ACT5CH22 - THE BINDING OF THE ECHO

The moment the rift closed behind them, and the light of the Dumbledore house faded, Harry stood at the edge of the nursery with Dumbledore beside him. The old man said nothing at first, eyes slowly scanning the splintered mobile, the half-burnt walls, the toys cracked open like the bones of a long-dead animal. But Harry could feel the subtle shift in his breath, the weight of memory that even Dumbledore—unflappable, untouchable Dumbledore—could not quite conceal.

“I should’ve known,” said Albus Dumbledore slowly. “You’d be drawn to this place first. But Harry, I have done all I could to find every bit about this place. But alas, all my findings offer little help in excavating the truth behind that night.”

“Yes, and I’m here to tell you —”

Before Harry could finish, the door creaked behind them, and Daphne stepped in with two others in tow. Akingbade’s long robes brushed against the scorched floor, and Amelia Bones followed in silence, her face caught somewhere between wariness and alertness.

Akingbade’s eyes narrowed at once. "Mister Potter. I trust this theatrical detour has a point? The world burns while we play tour guide through your personal tragedy."

A part of him laughed at the man’s sanctimonious declaration. He had almost made the ultimate sacrifice at St. Mungo’s, only for Sirius to sacrifice himself for him. He had lost his parents and his godfather because of Wizarding Britain, and had been prepared to stand at the Gate for an eternity. Even as he stood here, he could feel his awareness at the Azkaban Gate constantly shield Reality from what lay beyond the Gate. The meaning of sacrifice was ingrained into the very fiber of his being, and here, now, he was being lectured on it by someone who might have barely gleaned its surface.

The rest of him accepted that they had no way of truly knowing what he had done and would not believe it, even if he told them. Daphne would, but she was Daphne. Dumbledore would probably do so, but his love for martyrdom would make him ask Harry to consider whatever tripe Akingbade was here for.

The Minister… Harry didn’t know what to think of her anymore. In his eyes, Amelia Bones was just a more moral version of Cornelius Fudge. One who knew what the right thing was, but struggled to do it in the face of the existing legalities. People like Amelia Bones were like weapons, powerful in their own right, but needed a hand to wield them, give them direction.

It was almost enough for him to respect. Respect, but not give in. Appreciate, but not concede.

“There are some things you do not understand,” he said simply.

“I understand enough,” retorted Akingbade. “There are more things in the world than this island nation and your little Dark Lord problem, Harry Potter.”

Amelia Bones suddenly looked very worried.

“I agree,” said Harry slowly. “Which is why I am wondering why you are even here. Kindly leave. Same for you, Minister Bones. I accepted Professor Dumbledore’s request for a meeting, not this… diplomatic bullshit.”

Akingbade glared at him, before looking at Dumbledore.

“Harry, please,” said Dumbledore. “The world is facing a precarious situation right now. Amelia here has done a marvellous job in gathering the Wizengamot to agree on a favorable stance. And Akingbade is instrumental in ensuring that the ICW goes ahead with it. Your antagonism, though deserved, will not help matters.”

Harry inhaled slowly, jaw tightening. He had other things to focus on than waste his energy on this argument. He gave the Ugandan another look, before flashing a quick glance at Amelia, before looking back to Dumbledore, and exhaled again.

“...Okay.”

“Now, I believe you had something to show us?” asked the Headmaster.

Harry stepped further into the nursery. “I know you’ve studied this site. As have the Unspeakables. But I think you missed something, professor. This site… It — it’s a miracle.”

Dumbledore folded his hands behind his back. "I agree. And that miracle’s name is Harry Potter. Everyone knows that. Harry, the residual magic was studied for years. Why do you think Godric’s Hollow was declared off-limits by the Ministry? On paper, the place was declared as a ‘preserved site’, while in reality, the finest sensors were steadily working on it. They found —”

"Nothing," Harry cut in. "Or so they thought. Because the readings all came back blank. Bleached by the explosion."

Dumbledore opened his mouth to retort, but then reconsidered. Eyeing Harry, he carefully asked —

“Are you telling me they are wrong?”

“He said something about the magical residue being too large for standard sensors to detect,” said Daphne.

Dumbledore looked at Daphne in surprise before turning to meet Harry’s eyes.

“Of course,” snorted Akingbade. “Now we have to give more priority to the word of a boy over the established studies of the Department of Mysteries.”

“Babajide, please,” said Dumbledore. “I appreciate everything you are doing, but you have to stop looking at this from the Supreme Mugwump’s perspective. There is a time to focus on the forest as a whole, not the trees, and this is not it.”

“Supreme Mugwump?” Amelia echoed, and Daphne too looked at Akingbade in surprise. Harry, though, only had eyes for Dumbledore.

“Professor, you —” Harry began.

“Britain is already wrecked apart, Harry,’ said Albus Dumbledore, looking every bit of his age. “Just like Amelia has the rest of the Wizengamot convinced to act in Britain’s best interests, I managed to convince him to not give into fear, and look at the situation from a different perspective.”

“And I guess handing over the Supreme Mugwump position away was just the incentive?” Harry spat.

“Do not presume to know the details of our arrangement, Harry Potter,” said Akingbade imperiously. “Stay in your bonnet.”

“First Chief Warlock, and now Supreme Mugwump?” Amelia Bones murmured, staring at Dumbledore like he had grown an extra head. “Why, Albus?”

“I have always made it clear that I did not seek power. You will remember that I rejected the position of Supreme Mugwump when the Quilin chose me back in Bhutan. Is this really so surprising?”

“Yes, it is,” said Akingbade of all people. 

Harry looked at him in surprise.

“Oh don’t give me that look, boy,” said the man. “I have known Albus for many, many decades now, right from the time when he sought my aid to contain Grindelwald’s rising influence west of the Congo. It was a public spectacle when he outright rejected the Quilin’s judgement at the ICW Summit in Bhutan. I admired him for it. And then, after winning the war, he changed, taking the mantle from Lady Santos after she was struck by a nasty curse by one of Grindelwald’s acolytes.”

“And then took up the mantle of Headmaster of Hogwarts right after Dippet resigned in 1946,” said Daphne. “Between 1955 to 1980, you were offered the position of Minister of Magic thrice, and every single time, you rejected it. And then, after Voldemort’s defeat in 1981, you took up the nominal position of Chief Warlock. For someone that goes out of his way to avoid political influence, you love taking on roles with soft power and loads of political responsibility.”

All three of them gave her surprised looks.

“So there are people that don’t actually buy that logic but aren’t brain-dead bigots,” noted Akingbade.

Of course. That was what made Daphne register in Akingbade’s eyes.

“....I’m a magical supremacist,” she quietly defended herself. “Of course I’ll keep a complete record of Albus Dumbledore. No offence, professor.”

“None taken,” said Dumbledore simply. “Whatever I did, I had ample reasons to. Reasons that have recently become irrelevant.”

And then he gave Harry a knowing look.

Harry stared at the man, flabbergasted. From his interactions with the man, Harry knew that the only thing Dumbledore truly enjoyed was teaching and being at Hogwarts. A lifelong academic, it was where he truly shone. He had merely suspected that the man’s political positions were less because of his personal political leanings, and more because the governments wanted him safe and fixed in a position of minimal power and to keep him from creating too much chaos.

That the same man, after all this time, had chosen to relinquish them…

In a situation where the Wizengamot itself was fractured…

Was…

His eyes went wide, and his mouth fell.

“Are you okay, Mr. Potter?” asked Amelia Bones.

“He’s fine,” said Dumbledore, smiling softly. “He’s just able to better appreciate my reasons than any other.”

“Well, far be it beyond me to indulge in your private relationships, Albus,” scoffed Akingbade, before turning to Daphne. 

“I do not believe we have been introduced yet.”

“Oh, my apologies. I am Daphne, Lady of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Greengrass, and,” She paused, as if weighing the room — and the world it represented. Then she spoke again.

“—Harry’s fiance.”

“She’s also the Summer Vessel,” said Harry.

“Only because you made it so,” Daphne quipped back, beaming.

“Are you now?” asked Akingbade, looking at Daphne even more curiously.

“The Summer….” murmured Dumbledore, looking at Harry in surprise. 

“She is healed, Professor,” said Harry with a soft smile.

“Oh, my word,” said Dumbledore, beaming with surprise. “That is fantastic news! My felicitations, Miss Greengrass.”

Daphne blushed. “I did nothing, Professor. It was all him.”

“She’s cured completely?” asked Amelia. “I presumed maledictions cannot be cured. I imagine everything falls to Death in the end?”

“That and more,” said Daphne. “Harry identified the true caster of the malediction, and set up a ritual to pull the curse out of me. And then he destroyed it. Again, at personal risk.”

Akingbade gave Harry a curious look. 

“I suppose you will require some context, Babajide,” offered Dumbledore.

“No,” said the other man. “It is sufficient.”

Harry studied the man. Just one look at Akingbade had told him just how staggeringly powerful the man was. And if Albus Dumbledore thought him worthy of leading the ICW, the man must have the skill and the political experience to back it up. 

From what he understood, Akingbade was a war-hardened leader. Maybe he appeared apathetic, and cold to approach. Or perhaps he simply saw things in a different light.

Asking inane questions didn’t seem like the man’s style. Denying the truth was foolish, especially with Albus Dumbledore accepting it as a fact.

“I believe we have digressed from the point,” said Akingbade. “If Potter brought us here to reveal something, I’d rather have that done with, so that we can get to the main reason behind today’s meeting. Unlike some, I do not have the luxury to do whatever I want.”

“Sometimes we are asked to make a choice between things we don’t want,” said Dumbledore. “In times like that, the power to choose is our most powerful ally and our most precious gift.”

Harry wasn’t sure if the man was addressing Akingbade, or just voicing Harry’s personal experience. Was this what people called being a veteran?

He exhaled. “Like Daphne said, it isn’t that the residue is too little. It’s too large. Way too large. Even compared to the world outside.”

Akingbade scoffed. “That is impossible. Energy that potent cannot stay locked in one place unless it is specifically warded. It will diffuse into the external environment. It’s the basic principle of fluidity.”

“And the wardstone beneath the house is no way capable of doing that,” added Amelia, nodding her head. “And even if it would, the energy would permeate downstairs, instead of staying concentrated here.”

They were right. Magic, regardless of its origin or nature, was still energy once it manifested in the physical world. And once materialised, it did business with the laws of thermodynamics. And a potent concentration would always attempt to homogeneity if it came into contact with the external environment.

Normally.

“Counterpoint,” he said. “Are wards the only way to seal energy formations within a boundary?”

The room grew ominously silent. Even Akingbade was rendered mute by the question.

“You don’t think he’s suggesting —” began Amelia.

“Ritual Circles,” said Albus Dumbledore, looking grave. “Oh Lily. Tell me she didn’t —”

“Draw a ritual circle to empower whatever she was attempting, empowered by her sacrifice?” asked Harry, his eyes blazing. “You tell me. From my first year, you’ve exulted the power of love, and how my mother’s love and sacrifice created a defence against Voldemort. That it was that lover what protected me all these years, Professor. Surely you didn’t mean love as emotion, but as a sacrifice-empowered ritual?”

“Rituals do not involve Circles, Harry,” said Dumbledore slowly.

Every single person stared at him.

“Allow me to rephrase that. Most modern rituals do not involve circles. But even if…” he said slowly, as if gathering himself. “Even if what you claim is right, where is the evidence?”

“Evidence? The evidence is right here, Professor. Say I am wrong, say there is no ritual circle. Say Voldemort came here to kill me. Say he killed my mother and then cast the killing curse at me. What happened then? How does the killing curse backfiring destroy someone’s body? Or destroy half the room? No, that extra power had to come from somewhere. Somewhere like a ritual Circle, drawing directly from the Anima.”

“Is this going somewhere?” asked Akingbade. “I am not a fool to disregard the fact that most magical conventions seem to flicker where you’re concerned, Harry Potter, but even you must realize that there is no evidence. Unless you are asking us to treat your word as gospel, it’s an armchair theory.”

“There might be evidence, Babajide,” said Dumbledore. “You see, one of young Harry’s abilities is that his unique thaumaturgy allows him to See Magic…”

“Nothing unnatural,” Akingbade waved off. “Most accomplished sensors have the gift of Magical Sight.”

“— right down to the strands,” Dumbledore finished.

Akingbade opened his mouth to speak, but then reconsidered. He glanced at Harry, then at Amelia for confirmation, and finally at Dumbledore. “You mean to tell me that this fifteen-year-old is capable of truly Seeing Magic down to its barest concepts?”

“Death bares and unravels everything, Mr. Akingbade,” said Harry, meeting the man’s gaze. “Magic is no different.”

That made the man pause.

“Still,” said Amelia Bones. “That only means that you and you alone can see it. That also means that specialized Sight or otherwise, there is no way to rightfully determine if you are interpreting things correctly.”

“I’m beginning to think that this is how Luna Lovegood feels when she talks of nargles and wrackspurts,” said Harry, wondering if they were going to be here for the rest of the night.

Amelia pursed her lips. “The fact remains that our sensors cannot pick anything, so unless you have a way to interact with the Circle with everything else staying intact ....”

She trailed off, and looked at him in sudden anticipation.

“...Can you?”

Harry grimaced. “I can try. But there’s too many different energy flows in this place. Way beyond my paygrade.”

“I suppose having three accomplished witches and wizards here, as well as a Vessel can perhaps salvage that?” asked Dumbledore.

“That’s why I brought you here, Professor,” said Harry. “I remembered how you manipulated a hundred and seventeen flows of magic all at once in the Room of Requirement.”

That was putting it gently. He had seen Albus Dumbledore take down illusory opponents, disintegrate them to their basic components, and use the unleashed energy to fuel his next spell, and endlessly repeat the process, while also maintaining over two dozen transfigurations, while holding back Faux-Grindelwald, while his acolytes were trying to ambush them from every direction.

Even with all his power, his Family Magic, and everything he had under his belt, he felt he had miles to go before he could call himself ‘Half a Dumbledore’.

“You are very kind,” said Dumbledore, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “But even if that’s true, the chaos in this room is unreadable. You couldn’t isolate any particular moment or thread of magic from the sheer entropy. The only way to find out what happened would be to overwhelm whatever is holding it intact. But if you do that, then it would disperse everything all at once.”

He gave Harry a tired look. "And then, the truth would vanish."

"You’re right," Harry agreed.

Akingbade raised an eyebrow. "You admit defeat so easily?"

"I said he was right," Harry corrected. Then he smiled. Just slightly. "But we don’t need to destroy anything. We don’t need to erase the containment either. We just need to isolate the part that doesn’t belong — the echo of the blast — and pull it out.”

“An idealist’s solution!” scoffed Akingbade. “Unfortunately, precision at that level is a luxury we don't have.”

“I do.”

For the first time, Akingbade faltered, before quickly regaining composure. 

“Say, we agree on that. Do you even have a way to go about doing it? Or just more half-formed theories?”

“Just a vague, half-formed idea, yes, which is why I decided to bring in Albus Dumbledore and two of the most skilled people I know of. The Minister is skilled at runecraft, and while I haven’t exactly studied your work, Mr. Akingbade, I’m certain it’s excellent.”

“Mr. Potter…” Amelia began, but Dumbledore interrupted.

“Hold on, Amelia,” said the Headmaster, closing his eyes, thinking hard. When he opened them again, every trace of the jovial man was gone, replaced by a hardcore academic. “Harry, just how would you segregate the echoes from the explosion?”

Harry shrugged, and a patronus-sized jaguar silently materialised next to him.

Everyone in the room resisted the urge to face palm at the obvious solution.

“...Have I told you how much I hate the fact that despite your so-called crippled magical limitations, you seem to always have the answers to the most frustrating situations, Harry?” Daphne asked.

“It might work,” said Amelia Bones. “If the Black Family Magic can hold the Miraculum Operarius together, it can definitely bind the echoes together.”

“Well,” said Harry. “Whenever you are ready.”

Akingbade sighed, and unshrunk his staff. “Might as well.”

“If I end up gaining white hair prematurely, I’m blaming you, Potter,” said the Minister.

“What she said,” growled Daphne. 

Dumbledore chuckled, and pulled out his wand.

Harry smiled, and then his eyes morphed yellow.

He stepped forward, the scorched floor creaking beneath his boots. His eyes scanned the nursery — not as it was, but as it had been. The yellow gleam cut through memory and magic, tracing the invisible burns in the air where spells had once screamed through the walls. He saw the magic, the intention, the threads and ruptures.

Grief. Love. Rage. Sacrifice. Abstract.

Somewhere beneath the ruined floorboards, the echo of a scream was still waiting.

“It’s concentrated there,” Harry said, pointing to the heart of the room, where the warped frame of the crib still stood like a forgotten altar. “The Circle would have been carved beneath the floor. I can’t see it directly — too much energy noise — but the spell-echoes are all bent around that center.”

“Residual warping,” murmured Dumbledore. “The explosion formed a sympathetic shell.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “But the shell isn’t the key. The key is what’s inside it.”

“Echoes don’t have physical form,” Akingbade said in a clipped tone. “I imagine you are aiming for the crystallized memory of the blast?”

Harry looked at him, surprised. “The what?”

“A temporal chrysalis of the explosion,” said Akingbade. “It is the nature of the universe that things remain. Nothing ever disappears completely. The very sound of the first Creation still echoes throughout the vast darkness. The Universe remembers. Whatever happened here is no different.”

“A metaphysical cicatrix,” Dumbledore whispered. “Of course. It exists the way trauma does — as a scar, embedded into the site of impact.”

Daphne raised an eyebrow. “Did you two just call the soul of this place a scar?”

“Yes,” they both said.

Akingbade grunted. “We’re wasting time. Can it be extracted or not?”

Harry drew in a breath. “Here goes nothing.”

A low hum shivered through the air as Harry extended his right hand.

A deep purple circular band formed around his fist. The outer rim spun counter-clockwise, engraved with Aztec glyphs that twisted like shackles being unfastened. The inner rings rotated in layered precision, each bearing geometric chains, hexagrammatic locks, and recursive sigils that seemed to bend space into themselves.

Harry touched the purple band, and pulled it up his arm, and much to everyone’s surprise, the band obeyed, expanding all the way until it was covering all the way to his elbow. It pulsed, and the nursery room was inundated in white.

Harry Potter was the Gatekeeper, one who had become one with the Animus Eternum and stared directly into the Abyss. And so, he was genuinely shocked to find the light that erupted in the tiny nursery was painful to look at in its absolute brilliance.

Not because it was bright, but because it was real.

This was Truth. 

Harry stared at it anyway, because it was not in him to shrink from pain. The pain roared through every nerve, and he smiled and accepted it as the natural price of viewing a miracle.

Then Harry focused, and twisted his wrist.

The band around his arm narrowed, rings contracting like a breathing lung, and the dazzling radiance fractured.

Into particles. 

Dust. Embers. Magic in its rawest, most fundamental state — suspended, vibrating in the air like a newborn quasar. Each point of light shimmered with intention. Each flicker a thought, a scar, a scream. There were millions of them. Swarming. Glimmering. Alive.

If not for the sheer magical pressure he was dealing with, he’d have seen Akingbade and Dumbledore flinch.

And then, he twisted his wrist further; the jaguar next to him growled, and the magical dust began to move.