Only Just

Harry’s hands trembled as he scraped the remnants of his ruined Confusing Concoction from his cauldron, the acrid smoke still rising from the bubbling mess that had overflowed onto his workstation. The potion had been going well— better than well, actually— until Snape had swept over like a black-winged vulture, his cold eyes scrutinizing every bubble and shimmer.

“Potter.” Snape had drawled, his voice cutting through the dungeon’s humid air like a blade. “Still expecting fame to substitute for actual skill, I see. Perhaps if you spent less time basking in your celebrity and more time reading— though I suppose that would require intellectual capacity. Something you clearly lack.”

The words had hit harder than any Bludger. Harry’s concentration had shattered completely, his hand jerking as he added the sneezewort. The potion had immediately turned a violent shade of purple before erupting like a miniature volcano, sending droplets of scalding liquid across his robes and the surrounding floor.

Snape’s satisfied smirk had been the final straw.

Now, as Harry hurried through the castle’s corridors, he could feel the familiar burn of injustice in his chest. What had he ever done to deserve such hatred? The question circled endlessly in his mind.

He’d tried asking Remus and Sirius about it once, but their answer had been vague, unsatisfying— something about schoolboy rivalries and old grudges. But this felt deeper, more personal, like Snape saw something in Harry that genuinely disgusted him.

“Harry! Wait up!” Ron’s voice echoed behind him, followed by Hermione’s lighter footsteps on the stone floor.

Harry quickened his pace, not trusting himself to speak without his voice cracking. He needed space, needed to think without Ron’s well-meaning jokes or Hermione’s logical explanations. They meant well, but they couldn’t understand what it felt like to be hated for simply existing, to have every mistake magnified and every success dismissed.

He ducked down a side corridor, one that led toward the dungeons’ older sections. The torch flames flickered in the draft. The steady drip of water somewhere in the darkness matched the rhythm of his footsteps as he descended deeper into the castle’s bowels. Down here, the air was thick and cool, carrying the musty scent of centuries-old stone.

It would be quiet here.

Quiet as a grave, Adam would say.

The thought of Adam made Harry pause for a moment. His brother would listen and probably understand better than most the weight of carrying expectations and dealing with enemies who seemed to have infinite patience for causing pain. Adam had his own burdens— his visions and strange sense of responsibility concerning their family.

That was exactly why Harry couldn’t bring this to Adam right now. Harry’s petty problems with a vindictive Potions teacher seemed insignificant in comparison. Besides, Adam would probably just suggest they practice dueling or research defensive spells— practical solutions that would allow Harry to channel all of his anger into something productive.

The real problem was that Harry wanted to feel this. Ever since the end of the tournament, Harry had felt like he was standing on the edge of something vast and terrible, and he wanted to explore that feeling, for once. Observation, Analysis, Action— this was Adam’s way, but not his.

He leaned against the cold stone wall, pressing his forehead against the rough surface. The torch flame nearest him guttered and hissed. In the distance, he could hear the faint sound of footsteps— probably Ron and Hermione still looking for him. Part of him wanted to call out, to let them find him and pretend everything was fine.

The larger part just wanted to disappear into the castle’s depths, to find somewhere quiet where he could think without the weight of everyone’s expectations pressing down on him.

The darkness ahead beckoned, promising solitude and the chance to sort through the tangle of anger and frustration in his chest. Harry pushed himself off the wall and kept walking, letting the dungeon’s passages swallow him whole.

The sound of cruel laughter echoed off the dungeon walls, stopping Harry in his tracks. He’d been wandering aimlessly for nearly twenty minutes, letting his feet carry him deeper into the castle’s forgotten corners, when the voices drifted toward him from around a bend in the corridor.

“— bet they don’t even have proper wands anymore after all their places got destroyed.” A sneering voice was saying. “What do you use now, twigs and wishful thinking?”

“Pebbles, maybe?”

Harry crept closer as laughter erupted again, pressing himself against the cold stone wall. Around the corner, he could see three older students— two Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff by their robes— surrounding a smaller figure backed against the dungeon wall. The victim was clearly from Ilvermorny, her blue and cranberry robes marking her as one of the American students.

“I said leave me alone…” The girl said, her accent thick with nerves but her chin raised defiantly. She couldn’t have been more than his age, small and slight with dark hair that had come loose from its braid during whatever struggle had preceded this moment.

“Oh, listen to that.” One of the Ravenclaws said, a sixth-year boy Harry vaguely recognized— one of Blackthorn junior’s lackeys. “She thinks she can give us orders. Didn’t your school teach you any manners before they sent you here to embarrass yourselves?”

The girl didn’t answer immediately, though her eyes burned with fire. “Certainly did better than yours; you’re a joke.”

The comment hit its mark. The Hufflepuff’s face flushed red, and he stepped closer, wand raised. “You little— “

Harry’s vision went red. The scene before him shifted, morphing into memories of Dudley’s friends cornering him behind the school bins, of every moment he’d felt small and helpless and alone.

“Stupefy!” He called out before he even realized it.

The bright jet of red cracked through the air like a whip, striking the Hufflepuff squarely in the chest. The boy went rigid before toppling backward, his wand clattering across the stone floor. The two Ravenclaws spun around, faces slack with shock at the sight of Harry emerging from the shadows, his wand trained on them.

“Potter?” One of them stammered. “What are you— “

“What am I doing?” Harry’s voice was dangerously quiet, the same tone he’d heard Sirius use when he was truly angry. “Stopping three cowards from picking on someone half their size. Seems pretty obvious to me what I’m doing.”

The Ravenclaws exchanged nervous glances, clearly calculating whether they could take Harry in a fight. The flickering torchlight caught the determination in Harry’s green eyes, and whatever they saw there made them step back.

“This isn’t over, Potter.” The older Ravenclaw said, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Yes, it is.” Harry replied, not lowering his wand. “Unless you want to explain to McGonagall why you were three-on-one against two third-years, one from another school and the other being me. I’m sure she’d love to hear about that.”

The Ilvermorny girl had pressed herself further against the wall, watching the confrontation with wide eyes. Harry caught her gaze for just a moment and jerked his head toward the corridor behind him— a clear signal to run while she had the chance. She needed no further encouragement, slipping past the distracted bullies and disappearing into the maze of dungeon passages.

The sound of her footsteps fading seemed to light the others up into action. Harry knew that he had to distract them, even as he watched one awaken the Hufflepuff he’d just downed.

“You’re going to pay for that, Potter.”

“Doubt it.”

Even as the other three raised their wands, Harry raised his own and poured his frustration, his anger, and something deeper— something that felt like the Ancient Magic thrumming in his veins— into a single spell.

“Lumos Maxima!“

This wasn’t the gentle light charm he’d learned in first year. The magic that erupted from his wand was something else entirely, a brilliant white explosion that turned the dungeon corridor bright white.

The flash was so intense that Harry himself had to squeeze his eyes shut, seeing the burst of light even through his closed eyelids. The accompanying crack of displaced air echoed off the stone walls like thunder.

Behind him, he heard cursing and the sound of bodies hitting the floor as the three bullies were blinded and disoriented. One of them was moaning something about his eyes, while another stumbled into the wall with a bone-jarring thud.

Harry didn’t wait to see the full effect. His heart hammering against his ribs, he spun and ran deeper into the dungeons, his feet pounding against the uneven stone floor. The corridor here was narrower than the main passages, forcing him to duck under low-hanging archways and dodge around corners that seemed to appear out of nowhere in the flickering torchlight.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he sprinted through the maze of passages, each turn taking him further from the main dungeon areas he knew. The walls pressed closer here, some sections so narrow he had to turn sideways to squeeze through. Ancient stones jutted out at odd angles, and more than once he scraped his shoulder against the rough surface as he careened around a bend.

The sound of pursuit echoed behind him— heavy footsteps and angry voices bouncing off the walls in a confusing cacophony.

“This way!” One of them shouted. “I heard him go left!”

“No, you idiot, he went right! Split up!”

Harry’s lungs burned as he pushed himself harder, his Quidditch training the only thing keeping him from collapsing. The irregular floor threatened to trip him with every step— loose stones that shifted underfoot, gaps between ancient blocks that could catch an unwary toe, patches of moisture that made the surface treacherous.

As he ran, a part of his mind registered that he was moving through sections of Hogwarts he’d never seen before. The torches here were fewer and farther between now. Some passages were so dark he had to slow down, feeling his way along the walls with one hand while keeping his wand ready in the other.

The voices behind him were growing fainter now, but Harry didn’t dare stop. His robes billowed out behind him as he took a sharp right turn, then immediately left down a corridor that sloped steeply downward. The air here was different— older somehow, thick with the weight of centuries and tinged with something that made his Ancient Magic abilities prickle with awareness.

“Where did he go?” The voice was distant now, echoing from several passages away.

“Check the Potions storage rooms!”

“He couldn’t have just vanished!”

But Harry was already pulling his Invisibility Cloak from where he’d stuffed it in his robes that morning— a habit he’d developed since the League of Nine tournament, when danger could strike at any moment. The familiar silk-smooth texture slipped over his head like cool water, and instantly the world took on that peculiar muffled quality that came with true invisibility.

He pressed himself against the wall just as footsteps thundered past his hiding spot. The three bullies ran by without pause, their faces flushed with exertion and fury. Harry held his breath as they passed, close enough that he could have reached out and touched them.

“Potter!” The Hufflepuff shouted, his voice echoing off the stone. “You can’t hide forever! We know you’re down here somewhere!”

“When we find you.” One of the Ravenclaws added. “You’re going to wish you’d minded your own business!”

He could have waited and let them pass. It was what Adam would’ve done.

He wasn’t Adam, though.

His wand flashed as he walked from side to side. “Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!”

The first spell caught the Hufflepuff in the chest, again. The second crashed into the first Ravenclaw’s forehead, while the last one was dodged by the final Ravenclaw, who couldn’t even tell where the spells were coming from.

“Where—”

“Expelliarmus!” The spell crashed against his final opponent, knocking him down on the ground. Even before he managed to get back up, a Stunner caught him in the chin, knocking him out cold.

Harry stared at them for a few moments, wondering if he should call for the elves, before shaking his head. They would wake up, eventually. They deserved the discomfort. And so, he walked away.

A minute later, after turning a few corridors, Harry realized that he had absolutely no idea where he was.

The corridor stretched away in both directions, disappearing into shadows that his wandlight couldn’t penetrate. Behind him lay the way he’d come— and his three downed pursuers. Ahead, the passage curved out of sight, leading deeper into what felt like the very bowels of the castle.

Harry pulled the cloak tighter around himself and tried to think. He should go back, find his way to familiar territory, maybe seek out Ron and Hermione and pretend this whole incident had never happened. But the thought of facing more questions, more concerned looks, more attempts to fix his problems when he wasn’t even sure what his problems were…

Besides, there was something about this place that called to him, the same sensation he’d felt in the caverns beneath Grimmauld Place. It was subtle but unmistakable— a thrumming in the air that seemed to resonate with something deep in his chest.

Maybe getting lost wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe it was exactly what he needed.

With his decision made, Harry turned away from the path back to safety and walked deeper into the unknown depths of Hogwarts Castle.

The passage Harry followed seemed to wind endlessly, each turn revealing corridors that looked older and more forgotten than the last. The torches here were sparse and guttering, some nothing more than empty brackets that hadn’t held flame in decades. Dust motes danced in the wan light from his wand, and cobwebs stretched across corners like nature’s own curtains, undisturbed by the passage of time.

Harry’s footsteps echoed differently here— not the sharp click of heel on stone that characterized the main dungeons, but a softer, more muffled sound that suggested layers of dust and neglect. The walls themselves seemed different too, built from larger blocks of stone that bore the weathered marks of truly ancient craftsmanship. Faded runes were carved into some of the blocks, their meanings lost to time but still somehow significant, as if they were part of some greater pattern he couldn’t quite grasp.

His anger from the Potions incident had faded during the chase, replaced first by adrenaline and now by a growing sense of excitement and wonder, though some unease at how he got here.

The thought of his friends made his stomach twist with guilt. They were probably still looking for him, worried sick about where he’d gone. Ron would be checking the common room and the kitchens, while Hermione methodically worked through the library and empty classrooms. They’d never think to look for him down here, in passages that felt like they belonged to a different castle entirely.

Still, it was too late for that. Wherever this path was leading him, he had to press on.

The corridor opened into a small chamber that made Harry pause in surprise. Unlike the narrow passages he’d been following, this room was roughly circular, with a domed ceiling that disappeared into shadows above. Pale light filtered through a crack in one wall— not torchlight, but actual daylight, though so faint it might have been filtering through several feet of stone.

The air here was different too. Musty and still, but with an underlying current that made the hair on his arms stand up. It was the same feeling he’d had in the presence of powerful magic, but older somehow, more patient.

Harry stepped further into the room, seeing details that made his breath catch. The walls were covered in carvings— not the simple runes he’d seen in the corridors, but elaborate designs that seemed to flow and shift in the flickering light. Flame motifs dominated the artwork, stylized tongues of fire that wound around geometric patterns reminiscent of the symbol he understood the most.

At the far end of the room, a spiral staircase had been carved directly into the stone floor, its steps disappearing into darkness below. He approached the staircase slowly, every instinct screaming at him to be careful.

This wasn’t just some forgotten storage room or abandoned classroom. This was something important, the kind of place that Cassius Black had told him only he could find, where ancient magic slumbered and waited for the right touch to awaken it— just as he had done for Cassius’ chamber.

Harry stood at the top of the staircase, one hand resting on the carved banister, and made his decision. If there were answers to be found in the depths below, then he would find them.

Taking a deep breath, Harry began his descent, his wand held high and his heart hammering with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Behind him, the pale light from the cracked wall faded to nothing, leaving only the warm glow of his magic to guide the way.

Alef, warn Adam if anything happens to me?

A positive buzz, and Harry’s shoulders sagged in slight relief.

The spiral staircase seemed to descend forever, each step taking Harry deeper into the heart of the castle. The carved stone beneath his feet was smooth from age, worn by countless passages over the centuries, and more than once he had to grip the central pillar to steady himself as a step proved slightly shorter or taller than expected.

His wandlight barely penetrated the darkness ahead, the shadows seeming to swallow the illumination as quickly as he could produce it. The air grew progressively colder as he descended, until his breath began to mist in small puffs that dissipated into the gloom. Somewhere far above, he could hear the faint echo of his own footsteps bouncing off stone, forcing him to stop and check if he was being followed.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only ten minutes, Harry’s foot splashed into water.

He jerked back instinctively, nearly losing his balance on the narrow step. His wandlight revealed that the staircase ended abruptly in a pool of dark water that stretched away into the shadows beyond. The surface was perfectly still, like black glass, reflecting his light back at him in a way that made it impossible to gauge the water’s depth.

“Brilliant.” Harry muttered, his voice echoing strangely in the confined space. “A dead end.”

But even as frustration welled up in his chest, he found himself studying the water more carefully. There was something odd about it— the way it reflected his wandlight wasn’t quite natural. Instead of the simple mirror-like surface he expected, the water seemed to hold the light for a moment longer than it should, as if the illumination was being absorbed and then gently released.

Harry crouched on the bottom step, bringing his wand closer to the water’s surface. The light revealed that the pool extended beyond the reach of his illumination in all directions, but what caught his attention was the wall directly ahead. Unlike the rough-hewn stone of the staircase, this surface was smooth and deliberately shaped, covered in the same intricate carvings he’d seen above.

And there, at roughly eye level if he were standing in the water, was the symbol.

Like the others, it was a stylized flame, but unlike them, this one was larger and more prominent, carved deep into the stone and filled with what looked like precious metal that caught his wandlight and held it. The design was unmistakable— he’d seen it before, etched into the walls of the cavern beneath Grimmauld Place where they’d met Cassius Black.

Harry’s mind raced as he stared at the symbol. Cassius had spoken of Ancient Magic users from the distant past, keepers of knowledge that most wizards had forgotten. He’d mentioned sanctuaries and hidden chambers, places where the old magic could be studied and preserved. Was this one of those places?

The water lapped gently against the stone, though Harry couldn’t feel any current or breeze that might have caused the movement. It was as if the pool was responding to his presence, recognizing something in him that it had been waiting for.

Before he could lose his nerve, Harry grit his teeth and waded through the water, ignoring the deep chill that raced up his leg. Within seconds, he got to the end, reached out and pressed his palm against the flame symbol.

The response was immediate and overwhelming. Warmth flooded into his body from the carved stone, not the burning heat of fire but something deeper and more fundamental— the warmth of magic itself recognizing a kindred spirit. The metal inlay began to glow with its own inner light, pulsing in rhythm with Harry’s heartbeat, and suddenly the air around him was alive with power.

The sensation was familiar yet strange, like the moment when his Ancient Magic had revealed the entrance to the caverns, but magnified tenfold. Every nerve in his body tingled with awareness, and for a moment he could swear he felt the vast network of magical energy that flowed through Hogwarts itself— ley lines and ancient wards and spells laid down by generations of witches and wizards, all of it connected, all of it waiting.

The world shifted.

Not physically— Harry was still crouched on the stone step with his hand pressed against the carved flame— but something fundamental had changed. The air tasted different, charged with something he couldn’t quite grasp yet. The icy cold feeling was gone, and even the darkness around him seemed less oppressive.

And then, between one heartbeat and the next, Harry was no longer in the flooded chamber beneath Hogwarts.

He was standing in a vast circular room unlike anything he’d ever seen, surrounded by towering stone arches that soared up into shadows far above. His hand was still tingling from contact with the flame symbol, and his wand was still clutched in his other hand, but everything else had changed completely.

A secret chamber?

The chamber stretched out around him in all its ancient glory. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he slowly turned in place, trying to take in the sheer scope of the chamber that surrounded him. The space was enormous— larger than the Great Hall. Massive stone arches rose from the floor like the ribs of some colossal beast, their peaks disappearing into shadows so deep that even his wandlight couldn’t penetrate them.

The architecture was unlike anything else in Hogwarts, older and more primal, as if it had been carved from the living rock by hands that understood magic in ways modern wizards had forgotten.

His footsteps echoed strangely as he moved forward, the sound seeming to travel much farther than it should before bouncing back from unseen walls. The floor beneath his feet was made of the same dark stone as the arches, polished smooth by age and inlaid with intricate patterns that caught his wandlight and reflected it back in subtle, shifting ways. The designs were geometric but organic at the same time, flowing like water or wind made solid, and Harry found his eyes following their curves even when he tried to focus on other things.

The air itself felt different here— not icy and still like the abandoned chamber above, but alive with potential. It hummed with a barely audible frequency that seemed to resonate in his bones, making his magic prickle with awareness.

This wasn’t just a room; it was a nexus, a place where magical energies converged and pooled like water at the bottom of a well.

As Harry walked deeper into the chamber, his wandlight revealed four massive alcoves set into the walls at cardinal points around the circle. Each alcove was framed by elaborate stone carvings— more of the flame motifs he’d seen throughout his descent, but also other symbols: spirals and geometric patterns that seemed to shift and change when he wasn’t looking directly at them. And in each alcove…

Harry’s heart skipped as he approached the nearest one. A portrait frame hung there, enormous and ornate, its gilded edges tarnished with age but still magnificent. The canvas within the frame was dark, empty, showing nothing but painted shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. But even empty, the portrait radiated a sense of presence, as if whoever had once inhabited it might return at any moment.

“Hello?” Harry called out, his voice echoing off the stone arches. “Is anyone there?”

The silence that followed was disappointing. Harry moved to the next alcove, then the third, finding each portrait frame empty.

As he explored, Harry’s mind raced with possibilities. What was this place? Some kind of meeting hall? A repository of knowledge that had been hidden away when the old ways began to fade?

Once again, no one came to answer, and his own mind was equally silent. Standing in the center of the vast space, Harry felt smaller than he had since his first day at Hogwarts.

Should he have brought Adam here? His friend and brother would find a way forward.

Still, even as doubt crept in, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he was meant to be here alone. The magic that had transported him hadn’t responded to academic knowledge or careful planning— it had responded to need, to the desperate frustration of a boy who felt lost and powerless.

Maybe that was what this place required: not scholarly analysis, but genuine seeking.

He walked to the center of the chamber, where the inlaid patterns on the floor seemed to converge in a complex mandala of interlocking designs. The stone here was different, darker, and when Harry knelt and placed his palm against it, he could feel the thrum of power more clearly. It was like pressing his hand against the chest of some vast, sleeping creature, feeling the slow and steady rhythm of its heart.

“Please.” He whispered to the empty chamber, feeling foolish but desperate. “If there’s anyone here, anyone who can help… I need to understand what’s happening. Grindelwald and Voldemort are planning something terrible, and we don’t know how to stop either of them. We don’t even know where they are.“

The silence stretched on, broken only by the whisper of air moving through the stone arches high above. But just as Harry was beginning to think he’d imagined the whole thing, that he’d somehow deluded himself into believing in magic that wasn’t really there, something stirred in the nearest portrait frame.

It was subtle at first— just a shifting in the painted shadows, a sense of movement where there had been none before. But as Harry watched, transfixed, the darkness within the frame began to coalesce, taking on depth and substance. A figure was forming in the canvas, emerging from the void like someone stepping out of deep water into sunlight.

Harry scrambled to his feet, his wand raised instinctively as the portrait came to life before his eyes.

The painted shadows shifted and swirled until they resolved into the figure of a man. He appeared gradually, as if stepping forward from great depths— first the outline of broad shoulders beneath heavy robes, then the sharp angles of an aristocratic face, and finally the piercing eyes that seemed to look directly through Harry rather than at him.

This person was not what Harry had expected. Where Cassius Black had possessed an otherworldly quality, as if he existed partially outside normal time, this fellow seemed almost similar to Dumbledore. His gray beard was streaked with brown, and his hair was completely hidden behind an odd looking hat. His robes were cut in an old-fashioned style that spoke of position, and even some wealth, though not the sort who would brag.

Still, it was his eyes that held Harry’s attention— dark, intelligent, and filled with a weight of knowledge that made Harry feel suddenly very young.

The painted figure studied Harry for a long moment, his expression cycling through confusion, disappointment, and something that might have been resignation. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the crisp enunciation of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.

“You are not whom I expected.” The man said, his gaze traveling from Harry’s messy hair to his rumpled school robes. “The chamber has been dormant for decades. I had hoped… but no. You are merely a lost student, aren’t you?”

Harry bristled at the dismissive tone, his earlier frustration with Snape flaring back to life.

“I’m Harry Potter.” He said, lifting his chin defiantly. “And I didn’t stumble in here by accident. The magic brought me here— the same magic that led me to other Ancient Magic sites.”

Something shifted in the man’s expression at the mention of Ancient Magic. The disappointment faded somewhat, eroded by sharp interest.

“Ancient Magic.” He repeated slowly. “You claim to wield it? And yet you are not fifteen…”

“I don’t claim anything.” Harry shot back. “I can see it, feel it. It’s how I found the caverns beneath Grimmauld Place, how I met Cassius Black. It’s how I ended up here, wherever here is.”

The name Cassius Black had an immediate effect on the portrait. The old man’s eyes widened slightly, and he leaned forward in his frame as if trying to get a better look at Harry. “Cassius Black still lingers? After all this time?”

“He’s a portrait. You know him?” Harry asked, hope flaring in his chest. Finally, someone who might have answers.

“I knew him.” The man confirmed, his voice taking on a more measured tone. “He was a student of mine, you might say, though we rarely agreed on methodology. If Cassius has chosen to reveal himself to you, then perhaps…”

He trailed off, studying Harry with renewed intensity. “Tell me, young man, what did he tell you about the world’s energies?”

Harry’s pulse quickened. “He said something was happening— that energies were being shifted around for a purpose he couldn’t understand. He seemed worried about it.”

The old man nodded grimly. “As well he should be. The signs have been building for months now. Someone with considerable power and knowledge is manipulating the very foundations of magical reality, preparing for something that will require enormous amounts of energy to accomplish.”

“Grindelwald.” Harry said immediately. “It has to be. He’s planning some kind of ritual. We think— my friends and I— it’s meant to open a portal to the Abyss.”

The portrait’s reaction was immediate and alarming. The old man’s face went pale, and he gripped the edges of his painted frame as if trying to step out of it entirely.

“The Abyss, you say?” He said. “Impossible. No one would be mad enough to attempt such a thing.”

“But it’s possible?” Harry pressed. “The ritual could actually work?”

“Theoretically.” The graybeard admitted reluctantly. “The Abyss is not merely a realm of death— it is the space between existence and void, where the rules that govern our reality become… malleable. A wizard who could establish a connection to such a place would indeed gain power over the material world, but at a cost that—”

He stopped abruptly, as if realizing he was saying too much.

Harry stepped closer to the portrait, his frustration boiling over. “At a cost that what? You can’t just stop there! People are going to die if we can’t figure out how to stop him!”

The man’s expression softened slightly at Harry’s obvious distress. “What is your name again, child? I’m afraid I only caught your last name.”

“Harry Potter.”

“Mr. Harry Potter.” The man acknowledged with a nod before introducing himself. “I am Percival Rackham.”

“Percival Rackham.” Harry said. “Are… Were you a Professor at the school?”

“Oh, yes. I taught Divination.” Rackham said, smiling slightly. “I was among the last keepers of the Ancient Magic traditions, before the old ways were lost to time and fear. This chamber— the Map Chamber, we called it— was our sanctuary, our place of learning and preparation.”

“Preparation for what?” Harry asked.

“For the day when someone like this fellow you mentioned… Grindel Wall?”

“Grindelwald.” Harry corrected.

“Thank you. Among other reasons, this room was also built for the possibility that someone like this Grindelwald fellow might arise.” Rackham replied gravely. “We always knew that power such as ours would eventually attract those who would use it for domination rather than protection. We prepared defenses, safeguards, and knowledge that could be used against such threats. But we never imagined someone would be foolish enough to court the Abyss directly.”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. “What happens if he succeeds? If he opens the portal?”

Rackham was quiet for a long moment, his painted eyes focused on something beyond Harry’s shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Your power is a spark, Harry Potter, but the fire it could ignite may consume more than you know. If Grindelwald succeeds in his ritual, if he truly opens a stable gateway to the Abyss… the boundaries between life and death, between our world and the void beyond, will begin to blur. Reality itself will become his weapon. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Harry thought of Adam, of Ron and Hermione, of all the people who would suffer if Grindelwald’s plan came to fruition. Halloween was only just weeks away, and they were running out of time.

“Tell me how to stop him.” Harry said urgently. “There has to be a way.”

Rackham was already shaking his head, his expression troubled. “I cannot simply give you answers, young Potter. The knowledge contained within this chamber is dangerous— more dangerous than you can possibly imagine. If you truly wish to learn what we know, if you truly wish to stand against such darkness, then you must prove yourself worthy of the burden.”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. More tests, more proving himself, when people’s lives hung in the balance. But as he looked into Rackham’s stern but not unkind eyes, he realized this wasn’t about arbitrary trials or ancient prejudices. This was about power that could reshape the world— and the responsibility that came with wielding it.

“All right.” He agreed quietly. “What do I have to do?”

Rackham’s smile was sad, but he had a glint of pleasant surprise in his eyes. “First, you must understand what you truly are, Harry Potter. And that understanding begins with accepting that your journey into the Ancient Magic has only just begun.”