The faint glow of the healing crystals filled the Room of Requirement, casting long, soft shadows across the expanded vivariums. Echo had been meticulously at work for hours, meticulously brewing complex potions, the air thick with the sweet, pungent aroma of rare herbs. He moved with a practiced, almost robotic efficiency, his dark eyes constantly sweeping over the injured creatures. The unicorn's gored flank was almost fully closed, the hippogriff's clipped wings were regrowing with astonishing speed, and the young dragons, though still skittish, were now eagerly accepting the nutrient-rich pastes he offered. A profound, quiet sense of accomplishment settled over him, a persistent, if still muted, warmth against the pervasive hollow in his chest.
He had promised to save them, and he was. The weight of that promise, and its successful execution, brought a subtle shift to his internal landscape. It wasn't joy, but it was akin to the cold satisfaction of a perfectly executed spell, a quiet triumph that resonated deeper than anything he had felt in weeks. He knew he would be up all night, overseeing the critical first hours of their recovery, monitoring their vital signs, and administering doses of strengthening elixirs. Sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford, not when so many lives depended on his cold, unwavering vigilance.
As he reached for another vial of essence of dittany from the apothecary table, his fingers brushed against a book he hadn't noticed before. It lay slightly askew, nestled between a tome on advanced bone regeneration and a collection of ancient beast lore. It was a slim volume, bound in dark, unmarked leather, with no title etched on its spine. Curiosity, a cold, intellectual spark, prompted him to pick it up. The book felt surprisingly light, almost insubstantial, in his hand. He opened it, and the pages, though seemingly blank, shimmered with a faint, almost invisible light. As he focused his intent on the need for new knowledge, for efficient ways to move, to appear and disappear without a trace, words began to coalesce on the first page, forming elegant, flowing script.
"On the Art of Dislocation: Apparition and the Teleportation Arts."
Echo's dark eyes scanned the title, a cold recognition stirring within him. Apparition. The advanced magical technique of instantaneous travel is notoriously difficult and often results in severe injury for the untrained. He had heard whispers of it and seen it practiced by experienced wizards in fleeting glimpses, but it was a branch of magic rarely taught until the sixth or seventh year, if at all. It was considered too dangerous, too complex for young minds.
He settled into the obsidian chair, the still-warm cup of hot chocolate beside him. He took a sip, the sweetness counteracting the dry, academic nature of the text that now filled the pages before him. He began to read, absorbing the complex theories, the precise mental calculations, and the subtle shifts in magical energy required for successful displacement.
The book details not only Apparition but also more obscure forms of teleportation, ancient techniques that involve bending space and time, and manipulating the very fabric of reality with a level of intent and focus that few wizards have ever achieved. It spoke of the three Ds of Apparition: Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. It broke down the process into minute, almost agonizing detail: the precise visualization of the destination, the unwavering will to be there, and the deliberate, calculated movement of the magical core.
Echo found himself engrossed. This wasn't merely a parlor trick; it was a profound manipulation of space, a raw application of will. And his will, he knew, was cold, unyielding, and terrifyingly precise. He felt no apprehension, no fear of the painful splinching that often plagued novice Apparators. He was an empty vessel, capable of channeling pure intent. As he read, the Room subtly shifted around him, mirroring his focus. A section of the wall near the apothecary table deepened, and a series of shimmering, almost translucent hoops materialized at varying distances, surrounded by soft, glowing targets. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the air, hinting at the subtle distortions of space he was now contemplating.
He glanced at the sleeping creatures in the vivariums, their forms steadily regaining their strength. He had hours before their next round of medication. Hours to delve into this new, exhilarating, and potentially dangerous branch of magic. He had mastered control over dark magic, even bending a Dementor to his will. Perhaps, with the same cold, unyielding focus, he could master the art of instantaneous travel, adding another terrifyingly potent tool to his growing arsenal. The thought brought a faint, almost imperceptible hum of cold anticipation to his hollow core.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the intricate dance of space and will. The three Ds echoed in his mind: Destination, Determination, Deliberation. He understood the principle, a raw concept of being here and then instantly being there. It was a magical shorthand, a brutal override of physical space. His own magic, however, had always been less about shorthand and more about raw, directed intent, a force that bent reality to his will through sheer, unyielding focus.
A new idea, cold and sharp, began to form. If he could apparate himself, if he could manipulate space, could he apply that same principle to his unique magic? His dark affinity wasn't about casting spells in the traditional sense; it was about gathering power, shaping it, and releasing it with overwhelming, almost predatory precision. He recalled the dark beasts, the manifestations of his magic, that seemed to vie for some grand, singular gesture rather than a series of precise commands. His unusual affinity for transfiguring objects into living creatures—that was another clue, a distortion of the natural order. What if, with all this, combined with the raw manipulation of space inherent in Apparition, he could create something entirely new? What that was, he had no idea, but the possibility shimmered with a dark allure.
He opened his eyes, a cold, experimental gleam in their depths. He focused on the nearest vivarium, on the unicorn he had just rescued. It was the same unicorn he had re-secured from the griffins' mad terror, the one he had mentally named Skip. He pictured Skip, perfectly, vividly, in his mind's eye. Then, he focused on the concept of displacement, not of himself, but of the creature. He didn't think of a spell, but of a raw, almost predatory will: be here, then be there.
A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the glass of the vivarium. The unicorn, grazing peacefully, suddenly shimmered. And then, with a soft, almost inaudible pop, it was no longer in the vivarium.
Echo looked down. Standing beside the obsidian chair, blinking slowly, was Skip. The unicorn shook its mane, then nudged Echo's hand with its nose, a silent, curious greeting. Echo felt a distinct, albeit faint, current of cold triumph. It had worked. He had teleported a living creature, not through traditional Apparition, but through an entirely new, terrifying application of his unique magic. He had just invented a new kind of magic.
A flicker of something akin to cold satisfaction crossed Echo's face. He reached out, stroking Skip's velvety nose. The unicorn's eyes, soft and luminous, blinked slowly, entirely unfazed by its sudden change of location. It was a profound success, a silent testament to the terrifying potential of his altered magic. He had not merely learned Apparition; he had warped its very nature, bending it to his will to relocate another being instantly. The hollow in his chest remained, but this felt like a brick laid in its foundation, a new, unsettling certainty.
He dismissed Skip with a silent thought, and the unicorn shimmered, then vanished with another soft pop, presumably back to its expanded vivarium within the Room. Echo leaned back in the obsidian chair, a faint, almost imperceptible purr of cold amusement escaping him. He had invented something new, something powerful, something uniquely his.
His mind immediately turned to Wick. If he could summon Skip, could he summon his loyal, terrifying dragon? The thought sparked a new, colder thrill of anticipation. He closed his eyes, picturing Wick, her immense, scaly form, the powerful beat of her wings, the ancient wisdom in her golden eyes. He focused on the same concept: displacement. Be here, then be there.
He opened his eyes.
A massive, leathery wing, dark as midnight, materialized instantly, filling a significant portion of the chamber. The air in the Room of Requirement crackled, groaning under the sudden, immense magical strain. A faint, distressed huff echoed from the wing, and a struggle ensued, as if the rest of Wick's vast body was attempting to follow, but simply could not fit. The walls of the Room, for the first time, seemed to push back, groaning under the pressure.
Echo's eyes widened, a rare flicker of something akin to surprise, and perhaps a touch of exasperation, crossing his face. Wick was simply too large. The Room, while responding to his needs, still operated within its own inherent limitations. It could expand, but not infinitely, for something of Wick's scale within the enclosed space.
"Wick," he whispered, a hint of his flat voice catching. "Too big, girl. Go back."
The pressure eased instantly, the massive wing shimmered, and vanished with a whoosh of displaced air. Echo let out a slow breath. It was a minor miscalculation, but an informative one.
He then thought of another creature, one he had rescued from its maddened state weeks ago, a powerful, proud beast that had once embodied chaos: the griffin. He had rescued it from its madness when it was injured and addicted to unicorn flesh while healing it of its wounds and freeing it from its shackles. He pictured it, perched silently in its nest, its sharp beak, its proud, intelligent eyes, its powerful talons. He focused his will, his dark intent: be here, then be there, from the Forbidden Forest.
A soft thud sounded beside the chair. Echo looked down. Standing patiently beside him, its magnificent feathered head tilted, was the griffin. It blinked its intelligent, golden eyes at him, then lowered its head slightly in a gesture of deference. It had come from the depths of the Forbidden Forest, its native habitat. Echo felt a chilling satisfaction. He could summon creatures directly from their natural environments, not just from within the Room. His mastery was growing, terrifyingly so. He reached out, stroking the griffin's feathered and furred neck. The creature leaned into his touch, a soft purring sound emanating from its throat.
He then thought of the Dementor he had bent to his will, the creature of despair he had commanded only hours earlier. Could he summon it now, directly into the Room? The thought sent a cold, predatory thrill through him. The ultimate weapon, instantly at his command. But as quickly as the thought arose, he dismissed it. Summoning a Dementor, even into the privacy of the Room, felt like an unnecessary risk. The very presence of such a creature, even momentarily, might disrupt the delicate balance of the Room's magic, or worse, somehow alert Dumbledore or the Ministry to his unique, unsettling control over dark beings. The Room, he sensed, provided what he needed, and he did not need a Dementor within its walls for training. Such a volatile presence would only create more chaos, not focused practice.
He then thought back to the creatures he had liberated from the poachers' camp. He had only seen them briefly, herded into cages, their forms indistinct in the chaos. He focused on a vague image of a young dragon, one of the more agitated ones he had coaxed into the Nabsack. Be here, then be there.
Nothing happened. The Room remained silent, the griffin still purring softly beside him. Echo frowned, a flicker of cold disappointment. He tried again, picturing a specific unicorn he had seen penned, its horn cruelly sawn off. Again, nothing. The magic, which had worked so effortlessly with Skip and the griffin, now remained stubbornly inert.
A cold, logical conclusion settled over him. He had known Skip intimately, but he nursed it back to health after the griffin attack. He had spent hours in the vivarium with the hippogriff, tending to its wounds. He had a connection to them, a bond forged in shared experience and his own intent to heal. The other creatures, the ones he had merely glimpsed and rescued for the centaurs—there was no such bond. He couldn't just summon any creature he knew existed; he needed a link, a direct, personal connection, however faint, to the creature's essence. It wasn't about power alone, but about resonance.
He thought of Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix. He had encountered the creature once, a fleeting moment of connection. Could he summon Fawkes? The idea was tempting, a test of the depth of his connection, but he dismissed it almost immediately. Freaking Dumbledore out by making his beloved phoenix disappear and reappear on a whim was not a wise move. Besides, he wasn't sure what kind of "connection" he had with Fawkes beyond a single, brief encounter. It probably wasn't enough.
Echo let out a faint, almost imperceptible sigh. He looked around the vast, magical space, its glowing crystals and healing vivariums humming with benevolent power. He had pushed the Room's boundaries with Wick, and he had learned something vital about his new magic through the failed summons.
"Thank you," Echo whispered, his voice flat but carrying a faint, uncharacteristic note of sincerity. He addressed the Room itself, a conscious acknowledgment of its silent wisdom. "And I apologize. For putting such… stress upon you."
He looked at the docile hippogriff beside him and then at his black wand, now humming with a new, complex energy. This magic, this unique application of his intent to displace and command living creatures, was his alone. It was not an Appearance in the traditional sense, nor a Transformation. It was something new, something born of his emptiness, his trauma, and his terrifying will.
"Beast Magic," Echo murmured, the words feeling right, settling into his hollow core with a quiet, chilling certainty. "A new kind of magic. My kind of magic. I wonder what else I could make it do?"