The Lost Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

Something Old and Someone New

The Lost Potter – Chapter Three

 

Okay, cross my heart and hope to die that this is the last redo of this story that I am ever doing (unless there are spelling and grammar errors that may have popped up – feel free to PM me so I can correct it). Thanks to the people who have stayed with this story from the beginning and welcome to new people reading this for the first time. It’s good to be back, please tell me what you think of anything, and if anyone in New Zealand comes across a blue notebook that has pictures of Nepal in the back and a quote in the cover page please contact me, it has sentimental value.

 

Other chapters have been changed so you might want to go back to read things anew. Without further ado:

It was midnight, the manor was silent. The manor was always silent at this hour; the house elves down in the kitchen where all asleep in their quarters down the hall from the other servants. The servants were all tucked up in their beds, bar the housekeeper who was up on the night watch “In-case the master needed anything when he went to bed”. Even the youngest and most excitable servants, Iris and Irene, who had only started working at the manor at the beginning of the week, were fast asleep and dreaming of something other than the life of servitude that generally came with being a squib or a runaway (which was true of most of the servants at the manor).

If Cillian was honest midnight was his favourite time of the day. Though as a Slytherin his favourite time of day changed dependent on who was asking, midnight was the only time really that the house ever could be silent and there was nobody in his wing of the house that could give him any trouble. Hell he had the entire top of the manor to himself at times like these when everyone else was asleep. At other times the maids and the house elves would be mixed in among the rooms at the top of the house, cleaning all the rooms except five rooms in the attic (but those had been sealed to everyone for so long now they were practically forgotten by the newer servants). Cillian drew himself away from those thoughts, he was an Edmund and they, though there was only him left, didn’t show emotions which was something the portrait of his four times great grandfather had drilled into him after his grandfather had died.

He was also told to keep up the wards.

The wards of the house and were pieces of art in their own right – before the 1940’s nobody could have seen the manor unless they had the express permission of the manor lord to be on the property for a given amount of time (this had only been changed when “The Sacred 28” written by Cantankerus Nott thought that they had died out and therefore didn’t mention them to the outrage of the family). The wards could detect the slightest movement on any part of the manor – the manor lord could tell where everybody was at any given time through the connection that the wards gave him with the paintings, ghosts and the house elves. This had been implemented by the paranoia of a relative in the late 1600’s who grew paranoid about the wards of the time not being good enough to protect him if the witch trials succeeded in getting to England.