Harry Potter: Forging the Flame

[certher]

Chapter 1 ​

Harry sighed, flopping onto his bed with a groan. This summer was shaping up to be even worse than the last. Honestly, he didn't even know what to focus on anymore. Should he start with the cleaning his oh-so-lovely relatives had assigned him, or tackle the pile of summer homework waiting on his desk? Staring at the ceiling, he decided to do neither.

His thoughts kept drifting, one memory bleeding into the next—until they landed on Sirius Black.

Not long ago, he had met and freed his godfather from the clutches of Dementors, Azkaban's terrifying guards. And yet, it felt like it had all been for nothing. Sirius wasn't here. He had to flee. Bloody Pettigrew.

Glancing at the desk, where a hastily torn envelope lay, Harry thought about Sirius's letter again.



Dear Harry,

I hope this letter finds you well, even though I know things aren't easy for you right now. I wish I could be there, but I've had to find a safe place for now. Don't worry—I've managed it, though I'd rather not write where exactly.

But listen, I won't stay away forever. I'm already working on a way to return to England—I don't like the idea of you being there alone, especially with the whispers of trouble I've been hearing. I can't stand the thought of you being stuck there on your own, and your dad wouldn't want that either. I never let James down, Harry, and I don't intend to start now.

Remember this: you're stronger than you think, Harry. Your dad always believed that about you—and he was right. You've been through more than most people your age could imagine, and you're still standing. That says a lot about who you are.

We'll see each other soon. Until then, hang in there.

Yours,

Sirius



Harry took a deep breath. Everything would be fine. Things would get better soon.

Getting up from the bed and stretching, Harry glanced at the clock. Nine in the morning. Saturday. He had to clean the living room and take care of the garden. A ton of work, and not much time to do it.

Adjusting his glasses out of habit, he stood there for a moment, debating what to do. Finally, he decided to just get on with it. Maybe, if he was lucky, the Dursleys wouldn't come up with anything else for him to do later.

Grabbing a rag from the kitchen, he headed into the living room. The place was immaculate—because of course it was. Aunt Petunia had probably scrubbed every surface twice already, but apparently, it still wasn't good enough.

"You can never trust a boy like you to keep things clean," she had said earlier that morning, handing him a list of chores long enough to make Hermione proud.

He started with the shelves, running his finger over a spotless surface. No dust, but Petunia would insist otherwise—she always did. He worked mechanically, picking up framed photos of Dudley to wipe underneath them. There were at least eight of them in this room alone, each more ridiculous than the last. One showed Dudley in a frilly sailor suit, grinning like he'd just conquered the seven seas.

Harry snorted under his breath. If only Ron could see this—he'd never let Dudley live it down.

Moving to the coffee table, he reached for the stack of magazines Uncle Vernon had left there. The top one was a business quarterly, something dry and serious. But buried underneath was… oh. Harry blinked. A glossy tabloid with some ridiculous title like Men's Monthly Secrets. He frowned at the cover, which boasted an article on "Ten Ways to Assert Dominance in the Workplace" alongside an airbrushed man flexing in a suit.

So this is Vernon's idea of light reading, Harry thought, biting back a grin.

He briefly entertained the idea of leaving it out for Aunt Petunia to find, but he didn't particularly feel like being blamed for whatever argument would follow. Shaking his head, he shoved it back into the pile.

Once the living room passed his inspection—not that it needed any—he moved on to the garden.

The sun was already high, and the heat hit him like a wall as he stepped outside. The Dursleys' garden was their pride and joy, though Harry suspected that had less to do with gardening skill and more to do with hiring the neighbor's kid to mow it every other week. Today, however, it was his job.

The lawn mower's handle was sticky—probably Dudley's fault. Grimacing, Harry dragged it out and set to work.

As the blades roared to life, drowning out the world around him, Harry's mind began to drift. He thought about the letter from Sirius—the way his godfather's words had settled something in him, like an anchor. The summer had felt suffocating so far, but now…

Now, there was something to hold onto. A promise that things might get better. That Sirius would be back soon, and Harry wouldn't have to feel so alone.

But even as he tried to focus on that thought, unease crept in at the edges.

The nightmares had started a week ago—shadowy, shapeless terrors that lingered long after he woke. They weren't vivid enough to remember in detail, just flashes of shadowy figures, cold whispers, and an oppressive feeling of dread that clung to him long after he woke.

Harry paused, shutting off the mower. Sweat dripped down his face as he tugged off his glasses and rubbed at his forehead, fingers brushing his scar. It prickled faintly, a subtle but unwelcome reminder.

He shoved the thought aside and started the mower again, focusing on the rhythmic roar of the blades. The garden was nearly done, and after that, he'd go back inside. There was no use dwelling on things he couldn't change.

After a quick rinse in the sink, Harry collapsed onto his bed, grateful to be done for the day. He barely had time to close his eyes before frantic flapping at the window jolted him upright.

He turned to see Pigwidgeon, Ron's hyperactive owl, zooming in circles around the frame, a bundle of letters tied to his tiny leg.

"Calm down, Pig," Harry muttered, stepping closer. The owl shot inside, bouncing off a lampshade before finally landing on the bed, puffing his chest like he'd just delivered a royal proclamation.

Harry untied the letters—there were two, one in Ron's familiar scrawl, and the other unmistakably from Hermione, judging by the perfectly neat handwriting on the envelope.

"All right, calm down," Harry muttered, sitting on the bed and unfolding Ron's letter first.



Harry,

I've got brilliant news! Dad scored tickets to the Quidditch World Cup final. Actual tickets! In the best section! He said you can come with us if the Dursleys let you (and if they don't, we'll come and get you anyway, so don't worry).

I'm sure Ireland's going to win, but the twins are betting on Bulgaria because apparently they've got some incredible Seeker. I can't wait to see their faces when Ireland takes the Cup. Mum's already yelling at the twins because they're trying to "sell things" to guests at the match. Probably more of their exploding rubbish or something equally stupid.

Anyway, write back soon to let us know if you can come. Mum wants to know if she needs to pack extra food for you. And if the Dursleys are being gits, let us know—we'll send Fred and George over to sort them out.

Ron.



Harry chuckled, setting the letter aside. A trip to the Quidditch World Cup final sounded like a dream come true—especially compared to weeding the garden. All he had to do now was convince the Dursleys, which was bound to be harder than fighting a dragon.

He turned to the second letter. Hermione's neat, orderly handwriting practically shouted thoughts.



Dear Harry,

I hope everything's okay with you. Remember, if the Dursleys are unbearable, you can always write to me or Ron.

Anyway, I just wanted to remind you about our homework (yes, I know, you probably haven't started yet), but it would be a good idea to at least draft the Transfiguration essay. We can go over our notes together later if you want.

Also, Harry, I know how the Dursleys can be. Please don't hesitate to write if you need anything—Ron and I will always help.

Please take care of yourself, Harry.

Hermione.



Harry rolled his eyes but smiled as he set the letter down on the pile by his bed. Hermione never let up. Still, the thought of the Quidditch final quickly pushed everything else out of his mind.

He stared at Ron's letter, tapping it lightly against his palm. Convincing the Dursleys to let him go wasn't going to be easy—they hated magic, and they hated him. But they really hated anything that threatened their own comfort.

An idea began to form.

He didn't need them to want him to go. He just needed to make staying look like a much worse option.

The next morning, Harry came down to the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia was wiping an already spotless counter and Uncle Vernon was buried behind the day's newspaper. Dudley was poking at his bacon with a fork, likely planning how best to demand seconds.

Harry cleared his throat.

"I've got some good news," he said, making sure his voice sounded cheerful and entirely too loud for Vernon's liking.

Uncle Vernon lowered the newspaper just enough to glare at him. "What are you on about, boy?"

"Well," Harry began, smiling innocently, "I've been invited to spend the rest of the summer at a friend's house. His family's very keen on me coming along. They've even offered to take me to a sporting event."

This got their attention. Sporting events were one of the few things Vernon respected.

"I just need you to sign this form, and I'll be out of your hair. No cooking, no cleaning, no me for the rest of the summer."

He placed the permission slip in front of Uncle Vernon, who picked it up like it might explode. His tiny eyes narrowed as he scanned the page.

"What's the catch?" Vernon growled. "There's always a catch with you."

"No catch," Harry said, shrugging. "Unless you don't sign, of course. Then I'll have to stay here."

Uncle Vernon grunted, folding the paper in half. "That's no different from any other summer."

Harry tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. "True. But I'll also have to send a letter to my friend explaining that I couldn't go because of you. He's got twin brothers, you see. Very creative types. Always inventing things."

Aunt Petunia stopped scrubbing. Dudley froze mid-bite.

Harry leaned casually against the counter, enjoying the sudden tension. "Last year, they sent their cousin an enchanted toilet seat—Fred and George's idea of a practical joke. It screamed every time someone sat down. They're very protective of me. I imagine they'd want to… express their disappointment."

Uncle Vernon turned purple.

"You wouldn't dare," he hissed.

"Wouldn't I?" Harry countered, raising his eyebrows. "You'd be amazed what they can send through the post. Anyway, if you sign the form, we won't have to find out."

For a moment, nobody spoke. Vernon's face turned purple, and Dudley froze mid-chew, his fork scraping against the plate. Then Uncle Vernon's chair screeched as he stood up.

"Where's a pen?" he barked.

Harry couldn't stop grinning as he trudged back upstairs, the signed form clutched in his hand like it might vanish if he loosened his grip.

They'd actually signed it.

The moment he was back in his room, Harry flopped onto his bed and let out a laugh that felt like it had been trapped inside him for weeks. For once, things were going his way. Not only was he escaping Privet Drive early, but he was going to the actual Quidditch World Cup.

The Quidditch World Cup!

He still couldn't quite believe it. Harry had spent so many summers watching Dudley brag about trips to theme parks or the seaside while he stayed behind scrubbing floors. And now, here he was, about to do something that any wizard would give their wand arm for.

He could already picture it: the soaring stadium, the roar of the crowd, the players darting through the air faster than lightning. Ireland versus Bulgaria—two of the best teams in the world. Harry could almost hear the roar of the crowd, feel the excitement in the air as the Seeker caught the Snitch.

"Maybe I should bet on Ireland too," Harry mused aloud, grinning to himself. He couldn't wait to see Ron again, or the rest of the Weasleys for that matter. Even if Mrs. Weasley did fuss over him a bit, it would be miles better than here.

Harry sat at his desk, writing out his reply to Ron on a scrap of parchment.



Ron,

The Dursleys signed the form. I'm free! Well, almost. They said I can leave in a week, so let me know when your dad's ready to pick me up. Thanks again for inviting me—I can't wait for the World Cup.



He glanced at Pigwidgeon, who was still flapping about the room as if the letter's contents were the most exciting thing in the world.

"Hold on, Pig," Harry muttered as he folded the note and tied it back onto the tiny owl's leg. "You can tell Ron and Hermione I'll see them soon."

Pigwidgeon gave a triumphant hoot before zooming out the window. Harry watched him vanish into the sky, feeling a strange mix of relief and excitement. He really was going to the Quidditch World Cup.

Still grinning, he reached for another piece of parchment. This letter needed a different tone entirely.

Dear Sirius,

Good news! The Dursleys signed the form, and I'm going to the Quidditch World Cup with Ron and his family. I'll be leaving here in a week, so if you were planning to visit, I wanted to let you know I won't be here. Thanks again for your last letter—it's made things a bit more bearable. I hope you're safe.

Harry

He set down his quill and looked over the letter. It wasn't much, but he wasn't sure how much he could say without risking anyone else reading it. Satisfied, he folded it carefully and turned to Hedwig, who was watching him from her perch with an air of expectation.

"Up for a delivery?" Harry asked.

Hedwig hooted softly and extended her leg, and Harry tied the letter securely in place.

"Take this to Sirius," he said. "You know where to find him."



"Harry, this book is amazing," said Hermione, leaning toward them in the cramped train compartment. Her voice was full of enthusiasm, her eyes shining as if she could already imagine Harry devouring every chapter. "Fulcrum really explains how magic works—not just in theory but how wizards can improve their spells. If you want to get better at Charms or Transfiguration, this is what you need."

Ron, seated next to Harry, rolled his eyes and set aside the Daily Prophet, which he'd been pretending to read. "I don't think Harry wants to waste his summer on something that sounds like a N.E.W.T.-level textbook."

"You know, Ron," Hermione began, giving him a sharp look, "maybe if you spent a little more time studying, your spells wouldn't keep bouncing off the walls."

"They don't—"

"In every single one of Flitwick's classes, Ron," she interrupted triumphantly.

Harry snorted. Their bickering was a familiar sound, but this time, Hermione had a point. Fulcrum sounded like someone who might help him understand magic on a deeper level—something he found himself increasingly drawn to.

"All right," he said, cutting through their argument. "I'll borrow it for the summer, Hermione. Let's see if it's as good as you say."

Hermione beamed with satisfaction and pulled a thick book out of her bag, placing it on his lap. "The Theory of Spells: The Powers of Mind and Magic," the title read in elegant gold letters.

Now, Harry lay on his bed in Privet Drive, the same book open on his lap. Two weeks had passed since Hermione had handed it to him, and though the material was more complicated than he'd expected, he couldn't put it down.

The chapter he was reading was titled: "The Three Dimensions of Magic: Visualization, Intuition, and Conviction."

"Spells are not merely the result of waving a wand and uttering the correct words. It is a complex process that involves three dimensions of magical projection: Visualization, Intuition, and Conviction. Each of these is a pillar, without which a spell cannot reach its full potential."

Harry's brow furrowed as he reread the passage. So, magic wasn't just about the spell's incantation or even the wand movement, he thought. There was something deeper—something internal—that shaped the spell.

Visualization:

"For magic to work, a wizard's mind must clearly see the result. Visualization does not merely mean 'imagining' the final effect of a spell. It is full immersion—seeing, feeling, sometimes even hearing the effects before they manifest. Visualization must be precise and vivid. It is not enough to think of light; you must see its glow, feel its warmth, and even imagine the shadows it casts."

Harry leaned back against the headboard, letting his thoughts wander. So casting a spell is like building it in your mind before it happens, he realized. He thought about Flitwick's classes, where students often struggled to master new spells. Maybe the reason some spells didn't work was that the caster didn't fully grasp what they were trying to create.

Intuition:

"While visualization provides the structure, intuition guides the spell's execution. Intuition bridges the conscious and subconscious, allowing magic to flow seamlessly through the caster. It is this instinctual element that transforms a mechanical casting into something truly powerful. Intuition cannot be forced; it develops over time through practice, reflection, and an openness to the flow of magic."

Harry frowned. If intuition develops through experience, does that mean wizards like Fred and George are actually more skilled than they let on? It made sense. The twins often acted as though they didn't take anything seriously, yet their pranks and inventions required a level of magical instinct that most students could only dream of.

Or maybe it was the way Professor Lupin had cast a Patronus so effortlessly last year. He hadn't needed time to think; the magic seemed to flow through him as naturally as breathing. That's what intuition is, Harry thought. It's not overthinking—it's trusting the magic to guide you.

Conviction:

"Of all the dimensions, conviction is the most crucial. Without true belief in the spell's success, even the most skilled wizard will fail. Conviction is not blind hope but a deep, internal certainty that the magic will work as intended. It draws on confidence in one's abilities, faith in one's wand, and trust in magic itself."

Harry leaned forward, rereading that section with interest. Conviction was something he hadn't realized he already relied on. In dangerous moments, he never stopped to second-guess himself. He simply acted, driven by instinct and determination.

It was why Expelliarmus had worked during the Shrieking Shack incident last year—he hadn't doubted for a moment that he could disarm Snape. He'd never fully appreciated that his certainty was what made the magic happen.

But perhaps it was a skill he could refine—deliberately focusing that conviction to strengthen more advanced spells. It wasn't just about courage, Harry realized; it was about channeling that inner certainty into every spell he cast.

Looking back at the page, Harry realized how these principles worked together. Visualization was the blueprint, intuition was the guide, and conviction was the power that brought it all to life.

He grabbed a scrap of parchment from his desk and jotted down his thoughts:

1. Build the spell in your mind—see it, feel it, know it.
2. Trust your instincts—don't overthink it.
3. Believe in the magic—doubt weakens the spell.

Harry set the parchment aside and closed the book, staring out the window. He didn't have his wand to practice these ideas directly, but that didn't mean he couldn't start applying them.

He leaned back, imagining himself casting a spell with perfect precision. He visualized the outcome—the light, the sound, the effect it would have. For now, he could only prepare himself for the next chance he'd have to put it into practice.



It was two days after Harry sent his letter to Sirius. The Dursleys had been in their usual foul moods, with Uncle Vernon grumbling about a faulty boiler and Aunt Petunia hovering behind Harry's shoulder as he cleaned the kitchen. Dudley, meanwhile, lounged on the couch, tossing snacks at the television like it was some sort of sport.

The doorbell rang.

Dudley didn't even flinch, though his mother popped her head out from the living room to glare. "Harry, get that!"

Harry set down the mop, muttering under his breath, and headed for the door. When he opened it, a tall, disheveled man in a weathered brown coat stood on the doorstep. His face was unshaven, his hair streaked with gray, and his hands stuffed casually into his pockets. But his sharp gray eyes glinted with familiarity.

"Your father would've told her to mind her own business," the man said softly, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Harry froze. Only one person could make a comment like that.

"Sirius?" he asked under his breath, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching.

"Got it in one," Sirius replied, stepping over the threshold as if he owned the place.

But before Harry could close the door, Aunt Petunia swept into the hallway like a vulture descending on prey.

"Who is this?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing as she scanned Sirius from head to toe. "And why on earth are you letting some dirty stranger into my house?"

Sirius arched an eyebrow, his mouth twitching with barely suppressed amusement.

Harry stepped in quickly. "This is… uh, a friend," he said, his brain scrambling for something plausible. "He lives in Manchester. I met him a long time ago—you know where." He emphasized the last part, hoping Petunia's aversion to all things magical would make her stop asking questions.

Her lips thinned, and her gaze darted between Sirius and Harry suspiciously. "Well, he's not staying here," she said sharply. "I won't have the neighbors seeing someone like that walking in and out of our house."

Sirius took a slow step forward, deliberately brushing imaginary lint off his coat. "Good thing I don't plan on staying long," he said smoothly. "I just came to see how Harry's holding up."

Petunia's jaw tightened. "Well, see that you don't stay too long." She turned on her heel with a huff, muttering about "bringing filth into the house," and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sirius let out a low chuckle once she was out of earshot. "Lovely woman, your aunt," he said dryly.

"You have no idea," Harry muttered, shutting the door.

They went upstairs to Harry room, Sirius sat on the edge of Harry's bed, reaching into his coat. From the inside pocket, he pulled out a small, silver-framed mirror. The surface shimmered faintly, like it was caught between reflecting the room and showing something else entirely.

"This," Sirius said, holding it out for Harry to take, "used to belong to your dad. We made these together in our sixth year—got the idea after James got caught sneaking around after curfew. We figured there had to be an easier way to talk to each other without lugging around a map or risking Peeves overhearing us."

Harry turned the mirror over in his hands. His reflection rippled slightly, distorting as if the glass were water.

"They're a pair," Sirius explained. "Yours is connected to mine. Just say my name into it, and I'll hear you. It works anywhere, so if you ever need me—anything at all—you don't have to wait for Hedwig to find me."

Harry looked up at Sirius, his grip tightening on the mirror. "I—thanks. I mean it. This is… brilliant."

Sirius's grin softened. "It's the least I can do."

For a moment, silence hung between them, warm and comfortable. Then Sirius glanced around the room, his nose wrinkling slightly.

"So," he said, breaking the quiet. "When was the last time you had a proper meal?"

Harry shrugged. "Depends on what you count as 'proper.' Aunt Petunia's idea of feeding me is mostly toast and cold leftovers."

Sirius's face darkened briefly, but he masked it with a quick smile. "Right. Let's fix that."

Without warning, he stood and called out in a firm voice, "Kreacher!"

There was a loud crack as a house-elf appeared in the corner of the room, hunched and muttering to himself. His bat-like ears twitched as he took in the small, plain space around him, his eyes narrowing when they landed on Harry.

"Kreacher," Sirius said in a steady tone, crouching slightly to meet the elf's gaze. "This is Harry. You'll treat him with respect, understood?"

Kreacher grumbled something unintelligible, his lips curling, but after a moment, he gave a grudging bow. "Master's orders," he muttered, barely audible.

"Good." Sirius straightened. "Now, could you bring us dinner? Something proper. None of that stuff you keep hiding in the cupboards."

Kreacher shot him a sour look but disappeared with another crack.

"Who's that?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Our family's house-elf," Sirius explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "Kreacher and I… well, let's just say we're working on things. He's stubborn, but I'm trying to make it clear that things are different now."

"Does he listen to you?"

"More or less," Sirius said with a shrug. "Old habits die hard, though. For both of us, I suppose."

Another crack interrupted them, and Kreacher reappeared, balancing a tray laden with roasted chicken, potatoes, steamed vegetables, and a loaf of bread. A jug of pumpkin juice rested on one corner, along with two glasses.

"Dinner," the elf announced sourly, setting the tray on Harry's desk. "For the Master and his… guest."

"Thank you, Kreacher," Sirius said firmly, his tone making it clear he meant it.

The elf's ears twitched, and he disappeared with one last grumble.

Harry sat on the bed while Sirius dragged the chair from the desk closer to the small table. The tray Kreacher had brought held more food than Harry had seen in weeks: roasted chicken, golden potatoes, vegetables glistening with butter, and warm, crusty bread.

"This," Harry said around a mouthful of chicken, "is the best thing I've eaten all summer."

Sirius chuckled softly, pouring pumpkin juice into their glasses. "Well, I'd say it's the least Kreacher could do, but that might be optimistic."

Harry snorted, watching as Sirius cut into his chicken with deliberate precision. There was something calm about the way his godfather moved, even as lines of weariness etched his face. For a while, they ate in silence, the soft clink of utensils the only sound in the room.

Harry found himself stealing glances at Sirius. His godfather's face, though worn, held an ease that hadn't been there during their last meeting. But there was still a tension in his shoulders, a heaviness in his gaze when he thought Harry wasn't looking.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Sirius looked up, startled, then gave a small smile. "Better now," he said. "It's good to see you, Harry. I've missed this—being able to sit down and talk without worrying about… everything else."

Harry nodded, the warmth in Sirius's voice settling something in him. They continued eating, the silence companionable, until Sirius leaned back in his chair with a sigh, cradling his glass of pumpkin juice.

"So," Sirius began, his tone lighter, "tell me, have you been keeping up with Quidditch news? I hear the Cannons have managed not to lose every match this year."

Harry laughed. "That's because they only had one game before the season break. Ron's convinced they're going to turn it all around this year."

"That boy's loyalty is admirable," Sirius said with a grin. "Misplaced, maybe, but admirable."

They fell into easy conversation, talking about teams, players, and upcoming matches. Sirius shared stories from his school days, describing a particularly chaotic match where James's obsession with perfecting the Wronski Feint nearly cost Gryffindor the Cup.

"Your dad was fearless on a broom," Sirius said, his gaze distant for a moment. "But he wasn't reckless. There was always a purpose behind his moves, even if it didn't seem like it at first."

Harry filed that away, his thoughts drifting to his own flying skills.

As the food dwindled and the plates were pushed aside, Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What about you, Harry? How are you holding up?"

Harry hesitated, unsure how to answer. "I'm fine," he said eventually, though the words felt hollow even to him.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"

"Well, as fine as I can be here," Harry admitted, gesturing vaguely around the room. "The Dursleys aren't exactly great company. But it's nothing I can't handle."

Sirius's expression softened. "You're stronger than most people give you credit for, Harry. But you don't always have to 'handle' everything on your own. That's why I gave you the mirror. Use it if you need to."

Harry nodded, clutching the mirror a little tighter. "I will. Thanks."

For a moment, Sirius watched him carefully, as though weighing his next words. Then he said, "You know, there's more to strength than just getting through things. It's about knowing yourself—understanding what drives you and what holds you back. That's what makes a wizard powerful, not just the spells he can cast."

Harry blinked, surprised by the depth of Sirius's words. "I've been reading about that, actually," he said, and he explained the principles of visualization, intuition, and conviction from Fulcrum's book.

Sirius listened intently, nodding occasionally. "That's good stuff," he said when Harry finished. "Your mother believed in that kind of magic. She always said magic is as much about what's in here"—he tapped his temple—"as it is about the wand. Sounds like you're starting to figure that out too."

He paused, his gaze drifting toward the window. "I didn't always get that. When I was younger, I thought strength was about action—doing the bold thing, charging ahead. James and I lived by that, and we were lucky enough that it worked more often than not. But then…"

Sirius trailed off, his voice growing quieter. "Then Azkaban happened."

Harry said nothing, letting the words settle.

"When you're in Azkaban," Sirius continued, "there's nothing to do but think. And the Dementors… they take everything, all the good memories, all the light. But the one thing they can't take is the stuff buried deep. The things you don't want to think about, the truths you don't want to face. Those are the ones they leave with you, like they enjoy watching you tear yourself apart."

Sirius sighed, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass. "I had to confront a lot of things in that place—things about myself, about my choices. About my family. It wasn't pretty, but it taught me something. Real strength isn't just pushing forward blindly. It's stopping to understand why you're pushing forward in the first place. Otherwise, you're just running in circles."

Harry shifted in his seat, the weight of Sirius's words sinking in. "Did it… help? Thinking about all that?"

Sirius gave a small, humorless laugh. "Not at first. At first, it felt like it was killing me. But eventually, I started to see it differently. The things I hated about myself, about my past—they didn't have to define me. They were part of me, sure, but I could choose what to do with them. That's what kept me sane."

He looked at Harry, his expression steady but tired. "You've been through more than most adults I know, and you've come out stronger for it. But if there's one thing I want you to remember, it's this: don't ignore what's inside you. The anger, the fear, even the hope—it all has a place. You just have to figure out how to use it."

For a moment, Harry couldn't speak. He hadn't expected this kind of honesty from Sirius, but it made him feel… connected, in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.

"I'll try," Harry said finally.

Sirius nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Good. Because I've got no doubt you'll be one hell of a wizard, Harry. And not just because of what you can do with a wand."

They sat in silence for a while, the room filled with a sense of peace Harry hadn't felt in weeks. Sirius sipped his pumpkin juice, his gaze distant but content, while Harry turned the mirror over in his hands.

"Do you miss it?" Harry asked suddenly.

"Miss what?" Sirius replied, though his voice carried a hint of knowing.

"Freedom. Not having to hide all the time."

Sirius smiled faintly. "I do," he admitted. "But being here, being with you—it makes it worth it. That's all that matters."

Harry looked down, a lump forming in his throat. He didn't know what to say, so he simply nodded.

The conversation meandered after that, drifting back to Quidditch and school. Sirius told Harry about his favorite professors, his least favorite subjects, and how he'd barely passed Herbology thanks to James setting fire to a Venomous Tentacula during their final.

Harry laughed, feeling lighter than he had in months.

Hours passed before Sirius finally stood, stretching with a groan. "I should go before your aunt accuses me of stealing the silverware," he joked, though his eyes gleamed with affection.

Harry smiled. "Thanks for coming. And for dinner."

Sirius clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Anytime, kiddo. Remember, you're not alone. Call me if you need me."

With a final grin, he cast the Glamour Charm, transforming back into the scruffy stranger who had arrived hours earlier.

"Take care of yourself, Harry," he said, and then he was gone, leaving the room a little quieter but far warmer than it had been before.


c.

 

[certher]

Chapter 2

​

Harry double-checked the small trunk sitting by the foot of his bed. Most of his things were already packed—books, robes, and a few school supplies—but he couldn't shake the feeling he was forgetting something. His hand hovered over the pile of neatly folded socks before deciding he'd packed enough.

The mirror Sirius had given him lay atop the clothes, gleaming faintly in the morning sunlight. Harry paused, picking it up and turning it over in his hands.

He stared at his reflection for a moment, then glanced at the door to make sure the Dursleys were nowhere nearby. Slowly, he brought the mirror closer.

"Sirius Black," he said clearly, his voice uncertain.

For a moment, nothing happened. The mirror remained reflective, showing only his own face and the faintly cluttered background of his room. Harry was just about to set it down when the surface shimmered, rippling like disturbed water.

And then, Sirius's face appeared.

"Harry?" Sirius's voice was slightly muffled, but his expression was clear—sharp gray eyes narrowing with curiosity. "What's wrong?"

Harry's heart leapt. He hadn't expected it to work so quickly, if at all. "Nothing's wrong," he said quickly. "I just wanted to see if this works before I go."

Sirius smirked, leaning back slightly. "Well, it works. And here I thought you might've gotten yourself into trouble already."

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't help grinning. "Not yet. But give me time—I'm sure Fred and George will think of something at the World Cup."

"Merlin help us all," Sirius said with a low chuckle. His expression softened then, and he shifted slightly. "You're all packed?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Harry replied, glancing briefly at the trunk. "How about you? Are you… having a better week?"

Sirius's face flickered with something unreadable for a moment, but his voice remained steady. "Better than most," he said simply. "I've been keeping busy. It helps. But don't worry about me, Harry—I'm managing."

Harry nodded.

"Well," Sirius said, forcing a lighter tone, "it'll be good for you to get out of that place for a while. I'll want to hear all about the match when you're back. Remember—you can call me anytime."

"I will," Harry said. "Thanks, Sirius."

"Have fun at the Burrow," Sirius said with a small grin. "And don't let Ron's Cannons fanaticism rub off on you. You've got better taste than that."

Harry snorted. "I'll try."

With that, Sirius nodded, his face flickering one last time before the mirror's surface rippled again, leaving Harry staring at his own reflection.

Feeling a little more reassured, Harry slipped the mirror back into the trunk and snapped it shut. He turned toward Hedwig's cage, which was perched on the windowsill, the light cloth draped over it barely stirring in the breeze. Hedwig gave a soft hoot as Harry picked up the cage, balancing it carefully on top of the trunk.

Downstairs, the sound of Dudley whining about toast crumbs reached him. Harry sighed, hoisting the trunk toward the staircase. Today was the day. Mr. Weasley was coming to pick him up, and for once, Harry couldn't wait to leave Privet Drive behind.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Aunt Petunia was already wringing her hands, shooting nervous glances at the front door. "When exactly is this… friend of yours arriving?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Any minute now," Harry replied.

Aunt Petunia sniffed. "Well, make sure he doesn't linger. The neighbors will talk."

Before Harry could respond, the doorbell rang. Uncle Vernon's chair scraped loudly against the floor as he craned his neck from the dining room, his expression sour. "Who in blazes is that?"

"That'll be him," Harry said, hurrying to the door before Vernon could protest.

When Harry opened the door, he was met with the sight of Arthur Weasley, beaming and looking entirely out of place on the perfectly manicured Privet Drive. Dressed in a mismatched set of pinstriped trousers and a cardigan that had seen better days, he carried a small toolbox in one hand and waved enthusiastically with the other.

"Harry, my boy!" Mr. Weasley said warmly. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah, just let me grab my trunk," Harry said, gesturing to the trunk with Hedwig's covered cage on top.

But before he could move, Aunt Petunia appeared in the doorway, her face pale and her lips pressed into a tight line. "And who are you?" she demanded, her sharp gaze darting from Arthur to the toolbox in his hand.

"Arthur Weasley, madam," Mr. Weasley said, offering his hand. Petunia ignored it, her attention fixed suspiciously on the cage.

"And what, exactly, do you do?" she asked.

"I work for the Ministry of Magic," Arthur replied cheerfully, clearly unaware of her growing discomfort. "Specifically, the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Fascinating work—did you know Muggles have these ingenious devices called 'toasters'? Marvelous things. I've been trying to understand how they make the bread pop—"

"That'll be enough," Vernon growled, stepping into the hallway with Dudley lumbering behind. His face was an unhealthy shade of purple as he glared at Arthur. "Just take the boy and go."

Harry fought back a grin as he dragged his trunk toward the door, Mr. Weasley helping him lift it down the steps and onto the pavement. Arthur's excitement was practically infectious.

"Splendid! Now, we'll Apparate—quicker than Floo Powder, and less chance of ending up in the wrong fireplace," Arthur said, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry hesitated, glancing back at the house one last time. Aunt Petunia had already retreated to the kitchen, muttering under her breath, while Vernon and Dudley loomed awkwardly in the doorway.

"Good riddance," Harry muttered under his breath, gripping the trunk tighter as he stepped closer to Arthur.

Arthur gave him an encouraging smile. "All right, Harry. Let's get you to the Burrow," he said warmly.



The familiar landscape around the Burrow came into view in a whirl of color as Harry felt the strange, squeezing sensation of Apparition fade. His feet hit the soft ground outside the crooked, multistoried house he'd come to associate with warmth and family. Arthur Weasley steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, grinning.

"Welcome back, Harry," Mr. Weasley said, his voice full of cheer.

Before Harry could respond, the door to the Burrow burst open, and a flurry of red hair came barreling toward him. "Harry!" Ginny exclaimed, her smile bright as she waved him over. Behind her, Mrs. Weasley appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.

"There you are, dear!" Mrs. Weasley called, hurrying over to pull Harry into a tight hug. "It's so good to see you! You've been eating, haven't you? You look thin."

Harry barely managed a word of greeting before Ginny darted forward, taking Hedwig's cage from him with ease. "I'll take this up to Ron's room," she said.

"Thanks," Harry said, smiling at her before turning back to Mrs. Weasley.

Ron came out next, his freckled face lighting up as he jogged down the steps. "Finally! Thought you'd never get here," he said, grabbing Harry's trunk with Arthur's help. "C'mon, we've got loads to talk about. Fred and George are already making plans for the match, and Hermione's been going on about some 'amazing magical theory' she read on the way here."

"Where is she?" Harry asked, looking around as they lugged the trunk toward the house.

"In the living room, buried under about five books," Ron said with a laugh. "She's been trying to keep Fred and George from charming the kettle to make tea that screams."

Mrs. Weasley gave an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, those boys… Come along, Harry, let's get you settled in before you sit down for some lunch."

The Burrow's kitchen was as welcoming as ever, the smell of freshly baked bread and simmering stew filling the air. Plates and cups hovered across the room, arranging themselves neatly on the table under Mrs. Weasley's watchful eye. Harry couldn't help but smile as he took it all in.

"Fred, George, come down and help with the table!" Mrs. Weasley bellowed.

A chorus of footsteps thundered overhead before the twins appeared, identical smirks firmly in place. "If it isn't our favorite honorary brother!" Fred declared, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders.

"Come to bring some excitement to our dull little lives, have you?" George added, picking up a basket of bread from the counter.

"Leave him be, you two," Mrs. Weasley said, shooing them toward the dining table. "Lunch is almost ready."

Ron dropped Harry's trunk by the staircase, motioning for him to follow. "C'mon, I'll show you where we're putting your stuff."

Upstairs, the familiar clutter of Ron's room greeted Harry, with posters of the Chudley Cannons plastered across the walls. Hedwig's cage now sat by the open window, her amber eyes watching curiously as the two boys set down the trunk.

"You're right next to Hermione," Ron said, nodding toward the door across the hall. "She's already claimed her usual spot on the sofa."

Before Harry could reply, a knock on the doorframe made them both turn. Hermione stood there, her arms full of books, her expression both excited and exasperated.

"Harry! It's so good to see you," she said, setting the books down and pulling him into a quick hug. "How was the Dursleys'?"

"As miserable as ever," Harry replied. "But I'm here now, so it doesn't matter."

Ron snorted. "See? Told you he'd be fine. Anyway, lunch's about ready—Mum's outdone herself as usual. You can lecture us about homework afterward."

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. "Fine. But don't think you're getting out of it entirely."

Downstairs, the dining table was laden with food—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh bread, and bowls of steaming vegetables. The twins were already filling their plates with alarming speed, while Ginny sat across from them, chatting animatedly with Mr. Weasley.

Harry slid into a seat between Ron and Hermione, feeling a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the food. The noise, the laughter, and the endless chatter—it was everything Privet Drive wasn't.

"You'll love the match, Harry," Mr. Weasley said between bites. "The Irish team has been on top form this season, and their Chasers are nearly unstoppable. But Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker—he's something else entirely."

"Fred and I are betting Ireland will win, but Krum will catch the Snitch," George said, winking at Harry.

"It's a win-win prediction," Fred added, grinning. "Genius, really."

Harry laughed, letting the lively atmosphere wash over him. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he could relax.

The Burrow wasn't just a house—it was home.



The smell of sizzling bacon wafted through the room as Harry blinked awake. Sunlight filtered through the small window of Ron's room, casting golden streaks across the cluttered walls. From downstairs came the muffled sounds of chaos—a clatter of pots, shouts, and bursts of laughter.

He sat up, stretching, as Ron groaned and pulled his blanket over his head.

"Breakfast smells good," Harry said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Ron muttered something unintelligible before sitting up, his hair sticking out at odd angles. "Bet you anything Fred and George are behind the noise," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

As they headed downstairs, the source of the commotion became clear. Fred and George were at the kitchen table, each holding a small, smoking object. Ginny stood nearby, her arms crossed and her face alight with irritation.

"I swear, if that thing explodes again, Mum's going to—"

BOOM.

A loud pop echoed through the kitchen as one of the objects burst into a cloud of glittering purple smoke. Mrs. Weasley whirled around from the stove, her face a mixture of anger and exasperation.

"FRED! GEORGE!" she bellowed, waving a wooden spoon like a weapon. "I told you, no experiments at the breakfast table!"

"We were just testing the Sparkle-Snap Poppers!" Fred protested, coughing through the smoke.

"Thought we'd brighten everyone's morning," George added, grinning.

Harry stifled a laugh as he slid into a seat at the table next to Ginny. Plates piled high with eggs, toast, and sausages hovered across the room, landing with a gentle clink in front of each of them.

"Morning, Harry," Ginny said, shooting a pointed glare at her brothers. "Sorry about the circus."

"It's fine," Harry said, helping himself to some eggs. "Better than listening to Dudley whine about his diet."

Mrs. Weasley bustled around, her face still red but her voice softening as she set down a plate in front of Harry. "Eat up, dear. We've got a busy day ahead, and I want everyone ready to go bright and early tomorrow for the World Cup."

"Bright and early?" Ron groaned, slumping into his chair.

"Yes, bright and early!" Mrs. Weasley said, fixing him with a stern look. "It's a long journey to the campsite, and I'm not having any of you dragging your feet."

"Don't worry, Mum," Fred said brightly. "George and I have packed our essentials already."

"By 'essentials,' you mean the rubbish in your room?" Ginny asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Rubbish?" George gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "Our innovative, groundbreaking magical products are not rubbish, Ginerva."

"Call me that again and I'll hex you," Ginny said flatly.

After breakfast, Harry followed Ron out into the orchard behind the Burrow. The air was warm, the sunlight filtering through the trees, and the occasional rustle of leaves was the only sound beyond the distant hum of the village below. A couple of broomsticks leaned against a tree trunk, one old and battered, the other a newer Cleansweep with slightly frayed bristles.

"Fancy a quick game?" Ron asked, tossing Harry the older broom.

"Why not?" Harry said, catching it with ease.

They spent a while darting between the trees, tossing an old Quaffle back and forth, their laughter echoing in the stillness. After Ron fumbled a catch and nearly fell off his broom, they landed, flopping onto the soft grass to catch their breath.

"So," Ron began, propping himself up on his elbows, "ready for tomorrow?"

Harry nodded, still grinning from their impromptu game. "More than ready. It feels like I've been waiting forever to see a professional match."

"You'll love it," Ron said, his eyes lighting up. "Ireland's Chasers are brilliant. They've got this one play called the Blazing Blitz—it's like poetry on brooms. And then there's Krum. He's only eighteen, and he's already the best Seeker in the world. It's going to be incredible."

Harry laughed. "You sound like you've got it all planned out."

"Course I do," Ron said with mock seriousness. "This is Quidditch we're talking about."

For a moment, they lay in comfortable silence, the sunlight warming their faces. Then Ron spoke again, his tone quieter.

"Fred and George have been up to something," he said, glancing at the house. "They're always sneaking around, muttering about new ideas for their joke shop. Mum's been on them about it all summer."

"Think they'll actually do it?" Harry asked, curious.

Ron shrugged. "Dunno. Probably. They're mad, but they're brilliant too. If anyone can pull it off, it's them. They're already testing their stuff on anyone who's not paying attention."

Harry chuckled, imagining Fred and George ambushing unsuspecting houseguests with their pranks.

"What about you?" Ron asked suddenly, sitting up fully. "Any plans for the year? You've been… I dunno, different lately. In a good way, I mean."

Harry hesitated, his thoughts drifting to darker places—the kind he tried to avoid but couldn't shake. Lately, he couldn't help feeling like everything in his life was spinning just out of his reach. Memories, choices, even the people he cared about—they all seemed to slip through his fingers, no matter how hard he tried to hold on.

He stared up at the sky, his voice quieter than before. "Ron, do you ever feel like you're… not really in control of anything?"

Ron blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

Harry frowned, his hands brushing absently through the grass. "I mean… it's like no matter what I do, stuff keeps happening—big stuff—and I'm just… stuck dealing with it. Last year with Sirius, with Pettigrew, even the Dementors—it all felt like… I don't know, like it wasn't me making decisions. It just… happened."

Ron shifted slightly, his brow furrowing as he listened.

"It's not just that," Harry continued, his voice more strained now. "It's everything. I keep thinking about what could've happened if things had gone just a bit differently. Like if Sirius had been caught, or if I'd failed with the Dementors, or…" He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the sky. "Sometimes it feels like I'm always just reacting to things. Like the world's playing some big game, and I'm the last one to know the rules."

For a moment, Ron didn't say anything. His face was serious in a way Harry didn't often see.

"Yeah," Ron said eventually, surprising Harry with his tone. "I get that. Maybe not the way you do, but… yeah. Sometimes it feels like the world's too big, and you're just one little piece of it, you know?"

Harry nodded, grateful for the understanding.

"But you know what?" Ron added, leaning back on his elbows. "You're not on your own. Sirius cares about you, right? And so do I. Hermione too—probably a bit too much, to be honest." He smirked, trying to lighten the mood. "You're not stuck dealing with all of it by yourself, mate. You've got people."

Harry managed a small smile. "Yeah… Sirius has helped a lot. He's different from anyone else I know. He doesn't treat me like a kid, but he also doesn't expect me to just know how to handle everything either. He talks about planning and thinking things through—about being prepared instead of just waiting for something to go wrong."

Ron gave him a lopsided grin. "That sounds like Sirius all right. Bit mad, but it seems like he's good for you." He paused, his expression softening. "That's good, Harry. Everyone needs someone to look up to, even if they don't always realize it."

"Thanks," Harry said quietly.

For a while, neither of them spoke.



Harry sat at the desk in Ron's room, hunched over a long roll of parchment. His quill scratched across the page as he paused occasionally to glance at a thick textbook propped open beside him. Every now and then, he muttered to himself, trying to make sense of a particularly dense section.

Behind him, Ron was sprawled on his bed, lazily tossing a quaffle in the air and catching it again. The faint thud each time it landed in his hands was beginning to drive Harry mad, but he bit his tongue.

"What are you working on, anyway?" Ron asked, yawning as he tilted his head to look at Harry.

"Transfiguration essay," Harry replied without looking up. He dipped his quill into the inkpot and frowned. "Switching spells and why intent matters when assigning properties."

Ron groaned. "Blimey, I'm glad I haven't started mine yet. That sounds miserable."

"It's not that bad," Harry said, though his expression suggested otherwise. He underlined a line from his textbook and copied it onto the parchment. "'When altering an object's core properties, the caster must visualize both the original state and the desired state simultaneously.'"

Ron blinked. "That's… a load of words."

"It's important," Harry shot back, though he wasn't entirely sure he believed it.

The door creaked open, and Hermione stepped in, clutching a book to her chest. She stopped short when she saw Harry at the desk, her eyes lighting up.

"You're working on your Transfiguration essay?" she asked, stepping closer to peer over his shoulder.

Harry nodded, glancing at her briefly. "Just trying to get it done before the Cup tomorrow. Thought I'd have a go at it now."

Hermione leaned closer, scanning the neat rows of text he'd written. "This is good," she said, sounding genuinely impressed. "You've explained the dual visualization concept really well, and you even included an example of why focus is crucial in switching spells. Where did you find that?"

"In here," Harry said, tapping the open textbook.

Ron groaned again. "Are you going to give him more homework now, Hermione?"

She ignored him, instead pointing at a section of Harry's essay. "This bit—about how switching spells can fail if the caster doesn't fully understand the object they're working with. You could tie that back to the theory about magical resistance in inanimate objects. Remember what McGonagall said about wands? Even though they're enchanted, they can resist magic from other sources if it's not strong enough."

Harry blinked. "I… didn't think of that."

Ron sighed dramatically, tossing the quaffle onto the floor. "Here we go. The essay's already twice as long as it needs to be, and now Hermione's going to turn it into a thesis."

"It's called doing your best, Ron," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, Harry, this is excellent so far. I'm glad you're starting to take this seriously."

Harry shrugged, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. "I just… want to keep up, I guess. There's a lot I feel like I don't know yet."

"That's why you practice," Hermione said firmly. She gestured toward the book she was holding. "Spells aren't just about memorizing words or wand movements. They're about understanding the intent behind them. McGonagall's always saying that, isn't she? 'Transfiguration is the most precise branch of magic.'"

"Yeah, and it's the most boring," Ron muttered, earning another sharp look from Hermione.

Harry set down his quill, his brow furrowing. "What about spells that aren't precise, though? Like… hexes or curses. Do they work the same way?"

That got Ron's attention. He sat up, propping himself on his elbows. "Probably," he said. "But I reckon they're different, right? Dad says dark spells are all about emotions. The nastier the spell, the nastier the feelings behind it."

Hermione frowned. "That's… not entirely wrong. Dark magic does tend to feed on negative emotions—anger, fear, hatred. But that doesn't mean it's the only type of magic that uses emotions. Protective spells, like the Patronus Charm, work best when you focus on happy memories."

"So, it's about what you feel when you cast it," Harry said slowly.

"Partly," Hermione agreed. "But also what you believe. If you cast a spell and don't think it'll work, it probably won't. That's why conviction is so important."

"Blimey," Ron muttered. "I thought magic was supposed to make life easier."

Harry smirked faintly, picking up his quill again. "You and me both."



The night before the match, the Burrow was alive with anticipation. After dinner, the Weasley siblings argued good-naturedly about predictions for the match while Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat by the fireplace, talking quietly.

"I still think Bulgaria has the edge," Hermione said, flipping through Quidditch Through the Ages. "Their Seeker, Viktor Krum, is incredible."

"Ireland's Chasers will destroy them," Ron countered, his voice full of confidence. "Blazing Blitz, all day long."

"You've been talking about that play all summer," Harry said, smiling. "What is it, anyway?"

"It's genius," Ron said, gesturing wildly with his hands as if directing the Chasers himself. "They zigzag through the air so fast, it looks like they're in ten places at once. No Keeper can stop them."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's just a formation. If Bulgaria can disrupt it, Ireland won't stand a chance."

"Formation?" Ron spluttered. "It's a masterpiece!"

Harry chuckled, but his thoughts drifted as the conversation continued. He couldn't help feeling the quiet thrill of excitement building in his chest. Tomorrow, they'd be at a real Quidditch World Cup match. It was the kind of thing he'd only dreamed about back at Privet Drive, and now it was about to become a reality.



The next morning, Harry woke to the sound of Mrs. Weasley's voice carrying up the stairs.

"Up! We leave in thirty minutes!"

Downstairs, the kitchen was a flurry of activity. Plates zoomed through the air as Mrs. Weasley packed a picnic basket, and Mr. Weasley double-checked a crumpled map. Fred and George whispered over a small bag of brightly colored objects, earning a sharp glare from Ginny.

"Hurry up, or you'll miss the Portkey!" Mrs. Weasley called, shoving plates of eggs and toast at Harry and Ron as they slid into their seats.

After breakfast, the Weasleys gathered their things and set off toward a clearing a little way from the house. Mrs. Weasley waved them off from the porch, her arms crossed as she eyed Fred and George suspiciously.

"Behave yourselves," she called. "And take care of Harry!"

The clearing was already bathed in early morning light when they arrived. A battered old boot sat on a tree stump at the center, looking decidedly unimpressive.

"That's the Portkey?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't let looks deceive you," Mr. Weasley said, grinning. "This old boot's going to get us to the World Cup in no time. Everyone gather round!"

They crowded together, each reaching out to touch the Portkey. Harry's fingers brushed the worn leather, and he felt a faint buzz of magic beneath his fingertips.

"Right," Mr. Weasley said, glancing at his watch. "Three… two… one—"

The familiar hook behind Harry's navel yanked him off the ground, and the world dissolved into a blur of color and sound.

When they landed, Harry stumbled but managed to stay on his feet, helped by Ron's steadying hand.

They were standing in the middle of a sprawling campsite. Tents stretched as far as the eye could see, some simple and ordinary, others adorned with chimneys, flags, and magical ornaments. Wizards and witches bustled about, chatting in dozens of different languages, while enchanted objects whizzed through the air.

"Welcome to the campsite!" Mr. Weasley said, clapping Harry on the back.

 

[certher]

Chapter 3​

The campsite was alive with activity as wizards from across the globe prepared for the Quidditch World Cup. Everywhere Harry looked, he saw enchanted tents sporting the colors and banners of rival teams, magical cooking fires, and witches and wizards chatting animatedly in dozens of languages.

"This is brilliant," Ron said, his eyes wide as he turned to take it all in.

They followed Mr. Weasley through the winding pathways of the campsite, dodging excited children chasing enchanted Quaffles and vendors selling everything from Firebolt accessories to enchanted snacks. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan waved at them from the far side of a small clearing, where they had set up camp alongside Seamus's mother and a group of other Irish supporters.

"Come find us after the match!" Seamus called, his face already painted in bold green and gold stripes.

"Will do!" Ron shouted back.

Ahead of them, Mr. Weasley paused by a relatively plain tent surrounded by towering Irish flags. "Here we are! Let's get settled."

Harry raised an eyebrow as he followed the others inside. From the outside, the tent looked barely big enough for three people, but stepping through the flap was like entering another world. The inside was enormous, with several beds, a small kitchen, and even a sitting area complete with a crackling fireplace.

"Magical tents," Ron said knowingly, flopping onto one of the beds. "Nothing like them."

"Arthur!" a booming voice called from outside. Mr. Weasley ducked back through the tent flap, and the others heard him greet someone enthusiastically.

"Who's he talking to?" Harry asked.

"Probably one of his Ministry friends," Percy said, setting down a meticulously packed bag. "Father tends to—"

"—run into everyone he's ever met at these things," George finished, smirking.

Fred nudged Harry. "Come on, let's explore. You're not really going to just sit here, are you?"

Harry grinned. "Not a chance."

The campsite market was bustling with vendors peddling every imaginable piece of Quidditch merchandise. Irish and Bulgarian flags fluttered in the breeze, and children ran past waving miniature broomsticks that left trails of sparks.

"Harry, look!" Ron pointed at a nearby stall showcasing colorful Omnioculars. "I've read about these. They can rewind the game, slow it down, even show stats!"

The vendor, a cheerful man with a shock of green hair, demonstrated a pair for them. "Omnioculars! Ten galleons and thirteen sickles! Perfect for catching every move, every save, every goal!"

Ron hesitated, clearly enamored but biting his lip as he eyed the price.

"You want one?" Harry asked casually.

"Of course I do, but I can't—"

"Here," Harry interrupted, pulling out his coin pouch. He handed the vendor the money and grabbed a pair of green and gold Omnioculars.

"Harry, you can't just—" Ron started, but Harry shook his head, grinning.

"You're my best mate, Ron. What's the point of gold if you can't use it to enjoy stuff like this?"

Ron's face turned red, but he accepted the Omnioculars, staring at them like they were the greatest gift in the world. "Thanks," he muttered, a huge smile breaking across his face.

"Now you can tell me exactly how the Chasers pull off their Blazing Blitz," Harry said.

Fred and George exchanged a knowing look. "We taught him everything he knows about generosity," Fred said, nudging George.

"True philanthropists, we are," George replied.



As the sun began to set, the campsite buzzed with anticipation. People began lighting magical lanterns, their soft glows turning the area into a sea of shimmering colors. The Weasleys' tent was no exception, its entrance now adorned with a small Irish flag enchanted to wave on its own.

Inside, Hermione was reading Quidditch Through the Ages, while Ginny and Ron debated the merits of Viktor Krum versus the Irish Chasers.

"Sure, Krum's an amazing Seeker," Ginny said, leaning forward in her chair, "but he can't win the match by himself. Ireland's team is too good. Their Chasers are unstoppable."

"Not unstoppable," Ron countered. "You wait. Krum's going to pull off something spectacular. He's only eighteen, and he's already the best Seeker in the world!"

Harry listened with amusement, fiddling with his Omnioculars. He couldn't help but feel the growing excitement as they discussed the upcoming match.

The walk to the stadium was nothing short of electric. The campsite buzzed with energy as wizards in green and gold or scarlet and black streamed toward the towering Quidditch stadium in the distance. The structure itself was a marvel of magical architecture, rising impossibly high into the night sky, its polished wood gleaming under the enchanted lanterns strung along its perimeter.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys followed Mr. Weasley closely, weaving through the throngs of fans. Vendors lined the path to the stadium, calling out their wares: enchanted scarves that sang team anthems, flags that sparkled with magical effects, and miniature Quidditch players zooming about in enchanted glass globes. The air was thick with the scent of roasted nuts and buttery pastries.

"Look at that!" Ron exclaimed, pointing to a wizard juggling flaming Quaffles while singing a rousing Irish victory song. "Blimey, they've really gone all out, haven't they?"

"They certainly have," Hermione said, glancing around. Her eyes lingered on a group of Bulgarian fans chanting something in their native language, their red scarves enchanted to wave on their own.

Finally, they reached the towering entrance to the stadium. Harry craned his neck, trying to take in the sheer size of the structure. It was circular, with towering stands that seemed to reach the clouds. Magical billboards flickered and shifted along the exterior, displaying images of the players, team logos, and messages of support.

"Welcome to the Quidditch World Cup!" a cheerful witch greeted them at the entrance, her wand flicking over a small counter as she directed them toward their seats.

They climbed a spiraling set of stairs that seemed to stretch on forever. Harry was beginning to think they'd never reach the top when Mr. Weasley finally stopped, his face glowing with excitement.

"Here we are!" he said, gesturing to a wide box with an unparalleled view of the pitch.

Harry stepped forward, his breath catching at the sight. The field below was perfectly illuminated, its lush grass shimmering as though it had been freshly painted. Hundreds of broomsticks darted through the air in a dazzling display of pre-match theatrics, their trails of light weaving intricate patterns in the sky.

The Top Box itself was an interesting mix of people. To one side, Cornelius Fudge sat with a genial smile, chatting animatedly with a man in brightly colored robes, his face ruddy and full of boyish excitement. Harry glanced at him curiously.

"That's Ludo Bagman," Ron whispered, leaning closer. "He's head of Magical Games and Sports. Fred and George keep saying they made a bet with him on the match."

Harry's curiosity deepened, but his attention was quickly stolen by the breathtaking view of the pitch below.

"Oh, wow," Hermione murmured, stepping up beside him. Even she, who didn't share their obsession with Quidditch, looked awestruck by the sight.

"Seats, everyone!" Mr. Weasley called, motioning for them to sit down.

Harry and Ron squeezed into seats near the front, with Hermione and Ginny to their left and Fred and George behind them.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" A magically amplified voice boomed across the stadium, drawing everyone's attention. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as the commentator continued. "Welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup final!"

Harry leaned forward. The match was about to begin.

"AND THEY'RE OFF!" the announcer bellowed, his voice echoing across the massive stadium. The crowd erupted into cheers as the players soared into the air, emerald green and scarlet streaking against the twilight sky.

"Moran takes possession for Ireland, weaving past Ivanova—she dodges Dimitrov—and PASSES to Troy! Ireland's Chasers waste no time getting straight into formation!"

Troy and Moran darted through the Bulgarian defense like two ends of a whip, their movements perfectly in sync.

"Zograf braces himself—AND MORAN SCORES! TEN-ZERO TO IRELAND!"

The Irish section erupted in cheers, green and gold sparks shooting into the sky. Harry joined in, elbowing Ron as they celebrated the goal.

"Brilliant!" Ron shouted, his face glowing with excitement. "Told you, Harry, their Chasers are unstoppable!"

Back on the pitch, the Quaffle was now in the hands of Bulgaria's Chasers.

"Ivanova charges forward, Dimitrov flanking her left—Mullet closes in for the tackle—NO! Ivanova dodges, clean pass to Levski—"

The announcer's voice sped up as the Bulgarian Chasers launched an aggressive counterattack. Harry watched as Troy tried to block a pass, only for Dimitrov to shoot wide, leaving the Irish Keeper scrambling.

"Bulgaria's strategy is all power," the announcer noted. "And Dimitrov SCORES! It's ten-all!"

As the crowd cheered, Harry's attention was drawn away from the pitch by movement in the Top Box. Lucius Malfoy, flanked by Narcissa and Draco, had entered the row of seats beside Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. Harry stiffened, his gaze narrowing.

"What's he doing here?" Harry muttered.

Ron followed his gaze and scowled. "Probably bribing Fudge or something. Bet he's funding half the Ministry by now."

"Shh," Hermione hissed, though she couldn't help glancing in Malfoy's direction.

Harry leaned forward, trying to catch snippets of the conversation. Lucius Malfoy sat elegantly, his cane resting against the arm of his chair, but his posture was slightly angled toward Fudge. His tone was low but deliberate, and though the crowd's roar made it impossible to hear most of what he was saying, Harry managed to catch fragments.

"…urgency…dangerous action after the match…" Malfoy said, his lips curling into a faint smile.

Fudge waved a hand dismissively, but his brows knitted together. "Not now, Lucius," he replied, his voice curt.

Lucius didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned closer, his cane tapping lightly against the floor.

"…critical you leave early. No delays, Minister. Not after…"

Harry strained to hear more, but the roar of the crowd swelled as Moran dodged past a Bulgarian Chaser. Narcissa remained impassive, her gaze fixed on the match as if she wasn't privy to the conversation. Draco, meanwhile, looked bored, his arms crossed.

"Did you hear that?" Harry whispered.

"Something about leaving early?" Hermione guessed.

"Yeah. Something's off," Harry muttered, his eyes narrowing.

Before he could think further, Lucius rose smoothly from his seat. He exchanged a brief nod with Fudge, motioned to Narcissa and Draco, and disappeared down the stairs.

"Where's he going?" Ron asked.

"Dunno," Harry replied, though his stomach churned uneasily.

The announcer's voice snapped him back to the game. "Mullet with the Quaffle—passes to Troy—AND ANOTHER GOAL! FIFTY-TEN TO IRELAND!"

The crowd's cheers pulled Harry back into the moment. He glanced at the scoreboard, shaking off his unease.

The Irish Chasers were hitting their stride. Their passes were seamless, their formations flawless.

"Moran, Troy, and Mullet make another play—Moran dodges Ivanova—AND SHE SCORES! SIXTY-TEN!"

The Bulgarian defense was struggling to keep up. The Irish Chasers darted through the air like lightning bolts, weaving past their opponents with ease.

"Troy to Mullet—Mullet back to Moran—AND ANOTHER GOAL! SEVENTY-TEN TO IRELAND!"

Harry felt a flicker of pity for the Bulgarian Keeper, who looked utterly overwhelmed.

"They're obliterating them," Ron said, his Omnioculars pressed to his face. "Bulgarian defense can't keep up!"

"Bulgaria's got power," Hermione noted, "but no coordination. The Irish Chasers are just too quick."

Fred and George whooped loudly as Connolly sent a Bludger hurtling toward Dimitrov, forcing him to swerve wildly.

"Connolly's got an arm on him, hasn't he?" George shouted.

The pace was relentless. The Irish Chasers scored again and again, leaving the Bulgarian defense in shambles.

"SEVENTY-TEN to Ireland!" the announcer roared.

"And they're not done yet! Troy passes to Moran—Moran to Mullet—AND SHE SCORES! EIGHTY-TEN!"

The crowd roared, the chants of Irish fans echoing across the stadium.

"NINETY-TEN! ONE HUNDRED-TEN!"

As the game continued, Harry's attention was drawn to Viktor Krum, circling high above the pitch. The Bulgarian Seeker hovered like a hawk, his eyes scanning the pitch below.

But something caught Harry's eye. Krum wasn't focused on the Snitch. He was watching the game.

"Krum knows they're losing," Harry muttered, his brow furrowing. "That puts pressure on a Seeker. He has to do something to disrupt the flow."

Ron glanced at him, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"If the Irish keep scoring, Bulgaria doesn't stand a chance," Harry said. "Krum knows their Chasers can't catch up, so he's probably planning something to throw them off."

As if on cue, Krum suddenly dove.

The crowd gasped as Viktor Krum hurtled toward the ground at a breathtaking speed, his broomstick cutting through the air like a falling meteor. Even the Irish Chasers faltered mid-play, their attention drawn to the dramatic dive.

"Krum's seen something!" the announcer shouted, his voice rising with excitement. "He's going for it! Could it be the Snitch?"

Harry leaned forward, his heart pounding. He raised his Omnioculars, scanning the area where Krum was diving. He adjusted the dial, zooming in on the pitch near the Irish goalposts, but no golden glint met his eyes.

"There's no Snitch there," Harry muttered, confusion creeping into his voice. "What's he doing?"

"He must have seen it," Ron said, gripping the edge of his seat. "Why else would he dive?"

"I don't think so," Hermione said, frowning. "Why would the Snitch be so low to the ground in the first place?"

Harry didn't answer. His mind raced as he watched Krum's dive, his movements precise and unrelenting. Was he mistaken? Could Krum really have spotted the Snitch, or was he doing something else entirely?

Lynch, the Irish Seeker, had no such hesitation. He dove after Krum without a second thought, his broomstick shuddering as he pushed it to its limits. The crowd roared louder, the tension mounting with every second.

"Krum's gaining—Lynch is right behind him—AND—"

At the last possible moment, Krum pulled up sharply, his broom carving a near-vertical arc just a few feet from the ground. Lynch, caught completely off guard, couldn't adjust his trajectory in time. He crashed into the turf with a sickening thud, tumbling across the pitch in a tangle of limbs and broomstick.

"WHAT A MOVE!" the announcer bellowed, his voice nearly drowned out by the crowd. "THAT'S THE WRONSKI FEINT! A BRILLIANT TACTICAL PLAY FROM VIKTOR KRUM!"

The Bulgarian supporters erupted in cheers, their red-and-gold flags waving furiously. Even some of the Irish fans clapped, acknowledging the sheer skill behind the maneuver. Meanwhile, mediwizards rushed onto the field to attend to Lynch, who groaned as he tried to sit up.

"That was… incredible," Hermione admitted, lowering her Omnioculars. "Dangerous, but incredible."

"He's a genius," Ron said. "Dirty trick, but you can't deny it worked."

Harry, however, sat back in his seat, his brow furrowed. He replayed the dive in his head, trying to make sense of it. "It wasn't about the Snitch," he said finally, more to himself than to anyone else.

"What do you mean?" Ron asked, turning to him.

Harry gestured toward Krum, who was now circling high above the pitch again. "He knew the Snitch wasn't there. That dive—it was never about catching it. He did it to throw Lynch off his game, maybe even to buy Bulgaria a bit of time."

Ron frowned, tilting his head. "So, what? He just did it for fun?"

"No." Harry shook his head. "He's trying to disrupt the Irish Chasers. Krum knows they're running away with the game. If he can rattle Lynch—and the rest of the team—it might stop their momentum."

As Lynch was helped off the field, the Irish Chasers quickly regrouped. Mullet snatched the Quaffle from Ivanova, pivoted midair, and hurled it toward Moran.

"Moran in possession—passes to Troy—AND SCORE! ONE HUNDRED TEN-TEN!"

The crowd roared again as the Irish team reclaimed their momentum. Krum's feint had shaken things up, but it hadn't stopped the relentless dominance of the Irish Chasers.

"Looks like Krum's gamble didn't pay off," Fred quipped, leaning over to Harry. "Not much point in throwing off the Irish when their Chasers are this good."

"Maybe," Harry said. "But he's not done yet."

The stadium was electric with noise, the Irish fans chanting and singing as their team continued to dominate. Moran passed the Quaffle to Troy, who looped around Ivanova with ease and launched it straight through the Bulgarian hoop.

"ANOTHER GOAL FOR IRELAND! ONE-TWENTY-TEN!" the announcer roared.

High above the pitch, Viktor Krum was a blur of motion, darting back and forth in search of the Snitch. His face was tense, his movements sharp and hurried. Below, Ivanova tried to rally the Bulgarian Chasers, but the Irish trio—Moran, Troy, and Mullet—were relentless.

"TROY TO MORAN—MORAN TO MULLET—AND MULLET SCORES! ONE-THIRTY-TEN!"

The Irish section roared again, the noise drowning out even the announcer's booming voice. Zograf, the Bulgarian Keeper, looked utterly defeated as he hovered by the goalposts, his broom sagging under the weight of his frustration.

On the pitch, Ivanova managed to reclaim the Quaffle, weaving past Mullet with a determined burst of speed. She passed to Dimitrov, who lobbed the Quaffle to Levski in a last-ditch effort to close the gap. Levski dodged an incoming Bludger and sent the Quaffle hurtling through the hoop.

"BULGARIA SCORES! ONE-THIRTY-TWENTY!"

The Bulgarian fans roared their approval, but the noise was quickly swallowed by the Irish crowd as Moran intercepted the next pass with ease. Within moments, the Quaffle was flying through the Bulgarian hoop again.

"ONE-FORTY-TWENTY! IRELAND IS UNSTOPPABLE!"

Krum, still circling high above, suddenly veered sharply to the left. His broom dipped as he sped toward the edge of the pitch, his hand clutching the handle with white-knuckled intensity.

"THE SNITCH!" the announcer bellowed. "KRUM SEES IT!"

The golden ball flitted near the Irish goalposts, its wings fluttering erratically as if taunting him. Lynch, still shaky from his earlier crash, pushed his broom into a steep dive, desperately trying to close the distance.

"Lynch is following—IT'S A RACE!" the announcer roared.

The Bulgarian fans roared with renewed hope, their cheers echoing through the stadium.

"Moran with the Quaffle—passes to Troy—AND SCORE! ONE-FIFTY-TWENTY!"

The two Seekers streaked across the pitch, Krum leading by a hair as the Snitch zigzagged unpredictably. Lynch pushed his broom harder, closing the gap inch by inch.

"Lynch is gaining on him—can he make it in time?!" the announcer cried.

Meanwhile, on the pitch, Mullet intercepted a weak pass from Ivanova, darted through the Bulgarian defense, and launched the Quaffle straight through the middle hoop.

"ANOTHER GOAL FOR IRELAND! ONE-SIXTY-TWENTY!"

The Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, barely moved. He looked utterly defeated, his shoulders slumped as the Quaffle sailed past him yet again.

"Mullet in possession again—she dodges Dimitrov—AND SCORES! ONE-SEVENTY-TWENTY!"

Above the chaos, Krum reached out, his fingers brushing the Snitch's golden wings. Lynch lunged forward, his hand outstretched, but Krum twisted sharply to the left, cutting him off.

The crowd roared with deafening enthusiasm. The Irish fans were on their feet, chanting and waving enchanted flags as their team's lead grew even larger.

The Bulgarian Chasers looked utterly destroyed, their faces drenched in sweat, their movements sluggish and unfocused. Even Ivanova, usually a powerhouse, faltered as she tried to block the Irish plays.

"Moran intercepts a desperate pass from Ivanova—she passes to Troy—AND HE SCORES! ONE-EIGHTY-TWENTY!" the announcer roared, barely keeping pace with the game.

With one final burst of speed, Krum pushed his broom forward, his hand finally closing around the Snitch.

"KRUM CATCHES THE SNITCH!" the announcer bellowed. "BUT IT'S NOT ENOUGH!"

The scoreboard flickered:

Ireland: 180

Bulgaria: 170

"What a match!" the announcer shouted, his voice barely audible over the cheers. "Ireland wins by TEN POINTS! A stunning display of skill and strategy from the Irish Chasers, and what a fight from Viktor Krum!"

The stadium erupted. The Irish supporters leaped to their feet, their cheers echoing across the stands, while the Bulgarian fans clapped politely, some shaking their heads in frustration. Fireworks painted the sky in emerald and gold as the Irish team circled the pitch in victory, waving at the roaring crowd.

"He caught it," Ron said, shaking his head in disbelief. "He caught the Snitch, and they still lost."

Fred collapsed into his seat, wide-eyed and uncharacteristically quiet. George looked at him, then at the pitch, his face a mix of disbelief and smug satisfaction. For once, neither twin said a word.

Ron noticed and raised an eyebrow. "You two all right? It's not like you to go speechless."

Fred gave a slow, almost dazed nod. "Yeah. Just… processing," he muttered, staring at the Irish team as they made their victory lap.

"Processing what?" Ron asked, but Fred waved him off, muttering something unintelligible to George, who gave him a sly grin.

Ron shrugged and turned back to Harry, his ears still pink from excitement. "Did you see that? Ireland was unstoppable! The Blazing Blitz? Unbelievable! And Krum—blimey, he's a genius. The way he pulled that Feint… even if he didn't win the match, he's still the best Seeker I've ever seen."

Harry gave a small smile at Ron's enthusiasm but didn't reply. His focus was elsewhere.

As the crowd began to stir, celebrating fans filtering out of the Top Box, Harry's gaze lingered on Ludo Bagman. The once-boisterous man stood at the edge of the box, his grin gone. Instead, his expression was tight, his eyes darting nervously as though searching for someone—or avoiding them.

Harry watched as Bagman adjusted his robes, his hands twitching. He exchanged hurried words with an older wizard before descending the stairs, his movements stiff and hurried.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice pulled him back. She was standing now, waiting with Ginny and Mr. Weasley. "Coming?"

"Yeah," Harry said quickly, shaking off the moment.

The campsite was ablaze with life and energy, a cacophony of laughter, singing, and magical fireworks lighting up the night sky. Irish fans in green and gold celebrated wildly, their cheers mingling with the occasional grumbles of Bulgarian supporters. Streams of emerald and gold sparks from enchanted fireworks painted the air, bursting into shamrocks and leprechauns that danced across the campsite.

"Merlin, what a game!" Ron said, his face flushed with excitement as they made their way back to the tent. "Did you see Krum's dive at the end? Bloke's a genius, even if Ireland crushed them!"

"Genius or not, Ireland still won," Ginny said smugly, flipping her red hair over her shoulder. "And their Chasers were spectacular. I told you they were unstoppable!"

"Unstoppable my—" Ron started, but Hermione cut him off.

"Enough, you two," she said, exasperated but smiling. "Honestly, it's like the match hasn't even ended with the way you're carrying on."

Behind them, Fred and George were huddled together, their voices low and hurried as they spoke to a grinning Ludo Bagman near the edge of the clearing. Harry caught snippets of their conversation as they passed—something about odds and doubling down—but when he glanced back at them, they waved him off with identical, mischievous grins.

"Everything all right?" Harry asked.

"Oh, perfectly," Fred said, a little too quickly.

"Just securing some… future investments," George added, his tone airy.

"Right," Harry said. He decided not to press.

As they reached their tent, the night seemed to grow quieter, as if the jubilant celebrations were softening into the background. Harry slowed. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about the atmosphere felt… off.

It was then he heard it—a faint scream, carried on the cool night breeze.

Harry stopped abruptly, turning his head toward the sound. His heart skipped a beat as he scanned the dark horizon. Around him, the campsite still hummed with revelry, the rhythmic chants of Irish victory echoing through the air. No one else seemed to have noticed.

"What is it?" Mr. Weasley asked, his face lined with concern as he noticed Harry's hesitation.

"I thought I heard something," Harry said, his voice quiet. "A scream, I think."

Mr. Weasley's expression turned serious, though he attempted to reassure Harry. "The Irish are celebrating—they've been screaming like th—"

"No," Harry interrupted, shaking his head, his voice firm. "Not that kind of screaming, Mr. Weasley. This is different. Something's wrong—I can feel it."

Mr. Weasley frowned, studying Harry closely. There was something about the certainty in his voice, the way his hand had instinctively gone to his wand, that made him pause.

"All right," Mr. Weasley said quietly. "Fred, George—come with me."

The twins, who had been standing off to the side whispering to each other, straightened up immediately. Fred shot a glance at George, his usual grin replaced by a look of wary curiosity.

"What's going on, Dad?" George asked, but Mr. Weasley was already moving toward the tent flap, signaling for them to follow.

Inside the tent, Percy was reading by the dim light of a lantern, while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny sat around a small table, talking in low voices. They all looked up as Mr. Weasley entered.

"Listen closely," he said, his voice serious. "Fred, George, Harry, and I are stepping out for a moment. The rest of you stay here. Percy, you're in charge."

"What's going on?" Ron asked, standing up immediately.

"Stay here," Mr. Weasley repeated, cutting him off. "Ginny, Hermione—keep close to Ron and Percy. Ron, keep your wand out. Don't leave this tent unless it's absolutely necessary."

Ron frowned, his hand moving to the pocket where his wand was tucked. "Dad—"

"This is serious," Mr. Weasley said sharply, and no sooner had the words left his mouth than a chorus of panicked screams erupted from somewhere beyond their tent.

All heads snapped toward the sound. It was distant but unmistakable—a blend of fear, chaos, and urgency. Before anyone could speak, the flickering glow of fire lit up the edges of the tent flap, casting jagged shadows that danced ominously.

Fred and George exchanged a look.

"Stay here!" Mr. Weasley barked, already reaching for his wand. "Fred, George, Harry—come with me. Quickly!"

The four of them hurried outside. The once-celebratory campsite was now a picture of chaos. Tents were ablaze, flames licking the sky as smoke billowed upward in thick plumes. People were running in all directions, some clutching children, others dragging belongings as they screamed for loved ones.

"Stay close," Mr. Weasley ordered, his eyes scanning the chaos. With a swift flick of his wand, he sent a silvery Patronus streaking into the night. "That will alert the Diggorys. They'll contact the Ministry."

He twisted his wrist, revealing a compact magical watch, and murmured into it. "Arthur Weasley, emergency at the World Cup campsite. Immediate support required."

Fred and George had already drawn their wands, standing on either side of Harry as their father motioned for them to move forward cautiously.

The path was a tangle of fleeing witches and wizards, faces pale with terror. A child stumbled near Harry, wailing for her parents. Fred knelt quickly, scooping her up and passing her to a nearby woman who looked equally distraught.

"Move toward the forest!" Mr. Weasley shouted to the scattering crowd. "It's safer there!"

But the flow of people soon overwhelmed them. Harry felt himself jostled by the stampeding crowd, as bodies pressed in from every side. A woman cried out, clutching a toddler as she was pulled along by the surge of panicked wizards.

"Stay together!" Mr. Weasley called.

Harry barely heard him over the din. He stumbled sideways, the crowd sweeping him away from the others.

"Harry!" Mr. Weasley's voice rang out, but Harry was already being pushed further toward the edge of the campsite, the fire and chaos growing dimmer as he neared the dark treeline of the forest.

Panting, he broke free of the crowd and stumbled into the trees, the sudden quiet almost disorienting. He paused, his eyes darting through the shadows. The distant sounds of chaos still echoed behind him—screams, curses, and the crackling roar of flames—but here, in the forest, it was eerily still.

Harry pressed forward cautiously, the undergrowth crunching softly under his feet. The trees loomed high above, their branches casting twisting shadows across the forest floor.

And then, he heard it—a scream.

This one was close, sharp and raw, cutting through the stillness like a blade. Harry froze, his heart hammering in his chest as he strained to pinpoint the direction.

There it was again, weaker this time but unmistakable. A girl's voice, desperate and pleading.

He moved toward the sound, his steps careful and deliberate. The forest seemed to close in around him, every rustle of leaves and snap of a twig amplifying his unease. The scream came again, drawing him closer, and soon he saw it—a clearing up ahead, bathed in pale moonlight.

Harry crouched low, his pulse pounding as he edged closer, his wand raised. He peered through the thick underbrush and felt his stomach drop.

A girl—blonde, about his age—was lying on the ground, writhing in agony. Her screams had turned to hoarse cries, her body jerking violently.

Standing over her was a tall figure cloaked in black, a silver mask gleaming in the faint light.

"Crucio!" the Death Eater hissed, his wand pointed mercilessly at the girl.

Rage exploded in Harry's chest. Before he could think, he stepped into the clearing, his voice ringing out with fury.

"Expelliarmus!"

The spell hit the Death Eater squarely, sending his wand flying as the force of the magic threw him backward. He collided with a tree, the sickening crack of bones audible even over the echo of Harry's spell. The masked figure crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Harry's breath came in ragged gasps, his wand still raised as he edged closer. The girl lay motionless now, her chest rising and falling faintly.

Before Harry could reach her, another figure emerged from the shadows.



"You little—!" The second Death Eater's voice was venomous, his mask twisted into a grotesque sneer. His wand snapped up, and his voice dripped with malice. "You'll pay for that, boy!"

Harry barely had time to react as a curse sizzled past him, narrowly missing his shoulder. He raised his wand, his adrenaline spiking.

"Wait," the Death Eater said, his tone shifting as his wand hand steadied. "I know that face. Potter." His laugh was cold, sending chills down Harry's spine. "What luck. The Dark Lord will reward me handsomely for finishing you off."

~~~~

The forest was alive with shadows.

Silver light from a swollen moon filtered through the trees, creating shifting patterns on the forest floor. Each branch seemed to reach for Harry, every rustle of leaves a whisper of danger. His breaths came shallow and fast, the metallic tang of blood sharp in his mouth.

Across the clearing, the masked Death Eater stood motionless. The moonlight glinted off the cruel curves of his silver mask, making it seem almost alive—a grotesque face sneering at him.

"Do you feel it, Potter? That lovely taste of fear? You wear it well." The Death Eater's voice slithered through the clearing, soft yet sharp, each word cutting like a dagger.

With a flick of his wrist, a jet of pale green light hurtled toward Harry, carving a searing path through the air. Harry's instincts screamed louder than his thoughts; he dove to the side, rolling into the damp underbrush as the spell scorched a tree trunk behind him. Splinters exploded outward, the tree groaning as its bark smoked.

Harry scrambled to his feet, raising his wand. "Petrificus Totalus!"

"Not bad, Potter," the Death Eater sneered, deflecting spell with a lazy flick of his wand. "You've got fire—shame it'll be snuffed out tonight."

The clearing burned with chaos, sparks and embers flying as curses collided mid-air. Across from him, the Death Eater advanced like a storm given form.

Harry dodged to the left, his body reacting before his mind could process the taunt. The next curse blasted a shallow crater where he'd stood. Dirt and debris pelted his side, and he gritted his teeth, raising his wand.

"Expelliarmus!"

The red streak hurtled forward, but the Death Eater sidestepped with practiced ease, his silver mask glinting in the firelight.

"Really, boy?" he mocked, lowering his wand slightly as if to show his disdain. "You're trying to disarm me? How quaint. Did they teach you that in your little school? Let me show you how it's done."

He slashed his wand downward. The violet spell struck Harry hard in the chest, sending him sprawling backward into the dirt. Pain flared through his ribs as he gasped for breath, his wand nearly slipping from his trembling fingers. His mind raced, but his body was slow to follow, sluggish with shock.

Another curse crackled through the air, this one a whip of orange flame. Harry rolled to the side, the heat licking at his arm as he narrowly avoided the blow. The flames struck the ground, searing the earth where he'd lain just seconds before.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted again.

The spell wasn't precise, but it caught the Death Eater off guard. His wand jolted slightly in his grasp, though not enough to disarm him completely. Death Eater let out a low growl.

"Expelliarmus? Expelliarmus?" he mocked, his tone dripping with disdain. "That's your great defense? Pathetic."

With a sudden, sharp movement, man lashed his wand, sending a jagged bolt of deep red light slamming into Harry's shoulder. Harry cried out as the curse bit into his flesh, a cold numbness spreading through his arm. He stumbled, nearly dropping his wand as he clutched at the wound.

"Do you feel it now, Potter?" he said, advancing on him like a predator savoring the chase. "The sting of reality? You're out of your depth."

Harry forced himself upright, the world tilting slightly as he steadied his footing.

"Why don't you just end it, then?" Harry shot back, his voice hoarse but defiant.

Death Eater paused, tilting his head as if amused. "Because breaking you is far more satisfying. And besides," he added, his voice turning almost conversational, "you deserve to know who had the honor of killing you. Adrian Selwyn. Remember the name, Potter. It will mean something to the Dark Lord."

Harry's mind was a storm of fear and fury. Selwyn's name meant nothing to him now, but the man's deliberate cruelty was clear in every word. Every step closer he took felt like a countdown.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry bellowed again.

This time, Selwyn sidestepped entirely, his wand flashing as he retaliated. A slicing curse arced toward Harry, catching him across the side. He doubled over with a choked gasp, his free hand flying to the wound as warmth spread beneath his fingertips—blood.

Selwyn's laughter rang out, cold and triumphant. "Bleed, boy. That's all you're good for."

Blood streamed down Harry's face, dripping from his nose and pooling with the crimson soaking his side. His breaths came sharp and shallow, pain lancing through his shoulder, his leg trembling beneath him. But all of it—the agony, the blood, the fear—faded into a distant hum. His world had narrowed to the man in front of him.

Balance. Leverage. Precision.

Selwyn's wand slashed downward, a curse roaring toward him like a burning spear. Harry's body moved before his mind caught up, his wand snapping up. The spell ricocheted, cracking into a tree and sending sparks flying as Harry slid across the damp ground, pivoting sharply.

Harry's own wand snapped up, a single spell forming in his mind.

"Diffindo!"

The severing charm screamed through the air, sharp and sudden. For a split second, Selwyn's expression froze in disbelief. Then his arm, still clutching the wand, fell to the forest floor with a sickening thud.

Selwyn staggered back, clutching at the bleeding stump where his elbow had been. A howl of pain and fury erupted from him, echoing through the trees like a wounded animal.

"You filthy little boy," he spat, his voice guttural and venomous. "This isn't over. You'll wish you'd died tonight, Potter."

Harry stumbled forward, his body trembling but his wand steady. He didn't lower it. Not yet.

And then—movement. To Harry's right, the underbrush rustled. His first thought was another attacker. He turned sharply, but before he could raise his wand, he heard it—a voice that cut through the haze.

"Harry! Harry, where are you?"

It was Mr. Weasley.

Harry's knees buckled, and he stumbled, the wand slipping from his grasp. His lips parted to call out, but no sound came. From the corner of his eye, he saw Selwyn's retreating form shimmer and vanish, the distinct crack of Apparition splitting the air.

A second later, arms caught him, steadying his collapsing frame. Harry tilted his head and saw Mr. Weasley's wide, panic-stricken eyes.

"Harry! What happened? Are you hurt?" Mr. Weasley's voice was urgent, his hands gripping Harry's shoulders.

The world spun, and Harry felt his knees give way entirely. His head lolled against Mr. Weasley's chest, his breaths shallow and uneven.

"Girl…" Harry croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

And then the darkness swallowed him whole.

 

[certher]

Chapter 4​

When Harry's eyes fluttered open, the sterile white ceiling of St. Mungo's greeted him. The quiet hum of magical wards and faint murmurs of voices reminded him he wasn't at the Burrow anymore. His body felt heavy, a dull ache radiating from his ribs and side, though he was sure it was far better than before.

"You're awake," came a calm voice to his left. Harry turned his head slightly to see a witch in pale green robes standing beside his bed. Her kind but professional expression reminded him of Madam Pomfrey, though this Healer seemed younger and less prone to scolding.

"How long—" Harry croaked, his throat dry.

"About twenty-four hours," the Healer said, handing him a glass of water. "You were brought in last night. You've suffered blood loss and exhaustion, along with a few spell wounds, but nothing we couldn't handle. You'll need to take some Blood-Replenishing Potions over the next few days, but we're keeping you for observation until tomorrow, just to be certain."

Harry nodded faintly, sipping the water. He tried to piece together the events from the night before. Selwyn. The forest. The girl. He shuddered.

"You'll be fine, Mr. Potter," the Healer said, misinterpreting his reaction as worry for his health. "Just rest. If you need anything, press the enchanted button beside your bed. Your friends should be arriving shortly."

With that, she left, her robes swishing behind her. Harry exhaled deeply, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn't long before the sound of voices drifted through the hall. A knock came at the door, and Hermione, Ron, and Ginny filed in, each wearing expressions of relief and worry.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, rushing to his bedside. "Are you all right? You look awful."

"Thanks," Harry said dryly, managing a small smile.

"I'm serious," she pressed, though her tone softened. "We heard what happened. Dad told us when he got back to the Burrow. He said it was chaotic, but—Harry, you're okay, right? Really?"

"I'm fine," Harry said quickly. "Just… sore."

Ron stepped closer, his face pale but determined. "Dad said you went off into the forest on your own. What happened? He didn't tell us much—just that you ran into some Death Eaters."

Harry hesitated. The memories were still raw, and the thought of recounting them made his chest tighten. But he knew Ron, Hermione, and Ginny wouldn't let it go.

Harry took a deep breath, his hands fidgeting with the blanket. His friends waited in silence, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity.

"There was a girl," Harry began "She was on the ground, screaming… they were torturing her. I couldn't just stand there, so I went in."

Ginny's hand flew to her mouth, and Hermione's eyes widened in shock.

"I disarmed the first Death Eater," Harry continued "He went down fast. But then… then the other Death Eater showed up. His name is Adrian Selwyn"

"Selwyn?" Hermione said, her brow furrowing. "Wait… there's a boy in Ravenclaw—Caleb Selwyn. He's in our year, isn't he? Quiet, keeps to himself. Do you think he could be related to… the Death Eater?"

"Maybe," Harry said, shrugging slightly. "I don't really know him." His tone made it clear he wasn't interested in discussing Caleb. He quickly continued "Selwyn was different. He wasn't just attacking me. He was toying with me. I threw everything I could at him—Expelliarmus, Petrificus Totalus—but he was too fast, too strong. His spells…" Harry's jaw tightened. "I didn't even recognize half of them. I felt useless, like I didn't stand a chance."

"You didn't know what spells he was casting?" Hermione asked, alarmed.

"No," Harry admitted, frustration creeping into his tone. "I was just trying to stay alive. He hit me with something—something I couldn't block. I barely got out of the way most of the time."

"What about the girl?" Ginny asked gently.

"I don't know," Harry admitted, his voice heavy. "I didn't recognize her—it all happened too fast. By the time Selwyn escaped…" He paused, struggling to find the right words. "I blacked out before I could do anything else. I don't even know if she's okay."

"What happened then?" Ron asked.

Harry hesitated, the scene playing over and over in his mind. "He outmatched me," he admitted. "Every curse I threw at him, he blocked or dodged like it was nothing. I was barely keeping up, Ron. I didn't even know half the spells he used. If I survived, it wasn't because of skill—it was luck."

He paused. "I cast Diffindo out of desperation. I wasn't even sure it would hit, but… it did. That's the only reason I'm still here."

"You… you used Diffindo on him?" Hermione's voice was barely audible.

Harry nodded, his expression clouded. "It was the only thing that worked. I cut off his wand arm."

A stunned silence fell over the room. Ron looked somewhere between horrified and impressed, while Ginny's eyes widened in shock. Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"I didn't have a choice," Harry said firmly, "He was going to kill me. He said as much—told me he was going to deliver me to Voldemort like some kind of trophy. What was I supposed to do? Let him?"

"No," Ron said quickly, his tone resolute.

Hermione frowned but didn't speak immediately. Ginny leaned forward. "You're alive, Harry. That's what matters."

"I'm alive," Harry repeated, the words heavy on his tongue. "But it doesn't feel like enough. I could've done more. I could've stopped him from escaping."

"You did more than most would," Ron said fiercely. "You fought a Death Eater and won."

Harry let out a humorless laugh. "Won? He got away. He's probably already back with his buddies, bragging about what he did, planning the next attack." A faint, bitter smirk flickered on his lips. "Though I suppose he'll have a harder time clapping for Voldemort now." The smirk vanished just as quickly. "If I'd been stronger, smarter, maybe I could've stopped him for good."

"That's not fair to yourself," Hermione said gently. "You're fourteen, Harry. You're not supposed to know how to handle situations like this."

"But I have to," Harry said sharply, his eyes meeting hers. "Don't you see? They're not going to stop coming after me. I can't wait for someone else to deal with it. If I don't fight back—if I don't do everything I can—then what's the point?"

Ron looked thoughtful, and Ginny reached out to place a comforting hand on Harry's arm. Hermione opened her mouth again, but whatever she was about to say died on her lips.

Harry leaned back against the pillows, his exhaustion evident. "I'm just… tired of feeling powerless. If that means being ready to fight, then so be it."

The quiet that followed Harry's words was heavy, like a storm gathering on the horizon. It was broken by the soft creak of the door opening. Harry's eyes snapped toward the sound.

Dumbledore stepped inside, his expression as unreadable as ever, though there was a flicker of something behind his half-moon glasses—concern, perhaps, or disappointment. Behind him walked a stern-looking man with sharp features and a black Auror's robe, the silver insignia of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement gleaming on his chest.

"Good evening, Harry," Dumbledore said.

"Professor," Harry replied, sitting up straighter in the bed. His gaze flicked to the Auror, whose piercing blue eyes seemed to take in every detail of the room.

"This is Auror Darius Thorn," Dumbledore introduced, gesturing to the man. "He's here to discuss the events of the World Cup attack."

Thorn stepped forward, his tone brisk and no-nonsense. "Mr. Potter, I'll be brief. The Ministry is conducting a thorough investigation into the attack, and your testimony could provide valuable insight. I understand you encountered at least two Death Eaters directly."

Harry nodded, his jaw tightening. "Yes."

Thorn conjured a small notebook and quill with a flick of his wand. The quill hovered expectantly in mid-air. "I'll need you to recount everything you remember, from the moment you entered the forest to the end of your encounter."

Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who gave him a small nod of encouragement. He took a deep breath, then began.

"I heard a scream," he started "A girl's scream. I went into the forest to see what was happening. When I got there, I saw a Death Eater torturing her."

The quill scribbled furiously as Thorn listened, his expression impassive.

"I… I disarmed him," Harry continued. "He hit a tree and didn't get back up. Then another one appeared. He was—he was different. More experienced, I think." Harry hesitated, the memory of Selwyn's sneer flashing in his mind. "He recognized me."

Thorn's gaze sharpened. "He said your name?"

Harry nodded. "He said his name was Adrian Selwyn. He mentioned Voldemort." He felt a faint flicker of satisfaction at seeing Thorn flinch ever so slightly at the name.

"What happened next?" Thorn asked.

"He attacked me," Harry said bluntly. "I tried to fight back, but his spells… they were too advanced. I could barely keep up. I think he wanted to toy with me before finishing me off."

"And yet, you survived," Thorn said, his tone neutral but probing.

Harry swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the blanket. "I used Diffindo. It—it severed his arm."

The room fell silent for a moment, the only sound the scratching of the quill. Dumbledore's eyes remained fixed on Harry, but his expression had grown heavier. Thorn, however, merely raised an eyebrow.

"A Severing Charm," Thorn said slowly, as if weighing the implications. "Effective, if unconventional in combat. And after that?"

Harry hesitated, the memory of Selwyn's howl of pain and fury still vivid. "He disapparated. Mr. Weasley found me and brought me back here."

Thorn made a final note before the quill disappeared with a flick of his wand. He regarded Harry for a long moment before speaking. "You showed remarkable composure for someone your age, Mr. Potter. But engaging Death Eaters is extremely dangerous. You were fortunate to come out of that alive."

Harry bristled slightly at the comment but said nothing.

Thorn turned to Dumbledore. "I'll file my report. The Ministry will likely want to follow up with Mr. Potter in due course."

"Thank you, Auror Thorn," Dumbledore said, his tone polite but distant. Thorn gave a curt nod and left the room without another word.

As the door closed behind him, Dumbledore's focus shifted entirely to Harry. The room felt smaller under the weight of his presence.

"Harry," Dumbledore began softly, his voice carrying a note of sorrow. "I understand why you acted as you did. But I must caution you against using spells of such… severity."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "I didn't have a choice."

"There is always a choice," Dumbledore said. "Violence, even in self-defense, should not come easily to us."

"Easily? He was trying to kill me! What was I supposed to do? Let him?" Harry raised his voice slightly.

Dumbledore's gaze turned somber, a deep furrow forming between his brows. When he spoke again, his voice carried an almost weary wisdom. "Harry, true strength is not simply about power or the ability to defeat those who stand against us. True strength lies in upholding the values we cherish—justice, compassion, mercy—even in the face of unimaginable adversity. It is these values that form the bedrock of the society we strive to protect."

Harry's expression hardened, his green eyes glinting with defiance. "And where were those values when Selwyn was torturing that girl? When he was laughing while she screamed? He wasn't just breaking the rules, Professor—he was tearing them apart. Mercy doesn't rebuild what people like him destroy. Stopping him does."

Hermione gasped softly, her hands clasping together. "Harry…" she began, but her voice faltered as she saw the raw fire in his eyes. Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze darting between Harry and Dumbledore.

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his silver hair catching the light. "Mercy is not for Selwyn, Harry. It is for ourselves—to ensure we do not become what we fight against. To take a life, even in defense, is to carry a burden far heavier than you realize."

Harry sat up straighter. "A burden? You think I don't know what it feels like to carry a burden? You weren't there. You didn't see her. And you don't seem to understand that people like Selwyn aren't just breaking the rules—they're mocking everything we're supposed to stand for. If we're not willing to stop them, what good are those values you keep talking about?"

Hermione looked horrified, her eyes wide as she shook her head slightly. "Harry, you're not talking about stopping him—you're talking about… about something else. You didn't—"

Ginny interrupted, her voice firm but quiet. "Hermione, stop. You weren't there either. I trust Harry."

Ron nodded mutely, his ears pink as he avoided looking directly at Dumbledore. "Harry's right. You can't just let people like Selwyn run around doing… that." He swallowed hard, his freckles standing out against his pale skin.

Dumbledore sighed softly, the weight of countless years etched into his features. "It is not about unwillingness, Harry. It is about choosing the harder path—the path of restraint, of measured action. The temptation to wield power unchecked, to let anger and fear dictate our actions, is one of the most dangerous traps of all."

Harry leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the bed. "No, Professor. The real danger is letting people like Selwyn run free because you're too scared to do what needs to be done. You talk about strength as if it's about control, but control without action is just weakness wearing a mask."

Dumbledore's blue eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "And do you truly believe that strength comes from violence alone? That by striking down those who oppose us, we uphold the very ideals we claim to defend?"

Harry's answered, his voice rising with suppressed anger. "No, I think real strength is about having the power to defend what matters—our rules, our morals, our society—and not being afraid to use it. Mercy isn't strength. It's weakness when it lets monsters like Selwyn thrive. You're not protecting society by sparing him—you're letting it drown under people like him."

Ron muttered under his breath, "He's got a point." Hermione turned sharply to glare at him, but Ron avoided her eyes. "Well, he does!" he added defensively.

Dumbledore regarded Harry for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. "And what happens when you begin to see threats everywhere? When everyone who disagrees with you becomes an obstacle to your justice? There was another boy, long ago, who spoke of strength as you do now. He, too, believed that the strong must rule to protect the weak, and that those who did not conform were dangerous. His name was Tom Riddle."

The room fell deathly silent. Ron's jaw dropped, and Hermione gasped audibly, her hand flying to her mouth.

Harry froze.

Slowly, his gaze turned icy, and his voice dropped to a chilling calm. "Don't. Don't you dare compare me to him. I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work. Selwyn wasn't some kid in school who needed guidance. He was a killer. And don't think for a second I'll let you insult my intelligence—or my parents—by putting me in the same breath as him."

Ginny's voice broke through the thick tension. "He's nothing like Tom Riddle. How dare you even say that."

Ron nodded quickly, his face flushed. "Exactly. That's a low blow, Professor. Harry saved someone—you know that, right? Saved her."

Dumbledore's expression softened slightly, but there was no victory in his gaze—only sadness. "I do not mean to insult you, Harry," he said quietly. "Nor do I mean to diminish the pain you've endured. But I urge you to remember: it is not the easy decisions that define us, but the ones that challenge us to be better than our anger. Better than our fear."

Harry's reply was immediate.. "Better doesn't mean weaker. And if you can't see that, maybe you're the one who's lost your way."

"I have not lost my way, Harry. But I fear you are at risk of losing yours." Dumbledore said

Harry shot back, "Losing my way? You think I'm the one lost? You talk about mercy while people like Selwyn laugh as they torture others. What does mercy do for that girl? How does it stop him from doing it again?"

Dumbledore met Harry's gaze steadily. "Mercy may not stop a man like Selwyn, Harry, but neither does unbridled fury. Fire does not only destroy what is evil—it destroys everything in its path. The innocent, the guilty, the foundations of the very world we fight to protect."

Harry's jaw tightened. "So what, I just let them get away with it? Let them keep doing whatever they want, just so I can feel like I didn't burn the wrong thing? How's that any better?"

"Fire can consume or forge," Dumbledore said. "But it must be tempered. You must decide whether to wield it as a tool or allow it to wield you."

The silence swelled, an ocean between them, deep and boundless. Harry turned toward the window, where the dying light of the day bled into the horizon, shadows long and restless. His face was carved from something ancient, a mask of thought born not from his years but from burdens far older.

He stared beyond the glass, his gaze piercing the twilight as if seeking the answer in the distance. He was not defeated, not resigned; he was a forge in waiting, heat gathering, shape forming.

When he spoke, his voice did not rise, but it carried a gravity that drew the air tighter. Each word seemed to echo, not only in the room but in the currents of something greater, a truth being pulled from the depths.

"I've carried more in three years than most will in a lifetime," he said. "Loss. Fear. Anger. But also love—enough to keep me standing when everything else tried to break me. And I've learned something about fire, Professor. It can destroy, yes, but it can also forge. It burns away what is weak, what cannot withstand it, and leaves behind something stronger. That's what I'll become—something stronger."

His gaze swept to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, their faces illuminated by the slanting light. "I won't let it twist me into someone I'm not. I know who I am. I know what I fight for. And that's the difference between me and someone like Tom Riddle. He let his fire consume him because he couldn't see past himself. But me? I see the people who stand with me. I feel the weight of their belief, their hope. That's what shapes me."

"Do you want to know what keeps me grounded? It's not strength or power. It's love. My parents' love—the love that made them stand in front of Voldemort to save me. That love defines me, not my rage or my fear. And that's why I will never become him."

"You say I'm at risk of losing my way, but maybe I've already found it. Because every time I face death, every time I stand against people like Selwyn, I understand more clearly what matters. It's not about control—it's about courage. Not the absence of fear, but the will to act in spite of it. And I'll act, Professor. I'll fight. Because if I don't, who will?"

"I've stopped asking for a childhood," he continued, "Stopped waiting for someone else to make this right. Your generation, for all its power and wisdom, let the world fall to pieces. Now it's on mine to fix it. So don't tell me I'm too young, or that I'm lost. I'm exactly where I need to be. And I'll do what needs to be done, even if it breaks me. Because that's what it means to care about something bigger than yourself."

"You said mercy is for ourselves. Maybe you're right. But what I need isn't mercy—it's purpose. It's the strength to protect what I love and the will to see it through. I'll forge my fire, Professor. I'll make sure it burns clean, controlled. Because unlike you, I don't have the luxury of living in regret. I'll act now, so no one else has to carry what I've carried. So maybe my fire isn't the kind you'd choose. But it's mine, and it will light the way."

The finality in his words left no room for argument, their meaning searing into the silence.

Dumbledore remained silent. For a moment, his blue eyes—so often a source of calm and wisdom—betrayed a flicker of something more raw. But then, unexpectedly, his lips curved into the faintest smile.

"I see," he said after a beat, his voice measured, though tinged with something Harry couldn't quite place. "You have given me much to think about, Harry."

He straightened, his hands clasped lightly before him. "I will be on my way. But before I go, I would like you to know that the girl you saved—Tracey Davis—is alive. She is here at St. Mungo's, receiving treatment for the effects of the Cruciatus Curse."

The room tensed at the news, and Dumbledore continued, his tone gentle. "She has not yet regained consciousness, but she is alive. Thanks to you."

Dumbledore glanced around the room, offering a quiet nod to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. "I will take my leave now. Rest, Harry. And remember, you do not carry this alone."

With that, he turned and made his way to the door. For a moment, he paused in the doorway, as though he might say more, but then he stepped out into the hall, his robes swishing softly behind him.

The silence stretched, tense and thick, until Ron finally blurted out, "Tracey Davis? That hot blonde from Slytherin?! She's a half-blood! Why would they attack a half-blood?"

Hermione let out an exasperated groan and smacked Ron's arm, hard enough to make him flinch. "Ron! Could you be any more tactless?"

"What?!" Ron protested, rubbing his arm with an indignant look. "It's a valid question! They're all about blood purity, aren't they?"

Ginny, leaning back in her chair, smirked. "Oh, sure, Ron. That's definitely the most important takeaway here—Harry's adding hot Slytherins to his damsel-in-distress roster." She swirled a finger in the air dramatically, her grin widening. "First me in the Chamber of Secrets, now Tracey. What's next, Harry? Are you going to rescue the entire Weird Sisters fan club?"

Harry's ears turned pink as he opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out.

Ron, despite himself, chuckled. "You've got a point, Gin. He's got a type, doesn't he? Damsels in mortal peril."

"Oh, absolutely," Ginny said, twirling her hair mockingly. "Better watch out, Hermione. You might be next."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a reluctant smile. "Oh, please. Harry's hero complex is bad enough without you lot inflating it even more."

"Hey!" Harry finally managed to say, crossing his arms. "I didn't choose to save anyone. I just… happened to be there!"

Ginny raised an eyebrow, her voice full of teasing. "Sure, you didn't, Harry. Next time, maybe try rescuing someone less conventionally attractive. You know, for variety."

Even Harry couldn't help but crack a small, reluctant grin as the tension in the room melted into laughter.



Hours had passed since his friends had left. The soft chime of the clock in the hallway marked the end of visitation hours; St. Mungo's had fallen silent. Harry lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Rest was what he needed, but it refused to come.

The storm inside his mind raged on, louder than the quiet around him. The phials of potions sat untouched on the nightstand—Blood-Replenishing, Skele-Gro, Dreamless Sleep—but none of them could mend the thoughts tearing through him.

He replayed the fight with Selwyn over and over, dissecting every moment. Each time, the shame cut deeper. He hadn't been prepared. He didn't have the right spells, the right counters, or even the instincts to keep up. Selwyn hadn't just fought him—he'd toyed with him, like a hawk circling a mouse.

Harry turned onto his side, the ache in his ribs barely registering. He was fourteen—too young, too untrained. But there wouldn't be another chance to plead youth the next time a Death Eater raised their wand.

His fists clenched against the blanket. He needed to be better—stronger, smarter. The thought of standing helpless in the face of someone like Selwyn again was unbearable.

Shielding charms. Counter-curses. Offensive spells. His mental list grew, each addition sharper than the last. He could picture himself hurling useless Expelliarmus spells at Selwyn, like a child throwing rocks at a dragon. The shame settled deeper, dragging him down like a weight.

The room was dark now, the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the high window. He hadn't noticed the hours slipping by, lost in his thoughts. His body was healing, but his mind burned with frustration and exhaustion.

Harry barely stirred when the door creaked open. The faint sound of footsteps reached his ears. A shadow moved into the room, and then a chair scraped softly against the floor.

He felt it before he saw it—the presence of someone watching.

"You're brooding," came the familiar voice, low and rough-edged with concern.

Harry blinked and turned his head, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Sirius was sitting in the chair by his bed, his arms crossed. For a moment, neither spoke. Sirius's grey eyes studied Harry, their usual mischief replaced with something more solemn.

"You're not supposed to be here," Harry said at last.

Sirius didn't reply right away. He unfolded his arms, stood, and walked the short distance to Harry's bed. Harry watched him, his throat tightening as Sirius sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward. Without a word, Sirius pulled Harry into a hug.

Harry stiffened at first, the unexpected warmth and weight of Sirius's arms around him breaking through the walls he'd built in his mind. Sirius held him firmly, his hand resting on the back of Harry's head, his other arm wrapped securely around his back.

And then, something broke.

Harry's breath hitched, and he buried his face against Sirius's shoulder. The tears came slowly at first, hot and stinging, but they quickly turned into sobs that wracked his body. Sirius didn't speak, didn't move. He just held Harry, letting him release everything he'd been carrying.

"I was just useless," Harry choked out between sobs. "I—I hate it. I hate feeling this way."

Sirius's hand moved gently, stroking Harry's hair as he whispered, "You're not useless, Harry. Not even close."

"I couldn't do anything," Harry continued, his voice muffled. "He—he made me feel like I was nothing. I just—I hate it."

"You're not nothing," Sirius said quietly,. "What you did—what you survived—most grown wizards couldn't have done. You stood your ground, Harry. That's not nothing. That's everything."

The sobs began to ease, leaving Harry trembling in the aftermath. He stayed in Sirius's embrace for a while longer, the solid presence anchoring him, until finally, he pulled back. His face was red and tear-streaked, but his breathing had evened out.

Harry wiped his face with the back of his hand and looked down at the blanket. "Thanks," he said softly.

Sirius ruffled Harry's hair lightly, his touch gentle. "Listen," he said, his tone quiet but purposeful. "There's something you need to know. Tomorrow, Arthur Weasley will come by. He's bringing a Portkey for you. It'll take you to Grimmauld Place—your new home."

Harry blinked, his brow furrowing. "My… new home?"

Sirius gave him a small smile, though his eyes carried a depth of emotion that words couldn't quite reach. "It's all arranged. Dumbledore and I have sorted everything. You won't be going back to Privet Drive, Harry. Not ever."

Harry stared at Sirius, the words sinking in slowly.

"It's not perfect," Sirius continued, "but it's yours. Ours. A place where you'll be safe. And I'll be there, Harry. Always."

Harry nodded, his throat tight again, but this time not from sorrow. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Sirius stood and gave Harry's shoulder a firm squeeze. "Now, do me a favor. Drink those potions and get some sleep. You've had enough excitement for one lifetime, let alone one day."

Harry managed a faint smile as Sirius made his way to the door. And then he was gone, leaving Harry in the quiet, moonlit room.

 

[certher]

Chapter 5​

The world spun violently around Harry, a blur of color and sound, until he landed with a jolt on a cold stone floor. He stumbled, barely catching himself on the edge of a wooden table. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and faint traces of cleaning potions. Blinking rapidly, he steadied himself and looked up.

Sirius Black was leaning casually against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Welcome to Grimmauld Place," Sirius said, pushing off the counter.

Harry straightened, brushing off his robes. "That was… unpleasant," he muttered.

"You'll get used to it," Sirius replied with a grin. "Though, I suppose we could work on a softer landing for next time. You alright?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… Portkeys aren't exactly my favorite way to travel."

Sirius chuckled. "They're no one's favorite. Hungry?" He gestured to the table, where a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches sat waiting.

Harry's stomach growled loudly in response, and Sirius's grin widened. "I'll take that as a yes. Sit down."

As Harry slid into the chair, he thought back to the hours before his arrival. He had woken up that morning to the bustling of St. Mungo's healers. After a thorough examination and a lecture about taking care of himself, they had declared him fit to leave.

Arthur Weasley had arrived shortly after, looking both relieved and slightly nervous as he handed Harry the Portkey—a battered tin cup. "This will take you straight to Sirius," Arthur had said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "You take care of yourself, Harry. And if you need anything, you know how to reach us."

Harry had nodded, his thanks subdued but heartfelt. The Burrow had always been a sanctuary, and the warmth of the Weasleys lingered with him even now.

Back in the kitchen, Sirius poured them both tea and slid a sandwich across the table to Harry. "So," Sirius said, his tone lighter. "How was your last day at St. Mungo's? Healers drive you mad yet?"

Harry shrugged. "They were fine. A bit overbearing, maybe, but they just wanted to make sure I was alright."

"Good," Sirius said, his voice softening slightly. "You've been through a lot."

Harry bit into the sandwich, chewing thoughtfully.

Sirius leaned back in his chair, studying Harry. "You've got that look," he said after a moment.

Harry frowned. "What look?"

"The one that says you're overthinking everything," Sirius replied. He gestured broadly. "This is a safe place, Harry. You're allowed to breathe here. To be yourself."

Harry managed a small smile. "It's… nice, I guess. Not having to worry about someone bursting in to bother me."

Sirius chuckled. "Enjoy it while it lasts. This house might be under a Fidelius Charm, but it still has a mind of its own sometimes."

At Harry's curious expression, Sirius waved a hand. "We'll get to that later. For now, just settle in. There's a lot to see—and even more to clean—but it's home. And it's yours now, too."

The conversation shifted, and Sirius began to recount stories about the house, sprinkling in tales of its eccentricities and its history. Harry listened, a faint warmth spreading through him.

And then Sirius paused, his expression shifting slightly.

"Harry," he said, his tone quieter now. "Did I ever tell you about the time your mum wanted me and James to take a muggle trip?"

Harry blinked. "A muggle trip?"

"She had this wild idea," Sirius said, leaning forward with a wistful smile. "Wanted us to travel like muggles—trains, buses, the whole thing. She thought it would be fun, and, well, she could be pretty convincing when she wanted to be."

"Where were you supposed to go?" Harry asked, his interest piqued.

"Latvia," Sirius said. "Madona, specifically. Lily said it was beautiful, especially in the summer."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Latvia? Really?"

"Your dad thought it was ridiculous," Sirius admitted, grinning. "Said we could apparate there in seconds. But Lily wasn't having it. She wanted the full experience. We were going to make it a big adventure."

"What happened?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

Sirius's smile faded, replaced by a shadow of sorrow. "The war happened. There was always something more urgent, something more dangerous. And then…" He trailed off, his voice tight.

Harry looked down at his cup of tea, unsure of what to say.

"But," Sirius continued, his voice stronger now, "I've been thinking. Maybe it's time to make good on that plan."

"You mean… go to Latvia?" Harry asked, surprised.

Sirius nodded. "For Lily. For James. And for us. What do you think?"

"I think… I'd like that." Harry answered with a shy smile.

"Good," Sirius said, clapping Harry on the back. "It's settled, then."

As the conversation wound down, Sirius stood, stretching his arms above his head. "Alright," he said, smirking. "One last thing before I let you off the hook tonight."

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"Homework," Sirius said, his smirk widening.

Harry stared at him. "Homework?"

"Yes, homework," Sirius replied, crossing his arms. "You've got school starting soon, and I don't want you slacking off just because you're living with me now."

"Are you serious?" Harry asked, incredulous.

"Yes," Sirius said, grinning. "I am Sirius Black."

Harry groaned, hand on his forehead, but Sirius's laughter made the corner of his mouth twitch.

Harry followed Sirius up the stairs, stopping as they reached a door on the second floor. Sirius gave a mock-dramatic bow as he opened it wide.

"Here you go, your new kingdom. It's not exactly Gryffindor Tower, but at least you won't have to deal with any poltergeists."

Harry stepped inside, his eyes immediately drawn to the cozy setup. Against one wall stood a comfortable-looking bed with a deep red blanket neatly spread over it. A wardrobe stood nearby, its dark wood polished to a shine, and a small bookshelf sat empty, waiting to be filled. Near the window, perched on a wooden stand, was Hedwig, her amber eyes fixed on him as if in greeting.

Harry crossed the room and stroked her feathers gently. "Hey, girl," he said softly. Hedwig gave a low hoot, her gaze seeming to say she approved of the new place.

"Well?" Sirius asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Harry turned, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It's brilliant. Really."

"Good," Sirius replied with a satisfied nod. "This is your home now, Harry. No tiny cupboard, no ridiculous rules. If there's anything you need, just let me know." He paused, his grin turning teasing. "I'll leave you to settle in. Have a look around, get some rest." He gave a playful wink before stepping back and pulling the door closed behind him.

Harry stood there for a moment, taking it all in. The room wasn't particularly large, but it felt more like home than anywhere he'd lived before. He sat down on the bed, the mattress soft beneath him, and let out a deep sigh.

After a while, he stood and started unpacking his trunk, organizing his belongings into the wardrobe and on the shelves. His clothes were few, worn from years of hand-me-downs, but he folded them neatly nonetheless. When he reached the bottom of the trunk, he hesitated, looking at the small stack of books and school supplies.

His eyes drifted to the empty shelves of the bookcase. It struck him how much he didn't have—not just books, but proper clothes, and little things to make the space his own. He'd never thought about these things before; the Dursleys' house had never felt like his to care about.

But here? This was different.

Harry straightened, resolving to talk to Sirius about getting new clothes and maybe a few books. For once, the thought didn't feel awkward. It felt… right.

Sirius appeared at Harry's door just as he was finishing unpacking, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Well," he said, his voice carrying a note of mischief, "if you're done rearranging your empire, I thought I'd show you the crown jewel of Grimmauld Place."

Harry looked up, curious. "Crown jewel?"

"Come on." Sirius beckoned him with a wave, already halfway down the hall.

Harry followed him through the twisting corridors of the house, his footsteps muffled by the thick, faded carpet. The house creaked faintly, like it was alive and listening. Sirius finally stopped in front of a heavy oak door, its surface carved with intricate patterns that glinted faintly in the dim light.

Sirius pushed it open with a flourish. "The Black family library," he announced.

Harry stepped inside, his eyes widening. The room was vast, its high shelves crammed with books of every size and color. A heavy chandelier hung from the ceiling, its candles casting a warm glow over the polished floor and the faintly sinister decor. The air smelled of aged parchment and something faintly metallic, like old magic lingering in the room.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Sirius said, his tone wry. "My family was many things—mostly horrible—but they did have a knack for collecting knowledge. Half of this is likely cursed, but the other half… well, there's some useful stuff."

Harry approached a nearby shelf, his fingers brushing over the spines of the books. Many were bound in dark leather, their titles etched in faded gold. Some had no titles at all, their surfaces marked only with strange symbols.

Sirius joined him, plucking a particularly thick tome from the shelf. "Hexes of the Old World," he read aloud, flipping through the pages with a grimace. "The sort of thing you'd read if you fancied ruining someone's life." He shoved it back into place and selected another, smaller book.

"This, though," he said, holding it out to Harry, "is more up your alley."

Harry took it, reading the title. "Practical Defensive Charms for Duels." He opened it, scanning the first few pages. The text was clear and straightforward, with detailed instructions for casting and countering various spells.

"You'll need it," Sirius said, his tone turning serious. "If you're going to be fighting people like Selwyn, you can't rely on sheer luck or instinct. You need to be prepared."

Harry nodded, clutching the book tightly. "Thanks."

Sirius smiled faintly and moved to another shelf, pulling out a slim, red-bound volume. "Ah, here's a classic," he said, holding it up. "Duelling: Art and Precision." He tossed it to Harry, who caught it deftly. "Bit dry, but effective."

As they continued browsing, Sirius's commentary became more colorful. He pointed out titles like "The Noble Art of Magical Domination" with a sneer. "Total rubbish," he muttered, shoving it aside. "One of my charming ancestors wrote this. Utterly obsessed with control and blood purity."

At another shelf, he gestured to a set of identical black books, their spines marked only with Roman numerals. "Family spells. Some useful, some downright nasty. I wouldn't touch them without gloves."

Harry glanced at the shelf warily and moved on.

Eventually, Sirius stopped in front of a smaller cabinet at the back of the room. He opened it carefully, revealing a neat row of scrolls and slim, ancient tomes. "This," he said, "is the good stuff. Advanced defense, counter-curses, spell theory. You'll want to work your way up to these, but they're worth it."

Harry leaned closer, his curiosity piqued. "Did you read all of these?"

Sirius laughed, a short bark of sound. "Merlin, no. I was too busy trying to annoy my family and impress your dad. But I wish I had. Might've saved me some trouble."

After a while, Sirius clapped him on the shoulder, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. "Alright, that's enough for now. You'll have plenty of time to dig through this place. But there's something I need you to understand, Harry."

Harry glanced up, the weight in Sirius's tone pulling his attention.

"This might sound strange coming from me, of all people," Sirius said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "But knowledge and well-practiced habits can change the course of a fight. I've seen battles lost by sheer recklessness—and others won because someone knew just the right spell at the right moment."

Harry nodded slowly, taking in the gravity of Sirius's words.

"These," Sirius continued, gesturing to the books Harry held, "aren't just dusty old tomes. They're the same kind of things I studied to become an Auror. I'll teach you what I know, and then I'll test you—dueling, counter-curses, the works. But don't expect quick fixes. Real skill takes time. It'll be hard, and it'll hurt sometimes. But you've got the fire for it. I can see it."

"I believe in you, Harry," Sirius said.

Then, with a faint smirk, he added, "Besides, I could use the practice. Ten years in Azkaban made me a bit rusty. Wouldn't hurt to sharpen my own skills while we're at it."

Harry cracked a small smile at that.

"Thanks," Harry said quietly.

Sirius ruffled Harry's hair in his usual carefree manner, but there was a warmth in his gaze that spoke volumes. "Don't thank me yet. Save it for when you can take me down in a duel."

The next day dawned crisp and clear, sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains of Grimmauld Place. Harry woke to the sound of Sirius's cheerful whistling from downstairs.

By the time Harry made his way to the kitchen, Sirius was already there, poring over a battered travel guide. A steaming cup of tea sat beside him, and a stack of official-looking documents lay on the table.

"Morning, sleepyhead!" Sirius greeted without looking up.

Harry blinked blearily at the sight. "You're… enthusiastic for this early."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sirius said, his grin wide. "Today, my dear godson, we embark on an adventure. Flights are booked, disguises are ready, and the muggle world awaits!"

Harry slid into a chair, rubbing his eyes. "Disguises?"

"Think about it, Harry," Sirius said, leaning back. "You're the famous Boy Who Lived, and I'm a supposedly deranged mass murderer. We're not exactly inconspicuous. So…" He pulled out his wand, twirling it with a flourish. "Glamours. Simple, subtle, and effective."

Harry frowned. "Isn't that, you know, illegal?"

"Technically," Sirius admitted with a shrug. "But we're not robbing Gringotts. We're taking a vacation. Besides, I've already taken care of the IDs." He gestured to the documents on the table.

Harry picked one up and stared at it. It was a passport, complete with a photograph of himself—except it wasn't quite him. The boy in the picture looked a bit older, his features slightly sharper, his hair tidier. The name on it read "Henry Peverell."

"Peverell?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sirius smirked. "A little nod to your family's history. And this…" He slid his own ID across the table. The name read "Stephen Black."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Stephen?"

Sirius feigned offense. "It's respectable. Better than something ridiculous like… I don't know, Bartholomew."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine. So, how does this Glamour thing work?"

"Watch and learn," Sirius said, his wand already in hand. He tapped it lightly against his temple, muttering, "Mutatio Vultus." Slowly, his features shifted—his cheekbones softened, his jawline rounded, and his hair shortened to a dull brown. The lines on his face faded slightly, leaving him looking like an ordinary, nondescript man.

He turned to Harry with a triumphant grin. "Ta-da! Stephen Black, unremarkable muggle extraordinaire."

Harry snorted. "You still sound like you."

"Of course I do," Sirius replied with a shrug. "Changing voices is trickier and, frankly, not worth the effort unless you plan on being an actor. Now, your turn."

Harry hesitated, his wand in his hand. "You said it's simple, but…"

"It is, if you follow my instructions," Sirius interrupted, stepping closer. He pointed to the forged passport lying on the table with Harry's name on it. "Your ID says you're Henry Peverell. That means blond hair, hazel eyes, no scar, and a slightly tanned complexion. Picture him in your mind, every detail."

Harry picked up the passport, staring at the photo of his disguised self. The boy in the picture looked older and more composed than he felt, but he nodded. "Okay. I think I've got it."

"Good," Sirius said. "The incantation is Mutatio Vultus. Say it clearly—this isn't a spell you want to mumble, or you'll end up with half a Glamour, which is more noticeable than no Glamour at all."

Harry repeated the words softly, testing them on his tongue.

"Now the wand movement," Sirius continued, demonstrating with his own wand. He traced a small, slow circle in the air in front of his face. "Clockwise. Small and deliberate. Think of it like a focus lens—you're framing the changes you want."

Harry mimicked the movement, his hand steady but his grip slightly tight.

"Relax your wrist," Sirius said, gently adjusting Harry's arm. "The magic needs to flow smoothly. No jerking, no hesitation."

Harry nodded again, exhaling deeply.

"Now the focus," Sirius said, his tone serious. "This is the most important part. You need to hold the image of Henry Peverell in your mind as clearly as if you were looking in a mirror. Think about the details—hair, eyes, skin tone. Smooth out the scar. Don't rush it."

Harry stared at the passport again, memorizing the photo. Then, with a deep breath, he raised his wand. "Mutatio Vultus," he said, his voice steady as he traced the circle in the air.

A tingling sensation spread across his face, warm and almost pleasant, like a soft summer breeze. He could feel the magic settling into place, reshaping his features.

"Don't open your eyes yet," Sirius warned. "Let the spell finish."

After a few moments, the tingling stopped, and Sirius handed Harry a small mirror from the table. "Alright, take a look."

Harry blinked as he looked at the mirror. The face staring back at him was familiar but different—his hair was now a neat dark blond, his green eyes replaced with hazel, and his scar completely smoothed away beneath tanned skin. He tilted his head, touching his cheek cautiously, half expecting the illusion to ripple.

"Not bad," Sirius said with a grin, clapping Harry on the back. "You're Henry Peverell through and through. A solid first attempt."

Harry set the mirror down, still processing the change. "It feels… strange."

"It always does at first," Sirius said, picking up the passports and tucking them into his jacket. "But you'll get used to it. The key is that you look nothing like Harry Potter."

Harry glanced at his reflection again, his lips curving into a small, satisfied smile. "Think we'll pass?"

"With flying colors," Sirius assured him, his grin widening. "Now, let's get moving. The muggle world awaits, and we've got a plane to catch."

Harry finished his tea and made his way upstairs to gather his things. He packed lightly—just a small rucksack with a change of clothes, his wand tucked safely into an inside pocket, and a notebook Sirius had given him for anything he thought might be worth remembering. When he returned to the kitchen, Sirius was already waiting, a weathered leather bag slung over his shoulder.

"You ready?" Sirius asked, glancing up with an eager grin.

Harry nodded. "I think so. Not my first time out in the muggle world, you know."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," Sirius replied, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders. "But it's my first time navigating all of this without, you know, causing some minor magical incident."

Harry smirked. "So I'll be teaching you, then?"

Sirius gave him a mock-serious look. "Let's call it teamwork. Between the two of us, we'll manage just fine."

The journey through London proved just that—a joint effort. They took turns reading the Underground map, Sirius grumbling at its complexity while Harry confidently pointed out the correct lines. Buying tickets at the automated machines was another exercise in trial and error, with Sirius muttering something about "bloody genius muggle contraptions" as Harry nudged him aside to make the machine work.

"See? Easy," Harry said, holding up their tickets.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Easy for you. I'm more used to magical shortcuts. But I'll admit, it's pretty clever."

The bustling train stations were overwhelming at times, with streams of people rushing in all directions. Still, they navigated together—Harry recalling his experiences with the Dursleys and Sirius relying on his innate charm to ask for directions when they hit a snag.

By the time they reached Heathrow, they had developed an unspoken rhythm. At the check-in counter, Sirius handed over their forged IDs while Harry chatted amiably with the staff, keeping any suspicion at bay.

"You handled that well," Sirius said as they moved on to security.

"Dursley holidays," Harry replied. "I had plenty of practice pretending everything was normal."

"Wish I could say the same," Sirius said with a grin. "But hey, we've made it this far."

As they sat in the departure lounge, they shared a look of mutual triumph. It hadn't been entirely smooth, but they'd managed without magic—and, more importantly, without catastrophe.

Sirius leaned back in his seat, his leather jacket slung casually over the armrest. "It's strange, isn't it?" he said, following Harry's gaze. "Seeing all these people with their simple lives. No wands, no curses, no wars."

Harry nodded. "It feels… different. Calmer."

Sirius chuckled. "That's one way of putting it. Though, I wouldn't trade their lives for ours. They've got taxes, Harry. And traffic jams."

Harry smirked. "Yeah, and they also don't have Death Eaters."

"Fair point," Sirius admitted. "Still, there's something… refreshing about this. No one's looking over their shoulder for someone trying to hex them. Makes me wonder what Lily saw in this world. She always said muggles had a kind of magic of their own."

Harry's smile faltered slightly. "Do you think she'd be proud? Of me, I mean?"

Sirius sat up, his expression softening. "Harry, I know she would be. Both of them would. You've faced more in fourteen years than most wizards do in a lifetime, and you're still standing. That's not something everyone could do."

Harry looked down at his trainers, unsure how to respond. Instead, he changed the subject. "So, what happens when we get there? Latvia, I mean."

"First, we land in Riga," Sirius explained, pulling out a small travel brochure he'd picked up in the terminal. "Then we'll take a train to Madona. From there… well, we'll figure it out. Your mum had a list of places she wanted to visit. I'll see if I can remember any of them."

Harry tilted his head. "You mean you're not entirely sure what we're doing?"

Sirius grinned. "Not a clue. Isn't it great?"

Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but smile. "This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?"

Sirius's laughter rang out. "Probably. But it'll be our disaster."

The flight to Riga was uneventful—at least, as uneventful as a plane ride could be when surrounded by the chaos of a packed cabin. Harry found the experience novel but slightly overwhelming. The sensation of takeoff left his stomach somewhere near his shoes, and the constant background noise—a mix of chatter, the hum of engines, and the occasional crying child—made it impossible to relax fully.

Sirius, however, was in his own unique battle.

"Do they ever stop screaming?" Sirius muttered, rubbing his temple dramatically and glaring at a toddler two rows ahead, who had been wailing incessantly since takeoff.

Harry hid a smirk. "What did you expect? It's a plane, not the Hogwarts library."

Sirius groaned, slumping back into his seat. "I expected some peace and quiet. That's what the muggle in-flight brochures promised—calm skies and serene travels. False advertising if you ask me."

Harry was about to retort when he felt something wet on his hand. He glanced down, startled, to find a small dog—a fluffy terrier with bright eyes—staring up at him from the aisle, its tail wagging furiously.

"Er…" Harry began, unsure how to react.

The dog barked softly and licked his hand again, its pink tongue warm against his skin.

"Friendly little thing," Sirius observed, leaning over to take a look. "Though I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to be wandering around mid-flight."

A flustered-looking woman hurried down the aisle, scooping up the dog. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed. "He must have slipped out of his carrier."

"It's fine," Harry said quickly, wiping his hand on his jeans.

The woman apologized profusely before retreating, the dog giving one last enthusiastic wag of its tail before disappearing down the aisle.

Sirius smirked. "Well, that's one way to make friends."

Harry rolled his eyes, but the interaction left him feeling oddly lighthearted.

As the flight continued, Sirius grew restless, shifting in his seat and inspecting everything within reach—the safety card, the tray table, even the in-flight meal.

"What is this supposed to be?" he asked, prodding a congealed lump of pasta with his plastic fork.

"Food," Harry replied dryly, taking a cautious bite of his own meal. It wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible either.

Sirius's expression was dubious, but he eventually took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "I've had worse," he conceded. "Az—they didn't exactly serve gourmet meals where I was."

Harry looked at him sharply, but Sirius waved it off with a casual shrug.

By the time the plane began its descent, Harry had acclimated somewhat to the novelty of the experience. The view of Riga from above was breathtaking—lush green parks, winding streets, and terracotta rooftops glowing softly under the golden hues of the setting sun.

Sirius leaned over to get a better look, his earlier grumbling forgotten. "Alright," he admitted, a hint of awe in his voice. "This part, I like."

Harry smiled. "It's not so bad, is it?"

Sirius shot him a grin. "Not bad at all. Though I'll still take a broom over this any day."

The plane touched down with a slight jolt, the roar of the engines dying to a low hum as the flight attendants began their cheerful announcements. Harry unbuckled his seatbelt and stretched, glancing out the small window. The landscape beyond the tarmac was bathed in golden sunlight, and though the airport was modern, it lacked the overwhelming sprawl of Heathrow.

Sirius leaned over, smirking. "Well, Henry Peverell, welcome to Riga. Looks like we survived our first muggle flight."

Harry grinned. "Barely. Between the screaming toddlers and that dog in the aisle licking my hand, I'm amazed I got any sleep."

"Small children and dogs," Sirius said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "The true terrors of modern travel. And here I was worried about Death Eaters."

Harry snorted as they joined the slow shuffle of passengers disembarking. The terminal was bustling, a mix of tourists and locals hurrying past each other. Overhead, announcements echoed in rapid Latvian, followed by heavily accented English translations.

"What did they just say?" Sirius asked, frowning up at the speakers.

"Something about baggage claim, I think," Harry replied.

"Good to know," Sirius muttered. "I've decided I prefer the Wizarding Wireless. Less shouting."

They followed the crowd through the terminal, Sirius marveling at the sheer number of shops and advertisements plastered across the walls. Harry, having experienced this sort of thing with the Dursleys, guided them toward customs.

When it was their turn, Harry handed over his forged passport, doing his best to look relaxed as the officer scanned it. His heart pounded as the man glanced between the document and his disguised face, but the Glamour held.

"Thank you, Mr. Peverell," the officer said, stamping the passport and waving him through.

Sirius strolled up next, his casual air making him look like he had nothing to hide. He handed over his ID with a grin. The officer glanced at it, then back at Sirius's face before nodding and letting him pass.

As they moved away, Sirius leaned in and whispered, "I've faced Dementors with less intensity."

"Bet they didn't have stamp collections, either," Harry replied, earning a chuckle.

The momentary tension faded as they entered the main concourse. Sirius stopped abruptly, staring at the rows of brightly lit shops and kiosks.

"What in Merlin's name is all this?" he asked, gesturing wildly. "Are they selling sweets or potions? Look at this place!"

Harry followed his gaze to a duty-free shop, its shelves lined with liquor, perfume, and chocolate in equal measure. "It's a duty-free shop. They sell stuff to travelers. Didn't they have these when you were younger?"

"Not in places I frequented," Sirius replied, striding toward a rack of keychains shaped like tiny Latvian landmarks. He picked one up, squinting at it. "What's this? A castle?"

"Probably one of their tourist spots," Harry said.

Sirius turned the keychain over in his hands. "I'm buying it. Grimmauld Place could use a touch of culture."

Harry raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Sirius grabbed the tackiest magnet he could find to go with it.

At the checkout counter, Sirius fumbled with the unfamiliar process of swiping a card. The cashier, a patient young woman, tried explaining it in halting English, but Sirius continued to glare at the machine like it had personally offended him.

"Here," Harry said, stepping forward and completing the transaction in seconds.

Sirius grinned sheepishly. "Teamwork, right?"

"Right," Harry said, rolling his eyes.

They stopped at a small café to grab a bite before their next leg of the journey. Harry ordered with relative ease, but Sirius spent an inordinate amount of time examining the unfamiliar menu. Eventually, he pointed at something that turned out to be a sandwich packed with herring. He took one bite and grimaced, nudging it toward Harry.

"All yours," he said.

Harry laughed, shaking his head. "You really don't do subtle flavors, do you?"

By the time they boarded the train to Madona, the sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The rhythmic clatter of the train on the tracks filled the quiet as the Latvian countryside stretched out before them. Sirius leaned back in his seat, arms crossed behind his head, looking more relaxed than Harry had ever seen him. For a moment, Harry hesitated, unsure if he wanted to break the calm with his question. But the thought had been nagging at him since their first evening together at Grimmauld Place.

"Sirius?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"Hmm?" Sirius turned his head, one eyebrow arched.

"Do you… ever talk to Lupin?" Harry's gaze dropped to the worn fabric of the train seat. "Since you've been back, I mean."

Sirius's casual expression flickered, a hint of something more complicated flashing across his face. He exhaled softly, sitting up straighter. "I do, sometimes," he said. "Not as much as I should, though. Remus has always been… well, Remus. He doesn't like asking for help. Prefers to keep his head down and fight his battles on his own."

Harry frowned. "That doesn't seem fair. He shouldn't have to do everything alone."

"It's not fair," Sirius admitted, running a hand through his Glamoured hair. "But life hasn't exactly been kind to Moony. Between being a werewolf, finding steady work, and just trying to exist in a world that looks down on him, he's always had it rough."

Harry shifted in his seat, unsure of how to respond. "But you're his friend. Doesn't he want to see you?"

Sirius's expression softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Oh, he does. And I want to see him. But it's complicated, Harry. He's spent so much time keeping himself out of trouble, staying off the Ministry's radar. Then there's me—a fugitive who drags trouble with him wherever he goes."

"You're not a fugitive anymore," Harry pointed out firmly.

Sirius chuckled dryly. "Tell that to the people who still think I'm a crazed murderer." He sighed, his gaze turning distant. "It's not just about me, though. Remus… he's scared of what his presence might bring into your life. He's afraid of being a burden. Always has been."

Harry shook his head, frustration bubbling up. "That's ridiculous. He's not a burden. He's—"

"Family," Sirius interrupted gently. "I know, Harry. Believe me, I've told him the same thing. He just needs time to realize it himself. Stubborn git."

"Do you think he'd come to Grimmauld Place? If you asked?" Harry asked, his voice quieter now.

Sirius tilted his head, considering. "Maybe. He doesn't have much of a reason to stay away anymore. And you—you'd give him a good excuse to visit."

Harry nodded slowly, letting the idea settle. "I'd like to see him. I miss him."

"I'll talk to him, alright? Maybe after we get back, we can have him over. Merlin knows he could use some decent company."

Harry managed a small smile. "Thanks."

The conversation lulled, and Sirius leaned back once more, his gaze fixed on the window as the countryside rolled by.

"You know," he said after a while, his tone lighter, "if he does come over, you'd better get ready for his lectures on responsibility and safety. He loves those."

Harry snorted. "I'll take it over the Dursleys any day."

Sirius laughed, his earlier tension easing. "Now there's a low bar."

 

[certher]

Chapter 6​

The hotel was modest but clean, with worn carpets and heavy floral curtains that looked like they hadn't been changed in decades. Sirius dropped his bag onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

"Not a single self-fluffing pillow in sight," he complained, poking at the mattress. "Do muggles enjoy suffering, or is it just a hobby for them?"

Harry smirked, placing his own bag on the chair. "You sound like Dudley. He used to whine about anything less than five-star."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Dudley? That pudding of a cousin of yours? Merlin's beard, I can't believe I'm being compared to him." He paused, then grinned mischievously. "Alright, fine. But only because I'm exhausted. Let's blame the plane."

Harry chuckled as Sirius unfolded a map he'd picked up in Riga. He traced a finger over a red-marked trail leading into a forested area.

"This is it," Sirius said. "The place your mum mentioned. Supposed to be beautiful, though she didn't warn us about the lack of Apparition points."

"I think she wanted it to be this way," Harry replied. "You know, actually seeing it. Step by step."

Sirius's expression softened as he folded the map. "Well, let's honor that wish, then. Early start tomorrow, yeah? Pack light."

Harry yawned, the long day of travel catching up with him. "Sounds good. Night, Sirius."

"Night, kiddo," Sirius replied, flopping onto the creaky bed with a sigh.



The sun rose bright and early, the warm golden light spilling into their small hotel room. Harry stretched, already dressed in light hiking gear, while Sirius busied himself with stuffing essentials into a worn backpack.

"Alright," Sirius said, slinging the bag over one shoulder. "Water, snacks, map, and… ah, yes. Chocolate. Essentials covered."

"You're acting like we're trekking through the Amazon," Harry teased, tucking his wand into an inner pocket.

"Have you seen me in the morning? I need motivation," Sirius shot back, grinning.

They set off shortly after breakfast, leaving the little hotel behind as they walked through the quaint streets of Madona. Soon, the cobblestones gave way to dirt paths, and the bustling sounds of the town faded into the calm rustle of leaves.

The trail wove through dense forest, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden streaks. They walked side by side, Sirius carrying their bag with an ease that belied his earlier complaints. Harry, though mesmerized by the natural beauty, couldn't help but glance at Sirius every so often, curious about something he hadn't yet asked.

"Sirius?" Harry began, breaking the peaceful silence.

"Hmm?" Sirius turned his head

"What was it like—being an Auror?"

Sirius let out a low whistle. "Straight to the heavy questions, eh? Well, it was… intense."

"Intense how?" Harry asked, his curiosity outweighing the hesitation he felt about prying.

Sirius stopped for a moment, pulling a water bottle from the pack and taking a sip. He didn't speak right away, as if choosing his words carefully. Then, he began walking again, slower this time.

"Being an Auror… it's not just about catching dark wizards," Sirius said. "It's about outthinking them. And to do that, you've got to understand how they think. It's not as simple as knowing the spells they use or where they might strike next. You have to get inside their heads—see the world the way they see it."

Sirius's gaze turned distant, his voice quieter. "And once you do, it changes you. The way you see people, the way you see the world—it all shifts. Those filters, the ones that let you see things as good or safe or innocent… they crack. You start noticing threats everywhere. You see how easily fear spreads, how power corrupts, how fragile the whole bloody system is."

He paused, then added, "There's no better example of that than Alastor Moody."

Harry frowned slightly. "Moody? I've heard his name—wasn't he some big-shot Auror?"

"Big-shot doesn't even begin to cover it," Sirius replied with a faint smile. "Alastor Moody was the greatest Auror of his time. Hell, maybe of any time. He filled half the cells in Azkaban by himself. A living legend in his day." Sirius's expression darkened. "But now? They call him paranoid. Think he's mad because he treats everything and everyone with suspicion."

Harry tilted his head. "Is he mad?"

"No," Sirius said firmly, his voice cutting through the forest stillness. "He's not mad. He's what happens when you've spent your life thinking like the enemy. Hunting them. Seeing every shadow as a threat because you know better than anyone else what's hiding there. Moody's not paranoid for the sake of it. He's just… prepared. Always."

Sirius glanced at Harry. "People laugh at him for it now. Call him 'Mad-Eye' like it's an insult. But the truth is, his vigilance has saved more lives than anyone could count. The price for that vigilance, though… it's high. Moody gave his sanity—or at least the part that lets you see the world like normal people do."

Harry was quiet for a moment, processing. "Do you think he minds? That people think he's crazy?"

Sirius sighed. "Oh, he minds. He wouldn't be human if he didn't. But Moody's not the type to let that stop him. He cares more about keeping people alive than what they think of him. And honestly? We're all lucky he does. If there's anyone who knows how to out think the worst of them, it's him."

They walked in silence for a moment before Sirius added, his voice quieter, "But sometimes I wonder… if it's worth what it's cost him. If it's worth what it cost all of us."

Harry glanced at Sirius, unsure what to say. But Sirius simply gave him a crooked grin, the moment of vulnerability passing as he nodded toward the trail ahead.

"Come on, we've got a mountain to climb. I'd rather reminisce about Moody over dinner than while sweating my arse off."



The trail grew steeper as they climbed higher, the dense forest giving way to patches of open ground where the view stretched for miles. Harry felt invigorated by the crisp air and the steady rhythm of their steps. Sirius, though occasionally grumbling about his sore legs, seemed just as energized.

"Remind me," Sirius said, "why exactly people do this for fun? There's a perfectly good broomstick waiting back at Grimmauld Place."

"Because it's about the journey," Harry replied with mock solemnity, glancing over his shoulder. "And besides, you're not exactly setting records with that pace, old man."

"Old man?" Sirius shot back, his tone mock-offended. "I'll have you know I was voted 'Most Dashing Marauder' three years running. Can't do that without staying in shape."

Harry snorted. "Did you vote for yourself?"

"Only twice," Sirius admitted with a grin. "James was bitter about it for weeks."

They burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the quiet woods. The mood was light as they continued their hike, their conversation meandering from Quidditch to stories of Sirius's pranks at Hogwarts.

As they rounded a bend in the trail, the distant roar of water became audible. It grew louder with each step until they emerged into a clearing. A wide, cascading waterfall dominated the scene, its mist catching the sunlight and creating a faint rainbow in the air. The pool at its base shimmered, surrounded by smooth stones and lush greenery.

"Now this," Sirius said, slinging off his bag and dropping onto a flat rock near the water's edge, "is a spot worth the hike."

Harry followed, sitting down and letting his legs dangle toward the cool water. The sound of the rushing falls was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic, and for a while, they simply sat in companionable silence, taking it all in.

But as Harry stared at the waterfall, a strange sensation crept into his mind. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was persistent—a soft tug, like the faint whisper of a voice just out of reach. He frowned, his gaze sharpening as he focused on the way the water tumbled down the rocks.

"Something wrong, Harry?" Sirius asked, noticing his intent expression.

"I…" Harry hesitated, not wanting to sound silly. "It's probably nothing, but… doesn't it feel a little… off here?"

Sirius straightened, his casual demeanor giving way to alertness. His eyes swept the area, lingering on the waterfall. "Off how?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "It's like… there's something here. Something we're not seeing."

Sirius pulled out his wand. "Alright, let's take a look."

Sirius pointed his wand toward the waterfall and began with a spell Harry hadn't heard before. "Specialis Revelio Integrum."

A shimmering wave of golden energy rippled outward, spreading across the rocks, water, and surrounding trees. The glow ebbed and flowed like a tide, before beginning to coalesce near the base of the waterfall, the golden light swirling in lazy spirals around a single flat stone.

"There," Sirius murmured, his eyes narrowing. "But this isn't simple spellwork. It's… tangled, like layers of wards stacked on top of each other."

Harry took a cautious step forward. "How can you tell?"

Sirius tapped his temple with his free hand. "You learn to feel it. There's a rhythm to magic, a pattern in the way it's cast. This—" He gestured at the faint glow of light gathering near the stone. "—this has the feel of something ancient. Something alive, almost."

He crouched by the stone, his movements careful. His wand traced a series of small loops in the air, each one precise, like he was weaving invisible threads. "Vestigium Magicae Profundus."

The golden glow erupted into intricate patterns—lines of energy crisscrossing over the stone like veins, pulsing faintly in shades of gold and silver. Sirius stared at it.

"See that?" he said, gesturing to the glowing web. "Residual magic. It's like footprints in the sand, but for spells. It shows you the traces of power that linger—how it was cast, how old it is, and sometimes…" He paused, his voice dipping lower. "…who cast it."

"Who do you think it was?" Harry asked, his eyes wide as he crouched beside Sirius.

"I can't say for sure," Sirius replied, his wand weaving through the glowing lines with deliberate care. "But this kind of work? Layered, self-sustaining, and still intact after all these years? Whoever cast it had immense skill—and power. And from the feel of it, they weren't trying to destroy anything. They were protecting it."

Sirius stood, his wand hovering over the center of the glowing energy. His next spell was quieter, spoken with a reverence Harry hadn't heard before. "Scriptum Arcanum."

The spell's effect was immediate. Runes materialized in the air above the stone, shimmering in blue and gold, their edges flickering like flames. Sirius studied them closely, his wand tracing the lines as if reading an ancient language.

"Protection," he muttered, pointing to one glowing symbol. "Secrecy." His finger moved to another. "And… access." His eyes narrowed. "This isn't just a ward. It's a key. A magical lock meant to keep something hidden—something important."

Harry leaned closer, his heart pounding. "Can you open it?"

"Opening it isn't the right word," Sirius said, his tone grave. "This kind of magic doesn't break—it unravels. You dismantle it piece by piece, or risk setting off a backlash."

Sirius adjusted his grip on his wand, his movements slower now, each flick and sweep deliberate. "Reserare Signum."

The air thickened, vibrating faintly as Sirius worked. He started with the outermost rune, tracing it with a delicate, clockwise motion. The rune flickered, then dissolved into wisps of light. Another rune followed, its glow dimming as Sirius dismantled it with a series of sharp wand movements.

"It's like peeling layers off an onion," Sirius said, his voice tight with concentration. "Each one tied to the next, and if you tug too hard—"

A sudden pulse of magic surged outward, and Sirius quickly countered with a sharp "Finite!" The energy stilled, the runes shimmering but intact.

"—it fights back," Sirius finished, exhaling slowly.

Harry watched, transfixed, as Sirius worked through the remaining layers. Each rune dissolved with a quiet hum, the energy shifting and swirling with every step. Finally, with a final intricate wand motion—a looping figure-eight—Sirius whispered, "Finite Circuitum."

The last of the runes faded, and the stone beneath them glowed faintly before sinking into the ground with a soft, mechanical click. The waterfall trembled slightly, and then the water split apart, revealing a dark, arched opening carved into the rock.

Sirius stood, lowering his wand as he studied the newly revealed passage. "There we go," he said, "That's how you dismantle a magical seal."

Harry stared at the entrance. "What do you think's inside?"

Sirius's eyes gleamed with a mixture of caution and excitement. "Only one way to find out."

The passage beyond the waterfall was narrow, the air damp and cool. Sirius raised his wand, muttering, "Lumos," and the tip of it illuminated the space ahead with a white glow. Harry followed suit, his own wand casting flickering light onto the walls around them.

The corridor was smooth stone, polished as if by countless years of water running over its surface. Ancient carvings lined the walls, runes and symbols similar to those on the stone outside. Here, though, they glimmered faintly, pulsing in time with their footsteps, as though the ruins were alive and aware of their presence.

The corridor opened into a vast hall, its ceiling soaring high above them. The light from their wands barely touched the edges of the space, leaving the corners in shadow. Pillars lined the walls, each inscribed with more runes, while the center of the room was dominated by a raised platform. Upon it rested an ornate pedestal, and atop that lay an ancient scroll.

Harry and Sirius exchanged a brief look, unspoken understanding passing between them.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Ready?"

Harry nodded. "Together."

With no more words, they stepped forward side by side, approaching the pedestal in unison. As they drew near, the runes on the walls flared to life, their glow intensifying until the entire room was bathed in a soft, golden light.

Sirius kept his wand raised, scanning the room cautiously. When nothing seemed to happen, he nodded toward the pedestal.

"Looks like it's safe enough," he said

As Harry reached the pedestal, he noticed the scroll was held in place by a simple metal clasp. Its surface was weathered but unmarred, the edges curling slightly with age. Harry carefully unfastened the clasp, the scroll unfurling with an almost deliberate grace. As he began to read aloud, the ancient words seemed to come naturally, as though they had been waiting for his voice.

"To those who seek the Path of Purity, know this: you stand where the great Merlin once walked. Five trials, scattered across the world, safeguard the balance of magic and the sanctity of the soul. This, the first path, tests those who seek renewal. Strength of body, clarity of mind, and purity of spirit shall guide the worthy to their goal."

Sirius stepped closer, his gaze flicking from the scroll to the runes on the walls. "Merlin," he muttered, his voice filled with awe. "This isn't just a ruin. It's a piece of history. A part of his legacy."

Harry glanced up from the scroll, his fingers brushing the edge of the parchment. "Do you think this is real? I mean… Merlin?"

Sirius nodded slowly. "If there's one thing I've learned, Harry, it's that legends often have a kernel of truth. And if anyone could've created something like this, it would be him."

Harry looked back down at the scroll, reading the final line to himself:

"Step forward with resolve, and let your journey begin."

As the last words of the scroll resonated in the chamber, the runes along the walls pulsed once, their golden light intensifying. The floor beneath Harry and Sirius shifted, trembling with the energy of ancient magic. Slowly, the glowing runes converged, forming a straight path leading toward a now-visible arched doorway.

Sirius lowered his wand slightly, glancing at Harry. "Well, it's not exactly subtle, is it?"

Harry gave a half-smile, clutching the scroll tightly. "Not subtle, but I don't think Merlin was trying to be."

The two moved forward, stepping onto the illuminated path. As they approached the doorway, the air grew warmer, charged with magic that felt alive. When they crossed the threshold, the heavy stone door slid shut behind them, sealing them in with a faint rumble.

They stood in a vast chamber unlike anything they'd seen before. Walkways stretched high above a seemingly endless void, illuminated by faintly glowing runes etched along the edges. Platforms hovered at various heights, some swaying gently as if caught in an invisible breeze. The air hummed with an almost musical energy.

"Alright," Sirius muttered, scanning the room. "Definitely not the Ministry's usual training course. What do you think?"

Harry stepped closer to the edge, his eyes following the nearest walkway. "It looks like we're supposed to cross… somehow."

Sirius nodded, pointing to three distant pedestals glowing faintly in the distance. "Bet you a Chocolate Frog those are what we need to activate."

"Three?" Harry said, narrowing his eyes. "Because one or two wouldn't be enough of a challenge?"

"Welcome to ancient magic," Sirius replied dryly. He raised his wand, muttering, "Vestigium Viæ."

The runes along the closest walkway flared briefly, revealing faint glowing marks on the safe sections of the path. Sirius's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Looks like we've got some help."

The first walkway was deceptively straightforward, but as they reached the halfway point, a rumble echoed through the chamber. A section of the platform groaned and tipped precariously to one side.

"Move!" Sirius barked, grabbing Harry by the arm and pulling him forward just as the section gave way. The stone crumbled into the void, vanishing without a sound.

Harry stumbled forward, catching his balance. "That was close."

"And it's only the beginning," Sirius replied. He gestured ahead with his wand. "Stick close. We'll take it one section at a time."

As they pressed on, the challenges intensified. The walkways began to shift faster, sections collapsing or rising unexpectedly. At one point, Harry slipped, nearly falling off an unsteady platform, but Sirius caught him with a quick Summoning Charm.

The final stretch toward the first pedestal proved the most challenging. A sudden jolt shook the chamber, and the platform Sirius stood on began drifting away.

"Harry!" he called, his voice urgent. "You'll have to go on without me. I'll cover you from here."

Harry hesitated, but Sirius's nod was firm. "You've got this," he said. "Just keep moving."

Swallowing his nerves, Harry darted forward, weaving between crumbling walkways and leaping to more stable sections. Runes flickered as he approached the pedestal, guiding him to a narrow ledge. Reaching the pedestal, he pressed his hand to the glowing rune at its center.

The platform beneath him steadied, and a beam of light shot upward, illuminating a section of the labyrinth.

Sirius's voice called from behind. "Two more to go, Harry!"

They reunited on a larger platform, where Sirius took the lead for the next segment. Together, they navigated more treacherous terrain, their teamwork becoming seamless. Sirius's spellwork illuminated unstable paths, while Harry's reflexes kept them moving swiftly.

The second pedestal required both of them to activate simultaneous runes, testing their coordination. The third was guarded by a magical construct—a floating orb of light that emitted bursts of force. Sirius countered its attacks with precise Shield Charms, giving Harry the opening he needed to reach the pedestal.

With all three pedestals activated, the chamber rumbled once more. A central platform descended from above, its surface etched with swirling patterns. Sirius and Harry regrouped, panting but exhilarated.

As they stepped onto the central platform, it began to rise, carrying them toward a swirling portal of golden light.

"Not bad," Sirius said, resting his hands on his knees. "For an old wizard, Merlin really knew how to keep people on their toes."

Harry gave a breathless laugh. "You think this is his idea of fun?"

Sirius smirked. "Probably. Let's see what's next."

Without hesitation, they stepped into the portal together, the light engulfing them as they braced for second trial.

The heavy stone door groaned as it slid shut behind them, leaving Harry and Sirius in a smaller, circular chamber. The air was warmer here, and the walls were lined with shimmering runes that pulsed gently in hues of silver and blue. In the center of the room, a pedestal stood, much like the one they had encountered earlier, though this one was adorned with an intricate crystal globe resting atop it.

Sirius let out a low whistle, glancing around. "If the first trial was meant to get the blood pumping, I'd wager this one's more of a brain-teaser."

Harry walked cautiously toward the pedestal, the runes on the walls growing brighter with every step. "Think it'll spell it out for us like last time?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

"Only one way to find out." Sirius motioned for Harry to proceed.

As Harry reached the pedestal, the crystal globe flared to life, projecting a shimmering screen of light above it. Words etched themselves into existence, their ancient script shifting into English as if adapting to their comprehension.

The Trial of the Mind:

"Perception is but a fragment of truth. Only clarity and understanding shall guide the seeker forward."

Sirius stepped beside Harry, his brow furrowing. "That's vague enough to be annoying."

Before Harry could respond, the runes on the walls pulsed in unison, their light spiraling toward the crystal globe. The chamber darkened except for a central projection that burst forth—a shimmering, three-dimensional array of floating, interconnected symbols, each glowing faintly in gold, blue, or silver.

Harry and Sirius stepped closer, their faces bathed in the shifting light.

"What do you reckon?" Sirius murmured, eyeing the complex network of shapes and lines.

"It looks like… a constellation map?" Harry guessed, though the arrangement didn't match anything familiar.

Sirius frowned, his wand raised as if to prod the illusion. "More like a magical matrix. Look at how they're linked. This isn't random."

As the two studied the projection, the symbols began shifting on their own, their connections glowing brighter. A faint, rhythmic hum filled the room, and golden runes carved themselves into the floor at their feet.

Harry squinted at the new text, as he read aloud:

"Each symbol binds to its neighbor. Each choice reshapes the path. Harmonize the flow, and the truth shall reveal itself."

Harry stepped forward extending a hand toward one of the gold symbols. As his fingers brushed its surface, it glowed brighter, sending a ripple of light down its connecting lines. The neighboring symbols dimmed, and one of the blue shapes turned silver.

"Did you see that?" Harry turned to Sirius. "Moving one changes the others."

"Definitely not random," Sirius said, stepping closer to examine the lattice. "There's a pattern. The colors—gold, blue, silver—they must mean something."

Harry nodded. "Maybe they're properties of magic. Strength, clarity, and harmony?"

Sirius tilted his head thoughtfully. "That could fit. And look at this." He pointed to the connections between the symbols. "These lines—some are brighter than others. I think they represent the flow of energy. We need to balance it across the grid."

"How?" Harry asked, eyeing the shifting shapes warily.

Sirius tapped his wand against his palm. "By trial and error, if we have to. But we should start with the center. That glowing one seems to be the anchor."

Harry and Sirius began cautiously, Harry adjusting the central symbol while Sirius observed the changes it caused across the projection. The golden connections flared and dimmed, and the colors shifted unpredictably at first.

Harry rotated the central cluster slightly, aligning its gold and silver symbols. A faint hum reverberated through the room, and a portion of the lattice steadied, its lines glowing evenly.

"That's progress," Sirius said, a grin tugging at his lips. "Let's try reinforcing the edges next. If we stabilize them, it might stop the whole thing from wobbling like a drunk Hippogriff."

Harry stifled a laugh but nodded. "Alright. Your turn."

Sirius reached for a cluster near the outer edge of the grid. With a careful twist of his hand, he brightened the blue symbol and dimmed the surrounding gold ones. The ripple effect was immediate—the lattice glowed brighter, but several connections on the opposite side began to fade.

"Unbalanced," a deep, resonant voice announced, sending a faint tremor through the floor.

"Great," Sirius muttered. "Even the ruin has opinions."

They pressed on, each adjustment more deliberate than the last. Sirius focused on identifying patterns in the lattice, calling out suggestions while Harry manipulated the symbols. Each successful move sent a harmonious chime through the chamber, and runes on the walls began to light up in response.

"Careful with that cluster," Sirius warned as Harry reached for a trio of silver symbols. "If you overbalance it, we'll have to start again."

Harry nodded, sweat beading on his brow. He rotated the symbols slowly, aligning their glow with the lines extending toward the center. The lattice pulsed, its light steadying.

"That's it," Sirius said, his voice tinged with excitement. "One more move should do it."

Harry adjusted the final cluster—a small group of gold and blue symbols. The moment they aligned, a brilliant light engulfed the lattice, and the symbols collapsed inward, merging into a single glowing glyph. The projection shrank, the energy condensing until it was absorbed into the crystal globe.

A low chime echoed through the room as the walls brightened, bathing the chamber in a golden glow.

"We did it," Harry said

Sirius clapped him on the back. "You mean you did it. That last move was all you."

Before Harry could reply, the wall opposite them rumbled, splitting open to reveal another passage. Cool air drifted through the gap, carrying the faint scent of parchment and herbs.

Sirius took a step forward, his wand held at the ready. "Looks like the second trial is complete. Shall we?"

Harry gave him a resolute nod. "Let's finish this."

Side by side, they stepped into the new corridor, the glow of their wands lighting the way ahead.

 

[certher]

Chapter 7
​

The corridor defied reason. It was too narrow, yet stretched endlessly, folding in on itself in impossible ways. The air pressed down like a heavy weight, thick and wrong. Each step Harry took sent ripples through the space, the sound of his boots returning twisted and uneven, as though the walls themselves were mocking him.

His wandlight trembled, casting fractured beams into the dark. The glow seemed swallowed before it could go far, smothered by the corridor's strange, suffocating presence.

"Something's…" His voice faltered, trailing off. He didn't know what he was trying to say. Off wasn't the word for this. It wasn't enough.

Behind him, Sirius walked in silence. No sarcastic quip, no reassuring word. Just his h footsteps, heavy and deliberate, as though each step required effort.

And then the world shifted.

It wasn't a noise, nor a sudden motion—it was something deeper. Older. The floor beneath Harry flexed underfoot, like a living thing stirring from its slumber. He stumbled, instinctively reaching out to catch himself, but Sirius was gone.

"Sirius?" His voice felt small, lost, swallowed by the corridor's oppressive vastness.

There was no answer. Only silence. Heavy, unrelenting, and absolute.

Harry spun around, his wandlight slicing through the void. He strained to hear something—anything—but there was only the quiet hum of a place that existed outside time, indifferent to him or his cries.

"Sirius!" he called again, louder this time, his voice cracking. His breath came fast and shallow, too loud in his ears, echoing back at him distorted and wrong. He hated how it sounded, like it wasn't even his own.

The corridor was gone.

He stood now in blackness—limitless, featureless, infinite. The floor beneath him wasn't stone anymore. It shimmered, silver and fluid, rippling under his weight like a restless pool. He didn't want to look down, but his eyes betrayed him.

And he saw.

His reflection stared back. But no—it wasn't his reflection. It was Harry, yes, but not Harry. This version of him had sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, the face gaunt and older, carved with exhaustion. It smirked at him with a slow, lazy cruelty, like it had been waiting for this moment.

"I wouldn't like this either," it said.

Harry's wand dropped an inch, his fingers gone cold. "Who's there?"

"Oh, Harry." The reflection tilted its head, its voice a mockery of familiarity. "Don't you recognise me?"

The thing in the mirror rippled, shifting subtly as if the surface beneath it were alive, reshaping its edges every second. Its features sharpened—a cruel jawline, shadows under its eyes that deepened until they became voids. It stepped closer, the silver floor rippling unnaturally beneath its weight.

"What are you?" Harry demanded, his voice tight, his throat dry. He tried to raise his wand again, but his arm trembled, refusing to obey.

The reflection grinned, its teeth too sharp. "You already know. Don't play dumb, Harry. You've spent your whole life pretending you don't see me."

"I'm not pretending anything," Harry snapped, though his words felt thin, hollow.

The reflection's smirk widened. "Really?" It leaned forward, the silver surface stretching grotesquely to accommodate its movements. "Who whispered to you in the cupboard under the stairs? Told you to stay quiet, to wait, to endure? Who told you that one day, the pain would mean something?"

Harry's breath caught, his chest tightening. The room around him felt closer now, pressing in like it wanted to crush him. "That wasn't—"

"Me," the reflection interrupted, its tone sharp and sure. "It's always been me."

The silver floor beneath Harry shuddered, a crack snaking through its surface. The jagged line spread slowly, light seeping through the fracture—bright, golden, and blinding. Harry squinted, raising an arm to shield his eyes as heat rolled over him, heavy and suffocating.

The reflection didn't flinch. It stepped closer still, its smirk softening into something almost gentle, almost kind. "You don't want me here," it said quietly, its voice low and knowing. "But you don't know what happens if I'm gone, do you? Do you even know who you are without me?"

Harry's hands curled into fists. "I know who I am," he said, though his voice wavered. He hated how weak it sounded.

The reflection's grin returned, sharp as a knife. "No, you don't. You know the version of you that survives. The one that fights, that pretends. But me?" It tapped its chest with one long, bony finger. "I'm the one who kept you alive. I'm the one who whispered in the dark when no one else was there. I told you to keep quiet when Vernon was shouting. Told you not to cry when Dudley was beating you. I stayed. And now you want me gone?"

Harry shook his head, his breath coming fast. "You're not real," he said, his voice breaking. "You're just part of the trial. You're not real."

The reflection laughed—soft and cutting. "Oh, Harry. I'm the only real thing here."

The cracks in the floor widened, golden light pouring through. The silver surface buckled beneath him, and Harry's footing slipped. His wand fell from his grip, clattering against the shifting ground and spinning out of reach. The light grew brighter, hotter, filling every corner of the space, until he could see nothing else.

From the heart of the light, something rose.

A vial. Small, delicate, and impossibly fragile, it hovered in the air, golden light swirling within it like liquid fire. It pulsed softly, a heartbeat Harry could feel echoing in his chest.

The reflection stepped back, its gaze fixed on the vial. Its grin faded, replaced by something colder, sharper. "There it is," it said softly. "What you came for. Holy Water. The cure for everything they did to you. Drink it, and it'll all go away."

Harry stared at the vial, his throat dry, his hands trembling. The heat radiating from it pressed against his skin, searing even at a distance.

"The scars," the reflection continued. "The filth. Even me. It'll all be gone. You'll be clean, Harry. Clean and empty."

The words hung in the air, heavy and cloying, wrapping around him like a vice. His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to move, to reach for it, but his legs felt frozen.

"Why would you want me to take it?" he asked finally, his voice barely audible.

The reflection tilted its head, its grin returning, cruel and gleaming. "Because then you'll see the truth. Without me, there's nothing left of you. You think you're strong, Potter? You're a house built on rot. And I'm the only thing holding it together."

The words echoed, vibrating through his skull. Harry clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. The ache in his chest sharpened, gnawing at the edges of him.

The vial pulsed again, its glow intensifying, and Harry reached for it. His fingers closed around the cool glass, and heat surged through him, sharp and electric. He almost dropped it but held on, his grip tightening.

The reflection watched in silence.

Harry uncorked the vial, the golden liquid swirling violently inside. He hesitated. Just for a moment. Then, before he could think, he tipped it back and drank.

The first drop of the liquid burned.

Not the sharp, fleeting sting of fire, but a deep, relentless heat that sank into his chest like molten iron. It spread through his veins, heavy and searing, turning every beat of his heart into a hammerstroke. Harry gasped, the vial slipping from his fingers, shattering soundlessly on the silver floor. He fell to his knees, clutching his stomach as the heat tore through him, leaving no part untouched.

"Stop!" he choked, his voice breaking. But there was no stopping it. The fire was alive, consuming everything, leaving only ash in its wake. It wasn't just his body—it was his thoughts, his memories, his very sense of self. The burning turned inward, stripping away layers he didn't know were there.

His skin glowed, cracks of golden light splitting along his arms, his chest, his legs. He clawed at himself, his fingers catching on smooth flesh that felt alien, disconnected. He couldn't ground himself. He couldn't breathe.

The fire wasn't cleansing. It was devouring.

A scream tore from his throat, high-pitched and raw, but it wasn't his alone. Something else was screaming with him—a sound too thin, too sharp, that made his teeth ache. It reverberated through the space, rattling the edges of his mind, and he knew with sick certainty that it was coming from inside him.

Get it out. Get it out. The thought wasn't his, or maybe it was. He couldn't tell anymore. His head throbbed, pressure building behind his eyes, his temples, until it felt like his skull would split.

Harry arched backward, his hands clawing at the air, the light pouring out of him in waves. The scream rose again, a piercing, furious wail that filled the chamber. The heat intensified, and with it came the voices.

They whispered at first, soft and distant, just at the edges of his hearing. Then they grew louder, pressing in on him, overlapping, relentless.

"You don't deserve this."

"You shouldn't have survived."

"You're nothing."

"You've always been nothing."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently. The words weren't real. They couldn't be real. But they burrowed deep, sinking into the hollow spaces inside him, feeding on his fear, his pain, his uncertainty.

The light surged again, and Harry screamed once more.

This time, it wasn't just his voice. Something inside him howled, a high, venomous shriek that cut through the air like a blade. The presence inside him—whatever it was—didn't want to leave. It clung to him, digging in with claws he couldn't see, tearing at the edges of his mind.

You're mine. The voice slithered through him, cold and ancient. You don't even know what you are, boy. But you'll know what it's like to lose me.

Harry choked on his breath, his hands scrabbling at the ground. He didn't know what the voice meant, but he knew one thing with desperate clarity: it had to go. Whatever it was, it couldn't stay.

The fire reached its crescendo, and with a final, agonized scream, the presence inside him was torn free. The air itself seemed to shatter, the sound deafening, and Harry collapsed to the ground, trembling violently. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, his body slick with sweat. The golden light dimmed, fading into soft, flickering embers before vanishing entirely.

Silence followed.

It was thick and suffocating, pressing down on him like a weight. Harry lay still, too weak to move, his limbs trembling uncontrollably. His mind felt hollow, like something vital had been scooped out and discarded. The ache in his chest was gone, replaced by a raw, gaping emptiness.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, but eventually, a voice reached him.

"Harry."

It was distant at first, then closer, more urgent. He blinked, his vision hazy, the world around him coming into focus slowly. The silver floor was gone, replaced by stone. Cold. Solid. Real. He felt it beneath his palms as he pushed himself up onto shaking elbows.

Sirius was there.

He was crouched beside Harry, his hand hovering in the air as though he wasn't sure whether to touch him. His face was pale, his jaw tight, but his eyes were what caught Harry's attention. They were wide and searching, full of something Harry couldn't name.

"What…" Harry's voice cracked, raw and hoarse. He coughed, wincing at the pain in his throat. "What happened?"

Sirius didn't answer right away. He let out a slow, shaky breath, his gaze flickering over Harry's face, his arms, his hands. "You collapsed," he said finally, his voice low. "Dropped like someone hit you with a curse."

Harry frowned, his brow furrowing as he struggled to piece together the fragments in his mind. "I don't remember that."

"You wouldn't." Sirius ran a hand through his hair, his wandlight flickering faintly. "You started screaming, Harry. And then… something came out of you. Light. Smoke. I don't know what it was, but it didn't look like it belonged."

Harry's chest tightened, his hands trembling slightly as he flexed his fingers. His skin was smooth. Too smooth. The scars that had been there were gone, every mark erased as though they'd never existed.

"It's gone," Sirius said after a long silence, his voice quieter now. "Whatever it was, it's gone."

Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry. He pressed a hand to his chest, where the hollow ache still lingered. It felt wrong—too empty, too raw. "I don't feel better," he murmured.

Sirius didn't reply immediately. He hesitated, then said, "Maybe you're not supposed to."

The words hung in the air, heavy with something Harry couldn't name. He didn't respond, his gaze dropping to the floor.

The air shifted.

It was subtle at first, a faint tremor like the world itself drawing breath. The darkness around them dissolved, not violently, but with an eerie, dreamlike calm. Shapes emerged, blurred and formless, until they solidified into something unmistakable.

A chamber. Bright. Too bright.

The walls glowed, seamless and smooth, their surfaces shimmering with a pearlescent sheen. There were no shadows here—every corner was filled with an ambient light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with Harry's uneven heartbeat. The air felt charged, alive, but not warm. The stillness was oppressive, vast, as though this place existed far beyond their comprehension.

At the center of the room was a single stone table. Low and rectangular, its surface was carved with intricate runes that flickered faintly with a silvery light. Resting upon it was a single piece of parchment. Small, fragile, its edges curled as if the weight of time had borne down upon it.

Harry's legs felt unsteady as he approached. Sirius followed behind him, his wand still clutched in one hand, though its light was meaningless in this space.

When Harry reached the table, he stopped. The parchment seemed to hum faintly, though he couldn't be sure if it was the room or his own mind filling the silence. The ink on its surface shimmered faintly, angular letters shifting and rearranging as he stared, resolving into words he could read.

Sirius stood at his side, his gaze flicking between Harry and the parchment. "Is that it?" he asked. The vastness of the chamber swallowed the sound almost immediately.

Harry nodded, though he wasn't certain why. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the parchment but not quite touching it. The runes carved into the table brightened as his hand drew closer.

The words on the parchment glowed faintly as Harry began to read aloud, his voice trembling slightly.

"The Path of Purity is not for those of fragile spirit. It strips away the veils that shroud the soul—deceptions, dreads, and shadows we harbor as shields. What endures is the essence, laid bare, unyielding before the light. To tread this path is to forsake all that was, for there is no return. What remains is the burden of choice: to forge anew or to wither in the void."

Harry's voice caught, but he forced himself to continue.

"The Holy Water is neither boon nor bane, but a force of balance. It heals not, but cleanses; forgives not, but erases. What it claims, it claims for eternity. What it spares is thine alone to bear, a burden and a truth."

Sirius shifted behind him, the faint sound of his boots scuffing against the smooth floor. Harry's fingers curled against the edge of the table.

"Purity is not the absence of shadow, nor the triumph of light. It is the reckoning of what we are when laid bare, unbound by the chains we forge. The Path knows no end, for it is trodden ceaselessly, step by step, so long as strength endures to carry the weary forward."

The final lines glowed brighter, as if the parchment itself wanted to ensure Harry would not forget them.

"You are cleansed, but you are not whole. What is taken cannot be replaced. What is left must be enough. Carry it well."

The room fell silent once more.

The parchment pulsed faintly beneath Harry's hand, and then, as though its purpose had been fulfilled, it disintegrated into ash. The light from the runes dimmed, and the chamber seemed to exhale, the weight in the air lifting slightly.

Sirius stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the pile of ash that had been the parchment. "That's it?" he asked, his voice uncertain. "That's all it says?"

Harry didn't respond immediately. He stared at the table, his chest rising and falling unevenly. The words looped in his mind, over and over: What is taken cannot be replaced. What is left must be enough.

"I think…" Harry's voice was low, almost a whisper. "I think that was the point."

Before Sirius could respond, the chamber shifted again. The light began to intensify, flooding every corner, every edge, until it was blinding. Harry felt the ground beneath him disappear—not violently, but softly, as though he were being carried.

When the light faded, they were standing outside.

The forest was quiet, the air cool and still. The waterfall cascaded as it had before, the sunlight catching on the spray and casting rainbows in the air. But as Harry and Sirius watched, the entrance to the temple began to close. The rocks above the cascade shifted, the water thickening, obscuring the hidden path until it was gone entirely. It was as though the temple had never existed at all.

Harry stared at the rushing water, his breath shallow. The ache in his chest lingered, dull and persistent, but it no longer felt like it belonged to him. The sunlight touched his skin, but he barely noticed. It was distant, like everything else.

"A few hours have passed," Sirius muttered, breaking the silence. He scanned the sunlit clearing, his voice low, detached. "Feels like it's been days."

Harry nodded faintly, though the motion felt hollow. His legs trembled beneath him, but he forced himself to stand tall. He turned to Sirius, his voice quiet. "Let's go back to the hotel."

Sirius tilted his head slightly, studying Harry's face. "Are you sure? We could go back to England. Maybe it's time."

Harry shook his head, his expression unreadable. "We still have a few things to do here," he said, his tone soft, distant. "The restaurant. Dancing. Everything we planned."

A flicker of something crossed Sirius's face—worry, perhaps—but he didn't argue. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow," Harry echoed. He pressed his hands into his pockets, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I just… I just want to sleep."

Sirius nodded, and they turned together, walking back through the forest. The sunlight dappled the ground beneath their feet, the world around them alive and unchanged. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Harry's mind drifted, Merlin's words still echoing in his thoughts.

You are cleansed, but you are not whole. What is left must be enough.

He didn't feel cleansed. He didn't feel whole. And he wasn't sure what was left.

But for now, it didn't matter.

Harry barely remembered how he'd made it back to the hotel. His legs had trembled with each step, his body slick with sweat despite the cool evening air. Sirius had been there the whole time, silent but watchful, his hand hovering near Harry's shoulder like he was ready to catch him if he collapsed again.

The moment they stepped into their room, Harry headed straight for the bed. He didn't bother changing out of his clothes. His muscles were trembling, his thoughts fragmented, but exhaustion hit him like a weight too heavy to resist. As soon as his head touched the pillow, his eyes closed, and the world slipped away.

He felt nothing.

No dreams. No voices. No nightmares clawing at the edges of his sleep.

There was only silence. Stillness. Oblivion.

When Harry woke, the sunlight was streaming through the thin curtains, golden and warm. For a moment, he didn't move, blinking slowly at the light. His body felt heavy, but not in the way it had before. It was the kind of heaviness that came with rest, with muscles that had worked hard and been allowed to recover.

He shifted, sitting up, and realized he felt… good. Better than good. He felt rested. His mind was clear, his chest no longer aching with the hollowness that had haunted him the day before. His body felt lighter, yet full of energy, as though something inside him had been realigned.

Glancing to the side, he saw Sirius slumped in an armchair, his feet kicked up on a nearby ottoman, his head tilted at an awkward angle as he snored softly. Harry smiled faintly, then slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him.

The floor was cool under his feet as he padded to the bathroom. He flipped on the light and froze.

His reflection stared back at him, familiar yet unfamiliar. His eyes caught his attention first. They looked brighter somehow, clearer, the green sharper and more vibrant. His skin was smooth, as though scrubbed of every imperfection. Harry leaned closer to the mirror, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and his breath caught.

The scar on his forehead—the lightning bolt that had defined him for so long—was still there, but it was faint. No longer angry and jagged. Up close, he could see it, but from a distance, it would be barely noticeable. He ran a finger over it, almost expecting to feel something different beneath his touch, but the skin was smooth. Normal.

His hair, usually messy and unruly, looked… different. Thicker. Fuller. Almost healthy. He reached up to run his fingers through it, his brow furrowing. It wasn't an illusion. It felt different, softer but more substantial, like it had been strengthened from the roots.

Harry straightened, staring at his reflection with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. He removed his glasses, blinking a few times. He could still see perfectly fine—his vision hadn't miraculously changed—but he caught himself studying the way his face looked without them. His jaw seemed sharper, his features just slightly more defined. Or maybe that was his imagination.

Shaking his head, he pulled off his shirt, tossing it to the side, and turned on the shower. The rush of hot water against the tiles was a comforting sound, grounding him in the present. He stepped under the stream and let it wash over him, steam filling the room as he leaned against the cool tiles.

His body felt… different. Leaner, stronger. He ran his hands over his arms, his chest, and realized there was more muscle beneath his skin than he remembered. Subtle, but noticeable. His fingers pressed against the faint outlines of his abdomen, and he couldn't help but let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.

"Merlin's beard," he muttered to himself. Maybe it was real. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, he felt good—better than he could remember feeling in years.

The restaurant in Madona was a quiet, cozy place, its soft lantern light and rustic wooden furniture lending it a welcoming charm. Harry sat across from Sirius, the faint hum of conversation around them blending with the soft clink of cutlery. Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestone streets.

Harry toyed with his fork, his plate half-cleared. "You know," he began, glancing at Sirius with a small, thoughtful smile, "I don't think I've felt this good in… well, ever."

Sirius set down his water glass, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and relief. "Yeah? You look it."

Harry chuckled, resting his chin in his hand. "What, no joke about me finally taking care of myself?"

Sirius smirked. "I thought about it. But you look too annoyingly pleased with yourself to ruin the moment."

Harry laughed, leaning back in his chair. "I mean it, though. It's not just feeling rested. I woke up this morning and…" He trailed off, searching for the right words. "Everything feels different. Like there's more space inside me. I don't know how else to describe it."

"More space, huh?" Sirius tilted his head. "I don't suppose the Holy Water came with a manual?"

"Not unless you count Merlin's cryptic wisdom," Harry said wryly, gesturing vaguely with his fork. "But yeah, space. Like—like there was something inside me, this weight I didn't even realize was there, and now it's just… gone."

Sirius's expression softened, and he reached for a piece of bread from the basket between them. "That's not nothing, kid. Sounds like it did what it was supposed to do."

"Maybe," Harry agreed, "It's strange, though. I feel like myself, but not the same me, if that makes sense."

Sirius nodded slowly. "It makes sense. You went through something big, Harry. It's alright not to have it all figured out."

Harry smiled faintly, appreciating the reassurance. "Well, whatever it was, I feel stronger. " He flexed his fingers absently, his mind returning to the morning. "And different. My scar—look at it." He pushed his hair back, showing Sirius the faint line that remained. "It's still there, but it's just a scar now."

Sirius leaned forward to examine it, his brows rising slightly. "Barely even that. You might actually get away with not being recognized every five minutes."

"Imagine that," Harry said dryly, brushing his hair back into place. "The Boy Who Isn't Immediately Recognizable."

Sirius chuckled, settling back into his chair. "So, what's the plan for tonight?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You forgot already? We're going dancing."

Sirius groaned, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I was hoping you'd come to your senses."

"Not a chance," Harry replied, his grin widening. "You said you'd come, and I'm holding you to it."

"Fine, fine," Sirius muttered, pretending to grumble. "But don't say I didn't warn you when I clear the dance floor with my spectacular lack of rhythm."

Harry laughed, genuinely this time, the sound bright and unguarded.

As they stepped outside, the fading sunlight painted the sky in shades of orange and gold. Sirius glanced at Harry, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Lead the way, Mr. Confident."

Harry shot him a teasing look. "I'll try not to embarrass you too much."

"Impossible," Sirius retorted, but he followed as Harry set off, the two of them heading into the soft glow of the Latvian evening.