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."

 

[Nicholas Thompson]

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.