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Framed & Fractured
- Antediluvian Poet -

Chapter Six

III

'Beware the Vengeful Spirit.'

Harry's thoughts raced as he stared down at the written words.

What if this 'vengeful spirit' was the room's original occupant—the demon embalmed—who lurked outside his door, waiting for him to escape? To ensnare him?

The locked door loomed in the shadows behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood tall as he felt its stare.

Test more spells. Utilise what magic you can. Be prepared.

Harry turned to the royal blue book with remnants of gilded gold on its cover and grabbed it. But before he opened it, he hesitated.

Every item in the room promised something different and held unforeseeable consequences. The last time he'd opened this book, it had led him to the drawing of the wardrobe and the scrolls.

But aside from the small amount of magic he knew he could use in this damnable room, knowledge was what he lacked the most.

Decision made, Harry opened the book, allowing it to part where it had last been read.

Alchemy.

III

Heavy rain battered against the tall windows adorning Hogwarts' library, gilding its glass with storm-stained night.

Yet the glass remained impervious and unyielding to the rain's onslaught, charmed to silence all sounds deemed too distracting.

For Tom, the library was more than a room. It was an atlas, a map to knowledge; where halls and aisles were longitudes and latitudes, where lamps stood vigil and illuminated oceans of ignorance, where mahogany shelves were grand monuments housing great minds, and where enlightened ink stained every piece of parchment.

Enclosed and contained, the library remained a preserved sanctuary of academic pursuit and quietude—a weight welcome upon his shoulders.

Research Magical Paintings.

Tom walked down the library's main dividing hallway towards the History section. And as he passed numerous subjects, disciplines and sub-disciplines, he observed the magical paintings lining the library's walls.

Old scholars and philosophers continued their work under candlelight. Others joined together in quiet discussion. But as he strode passed the Arithmancy section, a shadowed figure within a dim-lit aisle caught his eye—

Black hair.

The glint of light off edge of round spectacles.

'…magically infused…cannot be transferred out…'

Then the impossible silhouette disappeared into another aisle.

Tom pursued him, following the figure through three aisles until he sighted the other crouched low beside a shelf.

Got you.

But at the sound of Tom's encroaching footsteps, the figure turned his head just as Tom reached his hand out towards their shoulder—

"Oh, hello Tom. Did you need something?"

Fleamont looked up at him.

His Head Boy badge gleamed under lantern-light.

Tom stared, blinked, then retracted his hand. "Sorry—I thought you were someone else."

The older Gryffindor quirked his brow as he straightened, pushing his glasses up from the bridge of his nose. "Who did you think I was?"

Tom frowned. "…No one." Then after a beat, he added, "I didn't know you wore glasses."

Fleamont touched them. "Oh, they're new. Still not used to them."

Then Potter frowned at the disorganised shelves, at the fallen books he'd been crouched over, and at the book-covered benches. "The library's been a mess since Mrs. Bagshore left on unexpected leave two nights ago." He tapped his dimming lantern. "And I don't think the oil lanterns have been topped up either."

Tom continued to stare at Fleamont's spectacles, and at how the rain had darkened and tousled his hair, just like—

"—fortunately, our temporary librarian arrived today," said Fleamont as he placed books back onto their correct shelves. "But can you believe I've already received complaints about him?"

"Complaints?"

Fleamont's expression flittered with rare irritation. "A few First-Year students think he's scary." Then he rubbed the scar that stretched along his jaw and sighed. "He's harmless, just a little different, but that doesn't make him any less capable."

Prove your own capability.

"Let me help you." Tom grabbed the two nearest books obscuring the bench.

The first book was not only in the wrong section, its cover was unfamiliar. Advanced Memory Charms. It was not a Hogwarts edition. He turned the book over and recognised the foreign emblem.

Dumstrang.

Fleamont looked over. "Oh—that one's mine." He took the book and placed it within his bag.

The second book was also in the wrong section.

'Divinations: The Art of Reading Stars' by Mavis Trelawney.

"You don't have to spend your night sorting books with me, Tom. I'm sure you came here for a different reason."

"In that case," Tom held up the Divination book, "I'll take this one with me. It's on my way."

Fleamont flashed him a smile. "Thanks, Tom." Then the Gryffindor handed him a lantern. "Here, take mine. You might need it."

But before Tom turned away, he felt the other tap his arm. The Head Boy scanned their vicinity before leaning in to ask:

"By the way…have you found anything new regarding what we spoke of at the Prefect's meeting?"

The glass vial and miniature hourglass grew heavy in his robe pocket.

Question Caspar Crouch.

"Not yet. I'll let you know when I do."

Fleamont nodded and returned to his resorting.

The further Tom walked into the depths of the library, the lamps and lanterns guarding the entrance of every aisle grew dimmer than their forerunners. He raised his own lantern and read the letters and numbers atop each aisle until he reached the appropriate section.

Divinations: M – Z.

Erratic light from a dying lamp pulsated within the aisle as Tom entered. A glass window stood tall in the backdrop, muting the storm into a silent film.

And at the end of the aisle was a man in his mid-fifties, with stringy grey hair. His back was turned to Tom, but what was more peculiar was the sight of a book pressed against his ear.

Tom stared before clearing his throat. "Excuse me, sir. Are you alright?"

"Shhh!"

Voice scratched and graveled, the stranger asked, "Can't you hear 'em?"

Tom eyed the man. "Hear what?"

The man pressed the book harder against his ear. "…the books…if you listen closely, you can hear 'em whisperin' to one another…"

Beside the older man was a trolley stacked high with books on the verge of toppling over, and a canister filled with what appeared to be oil.

"Oh, are you the temporary librarian covering for Mrs. Bagshore?"

The grey-haired man removed the book from his ear, and slotted it back onto the shelf.

"Aye. Was keen to leave me old job. Nasty place. Nastier books. Should hear what some of the books there whispered." The man shivered. "Terrible enough to leave a dark mark on anyone who reads them, I tell ya."

Lightning veined the night sky behind the library's glass window.

The flash exposed the older man's face.

Bone sharp features. Pale skin. But the librarian's most distinctive feature were the three deep gashes lacerated down one side of his face, from his temple, dragged down to his jaw. And under night's shadow, his sunken cheeks appeared further distorted, branding the man with a ghoulish cast.

The disfigured librarian stroked the spine of a book and looked up at the ceiling. "Reckon some of the books there were more haunted than the ghosts in this castle."

'…Who has returned?'

'…The Ghost of Salazar Slytherin.'

Tom frowned.

Keep an eye on the ghosts.

"Well, welcome to Hogwarts."

However, the scarred librarian ignored Tom, pressing another book to his ear.

Tom raised one brow, then turned his attention to the shelves on the right side of the aisle, searching for 'T' for Trelawney.

He found it on the highest shelf.

Tom pulled out his wand and levitated the book with ease. But before the book slipped into its rightful place, the marred librarian imparted unexpected words.

"A wand of flight and flames. Of ash and dust."

Tom jerked his head towards the grey-haired man. "…Excuse me?"

"A Phoenix wand core."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "How did you know that?"

Few could identify his wand core, let alone from a glimpse.

The librarian collected more books from his trolley. "Every wand has a signature; every wand speaks. And I remember the day your wand core arrived at my father's shop." He closed his eyes, as if reliving a memory. "I remember its voice."

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

The older man opened his eyes. "Name's not important—"

…'My name isn't important. I'm no one.'

"—but yours will be one day." The scarred librarian finally faced him, tilting his head, examining Tom with pale grey eyes. "Interesting to see where one of the phoenix feathers ended up."

This caught Tom's attention. "There were more?"

Lightning flashed the aisle, its shape a jagged bolt.

"Just one other."

The man picked up his oil canister and poured oil into a nearby lantern. "My father always said the wands would do great things—would be incendiary." Fire burned bright and fast in the lantern, painting jagged light on his scar. "—but reach too high, fly too close to the sun, and you may find yourself aflame."

The man lifted his lantern, turned back to the shelf in front of him, and whispered:

"…Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust…"

The old man moved farther away, the lantern disappearing around a corner and Tom, in turn, made his way to the History section, the librarian's word's replaying in his mind.

Shadows clung tight to the aisles he passed. Light did not stand vigil this deep within the library. Every lamp and lantern had extinguished. His own grew dimmer.

Then he reached the aisle he sought.

Unlike the aisles near the entrance of the library, this one did not have a window in its backdrop, but a solid wall where a magical painting hung.

However, this painting was unoccupied.

Lantern held close to the shelf, Tom skimmed his fingers over numerous spines, fingertips growing dry from collected dust, until he paused on a book with a grey spine.

'Magical Paintings: A History' by Seymour Ragbouth.

Tom placed his flickering lantern on the bench and pulled the book off its shelf. But before he opened it, he overheard two whispering voices from a nearby aisle—

"…I heard it can only be purchased at night."

"I heard Smyth's older brother bought some, and that it left him euphoric for hours!"

"Wicked! What's it called?"

The flame from Tom's lantern flickered faster and faster—

"It's called, 'Dust'."

The flame extinguished.

And as wisps of smoke rose from the expired lantern, something shifted in the corner of Tom's eye. He turned to the empty magical painting, and caught blurred edges of a figure running across the canvas and out of sight.

III

Lestrange stared into the grey-hued flames which licked the fireplace within Slughorn's office.

Then he turned his attention to the items on Slughorn's desk, and counted.

Two quills. Six books. Twelve pieces of parchment.

In front of him, Professor Slughorn straightened the stack of parchments. "So, any thoughts on what career you'd like to pursue?"

"Nothing in particular, no."

A new clock ticked on the dark wall behind Slughorn's desk. Its shade was a brilliant grey—glowing and luminescent—brighter than the other greys within the room. Even brighter than the grey-hued flames. Lestrange wondered if its colour was gold.

His younger brother's aura had once been gold. Gold and warm brown, a tawny cub in a snake's den.

No.

He shook away the thought and resumed counting.

Five chairs. Three candlesticks. One auxiliary stand.

Slughorn flipped through the parchments on his desk, nodding as he skimmed his academic reports from the current and previous year.

"Excellent grades, particularly in Arithmancy."

Arithmancy based itself upon disciplines and principles which were quantitative—logical and measurable. He found it an easy comfort.

Slughorn flipped through more of his report. "—And your grades in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions and Charms are quite impressive as well." The Potions Master looked up from the pages and raised his brows in keen interest. "Keep up your grades, and you'll have the required prerequisites needed to enter the Ministry's Auror program! With your quick mind, you could become a full-fledged Auror in just three years—"

Thirty-six months. One thousand and ninety-five days. Twenty-six thousand, two hundred and eighty hours.

"—and with enough ambition, you could apply to become Head of the Department after seven years of service!"

Lestrange stopped counting.

His younger brother had been seven years, three months, and thirteen days old when he'd died.

His vision distorted.

Greys began to fade, revealing the onset of glaring and unwanted colours.

Stay grey.

Lestrange forced himself to count.

Seventeen drawers. Nine cushions. Six teacups.

The colours receded.

Slughorn reached the last page of his report. "I see Professor Gavant has written extremely positive remarks on your performance in his duelling class. You apparently have a natural aptitude for strategy."

Unlike his opponents, Lestrange never fought for the sole purpose of defeating or dominating another. Victory and defeat held little consequences for him. However, his disinterest gave him an advantage, allowing him to concentrate on the monochromatic numbers within the width of his opponents' stance, the weight in their footing, the angle of their body—their strengths and weaknesses.

Strategy was a game of numbers. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Slughorn leaned forward, clasping his hands together on the desk between them.

"You know, I know of an excellent Duelling Master who trained in Dumstrang through one of my past students—a fine duellist who holds the utmost respect for tradition and discipline. Last I heard, he's on the lookout for a new apprentice." Slughorn frowned, but his eyes sparkled with gossip. "Apparently, his last apprentice died in an unfortunate accident."

'Your brother's death was an unfortunate accident, Lestrange.'

Lestrange's vision distorted once more. But this time, his film of grey cracked along the edges as colours attempted to surge through his screen.

He searched in haste for something to count.

Twenty-three photographs. Thirteen awards. Eleven—no. Nine empty photo frames.

But all he saw in his mind was his younger brother at the bottom of their manor's marble staircase, small body mangled and twisted.

"—I could always put in a good word for you. And with the right connections, you could hold your own Duelling classes!"

Lestrange blinked hard, forcing the colours to remain behind his barriers. "I—I don't think I…"

"Nonsense, m'boy!"

'Stop with your nonsense, Lestrange!'

Mother said the things he claimed to see were nonsensical. But from birth, the world had always been a kaleidoscopic mosaic of impossible colours on top of ordinary colours, and an ever-shifting abacus of breathing numbers.

Yet the day his brother died, the numbers and colours had tried to tell him something, but he didn't know what they meant; he didn't understand why his brother's number became erratic and unstable like a dying heartbeat, or why his declining numbers equated to the sum of red red red.

But no one believed him, because no one saw the things he did.

No one saw how Mother's colours had always been malignant blues and charred blacks, how she hadn't shed a single tear at her own son's funeral—

And no one else saw her standing at the top of the stairs that day, aura tainted with murderous red whilst his brother's warm browns and golds faded away into departed greys.

Lestrange lost focus.

Saturated colours dominated his soothing shield of monochromes until they broke through, until they forced and assaulted his vision with painful pigments.

The fireplace grew heated, grey flames now a distressing and guilt-bright orange.

Glaring spots filled the air around Slughorn, the Potion Master's egotistical greens and prideful violets attacking his eyes, inducing a skull-pounding headache.

"—you alright, m'boy?"

He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. "Just a headache, I'll be fine in a moment."

Slughorn said something about tea and got up from his chair to prepare a brew whilst Lestrange's mind brought him back to that day—

He'd locked himself in his room. His soothing world of impossible colours became frenzied, descending into eclectic and nauseating patterns. It hurt too much, so he'd shut his eyes, rocking back and forth as he counted to the ticking of a clock in hope it would expunge what he'd witnessed—banish and bury the abstract colours which shouldn't exist, which held no answers nor logic—

Which blinded him.

And somewhere between darkest night and early morning, his world of kaleidoscopic colours bleached into steady and reliable greys, leaving numbers in their place, leaving him clear-sighted for the first time in his life.

The golden clock in Slughorn's office ticked on.

Lestrange closed his eyes and focused on the seconds, allowing time to pass through him until his heartbeat mimicked its even rhythm.

Because Time didn't suffer; it felt no grief, no guilt, no emotion. All it did was count and continue, and so would he.

Stay grey.

Lestrange slowed his breathing, opened his eyes and counted the items on Slughorn's desk once more.

Two quills. Six books. Twelve pieces of parchment.

The colours retreated.

And then his world returned to grey.

III

Tom seated himself at Dumbledore's desk and waited for the Transfiguration professor to return.

Upon his arrival, he'd noted Dumbledore's office appeared to be in state of disarray. Books had been taken off their shelves and piled on the ground. Various objects and trinkets were laid outside their cabinets.

Searching for something?

However, it was the magical painting on the wall above Dumbledore's desk which seized his immediate attention—a painting of a study.

A study with monotonous hues and a lone candle with a flickering flame.

Tom frowned as he scrutinised the painting—searching within the familiar scene for signs of a familiar presence—but there was no movement.

The portrait was empty.

As Tom tried to remember if the painting had always been in Dumbledore's office, the older wizard made his way over to his desk from his shelves. "Please excuse the state of my office." Dumbledore moved his royal navy robes out of the way and seated himself opposite Tom.

Between them on the desk, a metronome swayed.

Tick—Tick—Tick.

"So, Tom, you wished to inquire after something?"

"Yes, sir. Professor Slughorn mentioned you received the rare opportunity to study Alchemy under Nicholas Flammel."

Dumbledore nodded. "Flammel was a most intriguing individual, and an excellent mentor. He was one of the reasons I pursued teaching."

Tom lowered his brows and tilted his head. "However, Professor Slughorn also explained the extensive circumstances and conditions necessary for Alchemy to exist as an elective. And should Alchemy become unavailable for my year—"

Tread with caution.

"—I wondered if it were possible for you, sir, to offer tutelage on the subject—that is, only if your time permits it."

Tick—Tick—Tick.

Dumbledore leaned back into his seat, placed his hand on his chin, and rubbed his auburn beard. After a moment of silence, the older wizard asked:

"And if given the opportunity to study it, what would you do with Alchemy's knowledge?"

Tom paused, then answered with the truth.

"Preserve its knowledge. Build upon its current understanding. Explore and expand its possibilities."

Dumbledore nodded, clasping his hands together.

"Exploration is vital to uncovering knowledge, yes, but I must inform you that Alchemy—not only as an elective, but also as an academic field—has the most restrictions placed upon it in regards to experimentation."

Tom frowned in genuine confusion.

"But wouldn't that limit potential progress? It seems counter-productive."

Tick—Tick—Tick.

Dumbledore tapped his thumb to the metronome's beat. "Restrictions may limit progress, but they also provide a point of consideration; a measure of which something grows. Expose a tree to too much sunlight, and it will dry out and wither away."

"But leave it in the shadows for too long and its growth will never reach its fullest potential."

Dumbledore raised a brow at Tom's counter, before levitating a few books into a nearby chest. "That is true—however, Alchemy has attracted many with its promise of great wealth. This, unfortunately, has fed man's greed for centuries. The restrictions and academic requirements exist more as a precaution rather than prejudice."

Tom tilted his head, speculative.

"But sir, doesn't the risk of knowledge becoming misused or manipulated exist in all fields of study? Coveted knowledge has led to loss of knowledge in the past, and isn't lost knowledge the greater risk?"

If Knowledge were land masses on his map to enlightenment, then Lost Knowledge were sunken continents—buried and forgotten. And no matter how deep the abyss, he'd eagerly descend into treacherous depths to unearth and exhume what once was lost.

Dumbledore stared at Tom as if his words were ghosts. His smile was watered down, pensive and mournful.

"You remind me of someone from my youth. He too, believed knowledge should be free to all who seeked it."

The Transfiguration professor tapped his fingers on a small brown book within arm's reach, pages well-worn as if he'd read it numerous time.

Tom read the spine.

It was a collection of tales for children.

Dumbledore traced the sharp ridges engraved on the book's cover. "But even free knowledge has a price: the ability to hold fast to one's mind and grow in unexpected ways. And who is to say if that seed will grow into an ever-grand fig, or a poisonous weed?"

The older wizard turned his gaze out the dark window where the storm continued its attack. "Explore too far, endeavor to go further than the length of rope attached to your waist, and you may lose yourself." He returned his gaze to Tom. "All things lost can be found, but there is some knowledge in this world better off forgotten."

He picked up the brown book, opened his desk drawer, and placed it within.

"I see," said Tom.

Dumbledore looked up as he shut his drawer. "No, I'm afraid you don't."

Tom suppressed slow burning indignation at Dumbledore's blunt statement.

How dare he—

"My comment is not a reflection on your intellect, Tom, but rather a reflection on your youth. The world is full of promise and potential when you are young. No limit is too great. But a path you may start on—no matter how noble or selfless—can mutate. Can change."

Dumbledore picked up an hourglass made of rosewood from his desk. "—and change is the central component in both Transfiguration and Alchemy."

Tom watched as Dumbledore unscrewed the bottom of the hourglass. Once opened, he tipped it, pouring fine grains of golden sand onto the desk between them. Then with a flick of his wand, Dumbledore transfigured the heap of sand into a glass sphere.

It rolled down the mahogany table towards Tom as Dumbledore spoke.

"As you know, Transfiguration can change the state of an object into a complimentary form."

Tom caught the rolling sphere. Its surface was cold.

Dumbledore gestured to the glass sphere. "If you would, please revert it to its previous state."

Tom pulled out his wand, pointed it at the sphere, and non-verbally transfigured it back with ease.

The sphere disappeared. Grains of sand fell into his palm, making home between the creases of his cupped hand.

Dumbledore nodded in acknowledgment. "Very good, Tom. Here, the change was possible because sand pressed at high temperatures becomes glass. The sand was its past, and the glass, its future. Alchemists refer to this as 'Organic Change'. Now, watch as Alchemy is used instead."

Dumbledore closed his eyes, moved his wand in a circular motion, followed by a sharp flick.

Tom memorised every detail.

Luminescent light made of mist engulfed the sand cupped within Tom's hand. A high frequency vibrated every grain. The magical energy was unlike anything he'd felt before.

Limitless. Pure. Unimaginable possibilities.

However, the sand grew hot, each individual grain scorching the skin on his palm. But before its heat grew unbearable, the sand floated into the air and morphed into another sphere—brilliant and bright.

A sphere made of pure gold.

Transfixed, Tom reached out slowly and touched the form. It undulated under his fingers.

Liquid gold.

Dumbledore observed his reaction. "Alchemy, on the other hand, transcends all disciplines regarding Transfigurations. It can change the very core of something, transforming it into something entirely new. Alchemists call this, 'Forced Change'."

The golden sphere continued to float, spinning in gentle rotation.

"If you would again, please revert it to its previous state."

Tom obliged.

But the sphere's edges turned jagged and sharp, aggravated and agitated at the attempt to change its form.

Tom tried again with a different spell.

Its edges grew more pronounced, as if sharpening in defense. He turned to Dumbledore. "It won't change back."

"That is because it cannot."

Tick—Tick—Tick.

"With Organic Change, the objects' roots can be traced back." Dumbledore surveyed the sphere as its provoked edges smoothened once more to a sphere. "But through Forced Change, its original state is erased. Its roots cannot be traced. The sand no longer exists."

Mesmerised, Tom touched the sphere again. Its warmth was unnatural.

"All it can do now is keep changing, keep transforming into newer states." Dumbledore flicked his wand. The golden sphere changed form again.

Brass.

Silver.

White marble.

"However, Alchemists have observed that numerous states of Forced Change created unpredictable and unforeseeable reactions—imbalanced power capable of unimaginable chaos—making Alchemy extremely dangerous to explore and study."

'Could you imagine the chaos…'

"—which is why experiments using Alchemy are always destroyed before reaching a volatile state of change."

Tom looked up from the floating ball of marble. "Yet the Philosopher's Stone exists. Forgive me, professor—but wouldn't you say the creation and existence of the Philosopher's Stone is an imbalance of power? Why should Nicholas Flammel alone possess the knowledge to longevity, to immortality?"

The passage of Knowledge shouldn't be dictated by one.

A flicker of a frown marred Dumbledore's features. "I'm afraid no one alive knows the secrets to immortality—not even Flammel himself."

Tick—Tick—Tick.

"…I don't understand, sir."

He'd read every book available to him on Alchemy, and each one stated Flammel was indeed the Stone's owner.

"Nicholas Flammel may own the Stone, but he is not its creator."

Tom's thoughts raced.

"Then who created the Philosopher's Stone?"

Dumbledore pointed his wand at the rotating sphere of marble. Small markings appeared on its surface as if chiselled by an invisible tool.

"History strives to remember the past, but what it does not want remembered, it will omit. And the acts of the Stone's creator were so cruel, Flammel took ownership of the Stone to ensure no other would use it for such terrible deeds again."

Lines continued to chisel themselves into the marble's surface.

"It is because of Alchemy's dark history, along with the volatile nature of exploring and studying it, that the safest precaution possible is vetting who may access such knowledge."

Tom felt his opportunity slipping further away. It must have shown through his expression since Dumbledore said:

"Tom, I believe you'll have no trouble meeting the electives' academic criteria."

Unexpected praise.

"—but there is a second criteria, a test given by Nicholas Flammel himself, which will ultimately decide whether you may take the elective under his guide."

I still have a chance.

"What kind of test?"

"A simple question."

Tick—Tick—Tick.

"May I ask what the question is?"

The beginnings of a building structure took shape from the floating marble.

Dumbledore watched as particles of white dust fell from the forming structure, creating an opaque veil between them. He shifted his gaze from the marble and back to Tom.

"I believe I've already asked you."

Tom thought back on their conversation, yet his thoughts were interrupted when a creature apparated within the space between himself and Dumbledore.

A Phoenix.

'...a wand of flight and flames. Of ash and dust.'

Attached to the bird's leg was an envelope.

And adorning the envelope was a red wax seal, stamped with the initial 'G'.

Dumbledore frowned through the cloud of chiselled dust, his complexion paled, eyes mercurial and far away. And in that moment, Tom thought the Transfiguration professor appeared aged beyond his years, as present as a ghostly apparition.

Dumbledore removed the letter from the Phoenix's leg, and buried it within the confines of his navy blue robe. Then the dust cleared, taking with it the momentary sense of solemness.

"Thank you, Fawkes."

Fawkes squawked in response, then perched himself on a nearby auxiliary sphere.

I still have a chance. Request for tutelage.

"So, you'll consider my request, sir?"

The marble continued taking form. Its structure grew familiar.

"I'm afraid I can't make you any promises, Tom." Dumbledore levitated more books to a nearby chest, then magically fastened its lock. "It seems I am leaving sooner than I'd hoped, and I cannot guarantee my return."

Tom frowned as he looked around the office, at the disarray of books, at the opened chests filled with belongings. Dumbledore wasn't searching. He was packing.

"So, it's true? You're leaving Hogwarts?"

More dust fell upon the desk. Details of brickwork emerged on the marble.

Dumbledore pointed his wand to the ceiling and charmed it into a starry night sky. "The world outside our own is in its own state of change."

Tom knew this too well.

His childhood in the muggle world had always been the sound of war and ammunition, the taste of stale bread rationed with sawdust, the smell of depression and fear. He yearned to leave it behind.

Dumbledore continued. "But power is a fickle thing. And history has a habit of repeating itself."

The chiselling stopped.

And floating mid-air between them was a miniature marble sculpture of Hogwarts' castle—

Of the Astronomy Tower.

Tick—Ti—

Dumbledore stopped the metronome's dial.

Counted time ceased.

His next words were grave. Tom felt an unexplainable sensation the words were as much for Dumbledore as for him.

"All power falls, Tom. The heavier the power, the greater the fall. Change is eternal, but power is not."

Dumbledore pointed his wand at the sculpture of the Astronomy Tower. Marble cracked, crumbled and fell in a bloom of white dust, taking with it Tom's hope to study Alchemy.

'…Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust…'

However, Dumbledore's next words were sincere.

"Good luck in your endeavours, Tom. And remember, the danger lies not in chasing dreams or ambition. But outrun them, and they will be the ones chasing you."

Dismissal heard, Tom stood up.

"Thank you for your time and consideration, professor." He turned to leave.

Although he'd entered with a goal, he hadn't with expectations.

Expectations, along with promises, were foolish notions he'd discarded years ago. A mentor—however knowledgeable—would only guide within the confines of their own moral constructs; restrict and limit him. Instead, he'd supersede the mentor and become his own master. He'd explore ideas others were too weak to entertain; he'd make discoveries others were too weak to seek.

Chaos was the true unknown—the last frontier on his map—and to conquer it, one must enter it.

Above him, the ceiling glittered with golden pinpoints ebbing in and out of life, as if made of true cosmic dust.

But Dumbledore had charmed the stars too bright, too perfectly spaced—too picturesque. And it was these tell-tale features which gave away the night sky's engineered origin.

Because reality reflected chaos. And there was no order nor perfection within it.

Door reached, Tom pulled it open and stepped through, taking in one last sight of Dumbledore as he read his delivered letter.

One day, you too will fall from greatness. And I will be the one teaching you a lesson.

However, before he closed the door, he spied Dumbledore facing the empty painting behind him, leaning in close as he whispered hushed and words to no one. But then, within the dark confines of the painted study, a figure shifted in the shadows.

Holding a scroll in one hand, the figure nodded and disappeared.

III

~ Alchemy ~

"Erase the root. Surpass the state. Change the unchangeable."

Underneath the passage were numerous spells, accompanied by drawn wand-movements and written incantations.

Wood. Paper. Water. Stone. And more.

Harry hadn't known Alchemy could transform materials into more than metals. He grabbed a spare piece of parchment, dipped his quill into the inkwell and wrote a heading:

Spells to test.

The room stayed stagnant, yet forced him to react. It didn't care for his struggles, so instead of playing by its rules, perhaps it was time to change the game.

And if it wouldn't, he'd force it to change.

III

Lestrange stood behind the Astronomy Tower's ledge, relinquished his guard of grey, and gazed up at the night sky.

Celestial equations of infinite and ever-expanding numbers greeted him, echoing an eternal tale.

Unreachable theorems flared with ethereal colours and immeasurable power, existing as neither benevolent nor malevolent, but as art—a painting forged through an infinity of chaos.

For Lestrange, the night sky offered companionship, offered solace when sleep evaded and guilt grew too great.

Barriers still withdrawn, he surveyed the castle's silent grounds.

However, he frowned when he caught sight of someone walking down a hallway—someone with warm golds and browns.

Avery.

Avery's shade of brown resembled his brother's the most, something he discovered by accident. And ever since that day, he'd offered his friendship, lowering his screen from time to time to check up on the other Slytherin boy.

But right now, cold purples encircled the edge of Avery's tawny browns like thorns.

Secrets.

Yet what concerned Lestrange more were Avery's wavering numbers—just like his brothers had been right before he—

Lestrange gripped the edge of the ledge.

No. Avery was stressed. That's all it was. But no matter how much he rationalised it, unease tainted his instincts.

Keep an eye on Avery.

III

The castle slept.

Unforgiving cold seeped into Avery's skin as he walked through midnight's chilled grasp.

Spring may have arrived, but night remained in Winter's domain.

He drew his robes close. His fingertips grew numb. Every exhaled breath bruised his lips with icy mist that trailed behind him as he walked down the dark hallway.

Don't get caught.

Avery eyed his surroundings with cautious glances—at the dark corners which clung to cold stones, at the looming black behind him—until he believed himself alone.

Then he pulled a miniature hourglass out from his pocket.

One by one, Avery watched as small golden grains of sand fell into the hourglass's base. His frown deepened as the remaining grains neared their journeys end, trickling down till all the sand fell through.

It was time.

Unnatural fog rose from the castle's bones like conjured spirits in front of him, consuming and barricading the hallway from prying eyes.

Avery let out a stuttered breath, closed his eyes and willed himself to walk into the spectral fog.

All warmth left.

He couldn't see anything through the mist. It engulfed him, shrouded and entombed him in its ghostly embrace. No one else could now enter it, but neither could he leave—not until he'd completed his task. Blinded by white, Avery outstretched his arms and navigated his way through chilling and undulating mist.

His hands swept the air in front of him, searching, reaching—until he found it.

The creature who hid in plain sight.

His heartbeat quickened. His breath hitched. He wanted to run, but it was too late to turn back.

I have to do this.

This was the price of freedom from the ghosts which tormented him; protection against his father's ghost which haunted him.

He placed his hand into his pocket once more and retrieved his offering.

A glass vial filled with uncrushed lumps of gold.

With faltered steps, Avery stepped towards sharp and ancient teeth as old as the castle, towards the creature's ghoulish orifice. With careful movement, he raised his hand to its sunken cavity, placed his offering within its wide and gaping mouth—

And fed the Ghost.

.

.

.

Author's Note:
Greetings lovely readers :) Thank you so much for taking the time to read this chapter, and for all your continued support! Big hugs all around ^_^

Chapter Six was an intense writing experience! The Dumbledore scene was incredibly difficult to write since I felt pressure to make it perfect. It was also the scene which got cut from chapter five, but I am so much happier with its placement here :)

A massive thanks and hug to my beta, ~purplewitch156, who caught all my typos and helped me polish this chapter. You are amazing! And many thanks to my creative consultant, ~CADEL, for answering my 3am questions :)

So what did you think of this chapter, lovely readers? :D Did you like Fleamont's appearance and Lestrange's intro to the story? What did you think of the librarian? Did you figure out which question Dumbledore asked Tom as a test? Harry now has new spells to play with! What could go wrong? :)

Once again, thank you for your readership, and if you thought this chapter deserved one, please leave a review on your way out xx

~A.D Poet