(A/N: Summary of 23: Harry, for reasons of protection, spent the holidays at Pivet Drive, and had his final confrontation with Dr. Perry which resulted in the good doctor's incapacitation. Gates, of course, stepped in, finishing it, and whisked Harry off to his manor.)
Harry fell roughly down onto a hardwood floor, a sharp pain shooting up from his knees. His luggage was sprawled across the floor. There was another swirl of flame and Gates stepped through, looking very tense and nervous. His wand was drawn, and he gazed suspiciously around him. It was as if he had not stepped foot in this place for years.
Harry massaged his kneecaps and got to his feet, all the while staring unabashedly at his surroundings. He had seen vast amounts of wealth before. He even had in his possession a considerable sum of galleons. However, the room he now stood in probably exceeded in net worth anything that he had ever seen, with the possible exception of Dumbledore's office. While Sirius' manor, Grimmauld Place, had been dark, dreary and decrepit, Gates' manor was lavish and extravagant. The floor was deeply and carefully lacquered and polished, their own two forms visible in the shine. A rosewood table, with spindly, elegantly carved legs, stretched horizontally before him, a few glass bottles filled with a violet liquid and a little porcelain bowl sitting in the center. Sofas and ornate wooden chairs, cushioned with velvet, surrounded it. Old, meticulously cared-for tapestries hung along the walls, all of them bearing some figure or crest in the fabric. One, looking a little more threadbare than the others, bore a golden circle with the faint, regal image of a swooping hawk in the center. Over it, written in a material like silk, was "Malo Mori Quam Foedari." Archaic runes that Harry did not recognize were written along the bottom.
"It's the Gates family tapestry," Gates said from behind him. "It says: Rather Death Than Disgrace." Harry did not comment, but he found the Gates family motto to be very appropriate.
"Menial welcomes master Gates and his esteemed acquaintance," squeaked a voice. Harry looked down and saw that he had somehow missed a house-elf entering the room. The elf was dressed in formal-looking pillowcase, which slightly startled Harry as he had expected to see them in rags as he did with Dobby. It was rather neat, for a pillowcase. "Master Gates' esteemed acquaintance appears to be a very great wizard indeed!" he peered up at Harry with wide eyes. "Master Gates' esteemed acquaintance defeated the You-Know-Who! Master Gates' esteemed acquaintance must-"
"That's enough of the formalities, Menial," cut in Gates harshly. The Hit Wizard was staring at the elf as if it was something unpleasant that had occurred in a different life. The elf shrank a little.
"Can Menial fetch master Gates or his esteemed acquaintance a drink? Master Gates has not been in his manor for many years-"
"You will not refer to Potter as 'esteemed'," Gates said. "Nor will you discuss my doings in front of guests. Perhaps the long years have worn away your sense of duty."
The elf's face went very pale. "Of course not, master!"
"Are the wards in place?" asked Gates almost indifferently. The aristocratic air that he carried around himself was almost palpable now that he had returned to his family's manor. "Have the elves maintained them?"
"Menial made sure of it himself, master Gates!" the elf squeaked. "Even the Fidelus charm!"
"Very well." Gates turned to Harry. "My manor's Fidelus charm is the absolute strongest in the world. My ancestors have been building on it and reinforcing it for centuries. Right now, I daresay you are safer here than at Hogwarts, especially since the recent attacks have proven Hogwarts' defenses to be…fallible."
Or, if what Ron thinks is true, it's an easier way to have me killed, Harry thought.
"Is there anything master Gates or his est-" Menial hesitated. "-acquaintance wishes?"
"Nothing," said Gates immediately. "Now leave us."
Menial bowed deeply, picked up Harry's scattered luggage, then quietly backed out of the room.
"Potter," said Gates, turning his attention once more onto Harry. "Follow me."
As Harry followed Gates through the corridors, he listened vaguely to what the Hit Wizard was saying. His eyes were instead focused on the antiques that surrounded him as he walked down the corridors. Warm redwood wood panels lined the walls, and in every corner there was a marble pedestal with a Grecian vase sitting at the top. Busts of ancient, long-dead philosophers overhung the archways, and expensive Persian rugs helped soften the sound of heavy footfalls on the floor. Bronze statues stood like sentries in niches along the walls. Various paintings were spread out at long intervals. There was a portrait of a swampy rice field with scattered Chinese workers on a silk canvas. Another of a quaint village with red-tiled Italian roofs. Soon, Harry began to pass rich oil paintings full of deep color, and then he came across one painted by a vaguely familiar artist. It was Rembrandt.
"That one," Gates said suddenly, pointing to the before-mentioned Rembrandt painting. "Muggles don't even know exist."
Harry took another look at the portrait, letting his eyes rest on the robed old man standing underneath the boughs of a willow tree. A few patches of light told Harry that the setting was during the daytime, but the extensive use of shadows and dark color gave the impression that it was dusk.
"It was made specifically for our family. Privately, of course," Gates continued. "The man in the portrait is Nicholas Redoren Gates. We've had it for centuries, and this is the only copy. Don't touch it."
At last they came into a massive, circular, with bookcases built into the walls. The domed ceiling was the color of cream, and seemed to shift like it was made up of clouds. On the far wall was a small section of wall cleared of bookcases. Built into a stone base was marble fireplace, its hearth crackling as it devoured several thick logs. Facing the fireplace was a single winged chair. It was a deep shade of red, and next to it was a little stand on which sat a wine glass and a book. A rug concealed the hardwood, lacquered floor, giving the place a homely appearance. Whoever had designed this room was evidently a lover of dark woods and old books.
When Harry turned to look at Gates, it was apparent that the Hit Wizard was not focusing on the décor. Instead, his eyes were locked onto a large portrait that hung above the fireplace. It was of a woman with high, sharp cheekbones and long black hair, whose eyes seemed to be almost alive. Harry suddenly realized that he had not seen a single 'living' portrait in the entire manor yet.
"Menial," Gates whispered. "MENIAL!" he shouted.
It's the woman, Potter, said Pseudo-Snape. The Boggart.
Harry looked at the portrait again. Pseudo-Snape was right. The woman was undoubtedly the same woman that the Boggart had manifested itself into in the Room of Requirement. Suddenly, it all made sense. The high cheekbones. The sharp facial features. Gates' mother.
Harry furtively glanced at the Hit Wizard once more, and saw once again the expression of abject terror on Gates' face. His face was stark white, and his hands, which had become fists, trembled. His lips moved and he was murmuring something under his breath. Abruptly, he thrust a hand into the pockets of his robe and grabbed at something. Gates relaxed slightly.
"Master Gates!" Menial called, bounding through the door, his eyes wide with alarm. "What is wrong master?"
"WHAT IS WRONG?" Gates roared, rounding on the elf as if it had somehow grossly offended him. He pointed a finger at the portrait. "TAKE HER DOWN! TAKE EVERY LAST PICTURE OF HER FACE OFF THESE WALLS!"
"Yes master," Menial said complacently and bowed, his nose almost touching the floor. The few gray hairs on his head were wet and matted. He was sweating profusely. "Immediately."
"THEN GET ON IT!"
Menial leapt into the air and dashed over to the fireplace. Muttering some incantations, he climbed onto the mantle and gingerly took the portrait from its place on the wall. Without another word, the elf swept out of the room, evidently bent on fulfilling his master's orders as soon as possible.
Breathing heavily, Gates staggered over to the wing-backed chair and fell into it. His eyes stared blankly at the fireplace. "Potter," he said stiffly. "You will not go into the manor vaults. You will not go into the lower dungeons. And most of all, you will not go into the locked room on the third floor. If you desire food, drink, or anything else, you will go to Menial. He will supply you with what you desire."
"Will we have training sessions?"
Gates paused for a moment. "No."
Harry was about to leave the room when Gates spoke again. "I suggest you owl Albus concerning your new temporary residence," the Hit Wizard continued. "The Fidelus Charm is of a variety that will allow familiars to pass. You will be spending the remainder of your Christmas vacation here. You will be living in the guest room. I'm sure Menial has already taken your commodities there." He paused. "And you should probably thank that Granger girl as well. She's the one that took the portkey and informed me of your unfortunate…plight."
When Harry once again turned to leave, the ceiling caught his eye. A few minutes ago it had been amorphous and vague, but now it had turned into some sort of fresco. Roman pillars reached up from all sides of the dome, stopping about a third of the way to the top. The sky itself had turned into a mass of swirling tin, with a few somber clouds floating above the pillars. The most disturbing feature, however, was the addition of massive, black-winged creatures with curved talons and a woman's face. They were like demons, soaring through the forbidding sky, their wings spread out, their mouths open with silent shrieks. One paused in midair and looked down at Harry with bared fangs. Harry had to remind himself that he was simply staring at an enchanted ceiling, no more dangerous than the one in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. However, this one was far more frightening, and Harry wondered what is was based on. The ceiling in the Great Hall reflected the outside sky. What did this ceiling represent?
Your mood, Potter. The mood of the man sitting in the red wing-backed chair.
Harry eased his way out of the room and quietly shut the door behind him. Whatever demons were flying around in Gates' head at the moment, Harry did not want to see them.
He came to wide foyer with two arching marble stairways that spread out from the base, following the rounded walls before intersecting at the top. Menial was hanging off the top banister, swiping with his hand at an elegant picture of the dark-haired woman standing next to a man with high, thin eyebrows. It was an oddly formal portrait.
"Master Gates' acquaintance!" squeaked Menial, nimbly jumping over the banister and running down the stairs. "Menial has already moved your luggage to the Gates manor guest bedroom! Menial hopes master Gates' acquaintance can forgive Menial's ineptness at all tasks." He bowed very deeply.
Harry was not quite sure how to respond to that. "Err, so where's the guest bedroom?"
"This way!" said the elf brightly. As Menial lead Harry up the steps and down another portrait-lined corridor (all unmoving, Harry noted), he chatted away happily as though he had not spoken to anyone for years. "Menial is most delighted to have guests once more!" Menial said. "Master Gates has not been in his manor for years upon years-" He abruptly stopped and began violently beating himself with his fist. "BAD MENIAL! BAD! MASTER GATES HAS JUST RETURNED AND YOU ARE ALREADY DISOBEYING ORDERS!"
Harry almost jumped into the air with surprise. He reached out, grabbed both of Menial's hands, and struggled to calm the elf down.
"Master Gates' acquaintance must not interfere with Menial's due punishment!" Menial said in an extraordinarily high pitched voice. "Menial is a bad elf! Bad!"
Harry wished Hermione had designed some sort of countermeasure against the elf fits of self-inflicted punishment. If she had not already, he thought wryly.
An idea popped into his head. "Menial, where's the guest bedroom?" Harry asked quickly. Hopefully, the question would distract the elf and override its instinct.
Menial stopped suddenly, and then, almost stiffly, ushered Harry through a nearby door. The elf, still in the same, aloof posture, continued, "Master Gates' acquaintance will tell Menial if he needs anything," he said, and with barely a moment passing, shut the door.
Harry stared at the closed door, perplexed. Menial sounded almost agitated. He shook his head exasperatedly. There was no possible way for anyone to fully understand a house elf, no matter what Hermione declared to the contrary.
His luggage sat neatly on a down mattress with silk sheets. Red, velvet drapes hung around the four-poster bed, tied back at the moment with another little strip of velvet. A desk, chair and table, all ornately carved and constructed, without a single straight angle on them, stood on an Oriental rug next to the bed. He took a closer look at them, and found them all to have been designed and created in a village in France. A vase full of fresh flowers with white and cream-colored petals was placed on the nightstand.
Now, how was he supposed to contact Dumbledore? He realized that Hedwig was still at the owlery at Hogwarts, and, while the manor undoubtedly had large store of owls, he did not care much for asking Gates permission to use them.
The mirror!
The idea struck Harry strongly because it was so obvious. He fumbled with his robes for moment, intensely glad that he had brought the mirror along, and looked at its slightly cloudy surface.
"Hermione Granger."
An instant later Hermione's face appeared in the mirror.
"Harry!" she said breathlessly. Harry noticed she was biting deeply into her lower lip. "You disappeared from your relatives' house! We've been looking all over you-"
"I'm fine," Harry said quickly. "Well, I think I am. Gates took me to his manor."
Hermione's eyes went wide. "So that's where he took you?" she asked in a quaking voice. "Harry you have to get out of there!"
"I don't have any floo powder."
Hermione frowned, and suddenly her face lit up and she began talking animatedly with someone.
"Mr. Carwin just reminded me," she said quickly. "Professor Dumbledore should be able to help."
Before Harry could get in a word, her face disappeared from the mirror and Harry waited for a minute, staring blankly at the empty mirror, expectantly awaiting Hermione's return. At last, Hermione's face reappeared. "Here's Professor Dumbledore-"
"Harry," the familiar voice of Albus Dumbledore began. For a second Harry saw nothing but the silvery gray of the headmaster's beard, but then it tilted up and Dumbledore's face came into view. "Miss Granger tells me Alex took you to his manor. Have you been harmed?"
Harry noted the seriousness in Dumbledore's voice and became nervous. It was akin to the tone Dumbledore took on when he stunned Pseudo-Moody at Hogwarts. "No, but Gates just told me to tell you where we are."
The headmaster's expression did not change from its stony state. "Oddly considerate for Alex," he said. "I trust you won't object if your stay at Gates manor is cut short."
"Not in the least."
"Very well," said Dumbledore. "I must have a discussion with Alex," He seemed ready to leave, but he hesitated at the last minute. "Harry, is there anything you aren't telling me?"
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. This was something Occlumency could not hide. "Err, Menial just arrived with dinner," Harry said, feigning haste. "I'll see you later, professor."
Before Dumbledore could respond, Harry set the mirror face down on his bed. He stared at the smooth, featureless back of the mirror for a long time.
***
"Master Gates' acquaintance?" said Menial loudly, pounding on the door. The squeaky voice shook Harry from his reverie and he moved to answer the door.
When he did, the elf continued. "Master Gates asks that you not use any more magical, non-wand devices in the manor," said the elf formally. His attitude had completely changed ever since Harry had stopped him from beating himself. "They inadvertently damage the Fidelus Charm, which must be kept strong at all times. He also said that, although he doesn't know of any non-wand magical device in your keeping, he doesn't care either."
With that, Menial bowed and disappeared down the hall. Harry blinked. What had brought about Gates' sudden apathy? At one point, Gates himself would have climbed the steps and would have personally demanded to know what magical device Harry was keeping, but it seemed that ever since they arrived at the manor a strange mood had overtaken the Hit Wizard.
Idly, Harry wandered through the corridor, sometimes pausing to look at the peculiar, unmoving portraits. He had long since come to the conclusion that the Gates family was fabulously wealthy, but what he saw continued to amaze him. Gold was ornately worked into various mahogany chairs and tables with no apparent purpose except for blatantly flaunting the family's ridiculous riches.
At length Harry came to a plain, single door. Curious, he tried to open it, but was immediately met with a faint shock and a push backward. It was enchanted with numerous locking charms, and, if Harry was correct in his assumption, Gates had placed some of them himself.
"I wonder if this is the locked room Gates was referring to," Harry murmured aloud.
Of course it is, Pseudo-Snape said snidely. But every lock has a key. Find it.
Harry bent and searched the handle for any sort of hole that would betray the existence of a key. The only detail on the bronze handle was a strange emblem with two characters that he did not recognize. When Harry studied it further, he found it was 'V.G.,' backwards. Frowning, he straightened. There was no keyhole in sight, so therefore there could be no key.
Not all keys are made in muggle-fashion, said Pseudo-Snape. Think!
Harry's brow creased as he mulled over the situation. Suddenly, he realized how he could get through the door. Remembering the ring that the Sorting Hat had given him, he searched frantically through his pockets, hoping that he had not lost it at some point. Something cool and hard brushed against the tips of his fingers. He grasped it, brought it out, found it to be the ring, and thrust the engraved 'V.G.' initials into their counterpart on the handle. There was a click and the latched released. Hesitantly, as though he was an explorer entering a lost Egyptian tomb, he pushed the door open and crossed the threshold.
Pseudo-Snape was the first who managed a coherent thought. What the devil are we looking at Potter?
Harry could scarcely describe the room that was sprawled out before him. It appeared to have the commodities common to any aristocratic home, but the proportions were warped far out of scale. On the far side of the bedroom, an ancient, hardwood desk leaned precariously to the side, as its right legs were spindly and tall, thrusting the desk at least three feet into the air. The other pair, however, were short and fat, barely pushing the main body of the desk off of the carpet. The nearby chair looked impossible to sit in, as its arms were crooked and angled poorly, and its back was so thinly tapered that Harry guessed that if anyone attempted to sit back in it that the entire creation would collapse. The ceiling slanted sharply downward, and the right side of the room was at least six feet shorter than the right side, making the adjoining bathroom inaccessible because of cramped space. The bed itself was covered with painfully intense pink sheets, with pillows that appeared to be made from concrete. The mattress was in the shape of a trapezoid, and Harry could not fathom why anyone would wish to design it in such a way. Taking another step into the room, Harry found that the floor itself was uneven, with many shallow dips and strange lumps. The bizarre night stand, with its legs that seemed to be thinner than paper, could not possibly exist. The wooden legs should have been buckling from the weight, but were not. It was a room full of impossibilities, and Harry was becoming nauseated just from staring at it.
What is Alex hiding here, I wonder, said Pseudo-Snape rhetorically.
Harry ran his hand along the warped chair. The hairs stood up and crackled with electricity, sending a tingling sensation down his spine.
Energy, Pseudo Snape remarked. Whatever caused this, it was powerful, violent, and magical. When wizards with extraordinary power - such as Alex, Albus, and the Dark Lord - lose control of their emotions, it wrecks havoc upon their surroundings. Certain muggle physics laws that I am familiar with no longer apply here.
"What could've happened?" Harry said out loud, slowly studying his hand. The tingling feeling had vanished.
Pseudo-Snape was oddly quiet. This room must have reminded him of something truly horrible to cause such a reaction. I have no doubt that it was somehow related to Alex's parents' sadistic killer, Nori Katashi.
"Master Gates' acquaintance should not be here," timidly squeaked someone behind Harry. He whirled and found that it was short female house-elf that could have been Winky's sister in terms of appearance. Her pillowcase was stained and dirty, completely different from what Menial had been wearing. "Mr. Potter must leave," she added in a whisper.
"I'm not hurting anything. Gates is downstairs. He won't know I'm up here," said Harry with more confidence than he felt. "What happened here?"
The elf's eyes shifted back and forth uneasily. "Mr. Potter must leave! Head elf Menial will be furious with Petra if she leaves Master Gates' acquaintance in the room-that-must-not-be-spoken-of." She sounded fearful.
"Why can't it be spoken of?"
"It is forbidden," she said in a hushed voice.
Be forceful, Potter, advised Pseudo-Snape.
"Just tell me what happened in here," urged Harry. "Then I'll leave."
"Petra doesn't know!" she said. "Only Master Gates knows what happened when the Interlopers came-" She slapped her hand over her mouth.
The interlopers? Could she possibly be referring to Death Eaters? That would confirm Pseudo-Snape's hunch, then. "Why didn't the elves stop the Death Eaters- the Interlopers?"
Petra, the elf, was apparently undergoing an internal battle. On one hand, she could not reveal her master's business, on the other hand, the stranger before her said he would leave the forbidden room if she divulged that very same information.
"Elves with masters cannot fight Interlopers," Petra whispered, as though afraid of being overheard. "Elves with masters cannot strike any wizard! Arger, the old Head elf, brought us all into the kitchen. That is why no house-elf knows what happened in the room-that-must-not-be-spoken-of."
"And Gates never mentioned it?"
Petra was rubbing her two hands together nervously. "Master Gates left and returned only once! Many years ago, Master Gates came back, and Menial replaced Arger as Head elf."
"What happened to Arger?"
"No one knows!" Petra said hurriedly. "Arger vanished."
Harry frowned. "Didn't you ever ask why?"
Petra appeared shocked. "No one ever questions Master Gates!"
Harry nodded tentatively. He had a very good idea of exactly what happened to Arger.
Petra continued as anxiously as ever. "Then Master Gates went into the room-that-must-not-be-spoken-of, and when he came back out, Master Gates was very angry and the forbidden room looked like- looked like that!" She pointed a quivering finger behind Harry, clearly indicating the warped desk, chairs, bed, and walls. "Now Master Gates' acquaintance must leave! Master Gates' acquaintance said he would!"
Harry, suddenly feeling guilty over pushing the harmless elf so far, nodded his room and shut the door. Petra quickly cast some spells that Harry did not recognize and disappeared with the abruptness with which she came.
Bored, Harry once again began wandering the decorated halls in Gates manor. He thought absently of ignoring Menial's admonishment and using the mirror to talk to Hermione, but did not want to attract Gates' attention. Especially if he was going to be forced to stay at this manor for the entire holiday.
"Monster," Harry muttered. For a moment he was surprised. The word had come unbidden to his tongue.
But is that not what Gates is? The Hit Wizard was a needlessly cruel, demented man whose mind was partially ensnared by a corrupt necklace. Was that not, essentially, what a monster is?
"Love made him a monster," Dumbledore had once said. Did Gates love his parents so much that their deaths had twisted his mind into something evil? Harry shuddered.
He was suddenly reminded of Dumbledore's comparison of the two of them; Gates and Harry. Was that where fate had made its fatal error, designing their respective lives so that Harry had not grown to know his parents, while Gates did? If Harry had been older when he lost his parents, would he have become a monster like Gates? The answer was too horrible and uncertain to contemplate.
And then there was the question of what happened in the so-called forbidden room. Whatever had occurred, Harry felt that it was intricately tied to Gates' current mindset. If the ceiling in the domed room was any clue as to the Hit Wizard's mood, Gates' mind was disturbed, indeed.
The last question was, of course, Gates' involvement in the Quidditch incident. Ron's conjectures were false before, but could he be on to something? Was Gates' psychological makeup so distorted that the Hit Wizard could have done something so irrational? He had done it once before, in the Leaky Cauldron. Harry possessed, however, no hard evidence, and he was not even sure whether he believed it himself. Sirius' bond should have prevented that. In fact, Gates had attested that he had actually saved Harry's life by slowing the broom down it as it fell from the air.
Harry abruptly stopped. Without consciously knowing it, he had been walking directly to the door of the domed room where Gates was currently resting. He was facing a towering, imposing door, with an intricate carving of a soaring hawk, its face the picture of nobility. It was unpainted, though it seemed to made up of some very dark wood. Ebony, possibly.
Voices came from the other side, and Harry pressed his ear against the frame.
"What were you thinking, Alex?" It was Dumbledore. "Let me through. This is best discussed in person."
"No, I will not bring down my wards for your comfort, Albus," said Gates. He sounded bitter, irritated. "We can adequately discuss this matter through the fireplace."
"You took Harry away from Pivet Drive," Dumbledore said. "That was reckless and inexcusable."
"Excuse me?" Gates said angrily. "That home was not safe. If I would've known that some muggle would come to threaten him, I would have never given my consent. He is in my charge, Albus, and you deliberately mislead me."
"The wards were not designed to ward off muggles. Only wizards. And regardless, Harry did not inform me that his relationship with his relatives had reached such an…extent." Dumbledore sounded almost sad.
"I could imagine," scoffed Gates. "Not only do I now have to keep Potter in my manor, but the time I spent on rebuilding the wards around Hogwarts was completely wasted."
"I told you before, Alex, I am more than capable of upholding the wards myself."
"And yet there were two attacks under your watch on Hogwarts' grounds."
"Why did you choose to take Harry to your manor, Alex?" said Dumbledore in a sudden change of subject. "Is it from the auction?"
"I don't care about the damnable auction this spring," snarled Gates. "Hogwarts is unsafe, and so is the muggle residence which you had supposedly made infallible."
"And Gates manor is infallible, Alex?"
"Of course. My ancestors have lived here for centuries. The Fidelus charm resides in my very blood."
"You had no right to kidnap Harry."
Gates let out a snort of laughter. "I am permitted to do whatever it takes to ensure the boy's safety. That includes making any changes that I feel are necessary. You hardly need to be so dramatic, Albus."
"Hogwarts is the safest place for Harry right now," said Dumbledore vehemently. "You know it and so do I. Do you believe that Voldemort cannot find a way past your wards? Hogwarts has some of the most powerful wizards in Britain within its walls. You are one man."
"Nonsense," Gates retorted. "You are in no position to dictate anything."
"Percy Weasley will be more than willing to request a removal of the Gates family name from the ministry's formal records," said Dumbledore quietly. "Would that not bring disgrace upon your family? How much shame are you trying to pile upon your family? I find this tactic to be crude, but I find your arrogance to exceed my distaste for it."
"You wouldn't dare," Gates hissed, quietly, dangerously.
"I know what you desire, Alex," continued Dumbledore. "Do you wish to settle this feud?"
There was a long, considering silence before Gates spoke again. "I hardly think that it should come to that," he said slowly. "It would be wiser for you to simply return my grandfather's ring which you had stolen from my family."
"I stole nothing," said Dumbledore patiently. "We both know the origin. Your mother privately gave it to me as part of my charge to watch over you should Yegor and her perish. She was quite an intelligent woman."
"You ignorant bastard. Who are you to even speak her name?"
Dumbledore sighed heavily. "She trusted me, Alex, and although I see no hope for you now, I keep that trust. I fear that your relatives, which had, against my wishes, acquired you after your parents' deaths, ruined you beyond any chance of salvation. You have a twisted soul, Alex. One that used to be governed by love, but, because of terrible circumstances, been turned into something evil."
"Sirius lied to me for seven years," said Gates slowly and venomously. "You may not have known what he did, but you are still nothing more than an old fool who spouts baseless assertions." Gates' voice turned bitter. "May you burn in hellfire."
Dumbledore's tone did not change. "You will return Harry to Hogwarts or I will personally come to break down the wards around Gates manor. It may take me days, but you know I can."
"You want the boy?" Gates spat. "Have him. Tomorrow and not a moment earlier. Use this time to secure Hogwarts from the Dark Lord. Now get out of my sight."
There was an explosion like an air pocket bursting and then there was silence. Gates had extinguished the flames
***
The next day Harry found himself bored. In a sudden disregard for consequences, he had tried to use the mirror to talk to Hermione, but found it inactive. Either Gates had constructed some ward that prevented its use, or Hermione did not have the mirror. Harry felt that the former was more likely.
In the end, he was once again forced to wander aimlessly through the halls. A certain rebelliousness stirred within him, and he sometimes he imagined himself kicking over a marble pedestal for the simple sake of having something to break the sheer monotony. At the best of times it was difficult for him to stay locked up in one place for long, and at worst it was dangerous.
He was wandering through a wing of the manor he had not explored before when he came upon a large, round bronze door with archaic carvings and symbols carved onto it. Despite its highly polished exterior, it looked old, even ancient. A mage, the tip and flash of his wand intricately detailed, stood like a sentry at the center. His right hand was facing up, the palm open. On it was some sort of locking mechanism. There was no handle or keyhole, but instead was that familiar symbol that Harry had seen on the handle of the door to the forbidden room.
Harry decided immediately that this was the vault Gates had been referring to, and his initial reaction was to leave. However, the ornate carvings on the door fascinated him, and he found himself outlining the runes with his finger. The bronze was cold to the touch, and felt as though it had never been touched in a thousand years. This vault must be the oldest artifact in the manor.
Curiosity overtook him, and he gingerly drew the ring and pressed it against the mechanism in the mage's palm. Air hissed from along the rim. A long, strenuous rumbling issued forth from it, as though it was being pushed backwards against its will. More air rushed out from the ever-widening opening, and Harry coughed from its stale taste. Dust. At last the rumbling stopped, and the bronze door latched into place with a metallic clang. Harry, examining the opening, could find no hinge on the bronze door, and concluded that some extremely tricky charms must have been placed for it to have apparently floated back.
Harry turned around, searching for any sign of another. The hall was empty. Gates was on the other side of the manor, and, while the door was truly loud, he probably did not hear the disturbance. Harry crossed the threshold and stepped onto a plated floor.
There was no treasure, or any sign of riches as Harry had expected. Instead, he was now in yet another corridor, its walls lined with smaller, similarly shaped bronze doors. Evidently, the vault was split into individual rooms for organization. The only objects that broke the rather plain and Spartan look were two empty suits of armor at the far end of the hall. They guarded a plated gold door studded with rubies.
Harry slowly went down the hall, his eyes going back and forth as he passed each pair of doors. One of them was crude and was reinforced with a titanium bar which could only have a purpose of keeping something inside. Its battered and strained appearance made Harry uneasy, and a sudden jolt of movement from within shook the hinges. Harry gave it a wide berth.
When he finally stood before the ruby-encrusted inner-vault door at the end, he locked his hand around the unadorned handle and, with a hint of trepidation, pulled. It slid with surprising ease, and revealed a long corridor line with live, hundreds of moving portraits on both sides, the far wall cleared of any feature save a gigantic, life-size painting of a comely, black-haired man. The frames would have been considered tacky in any other setting, but the presence of authentic gold and wealth had somehow eliminated that impression. Harry stepped inside, feel like he was entering some religious shrine.
"You there," said the first portrait on Harry's right. He looked a little like Gates except for his swept-back, groomed appearance. "You are not of the Gates line. State your business and the reason for your coming here." He eyed Harry with a critical air.
"Errr," Harry said, looking nervously from portrait to portrait. None of them said a word, but their scowls required none. He turned back to the portrait he was currently addressing, who was apparently a spokesman of some sort. "Alexander Gates brought me here."
"Alex?" the portrait said with some glee, his expression clearing up immediately. "Ah, it's about time. I'm afraid the current family of Gates have forgotten their ancestors who have been residing in the vaults for so very long. We are, after all, the ancestors. Every last one of us, starting with the very first." He nodded to the back, where the comely wizard nodded imperceptibly.
"Forgive me," continued the portrait. "My name is Vladimir Zadav Vasili Gates. I am Alexander's grandfather, the most recently deceased, therefore bearer of the family title of Vladimir."
"What?"
Vladimir looked politely puzzled. "I see. You know not of our traditions. Whenever a son that belongs to the paternal line of Gates dies, he earns the addition of the name Vladimir. I am the current holder. When my son Yegor dies, the title will pass to him."
There was something very tragic in the way that the portrait was unaware of his son's death, and Harry did not have the heart to correct him. Instead he said awkwardly, "What is this place?"
"The shrine of the ancestors, of course," said Vladimir proudly. "Yegor and young Alexander have not visited us in many years. I have long wondered why. I suppose you are here to deliver some sort of message? To inform us of Yegor's absence?"
Vladimir's question had brought up a valid point. Why was he here? Harry was not sure. "Not exactly."
Vladimir frowned. "Then I would like to see Yegor or his wife, Casseopeia. It is within in our rights to request, or even demand, an audience with a blood relative once a decade. Where is my son?"
"He's dead," Harry said quietly.
Vladimir's eyes went wide. "Dead? Impossible. Our blood does not whither until at least two centuries."
"Death Eaters killed him and his wife," Harry said. He did not look up to meet the portrait's eyes. Reporting the deaths of others disturbed him.
"Death Eaters," echoed the portraits through the corridor, for the first time speaking. Their words were cold and malevolent, like ice.
"I warned him!" Vladimir declared. "The Dark Lord and his followers were no place for a wizard from the Gates line. Why, the majority of them are nothing more than common wizards, using the killing curse in the most boring fashion possible. No honor at all. Yes, this was the one issue I agreed with Casseopeia on. The witch had more sense than the wizard!" He laughed.
The portraits nodded and murmured in agreement.
"Forgive me for being so blunt, but it was foolish for Yegor to become involved!" Vladimir hissed. "The entire line has been put into question." He turned to an adjacent portrait. Picture of a bulky man in a small robe. "Nicholas, what others of the paternal line still exist?"
"Few," reported the wizard. "Only two families."
"And Alex," said Vladimir suddenly. "Did he survive?"
Harry felt the surrounding eyes focus on him. "After a fashion," he said darkly.
"What do you mean?" asked Vladimir with narrowed eyes.
"He took on the Pravus necklace."
Vladimir's mouth gaped open, and even the normally immobile wizard at the end of the corridor turned to face Harry in grim shock. More whispers. Harry felt strangely like he was on trial. The stillness of the room was palpable.
"Blasphemy," snarled Vladimir. His complexion blanched and he looked quite angry. "You slander an heir to the Gates crest. Why the devil would he take on the Pravus necklace?"
"Honor dictated that he had to avenge his parents' deaths, doesn't it?"
"Yes," Vladimir said. "But one does not create a Pravus necklace for the sake of vengeance. It is distasteful! The monstrosities that such an artifact could do to a wizard would outweigh any possible increase in honor."
"Vladimir," said the bulky wizard tentatively. He shifted his weight forward on the chair he was sitting on and dropped his voice. "Yegor's wife had the creation chapter as part of her dowry. Alex had access."
"A lie," snapped Vladimir, rounding fully on the fatter wizard from within his resplendent frame. "Impossible that a Gates could fall into that pitfall." He spat the last word. The hall erupted in a cacophony of sound and voices.
"It would explain why Alex hasn't come to us-"
"It's a lie! We must not trust outsiders!"
"We should never have brought that damned chapter onto manor grounds! Burn it from its place in the vault!"
"-worth thousands of galleons, at least-"
"Never!"
"SILENCE!" Vladimir roared. Breathing heavily, he gazed at Harry with piercing eyes. "There have only been two Vladimir rings made. If Alexander truly sent you here as you claim-"
"-brought me here-"
"What is your reason for being here?" snapped Vladimir impatiently.
"I don't have one."
"Seeing the sights, then?" asked Vladimir scathingly, his voice becoming high as he continued. "I suggest you leave. The crest of Gates is decaying and dying. No pure heirs are left save Alex, and he must be banished from our line." Seeming to gather himself up once more, Vladimir directed his imposing glare down upon Harry. "Leave. Get out of this falling house. The Gates line is failing at last, and there is no preventing it."
Another wave of voices.
"You speak nonsense Vladimir."
"-completely unfounded-"
"On what basis do you make your ascertains?"
"The Gates family line can continue through a lesser branch, nonetheless."
However, Harry's eyes were fixed on the comely old wizard at the back, whose eyes had turned into bits of obsidian. He was solemn, as though he was witnessing a slow funeral procession. Heavy gravity wore down on his face, and his eyes became downcast.
While the portraits bickered, Harry furtively backed out of the room, going unnoticed by Vladimir and the fat wizard, the two of which were engaged in a fierce argument. Many other such arguments broke out through the corridor. Their loud, vehement voice resonated out of their portraits, spilling together to form a thick torrent of anger.
"YOU DARE ACCUSE ME OF ABANDONING THE HOUSE?"
"WHO ARE YOU TO DOUBT ME?"
Behold, the greatest of the Gates line, said Pseudo-Snape.
Vladimir's voice rang out above the mingle, but was quickly lose again. Somehow, the scene was disappointing. Generation upon generation of deceased wizards found their home here, and now, faced with the possible destruction of their line, they instantly turned against each other, like animals fighting over scraps. It was ignoble, more so because these men claimed to be refined.
When Harry closed the gold-plated door the voices lowered into a muffled din, their collective outrage now mostly silenced.
The fat wizard had mentioned the missing chapter. The creation chapter, as the fat wizard had called it. Somehow, Harry knew that, whatever he wanted to know about Gates, it would be found in that section. He only needed to find it.
***
Alexander Vladimir Black Gates sat in the red velvet chair, staring blankly into the smouldering fireplace. The fire had long since died out, but he did not notice. His sense of vision was hardly being recognized in his mind. He felt the coolness of the wine glass in his hand -- his mother's, he remembered. He could smell the musty scent of hundreds of decaying books on their respective shelves, the yellowing parchment mixing with the scent of smoke and tea leaves. Tea leaves. Alexander could scarcely believe how much the room still smelled like tea despite the fact that its occupant had long since gone onward.
This room was his mother's. Her niche. Her little corner of the manor which was completely and undeniably her own. Her dowry was composed of old books and tomes, and Yegor, her husband and Alexander's father, who never had much interest in books, had given her permission to construct her own library. So she did, and almost as soon as it was constructed, that was where mother had spent the majority of her time.
For a long time, when he was much younger, Alexander would watch her from the doorway, his eyes peeping from behind the woodwork, trying to understand why she spent so much time there. Father never complained, and when Alexander asked him about it, Yegor would simply stare at him with his cold gray eyes until Alex lost his nerve. She was never what one would call a particularly loving mother. For the most part, she stayed apart from Alexander's life, choosing instead to be remote from the family, whittling away time and her precious beauty by reading page after page of her books.
Sometimes, when Alexander was feeling a bit reckless, he would creep up behind the winged chair and stare blankly at the page his mother was reading, trying to decipher the lines of symbols. Her silver slip of a bracelet, a genuine Black family artifact, flashed in the firelight as she turned the pages. When he came this close, he could smell the tea in her cup, the special dark blend that she had imported from some isolated village in China. And, occasionally, during the evenings, there was a wine glass there too, filled with a rich red wine from the manor's private vineyards. His mother, seeing him, would give him a brief smile, and then return her gaze to the book. She was never one to speak idly, and those times were no exceptions. She was educated.
As for physical displays of affection, she tried, but it always felt forced. Almost on a whim, on some of these evenings, she would gather him in her arms and hold him for a minute, whispering something softly into his ear. It was in another language, so Alexander never understood it, but it was reassuring nonetheless.
Yegor, however, frowned upon the amount of time he spent with her, and Alexander could sometimes hear them shout in blazing arguments.
"HE'S OLD ENOUGH!" Yegor would shout. "IT'S TIME!"
"LET HIM CHOOSE!" she was scream back in a half-furious, half-pleading voice.
She used all of her energy and strength in these rows, and every time she ended up winning. Yegor would stomp out fuming, and she would slump back into her red velvet chair, sip her tea, and close her eyes. Of course, back then Alexander did not understand the reasons behind these arguments, but he did now. What other evils had his mother saved him from?
When Yegor invited his sister to the manor, Alexander was terrorized by his two burly cousins, whose magic prowess had far exceeded his. They, unlike Alex, had already begun meddling in the dark arts, and while their hexes were not permanent or exceptionally powerful, they were painful. And disgraceful.
When Yegor saw this, he called Alexander to him. "You are a Gates pureblood!" he scolded. "You will eventually inherit this manor, this power, and all of my worldly possessions, and yet you cannot fend for yourself. What shame will you bring upon my manor?"
"None, sir," Alexander mumbled. This was the appropriate answer to every one of Yegor's questions.
"If your mother-" Yegor's jaw worked as though he was trying to swallow a rock. "Your mother is very stubborn about many things. She believes you to be unready. You are a Gates. Do you think yourself to be ready?"
Alexander hung his head and Yegor straightened, suddenly disgusted. "Leave."
Alexander, his throat clamping up, dashed away, hoping to avoid the counterattack that his cousins were undoubtedly planning. When he came to the double doors of the library, he saw a fleeting image of his cousins charging up behind him before he shut the door and locked it.
His cousins whispered taunts and insults from the other side.
"Is Alex too afraid of getting his precious blood on the floor?"
"What's wrong? Afraid? You coward."
Alexander crept up to his mother's chair, but unlike the other times he did it, he was choking on some imaginary lump.
When she looked down and saw his face, the corners of her mouth turned down in a faint frown and, for the first time ever, she set the book casually onto a nearby table. Without questioning him, she swept him into her arms and held him close. She might have known what had passed between Yegor and Alexander, or she might not have. Regardless, she sensed his deep distress, and to him, became a savior.
"Your cousins," she said simply, looking at his bruised chin. Alexander smiled weakly.
The next day Yegor and Casseopeia had a momentous argument. Even the house elves, who were normally indifferent to the tribulations, seemed shaken. The two of them fought for at least an hour before Yegor thrust open the double-doors and stalked out, pausing briefly next to Alexander.
"If the only trait you inherited from us is your mother's stubbornness, you may be formidable yet." And with no further words, he strode away.
The next day a man in white robes came to the manor and went into the library, where he greeted Casseopeia with a smile and a nod. One of the house elves retrieved a comfy chair for him and the two of them spoke for a long time, the man's face occasionally nodding understandingly. His gaze would flicker sporadically at the door where Alexander was standing, as if in appraisal. It made Alex feel very uncomfortable.
At last, mother picked up a mass of papers that had been sitting on a nearby table, and, with surprising deftness for such a gentle woman, tore a single page from the makeshift spine and handed it to the man. The man smiled and gingerly pocketed it. Alexander's mouth went agape. If he was correct in his observation, his mother had just given the man a page from her most treasured possession: a chapter from a book called Confessions of a Dark Wizard: The Pravus Necklace.
From that day on Alexander learned so-called 'clean' magic, or defensive curses and hexes. Unlike Yegor, who desired Alex to master the Dark Arts, mother had chosen a safer, less malicious method of defense. Yegor, whenever he saw these sessions, grumbled under his breath. He was clearly unhappy.
At the end of each session Alexander would go back to the library and gleefully tell his mother about every spell he had learned, sometimes giving demonstrations. She would smile faintly the entire time, never saying a word, and when Alex performed a spell with his wand, her eyes would go wide with surprise. She would watch him with some surprise, trying to read him. It was not often that mother was surprised. In fact Alexander was not sure that she was ever surprised.
Soon, another page from Casseopeia's collection disappeared and another man arrived, this one wearing a sleek black robe with carefully sewn fringes. He was not as kindly as the other teacher, and his lessons proved to be more difficult and challenging.
When each lesson concluded, Casseopeia would give her son one of her faint, almost nonexistent smiles. It did not matter to Alexander that she could never be a proper mother. Her solace was in books. What he knew was that she saved him from his cousins, salvaged him from humiliation, and brought him up from ruin. When he was in dire need, she sacrificed a personal part of herself.
And, on that fateful day when the Death Eaters came, she died with an irrevocable finality that Alexander could not reverse, and in the worst way possible. Many times Alexander would sink into a fitful depression, remember his failing, and never forgetting. The Death Eaters would pay, he promised himself. He would kill every last one of them, and restore the honor that had been lost.
Murder, kill, the voices would murmur in his dreams and in his waking state. He absently held the silver bracelet - his mother's silver bracelet - in his right hand. Kill for that which is lost.
And so, when given the chance, that is precisely what he did. His mother, his savior and the only person who had ever loved him, would never go unavenged. Alexander had promised himself that, and, for completion, he promised it to himself again.
"Master Gates!" squeaked Menial, dashing into the room. His thoughts were rudely shattered. "Bad men! Evil men! Interlopers! Evil men in the manor!"
Gates' mouth gaped open, then pulled back into a feral snarl. His hand involuntarily squeezed and something burst. He looked down and saw that it was the wine glass. The wine glass that his mother had so delicately sipped wine from for countless years. Sadness struck him, even as he looked at his now-bleeding hand.
"Master!"
The blood had transfixed him, revolted him. He was frozen to the ground. Abruptly he broke out of his daze and stammered, "Sano!" The blood vanished, and wounds healed. He breathed again.
"They're in the front hall, master! Four!"
How-?
Hot, icy rage coursed into his brain, frying his nerves. How dare they enter these halls! He bared his teeth, and, clenching his wand, he rushed through the library doors, hardly glancing up. The ceiling was now showing tumultuous gray clouds with patches of deep red sky. Crimson winter.
***
Harry opened the third circular door in the vault, yanking it open with a single, forceful pull. Stale air swept into his face.
The last two vaults he had entered contained nothing but heaps of gold and jewels, thrown carelessly in brown sacks, some splitting open from weight. It was very revealing for him to see the indifference in the way the gold was stored, as thought it was placed there in an afterthought or whim. The former families who had occupied this manor apparently stored little importance on raw wealth, and instead focused on the more refined niches of life, such as arts and paintings worth millions apiece.
This vault, however, was nearly barren, the floor covered with nothing more than dust. Standing in the precise center of the room was a short, marble pedestal, and on the pedestal was a small stack of papers. Harry's breath quickened. Was this what he hoped it was?
Carefully, he approached it, taking care to check the corners for anything particularly nasty. Nothing. Some of the miniature vaults, Harry suspected, held an array of vicious creatures, some of which, if the strength of the locks on the doors were any clue, were quite large. His feet stirred up the dust as he walked, tossing it in swirls.
When he at last stood before the pedestal, he carefully picked up the first page and squinted to read the writing. The ink was still distinct and clear, but the parchment it was written on was yellowed and old, and, had there not been any appropriate charms cast on it, would have crumbled in his hands. He went back to the door, angling the paper so that it caught more of the corridor's torchlight.
Power; that is what my research is trying to find. I, who merely research the effects of the Pravus necklace, spent many years searching for the original material made by the original creator of the Pravus necklace. Many years I searched Mongolia for the source, until at last I ventured upon it in the most unlikely of places. A muggle tradeshop.
The original works written have long since decayed away, and I, who have uncovered the almost-lost secrets of the Pravus necklace, will once more relate the process of its creation.
The very strength of the Pravus necklace lies in the material used. Anything will due, but the more complex the object, the more power the necklace shall create. Enchanted objects must not be used under any circumstances. The effects are sporadic and dangerous. A subject, who once bore a necklace made from gravel with the portkey enchantment, was teleported to Southern China. It seems that the source object somehow retains some of its original enchantment, and transfers it to the host. I am unsure of the precise process. Further investigation will, of course, be necessary.
-cccccrack-
A wand fired off a screeching spell from down the corridor, making Harry nearly drop the papers. Almost throwing them back onto the pedestal in his haste, many of the papers falling onto the floor, Harry drew his wand and leapt out of the room, eyes searching for the source of the interruption. Nothing.
He dashed down the corridor, his shoes slapping against the hard plated floor. When he crossed the threshold of the vault, the bronze door slid back into place with a resounding clang. He froze, suddenly very aware of the battle that was occurring further down the hallway, perhaps in the main foyer. There were shouts and orders, and the cold realization came upon Harry that he was being hunted.
***
"Infligo!" Alexander Gates roared, sending a cone of white fringed foam at the four clustered Death Eaters. They scampered apart as the curse approached like so many cockroaches.
"It's Gates!" shrieked one of them.
"Exuro! Exuro!" shouted Gates, firing curses at their retreating backs. One smashed into a table, causing it to burst with nonexistent flame. "Accio Mask!"
The mask from the nearest Death Eater ripped off of its owner, revealing the sneering face of Augustus Rookwood. "It seems that I at last stand before the great patriarch of the family Gates!" he said scathingly.
Anger flared up in Alexander's bowels, and he spat, "Infligo!" The spell smashed to pieces several mahogany tables and a porcelain vase, though it missed its target. It at length faded away, but not before damaging the walls and making a Death Eater dive away in panic. Gates now stood alone in the main foyer, the four Death Eaters now hiding behind corners, overturned tables, or furniture.
"Avada Kedavra!" screamed a Death Eater. Gates leapt out of the way as a flash of green light thundered past. Alexander was surprised. It would take quite a powerful wizard to produce a Killing Curse of that magnitude.
Kill, murder! urged the voices. String up their necks!
Gates snarled and hardened his resolve. He bent his legs slightly, preparing himself to deliver a strong curse. "Accio Pedestal!" He roared, and a nearby, heavy marble pedestal leapt to his command. "Wingardium Leviosa!" It halted obediently in midair. He paused for a moment, as if to gather his strength, and with a loud voice bellowed, "Waddiwasi!"
The pedestal shot across the room as if expelled by a slingshot, smashing into a table a Death Eater was hiding behind. The finely crafted rosewood table exploded into splinters, and the Death Eater flew backwards, landing with a heavy thud on his back. An agonizing groan came out of him.
Gates was about to finish the Death Eater off when another voice shouted, "Stupefy!" The fallen Death Eater slumped down. The Hit Wizard's wand rigidly jerked to the direction of the newcomer, and something in the back of his brain prickled. He sucked in his breath. It was Potter.
"Foolish boy!" Gates roared. "Get out of here!"
Rookwood, leaping out from behind a corner, seized his chance. "You two," he ordered. "hold off the Hit Wizard! I'll fulfill our master's will on the boy!" Potter, with a confounding look of determination, looked at Gates meaningfully, then turned and sprinted back down the corridor.
The other two Death Eaters rose from their positions and shouted, "Avada Kedavra!" simultaneously, sending two jets of green lights in Gates' direction. The Hit Wizard's eyes grew wide and he agilely whirled behind a nearby wall. He saw both Killing Curses smash into the wood paneling across from him, putting gaping holes into the woodwork. He had to get to Potter, and soon. It seemed that the boy had somehow premeditated his sudden arrival and flight, perhaps trying to split up the Death Eater group.
"No," Gates muttered. "Too clever for him."
Timid footsteps approached Alexander's position behind the wall, and the Hit Wizard stiffened in preparation. Just as the footsteps seemed to be directly on the other side, Gates sidestepped and spat, "Infligo!"
The curse struck on Death Eater a glancing blow, sending him reeling backwards but not knocking him down. His partner managed to fire off a "Crucio!" before Gates could return to his cover behind the wall.
The Hit Wizard's wand slashed in a horizontal movement. "Abiuro!" he incanted, and the Aegis Shield absorbed the Cruciatus Curse, freezing it and then singing it into a harmless vapor. Gates managed to catch the shocked expression on the Death Eater's face before he returned to his cover. Evidently the Death Eaters were unacquainted with such rare magic as the Aegis Shield.
A Death Eater shouted something unintelligible and a deafening boom followed by the sound of splintering boards and cracking plaster. The wall shook from what was evidently an explosion, and he grabbed a nearby chair to steady himself. The Death Eaters had used a Reducto curse on the wall, trying to destroy the barrier and the man behind it. Unfortunately for them, Gates manor was wrought with wood from the strongest and healthiest trees, some of which came from private groves in eastern Europe, and were charmed with several spells. The walls were sturdier than steel beams. But despite these facts, the curse had done considerable damage. Gates realized he was dealing with some skilled Death Eaters. Professionals.
A Death Eater growled in frustration. Gates tried to furtively glance at them but was nearly hit with a curse when he approached the end of the wall.
The second Death Eater began muttering something to his partner. Alexander leaned closer to hear, but all he caught was, "-careful."
When the first Death Eater started to respond, Alexander, who did not want to miss his chance, sidestepped until he was at the doorway and roared, "Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!" in quick succession.
The Death Eaters crouched and dived sideways with surprising speed, and to Gates' dismay only one of the spells hit their mark. Two hit the sofa while the other one shot further down into another room in a red streak of light. The last singed the back of a Death Eater's leg, not enough to render him unconscious, but enough to send him sprawling to the ground.
"Infligo!" countered a Death Eater, a wild grin on his face.
Gates clenched his teeth and snarled, "Abiuro!" The shield blocked the majority of the curse but he still felt himself being pushed back from the enormous amounts of force.
The curse faded and Gates readied his wand. "Accio pedestal!" The marble pedestal, which had been laying on horizontally on the floor since Gates' last use of it, leapt off the ground. "Wingardium Leviosa!" It halted directly between Gates and the Death Eater, preventing the Death Eater from gaining a clear short. His partner, who had been crawling back onto his feet after Gates' first salvo of spells, finally got to his feet. "Waddiwasi!" Gates roared, flicking his wand at the unsteady Death Eater. The pedestal slammed fully into his chest, sending him flying backwards. He crashed into the wall and crumpled to the ground, totally inert.
The last Death Eater rigidly raised his wand, as if preparing himself for Gates' next move. The two circled each other slowly, each searching his opponent for weaknesses. It was Alexander who attacked first.
"Everbero!" Gates shouted, and an invisible force smashed the Death Eater across his face, making him reel backwards. Grinning, he slashed his wand downwards, and a purple light shot out of his wand, slicing through the air like a knife.
The Death Eater leapt to the side and bellowed, "Fumo!"
Alexander, who had not been expecting the curse, sidestepped too late and was hit in the thigh with the Smoking Spell. His mind raced in alarm, realizing the implications of the spell.
"In-" A coughing fit shook Gates' body, and he could not finish the incantation. Plumes of smoke rushed out of his mouth, his nostrils. He quickly retreated, all the being overtaken by fleeting spasms.
"Avada Kedavra!" shouted the Death Eaters, almost laughing. The green light burst through the wall Gates was using for cover.
Gates tried to concentrate. "Finite Incan-" More coughing.
"Avada Kedavra!" A priceless painting, which had been in the family for centuries, exploded in a flurry of flames and ash.
"Finite Incantatem!" Gates managed, pointing the wand at himself. The fits ended, and the last of the constricting smoke escaped through his mouth.
An alarm sounded throughout his skull. Potter was in trouble. Rookwood would most definitely catch up with him, and there was no way the boy could hold off the Death Eater for long. Gates had to end this duel, and soon.
The Hit Wizard directed his wand at his stomach. "Fortitudo!" he said in a voice just above a whisper. The strengthening spell surged into his body and flowed into the tips of his fingers. His legs, arms, and muscles felt hard and powerful, a strange numbing sensation coming over his calves and forearms. Perhaps attacking the Death Eater in muggle-fashion would overwhelm him.
"Where is The-Debauched-Savior?" mocked the Death Eater, his voice slightly muffled from behind the mask. "Where is the great hero? The invulnerable wizard? The wizard born to a blood traitor."
Gates felt his temper rise. The necklace on his chest seemed to scream out in fury, demanding, ordering, commanding him to tear every last limb from the Death Eater's body. He rounded the corner, coming face to face with his opponent, blood surging into his head, adrenaline heightening his senses. The strengthening spell further tightened his muscles.
The Death Eater smirked. "Death to blood traitors. Avada Ked-"
The Death Eater never finished the curse. With a speed and agility that made Gates little more than a blur, the Hit Wizard grabbed the Death Eater's neck and lifted him into the air, tightening his hand as his anger increased.
Slice, tear, rip apart, smother.
The Death Eater struggled, dropping his wand, making throaty gasps for air. His legs kicked at Gates' knees but the Hit Wizard did not care. The tiny bones that made up the elaborate masterpiece that is the backbone snapped and cracked under Gates' grip, slowly, irrevocably crushing the man's spine.
At last, in one great fit of rage, Gates let out a primal roar and threw the Death Eater against the wall with all his strength. The Death Eater's head smashed heavily into the carved wood panel, ruining it, breaking it into splinters. He fell to the ground, bleeding at the head, his lips moving but producing no sound.
The coppery scent of blood filled the air, and something in Gates' bowels squirmed. His anger cooled. To see fresh, warm life gush from its source unsettled him. Who knew the human body had so much blood? A prickling in his brain alerted him to something further down the hall.
***
Harry was sprinting down the hall with Rookwood in close pursuit, desperately dodging the hexes that the Death Eater was sending his way. He had originally planned on splitting the Death Eaters up by leading a few away while Gates dealt with the others, but he was beginning to regret his hastiness. He had not counted on Rookwood's speed or agility, and he was having a hard time staying far enough ahead to evade the curses.
"Avada Kedavra!" Rookwood shouted.
Harry turned hard to the right and a wooden table erupted into emerald flames. Harry rolled and fired a counter spell. "Stupefy!" he incanted. "Stupefy!" It was not enough to cause any real damage, but it was adequate for his purposes.
Rookwood's wand was little more than a light flash. "Protego!" The two stunning spells rebounded off the shield, flying harmless through the air. "I have to admit, Harry, the Dark Lord wasn't exaggerating when he emphasized your skill. But it won't be enough to save you, I'm afraid. Crucio!"
The curse flew over Harry's head and smashed into the wall. A cold chill settled into his stomach as he realized the corridor he had ran into was a dead end. It merely led to a small, doorless dome sitting room. Using an elegant rosewood pillar as cover, Harry tried to buy time.
"So Voldemort punished you for failing the first time, did he?" Harry called out.
Rookwood abruptly halted, and a sharp intake of breath told Harry that the Death Eater had clearly heard his words. "You arrogant child, how dare you say the Dark Lord's name!"
"What?" Harry continued loudly, very aware of his enemy's growing anger. "You afraid that if you mess this up too that Voldemort will kill you this time?"
Rookwood laughed, but it came out as harsh and forced. "Ignorant boy. You are already dead."
"You screwed up last time though, didn't you?"
"Only blind luck saved you from the Dark Lord's jinx," snarled Rookwood, all traces of laughter gone from his voice.
"I always thought Death Eaters used more direct tactics," said Harry. He chances to glance around the pillar. Rookwood was several meters away, glowering, but keeping a distance. "Why the jinxes and traps? You never hesitated to kill muggles and wizards in their own homes before."
"You astound me with your ignorance," Rookwood said scathingly. "There is no doubt in my mind that the Dark Lord overestimated you. Hogwarts is scarcely a common wizard home, and your mind cannot possibly appreciate the subtleties that went into formulating my plan. I gave the Dark Lord the chance to come within reach - within the reach of your wand. Every loophole in the wards, every-" He abruptly stopped.
Further down the corridor, there was the sound of something crashing.
"It's over, Harry. Submit now and I will permit you a painless execution."
Harry clutched his wand tightly to his chest but said nothing.
"Very well," drawled Rookwood, responding to Harry's silence. "Now the fun begins…"
Harry whirled around the wooden pillar and bellowed, "Infligo!"
Rookwood's eyes went wide and he clumsily dived sideways to avoid the oncoming cone of white. His right arm smashed against the wall and he let out a growl of pain.
"Stupefy!" Harry incanted, hoping to catch the Death Eater unawares.
"Protego!" spat Rookwood, still managing to wield his wand despite an injured arm. "Reducto!"
The curse slammed into the ornate wooden pillar Harry was hiding behind, demolishing it into dust, leaving Harry dangerously exposed.
"Petrificus Totalus!" said Harry, desperately searching for a way out. Then, seeing a chandelier hanging precariously from an alcove in the ceiling, he shouted, "Discerpo!"
The Severing Curse shot up into the air like a bullet, the disc of light cutting cleanly through the bronze chains that hung the mass of gold and glass from a cherry ceiling. Rookwood, who hesitated briefly upon hearing the curse's incantation, glanced up soon enough to see the chandelier tumbling down from the ceiling. He leapt forward just before the chandelier crashed into the place where he was standing only a second ago.
"Clever, Harry," Rookwood hissed. "But not enough. Expelliarmus!"
Before Harry could conjure a defense his wand flew from his hands and skidded across the ground. His mind went blank.
Use it Potter! snapped Pseudo-Snape.
The words barely registered. Harry was staring up at Rookwood's grinning face.
The Dark Mark! Use it!
Almost unwillingly, Harry closed his eyes, trying to focus on himself and to ignore the heavily breathing Death Eater before him. It felt like minutes, but it was less than five seconds when he felt a release and a numbing sensation.
He felt himself being pulled along as if in a tide, the connection being very strong and very near. Soon he was experiencing a variety of emotions. Fear. Anxiety. Hate. His right arm was faintly throbbing, and it was at this moment when Harry realized he was probing Rookwood's mind.
Throw away the wand, Pseudo-Snape gently urged. He felt himself echoing that command.
Obediently, through a misty haze, he sensed and knew that his wand was now lying inertly on the ground.
Sit-
A sudden, sharp pain flooded his senses, and Harry felt himself being forcibly thrown out of Rookwood's mind. His eyes snapped open, and he was once again in his original body, watching Gates stand over Rookwood's unconscious body. Gates had either used a spell or his hand to knock the Death Eater out, but either way, Rookwood was now thoroughly disabled. And, sure enough, Rookwood's wand was lying at Harry's feet.
"Potter, get your things," said Gates through clenched teeth. "We are leaving for Hogwarts. Now."
A million questions popped into Harry's head. "How did they get through the Fidelus Charm-"
"I don't know," said Gates bitingly. "The secret to the Fidelus Charm is in the Gates family bloodline, specifically, mine. The Dark Lord has been accomplishing impossible things as of late. I will not repeat myself. Gather your luggage, or it will be left here. Menial and the other house elves have been ordered into the kitchens for the time being, so expect nothing from them. Go."
Harry did so, and when he met Gates by the fireplace in the manor's library, he could not help but see that four new sparkling diamonds had been added to his already extensive necklace.
(A/N: And so concludes chapter 24. I hope it wasn't too overbearing for anyone; I know it dragged for a while. It was a real pain in creating an entirely new location, especially considering we don't really know what a normal pure blood wizard's house looks like, except for the extremes. Gates manor isn't normal, granted, but I think I pulled it off OK.
Chapter 24: Back to Hogwarts. We learn more about Harry's earlier 'vision' from Snape, and, specifically, why Snape never saw it. Plus we learn the fate of Fudge, and Dr. Perry (which many of you will find to be deliciously ironic, I'm sure). Secondly, Christmas gifts are exchanged (and Harry has yet to purchase his) and awkwardness ensues. Lastly, Snape receives a letter (one that he doesn't want at all) and the Dueling competition is reduced to four contestants. It's better than it sounds.