Chapter 3. The Lies of a Prophet
10th September,
Dear Harry,
Do not hate me. I know it's a little later than I promised, but I have a good reason for being tardy.
I wanted to write the letter the moment I was assigned a bed in the Gryffindor dorms, but I couldn't get away from the clingy harpies that are my best friends. Right, you don't know them yet. Allow me to go in chronological order before this becomes a mess.
After you left my compartment, I cried. Not in the cool, stoic way. No. I'm afraid I sobbed like a little girl. It somehow feels easy to confess that in the writing. If we were face-to-face, I'd be so embarrassed. Anyways, once the Hogwarts Express left the station, I remained in my compartment with my face pressed up against the window, as if you were going to appear through the rolling hills. Do you get the picture? How sad was I? You better be nice to me when we reunite on Christmas, or I'll hex you into a coma.
As you can imagine, I wasn't in a mood to socialise. I planned to be alone and keep crying for the rest of the ride. Fortunately, that didn't happen. My compartment doors slammed open, and my first friend appeared. Her name is Hermione Granger. She noticed my state of distress and calmed me down. I told her about you, about your condition, how we were separated when we were meant to go to Hogwarts together. She comforted me and told me about herself, how she missed her parents as well. Then she got all teary-eyed, and it was my turn to console her. Do you get the picture? Two girls crying and comforting each other; how can we not become friends after that?
I wish I could say, 'Then they lived happily ever after', but no, the train ride was… eventful. Draco Malfoy showed up within the first hour, flanked by two massive oafs. He was as unpleasant as his father, insulting Hermione to her face and eyeing me up like a piece of meat. He had the audacity to offer me a 'place' in his friend circle. All I had to do was join his cult and do everything he said, and in return, he'd provide me protection from the Slytherins. Like, hello, can you be any more cartoonishly evil? Like, who barges into someone's compartment and asks them to be their 'girlfriend-slash-servant'? Like, what era is this? The Middle Ages?
I declined, not very politely. I may have used words that would make Mum proud. Before the verbal fight could get worse, a blonde interrupted us. And that's how I met my second friend.
Daphne Greengrass is… ethereal. That's the closest word I can find to describe her. She's so delicately pretty that I was afraid her skin would crack from our loud voices. She's gorgeous in the most conventional way. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, slender and graceful. She reminds me of the elves from the fantasy novels. Even her voice was all soft and melancholic. Though her words were not.
"Piss off, Malfoy. Do you even know who you're bothering? Do you have no sense of survival in that latrine you call a brain? She's the daughter of the Red Demon. Did your parents not warn you to keep away from her? Do you really love getting buggered that much? Just use a dildo, moron. No need to put your life on the line."
That was what she said word for word, stunning us into mortified silence. I hadn't expected her to be this crass. The warning worked, though. Malfoy hesitated for a second before walking away in a rush. Daphne entered the compartment and sat opposite us, eyeing me warily and saying, "My family doesn't hold any grudges against your mother for butchering my father in the war. I hope you won't be prejudiced against me, either, whichever house we end up in."
It was awkward, I won't lie. I knew Mum was infamous for her kill count, but it's one thing to hear the stories and another to actually meet someone affected by it. If it were normal circumstances, we'd swear eternal hatred. Thankfully, that was not the case. Daphne's dad was a real piece of work, so the Greengrass family was grateful rather than angered. Plus, Daphne's first impression told me all I needed. I'm glad she's not my enemy.
Then we brought a confused Hermione up to speed, telling her all that we've heard about the war. Daphne talked about her family, which only consisted of a mother and an ailing sister.
Astoria Greengrass is afflicted with a strange disease that leaves her tired all the time. It's so bad that she might not even attend Hogwarts next year, when she turns fourteen. Daphne seemed a little down about it, so I talked about you as well. And we bonded over the shared experience of being an elder sibling. And I am the older sibling, don't even argue about it! Minutes, years, doesn't matter!
This letter has already become so long, hasn't it? I have so much to tell you, but I won't bore you with the mundane bits. So here are the important bits.
I made two best friends. We all were sorted into Gryffindor. Even Daphne. Daphne's sorting caused a massive uproar at the Slytherin table. Apparently, everyone expected her to be sorted into the snake den. But she just smiled and strutted through the chaos and sat with me and Hermione.
Neville was also sorted into Gryffindor, if you were interested. It's strange that we haven't talked that much since we got here, considering we are childhood friends. I had thought he'd become my best friend in your absence. But nope, we rarely share more than empty greetings. Maybe because we have different friend circles. He's always surrounded by Ron and the other Gryffindor boys, and it's not worth joining their boyish conversation. They're really loud and obnoxious and weird (not Neville), and it makes me feel blessed that you're a little more mature. I would've strangled you by now if you were like them.
I think that's all the things I wanted to talk about? Wait, no, one more thing. Classes are fun. The professors are fun. Particularly the DADA professor, Emily Trickett. She's brilliant. All charm and no sternness, treating us like proper adults. It's like being with a playful older sister rather than a teacher. Plus, she's really pretty, so that helps. I want to grow up and be like her. I think it's not just me; everyone loves her. She's that good. She makes studying fun. You would have loved her as well.
My friends may already be searching for me. I should end this ridiculously lengthy letter. If they saw the content of it, they'd never stop teasing me.
I miss you, Harry. I wish you could be here. And you don't have to worry about me. I'm surprisingly not going to bed in tears. I'm not homesick.
I hope you're working hard like I've been. I remember your challenge. I'm taking it seriously. I aim to grow strong enough to kick your butt with ease. You better try to make it a little interesting.
That's it… I think. You better reply to this. I swear I'll punch you if you ignore it.
Love,
Rose
P.S. Should I join the Quidditch team? Apparently, I'm a genius at flying. Who could've seen that coming? And Professor McGonagall is willing to bend the rules to let me try out. But it might take time away from academics. Thoughts?
~xXxXx~
Harry was deep in his trance, breathing in and out, his consciousness focused on his core, as he willed the viscous, oily liquid magic of his through the lower channel. It seeped from the bead and through the hair-thin thread, moving at a tortuous crawl. His entire core emptied as the magic travelled down the thread.
His body grew warm. His head was crystal clear. And his soul thrummed in nameless joy. Mana cycling didn't feel uncomfortable anymore. It felt addicting now, like the bright touch of sunlight in the dark winter. If he could, he'd do it for days uninterrupted. But mental fatigue was a thing. If he cycled for more than a couple of hours, past his limit, his focus would waver, his head split by throbbing migraines.
His mind was wandering. So he shook off the thoughts and focused on the task at hand.
His magic slid through the thread, the lower channel, and reached the end of it. He could feel the sensation mirrored in his physical body. A tingling sensation moving from his belly to his legs. At last, it reached his feet. If he were a normal wizard, maybe his magic could escape the channel and manifest into the real world. That didn't happen, of course. He was a squib. The magic flow hit a limit, a wall. He took a deep breath and changed direction, now willing the magic to flow up the channel and return to the core.
The viscous, oily magic began going up the thread, as if the world reversed. But this time, something was different. Magic, latent magic from the outside, moved in through the wall that his own magic could not escape, through the soles of his feet. The liquid magic carried a distinct glow as it made its way towards the core. The tingling had transformed into heat, but it wasn't unbearable. The ambient magic was not liquid; it was… gaseous, for lack of a better term, and it stuck to his liquid magic, hitchhiking a ride with it, travelling to his core.
If Alice were here, she'd see him aglow in her mage sight.
If his core was big enough, the gaseous magic might have turned liquid and expanded his own reserves. But he was like an overflowing bowl pressed against a riverbank. He was already full. He had no spare space to store more 'water'. So as his liquid magic filled his core to the brim, the glowing latent magic dissipated, not finding room.
He opened his eyes and sighed, still lost about how to increase the size of his core. Mana cycling had strengthened his system and made the process far quicker and smoother. But what it had not done was make his core expand in size. And expansion was what he needed the most right now.
If his core was large, he could store more magic inside himself. If he could store more magic inside himself, he could use it to force the knot undone on his upper channel. If he could use it to force the knot undone on his upper channel, he could manifest magic outside himself. If he could manifest magic outside himself, he could become a wizard. And if he could become a wizard, he could go to Hogwarts.
It seemed so simple, didn't it? But he was afraid by the time he made any progress, it would be too late.
He rose to his feet and tried to ignore this bubbling frustration. He felt he knew what to do to fix himself but not how.
"Harry! You've got a letter." The yell came from downstairs, from his mother.
He smiled and left his room in a hurry, the anger quickly forgotten, hoping the letter was from Rose. He'd been expecting it for a while now.
The mention of Emily Trickett confused him as he read the letter. He didn't remember her as a character in the novels or the movies. Professor Quirrell was supposed to teach DADA this year. Maybe his warning to Dumbledore changed that. It would be a stupid move to allow a man hiding Voldemort under his turban to be near children. That might be it. Or maybe Quirrell didn't even exist here. Honestly, it could be anything since this was an alternate world.
This only convinced him more not to rely on the 'canon' knowledge.
~xXxXx~
11th September,
Dear Rose,
I can never hate you, no matter what you do. I guess it's easier to admit in writing, like you said. If we were face-to-face, I'd probably just call you a troll and shove you away. But we are not… unfortunately.
Are we really going to be this sappy when you come home? Ew. Note to self: kick you the moment I see you to balance it out.
As for being late, don't worry. I was so busy with my mysterious training, I didn't get the chance to feel hurt. Though I did humour the idea of withholding this letter for a few weeks to make you sweat. You should be happy I'm not that petty.
It looks like you've got nice friends. Good, I was worried about you since you've become such a crybaby. I'm relieved you've got people to look after you. I, of course, did not cry when we parted. Well, not much anyway. And I was all stoic and cool while doing it, I swear.
I'm curious to meet your friends, really. Daphne sounds like a quirky character. A delicate elven beauty with a potty mouth? Tolkien would have a heart attack or maybe a laugh. I believe she and I can be easy friends. From what little you said about Hermione, she seems gentle and empathetic. At least one of you has a pure soul.
Now what is this about being a 'girlfriend-slash-servant'? I'm disappointed you didn't break limbs of this Malfoy fellow. I probably would have broken a tooth or two. Maybe even the neck if I were angry enough. Do take care, though. People like him are vile, disgusting beings, considering themselves kings and everyone else their peasants to torment. If you give him a finger, he'll take the entire hand. Punt him the next time he misbehaves.
As for Neville, he was always shy. I think he feels more comfortable with boys than a girl, even if you were his friend. I say let him be. It's only the first month. Maybe he'd come around? And even if he doesn't, who cares?
That reminds me, I've been meeting with Neville's mum. She has mage sight, if you can believe that. And I need that for my mysterious training. I could explain everything to you, tell you what I'm doing, how I'm training, what I'm planning. But that would be an unwise move. Never share your strategies with your rivals, after all. I'm taking it seriously, too, Rose—our challenge.
I plan to obliterate you when that promised duel is upon us. You better not take me lightly.
And yes, you should join the Quidditch team if you can. If all you do is study, you'll turn into a complete bore, and you're dull enough as it is. Go have some fun, just don't slack off with your studies.
Love,
Harry
P.S. Do you have a professor named Quirinus Quirrell?
~xXxXx~
They exchanged letters every week without fail, their hearts only growing fonder with distance. The months flew by as they lived their own lives, narrating them in letters for each other. If their first letters were long, it only grew more absurd in size, sometimes spanning multiple rolled parchments, detailing everything they could without turning it into an actual book. Rose was busy with friends, lessons, and Quidditch, while Harry threw himself into training, magical and physical alike. Yet they kept in touch despite their hectic schedules, almost with a ferocious desperation, as if afraid they'd be replaced.
By Christmas, he could do the Saitama routine without needing to divide the exercises into sets. 10 km run, 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and 100 squats. He could do it… not with ease. But he could do it, attaining his short-term goal. It still left him panting by the end of it, of course. And he relished it. The pain, the ache, the pool of sweat.
His magical training, on the other hand, got stuck in the early phase. He could only cycle day and night, strengthening his core and channels, becoming intimately familiar with his own magic. Even the process of breathing in the latent magic from his immediate surroundings progressively turned easy until it became second nature. But that was it; his advancement in cultivation hit a snag.
It was Rose who finally pulled him out of the mire of stagnation.
They were building a snowman outside, bundled in too many sweaters. She was home for the holidays like she had promised. Harry was on his knees, shaping the base, while Rose teetered on her toes, fussing over the lumpy face.
"So," she said conversationally, sticking a carrot in for the nose. "Your core is like a seed. One tendril goes up, which will become the trunk and branches later on, while the other goes down and will form roots, which suck the magic in for the development of the tree—you. You have access to a single root right now, but you don't have the trunk yet. You can't have it. Your core is not strong enough to support a trunk. Your upper tendril is locked out of your system. Correct?"
Harry's gloved hand froze on the snowman, and he looked up at her. "That's… mostly a fair analogy."
Despite his initial resolve to keep her in the dark, he had ended up telling her everything about his cultivation path.
"I'm confused why you haven't formed more roots. Your core system sounds very simple. One thread goes up and the other goes down with a small bead in the centre." She placed a muffler around the snowman. "Why not expand on it?
"Yes, you cannot access your upper channel, but you can experiment with your single root, can't you?" She crouched and used a stick to draw on the snowy ground. "Maybe divide the single root into more tendrils, like a true plant? And not all of them need to go outside and channel in water—the magic.
"Open some of those inside; let the magic spill into your own body from the channels. Maybe your core isn't growing because you're not even using it. Use it to enhance your body. Don't just cycle your mana; allow it to be utilised by your muscles and your bones. Is that not possible? Maybe once your body is tempered with magic, maybe once your physical self reaches its peak, your core will be forced to grow on its own to keep up with the supply and demand."
That was… not impossible.
He could do it. Actually, he should do it. His primary goal was always to become physically strong like Saitama. But in his ambition to work on his core, to open the upper channel, to become a wizard, he had lost sight of his original plan. What Rose said would take time, maybe years. Enhancing every single inch of his body was a tall task. It would've been his main objective if he weren't allured by the idea to go to Hogwarts. In his rush to be with his sister, he had skipped the 2nd step and tried to do the 3rd. It was no wonder he was making no progress.
Did that mean he had to give up on his dream to go to Hogwarts?
He was… hoping he could tag along with Rose for the second year. He knew all the first-year theory lessons. Lily had asked him to keep up with the regular syllabus in case he cured himself. He had dreamed of unlocking his upper channel, to earn a wand. To pass the year-end exams and jump to the second year with Rose and her friends.
Now, she was unwittingly telling him to let it go. To do what he could do, to stop skipping important steps on his path to power.
"You're wise sometimes." He chuckled, standing up, brushing the snow off his knees.
"Certified genius here." She lobbed a snowball at him. "Don't underestimate me."
He ducked under the projectile, grinning, gathering snow in his palm. "Let's see if your genius can help you here."
She squawked as his snowball hit her on the neck, the icy crumbs sliding into her clothes.
"Harry!"
He laughed and danced around her, pelting her, burying his hopeless dream under the flurry of snow.
~xXxXx~
Dumbledore took off his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes.
It was June. Everyone was busy. The students with the exams, and the professors with papers, tempers, and the occasional exploding cauldron. There were hundreds of things demanding his attention, yet his mind always drifted back to the letters delivered to him years ago.
Even now, they lay spread across his desk. His fingers idly caressed Fawkes' plume while his gaze lingered on the familiar words.
The Diary. The Ring. The Locket. The Cup. The Diadem. Nagini (after Voldemort's resurrection). And Neville's Scar.
Horcruxes. Soul containers that allowed dark wizards to escape death, to linger in the world even after they were killed. It certainly made sense, only deepening his sense of foreboding about Voldemort's return.
The letter even revealed their locations. And that was not all. A year-by-year chronicle detailed what would happen for the next seven years.
Quirinus Quirrell's attempt to revive Voldemort. The Basilisk problem next year. Voldemort's resurrection in Neville's fourth year. Then the breakout of war.
The letters painted a very grim picture of the future. But most of it was untrue. He had followed the instructions diligently, hunting Horcruxes wherever the prophet claimed they would lie. None were found. The Room of Requirement did not hold the diadem. Nor did Grimmauld Place house the locket. The same was true with the Ring and the Cup. He had searched the shack and Lestrange Vault. He even pulled strings in the background and set up a raid on Malfoy Manor. After the entire estate was scoured, many dark and illegal items turned up, but not the Diary.
The yearly predictions were wrong as well. There was never a Quirinus Quirrell here.
Still, the letters weren't total nonsense. One thing was unfortunately true. Neville's scar was indeed a horcrux. This one truth kept him on edge. It meant the prophet might be correct about what was to come.
That meant he must take precautions.
Once the students went home for the summer holidays, he'd organise a team to kill the Basilisk. It was better to nip it in the bud than allow it to petrify the children. He did not want to risk his students. Their safety was his responsibility.
What about Neville's scar?
That question had kept him awake many nights. It would continue to bother him until he found a solution. If he found a solution.
~xXxXx~
"Neville, may I have a moment?" Professor Trickett waylaid the group of Gryffindor first-years.
They'd just left the Great Hall after dinner when she intercepted them. It was the last day before they'd board the Hogwarts Express for London, so few of the boys seemed annoyed at the interruption. But she couldn't wait any longer. And she had built an amazing rapport with everyone. They wouldn't resent her too much.
"Sure, professor." Neville waved to his friends to keep walking.
"I have something important to discuss. Follow me," she said and began for her office.
"Will it take too much time? I have a few plans with my friends." He followed her, sounding reluctant.
She chuckled even as she saw him wince and rub his lightning-bolt-shaped scar. "Fifteen minutes at most. Then you can return to your friends and escape my boring company."
"I didn't mean it like that. I love your company." He blushed, making her smile. "I mean, everyone does."
"Yet your scar hurts whenever you're close to me. Right?" she asked knowingly, opening her office door for him.
He stopped at the entrance, eyes wide. "How do you know that?"
"You're not subtle." She slung her arm around him, leading him inside, waving her wand to shut the door. "And the welfare of my students is my priority. I didn't bring it up before because I didn't have a solution."
"You have it now? The solution?" He questioned her as she gently pushed him into a chair.
"Yes." She took a seat across from him, behind her desk. "The reason your scar hurts when you're near me is because I wear numerous anti-dark magic trinkets to protect myself. Yes, that means your scar oozes dark magic, reacting negatively with my enchantments. Not surprising, really, considering it's the result of a killing curse."
"I knew that. Mum has mage sight. She had always known something was wrong with the scar." Neville confessed, tracing it, wincing even now. "Can you remove it, professor? No one else has been able to."
"That's the plan." She tapped her chin. "But I'll have to use… let's say a questionable spell. If anyone realises what I've done, my career will be gone at best, and I'll be jailed at worst. Do you understand how risky it is for me to help you?"
Neville's face fell. "I see. I can't ask you to gamble everything for me."
"Chin up, Neville." She stood up and leaned over to ruffle his hair. "If I weren't willing, I wouldn't have brought you here. But I have one non-negotiable condition."
"Anything."
She ran her palm across her face, sighing. "I will have to erase your memory once I heal your scar, so no one will ever know how it disappeared, not even you. I'm sorry to do this, truly. But there are people who can dive into your head and uncover all your secrets. I can't risk it. Of course, you can decline this offer and leave. No pressure. I'm just giving you options."
"I trust you, professor. Please remove my scar." Neville stood up and walked around the desk to stand in front of her, showing no hesitation.
Professor Trickett rose to her feet as well, taking a deep breath. "Alright. Close your eyes. This will hurt. You can hold my hand."
Neville shyly took her hand, looking away. "I'm ready." Then he closed his eyes.
She pressed her palm to his scar and muttered words no average wizard could understand. Neville instantly shrieked, crushing her hand in his. But she didn't stop. Pulling him against her chest, she kept tearing the magic from the scar.
It went on for minutes, and Neville's screams only got louder. His back arched, and his legs lost their strength, so now she had to support him. His nails dug into her skin, but she didn't pause her arcane mutterings.
Suddenly, a spinning ball of slimy black magic tore free, and Neville collapsed on her chest, heaving, trembling, and gasping.
Professor Trickett hid it in her sleeve before Neville could notice. Pushing him out of her arms, she held him by the shoulders, examining him. Droplets of blood bubbled from the scar. But apart from that, he didn't seem hurt. "You okay?"
"I… think so," he said hoarsely.
She traced her wand in a pattern and healed his tender scar. "That was it. It's all done. Does your scar still hurt when you're near me?"
Neville remained quiet for a moment, checking it, before a smile crossed his face. "No, professor. It worked. It really worked!"
She laughed with him. "It wasn't too bad, was it? The pain while I used the spell?"
He shook his head, lying through his teeth. "Not as much as I expected. Thank you, professor."
"Just doing my job." She patted his head. "Now, it's time for you to forget."
Neville didn't make a fuss and just nodded.
She wiped his memory and sent him on his way, making a plausible excuse for why he was here.
Once he was gone, she pulled out the horcrux from her sleeve and smiled triumphantly. "Hello, Sloth. We already have a homunculus body ready for you. So stop squirming. You're not in danger."
The horcrux stopped resisting.