Third step – Progress
Malfoy Manor, in Harry’s opinion, greatly resembled its inhabitants, the family it was named after. It was posh, gleaming whiteness on the outside and it appeared to be luxurious, decadent yet welcoming in the parts where visitors were usually received, but things were not nearly so beautiful any longer in the rest of the rooms.
Destruction had left its marks everywhere to varying degrees. In some parts there was hardly anything left that could even remotely be called ‘intact’, while in others the majority of the interior was either fixed or was somehow spared the ruination in the first place, yet still bore some sort of ambiance of imminent ruin.
Despite the fact that Harry was most decidedly not invited by Voldemort to come visit, he didn’t encounter any of the Dead Eater guards undoubtedly going about their rounds that very moment. It was a consequence of being let in and led around by a member of the Malfoy family, even if the man in question was already deceased.
Harry was glad he’d had the foresight to call Dobby at Hogwarts to let the elf know he’d be going to Malfoy Manor that night. At least this way he didn’t have to worry about the crazy little thing doing something rash because he thought Harry was in danger.
Sometimes he forgot how perceptive Dobby could be underneath all the crazy, which was why Harry had been quite surprised when the elf had told him “Dobby always be knowing that yous being a very special wizard, Mr. Harry Potter sir!” before popping away.
The Hallow-wielding wizard turned back to the ethereal Envoy standing at attention to the side. Upon being noticed, the former lord begun moving again with the calm, sure steps of one traveling through home territory.
For once, Harry had opted to interact with Abraxas wholly as himself, the mortal side of Death. While drawing on the bond held no risk of causing negative effects to his mental health, it did come with drawbacks of sorts to balance out the gains. He had no desire to call attention to his presence in the manor and preferably wished not to be found out at all on this visit.
Abraxas lead Harry to a blank stretch of wall where a hidden passage opened when the right rhythm was tapped on a specific stone. They needed two more of these secret walkways before finally arriving at what currently functioned as the dungeons of the manor.
The soul remained behind in the empty drawing room—where the entrance to the single makeshift holding cell was located—to stand guard, while Harry entered the cellar currently acting as a cell, knowing who occupied it at the moment. Pale silver eyes sharpened with intelligence met the youth’s in silent appraisal and passed an unspoken greeting from one old in age to one ancient in mind.
“Greetings, oh Eternal One,” said Garrick Ollivander from where he was sat on the floor. “I was hoping you would pay me a visit one of these days.”
“Hello, mister Ollivander,” Harry answered with a friendly smile, not at all surprised by the old man’s knowledge of his nature. Wand-making was an art that required a certain sensitivity to magic—without it the results would frequently suffer from incompatible or unbalanced combinations of materials—and Ollivander was said to be the very best in Britain, so of course the man would have sensed Harry’s slumbering potential when they first met.
Now that he thought back to that meeting in the shop, Harry realised that the wand-maker had probably meant to allude to that when he spoke the words: ‘I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Potter...’
The set of Hallows Harry was wearing on full display, were as clear an indication as anything else that Harry had by now come into his heritage as the Master of Death, so there was no surprise on that aspect either.
The old man stood when Harry reached him, seemingly not wanting to speak from the floor with his visitor, and possibly also wishing to avoid showing disrespect. Harry took it all in stride and merely motioned the wandmaker to follow as he turned around and began walking back to the exit.
Ollivander obliged and came up to walk beside the student, even as the older man’s slow, careful gait showed how much pain he was in. They were let out by Abraxas—whom Ollivander only politely nodded to in thanks—and made their way out the drawing room in complete silence, the spectre a pale shadow on their heels.
“If I may ask, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander began at last while they travelled through some hallway. Harry turned his head to the side where he was met by an intense silver gaze that distracted his thoughts for a fraction of a second—then he nodded.
“Why were you born in this age, Old One? Is it, perchance, due to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”
A part of Harry was surprised at the question, but another wasn’t. That the old man would know of the purpose of Death’s Avatars was a complete surprise, true, but then again, Mr. Ollivander seemed to know of many things that he shouldn’t.
“I am not just a mere wandmaker—I am also a Shaman,” smiled said wandmaker in response to Harry’s involuntary questioning glance.
Yes, that cleared a lot of things up. A Shaman would know of Harry’s arrival, of the fate he was born to every time, and the stakes that were part and parcel of the whole mess.
There was, after all, a reason that Death’s Avatars weren’t supposed to exist—yet did. It was why Harry’s birth being the subject of a prophecy was, as the muggles say, par for the course. And why Harry needed to hurry, now that he was ‘awake’.
Other deities tended to be rarely without Avatars in the mortal world, and even when they all died it would not take long before new ones were born. They came in singles, twos or threes and sometimes even more, always plentiful or at least ubiquitous for those in the know no matter which force they represented.
Death, however, was different.
The birth of an Avatar of Death was an extremely rare event in comparison, occurring perhaps once or twice every millennium—and came always as a single individual, not part of a group.
In addition, there was no set time between the appearance of one Avatar and the next—there could easily not be one for several millennia, only for two or three to be born right after one another within the next thousand years.
An Avatar of Death’s birth had to be triggered by something that made their presence necessary, and it was this that Ollivander was actually asking for—what the trigger was that had ultimately led to Harry’s birth as Death’s Avatar.
“No,” Harry told the wandmaker-Shaman at his side. “He is but the latest player of this unfortunate performance that I must put a stop to.”
“I see.”
No more words were needed after that, having said perhaps not everything, but enough that the rest could be inferred as it was with the information that had been given.
However, there was still information Harry needed, so he begun the conversation anew. Luckily, the wandmaker knew what the Gryffindor would need and was able to provide enough bits and pieces that he’d overheard during his captivity with which Harry could complete the picture.
“Here I must bid you goodbye for now, Ancient One,” Ollivander murmured with a low bow and clasped hands. At this point, they had reached the apparition room from where the Shaman could apparate out of the manor. Harry would not be following because he planned to take a different route out.
“Fare thee well, Mr. Potter, and I thank you for your assistance.” And gone was the old man, the Shaman, the moment the words had been spoken.
Harry turned around and returned to the manor proper, this time wandering as if taking a stroll. And in a way he was—just not for fun.
At least one horcrux, the diary, had been in this place for a long time, and Harry wanted to make sure that there were no others any of the Malfoys had squirreled away on Voldemort’s orders. He held little hope of that being true—Tom Riddle was anything but stupid, after all, current state of total insanity notwithstanding—but it couldn’t hurt to check while he was there anyway.
As predicted, no more horcruxes resided at Malfoy Manor, or at least none that Harry could sense anyway. The Gryffindor was nevertheless very sure that he would have noticed if there was one no matter what protections it would be under, as evidenced by how he had clearly picked up on the traces of black magic coming from the heavily warded place where the diary had once been kept.
Harry had Abraxas lead him to where the gardens were, as there was an admittedly small chance that Riddle would have resorted to burying things there. It was much easier to scan outside, even with how much larger the area was that he had to check, because there was much less interference of objects and beings with magic that muddled his senses.
That was why Harry knew within minutes of stepping outside that there was nothing of interest hidden in the entirety of the gardens.
But there happened to be someone of interest waiting for him just off the paved path instead.
Narcissa Malfoy née Black couldn’t help clenching and unclenching her hands in nervosity as she waited, sitting on the white stone bench underneath the old oak. The tree stood quite a distance to the side of the gardens, near a sidewall of the manor that bore no windows at all. She fervently hoped that the Dark Lord would never hear of neither her presence there, nor of what purpose made her do so.
Soft footsteps had her look up, half in the fear she refused to show but still felt, half in the hope that the great risk she had taken by being there would prove not to be in vain. The first thing she saw was the approaching half-familiar figure of her father-in-law, still as utterly silent and blank-faced as he had been every time Narcissa had seen him since his return from beyond the Veil.
The man the lady Malfoy remembered had been quite different from the shade he was now. He had been proud, headstrong, and—even while weakened with sickness in the last period of his existence in the mortal world—full of life . Death made her husband’s father look brittle… ethereal, if that was the right word. Narcissa was convinced he had scared a lot of years off her life the first time she’d come face-to-face with this family member who’d long been dead.
On the heels of the translucent man was the one she’d been waiting for, the Master of the Envoys and Lord of the dead—Harry James Potter. Her only son had managed to pass on the knowledge he’d foolishly risked life and sanity to obtain so that Narcissa may know how to treat her child’s classmate when negotiating with the Avatar of Death. She would not let it go to waste.
In a single deliberate move, the Malfoy matriarch stood up from the bench to kneel before the Living Embodiment of Death approaching her, in the characteristic pose that in certain circles had come to be known as the ‘God-Greeter’. As Narcissa waited for the Godling to address her, the view of the earth underneath her, which she was forced to look at for the time being, made her think of how fortunate it had proved to be that she had taken the time to plant the knowledge of the Ancient Gods firmly into Draco’s mind.
“Who are you waiting for?” was a question she decidedly did not expect as a greeting. It signified that it was not the God that was speaking to her at this time—for any Deity would never deign to use such casual words nor act in the manner in which they were spoken—but the Avatar whom housed Its might.
Narcissa didn’t allow the silence to linger for long. “I wait for you, my Lord,” were her words, as she lifted her head in proud deference, the deference she felt she owed to the one whom had provided her family with protection. A tiny muscle pulled in the Avatar’s face at the address, but there was no reaction otherwise.
“Am I?” the young man asked calmly, his head tilted slightly in question. “I was under the impression that you already had one—someone who isn’t me.”
This was where the hard part began—Narcissa fully expected that she would have to fight for every inch of regard, for each and every bit of favour this Being would deign to offer.
“He might have once been,” she said next, weighing the words carefully before they left her mouth. “But I don’t take kindly to those that endanger my family the way He has been.”
“So you switch allegiances, just like that? You would tie your fate to the first alternative that comes along?”
He was testing her, Narcissa knew, and she had expected nothing less from a Deity at least as old as time itself. Fortunately, she had long since thought out both what she would offer and what she would ask for if ever Narcissa managed to have an audience with the Avatar of Death.
“I wouldn’t and I won’t. There is no need for the full might of a God. I ask for something much simpler.”
Something in her phrasing seemed to have caught the young wizard’s attention at that point, though Narcissa couldn’t precisely put her finger on what part gave it away. Nevertheless, the lady Malfoy was quite certain of the conclusion she’d come to, and an unnamed weight fell off her shoulders to bring relief Narcissa hadn’t felt in a long time. A small, soft breath of air that could neither truly be called a huff nor a sigh escaped without her permission, and a small near-unnoticeable crinkle on her forehead eased with it.
“Oh? And what are you going to ask your fellow mortal?” asked the young Potter heir with an undertone of amusement.
All the minute traces of Divinity that had been present so far had left the teenage Gryffindor’s bearing completely at this point. She was now speaking only to the human the wizarding world thought him to be and so it was safe to sit up to look him in the eye.
“Please—kill Him. End this war, once and for all, so that I can sleep easily knowing that my family is safe.”
“Killing Tom Riddle won’t automatically mean peace or safety,” the teen before her intoned with a calm voice and a wisdom that Narcissa hadn’t expected from one of his age, despite knowing better than to measure him with the same system as everybody else. “It will bring the collapse of the Dark line-up, but nothing more.”
“As long as that Man is gone, I can ensure the safety of my family by myself. The other members of the Dark are no threat and those that can be truly dangerous will not be enough so that I shall be unable to neutralise them when needed.”
Her words were no bluff at all, for Narcissa Malfoy was also a Black, and all knew better than to presume that they could handle her wrath. The Light might not know, but the Dark was well aware that she was, as they say, the power behind the throne of the Malfoy family.
Whether the Potter heir knew it too or had no idea, he still smiled a knowing smile that spoke of plans to lean back and watch with enjoyment when the fallout took place. Only Narcissa’s life-long social training prevented her from returning the smile with one of her own to proclaim her status as the most superior actor on the stage.
She couldn’t consider this exchange done just yet.
“If I may, I believe to have a way to assist in His demise,” Narcissa murmured with care, swallowing heavily through the unexpected lump in her throat. “My… elder sister” in truth my eldest sister, for I still have, yet lost, another one “was once given an artefact in her care, same as with my husband. When the one Lucius had was lost, the punishment for that was much more severe than one would expect.” There, she once more met the deep green gaze head-on.
She dared him to deny the importance of these cursed artefacts, dared him to tell her that she was wrong in her reasoning—but he didn’t. By expression alone young Mr. Potter wordlessly told her that Narcissa was right, that the destruction of these items was part of the steps leading to the downfall of the Dark Lord.
“I can obtain Bella’s from her vault,” she said quickly, giving the boy before her no chance to speak first. “If I do so, will you handle the rest?”
The immediate affirmation loosened the iron clamps over her heart and left her boneless with their subsequent removal. Her family would be safe, the Dark Lord was going down—Narcissa had no doubt of either.
Between the terrifying Lord of the Dark and the prophetized child whom also wore the role of Death, only a fool would think that the God would lose.
She would closely watch this Being in the guise of a teen, Narcissa decided—as closely as he would let her. As terrible as the Dark Lord was, she had no doubt that Death could be infinitely more horrifying should some fool of a mortal truly anger the God—and the lady Malfoy did not wish to become one of them, by accident or otherwise.
Not long after, when the Avatar had left the garden with footsteps as silent as the spirit that had accompanied him, Narcissa finally stood up from her kneeling position, feeling all of her years even though she wasn’t that old yet. Her ghostly father-in-law watched in silence as the lady Malfoy went to sit back on the bench coloured as pale as her hair.
Despite the chill currently permeating her body and the shivers she couldn’t seem to stop, Narcissa felt rather satisfied with the end result. She would have her wish, if only because it coincided with the plans of the Avatar, and would only have to provide assistance she could easily do. Even the matter of her allegiance, which had largely remained unspoken during the conversation, now essentially belonging to the Avatar of the God of Death had had few consequences and none she considered too high a price to pay.
“What do you think, father?” Narcissa asked aloud, almost on a whim. “How did I do in all this?” She motioned at the garden around her, but in meaning indicated her life in its entirety. Have I done well in asking the human instead of the God? Have I done all that I can in looking after my husband and child? Have I made the right decision to abandon both of my sisters?
The soul of Abraxas Malfoy took one slow look at her and then dropped his head as if he meant to nod and then forgot to lift it back up. Seconds later, his figure began blurring away into nothing until he was completely gone, leaving Narcissa in solitude on the marble bench.
“Thank you, father—for the company.” And for the support.
Barely a week after Harry’s visit to Malfoy Manor, Mrs. Malfoy had her father-in-law deliver the famed cup of Hufflepuff. He wasn’t quite certain on how exactly she had gone about obtaining the horcrux from the vault of her sister, but he suspected that the witch sometimes visited Gringotts on behalf of Bellatrix and had just retrieved the cup alongside everything else. Especially with the enchanted pendant he’d given her for identifying the soul container and stripping it of its protections, it would have been an extremely easy job to pick it up and just walk right out.
Extracting the fragmented shards of Riddle’s spirit from the cup went just about the same as dealing with the locket had been, with the big exception that Harry was all by himself in the ritual chamber and therefore didn’t need to be quick or sneaky about what he was doing. The vile thing had struggled all the way, but the freedom of movement Harry had for dealing with this one meant that he could afford to be efficient—instead of mainly discreet—about the whole process.
The fact that Harry had managed to obtain this particular horcrux without input or assistance from anyone else meant that he was also free to choose the moment and manner of informing his friends about the matter. In the end Harry decided to just keep it simple, thus he went up to Ron and ‘Mione and held up the ruined copy of the horcrux with a shrug.
“One more down.”
By their calculations Voldemort was down to the last inanimate horcrux (probably another of the Founders’ relics), Nagini and the man himself. Harry had dealt with the diary in second year, Dumbledore had gotten to the stone and with both the locket and cup now handled they should be well past midway to the goal.
Still, something kept niggling at Harry’s mind about the whole thing, as if to tell him that there was more to it that they couldn’t yet see. He resolved to look into it later, but had to put it aside for now.
Going by the simple logic of elimination—Gryffindor’s sword, Hufflepuff’s cup, Slytherin’s locket—the Trio theorised that the last horcrux would likely be an artefact of Ravenclaw’s. Several rounds of gathering information amongst the castle’s inhabitants had them conclude that only that particular Founder’s diadem was a viable option as being a vessel of Riddle’s soul, since Voldemort would not have chosen anything less known or of less importance than that lost object.
The trail of clues led then to the Grey Lady, the ghost of Ravenclaw, from whom they managed to get the tragic story of the deaths of her and the Bloody Baron that ended with her mother’s diadem lost somewhere in Albania. Tom Riddle had most certainly charmed the story out of her too, which meant that he would most definitely have found the artefact at some point—the when was unimportant in comparison to the near-certainty of the recovery. The then-young Voldemort would have brought it back to Hogwarts at some point to hide it in the castle—Harry was absolutely sure of that, could sympathise with every bit of feeling and thought of that unending longing for home that would never be completely sated—which had likely been when he had visited Dumbledore to apply for the position of DADA professor.
This knowledge, however, still did not bring them much closer to finding the diadem.
Again they split up to chase any leads they could find, in the hope that by going alone—and therefore eliminating the need to wait for the others when moving from place to place—each of the Trio wouldn’t be held back when chasing leads and could immediately investigate whatever thought came up.
Hermione gave Harry a pensive look just before they went their own ways with the promise to meet up at every mealtime in the great hall. He wasn’t surprised by that in the least, as she had by now read enough material to at least wonder about how the world of Deities related to her classmate’s magical heritage. Right about now the clever witch would probably be questioning whether Harry was truly human at all, or if he was of mixed blood instead.
Still, there was no time—was there ever?—for that discussion to be held now, which was most likely the only reason that Hermione hadn’t wrung Harry out for answers yet. With a bit of luck his ominous warnings were also giving her pause and it would lead to not being choked to within an inch of his life for information anytime soon.
Even with no time limit of sorts applied to their task, there was a sense of urgency haunting each of the Trio’s steps, although the sooner it was done the better. Luna and Neville both somehow got wind of the castle-wide search and Harry didn’t have the heart to send them away when they insisted on accompanying him at for least some of the time, switching between him, Ron and Hermione with no particular order.
Harry visited the Ravenclaw common room first, accompanied by his two determined assistants. They found no clues though the two Gryffindors took their time looking around to satisfy their curiosity. This common room too housed an influx of refugees for whom room had been made, thus it looked much more chaotic and full than it normally would have been— claustrophobic was Harry’s first thought, closely followed by a shiver that he was barely able to suppress.
The next stop was a new round of inquiries amongst Hogwarts’ ghosts, including—to Neville’s dismay—Peeves, whom Harry was able to control to a certain degree even if the poltergeist wasn’t technically a ghost and hadn’t ever been alive. He and others of his ilk resembled the dead just enough that the God of Death could bind them, force them to submit to the will of th e i r s to a degree. It also helped tremendously that Harry’s role was not limited to Death, but also included Destruction, End and Change.
Moaning Myrtle was last because Harry had trouble finding her, and she happily took him on a whirlwind of a round trip all around the castle to many hidden spots that could possibly house the horcrux. As expected, none of them proved to conceal the elusive diadem, but by the end of it Harry had had a lot of fun so he considered it time well-spent.
At this point Luna and Neville moved on to find the next of the Trio to accompany and the teenage celebrity moved on to visit with a few friends he hadn’t had much time to see lately.
Hagrid had recently returned to Hogwarts, though he’d been forced to take refuge in the castle rather than live in his house on the grounds. The half-giant was perpetually looking grim but determined instead of his usual jolly cheerfulness and Harry was forced to admit that seeing the fierce expression truly—finally—drove home the fearsome strength of the man’s giant heritage, which was something that the student hadn’t precisely been unaware of but hadn’t fully realised until now due to the groundskeeper’s gentle personality.
Still, for all that Hagrid was itching to fight he wasn’t any less gentle with Harry physically or emotionally, which led to the young Gryffindor feeling no worries at all for his own health—he subsequently left Hagrid with a much lighter, peaceful mind.
The next destination was Hogwarts’ kitchens, where Harry went to see Dobby and Winky to catch up with. He took care not to forget to thank the former Malfoy elf for the information given before the excursion into Malfoy Manor. Seeing Winky in a thoroughly inebriated state (whether it was again or still , he didn’t know) made Harry think of Kreacher back at Grimmauld Place, and how much better the old elf was looking lately.
Hermione was still rapidly going through the books Kreacher kept bringing to her and then taking back to their hidden shelves in the ancestral Black family library, and each time the elf did another exchange he looked both happier to be doing something useful and more incredulous at the behaviour of the muggle-born girl. Harry had also been making a point to spend more time in Kreacher’s presence in order to ease him into getting used to having the Avatar of Death as master, measures which appeared to be doing the job beautifully as far as the wizard could tell.
When Harry left the kitchens, fully loaded with food as was usual, he was soon met by a restless Hedwig. The snowy owl began circling her human ever more agitatedly, never touching down to land. Harry thought she might be aware of the threat looming over Hogwarts but could not be sure of her reasons for coming to see him with such haste.
Hedwig waited impatiently until the student had emptied his hands of the load he carried before she landed on his shoulder with a great deal more noise and unnecessary movements than usual. Stroking her feathers seemed to do little to quell her unrest, but Harry kept going at it regardless. He was reminded of the idle thoughts he’d had lately of making her a Guide, allowing her the power to cross the boundaries between worlds. She had the right temperament, and more than plenty of intelligence to use the abilities it would gain her, not to mention that it would enable her to keep Harry company for much longer than her natural lifespan allowed.
He had yet to come to a decision and thus allowed the strands of thought to drift away again, to be picked up at another time.
Fawkes was the next being he came across, the phoenix meeting him with a lot more calm than the owl. As promised, Harry gave him a good petting, same as he was doing for Hedwig. It was a bit awkward, caressing the feathers of two good-sized birds sitting on his shoulders, but he managed and they seemed happy enough with the attention given.
“What can I do for you, Fawkes?” Harry asked the fiery bird, mindful of the precarious positions of both passengers.
The phoenix chirped happily and tweeted a few times. Harry chuckled warmly at the reaction, “Just checking up on me, huh?”
Hedwig hooted at Fawkes from her seat on his other shoulder, now a bit more settled and not nearly as anxious as earlier. Today seemed to be the day of rekindling avian friendships and enjoying each other’s companionship—Harry didn’t mind.
Both birds stayed with him for the rest of the day, sometimes flying ahead or around him, but most of the time hitching a ride in comfort with the Wizard Express. The human appreciated the company and took advantage of the opportunity to soak up the simple joys of the easy interaction.
A phoenix would die innumerable times over the course of its lifetime—and each time it would see Death. Harry was therefore not at all surprised that Fawkes had recognised him even before the Hallows’ return to his hands. Similarly, the apparent student now knew of this near-immortal bird more than anyone in existence because the dead were treated the same no matter how temporarily the state: all that the being was or knew or had experienced belonged to Death from the moment the soul entered the Hallowed Halls where they resided.
Fawkes, like all others of his kind, had come and gone so many times that he had picked up certain knowledge that no other type of living being could boast, and he was also one of the very few alive who’d seen both faces of th e i r s.
That was mostly why, at the end of the day, when Fawkes suddenly launched himself from Harry’s shoulder to fly ahead with a loud squawk, Harry didn’t waste time in following the streak of living fire. He ran through the nearly empty hallways lighted only by the dim light of the late evening coming through the occasional window—spurred on by the memories of the soul inside the diadem arriving Beyond that had begun filtering through the haze of his thoughts.
Up the stairs, down many others, gasping for breath as he went, the Avatar of Death ran and ran after the phoenix without pause. Hedwig flew overhead, a white streak against the dark stone and wood of the ceilings. Harry did not dare to stop and risk losing his momentum, not even when black spots appeared in the corner of his vision and his sides began to burn. He did not even care that they seemed to be going in circles, focused as he was on stretching his senses to the limits of his current abilities.
Then, in a flash, something caught the teenager’s eye. When he was led through one of Hogwarts’ several courtyards he spotted a broken gargoyle lying on the ground that had evidently become collateral damage during the pandemonium at the end of the last school year. Many more of such damaged areas remained in the castle because the effort of repairing them couldn’t be spared at the moment.
The gargoyle itself was nothing special; just one of the many that could be found on the roofs and the outer walls of Hogwarts, acting as the numerous guardians of the courtyards. It was made of grey stone and the smashed pieces were strewn all across the cobblestones amidst a lot of other debris, but the head was still intact enough to be recognised.
Something in the empty stare of the statue triggers memories of other things in Harry, until—finally—the knut dropped. A different statue with a peculiar wig and headdress in a certain hidden room would be his destination—and Harry wasted no time in going there to rid the world of yet another part of Tom Marvolo Riddle.