Harry Potter and the HQL - Chapter - 33

It was the third night Harry had decided to trail Professor Theron Greaves into the Forbidden Forest. He knew it was reckless—downright stupid, Hermione would say—but something about the professor’s secret excursions gnawed at the back of Harry’s mind.

Tonight, he was better prepared.

In the shed behind the broom factory in Hogsmeade, Harry had built a special broomstick: the Wisp. It was smaller than a Cleansweep, so narrow it almost looked like a child’s toy, but it could lift a grown man and hover almost silently. It didn’t have the acceleration of a racing broom—but it didn’t need it.

What it excelled at was stealth.

He mounted the Wisp, pulled the invisibility cloak over his shoulders, and felt the familiar thrill of weightlessness as he rose a few feet off the ground. Beneath him, the grass shivered in the cold breeze.

Slowly, he drifted forward, following the faint silhouette of Professor Greaves walking along the forest path, lantern bobbing ahead.

They went deeper this time, past the thickets where the unicorn herd sometimes grazed and into a part of the forest Harry had never dared venture before.

Eventually, the trees parted into a clearing, lit with thin moonlight filtering through ragged branches.

There it stood—the Shrine of Loki.

Even in the half-dark, the statue’s presence was unsettling. A tall, robed figure carved from pale stone, two twisted horns curling from its forehead. The pedestal was cracked and green with moss. Ivy wound around Loki’s blank, smiling face.

Harry remembered reading about it. The shrine was built two centuries ago by eccentric students who claimed Loki granted them luck and cunning. No one used it anymore. Most had forgotten it existed.

But Professor Greaves clearly hadn’t.

Harry hovered higher, just above the treetops, peering down. The professor set his lantern on a flat rock and unrolled a huge piece of parchment—a map so large he had to weight the corners with stones to keep it from flapping away.

He took out a brass measuring rod, a compass, and a battered leather-bound book.

Then he began measuring.

First, he stretched the rod from the statue’s base to the edge of the clearing, muttering under his breath.

Then he moved to a spot a dozen feet away, drove a thin metal stake into the soil, and measured again.

Harry squinted. There were already seven or eight such markers dotting the clearing—each marking a place the professor had dug.

The professor knelt and began digging yet another shallow hole with a trowel. He worked methodically, almost reverently, setting each clod of earth aside. Every so often he consulted his map, tapping a quill against it, as if checking the alignment of something only he could see.

“What are you looking for?” Harry whispered under his breath, even though he knew Greaves couldn’t hear him.

The professor’s shoulders were tense. From the way he paused to rub his temple, he looked exhausted, perhaps even desperate.

After several minutes, he reached into the fresh hole and brushed away dirt with his fingers. But whatever he hoped to find wasn’t there. He let out a hoarse sigh and sat back on his heels.

“Not here,” Greaves muttered, voice carrying just enough for Harry to catch. “But close. It must be close.”

He took out his notebook and scribbled something feverishly.

Harry carefully drifted a little lower, heart hammering. From this vantage, he could see the professor’s face—pale, lined with strain, and glistening with sweat.

Greaves closed his eyes and pressed a hand to the base of the Loki statue. For a moment, he looked as though he might start praying.

Instead, he opened his eyes, and they gleamed with the intensity Harry had only glimpsed during Defense lessons.

“I will find it,” he whispered fiercely. “Even if it takes another year.”

He closed the trowel, stood, and began filling the hole again.

Harry’s mind spun. What in Merlin’s name was he searching for? A buried artifact? A hidden entrance? A curse anchored to this place?

He glanced at the other marker stakes. Some were labeled in chalk—“Sector B2,” “Line 5,” “17.3 ft.” It looked like the professor was mapping the entire clearing, inch by inch.

When the last bit of earth was patted flat, Greaves replaced the moss carefully, as if he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been digging.

Then he tucked his tools into his satchel and straightened up, breathing heavily.

Harry felt a wave of sympathy despite himself. Whatever this mission was, it was clearly eating the professor alive.

Greaves turned and began the long walk back toward the castle.

Harry remained still, hovering in the air, until the bobbing lantern disappeared between the trees.

When he was certain the professor was out of earshot, he floated down into the clearing. The Wisp settled soundlessly onto the grass.

He slipped off and knelt beside the freshly-dug patch. Carefully, he brushed the moss aside and pressed his fingers to the soil.

Still warm.

He shivered.

Somehow, he knew this was connected to Bellatrix, to whatever she had been searching for when she attacked Hagrid.

And now, Professor Greaves was searching too.

The question was—were they after the same thing?

Harry drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders and mounted the Wisp. As he drifted silently back toward the castle, he knew one thing:

He couldn’t stop now.

He had to find out what was buried beneath the Shrine of Loki.



At first, the Weasley twins and Neville had been eager to accompany Harry whenever he set out into the Forbidden Forest to tail Professor Greaves.

The first time, they were buzzing with excitement. The second time, they were slightly bored.

By the third time, Fred was yawning before they’d even left the castle.

On the fourth night, Neville announced he had better things to do, like studying for Herbology. Fred and George didn’t even bother making excuses—they just said, “Good luck spying on old Greaves,” and went off to the kitchens to find snacks.

And so Harry was alone now, perched on his little Wisp broom, wrapped in his invisibility cloak, hidden high above the forest floor.

The moon was bright enough to cast silvery beams across the Shrine of Loki. In that pale light, Professor Greaves worked feverishly.

Harry had never seen the man look so determined. His lantern was balanced on a broken stump, casting light across the markers he’d planted weeks ago. He paced around the shrine, brass measuring rod in hand, muttering spells as he measured precise distances.

He kept checking a leather-bound journal, his finger jabbing line after line of notes.

“…twelve feet from the northern edge… align with the broken pillar…”

Harry adjusted his broom, hovering closer. A thin breeze stirred the ivy climbing Loki’s statue, making the stone horns look almost alive.

Professor Greaves straightened, eyes glittering.

“This is it,” he whispered. “I know it’s here.”

He dropped to his knees, took up his trowel, and started digging with sharp, deliberate strokes.

Scoop after scoop of damp earth piled up.

Harry watched in tense silence. Maybe this time, Greaves really would find whatever he’d been searching for all year.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

Just when Harry thought it would end like all the other nights, there came a clang.

Greaves froze. His breath quickened. Slowly, he brushed aside the loose soil.

A dull metallic corner glimmered in the lantern light.

The professor’s hands trembled as he uncovered the rest of the box—a small iron chest, corroded with rust, half-fused to the roots curling around it.

He pried the chest free, panting, and set it on the grass.

Harry’s heartbeat sped up.

Greaves pulled a long, thin pick from his bag and worked it into the old lock. For a moment, nothing happened—then with a brittle crack, the lock split in half.

The chest creaked open on hinges so rusted they looked ready to disintegrate.

Inside was a single, ancient book.

Harry leaned forward, squinting. The cover was bound in cracked leather, and in the center, pressed deep into the surface, was a raised skull. Its eye sockets were deep hollows. Something glistened inside them—shards of black crystal, catching the moonlight.

Greaves let out a shaky breath, as though he might faint.

“At last…” he murmured. His hand hovered over the book, as if afraid to touch it. “So many months of research…”

His fingers brushed the cover.

Harry couldn’t see the title from this height, but he had no doubt it was something dangerous.

Just as Greaves began to pry open the cover—

A voice rang out in the darkness, lilting and gleeful.

“Well, well, Professor Greaves,” came a woman’s cackle. “You did all the hard work for me.”

Harry jerked his head up.

At the edge of the clearing, half-shadowed by the gnarled roots of an old elm, stood Bellatrix Lestrange.

Her hair was wilder than ever, tangling around her thin face. Her eyes shone with delighted madness.

She lifted her wand, its tip gleaming green.

“Step away from the box.”

Greaves’ hand stopped on the book. He slowly turned his head, his expression cold and wary.

“Lestrange,” he said flatly.

Bellatrix grinned, a predator’s smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Greaves straightened, never lowering his wand.

“I don’t know what you think you’re after,” he said, his voice as calm as if they were in his classroom, “but you won’t get it.”

“Oh, Theron,” Bellatrix purred, drawing out the syllables of his name as if tasting them. “Do you truly think you came here on your own accord?”

Greaves didn’t respond.

Bellatrix tilted her head, her hair cascading in tangled curtains around her pale face. “You think you started researching that book because you were clever enough to uncover a great secret?” She smiled, showing her teeth. “No. That was never true.”

His brow twitched. Just slightly.

Her smile widened. She saw that flicker of uncertainty. She pressed closer, like a cat cornering a mouse.

“We were using you,” she whispered.

Greaves’ eyes narrowed. “Explain yourself.”

She laughed softly. “Do you think it was some marvelous coincidence that the Journal of Augustus Rookwood fell into your hands when you were still a tender young Unspeakable?”

“I acquired it through a Ministry auction,” Greaves said through clenched teeth.

“Oh, did you?” Bellatrix’s eyes glittered. “No, Professor. You were handed it. It was planted.”

He frowned, searching her face for a hint of a lie.

Bellatrix lifted her chin, triumphant. “My dear brother-in-law—Lucius Malfoy himself—arranged that journal to be ‘discovered’ by you. He knew you were ambitious enough to start deciphering it.”

She circled him slowly. Greaves pivoted with her, never lowering his wand.

“I will admit, you played your part beautifully,” she said. “I have neither the patience nor the wits to comb through cursed notes and ancient maps. But you?” She made a little gesture with her free hand. “You were diligent. So diligent. So eager to impress your superiors. And now… here we are.”

Greaves’ voice was low, ragged with fury. “You used me.”

“Of course,” she said brightly. “We all have our roles in this world.”

Bellatrix stopped circling. She stood before him now, her black wand steady and sure.

“You have the book I want.”

“I will not give it to you,” Greaves hissed.

Her smile faded. “Let’s not be hasty.” She inhaled deeply, as though savoring the tension. “Hand it over. And you can walk out of here alive, Theron. I’ll even pay you. A king’s ransom in Galleons for your trouble. You can vanish, live in some quiet little village, and never think of this again.”

Greaves laughed once, a short, bitter sound. “Do you truly think I care about your gold?”

Bellatrix’s gaze sharpened. “You care about survival.”

He shook his head slowly, gripping the iron box tighter. “You think I am a coward. That because I wanted the Dark Lord’s power, I would become his servant.”

“Better to be a servant than a corpse,” she said softly.

Greaves’ jaw worked. His voice was low and tight when he spoke again.

“I know what that book is, Lestrange.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Do you?”

“It contains the rites of Horcrux-making.”

Her pupils dilated slightly. She said nothing.

“And you intend to become Immortal.”

Bellatrix’s voice dropped to a hiss. “The Dark Lord will return.”

“He is dead,” Greaves spat. “And the world is better for it.”

“No,” she whispered, almost reverently. “He lives on. In shadows. In memory. In the secret places of the earth. He left pieces of himself behind—and I will see him restored.”

Greaves felt a chill crawl down his spine.

Bellatrix stepped forward, wand raised. Her gaze was burning, almost ecstatic.

“Give me the book.”

He set his jaw. “No.”

Her lip curled. “Then you die.”

For a single heartbeat, everything seemed to hold its breath.

Greaves knew he couldn’t outrun her. He couldn’t Apparate with the wards around Hogwarts. But he had one chance—one slender thread of survival.

“I will not,” he said calmly.

Bellatrix’s arm twitched. Her mouth opened—

“Avada—”

But Greaves was ready.

“Confringo!”

The blasting curse erupted from his wand in a roar of orange fire. Bellatrix ducked aside, her killing curse splitting the air where he’d stood.

Greaves dove to the left, rolling behind a fallen log. Bark exploded under Bellatrix’s second curse.

Harry, still hidden in the air, felt his chest seize. Spells flashed like lightning between the trees.

Greaves shouted, “You’ll never have it!”

Bellatrix shrieked in fury, hurling curse after curse, the forest filling with green and red flashes.

From high above, Harry gripped his broom, torn between fear and awe.

This was no classroom duel. No practiced demonstration.

This was war.