Còir Buaidh

Year 0 Part 2

… …

I was walking down the hall of Dunscaith Castle, heading toward the Master Study. Outside, the weather was calm and, thanks to the wards around the castle and grounds, far more comfortable than would be typical for late November in the Hebrides. It was now 1969, meaning my eleventh birthday, and all that would entail, was less than two months away; which was why my grandfather – the sixth Dòmhnall to be The MacLeod – wished to speak with me privately.

He'd spoken about how, as I was nearly ready to enter the magical world at the correct age, it was time I understood how far I had to go to reach my potential. I’d been a little confused by the need for that as, while I was powerful and skilled for my age, I understood I was at least a decade removed from being able to make a real mark on this world. Now, my other ancestors also knew what this was about as they’d worn a variety of expressions when Kadic had entered to collect my grandfather’s enhanced portrait. However, neither they nor my grandfather were willing to explain the matter in the Inner Library, therefore I was heading for the Master Study.

Behind me, my grandfather’s enhanced portrait was levitating with Kadic a step behind it to ensure its movement through the castle.

While apparating was fast I’d chosen to walk instead, I found it disorientating; or at least the elfish form of it. The few times I’d been side-along apparated by other magical humans it hadn’t felt as nauseating, so it was perhaps an issue with how elfish magic interacted with a wizard. Which was why, until I could determine the reason behind it, I avoided letting Kadic or Aien apparate me around the castle.

Aien was a female elf I’d purchased who, according to the breeder, specialised in flora and fauna. She allowed Kadic to focus his attention on the castle and the direct grounds which made him happier as he appeared uncomfortable about heading into the forest around the castle. Although, he was elated when I’d formally made him the Head Elf of Clan MacLeod after purchasing Aien.

Dealing with an Elf Breeder has been odd. It was explained to me that while elves could wield magic in their own way, they needed a connection to either a large number of other elves or a magical location to enjoy long lives. Neither he nor anyone I’d asked about the matter understood why this was, with Arcturus even wondering – in not so many words – why this was concerning to me. I’d dropped the matter, but it was something I’d added to the very, very long list of things I wanted to investigate whenever time allowed.

I flicked my wand, saying the necessary incantation in my head and the door to the Master Study slid open; no sound coming from the ancient door. Not that any sound ever had. I moved around the desk and then settled down in the Chief’s chair while Kadic gently lowered my grandfather’s portrait onto the visitor chairs on the other side of the massive, rune-covered desk.

“Thank you Kadic, you may leave us.” Kadic bowed to my grandfather in deference. Once the elf exited the room, the door closed behind him, and a faint vibration of the torc let me know the room was secure. “Now, before we broach today’s topic, I think perhaps some background on what I wish to reveal to you is needed. While all will be clear once we’re finished today, actions taken during my lifetime might well colour many toward you in Hogwarts and beyond.”

I sat quietly, wondering if he would continue even as I realised I’d barely felt the chair I was in shifting to accommodate my presence. The fact that after several years such things were now commonplace was something both incredible and depressing. I knew there was far, far more about this world that would amaze me, but knowing that, if given enough time, many simple wonders would barely register to me was oddly worrying. Still, I knew there would be parts of this world that would truly never grow commonplace and unremarkable. The ward core of this castle and how being home, especially in the Master Study or down with the core, always put a spring in my step.

When my grandfather didn’t continue, I considered what I knew of his life, including actions taken throughout it, and what led to his death. “You mean that you, our Clan, and others allied with us, supported Grindelwald?”

“Aye,” My grandfather replied with a small smile, though it faded as he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “And other things.” He took a moment, staring off at some point behind me before continuing. “Including my thoughts about how I and your grandmother died.”

“You mean murdered?”

He chuckled, possibly at how quick I was to ask that. “The reports regarding the death of myself and Cassiopeia were, and still are as far as I know, vague. However, given our prominent status as supporters of Grindelwald, among other issues, I have little doubt that we were attacked and killed because of that support. Even though, by the time we died, the war had been over for years and everyone was granted immunity by Albus Dumbledore,” his tone twisted at saying that name, as it had every time he’d had to mention or think about the current Headmaster of Hogwarts, “for the actions taken during the war. In the years that followed Grindelwald’s death, I – and other prominent figures across Europe – continued to warn of the dangers to our world the muggles presented with their rapid and, in some cases, terrifying advancement. While I refrained from publicly repeating Grindelwald’s position that wizards should rule over muggles; I never withheld my contempt for them and the devastation they brought to the world through their actions. That is, in my opinion, another factor behind why your grandmother and I were murdered.”

“Was the case ever solved?” Even as I asked, I knew the answer.

My grandfather sighed and shook his head. “No. The head of the DMLE, the Minister, and the Chief Warlock had all backed Dumbledore during the war and had no interest in investigating the deaths of known Grindelwald supporters. We weren’t the only ones to suddenly die under mysterious circumstances, but – no matter how many Chiefs and Lords of old and prominent Clans or Houses, nor members of those families were found dead – the Ministry refused to look deeply into the matter. Which, given the dozen or so attempts against me and your grandmother each year after the war, I can understand. By only paying lip service to the traditions and laws of the Wizengamot, at least regarding the various attacks on ourselves and others, the Ministry managed to keep a fragile peace. A peace that, from what I have heard from Lord Arcturus Black, is barely any more stable today than when I died several decades ago.”

Even if I didn’t like that, I had to nod in agreement. I was surprised that Dumbledore didn’t push for those murdering supporters of Grindelwald to be brought to justice, but I could see the logic in not delving too deeply into the matter. Doing so ran a great risk of stirring the pot again, possibly even reigniting the issues that had led to Grindelwald starting his war. However, it was those issues, and the Ministry’s inaction over things like my grandparents’ deaths, that I felt Voldemort was likely drawing on to build his forces in preparation for his war.

The other part about this was that it further soured me toward Dumbledore. I’d had issues with him before the merging regarding his treatment of Harry; although much of that could, possibly, be excused due to a faulty narrator, and the Dumbledore of this world being more observant of important individuals under his care. But, in my years being tutored by my ancestors and others, I’d yet to find many who spoke admirably of Dumbledore concerning anything beyond his power and ability to influence the Ministry and Wizengamot. That was going to make next year interesting as until I was sure, I had to work from the assumption that any staff member at Hogwarts was loyal to the Headmaster and, thus, not someone I could ever fully trust to not be monitoring me on Dumbledore’s orders.

“However, I didn’t bring you here to discuss at length the choices I made in life nor what fate befell me due to them,” my grandfather continued, drawing me from my thoughts. “At least when it pertains to how they affected me. No, I brought you here to help illuminate how my actions, and those of other members of our Clan, will affect how others see you. Even something as simple as which house at Hogwarts you are assigned into is going to colour perceptions, though that is a discussion that can wait until after your letter of acceptance.”

He paused and took a moment as if resetting his thoughts. “As I just hinted at, the situation in the magical world today hasn’t improved much beyond how it was when the war ended. Nor have the issues that gave rise to the war been resolved. Grindelwald may be gone, but his legacy and all that entails remains. That includes the thoughts many have regarding our Clan because of my actions during the war. However, as you were never raised to become The MacLeod and were instead thrust into the role, others may be more, shall we say, tolerant of your choices. At least initially. You won’t be a blank slate to those in positions of power due to your open and obvious closeness to Lord Black, but many will wait and see what actions and choices you make. With that in mind, I want to teach you a simple, but important lesson.

“You’re aware you have great potential as a wizard, Dòmhnall. However, that doesn’t mean your future is secured nor that others with less potential cannot challenge or even kill you simply because you are a possible threat to their plans. Everyone starts at the bottom of the pile and only through hard work, dedication, courage, cunning, and a multitude of other traits; they scratch, fight, and crawl to positions of power. For those with the desire to be something great, the power to back it up, and the determination to do what they must for their beliefs; the chance to make their mark on magic in these Isles, Europe, or even the entire world is there for the taking.” He leaned forward though, because he was inside the painting, he didn’t actually come closer. “I know by my magic that you have the potential to stand alongside names such as Grindelwald and Dumbledore. Perhaps you will rise above even them to be placed beside figures such as the founders of Hogwarts. But before you can do so, you need to understand; you need to see. Wield the power, the will, the determination you need to turn that potential into reality.”

Even as I felt a little intimidated by his words, and the suggestion that he expected great things from me, I nodded in understanding. I knew that while I was good – very good, even – for my age, I couldn’t take on or defeat someone like Bellatrix, to say nothing of an adult and experienced wizard, or those that rose above the masses to be something impressive, if not extraordinary.

“Now, touch your wand to the torc and repeat after me: Foillsich Talla nan Cuimhneachan.”

I played the words around in my head, but the only word I knew was the one meaning ‘hall’, however, that left me uncertain as to what I was revealing or summoning. However, knowing the wards would protect me, I did as asked. “Fuck me!” the words slipped from me as I felt the magic of the castle react, congregating in me. My head whipped around as the magic that had been building rushed away, and a section of the wall shimmered for a few moments before fading away entirely. “Bloody hell.”

The behaviour of the wall reminded me of how the wall in the Leaky Cauldron pulled back to reveal Diagon Alley, though there was less delay in the action and a more impressive disappearance over the wall folding back.

I moved to stand, wanting to see into the newly revealed room, yet halfway up, I stopped. Remembering how badly things had almost gone when I’d discovered the ward core, and how whatever in the forest around the castle reacted to me whenever I pushed a little deeper into the trees, I knew I shouldn’t enter alone.

“I’ll need you to levitate me inside. However, before you enter the Hall of Memories, place your hand against the wall next to the entrance.” I moved toward the entrance slowly, whatever was inside hidden in darkness, yet the faint hints of age and power radiated from within the hidden depths. Cautiously, I placed my hand on the stones beside the new gap. “Now, think about illuminating the room.”

Around my hand a dull, greenish-grey light built. As it slowly spread, sliding toward the entrance to the Hall of Memories, I understood it was the magic of the core flowing through the castle. Once the entranceway was lit, the light slid into the hall, slowly illuminating the room.

The Hall wasn’t large, perhaps twenty to thirty metres square. The walls were full of shelves, most full of small objects – vials – held in racks, and I was reminded of a chemistry lab. Yet the object in the centre of the room made clear this wasn’t a muggle lab: a white marble pedestal dominated the place without really doing anything. Hundreds of runes – with only a third of those in languages I recognized, and barely a tenth of which I knew. Even knowing what little I did of Elder and Younger Futhark, and Ancient Gaelic – which for all but the first wasn’t much at all – I understood that I could spend decades, perhaps more, trying to decipher the meaning of the runic arrays that flowed majestically around and up the pedestal, toward a silver basin that rested at the top of the pedestal; sitting so smoothly that the edge of the basin merged into the pedestal when it simply shouldn’t.

Inside the basin, at one corner of the pedestal, faint wispy grey shadows shifted; calling to my curiosity. Yet before I entered the room, I turned back to my grandfather’s portrait. A flick of my wand had me silently casting the Levitation charm and with him behind, I stepped into the Hall of Memories.

“This is a pensieve, is it not?” I said as I approached the basin, the portrait floating just behind me.

“It is indeed. Every Ancient or older Clan or House claims to have one, as do many of the others, though the exact details of these halls are closely guarded. I’m led to believe that at least House Black has something similar to this Hall. However, no one will ever confirm the existence of, or possession of, a pensieve to anyone outside their Clan or House. By Ministry law, possession of one is meant to be regulated, but as most Clans or Houses are far older than the Ministry, we choose to ignore several of their rulings.” As he spoke, I moved the portrait around and then placed it gently against one section of shelving that was empty. “The ability to view and analyse the memories of those who came before you and to understand how and why certain events – be they meaningful moments of a government, the birth of a firstborn, or the incidents that started blood feuds – is critical to help those who come later understand why their ancestors made the choices they did. To deny oneself access to this power, this knowledge, is foolish in the extreme, which is perhaps why those who might be so inclined often meet fates that are violent, amusing, or oftentimes both.”

I listened as he spoke, though my gaze remained on the pensieve. The runes on the pedestal ran around the edges of the silver basin, and even though they were in, perhaps, a half-dozen different runic languages, seemed to flow more naturally than water. “I’ve read about them in some of the books in the castle library,” I said slowly, my eyes picking out a handful of smaller runic arrays built into larger ones. However, even knowing those small sections did nothing to help me understand how the various runes worked together. “Most warn of the dangers of using one: that only the most powerful and skilled wizards and witches should toy with magical memories.”

“For a public pensieve, or those used by the Ministry and DMLE, or when viewing the memories of one unwilling to give them, or taken by someone lacking in the skill to extract them, then that is certainly true. However, Ancient Clans and Houses tie much of their possessions to the wards of their homes, and in the case of our Clan, it’s also linked through the torc you bear. That greatly mitigates the risk involved with viewing any memory placed inside the pensieve.” A frown appeared on his forehead. “However, before I show you how to use the clan pensieve, I require a vow that until you graduate Hogwarts with at least four NEWTs of Exceeding Expectations or higher, or that you have produced an heir and two spares, you don’t ever attempt to enter this room without either myself or my father present. Not even to simply admire the multitude of memory vials or the pensive contained in this Hall.”

I pulled my wand from my holster, which was disillusioned and attached to my hip, and gave a vow to that extent. Since I’d had magical vows explained to me, I knew that if the vow demanded wasn’t worded sufficiently carefully, then there would be wiggle room. However, my grandfather’s words left little hint of such a grey area, nor did I wish to toy with memory watching until I was far more skilled with magic. I did want to know what the vials contained, but I understood knowledge without wisdom was a dangerous thing; to others as well as yourself.

“Good,” my grandfather said, a smile suggesting he was pleased I hadn’t tried to change the wording to create ambiguity. “Now, head toward the shelves on my right.”

I did as he asked, getting a better look at them. Each shelf contained around three dozen racks – more than the shelves could hold without magic expanding the size of them – and each rack held a half-dozen vials, each several inches from the others. Each shelf here bore a name, with the two bottom shelves – those being mine and my father’s – being empty. “On the shelf bearing my name, locate the rack marked 1943 and then find the vial for July of that year.”

I moved a finger around, using it to guide me to the correct rank and then vial. Cautiously, I lifted the vial out of the rack. The vial appeared to be simple crystal and contained a wispy silver-white liquid while the rack had runes upon it. I recognized the runes for water, stability, and wisdom in arrays for protection and safety, but those weren’t my focus.

Moving slowly, I carried the vial toward the pensieve, one hand underneath it in case it slipped from the grasp of the other.

“Now, in the corner of the pensieve between us, there is a small indentation. One large enough to secure the vial. Place it inside that indentation.”

I did as instructed, though I almost leapt back as, once the vial was inside the small gap, the runes around the pensieve’s rim lit up, and the liquid inside started to glow. Recovering from my shock, I watched as the liquid in the basin slowly turned colour until it matched that of the vial’s contents, which by then had flowed out of the vial.

Turning back to my grandfather, I saw an amused smile on his face. “The colour shifts mean the memory is now ready for viewing. However, before you view the memory, you need to understand you are merely an observer there; seeing what I saw at that time. With a thought, you can exit, stop, rewind, or slow down the memory. This allows you to examine certain moments in the memory more closely, seeking to find details that, while it was happening, the person the memory came from might have missed.”

“Useful.”

“Yes, it is. Though to many, the viewing of a memory from another without their express permission is considered an invasion of privacy. You are seeing and experiencing something personal to them. That is another reason why pensieves are rarely used in public settings. Even their usage in trials before a Council of Judgment created by Wizengamot are rare things, used only for the most serious infringements of the law. That said, such a Council cannot force a sitting Chief, Lord, or Heir to provide memories without the support of seventy-five per cent of the total votes in the Wizengamot. That has, to date, only occurred twice in the history of the Wizengamot and the precursor Wizard's Council.”

“What about other members of powerful families such as Regulus Black, or my cousin Tallula?” Both were spares to their families, with Tallula currently being the spare for Clan MacLeod with our cousin, Magnus, being my direct heir until I produced one of my own. So far, neither Magnus nor Tallula had hinted at challenging me for my position once I was older and had given oaths to serve me as The MacLeod but until I was entirely assured of their loyalty, I remained cautious.

“Any witch or wizard, even a Chief or Lord, can offer up a memory to a Council of Judgment if brought before it. However, the Ministry can force those without the previously mentioned protections to provide the memory with a vote in the Wizengamot. For those that are blood members of a Clan or House, it requires sixty per cent of Wizengamot votes. For all others, a simple majority is needed.”

That was easy to see and was one reason many half-bloods and muggleborns, even those adopted into a Clan or House due to lineage had issues with the Wizengamot: they lacked the power, influence, and money to force through changes. I suspected many of the Chiefs and Lords wouldn’t allow that to change without making it harder for members of their families to be forced to provide a memory.

“The request of memories,” my grandfather continued, “and other such methods of determining truth, are only used in the direst of cases. Generally, if a witch or wizard offers an oath upon their magic, that is sufficient to believe their words are true. However, a refusal to provide a memory when requested by the DMLE for a trial reflects poorly on the defendant. Even Chiefs and Lords can suffer a fall in opinion from failing to provide a memory when it is requested.”

I could see why that was, as a memory should, in theory, be an easy way to confirm someone’s innocence or guilt. However, I could see ways to, in theory, trick the system. “What about if someone’s memories had been altered by a powerful Legilimens, or they created false memories to share? And what about those with little to no protection against the usage of mind magic?”

My grandfather gazed at me for a moment before chuckling. “If you were older, I would wonder if perhaps you were interested in studying Law, however, I can see your questions are simply another sign of your proclivity for wanting to know as much as you can. Which is a relief. As The MacLeod, you have no need nor requirement to study for occupations that are, in most cases, beneath your position. Unless, perhaps, you wish to use them as a way to acquire greater power or higher office. Which, given your current age, is highly unlikely.

“Regarding your questions, for all but the most skilled at Occlumency and Legilimency, it is possible to detect the faint hints that a memory has been altered, or fabricated to fool others. For those with little to no understanding of the magics of the mind then, even if a memory drawn from them is deemed false, their inability to protect themselves from such alterations is something many feel should be a crime in of itself; though that is generally only an issue for those not raised into our world.” And there was another reason those muggle-raised were disadvantaged in this world. I suspected there was more to this than he was revealing, but knowing it wouldn’t be explained today, I added it to the long, long list of things I had to research whenever time allowed.

“Now, with your curiosity at least partially sated, perhaps we might return to the memory.” I looked at the basin, seeing the wispy sliver-white liquid move around in ways more akin to fog than water, and the temptation to dive in and seek what was inside the memory formed in my mind. “Before you do that, these are the rules, simple as they are, over how to use the pensieve.” He smiled when I blinked, understanding he knew what I’d been thinking. “Beyond how to control the memory, which I already mentioned, to access the memory you simply place your head in a basin; as if washing your face in a sink. To leave, regardless of where in the memory you are, simply consciously choose to do so.”

I blinked, my eyes then going between my grandfather and the pensieve. “That feels remarkably simplistic for something so incredible.”

“Aye, it is,” he replied with a chuckle. “Yet often the simplest answer or method is the correct one.”

“Occam's razor.”

“Yes, for a muggle-born, he was remarkably observant of both the magical and muggle worlds.”

I blinked again, surprised to learn that the creator of that idea was a wizard. However, my curiosity about that, and seeing if any other famous muggles from my world and this were actually wizards or witches would have to wait. My focus, my desire for knowledge was drawn to the pensieve and whatever was contained within my grandfather’s memory.

I moved toward the basin, my hands touching the pedestal. “Nothing ventured,” I muttered before dropping my head into the odd, magical fluid that filled the basin.

…

I blinked, my mind struggling for a moment to process that I was no longer in Dunscaith Castle. Instead, I found myself in what appeared to be a muggle city. The buildings were old, several damaged by what looked like explosions, and the place was empty. Given it was nighttime, that made sense though I blinked as I saw a poster on the wall of one building.

“Well, he did say nineteen-forty-three,” I muttered as I recognized a German World War Two poster, though I hadn’t expected the memory to drop me in the biggest conflict of the twentieth century; or at least not the muggle war. Grindelwald’s war had taken place concurrently, or at least the latter years as Grindelwald’s actions had begun the Global Wizarding War in the mid-1920s.

A sound behind me had me pivot and attempt to summon my wand. However, nothing came to my hand, and I frowned. It took me a moment to understand that I was unarmed in the memory then another to realise that, as the dust slowly shifted around the ground as if someone was walking there despite me being unable to see them, that whoever was there was disillusioned. That meant they were magicals, and given whose memory I was in, I had to assume that at least one of the wizards was my grandfather.

I knew others were here, as the dust was moving just enough to suggest three, perhaps more, people moving slowly, cautiously. The sounds of sirens in the distance caught my attention and had me process that my grandfather and those with him were also silenced. If they were hunting muggles – something that was possible – then I wasn’t sure they needed to go to such extremes, which had me wondering who they were hunting; or who might be hunting them.

It was the start of the memory, and as such I knew it wasn’t yet time for the reason my grandfather wanted me to view this memory to be revealed, but the silence that dominated the area near me started to irritate me as it stretched out. If not for the faint shifts in the dust and debris on the ground, I’d not know where to look or walk.

I jumped to one side, once more trying to summon my wand, as one of the buildings in the general direction we were heading creaked: a large section of the upper floor crashing down. Behind me, another building shifted. Turning I watched in horror as it fell toward me. My arms came up, pathetically trying to protect my body, yet the building fell around me without doing damage.

Everything went dark, and I looked around, wondering what had happened. “Right. A memory,” I muttered to myself. “Glad no one saw that.” A hopeful thought to pause the memory had it do so, and I walked back toward where I’d been, and soon the world around me shifted, parts slowly coming back into focus.

Looking around, trying to find the movement, but with the new dust thrown up by the collapsing buildings it was impossible to tell where anyone or anything was. Wondering if I’d done something wrong, I closed my eyes and willed myself out of the memory.

…

“Something amiss?” My grandfather as I lifted my head from the basin. I blinked, wondering why I wasn’t wet, my mind taking a split second to adapt to being back in my body again.

When I turned to face the portrait, my grandfather was wearing a wide grin, suggesting he knew why I’d come back. “You might’ve told me I wouldn’t be able to see you,” I replied. “Or that I’d be in the muggle world and buildings would soon explode around you.”

“And deny myself the amusement of your expression? Merlin forbid!” He chuckled merrily when he finished speaking, the volume increasing as I glared at him.

Knowing he wasn’t going to offer any help, not if it spoiled his fun, I placed my head back in the basin and returned to the memory.

…

Finding myself back in the memory, I looked around, taking in the scene. Everything was exactly as I’d left it, dust and debris paused in mid-air, or as it tumbled around. Taking time to move around, and work out the edges of where the memory seemed to end, I worked out roughly where my grandfather would be standing, moved toward that point and then had the memory resume.

The stationary debris and dust resumed falling as faint whispers of wind blew through the area, gently adding to the chaos. Around me, many of the buildings were gone; destroyed by whatever had struck them. Some looked like they’d been in ruins for days if not weeks. The only thing that was hard to determine about this warzone was if the damage around me had been made by muggle or magical means.

Another building exploded, this time seemingly from the inside. My hand once again tried to summon my wand. As the new dust cloud swarmed over me, I remembered once more that I was inside a memory; the instinct of drawing a weapon when in danger was now ingrained so heavily that I was doing so whenever anything happened. That was something I’d have to watch when I went to Hogwarts, as others might take it that I was looking for trouble.

As the dust began to move past me, I inhaled slowly, calming my instincts, and waited for my vision to fully return; the kaleidoscope of chaos going on around me made it impossible to determine what was happening. Curious as to why the building had exploded, and who was there, I paused the memory.

Moving to the side, I eventually started to see flickers of odd lights inside the dust. Those weren’t natural, and while I didn’t know exactly what they were, given their movements and shades, I suspected they were spells around in the chaos.

I shifted around, trying to escape the dust cloud, yet as I neared the edge of the cloud, the world became duller and darker. That, I realised, meant this was the limit of what my grandfather’s mind had understood. Accepting this, I returned to where I felt my grandfather was and slowly rewound the memory.

Watching things move rapidly backwards was an odd sensation, but it only took a moment before the memory returned to just before the latest building had exploded. Once there, I resumed the memory but willed it to move slower, at around half-speed. It did as I asked, and while that didn’t reveal what exactly had caused the explosion, it allowed me to see the faintest flicker of purple from inside the building just before it erupted. The fact there was no sound suggesting a muggle explosive further confirmed the destruction was brought on by magic; likely as a way to target my grandfather and whoever was disillusioned with him.

Once the memory was back to where I’d rewound it from, I let it continue, keeping it at half-speed. That let me watch the streaks of colour racing in the dust. Most were heading toward my location, but a good number of them veered away, which confirmed my grandfather wasn’t alone as it was impossible, even if dual-wielding wands were somehow a thing.

The dust slowly cleared, bringing into sight the spells racing around. Shapes began to rise from the ground, summoned by transfiguration if I had to guess. Yet before they fully formed, the dust returned, swirling around my location rapidly, seemingly hardening as it accelerated. A moment later, the dust raced out, spreading like a shockwave away from where I, my grandfather, and his companions were.

Whatever had been forming from the ground was blown apart, along with the handful of buildings still standing nearby. Dead trees that had somehow remained standing were torn from their roots as the hardened dust crashed into them, ripping them to shreds even as their roots failed to hold. Yet, as the dust cloud raced away, I saw flickers of blue in some places.

Curious, I paused the memory and looked around. Other flickering domes of colour appeared, and I realised the cloud had not only pushed back incoming attacks but had revealed the rough locations of the various groups attacking my grandfather. Six domes of various colours were visible to varying degrees, and in the brightest one, I was just able to make out three figures inside. One was holding the dome active, granting protection, even as the others seemed to be working on their next assault.

I considered resuming the memory at even slower speeds as I wanted to understand everything that was being cast, yet I decided against it. Unless those at distance shouted out their incantations, I’d not hear their words and I doubted those with my grandfather would do anything more than whisper their spells if they spoke at all. Thus, I resumed the memory at half-speed, hoping that would be enough to follow the carnage and chaos that I knew was about to fully grip this battlefield.

The dust cloud passed, the domes fell, and spells raced toward where I was standing. Fighting the continual urge to draw my wand and attempt to defend myself, I watched as spells beyond my understanding – save that they’d be crippling at best – filled the air, turning it into a crescendo of colour.

In some places the ground rumbled or shifted, shapes once more rising from it. In others, plants ripped through the paved paths, widening to twice my body, only to be cut down by splashes of light. Debris swirled around, coalescing into forms that, if not for their mismatched colour, might appear alive. Water in the air froze, turning razor-sharp, and raced toward targets like arrows from a bow. In some places these summoned creations simply fell, the power holding them together nullified by another spell, in others, they turned on the spot and raced back to where they’d come from.

Dragging my sight from the symphony of destruction erupting around me, I looked at the figures appearing around me. While I didn’t know who they were, or what they were casting, as they were now visible, I could just about make out the movements of their wands. That, in theory, would give me a base to hopefully learn what spells they’d used, though I doubted any of these spells would be covered in Hogwarts. However, it was hard to keep my focus on any single caster; each new spell drew my attention before I’d had time to process the various wand movements I’d seen.

I noted that my grandfather, unlike those with him who were engaging those attacking them, was staying low. I moved closer, just catching him chanting something as he swirled his wand near the ground. Before I could stop the memory and rewind to hear what he’d said, six giant golems rose around his team. Each was the size of the nearby buildings, their surfaces glowing an odd grey.

As the golems started to move, I made out faint runes running over their surfaces which glowed with the same oddly bright darkness that the ward core of Dunscaith Castle had. Spells from the attackers now focused on the golems, yet nothing seemed to faze the golems; the runes simply glowed brighter with each spell that crashed into them.

Curious about that, I paused the memory and moved closer to one golem. The arrays of runes that covered it were either ones I’d never seen before, or in places where I did recognise them – such as those for durability and strength – I didn’t understand the changes my grandfather had made to the arrays. What was clear was that whatever he’d done, it’d made the arrays stronger as I didn’t think the base version could take the abuse these ones had even if they had time to recover between the spells slamming into them.

This was, I felt, what my grandfather wanted me to see. While I knew basic rune arrays, and could even create them on random objects, I was years, if not decades, away from being able to create something like these golems. To say nothing of learning the multitude of spells being shot around with reflexes and speeds that appeared fast even with the memory moving at half-speed. If I tried anything in the wider wizarding world as I was now, or even after a few years of Hogwarts, I’d be squashed faster than a bug on a windshield.

Taking that blunt, and scary, realisation onboard I stepped back, and once back next to my grandfather let the memory resume at half-speed. The golems resumed their slow, unrelenting march toward the nearest groups of attackers. The runes glowed brighter as more spells slammed into them, crystallising my thoughts that they were drawing on the spells impacting them to grow stronger.

One golem reached a group of attackers, one of those wizards erecting a shield charm over themselves and the other with them. The golem started pounding on the dome, and I smirked as the wizard casting the shield grunted. After perhaps a half-dozen strikes against the shield, he brought his free hand up to brace the wrist that held his wand. I could see the other wizard chant something, but over the din of battle, the sound never reached my grandfather, and the exact movements of his mouth were blurred whenever the golem smashed down on the shield.

Two of the other golems had reached their targets and began smashing on the shields deployed there. However, my focus stayed on the first golem; or more specifically, the wizard inside that was up to something. Suddenly, he thrust his wand upward, and he, his companion, and the golem were engulfed in a light so bright I had to shield my eyes.

As the light faded I blinked, trying to clear the bright spots in my vision. As they did, and I saw the golem there was now gone; reduced to atoms. That had me pausing the memory. While I knew I’d not see what exactly happened, as the light would still be there, I turned slowly, seeing how the other golems were doing.

A fourth had reached its target, and the last one was just about there as well. It didn’t appear as if the other wizards under each dome were chanting like the one under the first, now disbanded, dome, but they’d be up to something to counter the golems.

Resuming the memory, I frowned as I saw the golems were moving slightly slower, the runes covering them duller because of the blinding white light. Wondering what my grandfather and those with him would do, I turned to see them, only to blink. Pausing the memory again, I looked around, finding they’d moved, heading toward one group of attackers that appeared cut off from the others.

Letting the memory play again, I watched as they moved, spells racing from their wands toward any nearby attackers, especially the pair now free of a golem’s attention. A second golem fell, or more accurately, flew away as it was carried upward insanely fast by a flickering, sky-blue spell.

As a third golem fell – this time swallowed by the ground until all but the arms and head remained clear, my grandfather’s group neared the ruins of a building. Yet as they slid inside, seeking cover, a spell struck the leg of one of the team. A feminine grunt came from the wounded magical, though before she could get into cover, or someone could help her, a narrow, twisting cone of purple slammed into her back.

Blood and guts were sent flying as her mouth opened in a silent scream, and I doubled over, clutching my mouth to fight off the need to puke. I’d never seen people shot or killed in my former life, at least outside realistic movies and games, and was thoroughly unprepared for watching the woman’s insides be sprayed over the building and another member of my grandfather’s team.

I hacked violently, trying to not think about what was going on around me, though nothing came out which was a relief. Recovering slightly, I paused the memory again, and taking my time in the silence, recovered fully. Once I felt I was ready, I stood, and looked at the woman, or what remained of her. Another cough came forth, my hand covering my mouth again as I saw the remains of her body slumped against the building, everything inside five metres covered in a sheen of blood. I kept staring at the scene, knowing I needed to accept it wasn’t real, and that anything that might happen going forward had already happened and I could do nothing about it, but it still took time to feel ready to resume the memory.

Before I did, and once I’d reached the point where I didn’t feel like being sick at the woman’s remains, I moved closer, reminding myself with each step that the blood underneath my feet wasn’t real; that this was simply a memory. Eventually, I reached the cover my grandfather had slid behind and took in the face of the others with him.

Neither of the other men stood out, nor could I place them against faces I’d seen in the news, my brief time in the Wizengamot, or at the few events I’d attended at the request of Arcturus in the years since the Summer Solstice Massacre. Since one of the men appeared to have darker, light brown skin, I suspected he came from abroad, so it was possible the other man did as well. Now, there were a handful of magical Houses that weren’t Caucasian in the Wizengamot, and, from what I’d seen and read, a decent number of half-bloods and muggleborns that had non-British ancestry, but adding all those together – along with the small number of foreign dignitaries from outside Western Europe or North America – only a small percentage of the magical population of the Isles was non-white.

There was a good chance that these two men, regardless of where they came from, had died in this battle or even in the years since, so there was little point in focusing on them. That said, I’d have to ask my grandfather about them in case they and their families were important figures and potential allies I might develop as I started making my mark on the wider wizarding world.

After steeling myself for whatever carnage was still to come, I resumed the memory at half-speed. I couldn’t tell how many of the attackers remained as my grandfather was staying behind cover with his companions, but given the volume of colour splashing around us, it appeared some had died to the golems or in the initial battle before those animated statues appeared.

The cover my grandfather’s team were using went through a constant cycle of damage from incoming spells and repairs from the wandwork of the men behind it, yet as time slowly passed, it became clear my grandfather’s team was slowly losing the battle to keep their cover.

However, just as the cover grew small enough that the men were forced to press against each other, a massive explosion erupted on the battlefield. I wanted to know what had caused it, but with my field of vision limited to what my grandfather saw, I couldn’t do so. At least not until he risked emerging from cover.

More explosions came, and they were joined by screams of terror. Eventually, my grandfather dared to look, and I gasped at what he saw.

A single man had appeared, and unlike my grandfather’s team, not only wasn’t he taking cover, but he was taking the fight to the attackers. Bodies lay strewn around the place, all clearly dead but the ways they’d fallen were vastly different. Two were simply slumped over as if their strings had been cut, another was buried under debris. One had been blown apart, and while I was able to stomach that, the sight of another thrashing around as his body bubbled and boiled had me pausing the memory to recover.

I closed my eyes, and took long, deep breaths, bringing forth my training in Occlumency. I felt my emotional reaction to what I was seeing slip away; being locked behind a door so secure that looking at the man dying as his body boiled only brought forth questions about which spell had done such a thing, and how effective it was on a battlefield.

With my emotions now under control and locked down, I resumed the memory and focused on the newcomer. His wand flashed around so fast that my grandfather missed many of the actions it took, yet the stream of spells, in almost every colour imaginable, made clear that this person was on a level far beyond my grandfather. His movements, at least what I could observe, were almost hypnotic: as if I was watching a composer lead an orchestra of devastation. Yet, it was also clear that the man wasn’t impressed by those attacking him, almost dismissive in how he fought.

Every attacker present was focusing on him, yet nothing came close to striking him. Merlin, he didn’t need to even move, his defensive and counter-attacking spells so utterly effective and brilliant that he ruled the battlefield. Shapes rose from nothing as debris swirled and rushed toward him. Spells of unimaginable power flashed, yet nothing came close. His wand danced around, bringing forth spellwork the likes of which I’d never considered possible before, taking out every attack with ease before something countered.

Even though I understood this man was beyond anyone else here, seeing the attackers slowly pull back was a sight to see. They outnumbered him eight to one but were unable to even draw a bead of sweat. It became seven to one as another attacker fell, their skin peeling away from where the spell had struck them causing them to drop to the ground from the pain.

Then, as if truly bored with this battle, the man started moving faster. His wand swished around in ways that even after I slowed the memory further, I couldn’t track; my grandfather’s mind was just not capable of following the movements. Red light grew around the man’s wand, drawing forth something powerful, dangerous, and almost malevolent. An outward flick of the wand had the light racing out, becoming a corrupted form of lightning with how it moved; darkness seemingly created as the powerful light raced toward its nearest target.

I considered stopping the memory to take a step closer, to examine the spell, yet I knew it would do no good. Whatever was cast was something I doubted my grandfather knew. And as the thought passed, the red lightning shattered into seven veins. The remaining attackers moved, trying to defend themselves – one even beginning to raise a shield – yet when the spell crashed into them, and after the colour faded, all that remained of the attackers was ash in the wind.

“I believe I asked you to just scout their lines,” the man said softly with a faint Eastern European accent, “not engage them.”

The man turned, letting me see him for the first time. His robes were odd as while their quality was impressive and they were clean, they felt old; as if the man had been born with them and they’d aged with him. His face was sharp, well defined with a world-weariness that came with, I suspected, seeing too much during this war. Yet, there were also hints of amusement, as if the brief slaughter he’d engaged in had lifted whatever dark thoughts clouded his mind.

“You did, but it seems the ICW expected our presence and was ready for us,” my grandfather replied as he and the other survivors emerged from their protection. “Degataga and Juilya both fell before your arrival.”

The man paused, his eyes finding first what remained of the woman who’d died painfully near the cover my grandfather and his team had hidden behind. He then glanced at another body; one I’d not spotted in the initial chaos of the battle. This man was just as dead as the woman, but he’d suffered from having parts of his body – including most of his chest – turned to stone.

The man took a step toward my father and those with him. “That is unfortunate, and I’m sure their families will mourn their deaths.” He placed a hand on my grandfather’s shoulder. “I am relieved that you are alive, Dòmhnall. I would have hated to inform Cassiopeia of your dem…”

His words trailed off suddenly as he turned, the tip of his wand glowing as he summoned a spell.

Where the attackers had fallen new figures appeared. Almost all arrived via apparition, and by the time the last faint crack of the magical transportation method sounded, nearly a hundred wizards and witches were present. While they wore a variety of close-fitted combat robes, from what I could tell, there were similarities to their clothing, as if different versions of the same uniform.

One man at the front, dressed in blood-red robes that swirled around behind him in ways that couldn’t be caused by the wind blowing around the battlefield, stepped forward. “Gellert Grindelwald,” my eyes snapped to the man who’d saved my grandfather, “by order of the International Confederation of Wizards, you are under arrest for crimes against wizard and muggle-kind.” The newcomer spoke with a vaguely southern European accent and carried himself with an air of authority. Yet, as he spoke, Grindelwald stayed stationary, a faint hint of a smile just visible from my grandfather’s perspective.

“Lay down your wand and surrender! This is your only warning!” The southern European said, his cloak billowing unnaturally but in a way that made him look imposing.

“What should we do?” My grandfather asked as he moved to Grindelwald’s side.

“Nothing,” Grindelwald replied, not taking his eyes off the leader of the opposition. “I have been expecting Auror Corti to eventually locate me in this accursed muggle country.” He stepped forward, his wand’s movement beginning to increase as the colours around its tip grew more vibrant.

The group with the now-named Auror Corti reacted. Most shifted into a defensive stance, all readying their wands as light flared around the tips. I had no idea what spells were about to be unleashed, but I was greatly looking forward to seeing Grindelwald in action.

An army of creatures rose from the ground, and the dust swirled up, growing rapidly in intensity. Pieces seemingly appeared from nowhere without the growing, thickening, cloud. Yet, Grindelwald didn’t move, didn’t react to the threats growing in front of him. Instead, he took a single step forward.

That was the signal for those with Auror Corti to unleash their might.

The creatures that had risen from the ground, rushed forward, some taking to the air. The dust cloud swirled around them, blocking sight of those casting, even as bursts of colour – of which a half dozen looked like the Killing Curse – raced through the cloud.

Grindelwald’s wand flicked, and a wall of fire, glowing a vibrant green, rose between him and the attack. Nothing, not the spells, the transfigured creatures, or the dust cloud broke through the flames. Since it was impossible to block the Killing Curse without a physical object, then I knew he’d done something to the flames, or cast something else with them. Regardless of what it was, the wall of fire not only kept every attack at bay but slowly moved forward, like the crest of a tidal wave preparing to crash against the coast.

As it moved, I started to see shifting shapes in the flames, though if those were caused by Grindelwald or those casting against him, I didn’t know. All I knew was that the power, the skill, the focus needed to create this wall of flame was beyond my grandfather. Never mind ten-year-old me.

“I suggest you leave,” Grindelwald said calmly as the flames started to spread around us, encircling us in their protection. His wand moved as if conducting a symphony of destruction. Though the climax was yet to arrive.

“Are… are you sure?” My grandfather asked, awe in his tone as the flames rose, slowly sealing us inside a dome.

“Yes. I don’t wish for you to be caught in what I am about to unleash.” All that remained of the night sky was a small, rapidly closing circle. “I will be along momentarily.”

The slowly forming dome pushed outward, and just before the memory ended, I saw it pass over where I knew buildings were. Yet instead of those structures, all that appeared on this side of the flames was ash so black it swallowed the light of the fire.

Now standing in a darkened, empty area, I blinked. What Grindelwald had just unleashed was a spell of incredible power and intensity. And yet, when it finally came down to it, Dumbledore had defeated him. Or at least, it was claimed he had.

Like with the main universe, here the stories and reports only talked of how Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald, not killed him. That had me curious if he was imprisoned in Nurmengard. That was something I’d have to investigate in later years, though I doubted the castle-turned-prison would be undefended by wizards, curses, and all manner of traps and dangers.

Putting those thoughts aside, I exited the pensieve.

…

I blinked, re-orientating myself with the real world once again. As I stepped back from the pensieve, I ran a hand over my brow and discovered I’d been sweating. I couldn’t be entirely sure of why, but I suspected that my emotional responses while viewing the memory had had a physical effect on my body. Turning, I looked at my grandfather. He was watching me carefully, a faint smile on his face.

“What did he do?” I asked, needing to know how that battle played out. I knew Grindelwald had escaped, as it wasn’t until 1945 that he’d been defeated by Dumbledore, so one of the most powerful wizards in the world must’ve done something beyond impressive to escape the force arrayed against him.

“Like you might’ve seen with the buildings at the very end, he turned them to ash.” I blinked, processing that, and wondering why Corti and those with him hadn’t apparated away. Now, I remembered seeing something like that in the sources from my other life when he’d unleashed a spell that, supposedly, hadn’t been contained and would’ve consumed muggle Paris, but there the wizards outside the flames had been able to escape easily enough. Or at least fall back and then contain the flames.

“Wh…” I paused and licked my lips, finding them oddly dry. “Which city?”

“Hamburg.” My grandfather grinned as he spoke. “After the war, I accessed the muggle records from their war that ran concurrently. They attribute the devastation to an attack by the winning side, saying that from a city of nearly half a million muggles, only ten thousand escaped the flames. However, that battle took place on the twenty-third. The muggles – likely because of work by the ICW to hide the truth – claim the bombing, whatever that is, started the night of the twenty-fourth. A day after Grindelwald released his spell. I had heard of him using it once before that, and know it was a slow-spreading flame; one that grew in intensity the more it consumed, so I have no doubt the true cause of the deaths of nearly half a million muggles was Grindelwald after he killed those that attempted to arrest him.”

I blinked again, struggling to process what I was being told. Using my Occlumency, I was able to find the memories of my studies of World War 2 in my former life in another world. Around forty thousand had died in the bombings of Hamburg there, so I agreed with my grandfather that Grindelwald was the true cause of the devastation in this world. Now, while I knew his opinion of muggles was lower than mine, the fact he’d bothered to learn how devastating the attack had been spoke of his admiration for Grindelwald, and from a purely magical perspective, I had to agree.

And now I had a level to aim for, since from everything I’d been told, like myself, Grindelwald was supposedly someone with an Akros level of magical potential.

“Can you understand why I have shown this memory to you?”

“Yes. To show me that, as great as my potential is, I have years… decades to go before I’m at the level of people like Grindelwald or Dumbledore. While there is a chance, perhaps a good one, that I’ll be the most gifted wizard in my year at Hogwarts, I’m not special. At least not yet. in the grand schemes of the Isles, I’m nothing more than a chick freshly hatched from an egg.”

My grandfather chuckled. “Perhaps not the metaphor I’d have used, but an apt one, nonetheless.” He beckoned me closer. “You have the ability to, with time and effort, achieve great things. Perhaps, if you so wish, shape the world as Grindelwald and Dumbledore have done. Others might one day call you evil, or despicable for your beliefs, but that is just the fears of lesser wizards. Whatever you do, I know that with the dedication and focus you have, it will be great. Yet you are as far from that time as you were before our Clan was massacred.” A grim determination covered his face as he spoke. “Those responsible targeted us and the other Clans that follow the old ways for a reason. They know you, and others, survived the attack and will have had years now to prepare for their next assault. And this time, the might of our Clan, and those allied to us might not be great enough to prevent our destruction.”

He paused, a wide, slightly deranged smile spreading over his face. “However, with focus and effort, you will show them that Clan MacLeod is not to be trifled with, and if you ignite the spark my father and I sense within you, you may possess the power to change the world into one reflecting your desires. However, always remember that for every great fire that starts from a spark, a hundred others have been snuffed out.”

“What would you have me do?” I already felt I knew, but most of my plans for this world could only start to take shape at Hogwarts, and perhaps not until I was in the later years. I’d not spoken of those plans to any, or even considered them when around any living person, as even with my Occlumency – at least according to Aunt Moire – having reached the fourth level, I knew my thoughts weren’t safe from discovery.

“For now, continue as you have been. Learn, study, and grow your abilities. At Hogwarts, however, you will need to find others who either share your desires or could be useful in bringing them forth. Understand though, that they will have their own desires, and that no matter how powerful, or how skilled you become, threats will always exist seeking to snuff you out. Do not give them the opportunity. When the time comes and you are forced into making a choice, be ruthless, and merciless in achieving the outcome you seek. Turn their intentions, their power to your cause; bend them to your will, and remind them, in these Isles and beyond, of the power our Clan truly wields.”

… …

… …