Second step – Alias
In between the frequent visions of Voldemort chasing after the shade of Grindelwald, Harry had a lot of time on his hands, most of which was spent on walks and bouts of introversion.
There were no official lessons at Hogwarts this year, and the classes that the school did offer were unofficial, mostly battle-oriented, and open to anyone regardless of age—although in practice the line was drawn at children too young to know what they were doing. DADA was, of course, prominently present on all the various schedules of courses put onto the common rooms’ announcement boards.
Harry gave lessons sometimes, but he encouraged members of the DA to take up teaching as well, so it frequently ended up as a lecture given by Harry while the actual lesson was handled by other DA members. Most members, and graduated members especially, were by now knowledgeable enough to be considered better qualified than the vast majority of official DADA teachers Hogwarts had seen over at least the last two decades.
This in turn had made applying for DA membership popular, causing the association’s numbers to rapidly increase with every week that passed. Fortunately, Neville, Ginny and Luna had matters well in hand and organised the inflow of new people in classes that trained together, putting each group of people under supervision of one or two original members who had volunteered to act as mentors and would keep a watchful eye on their progress.
Meanwhile, the Golden Trio used their free time as they pleased.
Ron was steadily recovering from the dark magic infection he’d had for the last few months, though Harry still kept a close eye on his friend’s condition just in case. The redhead had taken to catch up on news he’d missed or had been too busy for until now. In absence of more leads Hermione was holed up in the library, attempting to find more useful information to continue the hunt. So far, she hadn’t had much luck.
Out of boredom, Harry put more effort into dodging Snape’s attempts at spying on him, a situation that eventually devolved into some magical spy variation of cat-and-mouse. Snape seemed to get more and more frustrated with how his skills somehow weren’t enough while Harry was just focused on utilising both old and new knowledge and abilities he hadn’t had time to practice yet.
The master spy would get his moment eventually, but Harry wasn’t ready just yet to weather an interrogation on that high a level. At some point I will be , Harry kept reminding himself, someday I am ready to have that conversation — just not right now.
That said, there was somebody else he needed to speak with, and the time was right for that conversation to take place.
Malfoy found him first despite Harry’s plans, catching the Gryffindor alone in a room somewhere on the fifth floor as the teenage hero was spending his time overlooking the grounds through the glass of a window.
The wizarding aristocrat politely asked for a moment of his time, and Harry agreed in spite of his desire to keep watching the dark landscape of Hogwarts. The wand gave a soft hum in the back of his head, as if to tell Harry that it wanted to be used, but the Gryffindor quashed the impulse with the speed—not ease—of much practice.
Malfoy lead the way to the astronomy tower with a barely-there hesitance in his step, clearly wanting but not daring to look back at Harry, impressively denying his instinctive urge to keep the threat in his sights. Seeing this made Harry decide to go easy on the Malfoy heir when the conversation would start.
Too soon for Draco’s liking he reached the very top of the astronomy tower. It was completely deserted, as he’d counted on when he had chosen the time and place to confront Potter once again, but that didn’t mean that part of him didn’t wish that there was an audience, a crowd to hide amongst.
Grandfather’s presence weighted heavily on edge of Draco’s senses, there—yet not—as had been the case since the spirit had appeared in the Room of Requirement. It added to Draco’s nervosity over what he was about to do—would grandfather be forced to come to Potter’s aid if Draco made a misstep?
With a gesture Potter did something to the entrance they had come through, sealing the door with all the finality of a heavy-security Gringotts vault closing somewhere deep below ground. Draco was not sure if knowing they would not be interrupted made him feel safer or more vulnerable.
The view of the dark sky was spectacular from up there, but neither seventh year paid attention to the sight that could be enjoyed even from where they were stood like statues in the middle of the room, facing each other and refusing to look elsewhere.
“What are you?” Draco eventually asked, echoing his question of a year earlier. He was fairly sure that Potter had an answer for him this time.
“I am the Master of Death,” Potter replied simply, his expression carefully neutral.
“That is not the whole truth, is it?” Draco said then, unable to suppress a small frown.
“No,” Potter agreed, now visibly amused. “It is not.”
Draco could almost see the cold begin to creep back into Potter’s face, and shivered in response.
“You are more than that,” Draco murmured out loud, once he thought he could control his voice. “More than just a lucky human collector of the Artefacts of Death.”
“Yes,” Potter agreed again, easily, his lips beginning to curl upwards by a fraction.
“Then, what are you?” The third time is the charm, as they say.
Potter gave Draco a look with his vibrant eyes filled with eternity, wearing the gaze of a God—and dear Merlin, had these eyes always looked so deathly?
The Slytherin couldn’t remember ever seeing the colour of Potter’s eyes as any other variation than the exact same shade as the Killing curse, had even always mentally referred to them as Avada Kedavra-green. In hindsight, that should have been a big clue as to Boy Wonder’s otherworldly nature.
Draco had somehow never made the connection between the failed killing curse that was so famous, Potter’s constant survival when he should have died and the deathly green that had been staring Draco right in the face each time they’d squared off.
The owner of these eyes was surprisingly forthright with his next answer.
“I am what you would call an Avatar.” Potter gave a full smile this time, one that held too many teeth and only barely covered that the supposedly Golden Boy had to be carrying the knowledge of some nature of terrible truth. “If I am to be more specific, I suppose that the proper term is the Avatar of Death.”
Nothing more was said after that, and Malfoy fled as soon as Harry lifted the barrier he’d earlier placed onto the only exit. The Gryffindor didn’t blame him, as he thought he also would run after having had a conversation like that—especially considering that Harry’d essentially admitted to being a vessel to the personification of Death, and the only one at that.
He was actually quite impressed that his classmate had held himself together at all—and even more so with how the Slytherin had somehow found out on his own that Harry’s title had more depth, then found the courage somewhere to confirm it with Harry personally. Somehow, Draco Malfoy had ended up being the one that knew the most about Harry—and the lion hadn’t even had to do much of anything for it.
It brought a sort of distant fondness to Harry’s heart, strong enough that he felt he might well favour the pure-blood should the occasion arise.
Pushing the whining mental tug of the stone down, Harry turned his gaze to the nearest shadow and waited. His unspoken order was obeyed without hesitation by the soul of Abraxas Malfoy, who stepped out of the shadow to kneel soundlessly at Harry’s feet.
The ice-cold magic that Harry had mostly held back for the youngest Malfoy’s sake the teen wizard now let flow freely, filling him with the part of his consciousness that he would normally only focus on the other world.
“Envoy,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper, as he was wont to do in this state of mind. “Your task.”
There was no need for more words, as the order was perfectly understood by the figure on the stone floor. The former Lord Malfoy—now looking to be somewhere around the age of Lucius—lifted his head fractionally and began listing what he had done, what he had seen, all in his usual monotone with as few syllables as possible.
When the report had reached its conclusion, the deceased Malfoy once again hung his head low—listening for new orders or any other sound Harry would make. The man looked as if he would be content to wait in that same position for all eternity and not so much as shift or speak a word in the meantime.
The student took his time to mull over the information, to think of what he would do to arrange the future events to his liking. With his total age being well into the range of ‘ancient’, even if one only counted his collective human years, there was no urge to set things into motion too soon and neither was there a need to focus only on the immediate future—an effect that was strengthened even more while he was pulling onto the connection as much as he was now.
Finally, decision made, the seventh year gave his orders in a clear, precise tone of voice, then dismissed the soul to send it back to work. Abraxas stood, then bowed low, before disappearing from view once more.
Meanwhile, somewhere on the other side of the castle, Draco’s mind was still reeling from the knowledge of Potter’s nature.
He had briefly contemplated the possibility that Potter could be an Avatar, but hadn’t thought it likely—until Potter himself had confirmed it, that was. His classmate was a God in a mortal shell and Draco had caught the being’s attention, for better or for worse.
It had confirmed the Malfoy heir’s theory without a doubt, though. The Master of Death was but an alternative title for the Avatar of Death, possibly to hide the fact that Death had an Avatar at all.
There were various ways in which Gods could contact the living world through a living being, the simplest form of which being through visions of Seers, while a more intimate connection came through appearing in the trances of Shamans—known as Mediums to muggles—and a yet more direct bond came from temporarily possessing a Channeler.
Avatars, though—they were very different. They were not anything like Channelers, or Shamans, or even those who See; they were only human on the outside—their minds, personalities, souls, and everything else, were completely different.
No, Avatars were just a single half-step below the Gods themselves and carried a fragment of what passed for a God’s soul instead of a mortal one.
Entities of Power usually had an Avatar or two running around the world at any given time, along with a number of Seers, Channelers and Shamans dedicated to them alone. However, there were always Ancient Forces that didn’t have most of these for one reason or another—personal preference being one of them, but also strange quirks or more practical reasons were among them.
The stronger the Old Power, the more vessels it needed to support its power, but at some point the load simply became too much to bear—therefore, especially the Powers at the very top of the ladder often lacked any of the direct connections to the mortal world. The lower-intensity forms of connecting with the mortal world were still possible for them, though.
Death was a Power far beyond Ancient—‘super-powered’ didn’t even begin to cover the tremendous might of that particular eternal force—and as such was not supposed to have any actual mortal vessels, for the sheer might of its presence would crush any living form it touched and distort the surroundings far beyond what living beings could bear.
There were only a few beings that could be said to be in the same league as Death, and for the aforementioned reason none of them had Avatars, while only a few of them had Channelers—Death was said to be one of those without Channelers—which made Shamans the highest intensity connection that all of them shared.
Yet, Potter somehow acted as the sole Avatar to the personification of Death, bearing the full brunt of the weight this being put upon its vessels with nobody else to share the burden with. He was not just an Avatar, but the Avatar of Death, and thus in essence the very master Draco’s grandfather served.
Draco let out a shaky breath in an effort to relax and think.
Clearly, he would have to be ever more careful in dealing with Potter. Before this revelation he’d known that the other wizard was an unknown entity with potentially boundless benefits to offer as an ally, though it presumably came at extremely high risks—but now Draco was sure that he had enormously underestimated both aspects of the equation.
It would be truly difficult to gain and keep favour with a literal God, but if he did manage to hold onto it somehow…
Well—the possibilities were endless.
Eventually Harry got fed up with doing nothing but giving the occasional lecture or being in meetings all day long and began instead spending time with Hermione in the library—Ron being too hard to track down nowadays meant that Harry would have to wait for better moments on that front.
The first days they didn’t speak much, just spent their time pursuing their own leads or interests, but about a week later Hermione suddenly put her books aside and asked Harry: “Are you alright?”
“As well as I can be in this situation,” he told her honestly, too tired and bored to bother with his usual deflecting.
“You’ve been looking exhausted lately,” she murmured half to herself and half to her friend.
It was an astute observation, and entirely correct—Harry had been steadily getting more tired ever since obtaining the locket, continuing to decline even after he’d gotten rid of Riddle’s mutilated bit of soul. It showed in his gait, in the dark bags underneath his eyes and how his temper was more volatile in ways that he had no energy to properly express.
The reason for that was that the trio of Hallows was wearing him out more than the harmful magic of the horcrux ever could. Phantom exhaustion was nowhere near as hard to deal with as actual exhaustion on multiple levels—emotional, mental and magical in this case.
When speaking purely about the psychical aspect Harry had plenty of energy—more than he knew what to do with, honestly—but nothing to use it for, and that made him antsy.
Being worn out, moody, agitated and bored did not mix well, so he’d been taking care to keep his distance from everyone else.
“I am,” Harry answered. “I’ll have to do something about it soon, or it’ll just get worse.”
“Can I help?” she asked, giving him a worried but sharp once-over, not even stopping her examination when Harry shook his head in the negative.
“No,” he added, just to be clear. “You can’t do anything in this case, ‘Mione. I wish you could—it would make things easier.”
She subsided again with a sigh, knowing better than to protest at this point.
Hermione had secretly been looking up magical heritages in-between her searches for new leads. She felt a bit guilty about not telling Harry she’d been investigating, but not enough to consider telling him even a moment sooner than when she deemed herself ready.
The witch had been helping her friend with all the sudden changes throughout last school year and when all of them had returned after the interruption in the summer, it was only to admittedly find themselves with a lot of things to do, but with enough lulls in between where there hadn’t been anything to do but wait—and yet they had not once returned to the subject of Harry’s inheritance.
She’d thought it suspicious, and had theorised that in the meantime Harry had either figured out everything there was to know (which was next to impossible), had somehow lost all the newly gained abilities as well as his interest in them (even more impossible), gotten enough of a grip onto it that he didn’t need any more help (possible but unlikely), or found some dangerous truth that had caused his people-saving-thing to kick in to protect Hermione and Ron from the repercussions…
Now, that last bit was something that might actually be true.
To be fair, Hermione had asked Harry about the lack of keeping an eye on his developing abilities back when they had been staying at Grimmauld Place.
“It’s come to a head recently,” he had replied to her queries. “Now I have a lot more to get used to, I suppose.”
“Is your inheritance that”—don’t say abnormal—“unusual?” she had asked.
“It’s lonely,” Harry had decided on after a long pause, looking so heartbreakingly sad that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to push further.
Hermione had seen the looks she and Ron had been given since after Harry’s birthday had come and gone, though she wasn’t sure if Ron had noticed. There had been many instances where Harry had been biting his lip to keep silent when there was obviously something that he’d dearly wished to say, but there had never been a right moment for Hermione to ask him what it was about.
With the hectic events following one after another she had let the matter rest until now, but no longer.
“Harry… Is there anything you can tell me?” Hermione decided to ask at last. The seemingly simple words hid a more elaborate question that she found herself unable to articulate—something that was luckily understood by the recipient.
The black-haired teen wizard sitting at her side took his time to formulate an answer.
“There are so many things that I’ll never be able to tell anyone,” he started. “Horrifying truths and dangerous knowledge that could easily cost you your life if I let something slip.
Believe me: it’s better that I don’t tell you more.”
The forlorn look was back in his eyes, and it pulled at her heartstrings in ways that trounced kicked puppies and drowned kittens. Still, she wouldn’t let that stop her; things had gone on long enough and it was high time that somebody intervened before Harry got himself any further in a tizzy.
“Please, Harry,” she pushed gently. “Isn’t there something, anything at all that you can give me?”
When Harry still didn’t give any sign of being convinced to give up so much as a pebble-sized piece of his latest secret, Hermione continued: “If the knowledge itself is so dangerous, I want the parts that aren’t—if only to be aware of what I must avoid. Besides, danger is a constant in your life and everybody around you—” Here she gave her friend a sharp look that prevented an unneeded apology from passing the other Gryffindor’s lips. Luckily, Harry knew better than to persist with his usual self-sacrificing ways when Hermione looked at him like that.
“…through no fault of your own, shares in that danger to some degree. But despite that, Ron and I and everyone else, we’ve made it through alive and well. How much more deadly can this thing be compared to all the other ones we’ve survived before?”
Ah, there she had him, if the faint gleam in that pair of green eyes was anything to go by.
“Let me deal with it, Harry. Holding onto it is only stressing you more than is healthy. I swear that I’ll be careful.”
It was quiet for a long time after that, but the witch wasn’t worried. She had won the argument without a doubt—all that was left was to give Harry some space to come to peace with his loss.
In the end, her classmate turned to her with a serious expression on his face.
“Listen, Hermione,” he told her with the tone of voice the young hero only ever used in matters of life and death. “Since I can’t change your mind, at least promise me that you’ll stick with the parts that I give you—that you’ll not go looking for more information before I say you can.”
She made that additional promise easily; it was not every day Hermione won an argument against Harry without at least a week’s worth of battle beforehand—the dark-haired wizard was more stubborn than a mule when the mood struck him, as she well knew by now.
Hermione couldn’t help but add to what she’d already said: “You really shouldn’t worry about my reaction to whatever it is that you’re hinting around. Knowledge is my speciality, after all.”
Harry quirked a dry smile at her and answered without actually answering anything. “Just like how you accuse me of having no sense of self-preservation or restraint whatsoever in combat situations and Ron of not having enough of either when it comes to dealing with emotions—having ‘the emotional range of a teaspoon’, as you so aptly put it—believe me when I tell you that you lack both in the area of research.”
When Hermione thought it over she was forced to concede the point—in hindsight, the words were a meaningful reply to her previous comment after all.
A rustle of cloth and the sound of wood sliding over stone had the witch look up to where her friend was in the process of standing up from his chair.
“Knowing you,” Harry commented conversationally, “you’ll be wanting to start right away.”
He was right, of course, and it was at moments like these that Hermione could truly comprehend just how long they’d known each other—was it already six and a half years?—and how well their group of three understood what made the others tick, even if the knowledge was so far from their own logic that they couldn’t apply what they had learned on themselves.
Harry turned to step into an exceptionally narrow gap between two bookshelves that she hadn’t even seen was there, a fond smile on his face that Hermione only caught a glimpse of before he disappeared in the dark aisle. She followed her famous friend with none of the lethal grace he possessed, but with just as much determination to see her chosen course through to the very end.
A moment later the dark silhouette vanished from in front of her eyes, making Hermione panic for a second before she spotted Harry’s amused green eyes watching her from the even heavier darkness of another opening between shelves somewhere on her left.
Eventually, they emerged from the maze of aisles into a clearly abandoned part of the library. Though the space was fractionally lighter, there still wasn’t much light to see by, and everything was covered with fine grey dust that was partially whipped up into the air when they passed.
Hermione spent a moment wondering how Harry kept managing to sneak and creep seemingly everywhere he wanted without detection, mused on how she at times saw him disappear into even the tiniest bit of shadow and recalled how he had excellent skill at somehow picking up crucial information—which all reminded her of the spy movies that she watched sometimes. His magical heritage—she assumed it was by now properly stabilised—had only made this more pronounced, if probably only to her observant eyes.
The witch had long since pegged Harry’s unknown animagus form as either a feline of some kind (black panther, lynx or housecat were her first thoughts), or a small yet agile variation of a bird of prey (a falcon, or possibly a hawk). As the third most likely option she would go for a cervine variety, like his father’s form had been. In all the possibilities, though, Hermione could only imagine animal Harry with one specific colour scheme: a pitch-black coat coupled with his beautiful green eyes—it just fit him best.
All that remained now was to find out what animal form Harry had, and there was no doubt in her mind that it would be from one of the aforementioned groups.
It was in that neglected corner of the library that Harry turned back to Hermione to give her a look that told her to follow his lead. The witch nodded in both response and acceptance at that, perfectly willing to go along with it.
She was only half surprised when Harry looked to the side and called for Kreacher.
The old elf looked happier this time, though still uncomfortable in Harry’s presence. He was beginning to show more genuine care for his wizard, in the no-nonsense manner of an aged servant well-used to the wiles of rich youngsters that he was not afraid to bully into behaving if necessary.
The brown-haired witch had recently come to the realisation that there was yet another thing at play there, and she felt somewhat guilty for immediately having assumed the worst.
Harry had the elf bring Hermione several specific books, apparently knowing exactly what titles were needed. Among them were ‘Beyond the world’ by A. Woodsworth, ‘Higher Order’ by I. Krawl, several tomes that only bore names like ‘Olde and Ancient Forces’, ‘Godword’ or ‘The Powers That Be’ on their fronts, a five-part series of ‘A Comprehensive Encyclopaedia of Gods, Higher Beings and Eternal Forces’ and even a number of scrolls far older than anything else she’d ever seen before.
All of them looked at least old, if not like priceless heirlooms carefully preserved, and one of the tomes gave off a distinctly unsettling feeling. Harry insisted that they were all safe to handle when he noticed the way she was looking at them, and the other Gryffindor took him at his word—presumably he was so sure of this because he’d read them already, though the teen witch’s intuition did not quite agree with that assumption.
Kreacher seemed to be quite unsure what Hermione needed the books for, but didn’t protest or inquire, making Hermione all the more curious. She should’ve thought of asking Kreacher what it was that the elf obviously sensed much better than humans, but the witch had already promised Harry not to snoop around for another information source.
“Start with these,” Harry said, giving her a decidedly amused look. “A couple of them are the most important, the rest is just to supplement the knowledge. After all—” His expression turned fondly exasperated. “…You’ll before long just be asking for more information to use as cross-references and different sources to compare your findings to—not to mention that you’ll be wanting to quality-check everything. I thought it best to pre-empt your requests.”
Oh, he truly knew her reading habits far too well.
“This one,” Harry continued as he pointed at one of the scrolls, “and these and this and that,” all the while indicating the relevant scrolls, books or tomes, “are the essential stuff.” He then picked them up and put the lot to the side for Hermione to have a good look at, sending Kreacher away with a thank you right after.
“Well, you can do your worst from here on out, I suppose,” Harry said, almost too cheerfully.
“I will,” she answered absently, her head already on the material in front of her. The male Gryffindor shook his head in amusement before he silently left Hermione to her own devices.
The last thing she heard from her friend was: “Let me know when you’ve gone through this pile—I’ll have the next round ready for you.”
In the days after that memorable conversation saw Harry walking around the castle with a slight feeling of elation. ‘Mione had caught up at last, had finally pulled and pushed at the things that would have been bothering her insistently for the last half year.
He fervently hoped that the knowledge, when Hermione inevitably got her hands on it one way or another, would not drive her to insanity as it had done to so many others. Harry’d called it deadly, but that wasn’t strictly true—and yet it fit, if only because it always led to a mercy-kill at some point.
Making the decision to supply Hermione’s thirst for information had been made much harder than necessary because of the darned Hallows of Death continuously trying to get their way. All three of them had made themselves known multiple times during the discussion, clamouring to be heard and listened to without bothering to take the circumstances into account, let alone Harry’s personal feelings on the matter. The three annoying items hadn’t even seemed to have the decency to wait for their turn; all the time they had been constantly trying to push each other away in order to be the first in line to nag.
Honestly, Harry felt like he’d sat between three Hermiones—at her very worst—having a shouting match with each other, all the while being pulled this way and that because they all wanted him to take their side against the others.
It really hadn’t helped his splitting headache any, and it was high time he did something about the trio of annoyances, but Harry didn’t manage to start right away. He tried—oh how he tried —to find a good moment to leave the castle as soon as he could, but right when he needed it most, free time suddenly became very scarce because the DA overflowed with new members joining in a massive wave that lasted two full weeks.
In an act of pure frustration, Harry eventually just went to track down Ron with all the ferocity of a predator out on a hunt—one that had been starved for a long time far beyond what was healthy—to tell the redhead that Harry desperately needed some peace right now , and everybody was to not go looking for him for at least two days.
On his way out Harry barely thought to inform Hermione on the matter as well, but at least he would find her somewhere that he knew would be quiet, even if it would not actually let him rest—at this point anything was better than nothing.
When Harry got to sneak out of Hogwarts it was just after nightfall, and he returned only when was almost sunrise, making for a very long night of work—which, in Harry’s humble opinion, had been totally worth it.
The bonds with the artefacts no longer felt like they seared across his mind, continuously rubbing his brain raw—now they felt like cool water gently flowing through him which softened the pain of having had to deal with unsuitable Hallows for much too long.
He spent the next day hidden away somewhere in the castle, doing nothing but letting the new Hallows soothe the wounds (emotional, mental and magical) that were scattered all over his psyche, luxuriating in the bonds that should have been like that from the very start.
As a result, Harry was remarkably more rested and relaxed when Hermione and Ron came looking for him with ideas and plans for their next move in the Horcrux hunt.
Apparently, Hermione had had a visitor in the form of one certain the headmaster when Harry was out, and the aged wizard had given her a well-worn runic book that contained a collection of popular wizarding stories, hinting, hinting and hinting (nearly endlessly) that it should, would, help them further.
The three students spent a few moments commiserating amongst themselves over the headaches the damned old coot could easily prevent by stopping his routine of obfuscation and misdirection. But then they simply stopped groaning from one second to the next, because the Gryffindors didn’t have the energy to spend on it any more than they had the time to sit and do nothing when there was work to do.
A symbol doodled in the margin of a specific page amongst other hand-written notes caught Harry’s attention when Hermione showed the males what the book held page by single page. He knew almost instantly what the symbol was, what it must be representing, given that it was drawn on the very first page of ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’—a story that he definitely did recognise—and clearly serving as the big clue Dumbledore meant to lead them to realising what Voldemort planned to do in addition to having his horcruxes secure immortality.
Given that Harry had already surmised Voldemort’s quest for the Elder Wand a long time ago, perhaps he shouldn’t think of the entire route Dumbledore had set up as being unnecessarily long-winded and complicated for such a simple thing lying in wait at the end—but he did.
Ron urged them into action, saying that they had been standing still long enough—Harry had a feeling that his friend meant it as much literally as he did metaphorically—which led to the Trio packing up and going in short order, despite it being only scant hours before Christmas Eve.
Not that there was much to miss, seeing as there simply was no time or much in the way of resources to organise anything approaching a proper Hogwarts Christmas—people had tried, and had succeeded in setting up for a very modest party, but there was little else that could be done.
Hermione and Ron had apparently already had a round of discussion on what place to visit, as they immediately told Harry they would be going to a village by the name of Godric’s Hollow, which was apparently where Harry’d lived for that first year of his life that he barely had memories of.
They were primarily there to visit one Bathilda Bagshot, the author of their history textbook A History of Magic, and a witch old enough that she’d already been an adult when Dumbledore had been but a child.
Harry had no idea why Hermione insisted on going to see her, or why Ron backed her up, but he was getting a bad feeling about it that grew worse the more distance they covered from the apparition point to the village.
Thankfully, a few more stops had been planned in before approaching the extremely elderly witch—a hidden statue of the Potter family masquerading as an obelisk for the muggles, the ruins of the home where Harry’s broken cradle most probably still stood, and finally the grave of Harry’s parents.
As he stood before the white marble stone that marked where his parents lay buried a memory welled up from the depths of his mind—a memory of both his parents, with clasped hands, standing before the other Him as a pair of very young children. It warmed his heart to know that they went together through the doors leading beyond even as it also made him ache with longing and loneliness.
Sirius’ moment surfaced too, and the late lord Black was smiling, hyperactive, relieved to find himself there after having drifted in a void of nothingness for so long. Tellingly, the man had been a young adult, the age he’d been around the time when that fateful Halloween tore his world apart.
In the meantime, Hermione had conjured a wreath of flowers, Christmas roses at Ron’s whispered directive, and now gently put it in Harry’s hands. Green eyes stared numbly at the fragile white flowers in his hands before their owner remembered where they ought to go and went to set them down at the base of the grave with great care.
Harry spared no thought for the ridiculous epitaph written underneath the names, did at most think that Dumbledore for one so wise did know so little if that was the best he could think of to put onto the marble stone.
‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.’
As if Death is an enemy to be defeated instead of a natural part of life.
Ron silently touched Harry’s shoulder and motioned that he and Hermione would be wandering around the graveyard to give Harry the time he needed in front of his parents’ grave. The young hero felt pathetically grateful for their consideration and gave a thankful nod in their direction before he turned back to the grave.
When he eventually went to find them, Harry found his friends standing in front of another grave. It was extremely old, battered by centuries of weather and the name was barely readable, but he heard Hermione say she thought it read ‘Ignotus Peverell’. The detail that had drawn their attention though was the presence of the same symbol that had been in Harry’s thoughts since seeing it in the book.
“Harry,” Ron said as soon as the taller teen noticed the other boy’s approach. “Didn’t Luna’s dad wear a pendant of this at the wedding?”
Harry needed a moment to find his footing back because he’d actually forgotten that titbit of information until now, and the realisation left him reeling. With how many things he knew that he wasn’t supposed to know, Harry now tended to lose sight of the details he either logically would know or was expected to know—he hadn’t yet found a way to properly compensate for it all.
“It’s also in the book,” he heard Hermione say to Ron, accompanied by the rustle of pages as she was undoubtedly in the process of showing on which page the symbol was drawn.
“Victor told me it was Grindelwald’s symbol,” Harry offered then, remembering the conversation he’d had with the Bulgarian at the wedding. “He even fought with Mr. Lovegood over it, thinking that wearing it meant that he is a follower of Grindelwald. I’m not sure about that, though—Luna’s dad doesn’t seem the type to be a Dark Lord’s follower.”
“Then let’s go find Mr. Lovegood after we’ve seen Bathilda Bagshot,” Hermione replied, already having set off in the direction of the kissing gate through which they’d entered the graveyard.
“Let’s not.”
Startled, both of his friends stopped walking to stare at Harry in reaction to his flat yet vehement tone. The dark-haired Gryffindor met first Ron’s, then Hermione’s gaze and stated: “I’ve got an extremely bad feeling about meeting that woman.”
That produced immediate reaction in both other Gryffindors; Ron’s face rapidly paled and his stance became wary, while ‘Mione frowned and gave Harry a piercing look.
“Are you sure?” Ron asked, looking as if he expected something to jump from behind the gravestones to attack in the next minute.
“Yes, I’ve been feeling it since we came here and it’s only getting worse. Whatever it is, we shouldn’t linger here any longer—let’s just go.”
Thankfully, both of his friends knew better by now than to ignore Harry’s warnings, especially when they were so clear for once—and all three students disapparated from the graveyard the very next second.
Xenophilius Lovegood was very helpful and told the Trio not only about the three brothers, but spoke also of the legend of the Deathly Hallows and the Master of Death. Harry could have kissed the man—Luna’s just-as-whacky dad had just given him the perfect opening to later tell of the wand in his possession without making either of his friends suspicious.
So, as soon as they had left the Lovegood home Harry directed them to Grimmauld Place, where he proceeded to take out the Elder Wand and told them of the events surrounding it ending up in his hands—including the conversation he’d had with Dumbledore at end of last school year.
“Blimey,” Ron exclaimed, “you’ve got what You-Know-Who wants right here.”
There had been no words needed for the three students to reach that conclusion independently.
“I think I may have one more…” Harry murmured as he pulled his invisibility cloak out. “Remember that Dumbledore had my cloak the night my parents died? Even though he doesn’t need it at all to be invisible?”
There was no need to say anything further, for Hermione pounced on the cloak, her face filled with the expression that meant her thoughts were running, colliding and connecting at high speed behind her eyes.
“Merlin’s dirty underwear,” Ron swore. “Way to give us a heart attack, mate. What’s next, you happen to have the Resurrection Stone on you too?”
“Actually…”
Harry hesitated, just a beat, before he decided to simply take the opportunity and stop worrying about the consequences.
“—I think I may have it right here.” And he held up the ring in front of Ron’s incredulous face.
“Morgana’s sagging tits! Merlin’s shaggy—ow! What the hell, Harry? How’d you get that one?”
“Fawkes gave it to me,” Harry answered somewhat hesitantly, amused despite himself at the way Hermione had smacked Ron with a free hand even as she had been completely absorbed in examining the cloak and how Ron hadn’t even let himself be distracted by the hit.
“He was very insistent. I thought it was better to just go along with it and ask the headmaster about it later. But then all sorts of things started happening…” The identical looks on both Hermione and Ron’s faces spoke of knowing it was his magical heritage he was referring to. “And I never got around to it.”
“Doesn’t that mean you got them all from Dumbledore?” asked Ron suddenly. He held up his fingers one by one as he spoke. “In first year he gave you the cloak, last year you won the wand from him via a Death Eater and Fawkes gave you the stone, probably on his behalf. Doesn’t that mean he was the Master of Death?”
Hermione interrupted at that point. “I don’t think so. The headmaster didn’t own all three at the same time. Harry’s had the cloak for years now and the stone only surfaced last year.” Her expression became shrewd then, and she scrutinised Harry closely.
“Harry,” she said then, with the tone of voice that could cut through anything. “When again did you say you saw the ring for the first time?”
“Dumbledore wore the ring when he picked me up at the Dursleys’ that summer, but I couldn’t get a proper look back then. I saw it much more clearly during that first meeting with him, at the beginning of the school year.”
Hermione’s look sharpened some more. “And when did your inheritance start to manifest?”
“…About a month after that meeting.”
“When did you get the ring?”
“That was on Ron’s birthday. You know, that day he got poisoned and I had to run up to Dumbledore’s office to get the professor to the infirmary.”
“So, five months later. Okay, last question: when did you get the wand?”
“At the end of the school year, during that battle—I won it off the attacker that disarmed the headmaster. Anything else that you want to check, ‘Mione?” A bit of sarcasm had slipped into his voice by the time Harry spoke the last few words.
The female Gryffindor shook her head at that. “No, that’s all.”
“Can you tell me what you are doing here, ‘Mione?” Ron asked at that point. He was clearly bewildered by the exchange and had spent the entire duration of it shifting his gaze back and forth between his two friends the way one would follow a muggle tennis match.
“Just checking a theory.”
“What theory?”
“Ron,” she sighed, “Think. Harry has all three Hallows here, so he must be the Master of Death. But we don’t know anything about what having that title does. It could come with power, or do nothing at all. But we also know that in that same period of time he collected the last two artefacts he suddenly began to display symptoms of awakening some latent magical heritage that I could find absolutely no history of on either side of his family. Doesn’t that strike you as a very peculiar coincidence?”
A startled blink.
“Bloody hell.”
“Quite.” Hermione smiled as she said so.
The theories began being tossed around back and forth between the Trio’s resident researcher and strategist, while the leader-tactician looked on with a warm half-smile, preferring to keep out of the others’ way for the time being.
The vision came without warning, but for once there was neither pain nor discomfort.
Dust. A pair of eyes lose their light. Red streaks of blood turn everything in a haze of red alongside the black. Whispers of something either coming or leaving. A vague green flash, a bottomless void, silver flowing lines in a branching pattern.
Sounds. Someone struggling to breathe. Words spoken, disjoined and jumbled.
“… back…” “Are you… your… another…” “… I am… we… same face… Aspects of Death.”
By the time agelessly vibrant electric green eyes reopened, the end was already known.