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ACT4CH23 - Conspiracies In Action Part 3
🕑 Added 2024-05-26 10:12:59 +0000 UTC"As much as it pains me to admit it," said Sirius Black. "You’re a danger magnet, and things will just keep happening to you, no matter how much I want to wrap you up in cotton wool and lock you up in a property under Fidelius. So if we’re going to do this, you’re going to follow my rules. One, touch nothing unless I tell you to. Two, if I tell you to do something you do it instantly, or quickly explain your reasoning. And three…” He paused for a moment. “Well, I’ll just think of the third one as we go along.”
Harry rolled. His godfather knew enough of his experiences over the years to at least recognize that he had some skill in getting out of troublesome situations with his head on his shoulders. Unfortunately, the events this year made all his previous experiences look like child’s play. If nothing else, he always had something in his favour — whether it be his mother’s protection, or a phoenix with a ragged hat, or his own logic-defying Death thaumaturgy. He had narrated about his escapades in the Anima, but everything else that had happened since then — his research within the confines of the Sunken Vault, the wide scale war he and Dumbledore had fought inside the Prison of Possibilities, his tangling with the Flamels and by extension, the Cabal…. Sirius had no idea about any of this.
“You realise that between the two of us, I’m the one that can see through the abstract enchantments with my sight?”
Sirius opened his mouth, possibly to chastise him for acting rebelliously, but acquiesced to his logic. “Yes, because somehow you’ve learnt more magic in the last few months than I and your father managed to pick up in all seven years of Hogwarts and more.”
Harry winced. Yeah, it didn’t feel like his secrets would stay secret for long. Especially if those stares his godfather kept sending him from the corner of his eyes when he thought Harry wasn’t looking was any clue.
His godfather hesitated before finally speaking again. “Just how is it that you know this stuff, Harry?”
“Sirius!” Harry snapped. “We’re inside a runic ward empowered by Abstract magic and capable of Merlin-knows-what. The temperature is rising every goddamn couple of minutes, and we’ve got to dismantle this entire thing. Is this really the right time for you to play the strict godparent?”
“No time like the present,” said Sirius, as the two of them moved further into the interiors of the half-demolished hospital. “You might have not noticed it, Harry, but it’s rather convenient that not only do you recognize and know a magical discipline that has the best of the Ministry’s wardbreakers stomped, you also very conveniently have the means to slip through this barrier, thanks to your thaumaturgy, and undo this entire thing.”
“You’re kidding me,” Harry glared at him. “You actually think that —”
“I don’t,” said Sirius gravely. “Because I know you. But the others don’t. And people will make assumptions, and trust me, it doesn’t paint a very nice picture of you.”
Harry scowled, recognizing his godfather’s point.
“Harry, I need to know how you knew about the Circle, because we need to know how Voldemort knows about it. Only then can we find a way to get past this.”
Harry grimaced, but knew a lost fight when he saw one. “I’ve been studying from Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets.”
“We were down there in the Chamber. There was nothing,” said Sirius, before narrowing his eyes. “Unless…. It was hidden?”
“I control the wards of the Chamber. Within it, is a vast collection of ancient texts covering nearly every magical discipline on Earth and then some. I am the latest in the long line of… it’s custodians, you might say.”
“As was Voldemort, no doubt?”
Harry nodded.
“And… Flamel? I imagine he realised what you were up to.”
Harry winced. Sirius was quick. Too quick.
“Yes, that makes perfect sense,” His godfather went on. “Flamel’s interest in you, and his invitation to France. It’s all tied, isn’t it? All of this, in some twisted way, ties you up with these ancient, twisted bastards.”
Harry grudgingly nodded. “That imposter that pretended to be me told me it’s a gift from his Master. For me.”
“If Voldemort knows that you are in charge of this secret chamber, then we can safely say that this ‘present’, as you put it, was to ensure you’d get cast in a bad light. I imagine that was what the imposter was attempting to do. He knew you wouldn’t stand back and let these people die, and he banked upon it to frame you.”
“You think Dawlish —”
“Dawlish is just a pretentious bully that loves to put his head under the sand and pretend everything is perfect. At best he’s a tool, used by someone to frame you. Even if we end up saving all these people, or whoever is left, you can look forward to him pressing charges, and this time, your own Family Magic would work against you in court. But frankly, even that is better, considering the other possibility.”
Harry’s expression went ashen as he and his godfather arrived at the same conclusion. “That he knew I’d get in this place and set a trap here itself.”
Both of them looked at the hospital looming around them.
“Well….” Harry surmised the situation in a single word. “Balls.”
“Balls it is,” said Sirius, grimacing. “Okay, look. I’m guessing that somewhere within this place we’ll find the wardstones that are empowering the biggie up there in the sky?”
“Wardstones, or their runic forms,” Harry corrected. “Kind of like the ones I crafted. In which case, we’ve got to dispel them.”
“How? I doubt the standard Finite will work.”
“No, but I’ve got something better.”
He raised his hand, and the majestic blade of Godric Gryffindor appeared in his right hand. Focussing, he channelled Death into it, until the entire thing was soaked with it. Trying to channel Summer with it would be a pain in the arse. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to care about that until much later.
“I’m conflicted between asking how by Morgana’s sagging tits did you get the blade of Godric Gryffindor in your hands again, and wondering if there’s any magic still left in that sword after you pushed that much Death through it.”
Harry laughed mirthlessly. “It’s one of the many mysteries of the blade, I suppose. Here, you have it. Just stab the runic circles with this blade, and it should take care of it. Make sure you don’t accidentally stab yourself with it, alright?”
His godfather’s response to that was to twirl the blade expertly with one hand, before shifting to the other. At his surprised expression, the man laughed. “Uncle Cygnus, that’s Andi’s father, was obsessed with blades. Me and Bella were his students. Some of the best wars we had were over daggers and sabres and…”
He froze, if only for a moment.
“...Sirius?”
“...It’s nothing. You take the route to the left. I’ll take the right. Find these circles, neuter them, and let’s meet on the roof. Knowing your luck, Voldemort would probably have planned for nasty surprises, so whatever you do, don’t hold back. Remember, our priority is saving these lives, so get there fast, and if anything tries to prevent you, go for the kill. I’ll take care of everything else.”
With that, Sirius morphed into Padfoot and leaped away, while Harry morphed into his owl form and quickly flew in the opposite direction. With those putrid yellow stare,everything in his vision swam in multicoloured radiance with varying degrees of depth and intensity. And where the intensity was higher than most, that would be where the runic wardstones entrenching the circle would be. But as he flew, just one nagging feeling continued to haunt him in the back of his mind.
The imposter he could understand. With the loss of the Malfoy fortune and political strength, and the way Harry’s own reputation had been growing past the borders of British soil, they needed to do something to hurt him while they still could. The winter solstice session of the Wizengamot would cement the shift of power in the Wizengamot to Harry’s favour, and his engagement with Daphne would only augment that. He had no doubts that the international powers and presences would no doubt want to secure deals with their new faction, if Apolline Delacour and the Flamels were any indication.
So trying to frame him for the death and destruction at St. Mungo’s, and besmirching his reputation all fit into that modus operandi. From Sirius’s lessons, Voldemort had never quite used such esoteric magic back in the last war, preferring to display raw magical strength, his mastery over the Unforgivables and the Dark Arts, and the occasional fiendfyre. But this time, he had chosen to play it in a wholly different way. Knowing that Harry’s Death thaumaturgy would be an effective counter against any and all standardised magic out there, he was employing the Abstract, the only kind that could stomp him.
At least so long as things didn’t deteriorate to the degree that Harry stopped caring about anything else and unleashed the full power of Death.
This runic circle was a perfect example of that. Voldemort wanted to rattle him and everyone else with a display of power. A mental advantage. A boast. And in this case, the dirtier the better. It meant that Harry could either steel himself for the worst, or predict what Voldemort was likely to do beforehand. And if Sirius was right, this place was the perfect place to set more traps to keep him busy.
The real problem was that it left two things unexplained. The first was the imposter’s own words, about how Voldemort no longer wanted to kill him. If that was true, then what was the point in ensuring that Harry entered this runic circle? There was no sure fire way that Voldemort could have guessed if Harry would enter it alone, or with an entire army. And no, there was no way in which the Death Eaters would fantastically portkey their way into this ward, and even if they did, the rising temperatures would affect them the same way it was doing everyone else.
Just why would Voldemort want him here, if not to kill? And more importantly, just where had the imposter kidnapped Hermione and why?
So many questions, and no answers to any of them.
Spotting the first anchor, Harry morphed mid-flight and landed on the second-floor corridor. Between the sheer intensity of magical energy outpouring from it, and his Death-vision, it was only too easy for him to spot it. Quickly, he rushed towards the glowing circle, his wand spinning into his wand, spell ready on his lips when —
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up in unison, as a massive, muscular hand clawed through the air tearing his neck apart —
Or would have torn his neck apart, if not for the sudden self-transfiguration, as his skin morphed into thick, nigh metallic scales that clashed against the clawed fist of the werewolf, causing sparks, as the attacker — a massive werewolf that towered head and shoulders over him, leapt back and howled at having missed his target.
A fully-transformed werewolf? Then he remembered. Tonight was going to be a full moon. A conjunction in Time when the lycanthropic curse reached maximum potency and transformed the werewolf into a vicious, clawed and fanged beast capable of extreme strength, speed, dexterity and reflexes. Not to mention they had incredible regenerative powers, and could heal if not ignore the basic hexes and curses, assuming one even managed to hit them. Honestly, he could even understand the reasoning the Ministry had behind banning werewolves from getting a proper education as a witch or wizard. With the knowledge and skill to cast spells, werewolves would no doubt become the dominant force on the planet, causing some kind of werewolf apocalypse.
“Harry Potter,” said the beast, standing up, his civilized tone somehow amplifying his bestial ferality. “Fenrir Greyback, at your service.”
Fenrir Greyback. Harry had heard the name. Leader of the werewolf packs under Voldemort’s command, Fenrir was also the werewolf that had bitten Remus Lupin. Greyback alone had a body count second to none in the last war, and that was including names like Lord Voldemort, his trigger-happy lieutenant Bellatrix Lestrange, and Walden McNair, a man that Sirius claimed was a murder-happy psychopath that loved killing on general principle. Too bad he too had slipped the cracks of justice, much like Lucius Malfoy, and retained his position as the Ministry executioner, working for the Department of Regulation of Magical Creatures.
It had been Walden Macnair that had come with Fudge to Hogwarts to decapitate Buckbeak.
Harry still remembered the first time he had faced Remus Lupin after his transformation. The sheer horror, the supernaturally induced fear that crept up his spine like a thief into the night, it had all but frozen him. And Remus Lupin, in Sirius’s own words, was potentially the weakest werewolf there was, with him developing an instinct to run away and escape, something that went against the wolf’s own instincts. Compared to him, Fenrir Greyback was the Big Bad.
“So this is what Tom Riddle sends me as a birthday gift,” said Harry, eyeing the werewolf, while also taking note of the glowing circle to his left. The owl in him noted the presence of a powerful predator, one that could potentially kill him if it got a chance. Death could render almost every magic out there impotent, but those sharp claws would tear his head apart just fine.
Death thaumaturgy or not, nobody could fix that.
“A runic circle and a werewolf gift-wrapped inside it. Guess he read it from some stupid book about Dark Lord wannabes.”
“You are suicidal,” said Morty as it flew out of his pocket, whispering loudly in parseltongue. Somehow, its parseltongue didn’t carry forward the same effect that his speech did. “Don’t joke with it. Kill it with silver.”
Harry marvelled at the sheer irony that Tom Riddle, or at least a personality-erased version of him, was giving him advice on dealing with werewolves.
“Unfortunately, I can’t conjure silver,” hissed Harry, but again, it had no visible effect on Greyback. Maybe werewolves were immune to the physiological effects of parseltongue?
“Luckily, I have an alternative.”
He let out a deep breath, and his flesh rippled and warped, flexing and reverting back into the scaled form, with dense, blackish fumes erupting out of them, darkening the room around him.
“Pretty,” mocked Greyback. “I’ve heard tales of you transforming into a beast. Don’t tell me this is all there is.”
“Careful,” said another voice from Harry’s right. One that Harry recognized instantly. “Those fumes… They can harm you if you get too close.”
“Lucius Malfoy,” greeted Harry genially.
“Harry Potter, not the weakling when we met last time.”
“By the last time, do you mean the time when I freed your elf and Dobby threw you back on your arse? Or perhaps, you’re talking about that time in the cemetery when you and your Dark Lord ran with your tails between your legs? Or perhaps when your dear Draco shamed the entire Malfoy name because he wasn’t getting action from his two henchmen? You do know he has henchmen, right? I imagine as his father, you’d know all about it.”
Lucius clenched his teeth.
“Anyway,” said Harry, taking careful note of the runic circle engraved within Lucius’s robes. No doubt inscribed for the specific purpose of countering the negative effects of the ongoing ritual. “It was nice seeing you again. But if you don’t mind, I already have a date here.”
“And he’s not alone,” said another voice.
“It’s time for you to finally pay for what you’ve done to our families,” said another.
“And this time, you won’t be getting away.”
“Pucey, Urquhart and Murk,” Hary recognized. “I am presuming that the beatdown bacon in the alley got you a promotion in Death-Eater ranks. I am curious, just how many times do you need to land on your arse to get promoted to Voldemort’s right hand? I mean Lucius here is probably an expert.”
Snape was right, Harry mused inwardly. An angry opponent was a sloppy opponent. And here, with all the dark magic festering and accumulating upwards, it would amplify their negative emotions even further, making them prone to rash action, something he could use in his favour.
“Tch, what a cockblock,” spat Fenrir. “I was looking forward to cutting him to pieces with my own claws.”
“Well before you do that, could you kindly wait for a moment? There’s just something I need to do immediately. Mind if I get started?”
“Pleading won’t save your arse, Potter,” said Murk.
“Pleading?” Harry asked, just a tad affronted. “No, no, these are manners.”
Damn it. Dumbledore must have been rubbing a bit too much on him.
He whipped his wand out, nearly materialising his blade when he remembered that he had given it to Sirius. Still, this was the first time he would have the chance to experiment with the power of Summer directly in battle.
But first —
Extrasensory.
The last time he had utilised this, it was in the heart of battle. And despite the similarity in situations, he needed it for an entirely different reason.
His senses expanded, the sensory powers of his animagus form, expanding exponentially thanks to the power of Summer flooding his senses. Much like the Awareness inside the Sunken Vault, knowledge flooded into him, though him, a wave of sensory output that should have inundated his senses and disoriented him entirely.
But it didn’t.
For one, he was rejecting nearly every single bit of information except for the locations of extreme magical intensity, which would no doubt be locations where the runic circle was being anchored. He knew he would have a single chance at this, so he’d have to give it his all. He raised his wand firmly above his head, and yelled in parseltongue.
“Sagitta Mors Geminio.”
The tip of the wand glowed with an intense black light, and every single Death Eater stepped back, their shields ready to deflect. Too bad it wasn’t their shields he was targeting.
“Just a minute, fellas. Let me take care of a few distractions first.”
He released the spell, and it shot out of the wand tip like a cannonball, before duplicating itself several dozen-fold and scattered in a different direction, black streaks that danced as they fell but never clashing or interrupting one another’s path. It was almost as if they were raining tiny meteors of death, and when each drop connected to the hospital floors below, they, or rather, the runic circles that were anchoring the ritual on the better part of the hospital, were instantly neutralised.
Except the one he was standing next to, of course. He would do that personally.
Lucius was the first one to notice.
“What?” exclaimed the elder Malfoy. “How did you — ?”
“Magic,” said Harry brightly. He’d have to rely on Sirius to take care of the rest. At least until he was finished dealing with his current predicament.
“I had no idea that you had advanced so quickly,” murmured the elder Malfoy, but Harry heard him just fine. “This is both encouraging and troublesome. My Lord must know about this. This… this could be…”
Harry gave him a shark-like smile, interrupting his reverie. “You seem confused.”
“Well this will need to be looked into,” said Lucius. “We had hoped the last time was an aberration, but apparently things are moving more quickly than anticipated. For the moment, I suppose what matters are results. All of you, attack Potter, but make sure we have the body to take back.”
“Wow,” said Harry. “That’s a monumental task, I’d say. I mean, unless you’ve got more hiding in your pockets? The last time I killed thirteen of your group and I didn’t even know what I was doing. You sure you like your chances this time around?”
Eleven more werewolves, all of them fully transformed, their eyes glowing crimson, came out of the shadows.
Nobody said anything for a few seconds, before Morty the snitch broke the silence.
“You had to ask!”
....
....
....
“You don’t see sights like these every day,” said Kingsley.
Surrounding the massive runic circle from all sides were twenty-one elves, a number specifically chosen for its magical values. Twenty-one was the product of three and seven, both being intensely powerful magical numbers in their own right. Even the digits involved added up to three, making it a strong number, ensuring that the accumulated effect of their powers was greater than the sum of their individual contributions.
Albus Dumbledore smiled. As a long-term vocal supporter for the welfare of other magical species, he hoped that this day, this event would go on to establish betterment in relations between the Ministry of Magic and the other magical races. But the pragmatist in him simply scoffed at the idea, knowing just how close-minded the people of Wizarding Britain were.
“Elves are very unique creatures,” he said. “If only more people could have appreciated them.”
‘But how are they doing it?” asked Proudfoot. “They are elves, not wardstones.”
Albus smiled again. Very few people truly dug deeper past the superficial relationship they had with house elves. Proudfoot was no different.
“It lies in their nature as symbiont beings themselves. A house elf needs to form a bond with a wizarding location filled with enough ambient magic to empower them, akin to how a wardstone draws power from the earth itself.”
What most people didn’t know was that elves were actually a tremendous drain on a wardstone, and every wizarding manor that employed elves had to actually pay for an extra wardstone just for the elves. The only exception to this rule were manors or castles built upon ley lines, like the Black Manor, or Hogwarts, where the naturally available magical energy was so high that the house was able to provide and nourish multiple house elves.
It was why for all the benefits that having a house elf offered one, witches and wizards didn’t go about binding house elves to their homes or themselves to do their bidding. The little creatures would drain them of their finances, their magic, and unless one was careful, even their lives.
“Have you noticed that the ritual has slowed down? The temperatures are rising less drastically,” said Albus, naturally gravitating to the lore of the teacher. “It is because the elves are leeching the ambient magics of the ritual into them.”
“But where are they channelling it?” asked Proudfoot.
Albus grinned. “That, son, is one of their greatest mysteries. Why do house elves need to exist as symbiont beings when they themselves have such tremendous magical capacity that triumphs us wizards? Where does this energy go, and why do elves, being masters of wandless magical craft, bow down to witches and wizards in voluntary servitude?”
“Albus, look!” said Kingsley.
He followed the auror’s gesture, and looked at the massive runic circle above. Where it was initiating a world of flame, the colour was slowly dying down, becoming paler. Whatever Harry was doing inside, it was working.
“Gentleman,” said Albus. “Get ready, and summon your broomsticks. Those that cannot, find the closest position in the nearby buildings. Upon my order, cast your strongest Finite, and do not let go until not a single speck of that remains above St. Mungo’s. With any luck, there should be no more problems after that.”
A few buildings to his right, a massive detonation tore through the British sky, as an inferno of crimson and dust and intense heat practically swallowed the tops of several buildings within its radius. Concrete, stone and glass were sent flying all around with so much force that they shattered into clouds of dust on impact. Albus barely had enough time to raise a protego shield, as black ichor splattered over the silvery layer, the remains of the unfortunate that had been in its path, as a massive cloud of dense, black tendrils of chaotic darkness erupted into the evening sky, and torpedoed straight against Gringotts bank.
Albus and Kinglsey fell silent for several long seconds, even as shouts and yells and screams inundated the world.
“One would think,” said Kingsley finally. “That someone as old as you would be wise enough not to tempt fate so blatantly.”
Comments
Dr.Lirone
I find it pretty dumb how unnecessarily annoying ur plot with that toad becomes…just too much😢😂
dragongod0117
Hopefully Neville killed the pink toad.
