Cornelius Fudge roughly threw his bowler hat and coat onto the hatstand before melting into his chair. Opening the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out a bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey and poured himself a glass. He wouldn't say he was an aggressive drinker per se, but it did help fortify his nerves. After all, one could hardly go through meeting after meeting with high-profile individuals each day without some liquid courage.

Knock! Knock!

He paused, fingers clenched around the glass as he decided what to do. After a brief second of consideration, he downed the entire glass in a single movement before stowing the bottle away once more. Ministry personnel had the habit of interrupting him at the worst possible times. A harsher Minister of Magic would have disallowed low-level bureaucrats from entering his office entirely, but he had allowed it for two hours each day.

He was nice like that.

"Enter!"

Dolores Umbridge, ex-librarian from the ICW Archives and his new Senior Undersecretary, walked into the room dressed in her prim, neatly ironed pink robes. Cornelius was never one to impose his opinion on others unless the situation demanded it, but the woman could really do with some more variety.

It was then he noticed the semi-worried expression on her face.

"Director Bones is waiting in the lobby, Minister," she said. "She has a guest with her."

"A guest?" he frowned. As if Amelia Bones herself wasn't always enough of a headache. The woman had no appreciation for the complicated politicking required of his position, always going on about laws and the DMLE without any finesse.

Who could she have possibly brought?

Dolores's face turned slightly bashful. "Pius Thicknesse, Minister. The famous solicitor."

He didn't know Thicknesse well. Although they moved in similar circles, he'd never quite made his acquaintance with the infamous solicitor yet. He was someone who only entertained the wealthiest segment of the wizarding population, and yet, Cornelius couldn't really remember the last time he'd seen the man in court.

"Minister?"

"Huh— yes, of course. Send them right in."

"Excellent," his Undersecretary smiled like a homey, happy old lady. Cornelius had the strangest feeling he was about to get patted on the head and given a cookie.

The woman vanished out the door and soon returned, only this time with the fierce Amelia Bones. And standing next to her was a man with long, flowing black hair, his beard dotted with flecks of silver tapering downwards. With a hawk-like nose and narrow eyes, he had the air of a professional investigator rather than a solicitor.

"Cornelius," the war-hardened DMLE Director started, as she and her colleague took a seat, "allow me to introduce you to Mr. Pius Thicknesse. He's a solicitor interested in the Harry Potter fiasco."

Cornelius held back a groan. Had Sirius Black procured the services of this man to ensure his godson had a chance at his trial. It wasn't entirely implausible. Personally, he would have recommended Digson and Darby, an influential law firm whose clients included several well-to-do pureblood families such as Lucius Malfoy himself.

"Mr. Thicknesse," he smiled, keeping his tone as formal as possible as he shook the man's hand, "I don't believe we've met before?"

"I doubt it." The man had a deep, baritone voice. "I must admit, I'm not very acquainted with the Wizengamot courtroom, since so few of my clients end up going there."

"Why so?"

"You see, Minister," Thicknesse drawled, "I specialize in troubled situations. With the way I work, my cases never need to go to trial at all."

Arrogant, Cornelius mentally pronounced. No doubt this man was hired by Dumbledore to ensure the Potter boy escaped justice by skipping trial. It was just like him. That batty old headmaster had to be controlled, and getting his poster boy sent to Azkaban would be the perfect start.

He forced a smile. "And how can the Office of the Minister help you today?"

"I happen to represent Mr. Harry James Potter's interests in this matter, and would prefer it if we could reach a settlement out of court."

"Which is how, exactly?"

Thicknesse smiled, leaning forward. "I know the Ministry prosecutor is charging Mr. Potter on thirteen counts of murder, including four Lords of Ancient and Noble Houses, eight members of the esteemed Wizengamot, and one Cedric Diggory."

"Fourteen," Cornelius corrected him.

"Ah," the solicitor smiled, like a wolf that had just spotted a particularly plump rabbit. "I had forgotten the Ministry's stance on Peter Pettigrew has finally… changed. Forgive me, the last twelve years have gotten me accustomed to believing he was dead." He chuckled. "Does that also mean the Ministry's stance on Pettigrew is that he is— correction, was —a Death Eater responsible for bringing the Dark Lord to the Potter's home at Godric's Hollow?"

Cornelius's smile became fixed.

"And if so," he continued, "does the presence of Peter Pettigrew not reflect on possible Death Eater activity in this case? I do wonder how the Wizengamot might receive such a possibility."

"Mr. Thicknesse," Amelia sighed, "we don't want a prep talk or a four-page speculation on who-did-what. All the DMLE would like to do is catch the person responsible for this mass murder."

"The person responsible," Thicknesse parroted, tilting his head. "Perhaps you're of the opinion that Cedric Diggory indeed portkeyed Harry Potter out of Hogwarts grounds? Though, that wouldn't go well with Amos, now would it? Poor man is hoping fervently for your support on his case against the Boy-Who-Lived, but I suppose criminals do always have the loudest mouths—"

Amelia cleared her throat.

"That is for the Wizengamot to decide," Cornelius firmly stated. "Honestly, Mr. Thicknesse, if it weren't for Amelia's presence," he glanced at the DMLE Director, "I wouldn't even have given you the courtesy of this meeting."

"Please, Minister," the man replied, false sweetness dripping from his tone, "you have nothing on Mr. Potter. Any and all evidence that could portray him otherwise also incriminates the very people who had filed the case against Mr. Potter in the first place."

"I don't understand," Cornelius frowned. "This is a matter of solicitation. What does the office of the Minister of Magic have to do with it?"

"Oh it wouldn't have," Amelia dryly responded, "had you not taken up the position of Chief Prosecutor yourself. As such, you represent the interests of the afflicted parties."

Ah. Now he understood.

"So this is, in fact, a meeting between solicitors."

"Indeed," Thicknesse replied.

"So this is all off the record then?"

"Of course?"

Cornelius smiled, leaning forward towards the man. "I know that boy did it. Neither Albus Dumbledore nor your fancy solicitor degree will help keep the boy from prison. Regardless of whatever mystery magic he may have cast, we have his own testimony, under veritaserum, admitting his use of an unforgivable curse. Do you know what that means?" His lips thinned. "Azkaban."

"Sure it is, Minister," Thicknesse replied, uncaring of the open challenge. "And we are open to compromise. For starters, seven months of community service instead of Azkaban, due to his juvenile status. You know, he hasn't even gotten his OWLs yet."

Cornelius chortled, expecting such a weak argument. "The boy was chosen by the Goblet of Fire, a competition for adults. He has been recognized— if not legally, at least magically —as an adult during the Triwizard Tournament. I'm afraid that in light of this, your words mean nothing."

"An adult," the mysterious solicitor's lips thinned. "By your logic, would he also not be in full rights to claim his inheritance as the Head of an Ancient House? Are you truly willing to throw away the future of a scion of an Ancient House, not to mention a celebrity like the Boy-Who-Lived and the winner of the first Triwizard Tournament in several decades?"

He felt a headache approaching around the corner. "If this is your attempt at trying to convince me into some—"

"It's as I said, Minister," Thicknesse pressed on, "I specialize in troubled situations. And quite frankly, I am a little confused here. Which is more important? Harry Potter's incarceration, or your re-election?"

Cornelius arched an eyebrow.

"If it's Mr. Harry Potter you are after, you'd be making enemies. Influential enemies. House Black now stands firm with Sirius Black at the helm, and Albus Dumbledore has always been vocal about his support for the Boy-Who-Lived. And who can say for certain? A great many of the other Houses may think differently once Lord Black and Mister— forgive me —Heir Potter state their new House policies."

"House Black?" he frowned. "I thought you were working for Dumbledore."

"I never said that."

Cornelius closed his eyes, exhaling as he leaned back into his soft, leathery chair. Regardless of who Thicknesse was working for, give-and-take was a dance he was all too familiar with. Already, he could predict where this conversation was heading. He was many things, but certainly not one to shy away from new opportunities.

"I see," he slowly replied. "You're trying to close me."

"Not really," the man waved off. "However, I do understand that there exists certain… first-hand evidence that incriminates Mr. Potter's actions during the night of the Third Task. But all such evidence would also fall under the purview of the DMLE and be treated as hostile, on account of the Ministry proclaiming Mr. Pettigrew as a Death Eater." The solicitor had a hungry look in his eyes. "First, the miscarriage of justice with Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew, and now the loss of twelve esteemed Wizengamot members. The Daily Prophet doesn't paint the Ministry kindly these days. Do you really want to give them more ammunition?"

Fudge shot him a withering glare.

"He's right," Amelia chimed in. "From Potter's testimony, it's clear the people at the graveyard that night wanted him as a part of something—"

"If you're going to start babbling nonsense about You-Know-Who being back from the dead—" Cornelius began hotly.

"I'm not saying anything," Amelia reprimanded. Then, in a softer tone, she continued. "But it's already been proven that Peter Pettigrew betrayed the Potters to You-Know-Who. Any and all evidence collected from his location would automatically imply participation in said 'Death Eater' meeting."

"They could have been confounded or imperiused—"

"That doesn't free them from the DMLE's investigative processes, Cornelius. It just means we treat them as suspects and not offenders. If there was any Imperius involved, we will trace it. If not…"

She let the statement hang.

Cornelius's lips twitched erratically. "And what do you want from me, Mr. Thicknesse?"

"The complete acquittal of Harry Potter. Free of all charges."

On one hand, acquiescing meant— at least based on the man's loosely worded sayings —the complete guarantee of House Black's support, and possibly House Potter should he join in as well. But with his current comfort in the Wizengamot, such a deal had very little for him to gain, and a lot of potential loss.

Then there was the problem of gauging the true power of this emerging group. But more importantly, gaining the support of Potter and Black would mean agreeing with Potter's lies— that the Dark Lord was, indeed, back. Such a thing would throw his entire Ministry in jeopardy!

No, such a travesty could not be allowed. It had to be nipped in the bud.

"Very well, Mr. Thicknesse," Cornelius good-naturedly smiled. "If you can show me the power of your clients' support, I'll… see what I can do for Mr. Potter's sentence."

For the first time in their meeting, the wily solicitor frowned. "The trial is in three weeks, Minister. You know as well as I do that there are currently no measures on the Wizengamot's docket to be heard."

"Unfortunately, there's very little I can do about that," he gleefully replied. "I suppose the trial will go on as planned, and with the right incentive in the future, I'm sure we can revisit Mr. Potter's Azkaban sentence. Another follow-up trial, perhaps?"

Cornelius glanced towards the DMLE Director, holding back a wince as he saw her face redden. Ah, well, he'd have to find a way to smooth things over with her afterward. Maybe a small addition to her department's budget would perk her up.

"No, Cornelius," Thicknesse declared. "That simply won't do."

"Ah. So I've had the carrot, and now you show me the stick?" he snorted. "I must advise you that while any discussion about the trial is still off the record, anything that can be construed as a threat is certainly not. Especially with the DMLE Director as my primary witness."

Amelia pursed her lips, but said nothing.

"Oh no, Minister," Thicknesse replied with a bark of laughter. "That's not my style. The next time we see each other, you'll have a new voting bloc. One that might or might not agree with your choices."

What?

Cornelius opened his mouth. But no words came out.

"I— I don't understand. I've already refused your offer. So why are you—"

"Law is about control. You can only control so much, what with the jury, judge, witnesses and lawyers with ego complexes all serving as different cogs in the great machine we call justice." Thicknesse smiled. "And in my opinion, witnesses can be unreliable at the worst of times."

Cornelius slammed his hands onto the table. It would've been easy to pretend that this Thicknesse fellow was simply goading him. Getting on his nerves. Maybe even pushing him to make rash decisions. No, surely he was lying.

But was he really? Lying served no purpose for something that took little more than a Floo call to verify.

"The way I see it, you have two choices. You take the deal, Harry Potter gets acquitted, and you get some new friends. Or you can reject the deal, Harry Potter gets acquitted, and you lose everything."

For once, Cornelius had nothing to say.

"Your mistake, Cornelius," Thicknesse chuckled, pushing himself off the chair as he buttoned up his suit, "was believing you ever had a choice in the matter. Come the trial, Harry Potter will be acquitted. You will have a new voting bloc. And everything will go as I have dictated."

As he walked out the door, Amelia right on his heels, he turned and looked over his shoulder. "And for the record," he replied with a winning smile, "that is what it's like being closed by Pius Thicknesse."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Amelia briskly replied as she walked beside Pius Thicknesse towards the Floo. She loathed politicking, especially when it interfered with ensuring justice was carried out faithfully. It was nauseating, sitting in the Minister's office as she watched two people try to decide the outcome of a young boy's trial before it even happened.

Merlin, she needed a shower. Or three.

"Cornelius is a simple man, Pius, but he is known to react. Quite strongly, in fact, when pushed into a corner."

"A classic mad dog, then?"

"Pius!" Amelia snapped.

The other man chortled. "Sorry, but you walked right into that one, Amelia." He quickly sobered. "But yes, I know exactly what I'm doing. That's why my client asked me to take on this case."

"You mean Sirius Black," she flatly replied. From what she remembered, Black's skill with a wand was only matched by his ability to successfully finish the missions handed to him. She hoped the Harry Potter fiasco would end similarly. Neatly.

"Oh? And what made you think so?"

Amelia's eyes widened. "I don't understand. Black is Harry Potter's guardian. And you're representing Potter's interests. Two plus two—"

"Makes five in this case, I'm afraid," he grinned. "As I said, I'm representing Harry Potter's interests. I never made any claims about who my client was."

Amelia shot him a thinly veiled glare. "And who, may I ask, is your illustrious client?"

"Someone whose identity is protected by confidentiality oaths. I assure you, Amelia, there are more people than Sirius Black who are concerned about this Harry Potter fiasco. My employer happens to be one of them."

Amelia crossed her arms across her chest. "I find it hard to believe you can proceed with this case without explicit permission from him and his guardian."

"Which is why I've already sent them a letter requesting a face-to-face," he nonchalantly shrugged. "Tempus Fugit, as they say."

Amelia nursed her temples as her long-time friend stood by the Floo. "Pius, you came to me with a deal. I agreed to it, believing you were representing Harry Potter. That's why I got you an audience with the Minister. If you fuck things up, we will no longer have a deal."

The wily solicitor shot her a silly grin. "Tell me Amelia, how long have we known each other?"

"Since Hogwarts… Why?"

His smile was practically feral. "Then you know we'll have a deal."

"Let me see if I understand this right," Cassiopeia addressed her grandnephew. "You want me of all people to go with you. To Great Britain."

"Well, I wanted Uncle Alphard to come too," Sirius replied, a tad more cheerfully than she'd expected, "but he's made his views pretty clear on that subject."

"Aye!" Alphard roared like a drunken sailor from behind them.

Cassiopeia just rolled her eyes. She'd been living in Bulgaria for most of her life, though she had stayed at Grimmauld Place from time to time, especially after Druella had given birth to her youngest— Narcissa. But for the most part, her memories with the younger generation had been limited to whenever Orion had brought the family to Bulgaria for the summer.

Little Bella was easily her favorite. But Sirius wasn't far behind.

She still fondly remembered how Arcturus swore until he was blue in the face each time they visited, always ranting about someone in the Wizengamot doing something particularly moronic.

Those ruddy dunderheads, he used to say. They'd bury themselves six feet under with paperwork if they had the chance.

The memories still made her chuckle.

"And what made you jumpstart on this endeavor all of a sudden?"

Sirius looked taken aback by the question, before raising himself upright. "I am trying to raise House Black from its ashes, back to what it used to be during Grandfather's time. Grand-uncle Pollux was Chief Warlock, Grandfather held the reins over the Wizengamot, and other Houses— large and small —fell over backwards to bask in our mere presence. I… I thought you'd be all for it."

"I didn't say I'm not," she giggled, lightly bopping him on the nose. "Now why don't you tell me the real reason behind your little charade?"

"Who says there is one?" he retorted. It was adorable, really.

"I've been listening to people lie before you were a twinkle in your demented mother's eyes, boy," she cackled. "Now, spill. What is it you're really after? Last I heard, you were a part of that naive old fool's collection of spies. What does he want now? The lost secrets of the Revenant? I know Uncle Rigel hid them. Perhaps that old fool wants to complete the Quest all over again?"

Sirius was looking more and more confused, and it took everything she had to keep a straight face. Of course he was confused. She was just making this all up as she went.

"Well?"

"I— well, I haven't the slightest clue what this Revenant business is about, but I wasn't lying to you. I really do want to raise House Black to its former glory."

"And I believe you," Cassiopeia firmly replied. "What I want from you is the real reason behind it."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"What?" she scoffed. "Sirius Black, the boy who hated his own family, the black sheep of your generation— pun intended, of course —suddenly wants to claim the Black Lordship. And you expect me to believe it's, what, long-lost pride in your blood?

Sirius glared at her.

She easily met his gaze.

Five seconds of terse silence later, her grandnephew finally looked away. "It's… it's Harry."

"The Potter boy," Cassiopeia sighed. "Yes, of course. The Boy-Who-Lived. I've heard of him. He made waves among the Durmstrang contingent. A real achievement, defeating three competent wizards, champions of their own schools and winning the Triwizard Cup at fourteen. Talented, very talented. If I didn't know any better, I'd have praised you for snatching him away and bringing him into our House."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "I'm his godfather, Aunt Cassie. I don't need to snatch him away. He's mine. Mine to raise. Mine to protect."

"Then do it," she snorted. "You are the Heir. Adopt him into the family, send him here to live and learn. I'm sure your Uncle Alphard will be delighted at the opportunity to teach again."

"She's fooling herself," Alphard's voice boomed in the background.

"But I don't want to pull him away from his life," Sirius growled. He was beginning to lose his temper. They always did. Throw in a handful of circular arguments while discussing an emotionally vested topic, and sooner or later, they all cracked.

Patience was the secret ingredient.

He slowly exhaled. "It's Voldemort."

She'd heard of the name. The pretender. The one who had taken several loving faces from her. Her dearest Bellatrix was now sitting in that accursed prison, surrounded by those eldritch abominations. Sirius too had suffered the same fate, only he'd been able to worm his way out. Regulus, the poor dear, had lost himself and perished in the tides of the war—

"What about him?"

"He's after Harry."

"Obviously," she drawled. "He has every reason to be upset. His ego's been bruised. I mean, really, what kind of two-bit Dark Lord loses to a one-year-old child?"

She had read all about the myth of the Boy-Who-Lived. The sheer level of paranoia that could make a wizard, especially one widely feared by full-grown wizards for his mastery over the Dark Arts, stoop so low as to spill the blood of an innocent magical baby was a level of depravity even Cassiopeia couldn't comprehend. Still, she hadn't given two knuts over the Boy-Who-Lived propaganda, figuring that Potter Senior and his mudblood must have conjured something particularly esoteric to bring an end to Voldemort.

"But that's still not an answer, Sirius. Admit it. Why are you doing this?"

Just a little more.

She could already see his arms shaking. Anger? No. Resentment? Not really. The only visible emotion was frustration, powered by guilt. She knew her grandnephew was excellent with a wand. Arcturus trained him for hours, and she'd often peeked in on their sessions. Sirius had always been a believer of striking hard and fast. He never had the natural instinct or talent of Bellatrix nor the grace of Orion.

He was a sledgehammer. One who could throw around power like no one else in the family.

Especially when he was emotionally involved.

Scalpels and daggers were wonderful creations, but at the end of the day, a sledgehammer to the head was a sledgehammer to the head.

With how his wand was madly sparking at the tip, it wasn't long before she shattered this illusion he'd crafted around himself. He may have fooled everyone else, himself included, but he wouldn't fool her. She would see the real, neanderthal heart behind his intentions.

It was just a matter of time.

Sirius's hands were now clenched into tight fists, white at the knuckles. She could make out the slight shifts in gravity, a slight bending of light around the edges as emotive magic began to roll out of her grandnephew. The Black Family Magic was heavily based on emotions, and Sirius… Well, he had always been an emotional creature at heart.

"What do you expect me to say?"

"The truth."

"The truth?" he growled. "Fine, how about this? Voldemort is destroying the country. He's killed my best friend and his wife. He's the reason why everyone I ever loved is either dead or in pieces. He's the reason why Harry had to survive living with those atrocious muggles growing up. And if he isn't stopped he'll keep on coming back until my godson is dead. This bloody Dark Lord—"

"Tosh, Sirius," she snapped. "That madman of yours is nothing more than a terrorist, one who hides his naked ambitions and lust for power beneath that tripe of blood purity. I still remember Arcturus talking about it. A number of Houses suspected Voldemort of illegitimacy, hiding behind that fake name." Her wand sparked furiously by her side. "Don't forget that I am Cassiopeia Virgo Black, boy. I butchered hundreds as I walked alongside Gellert Grindelwald, the man who waged war on the entire world. And nearly won," she sneered at the end, "if not for that meddlesome old fool."

Cassiopeia turned and met her grandnephew's gaze. "Now he was a Dark Lord. And I was his favored lieutenant. His right hand."

"I know," Sirius solemnly agreed. "But whatever you want to call him, he has to be stopped. He has to be."

"You want to kill him."

It wasn't a question. It was a fact, one she had no particular problems with. In her experience, killing was very rarely the wrong solution to any problem.

"No," Sirius replied with surprising venom. "I am well beyond petty revenge. I don't just want Harry to survive, I want him to be happy. The madhouse that is Wizarding Britain, and all of its bigotry, it'll only create one Voldemort after the next. Back then, most of the Death Eaters were young, impressionable school children. But now? They occupy high positions in society."

"And where exactly are you going with this?" Cassiopeia probed. Nearly there.

Sirius looked down. "Back then, when I fought against them, I thought Dumbledore had the right idea. But I was wrong. He just let things remain the way they were, too afraid to rock the boat. People allowed this mad dog and his sycophants to wreak havoc because they had no other option save for Albus bloody Dumbledore. I want House Black to be that option, and I'm willing to do anything to make it happen. If freely wielding the darkest magics of my House means Harry survives, then so be it."

"So you wish to destroy Voldemort and stand against Dumbledore?"

"I'm going to stand against everything," he spat. "The status quo needs to be torn to shreds. Dumbledore has allowed bigotry to run rampant for far too long. Voldemort… he's just a symptom of that pacifist ideology. And as Grandfather Arcturus always said, you can't defeat an ideology by resisting it. You defeat it—"

"By creating an alternative," she finished, her smile stretching from ear to ear. "A better one." Raising herself to her fullest height, Cassiopeia stared at her grandnephew. "And what would this new ideology be?"

Sirius smiled. "Whatever it must."

"INCENDIO!"

A flickering tongue of flame shot out of his wand, illuminating the pit of stone conjured to serve as a control medium for his spell-training. With Sirius away on more errands, it had fallen on Emmeline to sit beside him and watch as he poured magic through his wand to cast one spell after another.

Surprisingly enough, it turned out that Emma had an Outstanding in her Charms NEWT. The cheerful healer had confided she never had the proclivity or mindset required to cast the more esoteric Defense spells, but was a deft hand at Charms. In fact, Professor Flitwick had offered her an apprenticeship for a Charms Mastery, but she'd chosen Healing instead. With Sirius absent from their sessions, she had decided it was a good time to get him started on the kind of Charms spellwork that would serve him best in the coming days.

Namely, elemental spells.

"Keep trying," Emma smiled. "It takes some time to get the hang of elemental charms."

Harry frowned. It wasn't like he didn't trust the woman's competency on the subject, but this was hardly the first time he'd cast a fire spell. In fact, he'd successfully conjured bluebell flames as a first-year student without any problems.

"You're making faces again, Harry."

"Sorry!" he looked up, eyes wide like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "I just— it's—" he glanced at his wand, "it's like my own wand is fighting me."

"Fighting you? How?"

"Whenever I'm trying to cast the spell, I have this odd feeling that it doesn't want to cast it." Harry shook his head as he held up his wand. "Earlier, I had to push everything I had into it just to get that thin stream of flame. This doesn't make any sense!"

"You did recently get a new wand, right?" At Harry's nod, Emma continued. "Maybe it has something to do with your wand affinity. Different wands are good for different things, after all. What's your new wand made of?"

"Ebony and dragon heartstring," Harry answered, looking even more glum. Dragons were creatures of fire. If anything, he should've found it easier to cast fire-elemental spells with a dragon heartstring core.

Emma looked like she'd just bit into a lemon. Pursing her lips for a second, she drew her own wand from its holster and handed it over to him. "Here. Try using mine."

"Uh—"

"It's cherry and dragon heartstring," Emma clarified. "Not too different, but different enough that you should feel a difference. Try using it."

Gingerly, Harry held the wand by its handle, ignoring the feeling of utter unfamiliarity digging into his hand from the warm wood.

"Go on, then. Give it a wave."

He sighed. Holding it like the handle of a sword, he flicked it downwards at the stone pit. "Incendio!"

The wand coughed out a thin cloud of ember, which flickered and died before even reaching the bottom of the shallow stone pit.

"Yep, not working," Emma dryly replied, promptly taking her wand back. "It certainly isn't a wand issue. Why don't you try again and feel where it's going wrong?"

Harry smiled. Now this was familiar territory. He'd always been somewhat of a kinesthetic learner. Unlike Hermione, who could write a thesis on the intricacies of magical theory and how magic was shaped into a spell, Harry had always done it instinctively through practice. He could just feel when a spell was done right, and when it didn't, he'd shove more power through his wand until it did.

It didn't really get any simpler than that.

"Tell me, what are you doing when you cast the spell?"

"I'm, uh, imagining the flames coming out the tip of my wand."

His tutor winced. "That's… probably where you've got it wrong. This is charmwork, Harry, not conjuration. What you're trying to do is conjure fire from literally nothing." She held out her wand. "You see, magic may be the act of manipulating the world around you through your own will, but such manipulation is still subject to natural laws."

Harry furrowed his temples. "What do you mean?"

Emmeline bit her lip. "Tell me Harry, what do you do when you convert… say, a pin into a needle?"

"I… imagine the needle?" He offered. He had never really been one for transfiguration theory. That was all Hermione.

"Inadequate," She replied, "if it's a needle, you need to think of the hardness of the steel it is made up of. The sharpness of the tip. The sleek size of the needle's shaft," She paused, "What you are really doing is visualizing the end product."

That, Harry decided, made a lot of sense.

"Try this. What do you do when levitating a feather?"

That one was easy. "I… think of it getting lighter and flying up."

Emma's smile told him he had given the correct reply. "Visualize the process. The mechanism."

Harry blinked.

"That," the healer replied, "is the basic difference between transfiguration and charms. The former requires visualization of the end product, while the latter is all about the process. The journey. The mechanism involved."

"But," Harry raised, "what of the Patronus— no, wait. I immerse myself in the happy memory. The warmth. And my Patronus becomes a shield against the dementor's negative energies."

"Very perceptive," his tutor replied with a bright smile. "Time for a demonstration then."

She turned her wand towards the stone pit.

"Step one. Focus on the air in front of you. It's a mixture of gases. It doesn't matter if you cannot see them. Know it is true. Your belief fuels your magic. Believe."

Harry followed her every move, enraptured.

"Step two. Channel your magic and cast the spell. Let the pure energy leave you." Breathing in, Emma glanced towards the pit, keeping her eyes trained on her target as she exhaled. "Step three. Push it into them. Heat them up."

She flicked her wand towards the pit. "Incendio!"

The entire pit erupted with bright, crimson flames, and Emma took a step back, visibly satisfied by her display. "There. Now you try."

Nodding, Harry focused his will upon the air at the very tip of his wand. A familiar surge of energy rushed down his arm through the wooden tip, but Harry didn't let that deter him from his focus.

The air in front of me. It's getting warmer.

"Incendio!"

Energy flowed out, and a thin whip of flame struck the walls of the pit before flickering out.

"Try again," his tutor suggested.

Waving his wand again, Harry cast the spell, this time pouring a little bit more power into it. Once again, a thin tongue of flame shot out of his wand and illuminated the pit. The power was there, and he could feel the heat from the flames. And yet—

"Incendio!"

Another flame shot out, this one a bit thicker than the previous. But before he could yell out in victory, the fire flickered out and died.

"INCENDIO!"

No matter how many times he tried, it just didn't work.

"INCENDIO!"

Stupid flame charm! Just what the hell was wrong with him?! Why couldn't he blast a bloody flame charm when he had—

"Harry?"

"INCENDIO! INCENDIO! INCENDIO!"

It was the same. Every single time. The spell either came out as a thin stream that lasted for three to four second, or a single bout of thicker flame, lasting only half as long. And no matter what he did, he could feel something within him fighting back. Something that just didn't want to cast Fire. Something that was clearly a part of him, and yet—

"Harry!"

Was there no end to his misery? First the wand, then the graveyard, and now this. Ollivander had told him he'd never find a perfectly compatible wand. He could already see the bright red DREADFUL plastered across the top of his Transfiguration OWL, dashing any chance he had at becoming an Auror. He was—

"HARRY!"

"What?!" he snapped back.

"You're shaking," Emma softly replied, her eyes filled with concern.

And just like that, the moment was broken. Harry stepped back, staring at his trembling hands. The world around him seemed to flicker from grayscale to normal, and then back again. His own hands, his wand, even Emma— everything seemed so transitory. It was like he knew they were there, and yet, they weren't.

Or maybe— maybe he wasn't—

"What's," he croaked, his throat feeling like rubble and broken glass, "what's happening to me?"

"Breathe," Emma whispered. She was standing close, incredibly close, and yet she still wasn't touching him. "Breathe, Harry. You need to maintain a calm mind."

Calm. Harry exhaled aloud. Yes. Calm. I'm calm. Anything else, I'll just filter it right through me.

The next ten seconds were spent in silence, only intermittently broken by deep breaths.

"Do you think you can continue?" Emma asked, a strange reluctance coloring her tone.

"Ye—" he cleared his throat. "Yeah. I think."

"Alright, but let's try something different. We don't want you going overboard."

Overboard. He supposed that was a polite way of describing how he'd completely freaked out over being unable to do a single spell. But on the bright side, the building was still standing and not on fire. He'd count that as a victory in his book.

"Like what?"

"Well…" Emma drawled, "you seem to have a bit of trouble with fire spells. Let's try the opposite. Perhaps the Glacius spell?"

"Ice?"

"The freezing spell," Emma clarified. "Depending on the power and intent, it can be used to create a variety of effects, ranging from a gust of cold wind to outright chunks of ice. There isn't much wand movement involved either, not unlike the Incendio charm, so simply point and speak the incantation. And remember," she wagged a finger, "you are not conjuring ice. You're—"

"Dragging out the heat," Harry finished, his arm already in motion. "Making it colder."

He flicked his wand towards the stone pit.

"GLACIUS!"

Then, it happened.

Harry reached into himself to gather power for the spell, and instead found himself drenched by it. It was like jumping into a stream of icy water in winter— torturous and agonizing, but at the same time, brisk. Before he knew it, an arctic howl was promptly followed by a stream of air suddenly condensing into liquid, and then an explosion of frost took place in the pit, vanishing whatever flames remained at the bottom. The air became a solid bank of fog, an eerie rolling mist.

For several seconds, he waited for the mist to disperse, standing there tensely as it was swept away by the remnants of the gale he had called forth.

The pit was still there. But that was all it was.

Emma, curious as ever, daintily took a step forward and laid a single finger onto the now-frozen stone pit.

It shattered. Thousands of tiny, grizzly icy chunks exploded all over the floor like frozen shrapnel. Even the largest of them, Harry absently noticed, was probably smaller than a fingernail.

"Well," she brightly replied, "that was mildly surprising."