Chapter 23: A Sister's Insight
When Solim returned to the basement study, he found Elrond tinkering with a complex array of brass instruments on his workbench, while Sylna sat quietly in a corner, absorbed in a book.
"Finished?" Elrond asked without looking up.
"The usual outcome," Solim replied flatly.
It was clear neither of them was particularly concerned. Elrond was well aware of his grandson's capabilities; bullies like Adelaide and Wright were no match for him. This scene had played out many times before. Sometimes, adult wizards would even place wagers on these childish skirmishes.
"How are you, little sister?" Solim asked, walking over to Sylna.
"As I always am. Reading is my only entertainment," she replied, not looking up from her page.
Elrond and Solim exchanged a glance.
"Shall I share some good news?" Solim gently closed the book in her hands. He noted the title: The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
"Oh? I could use some. I hope it's truly good news," Sylna said, finally looking up at him.
Taking a breath, Solim said slowly, "How would you like the news that Sylna is going to be a witch?"
Sylna stared at him, utterly still. Seeing the complete seriousness on his face, she knew he wasn't joking.
When she remained silent, Solim continued, "There's a potion now. It can help you. If all goes well, you'll be able to go to a school of magic next year. Well? Are you happy?"
Sylna's gaze shifted from her brother to her grandfather, seeking confirmation.
"It's true, little Nana. You'll be off to school next year," Elrond confirmed with a warm smile.
Solim spun around, his face a mask of incredulity. "Scuol?! You'd send her to that place? And she's ten! Scuol doesn't accept students older than seven!"
Elrond shot him a disapproving look. "Don't spout nonsense! The age limit is only for boys. For girls, there is no such limit, as long as they are under eleven. Did you learn nothing in all your years at Scuol?"
"No! You know exactly what that place is like, Grandfather! Do you honestly think Sylna could survive there?!" Solim argued vehemently against condemning his sister to that hellhole. "And what is this about an age limit? How could I not know that?"
"How should I know why you're so unobservant? It's common knowledge. Besides, Sylna is a Selwyn. She can only go to Scuol." Elrond was unmoved.
"You know what I went through! I barely managed to get out of there—" Solim's voice trailed off as he noticed the faint, knowing smile playing on his grandfather's lips.
"Hmph... 'Barely managed'? 'Get out'?" Elrond crossed his arms, his smile widening. "Wasn't it your own... impulsive actions... that forced the issue?"
(╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻
You cunning old man!
After closing his eyes and taking several deep, calming breaths, Solim looked at his grandfather again. "So... all that about the age restriction... it was a lie?"
"No, that part is true. Think about it. In all your years at Scuol, did you ever see a girl your own age? The older female students you encountered were taught separately until a certain age. Did you never notice there were no girls around you?"
Seeing the dawning realization on Solim's face, Elrond shook his head in mock despair. "Merlin's beard... I am genuinely concerned for your future."
Solim slumped internally. Have mercy...
In the relentless, survivalist environment of Scuol, who had the spare attention to notice the absence of girls?
A small, genuine smile touched Sylna's lips as she watched her brother and grandfather bicker. She cherished these moments; such warmth was a rare commodity in the grim, oppressive castle, found only with these two.
"Alright, old man, no more games," Solim said, his tone firming. "Sylna is going to Hogwarts. If not there, then Beauxbatons. Don't even think about Durmstrang."
"Hogwarts? Still on about that, are you?" Elrond glanced at him. "It's getting late. Let's go up for dinner."
The three of them always took their meals in a small, private dining room, separate from the rest of the family. The mutual dislike made shared meals unbearable.
Elrond led the way, with Solim walking beside his sister.
"I saw you were reading Beedle the Bard again. Haven't you read it a dozen times?"
"Brother, did you read it when you were little?" Sylna asked instead of answering.
"Of course. Why?"
"Don't you find 'The Tale of the Three Brothers' particularly interesting?"
The story was known to every magical child; Beedle the Bard was a standard piece of wizarding childhood. Solim knew it well—he had known it even in his previous life.
"Oh? And what insights does my sister have?" Solim asked.
"Well, you see," Sylna began, her voice taking on a lecturing tone. "The eldest brother got the wand and was killed for it. The second got the stone and was driven to suicide. The third got the cloak and... well, he just died. It's interesting, isn't it? These three objects seem to represent different ways to die. I wonder... how would a person die if they possessed both the wand and the stone?"
"Huh? What?" Solim's mind, still preoccupied with the very real Resurrection Stone and the impending trip with his grandfather, had drifted.
"Honestly! Pay attention!" Sylna huffed, repeating her question.
Seeing her displeasure, Solim focused. But as he listened, his expression shifted, a slow dread creeping into his features. He was hearing something deeply unsettling in his sister's childish musings.
The Deathly Hallows. The term was not new to him. The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, the Cloak of Invisibility—the legendary relics of Death. But who possessed them now?
The Elder Wand, the wand of invincible power, was in Dumbledore's possession.
The Resurrection Stone, said to recall the dead, had been made into a Horcrux by Voldemort and was now also with Dumbledore.
The Cloak of Invisibility, which hid the wearer even from Death, would be given to Harry Potter by Dumbledore this very Christmas.
According to the tale Sylna was referencing, the owner of the Wand was killed. Dumbledore, its current master, would be killed by Snape. The owner of the Stone committed suicide. Dumbledore, who also possessed the Stone, would willingly arrange his own death—a form of suicide. If the fates held true, possessing both items meant a "voluntary killing." That fit Dumbledore's planned demise perfectly.
And Voldemort? He sought the Wand but was never its true master. He had possessed the Stone (as a Horcrux). Creating Horcruxes was a form of protracted self-mutilation, a spiritual suicide. And in the end, he would be killed by his own rebounding Killing Curse—a death, in a way, by his own hand.
The cold sweat on Solim's back intensified. The correlations were too precise to be mere coincidence. And if they were true... he and his grandfather were about to seek out the one object linked to a fate of suicide.
"Brother! You're drifting off again! Are you even listening to me? Hey!" Sylna stomped hard on his foot.
The pain jolted him back to the present.
"Regarding your question..." Solim said slowly, choosing his words with care. "I think... 'willingly killed.' That might be the answer."
"What's wrong with you? You've been distracted this whole time."
"Nothing," he assured her, now giving her his full attention. "Please, continue. I find your perspective fascinating."
"Well, look at it this way. The wand leads to murder. The stone leads to suicide. The cloak leads to a natural death. It's all about death. But on the other hand, isn't it also interesting that the one with the wand can only be murdered? The one with the stone can only kill themselves? And the one with the cloak can only die of old age?"
Solim repeated her words slowly, digesting their implication. Was she suggesting that possessing one of the Hallows locked you into a specific manner of death, excluding the others? That if you had the Elder Wand, you were fated to be killed and could not die by your own hand or of natural causes?
The idea was absurd. If you were determined to end your life, surely you could find a way. And if you had the Resurrection Stone, could you truly not be killed by another? Could it grant a form of immortality?
He shook his head, a wry smile finally breaking through his unease. He was reading too much into a children's fairy tale. He preferred to believe the manner of Dumbledore's and Voldemort's deaths was a complex interplay of choice, fate, and chance, not the simplistic curse of three magical artifacts.
"Your mind works in mysterious ways, little sister," he said, ruffling her hair. "Now, let's go eat before Grandfather complains we're too slow."