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The Waiting Magic
Harry let out a long breath as he closed the door behind him. The single candle flickered to life above the sink, illuminating the dingy fourth floor toilet of Grimmauld place. Wiping the clammy sweat from his forehead, Harry plopped down on the toilet seat, stubbornly ignoring the mold squirming over the edge of the tub.
Harry pinched himself to push back the tears threatening to crawl up his throat. He had snapped at Hermione again, and he felt guilty for being so vicious when she tried so hard to be a good friend. But Hermione pushed and pushed, and sometime Harry just needed a minute alone. He couldn’t talk about what a mess Cedric’s death had left him, the only time he even let himself think about it was in the moments after a nightmare, after waking up in the dark and knowing that sleep wouldn’t come again. Summer with the Dursley’s had been brutal and boring, but at least no one bothered Harry about his feelings. He wanted to hole up inside himself and put on a happy face until either Voldemort died or Harry did.
“Harry, Mate, are you up here? ‘Mione says she’s sorry about asking how you are. And Mum says dinner is nearly ready.”
Harry took a moment to right himself, grinning with all his teeth into the mirror before relaxing into something a little more natural.
“Yeah Ron, I’m coming down. Fred was in the toilet downstairs.”
“Whatever you say mate.” They both knew that Harry had run away from Hermione’s prying before he blew up again. Not for the first time, Harry was grateful for Ron’s unwillingness to engage in any conversation that tread too far in to emotional territory.
“I’ll see you downstairs, watch out on the second floor, we think some doxies might have escaped the drawing room.” Ron’s footsteps clunked away as Harry emerged from the toilet and slowly made his way down the stairs.
Talking to anyone, especially Ron and Hermione, had been strained in the week since he arrived at Grimmauld Place. As long as Harry could remember, his main imperative had been to endure, though the years at Hogwarts softened him, surrounded mostly by friends and good food. Cedric’s death consumed Harry. The resurrection of Voldemort might have traumatized Harry more, except that Harry always had a vague sense that the Dark Lord’s return was inevitable. That was a horror Harry accepted the moment he held Quirrell’s crumbling face in his hands. The Order assumed Harry’s foul mood was a response to Voldemort’s return, but it was Cedric’s blank face, his body falling like a bludger to the ground in the graveyard that flashed in his mind every time he closed his eyes.
Always kind, always righteous, Cedric embodied the hero that everyone thought Harry ought to be. Harry imagined that he looked at Cedric the same way others looked at Harry. Cedric was bright and shiny, glowing in his Hufflepuff gold, with a winning smile and a graceful flip of his hair, even for Harry his unwilling and undeserving competitor. Harry didn’t consider himself easily flustered, but he hardly managed to hide a blush when Cedric gave him the password to the prefect’s bath.
Harry shook his head violently, trying to rid himself of the thoughts that threatened to send him back to the fourth floor toilet in a panic. He needed to go to dinner and act normal, repay Ron and Hermione for being generally terrible to be around. How could he talk to him when they had no clue what the real issue was? And since they didn’t know, how could he bring it up?
Taking a final moment to square his shoulders, Harry walked into the kitchen with a shy smile. Sirius clapped him on the shoulder, and Harry gave him a pained grin, settling into another awkward dinner with the people he loved, but who he had no idea how to talk to.
*********
“Checkmate…again. You need to at least try, it’s worse than playing Neville.” Ron said, knocking Harry’s king off the board of the third time that night. Ron and Harry sat in the freshly de-doxied drawing room, while Hermione reclined on a chaise, doing what she called light reading, but that the rest of the Grimmauld population qualified as intense research.
Ginny abandoned the room an hour previously, complaining about the bumping and shrieking emanating from Fred and George’s room the floor above. Harry got the sense that Ginny was still avoiding him after his explosion a few nights ago. She was right, she was the only person he knew who had actually been possessed by Voldemort, but his frustration still bubbled to the surface in a way that he could not quite control or understand.
“Harry, are you even listening? Want to play another round? Or we could switch to exploding snap? Merlin, this house is boring. I can’t believe we have to spend the rest of the summer cooped up in here,” Ron said as he pulled the snap deck from his pocket.
“Better than spending it cooped up at the Dursley’s,” Harry sighed, regretting his words as they left his lips. Hermione stilled, and though she appeared to still be reading, Harry knew she was listening intently for any drop of information. Harry avoided talking about the Dursley’s whenever possible. Ron and Hermione knew some vague details about his childhood, but Harry tried not to reveal too much. What was there to say? His feelings didn’t matter, they wouldn’t help defeat Voldemort. Knowing would just make everyone, including Harry, feel even more miserable than they already did. Harry peered up at Ron’s apologetic eyes and scrambled for an excuse to leave immediately, before he said something else he would regret.
“I’m tired, I’m just going to go to bed.” Harry stood, gathering the charms homework he had abandoned hours earlier.
“Harry, I know you don’t want to, but you can always talk to us. About the nightmares, about anything,” Hermione pleaded.
Anger flashed and Harry wanted to bite back that he didn’t want to say a bloody thing to them if they were going to treat him like a bloody china tea cup after.
Instead he gazed miserably at Hermione and said weakly, “I know Hermione, I know.”
Harry suspected he wouldn’t sleep for hours, if at all, but he went up to the room he shared with Ron and changed into his enormous t-shirt and shucked off his worn jeans. Luckily, Phineas Nigellus was absent from his frame, so Harry lay back comfortably in his cot, relishing the feeling of not being looked at with concern or disdain. Harry cast a weak lumos to illuminate the sparse room. Ron’s new prefect badge glinted in the dim light, and Harry pushed more power into the spell, struggling to extend the light to the corners of the room before his wand tip sputtered and went out. Spells failed him more and more often since he arrived at Grimmauld, where the house’s ambient magic concealed small amounts of underage wizardry. Harry did not want to draw any more attention to himself, especially with the dementor trial looming ahead, but he couldn’t ignore his failing magic for long. Spells seemed to get tangled up in his wand, sometimes barely successful, even those as simple as lumos or alohamora. These minor disturbances Harry might have put down to stress, but his patronus posed a larger concern.
After mastering the charm in third year, Harry never had an issue casting a patronus. If there was one thing Harry knew how to do, it was summon positive emotions when he felt terrible. Barely a week ago, Harry summoned those emotions again, to save himself and Dudley, but while Prongs sauntered from Harry’s wand as powerful as always, the stag looked…wrong. Prong’s normally smooth coat turned transparent, revealing a ghostly skeleton. Through the phantom ribcage, a pulsing white heart glowed, and Harry stumbled back at the sight of his beloved stag’s insides.
Prongs chased off the dementors as usual, and Harry stared wide-eyed when the stag nuzzled Harry’s hand affectionately, before evaporating and leaving Harry to drag Dudley home.
Had the death of Cedric affected him deeply enough to change his patronus? Remus never mentioned anything about whether a patronus might change over time. Harry assumed they were fixed, that Prongs was an expression of who he was as a person. Hermione would know, but asking her would mean also bringing up the concerns about his magic. Harry would have to muddle through on his own, though remembering the pain he felt when Voldemort touched his scar, Harry wondered wether that encounter could have altered something deep inside Harry. Perhaps his magic. Perhaps his soul.
Harry hastily turned over in his cot as he heard Ron saying good night to Hermione on the stairs.
“Harry, you still up?” Harry deepened his breath, pretending to sleep, even though Ron could be annoyingly perceptive these days, and knew that Harry rarely fell asleep before early morning.
“Okay, mate. Sleep well, and know we’re here when you’re ready” Ron whispered and Harry blinked back tears. He didn’t deserve their kindness, once they realized that, they would give up on him. Sometimes Harry was amazed his friends had stuck by him as long as they had. Since their fight during the Tournament, Ron’s tone toward Harry became awkwardly kind, as Ron parroted Hermione’s words of support in a desperate attempt to prove himself a good friend. Harry knew he was the problem, not Ron or Hermione, and did his best to repay them, though he rarely managed to drum up enough energy to but on a cheery face.
Ron shuffled into his pajamas and his bed creaked as he crawled in and found a comfortable position. Deep breaths quickly became snores, and Harry knew it was safe to rise again.
********
Harry had taken to exploring Grimmauld in the wee hours of the night, discovering the forgotten corners and disturbing secrets of the dark house. Occasionally, he found Sirius in the kitchen, looking haggard and a bit wild-eyed, and the pair shared a pot of tea. They spoke little, after Harry realized that asking Sirius to talk about James and Lily only saddened the animagus more. Eventually Sirius would drain his mug, clap Harry on the shoulder and say, “Try to get some sleep cub. Merlin knows we both need it.” Sirius drifted out of the room, leaving behind a faint smell of straw and shit that came from having Buckbeak as a roommate.
More disturbing than his nightly rendezvous with Sirius was the second night at Grimmauld, when Harry bumped into Snape emerging from the floo. Snape looked paler than usual, his stringy hair sticking to his face and his robes rumpled and torn. Blood trickled from Snape’s left ear. Snape relaxed his stance for a moment, letting out a long breath and unclenching his jaw, before he noticed Harry and scowled.
“Go the fuck to sleep, Potter” Snape growled and he knocked Harry away from the kitchen door, slipping down into the cellar. Harry couldn’t be sure what lay under the floorboards of Grimmauld, but he suspected a potions lab, judging by the noxious fumes that sometimes made their way through the kitchen vents while the Order ate supper.
Tonight though, the house felt empty. Aside from a steady thump from under the twin’s door, and Snape’s footsteps fading into the darkness, the house was silent.
Harry padded up two floors, passing by the drawing room, where the younger generation frequently retreated, and which still bore the vague scent of doxycide. The room with the Black family tapestry, Harry had already thoroughly explored. Other than the couch, which dipped so deeply when sat upon that Harry feared it was carnivorous, the room bored Harry, the drawers full of nothing but moldy extra linens and ancient daguerrotypes.
Shadows hid the last door of the hall, and the magic keeping the candles alight flickered and failed as Harry drew closer. He hadn’t explored this room yet, the cobwebs that ran in a thick robe from doorknob to floor put him off just enough to avoid it. But Harry was running out of places to snoop, and this house hid a few secrets yet.
Harry grimaced and wiped the webs away with his foot, jumping when a few fat spiders fell on his leg. Harry’s arachnophobia was not nearly as advanced as Ron’s, but he had to admit that since his time in the Forbidden Forest, he was not particularly keen on spiders.
Half expecting a locked door, Harry gave the knob a gentle turn. His fingers tingled slightly at the contact, and he paused, waiting for a hex or booby trap to take hold. The tingle continued, but Harry noticed no ill affects, so he nudged the door open, going slowly to minimize the screech of old hinges that could wake Sirius the floor above.
Eyes watering from the cloud of dust he kicked up, Harry stepped into the room, the dim light from the hall falling on disused shelves. A library.
“Lumos…fuck…Lumos!” Harry’s wand stubbornly came to life, casting a ray of light across a bear pelt rug that growled softly. Gingerly skirting around the mangy black fur, Harry gazed up at the mahogany shelves, full to the brim with leather and dragon skin bound tombs. Some tan and thinly stretched bindings appeared to be of less savory materials, and Harry thought he spotted a mole on the spine of “The Art of the Homunculus.” So this is what Sirius meant when he spoke of the madness of the Blacks.
Piles of tightly rolled scrolls overflowed from a basket next to a striped wing-back chair standing before the room’s only window. Unlike most of the windows in the Black home, this one was large with a gothic arch, revealed when Harry pushed back the heavy drapes. Harry looked out on to the scraggly back garden, all vines and overtaken wrought-iron furniture. The vines winding around a crumbling bird bath vaguely resembled Devil’s Snare. The full moon shone brightly into the library, and Harry sent a quick thought to Remus, transformed somewhere with wolves he didn’t trust, gathering information for the Order. Harry extinguished his feeble lumos and turned back to the library.
Harry hesitated to sit after his experience with the man-eating couch, but it had to be past two in the morning, and his body began to assert its exhaustion. Carefully, Harry lifted a thin tomb from the chair, laying it on a side-table next to a bottle of dried ink the color of the scab on his thumb he kept picking at. He sat, tensing for a moment, but relaxing when the chair did not attempt to swallow him. He wondered who was last here, which nasty Black ancestor with a name of a star and deceit in his heart had sat where Harry sat now? The room felt as if the occupant had been called away mid-reading and simply never returned. The dust implied that Kreature rarely cleaned here, though that was hardly a surprise. The cranky elf chose what he deemed worth his attention, which seemed solely focused on Walburga Black’s chambers and portrait.
Out of curiosity, Harry picked up the thin tomb. Bound in soft, dark green dragon hide, Harry ran his fingers over the stamped title, “The Death and Life of Phillonius Black, 1729-“
Harry’s lips parted and his breath quickened. A warm sensation melted through his fingers and burned its way across his skin, through his veins, settling in his bones. Everything is his being sang yes as Harry held the book, his grip tightening as the magic washed over him. Perhaps his reaction should set off an internal warning bell, but Harry never did learn to gauge his proximity to danger and leave before trouble found him. The book’s magic put Harry at peace and he felt calmer than he had since the graveyard, probably before then. Harry didn’t dare crack the cover yet, just in case he was in the process of being cursed. Instead, he held on, savoring the feeling of peace that came from this strange magic. Harry tilted his head back and his muscles released, buoyed by the magic as if he were floating in salt water. For the first time, Harry felt right with himself. Whatever magic had been lurking in the diary of Phillonius Black was a part of Harry as well, and Harry drifted to sleep with the sense that he had been reunited with something he had been missing for a long time.
********
Harry woke slowly, blearily rubbing his eyes as the sun hit him through the open drapes. Confused, because usually he was jolted out of sleep by a nightmare, Harry took in the dingy library, less mysterious and frightening by the morning light. His limbs were loose and settled in the wing chair, released from their perpetual tension. Laying warm in his lap, the book still pulsed with its comforting aura, but Harry reluctantly placed it on the side table, knowing he had to slip back to bed before the rest of the house rose. He couldn’t risk running into Mrs. Weasley on the stairs as she went to prepare breakfast.
Phineas Nigellus smirked and raised a sculpted brow as Harry snuck silently back into his and Ron’s room. Ron’s snores still echoed around the room, but Harry felt so well rested that he rummaged through his trunk to find something to read. He doubted any of his school books would contain information on mysterious books that made you feel like everything was right with the universe, but Harry could at least finish the assigned Charms reading he neglected the night before.
“How long have you been up for, then?” Ron grunted from his cot, rolling out of bed to shut the curtains, only to promptly crawl back in bed.
Harry laughed, “Come on, your mum’s been bustling about downstairs for at least an hour. I can smell the sausages.”
Perking up at the mention of breakfast meats, Ron stood and stretched.
“All right, all right. For you, since you seem so bloody chipper this morning. Sleep well?” What Ron really wanted to ask was, “Did you sleep at all?” But he could occasionally have tact.
“I did actually,” Harry grinned at Ron’s impressed and sightly disbelieving look.
*******
Mrs. Weasley assigned tasks for the day at breakfast, leaving Harry and Hermione with the unpleasant task of rescuing the fourth floor toilet that Harry had hidden in not so long ago. Remus was due to arrive back today, and with a steady flow of Order members in and out, the growing household was in desperate need of a second toilet.
Unfortunately, the cramped space meant that the toilet was a task for only two people, while the others tackled the overgrown garden, clearing space for Buckbeak, so that Sirius could finally reclaim his old bedroom.
“So shall we start with banishing charms and follow with bleach?” Hermione said, clearly treading lightly around Harry after being on the receiving end of his foul mood the past few days. Fearing the his magic would fail mid-banishment, Harry said, “Why don’t I scrape it up, and you banish it.” They peered down at the squirming black sludge in the tub with identical looks of disgust.
“I wonder if it’s sentient?”
“Oh God, Harry, please don’t say that. Though I suppose Hagrid might be interested.” She gave him a wry grin and he snorted in amusement.
Hermione cast a bubble charm over both their faces and grimly handed Harry the scraper. They worked quietly for a time, cringing at the pitiful squelching of the sludge. It keened and shrunk away each time Hermione pointed her wand, and Harry began to feel a bit sorry for it.
“Hermione, have you ever heard of someone losing their magic before?” Harry couldn’t resist asking, in the hopes that Hermione could give him some hint of where to start researching his problem. The new school term started soon, and time was running out for Harry to solve the issue with his magic, or risk discovery.
“No I haven’t, why do you ask that, Harry?” She gave him a suspicious look.
“No reason, just a thought. I had a dream once that I forgot how to do magic.”
Hermione laughed. “Merlin, that’s the worst. I always have that dream when I’m anxious about an exam. I dreamt that I managed to showed up to a Transfiguration with nothing but a calculator once!”
Harry chuckled, glad that he had derailed Hermione’s curiosity, but irritated that he was still where he started.
“Though, on that note, I have read about diseases that can eat away at the magical core. I wonder if it’s possible for the core to be completely consumed? Oh dear, I expect that would kill the witch or wizard in question.”
An unknown force threatening Harry’s life, what else was new? Tonight’s task, return to the Black library and research magic eating illnesses.
“Morbid, ‘Mione.”
“Sorry, Sorry, but you started it.” She gave Harry a friendly shove, and Harry was proud that he had made it through the morning without saying something nasty.
*******
Eventually they emerged for lunch, stinking of bleach and Mrs. Weasley’s special cleaning concoction (a lavender foam that made Harry think Fred and George had not received their proclivity for experimentation from Arthur Weasley alone.) A tense twitchiness slowly crept up Harry’s spine over the course of the morning, and Harry’s thoughts strayed back to the book and the delicious calm he felt when he held it as he tucked into his ham sandwich. Harry wanted to disappear for a few hours and get back to the book and start researching his magical disease, but with the house so full of people, he needed to stay and participate in the activities for the day. He pondered whether he could plead a migraine, but that would just invite coddling from Mrs. Weasley.
“You could at least pretend to listen, Harry. Honestly.” Hermione had politely ignored his distraction all morning in the name of a respite from conflict, but apparently Ginny had not received the memo. “I was asking if you wanted to go over the Quiddich plays Angelina sent us later?”
“Sure thing, Gin. Sorry, I was just thinking about the poor tub sludge.” The table collectively cringed.
The afternoon came and went. Harry drifted through conversations, not really listening, but making an effort to look engaged. After an early supper, the younger generation was shooed upstairs while the Order of the Phoenix gathered in the kitchen. Harry and the others eavesdropped with Fred and George’s extendable ears, listening in as the adults argued over whether Harry was old enough to know the details of the conflict he was already at the center of. Harry wanted to scream that he was the only one in this house who had ever faced Voldemort directly, so of course he should bloody know what was happening. But Harry also knew that he had his own concerns, and the less attention paid him, the more freedom he garnered.
The door to the kitchen creaked open, and the teens on the balcony scrambled back to their respective rooms, but not before Harry caught a glimpse of an exhausted Snape. If his injuries the other night were anything to go by, Snape knew what it felt like to face the Dark Lord. He probably understood better than anyone.
Hours later, Harry snuck out of bed once again, prepared to spend all night researching his magical malady. He padded barefoot down the hall, pausing when he reached a creaky floorboard. A sliver of light from the kitchen filtered up the stairs. Sirius and Remus spoke in low voices, and Harry knew he was risking discovery by sneaking out before everyone went to bed, but he needed to optimize his time in Grimmauld. Normally, his invisibility cloak would aid these nighttime jaunts, but Harry forgot to remove it from the bottom of his trunk where he hid it from the Dursley’s prying eyes, and Ron was, despite his loud snores, a surprisingly light sleeper. His hearing was in just four days, and after that, who knew Harry’s fate.
Once through the heavy door, Harry let out his held breath and skirted around the bear rug up to the dusty shelves. The book, still lying on the wing chair, pulled at Harry’s senses, beckoning him. He resisted, research first, then the sweet relief of holding the mysterious book.
“A Wizard’s Almanac of Diseases”, “Curses Most Evil”, and a thin scroll simply called “Retribution” seemed most promising for the start of his reading. Unfortunately, many of the texts were written in unfamiliar languages, or were bound by chains to the shelf, which Harry avoided, recalling his unfortunate experiences in the restricted section.
Ready to settle into his work, Harry ran his fingers along the spines of the lower shelf as he headed toward the drab sofa sitting diagonally to the wing chair. He needed to focus and not get distracted by the book before he found the information he needed.
A faint tingle stopped Harry in his tracks, and he looked over his shoulder to where his fingers met the spine of a thick text, bound in tan leather. Harry pushed away the thought that the leather had an oddly freckled texture.
Harry hauled the book into his arms, before he even made the conscious decision to do so. The tingling heat seared up Harry’s arms so quickly that Harry sank to his knees in shock. The bear rug cushioned his fall and let out a snarl that Harry hardly noticed.
The magic flowed from the book to his body, making him dizzy as it circled its way around his wrists, his ankles, his neck. Harry knew he should be frightened, should call out for help as the unknown magic consumed him, but the sensation felt so unexplainably right.
Gradually, the magic settled back to a dull tingle, leaving Harry breathless. He stretched his legs out on the bear rug, not caring anymore if the sentient carpet tried to bite. The magic had burned away any trepidation, and Harry cracked the cover and began to read. The book bore no title, and was handwritten in an outdated cursive. Harry squinted at the words, but found that after years spent with his own atrocious writing, he had no trouble deciphering the cramped letters.
After many years practicing the most ancient art, I have at last achieved the ultimate goal, the resurrection of my beautiful Sarah…
Resurrection? Shit. Harry flashed back to the graveyard, Voldemort’s beastly new form rising from the cauldron. The Dark Lord’s rebirth disgusted Harry, but what did it say about him that this book had attracted him so strongly? Was it his connection to Voldemort, drawing him to dark objects, implanting a fascination that was quickly turning into obsession?
With my goal achieved, the marks ringing my limbs have darkened and become permanent, and warning to all those who may approach. The time has come to record all I have learned and experienced in my study of necromancy, and also to clarify the reality of this magic, as rumors run rampant, now, and I suspect in the future.
Harry imagined a wizard in black robes, tall and skeletal, like Snape, hovering over a corpse. Terrible images of blood rituals and zombies flooded Harry’s mind, contradicting the waves of bliss still emanating from where his fingers gripped the book. Harry turned a few pages, skimming ahead, though the book was written like a diary, with no distinguishable chapters or organization. About ten pages in, a passage grabbed Harry’s attention.
A necromancer must practice his art, the magic wells up from within, born by blood through the generations. Of course, the magic chooses the wizard, as we say wands do, so the skill does not present itself in every generation. A father and son will rarely share the same inheritance.
The ruling authorities classify necromancy as a Dark Art, practiced by nefarious individuals, but necromancy is the magic of life. We are healers who span the chasm between this world and the next. Those true to our art do not practice with cruel intentions, though others may find our methods unpleasant, the sacrifices are similar to those made in scientific medicines, in which a leech may be used to clean the blood, or a tumorous limb may be removed for the good of the whole. We of the ancient art are bound to Death and we simply do her bidding.
The sense of the author shocked Harry. This didn’t sound like Voldemort, obsessed with power and mortality. Harry admitted to himself that the idea of going between the worlds of the dead and the living appealed to him. In quiet moments, Harry wondered about his parents, somewhere else with all the other dead. Before Hogwarts, he pictured the heaven he learned about from other children at school, full of puffy clouds and babies with wings (the Dursley’s never bothered bringing Harry to church.) Could James and Lily see him? Did they know about the torment of the Dursley’s? Or Voldemort’s return? Were the phantoms who emerged from the clash of his wand and Voldemort’s truly the spirits of his parents, of Cedric? Were they like the ghosts at Hogwarts, or were they something else entirely? Harry had so many questions, and the possibility of answers, of control over his life, brought to the forefront thoughts that Harry had been pushing away his entire life.
Like the Mirror of Erised, the book created dangerous desires. Could Harry bring someone back from the dead, even someone so far gone as Cedric? The book did call to him. Why would that happen if necromancy was not in his blood, as the words claimed it had to be. How could he know for sure?
The necromancer’s journey is a lonely one, for we are born few and far between. As children, we know we are different. The creatures of the earth respond to us, rising even as they are shot down from the trees or are crushed by a horse’s hooves. We show an unnatural imperviousness. Myself, I discovered a talent for holding my breath when the older boys held my head below the surface of the lake out of the restless desire of young men to hurt those weaker and stranger. Yet, never did I drown.
Discovering the language of our magic came later, when I accepted an apprenticeship in the Magical Court of Holland. In their endless library, buried deep in the condemned scrolls I was meant to transcribe, certain scrolls called to me. They caught and held my attention, until I fearfully read, and discovered the magic to fill the hole always present in my being.
Harry stopped reading with a grim realization. Dumbledore had lied. Lily’s magic was not the source of Harry’s miraculous survival all those years ago. What if it had been Harry’s own magic, resurrecting him before he could even act consciously? Maybe the magical interruptions of the last few weeks were not a disease or a curse, but symptoms of a neglect of his true power.
Even as he questioned, Harry knew he found his solution. Necromancy was inside him, and it was a path he had no choice but to follow.
********
The next few days passed much like the previous, cleaning by day, reading by night. Once he began to look, more and more tomes in the Black library presented themselves, summoning Harry with their promises of control and fulfillment. He learned the the term “Dark Magic” originally referred to the Dark Ages, to a magic before the use of wands, one that was internal and instinctual. Back then, magic responded to nature and emotion, the rules were less strict, and the consequences more dire. Over the years, the term had gathered its unsavory connotations like the crack in the couch gathering dust. Several authors mentioned that as children they were particularly prone to accidental magic. Harry related, thinking about the incident at the zoo, or the time he blew up Aunt Marge.
Each text’s author sounded reasonable and sane, and Harry began to accept that necromancy might be something he could pursue, that like parseltongue, an inclination toward Dark Magic did not make him evil. Understanding Voldemort’s abilities could be valuable, keep your enemies close, fight fire with fire, and all that. Harry doubted this justification would hold with Hermione or Dumbledore, but they needn’t know anything, provided Harry found a way to get past his magical block.
Harry eventually decided time had come to test this magic he had read so much about. The tan volume seemed like the most practical place to start, with comparatively clear writing and a detailed account of the author’s first foray into death magic.
Cracking the binding, Harry lay the text flat on the bear skin rug, which gave a snarl that Harry interpreted at affectionate, rather than threatening. The text recommended starting with a simple ritual to open the mind, allowing one to sense the ambient death magic of their surroundings. If Harry understood correctly, the ritual would allow him to see the aura of death around objects and creatures. Like if an old owl would pass soon, Harry would be able to tell. At least, he thought that was what he was trying to do. Hopefully, visualization was not as essential to necromancy as it was for transfiguration.
The procedure was simple. Harry extinguished the tarnished chandelier, leaving only a single candle lit, which he set before him on the ground. The book instructed him to focus on the flame, and allow his magic to pool around this eyes. By now, Harry identified the sensations coming from the books as the death magic he needed to focus on.
Harry released his hold on the tan book and tried to keep the warm tingly feeling in his fingers as he stared into the flame. He pulled the feeling up though his wrists, around the bones in his arms. Harry gasped as the feeling rushed through his neck, then gagged suddenly as the feeling stuck in his throat. Trying to calm himself, Harry took a deep breath through his nose, but continued to choke. He fell forward, knocking over the candle, and the bear writhed as the flamed singed fur and thankfully went out. The magic rushed away from Harry’s throat, receding back down his arms and settling once again in his finger tips, leaving Harry relieved, but also bereft.
What the hell? The magic felt so right, so why did the ritual fail? Harry sighed and flopped on his back, staring up at the cobwebbed ceiling. He had been counting on this. The idea of discovering a new magic, one powerful enough to protect himself and his friends, had rekindled a hope that he thought died with Cedric. The books provided the possibility of being close with his parents in a way that should be impossible, and Harry wished for that closeness desperately, even though he knew that was a fruitless path. He lay there in the dark for hours, his hair being nuzzled by the head of the bear rug, which had apparently forgiven Harry for burning it. Maybe the rug was as lonely as Harry? Eventually, he drifted off into a fitful sleep, waking just in time to creep back to his cot.
*******
Harry moped through the next day, though everyone assumed that his malaise stemmed from the upcoming hearing. Nothing went right. How could Harry stay strong when everything he gained was eventually taken? He couldn’t fucking stand it. Harry wanted, wanted so much. He tried to numb himself, putting emotions away, but the desires always came back. Even with the distraction of another Order meeting, Harry could feel the library calling to him. But he would not give in, he would not be disappointed again by an empty dream.
“Why can’t you just let me know what you talked about, you said yourself that I deserve to know!” Harry begged Sirius after the meeting let out.
“I know Cub, but Dumbledore wants to protect you from these things, and as much as I wish things were different, we still need to trust him.” Sirius replied with a strain in his voice. Harry knew it was manipulative, but he thought if he wheedled further, Sirius would break.
“Padfoot, please,” Harry said, using the nickname he knew would remind Sirius of James, “It’s bad enough he’s keeping us locked up here, it’s nearly as bad as the Dursley’s. I just want to know what’s going on.” Sirius’ eyes widened pitifully.
“Harry, enough. You’re barely fifteen. Let us care for you in the few ways we can.” Remus’ stern voice emerged from the kitchen, followed by the man, still looking worn from the recent moon.
Harry’s temple flared and he glared at the ex-convict and the werewolf.
“Fine. I’ll die knowing nothing then!” The cruelty of his words shocked all three, but Harry didn’t wait to apologize. He stomped up the stairs, going straight to the library and slamming the door. He didn’t give a fuck who knew where he was, he just needed to be away from all the liars and secret keepers. Harry should be able to decide what was in his best interest, no one else.
Harry stayed in the library as darkness fell, curled up in the wing chair, waiting for some condescendingly concerned adult to come interrogate him. No one came, and this relieved Harry, but also made him feel terribly alone.
*********
For a few hours, Harry managed to relax, listening to the bustle downstairs as Mrs. Weasley out on dinner, then the shuffle on the stairs as everyone gradually receded to bed.
The bell struck midnight at the church around the corner, and Harry started to awareness, realizing that he had unconsciously picked up the thin volume by Phillonius Black and was caressing its covers. He threw the volume away, only to snatch it back up after a moment. Restlessness lifted Harry up off the chair as the night wore on. He wished he could just sleep, tame the anger and anxiety wriggling inside him. Perhaps it was a result of years at the Dursley’s, where the nighttime was his only refuge, but Harry’s mind always came alive after dark, leaving him tense and alert.
Harry huffed and grudgingly stooped to pick up the candle, still fallen from the previous night. It was a bad idea to try again, Harry would just end up more hurt, but he never did learn impulse control, so he relit the candle stub and settled cross legged on the rough fur.
Again, he focused on the tingle in his fingers, taking his time, allowing the magic to simmer in his palms, spiraling upward, filling his lungs, his empty stomach. The magic flowed into the crevices, fitting like keys into the rest of his being. He braced himself for the inevitable choking as the magic caught in his throat, but Harry was stubborn. The moment he lit the candle he decided he would push through this ritual with all his might. He needed to know.
Harry breathed deep through his nose, then held it as the magic tied a noose around his neck. He knew that the death magic needed to make it to his eyes, but it was as if a net caught the pleasant sensation at his neck and tangled it into a suffocating web. Well, Harry thought, as his lungs begged for oxygen, nets can be cut. Until now, Harry allowed the death magic to move freely in lazy loops, but he focused on the sensation in his chest and imagined the magic forming razor sharp edges. Before he could worry about the danger of stabbing himself in the neck with magic, Harry launched the spikes at the tangle in his throat, crying out when the magic tore through, sending a wave of agony coursing through his body.
He fell forward into his lap, and panted as the pain receded, leaving the warm prickles of death magic crackling on his skin. Harry lifted himself, and once more gazed into the flame, easily pulling the magic up to gather around his eyes.
A small smile flickered onto Harry’s face, only to be wiped away by the door slamming open.
*********
Severus’ eyes met Harry’s and the world froze. The boy sat there, cross-legged on the bear skin rug Severus knew was hostile, with an arrogant little smirk which the bang of the door wiped off his face.
Both wizards waited a moment, listening foray stirring of the house’s sleeping occupants. Incensed at catching the boy mid-nighttime wander, Severus did not immediately notice the still-burning candle and the text lying open on the rug. Quickly, he regained his composure, pulling himself to full height and silently clicked the door shut.
“And what, Potter, do you think you are doing out of bed?” Severus sneered. The boy’s eyes shifted guiltily, the rose to meet the professors with a forced expression of innocence.
“I couldn’t sleep, I’m just reading”
Severus strode toward the boy, carefully avoiding the bear’s sharp teeth, which nipped at the hem of his robes. He bent to retrieve Potter’s so-called reading material. Harry watched as the aura around the book recoiled from Snape’s reaching hand, but just as he opened his mouth in warning, the magic snapped against Snape’s fingers like a rubber band.
“Fuck” Snape hissed, and leveled a glare at Harry. While he was not entirely sure what happened, Harry’s heart lifted as he realized the ritual had succeeded. He could see the hazy lavender and violet auras around each of the books on necromancy. A bit of violet clung to Snape as well, though we was not inundated like the books. A curl of purple hung around Snape’s left arm, with tendrils snaking up his bicep and around his neck. Harry stayed frozen, mentally scrabbling for an excuse that would explain the books reaction and get Snape out of his library.
Ever so slowly, Severus titled his head toward the book, making out the words ritual and death among the handwritten scribbles.
“Your reading appears to be cursed, Potter. How then did it make it’s way from the shelf to the floor?” Severus suspected mischief on Potter’s part, and the boy would not slip away this time.
“I carried it…Sir” Harry threw in the sir in a hopeless attempt to appease the spiteful professor.
“Liar. You are already in enough trouble for underage magic, do not test my generosity. I will inform the minister of your rule-breaking.” The gall of this boy! To lie to Severus’ face when the boy clearly used magic to pull the book from its shelf.
“Don’t call me a liar,” Harry growled. “It just doesn’t like you.”
Severus barked back a laugh, and raised his eyebrows at Harry.
“Books do not have preferences.” The boy shifted awkwardly, clearly he was up to something.
“Some do,” Potter mumbled. Severus shook his head in disbelief. The entire situation was suspicious. Just moments before, as Severus was finishing up his potion making for the night, the delicate flowers he had been slicing had turned to dust in his hands, followed by a powerful burst of magic through the house. At first, Severus feared that the wards had been breached, but no, that would set off the alarms as well. Severus cast a stasis charm over his potion, and crept up the stairs. He cast a tracing charm to determine the origin of the powerful magic, and followed the spell to the library. He wondered if a dark artifact had spontaneously combusted, since the Weasley clan had not yet focused their cleaning attentions on the library. So much of Grimmauld remained uninhabitable, it was likely that any small disturbance could set off a chain reaction of dark magic.
Alas, the source of the burst was not dark magic, or even a Weasley twin experiment gone wrong.Severus opened the door to discover Potter at the center of the commotion, as usual.
Harry and Severus glared at each other for an endless moment, before Harry gently closed the book at his side. Severus gaped at the nonchalant manner with which Harry handled the cursed object. Harry took care with this book, so different from how he abused his school books. Harry rose slowly, hugging the book to his chest and slid toward the door.
“Potter, wait! Do not remove that from this room, you halfwit!” Severus said, his voice wavering more than he intended, a touch of concern peeking through his harsh demeanor. Harry continued without looking up, and Severus spun on his heel and snagged the boy’s arm.
“Let go,” Potter snapped and tried to pull away.
“What are you thinking, idiot? Drop the book. Clearly it has some unnatural hold on you.”
Harry tried to tug his arm away once more, before hurling the book at Severus’ chest. The magic of the book sparked as Severus dodged the projectile. By the time he looked back at the door, Harry was gone. He contemplated chasing after the boy, but Severus decided he would have more luck examining the evidence left behind.
Carefully, Severus leaned over the text, which fell open to a random page. As before, Severus caught a few words, ancient art and practice, but the letters seemed to blur and rearrange as he tried to read. The book reminded him of the prank parchment he tried to confiscate from Potter a few years ago. What kind of magic was the boy messing with that it allowed only Potter access? Looking around the library at the Black family’s legacy of madness and cruelty, Severus feared that the boy had fallen into something truly dangerous, probably without a second thought of the consequences. Worse, perhaps Albus was correct and the boy was at risk of possession. Severus believed he would recognize the merciless eyes of the Dark Lord peering from behind Potter’s, but then what was the source of the boy’s morbid curiosity? Potter never showed an interest in gaining knowledge for knowledge’s sake, so what was his motivation?
Tomorrow, Potter would stand before the ministry and beg for leniency. He would get away scott-free, of course, but for a moment Severus indulged the fantasy that the little thorn in his side would be expelled.
With a wry grin, Severus levitated the book back to the hole on the shelf, though even without touch, the book bucked against his magic. With so little information, Severus could draw few conclusions about the brat’s behavior, but he would watch. And Potter better watch his back.
********
Harry kicked the wall in frustration as soon as he passed out of hearing range of Snape. Damn giant bat! Harry couldn’t understand why Dumbledore allowed that bastard into the Order’s safe house. Harry saw the violet magic circling Snape’s left arm, and he suspected what mark lay beneath. Trustworthy, Dumbledore said. Snape’s interference meant that Harry would have to mind his every move even more carefully lest the professor catch on to his ulterior motives.
Harry fully intended to continue his research. Completing this ritual, he felt like a dam had broken. His magic felt loose and free and ready. What had blocked his magic before, Harry did not know, but he felt prepared to take on anything, his new power celebrating under his skin.
Tomorrow, early, before leaving for the hearing, Harry would creep back into the library and shrink as many texts as he could hide in his trunk. His future hung uncertainly before him, but expelled or not, Harry would have his new magic to focus and propel him.