Twenty-Six Years - Harry Potter: Reborn as Peverell

I woke up in a familiar bed, in a familiar room, beneath a familiar ceiling.

There were no stars on it.

Nor were there any dark wooden beams, enchanted lamps, or windows overlooking a garden whose boundaries I had yet to explore properly.

There was, however, a small damp patch in the left corner.

I studied it for a moment.

I was definitely beginning to appreciate the advantages of having a house of my own.

Anunu had brought me back to the orphanage the previous evening. I had no intention of causing an unnecessary fuss by disappearing overnight without warning, and most of my belongings were still here anyway.

Visiting the family estate was something I had been planning for weeks.

Moving in?

I hadn't even thought about that yet.

Not seriously, at least.

I glanced at the clock.

Ten to nine.

I got out of bed and began to dress.

My notebook lay on the desk beside a few books and a sheet of parchment covered in questions I had prepared the night before.

I read the first three.

Elias — latest research.

Family archives.

Edmund — eyes.

Below them, I added another name.

Frederick.

Anunu had mentioned him yesterday while bringing me back to the orphanage. Apparently, he had been one of the most powerful wizards in the family's history.

That alone sounded promising.

After all, the entire family seemed to have a rather interesting idea of what counted as an ordinary magical achievement.

I closed the notebook.

At precisely nine, a soft crack sounded in the room.

Anunu appeared beside the door.

"Good morning, Master Oliver."

"Morning."

The elf glanced at my clothes.

"Is Master Oliver ready?"

"Almost."

I reached for my bag and dropped the notebook and one of the books inside.

"Now I am."

Anunu held out his hand.

I took it.

The familiar pressure of elf Apparition squeezed me for a moment.

When I opened my eyes, we were standing in the entrance hall of the Peverell estate.

A considerable improvement on my morning so far.

Anunu released my hand.

"Breakfast is ready, sir."

I looked at him.

"I've already eaten at the orphanage."

"Anunu has prepared another."

Of course he had.

The second breakfast turned out to be considerably larger than the first.

I ate two slices of toast and some fruit, which Anunu apparently considered no more than a preliminary to the actual meal.

After a short discussion, I managed to convince him that I didn't need pancakes.

Not yet, anyway.

Then I headed for my father's study.

Yesterday, I had only given it a cursory look. Today, I intended to examine at least some of the documents.

The study didn't look like the workplace of a man conducting exceptionally dangerous research into death.

It looked like the workplace of a man who owned too many books.

Thick volumes lined the shelves, their spines worn from frequent handling. Two chairs stood beside the desk. A folded blanket lay on one, and several sheets of parchment on the other.

A dead plant sat in a pot on the windowsill.

I wondered why Anunu hadn't removed it.

Then I noticed the little note stuck to the pot.

Elias, water it before you forget again. — A.

I smiled.

I sat down behind the desk.

The drawers opened at the touch of my signet ring, though some were more reluctant than others.

The first held correspondence from Gringotts.

The second contained bills, catalogues, and a few old contracts.

The third was full of notes.

I spent almost an hour going through them.

Elias had terrible handwriting.

Not quite as bad as Snape's, but dangerously close.

I found notes on the house's protections, several spells written out in detail, correspondence with a supplier of alchemical ingredients, and an unfinished analysis of a magical structure.

I set that last one aside.

Then I came across a small notebook.

Dark green.

No title.

I opened it.

Inside was a list of books.

Borrowing dates.

Shelf numbers.

Occasional brief comments.

I turned a few pages.

The later entries listed more and more books. Some titles were unfamiliar; others I had already seen in the family catalogue.

Most concerned old magic.

But not all of them.

There were also treatises on protective enchantments, family histories, and old methods of binding spells.

An interesting mixture.

Someone had added a note in a different hand in the margin of one page:

If you bring that book to bed one more time, you can sleep with it instead of me.

Beneath it, Elias had replied:

At least it doesn't complain when I read.

And below that:

Wonderful. Then let it make your breakfast.

I snorted.

Aria.

I was beginning to recognise her handwriting.

I turned a few more pages, but apart from the list of books, there was nothing to tell me exactly what they had been working on.

I put the notebook down.

I wasn't going to solve the entire mystery in a single morning.

Besides, someone had promised to tell me more.

Evelyn was sitting in her portrait, knitting needles in hand.

She looked up as I entered the gallery.

"Oliver!"

She smiled as though she hadn't seen me for months.

"Good morning, Grandma."

Her hands went still.

For a moment, she simply looked at me.

Then her smile grew warmer still.

"Good morning, darling."

I sat on the bench opposite her painting.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Anunu mentioned that you went back to the orphanage."

"Only for the night."

"I know."

She studied me more closely.

"Have you had breakfast?"

"Twice."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Twice?"

"Apparently, Anunu doesn't think once is enough."

She laughed.

"That sounds like him."

For a while, we talked about the house.

My room.

The books I wanted to look through.

Evelyn also asked about Hogwarts. I told her a little about Slytherin, Draco, and Blaise, then about Professor McGonagall.

I stopped before the conversation strayed too close to what had happened in the Forbidden Forest.

Evelyn noticed.

Fortunately, she didn't press.

Not yet, anyway.

Eventually, she set her knitting aside.

"I promised you something yesterday."

I sat up straighter.

"You did."

She studied me for a moment.

"First, I want you to understand something, Oliver. I don't know why you ended up in the orphanage."

"I know."

"And I didn't know what your parents were planning."

"But you could tell something was happening."

"Yes."

I nodded.

"Tell me."

Evelyn looked through the window painted beside her armchair.

"Elias always had a tendency to forget the rest of the world when something interested him. As a boy, he could spend an entire day in the library. Sometimes I had to send Anunu to remind him to eat."

She smiled faintly.

"Aria learned to deal with that very quickly."

"I've seen her notes."

"Then you probably understand."

"A little."

"For most of their marriage, none of it worried me. Elias had his research. Aria helped with some of it, though she had interests of her own as well. They could both work for hours, then spend the rest of the day arguing about trivial things."

She paused.

"But in the last few months of my life, their behaviour began to change."

"How?"

"They stopped putting their work aside."

I frowned.

"But you said Elias had always worked all day."

"Yes. But there used to be things that could draw him away from his books. A walk with Aria. Dinner. Meeting friends. Even a quiet afternoon in the sitting room."

She looked at me.

"Then they started staying in the study late into the night. Both of them. And the next day, they would do it again."

"What were they looking for?"

"I don't know."

"Did you ask?"

"Of course."

"And?"

"Elias said they were working on something difficult. Aria asked me not to worry."

Not a particularly useful pair of answers.

"Did you believe them?"

"Not entirely."

Evelyn adjusted the sleeve of her dress.

"I knew my son. I could tell when something was troubling him. But he didn't tell me about every piece of research he undertook, and I wasn't in the habit of looking over his shoulder at every opportunity."

I thought of my own notes.

The things I wouldn't show even Draco.

That, I could understand.

"When did you find out about me?"

She smiled.

"Aria came to me one morning and told me I was going to be a grandmother."

"What did you do?"

"Probably frightened her. I started crying."

I looked at her.

"You?"

"Yes, Oliver. It does happen."

"I didn't say it didn't."

"Your face suggested otherwise."

I wasn't going to argue.

"What about Elias?"

"He was happy. Very happy. He had spent days trying to arrange the perfect moment to tell me, but Aria ran out of patience."

She smiled at the memory.

"I remember him standing beside her, utterly helpless, while she told me everything."

I tried to picture it.

Elias Peverell could apparently work with death magic, but couldn't tell his own mother that she was going to be a grandmother.

I was beginning to like him.

"What happened after that?"

"Things were better for a while. Or so I thought. Elias came down for meals more often. Aria started preparing the nursery. We talked about names, baby clothes, and whether some of the furniture would need moving."

She glanced at her knitting.

"That was when I started the blanket."

I had seen it yesterday.

The pale blanket Aria had later finished.

"But they kept working?"

"Yes."

"More often?"

"I can't really say. All I know is that they were very busy and wouldn't explain the details."

I considered that.

"And after you died?"

Evelyn looked at me carefully.

"My portrait was still in the house. I saw them at meals and when they came to the gallery. I could talk to Anunu as well. But I couldn't read their thoughts, or see everything they did behind closed doors."

"I know."

"Their visits became less frequent. And when they did come, they usually talked about ordinary things."

"You didn't notice anything suspicious?"

"Oliver, I didn't know we were going to lose them. I wasn't examining every conversation for clues."

She was right.

It was easier for me to spot the significance of little details when I knew how the story ended, too.

Except, in this case, I still didn't.

"Anunu told me Elias gave him his final instructions on the day I was born."

"I know."

"He didn't tell any of you anything?"

"No."

"And my parents? Didn't they come here before..."

I hesitated.

Evelyn shook her head.

"I don't remember any conversation that would explain their decision."

I looked at her for a moment.

"So none of us knows any more than the others."

"Not quite."

I looked up.

"What do you mean?"

"You're only beginning to learn their story. We remember the people they were."

She smiled sadly.

"That doesn't answer your questions. But it might help you ask the right ones."

I considered her words.

I wasn't going to give up searching.

Especially now.

I had Elias's study, the family library, and archives I hadn't even opened yet.

Sooner or later, I would find something.

"Will you tell me more about their lives?"

"Of course."

She looked at me.

"We don't have to talk only about their deaths."

I paused.

Then I nodded.

"I'd like to know what Elias was like at Hogwarts."

Evelyn beamed.

"Oh, that will be a much more enjoyable conversation."

I wasn't sure whether that was good news.

Her expression suggested my father had left behind more than a few forbidden research projects.

As it turned out, Elias hadn't been the easiest pupil at Hogwarts.

Not because he had struggled with his studies.

Quite the opposite.

"He could earn the highest mark in a subject and get detention from the same teacher a week later," Evelyn told me.

"What for?"

"Correcting the teacher's materials."

I snorted.

"Really?"

"He argued that if he had found a mistake, he ought to point it out."

"That seems reasonable."

"Not during an exam, Oliver."

I thought about it.

"Depends on the mistake."

Evelyn stared at me in silence for a moment.

Then she sighed.

"Merlin, you're so like him."

I didn't know why everyone said that as though it were a bad thing.

We talked a little longer before I remembered that I had other plans for the day.

"I'd like to speak to Edmund," I said.

"He should be in the library."

"Anunu mentioned Frederick as well."

Evelyn looked up.

"Frederick?"

"Apparently, he was one of the most powerful wizards in the family."

"Ah."

She put down her needles.

"That's true."

"Did you know him?"

"Not in person, of course. He died long before I was born. But I've spoken to his portrait."

"What was he like?"

She considered her answer for a moment.

"Intelligent. Exceptionally gifted. Stubborn."

She smiled faintly.

"And very aware of his own merits."

He sounded promising.

"You should meet him," she added.

"That was the plan."

"Just remember that Frederick is very fond of talking about himself."

"If he really was that powerful, at least he'll have something to talk about."

Evelyn shook her head.

She didn't look displeased, though.

"His portrait is in the western part of the gallery. You won't have any trouble finding him."

"Why?"

"He's usually the loudest."

I didn't have to look for long.

As soon as I entered the western gallery, I heard a voice coming from one of the larger paintings.

"It's not my fault the man couldn't tell a defensive spell from his own reflection!"

"Frederick, no one said it was your fault."

"You certainly made it sound that way."

"Because you've been telling the same story for fifteen minutes."

I stopped by the entrance.

A young man sat in the first painting.

He looked to be in his twenties, with dark hair, pale skin, and an elegant outfit whose cut was decidedly out of fashion.

He lounged in an armchair with one leg casually crossed over the other. A small table beside him held a book and a sabre.

The plaque beneath the frame read:

Frederick Peverell 1832–1858

I read the dates again.

Twenty-six years.

A decidedly short life.

Even for a Peverell.

Beside him hung a portrait of an older woman in a dark dress.

Edith Winthrop-Peverell 1834–1905

She had grey hair and watchful eyes. A small piece of embroidery rested in her hands.

She noticed me first.

"Frederick."

"What now?"

"We have a visitor."

The man turned his head.

He studied me with interest for a moment.

Then a broad smile spread across his face.

"So you're the one."

I stepped closer.

"Oliver Peverell."

"I know."

He laughed.

"It's been difficult to hear any other name in this house since yesterday."

"It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise. Frederick Peverell."

He gestured towards the woman beside him.

"My wife, Edith."

"Former wife, if you intend to keep telling that story," she replied.

Frederick sighed.

"You see, Oliver? I've been dead for well over a century, and I still can't get any peace."

"I assure you, you haven't earned it," Edith said.

I smiled.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, dear."

Edith put down her embroidery.

"At last we get to meet."

She studied me more closely.

"There's something of Elias in you."

"So I've been told."

"And those eyes..."

Her gaze lingered on my face for a moment.

Then she looked at her husband.

"Frederick, stop staring."

"I'm not staring."

"You've been doing it since the boy walked in."

Frederick smiled at me.

"Forgive me. We rarely get to meet a new Peverell before learning exactly what he can do."

That was interesting.

"Did you study the eyes?"

"All my life."

I glanced at the dates beneath his portrait.

"You didn't have much time."

He laughed.

"No. But I assure you, I made rather good use of it."

Edith snorted.

I didn't comment.

Not yet.

Frederick turned out to be exactly as Evelyn had described him.

Intelligent.

Confident.

And apparently unconvinced that modesty was a particularly desirable quality.

When I asked him about the family's eyes, he put his book aside at once.

"Where would you like to start?"

"With the differences."

"Between what?"

"What your eyes could do and what mine can."

Frederick smiled.

"Sensible."

I pulled over a small chair from beside the wall.

"Edmund mentioned that individual Peverells didn't all have the same abilities. How much did they differ?"

"It depended on the person."

Frederick rested his elbows on his knees.

"Take Edmund. He could influence certain Traces in ways I never managed to reproduce. Nathaniel could read much older Traces. He drew things from them that were entirely beyond most of us."

That caught my interest.

"How far back?"

"Ask him yourself. I'm sure he'll be delighted."

"And you?"

Frederick's smile widened.

"I was more interested in what hadn't happened yet."

I frowned.

"You could predict the future?"

He laughed.

"Merlin, no. I preferred to decide it for myself."

I sat up straighter.

"Most wizards use magic to influence their surroundings. A wand, an incantation, a properly constructed spell. All useful things."

"I agree."

"But I discovered that I didn't always need those tools."

That familiar curiosity stirred.

"You could exert pressure?" I asked.

Frederick raised an eyebrow.

"Pressure?"

"That's what I call it."

He studied me for a moment, then grinned.

"Not a bad word. But not a particularly accurate one."

"Why?"

"Because it's about Will."

He settled back in his armchair and delivered his next words with unmistakable satisfaction.

"My Will takes precedence over yours."

I looked at him for a moment.

"That sounds a little arrogant."

Frederick laughed.

"It is arrogant!"

He spread his hands.

"I don't ask an opponent to do what I want. I don't try to persuade him, or force him to obey with an ordinary spell. I impose my own intent on him. If my Will is sufficient, his intent has to give way."

I considered that.

"And if it isn't sufficient?"

"Then you very quickly discover how strong the resistance is."

He smiled.

"And it usually isn't particularly pleasant."

That sounded familiar.

"So Will can affect magic as well?"

"Of course. A spell doesn't need to be conscious to resist your intent. It has its own structure, its own resilience, its own rules. All of that matters."

I studied him more closely.

Will.

That was a much better name.

Pressure described what I felt when I used my eyes.

Will described what I was actually doing.

"Did you come up with the name?"

Frederick smiled.

"No. The family was using it before I was born. Though not every Peverell understood it in quite the same way."

"Because their eyes worked differently."

"Exactly."

I thought about what he had said.

"So it isn't just about strength?"

"No. Strength matters, but what you're trying to impose matters just as much. And what you're imposing it on."

"I see."

Frederick watched me with interest.

"Now tell me, Oliver. What exactly can you do?"

I hesitated.

For the past year, I had been very careful about who I told about my eyes, and how much I revealed.

Most people knew only that they looked strange.

McGonagall had seen some of the effects of using them, but didn't know exactly how they worked.

Draco and Blaise had no idea what I was truly capable of, either.

And now I was sitting before a man who not only knew what my eyes were, but had once been able to use something very similar himself.

I didn't have to hide everything.

It was a rather pleasant change.

"It might be easier to show you. Can I try it on you?"

Frederick glanced at the frame of his painting.

"On my portrait? Now that's interesting. What are you planning?"

"You'll see."

"Frederick," Edith said.

He looked at his wife.

"What?"

"Perhaps you should ask the boy whether it's safe first."

I answered before he could open his mouth.

"I'm not going to damage the painting."

Edith sighed.

"That isn't quite what I asked."

Frederick spread his hands.

"Edith, I assure you, I'm prepared to take this dreadful risk."

She shook her head but said nothing more.

I was thinking about something else.

A portrait wasn't a living person.

Its movements, behaviour, and personality were all part of the magic placed on the painting.

But it could make decisions.

It could want to stand up, move into a neighbouring portrait, or pick up a book.

So there was intent.

And there was magic that allowed it to act on that intent.

Very interesting.

"In a moment, try to stand up," I said.

I focused on his figure. I didn't want to move the chair or make Frederick do anything. He was simply to stay where he was, his hands resting on the armrests.

I felt the familiar tension behind my left eye.

You will stay like that.

"Now."

Frederick tried to get up. He frowned, glanced at his legs, then at the hand resting on the armrest. That remained motionless too.

"I can't even lift my hand. And yet I can still speak."

"I didn't try to stop you doing that."

He grinned.

"Ha! Edith, do you see?"

"I do. I'm just not sure why you're quite so pleased about it."

"Because I want to stand up and know perfectly well how to do it, yet I can't. Oliver has imposed a different intent on the painting's magic."

He turned his gaze to me.

"What does it feel like?"

I considered the question, still holding my Will in place.

"As though I know you can't get up. Not quite... More as though I've decided you can't."

"Oh, yes. That sounds familiar."

I heard recognition in his voice. I didn't have to search for comparisons or wonder how much I could reveal. Frederick understood the feeling.

"How long can you maintain it?" he asked.

"I don't know. I've never tried it on a portrait before."

"Then perhaps we should..."

I felt a slight twinge behind my eye.

Nothing much.

But enough to remind me that I was still using the ability.

I released my Will.

Frederick sprang out of his chair at once.

He looked at his hands.

Then at me.

And laughed louder than before.

"Merlin, that was wonderful!"

Edith sighed.

"You're reminding me why I could never leave you alone in the laboratory."

Frederick didn't even look at her.

"Oliver, do you know what's most interesting about this?"

"What?"

"My actual Will is no longer here in this painting. I couldn't resist you as I might have done when I was alive."

I nodded.

I had expected as much.

"But," he continued, plainly delighted, "you were able to influence the magic that allows my portrait to move according to its own intent."

I looked at him.

"Which means..."

"Which means we have a great deal to investigate."

He grinned.

"My boy, you have no idea how much I wish I had my own wand and a few hours to spare right now!"

"I doubt a few hours would be enough."

Frederick looked at me.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he burst out laughing.

"Ha! Edith, did you hear that?"

"I did, darling."

"I'm really beginning to like this boy!"

I couldn't help smiling.

As it happened, I was beginning to like him too.

Quite a lot.

"You've already managed to amuse me as well."

The voice came from a painting hanging a few paces away.

I turned my head.

A middle-aged man stood in a painted study.

He had dark hair lightly flecked with grey, and there was something familiar about his face.

It wasn't a resemblance to Elias.

It was more like Frederick's features.

Only older.

Much older.

The man was watching us with an expression I couldn't immediately read.

"Especially since the first thing you did on meeting my father was stop him moving."

Frederick turned his head.

"Joseph."

"Frederick."

The man looked at me.

"Joseph Peverell."

I remembered the family tree.

Frederick's son.

William's father.

I moved a little closer.

The plaque beneath his portrait read:

Joseph Peverell 1857–1897

Forty years.

His life had been fourteen years longer than his father's.

I looked from Joseph to Frederick. The son looked considerably older than the father. Even knowing the dates, it was strange to see them side by side.

Joseph evidently noticed.

"Yes. I know."

"What?"

"I look older than my father."

I wasn't going to lie.

"A little."

"Quite a lot, actually."

Frederick snorted.

"At least you inherited my hair."

Joseph looked at him.

"That's enormously comforting."

Edith smiled faintly.

"Oliver, meet our son."

"It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Joseph replied.

He studied me for a moment.

"Anunu told us about your return."

"He did?"

"Yes. I'm glad you found your way home."

He said it quietly.

No grand declarations.

I nodded.

"Thank you."

Joseph turned his gaze to Frederick.

"I'm not sure you should be encouraging the boy to test the limits of his eyes quite so soon, though."

Frederick spread his hands.

"He offered to demonstrate."

"I know. I heard."

"Then what's the problem?"

"You were always offering similar demonstrations yourself."

Frederick sighed.

"Joseph..."

"I'm not telling you to stop talking."

Joseph looked at me.

"Quite the opposite. My father understood this magic better than most wizards who have ever lived."

Frederick smiled in satisfaction.

"But," Joseph continued, "not all his ideas were equally good."

Frederick's smile faded a little.

"That applies to every researcher."

"Of course."

Joseph turned to me.

"Had you done that before? On a portrait?"

"No."

"So you didn't know whether it would work."

"That's why I wanted to try."

Joseph studied me for a moment, then a small smile appeared on his face.

"I see why Father likes you."

Frederick laughed.

"You see?"

Joseph sighed.

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I'll take it anyway."

The conversation soon returned to the eyes.

Frederick was still interested in my demonstration.

He wanted to know exactly what I had focused on, whether I had felt resistance, and whether the same pressure worked on ordinary spells.

I couldn't answer every question.

But for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel I had to watch every word.

I told him about a few of my earlier attempts.

The creatures that had yielded to the pressure.

The troll I had forced to its knees.

Frederick listened so intently that even Edith stopped embroidering for a moment.

"A mountain troll?"

I nodded. Frederick looked thoughtful for a moment.

"And the resistance?"

"More than from smaller creatures, but less than I'd expected."

Frederick nodded.

"Interesting."

"I thought so too."

"With animals and similar creatures, physical strength isn't everything. How they respond to the intent imposed on them matters too."

"I noticed."

Frederick smiled.

"Naturally."

Joseph listened for a while.

Eventually, he asked:

"And what did it cost you?"

I looked at him.

"It depends on the situation."

"Frederick used to say that too."

Edith looked up.

I thought for a moment.

"Usually pain in my eye. Sometimes bleeding. Trouble seeing after a greater strain."

Frederick grew serious.

"Which eye?"

"The left."

He nodded.

"I see."

Joseph turned towards his father.

"Sound familiar?"

"Yes."

"Very familiar?"

Frederick didn't answer immediately.

Then he looked at me.

"To an extent."

That was the sort of answer I had expected.

Similarities.

Not an exact match.

"You used to lose your sight too?"

"Sometimes. Especially when I tried to impose something particularly difficult."

"For how long?"

"Not long at first. As time went on, it sometimes lasted considerably longer."

My interest sharpened.

"Did you find a way to prevent it?"

"Several."

I reached for my notebook.

Frederick smiled.

"I like your approach."

"What approach?"

"You ask about the things that matter."

I looked at the blank page.

"Of course."

For the next fifteen minutes or so, he told me about his research.

Some of his explanations made sense to me.

Others required knowledge I didn't have yet.

In a few cases, he could describe the result, but not how to achieve it.

Not everything could be conveyed in words. Frederick referred to sensations he had known when he was alive, but he could no longer demonstrate how to use them or test his own assumptions.

He had his memories and his notes.

And those were still immensely valuable.

"One more thing," I said at last.

Frederick looked at me.

"Could you do what I just did to you?"

He considered that for a moment.

"Something very similar."

"To people?"

"Yes."

"But not exactly the same?"

"I can't judge that from a single demonstration."

I nodded.

That was fair.

"Then I'll need to look through your notes."

"Of course."

Frederick grinned.

"Start with the ones on how intent affects magic. Then we can move on to the more difficult things."

"I'd like that."

Joseph snorted.

"This is going to be a long summer."

I looked at him.

"I don't mind."

"I gathered."

He smiled faintly.

"Father never did either."

Only later did I learn just how remarkable Frederick had been in life.

Not from him.

Or at least, not entirely.

Edmund appeared in a neighbouring portrait while Frederick was telling me about one of his duels.

For a while, he listened in silence.

"In his version, the opponent always comes across as slightly more foolish than he actually was," he observed.

Frederick turned his head.

"Edmund."

"Frederick."

"I don't recall asking for a comment."

"Precisely why I decided to offer one."

I looked at Edmund.

"Was he really that good?"

Edmund considered for a moment.

"Yes."

Frederick looked pleased.

"Although," Edmund continued, "good isn't a particularly precise word in this case."

"Of course," Frederick muttered.

Edmund ignored him.

"Frederick was an exceptionally gifted wizard even without his eyes. He mastered many branches of magic long before most of his contemporaries."

I looked at Frederick with renewed interest.

"And with them?"

Edmund smiled faintly.

"For a time, he was one of the most powerful wizards in Britain."

Frederick straightened in his chair.

"Nice to hear someone finally using the right word."

Edmund sighed.

"It wasn't simply how much he could do. Frederick used his ability in ways other wizards rarely encountered. Even very experienced duellists didn't always understand what he was doing."

"Aurors?"

"Them too."

"But the Ministry wasn't after him?"

"He wasn't a criminal, Oliver."

Frederick snorted.

"Though I'm sure a few officials considered changing the law."

Edmund looked at him.

"You're not helping your case."

"I'm not trying to."

I smiled. Frederick had no intention of pretending to be modest, and apparently he could afford not to.

I glanced at the dates beneath the frame again.

"So how did you die?" I asked.

Frederick stopped smiling.

He didn't seem offended, though.

He looked at Edith.

Then at Joseph.

Finally, his gaze returned to me.

"My body couldn't take it any more."

"Take what?"

"What I was doing."

I thought about that.

"You pushed your eyes too far?"

"Among other things."

"How far?"

Frederick settled back in his chair.

"Further than I should have."

"But you knew that?"

"Yes."

That surprised me.

Not because I hadn't expected him to conduct risky experiments.

It was how calmly he said it.

"You knew you could die?"

"I didn't think it would happen so soon."

Edith looked away.

Frederick noticed.

He was silent for a moment.

Then he said:

"Over time, recovering became more and more difficult. Sometimes, after using my eyes intensively, I couldn't work properly for days."

That sounded unpleasantly familiar.

"What else?"

"Bleeding. Pain. Loss of sight. My magic growing weaker."

I nodded.

Definitely familiar.

"Eventually, even ordinary spells began to take more effort."

I frowned.

"Permanently?"

"For a while. Things usually returned to normal afterwards."

"Usually?"

Frederick smiled without much amusement.

"Not always."

I thought over his words for a moment.

"Did you try to find a way to reduce the cost?"

"Of course."

"And?"

"I ran out of time."

Edith gave a short laugh.

There was no amusement in it.

"You ran out of time."

Frederick looked at her.

"Edith..."

"I'm sorry, darling. Do go on."

Her tone suggested something else entirely.

Frederick sighed.

"I found several promising methods. Some worked. Others needed more research."

"And you kept using your eyes anyway."

"Yes."

"Why?"

He looked at me as though I had asked a very strange question.

"Because I could."

I said nothing.

Frederick leaned forward.

"Oliver, when you discover you can do something no one else can, it's difficult to simply set it aside."

He didn't need to explain that.

I understood perfectly.

"And if you discover you might be able to do even more?"

"You try."

"Exactly."

He smiled.

"There was always something else. Something harder. Something that had seemed impossible only the day before."

I watched him with growing interest.

"How far did you get?"

Frederick opened his mouth.

"As far as the grave," Joseph said.

Silence fell.

Frederick slowly turned his head.

"Joseph."

"What?"

"We're talking."

"I know. I can hear you."

They looked at each other for a moment.

Then Joseph moved closer to the edge of his painting.

"You always talk about your research like that."

"He asked."

"That's not what I mean."

Frederick folded his arms.

"Then what do you mean?"

Joseph was quiet for a moment.

"You always talk about how much more you wanted to achieve."

"And?"

"You rarely mention what you already had."

Edith put down her embroidery.

She said nothing.

Frederick sighed.

"Joseph, we really don't need to..."

"No, we don't," his son agreed.

He looked at me.

"I'm sorry, Oliver."

"It's all right."

I wasn't sure whether I should say anything else.

Joseph studied me for a moment.

Then he asked:

"Do you know how old I was when my father died?"

"One."

"Just over."

I nodded.

"You see, Frederick was already well known by then. A great talent. A powerful wizard. A man people said could do the impossible."

His voice remained calm.

"All through my childhood, I heard how extraordinary he was."

Frederick said nothing.

Joseph looked at him.

"Do you know the strangest part?"

"What?"

"I thought so too."

He smiled faintly for a moment.

"I had a portrait of my father at home who could tell me about magical duels and research no one else understood."

He looked at me.

"But when I was six, I didn't care how many wizards he could defeat."

I didn't know what to say.

Joseph looked away.

"I just wanted him to be there."

Frederick lowered his head.

It was a long moment before Edith spoke.

"Joseph..."

"It's all right, Mother."

He smiled at her.

"I'm not trying to start another argument."

Frederick looked up.

"I didn't know I would die so young."

"I know."

"I didn't want to leave you."

"I know that too."

Joseph looked at his father.

"I don't think you wanted to die. I just think there was always something more important for you to do."

Frederick opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

Edith watched her husband in silence.

At last, she said:

"I asked him to rest so many times."

Her voice was quiet.

"To put his research aside, even for a few weeks. To give himself time to recover."

Frederick looked at her.

"I was working on a solution."

"I know."

"I was close."

Edith smiled sadly.

"You were always close."

He didn't answer.

For a while, the gallery was silent.

Only now did the difference between father and son truly strike me.

Frederick looked twenty-six.

Joseph looked forty.

The son had grown up.

He had lived his own life, had his own experiences, and had a son of his own.

And his father had remained forever the man he remembered mostly from a painting.

I wondered what their lives had been like after Frederick died.

Growing up in a house where you could speak to your dead father, but never touch him.

I didn't know whether that was better than having no father at all.

It probably depended on the day.

Edith looked at me.

"I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to turn your first visit with us into another family argument."

"It's all right."

She smiled.

"Good."

Frederick sat motionless.

After a moment, I spoke.

"Don't you regret it?"

He looked up.

"Regret what?"

"What you achieved."

He thought for a few seconds.

"No."

Edith closed her eyes.

Frederick continued:

"I regret leaving Edith and Joseph. I regret not having more time. If I could change anything, I'd try to find a way to live longer."

He looked at me.

"But I don't regret trying."

For a moment, I watched him in silence.

I could understand that.

I didn't know whether I would have acted differently.

I was only eleven.

And already, whenever I discovered something new, I found it difficult to put an experiment aside just because it was beginning to hurt.

That didn't mean I intended to die at twenty-six.

Quite the opposite.

I had far too much to do.

But the very idea of giving up what my eyes could offer seemed absurd.

Frederick seemed to notice my interest.

"You don't have to agree with me."

"I wasn't going to."

He smiled.

"Good."

Joseph shook his head.

He didn't look surprised, though.

Once Joseph and Edith had returned to what they were doing, Frederick turned back to me.

"My notes are in the library. If you'd like, I'll show you where to start."

"I'd like that."

I was about to get up when he raised a hand.

"Tell me one more thing, Oliver."

"Yes?"

"What exactly do you want to achieve?"

I thought for a moment.

"I have a few plans."

"I'm not asking about tomorrow."

I looked at him.

Frederick smiled faintly.

"Edmund told me yesterday that you were ambitious."

Apparently, one conversation had been enough for Edmund to notice.

"I want to become the most powerful wizard."

Frederick looked at me for a moment.

Then he laughed.

There was no mockery in it.

He seemed thoroughly delighted.

"Splendid!"

Edith looked up.

"What now?"

"Oliver has ambition!"

"I noticed."

"A great deal of ambition!"

"Frederick, there's no need to shout."

I looked at her.

"Is that a bad thing?"

Edith studied me carefully.

"No, dear."

She glanced at her husband.

"I simply know someone else who had similar plans."

Frederick rolled his eyes.

"Edith..."

"Don't start."

He didn't.

As for me, I was more eager than ever to see his notes.

"I'm not going to rely only on my eyes, though," I added. "I want to master spells, Transfiguration, Potions as well."

"Good. I wasn't born knowing how to solve every problem with a glance, either."

"You weren't?"

"Unfortunately not. I even had to study for exams."

That sounded less appealing.

Edmund led me to the library.

Frederick moved into one of the portraits by the stairs and spent the journey explaining where his old books were kept.

Some had been moved to different shelves. A few were kept in the locked archive.

"Why there?" I asked.

"Not everything belongs on a table between an atlas and a Herbology textbook. Some books need protections of their own."

"Are they in the catalogue?"

"A separate one. Anunu will help you find it."

I added that to my list. At least I knew where to look now.

In the library, Edmund pointed me towards one of the lower shelves.

"Start with this."

I reached for the book.

It wasn't particularly large.

The title on its spine read:

On the Influence of Intent on the Stability of Magical Structures.

I opened it.

Frederick's signature was on the first page.

Beneath it was a note in the same handwriting.

I disagree with Chapter Three. — E.

I turned a few pages.

Another sentence had been written in the margin.

The author does not understand the difference between pressure and disruption.

Below it:

Frederick, the author understands it perfectly. You are the one using the terms interchangeably. — Edmund.

I smiled.

I glanced at the portrait.

"You wrote down his replies as well?" I asked Frederick.

"He insisted. Claimed I'd leave nothing but a load of nonsense behind me otherwise."

"I wanted you to still remember my explanations a week later," Edmund replied.

Frederick snorted.

"Edmund thought all my explanations were too vague."

"Because they were."

"They worked."

"Not always."

I turned another page.

An underlined passage.

Three different comments.

Two words crossed out.

At the bottom, still in Frederick's hand:

You're both idiots. — C.

I looked at Edmund.

"Cecily?"

He sighed.

"Yes."

Frederick laughed.

"I adored that woman. She didn't have to dictate that one twice."

"She was fond of you too," Edmund replied. "When you weren't trying to set the library on fire."

I looked down at the book.

It was over a hundred years old.

It contained an argument between people who had long since died.

And yet two of them stood before me, ready to pick it up again at any moment.

It was absurd.

And wonderful.

"I'll start with this," I said.

Edmund nodded.

"Good."

"And after that?"

"Then we'll compare your observations with Frederick's notes. And then with mine."

"Your eyes worked differently?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Edmund thought for a moment.

"I could influence certain Traces, not merely observe them."

I went still.

"Influence them?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"It depended on the Trace. Some responded to my presence. Others I could stir, draw something out of them that had remained hidden."

I felt that familiar thrill of excitement.

"You could change them?"

"Sometimes. But probably not in the way you're thinking."

I frowned.

"How do you know what I'm thinking?"

"Because Frederick once asked me exactly the same question."

Frederick smiled.

"And I still think you never used that ability to its full potential."

"And I still think your attempts had no sound basis."

"They were interesting."

"That isn't the same thing."

I watched them for a moment.

Then I asked:

"What about Nathaniel?"

Edmund looked at me.

"What about him?"

"Frederick mentioned that he could read much older Traces."

"Yes."

"Further back than you?"

"Much further."

"How far?"

Edmund smiled faintly.

"You'll have to ask him that."

I glanced towards the other portraits.

"Nathaniel is here too?"

"Of course."

I sighed.

Chapter 49 - Twenty-Six Years