(A/N: Extremely sorry for the long delay! I sort of lost this chapter when I moved into college last week, and have been scrambling to get it back. Anyway, I got it back from one of my beta's, and everything is fine again. This story will be on pause until I get settled into college, so I beg you to hold on! Thanks to my very loyal and patient readers!)
Harry was lying back in his bed, his family photo album propped up on a pillow, gazing at the pictures. He hadn't always done this on his birthday, but for some reason, it had become important to him.
No, that wasn't right. Not just some reason. He knew very well the exact reason. Last year he had come close to losing the entire collection. All of the photos featuring his mother had actually been destroyed.
No, that wasn't right either. All of the photos featuring his mother that were in his possession.
By that monster Alexander Gates...
It didn't matter now, he knew. He had already paid for his mistakes twofold, and he wasn't going to dwell on them overmuch. At least he didn't want to.
But it was times like these, when he was looking through his album, that he would remember, and he hated himself for letting it happen. It was strange how he began to associate his family's pictures with the Hit Wizard Gates, and even stranger the memories it conjured.
The bastard would probably have a good laugh over that.
Of course, the bastard, better known to the world as Alexander Vladimir Black Gates, was in no position to laugh, or do much else for that matter. As far as Harry knew, Gates was still sitting in the dungeons of Hogwarts, his eyes glazed over, reliving his worst nightmares as the slow process of transforming into a Dementor trudged on.
Harry turned the page, and the most recent addition to his collection of photos temporarily stunned him. It was a photo of Lily alone, standing on one of the hills outside of Hogwarts, the castle in the background. Her back was towards the taker of the picture, but regardless, she was beautiful beyond words.
Professor McGonagall had given it to him in an envelope, saying that, as Head of House Gryffindor, it was her duty to return all non-threatening, confiscated articles back to their respective owners at the end of each year. Harry had never seen this particular picture before, and he was sure that nothing was confiscated from him over the course of his sixth year.
When he had told Professor McGonagall this, a stern look crossed her features and she glanced at the name on the envelope and said, "Yes, it definitely says Harry James Potter. The heads of house have free access to the confiscation box, so clearly one of us submitted it."
The only other item that came with it was a slip of parchment, which had written ambiguously on it: This doesn't belong to me.
Harry had no idea what the note meant, but, for some reason, he kept it anyway. It was placed behind the picture in the album in the hopes that he could at some point identify the writer.
The album of compiled pictures of him and Sirius at Grimmauld Place that he had received from Hermione last Christmas sat nearby, not yet looked through. Harry set aside his pictures of his parents and pulled up the other album. As he looked through the photos, it slowly dawned on him that the pain that he used to feel when he saw something that reminded him of Sirius had gone. Replacing it was a warm remembrance.
He wasn't sure of the precise point in time when he began to accept and overcome Sirius' death, but he knew now that he was past it. It had taken him a long time, however, and he could still clearly remember the times when a tumultuous mixture of depression and anger overcame him whenever he encountered something that bit deeply into his memories of Sirius.
Closing the books and setting them carefully away, he went downstairs and was only a little surprised to see the Dursley's weren't there. On the table was a scrawled note that seemed to have been written as an afterthought.
Boy,
Going to Aunt Marge's. Will be back in three days.
-Uncle Vernon
Harry threw the paper away and scrounged through the refrigerator for breakfast. A slice of meatloaf on the plate - last night's dinner, he presumed - greeted him. Without bothering to heat it up, he placed it on the table and ate it cold. It was surprisingly delicious. He never knew Aunt Petunia was a good cook, he decided. But then, he never had too many opportunities to try her meals.
Harry checked the clock and found that it would not be too much longer before Dumbledore would arrive at the door to take him to the Burrow.
Taking advantage of the Dursleys' absence, Harry went into the living room and turned on the television. He was not prepared for the newscast that appeared.
"In a public announcement today, the Health Minister urged everyone to avoid public areas until more can be learned about the virus," said the reporter, wearing a grim expression that reflected the gravity of his words. "So far the virus, which had been dubbed the Morbus Plague, has claimed as many as one hundred and eleven lives, with more expected over the coming week."
The camera changed to show an elderly woman with a shawl wrapped around her neck, sitting down in what was apparently a hospital waiting room. She was joined by many others, all wearing identical expressions of mingled disbelief and shock. Several were holding their heads in their hands, sobbing gently. One woman was rubbing another's back, though she too had tears streaking down her face.
"I can't understand it," said the elderly woman, her voice cracking. "He was fine - just fine. Healthiest person I've ever known."
Harry put down the controller and, slightly dazed, sat down on the couch. Uncle Vernon never let him near the television, and the little news he had of the outside world came through Hermione.
The reporter's face returned to the screen. "Additionally, the Health Minister advised that if red swellings begin to grow on parts of your body, you should go to the nearest hospital immediately for treatment. It is unknown how the virus spreads, or how it can be cured, but scientists and doctors across the world have been working overtime to learn more about the plague and where it originated-"
-Knock knock-
Harry's attention was jolted away from the television, and he got up to answer the front door. Remembering his mistake from last year, he looked through the side window, and, upon seeing it was Dumbledore, promptly opened the door.
"Ah, good afternoon Harry, and happy birthday," Dumbledore said. "I take it that your relatives made an early departure to avoid me? No matter."
"Yeah, they won't be back for a few days," Harry said. He widened the door for Dumbledore to step inside. "They went to my Aunt Marge's."
"I see," Dumbledore said, stepping through. "I trust they haven't been as...confrontational as they were last year?"
"No, they've pretty much left me alone. Not that I mind," he added.
"Ah, I see you've been watching television," said Dumbledore when they entered the living room. "Fabulous innovation." He paused, watching the screen as the reporter continued discussing the plague.
"How bad has it been for the Order?" Harry asked quietly.
"Better than I expected," said Dumbledore. "But this plague is more deadly than I had originally feared. Tom has indeed infused several Dark Magicks into the virus, making it far more potent than anything we have encountered previously. The muggles can have all the scientists and doctors in the world studying the plague, but it won't make an ounce of difference. They're trying to gaze at the stars with a microscope."
"Can the Ministry of Magic do anything?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "They're allocating all their resources towards finding and capturing Death Eaters. I do believe, however, that the plague is also being studied in the Department of Mysteries. I am not hopeful of any imminent breakthroughs. If Tom has crafted this plague as carefully as I now suspect, then it might just be impossible to cure."
Dumbledore sighed, then continued. "There are no know preventions, either. Even Hogwarts is vulnerable to it. The enchantments placed around the school are useless against an attack of this type."
"What about Snape-"
"-Professor Snape-"
"Professor Snape, then," Harry said. "Has Professor Snape been able to uncover anything?"
"Yes, he has," Dumbledore said. "At great risk to himself, he's uncovered small but significant bits of information. I'll discuss this with you later. Voldemort is terrified of you, Harry. Of that much, he is certain."
Harry nodded. Last year he learned of how Snape had spied on Voldemort during the past couple of years, and, as it turned out, the Potions master had used his skills of Legilimency to subtly look through some of Voldemort's thoughts. The Dark Mark, which bound all Death Eaters to Voldemort, acted as a bridge between their minds so that Snape could accomplish this.
Of course, the process was exceptionally dangerous, and only Snape's exception Occlumency skills kept Voldemort from reversing the process, potentially driving the Potions master insane. Or worse, Voldemort could even possess Snape. The risks were high, and this, with little else, made Harry give the Potions master a grudging measure of respect.
"Enough of this talk," said Dumbledore. "We give Tom too much honor by speaking of him all the time. This is your birthday, and the day you come of age. As such, I have something that must be passed on to you."
Harry silenced the television with a button on the controller, and then pulled up a seat across from Dumbledore, who was folding up his spectacles. Harry was beginning to recognize this gesture as a prelude to something startling. The headmaster's eyes - shockingly blue without the muting glasses - bore into him. From his robe Dumbledore drew a spherical object. It was wrapped in a dark blue silk cloth which had fringes the color of burnt gold.
"This, Harry, is something that used to belong to your father," said Dumbledore softly. "Or, more specifically, your father's family. It's an artifact that's been going down through the Potter line for centuries. Needless to say, it's immensely valuable, and with it comes much responsibility. As you are now an adult in the eyes of the ministry, this now passes to you."
"I don't understand," said Harry. "I thought everything that used to belong to my parents was in the vault."
"When the sole heir of particular artifact is underage, it is customary for that artifact to go to a trusted individual for safekeeping," explained Dumbledore. "It's an old tradition that is supposed to prevent any less-than-honest relatives from taking advantage of the heir and acquiring the artifact. In your father's case, it was unnecessary, but in order to inherit an artifact, the heir must always name someone trustworthy enough to keep it in the event of his or her's death."
"So you're saying that I'll have to name someone too?"
Dumbledore nodded. "That's correct."
"Can I name two people?"
"Jointly holding an artifact has precedent. Yes."
"Hermione and Ron."
"It's refreshing to see such trust between people," said Dumbledore, laughing. "When you see them today, you'll have to ask for their consent."
"So what is it?" asked Harry. "It's shaped like one of Trel- Professor Trelawney's crystal balls."
"It is most assuredly more valuable than one of those," said Dumbledore lightly. He removed the cloth and left sitting in his hand was a rather large, clear glass globe. There was nothing remarkable about it at all.
Harry's brow furrowed. "What is it?"
"It's called Tenbrook's Sphere, and within it is time," Dumbledore said, looking distantly at the sphere in his hand. "Pure, undiluted time. Extraordinarily useful and powerful in the right hands. Dangerous in the wrong ones."
"You mean it's like a time turner?"
"No, not at all," explained Dumbledore. "You have to understand, Harry, that time is merely a resource. It's the device that uses the resource that determines what you can do." He held it out to Harry. "Feel it."
Harry placed the back of his hand against the globe and found that it was warm bordering on hot. "What does it do?"
"When activated, it creates a sort of vacuum around the wielder that allows him to move about freely, while everyone else is apparently frozen in time," said Dumbledore. "I say apparently because while it feels to the wielder like several minutes are passing, to everyone else - who are still in real-time, as I call it - only an instant has passed."
"So you're saying that when I activate it, I can, for example, walk over to the next room, walk back, deactivate it, without you noticing?"
"Essentially, yes," said Dumbledore. "And if you were to activate it, go to the next room, stay there, and deactivate it, it would seem to me that you simply vanished. Would you like me to demonstrate?"
Harry nodded, and, quite unexpectedly, his heart leapt into his throat, and a strange tingling feeling swept over him, leaving itself in his fingers and toes. Like his entire body had suddenly fallen asleep.
But, more importantly, Dumbledore was gone.
"Professor?" Harry asked aloud, looking around.
Dumbledore stepped into the living room from the kitchen, Tenbrook's Sphere securely in his hand, and sat back in his seat. "I take it that my demonstration made things clearer? All I did was activate it and left the room. Of course, I could've done a number of other things. Such as-"
Another tingling sensation swept over Harry, and, again, the funny feeling of his heart leaping upwards occurred. He looked down and saw that his hand had somehow moved from its original position on his knee to the middle of the table. It was bizarre in that his brain and his eyes were giving conflicting information.
"You mean you can move stuff around too?"
"I can do almost anything I want to," said Dumbledore. "Do you now see the Tenbrook's Sphere is so dangerous?"
Harry frowned. "But I noticed when it was happening? I could feel it."
"That is because you could - for a fraction of a second - sense that time had been manipulated," said Dumbledore. "The feeling, of course, it determined by proximity. While you may feel it, and perhaps the person next to you may feel it, nobody five hundred yards away could possibly feel a thing."
Harry looked once more at the clear glass globe. There was nothing there to betray its full power. "Why has it been in my family for so long? I mean, there were loads of time turners at the Department of Mysteries..."
"Like I said before, the time within this globe is pure in every sense of the word," said Dumbledore. "The wizard who originally made it - Lord Dante Tenbrook - was drained of all of his magical energy in the process, and, while others have tried to copy him, none have come close to creating it. The time used in time turners, while still enormously valuable, does not touch the purity that is within this globe. Tenbrook's Sphere is truly something that has not been and never will be duplicated."
"How long can you keep it activated?" asked Harry.
"Do you mean how long the effects can be sustained in real-time, or do you mean time as it is apparent to the wizard?" asked Dumbledore. "You have to remember that Tenbrook's Sphere alters time for the wielder alone, so that, for the user, time does not truly exist so that he can move about freely. In real time, only an instant will pass, no matter how 'long' the Sphere is activated. However, to answer what I believe to be your question, the length of - I believe the appropriate word would be no-time - that can be achieved varies with the strength of the wielder. The exceptionally powerful can stretch the 'length' for hours, and even extend the temporary power of no-time to other people."
"So if you were powerful enough, you could bring other people under the influence of the Sphere, allowing them to move in no-time with you?"
"That's correct," said Dumbledore. "But it's not without risks. Using the Sphere too often has been known to cause insanity. It may also warp your body, causing it to age rapidly, or manipulate your mind so that you revert to the mentality of a two-year-old. The effects are numerous and, unfortunately, largely unstudied."
Harry frowned at this, and then slowly nodded.
"I know it's a difficult concept to comprehend," said Dumbledore. "But perhaps understanding will come - forgive the pun - with time." He wrapped the silk cloth around the sphere and then tucked it back into his robes. "Our discussion has taken longer than I had originally planned, and now I fear we will be late to the Burrow. After you have established Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger as your - to use the legal term - Trusted Fellows, Tenbrook's Sphere can come into your possession."
"Sorry for making us late."
Dumbledore's sharply blue eyes twinkled. Like the flash of a star. "Time spent in the pursuit of knowledge is not time wasted." He got to his feet and drew large, wooly sock from his robe.
Harry simply stared at the ragged thing. "Uhhh, professor?"
"Take it, Harry," said Dumbledore.
Harry was no longer sure whether Dumbledore was still in a sound mind. The headmaster looked completely serious, and, while Dumbledore had once expressed a fondness for woolen socks, Harry was not about to take one for no apparent reason.
"I, uhhh, I have plenty of socks."
"That's good to know," said Dumbledore. "Very good to know indeed. But, like I said once before, one can never have too many socks." He paused. "Are you ready for the portkey?"
Harry blinked, then mentally kicked himself. The sock was a portkey. "Oh! Yeah, I'm ready."
He reached out, touched it, and his last sensation was a strong pulling from somewhere behind his navel before he warped away.
OOOOO
Nori Katashi stood nonchalantly on the corner, unaffected by the sweltering temperatures, his eyes focused on the house at the end of the drive. To passerby he might have looked strange from wearing a white, long-sleeved silk shirt and an olive-colored vest in such oppressive heat, but he cared little. Strange looks were something he was used to by now.
Strange looks from his former colleagues and friends, when they found out he was a squib.
Strange looks from his long-ago relatives, who would only rarely accept him into their homes, and when they did, would rush him out again at the soonest possible time.
Presently he heard rather than saw Pierre approach him. The unusually long gap between footfalls was a trademark trait of the Frenchman, and he could recognize them in an instant. Katashi turned as Pierre stepped off of the black asphalt and onto the cracked sidewalk. He went to a nearby light-pole with peeling paint and leaned against it, drawing a cigarette as he did so.
"That's a muggle habit, you know," said Katashi.
Pierre de Fontaine stared at him wearily. "So are your clothes." He lit the cigarette and put it in his mouth, taking a long drag. He sighed with pleasure.
Katashi simply watched him. Pierre was an insulting, uncouth man, but Katashi cared little for his excesses. "You look uncomfortable."
"Eet's hot," Pierre said. "And 'zese clothes that I 'ave to wear…'zey make it worse." He picked at his thick woolen sweater.
"Little Whinging is a muggle neighborhood," said Katashi. "Therefore, you will wear muggle clothes."
"I know, I know," said Pierre. He sucked on his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. "'ow long will we 'ave to wait?"
Katashi looked through the eyepiece of True Sight, confirming that there were no fatal hazards to them, then nodded. "We can start now."
It was a habit for him to use True Sight several times to check the infallibility of a plan before executing the said plan. There was always a slight distortion to his Sight, no matter how well he was feeling, and it oftentimes depended on how far into the future he was gazing. Like a building at a distance, Katashi could only make out a few details of the future, but, as it comes closer, more and more could be revealed.
But there were other barriers to his Sight as well.
Katashi could not See beyond his transference - or death, as they were both regarded as the same to the Sight - to another body.
Neither could he See into or beyond a Nexus, his term to describe a rare event where, in a short period of time, the fate of millions is determined. The assassination of Archduke Francis Ferdinand was one such example, where one murder changed the course of the world. In such cases, the threads of the future are so intricate and complicated that he cannot separate or simplify them. They become great, thick entanglements that he cannot distinguish or independently See.
And Katashi knew that a Nexus was approaching. He Saw it as a white, boiling point of convergence where every thread of the future went into and later came out of. It was sheer and blinding, and not even he could hope to understand what was happening within it. It was something that could only be passed through and then sorted afterwards.
But it was also this very same Nexus that drew him from solitude decades ago, when, after examining the little he could See leading up to it, he realized that this was his chance. A unique possibility to fulfill a dream.
"How can you call that a dream, Uncle?" asked a sweet, childish voice. "More like a nightmare."
Katashi closed his eyes. Not now.
"I know what you're planning," continued the voice. "You're not a nice person, Uncle Squib."
Don't call me that! Katashi's eyes opened and darted towards the small child in a black wool robe. He recognized the boy, of course. He had seen him many times previously. It was his nephew, Julius, who had died nearly two millennia ago.
Though Katashi knew that the figment of a boy that stood before him was nothing more than a twisted extension of his mind, that knowledge did not stop the frustration and anger he felt during their conversations.
"That's what everyone else calls you, isn't that right?" asked Julius in his childishly innocent voice. "Uncle Squib, the poor old man whose relatives keep him from sinking into poverty in his first life."
I don't have time for this, Julius, Katashi said inwardly. There was no point of using his voice. Although he saw Julius and he heard the voice, no one else did, and the child's body was as solid as a thought.
"Out for killing again?" asked Julius with feigned surprise.
You already know the answer to that.
His nephew stared at him with transparent eyes. "You're a horrible, nasty old man, Uncle Squib."
You don't understand the Sight like I do, said Katashi. You can't understand.
The boy smiled. "Yes I do, because I am you."
Then you understand why the changes must be made. You understand why I alone can make this dream of mine a reality. You understand the cruel path that must be walked before utopia can be achieved.
"Utopia?" echoed Julius. "How could you call such a place a Utopia? I know what you think. I know what you dream. You cover your plans in a veil of altruism."
Then you're an ignorant child, nothing more, Katashi thought. What's the purpose of your existence? To question every last one of my actions?
"Not at all, Uncle. I told you once before that I am you. I'm everything you'd never dare to admit to yourself. And that is why you hate me so much."
Pierre's hand drifted to a bulge in his side. His wand. "'Zen let's not wait."
Katashi, glanced at Pierre, and, when he looked back at where Julius had stood, the figment was gone.
Calm. Breathe. Focus on your goal: the attacker.
"Not yet, Pierre. First there is a minor issue that I must address."
"An izzue of the Sight?" Pierre asked. "Leave eet to me. 'Zere is nothing I cannot…deal with." He puffed on his cigarette.
"That will be unnecessary, Pierre," said Katashi, his nostrils beginning to burn from the smoke. He intensely disliked the Frenchman's habit, though he never said so. "I wish for you to prepare the portkey. I will let you know if there is more that you can do."
Pierre shrugged. "If you pay me 'Zree 'undred galleons a week to make a portkey, I'll make you a portkey. If you pay me 'Zree 'undred galleons a week to carry your baggage, I'll carry your baggage. All 'ze same to me."
Katashi nodded and turned away from Pierre, his eyes once again sweeping over the placid neighborhood.
In Katashi's opinion, Pierre was a mediocre wizard, with little skill and talent. His charms work was merely average and his powers of transfiguration were dismal. Though Pierre did display a certain flair in using the Unforgivable Curses, that alone did not attract Katashi's attention. Neither did Katashi consider Pierre to be a human in the sense that he was accomplished.
Katashi's sole purpose of paying Pierre such a lofty fee was to make up for his own shortfalls in the areas of wand magic. While many wizards could fulfill this requirement, Pierre was unique in the sense that his social life was limited to only a few, and there was little chance of Katashi's deepest and best-kept secrets escaping into the outside world. Neither did the Frenchman have an exceptionally strong conscience. Also, Pierre was the type of man whose loyalty could be measured in gold, and, to Katashi, that was his most attractive trait.
When he had used the True Sight a moment ago, he followed a thread of the future involving himself approaching number four, Privet Drive - the home of a family called the Dursleys', he recalled - and performing the necessary ritual to bring down the protective enchantments. However, as the scenario unfolded, he was struck with a curse.
Viewing a few more threads, and seeing that he never had a good view of the attacker, he came to the conclusion that the person was wearing an invisibility cloak. Focusing, he looked through yet another scenario, watching for the origin of the curse. He saw it - a brief glimmer of light - coming from the other side of the street, beside a house, under the shadow of a shed.
Undoubtedly trying to stay out of the sun.
Katashi viewed it once more, trying to confirm that the attacker had not moved during the ordeal. He decided that the attacker had not.
"I'll return in a moment, Pierre," said Katashi. "Don't approach me until I'm tie up this...loose end. Just make sure you cast the necessary charms to ensure that no noise escapes and alerts the muggles."
"As you wish," Pierre said indifferently. He took a long, pleasurable drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the air.
Katashi strode confidently down the sidewalk, looking from the corners of his eyes at the houses, ensuring that there was no one watching. Witnesses had the bad habit of needlessly complicating things. To his relief, all of the lights in the house whose yard he was about to enter were out. No one was home. No awkward questions.
Without warning he turned sharply to the right, into a yard, on the opposite side of the house from the faceless attacker. Becoming more wary, he stayed close to the wall, slinking along cautiously. While his True Sight gave him no warning of danger, the future was a vast and complex thing, and even the smallest deviation from his previously Viewed course could open up virtual Pandora's box of unforeseen consequences.
Katashi was now in the back yard, and, looking around once more, he could see only stillness. The trees that lined the rear property line effectively obscured him from view of anyone, and, from what he could tell, neither of the neighbors were outside. Too hot.
It was becoming too hot for him as well. His body - which he never considered as a part of his true 'self' - was becoming weary, and sweat was beginning to moisten the elbows and knees of his exquisite silk shirt and pants.
Then he laughed, silently. He could imagine what the muggles would think if they saw a well-dressed man - apparently wealthy - prowling through their yard.
A poorly placed step pushed the thoughts from his mind as pain fired up from his arthritic knees. His left foot had fallen into a gopher hole, and, had it not been for the nearby wall, he would have toppled over.
Katashi gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to subside. He really needed a new body. This one was already over a hundred years old. It was time...
...but that would come soon enough. If fortune came to him.
At last he peered around the corner of the house and squinted his eyes as he searched for any telltale sign of an invisibility cloak. He found one. Near the ground was a part of a heel - a dead giveaway. Evidently, the wizard hadn't covered himself properly.
Sloppy, thought Katashi disdainfully.
He checked for Pierre, who was on the sidewalk, and he sent a telepathic signal to the Frenchman. Pierre paused for a moment, and then went out of sight. Using the True Sight, he confirmed that Pierre had setup the necessary charms.
Katashi silently drew his sword, and, without hesitation, crept towards the man he knew to be there.
The man shifted his weight, revealing a little more of his heel, and Katashi held his breath, fearing that the man was about to turn around. When it became clear that he was not, Katashi crept ever closer, his back bent, his knees aching, sweating profusely, still feeling splinters of pain in his foot.
A twig from an overhanging tree snapped underneath his foot, and, to Katashi, the sound might as well have been a bomb going off. The man whirled, the invisibility cloak flapping away to reveal a short, heavyset man reaching for his wand.
Katashi lunged forward, grappling at the man's arm, thrusting his sword into his adversary's stomach. The man struggled, and together Katashi and him fell to the ground, but it was a useless fate. Like a needle draws blood, the sword was sapping the strength from its victim, weakening him, paralyzing the muscles. He jerked the sword and felt it hit bone, severing the spine. The wand lay forgotten nearby.
The man screamed, and, had it not been for Pierre's surrounding silencing charms, it would have disturbed half the neighborhood.
Then, Katashi heard something quite different from the man's dying gasps. Sounds of children playing. He looked up and saw, across the street, a small gathering of young boys horse playing in the yard, spraying each other with a hose. Laughing.
Fear struck Katashi's heart. The Sight had not revealed to him these children. Some minute difference had thrown off the alignment with what he Saw and what he did. Katashi looked at the man who was dying in his arms, then back to the children, and, painfully, he dragged the man to behind the shed, out of view. He would never have forgiven himself if those children had seen death at such a young age.
He had already made that mistake once before...and he had learned. Oh, how he had learned.
Katashi did not let up, but instead twisted the sword, bringing his head down to the man's shoulder, closing his eyes, feeling rather than seeing the variety of memories that practically dripped from the man's brain. He never understood how this phenomenon occurred, but decided that it was simply another effect of possessing such incredible mental strength. Such close proximity to another person's brain resulted in his brain acting as a sponge, inadvertently soaking up all of the memories from the weaker mind.
At least that was his rationalization.
Katashi fleetingly thought of taking his connection with the man to the next level by thrusting himself into the man's body. It would finally relieve him of his pathetically decrepit body, and would give him something young and new. He called it his transference.
The benefits were numerous, as he would be able to adopt the deceased man's name and identity, leaving behind the tainted face of Nori Katashi, whose appearance was readily recognized by several overseas enforcement agencies.
A few of the old names and people he had used flashed through his mind. Ragnand Front. Elliot Desmond. Aida Santhanam - though, admittedly, he was in the female's body for little more than a week before he left it again. It was probably the worst week in his entire existence.
Indeed, he now found himself thinking of diving into this body, and was now subconsciously weighing the risks.
But it was impossible. For one, the man was already on the verge of death. For another, he had to be more selective in whose body could act as a suitable vessel for him over the next century. Lastly, but most importantly, such change would leave him disoriented for several days, which, under current circumstances, was unacceptable.
Then something that hadn't happened in years occurred. The man was trying to speak. Faint murmurs issued forth from his mouth.
"What is it?" whispered Katashi. He was enjoying the personal feeling that conversation gave him.
"Wha-?" gasped the man, gurgling. "You- What are yo-" He choked.
Katashi could feel the man's hand search and find the blade of the sword that was plunged into his gut.
The man chuckled, or seemed to. With all the blood and gurgling, it was difficult to tell. He began to speak again, and Katashi leaned closer to hear.
"You're-" More coughing. "-Squib-" He chuckled, this time the sound being unmistakable.
Katashi's expression darkened. Ruthlessly, callously, he pulled himself off the man and tore the sword from the man's stomach without his normal style or grace. The pleasurable feeling of personal contact was gone.
"Arrogant wizarding scum," spat Katashi, louder than he intended. He was immensely thankful that the muggles weren't home.
His sword felt like it was burning as it slashed downward through the air, cleanly separating the man's head from his body in an instant. Coldly, he brought out his silk handkerchief and wiped the blade. The blood of Dolores Umbridge mixed with the blood of this nameless, faceless man.
"What use is your wand to you now?" Katashi said, his voice dripping with contempt.
Squib. The word echoed throughout his skull.
What did wizards know about magic? Katashi thought angrily. Nothing!
Suddenly a sweet voice whispered, "Do you feel better about yourself now, Uncle?"
This was necessary, Katashi argued. He spun and found that the child-figment was standing behind him, slowly circling him.
When he came to the dead wizard, Julius knelt. "Perhaps this was, but why all the others?"
Katashi did not answer.
"Remember, I know you, Uncle," said Julius. "You kill because it makes you feel superior. Isn't that right? Isn't that why you hate being called a squib?"
The term 'squib' was never meant to be a kind word, Julius.
"It's what you are."
It's not! Katashi found that he was losing his patience. And what are you? You're just a rogue string of thoughts - a manifestation of some vague corner of my mind. Who are you to judge me?
"Don't be silly, Uncle," said Julius. "I am not judging you. I am simply telling you what you are."
I am not a squib!
Julius' elfin face looked up at him and smiled. "You are without the power to perform wand magic. You are, by definition, a squib."
I can move objects with a mere thought, Katashi retorted. I can See the future. I can shift my essence from body-to-body. My skill at Occlumency and Legilimency is beyond the level attainted by most masters-
"Mental powers, not magical ones. Some muggles have been known to possess such skills to a small degree. You're still a squib."
Katashi opened his mouth, then closed it again, realizing that he had allowed his nephew to, once again, rile him to the point of anger. He turned away, allowing himself room to breathe, and when he looked around again Julius was gone.
Just then Pierre, unannounced, came out from the street, striding up to Katashi. "'Zat's disgusting. The way you killed him. Disgusting."
"There's nothing disgusting about death," said Katashi evenly, beginning to feel slightly unnerved at Julius' words. He picked up the man's invisibility cloak and laid it over the body.
"'Zere's blood on your vest," Pierre said. Something about his expression betrayed repulsion.
Katashi said nothing, but, for the first time, noticed that Pierre wasn't smoking, though it was obvious that the Frenchman wanted to. The stench of burning smoke, however, was still present. It surrounded Pierre like an aura.
"I never undorrstood eet," continued Pierre. "You kill 'zese men so easily, and you are so old."
"I've been in this world since the Romans, Pierre," said Katashi. "I know how to kill. It's difficult for them to struggle when their backbone is severed by the tip of my sword."
His thoughts once again strayed to what Julius had said. Still a squib.
No, the boy was wrong. Julius simply didn't understand some things.
Feeling relieved, Katashi said, "Come, Pierre, we have work to finish."
He drew a long, black quill from his vest pocket and held it in the air. On its tip was the crusted remnants of blood. Barely more than a droplet, but enough for his purposes.
"Is 'zat the Blood Quill?" asked Pierre.
"Yes," said Katashi serenely. He offered it to Pierre. "Liquefy this. I need to fill a glass. Make sure you purify it, as the quill was used on several subjects."
"'Zimple enough," said Pierre, accepting the quill. He placed it into a heavy crystal goblet, and, with his wand in hand, incanted, "Sanguinus Harry James Potter, Separatis." A bit of red blood seemed to melt from the quill's tip, coming to a rest at the bottom of the goblet.
"Engorgio!" Pierre said, and the liquid expanded, filling the goblet to the rim with the rich red liquid.
"Excellent work, Pierre," said Katashi, though, admittedly, the charm was not all that complicated. He took the goblet back from the Frenchman, discarding the quill on the ground, and put it to his lips.
He tasted it, finding it bitter. Like copper. A moment later he downed it all in one prolonged swallow, afterwards feeling nauseated but elated. His True Sight revealed that he would be able to enter the Dursley residence without being obstructed by the enchantments.
Nori Katashi was now of the mother's blood.
"Come, Pierre," said Katashi in a haze. "We have work at Number Four that calls to us."
He thought briefly of using his True Sight to See how his confrontation with Harry Potter would fare, but decided against it.
Some things were best left hidden in the future.
Katashi crossed the street, and then followed the sidewalk for a short distance before he came to the home that was supposedly occupied by Harry and a family called the Dursleys'. He stopped at the mailbox, straightening his vest and smoothing his slacks.
An elderly neighbor, who was sitting in a rocking chair on her porch, eyed him suspiciously. Katashi smiled, waved, and after a moment, the woman looked away.
He crossed the lawn, glancing behind him briefly to ensure that Pierre was following. He climbed the porch steps, pausing to admire the well-trimmed shrubbery and flowers that flanked either side of the white-washed wooden stair, and then approached the burgundy door.
For the sake of politeness, he knocked. Again, he was tempted to use his Sight, but, like last time, wanted to be surprised.
It used to be that he used the Sight every time he so much as stepped outside. Over the course of centuries, however, his sense of caution waned, and a desire for excitement eclipsed his borderline paranoia.
After no one answered, he turned to face Pierre, who was standing idly nearby.
"Unlock the door," said Katashi. "And make sure it's not detected by the ministry."
Pierre nodded and almost lazily drew his wand and said, "Alohomora!" The door clicked open.
"Wait here," Katashi said. "Create a portkey and ensure that no one else enters. And don't attract attention, either." He waited for a response, and, upon receiving none, said, "Well?"
"For 'Zree 'undred galleon a week, I'll do anything you want," Pierre said, leaning back against the wall. He looked as though he was going to reach for a cigarette, but changed his mind at the last second. "Do you See any trouble?"
"I haven't checked," Katashi said, then went through the door and entered the home, drawing his sword. He hoped to make it quick. At seventeen, Harry Potter was no longer a boy, but a man. He did not want to be taken unawares.
Katashi crept through the hall and into the living room, seeing no signs of activity. Frowning, he climbed the stairs and searched the second floor. Nothing.
Harry mustn't be home, realized Katashi. After all, it was the boy's birthday.
He checked the clock in the kitchen and saw that evening was approaching. It would be an hour or two before the organization that the dead man outside worked for realized something was wrong, and, for now, Katashi could wait.
He stood there for a moment, debating whether to gaze through True Sight to see when Harry would be returning, and, at length, came to the conclusion that the risk made it necessary. What if the boy was not alone when he came back? What if Harry wasn't to return for several days?
Katashi suddenly felt an intense dislike for Riddle's rushed plans and schedules. Stupid, he thought, to order it done on the boy's birthday. Nonessential and purposeless.
No, Riddle could acquire power, but he could never hold it for long. Katashi had seen such men rise and fall before. They were powerful - oh yes, strong individuals - but lacked the cunning and leadership that was necessary for any sort of prolonged control over the world. But people would die in the process…many people. Not that Katashi was overly concerned with such a loss of human life, but with the artistic and technological achievements that were also destroyed in a cruel sort of collateral damage.
Katashi focused, worming his way through the threads, trying to See the moment when Harry would return. He found it. In less than an hour Harry would use a portkey to return, and then Katashi could confront him.
Katashi was pleased.
For a man who had been in existence for almost two millennia, an hour was a short time indeed.
(A/N: Hope it wasn't a disappointment; it was longer than I planned, but that's all right. To my fanfiction.net readers, due to FF.net policy, I can't respond to your reviews anymore. Anyone with any questions, comments, etc can feel free to email me.)