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“Have a seat, Mister Potter, we are waiting for one of my colleagues,” Dumbledore said in a tired voice. Harry hesitated beside the offered chair. He didn’t want to sit down, but he didn’t want to push his luck either. He eventually lowered himself down to the very edge of the seat.
“I didn’t do it,” he insisted. Dumbledore held up a hand for silence and stared hard at Harry. In the back of his mind, a wordless voice whispered. Call on me – to protect. To avenge. It felt familiar, somehow – like an old friend, had he had any friends before.
“I made the mistake of ignoring my gut instinct before and a young girl died because of it. There will be no more Myrtle Warrens in this castle. Not as long as I remain Headmaster.” Harry gaped at him before clearing the fear off his face again. He will strike you...
“Am I supposed to know what that means, sir?” he drawled. His head was screaming at him to play the poor pitiful orphan that Snape advised him once to play, but his gut instinct said it didn’t matter what he said now. Dumbledore had clearly already made up his mind. He doesn’t trust you – wishes to eliminate you!
“I believe you do,” Dumbledore said simply before lapsing in to silence. Harry stared him down, noticing that the old man didn’t meet his eyes at all during this time, as he waited for the ‘colleague’ Dumbledore summoned. Please be Snape. It won’t be him – call on me! The voice whispered again, its tones promising certainty Harry couldn’t trust on.
When there was a booming knock on the Headmasters door, Harry knew it was much too loud to be Professor Snape. “Ya wanted ter see me, sir?” Harry spun sideways in his chair, attempting to keep both the Headmaster and the Groundskeeper, Hagrid, in his line of sight.
What the fuck? Why is the Groundskeeper here? Harry grimaced in confusion at the turn of events. Call one me – they can not be trusted!
“Come in, Rubeus, I need you to do me a favour,” Dumbledore said politely to the huge man. Harry inched to the edge of his chair to keep away from the other man. He knew that Dumbledore was the bigger threat of the two, but Hagrid looked as if he could crush Harry like a bug with just one hand.
Dumbledore turned his blue eyes back to Harry, and he was surprised to see how cold they now looked. Almost like ice. He knows! He fears your power – our power!
“Mister Potter, I need your wand,” he said calmly.
“Why?” he asked. You know why...
“Your wand, now,” Dumbledore repeated, his voice as cold as his eyes now.
You won’t win a fight against him. Not right now. Not like this. But with me by your side, you can! We can.
Harry slowly reached in to his wand holster to unfasten the wand. He kept his eyes on Dumbledore, who was holding his own wand now. “Here.” He placed the holly wand on the desk, marvelling at the way it shone like it did the day he got it. Dumbledore grabbed the wand and stowed it in his desk drawer, then nodded at Hagrid. Disarm the enemy – you are his enemy. We are his enemy!
“Mister Potter, you are formally expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You are a danger to your fellow students and I cannot allow you to remain here while your very presence puts them at risk. Rubeus will escort you to your home and your belongings will be sent along at a later time.” Call one me! We are his enemy!
Harry felt his throat thicken with what was probably unshed tears. He was never going to see his friends again. Or Mavis. Or... or Snape. Call on me… before he sends us to our death! We can not die!
Show no weakness. Weakness will get you killed instead of expelled. He will kill us anyway! Call one me.
Harry made sure his face was clear of the sorrow he thought he might drown in and stood as he sensed Hagrid reaching for his arm. “Don’t touch me!” he snarled at the giant man. He turned back to Dumbledore and stared hatefully at his icey blue eyes. Strike – call on me. Let us strike!
“You’re making a mistake.” You are – unless you call on me. We can make him regret!
Dumbledore inclined his chin minutely. “I don’t believe I am,” he said softly.
Call on me!
Harry did.
Albus had mere seconds to process the change that came over Potter’s face the moment he said those words. Fear, hatred, agony – and then a calm so cold, so grounded, that it felt like watching a glacier decide it was gonna grind a mountain down to dust as if it were a mere formality.
“No.” Potter’s voice was changed, deeper and cold as ice. And as Albus’ mind slowly began connecting memories of that self-same voice belonging to someone else fifty years prior, he almost missed the silver light that began to flow underneath the boy’s skin, like luminous silver pouring through his veins. And Albus acted as quickly as he could.
“Fawkes! To me!”
Fawkes immediately crossed the divide and Albus took hold of the Phoenix’s tail just milliseconds before the silver burst forth from beneath Potter’s skin and Fawkes apparated them away.
From his spot on the lawn, far below his office, where he and Fawkes re-appeared, Albus saw with unrestrained horror how the silver light broke open the office’s turret, behaving like a crazed animal intent on destroying its prison with tooth and claw.
The light tore and bit at the stone walls of the turret, sending whole sections down at once, to crash unto the ground far below with thunderous crash and billowing clouds of mortar dust. And amidst its own cloud of dust and debris, the silver began to take a shape, with sharp wings and tearing claws, a wicked snarling draconic head on a long neck of bulging muscles and sinew, biting and tearing, clawing and stamping at the stone.
Then, as the last parts of the turret fell down, the silver beast raised its head high and howled, a sound that reverberated across the valley, filled with agony and hatred and fear, clawing at Albus’ bones as he began to realize the depth of his error. This wasn’t any magick that a potential Dark Lord could control – this was some sort of Obscurial, of a type he had never before seen or heard about!
Then, the beast seemed to sniff, its wide nostrils opening and closing, gulping whole currents of air into its nose – and its head immediately snapped to Albus’ position. It wanted him, evidently, and Albus waved his wand, casting spell upon spell around him to anticipate the beast.
It moved, its clawed wings grappling at the remnants of the turret, before the remaining stone gave way and the beast began a slow inevitable plummet, down towards the ground. But even as it fell, it head stayed focussed on him, as it began to bellow with a fury that would intimidate any dragon. Silver fire began to stream from its skin, trailing in the air behind its descending bulk, licking at the walls that it sped past, scorching and melting whatever they touched.
And then it crashed. With a deafening boom, its bulk impacted the ground, casting such a large clouds of dust and dirt and stone that half the tower became obscured behind it – and the Obscurial dragon fell silent. But not for long.
As Albus carefully rounded the impact site, slowly moving towards the cover of the Castle’s walls, he heard a grinding, as of scales upon stone, of coiling muscles and a sibbilant hiss. The answer to what it was slowly raised its giant serpentine head above the settling dust cloud, its unblinking staring eyes fixated on him, as the plumes crowning its head began to chitter and rise in a display of aggression. A Merlin-damned basilisk Obscurial! It would just be his luck of it had the deathly eyes as well, though it didn’t seem so.
Then, as fast as any regular viper, it launched forward, its coiled body propelling its enormous fanged head towards him, impacting the dirt where Albus stood mere seconds ago as he began to run, casting spell after spell at the seemingly impervious hide.
At the edge of the battle site, Albus saw professors gathering, intent to aid him in the attack against the creature. No doubt they’d be confused as to its nature or origin – and he couldn’t bloody well explain that the Potter child had finally given in to his baser nature, now could he?
The serpent struck again and again, forcing Albus to keep moving, a few times having to resort to short-range Apparition to gain a brief breather. But the beast always instantly refocussed on his new position. And Albus slowly had to accept that his spells did little to nothing to stop or even slow down the Obscurial.
He had to risk it – the creature – the boy… it had to die.
He cast his strongest shielding spell, trapping them both in an area roughly the size of the Quidditch pitch – and he aimed his wand once more at the basilisk which was lashing out against the shimmering field keeping them in. It was afraid – claustrophobic maybe, a remnant of the child? It mattered not.
“Fiendfyre.”
The roar of the fire that emerged was horrendous – an agony of pain and woe, the sound of a thousand souls despairing, of demons jabbering and laughing, the sound of Pandemonium unleashed. And it was the sound of joy, of freedom – of devouring and conquest.
There was a reason that the Fiendfyre Spell was so heavily regulated – it often devoured its caster along with their enemies. It took an iron unbending will to control the fire, to steer it and banish it at the end. And that iron will was often the reason why those not dying at the first casting of the spell would die when they cast it any other time – because such people would start to resort to the spell at their answer to anything and everything. Iron bends – then breaks, eventually. And a fire as hot as the flames of hell will bend any metal, given enough time. Once usually does the trick – the second casting usually does the rest.
Albus had only once before used the spell – once in his almost one-and-a-half centuries of life. And the first time had nearly broken him, so overpowering was the will of those flames. It was why he hadn’t used it again until now – it took him a decade to recover his mental strength, part of the reason why he had avoided facing Gellert. He hadn’t trusted himself not to use the spell again should he face his former lover.
But this abomination, this nascent Dark Lord in the guise of a twelve-year-old child Obscurial – it could not be permitted. It will not be permitted! Even if Albus went down with the beast, he would save their world from the rise of another Dark Lord – he would break the cycle! He had to. He was only one who could, who had the knowledge, the fortitude – who had the iron will!
The fire slithered and groaned, its crackling flames licking up against the shield, straining against the iron-fisted grip Albus’ control had over it. Terrifyingly enough, the Obscurial basilisk didn’t seem worried – if anything, it looked fascinated by the purple-black and blood-red flames of its infernal adversary. Its unblinking eyes were focussed on the mythical shapes in the fire, entranced by the waving hellish flames.
Albus couldn’t afford to analyse the behaviour of his enemy – so he poured his will into the flame, straining with the effort to subdue their native desires and guide its wants along his own. “Engulf.”
Like a storm-tide, the Fiendfyre lapped and surged, springing towards the Obscurial, which shrunk unto itself, trying to avoid the scorching flames. The angered hissing became a screeching like an owl’s, high-pitched and low, tearing through the air with the pain behind it. Trashing and coiling, snapping and biting, the basilisk tried to kill the flames, but the inferno simply flowed around and about it, filling every available space.
Albus steeled his eyes, watching the fight unfurl before him, of two magickal forces of nature battling one another – it was terrifying enough that the Obscurial hadn’t immediately succumbed to the fire. Hardly anything lasted more than a few seconds against it, per Albus’ studies and experiences. Yet, even more terrifying, the Obscurial, though undoubtedly hurt and hurting, didn’t diminish or display any sign of weakening! What in Merlin’s name happened to that damned child? What the hell was Potter?!
Then, to everybody’s horror as the sound reached the ears of the dozens upon dozens of people who had begun to stream out of the Castle to witness what was happening, the thing began to laugh. A low sussurous rumbling, sibbilant whispers in its echoes, as the basilisk reared higher and higher and higher – and the fire shrinked back. The Fiendfyre, the very representation of unbridled hatred and free will, shrunk back from the Obscurial beast – as it opened its eyes. A luminous golden glow poured forth from the opening secondary eyelids, casting across the roaring flames and where it touched, the flames lit up to a blinding white before fading out into acrid dark smoke.
And then the beast struck, sinking its fangs into the flames, again and again, but even as Albus could do nothing but watch in horror, he couldn’t help but observe how the beast was slowly losing its shape, slowly spreading out, becoming more and more amorphous as it slowly shrunk down its foe, bite by bite. Then, in a last horrendous shriek of laughter and victory, it fell apart – and engulfed what was left of the Fiendfyre with its silver liquid bulk.
Like a Lethifold, the silver mass stretched across Albus’ beasts of fire, smothering their roars and shrieks, covering the whole damned thing in mere seconds. An enormous blob of silver soon was all that was left of the fight, the dark fire slightly visible underneath the silver film with its black-purple light. And the damned horror had kept laughing all the while, though it had slowly lost its serpentine echoes. Now it sounded like the mad glee of a Fae, all too human and way more victorious than could be good for anyone present here.
Then it began to shrink and Albus felt the connection between him and the Fiendfyre snap with such an absolute finality that it left him winded and falling to his knees. Watching in fascinated horror, Albus watched how the silver Obscurial shrunk down, down, down – back into a human shape, but larger than any regular human ever was. Taller than Hagrid, but slim and lite, with eyes that glittered with golden light and hair of gossamer silver threads fine enough to be barely visible, fluttering in the breeze of the fire that had vanished.
Albus knew he had to flee – this went beyond anything known to magic-kind! This was beyond compare to mortal knowledge, he felt – whatever happened next, the Castle would ubdoubtedly be lost. Would such a horror leave the school standing? The children living? No, Albus knew, it wouldn’t – there was no innocence left in the husk that had once been the Boy-Who-Lived. There couldn’t be – not with something like this.
The solution was simple – he would have to flee. More the pity would be the deaths of those present here, most of all the children. But Albus had to live! If he ran, he could find a solution elsewhere. Maybe the Goblins… So Albus Apparated…
– only to bounce off against the shield he had erected! Stunned, Albus barely registered the laughter of the horror behind him.
What had he done?