a spot for us that’ll let us get rid of the artefacts safely?”

She took a few minutes to think about it, then nodded a bit absentmindedly.

“What do you know about the dungeons?” she asked him then.

In the next moments Harry learned that although the dungeons were considered to be the home ground of the Slytherins, they really knew only a portion of it. While other floors tended to house shortcuts to a lot of other parts of the castle, the dungeons were so far out of the way that most people—including the Slytherins themselves—usually only bothered to learn the passages they needed, such as the way in, out, and the route to Potions class.

There were entire sections of the dungeons that had fallen into disuse, or had simply been forgotten—several parts had even been sealed off at some point in time.

In the days of the founders Hogwarts castle had been exactly that; a castle—it was meant to withstand sieges, and that came with not only extensive defensive fortifications but also with measures for after the battle was over.

Prisoners had to be stashed somewhere, so there was a shielded part of the dungeons with cells to safely lock them into—as far away of the students as possible, naturally. Nearby were other amenities that had been very desirable in those times, and one of them was an honest-to-goodness ritual chamber.

Myrtle’s suggestion to use the ritual chamber as their location was absolutely brilliant and Harry was amazed by her perfect solution for not only the obvious problems, but for also solving issues that he hadn’t breathed a word about to anyone—because now, all of a sudden, Harry opting for the ritual destruction of the horcrux had just become a whole lot easier.

Ritual chambers were no longer being built—ever since rituals had been labelled ‘Dark Arts’ indiscriminately—and they were now considered a rarity. If one had survived the passage of time, it would usually be sealed to prevent it from being used for the now-forbidden practice of rituals.

They were usually made out of heavy stone or other very magic-resistant materials, always constructed so that they were nearly impervious to magic—no matter the form, quality or quantity of said magic—and because rituals always left enormous build-ups of potentially dangerous magic behind once the ceremony was over and done with, ritual chambers had measures that would let the magic drain away quickly and dissipate the focused energy safely.

In a way, destroying the locket would be like a ritual—an exceptionally destructive ritual—which once more proved that this remote, hidden ritual chamber was the perfect location. Harry couldn’t be happier with the development, and he told Myrtle so, prompting an impressive bout of blushing on the ghost girl’s part.

In the hours that followed, Harry was first led to the ritual chamber by a still-pleased-looking Myrtle, then Harry showed Ron and ‘Mione the way to the part of the dungeons where the chamber could be found—neither of his friends had gone to bed yet and were adamant that he show them the chamber right now—and at last the three Gryffindors immediately prepared all that they could need for the locket’s destruction.

It was already nearing midnight when they started, all set up in the middle of the ritual chamber. Myrtle had opted to stay away, citing that she didn’t want to risk negatively influencing the process and possibly harming herself or any of the living students just to satisfy her curiosity.

As soon as all the safeguards were in place, Harry hissed at the locket with Parseltongue, commanding it to open, and it did. The locket and the sword hadn’t been in actual close proximity until now, as Harry had secretly taken measures to isolate the horcrux’ magic to the best of his ability while being as unobtrusive as he could, which meant that the locket had effectively been in its own ‘bubble’ of space for the entire time he’d had it, until the black-haired student had had to remove the protections so that they could go about destroying it.

Also, when the three students had each been preparing their own share of things for the ritual of destruction the Golden Trio would officially be preforming, Ron was the one who had gotten the sword to the ritual chamber while Harry had secretly been collecting some things of his own, separate from what Hermione had ordered him to get.

The locket’s magic lashed out at all three of them at the sight of Ron holding Gryffindor’s Sword, screeching, and Harry—who had been waiting for a moment like this—immediately fed the flow of unstable magic to make it explode where it otherwise wouldn’t have, even as he flooded Hermione and Ron’s minds with his own brand of dark magic to put them to sleep, all the while praying that he was not misjudging the amount of power he was using.

Both of his friends dropped to the floor immediately—or would have if the locket’s magic didn’t fling them away—but Harry didn’t have time to worry about their landing since the opening he’d created to do this was very small and he needed to work quickly.

Harry had ultimately decided that he was going to tackle the matter of which method to use for horcruxes on a case-by-case basis—he’d go along with destroying them, unless he found an opening that allowed him to do it differently. He had suspected that on some level he had long since decided to do it this way, because the option of going with the true ritual had never left his mind, no matter how unlikely the odds had grown that he could pull it off.

Because Harry was so intimately connected to the other side, he was actually able to use shortcuts that would have been impossible (read: lethal) for anyone else to use—and he sure as hell wasn’t going to recommend anyone to attempt practicing shortcuts at all when it came to rituals. He would normally never use them himself, but he supposed that needs must.

The essential items for the version he was about to use had now been reduced to just a few odds and ends that he had easily gathered and Harry’s unique status let him skip entire parts of the proceedings, which further reduced the time it took to go through the steps of the ritual of unmaking.

Soon, all that was left was the actual dealing with the horcrux.

Harry felt the bindings holding the bit of Riddle to the locket unravel, become more and more frayed in a matter of seconds, while the ritual magic built up until was so thick that Harry could not just sense it, but see it too; a gleaming mass of magical energy that opposed the black magic, pressing down upon it with the strength of a solid wall, even as the latter lashed out in frantic attempts to save itself.

Harry reached out with his senses to connect with the magic surrounding him, blending his own human magic into the mixture until he had some sort of a foothold. Then he called up and mixed in his other magic—which was cold and dark where the type of only moments earlier was warm and light—until all the magic inside the chamber that didn’t belong to the locket could be wielded by Harry like it belonged to him.

Just before would truly start to tear into Riddle’s horcrux, the Gryffindor reached out and scattered the wisp of power that had a hold on Ron. Then he made the magic convene where the locket was and proceeded to methodically tear the horcrux from its vessel and rip the soul piece apart, shredding it so thoroughly that nothing from this world could ever fit the bits back together again—even as he recalled having already received the flayed and mangled shards of soul in the afterlife for what seemed quite some time ago.

All too soon nothing even remotely resembling so much as an iota of soul was left behind in the ritual chamber and the black magic was rendered more-or-less harmless with how it was now without its source. Harry hurried to create a duplicate of the locket which he then force-fed as much of the lingering residue of black magic that he—in a manner of speaking—could get his hands on.

He forcefully impaled the fake artefact with the sword and watched as the black magic that had barely gotten the chance to latch on sizzled out once more. Only when Harry had hastily gotten rid of all the traces that pointed to the alternative route he’d taken in dealing with Riddle’s bit of soul—which included scooping up the cleansed locket to safely store it in his mokeskin pouch—could he afford to check on Hermione and Ron.

The numerous safeguards had done their job properly, it turned out, and both of his friends were soon up and going about their usual routines: Ron pacing agitatedly and cursing a blue streak, while Hermione was analysing what had happened.

Hermione immediately assumed that the locket had felt threatened by the presence of the sword and knocked both her and Ron out with the force of the earlier blast. She also theorised that the surroundings (aka the ritual chamber plus their measures) had to have interfered with the focus of the locket’s magic, weakening it from a lethal blow to merely one strong enough to knock them unconscious. Finally, she said that she was grateful that she had thought to set up so many layers of protection and even more safeguards.

It was not spoken aloud, but neither Ron or Hermione saw any reason to question how Harry had managed to stay conscious under the onslaught of magic long enough to put the sword through the locket—both of them simply put it down to Harry’s survival instincts and general stubbornness.

Harry wisely didn’t comment on anything that had happened, the way he also would have reacted if he’d just actually destroyed a horcrux and in the process gotten attacked by its magic. He tucked the supposedly ‘destroyed’ horcrux in his pocket while his friends watched.

One more down, another three to go.

Things were quiet once more in the month that followed, and while he did get some stuff done during that time, at the end of it Harry thought that it was high time he’d get back to his other somewhat urgent task—one that had to do with his status as the Master of Death.

The three artefacts he’d collected—they had once been known as the Hallows of Death, so that was the name he would go with until Harry found out what their modern names had become—had never left his side since that fateful night of awakening.

The cloak was always in his mokeskin pouch and the only Hallow that his friends truly knew about, while he kept the stone and wand somewhat half-heartedly hidden on his person—Harry wouldn’t mind if his closest friends found out, but he did make the effort not to openly carry any of the three Hallows, as the discovery of those last two in particular would create an uproar at the very least.

Harry had by now experienced what he’d already suspected last summer: the Hallows were sentient in some manner, had varying behaviour that could be interpreted as being the result of having their own personalities. They weren’t aware in the sense that they had a consciousness, but they did have moods and preferences that they expressed through the fluctuations of their magic and their connection to Harry.

The wand was aggressive and impatient, constantly urging Harry to attack, to act, to jump into the next stages of his plans long before it was time—which arguably made it the hardest of the Hallows to deal with, as well as the one most likely to buck under Harry’s control.

The stone was a tricky one, whispering sweet temptations in his ears, all with irregular timing to throw off his balance, trying to seduce Harry to use it use it use it and simultaneously encouraging Harry to do so whenever it suited him—it was the most persistent and unpredictable of them all.

The cloak, however, was rather tame in comparison; that one was in fact more apathetic than anything else, always trying to hold Harry back, nudging him towards standing on the sidelines, continually trying to convince Harry that things were too much trouble or cost too much energy or weren’t worth it—all of them thoughts that were distracting at best and bad for his self-esteem at worst.

Their influences were quite annoying, mainly because they did nothing but hinder Harry, and even now, with the moment of his awakening already having passed, he was still unable to go anywhere without the Hallows following like particularly stubborn clingy children.

Not only that, but they didn’t even work well with Harry’s magic—not as well as they should—in fact, this specific set of Hallows just didn’t fit the latest Master of Death at all.

Harry knew that the three artefacts didn’t match him because they were made especially for the Master of Death before him—his previous incarnation. That person had been much like Neville was in first year; painfully shy, hesitant to the point of standing still if she wasn’t urged to act, easily scared, too emotionally involved with every odd person she met—and that was why the Hallows were the way they were.

The Hallows of Death were more than simply conduits for Harry’s magic and symbols of his title—they were meant to complete both his magic and his personality, to balance his human flaws and help ground him as a mortal carrying the burden of being connected to the other realm.

Even so, the situation couldn’t—shouldn’t—continue the way it was, what with the current set of terribly ill-suiting Hallows slowly driving Harry mad at a steady rate. He would’ve had to deal with them eventually—Harry just hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

So—after having told Ron and Hermione that he needed a break from everything—Harry set out once again on his own, this time to deal with his recalcitrant Hallows. Both of his friends thought that their mutual best friend would find a hidden spot somewhere in Hogwarts to sequester himself for the coming days, far away from the overgrown Hogwarts population—but Harry unfortunately didn’t have the room for indulging himself that way, though he dearly wished he could.

No, he ventured out of Hogwarts, past the storm cloud of dementors surrounding the premises of the castle grounds, following where his instincts led, as all the while they kept forgetting to inform his mind of their decisions.

Harry was at the starting point of a path that all of his predecessors had walked, one that was never physically the same yet still matched all its previous forms in essence and importance. It was the Hallows’ Route, the road that was one of the aspects that separated the true-born Masters of Death from those that liked to fashion themselves to be a bearer of the title, but never could become one.

Walking the Hallows’ Route was a prerogative for the true Master of Death alone, and there would only ever be one single person to set foot on it, and in this day and age that person was named Harry Potter. He would always have walked it eventually, but hadn’t quite planned on it being this soon—circumstances being what they were, Harry had been forced to move it to the present.

The first apparition brought him to a rolling meadow, the repetitive landscape only interrupted by a single prominent hill that was far larger than any other. Harry strolled up to the top of the hill, taking his time for each step he made with an unhurried pace, sinking away in an unbothered state of calm contemplation and quiet observation.

There was an old tree at the very top, grown crooked by age and damage over the years, that nevertheless still stood proudly on its hill. This time of the year meant that the branches were almost completely bereft of leaves, clearly showing that its bark was furrowed and the wood that was peeking out here and there, where the bark was damaged, showed white-yellowed wood that was darkened to nearly black at places.

Harry walked up to the base of the tree and laid his hand on its trunk with nothing but a small sigh at the contact with the rough bark. A soft green glow underneath his hand for just a moment answered him, prompting Harry to reach out and pluck a specific branch off the tree with a nod of thanks.

The second apparition landed Harry on the outskirts of Azkaban Island, the ease with which the student landed signifying that the anti-apparition wards were down, or at least too weak to fulfil their primary purpose.

He walked, unruffled, right through the throng of dementors milling about the island and its prison—for once remaining completely unaffected by their collective demoralising aura—looking, watching, waiting.

Soon, the Gryffindor spotted a single black-cloaked figure detach itself from the rest and glide towards the other side of the island, all alone. Harry followed at a safe distance until it stood on the very edge of the cliff this part of the coast consisted of, before he closed in on the lone dementor.

The being seemed to shiver as it turned around and presumably caught sight of the young wizard that was approaching. It appeared to deflate, almost as if it gave up on fighting because it could no longer muster the will to live, and before Harry ever reached the dementor it went down, its black cloak rippling as the creature itself fell down the few feet to the ground in a manner resembling a fluttering leaf.

Harry once again reached out with a single hand, somehow completely unconcerned that he was about to stick it underneath the cloak of a dementor, and eventually pulled what seemed to be a chunk of jet-black crystals from the creature’s body.

The third apparition ended with Harry coming face-to-face with another dark creature resembling a living black shroud, except this one looked less like it wore the garment and more like it was the shroud. All Harry did was hold out both his arms in a soundless request, and the being responded by draping its shroud over the young man’s arms and its remains vanishing in wisps of black smoke immediately after.

The teen spared a moment of silence to silently wish the being—as well as the dementor of earlier—a peaceful rest, not wasting much thought on the fact that he was essentially (sort of) praying to himself with this reflexive human response.

The fourth and final apparition saw Harry back at the Forbidden Forest, but still far beyond the edge of Hogwarts’ wards, where he started to wander amongst the trees, unafraid of whatever could decide to come out and attack. He was joined by the herd of thestrals in minutes, the inquisitive creatures following him all the way back out of the forest, and even then they did not leave.

Harry soundlessly approached one of them and made to lift himself onto its back. The thestral in question did not protest at all, seemed even to be quite interested in the human now sitting on its back.

They were airborne the next second.

For the corner of his eye Harry could barely catch a glimpse of a few centaurs standing underneath the trees at the very edge of the forest, whom had come all the way to see him off, before the forest disappeared in the distance.

Trusting the thestral he rode to know where he needed to go, Harry spent his time during the flight taking in the breathtakingly beautiful night sky, watching the rest of the herd that was flying along and enjoying the ride—not even bothering to look for landmarks in order to find out where he was brought to.

When Harry jumped down from the thestral onto muddy forest ground, he simultaneously pulled out a hair from the creature’s tail in one smooth move. The strand he held was smoky and wispy in his hand, and felt mostly like he was holding onto a bit of cloud, but Harry had memories of many other thestral hairs he’d handled before, thus he wasn’t at all daunted by the prospect of dealing with this one.

A shallow bow of thanks from Harry was all it took to send the thestrals on their way back to Hogwarts, neighing in what seemed like either greeting, goodbye or a wish for good luck before their silhouettes vanished into the dark night.

Now that Harry had reached the final stop on the Hallows’ Route, the one where the actual magic would take place, a dark forest that he would only later learn the name of—which was Forest of Dean—he set out to complete the very last part before he was free to return to Hogwarts.

Deep inside the forest, the raven-haired wizard found a small pond that had frozen over with a thin layer of ice. It called to him on an instinctive level, signifying that this was to be the place where this eon’s Hallows were to be born.

A ward set around the pond and the surrounding clearing—giving the young wizard ample room to move—would ensure privacy for the duration of the work Harry was about to do and would also double as an enclosure for the magic he was about to perform.

Harry settled on the cold ground near the pond and he spread first the Hallows, then the materials he’d collected out in front of him, taking his time to position them all within easy reach.

Around him, magic started building up, very much similar to how power had gathered during the ritual of unmaking only a month earlier, but this time the energy was solely of the surroundings, with just a hint of the other world, and not in any way originating from as depraved a source as a horcrux—this magic was life and air and healing, accompanied by a bit of power, fire and change.

Bolstered with the great flow of magical energy, Harry set to meticulously pry the Hallows apart, separating the power from the objects. Unlike before with the horcrux, it was not the vessel that was most important to save from destruction—it was the essence that Harry needed, for lack of a better word.

At the end of the proceedings, Harry was left holding three small masses of concentrated magic with highly unusual flavours, all three unique in both composition and structure. They were the Hallows’ cores, the very essence of what made up their abilities and—up to a point—their identities as well.

It had happened sometimes that the Hallows had not been available to the Master of Death when they fully awakened to their power, and in that case the fledgling Master of Death would have to expend copious amounts of magic in order to recreate the Hallows from scratch rather than reusing the previous set.

The birth of the new versions would then involve recalling and transferring the major powers from the old set, often from great distances, to the new Hallows—leaving the old artefacts reduced to more ordinary power levels and without any of their famed special abilities.

Harry was very fortunate that he had gotten them all in time to smoothen the process of his awakening because he really didn’t need another burden added to his list—hunting the old shells of the Hallows alongside the horcruxes would have been tricky at best and getting around to destroy Riddle’s bits of soul was difficult enough without adding a similar, yet even more secretive task to his workload.

Picking up the branch lying at his feet was accompanied by a bit of a lightheaded feeling that Harry compared to being watched so intently that it made you feel the pressure physically, which prompted the Gryffindor to take a moment to close his eyes and use his senses to search for the source.

Green eyes snapped open a second later when their owner realised that he somehow felt like his two halves were closer together than normal—as if the distance between them had temporarily shortened. What he had been feeling was the increased presence of the other him that was just as focused on the proceedings as Harry himself was, which had somehow forced aside the time difference of the dimensions for this moment only, strengthening the connection between them until it had become direct to the point of instantaneous.

With his two perspectives for once perfectly aligned, Harry set to finishing the job he had come to do with renewed determination.

The bark was stripped from the branch, the entirety cut and carved to the right size and shape with a small knife Harry’d brought along, then hollowed out with great care. The thestral hair was prepared for its function with delicate precision by the somewhat rough hands smoothing it out until it was perfectly glossy, then finally put inside the hole of the former branch, after which Harry prepared the other section that would later be attached to the end where the hole sat.

He fashioned the second component from a bit he’d earlier cut off from the branch, specifically a part that had been directly attached to the end where the hole now was—this was on purpose so it would all fit more snugly together.

Next came the fist-sized black mass of crystals that he had to reduce in size before he could work with it, so Harry repeatedly stuck the blade of the knife into cracks between crystals as a lever to wrench the unneeded pieces loose. By the time he was done he held a single, rough but unmarred, crystal that was shaped like two pyramids stuck together—Harry estimated its dimensions to be slightly bigger than the width of his thumb at its widest.

The skin of the shroud creature only needed to be carefully cleaned before it was ready for the last step of the process.

The old vessels had by now crumbled to dust on the forest floor, worn out by decades of use and the forceful way they’d lost their cores—no matter how Harry had tried to go easy on them, the integral magic had still been torn away quite forcefully in order to separate them from their containers.

Joining each of the cores with the right vessel took quite some time, for it was a delicate process that was perhaps best described as manually attaching single strands of power to the magic inherent to the materials that the containers were made of. It was therefore not a surprise that by the time Harry was done dawn was only about a scant hour away.

He held up the wand, with its body and handle now properly assembled, and performed the motions for a shield spell. The new Elder wand obligingly channelled Harry’s magic for the spell, calling the gleaming defensive wall into existence without any resistance.

The black Stone of Shades—Harry really needed to find out the modern names of the Hallows—had been put back into the big golden ugly frame for easier carrying and handling, so when Harry picked it up from where he’d put it down after combining its core and vessel, he was able to smoothly make the required three turns one-handed without delay. For a few moments only, he summoned a number of impersonal shades from the beyond, then sent them away.

At last Harry tested the new Cloak of Invisibility, draping it over himself in comfortable familiarity, then went to the edge of the frozen pond to look down at his own reflection in the cracked ice. Naturally, there wasn’t one to be seen until he took the cloak back off.

Harry smiled happily at the realisation that he had been successful in remaking the Hallows, then became elated when he felt that his bond with the artefacts had become much, much less strained compared to earlier. He was disappointed to note that the other him had become distant once again, the void between realms having reasserted itself in its normal headache-inducing time-mangling state in the meantime—but even that wasn’t enough to completely dampen his cheerful mood.

The clearing was quickly unwarded and every bit of leftover materials discarded, while the dust that had once been Hallows was slowly but surely being picked up by the light breeze traveling through the forest.

Harry cast a last glance around to check for things he’d forgotten to take care of, but found nothing of the sort, and eventually turned his back on the pond to leave, the power of the new Hallows softly humming in the back of his mind.

“Lead me home,” he whispered to the wand of elder sitting in one of his holsters, to the black stone set in a big gold ring that hung from a chain around his neck, to the silvery hooded cloak slung around his shoulders. “Show me the way back to Hogwarts.”

And they did.