Harry Potter: Forging the Flame

[Emptiness]

Snape: "The child. The child is....listening to me?

 

[Xyl]

I really like this story, but this discussion in chapter 13 with McGonagall was bullshit. You made it sounds like half the year has passed when it is only less than a week. How can her argument be valid...

Edit after reading the whole thing:
This is good, really good. A breath of fresh air. You try not to fall into the pitfalls and cliché of HP's fanfic. You did it pretty well too. I like the interactions between everyone and you make it believable. But what I like most is the way you explain how magical stuff actually works.
Bravo

 

[certher]

At the time of posting this chapter, i am 11 chapters ahead. If you are interested in reading ahead, please check out my website. www certherverse com



By the second week of October, Harry had to admit it. He'd turned into a bit of a nerd.

Not like Hermione-level, obviously. But he had a schedule now. A rhythm. He got up, went to class, actually took notes, did his homework without someone yelling at him, and spent more than a few evenings testing potions ingredients with Daphne or trying to crack Joren's stupid coded journal. It was weirdly satisfying.

Charms had settled into something more normal after that wild dueling lesson with Flitwick. They weren't doing fiery golden birds or molten lava spells anymore, but there was still something cool about finally mastering things like Scourgify, the charm Daphne had first shown him weeks ago. Now he could cast it properly every time. They'd also gone through Tergeo, Orchideous, and most recently Depulso, which had sent Neville's wand flying straight into a window. Professor Flitwick had looked both proud and mildly alarmed.

It wasn't flashy stuff, but it still made Harry feel more in control of his magic than ever. Plus, Flitwick clearly knew they wanted more than just textbook spells. Every now and then, he'd sneak in something advanced, drop a hint, or tell a quick story about dueling tournaments and clever enchantments.

Defense Against the Dark Arts, though, was an entirely different story.

Moody didn't even pretend to follow a syllabus. He just came in, barked something half-insane like "You're all Aurors now. What's your plan if the Ministry's under siege?" and waited to see who panicked first. Every lesson was chaos in the best way. Sometimes they'd talk about curse breaking or old wand duels. Other times he'd dump a box of enchanted objects on the table and tell them to sort out which ones would try to kill them.

Harry had never seen Ron so into a class in his life. That Ministry siege lesson? Ron practically glowed the whole time, laying out strategies, arguing defense points, and even drawing diagrams on the blackboard while Moody nodded like a proud general. It was good. Really good, actually. Harry knew Ron had been kind of off lately, like he didn't quite know what to do with this new version of Harry who actually liked studying and took things seriously. He'd caught Ron staring at him a few times with that vaguely betrayed look that said, "Why are you turning into Hermione and leaving me behind?"

So yeah, seeing Ron totally in his element, nerding out over battle plans and magical countermeasures? That felt nice. Harry didn't know how to bring it up, didn't know how to say, "Hey, I know I've changed and it's weird, but I still want to figure this out with you," without sounding like a total sap. Ron was Ron. He'd rather wrestle a troll than talk about feelings. Still, Harry was glad he got to see him shine like that.

And then there was the journal.

Joren's journal had started as just another mystery to solve, something buried in cryptic ciphers and dramatic old wizard language. But over the past few weeks, it had slowly gotten under Harry's skin. With Hermione's help, he'd broken through more of the code and unlocked bigger chunks of the text. What he found wasn't some step-by-step potion recipe or a map to hidden magic. It was… something else entirely. Joren had been a wizard who lost his wife to a Cruciatus Curse, and the journal was his way of clawing through the unknown to get her back. He wrote like someone cracking apart his own brain, one sentence at a time.

The weird thing was, he never once used the words Occlumency or Legilimency. Harry had only found those later, by accident, flipping through an old index of magical disciplines in the library after hearing Snape mutter "mind arts." Sirius had winced at the mention of them, mumbled something about it being dangerous, and said he'd rather duel a basilisk than think about Snape and mental magic in the same sentence. So that had left Harry on his own, as usual. But when he read Joren's entries, it was obvious. The man didn't know the words for it, but he was describing the exact same thing.

Joren wrote about descending into his own thoughts, about walking through memories like they were real places, about the mind being a shifting thing you could get lost in if you weren't careful. He wrote about fear, about doors that wouldn't open, voices that didn't belong to him. And most haunting of all, he wrote about trying to find his wife inside that space. Not her body, not her spirit but her mind.

Harry had read that part twice. Then a third time.

"To reach her, I must first know the shape of mine own soul, for the door I seek doth not yield to wand nor word, but to will alone."

Click to shrink...

That was when something clicked. Joren wasn't just writing a diary. He was building a map of how to step inside your own head and not go mad doing it.

Harry hadn't told anyone, not yet. But late at night, when the tower was quiet, he'd started trying. Just a few minutes here and there. Sitting still, focusing in, not on spells or thoughts, but on… something deeper. Like trying to listen to silence, or feel his own magic breathing beneath the surface. It didn't work. Not really. But it didn't not work, either. Sometimes he thought he felt something, a tug, a weird feeling.

And that was enough to keep him trying.

Harry and Daphne were still stuck in the testing phase, working with a water base and a growing list of maybe-useful ingredients, all while waiting for the goblins to finish processing the basilisk venom. That part of the process was out of their hands, but it hadn't stopped them from experimenting with smaller combinations on their own. One thing at a time. Isolate the effects. Rule things out.

They weren't brewing anything real yet. Not technically. But they were getting closer to understanding what would work and what absolutely wouldn't. They'd already tested five base stabilizers and tossed three out. One turned the mix into a gray paste with the texture of porridge. Another reacted so aggressively it singed Daphne's sleeve and made Harry dive for the stopper. That one earned the name "Attempt 8C – You Absolute Moron."

They took notes on everything. Every reaction, every failed combination. And slowly, the list of unknowns started to shrink. Daphne was methodical, good at spotting inconsistencies, and absolutely ruthless when it came to throwing out Harry's worse ideas. Harry didn't mind. It made him sharper.

And maybe the biggest surprise of all was that he enjoyed it.

Like, properly enjoyed it.

Not the way Hermione enjoyed memorizing fourteen footnotes or the way Ron enjoyed a Quidditch win. But there was something solid about brewing. Something that made sense. Mix this with that. Heat it just enough. Stir counterclockwise. Wait. Watch. React. It wasn't easy, but it was satisfying.

And it made Harry wonder, more than once, what it would've been like if Snape had actually been a decent teacher. If he hadn't spent three years making Harry feel like an idiot the moment he walked into the dungeon, would Harry have liked Potions from the start? Because now, with space to think and someone like Daphne pushing him to take it seriously, it felt like something he could actually be good at.

Which was weird.

But also, kind of nice.

It had been a few nights back, sometime after midnight, when the mirror on Harry's nightstand lit up. He'd fumbled for it in the dark, knocked his Defense essay onto the floor, and muttered, "Sirius?" while trying not to wake anyone else up.

Sirius's face appeared, grinning like he'd just hexed a Slytherin's robes to sing Celestina Warbeck and legged it down three corridors without getting caught.

"Hey, kid. Remember when you said you wanted to learn more about your family? The sacred this, noble that, all that ridiculous pureblood nonsense?"

Harry had nodded, already suspicious.

"Well," Sirius said, sounding very pleased with himself, "I arranged something."

Harry blinked. "Arranged what?"

"A meeting with my cousin Andromeda. She's smart, sharp, terrifying when she's annoyed, and somehow still has more class than the rest of the Black family put together. She agreed to talk to you. Give you a crash course in surviving the wizarding upper crust without turning into a pompous git."

Harry had sat there blinking at him for a solid ten seconds.

Sirius just shrugged. "You've got two big names tied to your wand now, Harry. Potter and Black. People are watching. Might as well learn the rules before someone tries to use them against you."

And now Harry was walking through the castle, just him and the sound of his shoes on the stone floor. It was Wednesday evening and already dark outside.

Sirius had sorted it all out. Talked to Dumbledore, talked to McGonagall, talked to Andromeda. Now Harry was on his way to a meeting he wasn't entirely sure how to feel about.

The closer he got to McGonagall's office, the more his stomach started twisting.

He knocked on her door. Three taps.

"Enter," came McGonagall's voice.

Harry pushed it open. She was standing by the fireplace already, her usual expression unreadable but not unkind. The fire was lit, glowing red. She gave him a nod and stepped back to let him through.

Harry walked over, grabbed a pinch of Floo powder from the jar on the mantle, and stepped into the grate.

"Thank you, Professor," he said, glancing her way.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," she replied, and for a second, her eyes softened just a little.

Harry threw down the powder and said clearly, "Three Broomsticks."

The flames shot up, swallowed him whole, and he was gone.

Harry stepped out of the fireplace and into the Three Broomsticks, brushing soot from his sleeves. The pub was dimly lit and mostly empty, just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, too wrapped up in their own conversations to pay him any attention. It smelled like firewhiskey and old wood, and the warmth of the hearth hit him all at once after the chill of the castle halls.

He straightened his robes and walked up to the bar, his heart thumping a bit harder than it should've.

Madam Rosmerta looked up from behind the counter, one eyebrow lifting. "Can I help you?"

Harry leaned in a little, lowering his voice. "I think someone's waiting for me. A meeting."

Rosmerta studied him for a second, then gave a single nod. "Room three. Up the stairs, first door on the right."

"Thanks,"

Room three was plain and quiet. White walls, one small window, a round table, and two chairs. No fireplace, no magical trinkets, nothing fancy at all. Just simple, clean, and oddly formal in its simplicity.

Andromeda Black was already seated.

She wasn't old, probably late thirties, if he had to guess. Her dark hair was swept back, pinned neatly, and there was something about her face that stopped him. Not the elegance, though she had that too. It was the shape of her eyes. The cheekbones.

She looked like Sirius. Or rather, Sirius if he were calmer, quieter, and maybe actually capable of sitting still for longer than five seconds. But the resemblance was there.

"Mr. Potter," she said, "Come in. Shut the door behind you."

Harry stepped inside, suddenly aware of how loud his footsteps sounded.

She didn't stand. Just studied him from her seat, one leg crossed, one hand resting lightly on the arm of the chair. Her robes were deep black with silver trim, clean lines and no fuss. Not a bit of jewelry on her.

He sat in the chair across from her, trying not to slouch.

"I want to be clear," she said finally, "this isn't a lesson. Not yet. Just a conversation. I'm here because Sirius asked. But I don't take students on someone else's word alone. Especially not when it comes from someone who used to enchant the dining room chandelier to drop soup on our aunt's head"

"So this is like… an interview?"

She tilted her head, amused. "More like a briefing. I need to know what you want from this. Not him."

Harry shifted in his seat, already starting to feel awkward.

Andromeda watched the movement, then spoke.

"Straighten your back. Lower your shoulders. Chin up."

Harry did it automatically, then blinked. "Sorry?"

"How you sit changes how you feel. How you feel changes how you act. And how you act is how people judge you. If you want to carry a name like yours, you need to learn how to do it without flinching."

He didn't answer right away.

"So," she said, sitting back, eyes never leaving his face. "Tell me, Harry. Why are you here?"

Harry hesitated. "I guess I'm here because… I want to understand it. All of it. The name. What it means. What people see when they hear 'Potter' or 'Black.'"

He paused, then added, "And I don't want to be the last one to figure things out anymore."

Andromeda watched him for a long moment. Then she gave a quiet, almost amused hum, like she'd been expecting something different and was glad she didn't get it.

"That's not etiquette," she said. "Not really."

Harry blinked. "No?"

"No," she said, sitting back. "That's identity. That's you trying to understand who you are and what you're standing in the middle of. Which is much harder, and a lot more interesting, than learning how to make polite conversation at a garden party."

He didn't say anything. But he felt it land.

"I could teach you the rules, sure," she went on. "I can teach you how to walk, talk, eat, nod, vanish from a room without looking like you're running. All of that. But none of it means a thing unless you understand the story you've walked into."

Harry's brows pulled together. "So where do we start?"

Andromeda gave him a look that was equal parts challenge and invitation. "Where we always start. History."

She stood up then, just to stretch her legs, walking a slow circle around the table.

"Sacred Families. Old names. Everyone throws that phrase around like it means something clean. But it's not clean. It's not noble, either. It's power. That's what it is. A web of it. Threaded through favors and bloodlines and debts going back centuries. Magic built on legacy. Influence passed down like heirlooms. It's not about being the best. It's about making sure your name stays louder than the rest."

Harry leaned in a little, listening.

"And the Blacks?" she continued. "We were at the center of it. For a long time. Still are, in some ways. Even after the wars, even after the disgrace. That name still opens doors, and closes others. You carry it now, through Sirius. Whether you want it or not."

Harry looked down at the table, then back up. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"No one ever does," she said softly. "But the world doesn't care. You've got two powerful names tied to you. People are already watching. Deciding what kind of man they think you'll be."

"So what do I do?" Harry asked. "Just play along?"

Andromeda stopped walking and looked at him, really looked at him. "No," she said. "You learn how to walk into a room like you belong there. And then you decide what to do with that power. Not because they told you to but because you understand it."

Andromeda pulled out her chair and sat again.

"All right," she said, almost to herself. "Let's start with the basics."

"You hear 'Sacred Twenty-Eight,' and it sounds official, right? Like some ancient decree. It's not. It's barely over a hundred years old. Some pompous idiot named Cantankerus Nott sat down, got out a quill, and made a list of the families he thought were still 'pure' enough to count. That's it. That's the whole origin story."

She gave a small snort, like she couldn't believe people still took it seriously.

"But people did. Because people love categories. They love feeling chosen. 'We're on the list, so we must be important.' 'They're not, so they're beneath us.' Easy. Clean. Completely made-up."

Harry didn't say anything. He just watched her. You could tell she really cared about this stuff.

"It wasn't about who had the most magic. Or who did the most for the world. It was about blood. Lineage. Who your great-great-grandfather married. Who he didn't marry. The Potters? Left off the list. Too many ties to Muggle-borns. Too many friends in the wrong places."

She looked at him now, like she was weighing something.

"You probably think that's a bad thing. Being left off."

He shrugged. "I dunno. I didn't know there was a list at all until like… a month ago."

Andromeda huffed a quiet laugh, shook her head. "Better that way."

"My family the Blacks went the other direction. Full speed. Obsessed over the list. Over bloodlines, marriages, heirs. It wasn't about love. It was about strategy. Power. My parents raised us like chess pieces. Bellatrix believed every word of it. Narcissa learned to survive it. And me?" She shrugged. "I married a Muggle-born and got burned off the family tree for it."

Harry blinked. "Wait, literally burned off?"

"Have you seen that tapestry at Grimmauld Place?" she asked dryly. "It's not metaphorical."

Harry winced.

"Anyway," she went on, "that's the real history of it. Not noble, not sacred. Just… ego. Codified. Wrapped in pretty language. It gave people a sense of identity, something to hold onto when the world was changing too fast. But the longer you let that kind of thinking simmer, the uglier it gets."

She tapped a finger against the table once, then again.

"First, it's 'We're better than them.' Then it's, 'They don't belong.' Then it's, 'They're the reason everything's going wrong.' That's how it spreads. That's how you end up with someone like Voldemort spreading blood purity nonsense."

Harry looked down at his hands. "And people believed him."

"They wanted to believe him," she said. "Because he told them they were special. That's all it takes, sometimes."



~~~~~~~~



"…she's not what I expected," Harry said, chewing a piece of bread. "Not even close."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "What, no dark velvet robes and evil laugh?"

Harry smirked. "I dunno. I thought she'd be proper, at least. Polished. All 'pureblood manners' and weird tea."

Hermione perked up. "And?"

"She's smart," Harry said. "Talks like she sees straight through you. But not in a mean way. She just… knows stuff. About people."

Ron grunted. "That's a Black thing. They're all mental in their own ways, but most of 'em are clever. Even Bellatrix. Just… scary clever."

"She talked about the Sacred Twenty-Eight," Harry said. "Said it was basically made up. Some guy named Nott scribbled down a list of families he thought were 'pure' enough and that was it."

Ron nodded. "Cantankerus Nott. Total berk. Dad says he used to write angry letters to the Prophet anytime a Muggle-born got a Ministry job. Half the time under a fake name."

Hermione looked disgusted. "So just a big list of self-important families."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. And people bought into it. Like, really bought into it. If you're on the list, you're special. If not, too bad."

Ron rolled his eyes. "It's not just that. It's power stuff. Marriages, alliances, politics. Being on the list meant you had connections. Whole families planned their kids' futures around it. Still do."

Harry stabbed a potato with his fork. "She said the Potters got left off."

"Yeah," Ron said. "You lot were always kind of the rebels. Not blood-traitor level like us, but close. Fought in the goblin rebellions, funded weird causes, stuff like that."

Hermione blinked. "That actually sounds sort of good right?"

"Yeah, well, it wasn't popular with the snobs," Ron cut in. "They liked quiet families who followed the rules."

Harry let out a small huff of laughter. "She said the Blacks went the opposite way. All in on the list. Obsessed with bloodlines. Treated their kids like… chess pieces."

Ron made a face. "Sounds about right. Bet Sirius hated it."

"She said Bellatrix believed in it completely. Narcissa learned to live with it. And Andromeda…" Harry trailed off, then looked at the table. "She married a Muggle-born and they burned her off the family tree."

"Literally," Ron muttered. "Grimmauld Place has that massive tapestry. Big black scorch mark where her name used to be. Right between her sisters. My mom told me. "

Hermione shivered. "That's so…"

"Yeah," Harry said. "I think she made peace with it. But you could tell it still meant something. Like, even if she doesn't regret it, she knows what it cost her."

Hermione was quiet for a beat, then said softly, "It's kind of amazing, actually. To choose that. To walk away from your whole family just because it's the right thing."

Ron tilted his head. "So, is this a one-time thing? Or are you gonna keep seeing her?"

Harry stabbed another bit of potato. "Every Sunday morning. We're meeting in Hogsmeade. Just me and her, no one else."

Ron raised his eyebrows. "You're doing extra lessons? "

"Not lessons like school," Harry said. "More like… life stuff, I guess. She's going to help me figure it out."

Hermione smiled, almost proud. "That sounds like a very good idea, Harry."

Before he could reply, something swooped low over the Gryffindor table. A flash of bronze feathers and a heavy envelope dropped right onto his mashed peas. Harry blinked, wiped a bit of gravy off the wax seal, and turned it over.

It had the Gringotts emblem stamped in gold.



Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Assets Recovery & Special Claims Division

To: Mr. H. J. Potter

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry



Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that preliminary processing of the basilisk carcass recovered from the Chamber of Secrets beneath Hogwarts School has been completed. In accordance with Gringotts' Asset Discovery Protocols (Goblin Code Revision 1317, Clause XIII), our teams have conducted a full materials audit and secured all viable resources under your name.

The following assets have been extracted and are currently held in reserve pending your decisions regarding dispersal or retention:

1. Basilisk Venom (Stabilized)

• Quantity: 11 vials (Grade-A, Potent)
• Market Value: 14,000 Galleons per vial (subject to fluctuation; highly restricted due to dark magic classification)
• Notes: Viable for use in advanced cursebreaking, dark artifact destruction, and high-tier potioneering
• Storage: Vaulted under Category 3 Hazardous Substances

2. Basilisk Hide (Cured)

• Usable Sections: 8.5 square meters
• Market Value: Approx. 3,000 Galleons per square meter
• Notes: Potion-resistant, durable, and highly sought after for protective equipment and specialty enchantment applications

3. Basilisk Fangs (Uncharmed)

• Quantity: 17 intact fangs
• Market Value: 900 Galleons per fang
• Notes: Suitable for potion work, carving, and enchantment. One fang has been marked for historical archiving unless otherwise instructed.

4. Skeletal Material

• Marketable Bone Segments: 5.7 meters (spinal arc, ribs, jawbone)
• Estimated Value: 6,000–8,000 Galleons total
• Notes: Nontraditional wand core material; valuable for alchemical or artisan crafting purposes

5. Magical Residue Collection

• Harvested: Crystallized latent magic collected from Chamber surfaces
• Appraised Value: Pending final purity analysis; estimated between 2,000–4,000 Galleons

Total Estimated Asset Value: 190,000–210,000 Galleons

You are hereby invited to attend a formal consultation regarding the handling of these assets. The meeting will take place this Saturday at 11:30 a.m., within the Assets & Legacy Wing of Gringotts Bank, Diagon Alley. A senior goblin from our Salvage & Legacy Division will oversee the proceedings, along with your assigned Claims Liaison, Ragnok.

Should you wish to invest, enchant, barter, or liquidate any portion of the materials, you may present your intentions at this time. If legal or magical counsel is desired, please arrange their attendance in advance.

Please confirm your availability by owl no later than Friday evening.

Congratulations on your successful recovery, Mr. Potter. This claim is among the most significant of its kind in recent Gringotts history.

Yours in gold and stone,

Griphook Ironquill

Senior Account Handler

Gringotts Assets Recovery Division



Harry reread the letter, eyes darting over lines like "11 vials (Grade-A, Potent)" and "pending your decisions regarding dispersal or retention." It didn't feel real.

He slid the parchment across the table, nudging it toward Ron and Hermione. "Here. Just read it."

Ron's eyebrows shot up the second he hit the venom line. "Bloody hell. That's… that's a fortune."

Hermione didn't even blink. "Over two hundred thousand Galleons, easy."

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "And I don't want to sell most of it."

Ron glanced up, confused. "You don't?"

Harry shook his head. "The venom's the reason I filed the claim in the first place. Me and Daphne, we've been waiting on it. For the project."

Hermione gave a quick nod. "Right. The potion. You said the formula needed a magical toxin to stabilize it."

"Exactly. We've tested everything else that might even come close. But this… this is what we need."

"And the hide?" she asked.

Harry shrugged. "Could be useful. For shielding, maybe. Or ritual work. Dunno yet."

Ron leaned back a bit. "So what about the rest of it? The bones and crystals and stuff?"

"That's what I need to figure out," Harry said. "I want to talk to Sirius first. See what the smart move is."

Hermione folded the letter neatly, like it was a contract she was tempted to edit. "Well. You've got a few days. Meeting's not until Saturday. Plenty of time to think it through."

Harry nodded, though his fingers were drumming the table now. "Yeah. I just didn't expect it to feel this… big."

Ron stabbed his roast potato with unnecessary force. "Mate, it's a basilisk. It was always gonna be big. "

Hermione tilted her head. "Maybe there's someone you could talk to? I don't know… someone who works with magical ingredients or rare stuff. Gringotts probably has people like that, right?"

Harry frowned. "You think there's actually a job for that?"

Ron shrugged. "Dunno, but sounds right. I mean, Dad works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, and that's like, half his day spent dealing with cursed toasters. So if there are people paid to sort out flying kettles, there's definitely someone out there getting paid to figure out what to do with a giant murder snake."

Hermione nodded slowly. "That's kind of what I meant. Not just bankers. Like… magical craftsmen. People who know how to use this stuff properly."

Harry leaned back in his seat, thinking. "Yeah. Might be worth asking. I'll talk to Sirius first, see what he thinks."

Ron forked another bite of stew. "He probably knows someone. "

Harry glanced back at the letter. "Still feels mad. Like one minute I'm just trying to get through Potions without blowing something up, and now I've got a vault full of basilisk bits and goblins inviting me to meetings."

"Well," Hermione said gently, "that's kind of been your whole life, hasn't it?"

Ron raised his goblet in mock salute. "To Harry. Always neck-deep in chaos."

Harry snorted. "Cheers. To chaos."



For those who read my stories; i am working on new web novel named Aura Breaker. My other project VIRGIN DESTROYER failed so i am starting once again. I plan to start publishing it here once i write 40 chapters.


here is the short description of the whole series:

A lifer turned fugitive swordsman must carve a personal Dao and close world-splitting dungeons after a cosmic "System Trial" shatters Earth into three deadly sectors.

 

[Xyl]

Awesome chapter. It's great seeing the characters evolving, their thought pattern etc. Keep up the amazing work!

 

[certher]

Harry pushed open the classroom door with his elbow, arms full of Honeydukes loot.

"Truce offering," he announced, stepping inside.

She was already at the worktable, sleeves rolled and wand balanced between two fingers as she stirred their latest trial base. Her school robes hung open over her blouse and skirt, her tie barely done up and loose at the collar. Her legs were tucked under the stool, socks folded neat at the ankle, and Harry looked for a second longer than he meant to before dragging his eyes up like he hadn't.

Totally normal. Just legs. She had legs. Moving on.

He dropped the bag onto the table with a dramatic thud. "Two packs of Fizzing Whizzbees, one box of Sugar Quills, and a raspberry Chocobomb, which, for the record, I almost had to fight a third year for."

Daphne glanced up, and for a second, Harry blanked. Her lashes looked darker, eyes sharper. Her lips were red. Not just "ate-a-strawberry" red but actual lipstick red. It didn't look like something she'd done for class.

"You're forgiven," she said easily, plucking the Chocobomb from the pile.

He rolled up his sleeves, and joined her at the workbench.

Yeah, things had changed.

Somewhere between Attempt 6A (The Porridge Disaster) and that time she'd nearly singed off his eyebrows with a miscalculated stirring charm, they'd stopped being awkward study partners and just… started working. Like properly working. Talking without the weird pauses, calling each other out without the eggshells. And Harry had figured out something important: Daphne Greengrass had a serious sweet tooth and very little patience for dramatics unless she was the one causing them.

"You run the test with silverroot yet?" he asked, grabbing a clean vial.

"Tried it last night. Stabilized for twenty-three seconds before it started to spike. Nearly blew a hole through my desk."

"So… not the winner."

"No," she said, tossing him a pinch of dried valerian. "But it ruled out cross-reaction with fluxweed, which is useful."

They moved easily now, ingredients passed back and forth without needing to ask. Stir, check the color, write it down. The rhythm of it had become familiar. Predictable, but not boring.

Harry slid a few finished vials onto the cooling rack and finally said, "Got the Gringotts letter."

Daphne didn't look up. "And?"

"Eleven vials of basilisk venom."

That made her pause mid-stir.

"You're joking."

"I wish. That's not even the half of it." He pulled the folded parchment from his pocket, already a little wrinkled, and spread it out on the table. "Hide, bones, fangs. Some weird crystallized magic they scraped off the Chamber walls. Total value's over two hundred thousand."

She whistled low. "Alright, Potter. You're officially a one-man potion cartel."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, well. I don't want to sell most of it. Especially not the venom. That's for this."

"Obviously," she said, already scanning the list. "We built this formula assuming we'd get it. That's the whole point of the third phase. Water base was just to keep things safe until we knew how the venom might interact," she said.

"Which we don't," Harry pointed out.

"Not exactly," Daphne admitted. She tapped the side of the cauldron with her wand. "But dragon's blood is the closest thing we can get. Similar volatility, similar magical weight. If we can get this stable with that, we've got a real shot when the venom comes in."

Harry leaned forward, brow furrowed. "Isn't that insanely expensive?"

Daphne smirked, already stepping closer. "Then we should be glad that you're so riiiich… right?"

She gave his arm a little squeeze and Harry felt his brain do a full stop.

He blinked at her. "Oh my god. I cannot believe you just did that."

She grinned like she'd just won something, biting the inside of her cheek. "What? I'm just appreciating our generous financier."

Harry tried to look unimpressed but couldn't stop the stupid smile tugging at his mouth. "Fine. I'll get the dragon's blood."

"Thank you, Harry," she said, almost sing-song, and gave his bicep another smug little pat before going right back to stirring the potion like nothing happened.

Harry shook his head as he reached for the jar of powdered hellebore. "You weren't even mad."

Daphne didn't look up. "Sure I was."

"You cornered me like I'd kicked your cat. Accused me of ditching you for 'fame and butterbeer.'"

"I stand by that phrasing," she said sweetly.

Harry rolled his eyes, scooped the powder, then paused. "Seriously though. You gonna tell me what that was really about?"

She didn't answer. Just tossed a pinch of something into the cauldron and gave it a sharp clockwise stir. The potion hissed, then settled again.

Harry set the spoon down, circled the bench, and leaned forward, hands braced on either side of her notes. Close enough that she had to glance up.

"You can tell me," he said, and this time his voice wasn't teasing. "Whatever it was. I'm not a mind reader."

Daphne met his eyes, her mouth tightening like she wasn't sure if she wanted to say it or make another joke.

Then she sighed. "It was stupid."

"Let me decide that."

She gave him a look. "I just… didn't like not knowing where you were."

Harry blinked. "I was just hanging out with Ron and Hermione."

"I know," she said quickly. "It's not that. You're allowed to have other friends. Obviously. It's just.. this thing we're doing? It matters to me. More than I expected. And when you vanished for a few days without saying anything, I… I don't know. Thought maybe you were done."

He stared at her for a beat. "Daphne, I skipped three afternoons. Not the rest of my life."

"I said it was stupid," she muttered.

"It's not," Harry said. "It's actually kind of… not."

She tilted her head at him, wary. "Are you making fun of me right now?"

"No. I'm saying you could've just said something. You didn't need to go full dramatic monologue outside the Great Hall."

She narrowed her eyes. "Wouldn't have gotten me candy though."

"Ah," Harry said. "So that was the goal."

"A partial goal."

Harry snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"I know," she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder.

Harry let out a breath and looked down at the mess of parchment spread across the table. Half her notes were neat and underlined, the other half looked like a chicken with inked feet had run a marathon across the page.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, dragging one clean sheet toward him. "Alright. Let's actually figure out where we are, because on my end? It's a pile of maybe-this and probably-not."

He grabbed his quill, dipped it, and started scribbling.

"Okay… stable base with sage, valerian, and knotgrass. Fluxweed's fine. Silverroot's a nope. Stirring pattern works best at four-count, counterclockwise. Hellebore still moody. Dragon's blood next, since it's the closest thing to the venom."

He paused to shake ink off his fingers and kept going.

"If that holds, we test it with the current base. If it doesn't try to kill us, we move to micro doses of the real thing once it arrives. No more than three ingredients at a time until we know what reacts how."

He sat back a little, scanned what he'd written, then looked over at her.

"Anything to add?"

Daphne leaned on one elbow, totally smug. "No, Professor Potter. That was spleeeendid."

Harry rolled his eyes and grabbed the last couple of filled vials. "Professor Potter," he muttered under his breath. "Right."

He crossed the room, nudging the cabinet door open with his foot. The hinges squeaked like they hadn't been oiled since the seventies. Inside, their work was lined up in uneven rows. Clear glass marked with uneven handwriting, a mix of Daphne's perfect script and Harry's half-legible scrawl.

He slotted the new ones into place, reading off labels as he went. "Nine-A, stable. Nine-B, the one that fizzed. Nine-C, still smells like burned socks. Nine-D… probably cursed, honestly."

Behind him, he heard Daphne snort.

He smiled without turning around. Something about the sound always caught him off guard lately.

When he turned back around, she was watching him. Elbow on the table, chin in her hand, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

At the beginning, Daphne had been all tight shoulders and measured words, like she was always two seconds from deciding this wasn't worth her time. Now? Now she leaned into him when she talked. Rolled her eyes at his jokes. Threw sugar quills at him when he got something wrong and told stories like she forgot to be guarded.

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," Harry said before he could talk himself out of it.

Daphne blinked like she hadn't expected him to say anything serious. Then she smiled, softer this time. "Yeah. I am."

She nudged her Sugar Quill aside and leaned in slightly, voice dropping like she couldn't hold it in another second.

"But wait, I didn't tell you what happened last night… So, Pansy really acted nasty against Millicent…"

~~~



The stairs up to the Owlery were as drafty and uneven as always, but Harry barely noticed. He had the letter clutched in one hand, fingers still slightly smudged with ink from rewriting it twice. The other hand stayed stuffed in the pocket of his dark green jumper one of the few nice things he actually liked wearing, even if he still wasn't sure how to stop feeling weird about it. Jeans, boots, nothing fancy. Just enough to feel like himself.

Percy had scribbled the name of the shop on a scrap of parchment a few days ago when Harry cornered him near the Prefects' bathroom.

"If you're looking for regulated alchemical suppliers, Breccius & Co. is the one most of the Ministry people use," Percy had said, all puffed up like he was giving top-secret advice. "Reliable. Boring. The goblins respect their paperwork."

Harry hadn't told him what it was for, just nodded, thanked him, and walked off before Percy could ask more questions. Now the letter was sealed, addressed neatly to Breccius & Co., with all the official wording he could manage. A small request, dragon's blood, certified pure, for academic use under Hogwarts supervision. He'd even asked McGonagall about using the school's delivery registry to avoid delays. She'd raised an eyebrow but signed off when he added that it was just for a potion project.

It was pricey stuff seventeen Galleons for a vial but apparently not rare. Turns out, dragon blood was used in enough advanced potions that the shop kept small amounts in stock for research buyers.

The Owlery door creaked open under his push. It smelled like straw and feathers and that strange musty scent that never quite left. The rafters were full of owls, tucked into beams or perched along the edges, silent and watchful. A few rustled when he entered. One large barn owl looked at him like he was late. Which was good because he couldn't find Hedwig.

"You'll do," Harry muttered, stepping forward. The owl tilted its head as he tied the letter to its leg with careful fingers.

"Diagon Alley. Breccius & Co. Don't drop it, yeah?"

The owl gave him a dry look and launched off the perch, wings flapping hard before it caught the wind and vanished into the clouds.

Harry adjusted the strap of his bag as he made his way back down the path from the Owlery, boots crunching over scattered leaves. The castle loomed in the distance, all grey stone and warm windows against the dull October sky, but his thoughts weren't on the weather. They circled back, again and again, to the journal.

The first few times he tried, it was useless. His brain wouldn't shut up, just constant noise. Random memories, half-finished thoughts, stuff he hadn't even realized he was carrying around. It made him realize how loud his mind actually was, all the time.

But last night was different.

For the first time, he'd managed a stretch of real quiet. Not perfect, but minutes passed without any thoughts barging in. No drifting off. No sudden flashes of anxiety or his brain dragging him back to something he forgot to do. Just stillness.

And in that stillness, he felt it.

Not a thought. Not even a feeling. More like… pressure. The surface was calm but that calm only made it clearer how much was moving underneath.

Something old. Something waiting.

And now that he'd touched it, even for a second, he knew the hard part wasn't clearing his mind.

It was what came after.

He rounded the corner by the greenhouses, absently dragging his hand along the cold stone wall. He wasn't in a rush to go anywhere.

"Harry," said a voice beside him.

He nearly jumped. Luna Lovegood was walking just a few steps behind him, no sound of footsteps, as usual.

"Oh. Hey, Luna."

She smiled like always, soft and far-off, and matched his pace without asking. Her arms were wrapped around a dog-eared Quibbler, like it was some kind of pillow she'd forgotten to put down. They walked a few steps in silence.

"I wanted to ask you something," she said eventually.

Harry glanced at her. Luna didn't usually ask. She just said things, and you either caught up or you didn't.

"Sure," he said. "What's up?"

"Professor Flitwick said you asked about me."

That caught him off guard. "Oh yeah. I just… I dunno, you seemed a bit off lately."

She nodded like she'd already expected that answer. "He thought maybe I was upset about something."

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "It wasn't just me. Ginny mentioned it too. Said you'd been kind of… quiet. Not in your usual way. More like pulled back."

Luna looked thoughtful. "I didn't notice."

"You've just been different," Harry said carefully. "That's all. Not bad. Just… different."

"I've been thinking more," she said, her eyes fixed ahead. "Spending time with new people."

"Anyone I know?"

"Caleb Selwyn."

Harry stopped walking.

"I like talking to him," she said simply, almost to herself. "He listens."

Harry didn't respond. His feet eventually moved again, but his mind was already spinning. Something didn't feel right. Not at all.

She hadn't drifted off mid-sentence once. No strange metaphors about nargles or shimmering doorways to alternate realities. Just Caleb Selwyn, and "he listens."

Harry glanced at her again, more curious than anything. "So… what do you two talk about?"

Luna shrugged. "Lots of things. He's quiet, but not in a boring way. Just… careful. And kind. People don't expect that from him."

Harry hummed. "Yeah, I guess I don't really know him."

"You don't," she said, like that settled it.

That made Harry look at her properly. She still wasn't looking back, but he could see the way her fingers tightened a little around the Quibbler, just for a second.

He didn't push. He didn't want to interrogate her. Whatever this was, Luna wasn't being cagey. If anything, she was more direct than usual.

"You know," Harry said, "it was Ginny who asked me to talk to Flitwick. She's been worried about you."

Luna didn't stop walking, didn't even slow down. But something changed. Her face didn't move much, just this tiny change in how she was holding it. Like she was trying not to let something show.

It looked like fear.

Just for a second. Gone before Harry could be sure he'd even seen it.

Then she smiled again, all soft and dreamy like always. "I know," she said. "That's why I asked you."

Harry frowned a little, watching her closer now.

He waited for her to say something else. One of her usual Luna things. Something about moon beetles or lost ghosts that hum at sunrise. But she just kept walking.

"I'm going to the library," she said over her shoulder. "Thanks, Harry."

And that was it.

He left the corridor and Luna behind, still feeling that strange unease curling in the back of his head. But there wasn't anything he could do right now, not really. He didn't even know what to name the feeling. So he shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the common room.



The Fat Lady barely had time to fully open entrance before Ron's voice hit Harry like a Bludger to the ear.

"Harry! Help me!"

He stepped into the common room and spotted Ron by the fireplace, looking like he was either going to hex something or throw himself into the flames. Hermione was standing across from him, arms folded so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

"I told her we went to the kitchens to get some cake between classes," Ron said, jabbing a thumb at Hermione, "and she started asking questions and now she's lost the plot!"

"I am not losing the plot," Hermione said, glaring. "I'm just thinking critically. You should try it sometime."

Harry dropped his bag on the nearest chair. "Okay. What exactly did you say to her?"

"I said the house-elves made everything," Ron said. "Because they do! And then she started grilling me like I've personally enslaved them."

"I asked one question," Hermione said. "Then three more. And then it spiraled because apparently no one's ever thought about how awful it is."

Harry sat down and leaned back like he was bracing for impact. "Alright. Let's hear it."

Hermione turned to him, eyes blazing. "Did you know they don't get paid?"

Harry gave a small nod. "Yeah. I figured."

"No breaks. No time off. No wands. No rights. They cook, they clean, they handle every inch of this castle and no one even says thank you."

"I said thank you!" Ron cut in, voice high with frustration. "I thanked them, Hermione. I told them the tart was excellent."

Hermione looked like she wanted to throw something at him.

"That's not the point, Ron! You thanked them for doing something they never agreed to do in the first place! They're born into it! They've never been given a choice. And you're acting like it's all fine because the tart was warm."

"I'm not saying it's fine!" Ron said. "I'm saying I didn't think about it! We've been eating their food since first year! What, now I'm the villain for liking snacks?"

Harry scratched the back of his head. "No one's saying you're a villain."

Hermione shot him a look like she might be saying it, just not out loud yet.

Ron threw his hands up. "It's not like I invented house-elf labor, Hermione! I just wanted cake!"

"That's exactly the problem!" Hermione said. "You didn't even stop to think about it! You just took what they gave you and walked off like that was normal!"

"Because it is normal!" Ron shouted, and a few first-years near the window flinched. "It's always been like that! At home, at Hogwarts, everywhere!"

"Then maybe it shouldn't be," Hermione snapped.

Ron turned to Harry, clearly hoping for backup. "Come on. You knew about it too, right? You didn't think it was some kind of crime ring."

Harry held up both hands. "I knew. I just didn't… think about it much. I mean, they've always been there. I didn't know what the rules were."

Hermione looked like she was two seconds from exploding. "That's the thing! There aren't any rules! No one talks about it! They're treated like background furniture that happens to breathe!"

"Okay, calm down," Ron said, which was the wrong thing to say and he realized it immediately.

Hermione's voice turned cold. "Don't you dare tell me to calm down."

Ron sat down slowly, like backing away from a triggered magical trap.

"I'm just saying," he said carefully, "you might want to do a little more research before you burn the whole castle down."

Hermione let out a breath through her nose. "Oh, don't worry. I plan to."

Harry sat down next to him. "Yeah… but you know how Hermione is."

Ron looked over. "I wasn't trying to start a debate. I just said the house-elves were nice. They were nice."

"They were," Harry said. "But I think she's looking at it from a different angle."

Ron groaned. "Of course she is."

"I mean… I don't really know much about house-elves. Do you?"

Ron didn't answer, just rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the floor.

Harry leaned back. "Same."

They sat like that for a bit.

Ron finally muttered, "She's definitely gonna make it a thing, isn't she."

Harry grinned. "Oh yeah. Big thing."

Ron sighed. "Brilliant."

 

[lixisbest]

Before we jump into the next chapter, I'd like to take a moment to address something. I've found it quite amusing how a single word Harry used in the previous chapter has sparked such a wave of negative comments and overanalysis. So, let me be perfectly clear:

If you don't like this story, you're absolutely free not to read it.

As the author, I want to make it crystal clear that I do not hold homophobic beliefs, and neither does the version of Harry I'm portraying here. That said, normal readers already know this.

Now, let's move on to the chapter.

Click to shrink...

This feels pretty disingenuous -> The issue is not the word itself, it's the context in which it being used. It's used as an insult -> and that only works if the character believes it is something that is insulting if true, and in this case, something shameful. It's completely realistic for teenage schoolboys in the 90s to use as in insult, that doesn't mean that Harry using it here isn't homophobic, because it absolutely is - an almost textbook example of homophobia amongst teenage boys.

I don't think that makes you homophobic for writing it, or Harry an unredeemable person for saying it, we've all been dumb teenagers, but the "clapback" here is a strawman.

 

[certher]

Harry didn't hear the goblin at first.

His eyes were on the wall. Not looking at it. Just… stuck. It was cold and cracked and probably hadn't been scrubbed since the first goblin war, but that wasn't why he couldn't look away. His brain just refused to go anywhere else.

It had been a long day. Long enough that his skull felt full. Not pain exactly. Just pressure, like something inside was bracing for impact.

And all of it, somehow, came back to Richard.

Sirius told him through the mirror, late one night when neither of them could sleep. His voice came through a bit warped, like it always did, but the words were clear.

"I know a guy," he said. "Met him in Azkaban. Name's Richard. Bit odd, doesn't like people much, but he's brilliant. If you've got rare ingredients, he's the one who'll actually know what they're worth."

Then he leaned closer to the mirror like someone might overhear, even though they were both alone.

"The shop's called Aqua & Umbra. No sign, no door handle. Down the third alley off Knockturn."

So Harry went. Down the third alley off Knockturn, past a cart selling what looked like preserved eyes and a window lined with cursed teeth.

The door was exactly how Sirius described it. No handle. No window.

Harry hesitated, then pushed.

"…Aqua and Umbra?" he called out.

The door clicked shut behind Harry.

The shop was narrow and dim, built like a cellar more than a storefront. The air smelled of soot and salt and something that might once have been alive. The walls were lined with crooked shelving, scroll canisters, and jars filled with unfamiliar matter.

A voice came from the back.

"Mind your step. Some of the wards remain incomplete."

Harry stepped forward carefully. The floor was worn stone. There was no counter, only a single passage that led into a back room, where pale green light glowed from glass spheres suspended above a worktable.

A dwarf stood behind it, writing on a piece of vellum with a long brass-tipped quill. He was bald, broad-shouldered, and dressed in thick robes layered with functional enchantments.

He looked up once and held Harry's gaze.

"You are a Potter," he said. "That much is unmistakable. The family resemblance is not subtle."

Harry nodded. "I'm Harry. Sirius said you might be able to help me."

"Sirius Black says many things. On occasion, some of them are true."

He put down his quill, rolled up the parchment, and stepped to a side shelf. He retrieved a second chair, placed it beside the table, and gestured toward it.

"Sit. Articulate your purpose."

Harry sat. He pulled the Gringotts letter from his bag and passed it across the table. Richard took it without comment. His eyes moved quickly over the contents.

After a moment, he spoke.

"Very well. Let us examine the assets in order."

His eyes returned to the top.

"Eleven vials of venom. Grade-A. Stabilized. This is not a reagent. It is dissolution incarnate. It unbinds magical structure at its core lattice. If misused, it does not harm a spell, it erases it. Permanently."

Harry leaned forward. "So it's good for destroying cursed objects?"

"It is ideal for destroying anything magical. Including wards, enchantments, or bonded items. Use requires an advanced containment protocol. Handling must be precise, measured in micro-dosage. Most potion masters cannot manage it safely. Most who try do so once."

Richard continued, his voice steady and clipped.

"Next, cured hide. Eight and a half square meters. Highly resistant. Physically durable. Immune to common hexes and standard-grade potion exposure. It is difficult to shape, nearly impossible to transfigure. Enchantment layering is viable if prepared on an active spellforge."

He looked up at Harry.

"I operate such a forge."

Harry nodded, not interrupting.

"Seventeen intact fangs. Trace venom remains in the marrow. Structurally stable. These are viable for use in ritual implements, core focuses, or wardcasting tools. Their utility depends on the engraving discipline. Without appropriate runic structure, they will degrade. Violently."

Harry glanced at the letter again. "Could one of them be used in a wand?"

"Technically. Though wandlore rejects unstable cores. Basilisk fangs are rarely chosen because they amplify volatility. You would not get finesse. You would get raw disruption."

Next came the line about bone.

"Five-point-seven meters of skeletal material. Most of it arc segments. Not valuable in the commercial sense. Highly valuable to artificers and wardcrafters. Basilisk bone conducts magical resonance and retains structural charge. Inert until integrated into a circuit. Useless on a shelf. Dangerous in motion."

Harry gave a slight nod, following most of it.

"And the last thing. Magical residue."

Richard paused. This was the first item he gave real weight.

"Crystallized ambient magic. Harvested from the Chamber walls. This is not residual in the passive sense. It is linguistic imprint, magic anchored by repetition. Likely Parseltongue. Possibly command-based. This is not byproduct. This is cultivated saturation."

Harry blinked. "So someone filled the room with magic just by… talking?"

Richard's tone remained even.

"Repeated incantation in a magically active environment can leave behind structured echoes. Not memories. Instructions. You are holding a material that may still be listening."

That landed harder than Harry expected. He was quiet a moment, then spoke again.

"So what do I do with all of this?"

Richard folded the letter once, clean and deliberate, and set it aside.

"You attend your meeting. You express confidence. You do not entertain liquidation. Not yet. Goblins value simplicity. They will encourage you to convert your claim into gold. That would be short-sighted."

"I wasn't planning to sell it," Harry said.

Richard let out a quiet hum, not really to Harry, more like to himself. He folded the letter again, neat and slow. Then he looked at Harry, eyes squinting just a bit.

Harry didn't say anything. Just sat there while Richard looked at him like he was solving a puzzle no one had explained yet.

"You'll need a report," Richard said finally. "I'll put one together. Bring it to your meeting. If Ragnok kicks up a fuss, tell him I handled the Black Forest Hydra claim. Or Dragonfire. He'll get the message."

That was yesterday.

"Mr. Potter."

The voice cut through the fog in his head like a knife.

A goblin stood in the open doorway, narrow-shouldered, his silver-rimmed spectacles hanging low on his nose. Not one Harry recognized. Definitely not Ragnok or Griphook. Just one of the many who seemed to run Gringotts like clockwork and expected everyone else to do the same.

"They are waiting."

Harry stood, his knees stiff from sitting too long, and rolled his shoulders once under his robes. The report from Richard was still tucked in his inner pocket, sealed and heavy against his side.

He followed the goblin through a short corridor lined with plaques and ancient-looking vault keys, past a pair of reinforced doors marked Assets & Legacy – High Clearance Only, and into a room colder than the rest of the bank.

Two goblins were already seated at the end of a long black table—one sorting documents, the other writing something with a pen made of blackened bone.

Harry recognized Ragnok immediately. The Claims Liaison wore layered bronze cuffs and a dark green coat with gold threading, his expression unreadable as ever. Next to him sat Griphook Ironquill, flipping through a ledger. He didn't look up.

Between them sat a long reinforced case. Matte black. No lock. Just three glowing seals, each in a different magical script.

Harry took the seat offered to him without a word. His palms felt too warm, and his head was still crowded with Richard's voice.

Ragnok looked up. "You have reviewed the material list, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes."

"And your intention?"

Harry exhaled once through his nose. He reached into his robes and pulled out the sealed report, sliding it across the table.

"I brought documentation. From a specialist."

Griphook stopped flipping pages. Ragnok took the scroll, broke the wax, and began to read. His eyes moved slowly, methodically and when he reached the end, he set the parchment flat on the table and folded his hands over it.

"We are familiar with the author," he said. "Richard's credentials are not in dispute."

Griphook spoke next. "What is in dispute is the timeline. This proposal delays liquidation. Prolonged storage increases risk. And under Goblin Code, minors cannot hold independent liability for hazardous magical assets without oversight."

Harry's jaw tensed. "I didn't ask to be the only one who could kill a basilisk."

"You filed the claim," Griphook said. "That makes it yours."

"And I'm dealing with it," Harry replied. "I'm not throwing it in a vault and pretending it doesn't exist."

Ragnok cut in. "Where is your guardian, Mr. Potter? Gringotts requires an adult proxy in high-risk asset negotiations. That is standard."

For a second, Harry hesitated. Sirius flashed in his mind, but there was no way he could show up here without someone drawing a wand.

"I don't need a guardian to hold my hand," Harry said carefully. "I filed the claim myself. I came here myself. I can manage my own business."

Griphook raised a brow. "That's a bold assertion for someone who just turned fourteen."

"And who is still more informed than half the clients you deal with," Harry shot back..

Ragnok leaned back slightly in his chair. "The bank prefers liquidation. Gold is safe. Gold is stable. A pile of venom and cursed bone is not."

"I'm not selling," Harry said.

"Not even a portion?" Ragnok asked. "The bones? The fangs? Several buyers have already submitted sealed bids."

Harry shook his head. "Not until the materials are assessed and processed. You said Richard's credentials aren't in question. So trust the process."

Griphook's tone flattened. "Gringotts does not operate on trust. We operate on terms. You have thirty days. If no progress is shown by then, the bank may reassess its position."

Harry nodded once. "Fine."

"One final item," Ragnok said. "The fang designated for historical archiving. We request it be transferred immediately to the Archive of Magical Anomalies."

Harry hesitated, just briefly.

"All right. You can archive it."

Ragnok made a note on the form. Griphook reached for a stamped envelope.

Harry stood before either of them could add another condition. He slipped Richard's report back into his pocket and adjusted his robes.

"I'll be in touch."

Harry stepped out of the room and let the door click shut behind him. For a second, he just stood there in the hallway, then brought his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose like that might squeeze the stress out of his skull.

It didn't.

Thirty days. That was what they gave him.

Which meant the venom, the one thing he actually had a plan for, was off-limits until then. Locked up behind layers of security and Gringotts procedure. He couldn't touch it.

The rest of it though, the hide, the fangs, the bones, the residue that was still his responsibility. And he didn't have a plan for any of it. Not yet. But he needed one. Fast. If he didn't show progress, they'd take it out of his hands and sell it off for convenience.

He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. The hide had to be forged, which meant scheduling time with Richard. The fangs couldn't sit untreated much longer. The bone might be useless unless it was crafted into something. And the residue… he wasn't even sure looking at it too long was safe. Richard had called it linguistic imprint. Magic that might still be listening.

He'd have to go back to the shop. Get a real breakdown. Make a list. Figure out what came next.

He dropped his hand and started walking toward the lift. One fang was already archived. The rest was his. Five pieces. Thirty days.

It was going to be a long month.

Before heading back to Hogwarts, Harry needed to pick up one last thing. Dragon blood. They were finally getting somewhere with their potion project. Breccius and Company was just next to the apothecary, so it wasn't far. He kept his head down to avoid any extra attention, and a few minutes later he was inside the shop.

A witch behind the counter looked up.

"Name?"

"Harry Potter. I'm here for a pickup."

She checked the ledger, disappeared through the back, and returned with a wooden case.

"Seventeen Galleons."

Harry paid. She slid the box across the counter. The label read Dragon's Blood – Certified Pure.

"Use proper containment. Do not unseal in open air."

He gave a nod, tucked it into his bag, and left without another word.

---

The scratch of Harry's quill was the only sound in the room. He sat hunched over a desk in the far corner of an unused classroom, parchment spread out beside a half-empty bottle of ink and the library copy of Elementary Defensive Applications in Charms, Year Four. His handwriting had started neat but was slipping fast.



"While Glacius is not traditionally considered a dueling spell, it has high utility in terrain manipulation, control of motion, and neutralizing fire-based threats…"



He stopped, tapped the quill against his chin, then crossed out "not traditionally" and rewrote it as "rarely." That sounded more like something Flitwick would say.

He kept writing.



"In colder climates, Glacius is often taught as a survival charm, but in combat contexts, its true value lies in tactical interference. A thin layer of ice beneath a duelist's feet can force repositioning or disrupt spell accuracy. Ice buildup on wands, gloves, or sleeves has been recorded as a cause of spell misfire in at least three historical duels."



Harry blinked and scribbled in the margin: Check if those are in the footnotes.

He shifted slightly in the chair, stretching out his writing hand. The library copy of Elementary Defensive Applications sat open to a faded illustration of a witch freezing a hallway mid-battle. The caption underneath read: A cooling field may halt flame but also complicate escape routes.

He frowned, then added:



"However, its drawbacks include low offensive pressure, high visibility when cast, and environmental instability. Slippery terrain can hinder allies as easily as enemies. For this reason, Glacius is best used in combination with direct control spells or to support an escape."



That was probably enough. He scratched his name across the top of the parchment, underlined the title with a slightly crooked line, and set the essay aside to dry.

His eyes drifted toward the slim red book beside the ink bottle. Duelling: Art and Precision.

It had been weeks since Sirius gave him the book, and Harry hadn't even cracked it open until now. Weird, really. Since when was he too busy to check out a book on throwing spells at people?

He flipped past the introduction and skimmed until he landed on a section labeled Precision Under Pressure. The next spell listed was one he didn't recognize: Confringo. A blasting curse. Not as controlled as Expelliarmus, but effective. The book called it "volatile but efficient at short range," especially in close-quarters combat.

He pushed the essay aside, stood up, and drew his wand. Forty minutes till dinner.

Might as well make them count.

---

Finished with testing his aim on Confringo, Harry muttered, "Tempus," just like Sirius had shown him last week. Thin silver numbers blinked into the air—17:42.

He winced. Late. Bag over his shoulder, he headed for the stairs.

Between Diagon Alley, goblins, dragon blood pickups, Charms homework, and blasting desks in an abandoned classroom, Harry felt like someone had packed three days into one. At this point, all he wanted was dinner and maybe to not think for a few hours.

He was halfway down to the Entrance Hall when he spotted a familiar ginger mop standing near the base of the stairs, adjusting his tie with one hand and yawning wide enough to dislocate something.

Harry blinked. "You? Late for dinner?"

Ron squinted up at him and scratched the back of his neck. "Ehh… I took a nap. Overslept. You know how it is."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "No. I really don't."

"Well, it's a new thing I'm trying," Ron said, stretching. "Very experimental."

Harry snorted and fell into step beside him. "You didn't miss much. I think I burned a hole in the floor with Confringo."

Ron looked mildly impressed. "Nice. Just wait till you try it on Malfoy."

"Tempting."

They crossed through the main doors into the Great Hall, voices and clatter already echoing off the high ceiling. Just before they reached the Gryffindor table, Ron nudged him.

"By the way, apparently Dumbledore's doing some big speech tonight."

Harry sighed. "Let me guess. Something about the tournament?"

"Yup. Ginny said she saw a giant wooden cup being carted in earlier."

Harry made a face. "Of course she did."

"Bet you five Sickles he tries to make it sound exciting."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Deal."

By the time they dropped onto the bench at the Gryffindor table, the smell of roast chicken and buttered potatoes was already dragging Harry out of his exhaustion. He didn't even look before reaching for the closest serving spoon. All he wanted was to eat and maybe not think for a few minutes.

Ron was already piling food onto his plate. Across the table, Hermione was seated with her arms tight at her sides and a plate of untouched vegetables in front of her. She didn't say anything. Just kept eating in small, sharp movements, like every bite was a decision.

Harry noticed but didn't ask. He figured if it mattered, she'd tell them. Probably loudly.

He passed Ron the gravy and asked, "So what'd I miss while I was being emotionally bludgeoned by goblins?"

Ron shrugged. "Bit of Charms revision, bit of napping. Might've accidentally slept through the whole afternoon."

Harry blinked. "You skipped class?"

"I didn't mean to. I sat down in the common room and woke up at dinner. It was educational, in its own way."

Harry snorted and reached for a bread roll.

The noise in the Hall was off. Like everyone was waiting for something, talking faster than usual and throwing glances toward the far end of the room. That's when Harry saw them.

Two new tables, long and polished, had been added past the Ravenclaw and Slytherin sections. Empty for now, but clearly not by accident.

"Those weren't here this morning," he said.

"They're for the visitors," Hermione said without looking up.

Before Harry could ask what visitors Dumbledore stood at the staff table, and the room quieted immediately.

"If I may have your attention," he said, voice carrying through the Hall with ease. "As many of you are aware, this year marks the return of the Triwizard Tournament."

A low buzz swept through the students.

"And as tradition demands, we are joined by our fellow schools in this endeavor."

The great doors at the end of the Hall opened with a slow creak. Every head turned.

Two groups came through the front doors.

First were the girls. All of them tall, kind of glowing, dressed in these soft blue robes that looked way too nice for a school. They moved together like they were in a play or something, all graceful and floaty, and it hit Harry that every single person at the Gryffindor table had stopped eating just to watch them walk.

He caught the scent of something sweet as they passed, like flowers or perfume. Jasmine maybe.

Ron was staring with his mouth open. Not even blinking.

Harry elbowed him under the table.

Then the second group showed up. These guys didn't float. They marched. Big coats, big boots, serious faces. They looked like they could punch through a door just by walking at it. One of them at the front was taller than the rest, and somehow even more intense.

Harry narrowed his eyes. Wait. That face. He leaned forward a bit.

No way.

"Ron," he said, "is that who I think it is?"

Ron didn't answer. Just kept staring.

"Ron."

Ron blinked, then grabbed Harry's arm. "Mate. That's Viktor Krum."

Harry leaned back. "Bloody hell. It is."

Just as the last of the Beauxbatons girls were settling at their table, the doors swung open again.

Two adults entered this time.

The woman was massive. Towering, actually. She wore the same pale blue as the girls, but on her it looked almost like armor. Hair pulled back tight, posture perfect. Every step she took echoed.

"Blimey," Seamus muttered from further down the bench. "She's huge."

Harry couldn't argue. Even Hagrid might have looked up at her.

Next to her came a man in dark, sweeping robes, all cold grace and polished buttons. He had that kind of face that made you think he was about to insult you and then smile like he didn't. Pale, thin, with a neat little goatee and hair slicked back like he was heading to a vampire council.

"That's gotta be their headmasters," Harry said under his breath.

The tall woman strode straight toward Dumbledore and leaned down slightly to shake his hand.

"Albus," she said, voice deep but warm.

"Madame Maxime," Dumbledore said with a small bow. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

The man stepped forward, offering a bow that was just a little too smooth. "Headmaster Karkaroff. An honor, truly."

Dumbledore gave a polite nod. "Welcome back, Igor."

Harry noticed McGonagall's expression twitch. Not a smile. More like she was swallowing one.

Once the headmasters reached the staff table, Dumbledore gave a small wave of his wand and a massive chair appeared out of thin air. Madame Maxime settled into it.

Karkaroff stood behind her for a second, clearly expecting his own moment of showmanship. But there wasn't a second chair.

He turned, ready to sit somewhere, when he spotted the only empty seat left at the far end. Right next to Snape.

Harry watched him hesitate.

Snape hadn't moved much but he smiled. It was thin and cold.

Karkaroff walked over, stiffly, and sat down. But Harry saw the way he angled his chair ever so slightly away.

Dumbledore stood again, lifting his goblet and the whole room turned quiet.

"As many of you now know," he began, "this year marks the long-awaited return of the Triwizard Tournament."

A wave of low murmurs rolled through the Hall again, a few excited whispers slipping through. Dumbledore let it ride out before continuing.

"In the spirit of unity, and frankly, good old-fashioned challenge, we're joined by students from Beauxbatons Academy and Durmstrang Institute who will, starting tonight, be considered part of our Hogwarts community."

He gestured warmly toward the two new tables. Some students actually clapped. Harry spotted Parvati and Lavender giggling behind their hands in the direction of the Beauxbatons table.

"And of course," Dumbledore went on, "the tradition of the Tournament requires a champion from each school. These champions will be selected by a truly ancient artifact."

He nodded toward the side doors.

Right on cue, Filch shuffled in, red-faced and sweating, dragging a wooden chest that clearly wasn't meant to be handled by one very grumpy caretaker. He gave it a final shove and popped it open with a grunt, stepping back like he wanted nothing more to do with it.

From the chest rose some kind of goblet.

Blackened wood, cracked edges, intense blue flames that gave off no heat. It floated just above the box, humming with quiet power.

"The Goblet of Fire," Dumbledore announced. "Over the next several days, those who wish to compete may approach and submit their names."

"But be warned," he added. "This is not a game. This is a binding magical contract. If your name is chosen, you are bound to compete. There is no stepping down. "

He let that hang for a second. "And as agreed upon by all three schools, no student under the age of seventeen may enter their name."

A low ripple of whispers spread through the hall. Harry didn't need to look to know Fred and George were already plotting something. He caught Angelina Johnson murmuring to Alicia and Katie, something about odds and dragons. Percy, a few seats down, was sitting unusually straight, eyes narrowed.

Harry shook his head slightly. Some people were already in it.

"To ensure this rule is followed," Dumbledore continued, "a strong Age Line will be placed around the Goblet. Anyone who tries to cheat will find themselves… disappointed."

Dumbledore smiled again, raising his goblet. "To friendship, to courage, and to a year of magic like no other."

A wave of applause broke out, but Ron didn't join in. He slouched back against the bench and muttered under his breath, "Seventeen. Like your brain magically gets better the second you hit it."

Hermione didn't even look up from her goblet. "Well, it certainly can't get worse."

Harry snorted quietly into his pumpkin juice, but Ron just scowled and stabbed a potato with unnecessary force.

Before he could launch into a proper rant, a soft voice cut through the noise beside them.

"Pardon. May I… take zis?"

They all looked up.

The girl standing there wasn't from Hogwarts. She pointed, a bit hesitantly, at one of the fancier dishes near the end of the table, something delicate, definitely French.

Harry recognized her from the Beauxbatons procession. One of the first girls through the door.

Ron made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan. Dean elbowed Seamus hard enough to make him sit up straight. The entire table seemed to freeze like someone had cast Petrificus Totalus on it.

The girl glanced between them all, clearly waiting.

Harry reached over, grabbed the serving dish, and passed it to her. "Here."

Her eyes landed on him with surprise. "Thank you," she said.

Her accent was heavy, but the words came clear enough. "You are kind."

Harry shrugged. "Just dinner."

She gave a small, graceful smile before turning to leave.

Ron looked like he'd just been stunned.

"Did you see her?" he said weakly. "Did you hear her?"

Dean was still staring after her. "Mate… I think I'm in love."

"She's part Veela," Hermione said coolly.

"What?" Ron turned, blinking at her. "Seriously?"

"Not completely, but yes," she said. "It's obvious. Part-Veela charm is magical. It affects people. Boys mostly."

Harry frowned. "I didn't feel anything."

Hermione turned to him, eyebrows raised. "You didn't?"

"No." He looked a bit baffled now. "I mean, she's pretty. But I just gave her the food."

Hermione studied him for a moment too long, then smirked slightly. "Well. That's interesting."

Ron looked between them. "What? What's interesting?"

Hermione gave her goblet a final sip. "They say people who are in love already don't feel the Veela effect. Their magic doesn't take."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I'm not in love."

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm not!"

Hermione didn't say anything else. Just set down her goblet and reached for a bread roll like the conversation was finished.

Ron, still looking dazed, said, "I need to lie down."

Harry groaned and dropped his head to the table.

 

[certher]

Harry opened his eyes to the gray light of Sunday morning and reached for his wand without thinking. "Tempus." The numbers hovered in the air, neat and blue. 9:37. That left him just over an hour before he needed to be in McGonagall's office. The meeting with Andromeda was at eleven sharp. He sat up, rubbed at his eyes, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.



The showers were blessedly empty. He let the water run hot as he brushed his teeth, half-listening to the tap and trying to guess what Andromeda would throw at him today. Last time had been all history. Names and bloodlines and family trees. This time might be worse. He pictured himself learning how to walk across a ballroom or hold a wine glass without looking like he was twelve. Maybe she'd make him bow. He sighed, dried off, and got dressed.



The Great Hall was already buzzing when he got there. A few owls flapped overhead, and the smell of eggs and baked tomatoes hung in the air. The two guest tables were packed. Students from both schools were already halfway through breakfast, chatting between bites and swapping curious glances around the hall. A few looked confused by black pudding, one girl from Beauxbatons was trying to figure out what to do with a crumpet, and someone at the Durmstrang table had clearly decided they loved marmalade. Whatever nerves they'd walked in with last night, most of them seemed to be settling in just fine.



Harry slid into his usual seat at the Gryffindor table and reached for toast and immediately burst into laughter.

Ron was staring. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, completely zoned out in the direction of the Beauxbatons table. More specifically, in the direction of one very pretty blonde girl with silver-blonde hair and an unbothered, graceful air. She was just sitting there, eating her breakfast, minding her own business. And Ron looked like he was seeing the face of a goddess.

Hermione was halfway through her tea and already fuming. "Honestly," she muttered under her breath.

Ron didn't blink. His ears were turning pink.

Harry tried not to laugh but failed completely. The noise startled Ron enough to snap him out of it. He looked down at his plate.

"What?" he said weakly.

Harry just grinned and piled eggs onto his plate, then sausages. Hermione didn't say anything at first, just watched the way he skipped past the pastries and went straight for protein. When he reached for the butter, she finally spoke.

"Since when do you eat like that?"

Harry looked up, shrugged. "Sirius. Over the summer he kept going on about how I needed to eat properly if I didn't want to get knocked flat by a stiff breeze. Said I needed to bulk up if I was gonna keep running headfirst into cursed corridors."

Ron mumbled something beside him, mouth stuffed with toast and bacon. It came out as a mix of grunt and food.

Hermione blinked. "What?"

Harry didn't miss a beat. "Yeah, I agree, mate. Spot on."

Hermione turned, eyebrows lifted. "Wait, you understood that?"

Harry grinned, smug. "Ron's my mate. Of course I did."

She just stared for a second, then pulled out her book with a huff and started reading again, muttering something about boys and evolutionary backslides.

Harry waited until her eyes were on the page before shooting Ron a confused look. Ron, who'd finally swallowed, just grinned and said, "Just make sure you don't end up looking like Crabbe."

Harry gave him a nod, flexed his arm in an exaggerated pose, and made a ridiculous monkey noise. Ron snorted into his pumpkin juice and nearly choked.





Harry polished off the last bite of sausage and reached for his juice. He checked the time again with a quiet Tempus. 10:42.

He wiped his hands on a napkin and stood, grabbing his bag. Ron looked up mid-chew and gave him a questioning eyebrow.

"Got that meeting," Harry said.

Ron nodded through a mouthful of eggs. Hermione glanced up from her book just long enough to mutter something about posture and first impressions, but Harry was already turning toward the doors.

McGonagall's office was two floors up, past a row of suits of armor that always seemed to whisper just as he walked by. He adjusted his robes, ran a hand through his hair, and tried not to think too hard about what Andromeda might be waiting with this time.

He reached the door at 10:49. Right on time.

---

Room Three at the Three Broomsticks hadn't changed. Same clean walls, same round table, same slightly stiff chairs. Andromeda was already there, seated like she'd been waiting for hours, though Harry doubted he was even a second late. Her robe today was dark gray, crisp and sharp, and she was writing something on a piece of parchment with a quill that looked way too expensive for just notes. She didn't look up when he stepped in. Just finished her line, set the quill down with care, and finally met his eyes.

"Sit," she said. "We've got work to do."



Harry slid into the chair without speaking. Andromeda didn't start with greetings or small talk. She watched him for a few seconds. Like she was studying the way he sat, the way his hands moved, the way his eyes avoided hers for just a second too long. Then she folded her hands on the table and asked plainly, "If you had to describe yourself in five words, what would they be?"



Harry didn't answer right away. His fingers moved along the edge of the table, tracing nothing. He looked down, then off to the side, then back to his hands. Andromeda waited.

"Stubborn," he said finally. "Loyal. Angry. Curious. Tired."

He glanced up for half a second, then looked back down like he was already regretting being honest. She just nodded once and wrote something down.

"Let's start with angry," she said. "Why that word?"

Harry didn't look up. His fingers were still moving along the edge of the table, slower now.

"Because it's always there," he said. "Even when I'm not showing it. Even when things are good."

"What does it feel like?"

He shrugged. "Like something buzzing in my chest. Not all the time. Just… close. Like if I stop paying attention, it'll get louder."

Andromeda's eyes didn't leave his face. "When did it start?"

"I don't know," he said, frowning a little. "Maybe when I was a kid. I think it was just… always there. At the Dursleys. I didn't know it was anger then. I just thought that was how people felt when everything was unfair."



Andromeda didn't speak right away. She picked up her quill again and scribbled something quick on the parchment.

"You didn't know it was anger," she repeated. "Because there was no one there to help you name it. No one who said, 'This isn't normal. You shouldn't feel like this all the time.' So you just lived with it."

Harry didn't respond, but this time he was looking straight at her.

"I want to ask you something," she said, her tone even. "When you felt that buzzing, back then, did you ever act on it? Did you yell? Break things? Did you let anyone see it?"

His fingers twitched against the table. "No," he said after a moment. "Not really. I just… held it. Sometimes I'd get mad and slam a cupboard, or snap at Dudley. But I never really let it out."

Andromeda nodded slowly.

"Because you didn't feel safe to," she said. "Because even your feelings had to stay small enough not to make trouble."

Her quill hovered for a second, then dipped to the parchment again.

"Do you think that anger belongs to you, Harry?" she asked. "Or is it something you were given?"



Harry felt confused. He looked into Andromeda's dark eyes and found no judgment there, just quiet interest, like she was actually trying to understand him. And yet, everything she said, all those questions she didn't even ask out loud, made a weird kind of sense in his head. It was like she'd seen through the mess and named something he didn't even realize had a name.

He shifted in his chair. "I don't really think about it. I just get on with things, you know? But maybe it's always been there because no one ever said it wasn't supposed to be."



Andromeda didn't write anything this time. She just looked at him and said, "That buzzing you feel? That's stress, Harry. It's your body thinking something bad might happen, even when things are okay. You lived like that for years at the Dursleys. Always waiting for the next bad thing. So your brain started thinking that was normal. That kind of stress gets stuck if you don't talk about it or let it out. It just stays there, under everything." She leaned forward slightly. "And when you grow up without anyone really seeing you, or asking how you feel, you start filling in the blanks yourself. You think the silence means something's wrong with you. That you're the reason things were bad. That's what happens with kids who get ignored. They don't stop needing love. They just stop expecting it."



Harry didn't say anything at first. He stared at a spot on the table like it might give him the right words. His chest felt weird, tight but not painful. Just full. He thought about the cupboard, about teachers who barely noticed when he didn't have lunch.

"I used to think if I was just better," he muttered, "they'd stop hating me. Or maybe pretend they didn't." He gave a dry laugh, not really a laugh at all. "Never worked, though."

He looked up at her again, more tired than angry this time. "So what am I supposed to do with all that?"



Andromeda didn't look away. "Harry, you said something back there. About thinking if you were better, they might have stopped hating you." Her voice was even, but firm. "That wasn't your fault. None of it was. You weren't the reason they were cruel. They made a choice to treat a child like a problem. That says everything about them and nothing about your worth." She let that sit for a second. "Do you still think you have to earn being treated right? That you have to prove you deserve care?"



Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn't find the right words. It wasn't something he'd ever said out loud before, but the feeling was always there. Like if he took up too much space, or needed too much, someone would get tired of him. He picked at a mark on the table with his thumbnail. "Yeah," he said finally, quietly. "I don't mean to. But yeah. I feel like… I don't know. Like I'm too much. Or not enough. Or both." He shook his head. "It's stupid."



Andromeda didn't correct him. She just leaned forward, resting her hands lightly on the table. When she spoke, it was slow. A voice meant for children in pain. "Harry," she said, "you don't have to earn love. Not by being useful. Not by being good. Not by being brave. You already deserve it. Just for existing."

He didn't move. Just stared at her like she'd spoken a language he'd never heard before.

"You are James and Lily's son," she said gently. "That's not a title you have to live up to. That's just who you are. And that's enough. You're enough. You always were."

Something cracked. Like a wall finally giving way. Harry ducked his head and covered his face with his hands. It was silent at first, almost like he didn't know how to cry. But the shaking gave him away. He just sat there, trembling, while years of something unnamed bled out quietly into his palms.



Andromeda stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside his chair. She didn't say anything. Just placed her arms around him and held on.

Harry froze for a second, then leaned into her without thinking. His hands gripped her robes and his face pressed into her shoulder. The tears came harder now.

She didn't let go. Didn't speak. Just stayed there, holding him steady while he cried.

---

The door closed behind her with a soft click. Andromeda stepped out of her boots, hung her cloak, and moved straight to the kitchen. She didn't need to think. The kettle filled, clicked on. Two mugs out. Honey for hers, plain for his.

She didn't speak as she brought them into the living room. Ted was already there, sitting on the far end of the couch, one leg folded over the other, book closed on his knee. He didn't say anything, just watched her with that quiet look he always wore when he knew she'd seen something hard.

Andromeda handed him the tea, then sank down beside him. She held her mug with both hands.

"Four sessions," she said finally. "That's how long I thought it would take to break through. Maybe more."

Ted didn't answer. He just waited.

She looked down at the tea. "Today was session one."

Ted took a slow sip from his mug, then glanced sideways at her.

"How's the boy?"

Andromeda didn't answer right away. She pressed her lips together, staring at the steam curling from her tea.

"He's smart," she said at last. "Really smart. Takes things in. You can see it behind his eyes."

Ted didn't interrupt.

She turned the mug in her hands. "But he's… God, Ted. He's so damaged. Sirius wasn't exaggerating. Not even a little."

He frowned. "You mean the Dursleys?"

"I mean emotional abuse, start to finish," she said. "Neglect. Isolation. No affection, no care, no safety. He learned to survive by being invisible. And now he can't tell the difference between love and obligation."

Ted sat back, silent for a beat.

Andromeda added, "When Sirius said it was like Azkaban, I thought he was being dramatic. But he wasn't. He really wasn't." She paused. "At least in Azkaban, you knew you were being punished. Harry just thought it was normal."



Ted didn't answer right away. He set his mug down, tilted his head slightly, and said, "Neglect doesn't just deprive a child of comfort. It rewires the brain. Chronic emotional isolation during development interferes with the formation of secure attachment and self-worth. You know what happens, Andie? The brain starts adapting to survival mode. The amygdala stays lit like a bloody torch. The prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for regulation, empathy, reasoning, never gets proper scaffolding. What you're left with is a kid who doesn't know how to feel safe, doesn't trust calm, and reads love as suspicion." He paused, eyes fixed on nothing. "And then they grow up thinking it's them. Their fault. Their defect. That's the real damage."



Andromeda stared into her mug. "How do I help him?" she asked. "It feels too big. Like I'm standing at the edge of something and I can't see the bottom."

Ted didn't hesitate. "You don't fix it. You give it space to heal. Safe ground. Patience. You show up, even when it's hard. Especially then."

She glanced at him, quiet. "And if I mess it up?"

"Then you come back," he said simply. "And you keep coming back until he believes you mean it."

---

The potion was already turning a deep rust red by the time Harry dropped the last pinch of powdered ironroot into the Magnus Crucible. The cauldron shimmered faintly, the runes along its rim adjusting the internal balance without him having to stir. It self-regulated heat, sensed volatility, and reacted in real time. It didn't bubble, didn't hiss. It just pulsed, like a quiet heartbeat, keeping everything stable while the mixture shifted. It was the only reason they could even attempt something this risky.

Daphne stood across the workbench, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows and her wand rested on the table beside a sealed vial of dragon's blood. She didn't say anything at first, just watched Harry as he leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the brew. His shoulders were stiff. He hadn't cracked a joke. Barely said more than a word since they'd started. That wasn't normal. Not for him.

She picked up the vial. "Are you sure about the ratio?" she asked, just to see if he was paying attention.

Harry blinked, then nodded, a half-second too late. "Yeah," he said. "Two drops. No more."

She narrowed her eyes. "Harry, what's going on with you?"

"Bad day," he said. "Don't want to talk about it."

He stepped back from the cauldron, grabbed the tea they brought earlier, took a slow drink, then another. He looked at her.

"I'm focused now," he said. "Let's continue."

She nodded once and slid the vial toward him. "Two drops. No more."

Harry picked it up, uncorked it, and moved back to the cauldron.



Harry held the vial just over the surface. The dragon's blood inside shimmered faintly, thick and dark, with a strange sheen like oil over water. He tilted the vial with careful control, one drop at a time. The first drop hit the potion and disappeared without a sound. The second followed. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the rust-red brew shifted, deepened. The surface rippled once, then settled again, the runes on the crucible adjusting in response. A faint hum passed through the air. No smoke. No heat spike. No reaction surge. Just the soft change of color, now a dark copper, and a low warmth rising from the metal.

Daphne leaned in. "Stabilized."

Harry nodded. "So dragon's blood is viable."

"Barely," she said, watching the shimmer move through the brew. "It's holding, but only because the cauldron's compensating. Any other setup, we'd be scraping it off the ceiling."

Harry made a note in the logbook. "Still. It's proof of concept."

The brew began to cool as the internal hum faded. Daphne cast a low stasis charm over the crucible, locking the mixture in place for later analysis. She wiped her hands on a clean cloth, eyes scanning the logbook Harry had pushed toward her.

"Same time next week?"

Harry nodded, but his brow furrowed. "Quick question though… Are we still good on time?"

Daphne paused, flipping to their original schedule. "We started in early September. It's nearly November now. Two months left on the official deadline."

Harry exhaled. "So we're halfway."

"More or less. But we're ahead of where most groups probably are," she said, tapping the logbook. "We have a stabilized test run and the base outline mapped. Next phase is the real challenge."

Harry glanced at the covered cauldron. "Toxic base next week."

She nodded once. "If that holds, we build from there."

He slung his bag over one shoulder, flexing his stiff fingers. "Alright. See you next week."

Daphne watched him head for the door. "Don't forget to rest, Potter."



AN – I recently got a promotion at work, and the new tasks and responsibilities have been so demanding that I've had trouble focusing on anything else. The story is not abandoned, but updates will be slower. Right now, I'm about 10 chapters ahead, and I'll be posting those, but after that I suspect things may slow down. I truly apologize. It's just complicated to focus on something creative when your mind already feels depleted.

 

[certher]

The dormitory was dark, the other boys were sleeping. Harry lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands folded behind his head.



"Do you think that anger belongs to you, Harry? Or is it something you were given?"



He could picture Andromeda's mouth when she said it, her dark eyes watching him carefully. Harry had never felt so exposed in his life. He tried to push the memory away, but it kept coming back, like a pebble stuck in his shoe he couldn't shake out.



Did it belong to him? He didn't know. Maybe. It felt like it did. It lived inside him, didn't it? It was his chest that burned, his hands that clenched when he was angry. Nobody else could carry it for him. Nobody else even seemed to notice it half the time. It had to be his. Even if it started somewhere else, even if it grew out of things he couldn't control, it was still his now. His mess. His responsibility. Because at the end of the day, who else was going to deal with it?

He rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket higher even though he wasn't cold. The thought didn't make him feel any better.



Maybe clearing his mind would help. He shifted on the mattress, settling deeper into the pillow, and closed his eyes. He didn't focus on anything in particular. Just breathing. In and out. For a few seconds, it almost worked. His legs stopped tensing under the blanket. But then, like a drip from a leaking ceiling, the thoughts started up again. Little things at first.



The crackle of magic during Transfiguration when McGonagall had them working on partial elemental shifts. His wand pulling too much power, the edges of the spell warping before he caught it.

Potions, the smell of burnt knotweed still clinging to his robes.

Defense drills, fast and brutal, the way Moody barked at him to move faster, hit harder.

Late nights in the library with the journal, old words digging into the back of his mind, pulling him places he didn't always want to go.

It all bled together, sharp edges scraping against each other.

And somewhere in the middle of it, he realized he wasn't breathing anymore. His chest was tight. His thoughts had pulled him under again without even meaning to.



Harry opened his eyes and sucked in a slow, shaky breath. The dormitory was still dark, still quiet. He focused on the air moving in and out of his lungs until the tightness loosened a little. It didn't help much.

"Tempus,"

Soft blue numbers floated above his wand. 2:13 a.m.

Harry sighed, wiped a hand over his face, and slowly sat up. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his socks. No point trying to force sleep that wasn't coming.

He moved carefully, stepping over the creaky floorboard near Neville's bed and slipping past Ron's trunk without bumping it. His feet made barely a sound on the worn stone as he eased the door open and stepped into the stairwell.



The common room was mostly dark, just the low orange glow of the fireplace lighting the edges of the furniture. Harry shuffled across the rug, too tired to think about anything except sitting down. That was when he spotted movement near the corner.

Dobby was standing on a chair, polishing one of the brass lanterns, humming quietly to himself. When he saw Harry, he nearly fell off, ears flapping as he beamed.

"Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby squeaked, jumping down and landing with a little bounce. "Dobby is most honored to see you tonight, sir!"

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sudden energy. "Hey, Dobby," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

"You is never interrupting, sir!" Dobby said fiercely, puffing out his chest. "Dobby is always happy to see Harry Potter!"

Harry gave a tired smile and sank into the nearest chair, rubbing his forehead.

Dobby's ears twitched. He stepped closer, peering up at Harry with a worried look.

"Harry Potter is not looking well, sir," he said quietly.

Harry shook his head a little. "Just tired, Dobby. Long day."

Dobby wrung his hands, clearly not satisfied with that answer. Without another word, he popped away with a faint crack.

Harry didn't even have time to sit up before Dobby reappeared, holding a steaming mug in both hands like it was something precious.

"Hot chocolate, sir," Dobby said earnestly, offering it up. "Best for tired nights."

Harry blinked at it, then gave a real, small smile. "Thanks, Dobby."

He took the mug, the warmth of it soaking into his fingers almost immediately. It smelled rich, a little like cinnamon. Harry sank back in the chair and took a careful sip.

Dobby hovered nearby, still wringing his hands. "Harry Potter is… sad tonight?"

Harry stared into the cup for a second, watching the steam curl and fade.

"Not sad," he said slowly. "It's more like… my mind's going somewhere I don't want it to. Like I'm trying to steer it one way and it keeps pulling the other."

Dobby listened intently, ears twitching. Then he gave a small, knowing smile.

"Harry Potter is fighting the monster,"

Harry looked up, confused. "Monster?"

Dobby nodded, his big green eyes serious. "Before Malfoys, Dobby had one master. Old master. Not kind, not cruel. He used to say… the worst monster in the world is ego. Harder to see than any dark wizard. Harder to fight than any curse."

Harry frowned into his mug.

"Ego?" he repeated. The word felt strange in his mouth, like he was trying out something that didn't quite fit. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dobby tilted his head. "Ego is… thinking you are the biggest thing, sir. That you must be right, must be safe, must be strong. Ego tricks minds. Makes them scared to be small. Scared to change."

Harry shifted in the chair, the hot chocolate forgotten in his hands.

"That sounds… bad," he said slowly.

Dobby nodded seriously. "Not bad to have, sir. Bad when it controls."

Harry thought about that. About the way he kept trying to clear his mind and it fought back, dragging him places he didn't want to go. About the tight knot of anger and shame and confusion twisting up inside him.

"So… it's like a part of you that doesn't want you to change?"

"Yes, sir!" Dobby said, beaming, as if Harry had just won ten house points. "Ego says, 'stay safe.' Ego says, 'stay angry.' Ego says, 'stay where it knows you.'"

Dobby went back to tidying the hearth, humming under his breath, and Harry sat there turning the words over in his mind.

Stay where it knows you.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that's why it felt like his mind was dragging him backwards when he was trying so hard to move forward.

He took another slow sip of hot chocolate, then glanced at Dobby, who was now reorganizing the kindling with ridiculous precision.

"Hey, Dobby," Harry said. "Can I ask you something?"

Dobby popped upright, eyes wide and eager. "Anything, Harry Potter, sir!"

Harry hesitated. "It's about… house-elves."

Dobby's ears twitched.

"There's been this… thing," Harry said awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. "Ron and Hermione, they were arguing about it. About how house-elves work here at Hogwarts. About if it's fair."

He looked at Dobby, trying to read his expression. "Do you… like it? Working here? Is it really your choice?"



Dobby's ears twitched again, but he didn't look upset. He set the last piece of kindling down very precisely before turning back to Harry, hands folded in front of him.

"Dobby is free, sir," he said proudly. "Free elf. Chooses his work. Chooses his place." He tapped his chest with one long finger. "Dobby works at Hogwarts because Dobby wants to. Headmaster Dumbledore offered Dobby wages and days off, and Dobby said yes."

He hesitated, ears drooping just a little. "But… most elves, sir… they do not want freedom. They are happy working. Happy serving. They do not think like wizards think."

Harry frowned into his mug. "But… why?"

Dobby's big green eyes shimmered in the firelight. "Because, sir," he said carefully, like it was a thing he had practiced saying before, "when you is told all your life that you is only good if you serve… it is hard to think any different."

He shrugged, small shoulders rising and falling. "Freedom is scary when you is never taught to want it."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. He sat there, mug heavy in his hands, feeling something cold crawl up his spine.

It sounded way too close to some things he had been thinking lately about himself.

When he finally blinked and looked around, Dobby was gone.

Harry set the mug aside, pushed himself up from the chair, and headed for the stairs.

No point sitting here all night.

Harry reached behind his mattress. His fingers closed around the worn leather and he pulled it free.

He climbed back onto the bed, drew the curtains halfway shut, and flipped the journal open to where he had left off.

The words were waiting for him.



I set these words to parchment beneath the scorched skies of Kemet, where the sands hiss like serpents and the sun smiteth even the stones. I have crossed the outer dunes beyond Saqqara, where ruins lie half-devoured by time and spiteful ghosts haunt the breath of the wind. Three nights past, I did battle with twin Chimeras that guarded the mouth of a forgotten tomb, and scarcely did I leave the place with life enough to write these lines. My wand is splintered, my robes torn, and yet it is not the beasts of flesh that trouble me, but the beasts within.

Long have I pondered upon the makings of mine own mind, and in the stillness of these perilous nights have I come to see that it is no singular vessel, but a weaving of threefold nature, each thread hidden from the next, yet all bound in the same loom.

First there is Belief, that which clotheth the self in names and duties, that which proclaimeth, I am thus, and I am not thus. It is the tongue of the waking soul, the herald of reason. Yet Belief is but mist above deep waters; it shifteth with each storm of fortune, it bendeth before pain and longing. It proclaimeth mastery, yet knoweth not the root of its own voice.

Second there are Wounds, deep and unseen, like stones sunk beneath black rivers. These are the memories untended, the griefs unspoken, the shames buried in shallow graves. Though they lie silent, they seep into all things, staining thought, steering will. A man may speak of freedom, yet be slave to a sorrow he hath never named.

Third there is the Stranger, the raw spirit, fierce and wordless, the beast that knoweth hunger and fear, that striketh before reason may tame it. It is neither good nor evil, but it is old, older than speech, older than fire. It is the thing that preserveth life when all else falleth to ruin, yet it is blind and heedeth no law save survival.

Thus must I reckon with this bitter truth:

If that which moveth within me is beyond my knowing, then I am its thrall, not its master.

And if mastery is my charge, then ignorance is the chain that bindeth me fast.

The tombs here are thick with spells of forgetting. Cursed to draw the mind into endless maze, where thought loopeth upon itself like a snake devouring its own tail. I have felt it gnawing at the edges of my memory as I wandered the catacombs, and I say now with no jest: there is no prison crueler than the loss of the self.

What is unseen cannot be governed, and what is unfaced cannot be healed.

Let no man speak to me of blind faith. Faith bindeth the eye and sootheth the spirit, but it delivereth no freedom. Only knowledge, won by toil and courage, may tear back the veil.

I see now that to heal the mind is no gentle work. It is a war fought not with wands nor sword, but with sight.

To walk the corridors of the soul is to tread a shifting tide, to behold monsters not born of malice but of forgetting.

Thus I set down this oath, in mine own blood and spirit:

I shall seek that which is hidden, though it break me.

I shall name that which is nameless, though it shame me.

I shall look upon the Stranger within and call it mine.

And if I fail, let it not be for cowardice.



Harry closed the journal and leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. Some of it made sense. He understood what Joren meant about things living in the mind without permission, about needing to drag them into the light before they could be changed. But knowing it was different than doing it. He could feel how deep the roots went. How much work it would take to even start pulling them out. It wouldn't be a week, or a month. He just didn't know where to begin.



The night had crawled by in pieces, broken into long stretches of staring at the ceiling and short bursts of thinking he'd maybe dozed off, only to find he hadn't. When the first grey light started leaking through the cracks of the curtains, Harry had already given up. He dressed like a ghost, went through the motions, and followed the others down to the dungeons without saying a word.



Harry didn't even remember getting through the lesson. One moment he was hunched over a cauldron with Daphne muttering something about stirring counterclockwise, and the next thing he knew, the bell was ringing and students were packing up around him. He moved on autopilot through the corridors, skipped lunch without thinking, and climbed the stairs back up to Gryffindor Tower. The dormitory was blissfully empty when he pushed inside. No noise, no demands, just his bed waiting for him like a lifeboat.

Harry didn't even bother pulling the curtains closed. He dropped onto the bed face-first, not even caring that he was still wearing his shoes. For a long moment, he just lay there, breathing into the pillow, every part of him aching from exhaustion that had nothing to do with magic or running or even lack of sleep.

He let his eyes drift shut. Maybe just a quick nap. Fifteen minutes. Enough to stop feeling like a walking ghost.

Something buzzed under his pillow.

Harry grunted, reaching blindly until his fingers closed around the mirror. He dragged it out and squinted at the glass.

Sirius' face was there, looking serious in a way Harry didn't see often.

"Harry, you awake?"

Harry made a noise that could've meant yes or no.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Got any big plans for Halloween?"

Harry rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. "Not really. Just the feast. Watching the champions get picked, I guess."

Sirius hummed like he was thinking something over. "Well… how about something different?"

Harry blinked at the mirror. "Like what?"

"Thought maybe you and I could go visit Godric's Hollow. Visit your mum and dad properly. I could pick you up that morning. You've still got a few days. Gives you time to think about it."

Harry sat up straighter without meaning to, the blanket sliding down his arms. His throat felt tigh.

"Yeah," he said, the word coming out rough but sure. "Yeah, I want that."

Sirius' smiled. "Good. We'll work out the details later. Get some rest first, kid."

The mirror went dark.

Harry set the mirror down beside him and let his head fall back onto the pillow. He didn't even bother pulling the blanket up. His body felt like lead, and this time, sleep didn't ask permission.

At first, the dream felt almost normal. He was standing in a house he didn't recognize, but somehow knew. The floors creaked under his bare feet. The air smelled like tea and old wood. A woman was laughing in another room, a sound so light it barely touched the edges of his mind. He wanted to follow it, wanted to see her face.

But the hallway stretched out longer the further he walked. The walls peeled. The doors twisted on their hinges. That laughter turned sharp, bending into something wrong.

He ran, calling out without sound, pushing through a door that collapsed into ash at his touch.

On the other side, there was nothing.

Just darkness. Cold and endless.

And something waiting in it.

It wasn't Voldemort. It wasn't a monster he could fight. It was him. Twisting, broken versions of himself, angry and scared and lost, pulling at him, whispering things he didn't want to hear.

The harder he fought to wake up, the deeper he sank, like something had hooked its claws into the back of his mind and wouldn't let go.

When he finally ripped free, gasping, he was back in his bed, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

The dormitory was still quiet.

Harry pressed his fists against his eyes and stayed like that, breathing slow and shaky, until he could tell where he ended and the dream began.

 

[certher]

The corridor outside the Defense classroom was already crowded when Harry arrived. He spotted Daphne near the middle of the group, looking half-bored and half-alert. Everyone was waiting. Moody stood by the door like a gargoyle with a pulse, arms folded, magical eye spinning slow as he watched them gather.



"Classroom's been altered for today," he said without preamble. "You'll be going in groups of four. I'll read the names. When you hear yours, you enter. The moment you step through that door, the lesson begins."



Harry edged through the crowd until he reached Ron and Hermione, who stood just behind a knot of Slytherins. Ron gave him a sideways look and muttered, "Oh no, it's one of those lessons." He glanced toward Moody. "You know, where he thinks it's a good idea to throw us into some kind of magical death trap." Hermione frowned but didn't argue.



Moody raised his parchment without another word. "Nott, Finnigan, Parkinson, Thomas. Go."

Pansy scoffed, tossing her hair as she started forward. "Great. Two useless Gryffindors to drag us down."

Moody didn't even look up. "Try not to trip over your ego on the way in"

Pansy snapped her mouth shut. Seamus gave her a smug look but said nothing. The four students stepped toward the door, which creaked open slowly at Moody's signal. A gust of charged air hit them. It felt like walking past a storm cloud right before it cracked.

Pansy hesitated a second, eyes narrowing, but Nott pushed forward without waiting. The rest followed. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud.



Two minutes later, the door opened again. All four stumbled out, panting like they'd just run a mile uphill. Seamus had a shallow cut across one cheek, Dean's robes were torn at the sleeve, and Nott looked like he'd taken a hex straight to the chest. Pansy's hair was a mess, her expression somewhere between furious and shaken.

Moody gave them a quick once-over. "Nott, Parkinson. Hospital Wing. The rest of you, catch your breath and stay out of the way."

Ron leaned sideways and whispered, "What was it? What happened in there?"

Seamus just shook his head, still catching his breath. "Don't ask," he muttered. "You'll find out soon enough."

Before Ron could push, Moody called out again, parchment still in hand. "Greengrass. Potter. Malfoy. Granger. Go."

Harry caught Hermione's eye, then glanced at Daphne, who was already stepping forward with that same bored grace she always carried.

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Mudblood and Potter? Really?"

"Shut up Malfoy!" yelled Ron.



The moment the door shut behind them, the stone floor vanished under Harry's feet. He staggered forward onto dirt, his shoes crunching over charred gravel. Heat pressed against his skin. Smoke clung to the air and the sky above was smeared with streaks of dark grey and orange. Around them stood what was left of a village, if you could still call it that. Burned-out cottages leaned on splintered beams, roofs torn open almost like something had punched through them. Harry turned, wand raised, and caught movement behind a collapsed chimney, but it was just wind knocking loose a shutter. He looked up.

Hovering across the sky in glowing red letters, words burned themselves into view:

Defend the cellar. Reinforce the wards. Survive ten minutes.



Malfoy kicked a chunk of broken stone aside. "This is completely insane. He can't just drop us in some bloody battlefield without warning. My father is on the Hogwarts Board. This is not how education is supposed to work. There are rules. There are standards." He kept going, voice rising as he threw a look at Daphne, like she might care. "I mean, really. A burned-down village? What are we even supposed to be doing here?"

Harry ignored him.

He raised his wand and said,

"Homenum Revelio."

Nothing happened. Just broken wood and smoke dragging across the ground. Harry took another breath and whispered,

"Point Me."

The wand twitched in his palm, spun once, and pointed north. Good. He adjusted his stance, orienting himself. If north was behind them, then whatever he'd spotted earlier, the sunken bit of earth beneath the wreckage, the faintest pulse of light bleeding through cracked stone, that was east.

He lowered his wand and turned slightly toward the others. "There's something under that wreckage on the east side," he said. "Light's coming from below. Might be the cellar we're meant to defend."

Hermione stepped closer to Harry, already scanning the ruins with narrowed eyes. "If that's the target, we should reinforce the perimeter first. The instructions said reinforce the wards. We don't know what's coming or how long we've got."



Daphne turned her head slowly, eyes landing on Malfoy. "Unless you plan to scream your way through the entire exercise, maybe try doing something useful for once. You're not completely useless, are you?" Malfoy's mouth opened, but she'd already looked away. "I want to pass this test. Moody's watching every move we make." She stepped toward the broken path that led east, her wand already in hand. "Anyone know how to reinforce wards? Because if not, we're wasting time."



Malfoy scoffed and stepped forward, his voice sharper now. "Right, because obviously I should be taking orders from you. Look who we've got in here, Greengrass. A mudblood and Saint Potter the Sleepwalker." He gave Hermione a smug glance and tossed Harry a sideways sneer. "If this little dream team is supposed to save the day, we're all doomed."



After the bickering died down, they headed east toward the collapsed building. None of them said much. By now, they were used to Moody's ideas skirting the edge of insanity, and this one wasn't even the weirdest. Still, there was something off about it. When they got close to the cellar, a loud growl drifted through the air. And definitely not friendly.



Daphne gave Harry a quick look. He caught Hermione's eye too, and she was already raising her wand. Harry didn't bother saying anything. He just stepped forward, climbed over a slab of broken stone, and started down what was left of the stairs.



The cellar was bigger than it looked from outside. They stepped into a circular space cut into solid stone. At the edges of the room stood four thick columns, each one rough and cracked, with faint patterns etched into the surface, symbols that shimmered when the light hit them right. At the center sat some kind of pedestal with metal wiring coiled around its base, copper and blackened silver threading up into a shape Harry couldn't quite place. It almost looked like a turret, like something meant to move. But it wasn't moving now.



Hermione stepped forward without hesitation, already studying the nearest column like it was a particularly stubborn bit of homework. "These aren't standard wards," she said, more to herself than anyone else. Her fingers hovered close to the etched stone, careful not to touch. "But the structure's consistent. Runes are old, layered. Looks like… early protective glyphs. Meant to channel rather than block."

Daphne moved to the opposite side of the room, crouched low near another pillar. "Copper threading. Old-school anchor work," she said. Her voice was calm, but Harry didn't miss the sharp focus in her eyes. "This isn't just a cellar. It's a warding station. Whoever built this knew what they were doing."

Harry and Malfoy stayed back, watching. Harry didn't have anything useful to add yet, and Malfoy clearly wasn't going to risk saying something that might sound like agreement. For now, it was the girls who led, reading the room like it was a language only they could speak.



Malfoy shifted behind them, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. "So we're letting Granger and Greengrass play engineers while we stand around and hope nothing eats us?"

Harry turned. "Do you ever stop talking?"

Malfoy smirked. "Just wondering if you plan to actually do something, Potter, or if we're all meant to die waiting on your next noble speech."

Harry stepped toward him, wand still in hand.

"You want to be useful, Malfoy? Great. Go stand watch at the stairs and let the smart people work."

Malfoy opened his mouth, probably to toss something back, but something in Harry's eyes made him think twice. He scoffed, muttered something under his breath, and stalked toward the base of the steps.

Harry turned back to the girls. "You think if we hit those columns with magic, it'll activate the wards?"

"Maybe," Daphne said. "Wards this old usually need to be fed magic to respond. The question is whether we have to match the right spells to the right runes or just give it power."

Hermione nodded, already scanning the room again. "We should test it. Small spell. Controlled."

Harry pointed to the nearest pillar. "I'll try first. Just in case it blows up."

He raised his wand and cast a simple tickling charm. The symbols on the stone lit up for a split second, then faded.

"Something happened," Daphne said. "Try again. This time stronger."

Harry glanced at the stairs. Malfoy was there, yawning.

He turned back and raised his wand again.

"Alright. Let's wake it up."


Harry gritted his teeth, stepped back, and pulled up a spell he'd read three nights ago in Furious Forms and Duelcraft. It wasn't flashy, but it packed a punch and crackled like live wire.

"Fulmino!"

A surge of blue-white lightning shot from his wand and slammed into the pillar with a loud snap. The runes blazed to life, flooding the stone with light that ran in jagged veins across its surface. The ground gave a short rumble, and from above, the red letters shifted.

Timer initiated. Remaining time: 10:00

Hermione's head jerked up. "That's it. We're on the clock."

A growl rolled down the stairwell, followed by heavy, dragging footsteps. Not fast, but close. Too close.

Malfoy peered over the edge, then stepped back fast. "They're already here!"

Harry spun and hit the pillar again, same spell. The light shot out from the runes and arched toward the stairwell. A wall of crackling energy snapped into place, just in time for something massive to slam into it from the other side. The impact rattled the floor, but the barrier held.

Malfoy stared, blinking. "Okay. That one works."

Daphne didn't wait. She darted to the next column and fired a slicing hex. The runes flared red, and outside, something roared. The ground shuddered again.

Malfoy turned back from the stairs, eyes wide. "That one didn't make a shield. It hit them. I think it's offensive."

Hermione nodded, already moving to the pillar. "Then each column has a different function. We need to activate all of them."

Malfoy hesitated, then raised his wand and aimed at the third column. "Expulso!"

The runes glowed orange, and a wave of heat pulsed through the room. From above, a screech echoed, followed by the sound of something heavy collapsing.

Hermione stepped up to the final column, her expression focused. "Let's see what this one does." She cast a spell, and the runes shimmered with a soft green light. A calming energy spread through the room, and the tension in their muscles eased slightly.

Harry glanced around. "Alright, all columns are active. Let's hold this place for ten minutes."



By the fourth minute, the rhythm started to crack.

Hermione's pillar still lit up when she cast on it, still gave off that steady hum that seemed to keep their nerves level, their minds clear. But Harry started to notice something off. The calm didn't last. It stretched too thin, like a spell straining under its own weight. After her last cast, instead of clarity, Harry felt… On edge. Beside him, Malfoy was pacing again, lips moving like he was muttering something, jaw clenched tight.

Daphne hadn't said a word in the last minute, just kept hitting her pillar with steady spells, eyes locked on the edge of the barrier as another shape charged up the stairs.

Hermione recharged her column again. The symbols pulsed with a cooler light this time more silver than green.

A split second later, the barrier at the top of the stairs crackled and dropped.

"Harry!" Daphne yelled.

He spun just in time to see one of the creatures burst through the open arch. This one wasn't like the others. It was leaner, faster, twisted like a jackal with too-long limbs and glowing red eyes. It lunged straight past Malfoy and Hermione, heading for the far corner where Daphne stood, wand up, but too slow to block.

Harry didn't think. He moved.

A jolt surged through him like everything narrowed down to a single point. He launched forward, slamming into the space between the creature and Daphne and drove his wand forward like a sword.

"Fulmino!"

The blast tore through the monster's chest with a crack of lightning and scorched air. It hit the stone wall behind it and collapsed in a smoking heap. Harry stood over it, chest heaving, hand still raised, light still sparking at the tip of his wand.

Daphne stared up at him, stunned, her back nearly pressed against the column.

"Thanks," she said, barely audible.

Harry stood over it for half a second, heart pounding, the coppery taste of adrenaline in his mouth. Then he turned and sprinted back to his column, wand already rising. The barrier was down. If they didn't hold it now, they were done.

"Reducto!"

The spell burst struck the stone dead center. The runes lit up like before, jagged lines racing across the surface and back into the walls. Up above, the barrier snapped back into place with a hard pulse of blue light.

Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He turned on his heel and jogged back into formation, taking up his spot near the center of the room, wand ready again.

"Let's keep them out this time," he said.



Another monster forced its way through the stairwell, claws raking stone. Daphne whipped her wand out and fired a hex that knocked it sideways into the wall. Malfoy followed it up with a Blasting Curse that shattered part of the steps and sent gravel raining down.

"Behind you!" Daphne shouted.

Malfoy spun and hit a second creature with a spell Harry didn't recognize. It shrieked, smoke rising from its back, but didn't stop.

"They're getting through too fast!" Daphne yelled, sweat streaking her face.

"We can't hold them!" Malfoy's voice cracked as he flung another curse, eyes wide. "Potter, do something!"

Harry ducked under a flying shard of stone and spun to Hermione, who was already raising her wand again.

"Don't.." he started, but it was too late.

Her spell struck her pillar.

The familiar wave of energy pulsed outward, but something was off. It rolled through the room like hot syrup. Harry's stomach turned. His hands clenched without meaning to. A rage twisted in his chest before he forced it down.

Daphne staggered and grabbed the wall. "What was that?"

Malfoy cursed under his breath and shoved his sleeve up to wipe sweat from his eyes. "Granger, what the hell are you doing?"

Hermione's wand wavered in her grip. "I don't know. It worked before."

"Well, it's not working now!" Daphne shouted. She threw another curse up the stairwell. A monster screeched, fell back, and another took its place.

Harry grabbed Hermione's shoulder and pulled her back from the pillar. "That thing's messing with us now. You feel it too, yeah?"

She hesitated, breathing hard. "Yes."

"Then forget it," Harry said. "We've got one trick left."

He pointed to the turret in the center. The coils of silver and copper were glowing faintly, twitching like they were waiting.

"Hit the turret. Do it now."

Hermione didn't argue this time. She aimed and fired.

The second her spell struck, the turret jerked upright with a sharp metallic snap. Magic burst out in a loud crack and shot up the stairs like a bolt of chain lightning, slamming into something just beyond sight. A high-pitched scream followed.

Harry turned back to the others. "Hold your ground!"

Daphne was already firing again. "Wasn't planning to die yet."

"Time left?" Malfoy shouted between curses.

"Less than two minutes!" Harry shouted back. "Just keep them off the stairs."



The turret pulsed again, releasing another burst of crackling energy that lit up the stairwell like a storm trapped in glass. The next creature didn't even make it halfway down before the surge struck it mid-lunge. It crumpled in a heap and rolled back, limbs twitching.

Malfoy glanced sideways at Harry. "Whatever that thing is, I'm starting to like it."

Harry didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the red letters hovering just overhead.

00:56

A low snarl rose behind the barrier. Daphne, crouched near the third pillar now, kept casting, her movements slower. Malfoy joined her without needing to be told. They worked in rhythm. Fire and force. Slash and scatter. They didn't speak. No sniping, no bragging, no barking orders. Just spells. Just survival.

Hermione stepped beside Harry again, quieter now. "I don't know what happened with that pillar," she said "I didn't mean to.."

"I know," Harry cut in. "We'll figure it out later."

The air around them seemed to tighten with every second. The final push was coming.

The turret charged again. It sparked and whined like it was under pressure, like the magic inside it had more fight left than they did. Harry raised his wand and poured another bolt into his pillar. The barrier at the stairs snapped tighter, more solid this time. A solid hum filled the air, almost like a note held in perfect pitch.

Daphne fired another Blasting Curse, sweat sliding down her temple. Malfoy hit one of the monsters square in the face and sent it toppling back with a grunt of satisfaction.

Harry looked up again.

00:12

00:07

00:03

The turret fired one last time. The entire room shuddered.

The red letters blinked once. Then vanished.

No more growling. No more pounding. Just the sound of their breathing, loud in the sudden stillness.

They stayed frozen for a second, as if waiting for something else to explode.

Nothing did.

Daphne lowered her wand first, but didn't straighten all the way. Malfoy leaned on one knee, gasping.

Hermione turned to Harry, her mouth half open, then closed it again.

The floor beneath them gave a soft pulse. The glow from the pillars faded. The turret let out a mechanical sigh and sagged back into its original position, wires cooling, metal unwinding.

A soft chime rang out overhead.

Simulation complete. Time expired.

And just like that, the world shifted. The stone walls of the cellar unraveled like sand on wind. The air bent and twisted, folding them back into the real world. They landed on solid ground in the Defense classroom.

Hermione let out a quiet, stunned laugh and shook her head. "That was absolutely mental." Malfoy didn't even bother with a comeback. Daphne rubbed at her neck and looked toward the door like she wasn't sure it was real. Harry didn't say anything for a moment. Then he turned to the door. "Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here."

---

Harry pulled his cloak tighter as he walked through the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow, the wind clawing at his neck even down here, where it shouldn't have been able to reach. October had no business being this cold. His fingers stung a little. His nose was already half-numb. And of course, it had to be Halloween. Everyone else was probably upstairs, stuffing themselves with pumpkin pasties and waiting for Dumbledore to pull some big dramatic reveal about the champions. That damn Goblet. That stupid blue flame. He bet Fred and George were still trying to cheat the age line.

Meanwhile, he was heading to a shack full of dust and ghosts, because today was the day he'd decided to visit his parents' graves for the first time. With Sirius. Just them.

He hadn't told Ron. Or Hermione. Or anyone. Not because he didn't trust them, but because this didn't feel like something you told people about.

His boots scuffed against old stone as he pushed forward, deeper into the tunnel.



One of a dozen things Harry couldn't stop thinking about was that bloody Gringotts meeting. He'd written to Richard right after, asking what to actually do with the basilisk materials. The reply came fast. Just a list, straight to the point.

Potter,

Hide: Forge it now if you want it flexible. Best used for armor or gear. Holds enchantments better than dragon hide.

Fangs: Keep six. Use them for ritual tools or focus carving. The rest need shielding. Don't test them.

Bone: Steep in potion stock. Use as base for core-enhancing elixirs. Two doses max. Any more, it turns volatile.

Residue: Unknown. Dangerous. Do not interact without backup.

Harry liked the way Richard wrote. . He made things feel doable.

Still, doable didn't mean simple.



The tunnel sloped up, then leveled out, and a minute later Harry reached the old trapdoor. He pushed it open with one hand, his wand already in the other just in case. The floorboards groaned as he climbed through into the dusty, crooked room. It looked the same as the last time he'd been here peeling walls, broken furniture, a window half-covered by a rotting curtain.



Sirius was standing by the old fireplace, arms folded, one boot propped against the brick. And for the first time in ages, he didn't look like a ghost hiding in someone else's life. He'd shaved. His coat looked new. Or at least, cleaner. There was even a bit of color in his cheeks.

It threw Harry off for a second.

"You look… good," he said, before he could think about it.

Sirius turned at the sound of his voice. When he saw Harry, his whole expression softened in a way that made Harry's chest tighten.

"Thanks," Sirius said. "I've been trying."

Harry didn't answer. He just crossed the room, and Sirius pulled him into a quick, tight hug solid and warm, with one hand gripping the back of Harry's jacket.

"You alright?" Sirius asked as they pulled apart.

Harry gave a shrug and a half-smile. "Not really. But I'm here."

Sirius nodded, like that was enough. Maybe it was.



Sirius stepped back and he nodded toward the boarded-up window behind him, where a weak slice of sunlight cut across the floor.

"We'll talk more on the way," he said "But we've got a bit of traveling to do first. Side-along Apparition. It's the quickest way."

Harry blinked. "I've never.."

"I know. That's why I'm driving." Sirius smirked. "You just hold on and try not to hurl."

Harry gave a dry look but stepped forward, heart thudding a little faster now. He hadn't thought much about the actual getting-there part.

"Alright," Sirius said, offering his arm. "Deep breath. Don't let go."

Harry nodded once, gripped his godfather's arm tight, and braced himself as Sirius turned in place hard and fast and the world vanished.



They landed in a patch of grass just off a narrow lane, the world snapping back like an elastic band. Harry staggered a little but stayed upright. A low stone wall lined the road ahead, and just beyond it sat a small church with a crooked steeple and a graveyard tucked behind. The village around them looked like something out of a storybook, old houses with ivy on the bricks and a post box leaning slightly to one side. Harry's throat felt tight as he took it all in, something twisting deep in his chest.

Sirius didn't say anything right away. He gave Harry a moment, just stood beside him and looked toward the church. The wind nudged the edge of his coat as he finally stepped forward, boots crunching lightly over the gravel. Harry followed, slower this time, eyes scanning every rooftop and garden gate like he could somehow recognize something. He knew he wouldn't. He had been one year old.



"You know," Sirius started, "Godric's Hollow used to go all out for Halloween. Whole village would light enchanted lanterns, kids in costume casting harmless little jinxes on each other, fireworks at midnight, the works." He gave a dry breath of something close to a laugh. "But after that night… after James and Lily… it just stopped. Decorations came down and never went back up. Every year, the rest of the country celebrates, but here it's just another day that hurts a little more." He looked ahead again. ""They remember. Just not with pumpkins." Sirius paused, then added quietly, "It's their way of showing respect, Harry. For your parents. For you."



They stepped through the old iron gate, its hinges groaning softly as it swung open behind them. The graveyard stretched ahead, quiet and overgrown in places, with patches of moss climbing the older stones. A few flowers dotted the edges, some fresh, some long wilted. Harry's heart thumped faster. He didn't say anything, but the closer they walked, the more it felt like he wasn't ready for this.

They stopped at the edge of the grave, and Harry's stomach turned. For a second, he couldn't move. He just stared at the stone in front of him, like maybe if he stood still long enough it'd vanish, or change, or tell him this wasn't real. But it didn't. It was just there. His parents' names carved into cold rock. James Potter. Lily Potter. He read them over and over, as if he could will the letters to speak. This was it. There was no spell to undo it, no forgotten story where they escaped. No miracle. Just names. Dates. And a line someone had chosen, probably not even knowing if it would help.

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

Harry's hand trembled, and he shoved it into his coat pocket so Sirius wouldn't see. But Sirius wasn't looking at him. He was watching the stone too, still and quiet, like maybe he was back in that night for a second. Harry took a breath that didn't help. Then another. He stepped closer.

His knees hit the ground before he even realized he'd moved. The cold bit through his trousers, but he barely felt it. He reached out, slowly, and laid his hand flat against the stone. It was rough and solid and so real it made his stomach twist.

His voice came out quiet, barely more than a breath.

"Mom… Dad…"

The words sat there in the air, too small for what they meant. Too late.



Sirius knelt beside him, quiet as the wind brushing through the grass. Harry saw the movement from the corner of his eye, but didn't look. He was still staring at the stone, fingers pressed to his mother's name like the shape of the letters might give something back.

There was a whisper of magic and then the faint rustle of petals. Harry turned his head just slightly and saw Sirius setting down a small bouquet of lilies, fresh and uneven, their stems still dewy.

"She always liked them best like this. Not from a shop. Just… growing. A bit wild."



Harry blinked, and in the corner of his vision he saw Sirius again. Head bowed, tears sliding down his cheeks. It hit Harry harder than the grave ever could. He'd never seen him like that before. Never thought he would. Sirius, who always joked too loud and smiled like nothing could touch him, was breaking right beside him, and Harry didn't know what to do with that. Two broken men, side by side, sharing their grief in the only way that made sense.. by not pretending it didn't hurt.

---

at the same time in Great Hall..



Hermione sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes fixed on the Goblet. Her mind wasn't on the fire. It was on the empty space beside her. Harry hadn't shown up for the feast. No message, no note, not even Ron knew where he'd gone. She tried not to fidget, tried not to let her worry curl into something sharper, but it was there—pricking at her ribs like a missed answer on a test she hadn't studied for.

The Goblet flared.

"Viktor Krum."

Durmstrang clapped like a war drum. Hermione joined in, politely, trying to focus, trying to act like any of this mattered. But the ache in her stomach didn't ease.

"Fleur Delacour."

She clapped again, softer now. Ron looked like he was about to fall out of his seat. She didn't say anything.

"Cedric Diggory."

A loud cheer from Hufflepuff. Hermione smiled for half a second. Cedric deserved it. But her heart still beat too fast. Where was he?

Dumbledore stood, his expression composed as ever, though Hermione noticed the slight crease at the edge of his brow. He raised his goblet in both hands. "Let us take a moment to commend the champions chosen by the Goblet of Fire. They stand not only for their schools, but for the ideals of courage, skill, and unity that this tournament was built…"

The flames erupted.

Hermione jerked in her seat as the Goblet's blue fire twisted to red, roaring louder than before. A hush swept the Great Hall. Sparks flew high into the air, and then, without warning, a fourth piece of parchment shot out. Dumbledore caught it without looking away from the Goblet. He stared at the name for too long.

He lifted his head, eyes scanning the Gryffindor table.

"Harry Potter."

Hermione's breath caught.

Across the Hall, no one moved. She felt all eyes swing toward her.

Dumbledore's voice came again, quieter, like it was meant only for her. "Where is Harry Potter, Miss Granger?"

And in that moment, the worst moment, she had to say the one thing she never wanted to.

"I don't know."

 

[certher]

Author's note: Many of you probably expected the first task to begin in this chapter, but unfortunately, that's not the case. The first task officially starts in Chapter 36, for those who are wondering. We still need to wrap up a few story elements before venturing further into the Triwizard Tournament.

Chapter 28:

He had spent years constructing them not as people, but as silhouettes burned into the walls of stories other people told. They had become a kind of myth in his mind, embalmed in secondhand adjectives and mournful looks across dinner tables. Brave. Beautiful. Gone. But myths, when confronted with fact, collapse in ways that feel like betrayal. There was no grandeur in the stone. No revelation in the dates. Only arithmetic. A beginning. An end. Nothing in between. It struck him with the quiet cruelty of a delayed blow, that the world had not only taken them from him, it had also stolen their right to be ordinary. He would never know their bad habits, their private jokes, the quiet ways they failed each other and forgave it. He would never get to hate them a little, and love them more for it. What he had instead was legacy. And legacy, he was beginning to understand, was just another name for expectation dressed in mourning clothes. He did not know if he was angry at the world, or at the stories it had handed him in place of parents. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. What he knew; what had crystallized with the absolute clarity of grief metabolized into architecture was; that he no longer trusted the narratives others gave him. Not about his parents. Not about himself. And that realization created questions that started to slowly ascend, showing above the surface. Who is Harry Potter? Who were his parents? He simply didn't know.



Harry took the long route back. Past the Transfiguration corridor, through the second-floor antechamber where the stone always smelled faintly of ash, then up the spiraling stairs that had a habit of shifting when they grew bored. He walked without thinking, but not without feeling; the quiet repetition of footsteps on cold stone gave his mind the room it needed to loop back to the grave.



When the tears ran out, they didn't speak. Sirius nudged Harry gently with his shoulder and nodded toward the gate. They left the grave behind and took the long way through the village, past the old war memorial.

"We came up with the map idea in fourth year, actually. But we didn't make it until fifth. Took us three tries just to get the ink to stop vanishing. James wanted it to talk. I wanted it to swear. I won." Sirius smiled. "But, beetwen you and me.. Moony did all the real work."

Harry looked up at Sirius with a smile. "You lot were idiots." Sirius gave a soft grunt. "Yeah. We were."

"Did you ever think someone else would use it?"

Sirius shook his head. "No. We thought we'd outlive everything we made."



They found a bench near the big oak tree, and Sirius sat with a groan. Harry dropped beside him without a word. His sleeves were damp with mist, and he only noticed the cold when Sirius muttered something and warmth spread through the fabric.



For a minute they sat there, neither sure what to say. Harry looked over, and Sirius glanced down just in time to meet his eyes. Sirius cleared his throat. "I know it's hard, kid. But it loosens up. Bit by bit. Your mum and dad would hex me for sulking like this. I'm your dogfather, I'm supposed to be funny. And handsome. And vaguely irresponsible. So here it is: I want to spend Christmas with you. At Grimmauld Place. And if you want, bring Hermione and Ron. I don't know how the Weasleys feel about me after last year, but… we'll make it work."

Harry nodded.

"Yeah. I'd like that. Thank you."

He hadn't noticed it until now how Hogwarts had stopped feeling like a home and started feeling like a school and nothing more. He really wanted to go to Grimmauld Place.

Sirius leaned back, hands tucked into his sleeves.

"While we're at it," he said, "we should go see the Potter vault. Properly. There might be something in there your parents left behind something that matters. Or something that helps. Whatever that means."

"Yeah," Harry said after a moment. "I don't even know what they kept in there… but if there's anything, I want to see it." He rubbed his hands together, not really for warmth. "I should head back. It's getting late."

Sirius looked at him again but this time Harry knew he was judging him.

"You are awfully quiet, Harry."

Harry knew. He stared up at the dark sky, grateful for the big tree shielding them from the wind.

"It's not just today," he said. "I don't know… everything's been a bit off. Even when it's normal. I feel like I'm running to catch up, but I'm not sure what with."

Sirius didn't answer right away. He just watched Harry for a moment, his expression thoughtful. He thought about what Andromeda had said weeks ago over tea, her voice even and clinical: "He's good at mirroring people. Picks up what they want and gives it back, just enough to pass. But I'm not sure if that's who he is, or just who he learned to be. Maybe he doesn't know either."

He nodded once, like that made sense.

"Well," he said, "maybe that's why Christmas exists. Bit of quiet. Bit of food. Bit of a reset."

Harry huffed a laugh, but it didn't quite reach his chest.

"Yeah. Sounds good."



By the time he reached the seventh floor, the warmth was gone. He stopped in front of the Fat Lady's portrait. She was already watching him. "Oh, you are in trouble, Mr. Potter," she said, almost cheerfully.

He stepped through the portrait hole and froze.

The entire common room was full. Packed. Wall to wall with Gryffindors, every single one of them turned toward the door as if on cue. McGonagall stood in the center, robes drawn tight, delivering what looked very much like the tail end of a speech no one wanted to be caught interrupting.

"…if anyone has any information," McGonagall was saying, "about the whereabouts of Mr. Potter, I suggest you speak now, because.."

McGonagall's eyes swept the crowd, trying to understand what had stolen their attention until she saw the way they were all looking past her. She followed their look, turned fully toward the portrait hole, and her mouth pulled into a thin, unreadable line.

"Well. Look who's decided to rejoin us."

They were halfway to Dumbledore's office before either of them said a word. McGonagall moved fast, her stride clipped and unforgiving, and Harry followed two steps behind.

"You have brought shame to your House, Mr. Potter," she said finally, not looking back. Her voice was quiet, but there was nothing soft in it. "Shame, and concern. I haven't seen a disruption like this since your father turned the Grand Staircase into a slide during OWL week.."

Harry said nothing.

"Do you have any idea the chaos you caused?" Her voice was tight now, pulled thin by exhaustion more than anger. "The Headmaster was forced to apologize to two foreign schools in front of the entire staff. He was worried sick. We all were."

The stairs creaked under her pace as they reached the corridor. She stopped only when they were in front of the stone gargoyle, her hands folded behind her back.

"You will report to Professor Snape every Saturday morning for the next month for your detention. And you will write a letter of apology to the Headmaster."

She gave the password without another word.

The spiral staircase moved on its own. McGonagall stepped onto it without pause, and Harry followed. They rode up in silence, the grinding of stone the only sound between them.

At the landing, just before the door, she turned to face him.

"You will speak only when addressed," she said. "You will keep your temper, and you will not embarrass this school further. Am I understood?"

Harry gave a small nod. He didn't trust himself to say anything else.

McGonagall knocked once, briskly. The door opened.



The room was full, and every face turned to him. Dumbledore stood behind his desk, looking tired but relieved. Moody leaned against a shelf, arms folded, his magical eye moving fast. Crouch stood by the fire, rigid, eyes sharp. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime watched him without speaking. In one of the chairs sat a man Harry recognized but couldn't name, smiling like he just won big lottery.

Dumbledore stepped forward, hands clasped, his eyes fixed on Harry with something halfway between concern and caution.

"Harry," he said, not loudly, but clearly. "Please, come in."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Harry didn't look at anyone else. Just at Dumbledore.

"Good evening. I take it something happened."

Dumbledore gave a small nod, like he'd expected no less.

"You were not at the feast," he said. "Your absence caused considerable concern. Professors searched the castle. You were nowhere to be found."

Harry didn't move. "I went to visit my parents' graves."

Madame Maxime made a noise of disbelief. "This is unacceptable," she said, stepping forward.

"He disappears during the most important night of the tournament, he breaks your school's protections, and we are all expected to sit quietly while he shrugs it off?"

Dumbledore raised a hand. He did not look away from Harry.

"It is not a small thing," he said. "But nor is grief. Today is Halloween. For most, a night of celebration. For Harry, it is the anniversary of his parents' murder."

Madame Maxime didn't back down. "And yet grief does not excuse a breach in protocol," she said. "This was not a common school event. It was a binding magical process. If Hogwarts cannot account for its own champion, what are the rest of us supposed to think?"

Karkaroff's voice came rough and clipped, like he'd been holding it back just long enough to make it sound measured. But the heat underneath was obvious. "So, he vanishes without a word, reappears hours later, and we're all meant to pretend that's normal?" He turned fully toward Dumbledore, lips curled in something too sharp to be a smile. "If Hogwarts cannot keep its own champions in check, perhaps it should reconsider hosting international events at all."



Dumbledore turned slightly. "It would be unwise," he said, "to confuse grief with defiance. Mr. Potter's absence, while troubling, was not without cause. And I would remind us all that this tournament rests upon mutual understanding, not suspicion." His words moved like chess pieces, patient, polite, but positioned with care.

Before they could land, Crouch let out a faint sigh and straightened his cuffs, as though he'd already heard where Dumbledore was going and found it tiresome. "And mutual understanding, depends on clear boundaries, Headmaster. Not just sentiment."



Harry crossed his arms, not to look defiant, just to keep his hands still. "Professor McGonagall already handled it," he said. "I've got detention. Every Saturday. With Snape." He let that last part hang, didn't bother hiding how he felt about it. Across the room, Karkaroff looked like someone had handed him a wrapped gift. Maxime's mouth twitched like she'd won a bet. "So if this is about punishment," Harry said, "we can check that box."



McGonagall stepped forward, her arms folded tight. "That is correct," she said. "Mr. Potter will serve a month's detention under Professor Snape's supervision. I judged it appropriate, and I stand by that judgment."

"We do not ignore rule-breaking at Hogwarts. But neither do we humiliate grieving children for sport." She glanced toward Maxime and Karkaroff, daring either to push further. Neither did.

Dumbledore nodded once.

"Thank you, Minerva." He turned back to the others.

"Mr. Potter has already received punishment. The matter is not being ignored."

Then Crouch stepped forward, brushing his sleeve.

"Then let us proceed," he said. "Mr. Potter, your name came out of the Goblet of Fire. That makes you one of the Triwizard Champions. The Goblet's binding. It doesn't matter who entered your name, only that it was accepted. You are required to compete in all three tasks and carry the responsibilities that come with it. You represent your school now, whether you planned to or not."



Harry didn't bother pretending to be surprised. He looked at Crouch, then over at the others, and shrugged like it barely mattered. "Alright," he said. "If I have to compete, I will. But let's just be clear. I don't care about the tournament. I didn't want to be in it. I still don't." His voice was flat."So whatever comes next, I'll deal with it. But don't expect me to play along like this means something to me."

Moody scratched his chin.

"You know what I don't get?" he said. "Half this castle would kill for a shot at that cup. Fame, gold, glory. It's everything most boys your age dream about. And yet here you are, acting like this is below you."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I just wanted one normal year," he said. "That's it. One year without something trying to kill me or turn me into a headline."

Moody studied him for a second longer, then gave a slow nod and stepped back. "Alright. Let's say I believe you. That means someone else put your name in. And the Goblet accepted it." He looked around the room like the answer might be hiding in plain sight. "That's not a simple prank. The Goblet's old magic. Strong. You'd need to fool it and bind the name with a fourth school that doesn't exist on the list. That's not student work."

He glanced back at Harry. "So the question is… who benefits from you being in this tournament?"

Dumbledore let out a low hum, not quite agreement, not quite protest. His hands folded in front of him as he looked at Harry. "That is the question," he said quietly. "Who had the skill, the motive, and the opportunity? Entering a fourth school would require intent, a clear understanding of the Goblet's protections, and a reason to circumvent them. That list is not long."

He glanced toward the fire where Crouch stood, then back at Moody. "And if it wasn't meant as a joke or a stunt, then it was meant as something worse."

He turned to Harry again. "Have you noticed anything strange in the last few weeks? Anything out of place? People you didn't expect to see?"

Crouch cut in without looking at Dumbledore. "Intentions don't matter anymore," he said. "The Goblet chose. It's done. We don't have time to waste chasing shadows." He turned to Harry. "You are a Triwizard Champion. That means three tasks across the year. First one's in November. You'll be briefed in detail the morning of. Until then, no help from professors, no outside assistance, and no quitting." He paused. "There'll be a contract for you to sign, but it's symbolic at this point. The magic's already bound."



Crouch reached into his coat and pulled out a folded pamphlet, the edges already crumpled from use. He handed it to Harry without ceremony. "This outlines the basic structure of the tournament, task intervals, safety protocols, and expected conduct. You'll want to read it." His voice was flat, like someone reciting a script he'd already said too many times. Harry took the paper but didn't open it.

"Who are the other champions?"

Crouch let out a slow breath, like he was already done with the conversation but knew it couldn't end yet. "Viktor Krum, representing Durmstrang. Fleur Delacour, for Beauxbatons. Cedric Diggory, for Hogwarts."

Harry blinked once. "Cedric?"

Crouch gave a curt nod, then turned toward the fireplace. "That's all you need to know for now."

Crouch stepped into the fire. He threw in a pinch of Floo powder and disappeared in a flash of green. The man who had been sitting by the wall stood and stretched his back. He gave Harry a smile that looked polite but meant nothing. "Good luck, lad," he said, and his voice was too cheerful for the hour. Then he stepped into the fireplace and was gone.



Karkaroff turned first, sweeping toward the door with Madame Maxime close behind. Her expression was stiff, unreadable, but his shoulders were too squared for someone satisfied. He reached the threshold, hand on the handle then stopped. Slowly, he turned, eyes fixed on Harry. In three long strides he crossed the room again, stopping just in front of him. He leaned down, close enough for Harry to see the yellow in his teeth and the cold in his stare.

"You think this is all some accident?" he whispered. "If your little school plays tricks, if my student is made to look a fool, you'll find out just how short my temper really is.."



Harry exhaled slowly. His chest tightened like it used to when Uncle Vernon raised his voice. For a second, everything slowed, what the hell was this? A headmaster, inches from his face, smiling like he wanted to see him bleed…

"YOU WHAT?!" McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip.

Her wand was up in a flash, aimed square at Karkaroff's face, eyes blazing with a fury Harry had never seen before.

"You dare threaten a student?! In my presence?! You spineless dog! You were Voldemort's servant once, and I see you haven't changed! Barking when the leash is off! Try that again and I'll hex you so hard you'll forget your own name!"

Moody's wand was already halfway out. Even Dumbledore looked ready.

Karkaroff stepped back fast, hands up, sneering like it was all some misunderstanding. "Control your staff, Dumbledore," he said "If this is how Hogwarts handles diplomacy, it's no wonder your students act like they're untouchable."

Dumbledore didn't respond. He gave McGonagall a subtle glance, a quiet signal to lower her wand, to let it go. She didn't move. She stepped in front of Harry instead, shoulders squared, wand still raised like she hadn't even noticed him.

"Out," she said to Karkaroff. "You will not come into this school and speak to my student like that. Leave."

Karkaroff didn't move. He stared at McGonagall, lips twisted in something that wasn't quite a smile. Then Madame Maxime stepped forward, putting a hand on his arm.

"I think we've had enough for one night," she said. Her voice wasn't warm.

Karkaroff didn't reply, but his eyes stayed locked on Harry for a second longer than they should have. Then he turned, muttering something under his breath in a language Harry didn't know, and swept toward the door. Maxime followed without another word.

The door slammed behind them.

"That's enough," Dumbledore said looking firmly at Transmutation Proffesor. McGonagall gave one last glare before lowering her wand. She didn't move from Harry's side.

Headmaster let out a long breath and turned away. He paced a few steps, muttering under his breath. "What a day, what a day…"

Fawkes stirred from his perch and flew down, landing gently on Dumbledore's forearm. The phoenix let out a soft, clear note, one that echoed faintly around the room like it had been waiting there all along. Only after a few moments Dumbledore stirred.

He looked at Harry and exhaled through his nose, tired. "Before you go get some sleep, because it is late, and this day has taken more than its share, I want to say I'm glad you went. To see your parents grave." He paused, just for a second. "The timing… it wasn't ideal. None of us expected your name to come out. But I believe you, Harry. I believe you didn't put your name in."

Harry didn't know what to say. He just gave a short nod and looked down at his shoes. The floor was scuffed near the desk, a scratch in the wood he hadn't noticed before. He stared at it for a long time.

McGonagall rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Potter."

He followed her out without a word.



They walked in silence through the quiet halls. Near the top of the staircase, just before the common room, McGonagall stopped and turned slightly toward him. "I owe you an apology, Mr. Potter," she said softly. "I was too harsh earlier. I let my worry get the better of me, and that wasn't fair to you." Harry didn't say anything, just watched her. She looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. It really was a long day for everyone, Harry realized. "You remind me of your mother sometimes," she went on. "Lily was brilliant at Transfiguration. Sharp, steady, and stubborn when she thought something was wrong. But she cared more than most people ever realized." Harry looked up, surprised. "I care about my students, Potter," she said. "I care about you. Even when I don't say it the right way." He gave a small nod. "Good night, Professor." She nodded back. "Good night, Pott… Harry."

 

[certher]

Chapter 29:


Harry stepped through the portrait hole and froze. The common room was still full, every conversation cut off the second they saw him. Of course, they were waiting for him. Ron stood near the fireplace, eyes wide, mouth half open like he was about to speak but didn't know what to say. Hermione was further back, arms crossed tight over her chest. She looked pale.

Surprisingly Neville got to him first.

"Are you okay? Where have you been?" he asked nervously.

Harry looked at Neville and felt his chest twist a little. His face was red and he looked like he was regretting opening his mouth already, but he was still standing there, waiting for an answer. Harry gave him the smallest smile he could manage, something close enough to thanks. He was about to say something back, maybe just "yeah" or "sort of," when Angelina cut in hard.

"Oh, great," she said, marching straight up to him. "Look who's back from his secret little adventure. Did it ever occur to you some of us actually wanted a shot at that tournament?"



When he was walking back to the Common Room with McGonagall, Harry had plenty of time to really think about what his participation in the Tournament might mean to other students. Cedric's House probably saw him as a traitor; in his mind's eye he could already see a repeat of second year, when the whole school ignored him because he was supposedly the Heir of Slytherin. But that whole outburst from Angelina felt more like something Ron would do. What did Harry really know about her? Not much, so for now he tried to hold off on judging. He patted Neville and nodded at him as a typical guy sign of understanding. He turned toward the older witch who was approaching.

"Good to see you, Angelina. From the very start I've been saying I'm not interested in this whole tournament. Nothing's changed about that. Dumbledore and Moody will try to find out what caused my name to be selected as a champion and under the name of some fourth school that doesn't even exist."



Angelina smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Well, it must be so exhausting, getting picked for things you don't even want." Her arms folded neatly across her chest, voice light like she was making casual conversation. "Some of us only had one shot. Trained for weeks. Dreamed a little. Silly, I know. Should've just waited for the Goblet to drop your name instead." She looked him up and down. "Maybe it knew something we didn't."



Harry shook his head and walked past her, not bothering to answer. He wasn't in the mood to argue, explain, or defend anything. As he moved through the common room, he glanced around.

Out of everyone watching him, it was Seamus's stare that caught him off guard the most. It wasn't curious or confused. It was straight up hostile.



Harry heard Ron's voice behind him.

"Harry, wait!"

He climbed the stairs to the boys' dormitory, pushed the door open, and sat down on the edge of his bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. A few seconds later, the door creaked open again.



Ron sat down on the bed across from him and didn't speak at first. He just fiddled with a loose thread on his sleeve like it might give him the right words.

"Are you alright?"

It came out weirdly soft. Harry looked up and Ron actually looked worried.

"You disappeared, mate," Ron said, louder now, like he'd been holding it in. "I thought maybe you got cursed or kidnapped or I don't know. Hermione nearly hexed me when she found out I didn't know where you were."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Why would she hex you?"

Ron's ears went pink. "Because she told me to keep an eye on you," he muttered. "Said you were acting odd lately. And I told her it was just stress but then you vanished and I sort of panicked." He cleared his throat and glanced away. "We were just worried, alright?"



"You're not mad?" Harry asked. "About the tournament, I mean."

Ron looked at him confused. "What?"

"You're not… angry I got picked. Or think I cheated."

Ron blinked like he was still catching up. "Mate, I was too busy thinking you were dead in a ditch to worry about that." He paused, scratched the back of his neck. "I mean, yeah, it's bloody weird. You said you didn't put your name in, right?"

Harry nodded once.

"Then that's it, isn't it?" Ron shrugged. "I'm not gonna fight you over something you didn't ask for. I mean, I'll still be jealous when you win a hundred Galleons or whatever, but…" He trailed off and gave a small laugh. "You looked wrecked when you walked in. Figured there were more important things."

Harry felt a quiet wave of gratitude. After everything, it meant more than he could say. He stood, crossed the small space between them, and sat down beside Ron with a tired sigh. His shoulder bumped Ron's lightly.

"Thanks, mate," he said. "Really. I needed that."

Ron gave a small nod, like he didn't know what to do with the emotion but wasn't about to brush it off either. Harry opened his mouth to start explaining, to try and unpack the whole graveyard thing, but the door banged open before he got a word out.

Hermione stormed in.

She marched straight into the room and threw her arms around Harry before he could even stand up.

"I was so worried," she whispered into his ear.

Harry froze for a second, caught off guard. Her jumper was warm against his cheek, and she smelled like old library books and minty toothpaste.

He glanced sideways at Ron, still sitting next to him on the bed, who gave a helpless little shrug like he didn't know what to say.

Hermione pulled back just enough to shoot Ron a look, then smacked him on the arm.

Ron flinched. "Oi! What was that for?"

"You said you were keeping an eye on him."

"Yeah, well, I'm not his bloody babysitter," Ron muttered, rubbing his arm.

Hermione stepped back and sat down on Neville's bed across from them. She folded her arms, legs crossed at the ankle, and fixed Harry with a look that was less angry now, but still firm.

"I think you owe us an explanation, Harry."

"Yeah, you're right," Harry said. "I should've told someone. But this year's already been insane and… I don't know. I'm trying to figure out who I am when no one's watching. Who I am without everyone telling me who I'm supposed to be."

He glanced at Ron and Hermione, then back down. "Sirius said he was going to visit my parents' grave. Asked if I wanted to come. It just felt… right. No speeches, no professors, no expectations. Just him and me, and them."

He paused, swallowed. "I needed that. I didn't mean to scare anyone. I just needed to go."

Ron scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah… I get it. If it were me, I'd probably want to do the same."

Hermione looked at him for a long second, then nodded. "You could've told us. But… I'm glad you went. And I'm glad Sirius was with you."

Harry gave them both a small smile but then he remembered the Tournament. The Goblet. Everything waiting just under the surface. He stood and crossed over to his trunk, popped it open, and pulled out the mirror Sirius had given him.

"I'm gonna call him," he said, not really explaining who, but they both understood. He stepped over to his bed, angled the mirror in his lap, and spoke clearly. "Sirius Black."

The glass shimmered, then cleared. Sirius's face appeared.

"Harry?" he said, frowning.

Harry turned the mirror so Ron and Hermione could see too. "You should hear this now so I don't have to say it again."

He took a breath. "My name came out of the Goblet. I've been picked. I'm the fourth champion."

Sirius's face sharpened the second the words left Harry's mouth. "Fourth champion?" he repeated

Harry nodded. "Yeah. That's what I said."

"Alright. Did you meet with Dumbledore?"

"Yeah."

Sirius leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Good. Now tell me exactly who was in the room."

Harry glanced over at Ron and Hermione, then back down at the mirror. "Dumbledore, McGonagall, Moody, Crouch, Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, and this Ministry guy I didn't recognize."

"Okay. What did they ask you?"

"Where I'd been. Why I left. How my name got in the Goblet."

"And what did you say?"

"I told them I went to Godric's Hollow," Harry said. "To visit my parents' grave."

Sirius didn't say anything for a second, just stared like he was checking every word for what might've been left out. "And what did they say to that?"

"Most of them didn't care," Harry said. "Maxime was annoyed. Karkaroff kept looking at me like I'd pulled some kind of trick. Moody though… he kept watching me. I think he was waiting to see what I'd do next."

"Sounds like him. Did he ask you anything else?"

Harry thought for a second. "Yeah. He asked why I wasn't excited. Said most kids would be thrilled to be in the tournament."

Sirius leaned in again, his expression tight. "That's not just weird, Harry. That's off. Moody asking why you weren't excited? That's not a casual question. That's him testing you, seeing if you knew what game you were part of."

Harry frowned. "You think he suspects something?"

"I think he suspects everything. That's why he was a good Auror. Paranoid kept him alive." Sirius paused, then added, "But if he's circling like that already, it means he thinks there's something foul under the surface."

"Karkaroff and Maxime tried to twist it. Acted like I was some spoiled Hogwarts kid trying to rig the tournament. They used it to jab at Dumbledore."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Of course they did. Karkaroff's a snake in shoes, and Maxime only cares about her school's reputation." He leaned closer again. "But forget them for now. I want to know about you. Since you got back… has anyone acted strange? Has anyone threatened you?"

Harry blinked at that. "Threatened me?"

"Yeah," Sirius said, his voice serious now. "Even subtly. A weird comment, a strange look. Anything that made the hairs on your neck stand up. Start thinking like someone's after you, Harry. Because I think they are."

Harry looked down."There was one thing."

"Tell me."

"Karkaroff," Harry said. "Right before he left Dumbledore's office. He walked right up to me, got in my face, and whispered that if Hogwarts was playing tricks and his champion got made to look like a fool, I'd find out just how short his temper was."

Sirius expression darkened, every trace of humor gone. "Did anyone hear?"

"McGonagall," Harry said. "She was standing right beside me. He probably thought she was too far to catch it, but she did. She pulled her wand on him. Called him a dog. Said he hadn't changed since he followed Voldemort. Told him if he threatened me again, she'd hex him so hard he'd forget his own name."

Sirius gave a short nod, like he could picture it perfectly. "Good," he said. "That's what he deserved."

Ron and Hermione looked at him like they were only now starting to get how serious this was. A headmaster threatening Harry that wasn't something you brushed off so easily..

"Alright," Sirius said. "Here's the truth. This tournament isn't just some school event. It's dangerous, Harry. Always has been. Back when the Ministry still bothered, the Department of Mysteries used to send people to monitor the tasks. Some of them were so bad they nearly shut the whole thing down for good."

"Why would they bring it back then?"

"Politics," Sirius said flatly. "And pride. But none of that matters now. What matters is you're in it, and someone made sure of that. So from now on, we train. I don't care what rules they've got. If they're gonna throw you into something deadly, you're not walking in blind."



Harry nodded, "I've already started, you know," he said, a bit quietly. "Been sneaking off to the old classroom. Practicing spells, going over those books you gave me from Grimmauld Place. But I'm falling behind, there's the Potions project with Daphne, and Andromeda's been trying to meet every Sunday, and…" He trailed off, pressing his lips together. "Can you tell her I need to pause the meetings for a bit? Just until the first task is done. I need to focus."



Sirius's image in the mirror gave a slow nod. "Yeah. I'll let her know," he said. "She won't be thrilled, but she'll get it. You've got more on your plate than any fifteen-year-old should."

He rubbed his jaw, glancing offscreen like he was thinking through something. "Honestly, Harry… I'm proud of you. You're doing the right thing. But I don't want you running yourself into the ground trying to cover every angle at once. This isn't about being the best. Your job in that tournament is simple." He looked straight at Harry again. "Survive."



Hermione uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, eyes narrowing with focus. "Then we start planning," she said. "Properly. I'll make a list. Spell categories, classifications, the ones that overlap or complement each other. Shielding charms, counterspells, quick-casts, anything that can buy time or shift momentum in a fight."

Ron turned his head slowly to stare at her like she'd started speaking Parseltongue. His expression was somewhere between awe and fear. He knew what is coming.

Hermione was already building steam. "We'll craft a whole defensive style that works for you, Harry. Not just throwing up a some random charm and praying it holds. We'll look into movement spells, terrain manipulation, even temporary transfigurations if we can find ones fast enough to cast. Change the field, change the outcome."

Harry blinked. "So, like… use the environment against the task itself."

"Exactly," she said, already halfway lost in thought. "Make the arena yours. If we can control the space, you'll never be cornered. We start with the basics and build from there. One good shield is worth ten dodges, but the right spell at the right time changes everything."

Ron looked between her and Harry, then back again, eyes wide.

"You've done it, Harry," he whispered. "She's in that mode now."



Sirius laughed looking at them fondly. "You lot sound exactly like us," he said, shaking his head with wicked grin. "Me, James, and Remus we used to do the same thing when we were your age. Bored of homework, too much energy, and curiosity. We'd take over empty classrooms, push desks to the walls, and spend hours experimenting. Spell chaining, trap wards, terrain flips, you name it. Remus tried to keep it structured, James made everything a competition, and I… well, I had a talent for chaos."



Sirius leaned forward, eyes gleaming now like he was back there himself, in those dusty old rooms with sunlight slanting through high windows and the thrill of trying something that could blow up in your face. "One time, James figured out how to transfigure half the stone floor into a kind of wooden ramp, blocked two stunners and sent Snape sliding straight into a wall. We were howling. Then we got cocky and started messing with animation. That's where it really got interesting."

He started counting off on his fingers. "Take something simple turn part of the ground into wood. Easy. Now transfigure it into, say, a lion. A crude one at first, doesn't matter. After that, animate it. Give it movement. Make it snarl. Make it fight. Suddenly, you're not alone in a duel. You've got backup. Even if it's got splinters for teeth."

He paused, frowning slightly. "Hang on. Animation… I think that's fifth year? Or was it sixth?" He rubbed his temple, muttering. "Blimey, I'm getting old. Whatever. You'll get there."

His grin came back "The point is, be clever. Be unpredictable. Magic's not a rulebook it's a toolbox. You can build anything with it if you're willing to think outside the parchment. The only real wall you'll hit is the one that says, 'That's not how it's done.' Tear that down. That's when it gets fun."



Hermione was scribbling notes furiously now, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. Harry just sat there with the mirror still in his lap, a slow smile tugging at his mouth, thinking that he didn't feel alone in this. It ws kind of nice to have supportive friends.







The door creaked open just like it always did.

Harry stepped inside first. "Don't worry, it always sounds like that," he called over his shoulder.

He dropped his bag on the front desk and unzipped it. "I've been using this place for a while," he said, pulling out two thick books and setting them down with a thud. "Comes in handy when I need to not think for a bit."

He flipped one open to a page filled with hand-drawn shield formations and quick-defense notes. "Sirius gave me these when I moved into Grimmauld Place. Said if I was going to keep landing in the middle of things, I should at least have something to help me not die."

Ron raised an eyebrow as he tilted one of the covers toward him. "Practical Defensive Charms for Duels," he read out. "And… Duelling: Art and Precision. Sounds like something Percy would assign for fun."

"They're not," Hermione said, already scanning the index. "These are proper dueling manuals. Some of this isn't even covered until NEWT-level classes."

Harry sat on the edge of the desk, wand in his hand now, absently tapping his leg. "I've been going through them bit by bit when I had time. But now that you two are here… I think we can move faster."



Ron set the book back down and cracked his knuckles. "Alright. So what's first? One of us throws a curse, the other tries not to die?"

"Basically," Harry said, but Hermione was already digging into her bag.

"Wait, use this one instead." She pulled out a slimmer, navy-colored book with neat gold lettering across the spine. Transfiguration Theory: Intermediate Level.

"I checked it out yesterday," she said, flipping rapidly through the pages until she landed on one covered in diagrams and footnotes. "Here, this is a basic environmental conversion charm. Lapidorus lignum. Transforms stone into wood. Usable for temporary defensive structure or quick elevation, depending on intent."

Harry leaned over her shoulder. "Does it say how to pronounce it?"

She pointed to the phonetic guide under the heading. "Lah-PIH-dor-us LIG-num. Four beats. And it's wand down, press and twist slightly, then lift. Pressure matters the slower you cast, the more complete the transformation."

Harry nodded, mouthing the words once. "Lah-pih-dor-us lignum…"

Ron walked to the middle of the room and kicked a loose piece of parchment aside. "Alright, I'll go first. I'll hex something small. You do the blocky-transfiguring bit."

"Blocky-transfiguring," Hermione muttered. "Very technical, Ron."

"Better than doing this during the actual task," Harry said. He moved toward the far wall and picked a solid spot near the floor. "Alright, I'll try it first. Just get ready."

He gripped his wand tighter and took a breath. "Lapidorus lignum!"

The floor twitched, but nothing happened.

Hermione squinted at her book. "You rushed the lift. Slow it down. Press, twist, lift, then finish the spell."

Harry nodded again, tried to reset. This time he spoke slower, letting the syllables roll off his tongue like he was chewing each one. "Lah-pih-dor-us… lignum."

The stone glowed faintly, then converted gritty texture spreading outward like ripples. Within seconds, a block of wood jutted up from the floor, uneven but solid.

"Alright," Ron said, stepping back a few paces. "Here comes the test. Expelliarmus!"

The red light slammed into the wood and fizzled with a sharp snap. The block wobbled but held.

Harry let out a breath and grinned. "Okay. That felt good."

Hermione smiled too. "Let's try it again. Next time, bigger."

Ron shook his head and gave a crooked smile. "Only you two would call building wooden walls on a Sunday morning 'fun.'"



Hermione rolled her eyes but looked amused. She was already flipping through Practical Defensive Charms for Duels, scanning the margin notes. "Here's something we haven't tried yet. Arenafors."

Harry leaned over to look. "What's it do?"

"It's listed as a proximity repulsion charm. Creates a burst of defensive energy in a tight circle around the caster. Supposed to knock back projectiles, small objects, and maybe an attacker if they're close enough." She squinted at the diagram. "Range is about a meter and a half. Says here it doesn't stop strong spells, but it deflects them. Sort of… buys you breathing room."

Ron's eyes widened. "So, like kaboom, everything near you gets launched?"

Hermione nodded. "If you do it right. Also says it's tricky to control. Too much force and you'll end up flinging desks across the room."

Ron stepped away from the furniture. "Yeah, no, I'll just… observe from behind this very stable table."

Harry gave a half-grin and flexed his wand fingers. "How do you say it?"

Hermione pointed at the footnote. "Ah-REH-na-fors. Push magic into your wand, hold it like you're charging something, then release it all at once in a snap."

Harry gave a nod. "Alright. Let's see what it does."



Ron popped up from behind the desk, wand already raised. "Mind if I toss the spell?"

Harry squared his stance. "Go for it."

Ron didn't need to be told twice. "Expelliarmus!"

The jet of red light shot toward him, and Harry snapped his wand down. "Arenafors!"

There was a loud crack and a burst of blue force exploded out from Harry in every direction. The spell slammed into Ron's disarming charm midair, knocking it off-course so hard it scorched a chunk of wall near the window.

But that wasn't the only thing it hit.

Hermione, who'd been standing maybe half a meter too close, got caught in the edge of the wave. She let out a surprised "Oh" as her feet lifted clean off the ground. She flipped once, books and notes flying, and hit the floor with a loud thump.

Ron's mouth dropped open. "Blimey!" he shouted. "You just yeeted Hermione!"

Harry's wand hand dropped instantly. "Hermione!?"

She groaned and sat up, hair completely disheveled, one shoe halfway off. "I'm fine," she said, waving off the panic as she pushed herself upright. "Mostly startled. That was… more effective than I expected."

Ron snorted. "More effective? You got launched like a Bludger!"

Harry rushed over, eyes wide. "I didn't mean to..it just came out stronger than I thought.."

"It's okay!" Hermione cut in, but she was laughing now, breathless. "Honestly, that was probably my fault. I should have moved when you said you were casting."

Ron was nearly doubled over, trying not to choke on his own laughter. "She flipped, Harry. Like midair. I swear I saw her make eye contact with the ceiling."

Hermione shoved her hair out of her face and stood up straighter, brushing dust off her jumper. "Alright. From now on, we mark a safe casting zone. No standing within blast radius of a boy who doesn't know his own spell strength."

Harry scratched the back of his head, still grinning sheepishly. "So… not bad for a first try?"

Hermione looked at the scorch mark on the wall, the overturned chair, and the scattered pages from her book. "Not bad," she said. "But next time, aim the shockwave away from your friends."

She grinned at him.

Harry smiled. "Alright. Let's keep going."

 

[certher]

Chapter 30:

Harry pulled a sandwich out of his bag and took a big bite. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was tired. And satisfied. Training with Hermione and Ron had been, to be honest, fantastic. A completely different vibe compared to when he trained alone. The big green turtleneck he had on today; the one Hermione said matched his eyes perfectly, was a little soaked with sweat since he hadn't really had time to change. But it didn't smell, so he figured it was fine and made his way toward the library. Even though he had been chosen as a Triwizard Champion, his other projects hadn't been forgotten. If anything, the "Super Potion" for Snape was starting to gain momentum. As he passed a few younger students who looked at him with wide eyes, he headed down the stairs to the quiet floor where the library was.



Harry realized that somehow two whole months of school had already passed. It was the first of November, and the time had just… gone. What was even weirder was that it had gone by without Quidditch. Normally that was his way to check out, to clear his head. And now, apparently, that job had been taken over by… studying. Well, it is what it is. But the more he thought about it, the more it felt like something in him had changed. Not recently, more like back during the Trial. The Merlin thing.

What is taken cannot be replaced. What is left must be enough.

Existential dread could wait. Right now, he had a half-broken potion draft to untangle.



Harry dropped into his usual spot by the window, pulled his bag open, and started unpacking. Notes, a half-folded piece of parchment, one of the library books Daphne told him to check out, and the mess he was calling a recipe draft. He flattened it out with his hand and stared at it for a second. Last Sunday they'd tested dragon's blood in a clean base. That had been a good day. Now they had to see what dragon's blood did in a toxic base, which was a whole different thing. It needed to be unstable, unpredictable. They couldn't even start brewing until they had a proper recipe for it.



He looked down at the draft and tried not to cringe. At the top, in slightly crooked handwriting:

Toxic Base – Prototype A

Do not brew without Daphne looking at this first.

1. Start with 250ml distilled water (room temp).
2. Add 3 crushed valerian roots, stir clockwise 7 times.
3. Heat slowly until steam rises. No bubbling.
4. Add 1 pinch boomslang skin ash. Stir twice, then wait 30 seconds.
5. Add chopped knotgrass. Still unsure,might react badly with fluxweed.
6. Lower heat. Add 1 strand fluxweed while stirring counterclockwise.
7. Optional: 1 drop sage oil? (Stability? Ask Daphne.)
8. Simmer for two minutes. Watch for discoloration. Purple = bad.
9. Cool slightly before adding any stimulant (dragon's blood not included yet).

At the bottom, he'd scribbled, "Try different order? Or cut knotgrass entirely?" followed by a very honest: "this is bad."

He exhaled through his nose and tapped the quill against his chin.



He stared at the word "toxic" for a while like it was supposed to explain itself. Toxic how? Biologically? Magically? Emotionally? He snorted at that one, then scratched his head and flipped open the book Daphne told him to check out. Nothing. No actual definition, just references to toxic reactions and stabilization patterns, like whoever wrote it assumed you already knew what a toxic base was. He checked his notes from class. Still nothing. Flipped through Magical Infusion Theory again. Page after page of diagrams and advanced reactions, but no entry-level explanation. What made something "toxic" in a magical brew? Was it about spell damage? Residual curse energy? How the ingredients interacted with the body? He rubbed his eyes, frustrated. He didn't need a whole lecture, he just needed a starting point. After a minute of swearing under his breath, he shoved the book aside and stood up.



He found it on the lower shelf, wedged between two books. Foundational Potioncraft: Structure, Base, and Reaction. Exactly what he needed. He pulled it out, flipped it open, and spotted "toxic bases" right there in the index. Page forty-two. Finally. He turned to head back to his table, and that's when he heard it.

"…Potter still thinks he's…"

He narrowed his eyes and stepped further into the rows, trying to catch the rest.

"…got into the Tournament in the most blatantly unfair way, bloody Potter…"

"I feel bad for Cedric, honestly. Got robbed of his moment."

"Oi! Guys, check this out! Malfoy's idea."

Harry stood there, listening with a blank look on his face. He didn't need to see them to recognize the voices: Flint, Warrington. Both from the Slytherin Quidditch team. But what were they on about now? He moved a little closer and leaned out from behind the shelf.



Warrington and Flint were there along with two other guys Harry didn't recognize probably sixth or seventh years, all of them packed in close around the table. They were passing around these round, shiny badges, gold at first, each one reading SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY in neat block letters. Harmless enough. But then one of them tapped his with a finger, and the letters changed into POTTER STINKS. That's what got the laughs. Another tapped his, then another. All of them flipping their badges back and forth, Cedric to Potter, Cedric to Potter.

"Bet he begged Dumbledore for it," one of them said. "Little orphan hero gets a prize for surviving again." "Maybe he cried about his dead mum and they just handed him a slot," someone else added, and the others howled. Flint was leaning back in his chair, badge flashing red as he spoke. "Only thing he's good at is not dying. Should put that on a plaque." "He'll probably choke in the first task anyway," Warrington said.



Harry shook his head and turned back toward his table. No use standing there. He took a few deep breaths as he walked, trying to pull his focus back to the book in his hand, the reason he came here in the first place. Still, as he dropped into his chair and opened it to page forty-two, he muttered under his breath, "Morons." He grabbed his quill and forced himself to focus.



A toxic base is a magically unstable foundation used in advanced potionwork to simulate hostile internal environments, particularly those associated with long-term spell damage, exposure to cursed or malignant magical artifacts, and failed magical restoration. Toxic bases are characterized by reactive instability, temporal volatility, and a high likelihood of sympathetic magic backlash. They are not designed for ingestion, but rather to test the viability of stabilizing agents within corrupted magical conditions.



Harry read the definition again, then leaned over his notes. Reactive instability. Temporal volatility. All of it sounded horrible. Which probably meant it was exactly what they needed. He tapped his quill once against the page, then started writing.

Toxic Base – Prototype B

He scratched out the old distilled water. Replaced it with magically active saline something with a bit of flux to it, unstable enough to start reacting even before any ingredients hit it. Then came the structure: belladonna for baseline toxicity, obscura root for magical distortion, whispervine sap for sympathetic resonance. That last one made him hesitate. It was hard to source and worse to stabilize, but Daphne had mentioned it once, and the book confirmed it was one of the few ingredients that could mimic long-term spell trauma. Fluxweed went in late, right before the tipping point to spike volatility without collapsing the brew entirely. Aconite stayed on the "maybe" list. Too dangerous unless diluted just right, and he didn't trust himself to get the measurements right without blowing something up.

He underlined "temporal volatility" twice and made a note to ask Daphne how to fake time-based instability because he had no clue. Another question: how long should it hold before they added the dragon blood? Ten seconds? A minute? Did it matter more how long it held or how it reacted when the blood hit?

He didn't know. But it was a start. A shaky, uneven, probably-needs-to-be-fixed-by-someone-smarter start.



Harry walked in right on time. Daphne was already there, sitting at their table with her notes spread out and a fresh pot of something steaming next to her. She didn't say anything when she saw him, just gave him a long look, then went back to whatever she was writing. It was the first time they'd seen each other since the champions were picked.

Uhhh. She was mad. Harry could tell.

"So, are you still in, or should I be finding a new partner?"

Harry glanced up and met her eyes. He gave her a small, lopsided smile.

"Of course I'm still in."

She raised an eyebrow. "And the Tournament? Didn't know you had a thing for fame. Are you an idiot, or what?"

He exhaled, pulling out his notes. "Maybe. Wanna work on the toxic base while I explain?"

Daphne shrugged, but it wasn't convincing. "If that's how you want it," she said, quieter than before.

Harry set the crucible on the stand, pretending not to hear the edge in her voice.

"Wait, are you seriously pairing aconite with fluxweed?"

"Not directly," Harry answered. "It's staggered. I think it'll hold."

Still adjusting the crucible, Harry realized Daphne had gone quiet. He glanced over and paused when he saw her sitting completely still. She was trembling. Just a little, but enough that he noticed.

"Hey, everythi…"

"They're really making you do it?" she interrupted.

Her expression wasn't annoyed anymore. It was worried. Actually worried.

Harry set down the vial he was holding and walked closer.

"Yeah. Dumbledore said it's a magical binding. Goblet made it official. If I refuse, I lose my magic. And for the record, I didn't put my name in. I didn't even want to be in the damn thing."

She just kept looking at him. "You weren't at the feast that night," she said. "I looked for you."

He rubbed the side of his face, unsure how to explain.

"Halloween's not really a celebration for me. Most people treat it like a holiday. The end of the war. The day You-Know-Who disappeared."

He paused.

"For me, it's the night I lost my family. And this year… I don't know. Everything's been changing so fast, I guess I just… realized I never really said goodbye. So while everyone was watching the Goblet, I was at the cemetery. With them."

She stood up so fast he barely registered it before her arms were around him.

Harry froze. Arms half-up, completely unsure what the hell was happening. She pressed her face against his jumper and held on.

The wetness soaking through the front of his shirt.

She was crying.

"Uh," he managed. "Are you… are you okay?"

He slowly lifted a hand and hovered it awkwardly in the air before it landed on her back.

She pulled back. Her eyes were red, her cheeks streaked. She looked at him like it was his fault.

"I hate you."

"What?" Harry blinked.

"You always make me cry," she snapped, wiping at her face.

"I didn't do anything!" he said, completely baffled.

"We had a whole discussion about this, remember? I don't like not knowing where you are!"

Harry just stared at her. "Daphne, I went to a cemetery. I wasn't exactly off partying."

"I know that," she shot back. "That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

She sighed, frustrated. "The point is… You matter. This thing matters. And I'm not good at…" She waved her hand vaguely between them, like the words refused to come out. "This. People stuff."

Harry looked at her for a long second.

"I didn't mean to worry you."

"Well you did."

"I'm sorry."

She didn't say anything. Just leaned against the edge of the table, arms still folded, blinking fast like she was trying to pull herself back together. Harry watched her and finally decided he needed to say something.

"Look, I'm still here. We're still doing this. You're not getting rid of me just because I got thrown into a stupid tournament."

Daphne wiped her face one last time and let out a sharp breath. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"For losing it. I just… whatever."

He didn't push. Just nodded. "Okay."

She stepped back toward the table, grabbed the parchment, and looked at it. "This is a mess."

"I know," Harry said. "That's why I brought it to you."

She shot him a dry look, but her voice was softer now. "Whispervine? Really?"

"It was either that or powdered banshee tooth. Thought you'd appreciate the less cursed option."

She scanned the parchment again, tapping her quill. "We'll start with the whispervine, but I want to buffer it this time."

Harry pulled the pestle from the drawer and set it between them. "You alright now?"

She didn't look at him. "I'm fine."

They worked in silence for a bit. Belladonna was weighed. Obscura root quartered. Fluxweed sorted and set aside.

After a minute, Daphne said, "You're still in, right? For the potion. All of it."

Harry glanced at her. "Yeah. I'm in."

"Good," she said. "Because I'm not doing this with anyone else."

He gave a short nod. "Same."

Daphne adjusted the brass dial beneath the cauldron, setting the flame to Level Two steady, sub-boil heat. Ideal for initial infusion.

"Begin with whispervine sap. Eight milliliters. No more."

Harry uncorked the vial, noting the resin's viscosity slightly more congealed than last week's sample. He tilted it against the light.

"It's thick. Might oxidize too fast."

"Drizzle method," she replied. "Stir on contact. Silver rod only."

He nodded, swapped his wand for the polished silver stirrer, and began the slow pour, counting internally. One. Two. Three. At five, the surface tension broke. The sap hit the solution with a soft hiss. He stirred in a tight figure-eight pattern, clockwise-heavy to prevent base destabilization.

The mixture changed, dull ochre to pale green. Still within expected margins.

"Color's holding," he said.

Daphne finally glanced up. "Good. Add belladonna. Pre-ground. One gram sharp."

Harry measured it with a flat blade, leveled the heap precisely, and tapped it into the cauldron. The reaction was immediate: a faint shimmer passed over the surface.

"Pulse reaction," she noted, scribbling on the margin of his draft. "No spiking."

"Means it's tolerating the toxicity," Harry muttered. "Saline base was the right call."

"Next is obscura root. Quartered, not minced. Volatility curve's steeper that way."

"Right," Harry said. "Fewer active planes to bind."

Daphne uncapped the fluxweed jar. The strands had been prepped into fine, uniform threads clean enough to pass for silkskein.

"Introduce one strand at a time. Three rotations, counterclockwise. Magnus will regulate."

The crucible's array of etched runes had already read the viscosity change and compensated with a minor output shift, recalibrating heat and convection flow. Harry used precision tweezers to dip the first strand in mid-stir, maintaining circular momentum without surface disruption. Color shift: pale green to bronze. No foaming. No pulse flare.

"Second," Daphne said, eyes on the hovering thermal glyphs projected just above the cauldron lip.

Harry waited for the convection lapse. Five seconds. Second strand entered clean. The flux binding rate held steady, shimmer around the meniscus confirming stable absorption curve.

"Third," she said. "Then two drops of saline binder. No more than two seconds apart."

The surface resisted briefly, then cleared. He administered both drops timed to the Magnus' pulse interval. A ripple moved across the potion, distortion pattern consistent with high-reactive energy buildup, but the crucible's output self-corrected within margin.

Daphne leaned in. "This is where it breaks. One microdose of dragon's blood. On my mark."

Harry uncorked the vial. "Say when."

They looked at each other.

"Now."



The second the dragon's blood hit the surface, the potion flared violet around the edges, then dropped back to bronze, thicker now. Harry held his breath, eyes fixed on the swirl. It wasn't bubbling. The color wasn't breaking. A soft steam rose in the middle. He counted four turns of the stir before it started to smooth out.



Daphne leaned closer, one hand braced on the table. "It's stabilizing," she muttered. The bronze had settled into something darker, almost metallic. It caught the light weirdly. "We need to test the edge response," she said, reaching for the obsidian probe. "If it holds against spell contact, we move to phase two."



Daphne dipped the obsidian probe into the center of the potion. Harry watched the tip disappear beneath the surface, the ripple it left behind slow and even. His eyes darted to the edges of the cauldron, checking for any sign of backlash, but the mixture held. No flare, no shimmer, just a clean wave that passed and faded.



She kept the probe in place, counting under her breath. When she finally pulled it out, the glass shaft was stained bronze with a faint violet sheen near the tip. Harry leaned in to check. That color balance was exactly what they wanted. He glanced at her and saw her nod just once. That was their green light. First stage was stable.

Harry moved to the side counter and grabbed the second binder. This one was thinner, with a slower activation rate meant to stretch the reaction long enough for the next set of compounds to take hold. He uncorked it, held it over the brew, and waited. Daphne checked the time, then gave a small nod. He released one drop, then another. The mixture pulsed once and settled.



"Technically, we're supposed to wait for cooldown before the catalyst layer," Daphne said. "But if we let it drop too far, we risk losing momentum." Harry frowned, already knowing where this was going. "You want to stack the stimulant tier without the buffer pass?" She gave a short nod, biting her lip. "We either push it now or start over tomorrow." Harry looked at the cauldron, then back at her, and shrugged. "Let's push it."



Daphne tipped in the catalyst. The reaction was instant and wrong. A sharp crack split the surface, violet veins flaring through the bronze like lightning under glass. The potion surged, lifting too high, too fast. Harry jolted back and grabbed Daphne by the hip, pulling her behind him on reflex. Before either of them could reach for their wands, the Magnus Crucible roared to life. The runes along the base ignited all at once, flaring gold, and a wave of stabilizing magic burst from the rim. It hit the brew like a shock collar the potion slammed back into control, surface sealing with a hiss, but the force of the pulse left Harry and Daphne both frozen, wide-eyed, ears ringing.



"What the hell was that?" Daphne didn't answer right away. She pushed hair out of her face, eyes moving back to the still-glowing runes.

"I think it… corrected us?"

Harry let out a breath and leaned forward, watching the surface of the potion settle into a slow, steady swirl. "Alright. So… we nearly blew it, and the cauldron saved our arses." Daphne gave a short, breathy laugh. "Worth every bloody Galleon."

 

[certher]

Harry rubbed his tense neck, letting out a frustrated sigh. "All right, let's just avoid any more…explosions, okay?"

Daphne tried not to grin, giving him a sideways glance. "What, like it's the first time?"

He laughed, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. "Okay, smartass, buffer then. Something gentle. How about moonflower?"

She raised a brow, shaking her head slightly. "Bit too hyped up for me. More like magical coffee. Lavender's boring, sure, but at least it won't backstab us."

Harry reached out to grasp the vial, holding it up to the dim light coming from the runes. The lavender essence gleamed softly in response, deceptively calm. "Alright, then three drops?"

"Exactly three," Daphne replied, fixing him with a serious gaze. "Four, and we'd have stardust all over the ceiling."

He smirked, carefully tilting the bottle. One by one, three drops fell, each creating tiny ripples that quickly smoothed out into the bronze surface.

Both of them held their breath, anticipation making their pulses race, half-expecting the potion to suddenly boil over or spit something purple at them, but it stayed quiet and obedient, swirling ever so gently in the cauldron, its bronze color remaining steady.

"It's…stable?" Harry murmured, eyes narrowing.

Daphne nodded, leaning forward. She glanced at the rune-clock bobbing softly next to them. "Gotta drop the stimulant in forty more seconds. Any earlier, it's goodbye, Boomtown. Any later, we're making pumpkin juice."

Harry sighed, tapping his fingers nervously on the table's edge. "Got it. So let's just not mess this up, alright?"

Daphne's eyes darted between the runes and the vial in Harry's hand, her voice taut but steady. "Ten seconds. Remember - a steady drip, not a pour. Merlin, don't you dare pour."

Harry let out a nervous laugh, despite himself. "Give me some credit. Even I'm not that reckless."

"Could've fooled me," Daphne muttered, but her lips twitched into a small smile. "Five," she said, quieter now, leaning closer.

Harry angled the stimulant carefully, counting internally. At zero, he let the first drop fall, watching it hang for a moment before sinking into the bronze liquid. The potion shifted immediately - violet veins spreading sharply from the center.

Daphne cursed softly, her wand jerking up in reflex. Harry could feel his heartbeat in his throat as he adjusted the Crucible's runic dial. "Come on," he murmured under his breath, "hold it together."

Daphne whispered a sharp stabilization charm, her wand tracing tight spirals above the cauldron. They watched as the aggressive purple lines shuddered and started to recede, slowly melting back into the deep metallic bronze.

"Holy shit," Harry breathed, cautiously easing back from the edge of disaster. He glanced sideways, catching Daphne's tense, exhilarated expression. "Did we actually just pull that off?"

She exhaled sharply, setting down her wand with a faint tremble in her fingers. "We might have." Her voice was quiet, a little amazed. "And without blowing up. What's next, solving Arithmancy equations blindfolded?"

Harry laughed softly, the rush of relief making him light-headed. "Yeah, I think we'll save that for next year."

They both leaned over, studying the smooth, shimmering surface. Daphne's quill flew across the parchment, capturing details with rapid precision. Harry found himself smiling - he couldn't help it. All their near-disasters and late nights were finally paying off.

She glanced up at him briefly. "So, ready to see if this actually works?"

Harry gave a brief nod, reaching for the row of microvials they had prepared earlier, each labeled meticulously by Daphne. "Shall we start with nightshade?" he queried.

Daphne scrutinized the parchment, her brow furrowed. "A bit too mundane. Let's try banshee salt instead. If our theory holds true, this will demonstrate whether the stimulant can handle sympathetic interference."

Harry couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Last time we even opened that vial, it melted through your quill. Are you certain?"

Her lips curved into a wry smile. "That's why we're using a glass spoon and not breathing nearby. Here, let me get it." She handed him a small sterilized silver spoon they had prepped twice.

He carefully pricked the seal on the banshee salt vial, which released a faint hiss as though reminiscing about its former form. With great care, he scooped barely a grain of the crystalline substance and dropped it in.

For a heartbeat, the potion seemed to flinch. Its surface cracked like ice yielding under pressure, creating jagged fissures of violet light. But then, surprisingly, it integrated the foreign element seamlessly, smoothing back into its previous state.

Daphne's fingers paused mid-air.

"Well, that… wasn't supposed to happen quite so smoothly."

Leaning in closer, Harry studied the fluid's behavior.

"It seems the salt's magic has been assimilated into the cycle rather than disrupting it."

She squinted at the brew before jotting down a note in the margins. "This could mean basilisk venom might survive within it. An entirely new level of potency."

Harry met her gaze. "I think I know exactly what our next test should be."

After a momentary pause, Daphne replied, "Aconite, then."

-----

There it was - the culmination of countless sleepless nights, heated debates, and close calls. After weeks of dancing around catastrophic reactions, charting hypotheses in the margins, and haggling over what constituted 'volatile', they had finally managed to create something functional. It wasn't just passable; it excelled.

Dragon blood hadn't annihilated it. Toxic inputs hadn't destabilized it. Even banshee salt and aconite hadn't toppled it. Instead, the potion had absorbed each challenge, adapting and evolving with every test thrown at it. Daphne described its behavior as 'digesting' the toxic elements, which initially sounded grotesque, but upon reflection encapsulated their intent perfectly. They had achieved the impossible. Their theoretical framework had transformed into tangible reality.

All the pent-up tension, all the nerve-wracking near-disasters and painstaking corrections - they were history now. History and a distant memory. For once, they had succeeded where others might have faltered. Yet, success came with its own unique flavor of frustration. The potion stood prepared, eager, and unwaveringly stable. But there was nothing they could do.

Because tucked away behind layers of goblin protocol and cursed vault restrictions was the final piece of the puzzle - basilisk venom. And Harry was the key to unlocking it. He was the sole negotiator with the banking empire of Gringotts. Until he navigated the labyrinth of bureaucratic red tape, their project remained suspended in limbo. Ready or not, they would have to wait.

Harry's finger traced the worn groove along the spine of Duelling: Art and Precision, feeling the comforting warmth of the leather. Stuck on the same page for a solid twenty minutes now, the chapter titled "Reactive Footwork and Spell Economy" seemed to have been penned in the heat of an argument with a thesaurus. But despite the convoluted phrasing, Harry could extract the gist - 'minimize exposure through forward lean', but never at the expense of posture or reach.

"Duelists who sprawl, fall," he murmured to himself, testing the phrase on his tongue. A snatch of another tome, Practical Defensive Charms, floated into his mind uninvited, but most welcome - "A caster who controls rhythm controls outcome." There was a certain weight to that notion. Harry could almost see the duels unfolding differently - less about frenzied blocks and wild hexes, more about tempo, angle, breath.

These books, he mused, weren't about teaching how to win. Not outright, anyway. They showed how to endure, how to read before reacting. And tonight, as he lay in bed, cocooned in soft candlelight and surrounded by pages brimming with intricate diagrams, Harry found himself stubbornly resolved to learn.

He rubbed his gritty eyes, the strain of hours spent poring over parchment finally catching up to him. He sighed, pulling off his glasses and wiping them on the sleeve of his jumper. His neck cracked satisfyingly as he rolled it, the day's exhaustion settling in.

He'd spent the morning in training, the afternoon brewing potions, and now was trying to absorb footwork theory as if his brain wasn't already halfway to dreamland. He sank deeper into the pillow, setting the book on the nightstand with a soft thud. For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting.

Then, of course, the specter of the Tournament rose to haunt him. If it weren't for that looming specter, he might've actually had time - to study properly, to help Daphne more, to breathe. Was this what being constantly busy felt like? The relentless motion, the unyielding pressure? It was strange, but in a way, it felt good. Like he was finally doing something that mattered.

But still. Right now, he'd rather be Ron. Eating, thinking about eating, probably dreaming of a steak pie the size of his head.

-----

Chalk scraped rhythmically against the blackboard, sketching the intricate arc of a wand movement that curved like an eel and ended in a sharp point.

Professor McGonagall stood beside the diagram, her robes crisp, her expression sharper than her spectacles.

"The shift from non-magical to magical properties demands precision," she said, tapping the final curve. "Especially when dealing with volatile materials, such as charmed silver or enchanted ink. Wand control is non-negotiable."

Harry sat up straighter, scribbling notes that made sense now but might be gibberish in an hour. Next to him, Ron was half-slumped, wand in one hand, parchment in the other, and an impressive smudge of ink on his nose.

"For those considering careers in spellcraft, alchemy, or the Department of Mysteries," McGonagall continued, "this is foundational. If your transformations are unstable, the consequences can be…"

She waved her wand. The inkwell on her desk tried to sprout legs. It exploded instead, splattering her desk in glossy black.

"…dramatic."

A few students snorted, but she wasn't smiling.

"That will be on your exams next year," she added. "The practical portion. I suggest you begin practicing now if you wish to perform well on your OWLs."

Hermione's hand shot up so fast her chair squeaked.

"Professor, if I start revising the advanced material now, will it reflect in our end-of-year marks? Or should we wait until next term to focus on OWL structure?"

McGonagall gave her a nod that was about as close to a gold star as anyone ever got. "A sensible question, Miss Granger. While the OWLs are still a year away, the foundations for every major transfiguration are being taught now. So yes, early preparation will absolutely give you an advantage."

There was a quiet hum of parchment being unrolled, more quills scratching faster. Even Harry felt a little more alert.

"Well, that rules out Potter, doesn't it?" The words hung in the air, sharp as a knife, echoing off the stone walls.

Silence stretched, thick as molasses, broken only by the soft rustle of parchment. Harry didn't turn around. He felt the smirk gnawing at the corners of Malfoy's lips, aimed squarely at his back.

"Can't imagine career planning's much of a priority," Malfoy drawled, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, "when you've got…what, weeks left to live? What's the point of OWL prep if you're going to get shredded by some wild animal? I say let him skip the exams. Might save us all the spectacle."

Gasps ricocheted around the room, bouncing off the wooden benches and stone walls. Ron sat up straighter, wand clenched in his fist. Hermione's face turned scarlet, her eyes flashing with indignation.

Leaning forward, Malfoy rested his chin on his hand, offering a 'helpful' suggestion. "Honestly, Professor. Maybe we should all just enjoy Potter while he's still breathing. I give it until the third challenge, tops. Wouldn't that be poetic?"

He tapped his badge, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. The words 'Potter Stinks' glowed beneath the light, as though they'd been waiting for their moment to shine.

But that was the last straw.

"Fifty points from Slytherin," McGonagall barked, her voice slicing through the classroom. "And detention, Mr. Malfoy. Today. With Mr. Filch. Maybe a few hours polishing chains in the dungeon would remind you how to speak like a civilized human being."

Malfoy's smirk faltered just for a moment. He opened his mouth to retaliate, thought better of it, and shut it again.

The bell rang with a sharp clang that jolted half the class. McGonagall snapped her textbook shut and dismissed them with a curt nod, but Harry barely heard it. His chair scraped back too fast, legs catching against the stone floor, and he was already halfway to the door before Ron and Hermione scrambled after him.

"Harry, wait!" Hermione called out, but he didn't slow down. His heart pounded in his chest as he marched through the corridor towards freedom from those cruel eyes and whispers. The walls seemed to echo with every taunt hurled his way - POTTER STINKS plastered on enchanted badges like an infectious disease spreading across chest after chest. It was childish, yes, but it stung nonetheless.

He refused to give them the satisfaction of reacting to their jeers or even acknowledging their presence beyond striding past them without breaking stride. Ron growled under his breath while Hermione clenched her fists tightly enough to turn her knuckles white; both were ready to hex anyone who dared cross their path right now. But Harry wasn't looking for confrontation tonight; he simply wanted to escape this hall of mirrors reflecting his worst fears back at him in neon lights.

Then he saw her leaning nonchalantly against the wall near a bizarre tapestry depicting Merlin dancing with trolls (he wondered if that was supposed to be funny), arms crossed over her chest in casual defiance of whatever insults were being flung around her: Daphne Greengrass. Her blonde hair fell neatly behind one ear framing her face in soft shadows while her blue eyes scanned the scene with detached amusement as though observing some absurd play rather than witnessing actual human cruelty unfolding before her very eyes.

Unlike everyone else's blinking, mocking badges, hers remained silent and dignified - 'Support Cedric Diggory'. A simple statement devoid of any malice or sarcasm that somehow managed to make its point louder than any other badge could hope for. Their eyes locked briefly; hers held no pity nor performance but offered quiet understanding instead - an unexpected oasis amidst this desert storm of ridicule and humiliation.

It wasn't much, but it felt like enough for now. A small nod from her world into his chaos saying 'I see you', 'You matter', 'This isn't about you'. So, without another word exchanged between them, Harry nodded slightly back at her acknowledgment and continued forward into the relative safety of unknown territory beyond these halls filled with familiar faces hiding behind masks of disdainful laughter.

His eyes wandered to Ron and Hermione.

"Alright," he murmured, brushing a stray lock out of his sight. "So, next…?"

Ron's brows shot up as he retrieved the schedule. "We've got lunch, then a bit of a break before Magical Creatures class."

Hermione made a disparaging noise, the syllable more air than actual sound. "I believe that's supposed to be study hall. Not merely leisure."

Harry tilted his head, one corner of his lips twitching. "You mean…we use that 'study' period to… practice spells?"

At his words, Ron perked right up, anticipation sparkling in his eyes. "Finally!"

Hermione offered a terse reply, the tone more pliant now. "As long as I don't become the guinea pig this time."

"No promises."

-----

The air crackled as spells ricocheted against the containment wards, lighting up the chamber with neon flares. It was like being trapped in the heart of a firework factory - the energy was palpable and intense.

Sirius whipped his wand around, barely evading a fiery streak that would've seared his shoulder raw. The blast thwacked against the shield protecting them, hissing into oblivion. Another curse came his way, this time slower and calculated.

He dodged it just in time, panting heavily as his dark eyes darted around the circular, barren platform. There was no cover, nowhere to hide. Just raw power and skill colliding, testing their limits in this sterile arena. He was feeling it in his lungs, his knees, every twitch of muscle. He needed a rhythm, something predictable - but all he could see was the flash of his opponent's wand.

"Son of a bitch," he growled, narrowly avoiding another barrage of spells.

Sirius spun on his heel, throwing up a shield even as his wand blazed with two spells. Stunning charm met hex-fire in mid-air - a clash of energies that should have caused a ripple, but only dissipated into thin air. His opponent seemed to be gliding effortlessly through the dance of combat, every spell striking true like an expert archer.

Sirius lunged forward, his ankle rolling painfully, threatening to send him sprawling. Instead, he managed a desperate twist that sent him skidding sideways, landing on one knee, gasping for air.

A beam of golden light slammed into his chest from nowhere, slamming the wind from his lungs.

Sirius gasped, staring upwards. "Stop laughing, Moony."

The face materialized above him - Lupin, still holding his wand grinned.

"You make it far too easy." he said reaching to help Sirius stand up.

SSirius let out a dramatic groan but didn't resist as Remus hauled him up, grunting, "Ugh, my everything hurts." He rubbed at his ribs, wincing. "Alright, explain to me why I'm this bloody weak."

Remus tucked his wand into his sleeve, his expression shifting to thoughtful. "You've started eating again. You've been seeing that mind-healer Andromeda introduced you to. You sleep more. You don't scream when the kettle whistles anymore." He locked eyes with Sirius, serious now. "For someone who spent ten years in Azkaban, you're doing quite well."

Sirius snorted and turned away, brushing dust off his sleeve. "Well isn't enough. I need to be in optimal condition. Especially now. With Harry in that damned Tournament…"

"Harry is fine," Remus interrupted. "You focus on you. If you don't get better, you won't help anyone. You understand that, right?"

Sirius stopped, nodding once. "Yeah. I get it."

Remus studied him for a moment, then switched gears with his trademark ease. "When I was traveling through Sweden, years ago, I met a wizard named Alrik Holmsen. Absolute maniac. Never slept, drank like a centaur. But he wrote this book: 'Resonant Flow: Magic, Motion, and the Physical Core.' It was brilliant."

Sirius arched an eyebrow. "Catchy title."

Remus ignored him. "It was all about how magical output ties directly to body energy. The way you treat your muscles, your lungs, even your joints. You burn brighter, cast sharper, react faster when your physical form's in tune with your magical one."

Sirius squinted. "That sounds fake."

"It's not," Remus said cheerfully. "So, when was the last time you actually exercised, Sirius? I mean running, push-ups, squats that don't involve falling over in the kitchen?"

"I move plenty in duels."

"You wheeze plenty in duels."

"Oi!"

"No," Remus said diplomatically. "You're out of practice. Which is worse. Your reflexes are still quick, but the way you move.. it's inconsistent. You're flaring magic to cover for weakness. That'll only get you so far."

Sirius folded his arms. "So what, you want me to start doing jumping jacks?"

"I want you to train. You told Harry to eat more protein. Do you eat protein?"

"…Sometimes."

Remus gave him a look.

Sirius groaned. "Alright, alright. I'll try harder."

"Giving advice is easy," Remus said, pulling his wand back out and twirling it absently. "Sticking to it? Much harder. Now, you have five minutes of rest and then we go again."

"Only five?!"

---

Ron slouched against the low bench, his wand resting languidly on his thighs. "Well, that's two down," he drawled, a hint of surprise coloring his voice. "Arenafors and Lapidorus. One keeps things at bay, the other builds a fortress. Not bad for three days."

Hermione, her legs folded beneath her, was already scribbling away in her charmed planner. "Technically, Lapidorus is more than a fortress - it's adaptive transfiguration. In theory, you could use it to manipulate the terrain to your advantage. Create high ground. Block corridors. Even redirect water if you cast it into a channel. And Arenafors gives you a buffer zone when you're cornered. That's not just 'not bad.' That's impressive."

Ron smirked, nudging her with his elbow. "You're just saying that because you didn't get flung across the room today."

She scowled, not looking up. "I marked the casting radius this time, which someone should have done in the first place."

For a moment, the only sounds were the scratch of quill against parchment and the faint hum of the Room shifting around them. Harry, who'd been quiet since they'd sat down, finally broke the silence.

"They're good," he said, eyes downcast. "But they're not enough."

Hermione paused her writing. "What?"

"They help you survive," Harry said, still looking at the floor. "But they don't help you win."

She blinked, eyebrows drawing together. "That's… not entirely true. Winning's about strategy. These spells are tools. Lapidorus gives you control over space. Arenafors gives you breathing room. Used right, they can be decisive."

Harry looked up at her, his expression serious. "Yeah. If the whole thing is a textbook duel. But it won't be. It'll be chaos. Creatures. Traps. Things that don't care about breathing room or neatly transfigured barriers."

Ron remained silent but he seemed to understand what Harry wanted to say.

Harry's voice dropped to a rumble, but his conviction was clear. "Those spells - they're smart. Handy. But they're defensive. They keep me alive. I want more."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "So you want something flashier?"

"I want something stronger," he said. "Something that shifts the momentum. Right now we've got spells that help me not lose. I need something that helps me win."

Hermione leaned back, staring at her notes as though they'd betrayed her. "Alright," she said slowly, "then I guess we find something that packs a punch."

Ron whistled low. "You're not planning on coming second, are you?"

Harry hesitated before answering.

"No, not exactly," he said finally. "I want to know more than my enemies. Not just spells that can hit hard - I want spells that give me options."

Hermione arched an eyebrow, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "Like what?"

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Like conjuring mist. Not just for showy classroom effects. Real concealment. Something thick enough to block vision, stay in place, move if I want it to. Can I anchor it to a point? Shape it with intent?"

Ron blinked, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. "You mean weaponize weather?"

"No," Harry said quickly, "I want to disappear when I need to. Or make sure they can't see where I'm moving next."

Hermione's quill began to dance again. "That sounds like a layered charm with environmental manipulation. You'd need sustained magical output or something reactive, like a proximity-linked cloud."

"Exactly," Harry confirmed, his eyes brightening. "Or how about conjuring something to spy for me? Like birds. Or mice. Something that can move where I can't and bring back information. Not just eyes, but direction. Reaction."

Hermione paused her writing, her mind whirring. "That's not beginner-level Transfiguration."

"Flitwick said it once - most magic is just creativity pushed through enough control."

Ron scratched the back of his neck, a thoughtful frown on his face. "But… are we talking real birds here or, like, ghost animals?"

"Doesn't matter," Harry said, shaking his head. "As long as they listen and get the job done. Could be smoke, could be thread, could be stone. Whatever works."

Hermione straightened up, suddenly focused. "Actually, Animata Lumen might be something to look into. It's an old spell. Uses light and motion magic to create temporary animal constructs. Not solid, but visible. Used mostly for distraction, but it's a start."

Harry nodded slowly, his mind whirring. "Yeah. Okay. That's the kind of thing I want."

He looked between them now, his eyes serious. "I know this sounds weird. Or intense. But this isn't just about scoring points. I need to know how to handle things before they happen. If I'm caught reacting, it means I've already lost control. And once control's gone… so is the fight."

Ron furrowed his brow. "You mean the task?"

"I mean everything."

Hermione went still. Harry continued, his voice quieter now. "I don't think I get to live a normal life. Not unless I fight for it. Not unless I become someone who doesn't just survive chaos, but defines it. I can't afford to just be good at magic. I need to understand it. I need to understand everything. Because Voldemort - he's not going to stop until I'm dead."

Ron looked winded. Hermione had turned pale.

"I don't say that for sympathy," Harry said, his voice firm. "I say it because it's real. I'm not strong enough yet. I don't know enough. And I want to."

He glanced towards the window. "I want to know everything. I want to know all the magic." he said "Because if I don't, I won't last long enough to live the kind of life I want."

Hermione's voice was soft when she finally spoke. "Okay. Then let's figure it out. One spell at a time."


---



The man sat stiff in the old chair, back ramrod straight against the worn wood, eyes locked on the boy who stood like a statue carved just a hair too perfectly in place. The room was cold despite the flickering fire, its orange glow dancing across marble floors and the boy's polished shoes but never quite reaching the man's face. Silence stretched tight between them, tense as a bowstring, but the boy didn't budge. He never did. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his uniform unblemished, not a single thread out of place. The man studied him like gazing into a murky pond - familiar, skewed, out of reach.

Every answer the boy offered was sharp, calculated, rehearsed. His voice didn't waver, didn't rise. School was fine. His grades were perfect. He had connections, influence, order. Just the right amount. No more, no less. The man wanted to feel pride. He wanted to see himself reflected in that blank face, that sculpted control - but all he saw was the void. Of emotion. Of warmth. Of anything human. The boy was a success in every way that mattered. Sharp, obedient, cold. He remembered everything he'd been taught. Every correction. Every punishment. Every rule. And still, the man couldn't grasp him. Couldn't reach him. When dismissed, the boy turned and left without a second thought, the door clicking shut like a soft exhale.

The man didn't move until the silence smothered him whole.

He needed to do something. To shake off the unease. He stood and made his way downstairs to the basement. The basement was an enigma. Full of cells, but only one was occupied. Two young women lay there, bruised and naked, their bodies betraying the pain they'd endured. The man smiled, a twitch of his lips. Out of habit, he raised his left hand, but then remembered - it was gone. With a curse under his breath, he gripped the wand with his remaining hand. There were so many ways to indulge in the world of magic. But this one… this one was something special. Adrian Selwyn licked his lips, and in his eyes, the shadows of madness danced. Soon, Potter. Soon, you will pay for this.

"Crucio!"

 

[Protosoul]

Ron's mouth dropped open. "Blimey!" he shouted. "You just yeeted Hermione!"

Click to shrink...

This took me right out of it, nobody in 1994 would use the word "yeet", it didn't exist in the lexicon until 2015 when it showed up first in TikTok.