Chapter Text
Harry looked out from the tall window of his office and sighed silently. As much as he would like to put it off, it was All Hallows Eve. All his various dead would need to be appeased, and this before joining the observance of the day first in Hogwarts and then Peverell close. A busy, sad day indeed.
Harry slid a loose robe of plain black silk over his under-robe topped with a thick black wool mantle and cloak. On his belt was only the ceremonial silver knife and his wand. He carried in his hands the tiny locked chest he had brought with him from the future.
Harry was lost in thought as he wound his way down through Peverell Keep. Through closed doors he could hear the piping of young voices at their lessons, the rustling of servants and house elves about their duties. As he passed portraits and tapestries the inhabitants nodded, bowed or curtsied.
The Keep was steadily being reclaimed. The orphanage was settled with classes and teachers and a handful of motherly squibs handling the dormitories for the various ages. The village was coming along, now with a smith and carpenter turning out materials to repair and build new houses and the population growing by leaps and bounds. Fields of rippling green winter wheat ringed the village. Even in the long overgrown potions garden there had been progress as Harry's latest recruit, a forcibly retired young auror with a fire curled foot and arm, did battle with the devils snare with an enchanted axe.
Harry passed through a heavy door and into the castle solarium, which he had converted to a hothouse for exotic plants. Dame Vergast nodded to him as he passed, with her clutch of students seated in a half circle in front of her as she extolled the attributes of the potted Buddhas Hand tree beside her.
Yes, Harry thought “A great many things had been started and were coming along well.”
Harry swept through the great entrance hall quickly. He hardly noted the small figure curled up near the fireplace on a padded bench reading, or when the same small figure followed him.
Harry made his way through the village quietly. His sober mien and clothing kept the villagers at a distance, though they still bobbed a curtsey or touched their forelock in respect. Harry still was getting used to it, but the 1930's still had a great deal of the class structure that was absent in more of modern Britain. And of course the magical world was still firmly settled in the hands of the nobility with no chance of being dislodged any time soon.
Harry stopped bolt still.
Nobility. Could that be it? The elusive key to Dumbledore’s pattern of favoritism and neglect?
Even months later they have yet to unravel exactly what happened to the scholarship funds. As far as they can tell the monies were dispersed, but some children received them and some didn't. Some were poor, some were rich, some were muggleborn, some half-born. Armando and Harry hadn't found a pattern …. but what if the neglected children had some noble birthright?
Harry had long known the Dumbledore had no Lordship to his name. Not even a title to a small holding like a Baron. Harry could remember the older Dumbledore giving no proper precedent to the noble children in his charge. Could it be a deliberate attempt to break down the class barriers? If so it was a daft one. If nothing else it was a slim clue to examine.
Harry was finally at the gates of the village cemetery. His stone workers had repaired the front wall and patched up the worst of the tip tilted stones inside but the heavy iron gates were at the smiths being repaired and the back and side walls still awaited work. Thankfully they had not had a reason to use the site yet. Harry absentmindedly touched wood for luck. Aside from a nasty fall from a barn roof, his people had only suffered minor cuts and bruises, all easily fixed by Dame Vergast, who had decided to join Peverell Close in charitable donation of her skills as a healer and potions maker. Apparently given a choice between that and staying at her Cousin Benedict’s house with his shrewish new wife, well …
Harry entered the grave yard. Some of the graves bore simple crosses, but the bulk of them were simple stone or alter-stones set in the ground carved with runes of protection and the name of the interred. Wizards, you see, knew very well what could be done with a corpse, or blood and bone and thus favored fire first of all. And then to salt and bury the ashes. So an entire family could use the same altar-stone for generations easily.
Plain altars had been set up for new families already, the Weavers for example had a new stone, but the Carvers adopted the previous Carvers altar with no ill effect. Harry smiled wryly. Since some of his recruits had come from Charlus' estates much to his protests, there was every chance some of the families were actually related.
He mused that he should really have the children brought down here to help clear up and learn a bit of wizarding customs. Most of them had taken to the wizarding world like ducks to water, especially young Thomas.
Harry neared the open area at the back of the graveyard. He had carefully cleared out the trees here and the ground was barren and flat for a large circular area, big enough to lay a dragon out flat from nose to tail.
Harry sighed, he really wasn't looking forward to this. But a promise was a promise.
Harry raised his wand and with a few incantations skinned the turf and dirt from the ground. A small pouch provided several bags of colored sands. Harry laid the plain white sand flat and then carefully started drawing in the nested circles in circles. The sun had nearly reached its highest point by the time he stopped, raising up from his crouch with a hand on his sore back.
“Nobody ever said being a wizard was comfortable” he muttered to himself softly.
Harry slowly paced around the circle, wand raised. Judging it to be satisfactory he gestured , repeated it three times and then incanted Fuego! A blast of bright crimson fire coiled and flew from his wand, following the path he had taken and washed inwards over the circles drawn in sand. When it had passed, the surface was fused and glassy.
Harry cast a preserving spell. This circle should last some months, even into the coming winter. Possibly a bit of overkill, but considering his next step, necessary.
Harry stepped into the center of the circle. He could feel the heavy press of the ward on his skin and sparking along his ritual dagger.
He placed the tiny chest in the center of the circle and tapped it to enlarge it. Once, twice and three times until it was the size of a small desk. With the dagger he pricked his hand and carefully let three drops of blood on each of the three heavy locks on top of the chest.
When the last drop had fallen the heavy locks clicked open. Harry remained motionless as the carvings of snakes came to life and swirled lazily across the chest. They eventually formed a knot of serpents around the main lock. A hooded cobra rose out from the wooden surface, its carved teeth glistening.
Harry held out his hand and gently placed a finger in the cobras mouth.
“Open”, he hissed in parseltongue. The snake bore down , not piercing the skin and he repeated it twice more.
Then the snakes withdrew and the heavy lid of the chest creaked open. A miasma of decay and the reek of a ruined world rose from the chest. Harry turned his head away and coughed. He had forgotten how it smelled. The despair, the pain , the death of a world.
The trunk had a tray fitted in the top. In each compartment of the tray was a tiny rolled up bundle, each one a tent. Each tent, harry knew, contained the last of a dying race or family. Many had not even survived to be folded by the tent into wizard space and thus preservation. But some few had. The question now, is how many had survived the transition to this new time all unknowing of their fate.
Harry started with the first tent. It was going to be a very long, very sad day.
Unbeknownst to Harry a small figure was watching from behind the graveyard wall. Intent gray eyes watched every motion and incantation with avid curiosity.
Harry lowered the last of the dead goblins into a long funeral pit. Fiendfyre would cleanse the ashes and the remains would be lain under a plain stone. So far he has found no survivors. The goblins, the handful of veela, the single ailing mer and her clutch of orphaned eggs. None had survived the failing of the magical currents in the old world. Tears run down Harry’s cheeks all unnoticed.
Harry destroyed the current tent and retrieves the next one. This one is plain leather and he sighs. He knows who was in this one. Harry enlarges and sets up the tent. The tent pegs dig into the ground and the ropes tighten themselves as the tent poles grow upwards and the tent erects itself. Harry waits for a moment, out of habit.
As he steps towards the tent flap a hand pushes it open. Harry stops stock still.
The figure pushes away the leather, and a shining hoof plants itself firmly on the surface of the glass circle. The centaur pushes his way out of the tent, ducking to pass through the doorway. He stops when his barrel is halfway out and stops to look around him.
“Magus” he addressed Harry. “Have you succeeded in your task?”
Harry bitterly smiled “Only portions of it Hyppos. It is All Soul's Day, and a better day to mourn our world I could not choose.”
Hyppos inclined his golden head at Harry. Like most centaurs Harry has met, Hyppos is very sparing with his words. Harry had found him in Greece, where his herd were defending the dwindling remains of the Sacred Groves from the muggles who invaded the moment the ancient protective spells had failed.
Hyppos was golden and tan from the top of his curly blonde head to the tip of his creamy palomino tail. His coat, though dry and scruffy from lack of grooming, was the colour of fresh minted gold. He stepped forward out of the tent, planting all four hooves firmly on the ground.
“I can feel the magic, Magus. This is a strong land you have brought us to.”
“Welcome to Peverell Keep, the Ambrosius Sanctuary for Magical Beings. As I promised Hyppos.”
“I request Sanctuary for myself and my herd, Magus”
“Lord Peverell now Hyppos. Safer, and easier. I grant thee and thine Sanctuary. You can shelter at the keep if you would, and the deep forests if you prefer. There seem to be unicorns, but I have not found any other beings living here.”
Hyppos nods and turns back into the tent. Harry can hear quiet voices inside, muffled as if through great distance. Slowly a string of centaurs limps out. Some still bear wounds or illness. Harry starts to work healing those who need it the most, and passing out potions gladly. After the mornings sad results, this handful of centaurs has made it worth the heartbreak.
Hyppos emerges again from the tent, a limp figure held in his arms. Its is a gangly legged foal, her blue veined eyelids closed, her stick thin arms dangling. Wisps of blonde hair trail along Hyppos' arms.
“Is she... ?” Harry asks
“She may yet live Lord. The magic is stronger here.”
“I have potions, freshly brewed. May I take her to my Healer?”
“It may be some time Lord. She will be too weak to winter in the forest.”
“One more child in my sanctuary is no worry Hyppos.” Harry takes the foal in his arms, whispering a weight-lightening spell.
“We can finish the task here Lord.”
“I will be back as soon as I have settled this young one.” Harry sighs. “Yours are the last of the beings. The rest of the tents are various creatures. You can let the ones that are well loose in the woods.”
“When the child is well we shall come to you.”
Harry is long used to the ways of centaurs. He accepts that they will know.
“I'll let the village know that you are in the woods. You can trade for such supplies as you may need, and like the villagers you have the right of common gather in the kitchen gardens and the common Potion garden. Try to mind the border wards, there are Muggle villages near by.”
Hyppos nods. Harry turns on his heel and apparates to the healers ward in the Keep. An ailing centaur foal will be a challenge.
Hyppos gravely observes his herd as they bring their dead from the tent. Three centaurs of the ten had passed away, as he had foreseen. It had been four foretold, but now Hyppos has some hope for the life of his foal, though he knew her future was lost to them. Her life belonged to the Magus now.
“Be at ease watcher. We mean no harm” He suddenly spoke.
The small figure behind the gate flinched and nearly fell over.
“Who are you? What are you?”
Hyppos approached the youngling. It was a young wizard. A strong one, Hyppos thought.
“We are centaurs. Thy Lord has rescued us from certain death.”
The young child stared up at Hyppos. He is trying to control his features, but his small face is shadowed with confusion.
“You were in a tent in a box. How can you be alive?”
“When the tent is folded the enchanted space within pauses in time, and all within it.”
“The other tents ...they were all dead. I don’t even know what half of them were.”
“All desperate survivors seeking sanctuary, just as we were” Hyppos said gravely.
“From what?” the boy asked.
“I cannot say. Our oaths prevent it.”
“Lord Peverell saved you.” the boy said. “Like he saved me.”
“Yes. What is thy name young wizard?” Hyppos already knows, but he must always ask. Being a seer is a life full of headaches,
“My name is Thomas Riddle.” The young boy says defiantly.