Categories > Books > Harry Potter
Like Ghosts in the Snow
Eight years have passed since the Dark Lord was vanquished, and twenty-five-year-old Harry Potter, an auror, for the Ministry of Magic is quite content in his young adult life. One day, however, Ha...
?Blocked
Eight years have passed since the Dark Lord was vanquished, and twenty-five-year-old Harry Potter, an auror, for the Ministry of Magic is quite content in his young adult life. One day, however, Harry receives an urgent owl from Luna. After seven years of divination study under Professor Sybill Trelawney, Luna has recorded her first prophecy, and it concerns the Boy Who Lived. Is Voldemort to rise again?
Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy has faced his own struggles post-war. His father has lost his mind and been permanently institutionalized in Saint Mungo’s, leaving to be Draco the man of the house at Malfoy Manor. After being attacked on the grounds one evening, Draco is forcefully transformed into a vampire!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters, or subsidiaries; they all belong to the great and powerful J. K. Rowling, Goddess of the Fictional Universe.
Any resemblances to real people, places, or events in this work are coincidental.
The stanza of lyrics from the song Daemon Irrepit Callidus used in this chapter was written by choral composer György Orbán and is property of him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Like Ghosts in the Snow
Chapter 1: Daemon Irrepit Callidus
A loud crack reverberated through the still afternoon air and Harry fell to the ground as his knees buckles beneath him. After dry heaving momentarily, he righted himself, taking a few deep breaths that presented as wavering vapor in the crisp fall chill.
He faced the familiar castle, turrets glistening in the glaring sun. His heart hammered against his ribs as he took quick, measured steps up the stairs, pushing open the front door and making his way through the nearly empty corridors toward the seventh floor of the north tower. Classes had ended the hour before, and the majority of students had trickled down the shifting staircases and back to their common rooms and dormitories.
Harry approached the door of the divination classroom. As he extended his hand to knock, however, it swung inwards. Beyond it was Luna Lovegood, pale and lovely, her blonde hair falling in ringlets past the center of her back, pinned out of her face on the left side by a large barrette adorned with emerald, citrine, and blue topaz gems, a bundle of peacock feathers cascading from the side and glimmering between the shining golden locks. She looked up at Harry, her moony silver orbs meeting his eyes and her delicate lips forming a small smile.
“Ello, Harry,” She sing-songed airily, “Won’t you come in? Professor Trelawney is making a moxa tea.” He followed her into the classroom.
The tower room was mostly dark, save for a few patches dimly-lit by clusters of floating purple candles. Professor Trelawney stood in one of these illuminated patches absently stirring a cauldron from which she ladled a light brown liquid into three stone mugs.
The usually-frazzled professor squinted at Harry through the glare of the light on her spectacles.
“Ah, Mr. Potter,” she murmured, “Have a seat.”
Harry sat down in a plush, green armchair. Across from him where two similar chairs in purple and red. Luna sat in the purple one, and after handing a steaming, stone mug to each of them, Trelawney sat in the red, her thin fingers curled like a bird’s talons around her drink. The tea had a pungent, bitter odor, like burning leaves mixed with mothballs. Harry took a tentative sip; it tasted about the same, but he had had worse. At least it warmed him up after his jaunt outside.
“Moxa is made from ground, dried mugwort, you know.” Said Luna dreamily, steam from her cup wafting about her pale face in the candle light. “Chinese herbalists have used moxa for centuries, usually in conjunction with acupuncture where cones of it are burned on the acu-points in a process called ‘moxibustion’. Moxa restores proper flow of qi, the spiritual energy in your body, and prevents illness.”
Professor Trelawney produced a black box a bit bigger than a fist from the pocket of her green robes which she placed on the table. From her other pocket she procured a cloth of red velvet which she folded until it was an eighth of its initial size and placed on the table as well. From the box she took a shimmering glass orb which she placed on the folded cloth. Harry recognized it at once as a prophecy recorder.
“I recorded this prophecy Luna declared while in trance last Friday.” Professor Trelawney stated. “Have a listen.” The orb on the table began to pulsate with glowing blue light, emitting a duplicate of Luna’s voice which resonated within the stones of the tower walls:
“In the darkness of the trees,
A figure of death brought to his knees,
A smoldering ember thought snuffed out,
Will power restored be brought about.
The Boy Who Lived will forsake death or life forgo;
An eternal bond betwixt ghosts in the snow.”
Harry sat stock-still, shell shocked. His voice rasped in his suddenly-dry throat,
“Voldemort is dead. He is dead. He has to be.” Trelawney adjusted her gold-rimmed spectacles, scribbling the prophecy on a scrap of parchment.
“The prophecy doesn’t necessarily pertain to him, albeit the description would make it seem so.” She sighed, handing the neatly-scrawled note to him, which he pocketed.
“And what about the last bit?” Harry fumed. “‘Forsake death or life forgo?’ It’s an oxymoron.”
“I guess we’ll know in time.” Said Luna quietly. “Why don’t you check out your room? McGonagall had the elves set up one of the spare prefect’s rooms in Gryffindor Tower for you. The password is ‘Blinking Bundimun’.” With that she handed Harry a gold skeleton key and gave him a warm hug. He nodded curtly over her shoulder at his ex-professor and exited the room.
Harry stalked the corridors until he came to the portrait of the Fat Lady. She was surprised to see him and uttered a high-pitched,
“Harry Potter!”
“Hello.” He said awkwardly. “Er, Blinking Bundimun.” The portrait swung inward, allowing him passage through the common room beyond, arriving at his bedroom door.
He turned the key in the lock and entered, shutting it behind him and sitting down at the desk straight away. Kreacher had already apparated his things from Number Twelve Grimmauld Place into the extra prefect’s room. From his brown leather shoulder bag he pulled a quill, ink, and piece of parchment, scribbling a letter to Ron and Hermione detailing the events that had just unfolded. Once finished, he rolled the letter up and released Alwin, a friendly barn owl he acquired after the war, from his cage, attaching the letter to the graceful bird’s leg and watching as he fluttered through the tower window and out of sight.
Needing to clear his head, Harry set out for a walk around the lake. He wrapped his orange scarf around his neck, bracing himself against the early evening chill. The sun was just beginning to set, and it reflected its orange brilliance upon the rings created on the water’s surface by the bobbing and diving of the giant squid. Blackbirds rose from Hagrid’s pumpkin patch in the distance, flapping madly, a dark cloud expanding and contracting on the horizon, and the warble of a diricawl could be heard amongst the trees of the Forbidden Forest. Following that call was a strangled howl of pain that made Harry’s skin crawl.
Somewhere amid the dark foliage, a wounded creature was calling out with ghastly, pitiful groan. The years he had spent caring for the odd magical beasts Hagrid often took in had made him develop a soft spot for animals of all kinds. Suppressing the sudden, saddening memory of Aragog’s death, Harry set out along the dark path snaking through the eerie woods. He followed the occasional yelp and howl of the creature and eventually came across a dilapidated stone shack, its wooden door hanging from one rust hinge and its walls crumbling from the infiltration of the roots of vines climbing the exterior.
Harry peered around the door frame cautiously; his blood froze when he saw the source of the pained sounds. Sat on the earthen floor, propped against the grimy stone wall, was a young man in a long-sleeved gray shirt, rolled up to his elbows, and dark denim jeans, shackled to the stone by faintly glowing chains. His long, pale blonde locks hung in front of his face. A hoarse cough came from his throat, and his body trembled all over.
Harry gasped, and the young man’s head snapped up in fright. Glimmering gray orbs seemed to stare into Harry’s very soul as the injured stranger eyed him aggressively. The being snarled, baring long, pointed canines, and growled in an acidic whisper,
“Daemon irrepit callidus, allicit cor honoribus.”
As Harry took a few steps backward, the man’s body became less tense, realization evident in his face as the earlier harshness disappeared.
“Potter?” He croaked quietly.
“Y-yes,” replied Harry, “Who are you, and what happened?”
“It’s me, Potter.” The stranger raised one boney, shackled hand to further brush the hair out of his face. It was then that Harry glimpsed the Dark Mark on his forearm. He lifted his gaze to again lock eyes with Draco Malfoy.
Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy has faced his own struggles post-war. His father has lost his mind and been permanently institutionalized in Saint Mungo’s, leaving to be Draco the man of the house at Malfoy Manor. After being attacked on the grounds one evening, Draco is forcefully transformed into a vampire!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters, or subsidiaries; they all belong to the great and powerful J. K. Rowling, Goddess of the Fictional Universe.
Any resemblances to real people, places, or events in this work are coincidental.
The stanza of lyrics from the song Daemon Irrepit Callidus used in this chapter was written by choral composer György Orbán and is property of him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Like Ghosts in the Snow
Chapter 1: Daemon Irrepit Callidus
A loud crack reverberated through the still afternoon air and Harry fell to the ground as his knees buckles beneath him. After dry heaving momentarily, he righted himself, taking a few deep breaths that presented as wavering vapor in the crisp fall chill.
He faced the familiar castle, turrets glistening in the glaring sun. His heart hammered against his ribs as he took quick, measured steps up the stairs, pushing open the front door and making his way through the nearly empty corridors toward the seventh floor of the north tower. Classes had ended the hour before, and the majority of students had trickled down the shifting staircases and back to their common rooms and dormitories.
Harry approached the door of the divination classroom. As he extended his hand to knock, however, it swung inwards. Beyond it was Luna Lovegood, pale and lovely, her blonde hair falling in ringlets past the center of her back, pinned out of her face on the left side by a large barrette adorned with emerald, citrine, and blue topaz gems, a bundle of peacock feathers cascading from the side and glimmering between the shining golden locks. She looked up at Harry, her moony silver orbs meeting his eyes and her delicate lips forming a small smile.
“Ello, Harry,” She sing-songed airily, “Won’t you come in? Professor Trelawney is making a moxa tea.” He followed her into the classroom.
The tower room was mostly dark, save for a few patches dimly-lit by clusters of floating purple candles. Professor Trelawney stood in one of these illuminated patches absently stirring a cauldron from which she ladled a light brown liquid into three stone mugs.
The usually-frazzled professor squinted at Harry through the glare of the light on her spectacles.
“Ah, Mr. Potter,” she murmured, “Have a seat.”
Harry sat down in a plush, green armchair. Across from him where two similar chairs in purple and red. Luna sat in the purple one, and after handing a steaming, stone mug to each of them, Trelawney sat in the red, her thin fingers curled like a bird’s talons around her drink. The tea had a pungent, bitter odor, like burning leaves mixed with mothballs. Harry took a tentative sip; it tasted about the same, but he had had worse. At least it warmed him up after his jaunt outside.
“Moxa is made from ground, dried mugwort, you know.” Said Luna dreamily, steam from her cup wafting about her pale face in the candle light. “Chinese herbalists have used moxa for centuries, usually in conjunction with acupuncture where cones of it are burned on the acu-points in a process called ‘moxibustion’. Moxa restores proper flow of qi, the spiritual energy in your body, and prevents illness.”
Professor Trelawney produced a black box a bit bigger than a fist from the pocket of her green robes which she placed on the table. From her other pocket she procured a cloth of red velvet which she folded until it was an eighth of its initial size and placed on the table as well. From the box she took a shimmering glass orb which she placed on the folded cloth. Harry recognized it at once as a prophecy recorder.
“I recorded this prophecy Luna declared while in trance last Friday.” Professor Trelawney stated. “Have a listen.” The orb on the table began to pulsate with glowing blue light, emitting a duplicate of Luna’s voice which resonated within the stones of the tower walls:
“In the darkness of the trees,
A figure of death brought to his knees,
A smoldering ember thought snuffed out,
Will power restored be brought about.
The Boy Who Lived will forsake death or life forgo;
An eternal bond betwixt ghosts in the snow.”
Harry sat stock-still, shell shocked. His voice rasped in his suddenly-dry throat,
“Voldemort is dead. He is dead. He has to be.” Trelawney adjusted her gold-rimmed spectacles, scribbling the prophecy on a scrap of parchment.
“The prophecy doesn’t necessarily pertain to him, albeit the description would make it seem so.” She sighed, handing the neatly-scrawled note to him, which he pocketed.
“And what about the last bit?” Harry fumed. “‘Forsake death or life forgo?’ It’s an oxymoron.”
“I guess we’ll know in time.” Said Luna quietly. “Why don’t you check out your room? McGonagall had the elves set up one of the spare prefect’s rooms in Gryffindor Tower for you. The password is ‘Blinking Bundimun’.” With that she handed Harry a gold skeleton key and gave him a warm hug. He nodded curtly over her shoulder at his ex-professor and exited the room.
Harry stalked the corridors until he came to the portrait of the Fat Lady. She was surprised to see him and uttered a high-pitched,
“Harry Potter!”
“Hello.” He said awkwardly. “Er, Blinking Bundimun.” The portrait swung inward, allowing him passage through the common room beyond, arriving at his bedroom door.
He turned the key in the lock and entered, shutting it behind him and sitting down at the desk straight away. Kreacher had already apparated his things from Number Twelve Grimmauld Place into the extra prefect’s room. From his brown leather shoulder bag he pulled a quill, ink, and piece of parchment, scribbling a letter to Ron and Hermione detailing the events that had just unfolded. Once finished, he rolled the letter up and released Alwin, a friendly barn owl he acquired after the war, from his cage, attaching the letter to the graceful bird’s leg and watching as he fluttered through the tower window and out of sight.
Needing to clear his head, Harry set out for a walk around the lake. He wrapped his orange scarf around his neck, bracing himself against the early evening chill. The sun was just beginning to set, and it reflected its orange brilliance upon the rings created on the water’s surface by the bobbing and diving of the giant squid. Blackbirds rose from Hagrid’s pumpkin patch in the distance, flapping madly, a dark cloud expanding and contracting on the horizon, and the warble of a diricawl could be heard amongst the trees of the Forbidden Forest. Following that call was a strangled howl of pain that made Harry’s skin crawl.
Somewhere amid the dark foliage, a wounded creature was calling out with ghastly, pitiful groan. The years he had spent caring for the odd magical beasts Hagrid often took in had made him develop a soft spot for animals of all kinds. Suppressing the sudden, saddening memory of Aragog’s death, Harry set out along the dark path snaking through the eerie woods. He followed the occasional yelp and howl of the creature and eventually came across a dilapidated stone shack, its wooden door hanging from one rust hinge and its walls crumbling from the infiltration of the roots of vines climbing the exterior.
Harry peered around the door frame cautiously; his blood froze when he saw the source of the pained sounds. Sat on the earthen floor, propped against the grimy stone wall, was a young man in a long-sleeved gray shirt, rolled up to his elbows, and dark denim jeans, shackled to the stone by faintly glowing chains. His long, pale blonde locks hung in front of his face. A hoarse cough came from his throat, and his body trembled all over.
Harry gasped, and the young man’s head snapped up in fright. Glimmering gray orbs seemed to stare into Harry’s very soul as the injured stranger eyed him aggressively. The being snarled, baring long, pointed canines, and growled in an acidic whisper,
“Daemon irrepit callidus, allicit cor honoribus.”
As Harry took a few steps backward, the man’s body became less tense, realization evident in his face as the earlier harshness disappeared.
“Potter?” He croaked quietly.
“Y-yes,” replied Harry, “Who are you, and what happened?”
“It’s me, Potter.” The stranger raised one boney, shackled hand to further brush the hair out of his face. It was then that Harry glimpsed the Dark Mark on his forearm. He lifted his gaze to again lock eyes with Draco Malfoy.
Sign up to rate and review this story