Capítulo 35: Pythia
The doorway led not to another chamber, but into absolute darkness. Harry paused at the threshold, raising his azure flame higher. The light simply disappeared a few feet ahead, as if devoured by the void itself.
Remembering his recent battle with the marble snakes, Harry tried something new by gathering chi into his eyes and slightly enhancing his vision. It made no difference. The darkness remained impenetrable, defying even his senses.
"Well," Harry muttered, "at least there aren't any obvious monsters waiting." He touched the wall beside him, confirming it was real stone. "And the floor seems solid enough."
Taking a deep breath, Harry stepped forward into the darkness. His flame winked out instantly, but the floor remained steady under his feet. Another step. Then another. The darkness pressed against him, not threatening exactly, but... aware.
"I see you, little seeker," a woman's voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. "So young to walk these paths. So bold to face my guardians."
"Thank you," Harry replied politely, remembering how the Grey Lady responded better to courtesy. His voice sounded strangely muffled in the darkness, as if the void itself was listening. "Are you the Oracle?"
A soft laugh sounded through the darkness. "I am what remains of her. Echoes of wisdom, preserved in stone and shadow." The voice paused. "But you... you carry echoes of your own, don't you? Memories of another world, where power flowed differently."
Harry tensed slightly. "You can see that?"
"I see many things, little seeker. Past and future blur together here, where time flows strangely." The darkness shifted, taking on subtle patterns that reminded Harry of ink spreading through water. "Tell me, why have you come? What truth do you seek?"
"I need..." Harry hesitated, then decided honesty might work best with a being that could apparently see through time. "My friend was hurt by dark magic. I can heal with divine energy, but I'm not strong enough yet. I thought if I could find something valuable here, something to help the authorities, I could become famous enough to gather more faith."
"Ahhh," the voice seemed amused. "Such a circular path you walk. Seeking fame to gain power, seeking power to help others, helping others to gain fame." The darkness rippled. "But tell me, little seeker, what happens when the fame becomes hollow? When faith built on lies crumbles?"
Harry frowned. "I wouldn't be lying. I really did find this place."
"Did you? Or did this place find you?" The patterns in the darkness began forming scenes - Charlotte screaming under the Cruciatus Curse, her scars refusing to heal. "Your friend's pain drives you, but pain itself can be a teacher. What lesson does her suffering offer?"
"That I'm not strong enough," Harry answered immediately, thinking of the desolate world memories. "That I need more-"
"Power?" the voice interrupted. "Yes, that is one lesson. But consider - why did the curse scar her so deeply? What makes dark magic linger?"
Harry opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. He thought about his mist ability, how it worked with fear and souls. About how the Boggart had created a feedback loop of terror. About how his divine healing came from people's belief in him...
"Emotions," he whispered. "Dark magic leaves scars because it carries the caster's hatred and cruelty. It's not just the spell, it's... the intent behind it?"
"Very good." The darkness began to clear slightly, revealing what looked like an ancient Greek classroom carved from marble. Shadowy figures sat at stone desks while a teacher demonstrated something at the front. "Our ancestors understood this. They knew that all magic, whether light or dark, carries the weight of emotion and belief."
Harry watched in fascination as the shadow-teacher drew various symbols in the air. "Is this... real? A memory?"
"All times exist here simultaneously," the voice replied. "Past, present, future - they flow together in the currents of possibility. But yes, this particular scene occurred over two thousand years ago. Watch carefully..."
The shadowy classroom scene suddenly solidified around Harry. The cold marble beneath his feet became warm stone, sunlight streamed through high windows, and the ghostly students transformed into young men and women in ancient Greek robes. Harry found himself sitting among them, his own clothes now matching theirs.
"Pay attention," the teacher spoke in Greek, yet Harry understood perfectly thanks to his language comprehension ability. "Today we discuss why prophecy and healing are two sides of the same art."
Harry blinked. Unlike what he imaged normal illusions were like, this felt completely real. He could smell the olive trees outside, feel the slight breeze from the windows, even hear his own heartbeat.
The teacher, an elderly woman with startlingly bright eyes, cast a spell at the air with her wand. Golden light formed into the shape of a human body, with threads of different colors running through it.
"The body remembers," she explained. "Every joy, every pain, every moment of triumph or terror leaves its mark upon our essence. When we heal, we must see not just the wound before us, but all the wounds that came before. When we prophesy, we read these marks to understand what paths lie ahead."
A student raised his hand. "But Master Pythia, how can past wounds affect future paths?"
"An excellent question, Theophrastus." The teacher - who Harry realized must be the original Oracle herself - smiled. "Let us demonstrate. Would our guest like to volunteer?"
Harry started as every head turned toward him. Their faces were kind, curious, but there was something odd about their eyes. As if they were seeing both him and through him simultaneously.
"Come, child of two worlds," Pythia beckoned. "Let us see what marks you carry."
Harry stood carefully and walked to the front of the classroom. This couldn't be real time travel - even by wizarding standards that was impossible. Yet everything felt so present, so immediate. The other students watched him with ancient eyes that seemed to hold centuries of wisdom.
"You carry many interesting patterns," Pythia observed, walking around him. "Meridians from one world, magic from another. Divine energy gathered from faith, yet bound by souls split between the mundane and celestial. Most curious indeed." She raised her wand. "Shall we see how they all connect?"
Before Harry could respond, golden light surrounded him. The classroom blurred and shifted, transforming into large spherical chamber. Harry floated in its center, surrounded by countless threads of light that stretched in every direction. Each thread pulsed with different colors and rhythms, some familiar, others completely alien.
"Each thread represents a moment that shaped your mentality," Pythia explained. "Some bright with triumph, others dark with fear. Touch them, and understand."
Harry reached out hesitantly. The instant his fingers brushed a silvery thread, the chamber dissolved. He was four years old again, standing in a Hogwarts corridor as three Slytherins towered over him. Fear coursed through his small body, but something else rose with it - a deep, primal understanding of terror itself. The mist had come at the perfect time then, born from that perfect moment of fear and defiance.
The scene shifted. He was flying as an eagle for his weekly hunt, wind rushing through his feathers. The sheer joy of freedom mixed with predatory instinct, teaching him that power came in many forms. Not just strength, but speed and precision too.
Another thread pulsed, this one a deep azure. The chamber transformed into a grand courtyard surrounded by snow-capped peaks. Harry recognized it instantly - Snowdragon Mountain. But something was different about this memory. Unlike the hazy impressions he usually got, this one felt crystal clear.
"Curious," Pythia's voice echoed. "This place... I cannot See it clearly. It exists beyond my sight, yet your soul remembers."
Harry watched as a massive figure descended from the sky. An elder wearing simple white robes landed in the courtyard, each step crackling with power that made the air itself shiver. Young Harry sat nearby, gnawing on what looked like a crystalline beast's leg, completely unafraid of the elder's overwhelming aura.
"Grandson," the elder spoke casually, "finish your Diremonster meat. Today's lesson will require full strength, let us see if you will remain trash or become more than what was destined."
The scene blurred slightly, becoming less distinct. But Harry could still feel the lingering impression of that power - how it had dwarfed anything he'd encountered in this world.
"Such power," Pythia mused. "Yet notice how naturally that child accepted it. Your soul remembers living in a world where such strength was common, even if your mind cannot fully recall it."
"The child shows no fear," Harry observed, watching his alternate self continue eating. "Even though that elder could probably destroy mountains with a gesture."
"Because in that world, such was the natural order," Pythia replied. The scene shifted back to the spherical chamber with its countless threads. "Just as you now accept that Albus Dumbledore could defeat you with a thought. Your soul adapts to the rules of where it dwells."
Harry frowned, reaching for another thread. This one pulsed with a strange silvery-white light, like his quintessential flame. "But I'm not just adapting anymore, am I? I'm... mixing things together."
The moment he touched the thread, the chamber filled with overlapping images. His blue flames, born from balanced chi. The mist that affected souls. Divine healing powered by faith.
"Exactly," Pythia smiled as the images swirled around them. "You instinctively understand what many never grasp - that power comes not from mastering one path, but from seeing how all paths connect."
The images gathered into a new scene - Charlotte in the Hospital Wing, her cursed scars glowing faintly in Harry's divine light. But now Harry could see more. Threads of dark magic wrapped around her wounds, pulsing with malice. Yet there were other threads too - golden strands of her own magic trying to heal, silver lines of Harry's divine energy seeking to purify.
"The curse lingers because it resonates," Harry realized, watching the threads pulse around Charlotte's wounds. "Like... like the Boggart feeding on its own fear. The dark magic keeps finding something to hold onto."
"Indeed." Pythia waved her hand, and the threads became more distinct. "See how your friend's own magic fights against the curse? But in doing so, it acknowledges the curse's power. Belief makes it real, just as belief powers your healing."
Harry thought about this. "So if I try to heal her with divine energy..."
"You bring more belief into the equation," Pythia finished. "The faith of others in the Boy-Who-Lived, transformed by your Hun soul into divine power. But what happens when that divine power meets the curse's malice?"
The image zoomed in closer. Harry could now see how his healing light seemed to battle with the dark magic, neither fully able to overcome the other. "They're... balanced? No, that's not quite right. They're both feeding off belief - mine in healing her, and the curse's belief in harming her."
"So fame wouldn't actually help," Harry said slowly, watching the threads of magic flow around Charlotte's wounds. "Even if I gathered more faith, the curse would just... match it?"
"Unless," Pythia raised a finger, "you understand what truly powers both magics. Tell me, when you use your mist spell, what gives it strength?"
Harry thought back to the Boggart incident, how his own terror had darkened the mist. "Strong emotions make it more powerful. But also..." He remembered the feedback loop, how the Boggart's fear had fed back into itself. "It's strongest when there's... resonance?"
"Precisely!" The chamber filled with new images - Harry's mist surrounding the Boggart, the marble snakes melting under his azure flames, divine light healing wounds at the clothing shop. "Each of your abilities works through different kinds of resonance. Your flames resonate with your passion, your mist with fear, your healing with faith."
The images swirled together, forming a pattern that reminded Harry of the brush strokes in the entrance arch. "But the curse..." Harry's eyes widened. "It's also resonating with Charlotte's fear of being hurt again!"
"And so the student begins to See." Pythia smiled. The chamber dissolved, returning them to the ancient classroom. But now Harry noticed details he'd missed before - how the sunlight formed specific patterns on the floor, how the students' positions created subtle geometric shapes. Everything was connected.
"The greatest magic," Pythia continued, drawing another symbol in the air, "comes not from forcing our will upon the world, but from understanding how all things naturally flow together. This is why prophecy and healing were once considered the same art. Both require us to See the true patterns."
She turned to Harry, her bright eyes seeming to look straight through him. "You seek my gifts, little seeker? Then understand this - the Inner Eye is not a prize to be won, but a truth to be understood. Are you prepared to See what must be Seen?"
The other students watched silently, their ancient eyes filled with knowing. Harry thought about Charlotte's scars, about how seeking fame had been the wrong approach entirely. About how all his abilities seemed to work primarily through understanding rather than pure power.
"I am," he said firmly.
Pythia nodded once. From within her robes, she withdrew a small crystal vial filled with what looked like silver tears. "Then drink, and See."
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