Harry Potter: The Artisan's Path Chapter 89

Hi all, 

Here’s the next chapter. Dumbledore is up to no good, and Harry gets another visit from Lady Hogwarts. 

Chapter 89

Gilderoy Lockhart was lounging in his office, admiring his reflection in a handheld mirror, when the fireplace suddenly flared to life. A voice called out, "Lockhart! Attend!"

With a startled yelp, Lockhart scrambled to his feet, smoothing his perfectly coiffed hair. He hurried to the fireplace, kneeling before the black flames. "Eight? I wasn't expecting—"

His words died in his throat as he poked his head through the magical fire. The sight that greeted him sent a chill down his spine.

Eight sat before him, but the man was a far cry from his usual imposing self. His shoulders were slumped, his posture radiating defeat. Most shocking was the empty space where his right arm should have been. Though Eight's mask concealed his face, the set of his jaw and the tension in his remaining hand spoke volumes about the pain he must be enduring.

"There is only one thing I need from you." Eight hissed, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "You need to get the cooperation of the Centaurs and find me an entry into the forest."

Gilderoy blinked, momentarily thrown by the abrupt demand. "What about the—"

"Forget about the girl," Eight interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. "Or Harry Potter, for that matter. He is mine."

"It won't be easy," Gilderoy ventured cautiously. "The Centaurs are notoriously stubborn. Even if they want to rebel, convincing them to break their oaths to the school..."

He trailed off as Eight slammed his remaining hand on the table, the sharp crack making Lockhart flinch. "You will do what you are told!" Eight roared. "If you accomplish this before the school year is finished, all your debts will be repaid."

Hope flared in Lockhart's chest, momentarily overriding his fear. Freedom from his obligations to Obsidian? It seemed too good to be true. 

"I will get it done," he promised fervently.

Eight watched impassively as Lockhart's head disappeared from the flames. "Foolish man," he muttered to the empty room. "As if you were ever going to be free of Obsidian."

With a grimace, he reached for the glass of whiskey on the table, swirling the amber liquid. Phantom pains shot through his missing arm, and he gritted his teeth against the sensation. Fixing his arm was going to take time—a setback he hadn't anticipated. Unexpected complications were always the most vexing.

Eight's thoughts turned to Harry Potter, a snarl twisting his lips behind the mask. If it weren't for that blasted boy, things would have gone according to plan. He had grossly underestimated the brat's resourcefulness and fighting prowess. Had he been too hasty in invading the Potters' property? Had his hatred for Charlus Potter blinded him to the risks, causing him to ignore sound advice and attack without proper planning?

The consequences of his rash actions weighed heavily on him. He had left several men behind, along with a wealth of information about their organisation. With this new group actively opposing them, it was the last thing they needed. This debacle was sure to create headaches, and his comrades would no doubt subject him to intense scrutiny over his decisions.

But Eight had one ace up his sleeve. All of the inner circle hated Charlus Potter for killing Grindelwald. This meant they would agree to any crazy plan he proposed. Eight would ensure that the man and his entire family paid dearly for their actions. It was only a matter of time.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Aberforth Dumbledore ran a grimy cloth over the last table in the Hog's Head Inn, his movements mechanical after years of the same nightly routine. The pub was empty, save for the lingering smell of stale ale and pipe smoke. 

It hadn't always been this way. There was a time when the Hog's Head had at least been busy. But that was before Albus' crimes had come to light. Now, most nights passed with nary a customer darkening the door. Aberforth had struck his brother's name from the family charter, a symbolic gesture that did little to sway public opinion. The locals still shunned him, guilt by association as potent as any curse.

Truthfully, Aberforth didn't mind the lack of customers. It meant less work, fewer drunken wizards to wrangle, and more time with his beloved goats. As he tossed the stained cloth onto the scarred surface of the bar, a commotion from the back of the inn caught his attention. The goats were bleating loudly, their cries piercing through the usual nighttime quiet of Hogsmeade.

Frowning, Aberforth made his way to the back door and pushed open the door. The night air was cool on his face, carrying with it the scent of approaching rain. He peered into the darkness, straining to make out shapes in the gloom. The goats had fallen silent, which was even more unsettling than their earlier noise.

"What are you bleating about?" he called out. No answer came.

Aberforth summoned his wand from his sleeve and lit the tip. The light cast eerie shadows as he walked towards the fenced area where he kept his herd. His eyes darted about, searching for any sign of what might have spooked them. A fox, perhaps, or a stray dog? Or something worse?

Without warning, an invisible force wrenched the wand from his grasp. The light winked out, plunging Aberforth back into darkness. Before he could react, he was slammed against the fence, the impact driving the air from his lungs. As he blinked away the stars dancing in his vision, a figure stepped out of the shadows. Aberforth's blood ran cold as he recognised his brother.

Albus stood before him, resplendent in midnight blue robes embroidered with silver stars. To anyone else, he might have looked the very picture of a kindly wizard. But Aberforth knew better. He saw the cold calculation in those twinkling blue eyes.

"What are you doing here, Albus?" Aberforth growled, pushing himself upright. His back protested the movement.

Albus' eyes twinkled in that infuriatingly familiar way. "Hello there, Aberforth. I require your services."

Aberforth's lip curled in disgust, his hand instinctively reaching for a wand that was no longer there. "I'm not partaking in your criminal activities."

Albus shook his head, his expression one of exaggerated sorrow. "I wish people would understand what I'm doing is for the—"

"Greater Good," Aberforth interrupted with a harsh laugh. "Not that same old tired line. It would be for the Greater Good if you handed yourself into the authorities and admitted your crimes. It would be for the Greater Good if you had a stroke and keeled over—"

Albus' wand lashed out, cutting off Aberforth's tirade. The younger Dumbledore found himself paralysed, arms stuck tight to his sides, mouth frozen mid-word. He could only watch, fury building in his chest, as Albus approached.

Albus knelt beside his immobilised brother. "My great work has not been going so well lately. It requires someone. But the method I used to secure her isn't working out as planned either."

Without warning, Albus reached out and yanked a handful of hair from Aberforth's head. Tears sprang to Aberforth's eyes at the sharp pain, but he couldn't even blink them away. 

"So, I'm going to borrow your identity for a while," Albus continued, examining the grey hairs between his fingers. "To allow me to stay close to the school and look for an opportunity. We look so much alike that using Polyjuice Potion is almost unnecessary. But why take the chance?"

Aberforth could only watch, helpless, as Albus pocketed the stolen hair. His mind raced, trying to figure out a way to alert someone, anyone, to what was happening.

Albus stood, brushing dirt from his ornate robes. "Now, little brother, we can't have you running off to spoil my plans, can we? I'm afraid you'll have to take a little nap."

He raised his wand, and Aberforth felt a wave of magical energy wash over him. His eyelids grew heavy, and his thoughts became sluggish. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Albus' triumphant smile.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

18th February

Harry trudged along the corridor, his mind preoccupied with one of his projects that was giving him problems. He had been so distracted that he couldn’t eat much dinner in the Great Hall, so he returned to the common room ahead of the others. As he rounded the corner, a familiar figure materialised from the shadows.

"Rowena," Harry said. "I haven't seen you in ages."

Lady Hogwarts had emerged from her chamber. The woman’s grey eyes regarded him seriously. "Indeed, it has been some time, Harry. Come, we have matters to discuss."

Without waiting for a response, Rowena turned and glided down the hallway. Harry hesitated for a moment before following; his curiosity piqued. They arrived at an unoccupied classroom and Rowena ushered him inside.

"I imagine you have questions about my absence," Rowena began, her tone measured. "I've been dealing with an issue concerning the wardstone. It's a complex problem that I'm still working to resolve."

Harry's brow furrowed. "Is it something to do with Merlin?"

Rowena shook her head. "No, this is unrelated."

"Can you tell me more about it?" Harry pressed.

A shadow passed over Rowena's face. "It isn't something you need to concern yourself with at present. There are other matters we must discuss."

Harry nodded, recognising the finality in her tone. "I need to tell you something. I'm the Founders' Heir."

To his surprise, Rowena didn't react with shock or disbelief. Instead, a knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth. "I suspected as much. Even without the title, you are inextricably linked to this castle, Harry."

She raised a hand, pointing at his chest. "You are tied to Hogwarts by the wards. The magic of this place recognises you and responds to you in ways it doesn't for others."

Harry glanced down at his chest, as if expecting to see some visible sign of this connection. "What does that mean for me?"

"It means you should start learning more about the wards," Rowena replied. "There may come a time when you need to examine them to understand their intricacies. This knowledge could prove crucial."

Harry nodded, filing away this information for later consideration. Another question bubbled to the surface of his mind. "What about the Founders' properties? I inherited them, but I haven’t checked them out."

Rowena's expression turned wistful. "They exist, yes, but they are nothing but mouldering ruins of history now. None of us paid much attention to our properties outside of Hogwarts. We preferred to reside here."

"But are there things there that might be useful? Artifacts or..."

"Trinkets, perhaps," Rowena conceded. "You might find some items of interest among the ruins. But don't expect grand mansions or hidden fortresses. I suspect time has not been kind to our old dwellings."

There were so many questions clamouring for attention. Before he could ask another question, Rowena raised her hand.

"I'm afraid I must take my leave," she said, her form already beginning to fade around the edges. "But before I go, there's something you must know."

Harry leaned in, hanging on her every word.

"Be ready, Harry," Rowena's voice had taken on an urgent edge. "There's a dark presence lingering over the castle. I can feel it, even if I can't pinpoint its source."

A chill ran down Harry's spine. "What should I do?"

"Remember that the denizens of Hogwarts are at your disposal," Rowena said, her form growing more translucent by the second. "They will aid you if you but ask."

With those final words, Rowena vanished, leaving Harry alone in the dusty classroom. He stood there for a long moment, her cryptic warning echoing in his mind.

Harry ran a hand through his unruly hair, exhaling slowly. Another threat, another mystery to unravel. It should have felt overwhelming, but instead, a weary sort of resignation settled over him. Of course something bad was coming. When wasn't it?

He made his way to the door. The weight of everything Rowena had told him pressed down on his shoulders, demanding immediate attention. But Harry pushed it aside, compartmentalising with a skill born of necessity. There was too much else clamouring for space in his overtaxed mind.

As he stepped into the corridor, Harry made a mental note to fill in his friends on the conversation later. They would want to know about this new development, even if no one knew what to do about it. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry Potter sat hunched over his workbench, his brow furrowed in concentration as he made the final adjustments to the Windwalkers. He carefully etched the last rune into the leather, his hand moving with practised precision.

With a deep breath, Harry leaned back, surveying his creation. "That should do it," he muttered. He picked up the boots, turning them over in his hands, feeling the weight of potential they carried.

After rigorously testing them, they would be ready for commercial sale. He didn’t know how well they would go in a society dominated by Quidditch brooms. 

The British wizarding world wasn't known for embracing new inventions quickly. Harry could already imagine the raised eyebrows and sceptical looks from the more traditional members of society. But he had an ace up his sleeve—his political alliance. With the recent addition of his Founder's votes, pushing through approval for the Windwalkers should be straightforward if it proved necessary.

Even if the British market proved difficult, there was always the rest of the world. He could already picture witches and wizards from other countries eagerly snapping up pairs.

"The Windwalkers are complete," Harry declared.

The symbol on his hand heated up. He retrieved the Source and read the new message that had appeared:

==========

The host has completed an artifact!

Windwalkers (Artifact)

Description: These enchanted boots revolutionise magical transportation. At their most basic, they allow the wearer to walk on air as if it were solid ground. However, this barely scratches the surface of their capabilities. With practice, users can soar through the sky like birds, achieving impressive speeds and performing complex aerial manoeuvres. The Windwalkers respond to the wearer's intent, enabling sharp turns, sudden accelerations, and graceful loops with ease. They also boast several safety features to keep the user safe from harm.

General experience +100000

Leatherworking experience + 20000

Renown + 250

Artisan Rank: 765 >> 713

Leatherworking has increased to level 5!

The host has reached level 16!

Reward: Magic Emporium Upgrade

Progress to level 17: 86750 / 500000

Level 17 Unlocks: ???? Earth: 1 of 4

The host has completed a task!

Task #10: Climb to the 750th position in the rankings.

Reward: 5000 workshop points; additional rare items added to the Magic Emporium.

=========

As Harry browsed through the information, he felt a surge of satisfaction. He was earning plenty of experience at the moment, so it felt like he was always making progress.

Harry flipped to the Magical Emporium Shop page. The moment it loaded, his eyes widened. The upgrade had transformed the shop entirely.

Where once there had been a modest selection of magical items and materials, now rows upon rows of rare and exotic components filled the page. Scrolling through, Harry noticed familiar items now stocked in greater quantities, alongside entirely new categories he'd never seen before.

But what truly caught his attention was a new section labelled "Fae Realm". Harry's pulse quickened as he recognised the Fae communication stone he'd purchased earlier, now nestled among several unfamiliar items.

Harry's mind was full of the possibilities for these otherworldly materials. Each item promised unique magical properties unlike anything found in the wizarding world. The prices, however, were steep. Most items cost hundreds of Shop Points, far more than the average magical component.

Thankfully, Harry had been frugal with his points. He did a quick mental calculation. If he was careful, he could afford to purchase one of each Fae item for testing purposes.

The prospect of experimenting with these new materials sent a thrill through him. What new enchantments could he create? What impossible items might he craft? The Fae materials could open up entirely new avenues of magical innovation.

Harry paused as he brought himself back down to earth. Before he could do that, he needed to finish his current projects. He didn’t want to go off on a tangent and make more work for himself. But once his backlog had been cleared, it would free him up to explore these new possibilities.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 

21st May

Tracy's eyes locked onto the Quaffle as it arced through the air, her gaze intense and focused. With a burst of speed from her Windwalkers, she shot upwards, the enchanted boots responding instantly to her intent. Her arms stretched out, fingers splayed wide. The timing was perfect; her fingers closed around the red leather of the ball just as she reached the apex of her jump, a good ten meters above the ground. The crowd below erupted in cheers at the display of skill and grace, their voices echoing across the Hogwarts grounds.

Harry grinned, watching Tracy's triumphant smile as she dodged past two opposing players. Her long blonde hair whipped behind her as she spun mid-air, using the Windwalkers' precision control to evade a grasping hand. This was AirPolo in action, a game born from the possibilities his Windwalkers had created. For the past few weekends, he and his friends had been showcasing the sport, drumming up interest for the boots' imminent release.

The makeshift pitch was marked out on the grassy area near the Black Lake, roughly a quarter the size of a standard Quidditch field. Conjured poles at either end supported a single hoop, larger than a Quidditch goal but small enough to make scoring a challenge. Unlike Quidditch's airborne ballet, AirPolo was a rough-and-tumble affair. Players grappled and wrestled for control of the Quaffle, their Windwalkers allowing for three-dimensional manoeuvring that would be impossible on the ground.

Tracy, the game's inventor, had kept the rules simple for now. Apart from the goalkeeper, there were no fixed positions. Players swarmed around the Quaffle, creating a chaotic, fast-paced spectacle that quickly drew a crowd of curious onlookers. Students from all houses gathered around the pitch, all eyes fixed on the aerial action.

As Harry watched, Blaise managed to wrestle the Quaffle from Tracy's grasp, his dark skin glistening with sweat under the afternoon sun. He shot towards the opposing hoop, twisting and turning to avoid the defenders, his movements fluid and graceful despite the Quaffle tucked under his arm. But Neville, playing keeper, timed his intercept perfectly. He snatched the ball out of the air, his newfound confidence evident in the smooth motion, immediately lobbing it to a teammate.

The game had been going on for nearly an hour now, with students rotating in and out as fatigue set in. Harry felt the burn in his muscles, a testament to the workout AirPolo provided. Sweat trickled down his back, his t-shirt clinging to his skin. He signalled to the sidelines, indicating he was ready to sub out.

As he descended, Harry caught sight of the separate female match happening nearby. The decision to split the games by gender hadn't been without controversy. Angelina Johnson, in particular, had been vocal about it being sexist, her passionate arguments drawing quite a crowd in the Gryffindor common room. But when faced with the reality of close contact grappling with male players, even she had grudgingly admitted the separation made sense.

Tracy was an exception. She wanted to play with the boys and threatened to hex their bits if they attempted to grope her.

Harry's feet touched down on the sidelines. After an hour in the air, solid ground felt almost alien, his legs wobbling slightly as they readjusted. An eager Hufflepuff boy, Kevin Entwhistle, took his place, practically bouncing with excitement as he activated his Windwalkers and rose into the fray.

Wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, Harry made his way to where Daphne and Hermione were sitting. They shuffled aside, making room for him on the conjured bench, its cool wooden surface a welcome relief.

"Nice assist earlier," Daphne said, handing him a water bottle. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she watched him gulp down the cool liquid.

Harry took a long drink before replying. "Thanks. Tracy's really taken to the game, hasn't she?"

Hermione nodded. "She's already talking about formalising rules for league play. I think you might have accidentally created a new national sport, Harry."

He chuckled, watching as Tracy scored another goal, much to the goalkeeper's frustration. The ball sailed through the hoop, triggering a cheer from the spectators. "I think it’s going to take a lot more to dethrone Quidditch."

Harry lay down and folded his arms behind his head. It felt good to unwind after the hectic schedule he had been pushing for so long. The past three months had been a whirlwind of activity, with time seeming to slip through his fingers like sand.

He focused primarily on completing the tasks he had already begun. The order for his grandfather was finally finished, with the last of the Vanishing Cabinets being finished a few weeks ago. It had been a time-consuming project, but the sense of accomplishment was worth the effort.

His thoughts drifted to his latest creations—the WindWalkers, Gliders, and Bunny Hoppers. All three enchanted shoes were now available in Britain and France, their popularity growing steadily since their release. The expanded workshop in France was bustling with activity, the increased workload necessitating the hiring of additional staff. Among them was Ivaylo, the Bulgarian refugee who was earning money for his family while honing his craft.

Remus had been invaluable in managing the business side of things, already looking into expanding sales to other countries. For now, they were sticking to mail orders, but Harry was seriously considering opening a physical shop. The question was whether to establish it in England or France. France offered more freedom, but there were compelling arguments for having a presence in England as well.

His grandfather's political alliance in the Wizengamot had been making significant strides. With the addition of Harry's Founder's seats, they faced little opposition in pushing through their agenda. Already, several unfair laws targeting Muggleborns, Muggles, and Werewolves had been repealed.

However, they were proceeding cautiously, aware that rapid change could have unforeseen consequences. Each policy was carefully examined, considering its potential impact on magical traditions and society as a whole. Despite this measured approach, there were already rumblings of discontent from the more traditional members. Harry could sense the tension building, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

He didn't hesitate to use the alliance for his own goals, though. The archaic laws surrounding artisan technology were high on his list of targets. He dreamed of a magical Britain where innovation wasn't stifled by outdated regulations, where mixing Muggle technology with magic wasn't taboo. It would take time, but Harry was confident they'd get there eventually.

Along with the enchanted boots, he created a magical battery. It was capable of recharging not just his enchanted shoes but a wide range of small to medium-sized magical items and was already proving popular. It was reasonably priced, making it accessible to a broad market. Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at how quickly it had been adopted.

But there was no time to rest on his laurels. His current projects demanded attention. The two-way mirror network was proving to be a complex challenge, but recent experiments with Flux Runes had given him hope for a breakthrough. And then there was the bow for the guild mission—a deceptively difficult project that had already seen several failed attempts. If he wanted the location of the Wind Vault, he needed to complete it promptly.

Harry sighed. He'd promised himself he'd devote more time to locating the remaining Founder's vaults next school year. For now, they could wait.

His thoughts turned to happier matters. Little Rosaria Black, already nicknamed Rosie, had entered the world two months ago. Harry smiled, remembering how nervous he'd been the first time he held her. Sirius and Lauren had tied the knot in a small, intimate ceremony just before the birth. The memory of his godfather's face, a mixture of terror and absolute joy as he cradled his daughter, was one Harry would cherish.

The Order of the Demiguise had been busy as well. Armed with the intelligence they'd gathered and bolstered by new recruits, they'd dealt significant blows to Obsidian's operations. The dismantling of a major Veela slave trade ring had been a particularly satisfying victory. However, their reach was limited in countries where local governments were in Obsidian's pocket.

What troubled Harry most was the apparent passivity of Obsidian's inner circle. Despite the damage to their operations, there had been no significant retaliation. It set Harry's teeth on edge, making him wonder what they might be planning.

Hermione leaned down and gently kissed Harry's forehead. "Knut for your thoughts?" 

Harry sat up and pulled her into his lap. "My thoughts are worth far more than a Knut, I'll have you know.

"Two Knuts, then?"

"Miss Granger, are you teasing me again?" Harry raised an eyebrow, his fingers lightly tickling her sides. "Perhaps you need a reminder of proper etiquette?"

"Mercy!" Hermione giggled, squirming in his arms.

Daphne cleared her throat, amusement evident in her voice. "As entertaining as this is, we do have company."

Hermione spun around, fixing Daphne with a mock glare. "Oh hush, you," she said, failing to hide her smile.

Harry chuckled. "She's certainly grown less shy lately."

That was indeed another change. She was no longer about showing intimacy in front of others and often initiated touches or kisses. Furthermore, Hermione had fully embraced their physical relationship, approaching it with her usual academic curiosity and enthusiasm. It had led to both some exciting and hilarious moments with her and the other girls.

"Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about something important," Hermione said.

Harry's brow furrowed. "What is it?"

"I believe I've identified a Squib who was involved in the war.”

"When did you discover this?"

"A couple of weeks ago," Hermione admitted.

"And you're only telling me now?"

Hermione sighed. "You've been overwhelmed lately, Harry. I wanted to wait until you had some breathing room before adding to your worries."

He kissed her cheek gently. "What would I do without you looking out for me?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. "Probably get into twice as much trouble, knowing you."

"Oh really?" Harry grinned, his fingers finding her ticklish spots once more. "Maybe I should persuade you to share that information sooner next time."

Hermione laughed, trying to wriggle free. "Harry Potter, don't you dare!"

Harry's fingers danced along Hermione's sides, eliciting giggles and half-hearted protests. 

"All right, all right!" Hermione gasped, breathless from laughter. "I'll tell you everything; just stop tickling me!"

Harry relented, wrapping his arms around her waist instead. 

"Go on then," Harry prompted, resting his chin on Hermione's shoulder. "Tell us about this Squib."

Hermione took a deep breath, composing herself. "His name is Archibald Fawley. He's distantly related to the pure-blood Fawley family, but he was born without magic. He's been living as a Muggle in London for the past few decades."

"How did you find him?" Daphne asked, leaning forward with interest.

"I've been cross-referencing Muggle records with old wizarding family trees," Hermione explained. "It's tedious work, but it's starting to pay off. Fawley's name popped up in some old Ministry documents about a watchlist for Squibs that were causing trouble for them."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “It seems the information Susan’s aunt provided was useful then.”

“I’m still surprised she gave out the information,” Daphne interjected.

"And you're certain he was involved in the war?" Harry asked.

"As certain as I can be without speaking to him directly," Hermione replied. "He was involved with a protest in the early seventies that demanded more rights for Squibs. He ended up injuring a witch, but escaped before he could be captured.”

"Interesting," Harry mused. "He sounds like the perfect person to be recruited into the groups’ cause. When the Death Eaters attacked, he probably enjoyed sticking it to the wizards.”

Hermione nodded. "Exactly. 

"It's a good lead," Harry agreed. "We should approach this carefully, though. If he still has hatred for wizards, he probably doesn’t want to see one show up on his door.”

So, what do you think? In the next chapter, Harry investigates the Squib, and other players begin to make their moves.

Thanks for reading.