Harry Potter and the Wizard of Arctica

A little Harry Potter fan fiction

Antarctica is no place for a person, wizard or muggle alike. It was home to penguins, polar bears, and a bevy of other magical creatures that would just as soon send you to St. Mungo’s then leave you to your wizardly business. It was a desolate wasteland of ice, snow, and endless stretches of white that could leave you snow blind even in the dead of night. It was not, for all intents and purposes, the best place to be on a Sunday afternoon. Especially when your favorite Quidditch team is poised to win the final match that would send them to the World Cup. No, Harry Potter wasn’t exactly happy about his latest assignment when he apparated on the shores of the Arctic, but a wizard’s got to do, what a wizard’s got to do. Especially when that wizard is the Ministry of Magic’s top Auror.

After the seemingly endless trouble with Voldemort all those years ago, it had been easy for Harry to climb to the top of ladder in the Auror office. The Minister of Magic himself had come to Harry’s home in the transformed Grimmauld Place to personally offer him the position as head of the department. Harry had respectfully declined, stating he wished to start at the bottom like everyone else. Unlike everyone else, Harry had experience most of the other candidates couldn’t even dream of. He skated through Auror training with top marks in all categories, and within months of taking a full time position in the department had made an even bigger name for himself by putting a pair of dark wizards in Azkaban that were terrorizing their way up the coast of England, killing any muggle that crossed their paths. His success was celebrated and rewarded.

With Voldemort gone, the Marglesse Twins locked in Azkaban, and Harry’s Potter renown growing by the minute, the dark wizardry world took a drastic turn toward peace and quiet. A few years passed with Harry whiling away his time at the Ministry waiting for someone to torment muggles or try breaking into Gringotts. Things would happen here and there, but nothing overly exciting, and definitely nothing they thought it wise to call Harry in for. Small potatoes, is what the Minister would say, no need to get involved, Harry. So he’d sit by and let his fellow aurors clean up the messes. It was better that way. It’s hard to chase down a dark wizard when everyone in the wizarding world knew exactly who you were and had no qualms about asking for an autograph, even if you were trying to be inconspicuous.

A few weeks prior to Harry’s arrival in Antarctica, rumors had started to spread about a young wizard who appeared as if he’d follow in the footsteps of Lord Voldemort. He’d finished his seventh year at Hogwarts at the top of his class, and promptly disappeared into the dark forests of Albania. Witnesses say he was deranged and terrifying when he emerged over a year later. Harry immediately took notice of the young man, Manchester Bloughby. Pictures of Bloughby from Hogwarts reminded Harry strongly of the Tom Riddle he’d encountered in that old diary so long ago. But Bloughby disappeared after his time in Albania. The rumors grew stranger, but the whispers grew hushed. Harry could feel the tension within the Ministry. Talks of Voldemort began resurfacing, even though Harry knew that every one of the horcurxes had been destroyed. He knew he had to put a stop to Bloughby before things got out of hand.

But finding him proved difficult. Harry had asked for Hermione’s help immediately, asking her to do what research he could on Bloughby’s past to help shed some light on where he might be headed. Even with Hermione’s predilection for uncovering the unfindable, she turned up very little. It was as if all records of his childhood had vanished into thin air. All she could find was the name of the village he’d been born in and the first name of his mother, who happened to be a muggle. For everything else, Harry would have to turn to rumors, which could sometimes be more reliable information to an Auror than facts in book somewhere, although Hermione would staunchly disagree.

He chased the leads, followed the path of whispers, and hunted for clue after clue after clue. It had all led him to the coldest place on earth, the bottom of the world, Antarctica. It seemed an odd place for a dark wizard hide himself, especially one who had thought himself an heir to Voldemort’s throne. There was nothing in sight for miles in all directions. The wind blew hard, nearly knocking the glasses off Harry’s face. He pulled the collar up on his jacket against the chilly wind. Hermione had brewed him a special potion, of her own recipe no less, which would keep him warm even in the bitter cold of the Arctic. He’d taken it minutes before he apparated, but even with the potion flowing through him, he could feel the chill in the air. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small toy car that fit in the palm of his hand. The car itself was nothing, just a muggle toy that children played with. It had, however, been bewitched quite cleverly to detect and follow magic. Ron had confiscated it in a raid weeks earlier, and had given it to Harry when he heard what his best friend was getting himself into.

Harry took his wand from his inside jacket pocket, and set the car down on the hard packed snow. After tapping his wand on the roof of the car three times like Ron had told him, the car set off speedily away from the coast. The stronger the magical energy in the area, the faster the car was supposed to go. Harry smiled as he had to apparate just to keep up with the little car as it kicked up snow in its wake. If he had time to look back, Harry would have seen that he had lost sight of the coast line miles back. The strain of apparating so frequently after such a big trip was starting to sap his energy. Just before he was set to recall the car and take a break to regain some of his spent energy, there was a puff of black smoke and the car disappeared. Harry grounded to a halt, staring at the spot the toy car had been only moments before. The snow was scorched when the smoke had cleared.

Harry walked to the spot where the car used to be. He reached his free left hand out toward the air in front of him, and felt the brief intense spark shoot up his arm to his shoulder. Harry pulled his hand back quickly and shook it to get rid of the numbed feeling that was spreading up his arm. It was a clever cloaking spell, expertly crafted to not only conceal by deter with electrical shocks. There were few people Harry could think of off-hand that could produce a cloaking spell like that. Two of them were dead and the other was the cleverest witch he’d ever met. Harry could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Someone was finally going to give him a challenge. It had been years since he’d had to put all of his cunning into something. He relished the thought.

Harry made a great overhead sweeping motion with his wand and uttered an incantation silently in his head. At first nothing happened and Harry was prepared to try a different spell. That’s when a faint crackling sound reached his ears. It was the tell-tale sign of a crumbling concealment spell. This Bloughby was clever but not quite clever enough. He fortified the spell, but didn’t protect it against disruption. A mistake only a brash young wizard would make.

As the spell dissolved in front of Harry’s eyes, he saw something he did not expect. In fact, it was something no person, wizard nor muggle, would think to see deep in the frozen wastelands of the Arctic. Sprawled out in front of Harry was a lush green jungle with a thick bed of grass and trees so close together it was nearly impossible to see into. There was dazzling sunlight in the sky that the thick cloud banks above the icy continent seemed not to bother. Harry could feel the heat and humidity radiating from the mysterious jungle and a single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Harry stood and looked at the intricately crafted ecosystem in front of him in awe for what seemed like hours. This was a true work of magical art. Every little detail was expertly crafted from the centipedes crawling on the rocks to the vines wrapped around the tree trunks. He’d never seen anything so real that was crafted by magic outside of a pensive. Harry dared not blink for fear that the jungle would not be there when his eyes re-opened. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach. A feeling that told him his initial assessment of Bloughby was wrong. A feeling that told him even the Ministry of Magic didn’t know what he was capable of. A feeling that told him that Bloughby was hidden somewhere in this jungle, and that Harry was the only person standing between Bloughby and the potential domination of the wizarding world.

Shortly after stepping into the jungle proper, Harry took off his jacket. The heat was even more sweltering than he had anticipated. The jacket would only weigh him down now. He kept his wand at the ready to react quickly to any sign of trouble, but there seemed to be none. He trudged through the thick jungle, sweat slowly soaking through his shirt and massive horse flies buzzing around his head. It only took a single bite from one of the great flies for Harry to throw a minor protective spell around himself. It wouldn’t do much outside of keeping the flies at bay, but it was enough for now. The jungle was quiet except for the sounds of Harry’s footfalls on the dried leaves that acted like a blanket over the soft earth below.

A massive yellow Burmese python was wrapped around a nearby tree limb. It eyed Harry suspiciously as he approached.

Stay back, human, the snake hissed in its native snake language.

Harry stopped in his tracks, lowering his wand. The last thing he needed was an angry python to deal with.

I mean you no harm, Harry said back in Parseltongue.

The python paused. You’re a Parselmouth…like him?

Harry nodded. When the piece of Voldemort’s soul that had been living within him was finally destroyed, a lot of things disappeared with it. Parseltongue was not one of them. For whatever reason, Harry’s ability to speak to snakes had stayed with him. It didn’t have much practical application now that Voldemort was dead, but there were times when it came in handy. Dark wizards tended to gravitate toward the serpent since it was Voldemort’s trademark, so being able to speak to the reptiles was a powerful tool at Harry’s disposal.

What do you want with him? The snake asked.

Harry thought for a moment. I need to talk to him, he answered finally. It wasn’t a complete lie. So far as Harry knew, Bloughby had done nothing wrong. While there were rumors abounding of his violent, heinous acts, no proof had ever surfaced that Bloughby had actually committed them. Harry knew better than to trust a lack of evidence, but he couldn’t well attack the boy without provocation. So he’d talk, and if words didn’t work, action would take their place.

The snake hissed a laugh. Talk. Yes, talk. You will find him when the rage in your heart shows through.

Without another word, the snake slithered its way back into the upper boughs of the tree and out of sight, leaving Harry alone to ponder the serpent’s last words. Was the snake suggesting that Bloughby was no longer in the jungle? Could someone he loved be in serious trouble now that Harry had been lured away? He didn’t think so. From what the rumors said, it wasn’t Bloughby’s style to back down from a challenge. He met all challengers head on and walked away without a scratch. There was a deeper meaning behind the words, Harry knew. The only way to find that meaning was to travel deeper into the seemingly never-ending jungle that surrounded him.

It didn’t take long for Harry to find the answer that he sought. A massive medieval stone fortress sat in the heart of the jungle; its stone façade an almost comical contrast to the wild lands around it. The fortress was surrounded by a moat that was filled with a glowing blue substance that was far from water, but would, Harry knew, hold a fate much worse than drowning should an intruder find themselves falling into the great chasm. The gate of the fortress was closed, but the drawbridge had been lowered, almost invitingly Harry thought. Sitting just on the other side of the bridge sat a large, gold framed mirror. As Harry approached, he found that it was no ordinary mirror. The Mirror of Erised was standing sentry at the gate of the jungle fortress. Harry had a brief flashback of his first year at Hogwarts when he’d first found the mirror in that empty classroom. He saw his parents then, but he’d let their memory rest in peace years ago. He knew not what he’d see when he looked into the Mirror of Erised now.

Harry let his wand fall to his side and stood in front of the mirror to look at himself. He waited for the reflection to change, but nothing happened. It took Harry a moment to realize that there was something off about the mirror. The gold was a little more lackluster than he’d remembered, the glass a little dirtier. But that wasn’t quite it. It was the inscription in the frame that wasn’t quite right. Dertah foec afat ube cafru oyt on wohsi. Harry couldn’t quite remember the original inscription, but he knew this wasn’t it. He didn’t know where the real Mirror of Erised was, but he now knew he wasn’t standing in front of it. He looked back at his own reflection to see the Harry on the other side of the mirror gritting his teeth and glaring back at him. It was a look of pure hatred, disgust, and loathing. Harry could feel a chill racing up his spine. The reflection’s eyes were boring into him and it stirred an uneasy feeling deep in Harry’s mind.

Just as he was about to step away from the mirror, a new face appeared to the side of his reflection; small at first but growing by the second. It was foreign but faintly recognizable. Harry could feel his mind screaming at him to draw his wand, but something stopped him. He fought his instinct, and let the wand hang loosely at his side.

“It’s quite beautiful,” the new face said, “Is it not?”

Harry’s reflection raged in the mirror, slamming itself against the frame in an effort to escape.

“What is it?” Harry asked without taking his eyes off the face of the newcomer in the mirror.

“You may be familiar with its counterpart,” the face answered him, “the Mirror of Erised. This is an object of my own design. I call it the Mirror of Dertah. While Erised shows your heart’s deepest desires, Dertah shows you your hearts deepest darkness, the hatred that wells in your soul.”

Harry watched as his reflection silently cursed and screamed at him. There was no doubt about what he was being told. But why? Why create something like this? The world had been free of darkness and hatred for a long time. Harry had made sure of it. What was there to accomplish by bringing it back?

“Who are you?” he asked the face in the mirror.

“Do you truly not know, Mr. Potter?” the face asked back. “Is it not obvious? I am the man you came to apprehend.”

Harry felt his heart race. The pictures of Bloughby he had seen were a little old, yes, but this face only bore a vague resemblance of his former self. His skin was pale, nearly transparent. His eyes a sickening shade of yellow. The once expertly styled head of jet black hair was thinning and mussed. His appearance gave him the air of a man with one foot in the grave. The look on his face made him look as if he could not be healthier. His yellow eyes peered at Harry with malice.

“I just want to talk to you, Bloughby,” Harry said. “If you’re inside, open the gate and let me in. It doesn’t have to come to violence.”

Bloughby laughed. “Very well, Mr. Potter,” Bloughby said as the fortress gate began to rise. “Enter my Fortress of Arctica, and we shall…talk.”

Harry stepped away from the mirror and moved inside the fortress. He could feel the nervous tension growing inside him like it always did when he was in the middle of enemy territory with no back up. He swallowed it back down and loosened his arms by shaking them gently. The wand in his hand felt lighter than air. He would do his best to make Bloughby see reason, but, truth be told, he welcomed the fight.

Just inside the gate, there was a stone spiral staircase that curved up the center of the atrium. There were no other visible doors, so Harry began the long climb up the stairs. Grotesque gargoyles lined the walls at regular intervals, many of which watched Harry suspiciously as he made his way to the top floor. At the top of the stairs was an ornate wrought iron door that shifted in and out of solidity. Harry pushed open the door as it shifted back from smoke to iron and it swung open on eerily silent hinges.

Harry found Bloughby standing in front of a smaller version of the mirror at the gates. His hands were folded over each other in front of him, his wand clutched in one. He was wearing a worn black robe with traces of dirt and neglect. He smiled welcomingly at Harry as he entered the main chamber of the fortress. Harry’s steps echoed off the stone walls as he crossed the room. Daylight was streaming through the small slits in the stone that acted like windows. The room reminded him strongly of the main chamber in the Chamber of Secrets where he’d battled a basilisk so many years ago. Harry hoped there wasn’t another giant serpent waiting to be called upon. He wasn’t sure he could fight another without Griffindor’s sword at his disposal.

“Welcome to the Fortress of Arctica, Mr. Potter,” Bloughby said, as Harry came to a stop in front of him. “You have my attention. What, pray tell, would you like to speak to me about?”

Harry hesitated. He expected to have to blast his way to Bloughby. He didn’t expect such an oddly warm welcome.

“I’ve been sent by Ministry of Magic,” Harry began, “and the Auror office to formally request you to cease your dark magical activities at once or else.”

It was technically the first thing an Auror was supposed to say to a dark wizard they were tasked with apprehending. Like most Aurors, Harry had never uttered the words in a real life situation. There was never a chance to say them when curses were flying your way. “Or else I am authorized to use force to deliver you to Azkaban,” Harry answered.

Bloughby laughed. “Now, now, Mr. Potter. I can’t imagine that will be necessary. I am, after all, just a boy. Barely even over the legal wizarding age. I am certainly no match for the great Harry Potter.”

“I’m glad you’re open to reason, Bloughby,” Harry said. “Come back to London and our Healers can help you. There’s no need to hurt anyone. We can all live peacefully together.”

Bloughby began to pace. “Peacefully, you say? I assume you mean wizards, half-breeds, muggles, all of us living in harmony?”

Harry felt his heart drop. He knew where this we heading.

“You see, Mr. Potter,” Bloughby continued, “Muggles do not deserve to live equally among wizards, their superiors. Nor do the mudbloods, for that matter. We were born with the gift of magic. They were not. It’s survival of the fittest, Mr. Potter, and we are the fittest. Muggles, mudbloods, they don’t deserve to lick the dirt off our boots. I wish to make you a counter offer, Mr. Potter.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, Bloughby,” said Harry forcefully.

“I beg to differ,” Bloughby shot back. “I think it is the least you can do for the man whose father you killed.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Harry.

Bloughby laughed. “Are you really that thick headed? Can you really not see him in me? He was part of you once, no?”

Harry looked at Bloughby as he paced the room. It couldn’t be.

“How?” Harry stammered.

Bloughby smiled wickedly. “He chose one of his most devoted followers. Kept her hidden, kept her safe from do-gooders like you who sought to destroy his empire. I was born not long after you killed him. Raised by my mother in secret, and sent to Hogwarts to follow in his footsteps, realize his great dream. I am everything he ever dreamed to be. What’s more, I don’t suffer from his weaknesses with you, Mr. Potter. There’s no piece of me inside you, protecting you. I made an Unbreakable Vow with my mother that I would become greater than my father and avenge his death at all costs.”

“You don’t have to do this, Bloughby,” Harry said earnestly. “He was an evil man. He killed for fun. Lives meant nothing to him. You don’t have to be like him. You can be better. You can use your knowledge and skill for good. Help us better the wizarding world for all of us. People will love you, respect you. All you have to do is help them. Please, Bloughby, don’t let it come to this.”

“Bloughby…” the dark wizard said, as if tasting the words. “I’m done with that name, Mr. Potter. A fake used by my mother to keep my true identity secret. If you must call me by a name, you can call me Lord Valathorn.”

Harry knew Bloughby was too far gone to see reason. His mind searched for the best spell to resolve the issue quickly.

“Now,” Lord Valathorn said, “back to my offer. Join me, Mr. Potter. With you by my side, we can conquer the wizarding world with a small wave of a hand. We can be the greatest wizards of all time.”

“The only reason you want me on your side,” Harry growled, “is because you know I’ll kill you just like I did your dad.”

In a flash, Harry launched a disarming spell at Valathorn. The dark wizard deflected it effortlessly and fired a curse back at Harry, but he was too slow, Harry had taken cover behind a nearby pillar. He’d never killed anyone outside of Voldemort, and that was only out of necessity. He wasn’t even sure if the Avada Kedavra would work for him. His heart wasn’t behind it. He’d have to do what he could to disarm or stun Valathorn and get him to Azkaban as quickly as possible. Harry steeled and readied his nerves. With a deep breath, he leapt out from behind the pillar. Before he had a chance to fire his own spell, Valathorn sent a curse zipping at Harry. It was all Harry could to do throw up a shield to deflect it. The spell hit with such force that it knocked Harry backwards into the wall. He tried to stand, but his head was swimming from the impact. He fell back against the wall to steady himself.

Valathorn bore down on Harry, disarming him with little effort when Harry tried to raise his wand. The wand landed with a clatter against the stone floor somewhere in the room. Valathorn knelt down in front of Harry and examined him curiously. Harry’s vision was blurred, so he closed his eyes to stop from getting sick.

“I could kill you now, Harry Potter,” Valathorn said, pushing the tip of his wand against Harry’s scar. “But that would be too easy. I want you to watch as I destroy everything you’ve ever held dear. I’ll burn Hogwarts to the ground. I’ll make you watch as I slowly turn the Weasleys’ skin inside out. Your wife will beg me for mercy while I torture her slowly as you watch helplessly. You will feel the loss that I have felt, Mr. Potter. When everyone you love is dead, when everything you cared about is reduced to ash, I will kill you. That is my promise to you, Mr. Potter.”

Valathorn stood up and apparated without another word.

Harry stayed on the ground until his head stopped spinning. He stood and found his wand before walking to the entrance of the fortress. He used a blasting spell to destroy the Mirror of Dertah before walking back into the jungle. He had to move quickly. If he moved fast enough, he could warn the Ministry that Voldemort’s son was about to pick up where his dad left off. He just hoped they would believe him.