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Ascension 35
🕑 Added 2025-04-17 13:46:53 +0000 UTC“Merlin’s balls,” Neville muttered as he suddenly found himself by the Black Lake underneath a star-filled sky. In the distance, the low not
“Merlin’s balls,” Neville muttered as he suddenly found himself by the Black Lake underneath a star-filled sky. In the distance, the low notes of the giant squid’s trilling echoed out of the water, ripples forming on the surface as he saw the creature skim close to the surface by the shore. A silent, cool wind blew through the meadows around him, ruffling his hair and robes as he looked down at hsi shifting clothes with a frown. “Back to the chamber, please.”
Instantly, the darkness around him disappeared, replaced by the arching ceiling of the stone, as the stars and moonlight shifted into low-hanging torches that flashed in his dreams ever so often since that day. The smell of grass and water carried by the cool wind turned into the smell of burning wood and dust, and in front of him, the Black Lake turned into the glowing golden pillar of protection created by Dumbledore. Behind him, he heard Quirrell’s slow, deliberate walk as the malevolence he had come to associate with his presence filled the air, and Neville saw Harry and Persephone tense up as the dreaded words repeated themselves.
“Then it means Professor Quirrell planned all this, my dear students.”
Dodging sideways to evade the all too familiar body-bind, Neville turned around, slashing his wand through the air with a mutter of lacero. The powerful cutting curse left his wand in a flashing arc of pink energy. Quick as lightning, Quirrell’s arm batted away his curse and Harry and Persephone were bound to the back of the room in the same motion. His wand moved in patterns that had become as familiar to him as breathing in the past couple of days, a bone breaker and a stunner shooting towards Quirrell. Fast and strong though they were, Neville held no illusions about them actually striking his ex-Professor, the motherfucking Dark Lord.
“It will take you decades before you are more than a gnome before me, Young Neville,” the serpentine, drawling whisper echoed into the chamber as ropes came flying towards him, while the stone beneath his feet turned into quicksand. A freezing charm stopped his feet from sinking as he leaned sideways, banishing the ropes to the other end of the room.
“Bombarda!” He muttered furiously, feeling his power welling up like a turbulent river as his heart beat faster and faster with each moment. His blasting curse struck the floor by Quirrell’s feet, and even before the stone and dust had exploded, his wand was moving as he mentally chanted the incantation he had learnt years ago, ‘Saxum Ferrum’
Silent casting was a new thing for him, but Neville had taken to it like a niffler to gold. The first and second year curriculum was already easy for him, and with rigorous practice as well as Helena’s guidance, he had quickly understood the basics behind the usually fifth year concept. In the end, it boiled down to a single thing, familiarity with your own magic and focus.
The reason why silent casting was taught to fifth year onwards was because usually students didn't put much effort into the actual practice of the wanded domains until it was their OWLs, or five years of curriculum had passed. For Neville, who had spent nearly every waking moment since last year using his magic and learning the spells and charms by heart, that familiarity was already achieved.
Or it was Helena proclaiming him to be a prodigy.
Crimson and orange energy coalesced at his wand’s end even as the stone shrapnel turned into spears and pierced through the air, and as Quirrell created a shield to stop the needles, Neville sho-
Orange flames exploded in front of him, and Neville flew back through the air. Thankfully, the Room of Requirement shifted in an eyeblink, the stone wall behind him turning into a giant cushion as the stone room disappeared instantly, replaced by the duelling and practice hall of the Longbottom Manor. The philosopher’s stone, as well as his classmates, vanished into the air, and the torches blazed brighter with a soft blue fire as the banners of Longbottom heraldry fluttered down from the ceilings and windows.
Looking down at the tiny scuff marks on his robes, Neville sighed and stood up, smoothing down his robes and looking at his wand—thankfully, he had at least learned to keep it clutched in his hand. “Confringo,” he muttered, flicking his wand to the side. He watched a bright orange swirling meteor of energy collide with a sofa, flames and concussive force bursting out of the impact and shattering the furniture into dozens of flaming pieces. Frowning at the small, burning piece of fabric-covered wood that came to a cluttering stop by his foot, Neville looked at his Phoenix feather wand and sighed. “Need to work on that. Now, what is the time?”
A clock formed on the wall by his side, hands reading thirty past four.
‘Eight hours’ he blinked in surprise and looked at the dining table behind him, where a plate of his half-eaten lunch sat quietly. ‘Didn’t feel like it in the slightest. Circe’s staff, just what kind of a witch was Rowena Ravenclaw?’
Helena had spoken to him rarely out of teaching him something about focusing his magic or shaping his intent, and she had spoken about her mother even rarer. The dispute between the Ravenclaw duo was a famous tale, known only to a select few who had the records dating back to the foundation of Hogwarts. But yet, the ghostly daughter of the Enchantress had been unable to hide the subtle hints of pride and admiration in her voice when she had brought him to the Room of Requirement.
The pinnacle of the hundred and thirty-five years of Rowena Ravenclaw’s life as the foremost expert on Enchanting and Runecraft. Of course, it was not solely her work, he had been told by Helena. Salazar and Godric both had helped her fine-tune the concept, aiding her in fleshing out the mind-boggling amount of work that must have gone into this thing. According to her, it had taken her mother more than thirty years of non-stop work after the establishment of Hogwarts to create the series of enchantments that were laid into the Chamber—and that was after Rowena had already…well, been known to the world as the Enchantress.
According to one of the entries in the records kept back at the Longbottom Manor, some minor Lord from France had even marched upon Hogwarts with all of his vassals, vying for Rowena’s hand in marriage. That had not been a pretty day, as it had been the first and last time the Piertotum Locomotor, the creation of both Godric Gryffindor and Rowena, had been used.
Exiting the grand doors as they swung outwards, Neville stretched lightly, yawning loudly as he felt the exhaustion of non-stop practice and reading settle in. Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he moved towards the Grand Staircase, intent on getting to his dinner as soon as possible and then getting to his bed for a long overdue sleep. On the way to his destination, as he hummed a quiet little tune his childhood caretaker Emily had sung for him, Neville kept on thinking about his continuously misfiring confringo.
A combination of incendio and bombarda in easier terms, confringo combined the blasting effect of the latter with the fire of the former, ensuring anything struck with it would get hit by a concussive force, as well as temperatures that could easily cause third-degree burns in an instant. Both spells came to him as second nature by now, and while his silent casting in them was not up to the mark, he was improving in that regard too. Running down the stairs, he paused for a moment as he looked around himself.
“Weird,” he muttered, looking at all the vacant portraits around him, the usual cacophony of the hundreds of magical paintings shouting and screaming, accompanied by the echoing chatter of the students travelling up and down the numerous stairs nowhere to be found. Looking over the railing, he frowned at the empty stairs going all the way down to the ground floor. “Where is everyone?”
Within minutes, he was on the third floor, and Neville stopped to look at the corridor where the events of last year had taken place, the then shadowy, dingy place now lit up with braziers glowing brightly. Flashes of that night invaded his thoughts: Ron, Hermione, and he going through the chambers, overcoming challenge after challenge. The chess match, the troll he had taken down, the potions…and then finally, Lord Voldemort.
Shaking off the thoughts, Neville turned around and walked towards the stairs going down as he cast a tem-
“Mr. Longbottom!” Professor Flitwick’s voice interrupted his thoughts and he jerked around, finding the half-goblin wizard walking down through the air towards him, his feet finding purchase on invisible platforms. “What are you doing out here? Your duelling class is in session in the Great Hall.”
“I... skipped it for some individual practice,” he lowered his head. “I was not feeling well enough to go to the Great Hall.”
“Then you should have heard the announcement for everyone to return to their common rooms,” came the reply as Flitwick jumped off the air onto the floor. “Shall I take you to Healer Pomphrey if you are unwell?”
“I am fine now,” he shook his head, before looking at all the empty portraits around him. “Where is everyone, Professor? Even the portraits are empty…did something happen again?”
“There has been another attack, Mr. Longbottom, “ Flitwick sighed, shaking his head sadly. “The Headmaster cancelled the classes for the day, and everyone was told to stay in their common rooms. You must have been sleeping like a dragon to not have heard the announcement.”
“I had warded the room I was in to keep any noise out,” he replied quickly. Perhaps too quickly, he thought as Flitwick gave him a dubious look, almost an eye roll really before the Charms Master turned around and began to walk towards the stairs.
“Well, now that you are here, I might as well drop you off at the Great Hall. Due to the events, your batch has been scheduled to be there till dinner time,” he muttered, giving him a smile over his shoulder as he flicked his wand, summoning a plate full of sandwiches in front of him. “Eat while we walk, Mr. Longbottom, it is not good to skip lunch just because you were practising. And while I appreciate your initiative on self-improvement and practice, you still need to get permission from your teachers to skip scheduled sessions. While I might not say anything for regular classes, considering that your work has not slipped up once, special classes are different. The next time you are found like this, points shall be deducted.”
“Yes, Professor,” he nodded, before his eyes widened and he looked around himself, remembering the Halloween night when he had seen Harry and Persephone in that corridor. “Professor, who was attacked? Was it a Gryffindor?”
“Something like that,” Flitwick paused for a moment, before a weight seemed to have dropped on his shoulders as he half-goblin slouched slightly, his hand raising towards their right as his wand’s tip glowed a brilliant golden. The stone wall shifted, melting away from view to reveal a sight he had never thought possible.
Headless Nick, the self-appointed ghost of the Gryffindors, was frozen in the air, facing towards the stairs. Blood drained from his face as he saw the horror on the dead man’s face, his eyes wide and his hands reaching out towards them, mouth open in a silent, frozen scream. Behind him, he could see another ghost, half inside the wall with only the unmoving Hogwarts to be seen outside the stone, bare signs of Ravenclaw heraldry on the clothes revealing its identity.
“Myrtle,” his eyes widened, looking at the two ghosts petrified before him. “How? What kind of curses affect lingering souls?!”
“Nothing good, and nothing a student has access to in this castle,” Flitwick answered him, waving his wand once more, and Neville watched the wall appear over the petrified ghosts. “They were not found alone. Three girls were found petrified below us on the ground floor, all sixth years. By your reaction, I assume you did not know of it whatsoever until now?”
“No, Professor,” he shook his head, mentally running through every bit and piece of information he knew on the Chamber of Secrets and the Heir of Slytherin. Likening his chances more with Flitwick than McGonagall anyways, Neville walked a little faster and looked at the Charms teacher. “Professor…why was Hagrid kicked out of the school when the last time the Chamber was said to have been opened, and petrifications like these were happening in the castle?”
“How di—Lady Longbottom?” Flitwick began, only to pause as he looked back at him, the question clear as day in his eyes as well as his voice.
“The old newspapers,” he corrected, internally snorting at the thought of his grandmother and him having discussions like this. He loved his grandmother—don’t get him wrong, and he knew she loved him too. But the loss of her husband and then her son had turned Augusta Longbottom into a hard woman. She seldom had time for candid things like these now, managing the vast Longbottom assets and always attending one meeting or the other. Nowadays, if they were in the same room, it was mostly her educating him on one facet of his duties and responsibilities or the other, or asking him about his studies and progress.
Of course, the news that he had struck a friendship of sorts with the Potter twins had led to many scoldings from his grandmother. And while he had no intention of displeasing his grandmother over the twins of all people, what she had tried to do, and was still bent on doing…it didn’t sit right with him. Though, given that there was no more Lord Voldemort holding their extra classes, his interaction with the twins was already limited to a great extent.
“That is a matter that happened long before I came to Hogwarts, Mr. Longbottom,” Flitwick sighed, breaking him out of his thoughts as they turned around, making way for the final staircase that led to the ground floor. “If you want any more information than what is already available publicly, I am afraid you would have to ask people who were actually present during those times. Your grandmother, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Dumbledore would be some of them, I believe. Myrtle, too is one of them, but well…”
“I understand,” he sighed, just like Flitwick had done a moment ago, “I hope Professor Dumbledore is able to solve whatever this is before it reaches that point again.”
“A hope that we share, Mr. Longbottom.”
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“This is outrageous, Dumbledore!” Cornelius’ voice echoed in his office as the short man slammed his fist down on his chair’s armrest, and he quietly raised a finger, quieting down Minerva before she could have started lambasting the man for his tone. Undeterred by the solemn—and in Minerva’s case, fuming—faces around him, he stood up from his chair and bristled, leaning forwards to look him in the eyes. “This matter has reached the boiling point! I was silent the last time because you said you had it under control, but clearly that is not the case here!”
“Minister,” Minerva spoke up, and he sighed mentally as he felt her take a step forward. “Kindly take care of the words spoken. We have been searching for the perpetrator ever since the first incident, and not a day has gone by that the headmaster himself has not searched high and low for the cause of the petrification.”
“And has the headmaster found the said cause yet?” the voice of Dolores Umbridge came next, and at that point, Dumbledore genuinely considered dropping off sweets for the next whole year. There had been only a few students whom he had ever put in the metaphorical box labeled as “not liked”. Tom Riddle had been one of them. Rabastan Lestrange had been another. Dolores Umbridge, somehow had managed to travel even farther down the list if it was possible, he thought with the beginnings of a headache as the witch smiled viciously, adjusting her handbag and continuing in that same, diabetically sweet voice. “Respectfully, Professor McGonagall, I don’t see why your words hold any weight in this discussion. Minister Fudge is the leader of our country, and his judgement holds far more value than just a deputy headmistress’.”
“Neither does yours, Madam Undersecretary.” Minerva fired back, and this time, Dumbledore did sigh a little audibly as he saw Amelia just look between the arguing women, while Dolores puffed up in indignation. Behind them, the Board of Directors of Hogwarts stood seated, quietly watching the discussion. His eyes flicked over the empty seats; Lords Abbott and Nott both were absent, and so was Arcturus, which thankfully reduced some of the headaches for him. Powerful and wise he may be, but the Lord of Black had little respect for those who he considered lesser than himself…which unfortunately included almost everyone in this room. Seeing her take another step forward out of the corner of his eyes, Dumbledore was almost impressed by Dolores’s ability to infuriate Minerva with just a single sentence, “I am the Deputy Headmistress of this school, and I am here in my official capacity as my post dictates—and I am the magical guardian of two of the affected victims.”
“It is you who has no business in this room, considering Madam Bones and Minister Fudge both have their deputies present. Now, our investigation on the petrifications is contained in this file, from the first incident to what happened today on the Grand Staircase. The magic used is far beyond the scope of the current students in this castle, and even in the library, there are no books that contain any information on the kind of petrification we are seeing here. Professor Irma and the Headmaster both have confirmed this.”
“And Lockhart, what’s his assessment? You have a master at such things living here,” Cornelius frowned, grabbing his copy of the documents and opening it, pursing his lips as he read through the contents akin to a hungry dragon, “What do you mean there is a possibility of time magic being used?”
“The petrifications are not just freezing the bodies,” he began, finally speaking up as he drew his wand, meeting Cornelius’ and Amelia’s eyes as he projected the faces of the victims, and he let that statement sink in as the most important and dangerous fact was revealed to the Ministry. The faces of Sir Nicholas and Myrtle both stood separate from the rest, and he watched the blood drain from everyone’s faces as they realised what it meant, “Our earlier assumption was that it was a semi-permanent body bind, found by a student in one of the old books about Charms or Curse-breaking—the kind used in wards to protect from intruders and detain them until the caster releases them. However, with all humility, such magic should have been naught more than a trifle for me or even Filius and Severus to remove from Mrs. Filch…or Mrs. Granger.”
“Ah yes, the muggleborn,” he heard Amelia whisper underneath her breath, turning the page to arrive at the section devoted to the young witch, “Nothing changed between the effects on the cat and her?”
“I am afraid not,” he shook his head, before he brought the focus to the most recent victims, “We ran every kind of diagnostic and scans possible—all from outside the body of the victims. A few things stood out that hampered our understanding of the magic plaguing the young children. Every cell, every muscle of their body, including their organs, is completely still. It is not just a petrification affecting their senses or their outer body. They have been frozen down to the last cell of their systems. A small incision was made on Mrs. Filch’s paw to part the epidermis without drawing blood, but we discovered that only powerful cutting magic can penetrate the petrified skin—ordinary methods have no effect. We have not yet been able to run blood tests, because we do not know what the consequences of magical interference shall be on a deeper scale. However, based on how the healing charms and salves have had no effect on the incision, we have decided to put that off for now. Severus has prepared half a dozen potions that remove foreign magic, curses, and even the Wigginweld potion, but all have been ineffective, considering that there is no way to make the victims physically ingest the liquid. Diffusion through the skin was also attempted on Mrs. Filch, but it was there that the first hints of time magic being used were found. Despite the incision revealing the inner layers of epidermal tissues, any attempt at diffusing the potion into the cells was met with a transparent barrier, that made the potion simply slide off, similar to what happened with the spells used.”
“And the ghosts, I believe, nothing short of tampering with souls can affect them?” Lucius spoke up, and his eyes flicked towards the Lord Malfoy as the man perused the file, his eyebrows rising in interest before he met his gaze, “What theories have you drawn from them, Headmaster?”
“Conclusion,” he corrected with a smile as he pointed at the faces of Myrtle and Sir Nicholas, “I draw conclusions, Lord Malfoy. While I do not have time to delve into the depths of it, ghosts exist in a separate space from us. They are comprised purely of lingering magical energy that allows them to interact with the living—albeit in a limited fashion. Freezing them, or even binding them requires the use of a very specific type of magic that bends space and time both as well as affects souls at the same time. What we are seeing here is a magic that has mixed all three. The victims are trapped in time, unchanging for even an eyeblink. Ms. Granger’s lungs are devoid of breath, and based on diagnostics, Ms. Smith has water inside her throat. It is still liquid, but utterly frozen in its space, just like everything else. We can move the cloth and the other non-living things attached to the victims, but any living tissue is completely, for lack of a better term, fossilized. Based on how it has affected the ghosts too, there is definitely soul-affecting magic involved, but no runes or traces of them were found at the scenes, and such magic is hard to remove without the use of powerful cleansing magic. Gorgons are the closest I can think of, but their victims turn to stone in transmutation, and are not just frozen in time—and their gaze cannot affect the dead.”
“We-Well, what does all that mean?!” Cornelius sputtered, waving around the file as he shifted his hat with the other hand, face growing a rather amusing shade of red if he was being honest, “What do we do now, Dumbledore?! The public is up in arms! Skeeter is being the annoying harpy she always is, and I have got hundreds of mails coming in by the hour right now, demanding me to put the situation right! I don’t care if it is time travel or soul magic, I want this out right, and that too as soon as possible! Give this to the Aurors and the Department of Mysteries if you can’t handle it, but I want results! Not theories and conclusions about stuff that nobody would understand!”
“Absolu-”
“Enough,” Amelia cut in, and a small part of Dumbledore rejoiced as Dolores’s honeyed words were stopped before they could increase his sugar level, and he looked at the head of DMLE as the Lady Bones continued, “Aurors would be useless in solving this beyond regular patrols over the grounds. We may deal with dark magic and occasional ancient artifacts, but this is very much out of the norm for us. Currently, I can provide three teams only, as five have been deployed to France, and the rest are needed for active duty in the Ministry as well as their regular patrolling. We can’t outthink your knowledge on this, Headmaster, but the Minister is right. Three attacks, and we only have conclusions to show for them, not even a hint of the perpetrator's identity. You have the best Masters of their fields in your employ. Kindly find a solution before the fourth attack happens. Auror Robards, visit Rubeus Hagrid and record his statement regarding his presence at all three incidents, and confirm his alibi if he has any.”
“Hagrid is currently in the forest, he shall meet you at the lake,” he smiled, waving his wand and conjuring a patronus, the phoenix glowing a soft blue before it trilled and phased through teh walls, carrying hsi message on silent wings. Momentarily chuckling at the envious and swe field directed hsi way—he did love showing off afterall, Duymbledore stood up from his chair, prompting Amelia to do the same, “I apologise that this matter has dragged on for so long, and despite our numerous attempts, we only have documented reports to show for i-”
“An apology that should be made to the victims and their families, Headmaster,” Amelia interrupted him, her voice unwavering as she gently opened hte file and pointed at the faces of the students,and his eyes lowered at the words spoken. Harsh they were, but they were true all the same, “I may not agree with everything the Minister has said, but don’t take that as an approval for what is happening here. Things are unfolding just like they did in 1943, how were the petrifications removed then?”
“We have no idea.”
“What?” Amelia’s whisper echoed in the room as he blinked, her eyes widening as even Cornelius seemed to loose his words, “What do you mean you have no idae?! You were the Depiuty headmaster then! You were the one who was present the night Rubeus Hagrid was caught with an unknown creature in his possession!”
“And that creature had nothing to do with the pertirifactions, a statement I have never wavered from in the decades since,” he shook his head, meeting her eyes sombrely, “Hagrid has always been too innocent for anything so nefarious, and pardon my words, intelligent. Someone else was plotting behind everyone’s gaze in the shadows, orchestrating the petrifcations until they culminated in the death of four students. The night Hagrid was unfairly judged and banished as a student, the petrified victims in the hospital awoke on their own. We didn’t have Mandragoras then, for the Restorative Draught, so that’s a possible solution we haven’t explored yet, but they will take another two months to mature.”
“You can’t tell me you don’t the slightest idea of what caused all this Dumbledore?” Amelia breathed in deeply, her gaze disbelieving as she pointed at the file before them, “Twice this has happened before you, andd you claim Hagrid and his pet to be innocent. Then who was the culprit then Dumbledore? Who was it that did the same thing then, killing the roosters, painting the walls, petryfying students while singing praises of the Chamber and its beast?!”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You can’t or you won’t?” she returned sharply, before she turned arouna dn walked towards the floor, pausing at the last moment, “You have your secrets Dumbledore, we all do. But never forget that these children getting harmed due to your secrecy…that's unacceptable.”
Silence reigned in his office as one by one, they all flood away. No one said anything, Amelia’s last words to him damning enough for everyone. Even Lucius was silent on his way out, and for Dumbledore, that said a lot more than the imperious huff Dolores let out as she turned on her heels. Silently, wandlessly, he summoned the files back to his table, before they all merged into a single one as the extra chairs and tables disappeared, and his office resumed its original dimensions.
“Professor,” Minerva began, worry and sadness filling her voice as he sat down, weriness filing every inch of his old, tired frame, “Shall I summon your dinner here? I can talk tot hte students tonight.”
“Thank you my dear,” he smiled at her, pushing every bit of his grief and anger behind that genial smile he was known for, giving his oldest surviving student a confident shake of his head as he patted her hand, “but it shall not be needed. I am not so old yet that I am unmable to walk down the stairs you know? Take some rest Minerva, I know writing those letters must not have been easy for you.”
With a nod that said she did not believe one word out of his mouth, his Deputy left his office, as the door shut behind her, Dumbledore let hsi head rest against the back of his chair, looking up at the ceiling that showed the castle in all of its glory from a thousand years ago. Behind him, the Sorting Hat stirred awake, rustle of its fabric breaking the silence as the remains of the the founder’s lingering wisdom opened its mouth.
“You know the culprit Dumbledore,” the old, wizened voice rang through the room, “As you did decades ago. You are the Headmaster, a wizard the likes of which this world has seldom seen. Do not let history repeat itself again.”
The Hat fell silent, and as he saw torches before him flicker with a sudden draft of wind, Dumbledore sighed and closed his eyes, a single tear rolling down his cheek as he felt a hundreds years of memories and sorrows and deaths flash through hid mind.
“Oh Tom.”
