Rich Hunt

Rich Hunt

The sun had finished setting while I completed my preparations: "It's time."

In the small clearing that I was sharing with the two muggles I had rescued in the french countryside, there was also a simple, wooden cage containing a rather large stag that I had previously cajoled into drinking a rather complex brew that had a single purpose: make the creature a harder target for transformed werewolves. I didn't think to ask Minerva if there was a way for Transfiguration to give a temporary 'humanity' to the stag, it would have made it a better target.

Both Paul and Marie drank their respective vials with a slight grimace, only to toss them on the ground hardened by the cold under the trees of the Forest of Dean: the full moon would rise soon, and I followed their example by downing a potion myself. It tasted of rushing winds and the quiet footsteps, immediately it steadied my heartbeat, which turned from fast drumming into a slow, deliberate hammering.

Stalking Shadow was a potion I had to link through the use of silver of the stag's prongs to the creature's life, with the 'mirroring effect' to the moon itself, and with a drop of blood to myself. Sadly, its esoteric nature meant that it could be brewed only by the one destined to drink it, could be used only with the full moon under the open sky, and its effects would die either with the stag, or with the first appearance of the dawn. Going against any of those conditions would immediately invalidate the story that the potion was meant to be telling, as such nullifying the effects. It had taken more or less an hour of care each night for all the previous month, and it had consistently needed adjustments on the fly. While not as complex as the Felix, and undoubtedly less useful as a general-purpose brew, I felt that the many experiments I had conducted since I first awoke in this world were somewhat coming together in the unholy combination of Ritualism and Potion Making that felt do natural to me.

On Paul and Marie, I had tried before potions meant to either restrain the transformation, oppose it outright, or simply shift the human mind of the muggles into something more capable of accepting the hunting instinct of the werewolf. I had used a multitude of properties in my many attempts: I had ranged from my own original 'mirroring effect' that I had discovered when treating the wounds responsible for turning Paul and Marie in the first place, to highly experimental combination of unusual ingredients that I had often been unable to collect personally to reinforce selected characteristics with some small ritualism. Ultimately however, my attempts to work against the transformation proved themselves ineffective: the curse was simply too deeply rooted in werewolves to be simply broken from outside forces. Since pushing back against it didn't seem to work, this attempt was meant to exhaust the curse upon a single, successful hunt.

At least for a single Full Moon... let's see if there is any hope for this. I breathed in deeply as the potion I drank primed my body just slightly beyond its capabilities for the trial that it'd have to endure, and as the full moon started to rise, Paul and Marie started to change.

The transformation itself was as always horrifying, but where before it had always been characterized by absolute agony while the werewolf's instinct took over, now there was some sort of excitement, an eagerness that accompanied each snap of bone, each warble as the human throats turned into something capable of deep growls and snarling madness.

With the speed borne of experience, a selected sequence of charms masked my presence, leveraging the concept of Shadow that I was so familiar with because of my father's sacrifice to heights never achieved before: with my wand of holly, I simply tapped one leaf that I had taken from the Shadow Tree, and it burned alight in a dark smoke that fell backward on me, covering my form with the unimportant, and easily dismissed nature of every shadow that had ever been cast.

The stag bellowed in fright as the previously unthreatening humans in the clearing became apex predators, bloodlust and need for something to chase filling them to the brim as the transformation ran its course: just as the werewolves completely took over, the cage I had kept their prey in opened, and their target ran away in the dark with all the speed of a potion enhanced creature that feared for its life.

And it was on that primal fear powering the prey's run that the werewolves' attention snapped onto. The smaller of the two cursed creatures, Marie, chuffed as it started sprinting directly after the stag, while Paul took off at an angle.

Neither had noticed my presence, and after a second to make sure they wouldn't suddenly manage to pierce through my newly enhanced cloak of shadows, I ran after them, my long leg and half-giant's blood granting me a speed through the wilderness unheard of in a mere human.

I breathed regularly under the empowering effects of the potion that would leave me with the conclusion of the hunt, and with the full moon shining above the Forest of Dean, I could make out the way between dark patches of blackness under the trees and silvery curtains that showed me the barest hint of the deep gouges that a werewolf's claws cut into the hardened ground.

I was of course quickly left behind: the simple potion that I had prepared to power-up my body couldn't raise me to the heights needed to follow creatures cursed into being one of the most deadly predators of the world. I'd need a ritual for that. I didn't need the recurring image of my father turning into a tree for me to discard that option: besides the inherent difficulty in finding someone or some creature that would genuinely wish to freely sacrifice themselves, I had my fill of improvised magics that required blood and suffering as a price.

Of course, the stag that the two werewolves were hunting might find my thoughts a tad bit hypocritical, but I couldn't truly consider deers on the same level of the much more complex, and more importantly aware, magical creatures, nevermind humans. If this experiment of mine had success, the two werewolves would return human immediately after the killing blow on the stag.

It would mean that the potion I used to loosely link the prey with the predators had survived the effects of the transformation, and that the death of the stag would release enough power in this hunting ritual not to push back the transformation, but to more or less trick it into believing that enough blood had been spilled. After all, no animal hunted without reason: once food had been provided, there would be no need for the werewolf, and that should allow the intrinsic human nature of Marie and Paul to emerge once more under the full moon.

I ran straight against a branch hanging at shoulder height, only for it to bend in the direction I was going and return to its original position without a sound, my foot slammed onto the bed of a small course of water that hadn't frozen yet with the winter without making a sound, and my boot remained dry as I kept moving forward. Ultimately my potion had been aptly named, even if its many effects would all come to an end with the stag's life.

I kept following the faint, but unmistakable in their freshness, tracks of Marie under the moonlit trees, and I distractedly appreciated the crisp, nightly air in a way that I had until now discarded as unimportant: I was stalking behind a couple of werewolves, conducting an experimental ritual that came at no cost of innocent lives, and I had as the final purpose an actual cure for something that plagued mankind for thousands of years.

I reached a clearing just as my ears registered the snapping of bone, followed but the intense, metallic tang of blood being sprayed in the air: the effects of Stalking Shadow abandoned me as I briefly stumbled, righting myself in time to see the two werewolves feasting messily on their prey.

I took an exasperated sigh. Another failure.

With no warning and a snarl, both werewolves turned towards my position: their eyes burned of molten gold with dissatisfied bloodlust, and as they started sniffing the air, their hackles rose.

I apparated away before they could start sprinting towards me. Another failure, I repeated in my head, yet, they followed the prey I had prepared before looking for anything else, maybe I'm onto something there...

I walked tiredly into my home, my eyes glancing briefly at Aragog's egg that was still waiting in stasis for me to hatch it, only to sprawl myself on the giant-sized bed that I had more or less clobbered together with trees I had taken from the Forest of Dean since my father's death. Immediately, the tiredness caused by my failed experiment claimed me, and I fell asleep.

A few nights after my last failed attempt at finding a cure for Lycanthropy, I dizzily stumbled off the Knight Bus before the purple Triple Decker exploded away into the night once again, my hands running over my grey beard in the vane attempt to tame the mane I had once more adopted as a disguise, while I studied the surroundings from under my deep hood: the few roads of village of Little Hangleton was barely illuminated by the occasional streetlamp whose light failed to pierce far through the falling snow.

I only had vague memories of the village's description, both from the 'Goblet of Fire' and 'The Half-Blood Prince', so I resigned myself to explore a bit before finding the location of my prize. Distractedly touching several of my many pockets, checking for the vials they contained with a reflex that I had picked up while searching for Ravenclaw's Diadem, I walked over the freshly fallen snow with nary a sound, the thick, grey goop-like substance I had brewed and applied under my footwear achieved its purpose by allowing me to walk lightly above the white cover that separated me from the ground.

Riddle Manor was relatively easy to spot even in the dark: the small hill that dominated the village, if one was so generously inclined as to attribute such a title to what amounted to a twenty meters uphill slope, stood out thanks to the few lit windows that almost looked like eyes suspended in the night. From there, I moved along the desert roads and empty alley until I found a graveyard, and moving in an outwards spiral from there, I eventually located my true target.

Not far from the dirt road that rolled north-west from the village, there was a random mess of hedges that curtailed a part of what should have been some sort of yard for the shack that hosted my target: the house itself was a barely-standing conglomerate of planks of wood, and I couldn't help but shake my head in denial: how could an adult wizard, no matter how stupid, be so utterly incapable as to live like a squatter in an abandoned building? Then again, simple charms can turn a part of the floor in a warm, soft surface... but still.

For all of their pride in their bloodline, apparently, the Gaunts felt that they could live in a pigsty without harming their impressive ego. With a familiarity that grew with each use, my wand twirled in a tight circle above my head, and shadows followed my command: all sounds around me dampened, and I became just another unimportant blur of darkness.

I walked across the distance that separated me from the door of the shack without feeling anything that could betray the presence of wards. Then again, besides a random act of aggression, I hadn't seen the man do anything but curse a random Ministry Employee in the memories shown in the Half Blood Prince, but while the wizard I was about to rob was capable with a wand, he wasn't really bright, and if nothing else, the overinflated sense of ego of the Gaunt's meant that he never bothered to protect his property.

I fished a pear-shaped vial the size of a coconut from one of my pockets and swirled it lightly in the darkness of the night: the grey liquid it contained simmered with faint streaks of white. The Draught of the Living Death was a ridiculously easy potion to brew, but besides being easy to detect, it affected only those stupid enough to touch it directly with their skin, and had an effect capable of being countered only with a specific antidote only when drunk.

Creeping Slumber was born with a precise purpose: I uncorked it and poured just where the door met the more or less rotten wood of the patio, being careful to not breathe as faint grey smoke started to seep under the entrance. The story that gave meaning, and thus challenged magic, into the brew, was one of slow, unavoidable tiredness, one that shared a few elements with the Stalking Shadow potion that enhanced greatly my stealth.

Once I was done pouring, I stepped aside and remained still beside the door, to any observer, I'd be just like another shadow on the wall: while my brew acted, I simply had to wait. I breathed slowly, doing my best to remain calm, despite what I was about to do. Oh, I had faced danger before: but werewolves, while terrible in their savagery and unpredictable in their answers to my potions, could be worked around. Terrible as they could be, there was a reason why the world wasn't completely overrun by them.

On the other hand, wizards had that terribly human spark that made the impossible possible even for muggles, never mind for those with access to magic. My brew should work, my Potion Skills was one field where I didn't feel pressured to constantly research: I had a gift for it that constantly surprised me, but there was the absurd possibility that my target was still awake and that he'd notice, or that there was a magical snake ready to warn him... I could only hope for the best.

I remained still until I spotted the smoke generated by my brew starting to seep out once more from the house, and with a last deep breath, I cast the extremely useful Bubble-Head Charm around me, tapping the door with my wand and ducking under the threshold.

The shack had a single living room that occupied most of the space with an unlit fireplace with a broken chimney, but I didn't even need to explore the other small rooms to see him: thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any color, and several of his teeth were missing as he snored on a broken couch, Morphin Gaunt lived up to his surname as his cheekbones cast deep shadows on the rest of his face to the dim light of my wand.

The place was much warmer than it should have been considering the lack of flames dancing in the fireplace, and I could almost feel the thick cover that Morphin's Warming Charm maintained over the room. My eyes were wide as I studied my target, while I bared my teeth once I spotted the fabled Resurrection Stone. It's not like I need it... but this really feels right.

Remaining somewhat large on a finger that looked like the leg of a pale spider, there was a ring that, if I were to listen to what my metaknowledge told me, had been and would be cause for much strife and unneeded grief. I couldn't contain the flash of triumph as I reached forward, my wand still trailed on the man, and easily slipped off my prize from the last pureblood of the line of Slytherin.

The dark stone gleamed coldly under the light of my wand as I slipped the ring in one of my pockets only to fish out a rough copy of it: among the countless Lost Things I had searched for in Hogwarts, I hadn't been unduly surprised when I spotted a small, golden ring. Crystallizing a potion so that it'd look like an onyx hadn't been too difficult: after all, shadows were one of the things that I was very familiar with.

Now he has still a magical ring, even if, just like the one I stole, it won't actually do anything. In the complete silence of the room, the constant snoozing of Morphin was the only thing I could hear as I slipped on the fake ring, and while my heart thundered with excitement, my hands remained steady while I retraced my steps, and soon enough I was closing the door behind me.

As I walked at a brisk pace atop the snow that didn't bother with turning my steps into tracks, I briefly considered stealing the man's wand while the effects of the Creeping Slumber persisted, only to shake my had and pop the Bubble that still contained my head: the whole point of my excursion had been to get back at Tom without him ever knowing about it, just like his words and actions had likely pushed those kids to ambush me at school.

For that transgression, I felt like we were even, and with a last glance at the daunting shack of Morphin Gaunt, I apparated away.

I popped back into reality still under a snowing sky, only to stride with purpose under a shadow that I had learned to spot even in complete darkness: with the years, since Hagrid Sr.'s death, I had grown accustomed to the uniquely odd feeling that the tree gave off. It was a subtle thing, something that just like the Shadow it represented, was there without being in any way meaningful.

It was supremely easy to use a few leaves from the tree to cast a specific spell, or to enhance a specific property of a potion: but I still understood very little of what it actually was.

I stopped under the threshold of my home and glanced back at the tree that maintained the protective ward, rising my wand and casting a silent Lumos as I did so: the Ash tree had a trunk that was composed of two intertwining parts that followed each other in a tight spiral, and the light wood was covered by liquid shadows cast by ever-moving, dark leaves that I had just started to experiment with. Over the snow-covered ground, the tree threw a shadow that I knew engulfed the entirety of my home: the magic that had birthed the tree was undeniably powerful, and while I never suffered intruders of any sort, I couldn't tell if that was because of the tree or simply because of how isolated my home was.

I'll need to study that in depth. I resigned myself to the idea while I quashed the familiar self-loathing that rose at the memory of how I had exploited the dying man that believed me his son, and entered my home. Shrugging off my patchworked cloak, I moved towards the living room instead of my bedroom, where I settled into the large armchair that faced my unlit fireplace.

Once more, just like I did years before, I rose my holly and phoenix wand in front of my face, briefly loosing myself into the meaning of fire, into what it felt like, into what it could be if properly directed, and blew.

My breath rushed above the wand with a deliberate and lightfooted twist, igniting immediately after only to deposit itself like an unfolding napkin made of yellow and orange flames over the waiting cold ashes: the magically created fire illuminated the room immediately, and warmth chased away the coldness of that winter's night.

I fished out the Resurrection Stone and studied it under the warm light: the faded mark of the Peverells could be spotted on one side, while the onyx-like stone wetly reflected the dancing flames without a care "It's not like I have anyone to call, is it?"

A self-mocking bout of laughter escaped my lips then, for some reason, I couldn't contain the sudden hilarity.

Even counting the dead, I was alone.

After a while spent feeling sorry for myself, my eyes landed on a pouch of cloth that contained a certain object, and as my mind returned to the problem that Tom Marvolo Riddle undoubtedly still was, I felt justified in feeling the need for some wisdom.

I lifted my wand once more, smiling lightly at the familiar rush that the length of holly and phoenix feather made run along my arm, and summoned to me the pouch: I opened it, and spent a second observing the Ravenclaw Diadem that rested within. I had used it exactly once, and I would have been a liar if I said that I had been unnerved at the revelation of what exactly it was.

What does one reach by confronting oneself? The reflection of myself offered by the Diadem was strange indeed, but its words had shaken me deeply. Also, once I had determined it wouldn't simply deliver me distilled knowledge, I simply decided to get busy with what I could do. That meant focusing on my studies, on my experiments, and my hopes for the future.

When magic is involved, lying to yourself can become crippling. That was obvious enough, wasn't it? Even more when I considered the undeniable truth of the triangle of Mind, Body, and Magic containing the Soul. That Tom told me.

I inwardly grimaced at the usefulness of Riddle's words: those had been fundamental to push me towards my new revelations when it came to lycanthropy, the ritual that I had attempted to use with Marie and Paul after all was meant to bring together their minds with their bodies' instincts, following the direction of the curse instead of pushing against it.

I hadn't worn the Diadem since that first time, since the magic within it asked me what I truly wanted. And maybe, just maybe, my actions up to this point were answer enough: besides the knowledge relative to Horcrux and Sacrifice, I had been open with my ideas and thoughts. I had even allowed myself to write down 'Parseltongue' when I had reflected upon the merits of some inherited traits, and while I didn't parade it, I would be very surprised if Tom hadn't noticed it.

With the petty theft of the Resurrection Stone, I felt avenged, I even felt like I had punished Tom enough for the actions that led to those idiots ambushing me. But that didn't solve the problem I was facing.

My hand whispered against a pocket of my trousers, where I always kept a rooster transfigured into a wooden coin: there hadn't been signs of the Basilisk just yet, the spiders in the castle behaved normally from what I could tell, and even if I had thought about the option of figuring out a way to sacrifice the unborn Aragog in order to craft some fool-proof way to be warned when the Chamber of Secrets got opened, it smelled strongly of cowardice.

Besides, an Acromantula was rare indeed, unique more than rare on the isles, and with the multitude of children that Aragog had the potential to produce, giving him up would sacrifice any hope that my potential business of cross-breeding had to take off reasonably quick: while I was more than willing to spend years researching, I didn't want to spend that amount of time looking after my economic ventures. There'd be options in the muggle world to make some money, but a proper magical business would destroy the need of keeping everything completely secret, as it'd be the case were I to illegally do everything that came to mind.

Not that I balked at the idea of breaking the law, but it sounded like a stupid problem that could be easily be diverted with the proper piece of paper justifying whatever bullshit I came up with.

I blinked tiredly at the Diadem in my hands, my eyes landing briefly on the sapphire that gleamed in answer to the flames dancing in my fireplace, and I sighed once more. "I could use some good ideas about that as well..."

I closed my eyes, and in an instant, I was standing in a world made of grey, a reflection of myself but with sapphire blue eyes grinning widely at me: "So," he started, "you made a decision."

AN

Werewolves:

I never truly know how much exposure I am allowed to dedicate to a single potion: while I would have more or less enjoyed coming up with a complete, explicit sequence of ingredients and tasks for many of the brews Hagrid creates, it would only slow down even more the pacing of this story. The basics were explained in depth, some of the clever solutions that the MC discovered were exposed previously, so all that I still could add without repeating myself in some manner was the list of limitations and/or side effects. The revelation of what Hagrid is actually doing (that clearly isn't Snape or Slughorn's standard Potion Making) will be given a few chapters from now, and I hope it won't disappoint.

Having said that, I hope that those that lamented the lack of difficulties in the early chapters (we've all seen a multitude of fics dealing with the endless try and repeat of basic shit) feel now vindicated with the trial-and-errors that I have sprinkled along this story to justify and underline the difficulty of curing Lycanthropy.

I am not a fan of the idea of 'werewolf cubs' but Riddle actually mentions them in the Chamber of Secrets when he describes the many (absolutely insane) things that Hagrid did while at school. Now, our MC hasn't wrestled any trolls yet, the Acromatula egg is still in stasis, and his experiments on werewolves are proceeding fast enough, so I'm unsure about introducing a small litter of insanely intelligent wolves to the story: opinions about that please?

I really have to remind everyone that all the new stuff I introduce needs a justification as to why it is, in fact, 'new'. If it was possible for anyone, it would have happened already: so I need to build up a unique set of circumstances to make the magic I'm building into something that isn't plot-railroading (which is always my bane when I read other fics).

Resurrection Stone:

I still need to decide what the hell the Hallows actually are: I of course prefer the versions in which the Peverells were the actual creators, as all stories that deal with Aspects like Death inevitably succeed in robbing it of its mystery and power.

Besides, I have a Percy Jackson fic to play directly with concepts such as Death, War, and whatnot: Meddling Giant is meant to be about magic, and by thunder, about magic it will be. No random gods, pacts with extra-dimensional beings, or proper warlockery.

As for the retrieval itself, I cannot help but point out that Morphin (as he was shown in the Half-Blood Prince) isn't exactly Alastor Moody, and that the MC, while not incapable in a fight, feels no need whatsoever to fight his way to success: the point was obtaining the Resurrection Stone, and Slytherin as he is, Hagrid has no reason to seek a direct confrontation.

I now I missed on some potential excitement and an occasion of show Parseltongue in a fight, but I'm still not sure about what to do with the 'Noble Tongue', and as I've said, a fight would have felt forced at this point in time.

Diadem:

I find useful the plot-device that the Diadem offers, and I wanted to recall it before truly needing it later in the story. Having the MC talk about his deepest fears and whatnot is incredibly useful this way because I don't need (as the author) to build up a relationship to support that level of trust.

Of course, only today I realized that such a choice would completely gut my attempts at characterization in this story.

So I decided to have some inner monologue leading to the use of the Diadem, only to pass the actual decision-making in the background. After all, writing off the thought process that brings the MC to a decision when I can simply refer to it when he acts to support that choice is like writing twice the same thing with two different POVs: a waste of my effort and of words.

I'll lay off from having the MC chat constantly with the Diadem (I made that uncomfortable enough the first time to justify reticence), and I'll use it only to 'steer the course' so to speak.

You'll have to find the wisdom in Hagrid's choices not from the over exposition that the Diadem allows, but from the actions taken in the next chapters, in particular about Tom, which is of course the main worry of the MC.

Very little interaction in this chapter, but I had to get shit done, and the MC works alone most of the time: the Rùnda is a stroke of genius as it allows me to use other people to go over the lore that Hagrid is building, but sometimes he's gotta do what he's gotta do.

So, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and that the news managed to inject some excitement into this extremely slow building that I'm carrying forth (and for now I'm pleased that none noticed my foreshadowing, or at least called me out on it). I know that I haven't truly faced the current situation in the wider world yet, and that I have touched very little of its history besides the chat I've used with Riddle and Minerva to show Voldemort's social intelligence, but as the MC and the other characters I use are all in Hogwarts, I don't find it appropriate to expunge about Grindelwald.

Having said that, Minerva is more or less apprenticing to Dumbledore, and... well, I won't spoil it just yet, even if some PMs already nailed most of her subplot already, granted, it is far from being terribly original.

For all those that keep PM'ing me asking why Riddle isn't dead... I mean, besides the reasoning and events that justify it in the story, if I wanted a tale set during WWII in the HP-verse I would have chosen a random gaggle of students in Ilvermorny and sent them to war against Grindelwald. Tom is simply too useful for the story for me to kill him off so soon.

In any case, opinions, hopes? The next chapter will conclude Hagrid's Third year, then we'll pass onto the not-so-standard Summer Adventure.