Hogwarts Raven (Harry Potter)

The nearer the crystal ball drew to Harry, the more fiercely its crimson light blazed. It flared so brilliantly that even the sunlight seemed to retreat, casting the deserted corner in a scarlet hue as though stained by firelight.

It was like a spark bursting into flame, brilliant and impossible to ignore.

At the same time, as Ian steadily advanced with the crystal ball, Harry's lightning-shaped scar responded as if stirred by a long-forgotten summons.

A glow of red flickered from the scar as well, pulsing in rhythm with the crystal ball's light, ebbing and flaring like a shared heartbeat. The resonance between them was eerie, silent yet undeniable.

"How curious," Ian murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. He was quick to notice that the entire occurrence was far from ordinary. Something strange, perhaps even deeply magical, was hidden behind it.

"What… what's going on?" Harry gasped. The sharp burn of his scar made him recoil instinctively, lifting his hand to press against his forehead, face tight with confusion and pain.

"I'd wager it's no more than a reaction, something to do with how your scar was first formed," Ian replied, his gaze returning to the crystal ball. Within its depths, shadows twisted and writhed, thin, flickering shapes of hands, ink-black and clawed, stretching from a fathomless abyss.

They clutched something, warped, grotesque, though the image within remained indistinct, as if cloaked in a haze of dream or memory.

The forms shifted, assembling into clearer shapes before vanishing like smoke, elusive and spectral. It was impossible to pin them down, but one thing was certain: those dark, grasping limbs weren't human.

"Malfoy really is full of surprises," Ian muttered. He wasn't sure how Draco Malfoy had come into possession of such a dangerous artifact, but it was obvious that this crystal ball was linked to Voldemort.

Given the Malfoy family's history and the reaction from Harry's scar, even the dullest student would begin to suspect something was amiss.

What truly puzzled Ian, though, was why Malfoy would give him this particular object. A device that hinted at one of Voldemort's Horcruxes wasn't something you simply handed away, not unless you'd turned your back on the Dark Lord entirely.

"What about Malfoy?"

Harry's hands still clutched his forehead as he asked.

It wasn't just the scar now; his whole head throbbed like it was aflame. The burning sensation overwhelmed him, hotter than any fever, and the intensity made the eleven-year-old tremble with unease.

Yet even through the pain, what Ian had just said lodged itself firmly in his thoughts.

"Ian, you said this crystal ball is tied to my scar? Then it must be connected to him, the one who killed my parents. The one we don't name. The demon who's murdered so many," Harry said, shaking his head hard, as if to chase the thoughts away. At the mention of his parents, a sombre shadow fell across his face.

Growing up among Muggles, Harry had known little of the past turmoil in the wizarding world. All he truly understood was that his parents had died at the hands of the figure responsible for the mark on his forehead.

Though wizards hailed him as the Boy Who Lived, the vanquisher of some terrible evil, Harry himself could only recall brief, broken flashes of memory.

Flashes filled with green light.

In truth, he didn't even know what his enemy looked like. So when Ian spoke of that figure, Harry turned to him with a mixture of curiosity and dread.

"That's no demon," Ian corrected gently, voice quiet and calm, more reminiscent of the younger Dumbledore than his usual tone. "He's merely a… corrupted soul. A mortal tainted with vile darkness but a mortal nonetheless."

"Can you tell me more?" His eyes brimmed with longing, a wistful ache for truths buried in the past.

"Of course but I think we ought to first investigate exactly what this crystal ball is trying to reveal…" Ian began, trying to steer Harry's attention back to the more immediate danger. Yet just as he spoke, the crystal ball in his hand began to seep thick droplets of blood.

It radiated an unnatural heat against his skin, growing hotter by the second, though nothing the young wizard couldn't endure.

Harry Potter, on the other hand, felt as if someone had set his forehead alight.

"Aaahhhhh!!"

Blood was falling from the crystal ball, forming tiny crimson pools on the cold stone floor. At that same moment, Harry's entire demeanour changed. His bright green eyes darkened and narrowed, the pupils transforming into serpentine slits.

It was feral. Unnatural. Terrifying.

"Stop--"

Harry forced the word out through clenched teeth, even as an inky black liquid began to seep from the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

"It's screaming… it's furious…"

Harry's voice twisted into an agonised shout, and unintelligible phrases began to slip from his lips. He dropped to the ground with both hands clutching his head and began to thrash wildly, rolling as though caught in some unseen storm.

It was as though his very mind were fracturing under pressure.

The Boy Who Lived howled in pain.

"Harry! Are you all right?" Ian was instantly at his side, visibly alarmed by the sudden outburst. With urgency, he withdrew a small bottle of potion and knelt down, preparing to administer it.

But Harry, writhing in agony, was impossible to hold still. With a flick of his wand, Ian muttered a restraint charm that stilled the boy's convulsions just long enough to act.

"What is this?"

Sweat had plastered Harry's hair to his forehead, clinging to the scar like ivy to stone. He gritted his teeth, pounding his fists against his temples. His face contorted in such pain that Ian briefly wondered whether the boy's skull might crack from the strain.

When their eyes met, the vertical slits in Harry's pupils gleamed all the brighter, almost luminous in their rage.

"It's one of mine, Ancestor's Joy Brew," Ian said quickly, trying to pry open Harry's jaw. But even in the midst of distress, the boy's jaw was clenched shut, locked as tight as a trap.

"Hoot hoot hoot hoot~"

A faint owl-like trill emanated from the potion as Ian poured the entire contents down Harry's throat by force. As soon as the last drop vanished, the effect was immediate.

The Harry Potter who had moments ago looked as though he might die… fell utterly still.

"Seems to have worked quite well…" Harry was drenched, his robes soaked through, and his body trembling with weakness as he spoke. Only he could truly grasp how terrifying that mind-splitting pressure had been, it felt like a force trying to claw its way into his very soul.

His fingers had dug so tightly into his scalp that blood now ran in rivulets down his cheeks.

"Of course, every potion I brew is of the highest quality," Ian said, glancing again at the crystal ball. The blood had vanished, replaced by a faint, pulsing white glow.

He was now more certain than ever of his theory.

"Can you teach me how to make it? I think I might really need that kind of potion," Harry asked weakly, with anxiety thick in his voice. He feared whatever this was might return.

"I'm afraid not, Harry. The ingredients I use are… not exactly Ministry-approved. Some of them are on the restricted list, and frankly, I don't think you're ready to work with them," Ian replied in a firm and kind tone.

He wasn't being stingy, he simply believed that Harry, for all his fame and potential, shouldn't be led down a dangerous path.

(To Be Continued…)

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