Twenty-One Nights of Paradise - Rewrite Chapter One of Twenty-Five

[red jacobson]

TITLE: Twenty-One Nights of Paradise Rewrite
PART: 01 of 25 The Veela's Secret
AUTHOR: Red Jacobson (red.jacobson@gmail.com)
DISTRIBUTION: FanFiction.Net, Archive of Our Own, Hentai-Foundry, Questionable Questing
DISCLAIMER: All characters you recognize are the property of JK Rowling and her publishers. I only own my perverted imagination.
SUMMARY: Thanks to Apolline Delacour, Harry is informed about parts of his background that he wasn't aware of. Unfortunately, this knowledge leads to discovering some Potter family secrets, and his life just got more complicated!
FEEDBACK: Constructive criticism is happily accepted. This story is going to be a Harry/Harem story, with absolutely no claim to being realistic. The story is just for fun, and if you don't enjoy stories like that, you might as well give it a miss.
CATEGORY: Harem/Just a lot of Women
RELATIONSHIPS: Harry/Many
RATING: Teen
WORD COUNT: <7,711>
SPOILERS: None; I'm certain anybody reading this is at least familiar with the Harry Potter series and the major Characters and events.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is an AU, obviously, and I'm going with a Good Dumbledore, still a MOB, but honestly trying to do the right thing. Harry's childhood, while not a paradise, was not the Dickensian nightmare that a lot of fics have. Honestly, there are Hundreds of Evil Dumbledore stories out there, but I really don't feel I have anything that interesting to add to the collection, so I'm trying to do something different.
ON THE 'ATLANTIS ACCORDS' MENTIONED IN THIS CHAPTER: The idea isn't mine; I know I read it in someone else's story involving the Tri-Wizard, but I can't remember the author or story. If anybody recognizes the idea and can tell me who or where it came from, I'll make sure to give them credit.
NOTE ON LEMONS: Don't be surprised at the lack of lemons in this story. I'm sticking with the canon ages, and, while I am aware that in the real world, kids are doing the nasty extremely young, I don't write about it. And it may seem a minor detail, but some of the sites I publish on won't accept explicit underage activity, so I'm just going to avoid the problem. I think you can figure out what happens for yourself.



Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Great Hall
Tuesday, December 20th​, 1994
Dinner
The envelope appeared during the evening meal, black wax glimmering on a stark square of cream so thick Harry thought he could cut cheese with it. It was wedged between his knife and pumpkin juice as though it had simply materialized—no telltale feather, no Dobby, not even Hedwig's wet footprints. For a wild moment, he considered leaving it untouched, fearing some new curse from Voldemort or a more mundane ambush from Rita Skeeter. But the wax bore the profile of a woman's face crowned in flames, and something about the way the wax curled at the edges—deliberate, not clumsy—made it feel less like a threat and more like a summons.

Harry ran his thumb over the seal until it snapped, neatly, and the flap lifted with a faint hiss of static. The parchment inside was scented with something herbal, sharp and clean, so distinct he was halfway convinced it was laced with a potion.

Mister Potter,

You will come to the standing stones in the Forbidden Forest, December 21st, at Three O'clock in the afternoon. You will not bring the Headmaster. You may bring the French girl, if you so choose. There is nothing to fear, provided you come promptly.

The matter concerns your mother's family. It cannot wait. Dress warmly.

A.D.

He stared at the initials, unsure whether to laugh. The handwriting was severe and continental, the Ds made with a peculiar curling slash—unmistakably Fleur's mother, Apolline Delacour, who, gossip had it, had once managed to strike terror into a room of Hogwarts professors with a raised eyebrow and three syllables of French. It was after the First Task of the Tournament, and Madame Delacour had discovered the second task would involve the merpeople and their village. Apparently, none of the staff, other than Dumbledore, had even heard of 'The Atlantis Accords' setting forth the agreement between the Veela and the Merpeople, to bring an end to 100 years of warfare.

When Madame Delacour finished dissecting the morals, intelligence, personal habits, and cleanliness of the organizers of the tasks, the second task had been completely changed. The details were still closely held, but the golden eggs were taken back from the champions, and a new clue was substituted.

Harry read the letter over three times, each reading raising more questions. How did she know about his mother? What "matter" could require a secret conference, with Fleur as chaperone? Was this some elaborate scheme, or—worse—a social event?

Across the table, Hermione watched him with the bright-eyed focus of someone about to pounce on an unsorted library. Ron, elbow-deep in a mountain of roast, barely registered the letter until Hermione nudged him with a fork.

"What's up?" Ron mumbled, licking a smear of gravy off his thumb.

Harry folded the parchment and slid it into his sleeve, not trusting the sudden itch in the air. "Nothing. Just—something from Beauxbatons. Fleur's mum."

Hermione frowned. "What does she want with you?"

Harry shrugged. "No idea, guess I'll find out."

Harry didn't react, but he did notice the flash of irritation in Hermione's eyes when he didn't answer her question. He wondered if he would need to talk to her about limits again. She got snippy when he asked about how she could be in two places at the same time last year, but seemed to think she had a right to know everything that was going on in Harry's life.

He could feel Fleur's eyes on him from the Ravenclaw table—she had taken to sitting there since the arrival of her school, as though proximity to the sharpest minds at Hogwarts would buffer her from the British chill or the gossamer threads of gossip trailing in her wake. When he met her gaze, she cocked one eyebrow, just like her mother, and pointedly tapped her wrist—three o'clock. Do not be late.

He spent the rest of supper pushing food around, only barely aware of Malfoy's attempts to trip Neville, or Hermione's whispered arguments with Parvati about whether Divination could predict weather patterns. His mind kept circling back to the letter, the sense that something critical had shifted without warning. By bedtime, he had convinced himself it was nothing—some ceremonial apology for Fleur's behavior the night of the drawing. But why would Fleur's mother specify his mum's family?

It would not be until the next afternoon, with the sun bled out of the sky and Hogwarts sunk in indigo, that he would realize how wrong he'd been.

—

December 21st arrived under a pale, bruised sky. By breakfast, the snow was coming down in sheets, obscuring the grounds and giving the castle windows a milky glaze. Harry woke with a headache like a Quidditch bludger behind his left eye, and a tongue that tasted as though he'd licked a battery in his sleep. Grabbing his Invisibility cloak, he folded it and shoved it into his trouser pocket before leaving the dorm.

With classes already ended for the term, he found Parvati in the common room, and the two of them found a few of the other couples, including Ron and Padma, and took over an empty classroom for additional dance lessons. Harry couldn't speak for Ron, but he was fairly confident that he wouldn't make a fool of himself on the dance floor on Saturday night.

After Lunch, Parvati and Lavender went to visit Professor Trelawney, and Harry saw it was time for his mysterious appointment.

He found Fleur already waiting for him in the Entrance Hall, silver hair braided in a tight plait down her spine, wearing a coat that glimmered in the torchlight as if woven from frost.

"Potter." She greeted him with a clipped nod, then handed him a pair of thick gloves. "You will need these. Mama does not like to be kept waiting."

"I noticed," Harry said, flexing his fingers into the gloves. They fit too well, suspiciously so. "Any idea what this is about?"

She tilted her head, searching his face with an odd, sidelong intensity. "If I did, I would tell you. All Mama said was that it was about your mother's family, and that it was a 'delicate' matter." She paused, lips pursed. "In my house, that means trouble or scandal. Possibly both."

She led him down the steps and across the covered bridge, their boots crunching in perfect rhythm. The forest loomed black and dripping at the edge of the grounds, every branch sagging with a wet, luminous coat of snow. Harry's breath fogged in the air, and even with the gloves, his fingers tingled with cold. He wondered if the feeling was magical or just adrenaline.

They found Apolline standing in the shadow of Hagrid's hut, flanked by two enormous, silver-plumed birds that might have been Veela in disguise or simply a French affectation. She wore robes of midnight blue, trimmed with a feathery white that could have been either swan or something rarer. Her expression was exactly as he remembered: aloof, but with a strange sympathy lurking behind the glassy perfection of her features.

"Bonsoir, Fleur. Monsieur Potter. You are on time."

Fleur made a slight bow, eyes averted. "Of course, Mama."

Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling suddenly twelve again. "You wanted to talk to me? About my mum?"

Apolline regarded him for a moment, then motioned for both of them to follow. "We must go deeper. There are ears, even at the edge."

The walk into the forest was slower than Harry expected; Apolline moved with careful, almost ritualistic steps, pausing to brush snow from certain trees or touch her wand to stones that looked ordinary to him. Once, she stopped so abruptly that Harry almost collided with her. She reached up and snapped a twig, then whispered a phrase that turned it into a slender rod, which she handed to Fleur.

"A wand is not always enough," she said softly, and Harry couldn't tell if it was a warning or an aside.

The "standing stones" turned out to be a ring of ancient, lichen-covered granite slabs in a clearing carpeted with dead leaves and stubbled grass. The snow here had melted in patches, exposing faint runes and shapes that shimmered as the moon angled through the trees.

Apolline stepped into the ring and waited. Harry hesitated at the edge, but Fleur squeezed his arm and guided him forward. The instant he crossed the invisible border, he felt a pulse of energy, like a musical note vibrating in his chest.

It took a moment for Harry to realize that he was no longer in Scotland. The clearing was warmer, with no sign ot snow, and even the trees were different from the ones he knew in the Forbidden Forest. He was suddenly bursting with questions, but managed to restrain himself.

Apolline waited until they both stood before her, then produced a bundle from her robes—a sheaf of old, crumbling scrolls tied with green ribbon.

She said, "These are from my grandmother's house," she said. "Passed down by her to my mother, and then to me. They are Veela records, written in a language no wizard now speaks."

Harry blinked. "But I'm not—"

She silenced him with a look. "Your mother's blood was not only English. There is a line, on the Evans side, that traces to the Kreskes—a northern clan, very old. Not pure Veela, but not nothing, either."

Fleur's mouth parted in shock. "You never told me that."

Apolline arched an eyebrow. "There is much I do not tell you, Fleur. Because you do not ask the right questions."

Harry struggled to process. "But—my mum was Muggleborn. Everyone said—"

"Everyone was wrong," Apolline interrupted, gentle but absolute. "She hid her heritage, as do many. There is shame in being other, even now. But you—you, Mister Potter, have more than a little of that blood. It is why you survived the killing curse."

Harry felt the world tilt beneath his feet. "But Dumbledore always said it was my mum's sacrifice—her love—"

"Love is a form of magic, yes. But the kind she carried is different. A Veela's love, even diluted, is protective, binding. You were marked by it the moment you were born."

He gaped at Fleur, who looked just as bewildered as he felt.

Apolline's eyes narrowed. "And it is why the Dark Lord seeks you still. He recognizes the mark, though he does not understand it. But there is another thing—a connection, a thread that should not be. Between you and him."

Harry's hand shot up to his scar, as if it might start burning on cue. "He put part of himself in me. The night he tried to kill me."

"Not by choice," Apolline said. "He tried to make you a vessel, but the blood rejected it. Still, there is a tether. One that grows stronger as he regains power. If it is not cut, you will not survive his return."

The moon had risen higher, staining the stones with a wan, bluish light. Harry shivered, less from cold than from the magnitude of what he'd just been told.

"How—" His voice cracked. "How do I break the tether?"

Apolline's gaze slid to Fleur, then back to Harry. "There is an old ritual. One that awakens the dormant side of your bloodline. It will not make you Veela, not as Fleur is, but it will give you a way to shield yourself from the Dark Lord's magic. The risk is—" She hesitated, eyes flicking to the scrolls. "It is irreversible. Once done, it cannot be undone."

Harry absorbed this in silence. Fleur stared at her mother, then at Harry, her expression shifting through a spectrum of emotions: horror, awe, fear, something like pride.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" Harry's voice was small, and he hated it.

Apolline answered in a tone as soft as new snow. "Perhaps they did not know. Or perhaps they hoped it would never matter."

The stones around them seemed to hum with anticipation. Harry's pulse thrummed in his ears. "If I do this, it will help me fight him?"

"It will help you survive him," Apolline said, matter-of-factly. "It may even allow you to hurt him, where no wizard spell can."

The idea was intoxicating. Harry thought of Quirrell falling to ashes in front of the Mirror of Erised, Ginny's nearly lifeless body in the Chamber, and Dumbledore, certain that whoever entered him in the tournament meant him harm, but content to sit back and watch.

He looked at Fleur, who met his gaze unflinchingly. "What would you do?" he whispered.

Fleur's lips trembled, but she spoke with more certainty than he'd ever heard from her. "If I had the choice and the means to make myself stronger against him, I would do it. Even if it changed me forever."

Harry nodded, heart pounding. "Okay," he said. "I'll do it."

Apolline's eyes gleamed, not with triumph but with a kind of sorrowful relief. "It must be done tonight," she said. "The solstice is the only time the ritual can be completed safely."

Fleur reached out and took Harry's hand. For an instant, his whole body tingled, as though he'd touched a live wire. She squeezed, and he squeezed back, and in that electric moment, he felt less alone than he had in years.

They walked out of the clearing, a different path than the one they had followed before, and Harry felt the touch of magic as he left the clearing, his feet crunching on the snow that appeared underfoot, the wind scraping needles from the dark pines above. Following the light of Apolline's wand, he slowed when she paused at the forest's edge. Harry wondered again what was going on; the trees Apolline's wand was lighting were no trees that he had seen before. Apolline spoke, and the need to question faded, her voice floating toward them as if from a distance, the sound almost a benediction.

"You are not what he made you, Harry Potter," she called softly. "You are what you choose to become."

And for the first time, Harry almost believed it.


TONOP & TONOP & TONOP



Apolline moved forward, her wand light shining brightly as she stepped out of the forest. It was when Harry stepped into the clearing that he stopped, staring around him in surprise. The moon was glowing bright above them, but the light was shining on trees and plants and even a few butterflies that he had never seen before! Harry thought he saw a group of pixies dancing around a mushroom!

"Okay, what's going on?" Harry demanded, moving away from Fleur, and his wand dropping into his hand, "I met you because you mentioned my mother's family, and I trusted you because I've started to trust Fleur, but instead of information, you are worse than Dumbledore, spouting nothing but riddles and cryptic crap. I think it's time for some answers, in plain English if you don't mind."

Apolline turned to face him and smiled, "Of course, I apologize, but this is the first place I know that we cannot be observed by anyone scrying for us, or any listening charms reach us. We are standing in a borderland, between the mortal world and the land where the Veela and your mother's family come from. Are you aware that Veela are not wholly human?"

Harry nodded, "I kind of figured that out at the Quidditch Cup, ordinary cheerleaders, no matter how attractive, don't affect people the way those women did."

"True, but what most people believe is that we are of the fey, along the lines of nymphs and dryads, but we aren't. The truth of our origin is one of the deepest secrets of the Veela race, and the only reason I am willing to disclose it to you is that you share the same heritage. Otherwise, you would not have been able to enter the clearing earlier. Veela have the power of the Incubi and Succubae in our very magic, and you will soon feel the magic yourself."

"Hold on! Aren't those considered demons? My aunt and cousin weren't big on going to church, but I do remember something about the Succubus being a demon. If breaking the tether to Voldemort and releasing my heritage means I'll become a demon, I'm going to pass on that, I'll take my chances with the Dark Bastard, thank you very much!"

"Monsieur Potter," Apolline started, before pausing, continuing in a gentler tone, "Harry, we are not creatures or beings from the lower planes, the so-called 'Hell Dimensions.' Our origins are from a different dimension entirely, but that's not important now. The borderland is where we will release your heritage, and also teach you what it truly means to embrace your nature. And you won't have to worry about the time, or missing a meal, the moment you first step into the clearing, time in the outer realm freezes for you. You could spend an hour, a day, a year here, and when you step out of the clearing into the Forbidden Forest, it will be as if no time passed. Now, are there any questions before we get started?"

"I have one, you may have danced around the whole demon thing, but won't I have to have sex with all kinds of women, will they nil they, to survive. And yeah, the idea of having sex is a bit alright, what do you expect, I'm a teenage guy. But if I have to force women to have sex, then it's not going to happen! I'll turn around and start walking instead of letting you turn me into that kind of monster."

Apolline shook her head with a smile, "I don't blame you, I wouldn't want to become what you describe either, but you won't. To start with, your spirit may be willing to indulge in the pleasure of the flesh, but your magic hasn't settled enough to let you taste those pleasures.

And even if your magic was mature enough, you will certainly not lack for willing playmates, but until then, you will receive power from the sexual feelings of the students and staff. When they reach their climax, a bit of the pleasure is transferred to you in the form of energy. And you will also receive benefits from the sexual dreams you will visit. Don't be surprised to find out some interesting things about your classmates, but nothing you see will harm either you or them. It is expected of you to stay quiet about anything you see, of course. And, when you are physically and magically ready, if you don't have a partner chosen, or even if you do, I'm sure that Fleur would be delighted to teach you how much fun an eager girl or two can be."

"---" Harry's mind went blank; there was no possible way he could respond to Apolline's teasing comment.

Once he was aware again, Apolline asked him once again if he was willing to release his heritage, and he agreed. With that, Apolline and Fleur started preparing a ritual circle in the center of the clearing, which became lit with blue phosphorescence, an eerie half-light that grew stronger as they walked.

Above the half-light, a tangled forest of sigils and shapes was floating, some of which Harry recognized from Professor Binns' lectures—pre-wand magical runes, and others, older still. At every step, the prickling on the back of his neck intensified, as if the trees and grass themselves were watching.

When the circle was prepared, Apolline and Fleur stopped and faced Harry. He was surprised to see that in the center of the circle was a wide, shallow bowl set into the ground, filled with what looked like powdered quartz or finely crushed bone.

"You are ready?" Apolline asked, voice steady but echoing strangely.

He nodded because his voice would not come.

Apolline gestured to Fleur, who produced a bundle from her coat and unwrapped it: three long, silver pins, each etched with runes. Harry eyed them with growing unease.

"They are not for pain," Apolline said, reading his look. "They are to draw out the old magic. You will not be harmed."

Harry shrugged off his cloak, then his shirt, the cold slapping at his skin like a curse. He stepped into the bowl at Apolline's direction, the powder soft and gritty beneath his feet. Fleur and her mother took up positions at either side of the circle, facing him, each holding a silver pin and a small blue flame conjured into their palms.

Apolline began the chant, her voice low and melodic, in a language that seemed to bypass Harry's ears and settle directly into his bones. Fleur joined in, their voices intertwining in a kind of fierce, sorrowful harmony. The air tightened; the blue flames lengthened, shedding sparks that floated upwards and dissolved like snow.

Harry felt the first ripple of power as a shudder in his stomach, then a numbness along his arms and scalp. He tried to focus on the lines of the runes at his feet, but his vision swam.

Apolline moved forward, pressing the first pin to his chest just above the heart. At her touch, the blue flame arched along the metal, then sank into his skin with a sting that was less pain and more overwhelming clarity. For an instant, Harry saw his mother's face in the shimmer—her green eyes wide, her lips forming a word he could not quite remember.

The second pin came to rest just below his navel, and Fleur's hand was warm even through the cold air. She looked away as she pressed it in; this time, the flame splintered along his nerves, filling him with a rushing brightness so intense he thought his body might break apart.

The third pin Apolline reserved for his forehead, directly over the lightning scar. She held it there for a long moment, and her hand trembled—not with fear, but with effort, as if fighting some unseen current.

When the pin touched his skin, the world exploded.

—

It was not pain, at first. More like a sudden subtraction of self—a vacuum opening inside his skull, then filling with a roar of sensation that was both his and not his.

He was flying, or falling, or possibly dissolving into a haze of images: a flash of green light, a graveyard, the flash of serpent eyes; then a warmth, a mother's arms, a song in a language he did not know but somehow understood.

He saw, from some impossible distance, shards of darkness breaking away from him—each shaped like a piece of Voldemort's soul, recoiling, shrieking, as if burned. The Horcruxes, he realized in a moment of detached horror, the knowledge of their name and their purpose bursting into his mind. Something in him was attacking them, reaching across impossible space.

The agony that followed was like a hot wire run through every vein. The power was too much, not meant for a human body, and Harry screamed, the sound muffled by the ritual's magic.

He felt his scar rupture and burn, then, in a wave of nausea, the pain receded, leaving behind a blinding clarity. His skin prickled and seemed to glow. Every sound was sharp, every smell distinct, as if he'd spent his whole life underwater and only now breached the surface.

His body lurched, and he fell to his knees, trembling. The silver pins clattered to the stone, leaving no wound. The powder in the bowl was now blackened and smoking.

Fleur's face hovered above him, panicked and beautiful. Her hands shook as she tried to steady him, and her scent—usually faint, like sugar and feathers—was now overwhelming, raw and electric.

Apolline watched from the edge of the circle, her expression unreadable. She waited until Harry had managed to draw a ragged breath, then spoke.

"It is done," she said. "You are changed."

Harry tried to stand, but his muscles quivered with a new, hungry energy. He looked down at his arms—his body seemed the same, but the skin shone faintly, and his veins ran with quicksilver light.

He felt, for the first time, whole. Alive, in a way that made the years before seem like a bad dream.

He looked at Fleur, and she blushed, stepping back as if she'd been burned.

He swallowed and tore his gaze away. "Did it work?" he asked Apolline, feeling his voice resonate strangely in his chest.

"It worked," she said. "More than we hoped. The link to the Dark Lord is weakened, and you…are free."

Fleur added, "There was a shockwave, just after you passed out. There will be consequences."

Harry nodded, suddenly aware that his shirt was missing, his skin glowing with a faint blue sheen under the runes on the walls.

"What am I now?" he asked, half afraid of the answer.

Apolline approached, her footsteps soundless, and reached out to cup his chin. Her touch was cool, gentle, but her eyes bored into his. "Incubus," she said, the syllables clipped and clear. "You are not Veela, but you share our ancestry. The magic is old and hungry. It will try to control you, at first. But you must learn to control it instead."

She produced a small, round mirror from her robes and held it up for him to see. Harry flinched at his own reflection: his face looked the same, but the eyes glowed faintly in the low light, and the lines of his jaw were sharper, older. He didn't look like a fourteen-year-old anymore.

He handed the mirror back, hands trembling. "I can't go back to the dorm like this."

Fleur snorted, a bright, nervous laugh. "You think they would notice?" she teased. "You have always been different, Harry. Now, you are just…more."

Apolline knelt and touched his chin, gently forcing him to meet her eyes.

"You must be careful, now," she said, her voice no longer melodic but steel. "Your blood is awake. It will call others. You must learn control, or it will destroy you."

Harry nodded, dazed, and let Fleur help him up. The chamber spun around him, every detail sharp and overwhelming.

They left the way they came, the echo of the ritual still pulsing through the stones. Harry wondered, distantly, if anything in him would ever feel normal again.

But as Fleur wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and squeezed his hand, he felt, for a flicker of a moment, grateful. Strong.

Ready.

TONOP & TONOP & TONOP



Scene Three

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Great Hall
Thursday, December 22nd, 1994
Early Morning
Harry woke, choking on sensation. The world pressed against his skin in waves: a draft curling under the heavy velvet curtains, the waxy bitterness of melting candle stubs, a steady thrum of distant, unfamiliar heartbeats through the stone walls. His eyes snapped open—emerald, too-bright, the dimness of the dormitory reduced to a faint film over sharp edges and humming magic.

He lay in bed for a minute, blinking away the static. Dean's breathing was shallow and quick; Seamus snored with a nasal whine, the sound layered with something deeper, a subtle magical hum, as if each exhalation vibrated with personal power. Everything had an aura now. Even the slumbering portrait on the wall bled faint light, silvery-blue and twitching like the tail of a nervous cat.

Harry rolled onto his back and stared at the canopy. His own body felt alien—fingers flexing too fast, tongue sandpapered and dry, chest straining against an invisible pressure. He pressed the heel of his hand to the lightning scar, but it gave no more than a dull echo of pain. It was the rest of him that refused to cooperate, every muscle and bone rearranged while he slept.

He tried not to think about the night before. The ritual. Fleur's voice, the incantation sung low and sweet by Fleur and Apolline's voices. In daylight, the memory settled over him like a second skin: slick, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

He dressed before anyone else could see him struggle. His tie hung crooked, and the sleeves of his shirt seemed shorter than yesterday, exposing new muscle along his forearm. He shrugged into his robes and cinched them tight. In the common room, the fire was embers and the armchairs empty except for a sleeping Crookshanks, who opened one golden eye, hissed, and vanished under a settee.

Harry paused at the portrait hole, listening for movement in the corridor. He did not want to talk to anyone, not yet—not while he was still learning the boundaries of his own body.

The corridor was deserted. Harry moved in silence, the castle's usual creaks and groans amplified a hundredfold. Every footstep sent ripples along the floor; the paintings turned to watch him pass, their eyes lingering with an intensity that prickled his skin. He reached the stairwell, intending to lose himself in the early chill of the grounds, when a voice—gravelly, edged with suspicion—cut through the quiet.

"Potter."

Moody stood in the mouth of a darkened corridor, half-shadowed, blue eye spinning in its socket. The magical eye shivered when it landed on Harry, its iris swelling and shrinking like a living thing. His real eye—watery, rimmed red—was fixed and unblinking.

"Professor," Harry said, fighting to keep his voice even.

Moody stepped forward, limp exaggerated, the click of his wooden leg sharp against the stone. "Up early, are we?" His tone was casual, but the air around him was not. Harry tasted it: sharp, acrid, ozone layered with the sick-sweet tang of old wounds. Magic wrapped Moody like a shroud, but the edges were off—frayed, twitching, threaded through with something dark.

"Couldn't sleep," Harry said. He tried to step past, but Moody moved to block him, lips peeled back in a grimace that wasn't quite a smile.

"Funny," Moody said. "Rumor is you were up late last night." His blue eye spun again, tracking Harry's pulse at his neck, the twitch of his jaw, the shifting of his weight from foot to foot.

Harry forced himself to meet the magical eye. "Just homework, sir. And I was in the Tower all night."

Moody sniffed. "Funny, that. You're not showing up on the Map." He said it softly, the words meant for Harry alone.

Harry felt a chill along his spine, every hair standing at attention. "Maybe your Map's broken," he managed.

The corridor narrowed. Moody loomed, scarred face a mess of old battlefields, wand twitching at his side. "Don't play games with me, boy. I know what magic smells like." His breath came quick, excitement or anger, Harry couldn't tell. "What did you do last night?"

Harry's own magic was coiled tight, ready to strike. He struggled to keep his hands at his sides. "I don't know what you're talking about."

For a moment, Moody studied him. The silence between them stretched and stretched, the only sound the distant tick of the castle clocks. Then, abruptly, Moody's demeanor shifted. He straightened, sniffed again, and gave a sharp nod.

"Clever," Moody said, almost to himself. "Clever lad. But not clever enough."

He raised his wand. Harry tensed, every instinct screaming to act, but he held his ground. "What are you doing?"

Moody's voice went low, almost a growl. "You've been Compelled."

Harry blinked. "What?"

Moody took a step closer, wand was now pointed directly at Harry's heart. "Don't play the innocent. There are only three reasons a wizard's signature changes overnight. Possession, blood magic, or a Compulsion charm. And you, Potter, don't look possessed."

Harry didn't move. He could feel the magic in the air, pressing down on him like a storm front. He let it build in his own chest, tasted the iron-bright energy behind his teeth. "I haven't been Compelled."

Moody barked a laugh. "So you admit to the blood magic, then?"

A second of hesitation—too long. Moody caught it, pounced.

"I knew it," he said, lip curling. "What was it, Potter? Who helped you?"

Harry opened his mouth, but Moody was already speaking the incantation, a wordless flick of his wand that shot ropes of blue light toward Harry's wrists. It was meant to bind, to immobilize. Harry didn't think. He let the magic in his veins flare, and with a sharp gesture of his own, the blue ropes shattered inches from his skin, exploding into a cloud of white-hot sparks that singed the stone floor.

Moody recoiled, shocked. "How—"

Harry lunged, hand outstretched. He didn't even draw his wand. The air between them trembled; a force, invisible and absolute, seized Moody and lifted him bodily off the ground. The professor's head slammed into the wall with a crack, his wand clattering to the flagstones.

For a moment, Harry just stared at his own hand, trembling with aftershocks. The urge to press further—to break, to dominate—was as strong as the need for breath. He let the impulse go, just barely, and lowered Moody to the floor.

Moody wheezed, propped up on his elbows, glaring murder with both eyes. "You little—"

But Harry was already stepping back, heart hammering, mind racing. He could hear footsteps—several, urgent—coming down the corridor.

Dumbledore appeared first, robes billowing, eyes bright and unflinching. McGonagall was half a step behind, tartan dressing gown flapping as she skidded to a halt.

"Alastor!" McGonagall exclaimed, hurrying to Moody's side. "What in Merlin's name—"

Dumbledore raised a hand, silencing her. His gaze pinned Harry with surgical precision, then flicked to Moody, who was struggling to his feet.

Moody snatched up his wand, leveling it at Harry again. "Headmaster, the boy's been tampered with. He's dangerous."

Harry stared at Dumbledore, willing him to believe—anything, really, other than Moody's accusation.

Dumbledore's eyes lingered on Harry's face, and for a split second, Harry thought he saw understanding—or perhaps recognition. He turned back to Moody. "Alastor. Put down your wand."

"Headmaster, he just performed—"

"I saw," Dumbledore said, voice unyielding. "We are all a bit on edge. I suggest we lower the temperature, lest we have a repeat of the events of seventy-nine."

Moody hesitated, then, with evident reluctance, lowered his wand.

McGonagall gave Harry a look that was equal parts concern and reprimand. "Mr. Potter, would you care to explain what's going on?"

Harry glanced from face to face, weighing his options. "Professor Moody tried to hex me," he said, voice shaking. "I defended myself."

McGonagall rounded on Moody. "Alastor, is that true?"

Moody snarled. "He's lying. That wasn't self-defense, that was wandless magic. It's not possible."

Dumbledore knelt beside Moody, gently inspecting the wound on his head. He murmured something—probably a healing charm—then addressed Harry. "You're feeling… changed, I take it?"

Harry swallowed. "Yes, sir."

Dumbledore smiled, faint and sad. "It is not uncommon, after… well. After." His hand lingered on Moody's shoulder, restraining him. "Minerva, perhaps you could escort Mr. Potter to my office? I will join you both presently."

McGonagall nodded, lips pressed thin, and gestured for Harry to follow. Harry did, leaving Dumbledore and Moody in the corridor.

They walked in silence. Harry's head buzzed with adrenaline; every hallway seemed brighter, louder, more menacing. Even McGonagall's tartan pattern moved, almost alive, the lines shifting with her stride.

In the entrance to the Headmaster's tower, McGonagall stopped and faced him. "Mr. Potter," she said quietly. "I have never seen Alastor bested, not even by a member of the dueling club."

Harry didn't know what to say. He didn't feel proud—if anything, the thought of his own strength scared him more than Moody's threats.

McGonagall seemed to understand. She placed a hand on his shoulder, briefly, as if reminding herself he was real. "Wait here," she said, and swept off down a side corridor.

Harry stood alone in the antechamber. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the click of gears in the many magical contraptions littering the tables. Fawkes, the Headmaster's phoenix, perched on his golden stand and watched Harry with bottomless black eyes.

He did not have to wait long. The portrait door swung open, and Dumbledore entered, Moody staggering behind him. Moody's expression was twisted, eyes wild, the magical one spinning so fast Harry thought it might pop from its socket.

Dumbledore took a seat behind the desk, steepling his fingers. "Harry. Please, sit."

Harry did, though every part of him wanted to bolt.

Dumbledore turned to Moody. "Alastor, may I offer you a sweet?"

Moody bared his teeth. "No."

Dumbledore smiled, as if that were the expected answer, then returned his gaze to Harry. "Tell me, in your own words, what happened this morning."

Harry hesitated. But there was no point in lying, not to Dumbledore. He told them everything—how he couldn't sleep, how he wandered the castle, how Moody had found him and accused him of being Compelled, how the magic had just… erupted. He left out the details of the ritual, but Dumbledore's eyes seemed to read the omissions anyway.

When he finished, the room was silent. Moody glared at him, lips twisted in a sneer.

Dumbledore nodded. "Fascinating."

Moody spat on the rug. "You're not taking this seriously, Albus. The boy is dangerous."

Dumbledore stood, moving to the window. He watched the dawn break over the Forbidden Forest, his back to them. "The situation is more complex than you know, Alastor."

Moody made a noise of disgust. "You're making a mistake."

Dumbledore turned, and for the first time, Harry saw anger in his eyes—not rage, but a deep, simmering frustration. "We have all made mistakes, Alastor. That is why we are here."

Harry felt the magic build again, the air in the room thickening. Something was wrong. He watched Moody, the way his hands trembled, the way his scars seemed to pulse. There was a shimmer around his face, like a heat haze.

Dumbledore noticed, too. "Are you all right, Alastor?"

Moody gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. "I'm—fine." But he wasn't. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. The shimmer grew, spreading from his hairline down his jaw, his whole face trembling at the edges.

McGonagall appeared at the door, eyes wide. "Headmaster—something's happening—"

Moody convulsed, knocking the desk aside with a snarl. His features ran like melting wax, scars dissolving, nose flattening, hair changing color. A sick, chemical stench filled the room. Harry staggered back, his senses overloading as magic surged from Moody in a torrent—black and acrid and brimming with hate.

With a final spasm, the body on the floor settled. The man who stood was leaner, younger, eyes wild and sunken, teeth bared in a rictus grin.

Dumbledore's face went white. "Barty Crouch."

Crouch Jr. gave a low, mocking bow. "You always see through the clever ones, Headmaster."

Harry's mind reeled. He tried to reach for his wand, but Crouch's own wand was already out, leveled at Dumbledore. "Don't move, Potter. Or I'll kill your precious phoenix."

The air in the room grew electric. Dumbledore did not move. Neither did Harry.

Crouch paced, savoring the moment. "You're not the only one who can cheat death, old man. The Dark Lord sends his regards."

Dumbledore's expression did not change. "What does he want?"

Crouch smiled. "You'll find out. Soon enough."

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw McGonagall raise her wand. Crouch noticed, too, and flicked his wrist—sending a jet of red light toward her. Harry reacted without thinking, raising a hand and pushing, magic surging from his palm. The curse fizzled out mid-air, dissipating into harmless sparks.

Crouch blinked. "Impressive," he said, eyes on Harry now. "The rumors are true."

Dumbledore seized the moment. He moved with impossible speed, drawing his wand and sending a binding curse at Crouch. The Death Eater tried to block it, but Harry added his own magic, pouring it into Dumbledore's spell. The bindings slammed Crouch to the floor, ropes of golden light twisting around his limbs and neck.

He thrashed, cursed, eyes rolling in their sockets. "He knows, Potter! He knows about you! You think you're special? You're just a weapon, another pretty pawn for Dumbledore to sacrifice. He'll burn you like all the rest—"

Dumbledore cut him off with a wordless gesture. The ropes tightened, and Crouch fell silent, chest heaving.

For a long moment, nobody spoke. Then Dumbledore turned to Harry, studying him with a gaze that weighed and measured every atom of his being.

"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said softly.

Harry met his eyes, and in them saw the truth: Dumbledore understood exactly what he had become. And he was afraid.

End Chapter One