ACT5CH18 - WHERE POISON DWELLS

The scent of paper and heatstones lingered in the air. It had been a long and tiring day for Babajide Akingbade, but his work was far from d

The scent of paper and heatstones lingered in the air.

It had been a long and tiring day for Babajide Akingbade, but his work was far from done. He had been working for an entire day straight, and yet the piles kept rising on his desk. Stacked scrolls, inkpots in varying stages of desiccation, and a half-empty tea bowl he had forgotten to refill three hours ago. His staff, carved from elderwood and pine, leaned against the far wall like a disappointed elder. It had not been touched all week.

And still, he had yet to make any difference towards the real enemy.

A giant folder codenamed THE ANIMA FILES sat to his left. Ever since the ‘Event’, the ICW had been in a state of paperwork anarchy, especially with news of hundreds of localised anomalies all across the globe being constantly reported. Some were tackled by the respective governments. Some not.

All were created because of the Anima breach.

But the biggest problem had originated earlier today, when he had picked up a Ministry-signed communiqué with the seal of the French Department of Magical Catastrophe Response. The words on it — crisp, formal, perfectly structured — meant nothing.

There was no location.

No timestamp.

No Ministry designation of site or aftermath.

It was as if the ‘Event’ had never happened.

Babajide had the strangest feeling that the ICW had the sense to not name something so disastrous as the Anima breach as something so generic as Event, but by the Gods themselves, he couldn’t remember what it was originally called.

Where was it? How was it? What happened to it? 

He had no idea.

Ever since then, he had been picking up every single file he had worked on for the last two weeks, and meticulously gone through every single detail. 

Anomalies.

Breaches.

Magical Corruption.

Gatekeeper.

Security breaches.

Ekrizdis.

Anima Breach.

But nothing about the location. Even the ICW’s own emergency dispatch from the day of impact was blank.

He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers over his chest, and stared up at the ceiling, which shimmered faintly with old, illusion-woven stars — the same night sky that hung over Uagadou before the first wand was ever carved. He had always found comfort in those stars.

Not tonight.

“It happened,” he said aloud. “And we knew where it was. And now, we don’t.”

He had seen the world tilt; had felt the Anima bloom like a wound tearing open across the magical sphere. The energy had been raw, impossible to catalogue. Every Seer from Uganda to New Delhi had woken screaming.

And now?

It was all gone. 

The coordinates. The arcane registry. The leyline mapping. The containment rites that had been hurriedly dispatched by the Department of Magical Harmonics.

Gone.

Vanished.

Hidden.

Babajide needed answers. Answers that only one man on the planet could give him. A man who had, serendipitously perhaps, just entered his premises.

The Supreme Mugwump Albus Dumbledore.

Babajide closed his eyes and waited for the knock on his door. It came three seconds later.

“Sir Akingbade,” said the attendant, a young girl of nineteen. An apprentice in the Administration department. “The Supreme Mugwump is here.”

Babajide glanced at the clock. It was nine. Almost time to retire for the night.

“At this hour?”

“He insists on having a private meeting. Off the record.”

Coincidence? He thought not. Something was off. He had expected Albus to meet him soon after the ICW session, but the Supreme Mugwump had busied himself in events concerning his dear Britain. In fact, a meeting between them was long overdue.

Still, the casting of the Fidelius on an Omega-ranked event site was too brazen for the likes of Albus Dumbledore. As was the idea that he was here with something equally insidious at such an unholy hour. Babajide might have been the Voice of the Opposition, but he knew exactly what stuff Albus Dumbledore was made of.

That man did not have a single mean bone in his body.

Still, that begged the question. What exactly was Albus playing at?

“Send him in.”

The girl bowed again and stepped out.

Akingbade sat up slowly, brushed dust from his sleeves, and set a single ward along the edge of his desk, activating a secret eavesdropping ward. Whatever happened in the next hour, he would not let it be erased.

“Good evening, Babajide,” said Albus Dumbledore. “I hope you will forgive me for the sudden disturbance at such short notice.”

The man wore no robes of his station. No Ministry emblem either. No international credentials. Just one wizard to another.

“Nonsense,” said Babajide. “Though it was a most unexpected surprise. Honestly, I expected you a lot earlier, by a few hours at least.”

He smiled, closing the file and siding it away. “On the other hand, it’s quite a diversion from the endless paperwork I’ve been saddled with since the last two weeks, so I am happy to acquiesce.”

“Ah, paperwork,” said Albus, his mustache quivering. “The greatest peril I’ve ever faced.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Babajide. “Would you care for a glass of Kahawa ya Kifalme? I’m afraid I never liked British tea.”

“It’s an acquired taste, and yes, please.”

“One I have yet to acquire then, I suppose,” said Babajide, flicking his hand as two glasses rose from the side table, and were automatically filled with the bitter, dark roast. “Well then, what can I do for you, Supreme Mugwump?”

“I am not here as Supreme Mugwump, I’m afraid,” said Albus. “Just a man wanting to do the right thing — however belatedly that may be.”

Babajide’s eyebrows rose at that. 

“I’m afraid you have me at a loss.”

Albus shook his head. “Things have happened, Babajide. Things that no council chamber, however gilded, could have prevented. And a few… that might have been.”

“Intriguing,” he said, taking a sip and crossing his arms. “I am all ears, Albus.”

“The purist faction of our Wizengamot, in their infinite and tragically British wisdom, attempted to bind young Mr. Potter with oaths — obedience, silence, servitude. The usual menu of polite tyranny, dressed up in parchment.”

Babajide barked out a laugh. He didn’t like what Harry Potter represented, but from everything he had learned about the boy, he suffered from the textbook definition of a hero-complex. Whether it was his own life experience, his morals,or simply a psychological defect arising out of expectation — was difficult to tell. But from the limited encounter during the earlier Summit, the boy didn’t look like someone that would be willing to bend a knee to appease anyone.

 “I assume that went badly?”

“That is… one way of putting it. They staged a performance — a trial in all but name. Meanwhile, Saul Croaker thought it prudent to approach the Gate unannounced, presumably hoping to peek beyond the veil and return with secrets instead of scars. They found something else. A familiar of Potter’s own creation — or perhaps summoning, or perhaps… persuasion. A beast of such scale and symbolic gravity, I believe the Department of Magical Classifications would use the word ‘calamity’ if they weren’t too busy fainting.”

Babajide stared at the man that had been a close acquaintance and a public rival for many decades now in visible surprise. 

“A calamity? Are you certain?”

“I have a psychically isolated memory-imprint from the encounter,” said Albus. “I am not sure if it shows Harry’s paranoia, his ability to casually break the rules of magic and existence, or both.”

Babajide crooked an eyebrow. “What seems to be the issue, Albus? It is much unlike you to be so direct.”

Albus shrugged and helped himself to another sip. “A lot many things. “Harry left the Wizengamot mid-session,” he continued. “He said nothing. Merely stood and vanished. I assumed it was anger, or protest — it was neither. He felt something. Perhaps the creature stirring, perhaps the Gate whispering. Whatever the cause, he arrived in time to save the Unspeakables. And then he did what no one else would dare.”

He exhaled. “Harry Potter cast the Fidelius. On the Gate.”

“A Fidelius upon a site known and heavily discussed by the entire world,” murmured Babajide. “I’m not sure if I should applaud him for successfully casting the spell on something of that much range, or be horrified at his shortsightedness. Surely he is aware of the imminent issues with the casting of the Fidelius?”

“Not very much, I’m afraid,” admitted Albus. “To ensure no one missed the point, he returned to the Wizengamot and said as much. Plainly. Without apology.”

Babajide’s left eyebrow twitched.

“Babajide,” Albus said, now gently, “you know as well as I do what Fidelius does to the collective mind. It does not merely hide. It subtracts. It erases. And now the world has forgotten where it stood when it looked into the void.”

“Tell me something, Albus,” said Babajide. “Just what lies at the base of this decision? From the way you have described the boy over the years, he does not seem like the average British pureblood — too little of talent and too full of ego. What is his deal?”

Albus took another sip and frowned. “Truth be told, I don’t know. Or at least, I didn’t. Back then. But Harry wholeheartedly believes the Gate is his burden. His alone. He claims its threshold, its consequences, and what lies beyond it as his duty. I suspect he would say the same to the ICW, should they ask. And as much as I wish he were wrong… I can’t quite bring myself to tell him he is. Especially with what I know now.”

“Intriguing,” said Babajide. “You make it seem like it will make me question the existing conceptions about this issue.”

For the first time, Albus Dumbledore smiled. “Not question. It will shatter them. If your illusions are intact… I would ask to borrow your pensieve. What I must show you does not belong in words.”

....

....

The last time Harry had been at Cinnamon Grove, he had accidentally caused a part of it to bloom like a bloody forest on steroids. Back then, it had just been Summer resonating with him far deeper than it had ever done. Had that been the only one, Harry would have understood. 

But it wasn’t.

He knew exactly what Binding was capable of, and now that he practically restrained Tezcatlipoca inside himself, he knew what sort of madness the Black Family Magic could invoke if left to its own devices.

His only solace was that Death, thankfully, was remaining dormant. So far. He wouldn’t know what to do if Ignotus tried something funny, or if the Hunter woke up.

Again.

If that happened, he doubted even the combined might of Freyja and Tezcatlipoca could keep the world from being destroyed.

Or maybe… just maybe, Death was dormant, because it was divided. Vessel he may be, but there was a reason why the Deathly Hallows held their infamous reputation. Despite himself, he had summoned the Elder Wand, bringing himself two-thirds of the way to unleashing the End of All Things. If — if the Resurrection Stone ever came to him, Harry was certain he would lose everything.

Fortunately, nobody knew where it was — a situation Harry would be happy to maintain for eternity.

But if wishes were hippogriffs, they would fly. Which brought him back to the present.

The ritual circle he was slowly, meticulously carving to set up the ritual. Joshua, despite being a bundle of nerves, was having a hard time trying to contain his growing apprehension. 

Astoria was faring worse.

“How long will it take?” asked the third-year Slytherin. She was sitting on the last stair leading into the chamber, knees hugged to her chest, a single charm-glow floating at her shoulder. Her wand was clutched tightly in both hands. Astoria shared the same cheekbones as Daphne, but none of her stillness. 

“I don’t know. It’s not time-bound. It’s… resistance-bound.”

“That’s not a real term.”

“No,” Harry said. “But it fits. The lesser the resistance, the faster it will be done.”

“Tori, stop distracting him. Harry needs to focus.”

“I’m not,” Astoria scoffed. 

“It’s alright,” Harry smiled at his future father-in-law. “Is Daphne ready?”

“As ready as ever, I suppose,” muttered the man. “Why is it that I am going crazy while my daughter’s suddenly gained the patience of a bloody monk?”

Harry grinned at his description. He knew that Daphne could be quite excitable, but for some reason, she absolutely trusted him. He had told her he’d cure her, and she had taken his words as Truth.

“Maybe you can go check if she’s ready?” He checked his watch. “We have roughly half an hour before we begin.”

“Right. I’ll… do that.”

“You sure everything’s going to work out perfectly?” Astoria asked, with just the slightest bit of tremor in her voice. “This doesn’t feel close to anything I’ve studied. Is this Dark Magic?”

“Ritual Circles are no longer taught at Hogwarts, and no, there’s nothing innately dark about it. It depends on how you use it.”

“Then why?”

Well, in large part because our Wizengamot has banned the study for centuries, Harry thought to himself, but that was beside the point.

“Because it doesn’t fit the current dogma that Britain’s in love with, or at least, has been in love with since the sixteenth century. We love the idea that Magic is Might, and having Magic, that gives us the power of Control. Through enough willpower and energy, we can change the laws of physics. Make fire from nothing. Turn a person into a parakeet. Open doors between worlds. Bind the dead. Time and time again, we make the world obey our authority.”

“And what’s wrong about that?”

A simple question, but a vital one. Harry wondered how many parents actually bothered asking the same question, much less teach their children the same.

“Because the magic of a ritual isn’t our power, Tori. A ritual is an invocation, an offering, to a higher power to grant you a sliver of their authority to accomplish what you want. It requires surrender. Humility. Trust. Something that goes against our logic. Only with the right faith, can we gain control of a power we never knew we could have.”

“Gaining control by surrendering control? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Not everything does. Not everything has to,” said Harry. “Like I said, it goes against our logic of being the one that holds the line, not some unseen hand.”

Astoria took her sweet time tackling the question, and it was clear from her expressions that her prejudices were giving her a tough time trying to accept his words.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Maybe someone like me can’t have access to great and powerful magic. I am just… Astoria. But you’re Harry freaking Potter. Boy-Who-Lived. Warlock. Death’s Vessel. Gatekeeper, and who knows how many more names. You fought the Dark Lord. You saved the world. Dad says you could probably conquer Britain on a free night. Why would you —”

“Need a ritual?”

“...Yes.”

Harry smiled at her innocence. “I am nothing special. Just like you’re ‘just’ Astoria, I’m ‘just’ Harry.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right.”

“I’m not lying,” he said. “I’ve just been through a lot, and it has forced me to… grow up faster, I suppose. In that way, I am a bit skewed. But if you put an ordinary person in an extraordinary situation, wouldn’t they be able to pull off an extraordinary feat too?”

“You carry Death in you,” she said. “And Dad told me that you can channel both the Greengrass and the Black Family Magics too. That’s not… normal, even for extraordinary situations.”

Harry chuckled. “First of all, I don’t carry anything. Death, Summer, Binding — they are fundamental forces of the Universe. The idea of one person, even as special as Me,” he winked, “is like saying a cup can somehow hold the water of an entire ocean.”

“Well, it can. If it’s bottomless.”

Harry sighed and gave up trying to convince this girl. 

“Yeah, you’re Daphne’s sister all right.”

“And you bloody well remember it,” she said, laughing as she flipped her ponytail. “You know, my friend Jonathan is a devout Catholic. When he first came to know of what you could do, he told me that you were the Reaper.”

“Reaper?”

“Yes. The horseman that comes for our souls when we die. He wears a long cloak, and rides on a skeletal horse. According to him anyway.”

A certain future possibility flitted across his mind.

“...a horseman, eh?”

“Yes, one with a skull face. I told him he’s confusing this Reaper guy with a Death Eater. Besides, my brother-in-law has better taste in fashion than that.”

Harry laughed at her childishness, but the grin didn’t reach his eyes. Mask or otherwise, it was unimportant. He had seen a future possibility of himself, a pale and gaunt form cloaked in living shadows that coiled and writhed around him. His green eyes glowed faintly, cold and otherworldly, devoid of warmth. He moved like a wraith, silent and spectral, his presence both unsettling and strangely calming, amplified by the thestral standing next to him. 

A Harry Potter that was Death's avatar, a shepherd guiding souls to their final rest.

But the question had to be asked. If that was Harry’s future form, then what was the source of the Reaper myth? 

A past Vessel of Death that had assimilated the three Hallows?

The image of a wasted shell of a human, with strange tattoos dotted across his face came to mind.

— Death is beyond me —

A name. A stranger, that he had first spoken to in a half-remembered dream.

 — A figment of the Time Before. And you have come to take my place — 

Ignotus Peverell.

The Vessel, Custodian and Master of Death.

“--rry? Harry?”

Astoria’s words jerked him out of his reveries. He blinked several times, and refocussed. “...Sorry. Was thinking of something else.”

“I could tell,” she said, rolling his eyes. “Say, how is this ritual even supposed to work? Will it hurt?”

“A little? Maybe? I’m not sure. But I’m sure your sister will be fine.”

“Daphne is strong,” she said. “She has been suffering since she was born, but she’s grown past it.”

“I know, which is why she’s going to beat the curse,” Harry said. “As for the ritual, say, McGonagall ever put you through frog dissection?”

Tori wrinkled her nose. “Just last month. I hated it.”

“Good. That same instinct? Keep it.” Harry crouched down on the ritual circle etched on the floor. “Because that’s what we’re doing here. Cut something open. Except it’s not a frog. It’s a person.”

Astoria went pale. “You’re not going to hack my sister apart, are you?”

Her fear made him laugh. “Not that way. A spiritual cut. Instead of her guts, we're after something meaner, nastier, and a hell of a lot more vindictive."

“The curse.”

“Yes.”

Astoria swallowed, hard.

“Now," He said, tapping the ritual circle with his wand. “What do you see here?”

“Two concentric circles of different colours.”

“...Well,” he said after a moment. “You’re not wrong.”

Briefly, he wondered if Astoria had ever attended any class on magical philosophy yet. Hogwarts followed a decentralized system, where every discipline dealt with its private philosophy, with absolutely no intention of a grander, unifying theory of magic.

He wondered if that was intentional.

“What we have here,” he said, pointing at the three concentric circles. “Is a Triad. Three different concepts, applied together, to create something greater than the sum of its parts.”

“What’s a triad?”

“Depends on who you ask, or what you need. Creation, Preservation, Destruction — the Hindu trinity, is a Triad. Past, present, and future — that’s another. Heaven, Earth, and the Underworld - if Greek or Roman or their derived faiths is your choice. If you want to go philosophical, then Logic, Instinct and Faith is a Triad. Mind, Body, Spirit — that’s the common schema; Being, Consciousness, Bliss — that’s Vedanta philosophy again, just to name a few. In the same way, you have triads set up for magic — symbol, focus and meaning — the basic foundation of rune creation, and Anchor, path and Threshold — for basic Circle creation. Life cycle triads, elemental triads, seasonal triads, the list goes on and on.”

“I… think I get the gist of it.”

Harry chuckled, reminding himself not to overwhelm the girl. Was this how he felt like earlier when Hermione went on and on with her explanations?

“For this ritual, we are using a very specific triad. See how the inner circle is red. That’s blood.”

“Daphne’s blood?” Astoria asked sharply.

“Yes, but not only,” said Harry. “It contains the blood of her ancestors, all the way to Ophelia Greengrass. Let’s call that inner circle — Identity.”

“Blood from Ophelia?” Astoria blinked.

“Greengrasses stored it for generations,” Harry said. “Even my gran and mum contributed. All hoping this day might come.”

He pointed at the outermost circle. “That’s made of quicksilver, or Mercury, if you prefer that. After alchemically treating and activating it, the metal is capable of housing a personality of sorts, which is why in the olden days, mercury was used to create magical golems. Let’s call this Circle the Bind.”

“Bind? So it binds the identity to Daphne?”

No,” Harry said, after a beat. His fingers brushed the edge of the mercury ring. “That’s not what we’re binding.”

Astoria’s eyes widened. Clearly, she had caught on.

“But where’s the middle circle?”

“It’ll be there in time. For now, let’s just call it… a Filter.”

“A… filter? For what?”

There was wariness there, yes, but also a kind of curious hunger — the look of a girl desperate to understand, even if the truth terrified her.

“Daphne tells me you like reading mythology. Ever heard of the Sagar Manthan?”

She blinked. “The what?”

He smiled thoughtfully. “It’s a myth from Ancient India. Apparently, the devas had lost their divine nectar — the secret behind their immortality. And to regain it, they had to work hand in hand with the asuras to churn the great cosmic ocean.”

 “You mean gods and demons?”

Harry bit his lip. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to describe the stark differences between the deva-asura relationship with the far more simplistic god-demon relationship favored in the West. It would have to do for now.

“Yes, sort of like that.”

“That’s like saying You-Know-Who and Albus Dumbledore working together,” she said. “Not bloody likely.”

Harry laughed. “You’d be surprised to know what people are willing to do in the face of greater danger. Besides, both sides wanted the nectar, and one couldn’t do it without the other. But to reach it, they had to churn the ocean itself. And in doing so, something awful surfaced first.”

He gestured gently toward the inner circle. “Poison.”

— Not folds of memory, Gatekeeper. Cast us into Oblivion you did, but we remain. Dwelling In The Darkness, for WE ARE BENEATH — 

“Halahala — a venom so potent it could unravel the universe.”

—I have seen the world’s demise—

“An enemy that neither the gods nor the demons could survive. Much less endure.”

Astoria hugged her knees tighter. “What did they do?”

“They panicked,” Harry said simply. “Even gods aren’t immune to fear. They didn’t know how to handle it. That’s when Shiva, the god of gods — the destroyer of evil, stepped forward.”

He paused, tracing the air above the second circle with his wand, the Death-layer, where obsidian flakes stirred faintly in shadow.

“Shiva drank it. Every drop. Held it in his throat so it wouldn’t pass through his heart. The act turned his neck blue — they call him Neelakantha for it. The Blue-Throated One.”

“Why would he do that?” Astoria asked, breath quieter now.

“Because someone had to,” said Harry. “Because sometimes, a choice isn’t really a choice. If the poison remained, it would have corrupted everything. But if he could contain it — if he could pull it out of the ocean first — then the churning could continue. Then the nectar could rise.”

“But it wasn’t his burden to bear.”

Harry smiled. “Sometimes, we need to take up burdens, not because we want them, but because no one else can take up that mantle.”

He turned toward her fully now. “That’s what we’re doing here, Tori. That’s what this is.”

He pointed to the three circles in succession.

“Your sister is the ocean. Deep, vast, burdened. And the Greengrass magic that’s been buried within her? That’s the nectar. The gift her curse has kept locked away.”

“So you — you will drink it out of her? YOU ARE THE FILTER?”

She had gone pale, only now understanding what that little parable was about.

“It’s like you said. I have the power to channel Death. I am hoping the Death energy will erase the curse for good.”

“I don’t think Daphne will like it if you get stuck with a blue throat. It won’t go with your eyes.”

“....”

“....”

And then they both laughed.