July 18, 1993, Unknown
Adam Clarke
Darkness pressed in around me, thick and suffocating, the cold biting at my skin like shards of ice piercing through my cloak. I was walking, though I couldn’t say where to— the path beneath my boots felt unsteady, shifting with every step like loose soil ready to crumble into nothing. Fog swirled through the air, heavy and damp, choking my lungs as I pushed forward into the unknown.
I found myself in a forest, or at least something resembling one. The trees stood too still, their gnarled branches frozen mid-reach. I squinted into the haze, my breath escaping in short, misty bursts that hung before me, and I wondered how I ended up there, so far from Grimmauld Place’s familiar walls.
Whispers started then— low and faint, brushing against my ears like cobwebs I couldn’t swipe away. Words slipped just out of reach, teasing me, taunting me, and my heart thudded harder in my chest. I clenched my fists, trying to gather myself, but to no avail.
A sudden flash of light seared across my vision, blinding me, and I stumbled back, throwing an arm up to shield my stinging eyes. When I blinked the spots away, it loomed before me— a giant, massive and black, its form petrified into the earth like some grotesque statue carved by a madman. Its twisted face was locked in a grimace, or maybe a grin— agony and ecstasy tangled together in a way that turned my stomach and sent a shiver down my spine.
The air thrummed with a deep, resonant hum, vibrating through my bones until I felt it rattling my teeth. I wanted to step closer, to run my fingers along its jagged, coal-dark surface, but something stopped me cold. Its gaze— or the hollow sockets where eyes should’ve been— pinned me in place, an invisible weight pressing me back like gravity twisted against me. I dug my heels into the soft dirt, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. What had this thing been? Why had it called me here?
My mind raced, flipping through memories but nothing clicked into place.
The whispers grew louder, a chorus of murmurs I couldn’t untangle, and I spun around, searching the fog for any sign of meaning. The giant hadn’t budged, its towering form unmoving, but that hum deepened, rattling my ribs until I felt like I might shake apart. I took a step forward, then another, my hand outstretched, desperate to understand what it wanted from me. But the force shoved me back harder, and my knees slammed into the ground, jarring my whole body with a dull ache.
I gritted my teeth, glaring up at it through the mist, defiant.
“Show me something!” I shouted, my voice thin and swallowed by the oppressive silence. Nothing answered. The darkness thickened, curling around me like smoke, and the giant began to fade, its outline blurring into the fog. I stayed there, kneeling, my pulse hammering in my ears as the whispers echoed on.
I’d had visions before, but this felt different, heavier. The thought chilled me more than the air, and as the scene dissolved, I was left with nothing but the memory of that hum, sinking into my bones like a warning I couldn’t yet decipher.
The forest vanished in an instant, and I found myself standing beside a river— its waters dark and sluggish, stretching endlessly in both directions like a ribbon of ink. It reflected nothing, not even the faint gray of the sky overhead, and I stared into it, half-expecting to see my own face staring back. Smoke and mist curled around me, stinging my eyes and clogging my throat as I squinted across the far bank.
There, a flame flickered— small but impossibly bright, dancing like a candle caught in a storm. It felt wrong, though, ancient and out of place, as if it burned long before wands or spells ever existed. The whispers swelled then, clearer than before, a jumble of voices overlapping in my skull.
One sliced through the rest, sharp and low: “Follow the flame of stone, where the waters sleep.” My stomach twisted into knots.
I stepped forward, my boots crunching against the damp, pebbled shore. The flame pulled at me, tugging something deep inside, like it knew my name. As I moved toward it, however, the ground cracked beneath me, splitting open with a dry, brittle snap that echoed in the stillness. I froze, my heart lurching into my throat.
A thrum pulsed up through my feet, low and steady, and in the distance, the earth rumbled— a deep, angry growl that made my knees weak. Something was waking, stirring beneath the surface. I glanced back at the flame; it flickered wildly, its light stuttering, then snuffed out entirely. Wind rushed past me, howling in my ears, and the ground trembled harder, threatening to swallow me whole.
The river stayed eerily still, its dark surface unbothered by the chaos, while cracks spread like jagged veins under my boots. I stumbled back, my chest heaving, my hands scraping against a cold, rough rock as I caught myself. That voice echoed in my head— flame of stone, waters sleep— a riddle I couldn’t unravel.
My mind darted to the Abyss, that realm between life and death Grindelwald chased with his stolen relics. Was this it, bleeding into my dreams? The rumbling grew louder, shaking the air, and I pictured the ritual he planned, the portal he wanted to tear open. The wind screamed, drowning out the whispers, and the earth groaned like a living thing, furious and restless. I turned to run, my pulse racing, but the mist thickened, closing in around me like a cage.
There was nowhere to go, no escape from the sound or the shaking. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, and tried to shout over the noise, but my voice was lost. The scene fractured then, splintering apart like glass, and I was left gasping in the dark, the flame’s afterimage burned into my eyes.
The river faded, and I stood at the edge of a vast, mist-covered plain, the air so heavy it pressed against my chest like a weight. Fog swallowed everything, thick and gray, until I barely seen my own hands stretched out in front of me. A bell tolled in the distance— slow, mournful, its deep clang vibrating through my ribs and sinking into my core. I turned, my boots scuffing the soft earth, and scanned the murky horizon, my breath shallow and quick. Then I saw them— dim lights flickering through the haze, like stars on the verge of dying. They moved in a slow, deliberate line, pulling me forward, and my legs obeyed before I even decided to follow.
The whispers returned, sharp and insistent: “Where light falls upon the earth, the ancient dance shall begin again.”
My mind raced, trying to decipher these words— light falling upon the earth, an ancient dance?
The ground shifted beneath me, soft and strange, almost like it breathed with every step I took. I kept going, drawn by those lights, until the plain given way to a rocky expanse, barren and rough. The sky darkened above me, an unnatural shade that pressed down with the weight of something unseen, something waiting.
Then I saw it— a jagged stone, tall and sharp, stabbing out of the mist like a claw.
It stood alone, ominous and silent, and I stopped dead, my throat dry as dust. The bell tolled again, louder, its echo rolling over me, and the whispers rose into a deafening roar. One word cut through, clear and final— “End”— before the howling wind nearly swallowed it whole. My heart slammed against my ribs, a frantic rhythm. End of what? My life? The world itself?
I reached for the stone, my hand trembling, but the ground quaked beneath me, a sharp jolt that threw me off balance. The lights vanished, snuffed out in an instant, and the mist swirled tighter, closing me in.
The bell tolled once more, slow and final, and I felt the weight of it settle into my bones. The dream shattered then, breaking apart like brittle ice, and I jolted awake, tangled in my sheets back at Grimmauld place.
My heart hammered against my ribs as if it was trying to break free. The visions clung to me, sharp and vivid, refusing to fade like ordinary dreams. Shaken, I stumbled from my bed, the cold stone floor biting at my bare feet as I made my way to the table in the corner of my room.
The wooden chair creaked under me as I dropped into it, my hands trembling while I fumbled for my journal. The leather cover felt cool and solid against my sweaty palms, grounding me just enough to keep going. I snatched up my quill, dipping it into the inkpot with a clumsy splash, because I was certain— these hadn’t been mere nightmares. They were visions, too real, too heavy with something dark and urgent pressing down on me.
My quill scratched across the page, the sound loud in the stillness, as I poured out every detail I could cling to. I wrote about the petrified giant first— its massive, blackened form looming over me, its face twisted into that grotesque mask of agony or ecstasy, I still couldn’t tell. Then the river, dark and sluggish, with that strange flame flickering across the bank, pulling at me like a lure. The jagged stone came next, stabbing out of the mist, and those whispers— those cursed whispers that wormed into my skull.
I scribbled them down word for word: ‘Follow the flame of stone, where the waters sleep,’ and ‘Where light falls upon the earth, the ancient dance shall begin again,’ until that final, chilling ‘End’ spilled onto the page. My hand cramped, but I kept going, desperate to trap it all before it slipped away like smoke.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint, grayish glow of dawn creeping through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. I paused, my chest heaving, and stared at the ink-stained words sprawling over the paper. They looked jagged, messy, like they were clawed out of me rather than written.
My breath slowed, but my mind buzzed, a frantic hum that wouldn’t quiet. I traced the lines with my eyes— the giant’s hum, the flame’s flicker, that tolling bell— and felt the weight of them settle deeper. These hadn’t been random; they meant something, something big, and I knew it in my gut.
Grindelwald’s shadow hovered over everything lately— his escape, his new order, the chaos he unleashed during the end-stage of the League, and his most recent activities— and I wondered if this was his hand reaching into my sleep. The quill slipped from my fingers then, clattering softly against the table, and I leaned back, the chair groaning under my weight, trying to steady myself against the flood of it all.
I sat there after writing, my journal splayed open before me like a confession, the visions replaying in my head with relentless clarity. The ink still glistened wet on the page, but my mind turned inward, sharp and unforgiving.
You should know this, idiot. I scolded myself silently, my own voice cutting through the quiet like a whip. You’re not some clueless first-year stumbling through charms. You’ve faced Grindelwald’s followers, outwitted Castelobruxo wizards with Aragog’s brood at your back, saved Absol from those poachers— why can’t you figure this out?
The frustration clawed at me, sinking its teeth deeper with every unanswered question. I clenched my jaw, staring at the words I scratched down, willing them to snap into place.
The giant, the flame, that stone. I thought. They’re clues, pieces of something bigger, and you’re too thick to see it. What’s wrong with you?
My hands balled into fists, nails digging into my palms as I berated myself further. I survived the League of Nine, dueled grown witches and wizards, stood beside Gilderoy in Hogsmeade while chaos rained down— surely I had the brains for this.
But the meaning stayed maddeningly out of reach, like a shadow I couldn’t catch.
Not helpless. I snapped internally. I’ve read stacks of books, memorized spells most kids your age couldn’t dream of— do better.
The self-doubt twisted tighter, a knot in my chest that wouldn’t loosen, and I felt the sting of my own inadequacy like a slap. I leaned forward, elbows thudding against the table, and buried my face in my hands, rubbing at my eyes as if that shook the answers loose. The giant’s hum echoed in my memory, the flame’s flicker taunting me, that final ‘End’ ringing like a death knell.
I traced the inked lines again with my gaze, my breath hitching as I tried to force the pieces together. Nothing clicked, and the failure burned. I slumped back in the chair, the wood creaking under me, and let out a low, frustrated groan, the sound swallowed by the stillness of the room.
A chill sliced through me then, the morning cold seeping past the thin fabric of my underclothes and prickling my skin. I shivered, suddenly aware of how exposed I was, hunched over the table like that. My bare arms goosebumps, and I realized I couldn’t sit there half-dressed any longer. I pushed up from the chair, its legs scraping the stone floor with a sharp rasp, and padded across the room, my feet flinching at the icy touch of the tiles.
The hook by my bed held my robe, a thick woolen thing I grabbed countless times before, and I snatched it down, pulling it over my shoulders. The warmth enveloped me as I tugged it tight, the rough weave brushing my skin, and I felt a flicker of relief— something solid in the haze of my thoughts.
I shuffled back to the table, sinking into the chair again, the robe’s hem pooling around me. My eyes drifted back to the journal, the scrawled notes staring up like a challenge I couldn’t meet. I rested my chin in my hand, the quill lying abandoned beside the inkpot, and let my gaze linger on those words.
That one line— ‘Follow the flame of stone, where the waters sleep’— snagged on something in my mind, a faint, nagging pull like a half-remembered tune. I frowned, tapping the quill’s feather against the page, the soft thwick-thwick filling the quiet. It was familiar, hadn’t it? I saw it somewhere, read it maybe, but the memory danced just out of reach, slippery and elusive.
I leaned closer, my breath stirring the air over the paper, and squinted at the phrase as if staring harder would unlock it.
“Where?” I muttered under my breath, the word barely audible. My mind churned, sifting through months of books and battles— the tournament, the chaos of Grindelwald’s attacks, the nights I spent poring over tomes instead of sleeping. It was there, tucked in some corner of my brain, but the harder I chased it, the more it retreated.
I sat back, the chair groaning faintly, and rubbed my temples, the cold still lingering in my bones despite the robe. The visions felt too real to ignore, and that line was the key— I just knew it— but it stayed maddeningly out of focus, a puzzle piece I couldn’t place.
I stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor as I shoved it back. I crossed to the wall of shelves in three quick strides, the uneven stacks towering over me, a chaotic archive of the past year and a half. Spellbooks, histories, odd little volumes I snatched from Diagon Alley— they all were there, gathered like trophies from my endless curiosity. I started sifting through them, my fingers brushing dusty spines as I pulled one down, then another, skimming pages with a growing edge of impatience.
“Not this.” I muttered, shoving a thick tome back with a scoff, its leather thumping against the shelf.
“It’s here.” I insisted to myself, yanking another book free, my eyes darting over faded ink. “It has to be.”
That phrase teased me, a memory I swore I brushed against before, but my mind stayed stubbornly blank. I flipped through a crumbling history of magical relics— nothing. A history book written in ancient runes— equally useless. Each failure fueled my annoyance, and I returned them with sharp, irritated shoves, the clatter echoing in the quiet room. I knew I saw it, felt it in my gut, but the where and when slipped through my grasp like sand.
My hands moved faster, tugging books free, my breath hitching with every dead end.
Then I paused, crouching at the lowest shelf, my knees creaking as I bent down. My fingers grazed a simpler spine, less worn than the rest, and I stopped. It was a children’s storybook— tales of Merlin’s adventures, unassuming and thin. I had given a quick read, but hadn’t given it much of my attention; the tournament, the battles, my hunts for answers in weightier tomes kept me too busy.
I’d also skimmed Beedle the Bard ages ago, but this one sat untouched for the most part. I pulled it out, the cover light in my hands, and stared at it, the faded illustration of a cloaked figure catching the dim light. For a moment, I just held it, my pulse slowing, the weight of it oddly steadying. Then I opened it, the pages crackling faintly, a soft sound that felt like a whisper of its own.
I settled back at the table, my chair creaking as I shifted my weight, the children’s book about Merlin propped open in my hands. The pages were worn at the edges, the ink faded but still bold enough to catch the dim morning light. I started flipping through the tales, my fingers brushing the paper as I skimmed the first few stories. One caught my eye early on— Merlin wandering deep into a forest, the air thick with mist, until he stumbled across a herd of centaurs. Their hooves thudded against the earth as they welcomed him, pointing up at the night sky with gnarled hands.
They taught him to read the stars, tracing patterns that shimmered like Thestral tracks across the dark. I pictured him standing there, staff in hand, nodding as their gruff voices explained constellations I’d barely glimpsed myself.
Another tale pulled me in a few pages later. Merlin was near a lake, the water rippling as he crossed paths with the leader of the merpeople— a fierce figure with scales glinting like armor and a trident clutched tight. He offended her somehow, maybe with a careless word, and she sent all manner of aquatic creatures after him— fish with sharp teeth, eels that sparked with magic, and then a massive squid, its tentacles thrashing. Merlin fought it off, wrestling it down with spells and grit, until it bowed to him. The book claimed that squid had become the one in Hogwarts’ Black Lake, guarding it ever since. I smirked at that, thinking of the dark shape I saw lurking beneath the surface during my own time here.
The stories were simple, each one weaving in a creature— centaurs, merpeople, goblins further on— with just enough flair to keep a kid hooked. I traced the words with my finger, half my mind still on the visions, half lost in Merlin’s world. They hadn’t given much detail, just vague sketches of his adventures, but they painted him as unstoppable, a wizard who tamed the wildest corners of magic.
I paused, leaning back, the book resting against the table’s edge. These tales were more about the creatures than the how or why, and I wondered if I wasted my time pulling this off the shelf. Still, I kept going, flipping pages, the paper rustling under my touch as I hunted for anything that might tie back to that damn ‘flame of stone.’
I kept reading, my eyes skimming over the tales as they piled up in that same predictable rhythm— Merlin outsmarting a band of goblins with a clever charm, then tricking a hag into revealing her secrets, always coming out on top with a flourish. The stories were cut from the same cloth, simplistic and bright, like they were written to teach kids about magical creatures without bogging them down in details.
I noticed how each one— centaurs, merpeople, goblins— got its moment, but the focus stayed on Merlin, glorifying him like some untouchable hero. I supposed it made sense; his name carried a reverence I heard whispered even more than Dumbledore’s, a legend bigger than Hogwarts itself. The book leaned heavily into that, every page dripping with his triumphs.
But as I turned page after page, my chest tightened with a growing sense of futility. The tales gone on in that vein— Merlin taming a wild hippogriff, Merlin calming a raging troll— each one blending into the next, none offering the depth I needed. I thought I hit yet another dead end, the spark of hope I felt when I grabbed the book fizzling out.
My fingers tightened on the cover, the worn edges digging into my palms, and I nearly flung it across the room, frustration bubbling up hot and sharp. I sighed instead, the sound heavy in the quiet, and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands, the grit of sleeplessness stinging them. This was a kids’ book, not some ancient tome— what had I expected?
I slumped back in the chair, the wood groaning under me, the open pages staring up like a taunt. I tapped my foot against the floor, the rhythm restless, and debated giving up right then.
Still, something stubborn in me refused. I came this far, pulled the damn thing off the shelf after all that searching— I decided I should at least finish it before tossing it aside. I straightened up, dragging the book closer with a faint scrape, and resolved to push through the last few tales, even if it felt like slogging through mud. My hope was thin, stretched to breaking, but I told myself I see it through, just in case.
I leafed through the pages with a weary hand, my mind drifting as tale after tale of Merlin’s heroics blurred into one another— pixies outsmarted, a veela’s storm tamed. The words started to feel like noise, and I flipped them with a detached flick, the paper whispering in the quiet.
Then my eyes snagged on a title that stopped me cold.
“The Ember of the Highlands.” I read slowly. My breath hitched, the book growing heavy in my grip.
It hadn’t shouted ‘flame of stone’ outright, but the word ‘ember’ danced too close to my vision’s fire to be pure chance— or perhaps I was reading too much into it. In either case, I straightened in my chair, the wood groaning beneath me, and pulled the book nearer, my pulse quickening like a drumbeat in my chest.
“Long ago, in the wild highlands where the wind sang fierce and free, there lived giants of old, mighty and terrible. Taller than mountains they stood, with skin like cracked stone and eyes that burned with ancient wrath. They roamed the land, shaking the earth with every step, and the folk of the villages trembled. For these giants stole away the brave and the young, dragging them off to dark fates none dared name.
The people wept and cried for aid, until word reached Merlin, the greatest wizard of all. With his cloak billowing like a storm cloud and his staff agleam with starlight, he marched into the highlands to face the foe.”
I paused, my fingers tight on the page, the epic sweep of it sinking in. I leaned closer, the table’s edge biting into my ribs, and read on, the children’s style fading behind the weight of what it might mean. This was no mere story— it was a clue, vague but blazing, and I knew I had to dig deeper into its heart.
I turned the page.
“Clad in robes that danced with the wind, his staff blazing like the sun’s own fire, Merlin strode forth, his heart bold and true. The giants laughed, their voices thunder, but Merlin raised his staff and vowed their end.
For three nights and two days, the battle raged. The giants hurled boulders that split the earth, their shadows swallowing the light, but Merlin danced through the storm, swift as a hawk. His spells flashed— bolts of gold, nets of silver— binding their strength, turning their roars to cries. The highlands trembled as he fought, the rivers pausing in awe. At last, he lured them into a deep valley, where the shadows grew long.
With a chant that echoed to the heavens, Merlin tore their power free, a glowing ember torn from their hearts. Into the great stones of the land he sealed it, scattering them far and wide, their hiding places lost to time so no evil hand could wake them again. The villages cheered, their savior triumphant, and peace returned under Merlin’s watchful eye.”
I finished it, my hands still gripping the book, the tale’s rhythm pounding in my head like a song. It was simple, epic, the kind of story kids would beg to hear twice, but I felt its weight settle over me. Those stones, that ember— it matched my vision too closely, the ‘flame of stone’ burning in my mind.
I pictured Merlin standing tall, the giants crumbling, and wondered what power he locked away. The book left it vague, a happy ending with no map, but it stirred something in me all the same.
I sat back, the book still open to The Ember of the Highlands, and read the tale twice more, my eyes scouring every word for something I might’ve missed. My breath caught as I traced the lines— Merlin sealing the giants’ power into those stones, hiding them so they would never be found. I swallowed hard, my throat dry as dust, and felt a certainty settle in my gut.
This was it, it to be.
The ‘flame of stone’ from my vision, that ember torn from the giants— it matched too perfectly to be a coincidence. I tapped my fingers on the table, the rhythm uneven, my mind racing with the echo of those whispers: ‘Follow the flame of stone, where the waters sleep.’
This tale was the key, or at least a piece of it.
But then the thrill soured, a sinking weight creeping in as I stared at the page. It was damn near useless. The story ended with the stones scattered, their locations a secret lost to time— no hints, no directions, just a vague flourish of Merlin’s victory. I leaned forward, elbows thudding against the wood, and rubbed my temples, frustration bubbling up again.
“Great.” I said. “A lead that goes nowhere.”
I pictured the highlands, vast and wild, and imagined scouring them for some hidden stone with nothing to guide me. I flipped back to the start of the tale, scanning it one last time, but the words hadn’t changed.
No map tucked in the margins, no riddle to crack— just a wall where I needed a door. It was a painted wall, to be sure, but it would have been nice to be able to cross through its threshold and acquire the information I required.
I sighed, the sound sharp in the quiet, and let the book fall flat, its pages splayed like a taunt. It all felt so close, yet I was left with more questions than answers, and that stung worse than before.
I was slumped over the table, my head a tangle of Merlin’s giants and hidden stones, when a sharp knock on the door yanked me out of it. My heart skipped, thudding hard against my ribs, and I jolted upright, the chair creaking beneath me.
“Come in.” I croaked, my voice rough from an hour of silence, and the door swung open with a slow groan. Harry poked his head through, his wild hair catching the faint light from the hall, and I blinked at him, still half-lost in my thoughts. He stepped inside, hands shoved in his pockets, and said. “Sirius told me we’re leaving in a few minutes— half an hour, tops.”
His words hung there, and I stared, confusion wrinkling my brow.
“Leaving?” I echoed, my voice thick, and Harry nodded, a flicker of a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, we’re going to the Goldsteins’.”
He’d said it like it was obvious. I groaned, loud and low, and palmed my face, my fingers pressing into my forehead. How had I forgotten? Tony— my best friend Tony— I promised to see him today, and it slipped clean out of my head. The visions, the book, all that frantic digging for answers had swallowed it whole. I dragged my hand down my face.
“Merlin’s beard, I’m an idiot.”
Harry snorted, leaning against the doorframe.
“What, too busy being a genius to remember your mates?” He teased, his green eyes glinting with mischief. I shot him a glare, but it hadn’t held any heat, and I waved him off, swinging my legs around to stand.
“Get out, you git.” I said, giving him a playful shove toward the door. “I need to sort myself out.”
He laughed, stumbling back with his hands up.
“Don’t take too long, genius!” He said as he disappeared down the hall. I shook my head, his footsteps fading, and turned back to the table, the mess of my research staring up at me like a silent rebuke. Tony deserved better than me forgetting him, and I cursed myself for letting the visions take over like that.
I stood there after Harry’s exit, his laughter still ringing faintly down the hall, and let out a long breath. The Merlin book lay open on the table, its pages splayed beside my journal, notes scribbled in a frantic sprawl. I stared at them, the weight of my obsession pressing down, and shook my head.
“Later.” I muttered, shoving the research aside with a sweep of my arm. The visions could wait— Tony couldn’t. I forgot him in my haste, and the guilt gnawed at me, sharp and insistent. I stretched, my legs stiff from sitting too long, and moved to get dressed, the cold floor biting at my feet as I crossed the room.
My robe hung limp on the hook, but I swapped it for something proper— a worn shirt and trousers I tugged from the wardrobe. The fabric was rough against my skin, familiar and grounding as I pulled it on, buttoning the shirt with quick, fumbling fingers. I caught my reflection in the small mirror by the bed, my mismatched eyes— white and black— staring back, stark and strange even to me.
Before long, I headed downstairs, my boots thumping on the steps. Harry and Sirius were waiting by the fireplace, their voices a low murmur that stopped when I appeared. Harry glanced up, smirking, but Sirius gave me a nod, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
“Ready?” He asked, and I shrugged, shoving my hands in my pockets.
“Are we Apparating?” I said, half-hoping for the quick jolt of it, but Sirius shaken his head, a grin tugging at his lips.
“No need.” He replied, gesturing to the hearth. “We’re taking the Floo.”
I nodded, glancing at Harry, who already started scowling at the fireplace like it personally offended him. I smirked despite myself— Floo travel was never his favorite.
I stepped closer to the fireplace as Harry’s scowl deepened, his mutter of “Again?” slipping out under his breath. I smirked, catching Sirius’s eye, and he let out a bark of a laugh, clapping Harry on the shoulder.
“You’re getting better at it, kid.” Sirius said, his grin wide. “Last time, you only tripped— didn’t even fall flat on your face.”
Harry flushed, his cheeks going pink, and grumbled something I hadn’t caught, shoving his glasses up his nose. I chuckled, the sound lightening the knot in my chest, and moved to stand beside them. Sirius thrust the Floo powder jar into my hands, the ceramic cool against my palms, and said. “Place we’re going to is ‘Gold Sand.’ You first, Adam.”
I nodded, dipping my fingers into the powder, the gritty texture familiar as I pulled out a pinch. Stepping into the hearth, I tossed it into the flames, the fire roaring green and wild as I shouted.
“Gold Sand!” The world spun in a rush of heat and ash, the fireplace swallowing me whole. I squeezed my eyes shut, the dizzying whirl pulling at my stomach, until my boots hit solid ground again. I stumbled out, coughing as I brushed soot from my sleeves, the air suddenly still. Harry comes next, lurching through with a stagger but staying upright, his hair even messier than before. Sirius followed, landing smooth as ever, his grin unfazed by the ash dusting his coat.
I straightened, shaking off the last of the Floo’s grip, and took in the room. Three figures stood waiting— Tony, his dark hair catching the light, and his parents, Amanda and Bartholomew. Amanda’s face lit up, Tony’s too, while Bartholomew stayed back, offering a curt nod.
I blinked, the warmth of their presence cutting through the haze of my morning, and felt the tension in my shoulders ease just a bit. Tony waved, already bouncing on his heels, and I managed a small grin back, the journey behind me but my mind still half-tangled in stones and flames.
I barely shaken off the Floo’s ash when Amanda and Tony rushed toward us, their smiles bright enough to chase away the lingering chill. Amanda reached me first, her hands clasping mine as she said.
“Adam, it’s so good to see you!” Her voice was warm, like a hearth fire, and I returned her smile, nodding despite the swirl of thoughts still clogging my head. Tony grinned beside her, his eyes glinting with that familiar mischief, and I felt a pang of relief— he would have been upset, and rightly so, had I not come.
Bartholomew stayed back, his tall frame stiff as he gave us a single, sharp nod. I mirrored it, polite but quick, before turning back to Amanda, her chatter already filling the air.
Sirius stepped in then, his easy laugh cutting through as he greeted Amanda and Bartholomew like old mates.
“Been too long.” He said, clapping Bartholomew on the shoulder, and they fell into talk— something about the weather, and beard sizes, I hadn’t caught it all.
Tony grabbed my arm, tugging me toward the door.
“Come on.” He said, his voice buzzing with excitement. “I’m taking you lot to the backyard. Great Aunt and Uncle are here for a bit.”
Harry followed, his trainers scuffing the floor, and I let Tony pull me along, the chatter fading behind us as we stepped outside.
The air hit me— cool and crisp, the backyard stretching green and wide. There they stood: Porpentina and Newt Scamander, legends I read about in books now real as the grass under my feet. I straightened, suddenly aware of my rumpled shirt, and said.
“Hello.” My voice was steadier than I felt. Harry echoed me, his tone casual, but I caught their eyes— Newt’s sharp, Porpentina’s steady— lingering on mine. My mismatched eyes, white and black, drew them in, their stares holding longer than normal, heavier than curiosity. It pricked my skin, that look, like they saw something they hadn’t expected, and I shifted, unease creeping up my spine as Tony and Harry wandered off ahead.
“It’s nice to see you both again.”
“Likewise, it’s nice to meet one of Anthony’s friends.” Newt said, though corrected himself. “Properly, and not on some official gathering.”
“Yes.” I said noncommittally.
I stood there, the grass damp under my boots, as Tony and Harry drifted off toward a gnarled tree, their voices already a low hum. Newt and Porpentina stayed with me, their gazes still sharp, and I felt pinned under them.
“Forgive me, child, but…” Porpentina tilted her head, her voice soft but probing as she asked. “You have curious eyes. However did you come by them?”
Survived the Abyss and fought Voldemort for control of my body. I thought, but instead said. “Almost died last year— they couldn’t heal the damage, so my eye is white. I’m just happy I’m not blind.”
“Oh, yes. That would have been unfortunate, indeed.” She said, her tone still light as she continued to speak. “And it works completely fine?”
“It… does?” I said, not sure what she was getting at for a moment before it dawned on me. She was probing. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Have you been having strange dreams, Adam? Visions, perhaps?” Newt nodded, his eyes flicking to mine, adding. “Odd things in your sleep?”
I stiffened, my hands curling at my sides. They knew something.
It took me a few moments before it came to me— Grindelwald, the Seer with eyes like mine, white and black, a shadow they couldn’t unsee. I cut them off, my tone firm.
“I know who you’re thinking of, when you look at me.” I said with heat I didn’t really feel. “Grindelwald. You don’t need to poke at it.”
A bald faced lie, of course— however legendary these two were, they were strangers to me. I couldn’t trust them with the truth— that the visions were real, that I saw giants and stones and flames. They hadn’t needed to know, and I figured they wouldn’t dare use Legilimency— not on a child.
I shifted my weight, glad Queenie wasn’t here— her knack for minds would’ve hated might have ended forever due to brushing up with my own mind. To dodge this entirely line of questioning, I pivoted.
“Anyway, Hagrid’s always talking about you, Mr. Scamander. Nothing but good things.” It worked— his face brightened, a small smile breaking through.
“Oh, Hagrid.” He said, his voice warming, though the look in his eyes told me that he knew I was deflecting, but didn’t want to call me on it; that was fine by me. “He wrote me this morning, actually— asking about teaching tricks, something called the Monster Book of Monsters.”
I seized on it, grinning despite myself.
“That the one that tried to eat us?” I asked, and Newt nodded, his eyes twinkling.
“The very same.” He replied. “Though the clerks at Flourish and Blotts ought to teach students how to calm them— stroking the spine, you know. It’s a bit much for a prank.”
I laughed, the tension easing as I agreed, picturing those snapping books chasing us down the hall. The shift held, their questions delayed but not forgotten, and I let Newt ramble on about Hagrid’s letters, relieved to sidestep the weight of my secret for a little longer.
I lingered as Newt’s voice faded, his talk of Hagrid blending into the murmur of the adults— Sirius, Amanda, and Bartholomew— joining us in the backyard. Their chatter swelled, a mix of laughs and old stories, and I felt their attention shift away, dismissing me without a word. I exhaled, the tightness in my chest loosening, and slipped away from them, my boots sinking into the grass as I headed toward Harry and Tony.
They had already settled under the tree, its twisted branches casting jagged shadows over them. Tony was grinning, tossing a stick between his hands, while Harry leaned back, his glasses glinting as he said something that made Tony laugh. I jogged over, forcing a smile, and dropped down beside them.
“Ready to lose again, Adam?” Tony teased, flipping the stick my way, and I caught it, rolling my eyes.
“We’ll see.” I shot back, shoving him lightly. Harry smirked, pulling out another stick, and we started some half-made game— tag at first, then something with pretend spells, shouting nonsense like “Boomicus!” as we darted around.
I tried to focus on the game, my feet pounding the ground, but my mind kept drifting— back to the giants, the stones, that ‘flame of stone’ whispering in my skull. I tripped over a root, stumbling as Tony tagged me, his laugh loud and bright.
“Too slow!” He crowed, and Harry piled on. “What’s got your head in the clouds?”
I forced a grin, shoving them both back as we collapsed in the grass, breathless and tangled.
Just off my game.” I said, but it was a lie.
As we sprawled there, the sky stretching blue above, I stared past the branches, my thoughts far from their games. Newt’s questions, the Merlin tale, Grindelwald’s shadow— they swirled together, pulling me under, and I knew I couldn’t outrun them.
It was only a matter of time.
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