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ACT4CH2 - The Prison Without Locks
🕑 Added 2023-12-30 15:45:29 +0000 UTCThey were standing next to the statue of Barnabas the Barmy.
Harry took a deep breath. After confirming with Dumbledore about some of the do’s and don’ts related to the Lament, and an impromptu lesson on traditions from his accursed, ghostly ancestor, Harry had performed a Vow, with Dumbledore acting as a Binder and witness to the event. Revoking Iacomus Potter’s decision to cast Wystan Potter out was a no-brainer, but it was really after this point that the problems began.
“You feel it, don’t you?” asked the Baron — or Wystan Potter, now that he could call himself that again, “the breath down your nape? The unforgettable feeling of someone’s eyes on you? Can you feel the hate, young Lord?”
Harry could. He could help but watch with a mixture of fascination and horror as phantomesque tendrils of dark purple drifted lazily around him. Like a cloak, it hung all around him, rippling and swaying in the absence of wind. Wystan was right. It was an emotion. A feeling. Detached yet clinging to him. Around him, yet almost all pervading, at least within his vicinity. Not dark magic, yet something equally sinister. It was watching him, blaming him. Raw, undiluted hate that drove whoever wielded it. It wasn’t human by any means. This was hate of the original vintage, hate as old as the universe itself, hate as hard and sharp and cold as steel, hate as hot as the fires of Hell, hate so vital, so vitriolic, that it surpassed the understanding of his merely human mind.
Whatever the Lament was — it hated him, hated him on a level he couldn’t even begin to understand. That he walked the earth and drew breath was enough to earn its everlasting fury.
To think this was just a shadow of what the Bloody Baron felt like, for his entire existence over centuries.
And people say Death is terrible, whispered a cold part of him. Compared to the fiendishness of Magic, Death is a welcome respite.
Harry nodded. “Will I keep feeling this until I release you from her Lament?”
“The feeling shall lessen as you walk away from me, young Lord,” said the Baron. “But it shall never go away. Not until…”
“Until the Lament is removed, I get it,” said Harry, grimacing. As an owl animagus, he was becoming used to listening in. Being the watcher in the shadows. The predator. Constantly living with the feeling of being watched was not going to feel nice.
The Baron looked at him, satisfied, and moved a little further from the wall. “The Chamber of Illusions, Rowena’s fabled Prison of Possibilities, exists beyond this wall, on a dimensional plane that both does and does not exist,” said the Baron. “A world of metaphors, where everything is true yet nothing is real. You will do good to remember that, young Lord.”
Having emphasised his point, the Baron began floating across the corridor, all the way past the statue, and then again, only to repeat the process. Confused between whether surviving the effects of the Lament had addled the Baron, or if he was simply thinking of something, given the intense look on his features, Harry was just about to voice his musings when the wall began to slowly morph, until engravings in a runescript he had never seen before came into focus.
His eyes morphed into a dreadful yellow, his ‘death’ vision, as he had begun to call it. Everything around him suddenly became a little dim, except for the magical ripples forming all over the wall, as a large, polished wooden door with a large brass handle came into focus. The magic on the door was somehow bent, twisted in a way that he could see but not truly understand.
Carefully, he studied the wall, fascinated. Ever since he had come to Hogwarts and become the Warden of Ananta Shesha’s Lair, he had found a surprising amount of joy in learning and exploring magic, especially the more abstruse kind. Whereas at the start of the summer, he had become despondent over his crippling affinity towards most standardised magic, particularly Transfiguration and most elemental spells, Harry was now beginning to appreciate the ability to become a specialised wizard, one with his own unique brand and domain of magic.
No, not a wizard. A Warlock.
“Can you see the flows, Harry,” asked the Headmaster. “The way it ripples and morphs, employing something as material as Transfiguration in something so intangible as an illusion.”
“I… can,” said Harry slowly, still staring at the door. Frowning, he grasped the brass handle, and felt a soft sting of magic on his skin. Pulling his hand back, he morphed his eyes back to normal and looked at Dumbledore. “It’s too large, too weird. I haven’t seen anything like this before.”
“The Prison of Possibilities is a mystery hidden in plain sight,” said the Baron in a cold rasp. “Those of the Dead, and the Elves know this place as the Come-And-Go Room, a chamber that comes and goes in a stream of Time. It is always there, waiting to serve its next victim.”
“Serve its victim?” asked Harry, narrowing his eyes.
“I have been here at Hogwarts for the better part of two centuries, Sir Baron,” said Dumbledore. “I have yet to hear of this Come-And-Go Room.”
The Baron let out a raspy chuckle. “If you have to ask, you will never know. If you know, you need only ask. This chamber exists inside Hogwarts, but doesn’t. It draws on the ley lines, but only when there is someone inside it. Instead it waits patiently, for someone to walk in, someone in need of its power, someone to influence and entrap in its illusion.”
Harry shivered.
The Baron let out a wicked laugh. “You should’ve seen Helena. Daft bitch went deranged after losing herself in its illusions. Wench thought she could get past the shadow of her mother. And then when she failed after years of losing herself, she….”
He paused abruptly, realising he had spoken a little too much, and regarded Harry. “Anyone can access this room from anywhere inside Hogwarts, but here, at this place, the barrier is weakest. The influence of the plane and the Room’s energies affect the real world is greatest here, at this spot. Just walk by this place thrice, thinking of something, anything, and the chamber shall present itself in all its glory. A grand Room of Requirement, ready to conjure your every wish.”
He met Harry’s eyes. “Now, open that door, young Lord.”
A Room that could transform into anything he wanted was nothing short of miraculous. To be able to sense your very thoughts, down to your deepest desires to craft your surroundings based on them was a magic that was surreal beyond surreal. Was it using some kind of Legilimency upon the user to see what they wanted? But if there were multiple people inside, how would the room even decide on what to manifest and what not? Magic followed rules, and for something like a room to cast magic at people, there had to be a definite system at work. Protocols. Choices made and installed into its matrix. And even that didn’t explain —
“Harry?”
Dumbledore’s voice broke him from his reveries.
Exhaling, he stepped into the room, and found himself engulfed within a world of white.
It was vast. A place so gigantic it wouldn’t even fit inside the entirety of Hogwarts, let alone the small closed-off wallspace. He heard the others slowly follow him, passing through the doorway of light and stepping into the platform, his eyes immediately roving around in curiosity, taking in the bright grey and near-stark white surfaces.
He knew this place. He had seen it, in some half-forgotten dream. An intense feeling of deja-vu gripped him, as he glanced at the spectral white horseless carriages standing on end. Some part of him whispered how it was all wrong, how there should’ve been trains instead.
“Amazing…” whispered Dumbledore, looking around. “But empty. What is it?”
“The only thing I can still dream of,” said the Baron sadly.
“The afterlife,” said Harry, as if the answer was ready on his lips. How he knew that, he had no idea.
“Yes,” said the ghost, eyeing him. “How did you know?”
Harry just shrugged.
“Fascinating,” said Dumbledore, coming to a stop next to Harry. “If this world is indeed a metaphor, then perhaps, we are supposed to board one of those carriages?”
“If you want to find my way to the afterlife, perhaps,” said the Baron bitterly. “No, Headmaster. This is all it gets me. The edge of the Waking world. I see those horses, but can never ride upon them. For centuries, I have tried millions of possibilities, but none of them ever ended with me escaping past this point. Always these carriages…”
“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “But are you telling me that the Room could actually help you find a way out of your… curse?”
“So long as I had enough factors in my favour, yes,” grunted the ghost. “Unfortunately, I never did. No Lord Potter had the strength to go against the Charter.”
“But now….”
“But now, I can,” said the ghost, giving him a look of respect. “But we are not here for that, are we?”
No, they weren’t. They were there to find the origins of the curse. Still, thoughts of Daphne’s malediction were already rising in his head. Could this room help him find a way to beat the malediction, even if it was powered by the Black Family Magic? Could it take his Death thaumaturgy and give him the best way forward?
From what little he had understood of Dunamancy, it followed a deterministic principle that claimed events were completely determined by previously existing causes. If you could manipulate the ‘causes’ in the present in the ‘right’ way, you could theoretically manipulate the future. The more factors you took into account, the more your ability to twist those factors into behaving the way you wanted, the closer the chances of shaping the future to your will.
So if he could consider his own power of Death, as well as bring in everything they knew about Daphne’s malediction, could they use Dunamancy to find the perfect way to cure her for good? Potentially in a way that didn’t affect her magic?
“I know what you are thinking, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “But it isn’t that simple. You have to remember that this room can and will show every possibility, not just the ones one prefers. There are an infinite number of ways in which something can go wrong, and only a few sets of possibilities where everything goes right. And even if one could manage to see the most pleasant possibilities, one would forever be haunted by the thought of what might have been.”
“So all that power, and it amounts to nothing?” Harry demanded, feeling the stirrings of anger deep within.
“We do not know,” said the Headmaster softly. “But that is a problem for later, isn’t it? I’m certain you will not want to try to heal Miss Greengrass while the curse stains this room with its presence.”
Harry frowned, before another thought struck him. Turning to the Baron, he asked. “You said the room showed you possibilities of getting an afterlife. Or even create a reality where you can experience the afterlife… in a way, yes?”
The Baron nodded imperceptibly.
“But that’s still not true, is it?” asked Harry. “You feel you’re in the afterlife, but you’re actually still stuck in this room. You cannot truly alter the outcomes in the real world. It is… not real.”
The Baron let out a wicked laugh. “Not real, he says. Boy, for those like us, those that are trapped between the Waking world and the next, this is better than Reality. Who are you to say otherwise?”
“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live,” parroted Harry, and suddenly realised that he had unwittingly quoted Dumbledore.
‘Ah, you remember,” Dumbledore beamed, his sapphire eyes twinkling like Christmas lights. “Nevertheless, I hope this impresses upon you the need to exercise prudence, Harry. I was most disappointed when I found out you had been dabbing with Abstract magic.”
The room turned eerily silent as Harry pondered over the topic of the conversation. In a twisted way, it also told him exactly how dangerous Dunamancy was, instead of explaining what the art itself was. It was definitely a deliberate action on the Baron’s part and perhaps even the Headmaster, but after all this, Harry knew he couldn’t blame the ghost for exercising caution. As the Warden of the Sunken Vault, he had some idea how evil and twisted Magic could become.
But one thing was certain — Dunamancy definitely intrigued him, and although he would exercise auction, at least for the sake of those that believed in him, it didn’t mean that he would not pursue his interests. Above all, it was only natural for him to rush after the danger at this point.
That said, he wasn’t going to let the Headmaster have the last word.
“Dangerous or not, professor, this room is just one big sandbox. Size isn’t a factor in magic, and all of this is just an illusion. A deception on our senses. This room is just one big toy that lets you play god while you are here. But the moment you step out…”
“Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Being able to play god is what most people desire. If you think of it, even Hogwarts itself is one giant sandbox of unique and melting mysteries. Who can say, perhaps Tom Riddle considers Wizarding Britain a sandbox?”
Harry pondered over that for a moment.
“Inside this place,” said the Baron slowly, still eyeing him. “The illusion is so real, so tangible, that it is incredibly easy to lose yourself in it, and forget your reality. That is why it is also called Reserata Carcerum — the prison without locks.”
“That,” Harry deadpanned, “isn’t creepy at all.”
“In that case,” said the Baron bitingly, “Feel free to change it, young Lord.”
Shrugging, Harry looked around, and thought of Diagon Alley, just as he knew it — with the massive Gringotts building towering over the rest, with rows of smaller shops extending out in every direction like a massive labyrinth. He focussed on his memory of Fortescue's ice cream parlour, where he had met with Fleur for the first time after she took the job.
And nothing happened..
Both Dumbledore and the Baron were giving him perplexed looks.
“I — am I doing it wrong?” he asked, feeling uncertain. “I pictured Fortescue’s ice cream parlour and Diagon Alley all around it. Is it too large?”
“Nothing is too large for this prison,” said the Baron, giving him a sceptical look. Try again, young Lord. Something simpler, perhaps?”
Harry thought of his own dorm room.
Still nothing.
He turned to the professor, who nodded, and almost instantly, a perfect replica of the Headmaster’s office swam into focus all around them. Everything was spot on, down to the instruments on his desk. Harry walked up to the glass column on the left, where Dumbledore stored his collection of memory vials. He noticed that at least two dozen of those belonged to Tom Riddle. There were a few about Severus Snape, and even more, about Harry himself. He was almost about to go touch it —
“It seems,” said Dumbledore, stopping Harry in his tracks. “That your unique thaumaturgy is indeed opposing the powers of this Room, my boy. Your power keeps it from accessing your thoughts and desires.”
But in the same vein, it meant he wouldn’t be able to use this place at all. The best place in all of Hogwarts — grander and infinitely more versatile than anything else he had looked upon — and it would forever stay out of his reach.
Do not be saddened, my boy,” said Dumbledore, reading his expression. “We must not forget that the curse also arises from this place. That the Room cannot affect you is indeed good news. Here in its centre of power, who knows what diabolical form the curse might take to attack you.”
“My power hasn’t stopped it from attacking me outside too, professor.”
“Correct, which is why I authorise you to use anything while we are inside this place.”
The man’s sudden assertion left him flustered for a moment, before he noticed the wand in his palm. Instead of the cherry wand was an instrument with large beads leading to a tapered tip, a wand he had seen twice — once in Dumbledore’s memory, and another, in one of his own future possibilities in the Anima.
“That’s the —”
“The Wand, yes,” said Dumbledore. “We are in the heart of enemy territory, Harry. The curse here will be at its greatest, and will want to strike you down through whatever means. And neither of us are dunamantists. We will need every advantage we can think of.”
“Perhaps we should’ve brought others with us,” said Harry, his wand already spinning into his palm. “Maybe Bill and Caro—”
“Mr. Weasley and Miss Rakepick are exceptionally skilled, of that I have no doubt,” said Dumbledore. “But in this case, dear boy, they will serve as liabilities. The more of us, the greater the chances for the curse to manipulate us. You must remember, Harry, that while your power of Death prevents it from affecting you, the same is not true for the others. The curse might twist one’s thoughts, play with our negative feelings, and provoke one in all kinds of ways.”
Harry scowled. The more the firepower, the lower the odds of success?
Dumbledore let out a bark of laughter. “It’s an interesting challenge, wouldn’t you say, dear boy? Sir Baron here is relatively safe, because he is a spirit, and I am reasonably talented in Occlumency.”
Harry rolled his eyes. The Headmaster was a seventh-tier Occlumens, the highest potentially possible in the craft. The only person on his level was Snape. There was a reason he was able to survive being a spy while being in Voldemort’s Inner Circle.
It was similar to the Dark Lord Ekrizdis. Once a student in this castle, Ekrizdis was one of the darkest beings in existence, enough to attain mythical status among dark wizards. His mind went back to the secrets buried under the Sunken Vaults — about the objects sealed within that could summon ineffable beings from strange and unknown dimensions. Beings of truly vast and terrible power that were typically too lazy, uninterested, busy or simply bottlenecked from affecting Reality itself. Even the slightest manifestation of their presence would leave the world in shades of red, annihilating civilization, or perhaps making all mortals dance to their whims and fancy. Beings that only played with their opponents, until the opponents gathered in enough numbers for them to stop playing and start taking things seriously, and then everything would be annihilated.
Half the beings mentioned in the Necronomicon fell under that category.
“Be ready, Harry,” said Dumbledore, and right then, the room changed again; this time, replaced by walls on either side, constructed purely out piles of bottles, hats, crates, chairs, books, tables, broken broomsticks, weapons, bats — objects left behind by thousands of long-gone students. The walls on either side went on several hundred feet, creating a long, wide corridor. Summoning a broomstick, Harry swerved it upward, only to see….
An endless labyrinth of junk.
No matter where the eye went, all he could see was junk, junk and more junk. It was like this place had somehow collected every single object sold in Diagon Alley since Time immemorial and gathered it all here.
“Professor this… this is…”
“I asked for a room where Tom Riddle had anchored the curse,” said Dumbledore, idly looking at a column of ‘Gadding with Ghouls’ by Gilderoy Lockhart. “I imagined he’d want to keep it in a room where he could safely hide something.”
“But still… in here, really?”
The old man smiled. “I have studied Tom Riddle for years, my boy. Understanding your enemy is vital to victory. For all his genius, and his accomplishments, Tom Riddle confided in no one and operated alone. Yes, I believe he might have been arrogant enough to assume that he, and only he, had penetrated the deepest mysteries of Hogwarts castle.”
Harry looked around at the near infinite amount of junk and looked back at the man sceptically.
Dumbledore smiled, but there was no mirth on his face. “Do not be fooled by this illusion, Harry. I sought the origin of this curse, imagining a room that held its wardstone. But my word, the curse is not just sentient, it is fighting my will. Yes, yes, I can sense it. It wants to stay hidden, and, oh my word, it is so very vile.”
Harry had stopped listening. Instead, he whipped his wand at a broomstick and whispered — “Finite Incantatem!”
And once again, nothing happened.
“Finite Incantatem!”
Still nothing.
Annoyance stirred within him. “Reducto!”
The broomstick crumbled to ash.
He gaped at the ashen remains, and then at the face of the Headmaster who was observing the entire interaction.
“You forget, Harry, that while we are inside this room, everything is real. For the outside world, it is nought but an illusion. But here? These things are as real as you and I. As will be the opponents we shall surely find. We must exercise prudence —”
The rest of Dumbledore’s words drowned, as a sensation so painfully familiar and yet so terribly wrong began filling every one of Harry’s senses to the point that he could think of nothing else. Nostalgia and dread warred for control of his mind as he sought for the source of this strange feeling that was seeking him out…
“Albus, my old freund,” said the newcomer that had just stepped through the wall of junk. The man looked emaciated like he hadn’t eaten for days, his teeth yellowed, and his skin drawn over his body like old parchment. That did nothing to mask the enormous amounts of energy pouring off the man’s body, as he spoke in an almost hoarse voice. “It seems we crossed paths once again.”
Harry would forever swear up and down that he saw Albus Dumbledore smiling an almost frantic, furious smile, displaying both joy and wrath so deep that it was a mystery how such opposing emotions could be displayed together.
“Ah, Ah-ha, yes. It makes sense why it would call to you. You are, after all, one of my greatest regrets.” He inclined his head slightly. “Harry Potter, allow me to introduce you to Gellert Grindelwald, or at least, a regrettably solid illusion based on my understanding of him.”
“It has been a long time, Albus,” said Gellert Grindelwald. “Are you certain you remember me completely?” His eyes traced the beaded wand in Dumbledore’s hand with an almost hungry gaze. “Ah, I see. How does it feel, Albus, to wield power, true power, only to see it reject you? To get your hands on the most potent of weapons, only to realise how incompetent you are at wielding it?”
“It has indeed been a long time, Gellert,” said Dumbledore. “I’d say that I’m quite happy to see you, but I am actually quite furious.” His smile widened slightly. “After all, the Gellert I know has offered the rest of his life to be spent in silent penance under the vaults of Nurmengard. To see the face of my old friend being used like a puppet to play against me, does make me rather annoyed.”
“Nothing is true and everything is real,” said Grindelwald. “That is the power of Reserata Carcerum. Feel free to reject this and walk away into the safety of the Reality you know and trust. But here, you shall find all that you truly want. All those people you failed to save? They are here. All those innocents that you slew with your wand? They are here too. We are older now, and wiser. Perhaps you would want to start our mission afresh? How about Aberforth?” Gellert’s lips widened into a cruel, cruel smile. “If you want, we can even revisit Ariana’s screams and see who was the one that really cast that final curse.”
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, the rage in them a terrible contrast to his smile, making the expression look more like a beast’s snarl. “I see. You are not exactly yourself. To think that Dunamancy is able to bypass Occlumency, or perhaps it is the nature of this Room to do exactly that…. I see, I see…. Harry?”
“...Professor?”
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be very useful to you in this quest. Your thaumaturgy shall keep it from preying on your fears, but it can still conjure other opponents. Face them, get past them, and find the origin of this curse. Whatever you need to do to get there, you do it.”
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but the expression on the Headmaster’s face made him reconsider.
Gellert grinned. “Just like the ol’ Albus I remember. You smile when you are angry.”
“Yes, Gellert. Now, shall we dance?”
With a swift slash of the Elder Wand, the storm began.
....
....
....
Just outside the door and yet a world away, Hermione Granger stood, frowning in thought. She had actually been quite hurt by her best friend’s accusations during their last conversation, but on further introspection, she had noticed that she too, had not acted in Harry’s best interests. And with that had come another bit of realisation that part of her annoyance and distrust about Harry stemmed from the fact that he was no longer reliant on her like he used to be, and it made her feel unneeded, unwanted and… as much as she hated to admit it, inferior.
So when she had heard the Headmaster talk about the Student Exchange programme, she instantly had several ideas to suggest to Harry about potential topics to discuss in his seminar. Seeing him walk to the seventh floor, she had assumed that he was walking to the Headmaster’s office. Knowing how busy her best-friend was with everything else going on, Hermione decided to follow him right away and meet him before he vanished again, only to stop and hide behind a pillar, seeing him talk to the Headmaster and the Bloody Baron of all people. Hermione stayed out of sight like that, not confident enough to try casting a listening charm in the Headmaster’s presence.
Then she took a moment to think about his own actions.
Why am I spying on Harry?
The answer came in just as easily.
What a stupid question? I just don’t want the Headmaster to see me and think I’m up to no good. And I’m not even a Prefect any longer.
More thoughts rushed in.
Though to be fair, Harry’s sudden proficiency is strange. I wonder if the Headmaster had anything to do with it.
She spotted the statue of Barnabas the Barmy, recognizing it as the same spot where Harry had given her and the others the lesson on Salvio Hexia. What was going on with that place?
Her indecisiveness and curiosity grew further, as the wall sprouted off a large door, and Harry grabbed the handle, and pulled it open, stepping into it, with Dumbledore and the Bloody Baron following after him. Hermione watched in confusion for a long moment, before she sighed, and told herself that her friend was now a professor, and it was clear that whatever they were doing, it was Albus Dumbledore’s business. She had better things to do than to poke her nose into the Headmaster’s matters. She turned around and took a step forward to walk away —
But —
Her feet froze.
Would it hurt to look? To my knowledge, the seventh floor only has the Headmaster’s office. Just what kind of room is it?
She turned back and glanced at the door, watching it slowly fade away from view.
It’s probably a secret room used by teachers. Maybe this is where Harry is studying privately? And even if it isn’t, it wouldn’t hurt to just check it out. Would it?
She spun around and approached the door, grabbing the handle just when it was about to shrink. As her fingers entwined around the handle, she felt a warm tinge of magic, one that made her feel good. She didn’t know why or how, but she had this feeling that whatever was inside was worth knowing. Had Harry found out about some amazing room using the Map? Could be. She had never quite spent much time poring over it, and Harry used it all the time.
But Dumbledore is inside. What if… what if he sees me?
Hermione frowned, before an answer suggested itself. A charm that she had been looking at recently, ever since she had seen Harry make those duelling courts appear with a single flick of his wand. The texts called it the disillusionment charm, and it was used to turn objects unseen to a degree. It was essentially camouflage, and a NEWT-level Charm. Just being able to cast it successfully would all but guarantee her an Outstanding in her Charms OWL.
Performing the precise wand movement, she chanted—
“Obscurata.”
And vanished.
The door opened, and then closed shortly after, as if by its own accord.
Comments
Darius Davis
Also, the whole perspective of Baron being a Potter and Harry’s description of the RoR with his thamautargy death magic bias is beaaaautifully intriguing. Definitely Mirror of Erised vibes. Love the DEPTH
Darius Davis
I suppose the curse is once again acting out on Hermione? Ohhhhh, I hope Harry doesn’t mistakenly butcher her thinking she is simply an illusion before Dumbledore can deal with His own battles. Gratefully Harry has acknowledged the lack of mental compulsions he’ll experience so if and when he sees Hermione in the RoR, he’ll logically know she must actually be present
