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Chapter Text

Beneath the shroud of a moonless night, Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, stands just beyond the extensive grounds of a Wizarding school in Scotland. His hands, obscured by a flowing grey robe, clasp behind his back. The man—wizard—stood alone, waiting. 

Silhouettes of attentive Professors peer from the castle's windows, their curiosity piqued by the impending arrival.

New Professors rarely receive such reception, in a sense. They’re typically uncovered through impeccable résumés or, in rare cases, stumbled upon in the obscure, shadowy alleys where even beggars dared not tread. Once found and allowed an interview, they would enter the castle gates. While subject to the inquisitive gazes of the faculty, they would travel through the winding maze of Hogwarts, searching for Dumbledore’s office—an unspoken part of the interview, a test under the watchful gaze of the Headmaster.

As Dumbledore lingered, a cool breeze passed by, banishing any prying creatures that seek to eavesdrop, not that any creature would find this scene worth taking back to their master.

Before Dumbledore lays a forlorn, battered boot—an unassuming portkey awaiting its purpose.

Dumbledore's mouth, concealed beneath his beard, bears subtle curves, savouring the irony of such a tattered object bringing forth the arrival of a powerful Being.

Powerful, in all ways, except for peace of mind.

It adds a brief moment of amusement to Dumbledore. He takes what he can: A Being worrying for the future in turn caused the wizarding world a favour—even if they do not know it yet.

The boot twitched, prompting Dumbledore to arch an eyebrow. He considered the possibility of an illusion from fatigue—it is the middle of the night—but the boot twitched once more, dispelling such doubts.

Thunder rolled, accompanied by a jagged streak of lightning across the night above. A lesser man might have been spooked, muttering about such improbable coincidences.

It reminded him of that night.

Before Dumbledore has the chance to reminisce, footsteps echoed off concrete slabs behind him. Dumbledore doesn’t need to turn to identify the source.

Minerva McGonagall, an older witch that can be described as Dumbledore's 'right hand,' observed the frayed boot with pursed lips. Her gaze then drifted to Dumbledore, assessing his calm demeanor, though it did little to ease her apprehension. If the Headmaster finds this situation noteworthy, it was bound to be a problem.

How troublesome.

“He’s late,” Minerva observed, distaste clear in her voice. Dumbledore doesn’t so much as twitch at the sound. 

"He is travelling all the way from America," he replied, momentarily casting his eyes up to the sky. Minerva followed his gaze, her eyes tracing the lightning dancing among the clouds. A distinct roll of thunder sent vibrations running through her bones, the smell of rain clear around them.

She tapped her arms impatiently.

"Perhaps we should not have gone so far to secure him," she mused with a disapproving frown.

“After all that trouble to get to him?” Dumbledore chuckled.

And—Dumbledore had a point, as much as Minerva loathed to admit it. It's a waste of resources and time to get rid of him. She curled her lips as Dumbledore turns to face her.

“Need I remind you who offered this deal first? He’s not here to tea—,” McGonagall cuts herself off as a shiver cuts through her body. Feeling eyes upon her, she cast a fleeting glance back towards the castle. There’s a brief silence.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t become a problem.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Dumbledore answered with a hum. “And that this one will last.”

Light begins to permeate throughout the castle grounds as Dumbledore turned his gaze back to the flashing portkey. McGonagall sighed as the wind reached up to disarm her of her cloak. And—light exploded into the courtyard.

-

Only weeks ago, Harry had been certain that he would suffer with the Dursleys until he was 18, doomed to living under the stairs while doing chores for a living. That ordinary misery had been shattered by the arrival of a letter, addressed to him specifically, in the cupboard under the stairs. It invited him to a place called Hogwarts. The Dursleys' frantic attempts to prevent him from reading those letters were futile for here he was now, following a man called Hagrid down a random street. Hagrid, a giant of a man with wild hair and a friendly smile, did nothing to calm his nerves.

Harry was still trying to wrap his head around it all. Wizards existed? There were schools for it? He could do magic?

Harry tried, and failed, to keep up with Hagrid's giant strides, but eventually, the man slowed. Harry didn’t realize why until he looked up to see a shabby-looking pub in front of them.

“Here we are,” Hagrid said, his voice booming with excitement. “The Leaky Cauldron—a famous place.”

Harry stared at the old, grimy sign. The pub looked like it hadn't seen a paintbrush in decades. It seemed completely unremarkable, a place that ordinary people would pass by without a second glance. Maybe it was supposed to look that way, Harry figured, trying to push away his skepticism.

"Come on, then," Hagrid urged, pushing the door open. Inside, Harry blinked a few times. The interior was dimly lit and filled with the murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses. Resisting the urge to turn on his heels and walk the other way, he obediently followed Hagrid up to the counter.

"The usual, Hagrid?" the bartender asked, not even sparing a glance for Harry. Apparently, he didn’t care about the 11-year-old sitting in his bar. Maybe Wizards could disguise themselves as kids? Was that why he didn’t seem to care?

A hand clamped down on Harry’s shoulder and jolted him forward. Harry stumbled and looked up, feeling his cheeks about to burn. Above him, the bartender eyed him. Subtly, his eyebrows raised. "Good Lord," said the bartender and he glanced to Hagrid for confirmation. "Is this—can this be—?"

The Leaky Cauldron went completely still and silent. Harry’s head was beginning to pound. "Harry Potter... what an honour," the old bartender said and began to move. Much to Harry’s horror, everyone seemed to do the same. Harry tripped back as everyone began to crowd around him. There were eyes on him, everywhere, all at once.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

Harry turned to Hagrid for help, but the man stood there, beaming.

"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stood on end and a shiver ran down his back. He could feel eyes behind him, judging him. Harry tried to turn around and see, but more people appeared, trying to gain his attention.

"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."

"Always wanted to shake your hand—I'm all of a flutter."

Who was watching him? Panic began to bubble.

Harry took longer to escape a crowd than he should have. After a long conversation with a stuttering Professor Quirrell, Hagrid pulled gently on his sleeve and guided him away from the crowd. Luckily, the crowd thinned around Hagrid, not wanting to get in his way. “We'll just nip through here, Harry,” Hagrid said, but Harry was barely paying attention.

He could feel eyes on him again, but not from the crowd. Harry was not certain how to describe it. It was overwhelming, but Harry’s eyes snagged the edges of the crowd, meeting the eyes of people, but the feeling wasn’t dispersing. It was invasive, like a shadow creeping over his skin, looking for cracks.

Hagrid let go of Harry, and the feeling disappeared for a moment. Harry took the chance and looked at him.

"Now, pay attention, Harry," Hagrid instructed, pulling out his pink umbrella. "This is a bit of magic. Yeh gotta know the right spot."

He counted bricks, tapping them in a specific sequence. Harry watched in amazement as the bricks began to quiver and shift, creating an archway into a bustling street filled with shops, people in robes, and the most wondrous sights Harry had ever seen.

"Welcome," Hagrid said with a grin, "to Diagon Alley."

Hagrid began to walk forward, and Harry followed, leaving the odd feeling behind.

-

When they exited Gringotts, Hagrid swept Harry towards a store called Madam Malkin's Robes. Hagrid paused at the door, his face green. Harry frowned in concern. “Are you alright?” Harry asked, “We can take a rest—”

“No,” Hagrid said, waving a hand in the air. “Yer go in without me. I’ll watch ‘er stuff out here.”

Harry hesitated, watching Hagrid for another moment until Hagrid shooed him into the store. A bell above Harry jingled sharply as Harry stepped through, and a woman bustled towards him, looking him up and down. "Hogwarts, dear?" she said. "Got the lot here—another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

Harry followed the woman to the back, where a boy with a pale and pointed face stood on a footstool. The woman gestured Harry up on the other stool and slipped a long robe over his head. The other boy looked up at him. "Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Harry.

The boy began to talk, his tone bored and condescending. Harry tried his best to avoid letting his mind wander, but it was hard—it's like a buzz in his ear. The longer Harry listened to him, the more the boy strongly reminded him of Dudley. Harry answered all his questions without fail until the boy suddenly spoke.

"I say, look at that man!" said the boy, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid stood there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in. I must have been here longer than I thought, if he's recovered, Harry thought.

"That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to know something the boy didn't. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper," Harry corrected. He was liking the boy less every second.

“Hm, well, it's worse than letting an American teach at Hogwarts.”

Harry raised a brow. “What’s wrong with an American teaching at Hogwarts?”

The boy smirked, tilting his chin upward. "Americans have no sense of tradition," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "They bumble about with their wands, thinking magic is all fireworks and showmanship. Hogwarts has millennia of history, of respect for the old ways. An American would just... muck it up."

Harry pursed his lips and tried to keep his voice low as he said, “That’s not exactly fair, is it? Judging someone before you even meet them?”

"Oh, can't I? My father says the best wizards are British. Our magical bloodlines are purer. Americans don’t understand the significance of our traditions. They lack the sophistication and refinement of true wizarding culture. His surname isn’t even tied with any purebloods—" The pale boy paused and glanced toward Harry, shifting his head to the side.

“What’s your surname anyway?”

Harry was just glad that Madam Malkin was able to save him from answering that question.

-

After filling Hagrid in on his talk with the vampire-looking boy, they continued on their way through Diagon Alley in search of books. “Hagrid,” Harry began, recalling what the boy said.

“Yeh?”

“There’s another new Professor, right?” Harry asked, “Not just Professor Quirrell, right?”

Hagrid pulled at his beard and nodded, “Yeh—He jus’ arrived a couple o’ weeks ago. From America.”

Harry strung his hands together, watching wizards and witches walk by. Why hire a Professor from America when there are thousands here, probably? The boy said that everyone went to Hogwarts, so wouldn’t the program be competitive? Was it an exchange? Argh! This was all so confusing…

“Professor Phoebus, I thin’. He teaches one of yer mandatory classes—Astronomy, I think. The rest ‘re third year and above classes,” Hagrid said, peeling away at the wrapper of a candy bar. Harry couldn’t make out the name.

Harry pondered for a moment. From what he had heard from the boy, the Professor wouldn’t know as many things about the British Wizarding World, much like Harry. Something about different traditions? Harry couldn’t quite grasp what the boy said…

He also remembered how the boy treated Hagrid when he saw him. The boy disliked the American Professor and also Hagrid… Hm. “Have you two met?” Harry asked.

Hagrid shook his head, and said, “I’ve been watching of ‘yer for the past week. I’ gotten no time to meet him yet, but I heard that he’s ‘andsome.”

That wasn’t the answer Harry was hoping to look for.

-

The train ride was a success for Harry, for the most part. He even made a friend. He also got sorted into a good house! Or at least, that's what his new friend told him. Even now, as he leaned forward onto the table, with his stomach full and his hands itching for another plate, he can’t help but feel pleased with himself.

At the far end of the Great Hall, stood a High Table where the Professors sat and talk. 

At the far side of the table, Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet while another Professor watched on in horror. Further down the table sats Professor McGonagall, talking to Headmaster Dumbledore. Beside them was a woman wearing Hufflepuff clothing blemished by spots of dirt. She faced the opposite of the Headmaster, animatedly talking with another Professor. 

Harry blinked at the man talking to her. He definitely looked different from the rest of the Professors—there was a faint glow buzzing around him. Well, Harry was sure there wasn’t literally a ball of light around him unless he casted a spell.

The man’s long blonde hair was up in a manbun and when he turned his head to the side to glance out to the crowd, his blue eyes lingering on certain tables, Harry could see the slight shift of his robes, revealing some Hufflepuff colours.

Hearty laughter ran out between the two Hufflepuff Professors with a couple of other Professor’s chiming in on the conversation. Harry could guess who the male Professor is—some of the older students around Harry kept on glancing towards him, whispering something about loud Americans.

He had to be the Professor that Malfoy (whose name was learned after an incident just outside the dining hall) was talking about—Professor Phoebus. Harry inclined his head to get a better look at the Professor, stretching past Ron (a new friend of Harry’s).

As Harry did so, Professor Phoebus turned his head to the side, glancing outward at the students with a smile curving onto his face. Harry’s entire body stopped moving as they make eye contact across the hall. The Professor tilted his head as if acknowledging him (but his gaze seem to be eyeing him, looking to see if Harry is up to his expectations) and turned his head back to the other Professor.

He didn’t look back.

Harry blinked and turns back to his table. Taking a sip from the goblet in front of him, Harry turned again back to the high table, glancing further down the hall. Professor Quirrell, who Harry met in that Inn that Hagrid brought him to (which Harry will never return to, especially if that odd feeling will be there as well), was talking to a Professor with greasy black hair, a hooked nose and sallow skin.

The dark-haired Professor looks past Quirrell’s turban straight into Harry’s eyes—and a sharp, hot pain shoot across the scar on Harry’s forehead. It’s not the same as the feeling back at the Inn, as this time, the feeling is much more physical.

“Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head.

‘What is it?’ asked Percy, one of Ron’s older brothers.

Feeling like he’ll be called a fool if he says anything, Harry muttered out, “Nothing.”

Maybe this is a regular occurrence in the wizarding world? When I don’t meet people’s eyes I start to feel like someone’s drilling their stare into me and when I do meet their eyes, I get actual pain. 

The pain left as quickly as it came. Harry glanced back to the table, to look at the black-haired Professor. “Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” He asked Percy.

“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he’s looking so nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to—everyone knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape.”

“Right,” Harry said, pocketing the information away for later. He’s already got a plan formed: Never go back to that Inn and never look Snape in the eye again. Speaking of eyes… Harry glanced back across the table, remembering what Malfoy said about Purebloods not liking Professor Phoebus for whatever reason.

He didn't look as scary as some of the other Professors.

“What does Professor Phoebus teach?” Harry asked. He’s sure he’s asked Hagrid about it once before, but he didn’t remember.

“Hm?” Percy tilted his head to the side and followed his gaze. “The American Professor?”

Harry nodded.

“Hm, he’s the Astronomy Professor for all students but he teaches Medical Magic as an elective for older students. If he keeps his position for two years, his electives class ‘ought to change as he’s given permission.”

Then, in a quieter tone, Percy grumbled, “hopefully something new—expanding on out of date curriculum.”

Harry didn’t ask anything else.

-

Harry’s first class with the American Professor was on Thursday night on his fourth day of school. Reading over his schedule, Harry noted that both Thursday and Friday nights, starting from 11PM, are dedicated to Astronomy. Thankfully, Harry had the class with Hufflepuffs, so it makes for some peaceful nights.

The week had been fun to Harry, even if History of Magic had made almost everyone fall asleep within the first twenty minutes. At least the ghost Professor was one of the few Professors that didn’t bat an eye at Harry’s name. Hopefully the American Professor would be the same. Surely, Harry wouldn’t be known overseas.

Speaking of other classes, the Defense Against the Dark Arts class was… disappointing to say the least and Harry hopes the rest of the year won’t be the same. Potions was hell incarnate. The Professor decided that Harry, at eleven years old, was their archnemesis. The only Professor that had the same strictness as Harry would expect to see at Hogwarts was Professor McGonagall. Harry would pass away and fade into the afterlife the day that he was a second late for her class.

Professor Phoebus is one of the last Professor’s he’s going to meet, with both classes so late in the week (not to mention at night). From the Gryffindor common rooms, Harry could hear whispers (and giggles) about Professor Phoebus, especially from some of the older students. Harry couldn’t make his own comment yet, but he had seen the Professor stride through the hall—quite dramatically—in between classes.  

So, in short, by the time Thursday night rolled around, Harry’s hopes were high. 

-

Harry’s first Astronomy class is held in the highest tower of Hogwarts, a winding staircase leading up to a large circular room. The air felt cooler up there, almost as if the ancient stones of the castle absorbed the night’s chill. Halfway up the tower, Harry and Ron both heard the soft lull of what Harry assumes is a harp echoing off the stone walls. Reaching the top, Harry found that the room itself was dimly lit, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor. Bookshelves line dthe walls, crammed with thick, leather-bound tomes and intricate star charts. A large, brass telescope dominated the centre of the room, pointing towards the open sky above them, where the walls break free into intricate patterns to reveal the twinkling stars above.

Harry shivered slightly, rubbing his arms as he followed the other first-year students into the room. The air around Harry shifted as he takes his first steps in, filling his senses with a faint scent of old parchment and something else, something floral and unfamiliar.

Turning his head to the side to look for open seats, he noted that the walls turned to glass doors near the other end of the room, all with balconies lingering just outside. 

Professor Phoebus stood at the far end of the room, turning his back to the students as he adjusted the telescope. His long, blonde hair is pulled back neatly, and his robes shimmered faintly in the dim light. 

Harry did the natural thing; He shuffled towards the back of the classroom, near one of the glass doors. Ron followed behind him, quite loudly. They made room there and watched everyone else find their seats. It was a bit hard to see the rest of the class since there’s telescopes (albeit small ones) on their desk.

A buzzing filled the air as the last of the students gather into their seats, bringing out their parchment and ink. Harry’s been through this enough to follow everybody else.

When the clock hit exactly 11PM, the music playing through the air came to just a mere hum and the door leading from the classroom to the stairs closed. Professor Phoebus turned around to meet the gaze of his class with a smirk and leaned back against the desk.

"Welcome to Astronomy," Phoebus said, his voice smooth and melodic, carrying a hint of what Harry assumed is an American accent. The Professor flashed a smile across the classroom, one that seemed almost too perfect. "I’m Professor Phoebus and as some of you may have heard, I’m new to this school, much like most of you are."

He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make everyone a bit uncomfortable. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, the telescopes adjusted themselves on everyone’s desks, aligning perfectly with one another. Harry jumped at the movement and casted a glance sideways to Ron, hoping that he wasn’t the only one caught by surprise.

Ron’s eyes were a bit wide, so Harry asked, “I didn’t know wizards could use wands without magic.”

Ron nodded, glancing back to the Professor, and said, “Technically, more powerful wizards don’t need wands for everyone. Wandless magic, I think it’s called. Powerful wizards can do that.” 

“What—?” Harry began.

"I know what you’re thinking," the Professor said, breaking through their conversation, his tone shifting to one of mock seriousness. The Professor placed a hand to chest and says, " ‘How come I’m not downstairs with everyone else and tucked away under my bed?’ Well, I don’t want to be up at this ungodly hour either but lucky for you, I’m probably the best Professor you’ll have for this class. You won’t be thinking that again for as long as I’m your Professor here. Congratulations."

Some of the students in front of Harry exchanged glances, some stifling giggles. The Professor leaned away from his desk and began walking forward, bringing out his wand as his mouth opened to talk. Harry watched in amazement as the stars above them seemed to glow whenever Professor Phoebus gestured to them. 

“Show off,” Ron muttered under his breath. Across the room, a few students exchanged looks, while others seem amazed by the display. Harry wondered how many others are seeing magic this week for the first time. It all seemed very impressive.

Ron leaned over to Harry and whispered, “Well, if we didn’t know beforehand that the Professor wasn’t American, we could definitely tell by now.”

“I don’t think Americans act that way,” Harry whispered back.

“How many Americans have you met?”

“None, well, Professor Phoebus I suppose now.”

“And how does he act?”

“That doesn’t prove your point.”

Harry turned away from Ron before he could say anything else and instead watched as Professor Phoebus returned to his desk. “Before we begin with the boring part of today, which includes going outside with your telescopes, do we have any more questions?” 

One girl slammed her hand up with such force that it made the table jiggle. The Professor blinked a few times before grinning. “Well, that’s the fastest anyone’s hand went up. Yes?” 

The girl started rambling about something Harry can’t quite place, mostly because he’s tired, but as Professor Phoebus answers the girl's question, his gaze shifted across the room. His gaze caught onto Harry for a moment, and only for that moment, before he turned again to look at others. But in that time, Harry felt it again—that sense of uneasiness he felt back in the Inn that Hagrid brought him to. The same feeling of something non-human watching him. It didn’t feel as spiteful like at the Inn though… 

“What's wrong mate?” Ron said, nudging Harry’s arm. “It looks like you just saw Peeves pour a bucket of water over McGonagall’s head or something.”

“Who?” Harry said, snapping back into attention, the feeling still crawling around at the base of his spine. Ron leveled him a look.

“Peeves…” Ron began but shook his head. “Nevermind. I’m sure I told you though.”

Harry shoved the feeling down and coughed out, “Right.” He rubbed his head, trying to shake off the unease. Shifting in his seat, he attempted to focus. The combination of the late hour and Professor Phoebus' hypnotic voice are making his eyelids heavy. Harry hasn’t been up this late before and, despite finding the class interesting compared to others, he couldn't help but feel tired. The room is so dim, the stars so distant and twinkling, that Harry's mind began to drift. He imagined himself among the stars, floating in the void, freed from all worries. His eyes fluttered close for a moment.

"Mr. Potter," a voice said close to Harry's head, pulling Harry out of his reverie. He jerked backwards, blinking rapidly, to find Professor Phoebus standing over him, an amused yet slightly annoyed expression on his face. "Am I boring you?"

Harry felt his cheeks heat up and scanned the room and noticed that everybody else is getting up from their seats to head outside to the balcony. No one stayed behind to notice him. "No, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep," Harry said.

“Nearly fell asleep,” Professor Phoebus corrected. “Hmm…” He placed a hand under his chin, thinking. 

Harry exchanged a bewildered glance with Ron as Phoebus coughs, spreading out a hand to pause them.

"In a room of stars,

Sleepyheads will find their doom,

Eyes open, stay awake."

The Professor finished with a flourish, as if he had just delivered the greatest poem of all time. Ron and Harry stared at him in stunned silence before Ron asked, “Is that supposed to be a hike-whatever?”

“Yes, sounds lovely doesn’t it? Came up with it on the spot.”

“I can tell,” Ron muttered.

The Professor narrowed his eyes and Harry immediately stood, his chair screeching behind him. “Thank you, Professor. We’ll get to work right away.” 

Professor Phoebus raised an eyebrow at him as Harry hurriedly shuffled Ron towards the balcony door. "Alright,” Phoebus said, waving his hand dismissively. "Back to work. But do try to stay awake, Mr. Potter. It’d be distasteful for you to hate my class so soon."

-

The next time Harry talked directly to Professor Phoebus outside of class was two weeks later, right when Harry attempted a duel with Malfoy. Though, it didn’t go as Harry had been hoping. At first, Harry tried to sneak out of Gryffindor Tower (alone) at night but somehow ended up with three other people following him, which included Neville, Hermione, and Ron. To make matters worse, Harry found out that Malfoy had tricked him by tipping Filch about their (supposed) duel location.

Which led them to where they were now, running through corridors to escape Filch—and Peeves, who appeared shortly after the group arrived in the corridor. Harry quickly pushed them all into a hopefully vacant room, listening to Peeves taunt Filch.

“—I wouldn't say nothing if you didn't say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!” Peeves' mocking voice trailed off, accompanied by the sound of his departure and Filch’s frustrated curses. Harry listened intently, feeling a sliver of relief.

“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispered, feeling his heart settle. “I think we'll be ok—get off, Neville!” 

Neville had been tugging on the sleeve of Harry's dressing-gown for the last minute. “What?” Harry turned around—and saw quite clearly, what. For a moment, he thought he'd walked into a nightmare—this was too much, on top of everything that had happened so far.

They weren't in a room, as he had supposed. They were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden.

They were staring into the eyes of a monstrous dog, its massive form towering to the ceiling. The creature's matted, dark fur shifted as it turned towards Harry. It took him a moment to register that the dog had not one head, but three—all six eyes fixating intently on them.

A low growl rumbled from the monster’s throats, causing the stone slabs beneath their feet to tremble. Hermione squeaked, backing into Ron, who nearly stumbled into Harry in return.

Looking at the dog, Harry knew that the only reason they weren't already dead was that their sudden appearance had taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous growls meant. Harry groped for the doorknob—between Filch and death, he'd take Filch.

But the door didn’t open.

“We need to get out of here,” Hermione whispered urgently as they pressed closer to the door, edging away from the beast.

"Well, the door’s locked, isn’t it?" Ron hissed, his voice quivering. He tried to keep his eyes on all three heads of the beast as he pushed his back against Harry, whose hands shook against the doorknob, nearly pulling the knob off by its hinges trying to open it. 

Neville whimpered as the sound of the fumbling doorknob creaked through the corridor under the growls of the dog. He pressed himself against the wall, as if trying to merge with the stone to escape. "We're going to die. We're going to die," he repeated, his voice rising in panic.

The dog lunged just as the door opened from the other end. Harry fell down, passed the door and the others followed close behind, all falling like dominos on top of him. Harry turned to see sharp jagged teeth reaching for him just as the door slammed shut behind it, locking.

“We’re free,” Ron gasped, flooding his voice. “But what was that dog?”

Harry had a bigger concern though—there was a pair of shoes in front of him, almost covered underneath robes. The boy shakily got to his feet, feeling his cheeks heat up as he came face to face with the Astronomy Professor. The man’s hair was down around his neck, looking a bit rough at the edges as if he had just been woken up.

“Oh!” Hermione squeaked somewhere behind him, and Harry shared the sentiment. The whole reason why they were running around in the first place was to avoid being caught by Professors. It had only led them to be in deeper water; they were caught in the forbidden corridor, which was certainly off limits.

"Well, well, well," Professor Phoebus said, his voice dripping with a mix of amusement and mild annoyance. "What do we have here? A late-night adventure, Mr. Potter? And with an audience, no less." His eyes swept over the group and Harry knew that he was going to get an earful the next morning from Professor McGonagall.

The thought scared Harry a bit. Lead on his tongue, Harry stumbled over his words, “We—uh—we didn’t mean to—"

"Of course you didn’t," Phoebus interrupted smoothly, his tone indicating he wasn’t particularly interested in excuses. "You’ve stumbled upon something quite dangerous, though I suppose you’ve realized that by now." 

If someone had dropped a needle, it would have echoed through the corridor. Professor Phoebus must’ve taken pity on them because he sighed, his voice lighter now. "As thrilling as this encounter must have been, I believe it's time for all of you to return to your dormitories. Before Mr. Filch catches wind of this, yes?"

Hermione made a noise at the back of her throat and said, “So you’re not going to…?”

The Professor snorted and said, “What? Punish you after you guys nearly got killed? Your lack of trust in Professors is truly disturbing… Perhaps I should bring this up with Dumbledore.”

Ron grumbled, “If you do, I have a couple of names you could bring up…”

“Thank you, Professor, for helping us,” Hermione interjected.

A chorus of “Thank you’s” followed Hermione’s voice, and Professor Phoebus’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Well, then, up to your dorms.”

All four of them didn’t linger. They only talked when they arrived back at the common room, Neville hurrying to his room.

“What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?” asked Ron when they reached the steps leading up to their dorm. “If any dog needs exercise, that one does.”

“Didn't you see what it was standing on?” Hermione breathed out, who had been suspiciously quiet during their walk back.

“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn't looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads.”

“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It's obviously guarding something.”

“But—“ Ron began.

“Professor Phoebus told us to stop messing around with stuff that doesn’t need our attention,” Hermione remarked. She stood up, glaring at them. “We’re all lucky that Professor Phoebus found us and didn’t give us detention.”

“We could’ve been killed,” Ron objected, “And detention is what you’re worried about?”

“Yes! Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed.”

-

Later that night, staring up at the ceiling, Harry realized that Hermione had given him something else to think about. The dog was guarding something … What had Hagrid said? Gringotts was the safest place in the world for something you wanted to hide—except perhaps Hogwarts. And, something else, how had Professor Phoebus found them? Had he known they would be in the forbidden corridor? He looked like he just woke up—and he certainly knows what hides behind those doors…

-

Nothing (re: exciting) had occurred for Harry since he stumbled upon the forbidden corridor over a month ago. He hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about the dog either, maybe except for Ron, but the conversation hadn’t been going anywhere.

During the month, Harry had successfully joined the Quidditch team, managed to avoid detention for walking into the forbidden corridor, and watched the Weasley twins play pranks on other Gryffindors. Everything was going fine until it wasn’t.

It wasn’t exactly Ron’s fault for making Hermione cry (it was Ron’s fault, Harry just didn’t want to tell Ron that). It wasn’t until halfway through the Hallowe’en feast that Harry began to feel uneasy.

“Something’s not right,” Harry whispered to Ron, reaching over his platter of mashed potatoes. Indeed, he could feel his stomach clench uncertainly, like he had forgotten something important.

“Does this have to do with Hermione?” Ron asked, licking his fingers clean of ketchup.

Harry nodded—there were eyes on the back of his head, drilling through him. He could feel a gaze linger there until it shifted down, through Harry’s spine. He knew there was nothing behind him but a brick wall, but the feeling didn’t leave. It almost felt like a warning. It appeared as soon as Harry and Ron started to eat and hadn’t gone away for the past ten minutes. In fact, the eyes on his back seemed to become more urgent.

It made the plate of food in front of him look quite dull and unappetizing, like a block of sludge. 

Harry needed to get out of there and preferably find Hermione.

Harry didn’t wait for Ron to follow as he got up from his seat and walked out of the dining hall, going unnoticed by everyone. Harry could hear Ron clambering out of his seat to follow Harry, a piece of bread still in his mouth. Slipping into the hallway, Ron turned to him. “You’ve gone bloody insane! I’m sure Hermione’s perfectly fine-!”

Ron didn’t get the rest of his sentence out in time - Professor Quirrell came running from the hall, where the dungeons were. A look of horror decorated his face, and dread immediately began to pool in Harry’s stomach.

“Professor?” Harry asked warily.

The Professor nearly stumbled over his robes as he looked over the two boys. Breathlessly, Quirrell gasped, “You two ‘ought to stay away from the dungeons—there’s a Troll!” 

He didn’t let up his pace, and the two of them watched the Professor head straight towards the Dining Hall.

“You don’t think…?” Ron began.

“Hermione—you scared her off, remember?” Harry said.

“Me?”

Harry remained silent.

“Fine, sure—but, uh. Harry, it's a Troll.”

“Well, Hermione could die if we don’t get to her in time!”

Ron hesitated only once more before they went running towards the dungeon. 

-

Harry had never been so close to death before, well, from what he remembered. He didn’t exactly know how he ended up on a very dirty bathroom floor, sticking his wand up in what he assumed was the general direction of the Troll. Fear tightened the grip around his wand, the roughness of the wood against his palm forcing him to stay focused.

His glasses had been thrown somewhere in the gaps in his memories. Harry didn’t know enough spells to retrieve his glasses, nor did he have enough time to think about getting them back.

Two stalls had already been destroyed, no thanks to the Troll. Hermione was casting all the spells she knew, but none of them seemed to work. Even Ron was at the end of his rope, failing miserably at trying to get the Troll's attention.

Perhaps Harry should’ve turned around back at the dining hall and asked for help. Maybe this was the end for him—

Hermione let out a squeak as the Troll finally turned away from Harry, covering its eyes, and Hermione yelled out, “Lumos!” The brightness allowed Harry some clarity as the Troll stumbled through the room, breaking every sink in its sight as it palmed the walls for something to grab onto. Ron stumbled out of the way, bringing his wand up to defend himself as Harry grasped his glasses.

At the same time, the bathroom door creaked open. All four of them, including the Troll, froze.

Harry looked up just as a pair of shoes stepped into the room and a flash of yellow twisted in Harry’s vision. Harry wondered how many times the Professor would find them in this position; on the brink of death in the middle of Hogwarts, which was sounding like a not-very-safe school at the moment.

Professor Phoebus raised an eyebrow up at the Troll, which towered above him. “You know, I was looking forward to Samhain and the Feast. You know how long it’s been since I visited during this time?” His voice was calm, almost casual, as if confronting a massive troll were an everyday occurrence.

The Troll raised its club, and the Professor raised a pointed hand. “Ah! Patience! I’m trying to be kind here; it doesn’t happen often. Well, the food has been delicious, which makes me even more disappointed as to why I’m here, sacrificing a good meal just to save a couple of kids.”

Harry didn’t get time to translate what the Professor meant by that because the Troll roared and dropped its club down on the Professor. Harry blinked, half-expecting to see Professor dead on the floor. Instead, Phoebus merely side-stepped away from the Troll with his brows up to his hairline in disappointment.

“Were you even aiming for me?” the Professor asked, bringing a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. He glanced towards the three wizards on the ground, as if suddenly remembering their presence.

“Ah, should I act surprised that it’s you three?” Phoebus asked and waved his wand. The air shimmered in front of them, casting a barrier between them and the Troll, who was trying for another swing while the Professor was distracted.

Professor Phoebus spared the Troll a glance before he said, “I suggest you three turn away before Madam Pomfrey yells at me for giving children PTSD.”

“What—?” Ron began, but Hermione pushed both of them towards the ground.

“Confringo!” 

Something wet splattered across their backs, coloring the walls in front of them. The sound wasn’t much better, and Harry closed his eyes, listening as what he assumed was blood dripped off the wall. Gross, Harry decided.

“Bloody hell!” Ron said, immediately looking up. All three of them turned at the same time as what Harry realized as blood disappeared around them, the Professor waving his hand.

Phoebus waved his hand and wrinkled his nose, “Man, now I feel like throwing up.” He glanced towards them, and they glanced back at the dark burnt spot that was the Troll.

“It’s dead?” Hermione asked.

“If it isn't, I don’t know what would kill it,” Professor Phoebus drawled, pocketing his wand. He glanced at them again, eyes scanning them for any injury. He nodded after a moment, a smile appearing on his face. 

A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the four of them look up. Professor Phoebus turned around, his smile dropping, as what Harry assumed were the footsteps of Professors. Hermione let out a sound of relief and crashed down next to the two boys, forgetting about their argument.

“Well, since the three of you look like you’re about to pass out, I’ll guess I’ll be the one dealing with them. I didn’t even get a thank you,” Professor Phoebus said, observing them from his stance, a hand placed out on his chest mockingly.

“Thank you, Professor, for saving us,” the three of them chorused for what Harry thought was the third time that year already.

-

With his first Quidditch quickly approaching in November, Harry had done much to study with the help of Hermione, who quickly became their friend after that Troll incident. With Snape limping around and throwing five points off Gryffindor, it hadn’t made Harry the happiest person around. Even more so when he found out that Snape also knew about the three headed-dog inside the corridor. It had apparently bit him (found out via snooping).

They needed to plan—in case Snape tried anything. 

It was after a quick study session in the middle of November when Hermione said something. The lights of the common room fire danced across Hermione’s face as she pulled Harry and Ron to a desk near the window at the far corner of the room, far away from prying eyes.

It’s a chilly evening, and the warmth of the fire does little to ease the uneasy feeling that settled over Harry since the encounter with the troll. Miraculously since then, the eyes that often seemed to linger on Harry—the feeling of being watched—had disappeared since October.

That fact didn't help Harry at all. 

Harry’s mind buzzed with questions that refused to quiet down, and he knew his friends felt the same way when all of them seemed eager to talk.

Hermione leaned in as she placed her books on the table, as if they were doing homework. "We need to talk about what's under that trapdoor. What do you think it's hiding?"

Ron shrugged. "Dunno. Something big, I reckon. Hagrid said it's between Gringotts and Hogwarts for being the best at keeping things safe, remember? It must be important."

Harry glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "I've been thinking," he said quietly, "I saw Snape limping the other day. I'm sure he tried to sneak past that dog."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You think he was trying to get under the trapdoor?"

Harry nodded. "Why else would he be limping? It looked like he got bitten. Maybe he knows what's down there."

“Well, we’ve all seen his limp. You’d know he’s been bitten by the dog?” Ron asked.

“I, uh…” Harry’s face flushed, trying to not imagine their faces when they realize Harry snuck into Snape’s office. “I was looking for a book that I left behind in Snape's office after detention…” Harry began.

Hermione groaned and leaned back in her seat, her hands covering her face. 

“Please tell me you weren’t caught,” Ron said.

Harry remained stubbornly quiet.

“God…” Hermione said. She shook her head at Harry. “You’ve got a death wish! Besides… Snape's a professor. He’s not kind or anything but I don’t think he’d be trying to get in there…”

“Well, what else would he be in that room than? That dog is guarding that trapdoor, right? Snape would’ve gotten close to that door if he was bit,” Harry said.

Hermione tapped her chin, her mind working through the possibilities. "Snape has always been… intense. But he’s also very smart. He wouldn’t go down there without a reason."

The common room door swung open and a group of students entered, laughing and talking loudly. Ron nearly leapt out of his chair at the noise, face going red. Hermione covered a laugh behind her robe and tried to avoid Ron’s eye by watching the newcomers.

The Gryffindors dispersed quickly, all locating up in their dorms or closer to the fire, the sound of which filtered through the air. The sound made Harry pause.

"What about Professor Phoebus?" Harry suggested, turning back to the others. "He knows about the corridor. He showed up almost instantly when we were there."

Hermione nodded slowly. "That’s true. But his office is all the way up in the Astronomy Tower and he looked like he just got up. Besides… Professors can’t apparate in Hogwarts—It’s in the Hogwarts: A History book…”

“Uh huh,” Ron said, leaning back in his chair once again. “He saved us from the troll, didn’t he? Maybe he’s keeping an eye on things."

"Or he could be in on it," Harry said quietly. The few times when those eyes were watching him included when Professor Phoebus was in the room. The eyes were warning him earlier about Hermione… "He found us pretty quickly down in the dungeon.”

Hermione shook her head. "He did save us, Harry. And he hasn’t done anything to make us think he’s working with Snape."

"But what if he’s trying to find out what Snape’s up to?" Ron suggested. "He could be trying to stop him, right?"

“Should we tell Professor Phoebus?” Harry asked.

"We can’t just go around accusing professors of plotting, especially to other Professors," Hermione pointed out. "We need more information before we talk to anyone."

"Maybe we can follow Snape. See if he does anything suspicious," Ron said.

Harry nodded, feeling a rush of excitement. “Yeah—um. Maybe not me though, since he knows that I know about the bite on his leg.”

“Great job Harry,” Ron drawled.

“Hey!” Harry protested, “I just wanted my book back.”

“You wouldn’t be in that position in the first place if you weren’t in detention,” Hermione added, her lips quirking up.

“Great, both of you guys are teaming up on me,” Harry complained.

Hermione rolled her eyes and said, “Whatever. Look, all three of us share the same Astronomy class. Maybe we can hint to Professor Phoebus about the trapdoor and the dog from there and figure everything out from there.”

“Sounds great,” Ron yawned, “Yo, Professor Phoebus! You know that dog that we ran into a couple months ago? I just had a dream that there was a trapdoor hidden underneath of it, crazy right? I think the constellations are trying to tell me something!” 

Ron’s cut off by Hermione smacking him with her book. “That’s not what I meant!” She hisses out.

“Blimey,” Ron says, rubbing his arm. “You have an arm of steel or something?”

“Yes! Now, our next class with Professor Phoebus is tomorrow night while our next class with Snape is Monday. Let’s try and figure out what’s going on before Christmas, okay?”

“Okay,” Ron and Harry echoed.

Chapter Text

Professor Phoebus had managed to avoid them throughout both Thursday’s and Friday’s classes, much to Hermione’s frustration. She was so annoyed that she started combing through her constellation textbooks in the hopes of catching Professor Phoebus’s attention. It was all for nothing.

“Well,” Hermione said later that night, “we still have next week.”

“He’ll avoid us next week too,” Ron complained, laying his head down on the desk in front of them.

“We have until Christmas,” Hermione replied, trying to sound optimistic. “Hopefully. Harry, have you found anything about that dog we could use?”

But Harry wasn’t paying attention. He had a Quidditch match in the morning, and just the thought of playing in front of the entire school made his stomach flip. “Can we do this tomorrow?” Harry asked, hoping to escape any more planning.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and for a moment, Harry thought he might’ve just summoned an ancient evil. Thankfully, her gaze slid to the clock on the wall, which was just about to hit 11 o’clock.

“Fine,” Hermione sighed. “In the meantime, we’ll have to ask Hagrid about that dog.”

“Are we sure it’s even a dog?” Ron mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Hermione blinked once, twice, and then a third time before she gasped. “You’re right! Well, that gives me an idea—”

Ron blinked, looking half-conscious, and asked, “I’m right?”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. She turned to Harry. “Good luck tomorrow, Harry.” Without another word, Hermione practically ran to her dorm.

“What do you reckon that's about?” Ron asked, lifting his head slightly.

“Dunno,” Harry replied, still thinking about the Quidditch match.

-

Quidditch had been a near disaster since Hermione hadn’t been able to stop Snape in time. They’d failed to convince Hagrid about Snape—but there was nothing else they could do. They couldn’t exactly storm up to Dumbledore’s office and demand that Snape be fired.

Later that day, when Harry, Hermione, and Ron met with Hagrid, he said something that made Hermione absolutely thrilled. He mentioned a dog he called Fluffy.

“What is it?” Ron asked once they returned to the castle, climbing the staircase.

Hermione turned around, a smirk on her face. “I just learned something very important, thanks to him mentioning that dog from a Greek man.”

“Like what?”

“It’s related to a constellation I was researching that I could use when asking Professor Phoebus.”

Ron yawned. “Even if you do catch Professor Phoebus with whatever you're planning, what do you even want to get from him?”

“Something about that trapdoor,” Hermione said, as if it were simple.

Ron and Harry exchanged a look.

-

Hermione was brimming with excitement by the time Thursday rolled around, leaving Ron and Harry racing up the stairs to catch up with her. Once they reached the top of the tower, where the November air drifted between the stones, Hermione slowed her pace and walked to the nearest table. 

Hermione glanced briefly at the Professor, who was busy stacking parchment on the table in front of him. He didn’t seem too thrilled to be there, and Harry didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t be happy either.

They took their usual spots near the doors to the balconies. Hermione turned around in her spot and leaned in. “Now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t try to look suspicious.”

“We’re whispering. We’re the most suspicious we’ve ever been,” Ron whispered back.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, I am just warning you two. Both of you look at one another whenever we try to bring something up with a Professor.”

“Do not,” Ron argued.

“Do too.”

Ron looked ready to argue further, his mouth open and everything. Thankfully, the Astronomy door slammed shut, making Ron nearly jump out of his chair.

“Bloody hell…” Ron said, his face turning a dark shade of red.

Up at the front of the desk, the Professor looked up at the class, a small smile playing on his lips. No doubt he did it on purpose. 

“Today,” the Professor said, his voice smooth. “We’ll be continuing with the constellations and identifying them.”

A bit of a groan rose up from the students.

Phoebus raised his hands in defense. “Look, if it's what the Ministry wants, I have to teach it. Besides, I suspect they figured out if I tried to teach you kids how to use more powerful magic, Hogwarts would be reduced to rubble.”

He shrugged. “You’ll be with the boring magical theory part for the first semester. Second semester is where the fun begins. Of course, first you’ll have to choose the constellation you want though… which is why we’re doing it in the first place.”

There’s still a murmur of discontent in the room and the Professor rolled his eyes. “Tough crowd I guess,” he mused and raised his wand. All the balconies opened.

“Now go out, shoo, I don’t want to hear any of you complaining for the next hour, got it?” Professor Phoebus said.

No one had to be told twice.

The three of them rose from their seats, Hermione glancing periodically back at the Professor as they made their way to the balcony.

“There goes your plan,” Ron said, setting his stargazing map on the balcony. Hermione scowled and followed them outside, reaching for the telescope.

“Well,” she breathed, “I can always come up with a better idea.” She glanced once more to the side before reaching for Ron’s star chart.

“Hey,” Ron said, trying to grab it. Hermione walked backward, pushing herself away from him. “I made that myself, y’know?”

“It looks like a chicken wrote it,” Hermione said, flipping it over.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t steal it!”

Hermione scowled. “I’m not-” Her eyes slid over the starchart until she looked further down. Her lip twitched. She turned back to the boys.

“Well, I’ve got an idea now,” she said, stalking off toward the Professor, who seemed to be holding a Walkman.

“She took my star chart with her,” Ron said mournfully, watching it go like it was his life savings. Maybe it was—Harry hadn’t seen Ron try so hard on a project before.

Weaving through the desk, Hermione made her way towards Phoebus, who looked up at her as she approached. “Ah, Miss Granger,” he said, placing the walkman down on the desk in front of him. “What can I do for you?”

Harry knew that Professor Phoebus already knows what they’re asking for. He managed to avoid them last week too. It was almost impressive.

Hermione placed the star chart down on the desk in front of him and hesitated for a moment, letting her hands freeze in the air. 

“Professor, I was wondering if you could help me with something related to Astronomy.”

“Oh?” He said, eyes glimmering, as if knowing exactly where this was heading. He leaned back in his seat, placing his hands under his head. Well, we failed this time, Harry thought mournfully. He knows what we’re asking about. Hermione trudged forward though.

“Well,” she began, her voice steady, “I was researching the constellation Vulpecula, as it’s pretty unknown, right? I’m thinking of doing that for the year end project.”

“And do you plan on using most of your magical theorem speculating its meaning or do you want to try and use it for stargazing and extracting magic?” The Professor asked.

“Both,” Hermione said. She reached out and dragged her finger to the bottom of the map, where the constellation was located.

“Below it, here, is a goose and further down is Cebereus. Its meaning is usually one thing and it also correlates to some other constellations. The fox brings the goose as an offering to Cerberus as a distraction. I was wondering, since other constellations correlate with myths, if a similar story is the same for this.”

Professor Phoebus smirked and leaned forward in his desk, his voice lowering. “No, there’s no myth. One of the few actually, making the constellation a bit weaker than other ones in turn of prediction and channeling but…” He paused and looked up at Hermione for a moment, a smile appearing on his face.

Maybe he gave in to us, Harry thought, didn’t want to hear us talking to him again. 

“A clever fox using its wits to bypass a dangerous guardian, a very telling story for those who wish to overcome an obstacle in the future. It’s a reminder that sometimes, cleverness can beat strength,” the Professor said.

“And what do you think? Why do Astronomers say the fox is offering Cerberus a goose as a distraction?” Hermione asked.

“I thought I was supposed to be the Professor,” Phoebus mused.

Hermione paused and Phoebus grinned. “I thinks it’s time for you to head back to the balcony and return Mr. Weasley’s star chart. I heard he worked quite hard on it. It’d be a shame for it to suddenly disappear,” the Professor said, leaning backwards.

Hermione gripped the star chart in her hands as Ron and Harry froze. Well, he knew all along. But at least…

“It wasn’t as bad today,” Ron said, snapping Harry out his thoughts.

He nodded and watched as Hermione, who looked positively annoyed, walked back towards them, scrunching up the star chart in her hands.

Ron’s face crumbled. “Not my star chart!”

Hermione just groaned and gave the chart back to Ron. “I was so close!” Hermione said, kicking the railing. 

Harry glanced back at the Professor, who was watching them with a smirk.  

“I even got him to mention Cerberus! And cleverness and-!” Hermione stopped midway through her rant and her eyes went wide.

“What? Hermione?” Ron said, pocketing the star chart away in his robes, away from danger and grabby hands. “You can’t just stand there.”

Hermione snapped her gaze back to Professor Phoebus, who was now focused on other kids searching for constellations in the sky. “He did it by accident,” Hermione whispered.

“Uh, did what on accident?” Ron said.

“He called Cerberus a guardian,” Hermione answered. Her lips parted into a grin.

“Okay, so the dogs guarding a trapdoor… we know that…” Ron said, blinking.

Hermione shook her head. “No, it’s guarding something else, whether it's a trapdoor. If the Professor called the dog dangerous, then something of equal danger is down below,” she said.

“Hagrid mentioned Nicholas Flamel, remember?” Harry said.

Hermione’s eyes lit up. “And I think that’s the piece of the puzzle,” Hermione said. “We’ve got to figure out who he is and what he’s done.”

Ron looked skeptical. “And how do you think we’ll figure that out?” 

Hermione raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, if we’re given until Christmas, we have a whole month to search the library for him.”

Ron didn’t look as happy as Hermione did.

-

It was two days until Christmas, and they still haven’t even seen the name Nicholas Flamel in books, not even in passing. Hermione looked beyond annoyed.

Walking back from Potions class, they stopped in the front hall, where Hagrid was putting up a Christmas tree. Hermione wasn’t with them, muttering about getting ready for the Christmas break. It’s a fair point, Harry thought as they paused to watch Hagrid. I suppose I’d want to visit my parents too, if I had any.

“Hi, Hagrid, want any help?” Ron asked, sticking his head through the branches.

"Nah, I'm all right, thanks, Ron,” Hagrid said with a wave.

Unfortunately, Harry and Ron weren’t the only ones leaving Potions class. Harry could recognize that cold drawl anywhere.

“Can’t you two move out of the way?” Malfoy said, his voice dripping with disdain. Annoyance surged through Harry as he turned to face Malfoy, who was eyeing them with a smirk. “Looking for a bit of extra money? I hear they’re hiring for the gamekeeper’s assistant. Maybe you could finally afford some decent robes.”

Ron’s ears turned a furious shade of red as his hand twitched toward his wand. This won’t go well, Harry thought, glancing around to see if any Professors were nearby. “Shut it, Malfoy!” Ron snapped.

Harry saw a flash of gold in his peripheral vision. 

“Touchy, aren’t we?” Malfoy said with a smirk. “Honestly, Weasley, you should consider it. It’d be a step up from that ramshackle house of yours.”

Ron lunged but before he could reach him, a silky voice cut through the tension like a knife. “Weasley,” Snape snapped and everyone froze. Harry turned his head to see Snape ascending the staircase, his black robes billowing behind him like shadows.

Not the Professor I was hoping for, Harry cursed, glancing sideways at Hagrid.

“What do you think you’re doing, attacking another student?” Snape demanded.

Ron let go of the front of Malfoy's robes, glaring at him. 

“He was provoked, Professor Snape,” said Hagrid, sticking his huge, hairy face out from behind the tree. “Malfoy was insultin’ his family.”

“Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid,” said Snape silkily. “Twenty points from Gryffindor.”

Ron gaped, mouth open. Before he had a chance to speak, a new voice chimed in, from somewhere above. “Really, Professor? Showing favouritism in front of students? How very unprofessional…” A voice mused. The gold that Harry spotted came into full view as Professor Phoebus descended the stairs, a stack of paperwork floating beside him.

Snape’s eyes narrowed on Professor Phoebus as he came to stand beside Harry, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. Warmth seemed to pulse through Harry.

“Favourtism? I merely saw the boy try and attack Mr. Malfoy here…” Snape’s eyes trailed over to Draco, who nodded, making a show of grabbing his arm.

“Oh? Well, you seemed quite insistent even after you heard from Hagrid about what happened,” Professor Phoebus said. “But, alas, I don’t want to cause drama—as much as there already is—so I know how to settle this.”

He raised a hand, grinning. Draco’s smile faltered, and Harry tried his best to hide his grin. 

“If Mr. Weasley is docked twenty points from Gryffindor for grazing another kid’s arm, perhaps Mr. Malfoy ought to serve detention for belittling his peers based on social standing. I’m sure Professor Dumbledore would find such behaviour unbecoming of a Slytherin, especially one so high in his social class. Sets a bad example, don’t you think?”

Snape’s expression darkened, a muscle twitching in his jaw. With another Professor in the room, Snape couldn’t do anything. His lips thinned, and he nodded. “Very well,” he said, his voice clipped.

Professor Phoebus clapped his hands, “Perfect! Mr. Malfoy, detention with me tomorrow at 8 PM!”

“Tomorrow?” Draco asked, looking scandalized. “But—”

The Professor raised an eyebrow at him and Draco closed his mouth.

Draco’s face twisted for a moment before nodding, glaring once more at Ron and Harry before disappearing down the hall, Snape behind him. Professor Phoebus watched them with an amused look.

Waiting until they turned the hallway, Ron let out a laugh. “That was brilliant!” He paused, glancing at the Professor. 

“Thank you! Man, I thought I was dead there and—” Ron said, running a hand through his hair.

Professor Phoebus smirked and raised a hand to shush him. “I know, I know, I’m the best Professor in the world, no need to say that; someone might overhear.”

“That’s not what I—”

“But,” Professor Phoebus said. “Please try to keep your voices down and not get into fights. It’s giving me headaches, honestly. If you’re going to kill him, try to do it where no one can see, yeah?”

“Professor—!”

Phoebus clapped his hands, glancing at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “Well, look at the time,” he said. “I think I have a meeting with McGonagall. Hm, no, maybe it’s Snape. Oh, that would be awkward.”

He spun around and glanced at Ron and Harry. “Good luck!” he called as he disappeared down the hall.

Ron and Harry exchanged looks. “What was that about?” Harry asked.

“Maybe he’s just weird,” Ron said. “I’m starting to think it's not an American thing.”

“Probably,” Harry agreed.

-

To a being like him, stepping into Hogwarts for the first time was like watching life itself unfurl its wings in welcome. Even months later, the feeling hadn’t faded. It was like a presence, not quite a ghost or a shadow, but something less tangible—something mortals wouldn’t sense.

An observer, in a sense, lingering through corridors, letting its heart beat through the old stone slabs of the building. Strings seemed to weave through the castle, and with every tug, staircases would move and classrooms disappeared.

Sentient but not corporeal, in a sense.

The presence seemed to exist in the spaces between moments, in the flicker of candlelight against dark wood and the faint rustle of parchment in a quiet room. It watched the castle breathe, felt the pulse of magic that resonated through every stone and crevice. It was aware of the ancient wards that protected the castle, the intricate web of spells woven by powerful witches and wizards long ago. The presence knew the castle's secrets—the hidden passageways, the forgotten rooms, the echoes of past conversations that lingered in the air.

In the Astronomy Tower, the presence sensed a professor who sat waiting. In the same way, the professor was aware of it too. Naturally, they would notice one another—why wouldn’t they?

Hogwarts was alive, aware of every presence within its walls. It cherished those who celebrated it and watched its students and every living person as if they were its own children. It observed the professor the night before Christmas, with the sun lowering on its walls, as he sat at his desk. After all, it is odd to see a being older than itself walk through its halls, aware of it. Aware of the binding magic it holds.

Yet, when the older being looked up, it was gone, its attention turning to another who was currently walking up the stairs to the tower. The steps were muddled, lingering at every step and stopping to look out at every window given the opportunity.

It watched a while longer before disappearing from that part of the building, deciding to observe the outcome later. As it always did.

-

The Astronomy Tower was empty, save for the Professor sitting at the desk near the back of the room. A large telescope sat in the middle of the room, its scope directed to the sky above. The Professor was just about to retreat back into his office and brew coffee (re: magic it into existence) when he heard footsteps fall short just before the door in front of him.

The professor paused, a smile tugging at his lips as he tilted his head to the side, fingers brushing his wand. He waited. Right on the dot at 8 PM, Draco Malfoy opened the door quietly, as if trying to sneak into the class unnoticed.

The Professor raised his head and leaned back in his seat, not bothering to pretend like he wasn’t waiting for the kid.

The Christmas period was always the dullest to him, especially since his family never celebrated it. Perhaps what made it worse was that he was far from home. Still, it pleased him to know that he wouldn’t be the only one suffering tonight. Tomorrow morning, the students will be going home to their families for the holidays. What better way to end the term than with detention?

Maybe I am a bit petty, he thought, twirling his wand idly. 

He watched as the blond boy approached, head held surprisingly high. Perhaps Draco was mustering the courage to demand the detention be dropped. Upon reaching the desk, the eleven-year-old lifted his chin and announced, “I’m here, exactly at 8 PM.”

“Amazing observation skills. I’m glad your senses haven’t been dulled by the walk,” the Professor mused, resting his chin on his hand. 

The kid’s nostrils flared. “My father—”

“Yes, yes. He’ll be very upset to hear that you were insulting another pureblood family in front of the Harry Potter in the middle of the Hogwarts entrance hall, with other students milling around. I’m sure that one spread fast. If he cares about his social standing, I’m sure your father would understand the need for detention,” Phoebus interrupted, causing Draco to open and close his mouth in frustration.

If he wanted to say anything else, he didn’t. “Please sit,” he said, gesturing to the desk in front of him. Draco hesitated, but when Phoebus levitated the textbooks onto the desk, the boy sat down.

“Professor,” Draco started, looking at the books with curled lips. “What do you expect me to do with this?”

The professor smiled. “You’re a smart kid with good grades. I’m sure you want to improve them with a 500-word essay about one of the Unforgivable Curses.”

He leaned forward, hiding his smile behind a neutral expression. “You have until 10 PM to write it and submit it, detailing the aftereffects of one of the curses. Depending on its grade, I’ll give you extra marks on your lowest project.”

Draco glanced between the three textbooks and then back at the professor, a scowl set in place. “Good luck.”

After a moment, Draco reached for the nearest textbook, which happened to be about the Imperius Curse, before looking over the rest of them. Phoebus raised a hand to cover his smile as Draco returned to the Imperius book. The obvious choice—the one with the most detailed effects.

Draco didn’t complain as he wrote the essay, though his eyebrows did rise at certain points. Some of his expressions and attitude reminded him of another kid at Camp—

The professor pushed the thought away as it crawled up his throat, feeling like decay and mist, tearing at him. It was so sudden that he scratched the chair back as he stood, making Draco freeze in his seat. Bursts of light expanded in his vision, momentarily overpowering his sight. 

He mustered off an excuse to Draco before he stumbled into the office behind him, locking the door.

His vision blurred as something clawed through his consciousness, forcing itself forward. He could see it now: crying, blood—a maze—a sword lay broken, the hilt in the hands of someone not—

The vision tore away so suddenly that the god stumbled into his desk, sending parchment flying across the room. The cords of magic around him, intertwined with the castle's magic, hummed and surged forward.

 It didn’t help.

Though the room was quiet, thousands of voice-old and young-cackled and sang in his ears. Apollo could not tell left from right or what was up and what was down. Has it always been this bad?

Then one, one that sounded like an old crone, broke free from the rest and boomed over his consciousness. It was just for a flicker of a moment, the decay that had been pent up under his lungs sprang free.

It was not powerful enough to say the whole verse.

To storm or fire

The world must fall.

And the gods' vision darkened.

-

The door locked shut behind Professor Phoebus with a click. 

Draco paused, his quill hovering above the parchment, eyebrows raised. The professor didn’t return for one minute, then another. Maybe he died, Draco thought hopefully. Then I wouldn’t have to write this bloody essay.

He glanced down at his desk, disappointed to see the half-written essay still there. On one hand, the professor was gone—who leaves a student by themselves? He could hypothetically stall for time, maybe even cheat. But on the other hand, it might be a test to see if he would actually write the essay without supervision.

Draco sighed, tapping his quill against the parchment. He glanced around the room, taking in the cluttered shelves and dimly lit corners. Professor Phoebus was a strange man, no doubt about it. At first, Draco had thought it was because he was an American wizard. His father said they all had some sort of odd customs overseas, forgetting themselves and social standings…

Draco scowled, glaring at the setting sun. It was infuriating enough to get detention for something that wasn’t even his fault. All he did was point out the obvious truth about Weasley’s situation. Why should he be punished for speaking the truth? Though it’s true I shouldn’t have spoken out loud in front of everybody…

Detention with Professor Phoebus was turning out to be a whole different level of aggravating. Writing about the Unforgivable Curses as a punishment was ridiculous. Everyone knew about the curses; everyone knew what they did and why they were forbidden. It wasn’t like he needed to write an essay to understand their implications.

Draco looked at the list of curses he'd scribbled down earlier: Cruciatus, Imperius, and the Killing Curse. 

Why did he have to choose one to write about, anyway? It wasn’t like he had a personal connection to any of them. Well, except maybe for the Imperius Curse, which was something his father always mentioned when recounting the wizarding wars. His father didn’t mention it much, nor did his mom, but he was under the imperius curse during You-Know-Who’s rise to power and only broke free after his defeat. 

Draco leaned back in his chair, pondering it. It might give me a good grade if I had connections to it…

Draco opened the textbook and sifted through the pages until he found one that had the page curled up—probably what he was looking for. The after effects of the imperius curse, read the cover.

His gaze trailed over the words, picking up on important information here and there. Most of it included Death Eaters, which Draco wasn’t surprised about in the slightest. …Freed from his control…they still sometimes revert…reflexes are retained…Would slip up and make anti-muggleborn rhetoric remarks by accident…all from the years of the curse…

His gaze drifted over the next page, about a description from a witch from the 1940s and her experience. “It was horrible, indeed. The words slipped from my mouth or I would be acting out what the curse instructed of me… It was like a shadow over my mind and a stain on my soul…whispering commands to me even though I was still in control.” Below the statement, the textbook stated that the woman underwent for eleven years before she fully recovered.

How awful, Draco thought, even after being relieved of the curse, you’d still be forced to follow something you don’t want to do.

It takes Draco more than he wished to admit to fully realize what that textbook implied for him. By that point, he had already written the final paragraph and placed the parchment on the Professor’s desk. 

Well, Draco thought, hurrying down the Astronomy Tower. It doesn’t really mean anything. Not really. Father’s always hated them before You-know-who came into power. Father has a reason and so do I.

With that thought, his mind eased, and he continued down to the dungeons, his legs aching. It was only when he boarded the train the next morning that he realized Professor Phoebus had not seen him off the night before (Draco did knock on the door, mind you). Draco had sat there for an hour writing that essay, and the professor hadn’t returned once!

Well, if he did die, he should’ve done it after marking my essay, Draco thought, bemused. That would be an hour of my life I wouldn’t be getting back otherwise.

-

After the Mirror or Erised and the forbidden section of the library, Harry desperately needed a spot to clear his head. He was glad that Ron stayed behind for Christmas (with the rest of his brothers) but he needed some time to breathe. Two more days to go and classes will return…

And so, Harry made his way towards the Owlrey, hoping to find some solace there. It was usually quiet as not many people go to deliver messages in the middle of the day. Plus, it was the middle of winter break, so Harry was certain there was nobody there.

He was mistaken.

Climbing up the steps, Harry paused as he rounded the corner. He saw Professor Phoebus standing near the edge of the tower, his blonde hair tucked underneath a hat, a scarf nearly covering his mouth. In the Professor’s hands was a letter, his gaze quickly going over the words.

Harry didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the letters were big and large and definitely not English. 

Feeling a bit guilty, Harry took a step backwards, inadvertently catching the professor's attention.

The Professor raised his head, his hands immediately folding and pocketing the letter away. His face shifted into a smile and said, “Harry, right?”

Harry nodded mutely.

"No need to retreat, my friend. Just catching up on some owl mail,” the professor said, patting the owl perched beside him, which trilled contentedly under his touch. Harry hadn’t even noticed the owl before.

"Sorry, Professor, I didn't mean to interrupt," Harry said quietly, feeling the familiar twinge of awkwardness that seemed to accompany him whenever he encountered a professor.

It’s better than anger, Harry reasoned.

The professor waved a hand dismissively. “As long as you didn’t bring up a girl. I love playing matchmaker, but gods, I hate having to shoo what feels like hundreds of kids making out in the Owlery. You get it?”

Harry did not.

“Sure,” Harry said, glancing towards Hedwig, who appeared at the far end of the Owlery with a soft hoot.

Get me out here, Harry tried to translate to the owl with his eyes. Hedwig didn’t even blink.

No such luck.

Harry took a step forward, intending to walk past the Professor, when he felt a set of cold hands wrap around his spine. Harry froze—he could see Professor Phoebus, but he wasn’t anywhere near him. Then, he could feel the eyes again, in his back, glaring into him.

“Harry?” A faraway voice asked. Harry snapped back to attention to see Phoebus looking straight at him, his eyebrows raised.

“Just the cold,” Harry got out. 

“It’s not—“

“Do you come up here often?” Harry blurted out, interrupting the Professor. “I mean, like, I guess it’d be a longer wait if you’re messaging people overseas, right?”

The professor’s brows went up in surprise and said, “...To the owlery?”

Feeling a bit awkward, Harry nodded. 

Maybe Professor Phoebus felt sorry for him because he played along.

“No, I sent a message earlier this week and just received the reply now,” he said, tapping his pocket. 

Harry nodded, shifting uneasily. His hands fidgeted behind his back.

The wind picked up, and snow began to fall from the clouds, swirling around them. The two stood in silence, the Professor seemingly content to wait Harry out.

Unfortunately, Harry lost the battle and finally said, “How, um, why did you decide to become a professor?”

“Skipping the small talk, Mr. Potter?” Phoebus asked, turning away to lean toward the owl, who glared at the approaching storm with disdain.

Harry’s mind raced. Well, I turned things completely awkward now. Who even asks that question? Especially to a Professor… “I mean, you don’t have to say anything—” Harry backtracked, forcing his hands to still behind his back.

The Professor laughed and Harry blinked owlishly as Professor Phoebus turned around. “Am I making things too awkward? You looked like you were about to pass out,” he teased. He winked at Harry, smiling.

“Don’t worry, it just reminded me of the old days,” The Professor continued, reaching out to pet his owl. 

“Old days?” Harry asked skeptically. Looking at the Professor, the man didn’t look a day over 30, at the most. Harry wouldn’t say it out loud: It would do nothing but boost Professor’s Phoebus’s ego. 

Professor Phoebus snorted and pursed his lips. “I can give a haiku about it in short—”

“No thank you,” Harry said quickly. Then, when the Professor turned to him, Harry added, “It’d be better just tell me without the poem stuff…”

He hoped he didn’t sound too mean.

Professor Phoebus looked slightly disappointed. “Well, in short, I found an abandoned baby centaur in the woodland near my home. I raised that centaur myself and watched him become quite powerful.” 

Centaurs exist? Harry thought. He hadn’t realized that until about two seconds ago. Would it be weird to ask him what centaurs are like?

The Professor wiped a fake tear from his eyes, “I was so proud—still am. From then, I realized then that I had a knack for teaching."

Harry narrowed his eyes, trying to imagine the Professor raising a baby half-horse, half-human. He failed. “You raised a centaur?” 

The professor nodded proudly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Indeed. Not your average childhood, I suppose. Seeing someone you've guided succeed—it's a feeling like no other, especially if you see them go on to crush their enemies and k—“ He stopped himself short and gave Harry a cheery smile.

I might be talking to a serial killer right now, Harry thought, narrowing his eyes.

The Professor’s hands drifted towards his pocket and a frown appeared on his face so quickly it felt like whiplash. 

“Professor—?” Harry started.

“Go on,” the Professor said abruptly, gesturing towards Hedwig. “I’ve got to be going now.” 

The Professor vanished down the stairs with surprising speed, leaving Harry staring at the empty space where Phoebus had stood. Harry hesitated, then glanced towards the stairs, his head tilted in confusion. What was that about?

-

December turned into February, which turned into March. They were running low on time. They found who Nicholas Flammel was and from there, they figured out what was hidden under the trapdoor. Now more than ever, they needed to find a way to keep Snape from getting past Fluffy while protecting Quirrel.

During their latest visit to Hagrid, he seemed adamant on the fact that Snape wouldn’t be trying to steal the stone, but the three of them weren’t so sure. But at least it seems like Hagrid was the only one who knew how to get past Fluffy.

“And Professor Phoebus too. He even gave us a hint!” Hermione had said when Harry pointed it out.

“So you think Snape’s going to threaten Professor Phoebus into telling him how to get past Fluffy?” Ron asked.

“Hm, it does sound unlikely now that you say it,” Hermione said. “He’d have a better shot at threatening Hagrid.”

“Well,” Harry said. “Professor Phoebus gave a hint, didn’t he? He could’ve given one to Snape too.”

“I doubt Snape cares about Astronomy enough to figure out what Phoebus means,” Ron grumbled.

They left the conversation at that and it wasn’t brought up again for sometime. And, for the remaining couple of weeks, things were going smoothly, except for the whole dragon egg thing. They lost a total of 50 points collectively from the whole ordeal.

They might have lost more if Hermione hadn’t come up with a quick excuse, claiming they’d left some important Astronomy paperwork behind, which would severely impact their grades if lost.

Professor McGonagall had been suspicious and told them she’d ask Professor Phoebus in the morning. When morning came and McGonagall didn’t show up in their common room, red with anger, Harry knew that Professor Phoebus had bluffed for them.

They didn’t get a chance to thank him before their detention, which Harry was already dreading. He would be going into the Forbidden Forest with Hermione, Neville, and Malfoy. Surprisingly, the boy was oddly quiet.

-

At 11 PM, guided by Filch, they arrived at the forest’s edge, where Hagrid awaited them.

Looking out at the Forbidden Forest, with Draco complaining incessantly, Harry tried to ignore the pounding of his heart.

“Hagrid,” Hermione began, her voice tinged with anxiety, “Headmaster Dumbledore said the Forbidden Forest was too dangerous and that there are creatures in there that eat people.”

“Dumbledore ain’t said nothin’ on that part,” Hagrid rumbled, dismissing her fears with a wave of his hand.

“What if we’re attacked?” Harry asked suddenly. They weren’t even in the forest yet, but he could feel eyes on him, waiting for him to enter.

Hagrid’s gaze turned toward the castle, nearly invisible against the dark night. “Yeh ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. Yeh’ll survive.”

He didn’t wait for the others to voice more concerns. With the four of them following closely, Hagrid led the way into the Forbidden Forest.

-

Harry could feel blood pooling in his mouth, which sounded scary at first until Harry realized he face planted into the ground. Groaning, Harry turned over onto his back, blinking his vision back into focus, trying to piece together what just happened.

Him, Neville and Hagrid came across a dead unicorn and whatever was feeding on it and… Harry blinked again. Neville and Harry took off running and got separated somewhere along the lines.

Well, Harry thought, if that monster was chasing me, I would’ve been dead by now.

Harry started to prop himself forward, his elbows raised on the ground, when a person appeared in front of him. 

Harry froze.

Harry looked up slowly, thinking he thought too soon. Fortunately, his eyes landed on a centaur. It wasn’t Ronan or Bane, two centaurs he found earlier with Hagrid.No, this one was younger, with white-blond hair and a palomino body.

“Are you all right?” said the centaur, pulling Harry to his feet.

“Yes—thank you—what was that?” 

Harry’s gaze scanned the trees, as if expecting that monster to pop out again at any moment.

The centaur didn't answer. He looked carefully at Harry, his eyes lingering on the scar which stood out, livid, on Harry's forehead. “You are the Potter boy,” he said. “You had better get back to Hagrid. The Forest is not safe at this time—especially for you, even if you’re being protected by him.”

Harry blinked, huh? Who? Hagrid?

“Can you ride? It will be quicker this way. My name is Firenze,” he added, as he lowered himself onto his front legs so that Harry could clamber onto his back. There was suddenly a sound of more galloping from the other side of the clearing. Ronan and Bane came bursting through the trees, their flanks heaving and sweaty.

“Firenze!” Bane thundered. “What are you doing? You have a human on your back! Have you no shame? Are you a common mule?”

“Do you realize who this is?” said Firenze. “This is the Potter boy. His scent is of the Sun. The quicker he leaves this Forest, the better.”

“What have you been telling him?” growled Bane. 'Remember, Firenze, we are sworn not to set ourselves against the heavens. Have we not read what is to come in the movements of the planets?”

Ronan pawed the ground nervously.

“I'm sure Firenze thought he was acting for the best, especially with one of them here,” he said, in his gloomy voice.

Bane kicked his back legs in anger.

“For the best! What is that to do with us? Centaurs are concerned with what has been foretold! It is not our business to run around like donkeys after stray humans in our Forest! It might’ve been acceptable if it was a half-one! But this?”

Firenze suddenly reared on to his hind legs in anger, so that Harry had to grab his shoulders to stay on.

“Do you not see that unicorn?” Firenze bellowed at Bane. “Do you not understand why it was killed? Or have the planets not let you in on that secret? I set myself against what is lurking in this Forest, Bane, yes, with humans—halflings or not—alongside me if I must.”

And Firenze whisked around; with Harry clutching on as best he could, they plunged off into the trees, leaving Ronan and Bane behind them. Harry didn't have a clue what was going on. 

-

They were eventually found by the others, just outside the forbidden forest.

“Harry! Harry, are you all right?”

Hermione was running towards them down the path, Hagrid puffing along behind her.

 “I'm fine,” said Harry, hardly knowing what he was saying. “The unicorn's dead, Hagrid, it's in that clearing back there.”

“This is where I leave you,” Firenze murmured as Hagrid hurried off to examine the unicorn. “You are safe now. He is able to watch over you again now.”

Harry slid off his back, feeling confused. Who is ‘he?’—Hagrid? It has to be…

“Good luck, Harry Potter,” said Firenze. “The planets have been read wrongly before now, even by centaurs. I hope this is one of those times. May the gods be in your favour.”

He turned and cantered back into the depths of the Forest, leaving Harry shivering behind him. 

-

On the day of their last exam, in such a heat, was the day that Harry, Hermione and Ron realized that Snape finally figured out how to get past Fluffy. For the next two hours, they did everything in their power to keep an eye on Snape and the forbidden corridor but they had no luck. 

After Hermione returned from her attempted stake out near the forbidden corridor, near Professor Flitwick's classroom, they had run out of ideas. 

“By the time Dumbledore returns from the ministry, the stone will be gone…” Ron complained.

Hermione, in a sudden rush, jumped to her feet in a flourish that made all the parchment nearby fly away. “I’ve got it,” Hermione said.

Ron and Harry both looked at her as if she had gone mad. “Are you okay?” Ron asked, sounding very sincere. 

“Yes! We’ll ask Professor Phoebus!”

“To what, exactly…?”

“He’ll go down there himself, I’m sure of it!”

Ron and Harry shared skeptical looks. Hermione rolled her eyes and said, “Look, if it doesn’t work, say, we could use Harry’s invisibility cloak.”

The boys hesitated for a moment before Harry nodded. “Well, we don’t exactly have any other choice,” Harry said.

Hermione beamed. 

-

They practically raced toward the Astronomy Tower, which was on the other side of the castle. By the time they reached the top of the tower, the sun was beginning to set, and dinner was about to end. They had to skip it; they didn’t have a choice.

“We’re going to be late,” Hermione said breathlessly, reaching the final step with a deep breath. Harry felt the same—he was leaning against the railing to catch his breath. Hermione swung the door open and immediately ran inside.

Ron and Harry followed a moment later and stopped short, finding the classroom empty. “Uh…Hermione, he’s not here,” Ron whispered.

“He could be downstairs in the Great Hall for dinner,” Harry said, feeling his stomach drop. Had they just wasted twenty minutes climbing up here for nothing?

“There,” Hermione said, pointing toward the office door. “He might still be in there.”

They crossed the room quickly, and Hermione knocked firmly on the office door. They waited a moment, listening for any sound on the other side. Nothing. Hermione knocked a bit more furiously. 

“Hermione…” Ron began but stopped as footsteps creaked beyond the door.

After a few seconds, the door opened to reveal Professor Phoebus, who looked slightly surprised to see them standing there. “Ah,” the Professor says, glancing between each of them, as if trying to sense which of them thought that this was a good idea. “Of course it’d be you three to knock on my door.”

Hermione flushed. “Sorry Professor but—”

“You did well on your exam and I’m afraid that no amount of compliments will get you a higher grade,” Professor Phoebus interrupted.

Hermione opened and closed her mouth in surprise, though she did look slightly pleased. “Really? Did I—?”

“Professor,” Harry interrupted, feeling the need to not mention Snape’s name, continued. “It’s not that. It’s about the stone! Someone’s going to break into the Forbidden corridor and grab it! They’re going to—“

“Steal it?” The Professor asked, stepping out into the classroom, closing the door behind him. “Lovely story, but I doubt they can get past Cerberus.”

Hermione shook her head. “They planned it out beforehand! They questioned Hagrid about the dogs weaknesses beforehand and they got the information from him! You’ve got to do something.”

Professor Phoebus sighed and glanced outside the tower, at the sun setting before them. His eyes were dark. “I’m sure that you’re telling the truth, but I’m afraid I can’t help,” he said.

Hermione froze.

“What?” Ron demanded. “What do you mean you ‘can’t help’?”

The Professor rolled his eyes and said, “I’m sure you haven’t gone deaf in the past 24 hours, Weasley. It’s exactly what it sounds like. I’m sure that someone’s breaking in, but I can’t help you.”

Harry narrowed his eyes on the Professor. His shoulders were straight, and his gaze was fixed on them, but—he was smiling, and his eyes were curious. What will you do? they seemed to ask.

Harry didn’t want to think about other reasons the Professor wouldn’t help. It did nothing for his nerves or feelings.

The trio exchanged glances, frustration clear on their faces. They were about to turn and leave, shoulders slumped in defeat when Professor Phoebus spoke again.

“Wait a moment.”

Harry turned to see the Professor raise his wand. He didn’t say anything, but with a crack, a golden lyre appeared in front of Hermione’s hands. On instinct, she caught it. Hermione blinked at it, bewildered.

“Professor…?” Hermione asked.

The Professor looked slightly amused. “It’s unbreakable, but don’t use it as a chew toy for the dog, I’d hate to send it for repairs.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “But—None of us can play—?”

The Professor snapped his fingers and a faint glow settled over the lyre. “It’ll play on its own when you command it to.”

“Thank you, Professor!” She nodded her head once toward the Professor before turning on her heel, with Harry and Ron following close behind. Looking back at Professor Phoebus, Harry could see the curiosity plain as day on his face.

Harry turned around, deciding not to think about the Professor. He has more things to worry about.

-

Using the invisibility cloak, they all escaped their dorms after curfew. Hermione had to cast a spell on Neville to make sure they weren’t found. Making it to the forbidden corridor was easier now, with a cloak, guided by night. Harry kept the enchanted lyre with him under his cloak, which seemed to be trying to wriggle away.

When they got to the corridor, they were horrified to find it opened already.

“Maybe they forgot to close it while they were running away in horror?” Ron suggested hopefully.

Harry was skeptical. “Snape? Screaming?”

“It makes for a very beautiful image,” Ron countered.

“But an inaccurate one,” Hermione said, her brows knitting together in concentration. “He would’ve left the door closed to cover his tracks…”

The three of them exchanged glances before scuttling closer to the door. Harry lifted the cloak off of them, which fell to the ground beside him. He scanned his friends faces and said, “You two—”

“Mate,” Ron interrupted. “We followed you all the way here. We aren’t going to give up all of a sudden.”

Hermione nodded in agreement and said, “Do you have the lyre?”

“Yes,” Harry said, bringing it out for the three of them to look at.

“If the Professor is trying to prank us…” Ron grumbled. “It isn’t really funny.”

“Well, let’s test it,” Harry suggested. Together, they crept through the door as quietly as possible. As their feet shuffled against the stone, the three-headed dog lifted all its heads.

The three of them froze and the dog started to sniff the air but didn’t seem to see them.

"What's that at its feet?" Hermione whispered.

"Looks like a harp," said Ron. "Snape must have left it there."

"It must wake up the moment you stop playing," said Harry. "Good thing the Professor gave us this then…”

“If it actually plays music,” Ron muttered. “I’m sure he’s laughing his way to Dumbledore as we speak.”

“Just strum it,” Hermione urged before Harry had second thoughts.

Harry brought his fingers close to lyre and began to play just as the dog began to creep forward. And, like magic, a soft hum filled the corridor. The dog’s ears twitched before it let out a low growl. 

For a moment, Harry thought it didn’t work. But, the dog let out a yawn and dropped to the floor, right next to the trapdoor.

“Now!” Hermione hissed, gesturing toward the trapdoor. “keep playing!”

Together, the three of them raced towards the trapdoor. With his hands still playing the lyre, he watched as the door opened.

with one final strum, Harry dropped the lyre and jumped into the pitch black that greeted him.

-

Something gold was glinting just above him. He couldn’t make it out at first, everything was just so blurry. The Snitch! Harry realized, watching it become picture-perfect in front of him. He tried to catch it, but his arms were too heavy. Harry blinked. 

Somewhere, soft music was being played, like a lyre.

Then, Harry blinked again and nearly jumped.

In front of him wasn't the Snitch at all. It was a pair of glasses. How strange. He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view above him.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” said Dumbledore and Harry realized the soft thrum of a lyre was real too. It sounded like it was coming somewhere near his left.

Harry stared at him, his brows scrunching up. There was something gnawing at him, he could feel it in his stomach. What-? Then he remembered. “Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He's got the Stone! Sir, quick—“

A chuckle came from nearby and Harry blinked owlishly and looked around. His surroundings came into full view and so did Professor Phoebus, sitting at the desk where Madam Pomfrey usually was, strumming his lyre.

What’s so funny? This is a serious matter! “Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the times,” said Dumbledore. “Quirrell does not have the Stone.”

“Then who does? Sir, I—”

“Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out.”

“Quite the scary woman,” Phoebus mused, suddenly switching cords. “I even assisted in helping your friends until she turned on me and said I needed to ‘get out’ and that my presence was a ‘distraction.’ ”

The way he said it made Harry suspect he had been a distraction on purpose. The amused look on Dumbledore’s face confirmed it.

Harry groaned and rubbed his eyes, looking around. It took longer than usual to realize that he’s  in the hospital wing. He was lying in a bed with white linen sheets and next to him was a table piled high with what looked like half the sweet-shop.

“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a lavatory seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it.”

“Chased them out herself when they tried to show their faces—very amusing,” Phoebus’s chuckled and another strum of his lure had Harry’s muscles relaxing.

“How long have I been in here?”

“Three days. Mr Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved you have come round, they have been extremely worried.”

“But sir, the Stone—“

One of Phoebus’s fingers twitched on the lyre, making an awful sound.

Dumbledore didn’t pay it any attention. “I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although you were doing very well on your own, I must say.”

“You got there? You got Hermione's owl?”

“We must have crossed in mid-air. No sooner had I reached London than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you—“

“It was you.”

“I feared I might be too late.”

“You nearly were, I couldn't have kept him off the Stone much longer—“

Phoebus snorted as he began to play a lighter tune, but the mention of the stone seemed to still bug him as the notes seemed a bit rushed. “Selfless heroes stay selfless—what a good story.”

Dumbledore chose to ignore him.

“Not the Stone, boy, you—the effort involved nearly killed you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed.”

“Thank the gods for that,” Professor Phoebus grumbled.

Why is he so agitated by it?

“Destroyed?” said Harry blankly. “But your friend—Nicolas Flamel—“

“Oh, you know about Nicolas?” said Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted. “You did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a little chat and agreed it's all for the best.”

“For someone who loves holding secrets, you sure do seem to enjoy it when other people figure them out,” Phoebus said.

“It would seem so,” Dumbledore said, glancing back at the Professor. “And what say you, Phoebus? I feel like some secrets are a delight to reveal.”

The Professor smirked. “I feel if someone were to try and reveal my secrets, they would sooner find themselves feeling insane.”

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on Harry for a moment. He looked thoughtful. “Or maybe they’ll be in a situation where it’s the most believable option.”

Chapter Text

Two Months Later.

As the first rays of sunlight crested the rooftops of the alley, casting a warm glow on the cobblestones, a sharp crack echoed through the street as a man appeared. The sound startled nearby witches and wizards, but the man paid them no mind. He strolled onto the street, hands tucked in his pocket and his eyes fixed on the darker part of the alley.

Knockturn Alley was shrouded in shadows despite the sun reaching its peak, casting long shadows that danced along the grimy shopfronts. The few wizards who lingered in the shadows barely noticed him as he moved with graceful, deliberate strides. Most people in Knockturn Alley were older wizards and witches, teetering on the edge of dark magic if not fully embracing it. Those who roamed the streets were either Purebloods with a purpose or fallen wizards and witches with nothing to their name.

Professor Phoebus was none of those. He bore no famous Pureblood name, nor did he act like one. It would be odd to think of him as a fallen wizard, considering his polished shoes and the shine of his golden hair that seemed to brighten the alley. He wore fitted trousers and a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a black vest over the top. His attire was far from the wizarding standard, yet as he passed, people glanced towards him, at the golden watch around his wrist. They wouldn’t say the words out loud but their eyes said everything, wondering about his business in such a place.

Not that Professor Phoebus cared. He could dispose of them all without a second thought; they weren't a part of his contract. But doing so would reveal his position, and he wasn’t about to let mortals be the cause of it.

His eyes scanned the storefronts, searching for just the right shop. It had been a century since he last visited magical Britain, and even less often without a local god to guide him. He’d have to find his way on his own this time.

He paused in front of a narrow shop squeezed between two towering buildings. The faded sign above the door read "Borgin and Burkes," its letters curling like tendrils of smoke. The windows displayed sinister objects: cursed necklaces, dark tomes, and shrunken heads that leered from their dusty perches.

Pushing open the door, a small bell tinkled as he entered. The dimly lit shop smelled of dust and secrets, the air heavy with the musk of old books. Shelves crammed with curiosities stretched into the shadows, creating narrow aisles that twisted and turned as if alive. A tingle danced under his skin, his own powers reacting to the sudden force of cursed objects in the room.

The shopkeeper, a sallow-faced man with thinning hair, looked up from behind the counter. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the Professor, eyebrows shooting up. He glanced straight at Phoebus, his interest piqued.

The man had seen many people come to his store, all of them odd, including the Professor in front of him. What made him odd was that he dressed like a muggle-born, yet he moved and spoke with the assurance of a noble.

“Good day,” Phoebus said, his voice smooth and warm, like sunlight piercing through clouds. He stepped closer to the counter, ignoring an enchanted eye on a shelf that swivelled to track him. Leaning forward slightly, he let his fingers trail along the wood. “I’m searching for an artifact left here some time ago. Might you assist me?”

Borgin's eyes flicked up and down, weighing Phoebus with suspicion. “Depends on the artifact,” he said after a long few moments, his voice rough with distrust. “We deal in many... rare items here.”

“Indeed,” Phoebus replied, casting a glance at a suspicious-looking cornucopia on a nearby shelf. “I’m looking for a key—or at least records of one—that dates back about a century. The bow of the key has a sun motif.”

Borgin frowned, drumming his fingers on the counter as he considered. “A century’s a long stretch, even for us,” he said, his tone skeptical. He glanced down to the man’s hands, which were free at his sides. When he looked back up, Phoebus was still smiling at him. 

Odd creature, Borgin’s eyes seem to say. He nodded imperceptibly and said, “We keep records. I’ll see what I can find.”

Phoebus watched as Borgin disappeared into the back room, eyes lingering on the old man who kept on glancing back to Phoebus. The shop creaked with an eerie silence until the shopkeeper returned, clutching a small ledger with pages yellowed by age. “This key you’re after,” Borgin said, flipping through the book, “might be in here—details of all keys that have passed through this shop.”

Phoebus’s eyes lit up with interest. “May I have a look? I can guess the approximate time range. I’ve got about twenty minutes before I must leave—if I can’t find it by then, perhaps you could continue the search?”

Borgin hesitated, eyeing the Professor’s expensive wristwatch. After a moment, he nodded. “Very well, twenty minutes only,” he said, his voice firm.

Phoebus clapped his hands together and gently took the book. “Thank you. I’ll be very careful,” he promised with a wink, and made his way to a table at the far end of the shop, hidden behind a couple of aisles and a wall.

“Any damages will cost thousands!” Borgin called after him, his tone half-warning, half-resigned.

Phoebus smiled, already engrossed in flipping through the pages. “Then I’ll be extra careful,” he murmured, his fingers dancing over the entries as he searched over the dates, looking for the year 1824.

-

Harry wasn’t quite sure how he had ended up in this situation. Well, he thought, stuck inside a cabinet, I know how it began.

A week ago, a house-elf had appeared in Harry’s room, babbling about how it wasn’t safe for him to return to Hogwarts. The elf seemed half-mad, mentioning through his scattered responses that even "he" wouldn’t be able to protect Harry. When Harry asked if he meant Dumbledore, the elf had simply shaken his head.

There was no one more powerful than Dumbledore at Hogwarts, or so Harry thought.

The encounter had ended with the house-elf causing such a commotion that Uncle Vernon had placed bars on Harry's window and locked him in his room. Three days later, the Weasleys—Ron, Fred, and George—had appeared at his window and broken him out. A week or so after spending time with the Weasleys, they had attempted a trip to Diagon Alley.

Harry wasn’t sure what went wrong when they tried using Floo Powder. He was fairly certain he'd started sneezing midway through, which had landed him somewhere that was decidedly not the Diagon Alley he remembered. Everything was dark and gloomy and reeked of cursed magic.

He knew he had landed in a shop. He even managed to get to the door and was about to step out onto the street when he saw the Malfoys walking by. No way am I going to confront them here, Harry thought, retreating back down the aisle. He found a cabinet, tucked the curtains closed, and remained hidden, bringing him to his current predicament.

Harry raised his head at the sound of a bell clanging. Peeking through the curtains, he saw Draco and, presumably, Draco’s father entering the shop.

Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop, lazily examining the items on display, and rang a bell on the counter before turning to his son. "Touch nothing, Draco."

Harry leaned forward slightly to catch a glimpse of what Draco was looking at. He saw Draco reaching for a glass eye before jerking his hand back. With his face downturned, Draco said, “I thought you were going to buy me a present.”

“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” his father replied, drumming his fingers on the counter.

“Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just because he’s famous... famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead…”

Harry scowled from his hiding place. I’m plenty good on a broom...

“...everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick—”

“You have told me this at least a dozen times already,” Mr. Malfoy interrupted, casting a quelling look at his son. “And I would remind you that it is not prudent to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear—ah, Mr. Borgin.”

A stooping man appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face. His eyes flicked to the other side of the store for a fleeting moment before returning to Mr. Malfoy.

“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” Mr. Borgin said in a voice as oily as his hair, his eyes glancing down the aisle, to the corner of the shop. It was brief.

Harry quickly followed Borgin’s gaze. He wasn’t great at reading people, but he could tell that Mr. Borgin was anxious about something—or someone. Narrowing his eyes, Harry peered down the aisle and noticed a faint light flickering at the far end of the store. From his vantage point, he couldn’t quite make out what it was.

“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling,” said Mr. Malfoy, cutting through Harry's thoughts. Harry looked up as Mr. Borgin’s smile faded. His hand twitched on the counter. Mr. Malfoy continued speaking, and this time Harry noticed movement in his peripheral vision.

Although the two older men droned on, Harry’s eyes were focused on the far corner of the store. There, he saw something—no, someone—moving. Harry blinked as a man picked up a book from a desk and began walking through the aisles. He didn’t think much of it— probably one of Malfoy’s acquaintances, Harry assumed, since there was no reason for another wizard to be there.

His eyes widened as the man stepped into the main aisle, the shop doors letting in just enough light to make the man glow slightly as he approached the counter.

“The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect,” Mr. Malfoy was saying, “yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumours about a new Muggle Protection Act—no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it—”

Borgin nodded along with Mr. Malfoy’s words. At the sound of soft footsteps approaching, Draco glanced up and, almost comically, froze. It nearly made Harry laugh to see the expression on Malfoy’s face as Professor Phoebus emerged from the end of the store, carrying a rather large book.

“–and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear—”

“I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin, his voice dripping with deference. “Let me see…”

“Father,” Draco began, his voice impressively steady.

“Yes, Draco?” his father replied, glancing over his shoulder. He didn’t even blink, his expression remaining impressively calm for someone who had just spoken about possessing cursed objects in front of a Hogwarts professor. His eyes narrowed onto the Professor, his gaze a mix of curiosity and disdain. 

“Professor Phoebus,” Mr. Malfoy said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge. “I must say, I did not expect to see you in this particular establishment.” 

No doubt that Malfoy whined to his father about the detention he had with Professor Phoebus, Harry thought, a smile twisting on his lips. 

The Professor paused before them and inclined his head slightly, making a sure show of glancing around at the artifacts. “As is yours, Mr. Malfoy. It is not every day one finds such noble company among artifacts that ought to remain buried.”

Draco glanced between his father and Professor quickly, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Mr. Borgin, who Harry realized was hoping that Phoebus wouldn’t come to see the visitors, began to visibly sweat.

As if sensing the tension between them, Mr. Borgins interjected and said, “Ah, Mr. Phoebus, have you looked through everything already? Come, come, if you haven’t what you’re looking for, I will check the rest and owl you with more information, provided that I find the artifact you seek.” 

His gaze switched to Mr. Malfoy, who watched with keen interest as Professor Phoebus returned the book to the desk. “You see, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Phoebus has a keen interest in certain historical artifacts and records, which my shop occasionally provides.” He offered a trying smile to both men.

Behind them, Draco looked like he would melt between the two aisles, which Harry would feel like doing if he wasn’t already hidden.

“I see,” Mr. Malfoy said, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. “Your scholarly pursuits must be quite absorbing… unless, of course, you’re seeking such an artifact for other reasons?”

Phoebus’s grin widened, unfazed by Malfoy’s insinuation. “Ah, perhaps. The artifact in question originally belonged to my great-grandfather, in a manner of speaking.”

“Great-grandfather?” Mr. Malfoy’s eyebrows rose in feigned surprise. “Your lineage is intriguing. Not quite Muggle-born, yet your surname doesn’t exactly proclaim pureblood, at least among those who ventured west.”

Phoebus chuckled softly. “Indeed, I suppose I’m not the best at keeping track of whether my family mingles with other magical lines. It’s not as pressing a matter where I’m from. I had imagined such concerns would be less relevant here as well, particularly after a war fought over blood purity. One would think it unwise to champion such notions in a society still healing from its scars.”

He cast a sidelong glance at Draco, then winked, as Mr. Malfoy’s silence stretched on. “But then again, who am I to speak on these matters? I’ve heard tales of those who were under the Imperius Curse finding it difficult to shed certain… habits they acquired.”

“Indeed, forgive me,” Mr. Malfoy said, his voice clipped. “It has been… hard in recent years recovering from the curse.”

“Apologies for bringing it up,” the Professor said. And, like a flick of a switch, the Professor clapped his hands, a smile spreading across his face. “Anyways! What were we talking about? Oh yes, I’m here to collect an artifact from a relative of mine. Good day to you, Mr. Malfoy. Are you here for a similar reason?”

The cheeriness in his voice gave pause to Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps fearing that Phoebus had gone insane, Mr. Malfoy said, “Not quite. My business here is of a different nature.”

“Of course,” Phoebus said pleasantly. He turned towards Mr. Borgin and gave him a friendly smile. “I’m sure you know my address, so I will be off. Thank you very much - I must be on my way now.” He gave a nod towards Mr. Borgins and spun on his heel and began walking towards the exit, smiling at the two Malfoys. 

As he passed by, his tilted his head to the side and Harry froze as the Professor glanced directly at the cabinet. The Professor raised an eyebrow, much to Harry’s horror, but he didn’t say anything further. With a chime from the door, the Professor was gone.

-

Harry waited until the doors had closed and Mr. Borgin disappeared into the back of the room before slipping out of the cabinet. Quietly as he could, he crept past the glass cases and slipped out the shop door. Clutching his broken glasses to his chest, Harry glanced around. Maybe I can catch up to Professor Phoebus, if he hasn’t already Apparated away.

He found himself in a dingy alleyway lined with shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one he'd just left, Borgin and Burkes, seemed the largest, but opposite was a nasty window display of shrunken heads. Two doors down, a large cage teemed with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby-looking wizards muttered to each other from the shadow of a doorway, eyeing him suspiciously. Feeling uneasy, Harry set off, trying to hold his glasses straight and hoping he’d find a way out.

"Not lost, are you, my dear?" said a voice in his ear, making him jump.

An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of what looked horribly like whole human fingernails. She leered at him, her teeth green with moss. Harry backed away.

"I'm fine, thanks," he said. "I'm just—"

“Not in the mood for some good old Knockturn Alley gourmet food?” A cheerful voice interrupted. Harry's heart leapt. So did the witch, dropping a cascade of fingernails over her feet as Professor Phoebus strode toward them, looking just as he had moments before.

He must have seen me back at the shop, Harry realized. He probably waited for me…

“Professor Phoebus?” Harry croaked, his voice a mix of relief and surprise. “I was lost—the Floo system wasn’t working—”

Professor Phoebus's face twisted in distaste as he grabbed Harry’s arm, pulling him away from the old woman like he was rescuing a stray cat. “Dear me, Mr. Potter,” the Professor mused. “Don’t tell me you tried to Floo in from your Muggle home, did you?”

Harry’s face flushed as they turned a corner, passing more sinister shops. “No,” Harry stammered, nearly stumbling into a puddle as the Professor dragged him along. “I, uh, left with the Weasleys. I coughed up some of the dust and landed here.”

The Professor raised an eyebrow. “The Weasleys? They’re halfway across the country! I’m not saying you’re below average in magic, though your magical theory could use some work—” Harry flushed—“but I doubt you managed to Apparate here, considering you’re still a child.”

“I was invited for a sleepover,” Harry said lamely, keeping a little bit of distance between them so as to not fall into puddles.

“Uh huh,” Phoebus replied, sounding briefly amused. His smile vanished when a man burst out in front of them, laughing madly and splashing mud all over the Professor’s previously clean cleans.

The Professor froze, and for a moment, Harry thought he might faint. It would be a challenge to find the Weasleys while dragging an unconscious Professor through Knockturn Alley.

Instead, the Professor let out a sound of pure disgust. “Oh, what the hell?” He snapped, shaking his legs in hopes to flick off the mud. Harry had never seen him look so angry before. The man dashed past Phoebus and headed toward Harry, stopping short with his eyes locked on Harry’s forehead.

Not good, Harry thought, watching the man's eyes widen in recognition.

“You—” the man began, his wand snapping up from his pocket. Harry let out a gasp, and the people around them began to panic.

“Professor?” Harry asked weakly, watching the man point his wand toward him with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Phoebus turned at the sound of his title, his eyes narrowing from Harry, to the man, then to the wand pointed at him. The air around them seemed to shimmer and heat up, causing the puddle beside Harry to evaporate.

The Professor didn’t even raise his wand.

With a snap of his fingers, a shot of magic sent the man hurtling backward through the nearest building—through the glass, the supporting beams, and the bricks. Glass shattered, and people screamed, scattering across the alley. The building groaned ominously before abruptly collapsing in on itself.

Harry wasn’t sure if the man survived.

“Professor?” Harry asked again, glancing back at Phoebus, feeling his legs tremble with unease. Was he about to kill me? Why would- Harry tried to steady himself.

It took a moment for Harry to realize what the Professor had just done. He attacked someone in public, with multiple witnesses. He’s going to get in trouble- Harry realized. He turned to look towards the Professor, an apology at the tip of his tongue.

Professor Phoebus was glancing over at the fallen building, his hand twitching. “Professor—” Harry started. But suddenly, the frown dropped from the Professor’s face-and he began to cough. He staggered forward, leaning against the nearest wall, making a pained sound in the back of his throat.

“Professor Phoebus?” Harry said, this time more panicked.

The Professor blinked a few times, his hair obscuring his face. “‘M fine,” he coughed again. With a deep breath, he pushed himself upright, steadying against the wall. He wiped his mouth, leaving a faint trail of gold behind. “Let’s keep walking.”

Phoebus stepped forward, completely ignoring the crowd forming around the collapsed building. Harry paused, trying to comprehend what had just happened. “Harry? Cat got your tongue?” Phoebus asked, turning back to him.

Harry stared at him, then at the fallen building where people were beginning to gather. He’s just walking away… “You just killed someone,” Harry said, feeling faint.

Professor Phoebus hummed, a mix of emotions crossing his face before he settled on, “Wizards don’t die that easily, Harry. He’ll be fine.”

Harry hesitated, glancing once more at the fallen building. Well, that has to be it, Harry reasoned, still feeling unnerved. There wouldn’t be another reason why the Professor isn’t more concerned about throwing someone into a wall…

Harry took a step forward, then another, before he began following Professor Phoebus again, this time more silently .

“And these were brand new,” Phoebus grumbled ahead.

When Harry didn’t respond right away, Phoebus turned around. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just—” Harry began but stopped, suddenly feeling very innocent. “I didn’t expect you to do that.”

“Save you?” The Professor mused.

“Er, I guess. I didn’t expect you to be so quick to harm someone. Well, more like you didn’t seem bothered by it. It’s like you’ve done it before.”

The Professor paused, tilting his head. This time, Harry could see the confusion and quick understanding in his gaze. “Hm, well, I protect students. That’s half the job of being a Professor, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Harry said awkwardly. “I just didn’t expect it from you.”

The Professor’s face was unreadable for a moment, his eyes stormy. “Well, then,” Phoebus said, turning around. “I’m not used to students like you. It’s something to think about…”

Harry didn’t bother asking what he meant by that; it would only leave him wanting more answers. Instead, he kept a close pace behind Professor Phoebus as they continued through Knockturn Alley.

“You do manage to get yourself into trouble,” Phoebus said, turning a corner. Before Harry could defend himself, sunlight burst into his vision, causing him to stumble backward. Blinking away the spots, Harry saw a familiar, snow-white marble building in the distance—Gringotts Bank.

“Thanks,” Harry said, recognizing the rest of the street. Phoebus hummed and turned back to Harry, looking him up and down for a moment. They stood there for a moment, the Professor looking like he wanted to say something.

“Why were you down there anyway, Professor?” Harry asked, trying to sound innocent while breaking the silence.

“Never mind you, Harry,” the Professor winked, steering him toward the bank. “I just needed some supplies I couldn’t find elsewhere.”

Harry pursed his lips but decided to say nothing. Maybe he didn’t see me after all, Harry thought. “Right,” he said.

Suddenly, the Professor spun on his heels to face Harry. The boy nearly jumped, thinking he might have angered him.

“You wouldn’t know where the Weasleys are, would you? Your stand-in guardians?” Professor Phoebus asked, eyebrows raised.

“No,” Harry said bluntly, letting his eyes trail across the street. It’s not hard to find a Weasley; they’re always together, making a sea of red. “They’re down this alley somewhere, in a shop.”

“Alright, let’s stick to the sides then. Crowds might be my forte, but—not for you,” Professor Phoebus said, regarding Harry for a moment.

Before Harry could decide if he should feel insulted or not, Phoebus descended through the crowd—almost cat-like in elegance—and weaved his way toward the side of the alley. Harry hurriedly followed the Professor.

After a moment of rest, Harry realized that Phoebus was eyeing him, taking in his appearance. “You remind me of someone,” he finally said, as if remembering why he stopped Harry at Gringotts.

“Good or bad?” Harry asked, slightly out of breath.

Before the Professor could respond, they heard a voice.

"Harry! Harry! Over here!"

Harry looked up and saw Hermione Granger standing at the top of the white steps leading to Gringotts. She ran down to meet them, her bushy brown hair flying behind her.

"What happened to your glasses? Hello, Professor Phoebus! Oh, it's wonderful to see you! Oh, what happened to your clothes, Professor?—Are you coming into Gringotts, Harry?"

"As soon as I find the Weasleys," said Harry.

The Professor glanced down at his clothes at the mention of them. He snapped his fingers, and the dirt quickly vanished. When he looked back up, Harry could tell that the Professor was pleased with himself. However, his expression changed when he glanced behind Harry.

“You won’t have to wait long,” Phoebus said.

Harry and Hermione looked around. Sprinting up the crowded street were Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and Mr. Weasley.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley panted once they reached him. "We hoped you'd only gone one grate too far..." He mopped his glistening bald patch.

 "Molly's frantic—she's coming now—"

"Where did you come out?" Ron asked.

"Knockturn Alley," said Professor Phoebus, grinning at the sudden swarm of redheads surrounding Harry.

"Excellent!" said Fred and George together.

"We've never been allowed in," said Ron enviously.

“I should hope not,” The Professor teased. “There’s no sunlight in there, terrible for skincare.”

It’s like a twitch flipped off in the twins. In unity, they say, “Professor!?”

Mr. Weasley's face flushed and began, “—Boys!”

Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly in one hand, Ginny just clinging onto the other. "Oh, Harry—oh, my dear—you could have been anywhere—" She began, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

Professor Phoebus raised an eyebrow and asked, thoughtfully, “At what speed do you think she’s flying towards us at? Quite a courageous woman.”

“At least Mach 5,” one twin said.

“Definitely breaking the speed barrier,” the other chimed in.

“Has she tried the Olympics?”

Gasping for breath, the woman in question pulled a large clothes brush out of her bag and began sweeping off the soot Professor Phoebus hadn't managed to beat away on Harry while dragging him away.

Mr. Weasley took Harry's glasses, gave them a tap of his wand, and returned them, good as new.

Phoebus watched the exchange quietly, his face a genuine smile. When Harry was finally freed from Mrs. Weasley, Professor Phoebus nodded to them, who had gone quiet watching them. "Well, the family reunion is over—I’ve best be off," said the Professor and Mrs. Weasley shook his hand.

“Thank you, Professor Phoebus, for finding him! Why, Knockturn Alley? How dreadful!” Mrs. Weasley said, looking a bit faint.

As the Professor began to break away from the swarm of gingers, one broke free—Percy—and asked him, “Professor, I have a question, if I may? About the new program offered?”

Professor Phoebus tilted his head to the side and nodded—and the two of them quietly disappeared.

“Not surprised,” Fred snickered.

“Prefect Percy doing everything to be the teacher's pet,” George agreed.

As Mrs. Weasley scolded them, Ron turned towards Hermione and Harry. “What do you think they’re talking about?” Ron asked, glancing suspiciously to where they just left.

“Ron, do you not pay attention to anything!?” 

“No, I don’t,” Ron agreed.

Herminoe ignored him and said, “Professor Phoebus finished his probation period and Dumbledore has allowed him to open up a new course for sixth and seventh year students. It’s sounds really cool!”

Ron didn’t look as enthused as Hermione, “well, I guess—“

“It’s called Astramancy,” Hermione said, cutting him off.

“Great,” Ron said as the Weasleys broke in different directions to go shopping.

"Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?" Harry asked Ron and Hermione as they climbed the Gringotts steps.  "Malfoy and his father."

And Professor Phoebus, but I don’t feel like telling them that just yet…

_

An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw—to their surprise—a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in.

“Why’s everyone rushing in to buy books?” Ron grumbled.

The reason was proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the upper windows:

GILDEROY LOCKHART

will be signing copies of his autobiography

MAGICAL ME

today 12:30 P.M. to 4:30 P.M.

AT FIOURISH AND BIOTTS

"We can actually meet him!" Hermione squealed. "I mean, he's written almost the whole booklist!"

“You mean that guy that's making us buy eight whole books for one subject?” Ron asked, sounding scandalized.

“Who?” Harry added, casting a glance around the store.

The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches around Mrs. Weasley's age, which probably explained why Harry didn’t know who Gilderoy Lockhart was. A harassed-looking wizard stood at the door, saying, "Calmly, please, ladies… Don't push, there…mind the books, now.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed inside. A long line wound right to the back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the Weasleys were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger.

"Oh, there you are, good," said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded breathless and kept patting her hair. "We'll be able to see him in a minute.”

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. 

He sort of looked like Professor Phoebus—but in a cheap knockoff way. Though, personality wise, Harry wasn’t quite sure yet.

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash.

"Out of the way, there," he snarled at Ron, moving back to get a better shot. "This is for the Daily Prophet—"

"Big deal," said Ron, rubbing his foot where the photographer had stepped on it.

Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw Ron—and then he saw Harry. He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, "It can't be Harry Potter?"

And oh how Harry hated the attention. 

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart dived forward, seized Harry's arm, and pulled him to the front. The crowd burst into applause. Harry's face burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys.

"Nice big smile, Harry," said Lockhart, through his own gleaming teeth. "Together, you and I are worth the front page."

When he finally let go of Harry's hand, Harry could hardly feel his fingers. He tried to sidle back over to the Weasleys, but Lockhart threw an arm around his shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said loudly, waving for quiet. "What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I've been sitting on for some time!”

Nevermind, Harry thought bitterly. He definitely reminds me of the Professor personality-wise too. Do all blonde people have such strong grips?

"When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts to-day, he only wanted to buy my autobiography—which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge—" The crowd applauded again. 

Professor Phoebus wouldn’t do this, Harry decided.

He would’ve if he thought of it first, a voice in the back of his mind chimed in, which only made Harry wince. They can share a tie for dramatics though, Harry thought.

"He had no idea," Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose, "that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

And Harry felt his soul leave his body.

_

Harry nearly got out of the shop in time. Alas, Draco Malfoy was there this time and was making everything worse. Harry hoped the showdown between his father and Professor Phoebus was enough to stop him from talking out of turn, yet here he was.

When Mr. Malfoy walked, looking calm as can be, Harry expected Draco to stop talking. 

His hopes were not met.

"Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley." Mr. Malfoy stood with his hand on Draco's shoulder, sneering in just the same way. 

"Lucius," said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.

It felt like a standoff.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," said Mr. Malfoy. "All those raids... I hope they're paying you overtime?" He reached into Ginny's cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration .

"Obviously not," Mr. Malfoy continued. "Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of a wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?" Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny.

"We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of a wizard, Malfoy," Mr. Weasley said.

"Clearly," said Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes straying to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were watching apprehensively. "The company you keep, Weasley... and I thought your family could sink no lower—"

“My, my,” a voice chimed in behind him. Mr. Malfoy’s eyes twitched—Harry nearly laughed. “This feels like deja vu! Short time no see, Mr. Malfoy!” Professor Phoebus smiled, stepping over the fallen cauldron and sending diaries scattering across the floor. Fred and George elbowed one another, snickering at some of the books—mostly from Lockhart—that spilled out.

Phoebus looked the same as he had an hour ago, minus the—where did Professor Phoebus get designer glasses from in less than an hour? He wasn’t wearing them; they were perched on his head.

“Mr. Phoebus,” Mr. Malfoy greeted coldly. “Trying a different side of the market this time?”

Professor Phoebus grinned. “No, no. I was here to warn Harry about a blonde blubbering wizard trying to kidnap him for fame. I see I was too late.” His gaze trailed over Harry, who probably looked as bad as he felt.

Malfoy glanced pointedly at Professor Phoebus’s hair, then at how close the Professor was to Harry. Before Malfoy could make a comment, the assistant stumbled in. “Break up! Break up! Oh, the bad publicity!”

Mr. Malfoy began to smirk and ushered Draco to leave. Mr. Weasley watched them go, then glanced around. “Boys,” he said, looking at Fred and George and the fallen cauldron and books. “Could you clean that up, please? Oh, thank you, Mr. Phoebus—I can’t believe that—”

The Professor waved his hand. “I’d have preferred if it was someone else, but I know you wouldn’t want to end up on the front cover by any means.”

Mr. Weasley nodded and turned to the kids. “Right, then. Come on.”

_

Harry ended up spending the rest of the Summer with the Weasleys, much to his relief. The school year won’t be so bad, Harry thought, watching everyone load up their baggage for school. 

Harry regretted thinking that. Not even a couple hours later, probably the worst thing happened to them: they couldn’t get onto platform 9 ¾ ‘s in time. It had shut them out, much to Harry and Ron’s horror. They did the next best thing and took Mr. Weasley’s car, which made the situation even worse. They ended up flying straight into the Whomping Willow and destroyed the car.

Harry and Ron didn’t know how they managed to survive the Car incident—but they were thankful to whoever was blessing them with luck. Luck was not under their side when Professor Snape found them though. By the end of the day, Harry was feeling miserable and the howler that Ron received made him feel worse. What could be worse, getting expelled?

-

He’s really got to stop thinking that getting expelled would be the worst thing ever because Herbology was truly horrible. To back things up, when Harry got his timetables, he saw that they had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first. Worse though was the double Astronomy with Slytherin on a Friday night.

The universe was truly testing him.

But, first things first: Herbology.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermione seemed to think they had now been punished enough and was being perfectly friendly again.

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the class standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had only just joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart and Professor Phoebus. The Professor’s arms were full of bandages, and with another twinge of guilt, Harry spotted the Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its branches now in slings.

How does that even work? Can’t it heal properly? Harry thought.

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and her fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint. Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimming.

He outshone Professor Phoebus, which was saying a lot. Though the two of them looked like twins standing beside one another, Phoebus had sharper facial features. Harry would never say that they looked like twins to his face, especially with the way he seemed to be shooting glares at the Professor every time he opened his mouth.

“I think he’s getting the taste of his medicine,” Ron said, amused.

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked, brows pinched. It had been to Harry and Ron’s horror earlier in the morning that they discovered that Hermione was practically a follower of Professor Lockhart.

“This is Lockhart propaganda,” Ron had said darkly when Hermione left them that morning. “She’s gone over to the dark side.”

"Oh, hello there!" Lockhart called, beaming around at the assembled. "Just been showing Professor Sprout and Professor Phoebus the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don't want you running away with the idea that I'm better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels..."

Harry blinked. Doesn’t Professor Phoebus run a healing course…?

Harry swiveled his head towards Professor Phoebus but unfortunately, his face was hidden behind Professor Sprout.

"Greenhouse three today, chaps!" said Professor Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at all her usual cheerful self.

There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in greenhouse one before—greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. Nearby, Professor Phoebus leaned in and whispered to Professor Sprout, who snorted—and nodded.

Harry was about to follow Ron and Hermione inside when Lockhart's hand shot out. "Harry! I've been wanting a word—you don't mind if he's a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?" Judging by Professor Sprout's scowl, she did mind. 

She gestured to Professor Phoebus to put the banadages inside and was about to turn around when Lockhart said, “That's the ticket!” And closed the door in the Professor's face. 

By the time Lockhart was down with Harry, he had wished he asked Professor Phoebus about coming across baby centaurs again.

_

By lunchtime, Harry was absolutely done with the rest of the day. Harry and Ron were certain Hermione had a crush on Lockhart (she drew hearts around his class) and Harry wouldn’t push it past other students as well. It only got worse when Colin came into view and started asking for signed photos.

It got worse when Draco Malfoy appeared. I really don’t need this.

"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?" Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy's voice echoed around the courtyard. He had stopped right behind Colin.

“No-” Harry began.

"Everyone line up!" Malfoy roared to the crowd. "Harry Potter's giving out signed photos!"

“No, really,” Harry said and stopped cold as he saw something gold in the distance. Malfoy blinked at him and said, “Have you seen a ghost, Potter? You’re as pale as one.”

Harry said, “Lockhart.”

Malfoy must not be a fan because he spun around as well.

“You think he heard the word 'signed photos' and came running over?” A fifth year Slytherin whispered, making some of the nearby Slytherins snicker.

Malfoy turned around with a dismayed look on his face.

“What’s all this, what’s all this?” Gilderoy Lockhart was striding towards them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. “Who’s giving out signed photos?”

Harry started to speak but he was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulders and thundered jovially, “Shouldn’t have asked! We meet again, Harry!” Pinned to Lockhart’s side and burning with humiliation, Harry saw Malfoy give Harry a pitying look-which was never a good sign-and backed into the crowd. 

“Come on then, Mr Creevey,” said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. “A double portrait, can’t say fairer than that, and we’ll both sign it for you.” Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signalling the start of afternoon classes.

“Off you go, move along there,” Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Harry, who was wishing he knew a good vanishing spell, still clasped to his side.

“A word to the wise, Harry,” said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door. “I covered up for you back there with young Creevey—if he was photographing me, too, your schoolfellows won’t think you’re setting yourself up so much ...” Deaf to Harry’s stammers, Lockhart swept him down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase.

Just then, Professor Phoebus appeared from around the corner, his expression one of mild annoyance. Harry, still trapped in Lockhart’s grip, noticed the slight tension in Phoebus’s jaw and the way his eyes flicked from Lockhart to Harry with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“Ah, Professor Phoebus!” Lockhart exclaimed, slowing his pace but not releasing Harry. “Just spreading a bit of wisdom to young Mr. Potter here.”

Phoebus smiled tightly, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. “Lockhart, always the showman,” he said smoothly. “I’m sure the students find your antics entertaining, but perhaps Harry has had enough of the spotlight for one day?”

Lockhart chuckled, as if Phoebus had made a wonderful joke. “Nonsense, my dear Phoebus! Harry’s a natural! He just needs a bit of guidance from someone more experienced.” Lockhart gave Harry a friendly, condescending pat on the shoulder, which only made Harry squirm more.

Professor Phoebus’s eyes twitched.

Harry glanced up at Phoebus, silently pleading for help, get me out of here! I’d rather actually be dead. The Professor nodded slightly.

“Well, if anyone knows about experience, it would be you, Lockhart” Phoebus said, his tone laced with something Harry couldn’t quite place. “But perhaps Harry should be allowed to head to his next class before the afternoon slips away.”

Lockhart hesitated, his grip on Harry loosening just enough for Harry to take a step back. “Of course, of course,” he said, though there was a hint of reluctance in his voice. “Run along, Harry. We’ll catch up later.”

Harry quickly moved away from Lockhart’s side, giving Professor Phoebus a grateful nod. As he slipped past, he heard Phoebus continue, “And, Lockhart, perhaps we could discuss your latest book later? I’ve been meaning to ask you about some of your adventures.”

Lockhart’s face brightened instantly. “Absolutely, Phoebus! I’d be delighted!”

-

Harry ended up meeting Lockhart again later in the day, as his last class. Lockhart didn’t mention anything to Harry - which meant that Professor Phoebus probably scared him off. But, as Lockhart began handing out parchment for a quiz, Harry realized, looking down at the notes, that Phoebus might have made Lockhart more unbearable to deal with.

The next time Harry saw Phoebus was three days later. Harry hadn’t seen much of the professor since he did his best to avoid anything and everything gold. By the time Friday came, it took Harry longer than he’d like to remember that Slytherins joined them for Astronomy.

Well, Harry thought glumly, at least I won’t have the class with Professor Lockhart.

-

The class started without incident, up in the Astronomy Tower. The sky was clear of clouds, and a light breeze drifted through the night. The soft hum of the professor’s lyre played on its own in the corner, as it always did. By the end of the first year, Harry was so used to the sound that he almost forgot there was music playing in the first place.

With the moon high up in the sky, winking at them, Professor Phoebus assigned a quick assignment to see how much they remembered from the previous year. He allowed for quiet whispering among them, which would prove a mistake as the night wore on. During this, Professor Phoebus leaned back in his chair and put on his headphones, probably listening to music.

It wasn’t a problem at first, just an annoying setback. Hermione, Ron, and Harry had all chosen to sit by the balcony, where the cool air was blasting in, relaxing them from the hot night. Harry and Ron sat at one joined table while Hermione had Parvati sit in front of them. Parvati didn’t seem to mind when Hermione turned around to face the two boys, so that was a plus.

The only problem was that they shared the class with Slytherins. None other than Draco and Pansy were sitting in the same row, separated by an aisle through the center of the room. Crabbe and Goyle were behind them. Thankfully, Draco seemed to be ignoring them, which was probably a good thing since it was the middle of the night and Harry didn’t feel like arguing.

Halfway through the assignment, which was becoming embarrassing since Harry had left most of the page blank, he sighed and pressed his head against the desk. “What?” Ron asked, sounding defeated.

“I don’t remember a thing,” Harry grumbled.

“I don’t either,” Ron said. Harry spared a glance at Ron’s parchment, relieved to see he had more answers than Ron.

“Well, at least we’re not being quizzed about Professor Phoebus’s favorite color,” Harry sighed.

That seemed to fire Ron up. With a scowl, he leaned back against his desk. “Lockhart’s an absolute joke, isn’t he? I can’t believe he’s actually teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts.” He grumbled something else, about hoping for a better professor, but Harry couldn’t hear him properly.

Ahead of them, Hermione turned around and hissed, “It was a general census to see if we were familiar with his work!”

Harry and Ron exchanged looks.

Parvati turned around at the noise, shooting a glance back at Professor Phoebus, and said, “It was a pretty hands-on class. I thought it was good.”

“You’ve both gone bloody mad,” Ron decided.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s an accomplished professor! Have you read—”

“No normal wizard would believe the words coming out of Lockhart’s mouth,” Draco drawled from beside them. Hermione slammed her mouth shut and glared at him, half-ready to turn back around. “Of course, it doesn’t surprise me that the likes you hang out with, Potter, would believe a word that comes out of that mouth.”

Ron turned red, nearly matching his hair, and sputtered, “What? Who would even believe Lockhart? He doesn’t even look the part!”

Pansy snorted, looking very interested in the conversation. “At least Lockhart dresses like a true wizard, unlike some people,” she said, glancing at Professor Phoebus, who was currently dressed in Muggle clothes, his expensive glasses from Diagon Alley perched on his nose.

Ron didn’t even spare the professor a glance. “Right. You’d think he invented magic itself, the way he goes on.”

Parvati rolled her eyes. “He’s entertaining. Better than being bored to death in class.”

“Entertaining?” Ron asked incredulously. “He’s a walking circus act!”

Draco smirked. “At least Lockhart knows how to handle his fame. Unlike some other people I know.”

Harry ignored him, turning back to his work. “Whatever, Malfoy.”

“Yeah, Professor Phoebus does dress better than Lockhart. You’re actually blind,” Ron grumbled.

Pansy leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “But you have to admit, Professor Phoebus isn’t much better. Always acting like he’s some kind of god.”

“He’s as full of himself as Lockhart,” Draco added. “Walking around the school, trying to catch everyone off guard. He has his own golden lyre that he doesn’t even play to show off. I think the two of them go hand in hand.”

Ron grumbled, “He’s sort of right.”

Harry ignored Ron and said, “At least Professor Phoebus can even teach… Lockhart just talks about himself.”

Draco scowled, grumbling, “Just wait until my father hears about Dumbledore hiring a buffoon to teach at Hogwarts… He’s going to have a field day with that.”

Harry didn’t bother responding, mostly because Draco was right. Why did Dumbledore hire Lockhart?

“Harry, Ron—” Hermione began, but she shook her head. “Professor Phoebus’s ego is worse than Lockhart’s. Look, he talked about the monsters he defeated last year without any proof and just expects us to believe it! Lockhart has books and discussions—”

“His ego is bad, but it’s not as bad as Lockhart’s,” Ron said.

“That’s debatable,” Draco mused. “Walking around magical Britain pretending to be better than everyone—much like a peacock showing off its feathers.”

“How about the fact that they’re both equally bad in the ego department?” Pansy drawled, tapping the front of her desk. “Both are equally flashy and disgusting when they show it off.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know—” She froze in place, her mouth open in horror and her face pale. Harry snapped his gaze up, his eyes flitting towards the desk. His heart dropped—Professor Phoebus wasn’t there anymore.

A hand clamped down on Harry’s shoulder, and he forced himself not to flinch. “I’m happy to see everyone making friends here over a shared topic, but—” Professor Phoebus began, his voice tight. “—when I say be quiet, I mean it. Surprising, right?” he asked.

Even Draco kept his mouth shut, and Pansy leaned back in her seat in silence. No one said anything. “Well then,” Phoebus said, finally letting go of Harry’s shoulder. When the professor finally returned to his seat, Harry finally let out a breath of air.

“Bloody hell,” Ron moaned. “I thought I was dead there.”

“Same,” Harry said.

Hermione flushed and said, “Well, I’m glad we didn’t lose any house points from that! Oh, how embarrassing!” She turned around and quickly got back to work, asking Parvati for help.

“This year’s going to be unbearable, I can feel it,” Ron grumbled.

Harry didn’t know about that—he hadn’t gotten that feeling of being watched yet, so that must be a good thing. At least, that’s what he hoped.

Chapter Text

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the matron, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterwards. Ginny Weasley, who had been looking peaky, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire.

She wasn’t the only Weasley affected. During Quidditch tryouts, much to Wood’s dismay, the twins, especially George, flew around half-conscious. After a Quaffle landed squarely in George’s chest during a particularly cold afternoon, Wood had enough and practically dragged the twins into the Hospital Wing. Naturally, the whole team followed like little ducklings to ensure Wood wouldn’t rough them up too badly.

Everyone on the team caught the cold eventually, except for Wood, who seemed disappointed that his team would succumb to something so mundane. Angelina grumbled that the cold was too afraid to touch Wood when he tried dragging them outside to play in the freezing weather.

As October drew to a close, the sickness peaked. Even Madam Pomfrey’s spells couldn’t save some of the students. It was as if the cold had mutated, re-affecting those who had already recovered.

Ron, infected by his older brothers, passed the cold on to Harry, who sneezed almost every minute. Snape was not amused when Harry kept interrupting his lesson with exaggerated sneezes. Professor Phoebus, on the other hand, found it hilarious that everyone looked half-dead, especially at night. The only solace they had was that Phoebus allowed them to sleep in his class if they felt too drowsy. When Harry accidentally sent his moon-cycle chart over the balcony with a particularly hard coughing fit, Phoebus offered to cure his cold.

Why the Professor waited to cure Harry was a mystery, but with a simple spell, Harry was back to normal as if he’d never had the cold. Phoebus hadn’t offered the cure to anyone else unless they complimented him or openly disliked Lockhart.

It was suspicious.

“You’d think he spread the cold on purpose,” Ron grumbled one night, his eyes half-lidded, head pressed against the desk to find comfort in the cool surface.

“I feel like this is breaking some sort of geneva convention,” Harry said, “not giving the cure to people unless they gave something of use instead.”

“What the hell is a Geneva convention?” Ron asked.

-

The only Weasley not affected by the cold was Percy, which either meant he’d voiced his dislike for Lockhart near Phoebus early in October or he had successfully avoided everyone long enough to escape infection. The twins insisted it was the latter because Prefect Percy would never bad-talk a professor, even if he was blackmailed.

But it seemed to be the former.

During a particularly nasty coughing fit, George began hacking up blood. Without warning, Percy had grabbed George by the arm and practically dragged him across the castle with surprising strength. None of them knew how Percy had convinced Phoebus to help, but Fred, claiming he needed to rescue George from their evil brother, followed them through the corridors. Ron and Ginny, amused and curious—perhaps hoping Phoebus would help them too—tagged along, which made Harry and Hermione follow as well.

They barged into the Astronomy Tower like an army of ants. Professor Phoebus, who was grading papers, looked up at the commotion, his eyebrow arching as he surveyed the crowd.

Percy stepped forward, forcing George along. “Professor, it’s George,” Percy began. “He’s been terribly ill, coughing up blood. I brought him here because—”

“Because he’s lost his mind,” Fred interjected cheerfully. “Apparently, you’re the only one who can save him. Evidently.”

Percy shot Fred a look that said, shut up. You’re ruining this.

Phoebus’s eyes flickered with amusement, though he didn’t smile. “I see. And you’ve brought half the Gryffindor common room along for moral support?”

“Only the best and bravest, Professor,” Fred replied with a dramatic bow.

Phoebus’s lips quirked upward. “Quite the brave trip you all made, all the way up here. Makes me feel special.”

Ron, rubbing his nose, mumbled, “If we brought him Lockhart, George would’ve returned to the Gryffindor tower with only three limbs.”

“Very well, let’s not waste time.”

Phoebus cured George with a simple spell and then the other Weasleys. The group filed out, leaving Percy looking pleased with himself. That night, everyone’s cold had disappeared, much to their roommates' envy.

In short, by the time Halloween rolled around, Harry and all his friends were all cured from the cold and were able to attend the Halloween feast.

-

A week or so before the Halloween feast, Nearly Headless Nick saved Harry from detention with Filch. In return, Harry had agreed to help him with a favour. During their conversation, Harry had accidentally mentioned that Professor Phoebus seemed to like him—at least, that’s what Harry thought. Nick’s mood had instantly brightened at the mention.

Harry didn’t know why at first, but then Nick asked him if he could try to convince Professor Phoebus to attend his upcoming deathday party. “Why?” Harry asked, a bit skeptical. “Why not ask any of the other professors?”

“It would be an honour if he came,” the ghost insisted, his spectral form seeming to shimmer with anticipation.

Whatever that meant. Harry couldn’t help but think it would certainly stroke Phoebus’s ego to know that a ghost was eager for his company at a party for the dead.

“I’ll talk to him,” Harry finally agreed, and Nick looked positively delighted. So, during the next Astronomy lesson, Harry found himself asking Professor Phoebus for a favour—a favour he was sure he would regret later.

The Professor didn’t seem at all surprised that a ghost would want him at a deathday party. It took far less effort than Harry expected to get him to agree—almost too little effort. “Alright,” Professor Phoebus mused with a glint of nostalgia in his eyes. “Samhain is always fun when you’re conversing with the otherworldly… I miss it…”

Harry blinked, unsure what to make of that. “You’ve been to deathday parties before?” he asked, glancing over at the Professor. In his mind, Phoebus didn’t exactly fit the image of a wizard who spent time with the dead.

The Professor leaned back in his chair and let out a sharp, amused laugh. “No,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I’ve been to other parties that were… somewhat similar.”

Harry dropped the conversation after that, figuring he didn’t want to scar himself with whatever Phoebus might share with him.

And so, the Halloween feast began, and Harry felt himself fully relaxed for the first time in a long time.

-

The Great Hall was a riot of colour and sound, with the ceiling bewitched to show a sky full of rolling storm clouds, flashes of lightning illuminating the long, floating candles. The Hogwarts Halloween Feast was in full swing, and the tables were groaning under the weight of every delicious food imaginable. There were towering plates of roast meats, overflowing bowls of mashed potatoes, and goblets brimming with pumpkin juice. The ghosts, ones that weren’t at the death day party, floated above the tables, their transparent forms flickering as they drifted through the hall, greeting students with eerie grins.

Laughter echoed through the Great Hall as students dug into the Halloween feast. Up at the High Table, where the Professors sat—minus Professor Phoebus, who was off attending a deathday party (something Harry felt a bit guilty about suggesting after hearing Ron’s description)—a colourful array of smoke still lingered in the air. Most of the Professors looked like they’d been dipped in rainbow paint, some laughing, while others wore expressions of mild annoyance.

There had been a loud pop that went off just a couple of minutes earlier, when the Professors were first given their cakes. Fred, who was animatedly talking with Angelina and Lee Jordan, stopped what he was doing and looked over. The gleam in his eyes was telling enough.

As the first Professor lifted a forkful of cake to their mouth, it exploded in a vibrant burst of colours, enveloping them in a cloud of glittering dust. Snape, who had been inches from tasting his dessert, found his face suddenly coated in hot pink powder.

No one said anything at first before a giggle rose from somewhere in the Ravenclaw table. And then, it was unstoppable. The whole room bursted into laughter while Fred looked quite proud of himself. He was cleared of revenge when Dumbledore had started laughing, his entire robes covered by a purple coat of dust.

Though not all the Professors seemed as forgiving, Snape’s glare in particular was icy enough to freeze the pumpkin juice on the table.

-

“Pass the gravy, will you?” Ron said, his plate already piled high. Across from him, Hermione eyed his plate with suspicion.

“How—there wasn’t even turkey on the table yet!” she exclaimed.

Ron shrugged, unbothered. “Dunno. Just got it.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it.

Nearby, Fred’s voice cut through the chatter. Leaning back with a confident grin, he said, “I’m just saying, if I was Chaser—”

“Oh, don’t even start,” Angelina groaned, rolling her eyes. She sat beside Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet, who was twirling a strand of hair absently. “That was one point! During training!”

“You shot the bloody quaffle straight into me! We ‘ought to twitch, I’m still not able to breathe properly.”

“But then Wood will have to figure out how to create new battle—er, Quidditch—strategies in order to stop Angelina from hitting everyone in sight. And I don’t know if I can go through another meeting with Wood about making sure we’re following ‘protocol,’” Alicia said, twirling a piece of hair between her fingers.

“That’s only because you failed the proper set up during the first training session,” Wood grumbled, somewhere beside Fred. 

“You woke us up at 6 in the morning, that hardly counts. I was half-asleep on my broom!”

“Quidditch waits for no one,” Wood argued. “What if our opponents slip us a drowsiness drought during the morning? It’s preparation.”

“I doubt we’re going to get poisoned by anyone,” Katie grumbled.

“Wood might,” Fred said, “It sounds like he was already planning it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Would.”

“Would.”

“Would.”

All three responses came from Alicia, Fred and Angelina. Wood casted a desperate glance at Katie, who just glowered back at him. Finally, he turned to the last person at the table, as if clutching at a lifeline.

“Harry,” Wood began, sounding like he’d just unearthed a rare Quidditch trading card. “I wouldn’t poison the team, right?”

Harry froze as five pairs of eyes locked onto him, all waiting. “Er…” he stammered awkwardly, his gaze darting around. Just as he opened his mouth to respond, a low, raspy voice cut through his thoughts. “...Kill… Rip… Tear…” Harry’s words died on his lips. The vibrant lights of the Great Hall dimmed, and the laughter around him seemed distant.

“Harry?” Hermione asked, nervously.

“You think we put him into shock?” Angelina asked nearby.

“I think this was planned,” Fred muttered, squinting suspiciously at Harry. “Wood’s already gotten to him.”

Harry glanced around, but no one else seemed to hear the voice. The room buzzed with chatter and clinking silverware, oblivious to the chilling whisper.

“I wouldn’t poison him!” Wood protested, indignant.

“Uh huh. You sure sound mighty suspicious right now.”

“He’s my Seeker. Why would—”

“Shut up,” Harry cut in, his voice tight. Everyone fell silent, their gazes snapping back to him. “Please,” Harry added, almost as an afterthought.

“...So long…since I ate…hungry…”

Harry’s head jerked up, but his teammates’ expressions were anything but comforting.

“Don’t you hear it?” Harry demanded, his eyes wide.

Fred raised an eyebrow. “He’s off his rockers. I knew it was just a matter of time.”

“What did you give him, Oliver?” Angelina asked suspiciously.

“Shut up.”

Harry staggered to his feet, scanning the room wildly. The voice was distant, yet somehow disturbingly close. “It sounds…near,” he murmured, his eyes darting toward the doors. “Listen.”

The others exchanged wary glances but fell silent, straining to hear. This time…Kill…

Harry looked at his team, but they were all staring at him like he’d grown an extra head. “Did someone slip him Firewhiskey?” Katie whispered.

“I hear a voice,” Harry insisted, the words tumbling out, sounding more frantic. “It’s… saying it wants to kill.”

Before anyone could react, Harry started toward the doors. Hermione and Ron were already on their feet, hurrying to catch up.

A beat of silence followed before Katie sighed. “Should we follow? You know, in case he’s actually drunk?”

“Probably,” Angelina agreed. “Wood, you’d better come too, just in case Harry’s telepathic and there’s a murderer on the loose.”

“I’m sure you could handle a murderer by yourself, with that swing of yours,” Fred said, putting a hand on his lower chest for emphasis.

“Oh shut up,” Angelina grumbled.

The group hurried out of the Great Hall, the festive sounds of the Halloween feast fading behind them. Harry led the way through the dimly lit corridors, his pace quickening as the voice in his head grew louder, more insistent.

“...Almost… there…”

Ron jogged to keep up, his face paling as he caught a glimpse of Harry’s tense expression. “Harry, what is it? What do you hear?”

“It’s the same voice as last time,” Harry replied, his tone strained. “The one I heard when I got detention from Lockhart. It’s talking about killing… and being hungry.”

Hermione glanced nervously around the corners, as if expecting something to leap out at them. “Harry, are you sure it’s not just… I mean, maybe it’s something else?”

But Harry shook his head firmly. “No. It’s real… and it’s getting closer.”

Harry’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest when a hand suddenly clasped his shoulder. He spun around, wand half-drawn, only to find Wood staring at him, with Fred and Angelina close behind.

“Look, even if there’s something out there, it’s not the best idea for just the three of you to go chasing after it,” Wood said.

“But—” Harry began.

Ron and Hermione exchanged uncertain glances. “Even if it’s nothing, can we just check?” Hermione suggested.

“If it’s nothing, we’re dragging Potter to the Hospital Wing,” Angelina added.

“Agreed,” Hermione said quickly.

Where’s my say in this? Harry thought, but he didn’t have time to voice it because they were rounding a corner. The corridor ahead was deserted, save for a few drips echoing ominously in the stillness.

“If that isn’t creepy…” Katie muttered under her breath.

“Where the hell is this kid taking us?” Alicia grumbled, turning another corner as the sounds from the Great Hall grew fainter.

“He’s probably going to murder us,” Fred said brightly. “He’s snapped from all those early morning practices.”

Oliver shot him a look but didn’t respond.

Harry came to an abrupt halt, causing Hermione to collide into him with a soft “oof.” She stepped back, rubbing her nose. “Harry? What’s wrong?”

“It stopped,” Harry said quietly.

“What?” Hermione’s eyes widened in alarm.

Harry stared down the empty corridor ahead, a deep unease pooling in his gut.

Wood, trying to regain control of the situation, asked, “Harry, what exactly are we looking for?”

The corridor stretched out before them, still and silent, but something felt deeply, fundamentally wrong.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Alicia said suddenly, her voice tight with shock.

The rest of them turned and saw it.

Just ahead, lying motionless on the cold stone floor, was Mrs. Norris, Filch’s cat. Her eyes were wide open but glassy, her body unnaturally stiff.

Next to her, scrawled on the wall in large, glistening red letters, were the chilling words:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

A heavy silence fell over the group as they stared at the bloody message. Cold dread washed over Harry, and he swallowed hard, his mind racing.

“What… what is that?” Ron whispered, his voice barely audible.

Ron’s voice snapped Oliver into action. He pushed forward, elbowing the others out of the way. “Angelina, go get McGonagall—now.”

Angelina was already sprinting off, Alicia close behind. “Come on, Ronniekins,” Fred said, clapping a hand on Ron’s shoulder, though his eyes remained fixed on the bloodied wall. “Before McGonagall shows up and goes ballistic.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but Fred had already started dragging him away. Harry and Hermione began to argue, but Oliver cut them off with a stern nudge. “Unless you want me waking you up at dawn for extra practice, move it!”

McGonagall arrived soon after, her robes sweeping behind her like a storm cloud. She took one look at the scene and immediately cast a Patronus, sending one to Filch and another to Dumbledore. Later, when they were called to Dumbledore’s office to explain, the older students told their story, facing a panel of Dumbledore, Snape, Phoebus, and McGonagall.

(“Potter and his friends were walking out at the same time. You saw them, did you not?” Snape had asked.

“We walked them back,” Fred replied casually. “Stopped to practice dark arts on Filch’s cat for fun, then carried on our merry way.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but before he could retort, Katie jumped in. “They were exhausted, and Potter had training tomorrow. We didn’t want them wandering off and getting lost. There was no blood when we passed by the first time. We only saw it on our way back… sir.”

“The corridor is out of the way from the Dining Hall,” Snape remarked icily.

“We heard something dripping—loudly,” Angelina added.

“Wanted to see if you had any burst pipes,” Fred said, with a straight face. “Figured we might earn a few extra points for Gryffindor by saving on the plumbing bill.”

They argued back and forth until Dumbledore finally called it enough. On their way back, Angelina muttered, “There’s no point in telling them Harry heard things—they’ll just think he’s lost it.”

“I feel like the better option is the fact that he’s crazy,” Fred said. “Nothing like hearing a voice say they’re gonna kill someone and then find a body petrified.”

That didn’t leave them feeling better.

-

The weeks that followed were as normal as they could be, considering what the eight students had witnessed—and the rumours that spread like wildfire through the school. Though the bloody message had been wiped clean by the time dinner ended, whispers of the event persisted. Mrs. Norris was isolated in a separate ward, waiting for the Mandrakes to mature enough to reverse the petrification.

Hermione buried herself in studies, determined to figure out what could paralyze a creature and leave such a message behind. She wasn’t the only one investigating. Ron was horrified when they stumbled upon Percy, sitting with Oliver Wood, both engrossed in ancient history books.

“You told him?” Ron demanded, his voice rising in indignation.

Wood didn’t even look up from his book. “Why not? McGonagall already instructed the prefects to pair up every night for patrols. Besides, Fred was complaining about it when he got out of the Headmaster’s office.”

“Maybe he and Hermione can swap notes,” Ron muttered under his breath.

“I’m sitting right here, Ronald,” Percy said, his tone clipped as he scanned a section on magical creatures from Ancient Greece.

Ron rolled his eyes, then looked around. “Have you seen Hermione? She said she’d be here.”

“She’s in the restricted section,” Percy replied, not looking up.

Ron gaped. “How’d she get into the restricted section?”

Percy finally lifted his gaze, giving Ron a withering look. “She asked.”

“We’re not allowed in, even if we ask.”

Percy’s lips twitched with the faintest smirk. “You aren’t.”

“Oh, shut up. How’d you know she was in there?”

Percy looked like he was seriously considering docking house points but seemed to think better of it. “Because I was in there.”

“How’d you get in?” Ron asked, his voice dripping with suspicion.

“I’m a prefect, Ron. I have privileges you don’t.”

“Sounds like a load of rubbish.”

“Language,” Percy admonished.

“Whatever,” Ron grumbled. “Can you go and get her?”

Percy finally closed his book, fixing Ron with a disdainful look. Both Oliver and Harry had been watching them like a tennis match. 

“Why would I do that? She seemed quite content to be in there.”

“Uh, because we need her?” Ron suggested, exasperation creeping into his voice.

“No.”

Ron spluttered, “What do you mean ‘no’?”

Before Percy could respond, Hermione emerged from the end of the aisle, a satisfied look on her face. “Oh! I completely lost track of time. Sorry, Harry, Ron. Let’s go—I’ve got some theories…”

Ron shot Percy one last glare before following Hermione out of the library, muttering under his breath as they disappeared down the corridor.

-

The following week passed without any more petrifications, but that doesn’t mean that the school was getting any better. In forfeit of hands-on training (re: Lockhart and the pixies incident) he decided to do plays based on missions he accomplished in his books. Ron had grumbled to no end when he had acted out the bystander getting attacked by a vampire. Harry had found it hilarious, but didn’t speak out loud because Ron already looked plenty embarrassed.

“I’d rather tell Professor Phoebus he has the most beautiful hair in the school than go through that again,” Ron grumbled, the words sounding like a true sacrifice as they left his lips.

As if things weren’t bad enough, Percy caught them in the women's bathrooms during one of their late-night investigations, setting them back to square one. Desperate for answers, they turned to Professor Phoebus, who had proven helpful last year.

“Professor—” Hermione began, trying to sound innocent. She even had those soft eyes she used on Professors when she really needed something.

“No.”

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“I can tell. Telepathically. It’s like an aura surrounding you.”

“Please—”

“No.”

“B-”

“Uh-”

“Pr-”

“Nope.”

Hermione, looking more than frustrated, was forced to give up after that quick back-and-forth with the Professor, which was sort of sad to see.

In truth, Phoebus was asked by Dumbledore (re: forced not to say anything) to say anything to ‘persuade’ the trio into getting into ‘danger’ because it was against his contract. Whatever. 

He never said anything about warning other students.

Apollo didn’t know the exact details, but he could sense the presence of the Chamber of Secrets beneath the school. He knew only certain creatures could petrify their victims, and it wasn’t likely to be a creature like Medusa, who is still reforming in Tartarus.

One night, Oliver Wood had asked him about it, half-asleep after a long Astronomy class. Apollo was sure it was a slip of the tongue, driven by the boy’s obsession with Quidditch and his newfound interest in Astronomy-related rituals that might grant him luck on the field (that Apollo may or may not have told him about).

(Half of it wasn’t even rituals per se, it was just Apollo somewhat blessing the kid with goodluck. Weasley had been suspicious about it, also mentioning that rituals were illegal. He argued back that only dark ones were. He didn’t look convinced but didn’t say anything else, if only to avoid talking back to a Professor). 

So, Apollo was pushing other students into the right position here. Maybe they tell the younger trio or maybe they wouldn’t. Who knows (he wishes his foresight wasn’t random). Either way, Apollo isn’t going against his contract about keeping Potter safe.

-

The day of the Gryffindor versus Slytherin match dawned with a bitter chill in the air, the kind that seeped into your bones and refused to leave. The team’s morale was already low when Fred showed up alone, looking disgruntled.

“Where’s George?” Oliver demanded, his voice edged with panic.

Fred scowled. “Out of commission. We were testing one of our new projects, and it backfired—literally. George is in the hospital wing, throwing up cough drops. Everywhere.”

A collective groan rippled through the Gryffindor team. Oliver’s face fell, and the rest of the players began to inch away from him, as if fearing the full-blown meltdown that seemed imminent. Angelina quickly took charge, stepping up as a temporary Beater, while Alicia, who had been on reserve, reluctantly suited up as Chaser.

It didn’t take long for things to go from bad to worse.

The moment the match started, Harry found himself relentlessly pursued by a rogue Bludger. It didn’t seem interested in anyone else—just him. Angelina and Fred were working overtime to keep the cursed ball at bay, but that left Alicia and Katie struggling to break through the Slytherin defense. The odds were not in their favor.

“Something’s wrong with it!” Angelina shouted after smashing the Bludger skyward, narrowly missing the goalpost in the process.

“You think?” Fred hollered back, barely ducking in time as the Bludger came hurtling back toward Harry. He threw himself in front of Harry, taking the brunt of the impact and nearly losing his grip on his broom. Angelina darted in, steadying him just in time before the Bludger made another vicious return.

“We’re calling time!” Oliver’s voice rang out, a mixture of desperation and frustration.

The brief break did little to settle the team’s nerves. Huddled together, they quickly decided that Angelina would join Katie and Alicia in the offensive, leaving Fred to guard Harry.

“Look,” Angelina said. “You’re already doing worse since George isn’t here—”

“First of all—”

“Stay with Harry.” And Angelina had flown off.

Back in the fray, Harry could barely focus on the game. Every time Fred couldn’t intercept the Bludger, Harry was forced into desperate dodges, twisting and twirling through the air to avoid the cursed ball.

“Training for the ballet, Potter?” Malfoy’s voice cut through the wind, dripping with sarcasm. Harry gritted his teeth, performing an awkward midair spin to dodge the Bludger yet again. The Slytherins roared with laughter, but as Harry shot a glare back at Malfoy, he saw it—the Golden Snitch. It hovered tantalizingly close, just inches above Malfoy’s left ear, completely unnoticed by the blond who was too busy mocking Harry.

Harry’s heart leapt.

“Watch it, Harry!” Fred’s warning came too late. The Bludger barreled through the air, and before Harry could react, Fred threw himself in front of him, the impact sending them both spiraling. Harry gasped as he saw Fred’s broom jerk violently, and then Fred was falling—arms curled protectively around his chest, his face contorted in pain.

The crowd’s collective gasp echoed through the stadium as Fred plummeted towards the ground. Harry didn’t hesitate. He dove after him, the wind howling in his ears, whipping at his robes as he cut through the air like an arrow. Draco’s voice shouted something—maybe a curse or a taunt, Harry didn’t care. His focus was solely on Fred, who was hurtling toward the earth with terrifying speed.

As Harry neared Fred, he caught sight of something gleaming beside him—the Snitch. It seemed to glow with a faint, golden light, almost as if it were taunting him with its proximity. Harry reached out with one hand, the other arm locking around Fred’s robes. Fred’s eyes widened as Harry grabbed hold of him, and then the Snitch.

But there was no time to celebrate. They were too close to the ground.

With a last, desperate effort, Harry yanked Fred to the side, trying to soften their landing. They hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, mud splattering around them as they rolled several times before finally coming to a stop. The world around Harry was a blur of noise and movement, the sound of cheers, shouts, and whistles blending together in a chaotic symphony.

“Harry?” Fred’s voice was barely more than a croak.

“Yeah?” Harry responded, still panting from the adrenaline.

“Did you get it?”

Harry unclenched his fist, revealing the Snitch, its glow now dimmed in his grasp.

Fred’s face broke into a weak, triumphant grin. “Aha… I woulda killed you if I’d wasted my life on that.”

And with that, his eyes fluttered shut, and he fainted.

-

People came rushing from the stadiums, well, most of them. Ginny, Ron and Percy appeared nearby as other Professors appeared on scene with Madam Pince. Together with the Gryffindor team, they formed a circle around Fred, all of their faces pale.

“You alright Harry?” Angelina offered.

“Yeah,” Harry said, rubbing his arm. He landed roughly, hand still clasped around the snitch, but he’d survived.

“Someone get Madam Pomfrey,” Katie shouted over the crowd.

“It looks bad,” Alicia said.

Whispers surged through the crowd before there was a sudden movement, pushing the crowd away.

“Never fear, never fear! Gilderoy Lockhart is here!” Lockhart’s turquoise robes shimmered as he strode onto the pitch, beaming as though he were still in front of a camera. “A simple little injury, nothing that I can’t handle!”

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron, who looked horrified. Angelina muttered something under her breath that Harry couldn’t quite catch. Katie and Alicia both looked like they were about to surge towards Lockhart to try and stop him. 

Lockhart moved to kneel beside Fred, reaching for his wand with a dramatic flourish. “Now, now, just let me—”

“No!” Katie’s voice was sharp, almost frantic. “He doesn’t need—”

“Not to worry ma’am!” Lockhart interrupted, flashing Katie what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. “I’ve dealt with far worse, I assure you.”

Fred groaned softly, beginning to stir. His eyes fluttered open just enough to squint at Lockhart, and even in his dazed state, there was a flicker of alarm in his expression. “No,” Fred slurred slightly, wincing. “Not you—”

Just as Lockhart raised his wand, another voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the air.

“Gilderoy,” Professor Phoebus said smoothly as he approached, his sharp features glowing under the sunlight. Under the sun, he sort of looked like an angel wading through the crowd of students, here to save them. “Perhaps it would be best if you let someone that has an actual medical licence do this… His condition right now isn’t favourable…”

Lockhart looked momentarily flustered but quickly regained his composure. “Well, of course, of course,” he said with an airy wave. “But should you need any assistance—”

“We won’t,” Phoebus said, his tone polite but firm. Without another word, he knelt beside Fred, casting a glance at the crowd to ensure they gave him space. “Isn’t much better,” Harry was pretty sure he heard Fred mutter.

Fred tried to move but Phoebus gently pressed Fred back down. “Rest easy, Fred. You’re in good hands,” Phoebus said, his voice calm and reassuring. He continued his work, tracing a series of intricate patterns in the air with his wand. A soft, golden light spread from his fingertips, seeping into Fred’s injuries.

Harry watched as Fred’s breathing steadied a bit before he winched. "Why can't he just go to the hospital wing?" said Harry.

Fred muttered an agreement.

"He should really, Professor," said a muddy Wood, who couldn't help grinning even though two of his players were injured. "Great capture, Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, I'd say. Fred, amazing reaction time—"

Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry spotted Alicia and Angelina, wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight.

The Professor snapped his fingers and said, “The bludger being wrestled into the crate right now is charmed to attack Harry. If it goes out of a certain radius of him, it’ll try to attack him as fast as possible.”

“Hexed?” A new voice asked, coming to stand beside Oliver, it was another tuff or red hair. Harry can see glasses so it must be Percy Weasley. He must’ve come to see Gryffindor beat Slytherin. “But it’s been kept locked up with Madam Hooch.”

“That’s what I said,” Oliver said. “And they were fine during our last practice, which was only a couple of days ago.”

“Someone must’ve used a lockpicking spell to tamper with it,” Percy said grimly.

“We can theorize later,” Professor Phoebus said. “Stand back.”

And they did as they were told.

Phoebus rolled up his sleeves and pulled off his cloak. With a flick of his wand, he muttered a spell and Fred lifted his head slightly, his conscious returning.

“What did you do?” Fred mumbled.

“I just numbed your chest—I’d hate for patients to start screaming in pain. It gives me bad rep,” the Professor says. The Professor’s wand glowed softly in the light and he urged Fred to lay back down, all the way. Then, he tapped his wand in the middle of Fred’s chest and it was like a ripple effect: Harry could almost see the bones shifting underneath. Katie made a noise of disgust somewhere behind them and turned away.

“All done—but the magic does cause some side effects,” the Professor says cheerily.

“Like what?” Asked Fred, already trying to get on his elbows.

“Passing out.”

And Fred’s eyelids dropped.

-

Perhaps if another quidditch player is out of the running, it’ll be enough to convince them to go and kill whatever petrifying students. It was an amusing thought to Apollo at least. 

Sleep evaded him like a teasing wisp of smoke, just out of reach. He could feel his magic pulling at him, wishing to be back at the heart of civilization. He didn’t belong here, not anymore. But a contract was a contract, and even the gods of this land would not dare challenge it, binding him here for the time being.

For now at least. He’s not certain what would happen if he returned overseas.

He had given up on sleeping approximately two hours after his head hit the pillow. Usually by then, he’d have a mental breakdown. Alas, he is a god surrounded by fragile mortals. Can’t exactly have a mental break if people die, no matter how insignificant their lives are.

So, he did what any reasonable immortal would do: he went for a walk. Perhaps if he wandered the corridors long enough, he might stumble upon whatever was hunting the students. Getting petrified wasn’t an entirely unappealing prospect if it meant escaping this. He could always throw Lockhart into the beast’s path first—let the pompous fool deal with the consequences.

The idea brought a faint smile to his lips.

Brewing a cup of coffee, Apollo set off from the Astronomy Tower. With the mug balanced carefully in hand, Apollo descended the tower steps two at a time, trying his best to balance coffee. He reached the bottom without mishap, a small triumph he barely had time to acknowledge before a cold sensation crawled up his spine.

It wasn’t the temperature but the cold seemed to whisper to him.

Pausing mid-step, Apollo scanned the dimly lit corridor. The walls seemed to breathe, the stones shifting subtly under the flickering candlelight. Something moved ahead of him, a shadow slithering along the ceiling, dislodging dirt and dust that cascaded to the floor with a soft echo. The faintest hint of scales sliding over stone reached his ears, the sound rippling through the silence like a sinister whisper.

Apollo raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his coffee. The candles flickered once, twice, and then snuffed out, plunging the corridor into darkness. He could feel the presence looming, the air thick with malevolence. The corridor twisted, distorting in the darkness, as if the very walls were recoiling from the creature’s passage.

Nope. Not today. That sounded like a snake to me! Nope, no, no, no—

With that thought, Apollo spun on his heel, deciding a hasty retreat to the Astronomy Tower was the best course of action. He wasn’t about to play the fool in a horror film, wandering deeper into the shadows (he’s watched Halloween enough times to know that running away is the best option). 

He made it halfway back up the corridor before his legs betrayed him, locking up as if rooted to the spot. He collided sidelong with the wall, his grip on the coffee mug faltering. This is embarrassing, he thought with mild irritation. His hand reached out instinctively, maybe to grab a torch and reignite it with a flick of his magic, but the darkness was quicker.

Images flashed before his eyes: the setting sun casting long shadows on a giant with mismatched eyes, a lonely graveyard missing its most prominent family, a small cottage overlooking the ruins of a once-grand castle, a sword gleaming in the twilight, and then another, a different blade…

“Professor?” A voice pierced the vision, yanking Apollo back to reality. He inhaled sharply, the corridor swimming back into focus, the oppressive darkness lifting. The walls returned to their solid, unmoving state, though the sense of unease lingered in the pit of his stomach.

How embarrassing, Apollo thought, his fingers curling into a fist to steady himself. He turned slightly, half-hoping it was the serpent speaking to him—at least that would be more manageable. But no, it wasn’t the snake. It was a student.

Of course, it had to be a student.

One of the Weasleys stood in front of him, bags under his eyes and was glancing between him and the wall.

He forced himself not to flush in horror. Of all the things he was caught doing—! He briefly considered wiping the boy’s memory, but quickly discarded the idea. Dumbledore would know, and the last thing Apollo needed was another lecture about ethics.

Instead, he turned to face the student fully, his expression carefully neutral. “Normally, I would be concerned about finding one of you wandering the corridors alone, but—if I may say so—you look like death.”

The boy, George, winced at the bluntness of the statement but didn’t deny it. His freckles stood out starkly against his pale skin, and there was a tiredness in his eyes. “Blunt, Professor. Blunt.”

Apollo raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking past George to the empty corridor. “And you’re out here because…?” he prompted, his voice edged with impatience. “Other than trying to give your professors a heart attack, of course.”

George blinked, as if only now remembering why he was there. “Oh, er… I was trying to meet with my brother. See if he’s alright.”

“In the middle of the night?” Apollo’s voice was flat, unimpressed.

George nodded, looking sheepish. “Yes? Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let me in earlier because I was sick.”

Apollo stared at him, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire. The distant drip of water echoed off the walls, the only sound breaking the heavy stillness.

“...”

The temptation to let the boy squirm was strong. It was a small, petty pleasure, watching the student fumble for words, trying to justify his actions. But eventually, George’s resolve cracked.

“Please?” George’s voice was almost a whisper.

Apollo was tempted to say no, to send the boy scurrying back to his dormitory and be done with it.  But decided against it because Dumbledore could probably guess what he had done (and not because of anything else) and it’ll become a problem.

“Follow me,” Apollo said with a resigned sigh. “I’m surprised you haven’t found your way to the Hospital Wing already.”

George shifted uncomfortably behind him. “Had to take the long way—there are prefects patrolling.”

Apollo was half paying attention. He didn’t really care—at least he was doing something productive in the middle of the night (and distracting him from that). “Hmm, sure,” Apollo said absently, his feet taking him towards the Hospital Wing.

He could hear George follow behind him, slightly surprised.

I should’ve found a deal elsewhere… Getting involved in these mortals quests is so bothersome. One minute I’m enjoying a walk in the park and in the next there’s a giant snake roaming the halls that even I could get petrified by.

Brilliant.

These children hadn’t figured it out yet, and it was beginning to wear on his patience. Even for twelve-year-olds, the answer was embarrassingly simple. A demi-god could have ended this nonsense in a day.

His musings were cut short as he nearly collided with something solid. Apollo halted abruptly, George yelping as he almost ran into the back of his Professor. 

There was blood on a wall, dripping. Down below, propped against the wall, was a seventh year prefect that was in one of Apollo’s healing classes. His lips twisted downward, as his eyes lingering on the mirror held firmly in the girl's grasp.

Another student has been petrified.

As George’s breathing hitched, Apollo closed his eyes for a brief moment, willing himself to remain calm. The night had just gotten a whole lot longer.

Chapter Text

The news of the seventh year prefect spread in a whisper among the school. The girl’s body had been hidden away in the Hospital Wing, alongside Mrs. Norris, so no one knew for sure if she was petrified. But her sudden disappearance hadn’t gone unnoticed. Harry only confirmed the rumours were true when Fred returned from the Hospital Wing with George, talking in hushed tones about Professor Phoebus and Dumbledore bringing the girl in.

And people were getting scared.

There was a sale of amulets and medallions going around, speaking of how it would protect the students in need. Hermione hadn’t believed it and said as much as they travelled up towards their Astronomy classroom. 

The bell rang as they climbed the tower, the sun already beginning to set, and the sixth-years began pouring out of the class. Harry and Ron usually wouldn’t have arrived so early; they would’ve lingered in Gryffindor Tower, but today was different. They’d been deep in discussion about the Polyjuice Potion, spending most of their time in the library and the girls’ bathroom.

Just as they reached the top, the last stream of people came out. Percy Weasley walked out with an armful full of books that would make a bodybuilder quiver in fear. Behind him was Oliver, which made Harry raise an eyebrow as he began talking with a fellow student. His arms were strangely empty of textbooks.

As they passed the three of them, Percy gave Ron a look that only meant one of two things: one) Percy had seen Ron going into the girls bathroom again or two) Percy had seen Ron and Hermione going into the girls bathroom alone, and was telepathically warning Ron about the Howler that was going to come any day now.

Both options seemed right with the way Ron seemed to shrink into Harry’s shadow. 

Oliver caught Harry’s gaze (unfortunately) and he grinned (not good). He slapped Harry’s back as he passed and said, “I just saw Fred earlier today! Glad to see him back on his feet… Now that everyone’s healed, I’m expecting everyone to be at the pitch tomorrow morning before the sun.”

He left with a grin, but Harry felt like his life had just been threatened.

After making sure everyone was gone from the classroom, Harry stepped into the narrow hallway leading up to the tower. He opened the door and slipped into his seat with Ron and Hermione. At the front of the room, Professor Phoebus waved his hand at the blackboard that was filled with weird words that Harry wasn’t even going to try and decipher. The words remained on the board and Phoebus paused. Though his back was to Harry, he could see his back muscles stiffen. He cursed under his breath and lifted his wand—and the words disappeared a minute later.

“Why is he having so much trouble recently?” Ron whispered to Harry as the other students came bustling in.

“Maybe it’s because he’s—“ Hermione began.

“Don’t even start,” Ron complained.

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “How come you’re allowed to complain about Lockhart but I’m not allowed to complain about him?”

“It’s different!” Ron shot back.

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Professor Phoebus clapped his hands, signalling the start of class. She shot a glare at Ron, who returned it with equal intensity.  “Everyone pair up into their group of two and head to their work stations from last week,” the Professor said, eyes still trained on the blackboard behind the desk.

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance before getting to their feet. Hermione grabbed her notebook, casting a wary glance toward the nearby Slytherin table where Draco Malfoy and his cronies were seated. She turned back to her friends. “Are we doing the potion here or in Potions class?”

Harry hesitated, glancing between Ron and Hermione. They were still trying to figure out if Draco was the Heir of Slytherin, planning to use the Polyjuice Potion to impersonate Crabbe and Goyle—two of Draco’s closest lackeys. Despite his doubts, it was the only lead they had.

“Potions,” Ron decided. “At least we have an excuse for a distraction there.”

“We could create a distraction here,” Harry suggested. “Professor Phoebus wouldn’t mind as much as Snape would.”

Hermione shook her head, her eyes narrowing as she thought it through. “No, no… Potions class will have to do. There’s too much open space here.” She trailed off, heading toward the balcony where Parvati was waiting.

Ron turned to Harry, exasperated. “What was the point in asking if she was just going to decide on her own?”

Harry shrugged. “Who knows?”

As they walked outside, Ron grumbled about the prior defence class they had a couple hours earlier. “He talked about a leprechaun and looked directly at me!” 

Harry hid his snicker behind a cough.

“Just…Bloody Hell. I get jumpscared every time I see anything blonde.” 

Harry could share the sentiment. As Harry adjusts the cap of the telescope to peer up at the stars, Ron leaned against the edge of the railing. “They’re both pretty bad,” Ron grumbled, running a hand through his hair.

Harry hummed and aligned the telescope to the constellation Orion. “I mean—if Professor Phoebus ever makes us write or play out a scene where he defeats a magical creature, I might lose it.”

“Hm,” Harry says, glancing between his notebook and the constellation. Harry forgot to draw the bow. Ah, well.

“If you said they were twins, I would’ve believed you. And not just because they look alike,” Harry agreed, adjusting the zoom on the telescope.

Ron snickered and reached for Harry’s notebook, flipping to a new page. “Well, I mean, Professor Phoebus has become worse since Lockhart came around. It’s like they’re competing now to see who’s ego—“

Harry sees a shadow pass by the balcony beside them. Harry froze and looked up, causing Ron to go quiet. “Everything alright here?” Phoebus asked, approaching their balcony.

“Er—“ Ron began, face flushing red.

“What?” Professor Phoebus said, bemused. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No, we, uh, just—“

“I accidentally threw my star chart over the balcony,” Harry said lamely.

Phoebus raised a brow. “Again?”

“It was my fault this time.”

“As opposed to last time?”

Harry nodded. “I couldn’t control my cough…”

A shadow passed Phoebus’s face for a moment before he nodded. “Alright then…” He glanced skeptically at them again before moving on. As he left, Harry and Ron quickly shared a look.

“I guess we’re not talking about Professor’s during their class again,” Ron muttered.

“Probably not—not if we want detention.” 

-

Apollo lounged in his office, one leg casually draped over the arm of his chair, a goblet of ambrosia forgotten at his side. The Daily Prophet lay open before him, the ink still wet on the latest reports about the booming broomstick market. He scanned the page, but his thoughts were elsewhere, drifting back to what happened earlier in the night with a couple of certain named students.

He hadn’t really overheard their conversation but it's hard not to hear people talking about him. He knows it's happened before with those two, comparing him to Lockhart of all people. Lockhart. The thought alone made his skin crawl. He remembered when he overheard their conversation. They called him “another flashy professor,” though they admitted he was “less of a joke” than Lockhart. Apollo had half a mind to incinerate them on the spot, but the contract he was bound to, forged by the magic of this land, forbade him from such indulgences. He was, after all, here to help the school, not reduce its student population.

He had spent millennia basking in the adoration of mortals—songs, temples, and offerings in his name. And now, here he was, in a school that probably needs to be inspected by the board of education, being compared to a pompous fool who couldn’t tell the difference between a pixie and a Poltergeist. Phoebus scowled, his eyes narrowing at the thought. How did it come to this?

A more, traitorous, thought whispered in his mind. Well, they’re comparing you for a reason… Maybe you’re actually—

Nope. Stop it. Not going down that lane. And to avoid those further thoughts, Apollo sighed and leaned back.

The rules of his contract rang in his ears, an incessant reminder of his limitations—though that wasn’t the only problem he was facing. He couldn’t kill students. He couldn’t show the full extent of his divine power. He couldn’t even remind these mere mortals who he really was. What he would give to let loose just once, to incinerate Lockhart’s ridiculous collection of autobiographies in front of the whole school. But no, that would breach the contract, and the consequences of that were not worth the temporary satisfaction.

Grumbling to himself, Phoebus leaned back, the goblet at his side bubbling slightly with the heat of his rising temper. Comparing me to that idiot…

But then, his gaze fell back to the Prophet, to an article explaining the virtues of the latest unreleased broomstick—a marvel of craftsmanship, faster and more agile than anything else on the market. An idea came into Apollo’s mind.

Hmm, if I could find a way to bring students on my side instead (which is insane to think about. Mortals should be begging me for to be on their side, not the other way around!), I wouldn’t have to hear such nonsense about Lockhart anymore…

A smile crossed his face as his eyes lingered over the small photo of the broom in front of him. Yes, that would do nicely.  

-

Christmas Day appeared like a storm. Though, Harry was glad—half of the school was gone, which meant that half of the people that thought Harry was the heir of Slytherin was gone too. 

Harry didn’t mean for him to talk to snakes—really. The duel between him and Malloy went as one expected: badly. When Lockhart got in between them in order to stop them, he mispronounced a spell to summon snakes.

And Harry could talk to it—and guided it away from everyone. People were whispering about him and it had just started dying after a couple of days before Harry found himself standing in the middle of the next petrification with the whole school to see.

So, yeah, the secret is out. People are being petrified—and they think it’s Harry who opened up the Chamber of Secrets.

-

Hermione bursted into their dorm room Christmas morning, making both of the boys startle awake. When Harry managed to rub away his sleepiness, he could make out Hermione carrying presents in her hands. "Wake up," she said loudly, pulling back the curtains at the window.

"Hermione—you're not supposed to be in here—" said Ron, shielding his eyes against the light.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," said Hermione, throwing him his present. "I've been up for nearly an hour, adding more lacewings to the potion. It's ready."

Harry sat up, suddenly wide awake.

"Are you sure?”

"Positive," said Hermione, shirting Scabbers the rat so that she could sit down on the end of Ron's four-poster. "If we're going to do it, I say it should be tonight."

At that moment, Hedwig swooped into the room, carrying a very small package in her beak. "Hello," said Harry happily as she landed on his bed. "Are you speaking to me again?"

She nibbled his ear in an affectionate sort of way, which was a far better present than the one that she had brought him, which turned out to be from the Dursleys. They had sent Harry a toothpick and a note telling him to find out whether he'd be able to stay at Hogwarts for the summer vacation, too.

The rest of Harry's Christmas presents were far more satisfactory. Hagrid had sent him a large tin of treacle toffee, which Harry decided to soften by the fire before eating; Ron had given him a book called Flying with the Cannons, a book of interesting facts about his favourite Quidditch team, and Hermione had bought him a luxury eagle-feather quill. Harry opened another present to find a new, hand-knitted sweater from Mrs. Weasley and a large plum cake. He read her card with a fresh surge of guilt, thinking about Mr. Wesley's car (which hadn't been seen since its crash with the Whomping Willow), and the bout of rule-breaking he and Ron were planning next.

And the last present was a rather large rectangular shaped looking thing, that took both Ron and Hermione by surprise. “Who do you think gave it to you?” Hermione asked, leaning in—but couldn’t find anything.

There wasn’t a name on the present.

“Hm,” Harry said. Almost everyone Harry could think of had given him a present.

Harry, feeling like it might be another trap from Dobby the house elf, took a step back and unraveled the paper with a spell from his wand.

It gave way to a large box with golden words itched on top of it. Hermione and Ron gasped in awe.

“Look, Harry, there’s a letter!” Hermione said.

Below the title, Comet Trading Company, was a letter written in swirling cursive.

Harry frowned.

—

Dear Mr. Potter,

It seems the cat is out of the bag, so I’ll go ahead and confirm your suspicions: yes, I’m the one responsible for the recent arrival of that fine broomstick now in your possession. Before you get any ideas, let’s just say I have a vested interest in seeing Gryffindor at the top of their game. Slytherin has had an unfair advantage for far too long, don’t you think?

The broomstick is merely a way to even out the playing field—nothing more, nothing less. Consider it a gift from a professor who finds it much more enjoyable to watch a fair competition than a one-sided match where the odds are skewed by family fortunes and questionable tactics. 

I do, however, ask one small favour in return: try not to break it. That particular model isn’t available to the public yet, and it would be a shame to see it ruined before its time (and it cost an astronomical amount of money). I may or may not have pulled a few strings to get it here, and I'd rather not see those efforts go to waste because of some overeager Bludger.

Also, if you ever find yourself in need of anything—be it a bit of advice, an extra nudge in the right direction, or just someone to vent to who isn’t inclined to blather on about his own supposed heroics—you know where to find me. 

Best of luck in the upcoming matches, and I hope this gift helps keep the Gryffindor banner flying high.

Yours in support of fair play and spirited competition,

Professor Phoebus  

Professor of Healing and Astronomy

—

P.S. If you ever feel the need to discreetly dispose of a certain book by our dear Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, just say the word. I’m sure we can find a suitable bonfire for it.

P. P. S. The broom has an acceleration of 150 miles an hour, don’t drive this thing around in school or there might be a very mad Head of House Professor breathing down my neck.

Harry read the letter once, twice and a third time before handing it over to Ron, who quickly read it and summarised Harry’s thoughts. “Bloody hell.”

Hermione peeked over at the letter and huffed and said, “what did you two do to be on his good side? Or were you mentioning Lockhart again?”

“Forget that! Open it already,” Ron said.

Harry hesitated for a moment, his fingers tracing the elegant golden words on the box. For all Harry knows, the Professor could be pranking him. Harry’s not an idiot: he could guess that he overheard Harry and Ron talking in the Astronomy Tower.

With a deep breath, he finally flicked his wand—and the box opened, revealing a sleek and shiny Firebolt inside: wooden parts with golden lines flickering through it. Where wood meets the end of the broom was a golden handle—and the trio gasped collectively, and even Hermione, usually composed, couldn't hide her awe.

"Merlin's beard, Harry!" Ron exclaimed, eyes wide.

Harry, still in disbelief, nodded. "It‘s real—is that real gold?”

Hermione leaned in for a closer look, looking somewhat skeptical. But her eyes widened after a minute. "Look at the craftsmanship; it's perfect! Professor Phoebus must’ve paid a fortune for this!"

Ron grinned and clapped Harry on the back.  "Mate, you're going to fly like a dream on that thing! Professor Phoebus must really like you."

Harry eyed the gift suspiciously. “Or he wants us to stop comparing us to Lockhart.”

Ron paused and glanced owlishy at the gift. “You think he’d give you something for insulting him?”

Hermione glanced between them and raised an eyebrow. “You were discussing him and Lockhart again? When?”

Ron and Harry exchanged glances. Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Guys…” she began.

“During our last Astronomy Class.”

“…” Hermione paused and glanced between them before sighing. “You’re lucky he didn’t get rid of your points!” She looked like she wanted to say something more but she shook her head, looking disgruntled.

Harry coughed into his fist. “Whatever the case—we’re going to win this year. I just know it,” Harry said.

They raced downstairs, Harry and Ron quickly changing into clothes that didn’t look like pajamas, to find the Weasley’s. Or anyone that would listen really.

Harry grabbed the broomstick and placed it back into the box and lugged it downstairs into the common room, Ron and Hermione trailing behind him.

By the table with the chessboard, Parvati and one of Hermione’s friends were struggling to get their eyes opened. Fred and George were keeping Ginny distracted by the fire—turning the flames into animals.

Percy was watching over the scene on the couch, the fire illuminating a mountain of homework spread out on the table in front of him. Beside him, laying down and taking up half of the couch was Oliver Wood—who had decided to stay behind (“There’s snow no matter where I go, so Hogwarts is the best option because here I can still tune up my gear”).

As Harry’s footsteps echoed into the room, a collective turn of red hair could be seen. “Did Hermione come and wake you up? We saw her storming towards your room—we didn’t bother stopping her because she looked like she would kill us,” Fred greeted with a yawn.

“Yes—no—Look!” Harry said, stumbling over his words. Not even forming an apology to Percy for his disrupted homework that went flying everywhere, Harry slammed the box onto the table and unhooks the lid.

Oliver snapped up from his attempted nap as soon as his eyes landed on the broom. “Bloody hell—“

Percy shot him a look—(“Ginny is in the room!”) and Oliver quickly coughed, earning a few snickers from the twins.

“Merlin’s beard, what type of broom is that!?”

“Is a new broomstick that just completed its testing stage—the firestick—it goes 150 miles an hour. Professor Phoebus bought one for me because my old one was in bad shape,” Harry said.

Oliver looked faint. “By Merlin’s saggy left—“ He froze, noticing the look of disgust on Percy’s face. Nearby, Fred has his hands over Ginny’s ears, mockingly shaking his head at Oliver.

“Why would Professor Phoebus give you a new broomstick?” George asked quietly, eyes flickering. 

“Um,” Harry began but Ron interrupted, saying, “He wants us to win the Gryffindor match against Slytherin.”

Oliver’s eyes gleamed. “I knew Professor Phoebus was siding with us. Which gives me an idea—“

The whole Gryffindor common room seemed to burst in complaints.

-

The first week of Christmas break seemed to be eventful for Apollo (Harry hadn’t even stopped by to thank him! Mortals these days…) Apollo was lounging in his office, finally finished with paperwork, staring absently at the enchanted flames dancing in the fireplace. It was one of those rare moments when the castle was quiet, the students tucked away in their common rooms, and he could almost pretend he was somewhere else—anywhere else but here, babysitting mortal children who seemed hell-bent on getting themselves killed.

And he thought demi-gods were bad.

His thoughts wandered to the trio of students who had, quite predictably, found themselves at the centre of trouble since the start of the year. Which is why Apollo had taken the liberty of placing a subtle tracking spell on them, alerting him whenever something changed. Not that they needed to know, of course. It was a precaution, really. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into another mess because of their antics. But as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t quite bring himself to let them stumble blindly into danger.

He was just about to pour himself another glass of ambrosia when a sharp tug in his gut made him pause. The tracking spell had been activated, a surge of magic that pulsed through him, alerting him to the trio’s whereabouts. His brow furrowed. The source was coming from the second floor… the girls’ bathroom. 

The women’s bathroom? He groaned, running a hand through his hair. Why did it have to be there, of all places?   

Apollo paused. I hope they’re doing nothing too bad, but why in Zeus’s name are they in a girls bathroom? Gods… this will be so awkward when I go down there. Gods if I’m found by another Professor…

With a resigned sigh, Apollo stood, the fire flickering out as he snapped his fingers. He didn’t bother with the door; instead, he vanished from his office and reappeared just outside the bathroom. The school's magic tugged at him, tightening around his skin and he had to stop the urge to lash back out at the castle in return. The magic diminished and Apollo was just lucky the castle hadn’t thought he was apparating. Down near the bathroom, the spell’s tug was stronger now, insistent, almost panicked. Something was definitely wrong.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside, the dim lighting casting eerie shadows across the cracked tiles and grimy mirrors. The place reeked of mildew and something else, something sharper. The scent of a potion gone wrong hung in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of panic. 

“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing off the walls. There was no answer, just the faint sound of water dripping somewhere in the distance.

Apollo scanned the room, his eyes narrowing as he sensed the source of the disturbance. It wasn’t Myrtle causing the chaos this time. No, the problem lay behind one of the stalls, where a pitiful whimpering sound was coming from.

Well, it can’t be that bad, Apollo thought, I don’t hear any crying or screams in pain.

With a flick of his wrist, he silently unlocked the stall door and pushed it open. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the sight before him. Hermione Granger—except not quite. Well, I can’t say I’ve seen this one before.

The girl was crouched on the floor, her robes in disarray, but what caught his attention was her face—or rather, what should have been her face. Instead, he was met with the sight of a distinctly feline fur, whiskers twitching in distress. Large, yellow eyes blinked up at him from a mass of bushy, ginger fur.

“Well,” Apollo muttered, “this is certainly… something.”

Hermione made a strangled noise, halfway between a meow and a sob, as she tried to explain herself. “P-Professor, I—” 

Apollo raised a hand, cutting her off. “Spare me the details, Miss Granger. I don’t particularly care how you ended up like this. What matters now is fixing it before anyone else finds out.”

Hermione’s ears flattened against her head, and she nodded miserably, her cat-like form shivering with anxiety. Apollo studied her for a moment, his mind already running through the necessary steps to reverse whatever potion mishap had occurred. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she attempted something far beyond their current skill level. He was vaguely impressed by the ambition, but mostly annoyed that it had led to this.

If I was only a wizard, she’d be stuck like this for a month… But where are the others?  

Kneeling down beside her, Apollo extended a hand, his fingers glowing with a warm, golden light. “Hold still,” he instructed, his tone surprisingly gentle despite his irritation. “This might tingle a bit.”

Hermione nodded again, too mortified to protest, as Phoebus placed his hand on her head. His magic surged through her, tendrils of golden light weaving around her body, searching for the source of the transformation. He felt the foreign magic clinging to her like a second skin—crude, wrongly executed, but potent. It was impressive that she had managed to brew Polyjuice Potion.

Apollo concentrated, unravelling the strands of magic one by one, guiding her body back to its original form. The process was delicate, and he took his time, making sure to remove every trace of the feline influence. Slowly, Hermione’s features began to shift, the fur retracting, the whiskers fading, until at last, she was human again.

When it was over, Apollo withdrew his hand and stood, watching as Hermione slowly sat up, trembling from the ordeal. She looked pale and exhausted, but at least she was herself again. Her wide, brown eyes met his, filled with a mixture of gratitude and shame.

“I… I’m sorry, Professor,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “We didn’t mean for this to happen, I just thought that if we could—”

Apollo held up a hand again, silencing her. “Miss Granger, I told you, I don’t care about your reasons. The fact is, you made a mistake, and you were lucky it wasn’t worse. Now, I suggest you get yourself cleaned up and go straight to the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey will know what to do in case there’s any lingering problems.”

Hermione bit her lip, nodding quickly. “Thank you, Professor. I’m sorry for causing trouble.”

Apollo sighed, his irritation softening into something akin to resignation. “Just… be more careful in the future, Miss Granger. The next time you decide to dabble in advanced magic, make sure you know what you’re doing.”

She nodded again, scrambling to her feet, her legs still shaky from the transformation. “Where are the boys?” Apollo suddenly asked.

Hermione paused and slowly turned around. Almost sheepishly, she said, “Er… Down in the dungeons.”

Apollo raised his eyebrows. Why would they be in the dungeons? You know what, nevermind. “Alright,” Apollo sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Be on your way then, Miss Granger.”

Hermione nodded and with one last grateful look, she hurried out of the bathroom, leaving Apollo alone in the dim, damp space.

As the door swung shut behind her, Apollo leaned against the sink, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. He could still feel the residual traces of her magic in the air, and he sighed. They have no true lead on this case and they have no duty to try and stop the petrifications so why…? Why won’t they leave this to someone else? 

Apollo’s gaze trailed over the stoll Hermione is in, an odd feeling settling over him. It burned in his chest to the point where he had to shove it away. “Not right now,” Apollo muttered, watching water drip from the ceiling. He’ll have to figure that emotion out later.

-

The second years were given something new to think about during their Easter holidays. The time had come to choose their subjects for the third year, a matter that Hermione, at least, took very seriously.

"It could affect our whole future," she told Harry and Ron as they poured over lists of new subjects, marking them with checks.

"I just want to give up Potions," said Harry.

"We can't," said Ron gloomily. "We keep all our old subjects, or I'd've ditched Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"But that's very important!" said Hermione, shocked.

"Not the way Lockhart teaches it," said Ron. "I haven't learned anything from him except not to set pixies loose."

Neville Longbottom had been sent letters from all the witches and wizards in his family, all giving him different advice on what to choose. Confused and worried, he sat reading the subject lists with his tongue poking out, asking people whether they thought Arithmancy sounded more difficult than the study of Ancient Runes.

Dean Thomas, who, like Harry, had grown up with Muggles, ended up closing his eyes and jabbing his wand at the list, then picking the subjects it landed on. Hermione took nobody's advice but signed up for everything.

Harry smiled grimly to himself at the thought of what Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would say if he tried to discuss his career in wizardry with them. Not that he didn't get any guidance: Percy Weasley was eager to share his experience.

"Depends where you want to go, Harry," he said. "It's never too early to think about the future, so I'd recommend Divination and I’ve been doing plenty well with it. People say Muggle Studies is a soft option, but I personally think wizards should have a thorough understanding of the non-magical community, particularly if they're thinking of working in close contact with them—look at my father, he has to deal with Muggle business all the time. My brother Charlie was always more of an outdoor type, so he went for Care of Magical Creatures. If Professor Phoebus had come sooner, I would have chosen his healing class—it’s always good to know a few healing spells even if you don’t want to become a healer. Play to your strengths, Harry."

But the only thing Harry felt he was really good at was Quidditch. In the end, he chose the same new subjects as Ron. Hermione was taking the healing course, which made Harry feel a little bit better, and decided to do the same-as Professor Phoebus was one of the few Professor’s Harry recognized the name of.

Plus, from what Harry could tell, the Professor seemed to know a lot about healing—he healed Fred’s ribs. In return for that help, both twins swore to never play a prank on Phoebus while they’re still in school.  

-

Harry woke up a couple of weeks into May to brilliant sunshine and a light, refreshing breeze. "Perfect Quidditch conditions!" said Wood enthusiastically at the Gryffindor table, loading the team's plates with scrambled eggs. Wood has never been in such a greater mood.

Because 1) His grades had gotten a large boost in the year (to the point where Alicia and Katie Bell suspected Oliver was paying someone to do his assignments—gossiping whenever Oliver wasn’t in the common room). 2) Harry’s broom was worth the excitement—Harry nearly broke the broom the first time he played it by zooming into the tower windows (breaking the glass, which caused the team to quickly work together to fix it before a Professor found out). 

"Harry, buck up there, you need a decent breakfast," Wood says, snapping Harry back to attention.

As he left the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione to go and collect his Quidditch things, another very serious worry was added to Harry's growing list. He had just set foot on the marble staircase when he heard it yet again—

"Kill this time ... let me rip ... tear…” He shouted aloud and Ron and Hermione both jumped away from him in alarm.

"The voice!" said Harry, looking over his shoulder. "I just heard it again—didn't you?"

Ron shook his head, wide-eyed. Hermione, however, clapped a hand to her forehead. "Harry—I think I've just understood something! I've got to go to the library!" And she sprinted away, up the stairs.

"What does she understand?" said Harry distractedly, still looking around, trying to tell where the voice had come from.

"Loads more than I do," said Ron, shaking his head.

"But why's she got to go to the library?"

"Because that's what Hermione does," said Ron, shrugging. "When in doubt, go to the library."

"You'd better get moving," said Ron. "It's nearly eleven—the match—"

Harry raced up to Gryffindor Tower, collected his firebolt, and joined the large crowd swarming across the grounds, but his mind was still in the castle along with the bodiless voice, and as he pulled on his scarlet robes in the locker room, his only comfort was that everyone was now outside to watch the game.

“I saw Ron out there, where’s Hermione?” Angelina asked when Harry met them out on the field. Alicia and Katie were beside her.

“She thought…” Harry began but paused, glancing at them. They know I heard the voices… “I heard the voices again and Hermione said she knew something.”

Alicia’s brows drew together. “So, you heard voices and Hermione decided to go to the library all by herself?” 

Harry froze, realizing what she’s implying. What she suggested came true though when Professor McGoangall came by and told them the match was cancelled—and that Hermione was petrified. Only when Harry was about to go back inside that Angelina grabbed him again with most of the quidditch team behind her.

“Potter,” she said, “If you hear anything strange again, don’t go running after it, okay? Go get one of us.”

And Harry just nodded, knowing he probably wouldn’t.

-

Summer was here and exams were around the corner. Dumbledore was gone. Harry and Ron had just figured out the missing piece of the puzzle—and were heading towards the staff room when Professor McGonagall’s voice ran out.

They quickly ran into the staff room and hid in a closet, trying to adjust to the space that was given. From between the musty folds of the cloaks, Harry and Ron watched the teachers filtering into the room. Some of them were looking puzzled, others downright scared. Then Professor McGonagall arrived.

"It has happened," she told the silent staffroom. "A student has been taken by the monster. Right into the Chamber itself."

Professor Flitwick let out a squeal. Professor Sprout clapped her hands over her mouth. Professor Phoebus cursed and rubbed his temples. Snape gripped the back of a chair very hard and said, "How can you be sure?"

"The Heir of Slytherin," said Professor McGonagall, who was very white, "left another message. Right underneath the first one. 'His skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.'"

Professor Flitwick bursted into tears.

"Who is it?" said Madam Hooch, who had sunk, weak-kneed, into a chair. "Which student?"

"George Weasley," said Professor McGonagall.

Harry felt Ron slide silently down onto the wardrobe floor beside him. "We shall have to send all the students home tomorrow," said Professor McGonagall. "This is the end of Hogwarts. Dumbledore always said…"

The staffroom door banged open again. For one wild moment, Harry was sure it would be Dumbledore. But it was Lockhart, and he was beaming.

"So sorry—dozed off—what have I missed?" He didn't seem to notice that the other teachers were looking at him with something remarkably like hatred. Professor Phoebus stepped forward. "Just the man," he said, a smile growing on his face that looked somewhat sinister. "The very man. A girl has been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come at last."

Lockhart blanched.

"That's right, Gilderoy," chipped in Professor Sprout. "Weren't you saying just last night that you've known all along where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is?"

"I—well, I—" sputtered Lockhart.

"Yes, didn't you tell me you were sure you knew what was inside it?" piped up Professor Flitwick.

"D-did I? I don't recall—"

"I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you hadn't had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was arrested," said Snape. "Didn't you say that the whole affair had been bungled, and that you should have been given a free rein from the first?"

Lockhart stared around at his stony-faced colleagues.

"I—I really never—you may have misunderstood—"

"We'll leave it to you, then, Gilderoy," said Professor McGonagall. "Tonight will be an excellent time to do it. We'll make sure everyone's out of your way. You'll be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. A free rein at last."

Lockhart gazed desperately around him, but nobody came to the rescue. He didn't look remotely handsome anymore. His lip was trembling, and in the absence of his usually toothy grin, he looked weak-chinned and feeble.

"V-very well," he said. "I'll—I'll be in my office, getting ready."

And he left the room.

"Right," said Professor McGonagall, whose nostrils were flared, "that's got him out from under our feet. The Heads of Houses should go and inform their students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts Express will take them home first thing tomorrow. Will the rest of you please make sure no students have been left outside their dormitories.”

The teachers rose and left, one by one until only Phoebus remained. He glanced towards the cabinet with a raised eyebrow. “I know both of you are in there—terribly sorry about your brother—but I fear both of you can’t handle that serpent alone.” He tilted his head to the side as Harry and Ron froze. “Don’t rely on yourselves.”

He nodded once more towards the cabinet and walked out of the room, the door slamming shot behind him.

-

It was probably the worst day of Harry’s entire life. He, Ron, Fred, Percy and Ginny sat together in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, unable to say anything to each other. Percy had gone to send an owl to Mr and Mrs Weasley and had quickly come back.

No afternoon ever lasted as long as that one, nor had Gryffindor Tower ever been so crowded, yet so quiet. Near sunset, when everyone was back in their rooms, Percy urged Ginny to return to her dormitory but she had complained the whole time.

Fred hadn’t said a word since they’d gathered there, and the room was filled with tension. While Percy ushered Ginny away, Ron turned awkwardly to Fred. “Fred?” Ron’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “How… how are you holding up?”

Fred didn’t answer at first. He just stared into the fire, eyes skittering around like he was reading something. After a moment, as if finally realizing Ron was waiting, he spoke, his voice low and rough. “How do you think I’m holding up, Ron?” He muttered, not looking up. “My brother is down there. And I didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”

Ron flinched at the bitterness in Fred’s tone and glanced sideways at Harry, who sunk back into the couch, wondering if he should get up and leave. Ron coughed and turned back to Fred and said, “It’s not your fault, Fred. None of us knew—”

“I should have known!” Fred snapped, his head whipping up to glare at Ron. His face was twisted in anger, but beneath it, Ron could see the guilt, the pain. “I should have seen the signs. I should have… done something.”

The anger drained out of Fred as quickly as it had come, leaving him slumped in his chair, looking more defeated than Harry had seen him—Ron too if his face was anything to go by. Behind Fred, Percy was walking back towards them, eyes flickering between the three of them.

“We got this… this diary,” Fred began, his voice barely above a whisper. “Back in Diagon Alley, when all those books fell out of our cauldron. It wasn’t ours, but it ended up with us anyway. George found it and started writing in it. He said it could write back.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “A diary?”

“Yeah.” Fred said quietly. “I couldn’t see anything, though. Every time I looked at it, the pages were blank. But George… he could see everything. He said it was brilliant—couldn’t stop talking about how it answered his questions, how it knew all these things. We even started planning pranks with it, you know? The exploding cakes for Christmas… George thought it’d be hilarious.”

Fred let out a shaky laugh, but there was no humour in it. “But then… then he started changing. He got quieter, more secretive. He’d disappear late at night, and when I asked him where he’d been, he just… he just brushed me off. Said it was nothing.”

Ron was silent and Harry wondered if his invisibility cloak was nearby so he could put it on and disappear without anyone noticing. He felt incredibly awkward—like he shouldn’t be here.

“I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t say anything,” Fred confessed. “I didn’t want to get him in trouble so I covered for him, said he had the cold, that one of our pranks went wrong. I thought… I thought I could figure it out on my own. I thought… I could help him.”

Fred looked absolutely miserable. “I’m a bloody idiot aren’t I?” He said, putting his hands against his head.

Harry felt the urge to say something, to offer comfort, but the words wouldn’t come. What could he say? That it wasn’t Fred’s fault? That everything would be okay? Harry had a feeling that all of them knew that wasn’t true.

“Phoebus… Professor Phoebus, he saw the diary once. He was walking past us in the corridor, and it slipped out of George’s bag. He didn’t say anything, just picked it up and handed it back, but I saw the way he looked at it. He knew something was off, but he didn’t stop us. And I didn’t ask him for help. I should have…”

He trailed off, his voice cracking with emotion. “I should have done something. ”

There was a long silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire. Ron stared at the floor, as did everyone else in the room. Then, a bit quietly, Percy said, “We should tell the Professors about the diary—if we still have it.”

Fred shook his head. “I searched his room, there was nothing. It was on him when he was taken.”

Percy shifted on his feet and he had a look on his face that reminded Harry of Mrs. Weasley, a look of tiredness. “Here, we’ll go down to Madam Pomfrey and get a calming drought—”

“We aren’t supposed to go out of the common rooms,” Fred mumbled.

Percy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m a prefect, I’m allowed. Come on… Stay here, you two.” Once they disappeared through the door, Harry and Ron looked at one another in silence before Harry coughed.

“Do you think George having the diary and the chamber is connected or something?” Harry asked. “I mean, like—”

Ron frowned but shook his head.  “I dunno, but, I think at least George knew something,” Ron whispered. “Like the diary told him something that he wasn’t meant to know and—” Ron rubbed his eyes frantically.”I mean, he was a pure-blood. There can’t be any other reason.”

Harry could see the sun sinking, blood red, below the skyline. This was the worst he had ever felt. If only there was something they could do. Anything. “Harry,” said Ron, “d’you think there’s any chance at all he’s not—you know—”  Harry didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t see how George could still be alive.

“D’you know what?” said Ron, “I think we should go and see Lockhart. Tell him what we know. He’s going to try and get into the Chamber. We can tell him where we think it is, and tell him it’s a Basilisk in there. Even Professor Phoebus said we should go find help.”  Because Harry couldn’t think of anything else to do, and because he wanted to be doing something, he agreed. 

(“Do you think they went to bed?” Fred asked when they returned, the sleeping drought in his hand.

Percy froze and looked around and walked back outside, to the portrait, who told him that she had seen the two boys leave shortly after they had. She thought they were following Percy and Fred. 

“No,” Percy said. “I knew we shouldn’t have left those two alone.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Fred said. “Now they’re going to try and find the chamber and knowing them, they probably know where it is.”

Percy didn’t look happy. Abruptly, he turned to Fred and said, “Go and find a  Professor, Fred.”

“What? What about you?”

“I’m going down there to find them.”

“Excuse me? Without me? And how exactly do you know where they are?”

All of the quidditch team know about the voices Harry hears, right?”

“The downstairs girl bathroom, the one with Moaning Myrtle.”

“And you know this how?”

“They’ve been hanging around in that area a lot. I’m going down there first to see if I can stop them in time.”

Fred began to speak again but Percy was out the door, leaving Fred staring at his back).

- 

Darkness was falling as Ron and Harry walked down to Lockhart’s office. There seemed to be a lot of activity going on inside it. They could hear scraping, thumps and hurried footsteps. Harry knocked and there was a sudden silence from inside. Then the door opened the tiniest crack and they saw one of Lockhart’s eyes peering through it. “Oh ... Mr Potter ... Mr Weasley …” he said, opening the door a mite wider. “I’m rather busy at the moment. If you would be quick…”

“Professor, we’ve got some information for you,” said Harry. “We think it’ll help you.” 

“Er—well—it’s not terribly—” The side of Lockhart’s face that they could see looked very uncomfortable. “I mean—well—all right.” He opened the door and they entered. His office had been almost completely stripped. Two large trunks stood open on the floor. Robes, jade green, lilac, midnight blue, had been hastily folded into one of them; books were jumbled untidily into the other. The photographs that had covered the walls were now crammed into boxes on the desk. 

In short order, they found out that Lockhart was a liar, committed some crimes, and managed to disarm Lockhart. Now, they’re marching him down towards the girls' bathrooms. There, Moaning Myrtle explained to them how she had died and pointed out a sink that had a snake carved into it. After a bit of struggling, they finally managed to get the passage to the chamber open—and down the tunnel they went.

When all three of them appeared at the end of the tunnel, Harry turned to Ron. “We must be miles under the school,” said Harry, his voice echoing in the black tunnel.

“Under the lake, probably,” said Ron, squinting around at the dark, slimy walls. All three of them turned to stare into the darkness ahead. “Lumos!” Harry muttered to his wand and it lit again. “C’mon,” he said to Ron and Lockhart, and off they went, their footsteps slapping loudly on the wet floor. They continued until they found the large skin of the basilisk laying on the ground, which caused Lockhart to fall to the ground.

Harry was starting to regret bringing Lockhart with them.

“Get up,” said Ron sharply, pointing his wand at Lockhart. Lockhart got to his feet—then he dived at Ron, knocking him to the ground. Harry jumped forward, but too late. Lockhart was straightening up, panting, Ron’s wand in his hand and a gleaming smile back on his face.

“The adventure ends here, boys!” he said. “I shall take a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the boy, and that you two tragically lost your minds at the sight of his mangled body. Say goodbye to your memories!: He raised Ron’s Spellotaped wand high over his head and opened his mouth to shout, “Obliviate!”

Only, he was too late to finish his spell, he got midway through before a voice behind them shouted, “Repercutio!”

A light appeared at the end of the hall—and shot right into Lockhart just as the light from Ron’s wand started to appear with the start of obliviate. Instantly, Lockhart shot forward and fell on the ground while both Ron and Harry lifted their hands up towards the new person that was hurriedly approaching.

Percy Weasley’s tall figure emerged from the shadows, his face set in a deep scowl, his red hair flaming in the dim light.

“Percy!” Ron gasped, half in relief and half in shock. “What—what are you doing here?”

Percy’s eyes were cold, sharp, and far from the usual pompous demeanour that Ron and Harry were used to. He stepped over Lockhart’s prone form without a second glance, his wand still gripped tightly in his hand.

“I could ask you the same thing, Ron,” Percy retorted, his voice clipped and strained. “But seeing as you’re about to face down a basilisk, I’ll save the lecture for later.”

Ron was quick to recover from his surprise. “How do you know that it's a basilisk?”

Percy gave him a flat look. “Besides the fact that your voices carried through the tunnel, I did do some research—and there’s a shed of giant skin right here.”

Ron blushed before quickly glancing down towards Lockhart. “What did you do to him?” he asked, jerking his thumb at Lockhart, who was now mumbling incoherently about signing autographs and hair potions.

“A Reflective Charm,” Percy answered curtly, his gaze briefly flicking to Lockhart with disdain. “Anything he tried to cast on you rebounded on him. Given that it was an Obliviate, I’d say he’s managed to successfully wipe his own memory.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “So… he doesn’t remember anything?”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Percy said, and there was a grim satisfaction in his voice. “Serves him right, the idiot. He could have gotten you both killed.”

Ron looked between Lockhart and his brother, as if trying to piece together the fact that Percy had decided to go against a Professor.

“He almost did,” Harry muttered, lowering his wand. He felt a surge of frustration—Lockhart had been more of a liability than any kind of help, and now here they were, with the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets looming just ahead, no closer to rescuing George.

Percy’s gaze snapped to Harry. “This is the Chamber, isn’t it? Where George is?” There was an edge of desperation in his voice.

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed, his voice steady. “It’s just ahead. But, uh, we’re on the lookout for the basilisk.” Now that Harry’s thinking about it, they didn’t have much of a plan.

“That’s why you’re both coming back up with me,” Percy said firmly, taking a step toward Ron and Harry as if ready to drag them out if necessary. “We’re getting a Professor. Professor Phoebus, Dumbledore—anyone who can actually handle a basilisk.”

“No, Percy!” Ron protested, stepping back and shaking his head vehemently. “We can’t just leave George down there! We’re so close—he might not have time!”

Percy’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked torn, his stern expression faltering slightly as he glanced back toward the dark tunnel ahead. The thought of turning back was almost unbearable.

“He’s right,” Harry urged, moving to stand beside Ron. “If we leave now, we might not get another chance. George… George could be…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

Percy hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he studied Harry and Ron. His wand hand trembled slightly, uncertainty evident on his face. But then, after what felt like an eternity, he gave a curt nod.

“Fine,” Percy said, his voice low and strained. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it together. You listen to me, and you stay behind me. Understand?”

Ron and Harry nodded in unison, Harry feeling both relieved and annoyed—glad that there’s an upperclassman with them, but also the fact that they’re being babysat by Ron’s older brother. But… George needed them, and they couldn’t turn back now.

“What about Lockhart?” Ron asked.

Percy glanced back towards the man, as if remembering he was still here, and quickly casted a body-binding spell. “He’ll be here when we get back,” Percy said and stepped forward, leading the way with his wand raised, the tip casting a dim light that illuminated the slick, slimy walls of the tunnel. Harry and Ron followed closely behind.

The tunnel stretched on, the darkness pressing in on them from all sides. The smell of damp earth and decay grew stronger as they went deeper, and the air became colder, more oppressive. Harry’s grip tightened around his wand as they approached a massive, serpentine skin lying discarded on the floor, a chilling reminder of the danger that lay ahead.

“Bloody hell…” Ron whispered, staring at the enormous basilisk skin with wide eyes. “It’s huge…”

“Stay close,” Percy ordered, his voice tense but steady. He stepped around the skin carefully, his gaze fixed on the darkness ahead.

They continued down the tunnel, the sound of their footsteps echoing loudly in the silence. Harry’s heart was racing, every nerve in his body on edge as they neared the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. The walls seemed to close in around them, the tunnel narrowing as it twisted and turned, leading them deeper into the castle.

Finally, they reached a massive stone door, intricately carved with serpent-like patterns that seemed to writhe and shift in the dim light. Harry stared at the door, his stomach twisting. This was it. Beyond this door was the Chamber, and somewhere inside, George was waiting for them.

Percy took a deep breath, his hand hovering over the door. He glanced back at Ron and Harry, his expression grim but resolute.

“Whatever happens in there,” Percy said quietly, “we do this together. No one goes off on their own. Understand?”

Ron and Harry nodded, their faces pale but determined. Harry walked forward and said the same thing as he said with the sink beforehand.The serpent patterns seemed to pulse and with a deep, grinding noise, the door began to slowly slide open, revealing a large chamber that had to probably be a football field at least in length. Just as Percy began to move in the chamber, a familiar voice called out, echoing through the tunnel behind them. “Oi! Wait up!”

Percy froze.

Harry spun around, his wand at the ready, but relaxed slightly as Fred came into view, sprinting down the tunnel. His face was flushed from the exertion, and his usual mischievous grin was replaced with a look of determination.

“Fred, what are you doing here?” Percy demanded, his voice sharp with irritation. “I told you to get a Professor!”

“I did,” Fred said, panting as he caught up with them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment. Percy faltered as Fred practically shoved it into him. As Percy read it, Fred said, “Professor Phoebus said he’ll alert Dumbledore—and said—“

“To stop everything is to destroy the diary with the tooth of a basilisk?” Percy said skeptically. “And you believed him? Just like that?”

Fred shrugged nonchalantly, twirling the dagger between his fingers. “Phoebus is a weird bloke, but he knows his stuff—and the diary was affecting George oddly too. Besides, Phoebus didn’t exactly leave me with a lot of options. Told me if I didn’t take the letter, he’d send me straight back to Gryffindor Tower.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron, both of them slightly uneasy about the idea of the fact that Professor Phoebus didn’t come down here himself. It was odd. But they were running out of time, and they couldn’t afford to be picky.

“And you’re just going to waltz in here and help us like it’s another one of your pranks?” Percy asked, his tone laced with skepticism. “This isn’t a joke, Fred. This is life or death.”

Fred’s expression hardened, the usual playfulness in his eyes replaced with something else. “I know it’s not a joke, Percy. George is down there, and I’m not sitting around while you lot go and try to save him. I’m coming, whether you like it or not.”

Percy opened his mouth to argue, but the look on Fred’s face made him pause. He knew that look—Fred wasn’t going to back down. With a resigned sigh, Percy nodded, albeit reluctantly.

“Fine,” Percy said, his voice tight. “But you stay close. No wandering off, and no heroics.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Fred quipped, though there was no humour in his tone. Percy pocketed the letter as Fred watched him. “Let’s get George and get out of here.”

Together, the four of them continued down the chamber, their steps cautious and deliberate. The air grew colder the deeper they went, the oppressive atmosphere pressing down on them like a physical weight. Harry’s heart raced, his mind whirling with the possibilities of what they might find ahead. If George is already gone… Harry didn’t want to think about it.

As they approached the central part of the chamber, the oppressive atmosphere seemed to thicken, the walls closing in around them. The four of them halted as they reached a massive stone statue of Salazar Slytherin, its hollow eyes staring down at them with a malevolent gaze.

Harry’s breath hitched as he scanned the chamber. He could feel the presence of something ancient and powerful, something laying in wait. And then, his eyes fell on a figure at the base of the statue—a pale, motionless body slumped against the cold stone.

“George!” Fred gasped, breaking into a run.

“Fred, wait!” Percy shouted, but it was too late. Fred was already at George’s side, shaking his twin’s shoulders, his voice frantic. “George, wake up! C’mon!”

Harry and Ron hurried after him, while Percy hung back slightly, his eyes scanning the chamber for any sign of the basilisk. There was no telling where the creature might be lurking, and they couldn’t afford to let their guard down.

Fred was still trying to rouse George, lifted his hand to George’s pulse and relaxed just slightly. Harry got the feeling that he could feel a heart beating. 

 Just as Fred was about to lift George up, a low, rumbling noise echoed through the chamber, sending a shiver down Harry’s spine.

“What was that?” Ron whispered, his eyes wide with fear.

Harry could feel the eyes return, staring right into his back. Harry slowly turned around, but there was nothing there. 

“We need to move quickly. The basilisk could be anywhere,” Percy said. “Ron, go back up with George using the ascending charm—“

Ron spluttered, “I’m not leaving here!”

Percy ignored him. “If what I’m hearing is right, the only way to stop the basilisk is to have its teeth puncture the diary. We’ll have to find a way to wake up the basilisk and trick it into biting the diary…” He trailed off at the end.

“Simple,” Fred said sarcastically.

“Have a better idea?”

“No.”

“Let’s split up and search,” Harry suggested. “I can check out the statue…”

“Ron will carry George up there and get a Professor that will actually help, I’ll go to the left and George will go to the right,” Percy said.

Ron scowled, “I should stay down here too!”

“And leave George down here?” Percy asked.

Ron looked around, trying to find help. No one said anything. “Fine,” Ron sighed and turned back to George.

Percy nodded to Fred as he began to turn away, his expression grim. “Be careful. And if you see the basilisk, don’t look it in the eyes.”

With that, they spread out, their wands raised, as they began to search the chamber. Harry’s heart pounded in his ears as he moved toward the statue, his mind racing. 

(George had taken to following the trail of blood that had come from George, coming across a flooded area with two pillars with a trunk in the middle. On the other side of the room, crossing behind another corridor, Percy had found a door with strange ruins covering the stone archway. Behind the gated stairs laid a descending staircase with dimly lit torches that glowed green and blue. He tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge, not even with an alohomora). 

Harry had ventured further into the darkness, his wand light flickering over the damp stone walls. As Harry reached the statue, coming face-to-face with it, he could feel the sense of something wash over him again, almost as badly as it did during Harry’s first year.

Harry spun around on his heels, half-expecting to not see anything like usual, but, unexpectedly, he came face-to-face with a young man. It took Harry a minute to realize who it was, the owner of the diary.

Tom Riddle.

-

The ground shook around them and Ron, who was halfway up the stairs with George (who was being carried by Lockhart after freeing him and telling this was his job) froze and turned back around. It was too though—he was already at the start of the chamber again. It’d be too late to return now.

Fred, who managed to finally find the diary, robes wet and hands covered in grime, looked up as the ground shook. And then, Fred could hear something slithering around down around him, the water lifting. Fred only took a moment to right himself before he took off towards the centre of the chamber, eyes downcast immediately once he entered the room.

He could see Harry’s outline—and someone else’s. Fred didn’t know who, it wasn’t Percy. 

“Harry!” Fred shouted, pulling the diary from his pocket. “You need this, right?”

Harry’s eyes widened in relief. “Fred, yes!”

Tom Riddle, Voldemort, hissed out, attack, and the serphant surged forward, towards Harry. Harry yelped and dodged out of the way and started rushing towards Fred.

Fred shouted, “That was parseltongue, right? Try it!”

Harry’s mind raced. It took a moment for Harry to realize what Fred was telling him. Control the basilisk too. It was an incredibly unwise decision to try it but—Fred was right—he had to try something, anything, to buy them a few more seconds. The basilisk reared back, ready to strike, its massive form coiled and tense.

“Stop!” Harry hissed in Parseltongue, his voice trembling but clear.

The basilisk hesitated, its head tilting slightly as if confused by the command. Riddle’s expression faltered for a moment, surprise flickering in his eyes.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Fred threw the diary towards Harry once he got closer to the kid. Harry jerked in surprise, his eyes still casted downward. 

“You know what to do, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said breathlessly.

Kill him, Tom Riddle hissed out again.

Harry didn’t have to see to know the basilisk was aiming for him. Harry reached forward with the book, placing above him just as the basilisk snapped its teeth down—digging straight through Harry’s hands—and the diary.

Harry gasped in pain as a bright white light exploded through Harry’s body, travelling through his nerves. The blood seemed to hiss and burn on Harry’s skin and he stumbled backwards, the teeth digging out of Harry but sticking to the book. He fell to the floor, clutching his hand and Fred rushed towards him.

Harry could briefly hear Riddle curse out something and Harry looked up, noticing Riddle’s form flickered, his face contorting in rage and pain as the diary began to smoke and burn. The basilisk recoiled and flung the diary out of its mouth, which landed right beside Harry. The book convulsed, dark ink spilling out like blood. 

And the last thing Harry could think of before passing out, was to stop the basilisk from harming Fred too. Sluggish, Harry hissed out, “Sleep.”

Chapter Text

The first time Harry woke up, he blinked awake against the blinding white of the Hospital Wing. Everything felt oddly distant, as though he were floating just above reality. He turned his head to the side, and there, seated beside him, were Ron and Hermione.

“Hermione?” Harry croaked, wincing at how quiet his voice came out. Am I dreaming? Hermione’s still petrified, isn't she?

“Harry! You’re awake!” Hermione’s relieved voice echoed in Harry’s head for a moment, making him blink at her for a moment before everything clicked in. Hermione’s awake— and Harry isn’t dreaming.

“Hermione… you’re okay,” Harry said again, his voice still croaky, like he hadn’t spoken in years.

“Of course I am, thanks to you,” Hermione replied, her eyes shining. “Madam Pomfrey revived me as soon as the Mandrake Draught was ready. You’ve been out for a week.”

“A week?” Harry repeated, trying to sit up. A sharp pain shot through his body, forcing him back down.

“Easy, mate,” Ron said, leaning forward to help. “You were in bad shape when Fawkes brought you back. Madam Pomfrey said you needed rest more than anything.”

“Fawkes?” Harry asked, his thoughts scrambling to piece together his memories. He recalled the Chamber, the basilisk, and then… Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix. The tears, healing him… “Fawkes saved me?”

“Yeah,” Ron confirmed. “Dumbledore sent him after—well, after we got to McGonagall’s office with George.”

Harry frowned, trying to remember. “George… is he okay?”

“He’s fine, thanks to you,” Hermione said, her voice soft. “You all were very brave, going down there.”

“Fred and Percy came back with you, an hour after we got to the office,” Ron added. “They said you put the basilisk to sleep.”

Harry’s memory was slowly returning. The fight with Tom Riddle, the battle in the Chamber… “I did, didn’t I?” What’s become of the basilisk now?

Ron nodded. “But they didn’t stick around to admire your handiwork. Fred grabbed the diary and we got out of there as fast as we could.”

“The diary,” Harry murmured, trying to remember what Fred said about it. “Where is it?”

“Dumbledore has it now,” Hermione said. “Fred handed it over as soon as they got back. He’s been looking into it ever since.”

The second time Harry woke, it was to the sound of a soft hum, sort of like a lullaby. His eyes fluttered open to find Mrs. Weasley sitting by his bed, knitting quietly.

“Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, his voice still rough.

“Oh, Harry, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, quickly wiping her tears away as she leaned forward to take his hand. “You gave us all such a fright.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled, feeling a pang of guilt. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hush now,” she interrupted, squeezing his hand gently. “You were very brave, going down there to save George and the others. I’m just so grateful you’re all right.”

Harry swallowed, “I couldn’t have done it without everyone else...”

Mrs. Weasley nodded, her smile wobbly but warm. “Yes, they told me everything. I’m so proud of all of you.”

Harry smiled back, feeling utterly exhausted.He wanted to say more, maybe to thank her, but sleep was pulling him away.

The third time Harry woke, it was to the sound of gentle music playing in the background. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light. The pain was less this time, and he felt a little stronger. As he turned his head, he saw Dumbledore sitting beside him, his eyes twinkling

“Good evening, Harry,” Dumbledore said softly, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Professor,” Harry murmured, blinking in surprise. “What time is it?”

“Just after sunset,” Dumbledore replied, glancing out the window. “You’ve been resting for some time, as you should.”

Harry nodded. I feel like I’m forgetting something… wait… “Professor, the diary… Tom Riddle…” Harry said abruptly.

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore said, his expression growing more serious. “The diary was indeed a dark and dangerous object, one that should never have fallen into the hands of a student.”

“Malfoy had it,” Harry remembered, thinking back to that day Diagon Alley. “He dropped it into Ginny’s cauldron… he was trying to give it to her.”

Dumbledore’s eyes darkened, though his voice remained calm. “Yes, I believe Lucius Malfoy was responsible for placing the diary into Ginny’s possession. However, it is best that we keep this information between us for now. There are other matters at play, and it would not be to act rashly.”

Harry nodded. Why not—George almost got killed! Speaking of George…

“But George… he’s okay, right?”

“He woke an hour after the ordeal,” Dumbledore assured him. “He was understandably shaken, but he will recover fully. The diary, however, is gone now, and Lockhart… well, he lost his memory in a rather unfortunate turn of events.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile a little at that. “So, he really did it to himself?”

“I’m afraid so,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling once more. “Though perhaps it was a fitting end, considering the circumstances.”

Harry’s smile faded slightly. “So much happened while I was out…”

“Yes, but you did well, Harry,” Dumbledore said, his tone gentle. “You showed great courage, and more importantly, you showed compassion.“

Harry didn’t know how to respond to that.

The next day, Harry felt strong enough to sit up in bed. As he sipped on a cup of warm broth, he heard a soft knock at the door. Before he could respond, the door creaked open and Dobby, the house-elf, peeked his head inside. And much like the start of the year, Dobby came to apologize to Harry. Though, this time, Harry made sure Dobby wouldn’t be in Malfoy’s hands anymore.

-

Harry’s attempt of having an okay summer break turned into failure pretty quickly when his Aunt started to become a blowup balloon. And Harry found himself packing his bags after Aunt Petunia practically kicked him out of the door (well, Harry easily agreed to leave).

He roamed around the street, walking without any real purpose. A sense of uneasiness surged through him as he looked down the quiet street, the streetlamps the only light source. He was at a loss of what to do—where to go.

The Weasleys were in Egypt, Hermione was on vacation with her family, and Harry had no Muggle money to his name. He wasn’t about to go back inside and ask for any either. Flying to London via broom seemed like an option—risky, but he did have his Invisibility Cloak. It wouldn’t count as magic, right?

Harry crouched beside his trunk, rummaging through it for the Cloak. As his fingers brushed against the familiar fabric, a prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck. He froze, glancing over his shoulder. The street was empty, and the houses loomed silently in the darkness, but the feeling of being watched persisted.

Straightening up, Harry kept his hand on his wand, his senses on high alert. He turned his gaze towards the narrow gap between the garage and the fence, squinting into the darkness. Something was there—a hulking outline with wide, gleaming eyes.

A shiver ran down his spine, but he tried to inhale deeply. This wasn’t like the time with the Dementors or the Chamber of Secrets. It couldn’t be that bad. Could it?

"Lumos," Harry whispered, the tip of his wand lighting up with a bright glow. The light reflected off the pebble-dashed walls, revealing the unmistakable shape of a massive, black dog staring back at him.

Panic surged through Harry, and he staggered backward, tripping over his trunk. Forgetting about all his magical knowledge, he stared openly at the dog in front of him. His wand slipped from his grasp, and he landed hard on the pavement. Before he could react, a deafening BANG erupted, and a blinding light engulfed the street. Harry flinched, shielding his eyes.

When the light faded, he found himself face-to-face with something that made him question his sanity—a golden Lamborghini, its polished surface gleaming under the moonlight.

Harry blinked, half-expecting to wake up from a bizarre dream, still in Privet Drive when he hadn't blown up his aunt. The driver’s door swung open, and Harry’s disbelief deepened when he saw who stepped out. 

“Professor?” Harry scrambled to his feet, staring in shock at Professor Phoebus, the Astronomy and Healing Professor at Hogwarts.

Phoebus looked at Harry over the top of the car with a raised eyebrow, as if questioning the boy’s existence on the pavement. 

The Professor looked every bit the part of a Muggle in his crisp white dress shirt and black khakis, his long hair framing a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses, which, despite the late hour, sat perched on his nose.

In short, he looked very American.

The Professor’s gaze flicked over Harry, noting the scuffed knees and bleeding hand with a faint smirk. He took off his sunglasses, revealing bright eyes that seemed to gleam with amusement.

“Checking out what the ground was made of, Harry?” The Professor asked, walking towards him.

Harry flushed, quickly retrieving his wand and shoving it into his pocket. “I fell.”

Phoebus glanced around, his expression growing more amused. “From what? The wind?”

"I didn't do it on purpose," Harry muttered, feeling a twinge of annoyance. Suddenly, he remembered the dog and spun around, pointing towards the alleyway. “There was a huge black dog. Right there!”

The Professor’s car headlights flooded the narrow gap, revealing nothing but empty space. Phoebus tilted his head, looking bemused.

“Hm. Are you alright, Harry? Did you hit your head?”

Harry knows what he sounded like-like he lost it-but Harry couldn’t exactly describe it any better. He looked around at the Professor, who looked rather bemused. His eyes trail the houses nearby, his eyes almost flashing in the darkness. There’s a moment of silence and the only sound is a nearby cricket chirping.

Then, Professor Phoebus shifted his gaze away from the street and towards Harry.

“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now. The car must’ve scared it off,” Phoebus said with a casual shrug, but his gaze lingered by the alleyway as he said it. He gestured towards the car. “Fancy a ride, Harry? It’ll give you a chance to clear your head—and maybe stop tripping over your own feet.”

Harry hesitated, his mind racing. If the Ministry wanted to get him, sending a Professor wouldn’t be out of the question. But…

“How did you know I was here?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.

Phoebus raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “Dumbledore messaged me during dinner—completely ruined a perfectly good meal—to tell me one of his students had gone missing.”

The Professor tutted, shaking his head. “Aside from the underage magic incident—which, honestly, I don’t understand why that’s even a rule when parents should be supervising their children—there’s also the small matter of a certain escaped convict on the loose.”

Harry frowned. “So, Dumbledore sent you?”

“You wound me, Potter!” Phoebus said, feigning a look of hurt. “I’m an excellent driver and quite the resourceful rescuer.”

Harry glanced at the car, searching for any signs of damage or duct tape that might indicate the Professor’s driving skills were less than stellar.

“I don’t like that look, Harry. Now, hop in before that serial killer decides to make you his next victim.”

Realizing he didn’t have much of a choice, Harry sighed and climbed into the car. He fumbled with the seatbelt as Phoebus tuned the radio, switching from an old rock song to a smooth jazz station that did little to calm Harry’s nerves.

As they sped off into the night, Harry turned to the Professor. “Why did Dumbledore ask you to come? Why not Hagrid or McGonagall?”

Phoebus’s lips thinned slightly as he focused on the road. “Dumbledore knows I handle situations with a certain… finesse. Hagrid, bless him, isn’t exactly subtle, and McGonagall… well, she’s a stickler for the rules.”

Phoebus glanced sideways at Harry, his eyes gleaming. “And Dumbledore appreciates my unique blend of charm, expertise, and a willingness to bend a few rules for the greater good.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Bend a few rules? Like what?"

The Professor flashed a mischievous grin. “Ah, Harry, some secrets are best kept.”

Harry believed that part but there’s something else—Harry could see the look in the man’s eyes. Something that’s bothering him. “That wasn’t what I was asking.”

Phoebus’s expression turned serious. “Beyond the theatrics, I’ve got skills that might come in handy. Plus, Dumbledore knows I won’t hesitate to do what’s necessary if things get dicey.”

Harry wasn’t entirely convinced but decided to drop it for now. The Professor’s evasive answers weren’t helping to ease his concerns. The car swerved sharply, and Harry grabbed onto the armrest as the tires screeched on the pavement.

“Who?” Harry asked, catching sight of the headline on the radio display. SERIAL KILLER STILL AT LARGE.

“Sirius Black,” Phoebus said absently, his eyes flicking to the radio before returning to the road. “Grab the newspaper from the backseat.”

Harry reached behind him and pulled out a copy of the Daily Prophet . As he unfurled it, a sunken-faced man with long, matted hair stared back at him from the front page.

“That man!” Harry exclaimed, recognizing the face from the Muggle news. “He was on the news!”

Phoebus chuckled, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “Sirius Black. The most infamous prisoner ever held in Azkaban. He’s been on the run since he broke out. I can’t believe you haven’t heard.”

Harry ignored the jab and scanned the article, his eyes widening as he read:

BLACK STILL AT LARGE
Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today. "We are doing all we can to recapture Black," said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, "and we beg the magical community to remain calm." Fudge has been criticized by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.

"Well, really, I had to, don't you know," said an irritable Fudge. "Black is mad. He's a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister's assurance that he will not breathe a word of Black's true identity to anyone. And let's face it—who'd believe him if he did?"

While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other), the magical community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse.

Harry lowered the paper, staring at the shadowed eyes of Sirius Black, who looked eerily familiar. “He murdered thirteen people with one curse?”

Phoebus nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. “In broad daylight, with witnesses. Quite the spectacle, apparently.”

“Apparently?” Harry questioned, catching the Professor’s careful choice of words.

Phoebus didn’t respond immediately, his gaze hardening. “Black was a big supporter of Voldemort. That’s why we need to make sure you’re somewhere safe.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Voldemort? And you think you could handle one of his followers?”

Phoebus let out a mock gasp, placing a hand over his chest. “You have no faith in me, Harry! Oh, how you wound me! My heart aches from this betrayal—truly!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Dumbledore said that? That you could handle Black?”

Phoebus hummed in agreement. “I’d win in a fight against any of them.”

“Uh huh.”

“Seriously,” Phoebus said, jabbing a thumb towards the newspaper almost threateningly. “You’ve never seen me fight before.”

“Then why haven’t you taught Defense then?”

“It’s cursed,” Phoebus joked (that's what Harry hoped). 

_

It was pure midnight by the time the Professor’s car came to a halt in front of a small and shabby looking pub, kicking up mud. Harry looked up as he opened the door, gaze flickering to the sign creaking above the door. The Leaky Cauldron , a pub that holds the magical entrance to Diagon Alley behind it.

Phoebus slammed the door behind him before locking it. “Let’s go kiddo,” Phoebus said, swinging his car keys. “I’ll unpack all your stuff here.” 

Harry turned to see Phoebus lower his trunk and Hedwig’s cage onto the pavement. Harry glanced once more at the pub but when Harry heard Phoebus come up behind him, he turned around to see the car gone from sight.

Harry blanched. Maybe they did get into a car accident and die. This was just Harry and the Professor turning into ghosts— speaking of which, can ghosts sue people?

“Uh Professor?” Harry asked. Where’d your car go?

But Professor Phoebus wasn't paying attention. He was giving the shadowy entrance to the Leaky Cauldron a suspicious look.

"There you are, Harry," said a voice.

Before Harry could turn, he felt a hand on his shoulder. At the same time, the Professor tensed.

Harry looked up at the owner of the hand on his shoulder and felt a bucketful of ice cascade into his stomach—he had walked right into Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself. Harry casted a glance towards the Professor, hoping that him flaunting about dealing with the minister wasn’t just for show - if the Minister is here to arrest him.

Fudge, a portly little man in a long, pinstriped cloak, looked cold and exhausted. The Professor was no help, he had his arms crossed and his sunglasses were sitting on his head.

“Minister,” Professor Phoebus greeted.

"Yes," said Fudge testily, "well, I'm very glad that one of Hogwarts Professors could pick Harry up, but he and I need to step inside the Leaky Cauldron now…”

Fudge increased the pressure on Harry's shoulder, and the Professor snorted, waving a hand. “I see—but I’m still needed here. I’m to remain with Harry until all threats are certain to be cleared.”

He casted a glance in the general direction of Fudge, who looked like a child who wasn’t getting his way. Neither man could outright say anything—but Harry could tell the Professor was winning. “That surely won’t be necessary.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain. Dumbledore knows you sent patrols around Privet Drive and none of your Aurors realized Harry was missing… He knows you won’t keep Harry safe right now. I’m guessing you don’t want that old man breathing down your neck?”

Fudge began to sweat and his gaze flickered to the pub behind them. “Alright then—but this is private business. Don’t stay too close,” he said tightly.

And Harry found himself being steered inside the pub. A stooping figure bearing a lantern appeared through the door behind the bar. It was Tom, the wizened, toothless landlord. "You've got him, Minister!" said Tom. "Will you be wanting anything? Beer? Brandy?"

"Perhaps a pot of tea," said Fudge, who still hadn't let go of Harry.

Behind them, the Professor had cast a levitation spell on Harry’s trunk and cage to keep them off the ground. Fudge scowled at the man—no doubt messing with whatever plan he had cooked up.

"And a private parlor, please, Tom," said Fudge pointedly.

And the Professor watched them go as Tom beckoned Fudge toward the passage that led from the bar. When Harry turned to look back at the Professor—he was gone.

“Why didn’t he come with us? Isn’t he supposed to be here?” Harry asked as he was led down a hall. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” the minister said, eyeing the hall behind them nervously. “That man—he will know.”

Harry wanted to know what that meant but it was interrupted by the feeling of something crawling down his back. Harry snapped his head around behind him again—the minister didn’t notice.

It’s the same feeling he got in the chamber. He was being watched - by someone he couldn’t see.

As the feeling of an unseen presence intensified, Harry's eyes flicked around the dimly lit hallway. The Professor, who had been nearby moments ago, was now nowhere in sight. Somehow, that made him feel more nervous now.

I see you, the feeling seemed to whisper in his ear. Harry's skin prickled with a sensation that went beyond ordinary discomfort—it was the feeling he got when he was in chamber facing the basilisk or when he was face-t0-face with Fluffy. Fear.

Unable to shake the dread that clung to him like a second skin, Harry continued to follow the minister, who doesn’t seem to notice that something’s wrong. Maybe Harry should’ve asked Professor Phoebus to stay with them.

The sensation crawling down his back persisted, a spectral touch that sent shivers down his spine. Where are you running to, boy? I’ll be waiting, the feeling seemed to whisper.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows, causing the candles to flicker wildly. Harry's gaze darted around, a chill seeping into his bones. There’s eyes everywhere, all at once, and Harry could feel them staring into him. 

He felt a compulsion to leave, to escape the approaching darkness, but the minister's presence held him in place. "Everything all right, Harry?" The Minister of Magic asked, noticing how pale Harry’s become.

“Yes sir,” Harry said, nodding. The feeling dispersed at once and Harry let out a breath as the minister led him into a private room. 

-

The inn was mostly empty at this hour, a few witches and wizards scattered at various tables, nursing drinks or engaged in quiet conversation. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and pipe smoke, and the faint murmur of voices blended with the crackling of the fireplace.

Apollo chose a shadowy corner, his steps deliberate as he moved to a secluded table. He sat down, leaning back into the worn leather chair. The dim light cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his features and the glint of something unreadable in his eyes. He drummed his fingers on the table, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

Before he could settle in, Tom, the innkeeper, approached him with an eager smile. “Professor Phoebus,” Tom began, “Would you care for a drink? On the house, for bringing Harry Potter here safely.”

Apollo waved off the offer with a casual smile. “Tempting, but I’ve sworn off getting drunk on the job. Not that I would, of course, but appearances matter.” He paused, his smile turning into a grin. Now that I’m thinking of it though… “You wouldn’t happen to have any apple juice, would you?”

Tom gave him a look—maybe he thought Apollo wasn’t sane—before nodding and disappearing behind the bar. Moments later, a glass of apple juice was placed before Apollo, who offered a brief nod of thanks.

He picked up the glass, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully as he glanced toward the hallway where Harry had gone. He’ll be safe enough, Apollo decided . For now. But I have someone else to talk to.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, the air around him grew colder, the shadows deepening as if they were alive, gathering around the corner where Apollo sat. The temperature dropped, and out of the darkness, a figure materialized, sliding into the seat across from him with a grace that was both fluid and unsettling. Nico di Angelo, the son of Hades, emerged from the shadows, his presence more ghostly than physical in the dim light.

The boy was dressed in his usual dark attire: a bomber jacket over a skull T-shirt, black jeans, and the kind of combat boots that spoke of familiarity with rough terrain. His hair, dark and messy, hung over his eyes, which glanced over the inn with disinterest. At his side, the hilt of his sword glinted faintly, drawing Apollo’s gaze.

For a fleeting moment, Apollo’s vision blurred— A flicker of green, absorption, dispellment, but not enough, not enough, not enough. An eye of gold, breaking and coming apart again, a cycle. 

Apollo’s face didn’t so much as twitch as the fog disappeared from his vision, replaced by Nico’s dark gaze. His eyes lingered on Apollo for a moment, perhaps seeing, before turning towards the hallway, where Harry disappeared to.

Apollo’s lips curled into a sly smile as he leaned forward. “Son of Hades, what a delightful surprise. What brings you to this charming establishment at such an ungodly hour?” He nudged the glass of apple juice toward Nico, the sound loud against the soft murmur of the inn.

Nico eyed the glass as if it were filled with poison, then glanced back at Apollo, his expression a mix of suspicion and irritation. “Lord Apollo,” Nico began, his voice low and edged with caution as he took the seat opposite the god, sliding it back as far as possible. “I—”

“Ah!” Apollo interrupted, raising a finger theatrically. “It’s Professor Phoebus here, my dear Nico. Must maintain my cover, you see.”

Nico blinked at him, then cast a sidelong glance at Tom, who was sweeping the lobby with exaggerated disinterest. “Right…” Nico muttered, his eyebrows twitching in what could have been annoyance—or amusement.

Apollo’s grin widened as he reclined in his chair, adopting a relaxed, almost lazy posture. “So, tell me, Di Angelo, how goes the ‘research’? Has it been fruitful enough to earn your father’s approval?”

Nico’s scowl deepened as he reluctantly reached for the apple juice, inspecting it as though it might explode. “My father’s approval was already granted when he felt the shift in magic. He’s the one who sent me to find you first.”

Apollo’s eyes sparked with interest, and he leaned forward, the playful edge of his voice sharpening. “And what exactly did you find?”

Nico hesitated and his knee began to bounce under the table. “I don’t know yet,” he said finally, his tone tight. “I haven’t had much time to study wizarding magic, seeing as I didn’t know it existed until a couple of months ago.”

Apollo raised an eyebrow, his grin unfaltering. “Ah, so you’re playing catch-up, are you? How endearing. And here I thought the son of Hades would be ahead of the curve.”

Nico’s scowl returned, his grip tightening around the glass. “It’s not like I’ve had centuries to sit around and study,” he muttered.

 He took a quick sip of the apple juice, setting the glass down with a thud. “But there’s something… off. That diary—the darkness in it—it’s the same as what’s clinging to Harry Potter. I can feel it. Like death.”

Apollo’s smile vanished, replaced by a serious expression. Now that won’t do, now will it? He was charged with protecting Harry and if that doesn’t work, the vow I made will come into effect and I’ll be affected badly… “Harry wasn’t in touch with the diary,” Apollo said slowly, his mind turning over Nico’s words. Nico’s gaze shifted, scanning the inn as if searching for something—or someone. 

“Maybe not,” Nico admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or maybe it doesn’t have to do with the diary entirely. There’s something else. Something… darker.”

Apollo’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re just now telling me this?”

Nico shot him a glare that could have frozen the River Styx. “I’ve been a little busy, you know, with everything falling apart.” He side-eyed Apollo, as if it was his fault for everything going to shit (hmm… maybe part of it is his fault).

“But I think-”

“Wait, wait, wait-” Apollo said, lifting a hand up, making Nico’s mouth curl. “You can’t just leave that tiny tidbit of information out in the open and not tell me? Pray tell, what happened?” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling.

Nico took a sip of the apple juice like it was a shot glass, which was impressive for a thirteen year old. Dropping the glass back on the table, Nico said quietly, “Percy’s missing.”

For a moment, Apollo felt a hint of smugness rise up in him, the same type he experienced when he found out that Lockhart was a fraud. In mock surprise, Apollo placed a hand to his chest in concern and said, “Really? When did this happen?”

He remembered the last time he saw the kid: almost three years ago now, staring at the gods on Mount Olympus after defeating the Titan Lord.

“You should know, as you predicted it,” Nico said, the rim of the glass touching his lips.

Apollo waved a hand.  “But my predictions are ‘unwise,’ or so I’ve been told. I could have predicted that it was another kid named Percy.”

Nico raised an eyebrow and said, “Sure—He disappeared back in June. Annabeth’s tearing the place apart trying to find him.”

“Really? I’d love to be there to see it.”

“And not rub it into other peoples faces?” Nico asked, sounding slightly amused.

“That would just be a plus,” Apollo said. “And? Has there been a quest?”

“We can’t do quests without prophecies,” Nico said, glancing straight at the god.

Apollo shrugged unapologetically. “Hmm, technically not my fault for that problem.”

“I—“ Nico began but turned as the hallway creaked. Apollo looked up to see Harry emerge from the hallway—looking a bit white. When Apollo turned back to Nico, to perhaps introduce the two boys, Nico was gone, leaving behind an empty glass of apple juice.

-

Harry had the whole of Diagon Alley to distract himself with for the next couple of weeks. A week after Harry arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, there was a murmur around Harry's favorite shop, Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Curious to know what the crowd in the shop was staring at, Harry edged his way inside and squeezed in among the excited witches and wizards until he glimpsed a newly erected podium, on which was mounted the second most magnificent broom he had ever seen in his life.

The first being the gift Professor Phoebus gave him for Christmas.

"Just come out—prototype—" a square-jawed wizard was telling his companion.

"It's the fastest broom in the world, isn't it, Dad?" squeaked a boy younger than Harry, who was swinging off his father's arm.

"Irish International Side's Just put in an order for seven of these beauties!" the proprietor of the shop told the crowd. "And they're favourites for the World Cup!"

A large witch in front of Harry moved, and he was able to read the sign next to the broom, skimming over the words.

But—the price on request... Harry didn't like to think how much gold the Firebolt would cost. Harry already felt a little bit guilty for not sending a thank you letter to the Professor over Christmas, but he was in an awkward situation since it was Christmas after all, and Phoebus didn’t even ask Harry about the present either.

“—Harry Potter himself has this broomstick! Ask your children about it during the first quidditch match of the year at Hogwarts!” At this, Harry flinched and took a quick look around the area, relieved to see no one had recognized him yet.

There’s a couple of oohs and ahhs from the crowd, which meant it was time for Harry to go. There were, however, other things that Harry needed to buy. He went to the Apothecary to replenish his store of potions ingredients, and as his school robes were now several inches too short in the arm and leg, he visited Madam Malkin's Robes and bought new ones.

Most important of all, he had to buy his new school books, which would include those for his three new subjects, Care of Magical Creatures, Healing (if Ron found out that Percy had managed to convince him, it’s be over for him. Professor Phoebus never mentioned it to Harry during their car ride. It meant one of two things: Either the Professor was convinced Harry would take his healing class—or he’d thought Harry would be a sorry excuse for a healer and would automatically not take it) and Divination.

After going into the spellbook store and relieving the shop owner of getting the new monster book, Harry has finally gotten what he needed. He managed to get back to the inn without any trouble, much to his relief. And it became a routine.

_

He found Hermione and Ron at the Ice Cream Shop a week later. After telling them that yes, Harry did blow up his Aunt (on accident), everything was going smoothly.

"It's not funny, Ron," said Hermione sharply. "Honestly, I'm amazed Harry wasn't expelled."

"So am I," admitted Harry. "Forget expelled, I thought I was going to be arrested." He looked at Ron. "Your dad doesn't know why Fudge let me off, does he?"

"Probably 'cause it's you, isn't it?" shrugged Ron, still chuckling. "Famous Harry Potter and all that. I'd hate to see what the Ministry'd do to me if I blew up an aunt. Mind you, they'd have to dig me up first, because Mum would've killed me. Anyway, you can ask Dad yourself this evening. We're staying at the Leaky Cauldron tonight too! So you can come to King's Cross with us tomorrow! Hermione's there as well!"

Hermione nodded, beaming. "Mum and Dad dropped me off this morning with all my Hogwarts things."

"Excellent!" said Harry happily. "So, have you got all your new books and stuff?"

"Look at this," said Ron, pulling a long thin box out of a bag and opening it. "Brand-new wand. Fourteen inches, willow, containing one unicorn tail-hair. And we've got all our books—" He pointed at a large bag under his chair.

 "What about those Monster Books, eh? The assistant nearly cried when we said we wanted two."

*What's all that, Hermione?" Harry asked, pointing at not one but three bulging bags in the chair next to her.

After quickly defending herself from the boys, Hermione asked, “How’d you get to the Leaky Cauldron anyway?”

Harry sighed—he didn’t want to remember two weeks ago, especially since that feeling had returned the same day. “Professor Phoebus found me and picked me up on the side of the road.”

“Bloody hell, does he have a sixth sense for sensing when someone’s in trouble?” Ron said, nearly falling over in his chair from surprise.

Hermione shifted awkwardly in her seat.

“He said that Dumbledore sent him.”

“Why couldn't he send someone else? Like Hagrid?”

“If Fudge tried to arrest Harry, Professor Phoebus would’ve had a better hand on keeping them away from Harry,” Hermione said simply, like it was obvious.

“That’s exactly what the Professor said,” Harry said, feeling his eyebrows raise.

“Of course—but why would the Professor agree? He could’ve gone back to America for the holidays instead of staying at Hogwarts.”

“He said that he’s not exactly allowed back into America,” Harry said, trying to remember what exactly the Professor said.

Hermione’s eyes widened. 

 “What do you think happened? I reckon that he’s got a criminal record or something - not surprising seeing Dumbledore’s hiring record,” Ron said.

“I haven't a clue,” Hermione says, eyes narrowing onto her now empty ice cream cone. “Perhaps his contract with Hogwarts stops him from moving outside the country?”

“He did say something similar. He mentioned a contract - and something private.”

“Well, the contract I understood and it's probably best we don’t go snooping into other people’s business either,” Hermione said crossly. “Speaking of other people, how's George doing, Ron?” 

Ron looked up from his ice cream, surprised. “I dunno. Like usual, I guess? He was pretty quiet at first but then we went to Egypt and I guess he got his jazz back when he and Fred locked Percy in a pyramid. He’s been happy ever since.”

“They did what?”

Chapter Text

After the near-miss hippogriff incident, Harry had forgotten about dying in Professor Trelawney’s cup, which perfectly sums up Harry's first day at Hogwarts. Harry, now that he's thinking back on it, realized that when dementors showed up on the train, he should've guessed that this school year wouldn't be any good either. After making sure Hagrid wouldn’t get expelled from Hogwarts, Harry, Ron and Hermione made their way up to the Astronomy classroom as night soon took over.

The trio ascended the winding staircase that led to the Astronomy Tower, the air outside growing crisp as night draped it's dark veil over Hogwarts. The towering spires casted elongated shadows across the castle grounds as Harry, Ron, and Hermione reached the door to the Astronomy classroom, taking a few glances out of the windows.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, they entered a space bathed in dim, ethereal light. The room was adorned with celestial maps, telescopes pointed toward the sky, and a large, circular window on the roof offering a view of the night sky. The soft glow of magical candles flickered as people walked through the doors.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione found a secluded spot near the back of the class as Professor Phoebus emerged from one of the balconies, closing the doors behind him. He had a cup of coffee in his hand and his black robes were covered by a dark cloak. He looked everything like a Professor, unlike a month prior when he picked Harry up from the side of the road—like Harry was a stray kitten.  Harry was sure Dumbledore asked him to wear darker clothes this year around, there would be no other reason for the Professor to be in such dark clothing. Unless, of course, Lockhart left a bad taste in the Professor's mouth.

The Professor placed his coffee on his desk and leans against it, clapping his hands as the candles begin to dim. 

“Welcome back students,” Professor Phoebus said, taking a sip from his coffee. “Today has been… taxing to say the least. Now, I won’t pretend and say you’ll do anything hard—we’re just doing observations right now. I don’t know how any of you will fu—mess this up, since we’ve been doing this the past three years.” 

A couple of giggles lifted through the room along with some groans. The Professor raised an eyebrow and asked, “What’s all this fuss about?” 

“We’ve already done some observations today, Professor,” Hermione said hotly. “Including visions—so if we’re going to be predicting the future, can we rather not?”

The candlelight made the Professor’s face glow as he said, “Really? I’ve seen we’ve already grown some distaste towards other classes—which one is this?”

“Divination,” Lavender said, slightly glaring at Hermione.

“Hm? Did she predict death?” Phoebus asked, amused. 

McGonagall had told everyone that Trelawney does this sometimes—but Harry can’t help but feel itchy about it, especially with the voices whispering to him back at the inn.

When Harry noticed the class was silent, he looked up to see everyone was staring at him.

“I think it’s a fair judgement since Mr. Potter here has been within death's grasps a few times now,” Professor Phoebus chuckled, placing his coffee back on the desk, though there was a fleeting look that crossed his face. “How did she predict it?”

“She saw the grim,” Harry said.

The Professor’s eyebrows raised and the few students who weren’t in her class began whispering to one another.

Taking another step towards the trio, the Professor placed his hands in his pockets, looking slightly deep in thought with his eyebrows pinched. “Seeing the future is tricky business—a symbol can mean more than one thing. Perhaps she wouldn’t have said so if she’d known of the black dog you’d seen a couple of weeks ago? Perhaps she saw that instead.”

Some of the students glanced at Harry, who felt like sinking into his seat. The Professor didn't seem to notice and said, “Though it means death—it could also mean you’ll see that black dog again.”

The Professor nodded, eyes flashing for a moment before turning back around.

“Professor!” Hermione said, getting to her feet. “Do you really believe her?”

The Professor tilted his head to the side, lips twitching. “Her great grandmother was a prophet—so she has the most qualification to teach Divination at Hogwarts. Her power would dwindle as her line continues—but Trelawney may be speaking the truth.”

Hermione closed her mouth—and it made Harry feel worse than before.

“Now, let’s try and focus on my class, shall we?” The Professor asked cheerily. A couple of students give Harry a pitiful look before returning to their work.

_

The next week went on without a hitch—Harry tried explaining the incident to Professor Trelawney, who seemed to take the information even worse and tried to warn Harry that the dog would visit Harry again.

Harry completely forgot about her warning when he entered Professor Phoebus's healing class, which Harry took as an elective. When Harry told Ron of it, he had given Harry a look of pity and asked if he was being forced against his will. Harry had half a mind to say yes - and to say that it was his brother who suggested that Harry take it. Luckily, Harry's kindness won out and just told Ron that he wanted to learn how to heal himself if anything happened.

Walking into the classroom, he saw Hermione near the front row with an open seat beside her. Not recognizing anyone else, Harry shuffled towards the front of the class, albeit hesitantly. Hermione looked up as Harry sat down beside her.

“I didn’t know you took this class too!”

“Yeah, somehow, I figured it’d be good to figure some sort of healing spells out…” Harry muttered, glancing around to see Ravenclaws entering the room as well.

The first class, though disappointed because the Professor had gotten straight to business, who looking rather annoyed, and made everyone study human anatomy, claiming that he won’t allow any 13 year old's to dissect animals and heal live people without knowing what certain bones were called. He also let out a sound of utter distress when a student raised their hand to asked what the femur was.

In short, he had little faith in his students. The class ended with Professor Phoebus saying that they’ll have a quiz next class about human structure—which made Hermione more than happy about. “At least it's not like other classes,” Hermione said. Harry didn’t have to be a genius to know that she was talking about Divination.

_

October came along quickly with no news about Sirius Black, as did Halloween—but Harry wasn’t able to go to Hogsmeade without a guardian. He’d asked McGonagall but she said no already.

The Halloween feast was always good, but it would taste a lot better if he was coming to it after a day in Hogsmeade with everyone else. Nothing anyone said made him feel any better about being left behind. Dean Thomas, who was good with a quill, had offered to forge Uncle Vernon's signature on the form, but as Harry had already told Professor McGonagall he hadn't had it signed, that was no good. Ron halfheartedly suggested the Invisibility Cloak, but Hermione stamped on that one, reminding Ron what Dumbledore had told them about the dementors being able to see through them. Harry had even gone to Professor Phoebus, who looked amused at the situation but otherwise couldn’t help. Percy—second to Oliver—had what were possibly the least helpful words of comfort.

"They make a fuss about Hogsmeade, but I assure you, Harry, it's not all it's cracked up to be," he said seriously. "All right, the sweetshop's rather good, and Zonko's Joke Shop's frankly dangerous, and yes, the Shrieking Shack's always worth a visit, but really, Harry, apart from that, you're not missing anything.”

“Shrieking shack is amazing, your downselling—“ Oliver began from the couch, who had been half paying attention to the conversation.

Percy shot him a glare, which made Oliver realize what Percy had been (failing) to do and winced. “Um, I mean—“

Percy looked like he might begin throwing his textbook at Oliver so Harry took his leave.

As everyone left for Hogsmeade—it left Harry alone. Of course, he had a talk with Professor Lupin, but he was a Professor (which made things a bit awkward when the only person willing to talk to you is another adult).

-

After the attack of the Fat Lady portrait, Harry began to be closely watched. Teachers found excuses to walk along corridors with him, and Percy Weasley (acting, Harry suspected, on his mother's orders) was tailing him everywhere like an extremely pompous guard dog. One night, Professor Phoebus had led Harry down the tower towards the Gryffindor common room after Harry had to stay behind and finish work (that he was giving a 3 day extension on).

They walked in silence for a bit—the most silence Harry had known the Professor to be in—with Phoebus’s eyes trailing around every dark corner, as if expecting someone to pop out at any moment. 

“Professor, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this concerned before.”

“It’s not concern,” Phoebus said, almost instantly. “But if you get kidnapped by Sirius Black after my class, could you imagine how much bad reputation I would get from that?”

Harry’s mouth quirked. “I didn’t say what you were concerned about, so I still have a point.”

Phoebus blinked and a small smile crossed his face. “You know, I remember those days when you were a little tiny thing—”

“That was only three years ago—?”

“—Waddling around, listening to everything anyone had to say and believing it! Now I’m getting a teenager that’s talking back to me. I oughta take points off you, you know?” Professor Phoebus finished.

“I don’t waddle,” Harry said defensively.

“That has yet to be seen.”

Harry let out a sharp breath, trying to think of a different topic. An idea came to mind.

“Professor, you know boggarts?” Harry asked suddenly.

Phoebus raised an eyebrow at him, “for your dignity, I’ll play along with this. Yes, I know boggarts.”

Harry felt his ears heat up. “Dementors are mine—fear itself, Lupin said and it sort of makes me realize, what do boggarts appear as to people that don’t have an, er—“ Harry didn’t really know where he was going with that, he was too busy trying to steer the conversation away from where it was going.

“Unconventional fears? Not normal phobias I suppose?” The professor asked with a smirk.

Harry nodded as they turned a corner, each corridor getting darker than the next.

“What about you, Professor? What’s your boggart?”

The Professor clasped his hands behind his back as his jaw clenched. It reminded Harry of something similar he asked during his first year, how awkward and invasive it was. Harry opened his mouth, feeling a bit mortified. “You don’t have to answer—“

“My father,” The Professor interrupted, his voice quiet but bounced off the walls all the same.  

Harry nearly tripped over his robes, suddenly feeling very awful for saying anything in the first place. “Sorry?” Harry stuttered. “Your father? I mean, like—” Harry trailed off, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Phoebus looked slightly amused, watching Harry become utterly awkward. “It’s alright—it’s not like you have the foresight to know anyway—I could have just said snakes and you wouldn’t have thought anything of it.”

“I guess—but I guess I feel bad for bringing it up. I wouldn’t bring my Aunt and Uncle up if I had to,” Harry said. “Ruins the mood, doesn’t it?”

The Professor’s face twitched. “What—?”

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice shouted from the top of the staircase near the Gryffindor portrait. 

“You see,” Ron said, voice bouncing off the wall. “We didn’t have to be concerned about him, he made it back in one piece.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry said, turning back to Phoebus one last time—whose gaze lingered on Harry as he disappeared into the Gryffindor common room.

-

Apollo reclined in his chair, the polished stone creaking ever so slightly beneath him. His office was relatively dark with only a few whispers of light coming from the candles (which is odd for him, considering his palace was usually filled with bright shining gold). The curtains were pulled back to reveal a dark night sky, allowing some moonlight to peek through the window and onto the stone floors.

“So,” Apollo said, spinning around in his chair (which had wheels on it and his life a hundred times more fun) to face the teenager across from him. Nico di Angelo, dark and brooding, was leaning against the wall with his usual air of shadowy indifference. Put that kid in pastels and he’d die, Apollo thought, hiding a smirk behind his cup of coffee.

“What have you got for me? Any whispers or insight yet as to why Harry smells like death? It's been, what, three months, right?” Apollo asked innocently, a smile playing on his face.

Nico met his gaze, unflinching. “Nothing.”

Apollo’s smirk widened into a full grin. How amusing… If this was a quest, maybe I’d be a little more upset with him. Three months and no update? I’d go crazy. What are demi-gods even for? “No? Just ‘no’? Come on, you’re the son of Hades, a child of the big three! You’re telling me you haven’t picked up on anything? Not even the slightest whiff of some grand, ominous death plot?”

Nico rolled his eyes (the audacity!), his patience visibly wearing thin. “I told you, there’s nothing obvious. Harry’s not dying, if that’s what you’re worried about. Or, well, if you’re concerned about whatever contract that’ll break if Harry dies—“

“Whatever are you talking about? I would never want any of my students to die—”

“There’s something strange about him though. More like… he’s connected to it, somehow.”

“Connected, you say?” Apollo asked. He leaned forward, tapping a finger against his chin in mock contemplation. “That’s a rather vague description, Nico. Could it be you’re making stuff up? Or maybe all that skulking in the shadows has dulled your senses?”

Nico’s glare was dark enough to blot out the sun, which only made Apollo’s grin widen. The boy had a way of making everything seem so dire—it was almost entertaining—more entertaining than the mortals here who seem to cry in fear whenever something out of the ordinary occurs.

“Besides, Harry can’t even die, even if you killed him yourself,” Nico said.

Apollo raised an eyebrow at the kid, wondering if he was being ominous on purpose. Hades was always like that—he would warn that something ‘dark and mysterious’ would happen to one of his lovers on the 3rd full moon of the year 1024 C.E. and lo and behold, one of his lovers had passed away in war. How does Hades know? Apollo has no idea and he’s too scared to ask.

“And why is that?”

“Aren’t you able to tell? God of prophecies and stuff?”

“Do you talk to your father that way?”

“Father isn’t really himself right now, but I’m sure you know that,” Nico said, eyeing Apollo suspiciously.

“Hm?” Apollo asked, if only because he was a tiny bit evil.

“Roman.”

For a moment, just a brief moment, his body twitched. That only happened because he was caught off guard and not because of anything else. Apollo sucked in a breath and looked up at Nico again. I thought we weren't supposed to tell these kids about the other... Ah, Hades is a bit odd anyway. Not like Nico has any friends to tell anyway...

“Why aren’t you struggling like other gods?” Nico asked innocently. This kid is actually evil, Apollo realized with sudden clarity. He did that on purpose, no wonder Hades sent him here.

“Because I am awesome?” Apollo suggested.

Nico's scowl deepened.

“It has to do with the fact that I’m not technically in the land of the Gods, specifically, Greek and Roman gods. Plus my contract,” Apollo said.

Nico raised an eyebrow but Apollo wasn't about to open that can of worms yet. He once was trying to find one of his demi-god children that had disappeared around Norway and Apollo, being the ever-loving father he was, he went searching for the kid. Of course, Zeus also told him if the kid found out about other Pantheons, he could kiss all his children goodbye. Not his exact words, but you get the point. Anyway, Apollo found the kid and wiped his memories but it also led to him accidentally finding a Norse god in a tavern—one that offered him a fun night. 

I'm getting off track, Apollo thought, noticing the way Nico was glaring at him. 

"What was that?" Apollo asked.

“Right...” Nico said, eyeing him carefully. “Thanatos is captured and the doors of death are opened, stopping anyone from dying but also allowing the dead to escape.”

“I bet that's doing wonders on the economy,” Apollo mused, taking another sip of his coffee.

“It is,” Nico said dryly. “Too bad we don’t have access to the full prophecy.”

“Pity,” Apollo said, blinking innocently. 

Nico scowled.

"But—I can give you a hint," Apollo offered.

"Like what? A hint from you or from-"

Apollo stamped down that feeling in himself, if only to not anger Hades for incinerating his kid. "Me," Apollo said, his voice raised ever so slightly.

Nico pursed his lips, but didn't say anything and just nodded.

"Your half sister, have you picked her up yet?" 

Nico nodded.

"I'm guessing she's in New Rome now—but she's one of the seven."

Nico blinked, looking slightly surprised. "You said a hint."

"That is a hint!" Apollo said defensively.

"Hints usually mean that the full answer wouldn't be given."

Apollo coughed into his fist. "Whatever kid. I have more important things to worry about," Apollo said, lounging in his (wheely) chair like a king on his throne. “Sirius Black. Our dear fugitive. Have you sensed any murderous intent from him? Any hint that he’s here to harm our little Chosen One?”

Nico gave him a look, dark and threatening (much like his father) and shook his head. Perhaps he knew it was better to not push a god any further. “No. Black’s been around a lot, but there’s no intent to kill. He’s… seen Harry before but hasn’t attacked. He doesn’t want to.”

“Well, well, well.” Apollo mused. “That certainly complicates things, doesn’t it? So, Black might not be the bad guy then. This is starting to give me ideas… the bad guy actually being good, and everything hinges on a secret no one knows. Quite poetic, really.”

Nico gave him a deadpan look, clearly unimpressed.

Apollo, unperturbed, tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You know, Nico, this whole situation with Harry, Sirius Black, and death itself calls for some poetry. A haiku, perhaps?”

Nico’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Don’t, please.”

“Oh, come on!” Apollo grinned mischievously, already warming up to the idea. “Let’s see… ‘Death clings to young Harry—’”

“Lord Apollo,” Nico warned.

“‘Sirius guards him at night—’”

“I’m serious.”

“‘Black dog in the dark.’” Apollo finished with a flourish, leaning back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself.

Nico’s scowl deepened, and without another word, he melted into the shadows. Apollo glanced pitifully at the corner of the room. “Ah, kids these days. No appreciation for fine art. But, that reminds me, I need to ask him to guard Harry.”

And if those dementors become a problem for Harry…

-

Harry’s first quidditch match with the Hufflepuff team turned out to be a failure when he passed out when the dementors came out onto the field. Harry tried to move past it but when he showed up to Professor Phoebus’s healing class one Thursday evening, he knew the Professor had something planned for him.

Harry only had that feeling confirmed when Phoebus started approaching Hermione and Harry’s desk as they started their classwork—something about metabolism—looking ready for a long conversation. “Harry?” Phoebus said, appearing over Harry’s desk. "A word, if you will."

Harry glanced up, feeling the weight of several eyes on him as he got up from his seat. Hermione shot him a questioning glance but Harry shrugged, feeling a bit unnerved. Harry followed the Professor to his desk who quickly casted a silencing charm around them (which only made Harry a bit more nervous). 

Phoebus turned around and studied Harry with a gaze that seemed to pierce through him. "I saw what happened during the match," Phoebus began, "Those dementors nearly had you—and costed the Gryffindor team the match."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah," he muttered, not quite meeting the Professor’s gaze. "But I’m fine now." Is he going to offer apologies or something?

Phoebus raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Fine? Is that what you call it when your very soul nearly gets sucked out of your body?"

Harry shrugged.

"Listen," Phoebus said, his tone softening slightly as he placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. “I have a feeling—foresight, if you will—that you might come into contact with dementors again and you need to be prepared for that.”

Harry glanced up, surprised by the seriousness in Phoebus’s voice. "How?" And why is the Professor telling me this? No, wait… does that mean…

Phoebus smiled, a glint of knowing in his eyes. "I’m sure Professor Lupin is teaching you the Patronus charm.  The Patronus Charm is powerful, yes. But it’s not just about waving your wand and thinking of a happy memory. The mind—your mind—needs to be clear, focused. Those dementors, they feed on your darkest thoughts, your worst fears. If you want to keep them at bay, you need to be in control of those thoughts."

Harry frowned. “Professor Lupin told me that—“

“Does it work?” Phoebus asked.

Harry didn’t respond.

"Ever tried meditation?" Phoebus asked instead and he said it as if the solution were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Er, no," Harry admitted, feeling a bit lost.

"I’m sure you will find some book about it—clear your mind and centre your thoughts. Thats the most effective way without magic.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, “There’s a magical way?”

Phoebus shrugged, smiling. “I could give you a few potions if you want—We’ll be learning how to brew them in the next couple months.”

“One potions class is enough for me,” Harry muttered.

The Professor laughed. “Healing has many cornerstones in magic, with potions being one of them. I’ll let you keep one of the potions with you, if you want. I have one brewed already and the rest will be up to you.”

“Seriously?” Harry asked, feeling like there might be a catch to it.

“Ye of so little faith,” Phoebus mourned. “Yes. My treat.”

He opened a drawer and tossed a potion towards Harry. “Try it, it’ll help you calm down. But also try mediation, it’ll do wonders.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, knowing he will probably never do mediation in his life.

-

Christmas came quickly and so had the presents. At lunchtime they went down to the Great Hall, to find that the House tables had been moved against the walls again, and that a single table, set for twelve, stood in the middle of the room. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick were there, along with Professor Phoebus, who looked quite tired.

There were only three other students, two extremely nervous-looking first years and a sullen-faced Slytherin fifth year.

"Merry Christmas!" said Dumbledore as Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached the table. "As there are so few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables.... Sit down, sit down!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down side by side at the end of the table. "Crackers!" said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged.

With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witches hat topped with a stuffed vulture.

Harry, remembering the boggart, caught Ron's eye and they both grinned; Snape's mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard's hat at once.

"Dig in!" he advised the table, beaming around.

As Harry was helping himself to roast potatoes, the doors of the Great Hall opened again. It was Professor Trelawney, gliding toward them as though on wheels. She had put on a green sequined dress in honour of the occasion, making her look more than ever like a glittering, oversized dragonfly.

"Sibyll, this is a pleasant surprise!" said Dumbledore, standing up.

"I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster," said Professor Trelawney in her mistiest, most faraway voice, "and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness....”

Her gaze caught onto Professor Phoebus, who gave her a small nod.

"Certainly, certainly," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "Let me draw you up a chair.” And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Professors Snape and McGonagall. Professor Trelawney, however, did not sit down; her enormous eyes had been roving around the table, and she suddenly uttered a kind of soft scream.

“I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"

“We'll risk it, Sibyll," said Professor McGonagall impatiently. "Do sit down, the turkey's getting stone cold."

Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched tight, as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit the table. Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into the nearest turkey.

After a bit of arguing everyone settled down and began eating, and after a bit of talking, Harry felt like he might explode from eating too much food.

“Are you feeling alright, Phoebus?” McGonagall asked after a while of some brief chatting.

The Professor ran a hand through his hair and sighed, saying with a small laugh, “I feel like I’ve got the life sucked out of me.”

He waved his hand and the food in front of him disappeared. “I best be on my way now—I know all of you will miss me—but I’ve got a pillow and some blankets waiting for me,” the Professor says, rising to his feet.

Professor Trelawney blinked feverishly as the man pushed his chair in and nodded to everyone—and Harry couldn't help but think about what Professor Trelawney had said.

Nervousness crept into Harry and he couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.

_

Harry’s Patronus lessons with Professor Lupin were going… fine if it wasn’t for the fact that he wasn’t able to fully cast them. He went on several lessons—using Professor Phoebus’s potion twice, but he still had no luck.

Professor Lupin told Harry that it shouldn’t be that surprising—that it would be amazing for a thirteen year old to figure out the charm, but Harry had to, if only to make sure he won the next quidditch match.

So, dreadfully, Harry realized he might have to start meditating. Walking back up to his dorm room—knowing that Ron would be in the library with Hermione after he promised her that, Harry fell on his bed. He closed his eyes and rolled around, laying back first on his bed. 

Okay… try to clear your mind, right? Don’t think of anything, right? I don’t feel like I’m doing this right…

Harry stayed there for a couple more minutes, which turned into hours as he fell asleep.

 _

After Gryffindor’s victory in beating Ravenclaw, Apollo had thought the rest of the week couldn’t get more exciting. Alas, he was wrong. Perhaps he should have figured it out further when he started dreaming—which he didn’t usually do.

He was in a dark room that seemed to stretch on for miles with aisles going on for just as long in every direction. Apollo stood in the middle, aware of everything—the faint pulse of energy beneath his feet, the chill that hung in the air and the draft from a breeze. The room stretched beyond sight, filled with countless crystal balls that glittered faintly in the dimness, the only light allowed in the hall.

Each aisle had rows upon rows of them laid out, constellations and magic fluttering through it, glittering and brightening as Apollo made eye contact with each one. Apollo’s magic also flared  up in response when he came closer to the balls, warming his body up to his fingers.

Well, this is comforting, Apollo thought dryly. Having demi-god dreams when I am not one, how utterly ridiculous! Honestly… it’s not like… Apollo’s breath caught in his throat, forcing himself not to think about that part.

The air around him grew thick, like a fog, almost as if sensing his mood. It was like a million eyes watching him, aware of his presence, walking on something he’s not supposed to. Apollo opened his mouth, perhaps to speak to whatever's out there. It’s not the first time Apollo’s managed to see things that others can’t, it was a long and embarrassing phase when he figured out he was the only one to see Ouranous in the sky. Perhaps it’s not one of his brethren godling either—perhaps it was Brigid who was here, watching him the best she could from the Otherworld. It’s happened before with other gods that shared domains. 

The magic in the air felt like it.

But then, shouting broke through the air so jagged and sharp, it made some of the crystal balls roll onto the aisle and start shattering. It was like a domino affect, burst of red and green light came from around him, sending the balls shattering and the voices continued, echoing in his ear.

Words formed but Apollo couldn’t hear anything, too muddied and muffled for even his godly ears to properly hear. But the intent was clear: a warning, a cry for help.

This is utterly dreadful, Apollo thought, beginning to walk towards the sounds, stepping over shattered glass that tugged at his magic. If demi-gods go through these dreams every day, I wouldn’t want to be a demi-god either…

With each step, the crystal balls shifted, their surfaces swirling with fleeting images—faces he recognized, scenes from his past, glimpses of a future shrouded in uncertainty. These visions slipped through his mind like sand, leaving only a vague unease in their wake, a sense of wrongness. These visions weren’t his.

The shouting grew louder the closer Apollo drew to the end of the corridor. Suddenly, so abruptly, it suddenly stopped and shadow loomed over Apollo. HIs gaze drifted up and something dark crawled its way into Apollo. Towering above him, loomed a large gateway made of marble. It was transparent—but he could feel the magic flowing through the gate, grabbing at him, at his immortality.

It stood there, staring at him, and Apollo found himself staring up at the gate, feeling like a mortal would if they saw one of the fates. Apollo could feel it on his tongue, a whisper of words he dared not say in this part of the world.

Apollo’s mouth opened and—

He woke up in cold sweat, staring straight at the ceiling above him, relieved to see the stone roof instead of the darkness. I have to get out of here, Apollo thought, instantly gathering himself to his feet. A night time stroll, brew myself a cup of coffee and I’ll be leaving now… It’s not like there’s a giant snake roaming around the school anymore…

-

They say a second time is a coincidence but Apollo’s already starting to feel like this is happening on purpose. 

Apollo strolled through the shadowed corridors of Hogwarts, the torchlight flickering and casting long, eerie shadows on the stone walls. The night had stretched on far longer than he intended. What began as a simple walk to clear his mind had become a tour through the quiet, mysterious halls of the castle. He could feel the magic of the castle seep through him, calming him.

The nightmare still clung to him—dark rooms with crystal balls stretching out for miles, and that gateway. He shuddered at the memory, though he would never admit to such a mortal reaction. He was Apollo, after all, the god of the sun, of healing, of prophecy. Nightmares were beneath him. And if demi-gods go through this regularly and can handle this… so can I.

He rounded a corner, still deep in thought, when a voice broke the silence.

“Professor Phoebus! Professor!”

Apollo halted, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Oliver Wood running towards him, looking like he shot out of bed. The young man was still in his pajamas, his hair a wild mess, and his face pale.

“Oliver,” Apollo greeted, his tone smooth, almost amused. “I see since you’re coming straight for a Professor, you’re here about an actual issue, I take it? And here I thought you’d be still out partying from the night—did one of you get drunk and fall out of the tower?” 

Oliver skidded to a stop in front of him, struggling to catch his breath. “It’s—someone saw Sirius Black, Professor, in the Gryffindor Tower.”

Apollo raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from amusement to something more serious. He’s not after Harry—someone else, obviously. But who? “Sirius Black? In the Gryffindor dormitory?” He let out a low whistle. “Well, here I thought my walk would be normal.”

Oliver hesitated. “Professor, it was Ron, he thought he saw Sirius standing over him with a knife. I mean, it could have been a nightmare but we had a lot celebrations last night too, and er.”

Apollo got the idea. “Well then, let’s get going.”

With a nod, Oliver led Apollo through the winding corridors toward Gryffindor Tower. The castle was eerily quiet, the only sounds the occasional creak of the old walls and the soft rustle of their robes. It reminded him of the previous year.

And I don’t think Black is after Ron either… so why would he…? Apollo isn’t a detective and he’d usually leave that work to a demi-god—or Athena.

As they approached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room,sir Cadogan’s portrait was already flipped opened—and Apollo could hear shouting from the Gryffindor common room, which was already a good sign.

A voice, who Apollo assumed was Percy, asked inside the common room, “Which person—which abysmally foolish person wrote down this week's passwords and left them lying around?"

Ah, so that’s what happened…

Apollo and Oliver slowly and quietly (I know, what has my time at Hogwarts done to me? I should be walking in there, announcing my presence! Alas, I love to hear gossip first and foremost) made their way into the common room, slinking in behind a crowd of fourth year students.

There was utter silence, broken by the smallest of terrified squeaks. Neville Longbottom, trembling from head to fluffy slippered toes, raised his hand slowly into the air.

Percy lets out a breath that sounded like he was in genuine pain. “Well—” His eyes trailed the room and seemed to notice the crowd parting. “Professor! Finally! Did Oliver…?”

“Yes, indeed he did,” Apollo said, casting a glance around the room. Students were huddled in groups, whispering anxiously. At the centre of the room stood Ron Weasley, his red hair even more disheveled than usual.

Apollo’s eyes flicked over the room, taking in the overturned chairs, the scattered belongings, and the nervous glances being cast in every direction. His gaze settled on Ron. What does Ron have that Sirius needs? Hm, maybe I should ask Nico…

“Professor Phoebus,” Ron said. “He was here! Sirius Black! He was standing right over me!”

Apollo approached the boy, his expression carefully neutral. “And you’re certain it was him, Ron? No chance it was just a bad dream?” He glanced over Ron, maybe there was something on his person?

Ron shook his head violently. “No. I woke up, and there he was, just staring at me! He had a knife and everything!”

Apollo nodded, pretending to think the question over. He didn’t doubt Ron—he was the god of truth. He was too busy thinking about trying to convince Nico to do some digging. 

“Well, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Apollo said finally. Why are they so nervous? There was literally a snake running around last year petrifying students… mortals are odd. “Fear can play tricks on the mind, especially in the dead of night. But that doesn’t mean we should dismiss this outright. I’ll have a look around, make sure our dear Mr. Black hasn’t left any surprises behind.”

He flashed a charming smile at the gathered students. “In the meantime, everyone should try to get some rest. I know it’s easier said than done, but he’s not in this tower now and it’s safer here than outside.”

The students nodded, albeit reluctantly, and began to disperse, murmuring to each other in low voices. Apollo turned back to Ron, who still looked pale and shaken. “Try to get some sleep, Ron,” Apollo advised gently. “We’ll keep an eye out. If Black’s foolish enough to show his face again, we’ll be ready for him.”

Ron nodded, not looking entirely enthused. "Here," Apollo said, an idea suddenly coming to mind. "I'll go and inspect your room for you." He patted Ron on the back, taking in the fact that the kid looked like a deer in headlights.

"Sure..." Ron said, his face returning to normal (red).

They climbed back to their dormroom and Apollo walked inside, followed by Harry, Dean and Neville. His eyes dance around the room, which was utterly messy to the point where Apollo couldn't see the ground beneath him. For the sake of his sanity, Apollo believed it was because they were scared of Black—and not that they couldn't clean up after themselves. Apollo lifted his hand up before realizing that he couldn't. With a sigh, he pushed out his wand from his sleeve and said, "Leviosa!" 

The clothes lifted from the ground and he moved them to the beds. Apollo was about to scold them when he saw something in the corner of his eye—something moving. Apollo spun around and pointed his wand out at the creature, which squeaked as it came into view. A rat, Apollo realized. "Is your room so messy that a rat found its way in here?" Apollo asked, feeling disgusted. A chorus of yells went up before Ron stepped forward, looking far too relieved to see said rat.

A pet, Apollo realized as Ron lifted it into his arm. "Scabbers!" He said, pulling it close to him. Apollo raised an eyebrow, noticing the missing toe on the creature. Where the hell did they find this creature?

"Does he usually roam free?" Apollo asked skeptically.

"Yeah—he usually sleeps with me during the night," Ron said, letting it crawl back into his pocket. For some reason, it weirded Apollo out more than it should have.

_

The surprise attack on the Gryffindor tower only made Harry practice his patronus charm harder than before. Weeks went by before Hermione pulled him into the library to study more about meditation, explaining it thoroughly to Harry like he was six, which was sort of helpful. By the end of March, Harry nearly summoned one. 

He had an image in his head, formed already, letting all his focus be on that one aspect. That wasn’t the only thing Harry was excited for.

The Gryffindor vs Slytherin match was upon them right after Easter—and Harry had never felt so nervous the night before. Usual pursuits were abandoned in the Gryffindor common room the night before the match. Even Hermione had Put down her books.

"I can't work, I can't concentrate," she said nervously.

There was a great deal of noise. Fred and George Weasley were dealing with the pressure by being louder and more exuberant than ever. Oliver Wood was crouched over a model of a Quidditch field in the corner, prodding little figures across it with his wand and muttering to himself. Apparently, he needed a strategic opinion because he managed to wrestle Percy into helping him—who’d looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than listen to Wood’s incessant muttering.

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie were laughing at Fred's and George's jokes. Harry was sitting with Ron and Hermione, removed from the centre of things, trying not to think about the next day, because every time he did, he had the horrible sensation that something very large was fighting to get out of his stomach.

"You're going to be fine," Hermione told him, though she looked positively terrified.

"You've got a Firebolt!" said Ron.

"Yeah..." said Harry, his stomach writhing.

“And you should be more worried about what happens if you break it—Professor Phoebus would have your head!”

Ron didn’t make anything better—he could already sense the Professor looming over him, demanding to be repaid.

It came as a relief when Wood suddenly stood up and yelled, "Team! Bed!"

-

The Gryffindor won the quidditch cup, much to Harry’s—and everyone else’s—relief. Harry hadn’t remembered much after. He remembered Wood speeding toward him, half-blinded by tears; he seized Harry around the neck and sobbed unrestrainedly into his shoulder. Harry felt two large thumps as Fred and George hit them; then Angelina's, Alicia's, and Katie's voices, "We've won the Cup! We've won the Cup!" Tangled together in a many-armed hug, the Gryffindor team sank, yelling hoarsely, back to earth.

Wave upon wave of crimson supporters was pouring over the barriers onto the field. Hands were raining down on their backs. Harry had a confused impression of noise and bodies pressing in on him. Then he, and the rest of the team, were hoisted onto the shoulders of the crowd. Thrust into the light, he saw Hagrid, Plastered with crimson rosettes—"Yeh beat 'em, Harry, yeh beat 'em! Wait till I tell Buckbeak!"

Hermione and Ron were waving through the crowd wildly, grinning ear-to-ear beside one another. There was Percy who found Oliver in the crowd and was grinning madly as Oliver cried onto his shoulder, pulling the redhead into a tight hug. Professor McGonagall was sobbing harder than Wood, wiping her eyes with an enormous Gryffindor flag; and he could see Ron and Hermione beginning to fight through the crowd, towards Harry. Words failed them. They simply beamed as Harry was borne toward the stands, where Dumbledore stood waiting with the enormous Quidditch Cup.

If only there had been a dementor around as a sobbing Wood passed Harry the Cup, as he lifted it into the air, Harry felt he could have produced the world's best Patronus.

_

Exams were nearly upon them by June, and instead of lazing around outside, the students were forced to remain inside the castle, trying to bully their brains into concentrating while enticing wafts of summer air drifted in through the windows. Even Fred and George Weasley had been spotted working; they were about to take their O.W.L.s (Ordinary Wizarding Levels).

And then, Exam days were upon them. 

They had potions in the afternoon, which was an unqualified disaster. Try as Harry might, he couldn't get his Confusing Concoction to thicken, and Snape, standing watch with an air of vindictive pleasure, scribbled something that looked suspiciously like a zero onto his notes before moving away.

Then came Astronomy at midnight the next day on Tuesday, up on the tallest tower. Professor Phoebus gave them all a pitying look as everyone trudged in, looking like zombies as they all took turns with telescopes while others wrote down everything they knew about the constellations.

Harry had History of Magic on Wednesday morning, in which Harry scribbled everything Florean Fortescue had ever told him about mediaeval witch-hunts, while wishing he could have had one of Fortescue's choco-nut sundaes with him in the stifling classroom. Wednesday afternoon meant Herbology, in the greenhouses under a baking-hot sun; then back to the common room once more, with sunburnt necks, thinking longingly of this time next day, when it would all be over.

Their next exam was healing, which Ron hadn’t taken. Harry had to figure out the cure to a muscle disease in a rabbit—which took much longer than it should because the disease had adapted to everything that Harry had originally thought of. When he finally got the correct spell, he brought the rabbit over to Professor Phoebus with all the observations and experiments he did written down.

Glancing over the rabbit, the Professor raises an eyebrow. “Most people would have given up after a while. I’d say I’m impressed—except for the fact you could've finished the exam twenty minutes sooner if you casted a resistance charm alongside a healing one,” Professor Phoebus said. 

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling himself flush.

Their second to last exam, on Thursday morning, was Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Lupin had compiled the most unusual exam any of them had ever taken.

"Excellent, Harry," Lupin muttered as Harry climbed out of the trunk, grinning. "Full marks."

Flushed with his success, Harry hung around to watch Ron and Hermione. Hermione did everything perfectly until she reached the trunk with the boggart in it, which appeared to her as McGonagall. 

It took a little while to calm Hermione down. When at last she had regained a grip on herself, she, Harry, and Ron went back to the castle.

Ron was still slightly inclined to laugh at Hermione's boggart, but an argument was averted by the sight that met them on the top of the steps.

Cornelius Fudge, sweating slightly in his pinstriped cloak, was standing there staring out at the grounds. He started at the sight of Harry.

"Hello there, Harry!" he said. "Just had an exam, I expect? Nearly finished?"

Harry hadn’t seen him face to face since that night in the inn, and he didn’t look that much different. 

After a long, and awkward conversation, Harry's and Ron's last exam came upon them: Divination; Hermione's, Muggle Studies.

They walked up the marble staircase together; Hermione left them on the first floor and Harry and Ron proceeded all the way up to the seventh, where many of their class were sitting on the spiral staircase to Professor Trelawney's classroom, trying to cram in a bit of last-minute studying. After Ron came back from his (Harry was up there alone as he was the last person taking the class), Harry stepped inside the room.

The tower room was hotter than ever before; the curtains were closed, the fire was alight, and the usual sickly scent made Harry cough as he stumbled through the clutter of chairs and table to where Professor Trelawney sat waiting for him before a large crystal ball.

After Trelawney asked Harry about the Hippogryph, Harry began to get to his feet.

"IT WILL HAPPEN TONIGHT."

Harry wheeled around. Professor Trelawney had gone rigid in her armchair; her eyes were unfocused and her mouth sagging.

"S—sorry?" said Harry.

But Professor Trelawney didn't seem to hear him. Her eyes started to roll. Harry sat there in a panic. She looked as though she was about to have some sort of seizure. He hesitated, thinking of running to the hospital wing—and then Professor Trelawney spoke again, in the same harsh voice, quite unlike her own:

"THE DARK LORD LIES ALONE AND FRIENDLESS, ABANDONED BY HIS FOLLOWERS.

HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN CHAINED THESE TWELVE YEARS. TONIGHT, BEFORE

MIDNIGHT.. THE SERVANT WILL BREAK FREE AND SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS

MASTER. THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN WITH HIS SERVANTS AID, GREATER AND

MORE TERRIBLE THAN EVER HE WAS. TONIGHT... BEFORE MIDNIGHT.. THE

SERVANT... WILL SET OUT... TO REJOIN... HIS MASTER....

Professor Trelawney's head fell forward onto her chest. She made a grunting sort of noise. Then, she whispered out,

“When twilight falls, the darkness grows,

The god of light his true foe knows.

A serpent’s hiss, the warning’s sound,

The blood of kin runs through the ground.

In shattered worlds, the son of dead,

Will face the lies that fear has bred.

The scarred one’s path entwines with fate,

And all shall bend beneath its weight.”

Harry sat there, staring at her. Then, quite suddenly, Professor Trelawney's head snapped up again. "I'm so sorry, dear boy," she said dreamily, "the heat of the day, you know... I drifted off for a moment...."

Harry sat there, staring at her.

"Is there anything wrong, my dear?"

"You—you just told me that the—the Dark Lord's going to rise again... that his servant's going to go back to him.” I don’t know what that last part is though—nor do I really want to ask.

Professor Trelawney looked thoroughly startled. "The Dark Lord? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? My dear boy, that's hardly something to joke about.... Rise again, indeed—"

“But you just said it! You said the Dark Lord…"

"I think you must have dozed off too, dear!" said Professor Trelawney.

And Harry realized he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the conversation.

_

The three students were gone by now, the full moon up above the stars. Apollo did his best to keep an eye on their health—not like they would die, given the fact that Thanatos is still MIA and the doors of death haven’t been closed. 

“So, what did you find?” Apollo asked, watching Nico slink into the Astronomy Tower, much like a cat would.

“Black didn’t get a trial,” Nico said, side-eyeing the forest outside. He glanced questioningly at Apollo, as if asking if he’s going to help them (hint: no, he’s not. They’re quite capable young heroes)!

“Shocking,” Apollo mused, taking a sip of his coffee. “I suppose I’ll have to put that request to the Aurors now? That they're incompetent? What if I get threatened? My poor mental health!" He said, lifting a hand to his head. 

Nico wasn't paying him any attention, but was instead looking out the window, eyes narrowed. Apollo leaned forward, glancing towards the forest as well. A feeling of unease settled through him, and the magic of the school seemed to echo his uncertainty. "What is it, kiddo? Or are you just going to stare outside ominously for the next minute?" Apollo asked.

"One of the students out there," Nico said, glancing back to Apollo. "I suddenly felt—"

Apollo didn't let him finish before he was teleporting away, ignore the strain on his powers. The las thing he could see was the look of surprise on Nico's face as Apollo disappeared from the tower.

-

Looking back on it, Apollo would like to say he only helped because the contract was extended to include Harry's friends. Besides, Apollo really didn't want to deal with all the hassle and downfall of any of the kids dying. 

He appeared in the forest, taking a moment to note that the moon was high in the sky. Don't tell me that Lupin forgot to take his potions, Apollo thought, glancing around. He could see claw marks and paw prints, which is never a good sign in Apollo's opinion. He followed them closely, silently glad of his earlier days when he used to go hunting with Artemis when her girl group was on vacation. He eventually came across Ron and Snape (which was the first time he was glad to see him), but Harry and Hermione weren't in sight at all. 

He didn't bother talking to Snape, didn't want to cause more trouble than it was worth. He continued through the forest, finding that the footprints set off in a different direction, towards a lake. There, everything grew darker. Apollo paused and looked up, feeling a surge of magic pouring through the boundaries of Hogwarts. Dementors, hundreds of them, rolling around just ahead. He could see flashes of light in front of him coming from somewhere down below.

Apollo could guess who it was. To save the effort, he teleported forward, narrowly running straight into a tree. He appeared on the edge of a clearing beside a lake, infested with Dementors trying to reach the two people on the sand. Harry was there, casting multiple Patronus charms at them - but none were working. Below him is who Apollo assumed is Sirius Black, bleeding. He was tempted to walk forward, to drive the dementors away. He wasn't risking anything - Godly souls are much more divine than the creatures above him. Nor do they harbour hatred towards gods the same way they do towards wizards. 

Apollo should really go and help but—

But—

He needed to see if it would work, he told the kid how to clear his mind. Besides, he's no hero, he won't risk revealing himself just because of some mortal (that he has a contract with). He's concerned, but not enough...

Harry will figure it, well enough until he passes out at least.

Ahead of him, Harry sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. Perhaps he was doing what Apollo instructed. Then he raised his wand towards the dementors as they surged in on him, and he shouted, "Expecto Patronum!" 

Apollo grinned as the light exploded into the clearing, engulfing the lake until it was shimmering. Dementors screeched as a stag came into apperance, prancing along the lake, driving the dementors away until there wasn't any remaining. Slowly, Harry watched them leave before promptly falling on the ground with a groan. Apollo waited for a minute before carefully walking out on the sand.

Though half-conscious, Harry raised his wand towards Apollo as he approached, eyes slightly alert. Apollo bowed his head towards the kid as he glanced down towards Sirius, who was clearly uncouncious. "Professor—!" Harry began, spluttering.

Apollo reached down, pushing through his powers, wondering if he has—

"Professor! He-he's not here to kill me! He—Pettigrew—Ron's pet—“ Harry began and Apollo put a hand forward, resting it on Harry's head. Instantly, Harry's eyes drooped and he fell forward, almost right onto Sirius. "Great job," Apollo muttered. "Now I've got to tell Dumbledore about this..."

He could infer what happen—especially from what Nico gathered. Sirius was assumed to be the killer... yes, Apollo could see it now. Now, where to send you? Apollo wondered, healing Black with a simple healing charm. It was too late though—he could feel Snape approaching behind him.

At least I healed him, Apollo thought mildly, getting to his feet. Now, to clean up the mess you made... 

Chapter Text

“Shocking business... shocking... miracle none of them died... never heard the like... by thunder, it was lucky you were there, Snape....”

Harry slowly came back consciousness, the fogginess of sleep washing over him like a wave. Where…am I? I was—

"Thank you, Minister."

Harry could barely make out their voices, which came out muffled, like Harry was underwater.

"...Black had bewitched them, I saw it immediately. A Confundus Charm, to judge by their behavior. They seemed to think there was a possibility he was innocent. They weren't responsible for their actions. On the other hand, their interference might have permitted Black to escape.... They obviously thought they were going to catch Black single-handed. They've got away with a great deal before now... I'm afraid it's given them a rather high opinion of themselves... and of course Potter has always been allowed an extraordinary amount of license by the headmaster—"

Harry remembered then: He was fighting off the dementors and—he casted a patronus charm. He hated to admit that Professor Phoebus was right, but he casted it. He sent the patronus away, but—

"Ah, well, Snape... Harry Potter, you know... we've all got a bit of a blind spot where he's concerned."

"And yet—" Snape's voice became murky again. Harry tried his best to strain his hearing.

"Well, well... we shall see, Snape, we shall see.... The boy has undoubtedly been foolish....”

He remembered! Professor Phoebus had been there, behind him. He was tired…so tired… he remembered trying to stop the Professor from taking Black in, but—the Professor put a hand on his head, and he had fallen asleep. How was that possible? Is Sirius alright?

"What amazes me most is the behaviour of the dementors... you've really no idea what made them retreat, Snape?"

"No, Minister... by the time I had come 'round they were heading back to their positions at the entrances....”

"Extraordinary. And yet Black, and Harry, and the girl—"

"All unconscious by the time I reached them—but Black was completely healed with not a scratch of dirt on him. I bound and gagged Black, naturally, conjured stretchers, and brought them all straight back to the castle—I found Professor Phoebus halfway across the field where he was tending to Weasley’s injured leg."

What? Harry thought, nearly sitting up this time. No… that’s not what happened at all… is it? I swear I…

The doors open at the other end, followed by sharp footfalls. Harry clenched his hands, listening to the two men instantly stop talking.

“Professor Phoebus,” came Fudge’s less than thrilled voice.

Professor Phoebus clasped his hands in acknowledgement and stopped walking. “—I just returned with Madam Pomfrey—there’s no charm or hex breathing down on them,” the Professor said.

“The spell would have been worn off by the time the trio was returned here,” Snape sneered, “Surely, a Professor of your standings would understand.”

“Of course,” Phoebus said cheerily, “but by the time you recovered, their views of the situation had already changed.”

“You cannot be implying that Sirius Black is innocent!” Fudge said. “He had attacked the school—“

“Both of you are—presumably—intelligent wizards. Sirius Black had been in the school for months and not once had he killed or attacked students, has he? He’s located up above now but if he was here to kill students—Mr. Potter—I’m sure he’d already be dead.”

“That does not excuse what has done years before. You were not here during the time of He-who-must-not-be-named but—“ Snape began sharply.

“Yes, yes,” Phoebus waved his hand. “Very evil person, understandably, saw a baby and decided to kill it. But, I was the one who found Ron on the ground mumbling to himself, did I not? He was mumbling about his pet being an animagus— something something Pettigrew.”

At this, the other wizards didn’t respond. “Now, I think the best thing to happen would be a fair trial, don’t you think? Now, I’m sure the British run things differently here than America but surely you did a fair trial and didn’t just commend Sirius to death—“

Fudge and Snape must've worn hard-pressed expressions because Phoebus lets out a sigh. “Ignoring the major human rights violation that is—the truth serum—“

“Ve—“ Snape began.

“Whatever it’s called,” Phoebus continued,  “Would surely tell us if Sirius is innocent or not. After all, Pettigrew has been friends with the Potter family along with Black before everything went down, right? Aside from the juicy gossip getting out—it looks like Black has been framed.”

“Evidence—“ Fudge said.

“Witnesses can have false memories  or could’ve been paid off. It’s a very weak form of evidence.”

“Pettigrew, if you didn’t know, had been blown to bits and his finger was the only thing remaining,” Snape hissed out.

“Truly? If the animagus part is true—Ron’s pet rat had a missing toe. Oh, what a marvelous coincidence,” Phoebus said and Harry could hear the grin in his voice.

The two were left in silence as Phoebus began walking away. “I’ll allow Dumbledore to know that Sirius is to be awaiting a fair trial—if Sirius hasn’t escaped yet.”

“W—What’s that supposed to mean?” Fudge stumbled over his words.

Phoebus continued walking and said, “oh—you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Professor Phoebus!” Fudge demanded and the doors slammed shut behind him.

-

As Harry and Hermione rescued Black from execution, Harry realized that Professor Phoebus knew this was going to happen—how exactly? 

Maybe Dumbledore had told him, but Harry didn’t think so. 

Unless the Professor could predict that we’d be rescuing Black from the prison because he knew we’d be up to doing something like this… That’s a bit mortifying to realize.

_

Nobody at Hogwarts now knew the truth of what had happened the night that Sirius, Buckbeak, and Pettigrew had vanished except Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Professor Dumbledore—and perhaps Professor Phoebus, who seemed to know more than he let on to.

He didn’t say anything to Harry about the lake and dementors, nor did Harry have time to either since exams were completed.

As the end of term approached, Harry heard many different theories about what had really happened, but none of them came close to the truth.

Though the weather was perfect, though the atmosphere was so cheerful, though he knew they had achieved the near impossible in helping Sirius to freedom, Harry had never approached the end of a school year in worse spirits.

He certainly wasn't the only one who was sorry to see Professor Lupin go. The whole of Harry's Defense Against the Dark Arts class was miserable about his resignation. "Wonder what they'll give us next year?" said Seamus Finnigan gloomily.

"Maybe a vampire," suggested Dean Thomas hopefully.

It wasn't only Professor Lupin's departure that was weighing on Harry's mind. He couldn't help thinking a lot about Professor Trelawney's prediction. He kept wondering where Pettigrew was now, whether he had sought sanctuary with Voldemort yet. But worse, was the other prophecy which Harry suspected hadn’t come true yet. He didn’t dare mention it to Dumbledore, because it didn’t make sense.

Professor Phoebus had said she was a descendant of a great seer—which made Harry feel even worse. Perhaps he would pen the Professor over the Summer? He’s the only one—aside from Dumbledore—who seemed to know that Trelawney was able to accurately guess the future.

But the thing that was lowering Harry's spirits most of all was the prospect of returning to the Dursleys. For maybe half an hour, a glorious half hour, he had believed he would be living with Sirius from now on... his parents' best friend... It would have been the next best thing to having his own father back. And while no news of Sirius was definitely good news, because it meant he had successfully gone into hiding, Harry couldn't help feeling miserable when he thought of the home he might have had, and the fact that it was now impossible.

The exam results came out on the last day of term. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had passed every subject. Harry was amazed that he had got through Potions. He had a shrewd suspicion that Dumbledore might have stepped in to stop Snape failing him on purpose. And overall, Harry was feeling good.

When Harry went up to his room on Private Drive, he whipped out his quill and began writing a letter to Professor Phoebus.

-

July 8th,

Dear Professor Phoebus,

Sorry for interrupting you during your Summer break—last time it happened, you complained about how dinner was waiting for you. I've been meaning to write to you about something that happened recently. I felt too nervous about telling Dumbledore about this. You know Professor Trelawney, right? The Divination professor. Well, I’m sure Dumbledore explained to you about the vision she told me about Sirius Black and everything. 

I know Divination can be a bit...unpredictable and have double meanings and everything. You’re the only other Professor I know at school who might understand what it means - you’re the only one that seems to think that Trelawney is telling the truth.

It's about a prophecy or vision related to me. It wasn’t like the other vision she gave—that once was told like it was through a telephone and had strict meaning (if that makes sense?). 

I wanted to ask your opinion on this. Thank you I guess? You can respond to me back at Hogwarts if you want.

Wishing you a pleasant remainder of the summer without any more students bothering you.

Cheers,

Harry.

-

July 9th,

Harry,

I'm intrigued. Though Trelawney has been known for giving out ‘false’ prophecies and visions, it sounds like she had an actual vision here - no doubt, the last remaining genes given to her from her grandmother. Do share the exact words of this so-called prophecy if you can recall them verbatim. 

Though the only thing you are bothering is my crow—your owl had dive bombed him. If your owl returns with only an eye remaining, know it was for his own fault and none of mine.

Best wishes to your owl,

Professor Phoebus

-

July 14th, 

Hey Professor Phoebus,

Sorry for the late response. Been…doing stuff… 

“When twilight falls, the darkness grows,

The god of light his true foe knows.

A serpent’s hiss, the warning’s sound,

The blood of kin runs through the ground.

In shattered worlds, the son of dead,

Will face the lies that fear has bred.

The scarred one’s path entwines with fate,

And all shall bend beneath its weight.”

I would ask Hermione but she’s busy—and I don’t want to trouble her. I haven’t a thought to what this means. It's almost as bad as Potions class. By the way, my owl is fine—a bit shaken but no harm done. Sorry for the showdown.

Cheers,

Harry

-

July 14th, 

Harry,

I think it’s best that we talk about this person—to—person. Don’t stress about it but it’s too many words to write on paper and I fear hand cramps.

And you don’t want to bother Hermione but would bother me instead? I see where your true loyalties lay, Potter.

Best of luck,

Phoebus

-

Harry was called downstairs into the living room late one August morning—where Mr. Dursley stood with a letter in his hands. It turned out to be Mrs. Weasley’s—inviting Harry to the World Cup—letter. And his uncle was making a fuss out of it.

Uncle Vernon was still glaring at Harry, who tried to keep his expression neutral. If he didn't do or say anything stupid, he might just be in for the treat of a lifetime. He waited for Uncle Vernon to say something, but he merely continued to glare. Harry decided to break the silence.

"So—can I go then?" he asked.

A slight spasm crossed Uncle Vernon's large purple face. The mustache bristled. Harry thought he knew what was going on behind the mustache: a furious battle as two of Uncle Vernon's most fundamental instincts came into conflict. Allowing Harry to go would make Harry happy, something Uncle Vernon had struggled against for thirteen years. On the other hand, allowing Harry to disappear to the Wesleys' for the rest of the summer would get rid of him two weeks earlier than anyone could have hoped, and Uncle Vernon hated having Harry in the house. To give himself thinking time, it seemed, he looked down at Mrs. Wesley's letter again.

"Who is this woman?" he said, staring at the signature with distaste.

"You've seen her," said Harry. "She's my friend Ron's mother, she was meeting him off the Hog—off the school train at the end of last term."

He had almost said "Hogwarts Express," and that was a sure way to get his uncle's temper up. Nobody ever mentioned the name of Harry's school aloud in the Dursley household. Uncle Vernon screwed up his enormous face as though trying to remember something very unpleasant.

"Dumpy sort of woman?" he growled finally. "Load of children with red hair?" Uncle Vernon was perusing the letter again.

And a brilliant, yet so selfishly great (on Harry’s part), idea came to mind. If they were worried about them being seen by neighbors inviting Mrs. Weasley—who was decidedly not normal—they would be the talk of the town—neighborhood.

“Uh, I know someone who grew up normal,” Harry said, making Vernon look up again—and Harry could see his window.

“Who?” Vernon asked skeptically. 

Truth be told, Harry has no idea if this plan would work or not, but Harry surely hoped it would. He’d seen the Professor in muggle clothing before—he even had a sports car that nearly ran him over once. And most importantly, when he’s wearing muggle clothing, he looks like one of those actors on those TV shows Aunt Petunia watches.

And, Professor Phoebus had helped Harry out before that didn’t involve school—mostly. Honestly, it was the first thing that came to mind because he had just finished reading the Professor’s letter.

“My Professor—Professor Phoebus.”

His uncle's eyes narrowed.

“He’s born—er—“ Harry began, lying through his teeth, “—in the mu—normal world like you guys. He dresses normally too when he’s not at Hogwarts. If I could pen him and ask him, he would say yes.”

There’s silence in the room for a moment.

Harry could see the conclusion forming in his uncle's mind as though the great mustached face were transparent. Harry tried not to smile, to keep his own face as blank as possible. And then—

"Well, all right then. You can go to this ruddy... this stupid… this World Cup thing. You write and tell this—this Professor he’s here to pick you up, mind. I haven't got time to go dropping you off all over the country. And you can spend the rest of the summer there with those Weasleys.”

"Okay then," said Harry brightly—and bolted up to his room. First things first; penning Professor Phoebus.

-

Professor,

I have a major favour to ask of you and you’d become my favourite Professor if you’d succeed.

Can you pick me up and bring me to the Weasleys—they’ve invited me to the Quidditch World Cup but my Uncle and Aunt will only allow me to go if I’m picked up by someone ‘normal.’ You see, they don’t like wizards that much.

Cheers to my new-maybe-favourite Professor,

Harry.

-

Dear Harry,

Ah, the lure of becoming the favourite Professor, a tempting offer indeed. How could I resist such a charming proposition? Although I thought I gained that title when I gifted you that broomstick, I suppose I will pick you up and accompany you to the Quidditch World Cup. I was planning to attend myself, so our paths align.

We can discuss the prophecy and anything else you fancy during our journey. Prepare yourself for a ride in style. Though, if you don’t mind, I have an apprentice coming from America—from an old job I had—and I might as hit two stones with one bird, as they say, and pick both of you up at the same time.

Until then,

Professor Phoebus

-

Harry quickly penned Ron, telling him everything that has transpired, feeling his heart rocket. From there, they discussed the meeting spot, which happens to be the Burrow. Ron told Harry that Mrs. Weasley that they’re expecting them—and that Professor Phoebus and his American apprentice—if they come—are welcome to join them if they wish.

And Harry could never be more excited than now.

-

By twelve o’clock the next day, Harry's school trunk was packed with his school things and all his most prized possessions—the Invisibility Cloak he had inherited from his father, the broomstick he had gotten from Phoebus, the enchanted map of Hogwarts he had been given by Fred and George Weasley last year. He had emptied his hiding place under the loose floorboard of all food, doublechecked every nook and cranny of his bedroom for forgotten spellbooks or quills, and taken down the chart on the wall counting down the days to September the first, on which he liked to cross off the days remaining until his return to Hogwarts.

The atmosphere inside number four, Privet Drive was extremely tense. The imminent arrival at their house of a Hogwarts Professor was making the Dursleys uptight and irritable. Uncle Vernon had looked downright alarmed when Harry informed him that Phoebus would be arriving at five o'clock the very next day.

Harry had implied that the Professor’s of Hogwarts were the best of the best—though Harry’s never seen Professor Phoebus fight before.

"I hope you told them to dress properly, this Professor," he snarled at once. "I've seen the sort of stuff your lot wear. They'd better have the decency to put on normal clothes, that's all."

Harry felt a slight sense of foreboding. He had no idea how’d Professor Phoebus would dress—he might’ve been a pure blood wizard for all Harry knows and try to dress like a wizard to impress Harry’s relatives, even though he warned him about his uncle in his letter. Maybe this was a bad idea. The only time Harry had seen the Professor wear normal clothes was a year ago when he found Harry on the street.

Though Harry wasn't bothered about what the neighbors would think, he was anxious about how rude the Dursleys might be to Phoebus if he turned up looking like their worst idea of wizards— especially if he’s bringing along an American student.

Uncle Vernon had put on his best suit. To some people, this might have looked like a gesture of welcome, but Harry knew it was because Uncle Vernon wanted to look impressive and intimidating. Lunch was an almost silent meal. Dudley didn't even protest at the food (cottage cheese and grated celery). Aunt Petunia wasn't eating anything at all. Her arms were folded, her lips were pursed, and she seemed to be chewing her tongue, as though biting back the furious diatribe she longed to throw at Harry.

It wasn’t like the Professor was staying over for the night or anything.

"They'll be driving, of course?" Uncle Vernon barked across the table, bringing Harry back to attention.

"Er," said Harry. He hadn't thought of that. While the Professor did have a car, he’d only seen it once and used it as an emergency. And it disappeared all of a sudden too…  "I think so," said Harry. Uncle Vernon snorted into his mustache.

“What car does he have? You said he drove you last year.”

Harry said, simply, “expensive—they pay him good.” Harry had no true idea of that— at all.

Harry spent most of the afternoon in his bedroom; he couldn't stand watching Aunt Petunia peer out through the net curtains every few seconds, as though there had been a warning about an escaped rhinoceros. Finally, at a quarter to five, Harry went back downstairs and into the living room.

Aunt Petunia was compulsively straightening cushions. Uncle Vernon was pretending to read the paper, but his tiny eyes were not moving, and Harry was sure he was really listening with all his might for the sound of an approaching car. Dudley was crammed into an armchair. Harry couldn't take the tension; he left the room and went and sat on the stairs in the hall, his eyes on his watch and his heart pumping fast from excitement and nerves.

And, exactly at 5:00 on the dot, footsteps approached the door and Aunt Petunia was there in an instant, glaring sideways at Harry.

He felt his heart leap into his chest as his Aunt opened the door. 

The door swung open, revealing Professor Phoebus standing confidently on the Dursleys' doorstep. He wore a black jacket  with a white dress shirt underneath, black khakis accompanying the look. His sunglasses rested atop his head, and a smug smile played on his lips with blonde hair resting, as always, just below his shoulders.

"Good evening, Dursleys," he greeted cheerily. "I trust you're all well?"

Uncle Vernon blinked at the unexpected sight. "Who are you?" he grunted, his mustache twitching in confusion.

Harry blinked—he wasn’t expecting him to act like this. Harry felt a sudden wave of regret.

"Professor Phoebus, at your service," he replied, offering a casual half-bow. "I'm here to collect young Harry for the Quidditch World Cup. Lovely neighborhood you've got here, by the way."

The last part sounded sarcastic, but Harry knows it can’t be helped—the neighborhood practically looked copy and pasted.

Aunt Petunia eyed him warily but managed a stiff nod. "Yes, well, we expect that he stays at the Weasleys for the remainder of the Summer. And make sure he's dressed properly."

Professor Phoebus smirked, understanding the unspoken demand. His eyes darkened ever so slightly. "Of course, Mrs. Dursley. We wouldn't want Harry here to tarnish the neighborhood's reputation, now would we?"

Harry fought to suppress a grin—instead, he coughed into his fist.

"Now, let's not keep Harry waiting," Professor Phoebus said and Harry emerged from the shadows of the staircase. He glanced at the professor, who looked like he might be throwing silent curses at the Dursleys.

"Ah, Harry," the professor said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Would you mind grabbing everything? We’re not coming back if you forgot your owl.”

Harry nodded and disappeared up the stairs. When he returned, he found his Uncle and Aunt utterly enraptured by the Professor—which can only be said about a few people. As Harry trudged his way towards the door,  Aunt Petunia managed a tight smile to the Professor, and even Uncle Vernon nodded in begrudging approval.

Nothings gone wrong yet, Harry thought.

"Harry, head on in,” the Professor says, closing the door behind him. “My student here looks like he might bite but he doesn’t—rest assured.” They began walking towards the car, which had tinted windows—he couldn’t make out anyone inside.

Harry turned his head to the side, to the very small trunk. Glancing towards the Professor skeptically, he opened his mouth to ask how he’s going to fit his stuff inside—but Phoebus clapped his hands and all of his school stuff was shrunken.

The Professor turned to Harry. “Don’t worry about it—you can head inside.”

Harry nodded hesitantly, wondering if he’s going to get his luggage back the way they were before. He opened the door and slipped inside—and realized what the Professor meant by ‘my student won’t bite.’

The boy had black hair with slightly pale skin and dark eyes. He wore a bomber jacket and was an inch shorter than Harry. Harry feared that the sun could harm the boy in front of him—he could get a major sunburn at least if he stood outside for more than a few minutes.

“Er, hi,” Harry said awkwardly, feeling slightly uneasy around the other. The boy's dark eyes blinked at him, eyebrows raising. There’s no alarm bells going off for Harry, which is usually a good sign in his books—but some part of the boy made him feel unnerved.

The boy glanced at him briefly, offering a terse "Hi" in return. The Professor closed the trunk, and the silence hung between them like a heavy fog.

"Don't take it personally, Harry," Phoebus said as he slipped into the driver's seat. "He's like this with everyone." Harry couldn’t see it—Phoebus loved to talk and this boy, not so much. His face must’ve shown it, because the other boy snickered and leaned back to look out the other window. 

As they started to drive, the boy glanced towards the Professor and said, arms crossed, "I'm teleporting off in about twenty minutes—"

"Apparating," Phoebus corrected.

"Same thing," he grumbled, his discontent evident. "But—“ He turned towards Harry, eyes scanning him like he could see every single cell inside his body.

“Nico.”

It took Harry an embarrassing moment to realize that the boy was introducing himself. Feeling himself flush, Harry said, “Er—Harry,” Harry said.

“I know.”

Well… Harry felt like squirming in his seat—maybe Nico had that effect on people and expected Harry to act the same. Coughing, Harry said, “Why are you heading to Hogwarts?”

Nico’s gaze drifted to the houses passing by outside—looking as if he’d rather walk to his destination than continue talking. “You don’t—“ Harry began, feeling that rush of awkwardness rise again.

“The tournament,” Nico interrupted Harry mercifully. “To observe—among other things.”

“Tournament?” Harry asked.

Nico spun around in record timing to glare daggers into the back of Phoebus head, who winced—as if sensing Nico’s gaze. 

Phoebus laughed awkwardly, waving a hand off beside him. “Hm… must have slipped my mind that students don’t know about it yet.”

“What tournament?” Harry asked again.

Still glaring at the Professor, Nico grumbled, “how annoying.”

And Harry realized he wasn’t going to get his answer. Twenty minutes later, the Professor stopped at the side of the road to allow Nico out. The boy got out, looking happy to finally escape, and turned back to Harry. With one final scan, Nico said, “see you at the World Cup.”

“Er—“ Harry began, feeling slightly threatened.

Nico nodded goodbye to Harry before slamming the door shut. Harry sucked in a breath and watched Nico disappear into the shadows.

So—a transfer student, or—

“He’ll just be here for the year if everything goes according to plan,” the Professor says, reading his thoughts. “Lovely kid, isn’t he?”

Well, Harry thinks, watching the Professor take off again. Wait—how was he able to apparate? He looks the same age as me and students aren’t allowed to—

It’s too late to think about it now though—but it left Harry’s mind racing.

-

They got to the burrow after the Professor apparated them—and the car—into the wizarding world of Great Britain. Right now, they’re driving through fields of wheat. 

Harry glanced at the rearview mirror, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Professor, are you planning to stay with the Weasleys while we wait for the Quidditch World Cup?"

Professor Phoebus chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "As much as I'd enjoy the company of the Weasleys, I have other matters to attend to, a meeting. I'll drop you off, make sure everything is in order, and then join the festivities when you guys meet up at the portkey."

Harry frowned, slightly disappointed—though he didn’t exactly know why. Harry sighed and leaned against the window, squinting as the fields began to shorten—a house appeared in the distance. The Professor hummed and suddenly turned back to Harry. "Had a good break Harry, with your relatives?"

Harry scowled and said, "no, I'd rather be anywhere else than with the Dursleys."

Phoebus nodded, eyes flickering just outside the window, as if he knew that was the answer. He didn't say anything else though, leaving Harry unnerved.

Professor Phoebus parked the car just outside the dirt path leading to the house, and they both stepped out. Harry was blasted with the cool summer breeze that flooded the field, making him breathe out quietly in relief.

The Burrow looked as charmingly chaotic as ever, and as Harry began to walk forward, his supplies appeared beside the trunk with a flick of Professor’s Phoebus's wand.

“Thank you Professor,” Harry said and he waved his hand at Harry. 

“I was bored anyway,” Professor Phoebus said with a wink.

Before Harry could open his mouth to respond, the Professor and the car disappeared from sight—the telltale sign of apparation made Harry wince as the crack echoed through the field.

When Harry turns back around, Mrs. Weasley was already at the door, waving enthusiastically. Behind her, her children were cramming their way out from behind Mrs. Weasley, all wearing identical grins.

-

After an incident including Geroge and Fred and a very surprised Bill and Charlie—and a very angry Mrs. Weasley, Hermione quickly encouraged those not involved to run upstairs. After a brief run in with their final brother, Percy, they’re left alone to walk up the stairs to Ron’s room.

As Harry, Hermione, and Ginny followed Ron up three more flights of stairs, shouts from the kitchen below echoed up to them. The room at the top of the house where Ron slept looked much as it had the last time that Harry had come to stay: the same posters of Ron's favorite Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons, were whirling and waving on the walls and sloping ceiling, and the fish tank on the windowsill, which had previously held frog spawn, now contained one extremely large frog.

"Fred and George are in here with us, because Bill and Charlie are in their room," he told Harry. "Percy gets to keep his room all to himself because he's got to work.”

"Where's Crookshanks?" Harry asked Hermione now. "Out in the garden, I expect," she said. "He likes chasing gnomes. He's never seen any before."

"Percy's enjoying work, then?" said Harry, sitting down on one of the beds and watching the Chudley Cannons zooming in and out of the posters on the ceiling.

"Enjoying it?" said Ron darkly. "I don't reckon he'd come home if Dad didn't make him. He's obsessed. Just don't get him onto the subject of his boss. He hates him, well, as close as Percy can get to hating his superiors. I asked him why he doesn’t just quit, but he said something about it ‘being necessary.’  Whatever that means… Percy doesn’t want to work anywhere else though—said Mr. Crouch was working on a big project.”

Big project? Is it the tournament?

"Have you had a good summer, Harry?" said Hermione. "Did you get our food parcels and everything?"

"Yeah, thanks a lot," said Harry. "They saved my life, those cakes."

Then, Ron said, “Professor Phoebus drove you? How’d you manage to convince a Professor to do that?”

Harry remained unusually quiet—he dreaded this question.

“Harry?” Hermione prodded and Ginny looked between them with a frown.

“I told him that he’d become my favourite Professor,” Harry muttered quietly.

There’s silence for a moment with Hermione staring at him with what looked like pure shock. Then—like a tidal wave—Ron began to roar with laughter, topping backwards. Ginny grinned and started laughing, muffling it behind her hand while Hermione rolled her eyes as Harry’s cheeks began to turn red.

“Ron, it’s not that funny,” Hermione began, but there’s a small smile on her face as well.

Through wheezing breaths, Ron said, “Harry—you….you…” He couldn’t continue because a new fit of laughter began, turning his entire face red.

“Merlin’s beard,” Ron laughed, wiping tears from his eyes.

Trying to form a distraction—avoiding the fact that his cheeks were the colour of an apple—Harry said, “the Professor said he’ll join us after he’s done his meeting.”

No one seems to hear him, but Hermione gave Harry a pitiful look before getting to her feet. “Do you guys want to head down? I think they’ve finished arguing.”

Ron wiped the final tear off his face before agreeing. Ginny races ahead of them and as Harry closed the door behind him, Hermione glanced towards Harry. “Professor Phoebus had a meeting? There’s still a week left before the new term begins,” Hermione said.

Harry shifted awkwardly and said, “it’s a meeting—maybe it has something to do with the student he introduced.”

"What?" Ron asked, looking up in surprise. 

"I told you in the letter."

"I know, but you didn't tell us you met him!"

They were interrupted by Molly Weasley, still looking ill-tempered, who told them to go and help Bill and Charlie with the table.

A very loud crashing noise was coming from the other side of the house. The source of the commotion was revealed as they entered the garden, and saw that Bill and Charlie both had their wands out, and were making two battered old tables fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other, each attempting to knock the other's out of the air. 

After watching the process, Hermione suddenly said, “But that doesn’t make sense!” Both Harry and Ron looked at her in confusion. Her statement seemed to gain some attention from Bill and Charlie who both turned slightly towards her.

“Phoebus isn’t a pureblood name though! So there has to be something else,” Hermione grumbled. "Why would he be here?"

“You lot look like you're discussing to take over the ministry,” Charlie joked, crossing his arms as he approached.

“We’re trying to figure out something about our American Professor,” Ron grumbled, making a hand waving motion at his brothers and turned back to Harry and Hermione.

“Gossiping about Professors! I remember those good old days!”

Suddenly, Hermione made a sliding motion with her hand. “You guys,” she said, spinning around to glance at the older brothers, “Does the name Phoebus ring a bell? You two spend time outside of Britain.”

Charlie shrugged his shoulders while Bill hummed. “Isn’t Phoebus Greek? It’s an Epithet of Apollo.”

“An Epi—what?” Ron asked, eyebrows drawn up.

Bill, ignoring his surprise, said, “you get a lot of history from that area—Egypt—and the surrounding ancient civilization at the time. It’s basically calling Apollo ‘shining sun-god’—or light. It’s not really a last name, more to describe a person.”

“Who the hell is Apollo?” Ron said, turning to Hermione and Ron.

Hermione and Harry both glance at him. Harry didn’t know the most about mythology but he still remembered some stuff. “Um—A Greek God,” Harry said.

“Oh—A muggle thing,” Ron said, though his brows were still strung together.

“So it sounds like your American Professor might have some Greek ancestry,” Bill said, looking amused.

“It just makes everything else so suspicious now!” Hermione says, throwing her hands in the air in defeat.

“Huh!?”

“Well—as long as he isn’t a Dark Wizard, I suppose. There shouldn’t be a problem," Hermione muttered.

“Dumbledore hired Snape—he’s wrong sometimes,” Ron said darkly.

-

At times like this, Apollo was disappointed he wasn’t allowed outside Britain (which was an actual horror story in his opinion—he could feel his vitamin deficiency start to effect his pores).

Oh, how he longed for the golden sun of Delphi, the warmth on his skin, the light that fueled his very essence. But no, he was stuck here, surrounded by fog and drizzle, all in the name of protecting some children who seemed to get into more trouble than they were worth.

Though, if he was honest with himself, there was a certain amusement in watching other gods who ventured into Britain, only to look incredibly awkward and out of place. 

But today, there was little time for such amusements. Today, he had a meeting. One he’d rather avoid, if he was being entirely honest. Hades had summoned him to discuss matters of grave importance—literally. It wasn’t every day that the god of the dead decided to pay a visit to the surface, let alone to Britain. Then again, if Hades was to be found anywhere, it’d be Britain on a rainy day.

Hades rarely called on him, especially now. When he did want something, it was for something dark and serious, and Apollo wasn’t particularly fond of dark and serious. He preferred the light, the laughter, the music of life. 

Alas, Hades would be first god he saw in three years—and for nothing good, from what Nico had told him.

The setting of their meeting was as clichéd as Apollo had expected. Come to the Chamber of Secrets, Alecto had told him, there’s an entrance to the Underworld there.

How convenient.

He’ll meet you there.

The chamber was as dreadful as Apollo imagined it to be. Luckily for Apollo’s sense of pride, the basilisk was asleep under the water—which Apollo hoped would stay that way. Apollo could see the entrance at the other side of the chamber—a locked gate with a skull overhead. The rest of the chamber was just as dark and gloomy—he made a point of casting a water-repellent charm on his robes and shoes since he dared not let the murky waters touch him.

Apollo resisted the urge to brighten the place up with a wave of his hand—he was saved from acting on it as Hades warped into the chamber, stirring the water around him. The god looked suspiciously like Nico—only paler with longer hair. He was looking good for someone who was at war with himself—but it may just be the magic of this land interfering.

“Uncle,” Apollo greeted, his tone light. “You do choose the murkiest and most dreadful places to meet up. Perhaps I should choose the next meeting spot—somewhere with sunflowers and the sun.”

Hades turned his gaze slowly toward Apollo, his expression as unreadable as ever. A flicker of magic surged through Hades, reaching out to him. “Apollo,” he intoned. “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, shall we? We have much to discuss, and little time.”

Apollo hummed—glancing around. He would have leaned against the pillar if didn’t mean getting his robes dirty (and smelly). “By all means, then. Let’s get to it.”

Hades fixed Apollo with a piercing stare. “The prophecy. The one concerning my son.” 

“Yes.”

“A prophecy not even borne from one of your domains.”

“Hm, yes,” Apollo agreed, feeling an itch rise in him. He didn’t really do it on purpose—it wasn’t his fault (it was). Though, when next Halloween comes, he supposed that he’ll have to give Brigid a big hug in thanks.

Hades fixed a glare on him, one much worse than Nico’s. “Though I understand your reasoning, do not think I know why your domain hasn’t been working all that well.”

“Yours isn’t either,” Apollo grumbled and winced as Hades’s eyes burned purple.

“So now, Nico has a new prophecy to follow—one that isn’t even made for him.”

“We would have run into more difficulties with them if there wasn’t a prophecy given,” Apollo pointed out.

“I see you haven’t lost your touch in arguing, Apollo,” Hades said dryly.

“It’s my daily source of amusement,” Apollo said cheerily. “Speaking of amusement—what about Voldemort? You must know what's wrong—even with the doors of death in place. The wizarding world is on the brink of war.”

“Voldemort is a problem,” Hades admitted. “But he is not the only one. The giants have already begun to stir. Hera has given a quest to Jason—”

“Giants?” Apollo interrupted, his interest piqued. “You mean the war is already starting?” The one that I predicted?

“Indeed,” Hades confirmed. “The signs are all there—even if Zeus does not see. The giants are awakening, and they will not stop until Olympus is in ruins.”

Apollo frowned. “So, we’re dealing with a prophecy, a dark wizard, and a war with giants. Sounds like a busy year.”

Hades’ gaze hardened. “The prophecy is an issue of your own creation. Be glad that that goddess has given these people a prophecy.”

“Maybe she’s taken pity on me.”

“I doubt it,” Hades said, “these people are more important to them than the gods of another land.”

“Sure—is this meeting over?”

“And here I thought I was lovely company,” Hades said dryly. “We can leave now. I have nothing left to warn you about.”

Apollo, however, wasn’t quite finished. An idea had come to mind. “You know, Uncle, I’ve been thinking…”

Hades’ brow furrowed slightly, a sign of deep suspicion. “What now?”

“The Quidditch World Cup—!”

“No.”

Apollo blinked. “But I haven’t even finished—”

“No,” Hades repeated, his voice firm, final.

Apollo was undeterred. “Come on, think about it! It would be fun! You could use a little excitement in your life, and honestly, if you kill a few wizards that I’m not allowed too—“ 

Hades stared at him with the look of someone who had been handed a cursed artifact and told it was a gift. “I have no interest in such trivial matters.”

“Trivial?” Apollo gasped in mock horror. “This is a historic event! You can’t just call it trivial.”

“Watch me,” Hades deadpanned.

Apollo sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re impossible, you know that? A little fun won’t kill you, Uncle.”

Hades arched an eyebrow, probably the most emotion Apollo’s got out of him all century. “I am the god of the dead. Fun has no place in my domain.”

“That’s exactly why you should get out more!” Apollo pressed.

“No.”

Apollo sighed, though he knew when to quit… mostly. “Fine, fine. But don’t say I didn’t try to include you in things.”

Hades merely stared, and Apollo could almost hear the fight within the god, trying to stop himself from strangling him.

“Well, if you change your mind,” Apollo said with a wink, “you know where to find me.”

“Highly unlikely,” Hades replied coldly.

-

Harry arrived at the campground early into the morning—the sun newly risen and the mist lifting. They could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just dawning on Harry how many witches and wizards there must be in the world; he had never really thought much about those in other countries. Their fellow campers were starting to wake up and as they returned with water, they began to walk more slowly now, because of the weight of the water.  They made their way back through the campsite.

Here and there, they saw more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old captain of Harry's House Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged Harry over to his parents' tent to introduce him, and told him excitedly that he had just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team. Next they were hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on they saw Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who played Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waved and smiled at Harry, who slopped quite a lot of water down his front as he waved back.

"Potter! Over here!"

Hermione and Ron freeze beside him and give him questioning looks but when Harry turns around—he sees Professor Phoebus by a warmly-coloured tent. Phoebus greeted them with a warm smile, gesturing for them to join him. “Professor,” Harry greeted, Hermione and Ron walking up behind him.

The Professor looked down at their water and said, “I’m not bothering you, am I? Of course, I was bothering my poor apprentice enough to make him leave. I’m sure he’s off somewhere, doing gods knows what.”

“Apprentice?” Hermione asked, turning her head to glance around, as if to try and find him.

“Hm, I guess he’s more of a private student. Can’t really do magic well.”

“I saw him apparate though,” Harry said. Is there a different standard for magic over in America?

“Close, but not quite,” Phoebus amended. “Anyway… seeing as though the game is still a couple hours away and I haven’t finished preparing… I’ve got to get going. See you all later, maybe after the match so we can discuss that prophecy!”

Harry swore Phoebus did it on purpose with the way he winked afterward.

-

As Harry, Ron and Hermione returned towards their tent—where Percy, Mr. Weasley, Crouch and Ludo were deep in discussion—and headed inside. The rest of the Weasley’s were outside talking to their guest. Putting the water down, Ron turned on his heel and looked straight at Harry. “Mate, what exactly does Professor Phoebus mean by ‘prophecy?’ Don’t tell me you took anything Trelawney said seriously, she was bloody mad.”

Harry felt suddenly very defensive. “She warned me about the whole thing with Pettigrew, even said that he’ll escape back to his master and everything will go down that night! Plus, she started acting really weird… and then she gave me something also, like the stuff you’d see in cartoons and books.”

Hermione didn’t look impressed. “Professor Phoebus believes her?”

“Yes, said that her grandmother was a prophet.”

“Harry—“

“Look, I don’t know either. But, what she said came true and I’m guessing the next thing will too,” Harry said, feeling rather annoyed.

Hermione and Ron exchanged looks. “What did she say exactly?” Ron asked. “I mean—the second time.”

Harry took a breath, wondering why he just didn’t brush them off earlier, not like they’d believe him. He told them the prophecy—he had written it down and memorized it because he had been so freaked out by it that it left an imprint in his mind to the point he could remember the smell of the classroom.

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Hermione said after he was done.

“Yeah, and why the bloody hell did you tell Professor Phoebus first?” Ron asked.

“Because I thought he would believe me,” Harry said, feeling suddenly foolish for not telling them first. They had looked confused—more so than before—but said they’d hear Harry out. 

“Does he?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there’s a couple of things wrong with the prophecy,” Hermione pointed out. “There’s no child of the dead or god of light—they don’t exist.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Wizarding prophecies are very vague—remember a story about them that threw people into a loop. ‘Reckon that this one is the same.”

“Like it’s confusing on purpose?” Harry asked skeptically.

“Yeah like—son of the dead could, er, mean someone who has dead parents—” Ron pursed his lips, perhaps realizing what that meant.

“I get it,” Harry said, feeling very awkward.

“And what about god of light?” Hermione asked skeptically. 

“Maybe someone who's so good at casting light spells they’re considered a god at it?” Harry suggested.

Ron and Hermione exchanged concerned looks, perhaps wondering if Harry was sane.

“I don’t know,” Harry grumbled. “I was just putting suggestions out there.”

“'Serphants hiss.’ Reckon that was the basilisk?” Ron asked.

“Prophecies are about the future, Ron,” Hermione said.

“The basilisk isn’t dead.”

“Asleep—but only Harry can wake it—and Harry won’t wake it, will you?” Hermione asked.

Harry could feel their eyes on him, asking. Thankfully, he was saved from answering when Mr. Weasley walked inside. 

Ignoring the silence in the room, he asked, “Who’s ready to go see the match?”

Chapter Text

"Prime seats!" said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go."

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. Mr. Wesley's party kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts.

About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Harry, filing into the front seats with the Weasleys, looked down upon a scene the likes of which he could never have imagined. A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them, almost at Harry's eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. 

Harry tore his eyes away from the sign and looked over his shoulder to see who else was sharing the box with them. So far it was empty, except for a tiny creature sitting in the second from last seat at the end of the row behind them. The creature, whose legs were so short they stuck out in front of it on the chair, was wearing a tea towel draped like a toga, and it had its face hidden in its hands. Yet those long, batlike ears were oddly familiar…

"Dobby?" said Harry incredulously.

It was, in fact, not Dobby, but a different house elf entirely. And, overtime in the half hour, the box filled gradually around them over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. Percy jumped to his feet so often that he looked as though he were trying to sit on a hedgehog. Professor Phoebus, of all people, joined them thirty minutes before the game. 

“Professor Phoebus! What are you doing here?” Harry asked, trying his hardest to not sound so surprised.

Phoebus raised an eyebrow at him. “Just checking out the cup—American wizards aren’t playing in it so I figured I'd go and see one.”

Harry didn’t mean that—but it was probably better this way. The Professor turned around and began talking with the nearest Weasley. Harry turned his eyes slightly to see Bill glancing over the Professor—his eyebrows raised imperceptibly. The Professor shook Bill’s hand and continued on to Charlie.

Professor Phoebus looked ready to go for a second round of chatting with the Weasleys, which Harry thought was impossible since talking to so many at the same time would be overkill. Just as the Professor finished talking with Percy, Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself had arrived.

Percy—foregoing his conversation with Phoebus—scanned the Minister, as if looking for any weak points. Fudge looked up at them as he walked by, scowling at the sight of the Professor and turned and greeted Harry like an old friend. They had met before, and Fudge shook Harry's hand in a fatherly fashion, asked how he was, and introduced him to the wizards on either side of him.

Harry opened his mouth, feeling himself flounder for a minute. But… he was saved. “And here's Lucius!" Came Fudge’s voice.

Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley were none other than Dobby the house-elfs former owners: Lucius Malfoy; his son, Draco; and a woman Harry supposed must be Draco's mother. Harry and Draco Malfoy had been enemies ever since their very first journey to Hogwarts. A pale boy with a pointed face and white-blond hair, Draco greatly resembled his father. Their anger towards each other slowly drifted, apart from the few times during Quidditch. 

"Ah, Fudge," said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached the Minister of Magic. "How are you? I don't think you've met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?"

"How do you do, how do you do?" said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. "And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk—Obalonsk—Mr.—well, he's the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can't understand a word I'm saying anyway, so never mind. And let's see who else—you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?"

It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked at each other and Harry vividly recalled the last time they had come face-to-face: It had been in Flourish and Blotts' bookshop, and they had nearly fought if he hadn’t been for Professor Phoebus.

Speaking of the Professor… Harry looked around, eyebrows raised as he realized the Professor was missing. “Ron, did you see Professor Phoebus leave?”

Ron looked up from where he was glaring at the crowd. “No…?”

Harry frowned as Lucius began talking. Where is he? I swear I just saw him...

-

Apollo usually didn’t get it this bad. He could almost hear Artemis scolding him in his ear and just for a moment, he almost hallucinated that she was there. It’s because you’re too far away from your source of power, some part of his mind thought. But that wasn’t the case, was it? No, if he was getting weaker, this wouldn’t be happening… It’d be the opposite.

As soon as his eyes had started to see double, he knew he needed to get out of the box—oh the embarrassment of having what the wizards assumed to be a psychotic break down! He would have to leave magical Britain for centuries.

The room had grown much too small for him as he felt himself begin to cough. It felt like acid building up his throat, tearing at his skin. You should have had patience, you should have waited, it would have, it would have—

He pushed his hand against the nearest wall, which actually happened to be a tent (which he realized too late as he fumbled into said tent, flopping onto the ground like an undignified fish). This is highly embarrassing, Apollo thought, trying his hardest not start heaving. His skin felt itchy, gross, not itself. Maybe I should’ve gone home, stayed at Hogwarts where my magic was pulled close to the school. Maybe—

Apollo didn’t have time to stop it—perhaps it was doing it on purpose. 

A marble-slabbed building and a man sending in his resignation, pale-faced as another man is placed free. The scales of judgment have been turned and the wrongly accused is free, but another is paid with a punishment set unto themselves. 

The voice was a mix of something Apollo wished he’d never hear again. It was almost mocking—like he helped something be set in stone. It was one thing to cast the prophecies—it was another to be in one. Apollo would rather not experience it again, he liked it better when he could sit back and watch (but that isn’t fair, is it)?

Feeling like he’s swallowing fire, the vision continued.

He's cut open so one of his blood can completely become a blessed prophet of her name. He will the best first of many that fall to his name, who’s followers lurk, for they are here now, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting—

Apollo sucked in a breath and the vision dispersed, almost laughing at him, making fun of him. I get it, Apollo thought irritably. He stumbled to his feet, his legs threatening to lock. I will not be showing my face again today… Apollo doesn’t spare a glance towards the tent that he crashed on—it was its fault for being there (and the wizards should be glad that a god of light fell into it)! 

Apollo tried to set off the uneasiness and forget about the vision (which he should never do but really, Apollo’s trying to give it the silent treatment in hopes it fucks off. So far, it hasn’t been successful, but Artemis does the same sometimes and Apollo eventually leaves. The same can be applied here… hopefully).

His mind itched at the fact that someone is here now, probably here to harm somebody, but he can’t really care. None of the mortals here are of his concern. The only ones he sort of cares for—because of the contract—are safe and sound and are being watched.

Besides… Nico will be watching.

Hopefully.

-

“Dort call your mother you've been gambling." Mr. Weasley implored Fred and George as they all made their way slowly down the purple-carpeted stairs, the game finished behind them. 

Harry hadn’t seen Professor Phoebus return to their game and had half a mind to try and find the Professor. He hadn’t noticed anything wrong, not really. Phoebus looked and acted fine - maybe his meeting went horrible.

"Don't worry, Dad," said Fred gleefully somewhere behind them, "we've got big plans for this money - maybe a therapist for George. We don't want it confiscated."

Raucous singing was borne toward them on the night air as they retraced their steps along the lantern-lit path, and leprechauns kept shooting over their heads, cackling and waving their lanterns. When they finally reached the tents, nobody felt like sleeping at all, and given the level of noise around them, Mr. Weasley agreed that they could all have one last cup of cocoa together before turning in.

Ron had glanced back at Harry and asked, “have you seen Professor since he left?”

“No,” Harry muttered darkly. “Do you think something left? He left as soon as the Malfoys went in.”

“Reckon they did something? They despise each other,” Ron said.

“They wouldn’t do anything to Professor Phoebus, as long as Dumbledore’s around,” Hermione said with a roll of her eyes.

Harry wasn’t convinced—but couldn’t complain because Mr. Weasley was pushing all of them into bed. Hermione and Ginny went into the next tent, and Harry and the rest of the Weasleys changed into pajamas and clambered into their bunks. From the other side of the campsite they could still hear much singing and the odd echoing bang. 

 Harry, who was on a bottom bunk below Ron, lay staring at the canvas ceiling of the tent, watching the glow of an occasional leprechaun lantern flying overhead, and picturing again some of Krum's more spectacular moves. He was itching to get back on his own Firebolt and try out the Wronski Feint. . . . Somehow Oliver Wood had never managed to convey with all his wriggling diagrams what that move was supposed to look like. . . . 

“Potter!”

“Harry!”

Harry never knew whether or not he had actually dropped off to sleep—his fantasies of flying like Krum might well have slipped into actual dreams—all he knew was that, quite suddenly, there was a face above him, shaking him awake.

Harry’s eyes flew open and he looked around wildly—and it landed on the boy that he recognized to be Professor Phoebus’s student. He had a finger to his lips and was standing him, his other hand closed around Harry’s wand - as if to throw it at him.

His first thought was why is this guy here? And then, more scarily, Harry thought, did something happen to the Professor? Harry rolled over the side of the bed, trying to blink away the sleep in his eyes. Above him, Ron turned in his bed, apparently woken by Harry’s name being called.

“Sh,” the kid hissed.

“Who—“ Ron began, looking over his bunk.

“Do you not know what quiet means?” The kid snapped.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Ron said, eyes narrowing—but his voice has dropped.

“He’s Professor Phoebus’s American student,” Harry said tiredly. 

“Don't ever call me that again,” the kid said, looking quite ill at the idea. 

“Nico,” the kid said, turning to Ron.

“R—“

“I know. We have to go before they figure out which tent you’re in.”

Harry blinked, wide-awake now. Blanching, he said, “What?”

Nico ignored him. 

“Follow me, urgently, and don’t make noise,” Nico said quickly, looking like he might drag them both out by their necks if they didn't get moving.

Dread settled over Harry like a cloak, and his breath caught in his throat. Ron's eyes widened and Harry finally took in his surroundings. A cold realization crept in—The noises in the campsite had changed. The singing had stopped. He could hear screams, and the sound of people running. 

“What's going on?” Harry whispered, slipping down from the bunk and reached for his clothes, but Nico shook his head.

"No time to explain. Both of you—grab a jacket and get outside. I’d rather not have to explain to A-him why you’re dead,” Nico said grimly.

Harry didn’t have to be told twice. He hurriedly followed Nico out of the tent, Ron at his heels. By the light of the few fires that were still burning, he could see people running away into the woods, fleeing something that was moving across the field toward them, something that was emitting odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward them; then came a burst of strong green light, which illuminated the scene.

A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upward, was marching slowly across the field. Harry squinted at them... They didn't seem to have faces... Then he realized that their heads were hooded and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air. Two of the figures were very small.

More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled. Once or twice Harry saw one of the marchers blast a tent out of his way with his wand. Several caught fire. The screaming grew louder.

There were some bodies on the floor—Harry hoped that they were unconscious and not dead.

The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a burning tent and Harry recognized one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The other three looked as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers below flipped Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress fell down to reveal voluminous drawers and she struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee.

"That's sick," Ron muttered, watching the smallest Muggle child, who had begun to spin like a top, sixty feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side. "That is really sick.”

“We have to go,” Nico said. “If they see you, Harry, you’ll have a worse fate.”

“Why?” Said a new voice and the three of them turned around—Hermione had emerged from the tent, wearing a nightdress. Ginny appeared behind her, her wand raised slightly.

Nico barely glanced at them, as if knowing they were approaching. “Because he killed their leader.”

There was a soft explosion and Harry could hear the words, “Mudbloods, dirty bloods, beware!”  Nico turned back to them, dark green illuminating his face as tents went up in flames.

A blast of magic came running towards a nearby witch, sending her to the ground. And then—the fighting started. Ginny gasped and Nico glanced over the now slightly large group of kids. With a long suffering sigh, he said, “She’s fine—not dead. They’ll be hunting for muggleborns as well. Let’s move towards the woods before a battle breaks—“

He spoke too soon it seemed. A sudden burst of red magic, dirt and fire exploded into Harry’s face and he stumbled backwards into Ron.

Chaos erupted as the air crackled with the acrid scent of magic. The distant echoes of shouts and spells reverberated through the night, creating almost something that sounded like an orchestra—of screams. Harry's heart began to pound in his ears as everything suddenly came into place. I could die, Harry thought—and the metallic taste of adrenaline followed close after. 

Nico's voice cut through the screaming, commanding and urgent. "Move! Towards the woods, now!" 

“But—“ Ron said, looking back at his tent.

“No time, move. We have Harry and a muggleborn here.”

And they took off towards the forest, which loomed ahead, its darkness a stark contrast to the chaos behind them. The scent of pine wafted through the air, and Harry felt a fleeting sense of relief for a moment-but the smell of smoke rising from the magical explosions broke through the air.

Ginny's terrified gasp echoed through the forest and everyone followed her glance. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was larger than ever; they could see the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the hooded wizards in the center, but they were having great difficulty. It looked as though they were scared to perform any spell that might make the Roberts family fall. The coloured lanterns that had lit the path to the stadium had been extinguished. Dark figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices were reverberating around them in the cold night air. Harry felt himself being pushed here and there by people whose faces he could not see. He felt like he was getting further and further from everyone else. Then he heard Ron yell with pain.

"What happened?" said Hermione anxiously, stopping so abruptly that Harry walked into her. "Ron, where are you? Oh this is stupid—lumos!"

She illuminated her wand and directed its narrow beam across the path. Nico appeared beside them easily, Ginny hiding behind him like a shield. Ron was lying sprawled on the ground. "Tripped over a tree root," he said angrily, getting to his feet again.

"Well, with feet that size, hard not to," said a drawling voice from behind them. Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned sharply, while Nico sighed—clearly, he was hoping to get everyone out unnoticed, but that plan was now out the window. Draco Malfoy stood a short distance away, leaning casually against a tree, arms folded as if he had been watching them for some time.

Ron glared at Malfoy, who merely smirked. "Lost in the woods, are you? This isn't exactly the place for wandering about."

"Yeah, well, we’re doing fine, thanks," Ron retorted, his tone sharp.

"Sure," Malfoy said lightly, though his eyes flickered to Hermione. "But you might want to be careful. These woods aren’t exactly friendly tonight."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione demanded, momentarily glancing towards the end of the forest, where she could hear screaming.

Malfoy shrugged. "Just a bit of advice. Things are getting ugly back there. Wouldn’t want to see you caught up in it. Especially… you lot." His eyes lingered over Hermione, almost pointedly, before finding Nico.

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he looked Nico over with a hint of curiosity. “And who might you be? Another stray Gryffindor?”

Nico stiffened and glared at the boy, saying, “Don’t worry about it.”

Malfoy held Nico’s gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he gave a small shrug. "Well, if you’re all so confident, don’t let me stop you. Just thought I'd mention it. After all, some of us might have an easier time slipping away unnoticed than others."

Ginny, still partially hidden behind Nico, whispered, "What does he mean?"

"Just saying," Malfoy replied, his tone almost conversational now. "These types of situations can get out of hand. Wouldn’t want to see anyone getting hurt."

Hermione frowned, clearly trying to decipher Malfoy’s intentions. "Are you saying we should leave because we’re not…?"

Malfoy’s eyes flicked to her again, but this time there was no malice in his gaze. “Not exactly pureblood, are you? That could make things more complicated.”

“Complicated?” Harry repeated, incredulous. “You mean dangerous.”

“Call it what you want,” Malfoy replied, his voice steady. “But it’s not the kind of thing you want to get mixed up in.”

Another loud bang echoed through the trees, and they all flinched. Draco straightened up, his expression shifting from casual to tense in an instant.

“You should go,” he said, his voice now holding a note of urgency. “And keep your heads down.”

“Why do you care?” Ron asked, still wary.

Malfoy didn’t answer right away.  “Can’t have my main source of entertainment disappear on me, can I?” Without waiting for a response, he turned and started to walk away, disappearing into the darkness of the forest.

Harry, Hermione and Ron exchanged puzzled glances.

“What was that about?” Ron asked, still fuming.

“We can figure that out while we’re moving,” Nico said firmly. “Let’s go—hopefully the rest have made it out of the camp.”

“Oh no,” Ron moaned, “Dad hasn’t a clue where we are.”

“What if the others are hurt?” Ginny said, taking a step away from the others.  

Nico turned slightly, eyes dark. “They aren’t.”

They continued into a clearing, which was packed with plenty of people who weren’t Wealsey’s, all looking nervously over their shoulders toward the commotion back at the campsite. A huddle of teenagers in pajamas was arguing vociferously a little way along the path. When they saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione, a girl with thick curly hair turned and said quickly, "Où est Madame Maxime? Nous l'avons perdue—"

"Er—what?" said Ron.

"Oh..." The girl who had spoken turned her back on him, and as they walked on they distinctly heard her say, “Hogwarts.”

"Beauxbatons," muttered Hermione.

"Sorry?" said Harry.

"They must go to Beauxbatons," said Hermione. "You know. Beauxbatons Academy of Magic . . . I read about it in An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe."

"Oh ... yeah ... right," said Harry.

"Well, our brothers should be somewhere in the woods, right?” said Ron to Ginny, pulling out his wand, lighting it like Hermione's, and squinting up the path. Harry dug in the pockets of his jacket for his own wand—but it wasn't there. The only thing he could find was his Omnioculars. "Ah, no, I don't believe it... I've lost my wand!"

"You're kidding!"

Ron and Hermione raised their wands high enough to spread the narrow beams of light farther on the ground; Harry looked all around him, but his wand was nowhere to be seen. "Maybe it's back in the tent," said Ron.

"Maybe it fell out of your pocket when we were running?" Hermione suggested anxiously. 

"Yeah," said Harry, "maybe.”

Nico watched them quietly before saying, “this is bad. We have to find your wand first—“

A rustling noise nearby made all five of them jump. Winky the house-elf was fighting her way out of a clump of bushes nearby. She was moving in a most peculiar fashion, apparently with great difficulty; it was as though someone invisible were trying to hold her back.

"There is bad wizards about!" she squeaked distractedly as she leaned forward and labored to keep running. "People high—high in the air! Winky is getting out of the way!"

And she disappeared into the trees on the other side of the path, panting and squeaking as she fought the force that was restraining her.

"What's up with her?" said Ron, looking curiously after Winky.

"Why can't she run properly?"

"Bet she didn't ask permission to hide," said Harry. He was thinking of Dobby: Every time he had tried to do something the Malfoys wouldn't like, the house-elf had been forced to start beating himself up.

Nico watched Winky go with dark eyes, glaring into the night.

Another loud bang echoed from the edge of the wood.

"Let's just keep moving, shall we?" said Ron, and Harry saw him glance edgily at Hermione. Perhaps there was truth in what Malfoy had said; perhaps Hermione was in more danger than they were.

They set off again, Harry still searching his pockets, even though he knew his wand wasn't there. They followed the dark path deeper into the wood, still keeping an eye out for Fred and George. They passed a group of goblins who were cackling over a sack of gold that they had undoubtedly won betting on the match, and who seemed quite unperturbed by the trouble at the campsite. Farther still along the path, they walked into a patch of silvery light, and when they looked through the trees, they saw three tall and beautiful veela standing in a clearing, surrounded by a gaggle of young wizards, all of whom were talking very loudly.

By the time the sounds of the veela and their admirers had faded completely, they were in the very heart of the wood. They seemed to be alone now; everything was much quieter.

Harry looked around. "I reckon we can just wait here, you know. We'll hear anyone coming a mile off." The words were hardly out of his mouth, when Ludo Bagman emerged from behind a tree right ahead of them.

Even by the feeble light of the two wands, Harry could see that a great change had come over Bagman. He no longer looked buoyant and rosy-faced; there was no more spring in his step. He looked very white and strained.

Before the others could do anything, Nico urged them behind a tree—he couldn’t make it there himself.

"Who's that?" he said, blinking down at them, trying to make out his face. "What are you doing in here, all alone?"

Nico turned around slowly, glancing around the forest like something might pop out at him. “There’s an attack on the camp,” Nico said.

Bagman stared at him. "What?"

"At the campsite . . . some people have got hold of a family of Muggles.”

Bagman swore loudly.

"Damn them!" he said, looking quite distracted, and without another word, he Disapparated with a small pop!

"Not exactly on top of things, Mr. Bagman, is he?" said Hermione, frowning, coming out from the clearing. “Why did you hide us?”

Nico raised an eyebrow. “What if he was one of Voldemort's followers? Or thought we were up to something? It’d be better if I was caught than you four.”

Hermione pursed her lips but didn’t argue—he had a point. "I hope the others are okay," said Ginny, reappearing beside Ron.

"They'll be fine," said Ron.

And, very suddenly, a burst of magic exploded into the sky from where the tents were. Ginny let out a scream and said, “No!” Before anyone could stop her, she raced through the woods towards the noise. “Ginny!” Ron called, panicked.

Nico took off first, not letting out a sigh of annoyance, and began sprinting surprisingly fast—faster than Harry thought he could run. Ron, Harry and Hermione took off close behind, rushing past other terrified kids who were hiding behind bushes. Harry couldn’t see anything in front of him—his face was being hit with branches. Their progress had been lost—but Ginny was more important. “Ginny!” Ron yelled louder.

The forest swallowed them whole as they sprinted, the damp earth beneath their feet turning to muddled sounds of crunching leaves and snapping twigs. The air was thick with the scent of pine and magic. Harry's skin prickled as branches clawed at him, the rough texture lacerating his skin.

Then, he felt it. He felt it crawl up the back of his spine—a shiver. The eyes were on him again. Panic surged through Harry’s vein and he ran even faster than before, ignoring the ache in his legs. Harry's hands brushed against damp leaves, shuddering at the sudden coolness. Ron's echoed voice came from behind him, "Ginny!" 

Vines entangled their legs, tripping them up. Harry stumbled, feeling the rough bark of a tree against his fingertips as he fought to regain his balance.

Suddenly, they burst through the edge of the forest, and the world beyond was pure smoke and fire. The smell of burning wood permeated the air, so intense that it burned through Harry’s nose. Tents engulfed in flames, sparks dancing against the night sky. The taste of ash lingered in the air where only a couple of hours earlier, everyone had been laughing.

Ahead of Harry, Nico tackled Ginny to the ground, rolling them around so he’d hit the ground first. Ginny groaned as they fell before trying to get up again—she didn’t get any further because Ron wrapped his arms around her tightly.

“Bloody hell, Ginny! You scared me!” Came Ron’s muffled voice.

Behind them, Nico got to his feet, looking rather annoyed.

“‘M Sorry,” Ginny said—too stunned to do anything else than hug her brother back. 

“We have to head back into the woods—“ Nico’s cut off as a bright light shot directly towards them. 

It took Harry a moment to realize what was happening, someone shot a curse at us. 

Harry hand his wand up, not exactly sure of what to shout in defense. Nico was faster then the rest of them—he lifted his hand and the area around them darkened for a moment before dark tendrils exploded into a circle around them, wisps of smoke curling around them as the light melted into the darkness.

“What in the bloody hell is this?” Ron asked, eyes frantically looking around, Ginny gasping behind him.

There’s a moment of silence as Nico turned back to face them, jaw tightened—as if he hadn’t meant to do it.

Then, Hermione opened her mouth, her eyes filled with awe.  “Umbrakinesis,” Hermione whispered. “I read about it in History of Rare Affinites! It’s a rare ability to control shadows.”

For a moment, Harry thought she made it up on the spot.

But Nico just hesitated, looking surprised. Then, realizing everyone was looking at him, he nodded. “Sure. But, let’s get going—the shot came through the forest so we’ll have to go the long way around.”

Before Nico could take suggestions from the rest of them, another blast of magic exploded nearby. A wave of tents went up into flames and a plume of smoke bursted into the air.

Nico cursed—it wasn’t English—but everyone got the message: let’s go.

Everyone took off, following Nico as he followed the forest line before entering a burnt down campsite, where it was quieter. There was still fighting around here—but less of it.

“I knew there was something off with you!” Hermione shouted as they turned past a tent, a teddy bear laid out in the middle of grass. “You’re Professor Phoebeus’s student, but you never had a wand on you!”

Nico gave Hermione a look of disgust—for being called Phoebus’s student—and confusion, like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s because with abilities like that, wizards or witches were born with strict magic capabilities, making them unable to cast spells like normal wizards and witches. Oh, I’ve never met one before! I heard it’s incredibly rare.”

“Right,” Nico suddenly called and everyone dived to the side as they were nearly clipped by a stray spell. 

How was he able to see that? He was focused on Hermione, Harry thought.

They were approaching the main fight—but were still close to the woods. They just needed to turn left—

A person with a dark mask appeared from his peripheral, emerging between two tents. Harry heard his friends cry out before he was shoved to the ground, cold hands grasping his neck. Harry gasped, white surging panic pooling through his body, faster than he could think—

Hermione slammed her knee into the man’s side and Harry could breathe again. The man tumbled to the side and Harry stumbled to his feet, vision doubling. Nico appeared nearby and Harry thought it might just be his vision problems, but Nico was looking paler than before.

The wizard reached for his wand blindly on the ground, ripping out grass as fast as he could as the five of them swarmed him. Ginny raised her wand and shouted a body-binding spell. The man froze mid-grasp, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

“Let’s go!” Ginny shouted as Ron gaped at her.

They took off again and broke off from the main path, jumping over what looked like a tricycle and towards the woods. Ginny gasped and said, “Stop!”

Ron froze for a moment and Harry followed her gaze. Bill was dueling a wizard in the same clothes of the ones that were hanging the muggles upside down. His hair was tied up, revealing a bleeding cheek.

As Ginny had spoken, another wizard appeared behind Bill—their wand alight. It was too late to shout a warning—but Bill turned around just in time. The spell caught his arm, tearing his arm open and letting blood fly. Bill winced but carried on, dodging the wizard behind him.

Ginny tried to surge forward but Ron quickly caught on, grabbing her before she could make it towards the fight. Hermione and Harry began to break off and join the fight—

Nico stepped forward, dark eyes reflecting the shadows dancing around him. Hermione and Harry paused, the duelist not even noticing the shift in magic in the air as Nico raised his hand.

Shadows unfurled like tendrils around the ruined campsite, curling around tents, smothering out the flames as it reached the first dark wizard, who hadn’t even noticed. The shadows fluttered behind the wizards for a moment before snagging out and grabbing hold of them, faster than Harry could blink.

The wizard cried out, their wands dropping to the ground. Both Bill and the other wizard paused, Bill looking towards the wizard before quickly following its source. His eyes trailed back to the five of them and his blood-streaked face morphed into surprise—and concern. 

The wizard fighting Bill stumbled backwards, hand shaking slightly at the sight. Harry didn’t fault him: he would have been gone the moment the shadows appeared. It gave Bill enough time to turn back around, casting, “Stupefy!” The wizard fell, and so did the one in the shadow’s grasp, allowing Nico to drop the shadows surrounding the wizard. 

Bill’s eyes trailed the shadows for a moment, curious if Harry could call it that. Then, he turned towards the five of them, eyes flickering over and each and one of them, concern written in his eyes. He stepped towards them and Ron and Ginny flew forward, hugging him like they haven’t seen each other in months. “You were gone—what—” Bill began, but couldn’t find it in himself to continue.

More sounds of fighting could be heard behind him and Bill sprung back to attention, eyes wandering around the campsite.

“Bill—“ Ron said.

Bill looked past his brother, towards the others. He lifted an eyebrow at Nico but didn’t say anything, which was probably for the better in Harry’s opinion. Oh, yeah, he’s one of Professor Phoebus’s ‘students’ from America but he can also control shadows.

“Go back into the forest and stay there. I’ll find you,” Bill said, steadying a hand on Ginny’s shoulders.

“But—“ Ginny began.

“I’ll be fine,” Bill insisted. 

Ginny glanced pointedly at Bill’s continuously bleeding arm.

“Go,” Bill pleaded, “Please.” 

Ron’s face twisted and his eyes shot between the forest and Bill. Then, the screaming became louder—closer. Ron sucked in a breath and nodded once to Bill before grabbing onto Ginny.

“Wait—“ Ginny shouted. “Wait—“

Ron did not wait.

With a burst of speed, they took off again—Harry looking back at Bill, who began walking towards the sounds of other wizards. On their way back to the forest, they ran into other familiar faces, fighting their way through the crowd. They couldn’t stop to help—when they did try, they would just be attacked by wizards who recognized Harry.

From afar, Harry could see graduated wizards from Hogwarts fighting. Nico, whenever they came across another dark wizard, would cover them with shadows—but he looked paler and paler with each attempt. Harry thought he might pass out by the end of the day. Harry could imagine himself trying to explain to Professor Phoebus why his kid was half-dead. 

Harry didn’t like the appeal of that.

The next Weasley they saw was Charlie, who had a rip in his shirt and was busy battling a wizard with his fist—the non-Weasley looking far worse. Ron looked like he wanted to stop but everyone kept on moving.

They turned a corner towards the woods and there, Harry could see Oliver Wood—scraps lining his arm—battling against a wizard who looked like he had a broken arm. Another wizard approached from the side and Harry almost opened his mouth to cast a spell when a burst of red exploded from behind Oliver, straight into the other wizard's chest. Oliver looked behind him as the wizard flew past. Percy appeared behind Oliver, wiping at his bloody nose, before they both took on the wizard in front of them.

They raced past, Ginny wincing at the sight of blood.

“We won’t make it,” Nico cursed, eyes ablaze.

“What?” Hermione asked.

They looked ahead—dark wizards were disappearing into the forest, no doubt going after wizards and witches that were trying to escape. They’d be ambushing the group if they went in there now.

“Merlin’s tits,” Ron grumbled. “What—?”

Nico lets out a sigh and turns towards them, shadows casted under his eyes. “I really don’t want to do this - but we have to get out of here. Hold on tightly to my hand.”

Hermione took his hand suspiciously and said, “But you’re not an adult—what are you trying to—“

And they’re sucked away into the shadows. 

_

When they reappear, they’re in the middle of the forest, the smell of pine completely overriding the burning of fire. Harry coughed, landed on the ground, and threw up into the nearest bush. To his relief, almost everyone else does the same thing.

“God, god, god,” Ron repeated, resting his head onto a nearby log.

Nico looked worse than all of them combined—completely pale and swaying slightly. 

“Are you alright?” Harry asked, taking a hesitant step forward. It doesn’t take much to assume Nico doesn’t like being touched, but he probably doesn’t like face planting into the grass either.

“M’fine,” Nico muttered, blinking furiously. He stumbled a little bit and leaned into a tree, closing his eyes. 

“Do you need water?” Ginny asked.

“I’m fine,” Nico snapped, his eyes flashing open.

Ginny scowled, looking like she might fight back, but turned away.

The crickets began to sing again in the forest.

Harry felt his heart begin to beat normally - and the tension seeped out of his bones. Harry fell onto the ground and looked up at the sky, trying to ignore the smoke that lingered above the canopy of trees. The cool ground meets his body and he sighs, closing his eyes.

That is, until Harry heard a rustle in the bushes. Everyone quickly looked up—Nico and Ginny to their feet. It sounded as though someone was staggering toward their clearing. They waited, listening to the sounds of the uneven steps behind the dark trees. But the footsteps came to a sudden halt.

"Hello?" called Harry.

There was silence. Harry got to his feet and peered around the tree. It was too dark to see very far, but he could sense somebody standing just beyond the range of his vision.

"Who's there?" he said.

And then, without warning, the silence was interrupted by a voice unlike any they had heard in the wood; and it uttered, not a panicked shout, but what sounded like a spell. "MORSMORDRE!"

“Shit,” Nico breathed.

And something vast, green, and glittering erupted from the patch of darkness Harry's eyes had been struggling to penetrate; it flew up over the treetops and into the sky.

"What the—?" Gasped Ron as he sprang to his feet again, staring up at the thing that had appeared. Ginny yelped and took a step backwards into a tree.

For a split second, Harry thought it was another leprechaun formation. Then he realized that it was a colossal skull, composed of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation.

Suddenly, the wood all around them erupted with screams. Harry didn't understand why, but the only possible cause was the sudden appearance of the skull, which had now risen high enough to illuminate the entire wood like some grisly neon sign. He scanned the darkness for the person who had conjured the skull, but he couldn't see anyone.

"Who's there?" He called again.

"Harry, come on, move!" Hermione had seized the collar of his jacket and was tugging him backward.

"What's the matter?" Harry said, startled to see her face so white and terrified. The only other person aside from Harry who hadn’t looked terrified was Nico—but he did look surprised.

"It's the Dark Mark,” Nico said, following them down the path. "Voldemort's sign."

"Voldemort's—?"

"Harry, come on!"

Harry turned—Ron hurriedly scooping up Ginny and the five of them started across the clearing—but before they had taken a few hurried steps, a series of popping noises announced the arrival of twenty wizards, appearing from thin air, surrounding them.

Harry whirled around, and in an instant, he registered one fact: Each of these wizards had his wand out, and every wand was pointing right at himself, Ron, Ginny, Nico and Hermione.

Nico’s voice broke out, “DOWN!”

Shadows pulled all of them to the ground with Harry gasping in surprise.

"STUPEFY!" roared twenty voices—there was a blinding series of flashes and Harry felt the hair on his head ripple as though a powerful wind had swept the clearing. Raising his head a fraction of an inch he saw jets of fiery red light flying over them from the wizards' wands, crossing one another, bouncing off tree trunks, rebounding into the darkness—

"Stop!" yelled a voice he recognized. "STOP! That’s—Those are my kids!"

Harry's hair stopped blowing about. He raised his head a little higher. The wizard in front of him had lowered his wand. He rolled over and saw Mr. Weasley striding toward them, looking terrified.

"Ron—Harry—Ginny”—his voice sounded shaky— "Hermione are you all alright?"

"Out of the way, Arthur," said a cold, curt voice.

It was Mr. Crouch. He and the other Ministry wizards were closing in on them. Harry got to his feet to face them. Mr. Crouch's face was taut with rage.

"Which of you did it?" he snapped, his sharp eyes darting between them. "Which of vou conjured the Dark Mark?"

His gaze landed on Nico for a moment.

"We didn't do that!" said Harry, gesturing up at the skull.

"We didn't do anything!" said Ron, who was rubbing his elbow and looking indignantly at his father. "What did you want to attack us for?"

"Do not lie, sir!" shouted Mr. Crouch. His wand was still pointing directly at Ron, and his eyes were popping—he looked slightly mad. "You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!"

"Barty," whispered a witch in a long woolen dressing gown, "they're kids, Barty, they'd never have been able to—"

"Where did the Mark come from, you three?" said Mr. Weasley quickly.

"Over there," said Hermione shakily, pointing at the place where they had heard the voice. "There was someone behind the trees . . . they shouted words—an incantation—“

"Oh, stood over there, did they?" said Mr. Crouch, turning his popping eyes on Hermione now, disbelief etched all over his face. "Said an incantation, did they? You seem very well informed about how that Mark is summoned, missy—“

But none of the Ministry wizards apart from Mr. Crouch seemed to think it remotely likely that Harry, Ron, or Hermione had conjured the skull; on the contrary, at Hermione's words, they had all raised their wands again and were pointing in the direction she had indicated, squinting through the dark trees.

"We're too late," said the witch in the woolen dressing gown, shaking her head. "They'lI have Disapparated."

"I don't think so," said a wizard with a scrubby brown beard. It was Amos Diggory, Cedric's father. "Our Stunners went right through those trees... There's a good chance we got them..."

"Amos, be careful!" said a few of the wizards warningly as Mr. Diggory squared his shoulders, raised his wand, marched across the clearing, and disappeared into the darkness. Hermione watched him vanish with her hands over her mouth.

A few seconds later, they heard Mr. Diggory shout.

"Yes! We got them! There's someone here! Unconscious! It's but—blimey..."

"You've got someone?" shouted Mr. Crouch, sounding highly disbelieving. "Who? Who is it?"

They heard snapping twigs, the rustling of leaves, and then crunching footsteps as Mr. Diggory reemerged from behind the trees. He was carrying a tiny, limp figure in his arms. Harry recognized the tea towel at once. It was Winky.

Mr. Crouch did not move or speak as Mr. Diggory deposited his elf on the ground at his feet. The other Ministry wizards were all staring at Mr. Crouch. For a few seconds Crouch remained transfixed, his eyes blazing in his white face as he stared down at Winky.

Nico raised an eyebrow and glanced at the others in question. Hermione quickly mimed to Nico that Winky was Mr. Crouch’s elf. Nicos lips quirked up for a moment before turning back towards the older witches.

"This—cannot—be," he said jerkily. "No—"

He moved quickly around Mr. Diggory and strode off toward the place where he had found Winky. "No point, Mr. Crouch," Mr. Diggory called after him. "There's no one else there."

But Mr. Crouch did not seem prepared to take his word for it. They could hear him moving around and the rustling of leaves as he pushed the bushes aside, searching.

"Bit embarrassing," Mr. Diggory said grimly, looking down at Winky's unconscious form. "Barty Crouch's house-elf… I mean to say…”

"Come off it, Amos," said Mr. Weasley quietly, "you don't seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark's a wizard's sign. It requires a wand."

"Yeah." said Mr. Diggory, "and she had a wand"

"What?" said Mr. Weasley.

"Here, look." Mr. Diggory held up a wand and showed it to Mr. Weasley. "Had it in her hand. So that's clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken, for a start. No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand.”

“What about the fact that elves can only do things that are commanded by their owner?” Nico asked, ever the devil's advocate.

Everyone turned to him. “Who are you?” Asked Mr. Diggory with a frown.

Nico almost looked offended by the accusation in his tone. Quickly, Ginny said, “he found and quickly brought us into the woods, protecting us from the wizards! He saved Bill when we were making our way here.”

Mr. Weasley looked faint at heart at the mention of another child. But he looked at Nico with a smile. “Why thank Mr…”

“Di Angelo,” Nico said, nodding.

“But why would you go with a complete stranger? And why did you leave the tent at all?” Mr. Weasley said, turning to face his children.

“We met when Professor Phoebus picked me up,” Harry said, feeling a little bit guilty. “He’s one of his personal students.”

Mr. Weasley didn’t look at all relieved. “Mr. Di Angelo, though elves follow their masters commands, they’re still able—“

Just then there was another pop, and Ludo Bagman Apparated right next to Mr. Weasley. Looking breathless and disorientated, he spun on the spot, goggling upward at the emerald-green skull.

"The Dark Mark!" he panted, almost trampling Winky as he turned inquiringly to his colleagues. "Who did it? Did you get them? Barty! What's going on?"

And the five of them all exchanged looks, wondering when the night would end.

-

Mr. Weasley led Harry, Ron, and Hermione through the crowd and back into the campsite. All was quiet now; there was no sign of the masked wizards, though several ruined tents were still smoking. Nico had decided to follow them back—whether because he had no place to go or because he couldn’t find the Professor, Harry didn’t know.

They walked into the campsite—Harry ignoring the burnt pieces of wood everywhere.

Charlie's head was poking out of the boys' tent. "Dad, what's going on?" he called through the dark. "Fred and George got back okay, but the others—“

Ginny sprung forward and crushes Charlie in the hug, both disappearing back into the tent. 

"I've got them here," said Mr. Weasley, bending down and entering the tent. Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered after him—and Nico after Harry convinced him to walk in.

Bill was sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a bedsheet to his arm, which was bleeding profusely, a cloth tied to his head. Charlie had a large rip in his shirt, and Percy was sporting a bloody nose—all looking in a similar state to how they came across them in the first place. Fred and George looked unhurt, though shaken.

"Did you get them, Dad?" said Bill sharply. "The person who conjured the Mark?"

"No," said Mr. Weasley. "We found Barty Crouch's elf holding Harry's wand, but we're none the wiser about who actually conjured the Mark."

"What?" said Bill, Charlie, and Percy together.

"Harry's wand?" said Fred.

"Mr. Crouch's elf?" said Percy, sounding thunderstruck.

With some assistance from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Mr. Weasley explained what had happened in the woods. When they had finished their story, Percy swelled indignantly.

"Well, Mr. Crouch is known for not treating his elves quite well, but, I’m certain he’d never stoop so low and try to teach one of those spells,” Percy said hotly. 

“Wouldn’t have been a problem if no one owned elf’s,” Nico grumbled, making Hermione smile.

Percy gave Nico a once-over, suddenly looking a bit white. “You…” Percy began but trailed off, glancing towards Ron in question.

And, to be far, it did look like the three of them did bring in a stray cat from outside.

“That was the kid who was with them earlier,” Bill suddenly said, looking up. “You controlled those shadows.”

Nico nodded, looking like he might disappear with the way everyone turned to look at him.

“An umbrakinesis wizard,” Percy said, the same thing as Hermione, though he looked less surprised. Perhaps Bill already told him.

Everyone else looked confused. “A what? ” Fred asked.

“Sounds like a disease,” George mumbled.

"Looks like he's got one," Fred commented.

Nico scowled.

“A wizard that can solely control shadows—“ Hermione began.

Nico’s face twitched and started glancing around, the shadows looking ready to burst and take Nico away.  Maybe Harry shouldn’t have persuaded Nico to join them—he was looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

"Look, can someone just explain what that skull thing was?" Harry butted in quickly, feeling a bit guilty.

"It wasn't hurting anyone... Why's it such a big deal?" Ron added.

Nico shot Harry a grateful look.

"I told you, it's You-Know-Who's symbol, Ron," said Hermione, before anyone else could answer. "I read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. "

"And it hasn't been seen for thirteen years, said Mr. Weasley quietly. "Of course people panicked . . . it was almost like seeing You-Know-Who back again."

"I don't get it," said Ron, frowning. "I mean ... it's still only a shape in the sky..."

"Ron, You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed," said Mr. Weasley. "The terror it inspired . . . you have no idea, you're too young. Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and knowing what you're about to find inside. . .” 

Mr. Weasley winced. "Everyone's worst fear . . . the very worst…”

There was silence for a moment. Then Bill, removing the sheet from his arm to check on his cut, said, "Well, it didn't help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw it. They all Disapparated before we'd got near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Roberts before they hit the ground, though. They're having their memories modified right now."

"Death Eaters?" said Harry. "What are Death Eaters?"

"It's what You-Know-Who's supporters called themselves," said Bill. "I think we saw what's left of them tonight—the ones who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban, anyway."

It brought Harry no comfort.

Chapter Text

There was a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the air when Harry awoke a week later, the wizarding world spinning with the news of what happened in the Triwizard tournament. Heavy rain was still splattering against the window as he got dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt; they would change into their school robes on the Hogwarts Express.  He, Ron, Fred, and George had just reached the first-floor landing on their way down to breakfast, when Mrs. Weasley appeared at the foot of the stairs, looking harassed. “Arthur!” she called up the staircase. “Arthur! Urgent message from the Ministry!” Harry flattened himself against the wall as Mr. Weasley came clattering past with his robes on back-to-front and hurtled out of sight.

When Harry and the others entered the kitchen, they saw Mrs. Weasley rummaging anxiously in the drawers— “I’ve got a quill here somewhere!” —and Mr. Weasley bending over the fire, talking to—Harry shut his eyes hard and opened them again to make sure that they were working properly. Amos Diggory’s head was sitting in the middle of the flames like a large, bearded egg. It was talking very fast, completely unperturbed by the sparks flying around it and the flames licking its ears.

Harry and Ron disappeared further into the room, Mr. Diggory’s and Mr. Weasley’s voice trailing off. “What did Nico tell you before we left?” Ron asked as they made their way to the dining room, hobbling a little bit. Ron's ankle was twisted in the forest—and it hadn't healed properly yet.

As they were being rushed out of the tent by Mr. Weasley the next morning, Nico had stopped him midway to talk to him. Professor Phoebus had appeared right after to pull him away, looking completely unaffected by the night before. It was almost impressive.

“He told me if I needed help with anything or was in trouble—to ask the shadows to help,” Harry said, not really remembering the exact thing Nico told him.

“I would have told you that it was rubbish if it wasn’t for the fact that he summoned shadow hands,” Ron said.

Behind them, the boys heard Mr. Weasley talking.

“All right, I’m off,” Mr. Weasley said, and he stuffed the parchment with his notes on it into his pocket and dashed out of the kitchen again. Mr. Diggory’s head looked around at Mrs. Weasley.

Harry turned back in front of him, remembering the way Mr. Weasley—along with the rest of the family once they heard how he helped the younger Weasleys—asked Nico if he had somewhere to stay. Nico looked like he was lying when he said that he did. Harry thought Nico had to since he was Professor Phoebus’s student—he had to stay somewhere.

Harry could hear Mr. Weasley calling hurried good-byes to Bill, Charlie, Percy, and the girls. Within five minutes, he was back in the kitchen, his robes on the right way now, dragging a comb through his hair. “I’d better hurry—you have a good term, boys,” said Mr. Weasley to Harry, Ron, and the twins, fastening a cloak over his shoulders and preparing to Disapparate. “Molly, are you going to be all right taking the kids to King’s Cross?"

 ill and Charlie decided to come and see everyone off at King’s Cross station, but Percy, apologizing most profusely, said that he really needed to get to work. “I just can’t justify taking more time off at the moment,” he told them. “Mr. Crouch is really starting to put pressure onto everything.”

“Yeah, you know what, Percy?” said George seriously. “I reckon he’ll know your name soon.”

Percy flushed, but unlike the week before when he got angry, he looked embarrassed now. Harry’s brows raised—but Mrs. Weasley quickly came to the rescue and had everyone bustling out of the kitchen, telling them to get prepared.

-

The thick rain splattering the windows of the train, which made it very difficult to see out of them. Ron undid his trunk, pulled out his maroon dress robes, and flung them over Pigwidgeon’s cage to muffle his hooting. “Bagman wanted to tell us what’s happening at Hogwarts,” he said grumpily, sitting down next to Harry. “At the World Cup, remember? But my own mother won’t say. Wonder what —”

“Oh, Professor Phoebus mentioned a tournament,” Harry said, springing up.

“A tournament?” Hermione demanded.

“Yes, you reckon that's why everyone's so fired up?” Ron asked.

“You can’t know for sure --” Hermione began.

“Nico, the student we met, knows. We could ask him,” Harry said.

Ron and Hermione both looked at him.

“What?” Harry said.

“He said to contact us only if it's important or we’re in trouble!” Hermione hissed.

“I don’t think he would mind,” said Ron. “He didn’t look too occupied—”

“Shh!” Hermione whispered suddenly, pressing her finger to her lips and pointing toward the compartment next to theirs. Harry and Ron listened, and heard a familiar drawling voice drifting in through the open door.

 “. . . Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore—Father says Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students actually learn them, not just the defense rubbish we do. . . .” Hermione got up, tiptoed to the compartment door, and slid it shut, blocking out Malfoy’s voice. 

“So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he?” she said angrily. “I wish he had gone, then we wouldn’t have to put up with him.”

“Durmstrang’s another wizarding school?” said Harry. 

 “Yes,” said Hermione sniffily, “and it’s got a horrible reputation. According to An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, it puts a lot of emphasis on the Dark Arts.”

“I think I’ve heard of it,” said Ron vaguely. “Where is it? What country?”

“Well, nobody knows, do they?” said Hermione, raising her eyebrows. “Er—why not?” said Harry. “There’s traditionally been a lot of rivalry between all the magic schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons like to conceal their whereabouts so nobody can steal their secrets,” said Hermione matter-offactly.

“Except for America and whatever's going on there,” Harry said, thinking back to Nico and the Professor. Both of them had to be from Ilvermoney—though, would Nico be able to go? People that have Nico’s power can only use those specific abilities—to Harry’s understanding. 

“What about Nico?” Harry asked and they turned to look at him in confusion. Flushing, Harry powered forward. “I mean, like, Nico can’t do normal magic, right? So—”

“I’m pretty sure they’re privately taught,” Hermione said. 

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling a bit foolish.

-

The lunch trolley came rattling along the corridor, and Harry bought a large stack of Cauldron Cakes for them to share. Several of their friends looked in on them as the afternoon progressed, including Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom. After half an hour or so, Hermione, growing tired of the endless Quidditch talk, buried herself once more in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and started trying to learn a Summoning Charm. Neville listened jealously to the others’ conversation as they relived the Cup match. “Gran didn’t want to go,” he said miserably. “Wouldn’t buy tickets. It sounded amazing though.” 

“It was,” said Ron.

“I don’t think so, especially with all the chaos that happened afterward,” Hermione said.

There’s an awkward silence between the group for a moment.

 “Look at this, Neville. . . .” Ron intervened, rummaging in his trunk up in the luggage rack and pulled out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum. “Oh wow,” said Neville enviously as Ron tipped Krum onto his pudgy hand.

“We saw him right up close, as well,” said Ron. “We were in the Top Box —”

“For the first and last time in your life, Weasley.” Draco Malfoy had appeared in the doorway. Behind him stood Crabbe and Goyle, his enormous, thuggish cronies, both of whom appeared to have grown at least a foot during the summer. Evidently they had overheard the conversation through the compartment door, which Dean and Seamus had left ajar.

“Don’t remember asking you to join us, Malfoy,” said Harry coolly. 

“Weasley . . . what is that?” said Malfoy, pointing at the bandage around the boy's leg. Ron quickly pulled the folds of his pants down, but Malfoy was too quick for him.

“Look at this!” said Malfoy, sounding almost genuinely concerned. “Your family can’t afford a healer for a sprang ankle Weasley? I mean… I always thought it was pretty cheap to hire a private one.”

 “Eat dung, Malfoy!” said Ron, his face a blotchy red. 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “So . . . going to enter, Weasley? Going to try and bring a bit of glory to the family name? There’s money involved as well, you know . . . you’d be able to afford some decent robes if you won. . . .”

“What are you talking about?” snapped Ron.

“Are you going to enter?” Malfoy repeated. “I suppose you will, Potter? You never miss a chance to show off, do you?”

“Either explain what you’re on about or go away, Malfoy,” said Hermione testily. 

A gleeful smile spread across Malfoy’s pale face. “Don’t tell me you don’t know?” he said delightedly. “You’ve got a father and brother at the Ministry and you don’t even know? My God, my father told me about it ages ago . . . heard it from Cornelius Fudge. But then, Father’s always associated with the top people at the Ministry. . . . Maybe your father’s too junior to know about it, Weasley . . . yes . . . they probably don’t talk about important stuff in front of him. . . .”

“Unless you’re unaware,” said a new voice - someone Harry didn’t think would be on the train in the first place, “Weasley’s father is a department head in the ministry, something you can’t speak on.”

Everyone’s head snapped behind Draco, who had spun on his heel to meet this new person. And Harry almost laughed at the fleeting surprise that crossed his face.

“You’re that Umbrakinesis wizard,” Draco said, recognition appearing into his eyes.

How Draco found out, Harry didn’t know. Maybe one of his death eater buddies told him. Nico, the kid still dressed in the muggle clothes Harry first met him with, nodded. “Yes. And I also strictly remember the news being kept secret under an NDA…which your father happened to forget about. I’d better start walking out before you get your father in trouble, since we’re also on the topic of family issues.”

And for a moment, Harry thought Nico was the coolest person ever.

Draco flushedm but he must’ve recognized the threat for what it was because he stormed out, beckoning Crabbe and Goyle to follow them out. Nico stood there for a moment before closing the sliding door shut behind them. 

“What a bunch of classist idiots,” Nico grumbled, glancing around the room. “I’m surprised he’s not racist too, after meeting his father…”

“You - I thought you said you weren’t a Hogwarts student,” Hermione finally said, as if failing to contain herself.

“I’m not.”

“Then what are you doing on the train?”

“The shadows told me that you had mentioned me-”

Hermione and Ron both shot Harry a look, who shrunk under their gaze.

“Well, anyway, thank you,” Hermione said, calming down a bit. 

Nico’s eyes flicker for a moment before nodding again. “Did you need me?”

“...No. We were, er, trying to figure out what the tournament was about,” Harry said, feeling quite awkward now.

Harry couldn’t read Nico’s emotions, but he didn’t seem annoyed at them. “But thanks for getting Draco to leave,” Harry said.

Nico’s face twitched for a moment before glancing towards the window. “I’m off. A-Phoebus doesn’t want me involved with this year's tournament anyway.”

_

As it turned out, Nico ended up staying with them. He had gone to stand up when the train came to a stop but had abruptly stopped, saying something about “feeling off.” Usually, Harry would brush it off, but he knew the feeling. He wonders if Nico got the same watching, observing, judging, feeling as he did.

They found their way into the Great Hall, where Nico scowled as they got to their seats—glaring at the ghosts floating around.

“How are you allowed in the school grounds if you’re not a student?” Harry asked as they got their seats. A couple of the Gryffindor ghosts gave the group a double take and seemed to pale—if ghosts were capable of that.

“Student to Professor Phoebus,” said Nico, sliding into the seat between Ginny and Hermione.

“He’s allowed in—students who have a specific ability, like Nico, are usually assigned a Professor that’ll teach them since they’re not able to learn other forms of magic,” Hermione says, looking quite proud of herself. 

“Do you think you’ll be sorted?” Harry asked, glancing towards Nico.

Nico shook his head, looking quite ill at the idea of walking in between a large group of people. “No, I’m not an official student.”

“Well, at least this year we’ll actually be able to see people being sorted this time,” Ron grumbled.

Hermione glared over at him. “And who’s fault is that—“

Just then, a highly excited, breathless voice called down the table. "Hiya, Harry!"

It was Colin Creevey, a third year student to whom Harry was something of a hero.

"Hi, Colin," said Harry warily.

Nico, who had been looking at some of the ghosts, turned to side-eye the kid. If looks could kill, even Harry would be dead right now.

"Harry, guess what? Guess what, Harry? My brother's starting! My brother Dennis!"

"Er—good," said Harry.

"He's really excited!" said Colin, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. "I just hope he's in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Harry?"

"Er—yeah, all right," said Harry. 

Harry looked up at the staff table. There seemed to be rather more empty seats there than usual. Hagrid, of course, was still fighting his way across the lake with the first years; Professor McGonagall was presumably supervising the drying of the entrance hall floor, Professor Phoebus was sitting with his feet back against the edge of the table and looked half alseep—but there was another empty chair too, and Harry couldn't think who else was missing.

"Where's the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" said Hermione, who was also looking up at the teachers. He looked up and down the staff table. There was definitely no new face there.

The Great Hall fell silent. Nico looked up from where Ginny was showing him a light trick—his eyes flashing to the doors.

Professor McGonagall was leading a long line of first years up to the top of the Hall. Professor McGonagall placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty, patched wizard's hat. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song:

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nico grumbled.

_

For someone who complained about a singing hat, Nico had managed to sit through the entire song. There was a small grimace on the edge of his mouth, but otherwise, he looked fine. Though, his frown deepened when Professor McGonagall unrolled a large scroll of parchment.

“Is this like a claiming session or something?” Nico asked, more to himself.

“What?” Hermione asked, turning towards him. Nico pulled a face and looked away, causing Hermione to shoot a confused look at Harry. He just shrugged.

“When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool,” she told the first years. “When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.”

“The future of your life depends on a school hat?” Nico asked skeptically.

“Ackerley, Stewart!”

A boy walked forward, visibly trembling from head to foot, picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on, and sat down on the stool. “What -” Nico began.

“RAVENCLAW!” shouted the hat.

Stewart Ackerley took off the hat and hurried into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was applauding him

“What house do you reckon you’d be in?” Ron asked, drowning out the sound of the sorting hat. Nico’s gaze lingered on the hat for a moment later before his gaze returned to Ron.

“None,” Nico said.

Ron opened his mouth, “that isn’t a bloody an-”

“Creevey, Dennis!”

Ron jumped, nearly slamming into Hermione.

The Sorting continued; boys and girls with varying degrees of fright on their faces moving one by one to the three-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as Professor McGonagall passed the L’s. “Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, massaging his stomach.

“Now, Ron, the Sorting’s much more important than food,” said Nearly Headless Nick as “Madley, Laura!” became a Hufflepuff.

“ ’Course it is, if you’re dead,” snapped Ron.

Nico looked up at the exact moment Ron said that and made eye contact with the Nearly Headless Nick. No one else seemed to notice the exchange that transpired between them (Nico raising an eyebrow at the ghost, while the other slowly bowed his head recognition. Nico jerked his head to the side as if to say, you me, later, in the hall. The ghost bowed his head and continued on like nothing happened).

“I do hope this year’s batch of Gryffindors are up to scratch,” said Nearly Headless Nick, paler than a ghost ought to be, applauded as “McDonald, Natalie!” joined the Gryffindor table. “We don’t want to break our winning streak, do we?”

And finally, with “Whitby, Kevin!” (“HUFFLEPUFF!”), the Sorting ended. Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and the stool and carried them away. “About time,” said Ron.

And food appeared in front of them.

-

Harry didn’t think anything of the whispers going around until Dumbledore began to speak. After Moody’s sudden appearance, which caused quite a stir. He had come and sat beside Professor Phoebus, who still hadn’t moved from his half-asleep looking spot. Nico didn’t even blink at the Professor’s appearance, claiming that ‘his shadows’ had sensed them earlier. Hermione didn’t look slightly convinced but Dumbledore was moving onto the next conversation - rather, the previous conversation, seeing as though Moody had interrupted the Professor.

“As I was saying,” he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, “we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

And Harry took a glance towards Nico, who didn’t even slightly look surprised at the revelation. Instead, he was sharing a glance at Professor Phoebus up at the Professor’s table. Why were the Hogwarts students the last to know about this? Harry felt a prickle of something up his spine. He couldn’t place it.

“You’re JOKING!” said Fred Weasley loudly.

The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody’s arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively. “I am not joking, Mr. Weasley,” he said, “though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar . . .”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

“Er—but maybe this is not the time . . . no . . .” said Dumbledore, “where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament . . . well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.”

He continued on to introduce the Tri-Wizard tournament and by the end of it, Harry was sure he was dreaming.

“The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

“I’m going for it!” Fred Weasley hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, Harry could see people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbors. 

“I doubt it,” Nico said, twirling a finger through his shadows.

“What does that mean?” Hermione demanded.

Nico looked ready to reply but then Dumbledore spoke again - and explained it perfectly, much to George and Fred’s horror.

“You’d think I get pass, y’know?” George grumbled. “After all, I was possessed by a diary for a year.”

 Their conversation faded off as Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody and Professor Phoebus, who had suddenly appeared closer to their table. There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance hall. Harry expected Nico to leave at that point, but he had merely joined the trio.

“They can’t do that!” said George Weasley, who had not joined the crowd moving toward the door, but was standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. “We’re seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?”

“They’re not stopping me from entering,” said Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. “The champions’ll get to do all sorts of stuff you’d never be allowed to do normally. And thousand Galleons prize money!”

“Yeah,” said Ron, a faraway look on his face. “Yeah, a thousand Galleons . . .”

“Come on,” said Hermione, “we’ll be the only ones left here if you don’t move.”

“You wouldn’t be talking if you’d seen death before,” Nico muttered, earning the shared glances of Fred and George.

“Death, mate?” Fred grinned. “You’re sounding like you’re going through a certain phase.”

“Ah, yes, the classic ‘I’ve-seen-death-so-now-I’m-mysteriously-brooding-and-edgy,’ phase,” George chimed in, shaking his head in mock sorrow.

Nico raised an eyebrow, looking entirely unamused. “I don’t have a ‘brooding’ phase.”

“Poor sod, as soon as he found out he could control shadows, he realized it’d be his whole personality,” George said sadly, with a melodramatic sigh.

Fred nudged Nico playfully. “Cheer up, mate. Maybe you’ll get a sponsorship deal with ‘Shadows R Us’ someday. George here got a partnership with a possessive diary a couple of years ago.”

Harry was left wondering how the twins got away with slandering Nico like that.

-

The first day of classes at Hogwarts started with one of the Slytherin boys turning into a ferret—which had been a bit amusing to Harry. In turn though, Nico had disappeared from the castle like he was never there in the first place. The next day was uneventful—he was only looking forward to two classes; Moody’s Defense Against the Dark Arts (which the Weasley twins had hyped up to Harry and his friends). And, much to Harry’s displeasure (and he wouldn’t ever admit it to the Professor in his face) was Astronomy—and Healing. Healing was on Thursday, after Defense Against the Dark Arts while Astronomy was on Wednesday—today—at night in the Astronomy tower.  

That night, Harry, Hermione and Ron climbed the Astronomy tower, where other students were waiting. The tower glittered with the night sky through the open windows. Just as Harry felt his eyelids beginning to drop, the door opened from the next set of stairs and a soft hum of a lyre followed.

The students all raced through the door, eager to find spots to sit with their friends. Harry found his spot beside Ron and Hermione, near the back of the class like usual. The Professor sat at the edge of the desk, reading a book with one hand and sipping coffee from the other. He was wearing a tight fitted long-sleeved white shirt under a black formal vest and black pants. His curly blonde hair rested on his shoulders. 

A couple of girls behind Harry giggled to one another—and Hermione rolled her eyes as Ron glanced towards the balconies mournfully, as if calculating how long it’d take to jump the balcony to escape.

An alarm chimed somewhere in the room and Professor Phoebus closed his book, the sound echoing through the room. The students quietened down—Harry turned a bit to see Hermione with her parchment open and quill ready. 

“I assume everyone is here for my class—I don’t know who would try and miss it—” He placed his coffee on the desk and leaned forward, uncrossing his ankles. “—Welcome back everyone. Hope you all have a lovely summer.”  The Professor said it in a way that said: I know it was chaos. I know most of you were running away from death eaters a week earlier.

He clasped his hands and said, “Now, I hope everyone went home last summer and studied all of Jupiter’s moons and their backgrounds, yes?”

Silence.

“Pity,” Professor Phoebus said dryly. “Good thing we’re moving on from planets.”

A collective breath of relief echoed through the tower, causing Phoebus to let out an offended, “I’ll ignore that! I taught that with my heart!”

“What heart?” Ron grumbled under his breath, hand still looking through his book bag for his quill.

Hermione kicked his leg.

“Now,” the Professor leaned back onto his desk. “What do you know about Constellations from two years ago—” 

Hands raised.

The Professor continued, undeterred, “—don’t say ‘they’re the stars in the sky’ or I’ll hit you.” 

Hands went down.

Hermione raised a tentative hand and Phoebus nodded towards her. “Sailors used to use it to navigate, and now we use it to find other stars in the sky,” Hermione said confidently.

“Correct,” the Professor said, taking another sip from his coffee. “And much like planets, we use constellations—as wizards and witches—to increase our magical abilities and prophetic visions.”

The Professor paused. 

“The constellations are based on stories and the most common come from the Greeks. The stories talk of different tragedies and how it happened. From here, wizards and witches can deduce what could happen in the future. This also co-exists with the help of potion making and ritual casting, which I will go over later this year,” Phoebus said.

The class all nodded. Then, the Professor grinned and said, “but first, we have to remember what he did from second year—horrifying, I know. And, yes, all of you will hate me and wake up in the morning cursing me out but— “The Professor snapped his fingers and a horoscope chart appeared on the blackboard behind him, the parchment twice the size of the Professor.

It gave Harry nightmares from second year.

Phoebus looked behind him and said, “you will be making a horoscope chart—stop groaning!—and it’s due next class, which is Friday. I hope all you know how to do arts and crafts, or this will be a steep learning curve for all of you since you’re doing a full representation this time! I want to see what you guys remember.”

And Harry groaned into the table below him.

-

The next couple of weeks passed by—and Harry, Ron and Hermione were all piled high in work. And Harry didn’t have quidditch to play to pass the time. On the other hand, their lessons were becoming more difficult and demanding than ever before, particularly Moody’s Defense Against the Dark Arts. To their surprise, Professor Moody had announced that he would be putting the Imperius Curse on each of them in turn, to demonstrate its power and to see whether they could resist its effects.

“But—but you said it’s illegal, Professor,” said Hermione uncertainly as Moody cleared away the desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving a large clear space in the middle of the room. “You said—to se it against another human was —”

“Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like,” said Moody, his magical eye swiveling onto Hermione and fixing her with an eerie, unblinking stare. “If you’d rather learn the hard way—when someone’s putting it on you so they can control you completely—fine by me. You’re excused. Off you go.”

He pointed one gnarled finger toward the door. Hermione went very pink and muttered something about not meaning that she wanted to leave. Moody began to beckon students forward in turn and put the Imperius Curse upon them. Harry watched as, one by one, his classmates did the most extraordinary things under its influence. And, when Harry managed to free himself of the spell, Moody had congratulated him. 

“The way he talks,” Harry muttered as he hobbled out of the Defense Against the Dark Arts class an hour later, “you’d think we were all going to be attacked any second.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Ron, who was skipping on every alternate step. He had had much more difficulty with the curse than Harry, though Moody assured him the effects would wear off by lunchtime. “Talk about paranoid . . .” 

“Do you think there’d be lasting effects though?” Harry asked and they ascended the Astronomy Tower for Healing. Professor Phoebus had left behind the second floor classroom, saying his knees ached from walking all the way up and down.

“Mate, if there are lasting effects, you have a healing class in a minute. You’ll just ask Professor Phoebus to heal you.”

Harry stared dubiously at the staircase above him. “Yes, but there’s a difference between mind and body right?”

Ron shrugged and said, “I don’t see why it would be different.”

They walked into the class as the bell rang—and took their seats at the far corner, where Hermione was waiting for him. She looked ready to badger him with questions, cheeks flushed, but Professor Phoebus slammed his hand on the desk, startling everyone into attention. She shot one last glance towards Harry before turning in her chair towards their Professor.

“With the way things are going,” Professor Phoebus drawled as the class quietened down, “the future healers of Wizarding Society won’t be able to tell the difference between an arm and a brain.” His eyes scanned the crowd and said, “Usually I assume either that A) People would know basic anatomy before choosing a healing class or B) That I’m so good at teaching that students would pick up on it naturally. Obviously, some of us are lacking the brain cells to process this. And, because I’m so benevolent, the assignment that was due yesterday will be on hold until Tomorrow night.”

An uprising of students like Hermione could be heard but the Professor waved his hand. “Those who handed their assignments in on time will move onto the next subject—and get to keep the healing potion that they made.”

The hands went down—and Hermione looked quite pleased with herself.

Professor Phoebus’s voice broke through the crowd. “Those who have not passed will take the full hour and twenty minutes to look through your textbooks and label the skeletal and muscular system in the body. Those who have moved on will learn how to make a magical herb to heal bones.” 

And—much to Harry’s dismay—Professor Phoebus began doing rounds around the classroom in order to make sure none of the students who were moving on were helping those who didn’t. Some of the students were looking ready to forgive Harry for the tournament mishap if he was willing to share notes.

The first time the Professor passed them, Harry remembered his conversation with Ron. Making sure the room volume was loud enough to cover his conversation, Harry raised his hand and the Professor turned towards his direction.

“I hope this about the assignment,” the Professor said. 

“Er,” Harry began.

“Of course it isn’t,” the Professor muttered with a wave of his hands and walked towards him.

“It’s about mind magic, actually,” Harry said.

“Crazy, considering that we’re studying the body,” Phoebus observed.

Harry ignored him. 

“Can you do it?” Harry asked.

“Hm, it depends on the type,” the Professor said, though he looked more interested now. He brought his coffee—which Harry hadn’t even noticed—up to his lips.

“Er, healing, I guess?”

Hermione looked over from a couple tables down and said, quite hotly, “We took a DADA class with Moody and he used the Imperius curse on his students.”

Phoebus choked and quickly covered his arm and turned around, coughing. 

He placed his coffee down on their table and took a moment to recover. “Of course you did, why wouldn’t you? Gods…” The Professor muttered off. Harry can faintly hear, “and wizards are supposed to be less inclined to death?”

Phoebus flashed a hand outward and a potion appeared from his hand. “Drink this—And because I am a person that doesn’t snitch, I will not be alerting the Headmaster about this, least of all the Auror department. I can already imagine the headache,” the Professor grumbled.

Harry took the potion and glanced at the bubbly liquid inside of it nervously. “Er, what's in it?” Harry asked nervously.

“What? Afraid I asked Snape to take some samples from your cauldron?” The Professor said with a raised brow.

Harry scowled and took a drink, feeling the liquid pool into his stomach. When Harry looked up, he could see a darkness in the Professor’s eyes.

“Professor?” Harry asked nervously.

“Harry,” Phoebus began, oddly quiet. “If you ever think you need to learn legitimacy, come to me, will you?”

“Okay…? Thank you, I guess?” Harry said.

Phoebus nodded slightly before getting to his feet, walking away, leaving Harry confused at his desk. What was wrong with the Professor?

-

With the arrival of the other schools, Harry was beginning to wonder where Nico had disappeared to. He hadn’t seen the gloomy looking boy since early September when Hogwarts started. Harry was never tempted to ask Professor Phoebus about him, imagining the Professor finding it endearing that Harry’s worried.

The Beauxbatons sat on the Ravenclaw, looking like they’d be anywhere else, while the Durmstrang students sat at the Slytherin table, much to Ron’s vocal displeasure.

 “At this point,” Ron grumbled as everyone took their seats, “that American kid is going to show up with the Hufflepuff table.”

“Do you want me to?” A voice asked behind them - and Ron jumped high into the air, knocking Hermione’s glass of water onto her robes. Fred and George exploded into laughter as Ron’s face went blotchy red. Harry grinned as Ron let out a profanity of curses that would’ve made Mrs. Weasley see red.

“Blimey hell—” Ron began as Nico snuck into the seat between Harry and Neville—who looked just as surprised to see Nico there.

“Nico,” Nico said, acting oblivious as George and Fred snickered.

“I knew that,” Ron said hotly while Hermione rolled her eyes, her drink disappearing from the table. “I just, er,” Ron frowned.

“I’d give up now,” Hermione said.

Ron began arguing but Harry turned his attention outwards—nodding hello to Nico—towards the front of the room. Up at the staff table, Filch, the caretaker, was adding chairs. He was wearing his moldy old tailcoat in honor of the occasion. Harry was surprised to see that he added four chairs, two on either side of Dumbledore’s.

“But there are only two extra people,” Harry said. “Why’s Filch putting out four chairs, who else is coming?”

“Eh?” said Ron vaguely. He was still arguing with Hermione while occasionally glancing over at Krum.

When all the students had entered the Hall and settled down at their House tables, the staff entered, filing up to the top table and taking their seats. Last in line were Professor Dumbledore, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. When their headmistress appeared, the pupils from Beauxbatons leapt to their feet. A few of the Hogwarts students laughed. The Beauxbatons party appeared quite unembarrassed, however, and did not resume their seats until Madame Maxime had sat down on Dumbledore’s left-hand side. Dumbledore remained standing, and a silence fell over the Great Hall.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and—most particularly—guests,” said Dumbledore, beaming around at the foreign students. “I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable.”

“The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast,” said Dumbledore. “I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!” He sat down, and Harry saw Karkaroff lean forward at once and engage him in conversation.

Beside him, Nico glanced up at the staff table and made eye contact with Professor Phoebus. Before Harry could even get a word in, Nico disappeared into the shadows and reappeared beside the Professor.

Harry blinked and slid his gaze towards the High table, where none of the Professor’s seemed to realize Nico was there. Harry glanced back, realizing that no one else seemed to realize Nico wasn’t at the table anymore. Did no one else…? Harry thought, narrowing his gaze back to Professor Phoebus and Nico, the latter whispering into Phoebus’s ear, who looked annoyed.

At that moment, a voice said, “Excuse me, are you wanting the bouillabaisse?” It was the girl from Beauxbatons who had laughed during Dumbledore’s speech. She had finally removed her muffler. A long sheet of silvery-blonde hair fell almost to her waist. She had large, deep blue eyes, and very white, even teeth.

Ron went purple. He stared up at her, opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out except a faint gurgling noise. “Yeah, have it,” said Harry, pushing the dish toward the girl.

“You ’ave finished with it?”

“Yeah,” Ron said breathlessly. “Yeah, it was excellent.”

The girl picked up the dish and carried it carefully off to the Ravenclaw table. Ron was still goggling at the girl as though he had never seen one before. At that moment, Nico reappeared at their table and seamlessly slid in between Neville and Harry again, like he was always there. He took one glance at Ron, then to the girl, and said, “What’s wrong with him?”

Harry started to laugh.

The sound seemed to jog Ron back to his senses. “She’s a veela!” He said hoarsely to Harry.

“Of course she isn’t!” said Hermione tartly. “I don’t see anyone else gaping at her like an idiot!”

But she wasn’t entirely right about that. As the girl crossed the Hall, many boys’ heads turned, and some of them seemed to have become temporarily speechless, just like Ron.

“I’m telling you, that’s not a normal girl!” said Ron, leaning sideways so he could keep a clear view of her. “They don’t make them like that at Hogwarts!”

“Do pureblood wizards have a proper education? Or does A-Phoebus have to teach you about puberty too?” Nico drawled, taking a sip from his water.

Harry hid his smile behind his sleeve as Hermione said, “Thank you! Now—” but Ron was still staring at the woman in front of him. Nico rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat.

“You came back at the wrong time,” Harry said, taking a bite out of his mashed potatoes. Nico blinked and said, “What do you mean?”

Harry looked at Nico oddly. “When you left to talk with Professor Phoebus,” Harry said, eyebrows raising. He even mimed Nico walking towards Professor Phoebus.

Nico stared at Harry for a moment longer, something like surprise flickering in his gaze before turning away, muttering to himself. 

“When you’ve all come back to focus,” said Hermione briskly, “you’ll be able to see who’s just arrived.” She was pointing up at the staff table. The three remaining empty seats had just been filled. Ludo Bagman was now sitting on Professor Karkaroff’s other side, while Mr. Crouch, Percy’s boss, was next to Madame Maxime and beside him was none other than Percy himself.

“What are they doing here?” said Harry in surprise.

“They organized the Triwizard Tournament, didn’t they?” said Hermione. “I suppose they wanted to be here to see it start. I no doubt believe Percy is here because he’s Crouch’s assistant.”

Ron didn’t even look up at the mention of his brother’s name, instead he examined an odd sort of pale blancmange closely, then moved it carefully a few inches to his right, so that it would be clearly visible from the Ravenclaw table. They had just gotten the dessert and he was already trying to find a way to make the girl come back.

“You reckon he’s blind?” Harry asked.

Nico hummed in response, looking more anxious than normal. Harry noticed he hadn’t touched any of his food.

Once the golden plates had been wiped clean, Dumbledore stood up again. A pleasant sort of tension seemed to fill the Hall now. Harry felt a slight thrill of excitement, wondering what was coming. Several seats down from them, Fred and George were leaning forward, staring at Dumbledore with great concentration. Ron finally seemed to realize his brother had joined them.

“Hey, why is Percy—“ Ron began, earning an elbow from Hermione.

“Honestly Ron, have you gone deaf?” Hermione asked.

Ron looked offended as if Hermione hadn’t mentioned it ten minutes earlier.  “The moment has come,” said Dumbledore, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start." He went onto, explaining the tournament, while Filch brought out the casket.

“As you know, three champions compete in the tournament,” Dumbledore went on calmly, “one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire.”

Dumbledore now took out his wand and tapped three times upon the top of the casket. The lid creaked slowly open. Dumbledore reached inside it and pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames.

Dumbledore closed the casket and placed the goblet carefully on top of it, where it would be clearly visible to everyone in the Hall. Beside Harry, he could hear Nico inhale sharply as he looked at the object.

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet,” said Dumbledore. “Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.”

“To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation,” said Dumbledore, “I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line.”

“Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

“This is not good,” Nico said.

“Why?” Harry asked.

Nico hesitated and glanced back at Phoebus, who looked distracted as well. “...My shadows can sense when something unpleasant will happen, specifically if it includes, er, death or near death incidents.”

Harry waited for Nico to say something else but the boy didn’t elaborate. “Wait,” Harry began but Fred and George and half of the Gryffindor table were sweeping them away towards the entrance hall.

“An Age Line!” Fred Weasley said, his eyes glinting. “Well, that should be fooled by an Aging Potion, shouldn’t it? And once your name’s in that goblet, you’re laughing—it can’t tell whether you’re seventeen or not!”

“But I don’t think anyone under seventeen will stand a chance,” said Hermione, “we just haven’t learned enough . . .”

“Speak for yourself,” said George shortly. “You’ll try and get in, won’t you, Harry?”

Harry thought briefly of Dumbledore’s insistence that nobody under seventeen should submit their name, but then the wonderful picture of himself winning the Triwizard Tournament filled his mind again. . .  He wondered how angry Dumbledore would be if someone younger than seventeen did find a way to get over the Age Line. . . . 

And then, he glanced at Nico, who was giving the twins a glance that would’ve made Harry freeze up. If Nico was sincere, and Harry’s life could actually be on the line… Harry glanced back at Nico and realized that the shadows around him were dancing. They were agitated as Nico had said. The two made eye contact and Nico shook his head as if able to Harry’s thoughts.

Harry understood what Nico meant though.

-

As the next day was Saturday, most students would normally have breakfast late. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, were not alone in rising much earlier than they usually did on weekends. When they went down into the entrance hall, they saw about twenty people milling around it, some of them eating toast, all examining the Goblet of Fire. It had been placed in the center of the hall on the stool that normally bore the Sorting Hat. A thin golden line had been traced on the floor, forming a circle ten feet around it in every direction.

“Anyone put their name in yet?” Ron asked a third-year girl eagerly.

“All the Durmstrang lot,” she replied. “But I haven’t seen anyone from Hogwarts yet.”

“Bet some of them put it in last night after we’d all gone to bed,” said Harry. “I would’ve if it had been me . . . wouldn’t have wanted everyone watching. What if the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Nico began, appearing beside the group again. Once again, Ron startled, body going high in the air. “What is your problem?” Ron demanded.

Nico ignored him.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

Nico shrugged. “If your name got pulled and someone overheard you saying that, they’d think you’d actually put your name in the goblet of fire,” Nico said.

“I didn’t though,” Harry argued. 

Nico raised an eyebrow at Harry. “I know, I was there watching. The only people that passed through were teachers,” Nico said.

“Professors,” Hermione corrected.

“Yes, that,” Nico said absently.

Someone laughed behind Harry. Turning, he saw Fred, George, and Lee Jordan hurrying down the staircase, all three of them looking extremely excited.

“Done it,” Fred said in a triumphant whisper to Harry, Ron, Hermione and Nico. “Just taken it.”

“What?” said Ron.

“The Aging Potion, dung brains,” said Fred.

“One drop each,” said George, rubbing his hands together with glee. “We only need to be a few months older.”

“We’re going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins,” said Lee, grinning broadly.

“I’m not sure this is going to work, you know,” said Hermione warningly “I’m sure Dumbledore will have thought of this.”

Fred, George, and Lee ignored her.

Nico asked skeptically, “Couldn’t you just ask someone older to put your name in the goblet?”

Fred and George looked at Nico for a long moment, who looked ready to squirm under their gleeful looks.

“Great idea mate! And here we thought you wouldn’t want us to try!” George said.

“Hm, a great plan B. Say, do you think we should ask them?” Fred asked Lee Jordan, glancing towards some upper classmen.

Nico held his tongue, looking disgusted at the fact that he somehow managed to help the twins. 

“If anyone asks, we’ll tell them it was your idea,” Lee Jordan agreed, slapping Nico on the back.

Nico didn’t look the least bit pleased about it.

“Ready?” Fred said to the other two, quivering with excitement. “C’mon, then—I’ll go first—”

Harry watched, fascinated, as Fred pulled a slip of parchment out of his pocket bearing the words Fred Weasley—Hogwarts. Fred walked right up to the edge of the line and stood there, rocking on his toes like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. Then, with the eyes of every person in the entrance hall upon him, he took a great breath and stepped over the line.

“Idiots,” Nico grumbled.

For a split second Harry thought it had worked—George certainly thought so, for he let out a yell of triumph and leapt after Fred—but next moment, there was a loud sizzling sound, and both twins were hurled out of the golden circle as though they had been thrown by an invisible shot-putter. They landed painfully, ten feet away on the cold stone floor, and to add insult to injury, there was a loud popping noise, and both of them sprouted identical long white beards.

The entrance hall rang with laughter. Even Fred and George joined in, once they had gotten to their feet and taken a good look at each other’s beards.

“I did warn you,” said a deep, amused voice, and everyone turned to see Professor Dumbledore coming out of the Great Hall. He surveyed Fred and George, his eyes twinkling. “I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Summers, of Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours.”

Fred and George set off for the hospital wing, accompanied by Lee, who was howling with laughter. They brushed past a couple of older Gryffindors walking by. One asked something and the others leaned in and whispered—but Harry turned away, too busy laughing with the others. Even Nico looked slightly amused. Together, the group disappeared towards breakfast as the group of Gryffindor boys placed their names into the fire. 

The decorations in the Great Hall had changed this morning. As it was Halloween, a cloud of live bats was fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while hundreds of carved pumpkins leered from every corner. Harry led the way over to Dean and Seamus, who were discussing those Hogwarts students of seventeen or over who might be entering.

“There’s a rumour going around that Warrington got up early and put his name in,” Dean told Harry. “That big bloke from Slytherin who looks like a sloth.”

Harry, who had played Quidditch against Warrington, shook his head in disgust. “We can’t have a Slytherin champion!”

Seamus suddenly seemed to notice the fourth person in the group, who had stayed behind the trio like a shadow. “Who are you?” He asked.

Nico didn’t say anything for a moment. His eyes lingered over the crowd before glancing back at Seamus like his question was obvious. “Nico.”

-

The trio let themselves out of Hagrid's cabin and shut the door behind them. It was surprisingly dark outside. Drawing their cloaks more closely around themselves, they set off up the sloping lawns. They had been abandoned by Hagrid a couple minutes prior, who had found himself walking the Headmistress of Beauxbatons back to Hogwarts. The trio had been mildly offended.

“Ooh it’s them, look!” Hermione whispered. The boys looked up.

The Durmstrang party was walking up toward the castle from the lake. Viktor Krum was walking side by side with Karkaroff, and the other Durmstrang students were straggling along behind them. Ron watched Krum excitedly, but Krum did not look around as he reached the front doors a little ahead of Hermione, Ron, and Harry and proceeded through them. Along the way, Nico had found them—this time visible enough as to not startle Ron.

Nico looked a bit sour though. “What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

Nico’s fingers twitched and said, “Something doesn’t feel right.”

Harry doesn’t know why he bothered asking Nico about things—every conversation Harry has with him, he ends up feeling worse than before.

“Well, that’s not a good sign,” Hermione began, “Seeing as though people’s names are being picked from the goblet.” 

“Uh, can we focus more on the excitement?” Ron asked, looking between them. “Both of you are ruining the mood.”

When they entered the candlelit Great Hall it was almost full. The Goblet of Fire had been moved; it was now standing in front of Dumbledore’s empty chair at the teachers’ table. Fred and George—clean-shaven again—seemed to have taken their disappointment fairly well.

“Hope it’s Angelina,” said Fred as Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down. George elbowed him and Nico glanced at the twins warily.

The Halloween feast seemed to take much longer than usual. Perhaps because it was their second feast in two days, Harry didn’t seem to fancy the extravagantly prepared food as much as he would have normally. Like everyone else in the Hall, judging by the constantly craning necks, the impatient expressions on every face, the fidgeting, and the standing up to see whether Dumbledore had finished eating yet, Harry simply wanted the plates to clear, and to hear who had been selected as champions.

Nico looked restless. Harry knew the feeling, he could sense eyes watching him, the same eyes he felt years ago. He’s learned to ignore it now.

Harry scanned the table, realizing he couldn't see Professor Phoebus among the Professors. He turned to Nico slightly and asked, "Where's Professor Phoebus?"

Nico looked up, his eyes trailing the table before shrugging. "He's probably meeting with someone right now, since its Halloween."

Harry blinked. "What does that mean?"

Nico didn't answer.

-

At long last, the golden plates returned to their original spotless state; there was a sharp upswing in the level of noise within the Hall, which died away almost instantly as Dumbledore got to his feet. On either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone. Ludo Bagman was beaming and winking at various students. Mr. Crouch, however, looked quite uninterested, almost bored. 

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” said Dumbledore. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber”—he indicated the door behind the staff table—“where they will be receiving their first instructions.”

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched, waiting. . . . A few people kept checking their watches. . . .

“Any second,” Lee Jordan whispered, two seats away from Harry. Fred and George were paying too much attention for Harry’s liking.

The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red again. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room gasped.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm’s length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white. “The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, in a strong, clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.”

“No surprises there!” yelled Ron as a storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall. Harry saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.

“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. “Knew you had it in you!”

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone’s attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!”

“It’s her, Ron!” Harry shouted as the girl who so resembled a veela got gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables.

“Oh look, they’re all disappointed,” Hermione said over the noise, nodding toward the remainder of the Beauxbatons party.

“Disappointed” was a bit of an understatement, Harry thought. Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms. When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next . . .

“I don’t like this,” Nico murmured beside Harry, his hand going downward before hastily bringing it back up from his waist. Nico’s eyes glanced down at the Gryffindor table, as if trying to discern who would be the next Hogwarts Champion.

And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment. Harry held his breath

“The Hogwarts champion,” Dumbledore called, eyes twinkling slightly, “is Fred Weasley!”

“Oh my gods,” groaned Nico. Nobody heard him except Harry; the uproar from their table was too great. People rose to their feet in cheers - and confusion to those who knew what the problem was. 

“What?” George cheered, getting to his feet alongside Fred and Lee Jordan. Lee Jordan clapped Fred on the back and whistled him on, closely followed by George. 

“He’s not seventeen!” One of the students from the crowd yelled and Fred only winked at the students.

Dumbledore hummed, eyes shimmering, and said, “Perhaps there was a moment where the goblet of fire had been tricked by the Weasley’s aging potion before they were dispelled.” More cheers raised from the students.

George shoved Fred Weasley forward, who waved at the crowd—some with mixed expressions—before disappearing through the door that the other Champions went to.

Leaning in beside Harry, George clapped Nico on the back, who had gone still as soon as Fred’s name was called. “Thanks for the Plan B mate!” George called, stumbling forward as Lee Jordan pushed him towards the other end of the table, where Angelina and Katie were already beginning to berate them.

“What does he mean?” Hermione asked, who overheard George. 

“I should never have spoken,” Nico grumbled, glancing at his plate of food.

“Well, at least that explains your uneasiness, right?” Hermione said instead, realizing she was not going to get anything else from the conversation.

Nico looked up at the goblet of fire and narrowed his eyes. “No—there’s something else—”

“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real—”

But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him. The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.

Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it.

“Shit,” Nico breathed, as if finally realizing where everything went wrong. 

There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out—

“Harry Potter.”

Chapter Text

Harry promptly found himself accepting his champion of Hogwarts titles—with people shouting their displeasure—and was promptly shoved into the waiting room with the other champions. Harry went through the door out of the Great Hall and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and wizards. A fire was roaring in the fireplace opposite him.

The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered. He saw a wizened witch flit out of the frame of her picture and into the one next to it, which contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The wizened witch started whispering in his ear. Viktor Krum, Fred and Fleur Delacour were grouped around the fire. They looked strangely impressive, silhouetted against the flames.

Krum, hunched-up and brooding, was leaning against the mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. Fred was looking intently at a nearby shelf full of potions—which didn’t bode well. Fleur Delacour looked around when Harry walked in and threw back her sheet of long, silvery hair. “What is it?” she said in her thick accent. “Do they want us back in the Hall?”

At once the others turned towards him.

They thought he had come to deliver a message. Harry didn’t know how to explain what had just happened. He just stood there, looking at the three champions. It struck him how very tall all of them were.

“Harry—“ Fred began, but there was a sound of scurrying feet behind him, and Ludo Bagman entered the room. He took Harry by the arm and led him forward.

“Extraordinary!” he muttered, squeezing Harry’s arm. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen . . . lady,” he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three. “May I introduce—incredible though it may seem—the fourth Triwizard champion?”

Viktor Krum straightened up. His surly face darkened as he surveyed Harry. Fred blinked once before turning around to try and hide his laughter. Fleur Delacour, however, tossed her hair, smiling, and said, “Oh, very funny joke, Mr. Bagman.”

“Joke?” Bagman repeated, bewildered. “No, no, not at all! Harry’s name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!”

Krum’s thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Fred turned around and gave a thumbs up to him, grinning ear to ear as Fleur frowned. “But evidently there has been a mistake,” she said contemptuously to Bagman. “He cannot compete. He’s too young.”

Fred coughed into his fist.

“Well . . . it is amazing,” said Bagman, ignoring Fred—who looked like he was the only one having fun—rubbing his smooth chin and smiling down at Harry. 

“But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name’s come out of the goblet . . . I mean, I don’t think there can be any ducking out at this stage. . . . It’s down in the rules, you’re obliged . . . Harry will just have to do the best he—”

The door behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore, followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, Professor Phoebus and Professor Snape. Harry heard the buzzing of the hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, before Professor McGonagall closed the door.

“That was impressive,” Professor Phoebus said, earning a glare from Snape and McGonagall. Ignoring them, Phoebus clasped a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Does that happen often?”

“No,” said Snape smoothly, eyeing the Professor from the corner of his eye.

“What is the meaning of this, Dumbledore?” Madam Maxime said imperiously.

“I’d rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore,” said Professor Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. “Two Hogwarts champions? I don’t remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions—or have I not read the rules carefully enough?” He gave a short and nasty laugh.

“C’est impossible,” said Madame Maxime. “Hogwarts cannot have two champions. It is most injust.”

“Assuming Dumbledore has any control under this,” Professor Phoebus said, waving a hand towards Harry—and Fred.

“We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore,” said Karkaroff, his steely smile still in place, though his eyes were colder than ever. “Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools. Both your champions are underage.”

The other champions suddenly glanced over at Fred—who looked up at the attention. “What?” He asked innocently, throwing a piece of dust off his shoulder.

“It’s no one’s fault but Potter’s and Weasley’s, Karkaroff,” said Snape softly. His black eyes were alight with malice. “Don’t go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here—”

“Thank you, Severus,” said Dumbledore firmly, and Snape went quiet, though his eyes still glinted malevolently through his curtain of greasy black hair. Professor Dumbledore was now looking down at Harry, who looked right back at him.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” He asked calmly.

“No,” said Harry. He was very aware of everybody watching him closely. Snape made a soft noise of impatient disbelief in the shadows.

“Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?” said Professor Dumbledore, ignoring Snape.

“No,” said Harry vehemently.

“Ah, but of course he is lying!” cried Madame Maxime. Snape was now shaking his head, his lip curling.

“He could not have crossed the Age Line,” said Professor McGonagall sharply. “I am sure we are all agreed on that—”

“Dumbledore must ’ave made a mistake with the line,” said Madame Maxime, shrugging.

“It is possible, of course,” said Dumbledore politely

“Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!” said Professor McGonagall angrily. “Really, what nonsense! Harry could not have crossed the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that he did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I’m sure that should be good enough for everybody else!”

She shot a very angry look at Professor Snape.

“This is all very fun,” Professor Phoebus drawled from the corner, who had remained suspiciously quiet. “But there’s been multiple attempts on Harry’s life in the past three years at Hogwarts—I would go as far to say that someone put Harry’s name in the fire in hopes he would die during the trials.”

“That…” McGonagall said, trailing off, looking like it was the worst possible outcome ever.

“...It is very plausible,” Dumbledore answered. “Especially with the recent attacks.”

He did not need to name the most recent attack for the others to know which one he was referring to. Harry could still see the dark mark in the sky—and it made Harry’s skin itch. Would someone try to sneak into Hogwarts to put my name in the fire? But… Or someone here is a death eater. Harry did not like it one bit.

The others looked like they shared the same sentiment.

“Mr. Crouch . . . Mr. Bagman,” said Karkaroff with a cough, “you are our—er—objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?”

Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. He looked slightly paler than usual and when he brought his hands up, they were shaking slightly. When he spoke, however, it was in his usual curt voice.

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,” said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed.

“I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students,” said Karkaroff. “You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It’s only fair, Dumbledore.”

“But Karkaroff, it doesn’t work like that,” said Bagman. “The Goblet of Fire’s just gone out—it won’t reignite until the start of the next tournament—”

“—in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!” exploded Karkaroff. “After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!”

“Enough with the dramatics, shall we?” Professor Phoebus drawled. “This is beginning to drag on. There is truly nothing we can do about this, and it is a magical pact that cannot be unbroken. We will have to leave it like this.”

“Phoebus is right,” Dumbledore said.

And Dumbledore left no room for talking.

-

As they left the room, everyone dispersed in different directions. Harry glanced at Fred, who nodded, and they left together. Fred looked the least bit worried—or angry—about Harry being a champion. Harry knew it was because Fred also cheated—Harry couldn’t tell how though, since the ageline hadn’t worked for him.

The Great Hall was deserted now; the candles had burned low, giving the jagged smiles of the pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality.

“So,” said Fred, clapping his hands together with a smile. “It looks like we’re playing together—“ He leaned in and whispered with a wink, “I can’t promise I won’t try any nasty tricks on you.”

“Fun,” said Harry, feeling drained. He really couldn’t think of anything to say. The inside of his head seemed to be in complete disarray, as though his brain had been ransacked.

“So . . . tell me . . .” said Fred as they reached the entrance hall, which was now lit only by torches in the absence of the Goblet of Fire. “How’d you manage to wrangle your name into the Goblet of Fire? I mean, the others didn’t even question me because I looked 17 (which is still a load of bollocks—what's a couple month age gap difference)?”

“I didn’t,” said Harry, staring up at him. “I didn’t put it in. I was telling the truth.”

Fred raised an eyebrow and, with a small grin, said, “uh huh…”

“Seriously,” Harry said, feeling a prickly sense of annoyance.

“Alright, alright,” Fred said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I guess magicians keep their secrets…” He glanced back at Harry before disappearing down the hallway—away from the Gryffindor tower.

Harry frowned but he had something else on his mind—which included talking with Ron and Hermione.

-

If Harry had thought that matters would improve once everyone got used to the idea of him being champion, the following day showed him how mistaken he was. He could no longer avoid the rest of the school once he was back at lessons—and it was clear that the rest of the school, just like the Gryffindors, thought Harry had entered himself for the tournament. Unlike the Gryffindors, however, they did not seem impressed.

Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch Fletchley, with whom Harry normally got on very well, did not talk to him even though they were repotting Bouncing Bulbs at the same tray— though they did laugh rather unpleasantly—when one of the Bouncing Bulbs wriggled free from Harry’s grip and smacked him hard in the face.

Ron wasn’t talking to Harry either.

Hermione sat between them, making very forced conversation, but though both answered her normally, they avoided making eye contact with each other.

Harry was sure the only reason why the Gryffindor house didn’t hate Harry as much as the other houses did was because Fred was advocating for him, looking happy that he personally knows one of his competitors.

Which could also mean that it was bad news for Harry.

Everyone had decided that since Fred was so close to turning 16, the age line must have accepted him as a Champion candidate. Harry got no such luck.

-

Harry didn’t Hagrids question during his lesson on Care of Magical Creatures. Yes, everything did seem to happen to him . . . that was more or less what Hermione had said as they had walked around the lake, and that was the reason, according to her, that Ron was no longer talking to him.

Nico had appeared after the first round of the lake, looking pale, more than he should have been. There were dark marks under his eyes—and looked scarier than usual. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

Nico blinked at him for a moment, confused.

”You, er, look tired,” Harry said. He didn’t know it it was rude or not to tell the other boy that—that he looked like shite.

But Nico just brushed him off, but there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “I haven’t been able to figure out who put your name in the fire yet,” Nico explained.

“What?” Harry said, nearly jolting forward. “You didn’t have to do that! I mean—like—“ Harry flushed. “It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

Nico squinted out at the lake, the sun reflecting into his eyes, turning them a warm brown.

The three of them stood there in silence comfortably. The wind ruffled Harry’s hair as it breezed past and Hermione was beginning to sit down beside a nearby tree. Nico was turning around, perhaps to apparate away. Harry jolted forward, breaking free from his thoughts.

“Thank you,” Harry began, feeling a bit awkward. When Nico turned back to him with a raised brow, Harry continued. “For believing in me.”

Nico was quiet—his eyes scanning the lake. Finally, he said, “I know you didn’t put your name is the goblet. I was watching you.” 

Hermione coughed. “Can you make that any less… ominous?”

Nico shrugged and kicked at a nearby stone. “Ask…ask Professor Phoebus if you need to get them off your ass. I’m trying to figure out what the first task is so we can avoid any death if possible.”

Hermione gasped, “you can’t do that—!”

Nico raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure Weasley already has a head start. He has some sort of recording device located on the Professor’s involved in the tournament. It’s impressive but it means you have to catch up.”

It left Harry with more questions than answers—less reassured than when Nico appeared. But there were people out there that believed him. It made him feel a bit better.

-

The next few days were some of Harry’s worst at Hogwarts. The closest he had ever come to feeling like this had been during those months, in his second year, when a large part of the school had suspected him of attacking his fellow students. But Ron had been on his side then. He thought he could have coped with the rest of the school’s behavior if he could just have had Ron back as a friend, but he wasn’t going to try and persuade Ron to talk to him if Ron didn’t want to. Nevertheless, it was lonely with dislike pouring in on him from all sides.

Much to Harry’s mix of horror and surprise, Harry found himself hanging out with Nico more than anything else, along with Hermione. Some evil part of him wondered if Nico felt the same way Harry did—left out and untrusted (he certainly looked like it). He quickly shoved the thought away, he didn’t want to base his judgment on the way people looked—and he doubted Nico would find it amusing.

But, with extra lessons with Nico and Hermione’s help, he still felt everyone’s eyes on him (even some Professors, which Nico said was childish).

Harry expected nothing less than vicious insults from the Slytherins—he was highly unpopular there and always had been, because he had helped Gryffindor beat them so often, both at Quidditch and in the Inter-House Championship. But he had hoped the Ravenclaws might have found it in their hearts to support him as much as Fred. He was wrong, however. Most Ravenclaws seemed to think that he had been desperate to earn himself a bit more fame by tricking the goblet into accepting his name.

Harry felt like screaming into his pillow sometimes.

They couldn’t really discuss the prophecy either since Nico was around, leaving Harry left out and tired.

-

Double Potions was always a horrible experience, but these days it was nothing short of torture. Being shut in a dungeon for an hour and a half with Snape and the Slytherins, all of whom seemed determined to punish Harry as much as possible for daring to become school champion, was about the most unpleasant thing Harry could imagine. 

Though Phoebus was kind—kind being a big word here—he didn’t say anything to the obvious glares of the Ravenclaw students. When someone mentioned anything out loud, Phoebus had told them if they thought his class was boring enough to spout gossip, he’d better jump off the balcony to give people some entertainment.

It made the student shut up.

But having his downtime dedicated entirely to non-social settings, Harry was entirely focused on studying now, and was doing better in everything—except for Potions. 

Harry was already good at healing—but with extra help from studying, he was getting perfect in all the assignments, which made Professor Phoebus beam with happiness.  During one assignment, where he had to practice on a live animal, Harry managed to heal a natural birth defect on the animal (accidentally) and had gotten perfect on his work. Phoebus looked ready to smother him in a hug.

-

Very glad to get away from Potions class, Harry found himself wanting to go back after the interview with Rita Skeeter. 

Harry hurried back into the room that Rita had pushed him out of to interview him. The other champions were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat down quickly next to Fred, who had a glint in his eyes that told Harry that nothing productive came out of his interview.

Harry looked up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five judges were now sitting—Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner; Harry saw her slip the parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her knee, suck the end of the Quick-Quotes Quill, and place it once more on the parchment.

“May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?” said Dumbledore, taking his place at the judges’ table and talking to the champions. “He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament.”

And Harry watched everything occur. Though, he noticed that Ludo looked bored, Mr. Crouch looking weathered more than he should, and the other two Professor’s looking oddly bored.

“Thank you all,” said Dumbledore, standing up at the judges’ table as Ollivander finished examining everyone’s wand. “You may go back to your lessons now—or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end—”

Feeling that at last something had gone right today, Harry got up to leave, but the man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat. Harry internally groaned—he had to finish his report for his healing class by tonight. And as much as people say Phoebus is laidback, he truly isn’t. Harry can imagine the man breathing down his neck if he got his report back late, no matter how well Harry was doing in his class.

“Photos, Dumbledore, photos!” cried Bagman excitedly. “All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?”

“Er—yes, let’s do those first,” said Rita Skeeter, whose eyes were upon Harry again. “And then perhaps some individual shots.”

The photographs took a long time. 

The photographer seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Harry into greater prominence. Fred, to Harry’s surprise, had remained still. Harry wondered if he was tired or just missed George and Lee Jordan. Then Rita insisted on separate shots of all the champions. At last, they were free to go.

The article had appeared ten days later, and Harry still got a sick, burning feeling of shame in his stomach every time he thought about it. Rita Skeeter had reported him saying an awful lot of things that he couldn’t remember ever saying in his life, let alone in that broom cupboard.

But Rita Skeeter had gone even further than transforming his “er’s” into long, sickly sentences: She had interviewed other people about him too. Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school.

From the moment the article had appeared, Harry had had to endure people—Slytherins, mainly—quoting it at him as he passed and making sneering comments.

Professor Phoebus had mercifully shut the talk of the tournament out of his classroom and there was a fire in his eyes every time it was mentioned. “It’s bad writing in general,” Phoebus said, looking over the article a day later during one of his Astronomy lessons.

“I mean, I can write better haiku than that!” The Professor said, “Would you like me to demonstrate, Harry?”

Harry didn’t get a chance to respond before the world’s most horrible haiku escaped from the Professor’s lips with full confidence. Harry didn’t have to be a poet to know that the likes of Shakespeare would be rolling in their graves if they heard Phoebus.

“Er, very nice,” Harry said, trying not to sound too disgusted. 

The Professor leaned forward with a wicked gleam in his eyes and asked, “actually?” 

Harry closed his mouth, promising himself never to give Phoebus the benefit of the doubt again.

-

“Is little Ronniekins still not talking to you?” Fred asked a couple days later in the library as Hemione, Harry (and Nico) sat there studying, Nico less so as he wasn’t technically a student.

“No—I don’t really care,” Harry grumbled, feeling his face turn red.

Fred grinned and said, “aw! You miss him! Don’t you worry, I’ll go find him and pick up by the ear…” He patted Harry on the shoulder and disappeared through the closest aisle.

“Miss him?” said Harry, looking annoyed. “I don’t miss him. . . .”

Both Hermione and Nico gave him looks that said: are you for real? And Harry sat down on his brewing anger: he knew it was a downright lie. Harry liked Hermione very much, and he was warming up to Nico's quiet nature, but they just weren't the same as Ron. There was much less laughter and a lot more hanging around in the library.

Viktor Krum was in the library an awful lot too, and Harry wondered what he was up to. Was he studying, or was he looking for things to help him through the first task? Hermione often complained about Krum being there—not that he ever bothered them—but because groups of giggling girls often turned up to spy on him from behind bookshelves, and Hermione found the noise distracting.

Nico, after the second time, had put up a wall of shadows to block out the noise, looking quite annoyed. And usually Nico was scary with his resting face, but he was downright frightening when he was annoyed. It didn’t stop Hermione from praising Nico though, who had turned red at the compliments.

“He’s not even good-looking!” She muttered angrily after the fourth time in the library with him, glaring at Krum’s sharp profile. “They only like him because he’s famous! They wouldn’t look twice at him if he couldn’t do that WonkyFaint thing—”

“Wronski Feint,” said Harry, through gritted teeth.

-

Harry got up on Sunday morning a couple weeks later and dressed so inattentively that it was a while before he realized he was trying to pull his hat onto his foot instead of his sock. When he’d finally got all his clothes on the right parts of his body, he hurried off to find Hermione, locating her at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, where she was eating breakfast with Ginny. Feeling too queasy to eat, Harry waited until Hermione had swallowed her last spoonful of porridge, then dragged her out onto the grounds.

Nico met them halfway, his shadows practically dancing with more news. There, Harry told them all about the dragons (which Nico didn’t look surprised about), and about everything Sirius had said, while they took another long walk around the lake.

Alarmed as she was by Sirius’s warnings about Karkaroff, Hermione still thought that the dragons were the more pressing problem. “Let’s just try and keep you alive until Tuesday evening,” she said desperately, “and then we can worry about Karkaroff.”

“I agree, you aren’t equipped to handle a dragon,” Nico said, then he winced. “It would give me a struggle as well.”

Both wizards looked at Nico like had grown another limb. “Did you say you can take on a dragon?” Hermione asked skeptically.

Nico seemed to realize his mistake and said, “No. I just said it’d be hard with someone with my, er, abilities to kill a dragon.”

They walked three times around the lake, trying all the way to think of a simple spell that would subdue a dragon. Nico only came up with solutions that would work with his abilities, so it left them back at square one. Nothing whatsoever occurred to them, so they retired to the library instead. Here, Harry pulled down every book he could find on dragons, and both of them set to work searching through the large pile.

“Have you tried thinking simpler?” Nico suggested after Hermione suggested trying to transfigure the dragon.

“What?” Hermione asked.

“Like, if it needs to be tied down. Or, we know they’re going to be partly chained up, so why just make the chain shorter?”

Hermione shrugged her shoulders and placed her head onto the desk.

Harry didn’t have to look at Fred passing by to know that he knew what the trial was: he winked at Harry as his gaze landed on the book title. Of course Fred would know: Harry saw his older brother tending to the animals.

“Hm,” Nico drawled. “You’re good at quidditch right?” 

When Harry nodded, Nico frowned and said, “good. You’ll need it.”

-

And the day of the tournament was here: thanks to Nico’s hint, Harry was able to learn the spell needed to take on a dragon (but Nico still didn’t look convinced. Hermione ended up telling Nico that Harry wasn’t supposed to kill it or anything, but it somehow made Nico even less enthused).

And at the end of everything, Harry had gotten the egg and survived. Ron and Harry reunited as friends (“I’m a bloke.” “You are.” “Sorry mate, I was jealous, I guess.” “It’s fine”) and now they were waiting for the results.

Nico appeared nearby with a small smile on his face. “Good job,” Nico said after a while as they looked up at the judging stand.

Harry could tell Nico doesn’t regularly dish out compliments so Harry just said, “thank you.”

Ron glanced between them for a moment, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. Ron drew a breath as he and Harry reached the edge of the enclosure. Now that the Horntail had been taken away, Harry could see where the five judges were sitting—right at the other end, in raised seats draped in gold.

“Why is Percy up there?” Hermione asked, squinting. Harry followed her gaze.

Ron shrugged and said, “I dunno. Something about Mr. Crouch falling ill and having to step for him for a bit.”

Harry followed his gaze and found the tuft of red hair on Percy, the ends of the cloak dipped red. 

“Ill?” Nico asked with a frown.

Ron shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Yeah,” Harry remembered. “He was deathly pale and was shaking the last I saw him.”

Nico’s eyes narrowed up to the stand.

“What?” Hermione asked.

“Nothing,” Nico muttered, “Something doesn’t feel right.”

And Harry’s heart leapt. Nico’s said that phrase before, right before his name was picked from the goblet of fire. It’s like Nico had a sixth sense for that—or his shadows were able inform him of what’s going to happen, or when something is wrong.

“Hush,” Ron said. “They’re marking you. It’s marks out of ten from each one,” Ron said, and Harry, squinting up the field, saw the first judge—Madame Maxime—raise her wand in the air. What looked like a long silver ribbon shot out of it, which twisted itself into a large figure eight.

“Not bad!” said Ron as the crowd applauded.

“I suppose she took marks off your shoulder. . .” Ron trailed off. Percy came next. “Percy is an ass but he has to—“ He’s cut off as the number nine is shot into the air. 

“Looking good!” Ron yelled, thumping Harry on the back.

Next, Dumbledore. He too put up a nine. The crowd was cheering harder than ever. Ludo Bagman—ten.

“Ten?” said Harry in disbelief. “But . . . I got hurt. . . . What’s he playing at?”

“Harry, don’t complain!” Ron yelled excitedly. And now Karkaroff raised his wand. He paused for a moment, and then a number shot out of his wand too—four.

“What?” Ron bellowed furiously. “Four? You lousy, biased scumbag, you gave Krum ten!”

-

“You’re tied in first place, Harry! You and Krum!” said Charlie Weasley, hurrying to meet them as they set off back toward the school. “Listen, I’ve got to run, I’ve got to go and send Mum an owl, I swore I’d tell her what happened to you and Fred—but that was unbelievable! Oh yeah—and they told me to tell you you’ve got to hang around for a few more minutes. . . . Bagman wants a word, back in the champions’ tent.”

Ron said he would wait, so Harry reentered the tent, which somehow looked quite different now: friendly and welcoming. He thought back to how he’d felt while dodging the Horntail, and compared it to the long wait before he’d walked out to face it. . .

There was no comparison; the wait had been immeasurably worse. Fleur, Fred, and Krum all came in together. Half of Fred’s face was covered in a bandage but he had a wide grin on his face, which meant he was alright.

“Good one, Harry,” Fred said. “Perce’ must’ve been feeling bad because he gave me an 8! Even though I nearly got into dragon meat,” Fred said with a laugh.

“And you,” said Harry, grinning back, knowing Fred had sent a boulder flying straight towards the dragon—enough to distract the dragon to grab the egg—but not before getting burned.

-

The next couple of days went on with a blur: Harry was certain that the egg was screwing with him: it just screeched at him every time he opened it. And the Gryffindors got tired of him real fast.

Harry and Ron, dismissed from Divination, quickly made their way towards the Great Hall to talk with Hermione with their next game plan.

But Hermione wasn't at dinner, nor was she in the library when they went to look for her afterward. The only person in there was Viktor Krum. Ron hovered behind the bookshelves for a while, watching Krum, debating in whispers with Harry whether he should ask for an autograph—but then Ron realized that six or seven girls were lurking in the next row of books, debating exactly the same thing, and he lost his enthusiasm for the idea.

"Wonder where she's got to?" Ron said as he and Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower.

"Dunno ... balderdash."

But the Fat Lady had barely begun to swing forward when the sound of racing feet behind them announced Hermione's arrival. "Harry!" she panted, skidding to a halt beside him (the Fat Lady stared down at her, eyebrows raised). "Harry, you've got to come—you've got to come, the most amazing thing's happened— please—“

She seized Harry's arm and started to try to drag him back along the corridor.

"What's the matter?" Harry said.

"I'll show you when we get there—oh come on, quick—" Harry looked around at Ron; he looked back at Harry, intrigued. "Okay," Harry said, starting off back down the corridor with Hermione, Ron hurrying to keep up.

After the sixth flight of stairs, shadows flowed onto the staircases—but none of them were surprised anymore. “Where are you going in a hurry?” Nico asked, watching them start down the marble staircase into the entrance hall.

"You'll see, you'll see in a minute!" said Hermione excitedly, not even blinking an eye at the fourth person. She turned left at the bottom of the staircase and hurried toward the door through which Fred had gone the night after the Goblet of Fire had regurgitated his and Harry's names. 

Harry had never been through here before. He and Ron followed Hermione down a flight of stone steps, but instead of ending up in a gloomy underground passage like the one that led to Snape's dungeon, they found themselves in a broad stone corridor, brightly lit with torches, and decorated with cheerful paintings that were mainly of food.

"Oh hang on..." said Harry slowly, halfway down the corridor. "Wait a minute, Hermione.”

"What?" She turned around to look at him, anticipation all over her face.

"I know what this is about," said Harry.

Nico glanced around the hallway and leaned back into the shadows. “You’re racing around Hogwarts for snacks?” He asked skeptically. 

"Hermione!" said Ron. "You're trying to rope us into that spew stuff again!"

"No, no, I'm not!" she said hastily. "And it's not spew, Ron—"

“Spew?” Nico asked, who had somehow managed to escape Hermione’s complaining.

Ron glanced at Nico for a moment, probably wondering how Nico hadn’t been badgered about it yet, before glancing back at Hermione. "What are we now, then, the House-Elf Liberation Front? I'm not barging into that kitchen and trying to make them stop work, I'm not doing it—"

"I'm not asking you to!" Hermione said impatiently. "I came down here just now, to talk to them all, and I found—oh come on, Harry—Nico too—I want to show you!"

And then, they found themselves inside the room. Harry had one brief glimpse of an enormous, high-ceilinged room, large as the Great Hall above it, with mounds of glittering brass pots and pans heaped around the stone walls, and a great brick fireplace at the other end, when something small hurtled toward him from the middle of the room, squealing, "Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter!"

Harry could see in one second that Nico startled forward from the corner of his eyes, hand reflexively reaching towards his waist, and in the next second all the wind had been knocked out of him. A squealing elf hit him hard in the midriff, hugging him so tightly he thought his ribs would break.

"D-Dobby?" Harry gasped and instantly, Nico relaxed.

"It is Dobby, sir, it is!" squealed the voice from somewhere around his navel. "Dobby has been hoping and hoping to see Harry Potter, sir, and Harry Potter has come to see him, sir!" 

Dobby finally seemed to notice Nico; he took a step back and said, “and you… under Master Apollo’s watch…” He trails off, ears quivering.

Nico looked slightly disgusted. “Please don’t call him master,” Nico said. “It’s weird.” 

Dobby perked up and said, “Should I call him Lo-”

“No,” Nico said, stopping the house elf short. “Just Professor or sir is fine. He doesn’t like… formalities.”

“Who’s Apollo?” Ron asked indignantly. 

“Professor Phoebus,” Hermione said with an eye roll. “As soon as your brother mentioned that Phoebus is an epithet, I had to research.”

Nico looked slightly uncomfortable and said, “yes, well, who would want to be named Apollo?”

“So he’s named after some muggle god?” Ron asked skeptically.

Harry glanced back at Dobby. "Dobby, what're you doing here?"

"Dobby has come to work at Hogwarts, sir!" Dobby squealed excitedly. "Professor Dumbledore gave Dobby and Winky jobs, sir!"

"Winky?" said Harry. "She's here too?"

"Yes, sir, yes!" said Dobby, and he seized Harry's hand and pulled him off into the kitchen between the four long wooden tables that stood there. At least a hundred little elves were standing around the kitchen, beaming, bowing, and curtsying as Dobby led Harry past them.

They were all wearing the same uniform: a tea towel stamped with the Hogwarts crest, and tied, as Winky's had been, like a toga.

Dobby stopped in front of the brick fireplace and pointed. "Winky, sir!" he said.

Winky was sitting on a stool by the fire. 

"Hello, Winky," said Harry.

Winky's lip quivered. Then she burst into tears, which spilled out of her great brown eyes and splashed down her front, just as they had done at the Quidditch World Cup.

"Oh dear," said Hermione. She and Ron had followed Harry and Dobby to the end of the kitchen. "Winky, don't cry, please don't..."

But Winky cried harder than ever. Dobby, on the other hand, beamed up at Harry.

"Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea?" he squeaked loudly, over

Winky's sobs.

"Er—yeah, okay," said Harry.

Instantly, about six house-elves came trotting up behind him, bearing a large silver tray laden with a teapot, cups for Harry, Ron, Nico and Hermione, a milk jug, and a large plate of biscuits.

"Good service!" Ron said, in an impressed voice. Hermione frowned at him, but the elves all looked delighted; they bowed very low and retreated.

Nico raised an eyebrow.

"How long have you been here, Dobby?" Harry asked as Dobby handed around the tea.

"Only a week, Harry Potter, sir!" said Dobby happily. "Dobby came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir. You see, sir, it is very difficult for a house-elf who has been dismissed to get a new position, sir, very difficult indeed—"

At this, Winky howled even harder, her squashed-tomato of a nose dribbling all down her front, though she made no effort to stem the flow. Nico finally seemed to realize who Winky was—he was there with them when Winky was dismissed. His eyes widened slightly.

Winky stopped crying a few minutes later after a few hard attempts (which included Nico’s unwavering support of Hermione’s SPEW club). It was done by mentioning Bagman, which made Winky scared.

"Bagman—bad?" said Harry.

"Oh yes," Winky said, nodding her head furiously. "My master is telling Winky some things! But Winky is not saying . . .Winky—Winky keeps her master's secrets..."

She dissolved yet again in tears; they could hear her sobbing into her skirt, "Poor master, poor master, no Winky to help him no more!”

“Miss Winky,” Nico said, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. But, Harry could see an idea in his mind. “You could help your old master one last time.”

Winky looked up slightly at Nico and said, “why does the young lord need Winky for? Why does young Lord need my Master?”

Nico hesitated and said, “I have seen him recently and he is not doing so well—physically.”

Winky quivered.

“Your, er, master is taking medication, right?”

“No,” Winky said. “Master would never.”

It seemed to confirm Nico’s suspicion. “And does your master usually work from home?”

Winky shook her head feverishly. “Never!”

“Well, I think your master is sick and needs help.”

Winky paused her sobbing to look up at Nico fully. “You need Winky's help? You didn’t like elves before!”

Nico nodded, “I don’t like enslavement, no, but I cannot argue right now, there are more… pressing… matters to talk about.”

“Like saving master,” Winky said.

“Like saving master,” Nico confirmed.

-

Harry, Ron and Hermione left Nico to talk with Winky, realizing they weren’t needed anymore. 

“You know what?" said Ron, once he, Hermione, and Harry had left the kitchens behind and were climbing the steps into the entrance hall again. "All these years I've been really impressed with Fred and George, nicking food from the kitchens—well, it's not exactly difficult, is it? They can't wait to give it away!

"I think this is the best thing that could have happened to those elves, you know," said Hermione, leading the way back up the marble staircase. "Dobby coming to work here, I mean. The other elves will see how happy he is, being free, and slowly it'll dawn on them that they want that too!"

"Let's hope they don't look too closely at Winky," said Harry.

"Oh she'll cheer up," said Hermione, though she sounded a bit doubtful. "Once the shock's worn off, and she's got used to Hogwarts, she'll see how much better off she is without that Crouch man."

"She seems to love him," said Ron thickly.

"Doesn't think much of Bagman, though, does she?" said Harry. "Wonder what Crouch says at home about him?"

"Probably says he's not a very good Head of Department," said Hermione, "and let's face it ... he's got a point, hasn't he?"

"I'd still rather work for him than old Crouch," said Ron. "At least Bagman's got a sense of humor."

“But why was Nico so interested in Mr. Crouch?”

“I mentioned to Nico that Mr. Crouch wasn’t able to look over the tournament because he felt ill. He said something about it that seemed suspicious,” Harry said.

“He always says something is suspicious,” Ron grumbled.

“But he’s always right,” Hermione pointed out.

Ron grunted, having no comeback.

-

“Hey, guys,” Hermione began that night, sitting by the fire. “I’ve been thinking…”

“That bad news,” Ron said, flipping through one of his Charms textbook.

Hermione ignored him. “About that prophecy—I think we weren’t supposed to take it literally. I think Nico might be the ‘son of dead.’”

“That’s just bloody rude, Hermione,” Ron scolded. “You can’t just call someone that because they’re pale!”

“Ron!” Hermione snapped, elbowing him. Luckily, Ron seemed to realize her plan because jumped away just in time—right into Harry. Harry wheezed as Ron landed on him, sending their paperwork flying.

“Boys…” Hermione groaned.

After a bit of cleaning up, Hermione restated herself and said, “I mean, Nico can control shadows, which is basically pretty close to necromancy. I wouldn’t be surprised if he also has control over that.”

“I thought those with affinities only had one power,” Ron said, narrowing his eyes at the prophecy written out before them. “That’s why they’re called affinities.”

Hermione shook her head. “That’s not necessarily true. Some wizards and witches are still able to cast spells if their magic isn’t fully attuned to that area of magic. Like Seers, for example. They can use magic and see too since being able to predict the future doesn’t take away from their magic.”

Ron’s brows furrowed, “And? So you think Nico could do magic?”

“No,” Hermione said. “It’s different—The shadow’s are different from being able to predict the future. Nico’s powerful—we saw that. I’m just saying, since his affinity is towards shadows, he might be also a necromancer too.”

“Whatever,” Ron yawned. “Anything else?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I think Professor Phoebus might be the god of light referred to in the prophecy.”

“Because his name is literally in reference to Apollo,” said Harry.

“Reference? His name is Apollo,” Ron said.

“True,” Hermione agreed.

They sat in silence before Harry said, “Er, what’s Professor Phoebus’s bane?”

“Good Haikus?” Ron suggested.

-

Christmas break was upon them—and it seemed Nico had fully disappeared from Hogwarts for good. Harry had questioned Phoebus about it (who’s first name was Apollo, which Harry found easier to think about), but the Professor only grinned. He said something close to, “Well, I doubt he wants to have a date to the Yule ball, especially with me around.”

“What does that mean?” Harry questioned.

The Professor shrugged ominously and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he comes to the Yule ball.”

“That's not what I asked for,” Harry argued. 

“Shut up, or do you not want to have your homework shaved off?” Phoebus asked and Harry closed his mouth, the prospect of less homework during Christmas break too strong for him. 

Other teachers were not so generous.

Nothing would ever deflect Professor Binns, for example, from plowing on through his notes on goblin rebellions—as Binns hadn’t let his own death stand in the way of continuing to teach, they supposed a small thing like Christmas wasn’t going to put him off. It was amazing how he could make even bloody and vicious goblin riots sound as boring as Percy’s cauldron-bottom report. Professors McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the very last second of their classes too, and Snape, of course, would no sooner let them play games in class than adopt Harry. Staring nastily around at them all, he informed them that he would be testing them on poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term.

Harry’s lessons on healing dwindled down, but Phoebus had been strict on Harry about learning how to resuscitate a drowning victim. Or, more likely, how to stop oneself from drowning.

“Again, repeat the spell,” Phoebus said, rounding on Harry as he sank his head under the cauldron once again, water filling out around him. Yet, Harry could not quite catch how to breath underwater just yet. 

“I can’t,” Harry complained.

“No,” Phoebus agreed. “If you can’t get this done by Christmas Eve I’m going to jump off the Astronomy tower in front of you.”

And Harry ducked his head back under the water, if only not to hear Phoebus’s voice again.

-

Harry, Ron and Hermione were sitting at the Gryffindor tower common room whispering to one another about the egg. “Leave him alone, Hermione, he’s earned a bit of a break,” said Ron, and he placed the last two cards on top of the castle and the whole lot blew up, burning his eyebrows.

“Nice look, Ron . . . go well with your dress robes, that will.”

It was Fred and George. They sat down at the table with Harry, Ron, and Hermione as Ron felt how much damage had been done.

“Ron, can we borrow Pigwidgeon?” George asked.

“No, he’s off delivering a letter,” said Ron. “Why?”

“Because George wants to invite him to the ball,” said Fred sarcastically.

“Because we want to send a letter, you stupid great prat,” said George.

“Who d’you two keep writing to, eh?” said Ron.

“Nose out, Ron, or I’ll burn that for you too,” said Fred, waving his wand threateningly. “So . . . you lot got dates for the ball yet?”

“Nope,” said Ron.

“Well, you’d better hurry up, mate, or all the good ones will be gone,” said Fred.

“Who’re you going with, then?” said Ron. “Since you’re a Hogwarts Champion and all.”

“Angelina,” said Fred promptly, without a trace of embarrassment.

“What?” said Ron, taken aback. “You’ve already asked her?”

“Good point,” said Fred. He turned his head and called across the common room, “Oi! Angelina!”

Angelina, who had been chatting with Alicia Spinnet near the fire, looked over at him. “What?” she called back.

“Want to come to the ball with me?”

Angelina gave Fred an appraising sort of look. “All right, then,” she said, and she turned back to Alicia and carried on chatting with a bit of a grin on her face.

“There you go,” said Fred to Harry and Ron, “piece of cake.”

“That was only because you’re a Hogwarts Champion,” Ron grumbled at Fred and George’s twin grins.

“Speaking of which, have you figured out how to make the egg work?” Hermione asked.

“My, my, Hermione. Speaking of cheating are we? In the middle of the Gryffindor common room?” Fred teased.

“Where’s the challenge in telling everyone?” George asked with a grin.

“You’d be a good help,” Hermione said.

“No,” Fred said in faux sweetness and got to his feet, yawning, and said, “We’d better use a school owl then, George, come on…”

They left. 

-

After being shut down by Cho, Harry had a dead end. He was sure Ron would be able to find someone before him—he lamented as much to Professor Phoebus after a particularly grueling lesson where Harry nearly did drown.

Phoebus had laughed at him—as a Professor would (not) normally do. Harry was driven out as soon as the Professor said he could try and help Harry find a date—Harry had been down right mortified and quickly backed himself up.

Harry only found a date after nearly running into them walking with Ginny (who he had thought was Ron at first). It had come so startingly that Harry hadn’t even really thought it through before they said yes.

Well, Harry thought, at least I have a date.

Chapter Text

Snow was falling thickly upon the castle and its ground. The end of the year was approaching—and even worse, the Yule Ball was today. It did nothing for Harry's nerves, which were already firing up as soon as his eyes opened in the morning.

The common room looked strange, full of people wearing different colors instead of the usual mass of black. Hermione was nowhere to be seen—but everyone looked pleasantly happy. Ginny and Neville were talking with some girls, Parvati and Lavender were talking to their dates as Ron and Harry reached the foot of stairs.

“Padma’s going to meet you in the entrance hall,” Parvati said to Ron, turning to his meet his gaze.

“Right,” said Ron, looking around. “Where’s Hermione?”

Parvati shrugged and pulled Lavender with her through the portrait hole. ("Where's your dates?" Ron had asked bewilderingly. Lavender and Parvati share a look before giggling, taking off for him).

Fred winked at Harry as he passed him on the way out of the portrait hole, arm in arm with Angelina, who was dressed beautifully in fiery red robes, the same colour as Fred's hair. As one of the Champions, Fred had to be at the front of the Great Hall, which reminded Harry that he was a champion too. 

Well.

Harry and Ron found themselves downstairs in moments. The entrance hall was packed with students, all milling around waiting for eight o’clock when the doors to the Great Hall would be thrown open. People were edging around the crowd, trying to meet up with their partner from different houses. Parvati found her sister, Padma, amongst the Ravenclaws and wove through the crowd and led her over to Harry and Ron.

“Hi,” said Padma, who was looking just as pretty as Parvati in robes of bright turquoise. She didn’t look too enthusiastic about having Ron as a partner, though; her dark eyes lingered on the frayed neck and sleeves of his dress robes as she looked him up and down.

“Hi,” said Ron, though he glanced again at Harry almost nervously. Harry nodded to him, patted him on the back, and broke off, deciding now was a good time to go and find his date. It wasn't hard though: she was sitting by the window, looking out at the falling snow with a distant look in her eyes. She was pulled up on the ledge with one leg hanging down, draping her soft blue robes along her. As Harry grew closer, he noticed that her robes were plated with silver crows—and followed the seams of the robe upward to where a silver belt clasped at her waist, a golden flower in the middle. 

She tilted her head to the side suddenly, as if noticing something, and began to trace her fingers along the window. With every turn of her head, the blonde hair plated into her braid-like bun, began to fall loose around her neck. And as Harry approached, the view disappeared, but a small but genuine smile followed. 

“Hello, Harry,” the girl greeted kindly, “I was just watching Nargles playing out in the snow. They’re quite excited for the Yule ball. I like to imagine them flitting about outside, spreading their mischief. It's quite enchanting."

Harry smiled weakly, feeling the urge to scratch his neck nervously. "Yeah, it sounds enchanting all right. But, uh, wouldn't you rather be inside with everyone else? I mean, the ball's going to start soon, and we should probably get ready."

Luna tilted her head to the side, considering Harry's words for a moment. "I suppose you're right, Harry. It wouldn't do to miss out on the festivities." She rose from her seat by the window, her silvery eyes still alight with curiosity. "Lead the way, then." She brought out her arm in offering, which Harry took gratefully. He felt it too awkward to ask any girl out to the ball, let alone lead one by the arm in a dance. Together, they joined the crowd at the front of the Great Hall while Luna whispered her theories to Harry. The most entertaining one had been the fact that Snape was a vampire and Harry tried his hardest not to feed the fire, even if it was one of the most reasonable theories about Snape he's heard from anyone. 

"How would Snape get blood from? Especially with Professor Dumbledore living under the same roof," Harry pointed out as he wove through the crowd. Spotting red hair should not be that hard. Beside him, Luna thought with a hum, her eyebrows drawn up in a furrow. They made it pass Neville and Ginny, where the latter waved to Luna before turning back to fix Neville's tie. And then, finally, Harry saw Ron through the crowd, who looked upon with such hope that Harry feared what would happen if he were to break it.

Then, he glanced to Harry's date and his eyes widened. “You—“ He began to say as Padma and Parvati turned to look as well. “You’re going with Loon—” He was cut off abruptly when Padma glared at him.

Harry was saved an explanation when a group of Slytherins came up the steps from their dungeon common room. Malfoy was in front; he was wearing dress robes of black velvet with a high collar, which in Harry’s opinion made him look like a vicar. Pansy Parkinson in very frilly robes of pale pink was clutching Malfoy’s arm. Crabbe and Goyle were both wearing green; they resembled moss-colored boulders, and neither of them, Harry was pleased to see, had managed to find a partner.

The oak front doors opened, and everyone turned to look as the Durmstrang students entered with Professor Karkaroff. Krum was at the front of the party, accompanied by a pretty girl in blue robes Harry didn’t know. Over their heads he saw that an area of lawn right in front of the castle had been transformed into a sort of grotto full of fairy lights—meaning hundreds of actual living fairies were sitting in the rosebushes that had been conjured there, and fluttering over the statues of what seemed to be Father Christmas and his reindeer.

Then Professor McGonagall’s voice called, “Champions over here, please!”

Luna hummed and, for a moment, Harry thought she hadn’t heard McGonagall. But she turned towards him when he didn't move, smiling slightly. “Is something wrong, Harry?”

“No,” Harry said with a flush. He glanced towards Padma and Ron before he turned back to Luna. She was looking at him curiously. With a sigh, he said to Ron, “See you in a minute.” Luna gave a wave towards them as they walked past, the chattering crowd parting to let them through. Professor McGonagall, who was wearing dress robes of red tartan and had arranged a rather ugly wreath of thistles around the brim of her hat, told them to wait on one side of the doors while everyone else went inside; they were to enter the Great Hall in procession when the rest of the students had sat down. 

Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies stationed themselves nearest the doors; Davies looked so stunned by his good fortune in having Fleur for a partner that he could hardly take his eyes off her. 

Fred and Angelina were close to Harry too; both had matching grins on their faces. When Fred turned to look at Harry, he glanced towards Luna and raised an eyebrow at him. He looked ready to say something but stopped short when Angelina elbowed him. Harry, not wanting to give Fred a chance to berate his choice of date, looked away from them. 

("I wasn't going to say anything! Well, anything bad."

"Really?" Angelina said, voice dry.

Fred nodded the most sincerely he could. "Seriously. I didn't think Harry would get a date on time! I mean, look at the kid-"

Angelina elbowed him again).

His eyes fell instead on the girl next to Krum. His jaw dropped. It was Hermione. But she didn’t look like Hermione at all. She had done something with her hair; it was no longer bushy but sleek and shiny, and twisted up into an elegant knot at the back of her head. She was wearing robes made of a floaty, periwinkle-blue material, and she was holding herself differently. Nearby, Harry could briefly Angelina and Fred talking in low voices behind them.

("Damn, why didn't you wear that long of a robe to the ball?"

"Do I look like the type that would wear robes that long?"

"No, now that you mention it. Hm, since you won't, perhaps I should wear something similar."

"I think you'd look quite beautiful and bright pink dress-robe."

"You think so?"

"Yes, I'm sure. You'd look rather ravishing, Fred."

"Say, if I conjure up that sort of dress later tonight, do you think-"

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence").

Harry turned away before his innocence could be taken from him.

“Hi, Harry!” Hermione said as she approached them. She raised an eyebrow and glanced at Luna. “Hi Luna.”

Luna smiled at Hermione and said, “Hello…”

“Hermione,” Hermione said.

“Hermione,” Luna repeated the name on her tongue, looking curious. “Greek. Hermione was the daughter of King Menelaus of Sparta and Helen of Troy… How do you get along with Apollo?” 

“What?” Hermione asked, blinking at her with a twitch in her eye.

“Oh,” Luna said, looking slightly disappointed. “Nevermind then.”

Luna glanced away from Hermione, moving towards the Professors. Harry took the chance to look at some of the other people in the room: Fred hadn't been the only one gazing at Hermione in disbelief. When the doors to the Great Hall opened, Krum’s fan club from the library stalked past, throwing Hermione looks of deepest loathing. Pansy Parkinson gaped at her as she walked by with Malfoy, and even he didn’t seem to be able to find an insult to throw at her. Ron, however, walked right past Hermione without looking at her.

Once everyone else was settled in the Hall, Professor McGonagall told the champions and their partners to get in line in pairs and to follow her. They did so, and everyone in the Great Hall applauded as they entered and started walking up toward a large round table at the top of the Hall, where the judges were sitting.

The walls of the Hall had all been covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House tables had vanished; instead, there were about a hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, each seating about a dozen people.

Harry concentrated on not tripping over his feet as they began to dance. Luna seemed to be enjoying herself; she was beaming around at everybody but also looked like she was somewhere else. Harry felt like he was spinning, sluggishly following Luna’s dance move, which seemed to be different from what he remembered in McGonagall’s dancing lessons. Harry caught sight of Ron and Padma as he neared the top table. Ron was watching Hermione pass with narrowed eyes. Padma was looking sulky and was whispering to Pavarti. Dumbledore smiled happily as the champions approached the top table, but Karkaroff wore an expression remarkably like Ron’s as he watched Krum and Hermione draw nearer. 

But Mr. Crouch, Harry suddenly realized, was not there. Was he still ill? Surely, he would have recovered from the time of the first tournament, which was over a month ago. In fact, Nico had said that something was wrong when he was talking with Winky (which was the last time Harry saw the boy).

Harry felt itchy. Harry hadn’t asked Professor Phoebus about Nico's whereabouts, making him feel a bit guilty. The rational part of him knew Nico was probably fine, he was powerful back during the World Cup and could handle his own, but…

It's a bit rude not to notice someone's disappearance, right?

“Are you alright Harry?” Luna asked, bringing Harry from his thoughts. 

“Huh?” Harry asked.

“A Wrackspurt . . . They’re invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy,” Luba said. “They must have gotten to you.”

“Er, yes, they probably did,” Harry agreed, glancing back at the judges table. The fifth seat at the table was occupied by Percy Weasley again. When the champions and their partners reached the table, Percy drew out the empty chair beside him, staring pointedly at Harry.

Harry took the hint and sat down next to Percy, who was wearing brand-new, navy-blue dress robes. “Hello Percy,” Luna greeted with a smile and it took all of Harry’s willpower to not whip his head back to glance at Luna.

“Hello Luna,” Percy said with a small smile. “I’m glad to see that you and Ginny are still friends.”

Huh? Have I missed something? 

“Ginny and I have been hunting for some Nargles a couple weeks ago. We almost caught one,” Luna said conversationally. 

Harry waited for the moment Percy would shoot Luna down and tell her that the Nargles weren’t real, but he just said, “that’s very lovely, Luna.”

Harry tried his hardest to not look gob smacked. He didn't know if he succeeded.

Luna tilted her head to the side in consideration, taking a quick glance over Percy. What she saw, Harry didn't know. Finally, she said, “You look happier than usual, I see the energy around you burning.”

Percy, looking smug, said, “I’ve been promoted. I’m now Mr. Crouch’s undersecretary, and I’m here representing him.”

Harry frowned: he’s no follower on politics but he it sounded odd. “How’d you manage to do that so quickly?” Harry asked. It took a moment for Harry to realize he sounded rude but as he went to come up with an excuse, Percy had brushed him off: either not catching his tone - or was used to it. Harry couldn’t tell which was more depressing.

“I got some extra help…” Percy’s voice trailed on as Luna and Percy continued talking to one another. Harry left himself to his thoughts, watching the room carefully.

There was no food as of yet on the glittering golden plates, but small menus were lying in front of each of them. Harry picked his up uncertainly and looked around — there were no waiters. Dumbledore, however, looked carefully down at his own menu, then said very clearly to his plate, “Pork chops!”

And porkchops appeared. 

Getting the idea, the rest of the table placed their orders with their plates too. Harry glanced up at Hermione to see how she felt about this new and more complicated method of dining — surely it meant plenty of extra work for the house-elves? — but for once, Hermione didn’t seem to be thinking about S.P.E.W. She was deep in talk with Viktor Krum and hardly seemed to notice what she was eating.

When all the food had been consumed, Dumbledore stood up and asked the students to do the same. Then, with a wave of his wand, all the tables zoomed back along the walls leaving the floor clear, and then he conjured a raised platform into existence along the right wall. A set of drums, several guitars, a lute, a cello, and some bagpipes were set upon it.

The Weird Sisters now trooped up onto the stage to wildly enthusiastic applause; they were all extremely hairy and dressed in black robes that had been artfully ripped and torn. They picked up their instruments, and Harry, who had been so interested in watching them that he had almost forgotten what was coming, suddenly realized that the lanterns on all the other tables had gone out, and that the other champions and their partners were standing up.

“Oh, Harry, this is wonderful,” Luna said. Then, she glanced around and said, “We’re supposed to dance, I think.”

Harry tripped over his dress robes as he stood up. The Weird Sisters struck up a slow, mournful tune; Harry walked onto the brightly lit dance floor, carefully avoiding catching anyone’s eye (he could see Seamus and Dean waving at him), and next moment, Luna had clasped his hands and directed them to her waist and said, “let the music flow with you, Harry! The magic will show you…”

Harry was sure that magic would not be able to help him, but he followed what everyone was doing and revolved around the dancefloor with Luna. She was nice—and kind—and not as weird as people said she was, but Harry still felt unnerved. Perhaps it was because Harry didn’t want to be at the ball at all.

Harry kept his eyes fixed over the heads of the watching people, and very soon many of them too had come onto the dance floor, so that the champions were no longer the center of attention. Neville and Ginny were dancing nearby—he could see Ginny wincing frequently as Neville trod on her feet and when she glanced towards Harry and Ron, she gave Luna a thumbs up—and Dumbledore was waltzing with Madame Maxime. He was so dwarfed by her that the top of his pointed hat barely tickled her chin; however, she moved very gracefully for a woman so large. 

Harry heard the final, quavering note from the bagpipe with relief. The Weird Sisters stopped playing, applause filled the hall once more, and Harry led Luna off the dance floor. Together, they walked towards Nico, away from the dance floor, past Fred and Angelina, who were dancing so exhuberantly that people around them were backing away in fear of injury, and over to the table where Nico was sitting at.

“Hello, son of shadows,” Luna greeted Nico, who had drawn his eyebrows up in surprise. Harry almost did a double take—Nico was dressed completely differently than before. Though it did not surprise him in the slightest that he had not forgone a palette change. He wore a black dress robe that clung tight to his body, silver swirls of what Harry assumed to be shadows, plated all along his wait line and up the center of his torso before fanning out over his shoulders. His black hair was placed up into a bun, where Harry’s eyes caught sight of some strands hanging loose against his neck.

Harry had to admit Nico looked good—as good as Luna did. Maybe they could relate to each other's falling strands of hair and odd personalities, allowing Harry his escape back to his dorm for a good night's rest. Forcing his eyes away from Nico, he turned to Luna.

“Do you know him?” He asked, though he didn’t really have to. He could imagine them hanging out, especially with how quiet Luna is. Nico wouldn't be bothered at all befriending her.

Luna hummed quietly. “No, but I could sense his shadows.” Her eyes trailed down the chair that Nico was sitting at, eyes crinkling at the shadows lacing around the legs. “What’s your name?” Luna asked.

“Nico,” he said quietly, dark eyes narrowing onto Luna as she waved towards the shadows like they were pets.

“Very nice to meet you, Nico. I’m Luna, my-” She paused and glanced behind Harry, eyes narrowing slightly. Harry turned to try and follow her gaze but she was already brushing past them. She stopped just before hitting the dancefloor and turned back around.

“I’ll be back Harry, I’ve got someone to talk to,” Luna said, her voice soft.

Harry only nodded at her before she disappeared through the crowd, her blonde hair leaving his sight. And, just like that, his date was gone for the night. Maybe she had the same idea as me and took the chance to run. I'm not that great of a dancer, Harry thought.

“So much for that,” Harry sighed, falling onto the chair next to Nico, who shifted to the side to allow him some room. 

They sat there in silence for a couple of minutes, watching couples dance. “How has the past month been for you?” Harry asked suddenly, realizing it might be rude to not say something after not seeing Nico for a long time.

Nico looked up at Harry, eye’s flickering for a moment. He pursed his lips as if deciding on something before finally sighing, “I was back overseas.”

“What's it like?”

“Polluted.”

“Do you have any friends over there?”

“No.”

Harry turned to face Nico, who looked he might fade back into the shadows. Harry was trying to think of something else to say, something that might interest him, when, Hermione, face flushed, came to join them at the table. 

“Hello, Harry—Nico,” Hermione said with a smile.

“Hi.” Nico said it like he was on death row.

 “Well,” Hermione said, flushing at the awkwardness. “It’s hot, isn’t it? Viktor’s just gone to get some drinks.”

“Krum?” Harry asked, “how did you even get to go with him?” 

“Probably when she was in the library with us,” Nico said, taking a sip of water. “She kept on glancing at him almost every time he was there.”

Hermione flushed.

“She was?” Harry asked skeptically.

Nico rolled his eyes. “What's the use of eyes if you don’t use them?” 

Harry ignored him and glanced back at Hermione. “Really?” He asked.

“If you really want to know, he—he said he’d been coming up to the library every day to try and talk to me, but he hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage!” Hermione said this very quickly, and blushed so deeply that she was the same colour as Parvati’s robes.

“Hermione?” said a voice. Everyone turned and Nico seemed to sink deeper into his chair. Harry thought the only way to make Nico fully merge with his shadows now was to have Professor Phoebus appear (who had been strangely missing from the yule ball) and give Nico a haiku dedicated to him in front every attendee.

Harry glanced behind him and saw that Krum had just arrived at their table clutching two butterbeers. “Viktor!” Hermione said with smile. She seemed to notice that Nico was looking like he’d rather be elsewhere and took the newcomers arm, “Shall we find a quieter place to talk?" Viktor didn’t say no and the boys watched the couple leave.

“Made friends with Viktor Krum, have you, Harry?” Percy had bustled over, walking away from Luna and Ginny. Wait… when did Luna find herself over there?  She was on the other side of the room moments ago!  “Excellent! That’s the whole point, you know — international magical cooperation!”

To Harry’s displeasure, Percy now took the last empty spot. Harry glanced sideways to Nico, who’d he thought would be glaring at Percy, but was now leaning forward. “You were with Mr. Crouch at the wizarding cup,” Nico said, like it was a fact.

Percy, at the mention of his boss, turned towards Nico. His eyes scanned the boy, as if remembering him from August. “Yes, I’m his undersecretary—“ Percy began.

And Nico, as if catching onto a trail, started asking him questions about Mr. Crouch. Harry started looking around: the top table was now empty; Professor Dumbledore was dancing with Professor Sprout, Ludo Bagman with Professor McGonagall; Madame Maxime and Hagrid were cutting a wide path around the dance floor as they waltzed through the students, and Karkaroff was nowhere to be seen. When the next song ended, everybody applauded once more, and Harry saw Ludo Bagman kiss Professor McGonagall’s hand and make his way back through the crowds, at which point Fred and George accosted him. Angelina was left behind somewhere, giggling with Katie and Alicia.

“What do they think they’re doing, annoying a senior Ministry member?” Percy hissed, watching Fred and George suspiciously. “Especially since Fred is a Champion! They’re going to think Fred is bribing him…” Percy trailed off, looking quite worried. Ludo Bagman shook off Fred and George fairly quickly, however, and, spotting Harry, waved and came over to their table.

“I hope my brothers weren’t bothering you, Mr. Bagman?” said Percy at once.

And Harry’s attention is back to looking at the white spot on the table. Nico seemed to be listening in on the conversation though. After a bit, Nico looked back to Harry and raised an eyebrow. “Is the conversation boring you?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I wish I hadn’t gone in the first place.”

Nico’s lip twitched and said, “Have you seen Phoebus around?”

Harry shook his head, though he did find it odd. “No—not even once.”

Nico’s gaze shifted ever so slightly towards the door. He didn't say anything for a couple minutes, though his eyes were moving around the dancefloor. “Let’s go,” Nico suddenly said, already getting up.

“What?” Harry asked, but was already standing.

“I’m finding the Professor,” Nico said like it was obvious. And it probably was.

Harry agreed, if only to get away from Ludo Bagman and Percy. Pretending they wanted more drinks, Harry and Nico left the table, edged around the dance floor, and slipped out into the entrance hall. The front doors stood open, and the fluttering fairy lights in the rose garden winked and twinkled as they went down the front steps, where they found themselves surrounded by bushes; winding, ornamental paths; and large stone statues. Harry could hear splashing water, which sounded like a fountain. Here and there, people were sitting on carved benches. 

They walked through the castle, and Harry was relieved that Nico wasn’t pushing for conversation. Though, as they off along one of the winding paths through the rose bushes, Harry found himself asking Nico, “Did you know Professor Phoebus, back in America?”

Nico shrugged. “I guess, not really. My father worked with him.”

“Oh,” Harry said, kicking a stone across the field in front of them. “Why’d he decide to leave? Better work?”

Nico’s lip twitched. “Not exactly. The—my—ministry was in a tight position. If we were to lose, we’d be in shit, including the muggles. Professor Phoebus was a high-ranking person there, all of his family are.”

“Did they have to fire him or something? And he got angry because his family wouldn’t back him up?” Harry asked, rounding a corner.

Nico snorted. “It doesn’t really work that way, but, no. It was for something else. He just did something that the others didn’t like, or so I’ve been told.”

“By your father?” Harry asked, briefly.

“Yeah.”

Harry had wanted to say something, ask something else, when they heard an unpleasantly familiar voice. “. . . don’t see what there is to fuss about, Igor.”

Nico stopped and glanced towards the hedge—then to Harry.

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Karkaroff’s voice sounded anxious and hushed, as though keen not to be overheard. “It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it—”

“Then flee,” said Snape’s voice curtly. “Flee—I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.” Snape and Karkaroff came around the corner. Snape had his wand out and was blasting rosebushes apart, his expression most ill-natured. Squeals issued from many of the bushes, and dark shapes emerged from them.

“Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett!” Snape snarled as a girl ran past him. “And ten points from Hufflepuff too, Stebbins!” as a boy went rushing after her. 

“And what are you two doing here Mr. Potter?” He added, catching sight of Harry and Nico on the path ahead. Karkaroff, Harry saw, looked slightly discomposed to see them standing there. His hand went nervously to his goatee, and he began winding it around his finger.

Harry opened his mouth to argue, about to ask what are you running away from?

“Looking for Professor Phoebus,” Nico intervened, his voice cold.

“Do you think that man would want to be out here in the blithering cold?” Snape snapped, “Your mentor would probably rather die.”

Nico scowled, but he didn’t argue: Snape had a point. Harry couldn’t imagine Professor Phoebus walking out on the grounds in the frigid winter unless there was a wand pointed at his head.

“Run along,” Snape said shortly and he brushed past them, his long black cloak billowing out behind him. Karkaroff hurried away after Snape. 

“He seems lovely,” Nico said dryly, watching Snape’s outline disappear. It took a moment for Harry to realize that this was the very first time the two interacted.

Harry shrugged and said, “Yes. I can’t imagine why he’s on first name terms with Karkaroff.”

“They must have known each other from somewhere,” Nico mused, “It has something to do with what was appearing on him though.”

“Huh?” Harry asked—apparently, he hadn’t caught onto that. He was too busy wondering why the two of them were in the garden. They had reached a large stone reindeer now, over which they could see the sparkling jets of a tall fountain. The shadowy outlines of two enormous people were visible on a stone bench, watching the water in the moonlight. And then Harry heard Hagrid speak.

“Momen’ I saw yeh, I knew,” he was saying, in an oddly husky voice. Harry and Nico froze. This didn’t sound like the sort of scene they ought to walk in on, somehow. . . . Harry looked around, back up the path, and saw Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies standing half-concealed in a rosebush nearby. 

“Let’s go,” Nico whispered and Harry agreed, relieved he didn’t have to see the conversation that was about to happen.

They didn’t get very far. 

A hand appeared on Nico’s shoulder, who quickly spun around, his hand going to his waist. Harry hadn’t heard anyone approach—not even Nico. For a scary moment, he thought that Madam Maxime had seen them trying to escape.

“You did that on purpose,” Nico grumbled, stepping away as soon as he realized who it was.

Harry turned and almost sighed in relief. Professor Phoebus was in front of them, looking quite pleased with himself. He wore a black robe with a light golden-edged cloak behind him. He had a brass watch in his breast pocket and his hair was loose around his shoulders.

“Let’s get back to the party shall we? Luna was wondering where her date went,” Phoebus whispered, glancing sideways towards Rogers and Fleur, who both looked surprised that they were caught.

“How’d you know we were here?” Harry asked instead, still swallowing in the information Nico had given him earlier. 

“My Professor radar was going off,” Phoebus said with a smile. “Felt as though my students were sneaking around. Speaking of which, why were the two of you out here in the first place?”

Nico flushed, as if realizing exactly why they were outside in the first place. Luckily, Nico didn’t have a chance to respond.

“ ’Ow dare you!” shrieked Madame Maxime. Her voice exploded through the peaceful night air like a foghorn; behind the Professor, Harry heard Fleur and Roger fall out from their path in the shadow. “I ’ave nevair been more insulted in my life! ’Alf-giant? Moi? I ’ave—I ’ave big bones!”

“What happened?” Harry asked.

“A lovers coral, I reckon,” Professor Phoebus said with amusement. “And we better get moving before she comes and sees us. I don't fear many things, but a lady of that stature, I'd rather not meet.”

She stormed away; great multicolored swarms of fairies rose into the air as she passed, angrily pushing aside bushes. Harry decided to take Phoebus's advice: they began retreating towards the entrance hall. 

-

Harry and Nico returned to the Great Hall. Luna had taken up a table with Ron, who was watching Hermione dance with Krum again. Nico said goodbye to him before departing in the shadows, leaving Harry to find his way back to Ron and Luna himself.

“I got distracted,” Harry said to no one in particular. 

“It’s okay,” Luna said, “A Wrackspurt must have gotten in earlier…”

Ron gave Harry a pleading look and Harry said, “yes, well. I’m still completely tired.”

After explaining to Ron what happened, they spent the rest of the ball discussing Karkaroff, Nico, Hagrid and Madame Maxime with Luna sitting beside them, giving input when she found something interesting. The only Champions still dancing were Krum and Hermione (which Ron pointedly ignored), and Fred and Angelina, both looking like they could dance for another hour. It hurted Harry’s feet just watching them. When the Weird Sisters finished playing at midnight, everyone gave them a last, loud round of applause and started to wend their way into the entrance hall. Many people were expressing the wish that the ball could have gone on longer, but Harry was perfectly happy to be going to bed; as far as he was concerned, the evening hadn’t been much fun.

Out in the entrance hall, Harry and Ron saw Hermione saying good night to Krum before he went back to the Durmstrang ship. She gave Ron a very cold look and swept past him up the marble staircase without speaking. Harry went to ask Ron what he did to annoy Hermione, but halfway up the staircase, Harry heard someone calling him.

“Hey—Harry!” Harry turned and saw Fred—and further down, Angelina, who was waiting for him in the entrance hall below.

“Yeah?” said Harry, confused.

Fred raced up to follow him—but noticed Ron was there too. "What’s wrong with you? It looks like someone but a dungbomb under your pillow.”

Ron’s eyes widened, not catching onto the sarcasm. “Did you?” He demanded.

As if sensing that he could get Harry alone, Fred shrugged ominously. “Who knows—I did tell George where your dorm is. I just hope it’s the right bed.”

Ron blinked and immediately turned on his heel and sprinted up the stairs.

 “‘Ought to think he’s half dead or something,” Fred murmured, watching his brother leave. He then turned and glanced at Harry again, “Look… I’m doing this out of the good of my heart.”

Harry raised an eyebrow and Fred revised his wording. “My brother was a dunce to you and I can’t help but think of the pain you were in - being forced to hang out with that iron deficient kid and Hermione.”

Harry grinned slightly at the comment.

“Put the egg under water,” Fred said.

“What?” Harry asked, surprised by Fred’s straightforwardness. 

“You got something between your ear and brain too?” Fred asked, flinching at the way Angelina glared up at them.

“Come on!” Angelina shouted. “We don’t have all day!”

“Yeah, yeah…you take a girl out to dance once…” Fred grumbled.

Harry supposed Fred was lucky that Angelina was too far away to hear him.

“Use the perfect bathroom. Fourth door to the left of that statue of Boris the Bewildered on the fifth floor. I would say sneak in but it’s so loosely guarded that we didn’t even need a badge to get into. Anyway, Password’s ‘pine fresh.’ Don’t ask how I know that. Gotta go . . . want to say goodnight—” Fred hurried to finish as Angelina began walking up towards them.

He grinned at Harry again and hurried back down the stairs to meet Angelina.  Harry walked back to Gryffindor Tower alone. That had been extremely strange advice. Why would a bath help him to work out what the wailing egg meant? Was Fred pulling his leg? He wouldn’t put it past Fred—but he had told Ron to leave…

Fred and Angelina were long gone before Harry had a chance to realize that both of them were in the same house as Harry—and hadn't followed him up the tower.

Chapter Text

The next week went on quieter than Harry was used to—except for the fact when Rita Skeeter posted about Hagrid being a half-giant. Harry had been enraged—but there wasn’t anything he could do about it because he hasn’t seen Hagrid since the article came out.

Harry had muttered something about it during an Astronomy lesson, earning a questioning look from Professor Phoebus. “It doesn’t make sense, though,” Harry said, “Hagrid would never have told Rita if he never told us!”

“She could have been walking through the rose bushes,” the Professor said, “Madam Maxime wasn’t exactly loud.”

“It doesn’t give her the right to write that article though,” Harry snapped.

Professor Phoebus hadn’t responded—and walked away like he was in deep thought. Harry didn’t care—it was unfair.

Harry’s next step was to figure out what Fred meant about the egg, but he had given up. Harry was either too lazy to get to the Prefect washroom with the egg—or he was too nervous that Fred was trying to set him up.

His main focus for Hogsmeade was to try and find Hagrid.

Harry kept his eyes open for a sign of Hagrid all the way down the slushy High Street, and suggested a visit to the Three Broomsticks once he had ascertained that Hagrid was not in any of the shops. The pub was as crowded as ever, but one quick look around at all the tables told Harry that Hagrid wasn’t there. Heart sinking, he went up to the bar with Ron and Hermione, ordered three butterbeers from Madam Rosmerta, and thought gloomily that he might just as well have stayed behind and listened to the egg wailing.

“Doesn’t he ever go into the office?” Hermione whispered suddenly. “Look!” She pointed into the mirror behind the bar, and Harry saw Ludo Bagman reflected there, sitting in a shadowy corner with a bunch of goblins. Bagman was talking very fast in a low voice to the goblins, all of whom had their arms crossed and were looking rather menacing.

It was indeed odd, Harry thought, that Bagman was here at the Three Broomsticks on a weekend when there was no Triwizard event, and therefore no judging to be done. Nico had returned once since the Yule Ball, looking much healthier than before, and told Harry that he’d be busy with the ‘Crouch’ problem. If Nico thought that Mr. Crouch’s sickness was something he ought to be worried about…

Odd that Bagman is fine here and not… Harry thought. He watched Bagman in the mirror. He was looking strained again, quite as strained as he had that night in the forest before the Dark Mark had appeared.

But just then Bagman glanced over at the bar, saw Harry, and stood up.  “Harry!” he said. “How are you? Been hoping to run into you! Everything going all right?”

“Fine, thanks,” said Harry, trying not to sound awkward.

“Wonder if I could have a quick, private word, Harry?” said Bagman eagerly. “You couldn’t give us a moment, you two, could you?”

“Er—okay,” said Ron, and he and Hermione went off to find a table. Bagman led Harry along the bar to the end furthest from Madam Rosmerta. “Well, I just thought I’d congratulate you again on your

splendid performance against that Horntail, Harry,” said Bagman. “Really superb.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, but he knew this couldn’t be all that Bagman wanted to say, because he could have congratulated Harry in front of Ron and Hermione. Bagman didn’t seem in any particular rush to spill the beans, though. Harry saw him glance into the mirror over the bar at the goblins, who were all watching him and Harry in silence through their dark, slanting eyes.

“Absolute nightmare,” said Bagman to Harry in an undertone, noticing Harry watching the goblins too. “Their English isn’t too good . . .” The man continued on and on and Harry had the sneaking suspicion that he didn’t like the goblins too much.

“What do they want?” Harry said, noticing how the goblins were still watching Bagman very closely.

“Er — well . . .” said Bagman, looking suddenly nervous. “They . . . er . . . they’re looking for Barry Crouch.”

“Why are they looking for him here?” said Harry. “He’s at the Ministry in London, isn’t he? Just because Percy’s stepping in for him doesn’t mean—”

“Er . . . as a matter of fact, I’ve no idea where he is,” said Bagman. “He’s sort of . . . stopped coming to work. Been absent for a couple of weeks now. Young Percy, his assistant, says he’s ill. Apparently he’s just been sending instructions in by owl. But would you mind not mentioning that to anyone, Harry? Because Rita Skeeter’s still poking around everywhere she can, and I’m willing to bet she’d work up Barty’s illness into something sinister. Probably say he’s gone missing like Bertha Jorkins.”

If he has, Harry thought with short amusement, Nico would’ve been complaining right now about not finding him.

“Have you heard anything about Bertha Jorkins?” Harry asked instead.

“No,” said Bagman, looking strained again. “I’ve got people looking, of course . . .” (About time, thought Harry) “and it’s all very strange. She definitely arrived in Albania, because she met her second cousin there. And then she left the cousin’s house to go south and see an aunt . . . and she seems to have vanished without trace en route. Blowed if I can see where she’s got to . . . she doesn’t seem the type to elope, for instance . . . but still. . . . What are we doing, talking about goblins and Bertha Jorkins?”

Hm, Harry thought as Bagman began to change the topic, does that have something to do Mr. Crouch? Would Nico… “ I really wanted to ask you”—Bagmans lowered his voice—“how are you getting on with your golden egg?”

“Er . . . not bad,” Harry said untruthfully. Bagman seemed to know he wasn’t being honest.

The last thing Harry expected was to be given a clue.

“Well . . . well, yes,” said Bagman impatiently, “but—come on, Harry—we all want a Hogwarts victory, don’t we? Don’t you want a clue?”

“Have you offered Fred help?” Harry said.

The smallest of frowns creased Bagman’s smooth face, looking slightly nervous. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “I — well, like I say, I’ve taken a liking to you. Just thought I’d offer . . .”

“Well, thanks,” said Harry, suddenly feeling nervous, “but I think I’m nearly there with the egg . . . couple more days should crack it.”

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was refusing Bagman’s help, except that Bagman was almost a stranger to him, and accepting his assistance would feel somehow much more like cheating than asking advice from Ron, Hermione, or Sirius. And, I have a bad feeling about this. Why does he want me to win so much? Harry couldn’t remember what Nico had grumbled about, but it felt like it was something important.

Bagman looked almost affronted, but couldn’t say much more as Fred and George turned up at that point.

“Hello, Mr. Bagman,” said Fred brightly. “Can we buy you a drink? Think of it as an offering from a champion, if you will.”

“Er . . . no,” said Bagman, with a last disappointed glance at Harry, “no, thank you, boys . . .” Fred and George looked quite as disappointed as Bagman, who surveyed Harry as though he had let him down badly.

“Well, I must dash,” he said. “Nice seeing you all. Good luck, Harry.” He hurried out of the pub. The goblins all slid off their chairs and exited after him. 

“Well, watch his greasy ass go,” Fred grumbled as Harry slipped away from the boys to rejoin Ron and Hermione.

“What did he want?” Ron said, the moment Harry had sat down.

“He offered to help me with the golden egg,” said Harry.

“He shouldn’t be doing that!” said Hermione. “He’s one of the judges! And anyway, you’ve already worked it out—haven’t you?”

“Er . . . nearly,” said Harry, knowing that if Fred turned out to be right, he’d be cheating as well.

“Well, I don’t think Dumbledore would like it if he knew Bagman was trying to persuade you to cheat!” said Hermione, still looking deeply disapproving. “I hope he’s trying to help Fred as much!”

“Fred doesn’t need it,” Ron grumbled.

“He’s not, I asked,” said Harry.

Ron scowled, “seriously? That's utter bollocks.”

“You just said that Fred doesn’t need it,” Hermione said.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Ron shot back.

“Is little Ronnickins defending my honour?” Fred teased. All three of them jumped and turned, seeing Fred walk past them, George already halfway out the door.

“Don’t worry,” Fred said with a wink, “I feel the Gryffindor spirit side with me—I’ll dedicate my victory song to you Harry.”

“Sod off,” Ron complained.

“Is that any way to talk to your brother?” Fred asked in mock hurt.

“Leave us alone or I’ll say something worse,” Ron added.

Fred let out a laugh and disappeared through the doorway, leaving Ron to grumble.

“Those goblins didn’t look very friendly,” said Hermione after a moment, sipping her butterbeer. “What were they doing here?”

“Looking for Crouch, according to Bagman,” said Harry. “He’s still ill. Hasn’t been into work.”

“Maybe Percy’s poisoning him,” said Ron. “Probably thinks if Crouch snuffs it he’ll be made head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

Hermione gave Ron a don’t-joke-about-things-like-that look, and Harry said, “he did get a promotion out of it.”

Ron blinked and glanced towards him, asking, “How do you know that?”

“Er, long story, but was promoted to undersecretary,” Harry said.

“Maybe he really did poison him,” Ron said, “That’d be something interesting.”

“Well, Nico didn’t see it as suspicious,” Harry offered. “He was more interested in the fact that Percy might know something about Mr. Crouch.”

“Nico’s obsessed with Mr. Crouch too?” Ron complained, looking downright mortified. “What does Mr. Crouch have thats attracting people to him?”

Harry, hiding a smile behind his glass of butterbeer, said, “I think he’s more interested in the fact that he’s ill more than anything else.”

-

The incomprehensible egg weighed more heavily than ever on Harry’s conscience that evening, and by the time he had got into bed, he had made up his mind—it was time to shelve his nervousness and see if Fred’s hint was worth anything—or if he was just trying to mess with Harry.

On Thursday night, Harry sneaked up to bed, put on the cloak, crept back downstairs, and, just as he had done on the night when Hagrid had shown him the dragons, waited for the portrait hole to open. 

It was awkward moving under the cloak tonight, because Harry had the heavy egg under one arm and the map held in front of his nose with the other. However, the moonlit corridors were empty and silent, and by checking the map at strategic intervals, Harry was able to ensure that he wouldn’t run into anyone he wanted to avoid. 

When he reached the statue of Boris the Bewildered, a lost looking wizard with his gloves on the wrong hands, he located the right door, leaned close to it, and muttered the password, “Pine fresh,” just as Fred had told him.

The door creaked open.

Fred was right—it was embarrassingly easy to get into the washroom. Though, Harry supposed that no one would expect a student to sneak in during the middle of the night.

Harry slipped inside, bolted the door behind him, and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, looking around.

His immediate reaction was that it would be worth becoming a prefect just to be able to use this bathroom. It was softly lit by a splendid candle-filled chandelier, and everything was made of white marble, including what looked like an empty, rectangular swimming pool sunk into the middle of the floor.

Long white linen curtains hung at the windows; a large pile of fluffy white towels sat in a corner, and there was a single goldenframed painting on the wall. It featured a blonde mermaid who was fast asleep on a rock, her long hair over her face. It fluttered every time she snored.

Harry moved forward, looking around, his footsteps echoing off the walls. Magnificent though the bathroom was—and quite keen though he was to try out a few of those taps—now he was here he couldn’t quite suppress the feeling that Fred might have been having him on. How on earth was this supposed to help solve the mystery of the egg? Nevertheless, he put one of the fluffy towels, the cloak, the map, and the egg at the side of the swimming-poolsized bath, then knelt down and turned on a few of the taps.

Harry was utterly confused—what exactly could he do? He had brought swimming trunks with him, because Fred did mention something about swimming…

Harry turned off all the taps, pulled off his pajamas, slippers, and dressing gown, and slid into the water with his swimming trunks.

It was so deep that his feet barely touched the bottom, and he actually did a couple of lengths before swimming back to the side and treading water, staring at the egg. Highly enjoyable though it was

to swim in hot and foamy water with clouds of different-coloured steam wafting all around him, no stroke of brilliance came to him, no sudden burst of understanding.

Harry stretched out his arms, lifted the egg in his wet hands, and opened it. The wailing, screeching sound filled the bathroom, echoing and reverberating off the marble walls, but it sounded just as incomprehensible as ever, if not more so with all the echoes. He snapped it shut again, worried that the sound would attract Filch, wondering whether that hadn’t been Fred’s plan—it sounded like something he would do.

Someone coughed behind him and Harry whirled in his bubbly soaked water. Nico was leaning against one of the railings, his hair all tangled and still rubbing at his eyes. A ghost shimmered behind him, looking delighted.

“Nico,” Harry said, nearly dropping his egg to the ground. Then, he made eye contact with the ghost, “Myrtle!”

She giggled and waved at him as she twirled around Nico. “I told you he’d be here!”

“What?” Harry gasped.

She gave Harry a look and she sniffed, “I saw him with the egg. No doubt would’ve interrupted me all three floors down if he continued!” 

Harry blushed—not taking into consideration that ghosts would be able to hear him. “Er,” Nico said through a yawn, “You are wearing something underneath, right?” 

Harry flushed and said, “Yes. Fred did say to check the water.”

Nico’s eyes were trained on the mermaid still asleep, not looking anywhere else. “What exactly did he say?”

Harry quickly repeated what he remembered and Myrtle spun around. “I saw those two boys here earlier. They snuck in past Filchs nose to test it out. Made lots of noise, they did. Nearly made the Bloody baron—“

Nico raised a hand and she quietened immediately.  “Put it under the water. It’s probably the opposite of a siren.”

“A what?” Harry asked.

“Nevermind,” Nico grumbled. “Just put it under the water. I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night for this.”

Myrtle giggled and said, “You looked like you were having the unhappiest dream until I woke you up. Here I thought your kind liked not having dreams…” She trailed off and flew under the water, causing Harry to yelp, dropping the egg below the bubbles.

Nico sighed and finally met Harry’s gaze, his dark eyes flashing. Harry bit his lip to stop himself from asking what Myrtle meant by ‘your kind.’ Harry knew he’d get a vague answer if he asked, if anything at all. Besides, Harry could tell from his conversation with Nico at the Yule Ball that the boy in front of him didn’t like his life being pried into—and Harry was beginning to understand with the way Rita Skeeter was getting under his skin.

Myrtle reappeared again, and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t look.”

“Do you sneak up here in the evenings to watch the prefects take baths?”

“Sometimes,” said Myrtle, rather slyly, “but I’ve never come out to speak to anyone before.”

“I’m honoured,” said Harry darkly.

“She couldn’t try anything even if she wanted to,” Nico said helpfully.

Myrtle glanced at Nico sadly. “Hmph, do you know what it's like, haunting here? It gets very boring very fast! No one ever comes to visit me anymore…”

Her voice becomes muffled as Harry dipped beneath the surface of the water, not wanting to hear the conversation any longer.

Harry found the egg at the bottom of the pool and brought himself to the surface again and opened it . . . and this time, it did not wail. A gurgling song was coming out of it, a song whose words he couldn’t distinguish through the water.

“You need to put your head under too,” said Myrtle, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying bossing him around. “Go on!”

“If you drown, you’re on your own though. I’m not getting in there,” Nico said distastefully.

Harry ignored them both and took a great breath and slid under the surface—and now, sitting on the marble bottom of the bubble-filled bath, he heard a chorus of eerie voices singing to him from the open egg in his hands.

Harry let himself float back upward and broke the bubbly surface, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

“Did you hear anything?” Nico asked, who was crouching by the water.

“Yeah . . . ‘Come seek us where our voices sound . . .’ and if I need persuading . . . hang on, I need to listen again. . . .”

Nico wrinkled his nose.

Harry sank back beneath the water. It took three more underwater renditions of the egg’s song before Harry had it memorized; then Harry leaned back against the pool and looked up at the ceiling. The more Harry got ideas wrong, the more Nico seemed amused.

“I’ve got to go and look for people who can’t use their voices above the ground. . . .” he said slowly. “Er . . . who could that be?”

“Slow, aren’t you?” He had never seen Moaning Myrtle so cheerful, apart from the day when a dose of Polyjuice Potion had given Hermione the hairy face and tail of a cat. Harry stared around the bathroom, thinking . . . if the voices could only be heard underwater, then it made sense for them to belong to underwater creatures. 

He ran this theory past Myrtle and Nico. Nico raised a brow but didn’t comment—as if helping Harry would be against the rules. Myrtle didn’t think as much though.

“Well, that’s what those redheads thought,” she said. “He lay there talking to himself for ages about it. Ages and ages . . . nearly all the bubbles had gone. . . .”

“Underwater . . .” Harry said slowly. “Myrtle . . . what lives in the lake, apart from the giant squid?”

“Oh all sorts,” she said. “I sometimes go down there . . . sometimes don’t have any choice, if someone flushes my toilet when I’m not expecting it. . . .”

Harry couldn’t figure out why Nico was pointedly glancing towards the sleeping mermaid everytime they made eye contact until Harry said, “Well, does anything in there have a human voice? Hang on—”

Harry’s eyes had fallen on the picture of the snoozing mermaid on the wall, feeling pretty stupid. “There aren’t merpeople in there, are there?”

“Oooh, very good,” she said, her thick glasses twinkling, “it took those Weasleys much longer than that! And that was with her awake too” — Myrtle jerked her head toward the mermaid with an expression of great dislike on her glum face—“giggling and showing off and flashing her fins. . . .”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” said Harry excitedly. “The second task’s to go and find the merpeople in the lake and . . . and . . .”

But he suddenly realized what he was saying, and he felt the excitement drain out of him as though someone had just pulled a plug in his stomach. A couple of lengths of this bath were all very well, but that lake was very large, and very deep . . . and merpeople would surely live right at the bottom. . . .

“I’m sure that's not everything,” Nico offered, as if sensing Harry’s thoughts. “It wouldn’t be a fair competition if it was. I’m sure there’s spells that you could learn that would help you breathe underwater better.”

Harry sank on that thought, and the rest of the song came into his mind. “We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss,” Harry repeated out loud. “That sounds as though they were going to steal something of mine, something I have to get back… What were they going to take?”

Nico looked unamused at Harry and said, “What’s something that you miss Harry? I doubt they’re able to take valuables as it isn’t that much of an incentive to go swimming underwater, risking your life.”

Myrtle kept on pointing at herself, and then at Nico, and then floating through the floor in disappointment at the fact Harry wasn’t getting it. “Well, it looks like my brains isn’t needed anymore!” Myrtle hmed. 

“Goodbye,” Harry offered.

“Will you come and visit me in my bathroom again sometime?” Moaning Myrtle asked mournfully as Harry got out of the pool.

“Er . . . I’ll try,” Harry said, though privately thinking the only way he’d be visiting Myrtle’s bathroom again was if every other toilet in the castle got blocked. “See you, Myrtle . . . thanks for your help.”

“’Bye, ’bye,” she said and disappeared down through the floor.

Then, watching her disappear, Harry said, “It’s a person, isn’t it?” He glanced at Nico for confirmation.

Nico nodded. “Of course, why else would anyone go underwater?”

Harry privately thought Nico had to have something against water—he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, Harry asked, “Thank you, Nico.  And, uh, there’s a girl missing in the ministry. It might be related to the whole Crouch thing.”

Nico raised an eyebrow.

“Bertha Jinkins, she was last seen in Albania…” Harry trailed off, feeling more lost than ever. “...Visiting her family or something.”

Nico shuddered. “Of course it's Albania…”

Harry paused. “What’s wrong with Albania?”

Nico shook his head grimly, looking like he’s absolutely dreading it. “You don’t want to know… but I’ll look into it.” 

Surprisingly, he didn’t apparate away. Instead he turned around and began walking towards the door and stopped… as if waiting. Harry froze at the realization Nico was waiting for him to get out of the water. Hurriedly, he got to his feet and redressed himself, hobbling with the egg in his hand. Nico didn’t offer him any help.

“Here, I’ll cover us in shadows so you don’t have to worry—“ Nico began but stopped short as Harry disappeared under the invisibility cloak. Feeling quite smug, Harry tried his best to quietly approach the boy, a smile creeping on his lips.

Nico’s eyes trailed the bathroom, hand stilled along the wall. Harry waited until he was close to the boy to lift the cloak, realizing the shadows around Nico were beginning to reach out and explore—to find him. Nico’s eyebrows raised as Harry’s body came back into appearance through the air, grinning.

“What is it?” Nico asked, eyes lifting to where he looked to be holding something.

Harry grinned and said, “the invisibility cloak. Do you want to come under here? It’ll be quicker.”

“The what?” Nico asked, though he did sound a little bit impressed.

“It hides anyone underneath it,” Harry said, feeling his cheeks heart from grinning.

Nico looked at Harry for another moment before shaking his head. “I’ll be fine with the shadows,” he said. Harry shrugged—he had a feeling Nico wouldn’t join him: it’s to cramped of a spot for the boy in front of him. 

Just as Nico opened the door, a shadow slithered its way under Harry’s cloak, following him. 

-

Out in the dark corridor, Harry examined the Marauder’s Map to check that the coast was still clear. He showed the map to Nico, who was looking over it like it was some ancient artifact.

(“How’d you get it?”

Harry wouldn’t usually sell out the twins, but he felt like he could trust Nico. “Fred and George.”

Nico scowled and said, “of course its them.”)

Together, they looked over the map, finding Filch and Mrs. Norris safely away in their office. Nothing else seemed to be moving apart from Peeves, though he was bouncing around the trophy room on the floor above. “We don’t have to worry about him,” Nico said, watching Peeves form on the map.

Harry lifted his head to meet Nico’s eyes. He remembered the way Nearly Headless Nick was like back at the Feast, who seemed to be somewhat afraid of Nico. Harry opened his mouth, perhaps to ask about it, when Nico’s head snapped back down, his hand immediately touching down on another dot moving around on the paper.

A single dot was flitting around a room in the bottom left-hand corner—Snape’s office. But the dot wasn’t labelled “Severus Snape” . . . it was Bartemius Crouch.

Harry stared at the dot. Mr. Crouch was supposed to be too ill to go to work or to come to the Yule Ball—so what was he doing, sneaking into Hogwarts at one o’clock in the morning? Harry’s heart began to thunder in his ears—Nico’s personally investigating Crouch for a reason. And, Crouch had been ill since the first tournament, Percy taking his place…

Both of them looked up at one another, as if coming to the same conclusion. “Should we go there?” Harry asked quietly, like it were some big secret.

Nico didn’t say anything at first, his eyes trailing over the dot for another moment before nodding. Together, they crept down the hall, Nico sticking close to the walls, which forced Harry to the same. The problem occurred when they reached the stairs. Harry’s egg that he was carrying slipped from his hand and started rolling down the stairs. Both boys winced as the sound echoed through the castle and Harry even whitened to Nico’s complexion when Snape appeared. 

Eventually, Moody appeared—and drove Snape away. Nico had taken the chance during the ordeal to disappear to Snape’s office, leaving him with Moody, who had asked Harry to borrow the map from him. Walking back to the common room, he met Nico at the door to his dorm with a frown, letting him know that Crouch wasn’t in the office when he got there.

Less to say, Harry fell asleep quickly that night.

 -

“You said you’d already worked out that egg clue!” said Hermione indignantly.

“Keep your voice down!” said Harry crossly. “I just need to—sort of fine-tune it, all right?”

He, Ron, and Hermione were sitting at the very back of the Astronomy class with a table to themselves. They were supposed to be practising the moons of Jupiter and how it predicted the future. Everyone was focused on their work in group, as an open-book assignment was creeping up on them. Everyone had a model of Jupiter out in their seats with Professor Phoebus making sure no one was throwing any of the moons around.

“Just forget the egg for a minute, all right?” Harry hissed as Professor Phoebus shot an accio charm past them as one of the students shot a moon at another student. “I’m trying to tell you about Snape and Moody. . . .”

This class was an ideal cover for a private conversation, as everyone was having far too much fun to pay them any attention. Harry had been recounting his adventures of the previous night in whispered instalments for the last half hour, quietening down everytime Phoebus got too close.

“Snape said Moody’s searched his office as well?” Ron whispered, his eyes alight with interest as he banished a moon with a sweep of his wand (it soared into the air and knocked Parvati’s hat off).

“What . . . d’you reckon Moody’s here to keep an eye on Snape as well as Karkaroff?”

“Well, I dunno if that’s what Dumbledore asked him to do, but he’s definitely doing it,” said Harry, waving his wand without paying much attention, so that one of the moons was in orbit position with Jupiter.

“Moody said Dumbledore only lets Snape stay here because he’s giving him a second chance or something. . . .”

“What?” said Ron, his eyes widening, his nearest moon spinning high into the air, ricocheting off the chandelier, and dropping heavily onto Phoebus desk. The Professor shot them a dirty look as his coffee spilled all across his desk, causing Ron to duck behind the Jupiter model. “Harry . . . maybe Moody thinks Snape put your name in the Goblet of Fire!”

“Oh Ron,” said Hermione, shaking her head skeptically, “we thought Snape was trying to kill Harry before, and it turned out he was saving Harry’s life, remember?” Harry looked at Hermione, thinking . . . it was true that Snape had saved his life once, but the odd thing was, Snape definitely loathed him.

“I don’t care what Moody says,” Hermione went on. “Dumbledore’s not stupid. He was right to trust Hagrid and Professor Lupin, even though loads of people wouldn’t have given them jobs, so why shouldn’t he be right about Snape, even if Snape is a bit—”

“—evil,” said Ron promptly. “Come on, Hermione, why are all these Dark wizard catchers searching his office, then?”

“Nico hasn’t said anything about Snape,” Hermione said.

“That’s because they haven’t interacted with one another,” Ron grumbled.

“He has. ‘Said that Snape seemed absolutely lovely,” Harry said darkly. “Wait, speaking of that… Nico went to his office when Crouch was walking around, but Crouch was gone by then.”

“What?” Ron demanded. “Nico’s the sneakiest bloke I’ve ever met and wasn’t able to catch Crouch, an old man?”

Harry hesitated. “He said so…”

“Why has Mr. Crouch been pretending to be ill then?” said Hermione. “It’s a bit funny, isn’t it, that he can’t manage to come to the Yule Ball, but he can get up here in the middle of the night when he wants to?”

“You just don’t like Crouch because of that elf, Winky,” said Ron, finally managing to get one of the moons to snap onto the model but inadvertently sending another moon off course.

“You just want to think Snape’s up to something,” said Hermione, sending the lost moon back into place. “Nico said that Crouch was suspicious as well! He’s looking into it apparently…”

“Why does Nico get to have time off class if we aren’t?” Ron grumbled.

“Because he can’t perform normal magic like the rest of us! He has to use magic somehow. And being out on the field definitely helps him if he uses his shadows to be a detective of some sort,” Hermion said with a tone that left the boys shunned into silence.

Obedient to Sirius’s wish of hearing about anything odd at Hogwarts, Harry sent him a letter by brown owl later that night, explaining all about Mr. Crouch breaking into Snape’s office, and Moody and Snape’s conversation. Then Harry turned his attention in earnest to the most urgent problem facing him: how to survive underwater for an hour on the twenty-fourth of February.

Harry didn’t mention anything to Ron or Hermione about having to save someone close to him. Though when Harry discussed everything to Ron and Hermione, he privately wondered if he was going to have to rescue them as well.

“Of course, the ideal solution would be for you to Transfigure yourself into a submarine or something,” Hermione said. “If only we’d done human Transfiguration already! But I don’t think we start that until sixth year, and it can go badly wrong if you don’t know what you’re doing. . . .”

“Yeah, I don’t fancy walking around with a periscope sticking out of my head,” said Harry. “I s’pose I could always attack someone in front of Moody; he might do it for me. . . .”

“I don’t think he’d let you choose what you wanted to be turned into, though,” said Hermione seriously. “No, I think your best chance is some sort of charm.”

Which Nico had suggested, Harry realized gloomily. Harry hadn’t had a chance to talk with Nico yet—though Harry hasn’t tried contacting him. He didn’t want to start relying on the boy, but everytime he came around, he was always helpful—and nice to hang out around.

But he didn’t want to disturb him.

So Harry, thinking that he would soon have had enough of the library to last him a lifetime, buried himself once more among the dusty volumes, looking for any spell that might enable a human to survive without oxygen, that didn’t include Professor Phoebus waterboarding him. The only difference now was that Nico was no longer here to join them in their search.

However, though he, Ron, and Hermione searched through their lunchtimes, evenings, and whole weekends—though Harry asked Professor McGonagall for a note of permission to use the Restricted Section, and even asked the irritable, vulture-like librarian, Madam Pince, for help—they found nothing whatsoever that would enable Harry to spend an hour underwater and live to tell the tale.

Familiar flutterings of panic were starting to disturb Harry now, and he was finding it difficult to concentrate in class again. The lake, which Harry had always taken for granted as just another feature of the grounds, drew his eyes whenever he was near a classroom window, a great, iron-gray mass of chilly water, whose dark and icy depths were starting to seem as distant as the moon.

Just as it had before he faced the Horntail, time was slipping away as though somebody had bewitched the clocks to go extra fast. There was a week to go before February the twenty-fourth ( there was still time ) . . . there were five days to go (he was bound to find something soon) . . . three days to go ( please let me find something . . . please) . . .

With two days left, Harry started to go off food again. The only good thing about breakfast on Monday was the return of the brown owl he had sent to Sirius. It gave him an idea. Harry privately wonders if outside ideas could help—he went to Hedwig and had him deliver a message to Nico. He wouldn’t hinder Nico any, if at all, with a message from him. He gave a simple question: Do you know of any charms that could help me breathe underwater? Hedwig disappeared into the night, leaving Harry looking out at Hogwarts field.

By the evening before the second task, Harry felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare. He was fully aware that even if, by some miracle, he managed to find a suitable spell, he’d have a real job mastering it overnight. 

He sat with Hermione and Ron in the library as the sun set outside, tearing feverishly through page after page of spells, hidden from one another by the massive piles of books on the desk in front of each of them. They discussed in silence, but nothing gave way.

“Oh this is no use,” Hermione said, snapping shut Weird Wizarding Dilemmas after wondering if an Animgus would have been a better idea. “Who on earth wants to make their nose hair grow into ringlets?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Fred Weasley’s voice. “‘Reckon it’d be a talking point, wouldn’t it?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked up. Fred and Lee Jordan had just emerged from behind some bookshelves.

“What’re you two doing here?” Ron asked. “Where’s George?”

“Looking for you,” said Fred. “McGonagall wants you, Ron. And you, Hermione.”

“Why?” said Hermione, looking surprised.

“Dunno . . . she was looking a bit grim, though," Lee said with a shrug.

“We’re supposed to take you down to her office,” said Fred. “George is already in trouble because of a prank she found out about… somehow I got off of it. Don’t want to piss her off anymore…”

Ron and Hermione stared at Harry, who felt his stomach drop. Was Professor McGonagall about to tell Ron and Hermione off? Perhaps she’d noticed how much they were helping him, when he ought to be working out how to do the task alone?

Something else is off, Harry thought. I can’t just figure it out right now.

“We’ll meet you back in the common room,” Hermione told Harry as she got up to go with Ron—both of them looked very anxious. “Bring as many of these books as you can, okay?”

“Right,” said Harry uneasily.

By eight o’clock, Madam Pince had extinguished all the lamps and came to chivvy Harry out of the library. Staggering under the weight of as many books as he could carry, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room, pulled a table into a corner, and continued to search. There was nothing in Madcap Magic for Wacky, nothing in basically anything. 

Crookshanks crawled into Harry’s lap and curled up, purring deeply. The common room emptied slowly around Harry. People kept wishing him luck for the next morning in cheery, confident voices like Hagrid’s, all of them apparently convinced that he was about to pull off another stunning performance like the one he had managed in the first task. Harry couldn’t answer them, he just nodded, feeling as though there were a golfball stuck in his throat. By ten to midnight, he was alone in the room with Crookshanks. He had searched all the remaining books, and Ron and Hermione had not come back.

It’s over, he told himself. You can’t do it. You’ll just have to go down to the lake in the morning and tell the judges. . . . He imagined himself explaining that he couldn’t do the task.

Forgetting that Crookshanks was on his lap, Harry stood up very suddenly; Crookshanks hissed angrily as he landed on the floor, gave Harry a disgusted look, and stalked away. He had to keep studying.

“Lumos,” Harry whispered fifteen minutes later as he opened the library door.

Wand tip alight, he crept along the bookshelves, pulling down more books—books of hexes and charms, books on merpeople and water monsters, books on famous witches and wizards, on magical inventions, on anything at all that might include one passing reference to underwater survival. He carried them over to a table, then set to work, searching them by the narrow beam of his wand, occasionally checking his watch. . . . One in the morning . . . two in the morning . . . the only way he could keep going was to tell himself, over and over again, next book . . . in the next one . . . the next one . . .

The mermaid in the painting in the prefects’ bathroom was laughing. Harry was bobbing like a cork in bubbly water next to her rock, while she held his Firebolt over his head. “Come and get it!” she giggled maliciously. “Come on, jump!”

Somebody kicked him and Harry jumped up in fright, finding himself still in the library, an invisibility cloak on the floor behind him. Harry gulped: he’d rather not be found by Madam Pince like this. “Huh…?” Harry wondered quietly, blinking wearily.

“Get up,” a voice hissed at him. Harry blinked and felt more than saw Nico dragging him out of his chair. 

“Hey,” Harry started, scrambling to his feet “What are you doing?” He spun around to face Nico but stopped short: Nico’s lip was busted and had dried blood matted to his hair. “Nico,” Harry started, “What—“ 

Nico rolled his eyes like it was a normal occurrence and pushed Harry forward. “Worry about yourself. The tournament starts in ten minutes.”

“But—” Harry began, not really registering what Nico said because there is blood on his face. And Nico didn’t seem to care one bit!

Nico levelled him a look and said, “you fell asleep. You need to go.”

“Ten minutes?” Harry croaked, finally realizing what's going on. “Ten—ten minutes?”

He looked down at his watch. Harry was right. It was twenty past nine. A large, dead weight seemed to fall through Harry’s chest into his stomach.

“Are you slow? Everyone is down there. You’re lucky that I read your message in time…” Nico grumbled off.

“It’s too late,” Harry said hopelessly. “I’m not doing the task, I don’t know how—” 

Nico glared at him, cutting him off short. “Do you not know the spelling yet?” He demanded. “Professor Phoebus was teaching you that right before the ball. By the gods, did you forget?”

Harry could feel the waves of disappointment coming off the boy. But—it made Harry realize what Nico was talking about. “Shit,” Harry realized. “Oh, yes, oh my god, I completely forgot!” If Harry considered Nico a less-spikey person, Harry would have hugged the life out of him.

“Thank you! I’ve got to go!” Harry turned on his heel and began running out of the library. Professor Phoebus had taught Harry in his extra lessons about drowning and—

Harry mentally facepalmed. And here he was, thinking that the Professor was trying to torture him. It was a spell to extend the duration of Oxygen in his lungs. Harry dunked his head under the water enough times to realize what Nico was talking about. 

“You do realize who they took, right?” Nico asked, appearing from the shadows beside Harry as he descended the stairs.

Ah, that's what's bugging me, Harry realized. He knew something was off when Hermione and Ron didn’t return—and that Fred got off the hook and not George. “Ron,” Harry realized. “And Hermione.”

Harry froze. “But—two people?” 

Nico didn’t say anything for a moment. “Just Ron for you,” Nico said.

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

Nico didn’t answer and disappeared into the shadows again, leaving Harry racing through the castle.

The entrance hall contained a few last-minute stragglers, all leaving the Great Hall after breakfast and heading through the double oak doors to watch the second task. They stared as Harry flashed past, sending Colin and Dennis Creevey flying as he leapt down the stone steps and out onto the bright, chilly grounds.

As he pounded down the lawn he saw that the seats that had encircled the dragons’ enclosure in November were now ranged along the opposite bank, rising in stands that were packed to the bursting point and reflected in the lake below. The excited babble of the crowd echoed strangely across the water as Harry ran flat-out around the other side of the lake toward the judges, who were sitting at another gold-draped table at the water’s edge.

Fred—looking rather bemused—Fleur, and Krum were beside the judges’ table, watching Harry sprint toward them. “I’m . . . here . . .” Harry panted, skidding to a halt in the mud and accidentally splattering Fleur’s robes.

“Where have you been?” said a bossy, disapproving voice. “The task’s about to start!” Harry looked around. Percy Weasley, who was casting a nervous glance towards the water, was sitting at the judges’ table—Mr. Crouch had failed to turn up again.

“Now, now, Percy!” said Ludo Bagman, who was looking intensely relieved to see Harry. “Let him catch his breath!” Percy levelled Bagman with a glare that could rival his mothers. Harry realized it was probably because the judges knew what was taken from the wizards: having two brothers underwater that could drown if not rescued probably did nothing for his nerves. 

Dumbledore smiled at Harry, but Karkaroff and Madame Maxime didn’t look at all pleased to see him. . . . It was obvious from the looks on their faces that they had thought he wasn’t going to turn up.

Harry bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath; he had a stitch in his side that felt as though he had a knife between his ribs, but there was no time to get rid of it; Ludo Bagman was now moving among the champions, spacing them along the bank at intervals of ten feet. Harry was on the very end of the line, next to Krum, who was wearing swimming trunks and was holding his wand ready.

“All right, Harry?” Bagman whispered as he moved Harry a few feet farther away from Krum. “Know what you’re going to do?”

“Yeah,” Harry panted, massaging his ribs.

Bagman gave Harry’s shoulder a quick squeeze and returned to the judges’ table; he pointed his wand at his throat as he had done at the World Cup, said, “Sonorus!” and his voice boomed out across the dark water toward the stands.

“Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them. On the count of three, then. One . . . two . . . three!”

The whistle echoed shrilly in the cold, still air; the stands erupted with cheers and applause; without looking to see what the other champions were doing, Harry pulled off his shoes and socks, and waded out into the lake.

It was so cold he felt the skin on his legs searing as though this were fire, not icy water. His sodden robes weighed him down as he walked in deeper; now the water was over his knees, and his rapidly numbing feet were slipping over silt and flat, slimy stones. Waist-deep in the freezing water he stopped, and glanced down at the water for a moment, taking a soft breath like Phoebus had instructed.

He could hear laughter in the crowd and knew he must look stupid, but with one final glance at the above ground, Harry quickly muttered the spell Phoebus told him and felt his lungs expand. Don’t take a big gulp, Phoebus instructed, it’ll only make the spell work harder. 

And Harry disappeared under the water, repeating the mantra that Professor Phoebus taught him.

-

Apollo had been in the middle of what he considered a rather peaceful morning. The Astronomy Tower was one of the few places at Hogwarts where he could enjoy a bit of silence, a luxury that he had learned to cherish amidst the chaos of teaching teenagers. The sun sparkled above him, and for a brief moment, he could almost pretend he was back on Olympus, where life had been simpler—less mud, fewer enchanted staircases, and certainly no enchanted ceiling leaks.

The soft sound of footsteps disrupted his reverie, followed by a clumsy stumble. Ah yes, todays the second tournament, right? I suppose I should be down there. Apollo’s head turned, a sigh forming on his lips even before he saw who it was.

Nico di Angelo.

The demigod practically collapsed through the doorway, his dark clothes torn and bloodied. His lip was split, blood matting his hair, and there was an unmistakable slash across his abdomen, poorly bandaged, as though Nico had decided to take matters into his own hands. Which, to Apollo's eyes, meant he had basically done nothing about it at all.

“Really, kid?” Apollo sighed, though there was a sharpness to his voice as he approached Nico. “Do you have any idea how difficult bloodstains are to clean off of these stone floors? At least bleed somewhere else.” Because, really, the hospital wing is much better than up here…

Nico shot him a glare, but the boy looked too exhausted to manage anything more than that. He was clutching his side, trying to keep pressure on the wound. The amount of blood was concerning, but Apollo wasn’t about to show it. His mind was already racing, half-jumbled with thoughts of irritation and concern. 

He watched Nico nearly fall into a table—which was sickeningly familiar to how Apollo fell into the tent (he shuddered at the memory). Apollo’s lip curled up in disgust and followed Nico to the back of the room. “Sit down before you pass out, will you? I’m not going to pick you up if you faint.” 

Nico didn’t argue, sinking to the floor with a grunt, his back against the cool stone. Apollo’s eyes flicked over him, noticing the bruises and scrapes he hadn’t caught at first glance. His gut clenched, though he forced a nonchalant expression as he summoned a strip of cloth. It put a strain on his magic, but he wasn’t about to rip apart some of his own clothes just because a demi-god was bleeding. It wasn’t like he hadn’t dealt with worse injuries before—he was a god, after all. This was nothing.

“Nice job, by the way,” Nico muttered, his voice hoarse and edged with sarcasm. The nerve of this kid! He’s dying and he’s still trying to fight with me? What has Hades been teaching him? I might as well leave him here to die… “Harry’s really thriving after your brilliant lessons. Maybe next time, teach him to actually pay attention when you speak.”

Apollo shot Nico a sharp look, his eyes narrowing. “You’re welcome, by the way. And it’s not my fault Potter has the survival instincts of a sea sponge. I’ve taught him plenty.”

Nico winced as Apollo pressed the cloth against his wound, cleaning the grime away so he could have a good look at it. The demigod looked worse up close. The blood loss was clearly taking its toll, and despite the irritation that simmered under Apollo’s skin, a thread of worry wove through his thoughts. Well, I wouldn’t want Hades on my ass about this. Apollo pressed his palm to Nico’s chest, forcing his magic to seep under the boy’s skin—wizarding magic wouldn’t work here unfortunately. 

“What were you doing, anyway?” Apollo asked, his tone still clipped, but a note of genuine curiosity creeping in. “You’re a child of the Big Three. You’re supposed to be here, not—” He gestured vaguely at Nico’s injured state, “—whatever it is you’ve been doing.”

Nico avoided his gaze, which was all the confirmation Apollo needed that the boy had been up to something dangerous.

“None of your business,” Nico grumbled.

Irritation cut into him and he snaked a hand out to grab Nico’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Actually, it is. You show up bleeding all over my perfectly good floor, you make it my business.”

Nico pried his jaw away, his jaw clenched, but eventually, he muttered, “I was creeping around… near Tartarus.”

For a moment, Apollo froze. His mind, which had been scattershot with irritation, a complaint to Hades, and bandages, sharpened into a focused point of alarm. Tartarus. Nico had been near the entrance to Tartarus. Apollo’s pulse quickened—though not out of fear for Nico’s sake, of course. That would be ridiculous.

“You what?” Apollo’s voice had an edge now, a dangerous one that even Nico seemed to notice, because he flinched.

“I needed to,” Nico said, voice defiant despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “It’s not like anyone else can handle it.” This kid is going to give me white hair! Maybe that’s why Hades handed him off to me…

“What exactly were you handling, Di Angelo?” Apollo demanded, his voice lowering. “You’re supposed to be here, keeping yourself alive—not wandering near the edge of eternal doom. Are you out of your mind?”

Nico didn’t respond at first, his jaw tightening as if he were holding something back. Apollo’s anger simmered, not just at the sheer recklessness of the boy’s actions, but at how casually he brushed it off, as though nearly killing himself was just another part of his day. Apollo lifted his hand away from Nico when his magic returned to him, knowing if he stayed any longer, he would have incinerated the kid.

“Look, it’s not like I had much of a choice,” Nico finally muttered, his dark eyes flashing with something Apollo recognized as guilt. “I wasn’t going to let it happen again.”

Apollo’s brow furrowed. “Let what happen again?”

Nico stared at the floor, his expression hardening. “You wouldn’t understand since you’re not there.”

The anger that had surged in him moments ago began to ebb, replaced by a gnawing feeling of concern—something he didn’t particularly enjoy experiencing. He was supposed to be the god of light, prophecy, and healing, not the god of fretting over reckless teenagers who didn’t know how to keep themselves out of danger. But also—what was going on over there that made Nico explore Tarturas? Couldn’t Hades do it? It didn’t amuse Apollo one bit.

“Tartarus is not somewhere you just go poking around,” Apollo said, his tone still firm but less biting now. “You’re supposed to be here, with me, with the others. There’s a reason you’re at Hogwarts, Nico.”

Nico didn’t answer, his gaze distant, as though the conversation had shifted somewhere Apollo couldn’t reach. And that… that unsettled Apollo more than he cared to admit. He sat back on his heels, eyes flicking over Nico’s injuries again. I did a good job, even with my power…

Apollo cut himself off and got to his feet. “Next time, make sure Hades sends an immortal to do the important job, yeah?”

Nico raised an eyebrow as he got to his feet, his cheeks a light shade of red, as if embarrassed that he had to go to him for help. “That never stopped you or any gods before. Less work, right?” Nico said darkly.

Apollo narrowed his eyes on the kid. I would never! Er, Unless he’s referencing that one time I had to get those two heroes to… or… eh… maybe he’s right. Apollo stamped down the guilt rising in his chest to look back at Nico, but he was gone, leaving Apollo in his own thoughts.

-

At first, Harry thought that the spell also had an additional warmth to it, but Harry looked down to see a soft shine to his legs, like they were glowing.

It must have come from the spell, Harry thought, or it wouldn’t have appeared. Harry did an experimental kick and found himself a few feet deeper than before: the shine around his body seemed to give him extra strength as well. 

Harry glanced around. He had soon swum so far into the lake that he could no longer see the bottom. He flipped over and dived into its depths. Harry took a deep breath and shot off into the water, struggling through creatures for a good ten minutes until a voice broke Harry free from his thoughts.  “How are you getting on?”

Harry thought he was having a heart attack. He whipped around and saw Moaning Myrtle floating hazily in front of him, gazing at him through her thick, pearly glasses. “Myrtle!” Harry tried to shout—but nothing came out of his mouth but a very large bubble. Moaning Myrtle actually giggled.

“It looks like you got his blessing,” Myrtle said, looking less gloomy than usual. “And I thought it was rare.” She glanced behind her for a moment before glancing back at Harry.

“You want to try over there!” she said, pointing. “I won’t come with you. . . . I don’t like them much, they always chase me when I get too close. . . .”

Harry gave her the thumbs-up to show his thanks and set off once more, deciding that Myrtle had gone nuts by the phrase ‘blessing’ and carefully began swimming a bit higher over the weed to avoid any more grindylows that might be lurking there. Eventually he came across a structure that looked like lines of buildings. A whole crowd of merpeople was floating in front of the houses that lined what looked like a mer-version of a village square. 

A choir of merpeople was singing in the middle, calling the champions toward them, and behind them rose a crude sort of statue; a gigantic merperson hewn from a boulder. Four people were bound tightly to the tail of the stone merperson.

Harry would hold his breath if he wasn’t currently doing so.

Ron was tied between Hermione and George. There was also a girl who looked no older than eight, whose clouds of silvery hair made Harry feel sure that she was Fleur Delacour’s sister. All four of them appeared to be in a very deep sleep. Their heads were lolling onto their shoulders, and fine streams of bubbles kept issuing from their mouths.

Harry sped toward the hostages, half expecting the merpeople to lower their spears and charge at him, but they did nothing. The ropes of weed tying the hostages to the statue were thick, slimy, and very strong. He looked around. Many of the merpeople surrounding them were carrying spears. He swam swiftly toward a seven-foot-tall merman with a long green beard and a choker of shark fangs and tried to mime a request to borrow the spear. The merman laughed and shook his head.

Harry swirled around, staring about. There were rocks littering the lake bottom. He dived and snatched up a particularly jagged one and returned to the statue. He began to hack at the ropes binding Ron, and after several minutes’ hard work, they broke apart. Ron floated, unconscious, a few inches above the lake bottom, drifting a little in the ebb of the water.

Harry looked around. There was no sign of any of the other champions. What were they playing at? Why didn’t they hurry up? Harry glanced sideways at George, wondering if Fred would have it out for him if Harry didn’t try rescuing his brother. Harry glanced towards Hermione, raised the jagged rock, and began to hack at her bindings too—

At once, several pairs of strong gray hands seized him. Half a dozen mermen were pulling him away from Hermione, shaking their green-haired heads, and laughing.

“You take your own hostage,” one of them said to him. “Leave the others . . .”

Harry shook his  head furiously, hoping to convey his outrage. 

“Your task is to retrieve your own friend . . . leave the others . . . you cannot continue, even with his blessing…”

“She’s my friend too!” Harry yelled in his head, gesturing toward Hermione. Harry mimed die, friends, no, towards the fish, hoping they would get the memo.

George, who’d probably be smiling right now, was slumped over, hair floating. The small silver-haired girl was ghostly green and pale. Harry struggled to fight off the mermen, but they laughed harder than ever, holding him back.

Harry looked wildly around. Where were the other champions? Would he have time to take Ron to the surface and come back down for Hermione and the others? Would he be able to find them again? Surely Fred would have more than enough motivation to try and find his brother…

He looked down at his watch to see how much time was left—it had stopped working. But then the merpeople around him pointed excitedly over his head. Harry looked up and saw Fred swimming toward them, much to Harry’s relief.

There was an enormous bubble around his head, which made his features look oddly wide and stretched. He glanced at Harry and the standoff he was having with the merman. He shot Harry a thankful look and mouthed, “Get going! Fleur and Krum’re coming now!”

Feeling enormously relieved, Harry watched Fred pull a knife out of his pocket and cut George free. He caught his twin in his arms and pulled him upward and out of sight. Harry looked around, waiting. Where were Fleur and Krum?

Time was getting short, and according to the song, the hostages would be lost after an hour. . . . 

Eventually, Krum came and retrieved Hermione, but there wasn’t any sign of Fleur.  He snatched up the stone, which Krum had dropped, but the mermen now closed in around Ron and the little girl, shaking their heads at him. Harry pulled out his wand. “Get out of the way!”

Only bubbles flew out of his mouth, but he had the distinct impression that the mermen had understood him, because they suddenly stopped laughing. Their yellowish eyes were fixed upon Harry’s wand, and they looked scared. There might be a lot more of them than there were of him, but Harry could tell, by the looks on their faces, that they knew no more magic than the giant squid did. And whatever ‘blessing’ Harry had, seemed to keep the merman nervous as well.

“You’ve got until three!” Harry shouted; a great stream of bubbles burst from him, but he held up three fingers to make sure they got the message. They scattered.

Harry darted forward and began to hack at the ropes binding the small girl to the statue, and at last she was free. He seized the little girl around the waist, grabbed the neck of Ron’s robes, and kicked off from the bottom.

-

Harry broke the surface of the lake just as his oxygen ran out. Wonderful, cold, clear air was making his wet face sting; he gulped it down, feeling as though he had never breathed properly before, and, panting, pulled Ron and the little girl up with him. All around him, wild, green-haired heads were emerging out of the water with him, but they were smiling at him.

The crowd in the stands was making a great deal of noise; shouting and screaming, they all seemed to be on their feet; Harry had the impression they thought that Ron and the little girl might be dead, but they were wrong . . . both of them had opened their eyes; the girl looked scared and confused, but Ron merely expelled a great spout of water, blinked in the bright light, turned to Harry, and said, “Wet, this, isn’t it?” 

Then he spotted Fleur’s sister. “What did you bring her for?”

“Fleur didn’t turn up, I couldn’t leave her,” Harry panted.

“Harry, you prat,” said Ron, “you didn’t take that song thing seriously, did you? Dumbledore wouldn’t have let any of us drown!”

“The song said—”

“It was only to make sure you got back inside the time limit!” said Ron. “I hope you didn’t waste time down there acting the hero!”

“C’mon,” Harry said shortly, “help me with her, I don’t think she can swim very well.” They pulled Fleur’s sister through the water, back toward the bank where the judges stood watching, twenty merpeople accompanying them like a guard of honour, singing their horrible screechy songs. Harry could see Madam Pomfrey fussing over Hermione, Krum, Fred, and George, all of whom were wrapped in thick blankets. Percy, who looked very white and somehow much younger than usual, hovered near the twins similar to how his mother would. 

Dumbledore and Ludo Bagman stood beaming at Harry and Ron from the bank as they swam nearer, but Percy, who turned as they were getting out, came splashing out to meet them. Meanwhile Madame Maxime was trying to restrain Fleur Delacour, who was quite hysterical, fighting tooth and nail to return to the water.

Percy seized Ron and was dragging him back to the bank (“Gerroff, Percy, I’m all right!”), bringing him back to the other Weasleys, where George kicked him lightly for looking like a fish out of water.

“Come here, you,” said Madam Pomfrey. She seized Harry and pulled him over to Hermione and the others, wrapped him so tightly in a blanket that he felt as though he were in a straitjacket, and forced a measure of very hot potion down his throat. Steam gushed out of his ears.

“Harry, well done!” Hermione cried. “You did it, you found out how all by yourself!”

“Well —” said Harry. He would have told her about Nico, but he had just noticed Karkaroff watching him. He was the only judge who had not left the table; the only judge not showing signs of pleasure and relief that Harry, Ron, and Fleur’s sister had got back safely. “Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry, raising his voice slightly so that Karkaroff could hear him.

“That was bloody brilliant,” George said with a grin, walking towards them. “Did you even come looking for me yesterday?”

“No,” Fred said, unabashed, “Thought I was gonna be put through the ringer as well if I tried to ask McGonagall what happened.”

“Mate, I would rather be down there again then see McGonagall’s face again when she caught me.”

Dumbledore was crouching at the water’s edge, deep in conversation with what seemed to be the chief merperson, a particularly wild and ferocious-looking female. Finally he straightened up, turned to his fellow judges, and said, “A conference before we give the marks, I think.”

The judges went into a huddle. Madam Pomfrey had gone to rescue Ron from Percy’s clutches; she led him over to Harry and the others, gave him a blanket and some Pepperup Potion, then went to fetch Fleur and her sister. 

Harry looked up to the stands and for the first time seemed to see that Nico was watching. He was sitting beside Phoebus, who was grinning wildly as if knew exactly how much that spell helped Harry. Nico gave Harry a nod of acknowledgement when their eyes met, no longer looking like he just got back from a street fight.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision. Merchieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each of the champions, as follows. . . .”

“Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm, was attacked by grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five points.”

Applause from the stands.

“I deserved zero,” said Fleur throatily, shaking her magnificent head.

“Fred Weasley, who also used the Bubble-Head Charm, was first to return with his hostage, though he returned one minute outside the time limit of an hour.” Enormous cheers from the Gryffindor the crowd; Harry saw Fred and George grinning at one another. “We therefore award him forty-seven points.”

Harry’s heart sank. If Fred had been outside the time limit, he most certainly had been.

“Viktor Krum used an incomplete form of Transfiguration, which was nevertheless effective, and was second to return with his hostage. We award him forty points.” Karkaroff clapped particularly hard, looking very superior.

“Harry Potter used the Engorgio Pulmonis charm to great effect,” Bagman continued. “He returned last, and well outside the time limit of an hour. However, the Merchieftainess informs us that Mr. Potter was first to reach the hostages, and that the delay in his return was due to his determination to return all hostages to safety, not merely his own.”

“Most of the judges,” and here, Bagman gave Karkaroff a very nasty look, “feel that this shows moral fibre and merits full marks. However . . . Mr. Potter’s score is forty-five points.”

Harry’s stomach leapt—he was now tying for first place with Fred. Ron and Hermione, caught by surprise, stared at Harry, then laughed and started applauding hard with the rest of the crowd. Harry caught Fred’s eye and the boy winked at him before joining his brother in whispers, Lee Jordan appearing by their side.

“There you go, Harry!” Ron shouted over the noise. “You weren’t being thick after all—you were showing moral fibre!”

“The third and final task will take place at dusk on the twenty-fourth of June,” continued Bagman. “The champions will be notified of what is coming precisely one month beforehand. Thank you all for your support of the champions.”

It was over, Harry thought dazedly, as Madam Pomfrey began herding the champions and hostages back to the castle to get into dry clothes . . . it was over, he had got through . . . he didn’t have to worry about anything now until June the twenty-fourth. . .

Next time he was in Hogsmeade, Harry decided as he walked back up the stone steps into the castle, I’m going to gift both Phoebus and Nico something for helping me.

Chapter Text

One of the best things about the aftermath of the second task was that everybody was very keen to hear details of what had happened down in the lake, which meant that Ron was getting to share Harry’s limelight for once. Harry noticed that Ron’s version of events changed subtly with every retelling. At first, he gave what seemed to be the truth; it tallied with Hermione’s story, anyway—Dumbledore had put all the hostages into a bewitched sleep in Professor McGonagall’s office, first assuring them that they would be quite safe, and would awake when they were back above the water.

One week later, however, Ron was telling a thrilling tale of kidnap in which he struggled single-handedly against fifty heavily armed merpeople who had to beat him into submission before tying him up.

And, to Ron’s delight, Fred and George Weasley joined in. “It was horrible,” George conceded like he was on West End. “I woke up in the middle of the water to see my brother about to be overrun by those mermen! And as any brother would do in that situation…”

In short, it got out of hand really quickly.

As they entered March, the weather became drier, but cruel winds skinned their hands and faces every time they went out onto the grounds. There were delays in the post because the owls kept being blown off course. 

Harry therefore approached the final lesson of the afternoon—double Potions—feeling considerably more cheerful than he usually did when descending the steps to the dungeons. Afterall: Harry was going to meet up with Sirius soon.

From the shadows, Nico appeared, looking gloomier than usual. “What's wrong?” Harry asked as they approached the dungeons. 

Nico glanced sideways at Hermione and Ron and said, “I was just stopping by to pick up some stuff from Apollo—“

It took a moment for Harry to remember that Apollo was Professor Phoebus’s first name—he hadn’t heard any of the teachers refer to him anything other than Phoebus.  “I wanted to warn you—“ Nico stopped talking as they came to the doorway. And Harry could see why.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in a huddle outside the classroom door with Pansy Parkinson’s gang of Slytherin girls. All of them were looking at something Harry couldn’t see and sniggering heartily. Nico drew the shadows closer to himself so the Slytherins couldn’t see him.

“There they are, there they are!” Pansy giggled, and the knot of Slytherins broke apart. Harry saw that Pansy had a magazine in her hands—Witch Weekly. The moving picture on the front showed a curly-haired witch who was smiling toothily and pointing at a large sponge cake with her wand.

“You might find something to interest you in there, Granger!” Pansy said loudly, and she threw the magazine at Hermione, who caught it, looking startled.

At that moment, the dungeon door opened, and Snape beckoned them all inside. He glanced at Nico as he shuffled in, dispersing the shadows around him, making some of the other Slytherins do double takes. “Why are you here? Not much of a student, are you, if all you do is run around?” Snape asked dryly.

Nico didn’t look perturbed in the slightest, which was impressive. “I’m picking up potion supplies for Professor Phoebus.”

Snape hmpfed and turned away to quickly write up the ingredients of the potion on the blackboard and Hermione, Harry, and Ron headed for a table at the back of the dungeon as usual. Snape turned to Nico, who said, “the usual.”

“Why would it be different,” Snape grumbled and disappeared into his office, allowing Hermione to hastily rifle through the magazine under the desk. At last, in the centre pages, Hermione found what they were looking for. Harry, Nico and Ron leaned in closer. 

A color photograph of Harry headed a short piece entitled: Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache A boy like no other, perhaps—yet a boy suffering all the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter.

They looked over the words, Harry mostly skimming it, but the message was clear: They were trying to hurt Hermione’s feelings, suggesting that Hermione used love potions.

“I told you!” Ron hissed at Hermione as she stared down at the article. “I told you not to annoy Rita Skeeter! She’s made you out to be some sort of—of scarlet woman!” 

“If that’s the best Rita can do, she’s losing her touch,” said Hermione, giggling, as she threw Witch Weekly onto the empty chair beside her. “What a pile of old rubbish.”

She looked over at the Slytherins, who were all watching her and Harry closely across the room to see if they had been upset by the article. Hermione gave them a sarcastic smile and a wave, and she, Harry, and Ron started unpacking the ingredients they would need for their Wit-Sharpening Potion.

A couple students still glanced their way but were scared off with Nico’s glare. He glanced back at the group and seemed to notice that Hermione had gone quiet. “What’s wrong?” 

“How could Rita Skeeter have known . . . ?”

“Known what?” said Ron quickly. “You haven’t been mixing up Love Potions, have you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Hermione snapped, starting to pound up her beetles again. “No, it’s just . . . how did she know Viktor asked me to visit him over the summer?” Hermione blushed scarlet as she said this and determinedly avoided Ron’s eyes.

“What?” said Ron, dropping his pestle with a loud clunk.

“He asked me right after he’d pulled me out of the lake,” Hermione muttered. “After he’d got rid of his shark’s head. Madam Pomfrey gave us both blankets and then he sort of pulled me away from the judges so they wouldn’t hear, and he said, if I wasn’t doing anything over the summer, would I like to—”

Hermione went on, going so red now that Harry could almost feel the heat coming from her, “but how could Rita Skeeter have heard him? She wasn’t there . . . or was she? Maybe she has got an Invisibility Cloak; maybe she sneaked onto the grounds to watch the second task. . . .”

“And what did you say?” Ron repeated, pounding his pestle down so hard that it dented the desk.

“Well, I was too busy seeing whether you and Harry were okay to —”

“Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is, Miss Granger,” said an icy voice right behind them, and all three of them jumped, “I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Snape had glided over to their desk while they were talking, a small chest probably filled with potions inside of them. He glanced at Nico as he walked by, as if saying, try to question me. Nico scowled but didn’t speak, taking the chest into his arms.

The whole class was now looking around at them. “Ah . . . reading magazines under the table as well?” Snape added, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly. “A further ten points from Gryffindor . . . oh but of course . . .” Snape’s black eyes glittered as they fell on Rita Skeeter’s article. “Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings. . . .”

The dungeon rang with the Slytherins’ laughter, and an unpleasant smile curled Snape’s thin mouth. To Harry’s fury, he began to read the article aloud.

Harry could feel his face burning. Snape was pausing at the end of every sentence to allow the Slytherins a hearty laugh. The article sounded ten times worse when read by Snape. Even Hermione was blushing scarlet now.

“Well, I think I had better separate the three of you, so you can keep your minds on your potions rather than on your tangled love lives. Weasley, you stay here. Miss Granger, over there, beside Miss Parkinson. Potter — that table in front of my desk. Move. Now.”

Harry begrudgingly got to his feet but was stopped short when a couple of shadows clung to him, keeping him still. “If I may,” Nico said quietly. “I can’t carry the chests on my own, if I could, could I borrow Hermione?”

Harry seemed to notice the second chest laid on the table in front of them. Snape looked ready to argue but Nico added, “Professor Phoebus wouldn’t want his personal student to fall and break some of the potions and have a reaction… you wouldn’t either, knowing him. ”

Snape sneered but waved his hand. “Very well, if you think yourself too weak to carry them.” A couple of Slytherins snickered at the comment but Nico paid them no mind. Hermione, taking the hint, got up and quickly gathered her school supplies and the potion chest and followed Nico out of the door.

“It looks like Hermione's going to have a third boyfriend soon,” one of the Slytherins said.

Hermione glanced behind her, straight at the kid, and said, “More than you’ll ever have in your lifetime.” And the door slammed behind them.

-

Apollo lounged behind his desk, twirling a quill between his fingers as the soft glow from the floating orbs above cast golden light across his office. He stared idly at the constellation map on the far wall, tracing the familiar patterns with his eyes, when the door creaked open. He knew who it was before they even stepped inside.

The distinct sound of hesitant footsteps—a mix of nervousness and determination—could only belong to Hermione Granger. And, of course, accompanying her was Nico, his movements quieter, though with the same weight that he always carried, as if the shadows themselves were following him. 

Apollo didn’t bother to sit up straight, instead watching them with a half-lidded gaze. His golden curls fell lazily over his forehead as he regarded the two students, feeling the formation of a headache just beneath his eyes.

“Ah, my two favourite students,” he drawled, a slow smile curling his lips. It was meant to be charming, though he wasn’t sure if it quite hit the mark. “What brings you here? More deliveries from our dear Severus, I presume?”

Nico, as expected, twitched and set down the chest he was carrying with a thud that echoed through the room. Not much for conversation, that one. Hermione, on the other hand, placed her chest down with much more care and precision.

She brushed her hands on her robes and cleared her throat and glanced once more at Nico before glancing back at Apollo. Apollo’s lips almost twitched—he could see the nervous energy bubbling up. She was bursting with something—questions, no doubt. He could tell when Nico didn’t come by himself. Maybe it has to do with that Rita Skeeter article…

“Professor,” she began cautiously, her voice wavering ever so slightly. “There’s something I wanted to ask.”

Apollo arched an eyebrow, leaning back even further in his chair, as though the very idea of her question amused him. “Oh? Something troubling you, Miss Granger?”

There was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, and Apollo really wanted to relish it. The girl was a perfectionist, always calculated, always in control. But now, she was teetering, and while Apollo would usually feel amused by it, he felt the worry building up. Hermione wasn’t usually nervous but anything, even when she asked him, especially during her first-year.

It could be something important.

“It’s about Rita Skeeter,” Hermione continued, her voice gaining a bit more strength as she spoke.

Ah, something not important. And here I was worrying over nothing! Apollo felt his lips twitch, his lazy smile remaining intact, though his patience for the subject waned. Rita Skeeter. That irritating woman who spent far too much time digging into the lives of others. He knew she wasn’t a threat—just an annoyance. Why Hermione seemed bothered by it, Apollo didn’t know.

“Ah, Miss Skeeter,” he drawled again, his tone light, almost dismissive. “The ever-talented, truth-twisting journalist. What of her?”

Nico scowled but Apollo ignored him. Nothing could make that kid happy.

Hermione took a breath, clearly trying to keep her frustration in check. “She... she wrote something about me—about Viktor Krum asking me to visit him over the summer.” Hermione hesitated, glancing at Nico for some unknown reason before continuing. “But the thing is, no one was around when Viktor asked me. No one could have overheard us. So how did she know?”

Phoebus studied her for a moment, his mind drifting between possibilities. Nothing about Skeeter seemed particularly concerning. A nosy journalist, yes, but nothing that warranted this level of concern. “Journalists like Skeeter have their ways,” he said, almost lazily. “She could have paid someone off, used an informant, or—” he shrugged, “—simple guesswork.”

He watched Hermione’s frown deepen, clearly not satisfied with his explanation. But really, what was she expecting? He wasn’t about to get worked up over some sensationalist gossip. Before Hermione could press further, Nico finally spoke up and said, “Professor, I know for the fact that you probably would have dealt with Skeeter the first time she said anything bad about you.”

Phoebus’s smile wavered, just for a second, and he felt the sharp edge of irritation creep in. Mortals worry about petty things, but threatening a god is much different than threatening another mortal. But… Apollo does remember the time Ares said Apollo couldn’t run faster than him and had bragged about it to everyone…hm.

“Well,” Apollo began, his voice slower, more measured now, “if anyone tried to smear my name with lies, they’d regret it. But Miss Skeeter’s tricks are hardly new. She thrives on scandal.”

He could sense Nico and Hermione exchanging a glance, but Apollo wasn’t interested in their silent conversation. His attention had already shifted back to Skeeter, a flicker of curiosity settling in his mind. Skeeter was good, he’d give her that. Too good, perhaps.

The thought that appeared in Apollo’s mind wasn’t a good one, it was one that he did not like at all. Unfair tricks. Leaning forward slightly, he rested his chin on his hand, his gaze sharpening as it focused back on Hermione. “So, Miss Granger, this invitation to Bulgaria. Fascinating that she knew about it before you could even send an owl to your parents. It almost sounds like she’s keeping tabs on you.”

Hermione’s face paled slightly, and Apollo would’ve loved to feel a twinge of satisfaction that came watching it. She was smart—brilliant even—this was her first real taste of how invasive people could be when they wanted to tear you down. It was a lesson she’d need to learn eventually. But—

He also wanted to find Rita Skeeter and flay her alive for gossiping about one of his students—if only because she’d do the same to him if she set her gaze too high. Apollo only felt worried for Hermione’s safety. If she’s being watched, it can’t lead to anything good and it probably won’t do anything good for her mental health either.

Apollo wanted to bang his head against the wall, preferably multiple times, and drag himself back up to Olympus where he didn’t have to deal with this.

“That’s... that’s what I’ve been thinking,” Hermione said, her voice quieter now but enough to bring Apollo back into focus. “But how? I’ve been careful, and I—”

“Animagus,” Apollo cut in smoothly, not even bothering to let her finish. “She’s likely an Animagus.” He had found the animagus’s were the best spies, he saw so when Sirius Black was exploring the castle, even outmaneuvering Nico and his shadows. It had piqued Apollo's interest enough for-

Ah, not now.

The look on Hermione’s face was priceless. Shock, confusion, and a dawning realization all mixed together. It was as though a puzzle piece had finally fallen into place.

“An Animagus?” Hermione echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Apollo’s smile widened, though there was little warmth in it. “There aren’t many other explanations that would make sense. If she’s spying on you, she’s likely transforming into some sort of animal—one that can go unnoticed.”

Nico, ever the pragmatic one, turned to Apollo with his usual unreadable expression. “You want me to track her down?”

Apollo waved his hand dismissively. “No, no. Just keep an eye out. If you spot a suspicious animal hovering around, report it to me. I’ll handle the rest.”

Hermione, still processing the revelation, bit her lip in thought. Apollo could see the wheels turning in her mind as she mentally sifted through every encounter with Skeeter, probably replaying moments where an odd insect or small creature might have been watching. It was almost amusing.

“Don’t worry, Miss Granger,” he said, his tone light. “If Skeeter crosses my path again, I’ll make sure she regrets it.”

-

After class, everyone met up, excluding Nico. “Karakroff had the dark mark,” Harry said.

“Well, it was to be expected honestly…” Ron muttered off.

“Hermione?” Harry asked, noticing that she looked absent.

Hermione shook her head and glanced back at the castle once more. “Professor Phoebus didn’t look too upset over the fact that someone was spying on us.”

“Well, did Nico look surprised?” Ron asked.

“No,” Hermione admitted. “But he only got interested after I mentioned how Skeeter couldn’t have known what Krum said.” 

“Odd, that,” Ron grumbled. “Usually one would be mad after learning how an adult lies about a child’s life.”

“Well,” Hermione said with a huff, “Professor Phoebus isn’t like other adults, is he? Maybe it's an American thing…”

“Well, did he say anything?” Ron asked.

“He said she’s probably an Animagus—and that if he saw her again, it won’t go well.”

Ron snorted. “I loved to see that. ‘Reckon it’d have more watchers than the Tournament.”

“Ron!” Hermione said, though she didn’t seem very offput about it.

“I would love to see that too,” Harry added and Hermione grinned at them.

“Thanks for being with me guys,” Hermione said as they walked towards the Gryffindor tower.

-

They left the castle at noon the next day to find a weak silver sun shining down upon the grounds. The weather was milder than it had been all year, and by the time they arrived in Hogsmeade, all three of them had taken off their cloaks and thrown them over their shoulders. The food Sirius had told them to bring was in Harry’s bag.

And, because Harry wasn’t joking, Harry went to the nearest fashion store to buy stylish glasses that looked like something Professor Phoebus would wear. He had stopped wearing the old pair he bought two years ago, so maybe he lost it or something. He almost stopped by an appliance store to get a new coffee mug for the man because Ron had broken one a couple weeks ago (Phoebus hasn’t completely forgiven Ron for that yet).

“What type of cat do you think Nico would like?” Harry asked as they went into the pet store. Harry had told Hermione and Ron what Nico helped him with earlier and they both agreed that a pet would be the best option for Nico.

“It’d lighten his mood,” Ron had grumbled. 

“He’d look less scary with a cat on him at all times,” Harry agreed.

“I don’t know about that,” Ron said, glancing at Hermione. “I mean, look at Crookshanks…”

Hermione scowled at them.

“A black cat?” Harry suggested as they peered through the glass walls separating them from the animals.

“That sounds good,” Hermione agreed. 

And they bought the black cat near the front of the store, almost placed there just for them to see. The black cat had meowed up at them, dark eyes staring up at them curiously, in a way that reminded Harry of Nico. It didn’t hiss or meow at them through the process, it just stared at the shadows dancing up the pet store wall, its tail swishing side to side and would occasionally show off the white patch of fur on her chest that only took up a tiny spot.

Walking out of the pet store, Ron said, “It looks exactly like him! Doesn’t talk much at all too, they’d make a good fit.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron.

Then, at half past one, they made their way up the High Street, past Dervish and Banges, and out toward the edge of the village. Harry had never been in this direction before. The winding lane was leading them out into the wild countryside around Hogsmeade. The cottages were fewer here, and their gardens larger; they were walking toward the foot of the mountain in whose shadow Hogsmeade lay. Then they turned a corner and saw a stile at the end of the lane.

Waiting for them, its front paws on the topmost bar, was a very large, shaggy black dog, which was carrying some newspapers in its mouth and looking very familiar. . . 

Harry considered himself lucky that the cat was asleep.

“Hello, Sirius,” said Harry when they had reached him. The black dog sniffed Harry’s bag eagerly, glanced at the cat curiously, wagged its tail once, then turned and began to trot away from them across the scrubby patch of ground that rose to meet the rocky foot of the mountain.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed over the stile and followed. Sirius led them to the very foot of the mountain, where the ground was covered with boulders and rocks. It was easy for him, with his four paws, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione were soon out of breath. They followed Sirius higher, up onto the mountain itself. They climbed till they reached a plateaued area, hidden behind some trees. There, in the middle of the ground was a brown cap with the words, Puddlemore on it. “Er,” Ron began, looking at the hat questioningly

Sirius sniffed the air, as if waiting to sense if anyone’s nearby, and started to shift back into a human. Perhaps Harry was a bit mean for this, but he didn’t expect Sirius to look so put together, especially the state he was in before. His hair was down his back and a little bit straggly, but not bad. He wore pants and what looked like a robed jacket. 

Like he was being fed somewhere.

“You look better,” Harry commented.

Sirius’s lips twitched. “Indeed I do. I would invite you over, but—ah—I’m not done renovating.”

“What? You have your own house?” Harry asked, gobsmacked. How? When? With what money?

Sirius nodded, a smile appearing on his face. “Yes, yes. It happened after I escaped—this is the portkey that I used to get here. Far enough way that nobody would notice it… A friend of yours brought me, said it would help me recover while the person above him sorted everything out. Odd bloke, that one. Kind of looks like your cat there,” Sirius said, gesturing towards the cat that was glaring straight at Sirius, apparently woken up by the transformation.

Ron blinked and glanced over at the cat before a small smug look appeared on his face. Elbowing Hermione, he said, “Look! It does look like Nico!”

Then, he froze. “Wait—Nico? What does he have to do—What!” Ron demanded, sputtering the words out. Sirius winced and walked towards the portkey, kicking it slightly with his boot. Harry shared the same sentiment, the shock washing over him. So, does that mean that Nico’s been involved for than the Summer? Has he been watching us? Who… It was Professor Phoebus, wasn’t it?

The other seemed to share the same conclusion because they all glanced at one another knowingly. “Where’d he take you? His place?” Ron asked.

"You'd think Nico would bring anyone to his home?" Hermione asked skeptically.

"He is in the same house with Professor Phoebus."

"How the bloody hell have they not torn eachother apart yet?" Ron grumbled.

Sirius shook his head in amusement, looking quite like a dog when he did that. “No, its a bit more complicated. Besides, I've only met Nico's mentor once. The kid lead me back to my old home before anything else.” He shuddered, as if mentioning it was a curse. “Now, though,” he said, lifting a hand towards them. “I’ve heard you’ve got yourself some gossip for me.”

He leaned against the tree, his face becoming slightly more serious. “Your last letter . . . well, let’s just say things are getting fishier. I’ve been stealing the paper every time someone throws one out since I still can’t really get the mail, and by the looks of things, I’m not the only one who’s getting worried.”

Ron nudged Harry and passed him the Daily Prophets. There were two: The first bore the headline Mystery Illness of Bartemius Crouch , the second, Ministry Witch Still Missing — Minister of Magic Now Personally Involved . Harry scanned the story about Crouch. Phrases jumped out at him: hasn’t been seen in public since November . . . house appears deserted . . . St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries decline comment . . . Ministry refuses to confirm rumors of critical illness. . . .

Harry wished Nico would inform him of the clues he found, because he seemed certain of something going on, but Harry never asked him about it. Harry had a feeling that if Crouch was dead, he would’ve been informed by Nico. Or, at least, Nico would be more stressed about it and wouldn’t be as worried about the tournament.

“They’re making it sound like he’s dying,” said Harry slowly. “But he can’t be that ill if he managed to get up here. . . ”

“My brother’s Crouch’s undersecretary,” Ron informed Sirius. “He says Crouch is suffering from overwork.”

Percy said more than that, Harry thought, he hasn’t been at work for months. He told me earlier at the Yule Ball. He knows more than he should, Harry realized after a moment, Nico was surprised that Percy knew and—

Harry cut himself off before he could seriously start becoming suspicious of Ron’s brother. Though, a more amused thought came to Harry. It would be hilarious if Ron was right and Percy did poison Crouch. “Mind you, he did look ill, last time I saw him up close,” said Harry slowly, still reading the story. “The night my name came out of the goblet. . .”

Sirius informed them about Crouch, and the fact that his son was a death eater who died in Azkaban.

“He wasn’t the only one,” said Sirius bitterly. “Most go mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They lose the will to live. You could always tell when a death was coming, because the dementors could sense it, they got excited. That boy looked pretty sickly when he arrived. Crouch being an important Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a deathbed visit. That was the last time I saw Barty Crouch, half carrying his wife past my cell.”

It was all very important information that Harry was going to share with a certain someone later.

They continued their theories for awhile, leading them to talk about Snape and what was in his office that made Crouch want to go and get it. Sirius lapsed into silence, still staring at the cap. Finally, Sirius looked up at Ron. “You say your brother’s Crouch’s secretary? Any chance you could ask him if he’s seen Crouch lately?”

“I can try,” said Ron doubtfully. “Better not make it sound like I reckon Crouch is up to anything dodgy, though. He might think I sound like he did it. He hated the man.”

“And you might try and find out whether they’ve got any leads on Bertha Jorkins while you’re at it,” said Sirius, gesturing to the second copy of the Daily Prophet.

“Nico said he found something interesting,” Harry offered after a moment of silence.

“The dark and gloomy kid?” Sirius asked.

“The dark and gloomy kid,” Harry confirmed. “He’s been trying to figure everything out. I think he’s got a lead on it, but I don’t think he’s willing to share. He hates Albania, that’s for sure,” Harry grumbled.

“Who doesn’t,” Sirius mused.

-

Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way back into Hogsmeade and up toward Hogwarts.

“Wonder if Percy knows all that stuff about Crouch?” Ron said as they walked up the drive to the castle. “But maybe he doesn’t care . . . Probably thought it was up to par with whatever Crouch does since he thinks Crouch is the worst anyways… Percy loves rules though. Maybe he’s coming to an understanding because he wouldn’t break the rules for anyone either.”

“Percy would never throw any of his family to the dementors,” said Hermione severely. “He went down in the Chamber and knocked out Lockhart!”

“I don’t know, he did that because Lockhart is an arse,” said Ron, which Harry had to agree with. “If he thought we were standing in the way of his career . . . Percy’s really ambitious, you know. . . “

I think Percy knows more than he’s willing to share, Harry privately wonders, thinking back to Nico. Nico seemed well fed with the information Percy told him earlier. I just wonder…

They walked up the stone steps into the entrance hall, where the delicious smells of dinner wafted toward them from the Great Hall. I’ll think about it later, Harry decided.

-

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery after breakfast on Sunday to send a letter to Percy, asking, as Sirius had suggested, whether he had seen Mr. Crouch lately. Harry knew Percy wouldn’t answer them as they wanted—if he did know something. 

Harry didn’t say his theory out loud because no one would consider it. 

They used Hedwig, because it had been so long since she’d had a job. When they had watched her fly out of sight through the Owlery window, they proceeded down to the Astronomy class to find Professor Phoebus and give him Harry’s gifts.

Harry would find Nico later for the cat and ask him about Crouch directly this time.

The trio walked up the stairs of the Astronomy tower that afternoon, listening to a soft thrum of a lyre playing. Approaching the open door, Harry peeked inside and saw Professor Phoebus strumming the lyre quietly just outside of the balcony, watching students walk around the school yard.

Harry knocked on the door and walked in after the Professor opened his eyes and nodded to them. The trio shuffled in, taking in the absence of students.

“Professor,” Harry said, trying to find the words. “Er, I wanted to say thank you for helping  in the tournament,” Harry said awkwardly.

“Even though it could be considered cheating,” Hermione murmured.

“Well,” the Professor says, letting the thrum of the lyre play off. “You are younger than the other students—I just needed to catch you up on some of the lessons.” He winked at the trio and straightened against the wall.

“Well—Why do you all look sheepish for? I won’t bite—“ The Professor starts.

Harry couldn’t take it any longer. “Here,” Harry said and brought out the new pair of sunglasses and mug that said, #1 Professor on it.

The Professor stopped short and for a moment, a look of surprise filtered across his face. He grabbed the mug and glasses carefully and placed him on the desk, something unreadable crossing his eyes. There’s a moment of silence between them before he glanced back at them and said, “Uh—Thank you.” It could be a trick of the eyes, but Harry was sure he could see the Professor blushing. 

-

It was an irritable sort of day after that. Harry got so tired of Ron and Hermione sniping at each other over their homework in the common room that he took Sirius’s food up to the Owlery that evening on his own.  Realizing it was the perfect opportunity to have Nico’s attention, he brought the cat with him.

 (“What’s its name?” Ron asked.

 “Nico should decide”

“He’s gonna name it death destroyer 2000 or something.”

“It sounds cool.”

“Mate, you’ve been hanging out with Nico for too long if you think thats a good name.”)

Harry leaned on the windowsill, looking out at the grounds, at the dark, rustling treetops of the Forbidden Forest, and the rippling sails of the Durmstrang ship. An eagle owl flew through the coil of smoke rising from Hagrid’s chimney; it soared toward the castle, around the Owlery, and out of sight. He had sent the letter to Sirius but he had forgotten as to why he was here in the first place. He had closed eyes only for a moment, the soft sounds of the lapping waters cooling his thoughts.

He woke the sound of shadows moving—or, at least, to the sound of the flames flickering out as the shadows dispersed them. The shadows grew as the wind brushed past Harry, forcing his head up to brush away the hair in his face. In doing so, his eyes had landed on the boy in front of him who had appeared out of the air like it was nothing. The torches were out, so Harry couldn’t really make out his facial features, but when he looked up, he could see the moon reflecting in his eyes as he scanned Harry. Harry did the same, noting that he wore the exact same thing he did last time: the same bomber jacket and ripped jeans and a skull ring on his finger.

The forest whispered and chirped, the winds quietly hummed, and the shadows shifted across the ground. All was quiet.

“Nico,” Harry said into the night and he felt it then, the soft fur from a tail wrapping around his leg. I had almost forgotten, Harry thought, looking down at the cat, which was peering from behind him, looking at Nico curiously.

Nico followed his gaze down to the cat, which had come to sit regally in front of Nico, paws in front of herself with her ears up and on high alert, her tail swishing side to side over the cool stone floors. It’s fur shined in the moonlight, much like Nico’s own hair did.

Maybe Ron was right, Harry conceded quietly as the boy and cat stared at one another, the cat blinking slowly at him. Finally, the cat meowed quietly, the soft sound breaking through the silence.

Nico took a breath, like he hasn’t in years. Harry followed the movement, waiting for a sign that told him that he didn’t like cats. Maybe he’s allergic, Harry thought, the realization coming to his mind like it was something dreadful.

“Why is that thing doing here?” Nico finally asked. Harry blinked, finding that Nico’s question seemed to echo off the walls and out into the night, swallowed by the wind. It didn’t sound mean, but it made Harry nervous all the same.

“Er…” Harry began, feeling the need to start shuffling around to avoid Nico’s gaze. “A cat?”

Nico blinked at Harry, his eyebrows drawn up in confusion as he looked between Harry and the cat once more. “I see that…” Nico said slowly, as if talking to a child.

Harry fought the urge to just hand Nico the cat and disappear into the night. “Um, I wanted to thank you, for helping me with the second part of the tournament,” Harry said after a moment.

The silence seemed to stretch between them.

“You're welcome?” Nico said back.

Harry picked up the cat, which meowed and squirmed a bit: but didn’t argue. It glanced at Harry before glancing at Nico. Now how do I explain this? 

“I saw that you didn’t have an owl or anything, and I, er, thought you’d want a pet to deliver information for and stuff,” Harry rambled off, gesturing down towards the cat and then around him.

Nico's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he glanced between Harry and the cat, uncertainty flickering in his dark eyes. And then, his eyes widened and seemed to realize what Harry was saying. "Wait, you got this for me?" He asked, his voice a bit higher than it usually is.

Harry nodded, shifting uncomfortably under Nico's gaze. "Yeah, I mean, I thought... you know, it might be nice to have some company," he explained, his words stumbling over each other. Damn, his nerves were at him again…  “I mean like, you seem busy all the time and I thought maybe you wanted to hang around with someone. I figured a cat would the best bet since cats don’t tend to be physically affectionate, y’know?” 

The cat meowed softly, rubbing against Harry's chest before turning its attention to Nico, its bright eyes full of curiosity. Nico hesitated and took a hesitant step forward, raising his hand slightly. Harry pretended to not notice it shaking as he reached out to the cat's nose.

His gaze softened as the cat reached out to his outstretched fingers and started sniffing them, ears perked up. “I don’t know,” Nico began quietly, eyes glued to the cat as it peeled her head back to look up at Nico again. It began to purr and Nico’s face shifted ever so slightly. “I’m doing a lot of work, moving around…” Nico tried to continue, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself.

"Hey, look, you’re good but—I feel like these cats are sold for wizarding society for a reason. I mean, look at Crookshanks. He figured out who Scabbers and Sirius were before we did. I think the cat will, uh, help you since you seem to be by yourself when you’re not with us.”

Harry didn’t know how he got all of that out at once, but he did. Well, if he could say that under Nico’s gaze than Harry’s certain he could face Voldemort head on now…

Nico hesitated, taking the words in. His guard was gone and his face was soft, watching the cat, totally enraptured with it as it began to stretch out of Harry’s grasp, squirming free. It’s black fur melted with with the shadows that reached out to it, covering her white patch on her chest, not that the cat minded. It meowed once more before Nico opened up his arms in a cradle shaped fashion, letting the cat crawl into his arms, its tailed raised high above itself.

The cat purred contendly as it made itself home in Nico’s hold, tail calming down as it closed its eyes.

Nico’s eyes burned with a passion. Nico looked back up at Harry as the cat started clawing comfortably at Nico’s arm. Nico didn’t seem to mind at all because he was muttering out, “I guess as long as it doesn’t get hurt. I mean, if it gets hurt, I'll bring it back to you.”

A grin began to form on Harry’s face when Nico looked down at the cat again, his ears red. “That works,” Harry said quietly.

Looking back up, Nico glanced towards the full moon, his eyes shifting ever so slightly. “Thank you,” he said, voice softer than the wind itself.

Harry nodded, watching the wind blow at the forest below. He didn’t know how to respond to Nico, how to come up with a word to properly tell him that there’s no reason to thank him, but… “You deserve her,” Harry finally settled on, watching the cat open its eyes slightly, staring at Harry with narrowed eyes.

“You deserve each other,” Harry corrected and the cat closed its eyes again.

“Her,” Nico said, turning back to Harry. “What's her name?”

“I don’t know, we haven’t made one yet,” Harry said.

Nico glanced down at the cat and the cat stared back, its green eyes blinking innocently up at Nico. Maybe it was telepathically telling Nico its name. “...Ariadne,” Nico whispered out.

And thunder clapped in the sky.

-

By breakfast the next day Ron’s and Hermione’s bad moods had burnt out. It also took too long to realize that Nico had, yet again, evaded Harry’s questions. He never got to ask him again though: their workload was mounting ever higher in the days before the Easter holidays.

Harry had worked extra hard in Professor Phoebus’s healing class, successfully reattaching a students arm from their body that had been trying to apparate in the apparition class. Phoebus had looked like a proud mother, parroting how good Harry was to the rest of the class to the point that Harry had to blush.

Harry had enclosed notes to Sirius, telling him that nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and that they were still waiting for an answer from Percy. Hedwig didn’t return until the end of the Easter holidays. Percy’s letter was enclosed in a package of Easter eggs that Mrs. Weasley had sent. Both Harry’s and Ron’s were the size of dragon eggs and full of homemade toffee. Hermione’s, however, was smaller than a chicken egg. Her face fell when she saw it.

“Your mum doesn’t read Witch Weekly, by any chance, does she, Ron?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” said Ron, whose mouth was full of toffee. “Gets it for the recipes.”

Hermione looked sadly at her tiny egg.

“Don’t you want to see what Percy’s written?” Harry asked her hastily.

Percy’s letter was short and irritated.

As I am constantly telling the Daily Prophet, Mr. Crouch is taking a break. He is sending in regular owls with instructions. No, I haven’t actually seen him, but I think I can be trusted to know my own superior’s handwriting. I have quite enough to do at the moment without trying to quash these ridiculous rumours. Please don’t bother me again unless it’s something important. Happy Easter. 

Ron and Hermione were convinced, but Harry was less so. Harry couldn’t understand why he felt that way but his instincts were telling him something was off. And so, Harry found himself at the top of the owlery again, a couple nights later, with a letter in mind. Harry made it short and brief. 

And either the elder Weasley was either going to think Harry was a raging lunatic or a spy, so Harry wouldn’t be winning anything through this.

We ought to know the truth, well, I do. I won’t get Ron involved if that's what you're worrying about. You talked with Nico, the kid that looks like he’s missing a lot of Vitamin D, at the Yule Ball. You seemed hesitant to answer but Nico looked satisfied with the results—he’s trying to figure out Mr. Crouch’s disappearance and knows something is going on. So do you. Nico is doing dangerous things right now. What if something goes wrong? 

And perhaps Harry was trying to be manipulative that day, Harry also wrote down,

I’m sure you want to keep your job. I saw Mr. Crouch walking around Hogwarts a month or so ago, in Snape’s office, on a map that shows everyone’s location. Happy Easter, Harry.

Either Harry had been wrong and scared Percy shitless, or he had been correct, and Percy was trying to decide whether he should tell Harry or not. There was nothing but radio silence. But Harry took to other things to worry about.

-

Apollo’s request had been vague, frustratingly so. Something about Barty Crouch’s disappearance, the old Ministry official who had always looked like he was on the edge of snapping. Apollo haad asked Nico to look into months ago but Nico felt like he was going around in circles, finding no right answer in sight. But this whole thing was getting on his nerves, he was supposed to be in New Rome by now. Percy’s still on the run, somewhere. Hopefully not for long. 

And here he was, playing wizard. Of course, thank the gods, that wizards with special abilites existed or else Nico would have been investigated by now. Though, he does have an inkling that all those wizards that had ‘affinities’ were probably children of the gods anyway.

Apollo—and Hades for that matter—had told Nico the quest was easy and that wizarding problems are quite quickly solved. 

Maybe for the gods they are.

Official channels weren’t getting anywhere, and Nico was, well, not exactly official. He’s been following traces for months now, latching onto any clue like a hound. He’s supposed to stop Voldemort from rising, before he undergoes resurrection, but Nico’s not exactly finding anything. Kill Voldemort, or his baby version apparently, complete the quest and the prophecy and all will be fine. All will be fine. You can go back to America, talk with Hazel and maybe—

Maybe—

Nico’s mouth twisted and he fought back the smile appearing on his lips, imagining himself staying at Hogwarts for just a little while longer. He’d help on the quest and once Apollo finishes the final lines of that damned prophecy, he could go to Hogwarts for a while.

The main problem is the prophecy given to him by a witch of all things. He was named, by title. So far, from Nico’s understanding, nothing from the prophecy has come true yet, which angered him to no end. He’s putting a lot of effort into this, effort he should be putting into the upcoming war in the West, but-

Nico’s stuck here. In Europe. In England.

The country was making his skin itch.

Nico’s been closer to the wizards than to other demi-gods at this point (that's how much they care about you, a voice whispered in his mind scathingly. Creatures not of your own would be more willing to take you in then—).

Something brushed against his leg and he nearly shot to his feet. He slowly turned as Ariadne came into vision, her tail curling around Nico’s legs, fur tickling the open skin around Nico’s ankle. It looked up at Nico with big eyes, the white patch of fur coloured by the shadows dancing through it.

His powers were odd here, more lively then they ought to be. He could control shadows, but here, they seemed to move on their own, lingering around him playfully. 

Even Ariadne seemed different than a regular cat.

The cat purred slightly and nudged Nico’s hands, her wet nose digging into his palm, looking for treats. Nico sighed and got to his feet. Whatever he was thinking about was left behind as Ariadne followed him through the office, strutting along behind him like a shadow.

Crouch, Nico reiterated. Focus.

Nico had searched Crouch’s office and the outside of his estate for the past month. He got Winky the house-elf to allow him inside through a secret passage, but he hadn’t found anything suspicious. The man had been taking medication before he disappeared, but nothing further than that. He was trying to figure out where a man like Crouch could vanish without a trace but it didn’t take long for Nico to understand that this wasn’t just about Crouch. No one disappeared like this unless there was something bigger happening, and that “something” wasn’t going to be found through Ministry paperwork. 

Ariadne, as if sensing his powers rising, jumped onto his back and crawled along his shoulder, her tail hitting Nico in the face. He coughed as his vision darkened for a moment, spitting out cat hair afterward. 

Nico closed his eyes, his shadows pulsed through him and made him reappear outside the Crouch estate, nestled far from prying eyes. The manor wasn’t grand, but it spoke of old money and status in its simplicity, the kind of place that didn’t need to impress because its reputation already did. The lawn was meticulously kept, every blade of grass trimmed to perfection, but Nico barely spared a glance at it as he moved toward the house, his steps silent on the gravel path.

The air felt colder here, somehow, despite the clear sky and the faint warmth of the fading sunlight. The shadows clung to the place unnaturally, and Nico felt them stir as he approached, almost beckoning him closer.

With a soft nudge of his hand, the front door creaked open. The wards were down—unusual, considering that they were up when he came with Winky. Nico pushed himself inside, ignoring the way Ariadne jumped from his shoulders, disappearing from view.

The house’s interior felt just as cold and empty as the outside had. The furniture was untouched, not a speck of dust anywhere. There were no personal touches, no family photos or keepsakes, just the sterile neatness of a man who didn’t live in his own home. Nico moved quietly, slipping through the rooms like a ghost, eyes sharp for anything out of place.

Crouch’s study caught his attention. The door was slightly ajar, and that in itself was strange. It wasn’t that way the last time Nico was there. He pushed it open, his eyes immediately scanning the room. Stacks of parchment lined the desk, most of it Ministry business—reports, letters, official documentation, the kind of mundane work that didn’t hint at any secrets. 

After a few minutes of searching, his fingers brushed against a thin, worn-out parchment tucked beneath a pile of letters. It wasn't an official Ministry paper, and that was the first thing that made it stand out. He unfolded it carefully, eyes narrowing as he read the words scrawled across it.

Bertha Jorkins. Albania.

He’d heard the name Bertha Jorkins before, mostly in passing. She had gone missing over a year ago, and while the Ministry had brushed it off, there had always been whispers about it.  Why haven’t I noticed it before? Nico’s eyes trail over the letter again, remembering where people had last seen her.

Albania, as Harry had told him.

That wasn’t a coincidence. 

It was a place Nico knew too well, a place that Nico never really wanted to return to either. He’d almost take to walking around the edge of Tarturas again. Alas, a lead was lead, and Nico was getting tired of being pulled on strings. He folded the note away, tucking it into his pocket. He’d look at it later, but he has to get going.

The rest of the house gave up nothing. No signs of struggle, no hidden messages or clues, just that one note. It was enough, though. 

He let the shadows rise around him, pulling him into their embrace as he slipped through the folds of space, reappearing on the outskirts of Albania’s dense, foreboding woods. Ariadne didn’t follow him here, but he didn’t have to make her. She’d know where to find him—not that Nico wanted her here anyway.

The air was thick here, heavy with the weight of old magic. There was a silence that pressed in on all sides, as though even the wildlife didn’t dare disturb the land. 

Nico didn’t stray near the villages. The people here were superstitious, which he had learned the hard way a couple months ago. He needed to be unseen and unnoticed, which wasn’t very hard for him.

He moved through the trees, his steps careful and deliberate. The darkness clung to him, and for once, it felt like a comfort rather than a burden. This place... it reminded him too much of the Underworld. The trees loomed like skeletal fingers, their branches twisted and reaching, and the ground beneath his feet felt almost alive with the weight of the magic that had been performed here.

Hours passed, or maybe it was only minutes—it was hard to tell in this place, where time seemed to lose meaning. But finally, he found what he was looking for.

The clearing was small, almost unremarkable, but the energy that lingered in the air was unmistakable. The grass was scorched in places, and strange symbols had been etched into the ground, barely visible now but still pulsing with residual magic. Nico crouched beside one of the symbols, his fingers brushing against the dirt. Nico didn’t study Blood Runes but… He could tell it was a ritual site, and a powerful one at that. 

Blood is always needed for a ritual, Nico thought, suddenly realizing what happened. He pushed his powers out, trying to sense death, but it was too far gone, far too late. Voldemort was one step closer to the land of the living, and Nico wasn’t anywhere close to finding where he might be.

He couldn’t stay here any longer. The magic in the air was starting to suffocate him. But just as he prepared to leave, a familiar sensation tugged at him, pulling him back—not to Hogwarts.

The shadows shifted around him, and he felt the call of the Ministry, urgent and insistent. Someone needed him. 

Nico stood, eyes tracing the symbols as the shadows rose to take him once more. The ritual site would have to wait. For now, there were other matters to attend to.

Chapter Text

Harry sat at his usual seat in the library (which is a terrifying thought now to think about, since he wouldn’t have been even thinking about going to the library prior to fourth year). He was reading a book on his chosen constellation that’d he be investigating for his year-end final project. Professor Phoebus had told the class if they continued into the NEWT program, they’d be using the constellations to further their own magical progress and use them as a power source, since constellations hold power, or whatever. 

Harry looked over the constellation in front of him: Orion. Unfortunately for Harry, Professor Phoebus didn't seem as amused as he did when Harry pointed out that that seemed like the most interesting constellation. Some—if not most—of the constellations held little information to them, but this constellation, not so much. Orion, the hunter that went insane and hunted enough creatures that Gaia had to wake up and kill him.

Or, at least, in the version of the myth Harry was studying—because it made the most sense for constellations, as the hare is another constellation near Orion, which he hunts in the sky, the Scorpion the one that killed Orion was the constellation that'd wake as Orion fell. Ron and Hermione fought over the Scorpion earlier, before they decided to split it up so Ron was the hunting dogs of Orion instead (which he didn't like much at all). 

Harry had just picked up his quill again, to write into his notes for later, when he saw a shadow in the corner of his eyes. Harry paused and peered up at the wispy figures as they danced across the aisles, ducking under books as people passed by. Quietly, they grew across the room until Nico appeared between them, looking lost in thought. His eyes trailed over the library until his gaze finally landed on Harry, eyes lingering on the notebook in front of him.

“You’re early,” Harry intervened before Nico could ask him about his project.

"Figured I'd get it over with," Nico drawled, pulling out a chair from a nearby desk, the dark fabric of his jacket shifting as he moved. "You're sending hatemail to Percy now?"

There was a hint of amusement in his voice, though his eyes were sharp.

Harry bristled slightly. He shouldn’t be surprised that Percy and Nico kept in touch after the Yule Ball, especially since Nico was looking into Crouch. "It wasn't hatemail. I just—wanted some answers,” Harry said, unperturbed.

Nico rolled his eyes. “Sounded like a threat—I read it myself.”

Harry flushed, vaguely remembering the threat that he gave Percy at the end of the note. He had been tired when he wrote that, he probably wouldn’t have done anything, though.

Probably.

“You could have asked me,” Nico said, the end of his lips quivering upward. “I already know what's going on, probably more than Percy. I would have saved you the trouble.”

"Yeah, well," Harry muttered, scratching the back of his neck, "you weren’t exactly easy to find either."

Nico raised an eyebrow. "I’m not hard to find if you know where to look."

Harry's eyes glance towards the shadows that lingered across the aisle, shimmering into mere wisps when they collided with the candles. Nico did say that he was only a call away if Harry were to ask the shadows, but-

He felt quite awkward when he realized why he never tried to asking the shadows for Nico. But with Nico looking at him quizzingly, Harry bit the inside of his lip and continued. “Well, I didn’t really want to bother you—and every time I find something out, it’s right after you leave. And, er, you seem busy all the time.”

Nico's eyes glinted faintly, but disappeared with a roll of his eyes. His hands reached into his jacket, and for a moment, Harry feared he might bring something out to curse Harry with. But no, instead, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment, sliding it across the table toward Harry. "I’ve been keeping an eye on things. You might want to read this."

Harry frowned, picking up the parchment and unfolding it. His eyes skimmed over the text, brow furrowing as he read. "This is about Crouch."

Nico nodded, resting his chin on his hand as he watched Harry, eyes lingering over every movement. "Yeah. I’ve been looking into his disappearance. Figured you might want to know, seeing as you’ve been... curious." He smirked again, a little knowingly this time. Git, Harry thought idly, though there was no bite behind it.

He read over the letter—skimmed, more like—and looked back up at Nico. "We found him, you know. A bit after you left. Near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. But when I went back with Dumbledore, he was gone. Vanished but not before knocking Krum out."

Nico didn’t seem surprised by this. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "That tracks.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

Nico shrugged. “He’s lost, confused, right? Like he’s being kept somewhere.”

Harry shifted somewhat. I love Nico's company sometimes, but man, he loves to stress people out.

Nico, sensing Harry's unease, changed the subject slightly, reiterating himself. "You didn’t have to send Percy that letter, you know. I’ve got this under control. If you wanted to know, you could’ve just asked me."

"Yeah," Harry said after a pause, "I suppose I could’ve. But Percy’s been acting weird lately. I thought he might be hiding something."

Nico shrugged. "What Percy’s hiding isn’t something you should be concerned about." Then, almost threateningly, Nico's eyes narrowed. "You should be figuring out how to go through the maze.”

There was a pause, the silence between them only broken by the quiet rustling of pages in the library. Harry looked down at the parchment Nico had given him, running a hand through his messy hair as he tried to make sense of everything. Nico sat there, waiting, his expression unreadable but patient. A sound caught Harry’s attention, and before he could react, a sleek black cat leapt onto the table between them. Her eyes, an eerie green, settled on Harry for a moment before she padded over to Nico, curling up beside him.

"Is that—Ariadne?" Harry asked, recognizing the cat instantly. Harry hated to admit it, but Ron was right, the cat was exactly like Nico, down to the preserved annoyance with everyone around it. It was almost impressive. She was an odd creature, though Harry didn’t know enough about magical cats to say for certain.

Nico scratched behind Ariadne’s ears absentmindedly, his attention still on Harry. "Yeah, what other reason would a random cat follow me around?"

"I dunno, I feel like cats like quiet people."

Nico raised a brow, "So you're saying cats are attracted to me?"

"Like a magnet," Harry confirmed.

Nico's face lifted slightly but turned away when Ariadne began to meow at him, tail swishing slightly. She glanced sideways at Harry as if saying, fuck off, I need attention right now.

Harry blinked at the cat as it began to purr as Nico redirected his focus. They sat there in silence for a while—and Harry felt at ease. There was no reason to break it, not really, not when the cat was purring so loudly it could make enough noise for the both of them. As Ariadne's head began to fall onto the table, Harry turned to Nico again. "So," Harry said, breaking the silence, "what’s the next step? With Crouch, I mean."

Nico’s expression darkened slightly, and he leaned forward again, resting his hands on the table. Ariadne meowed and Nico placed his hand back. "I’m going to keep digging," Nico said absently. "There’s something in Albania. It's tied to what happened with Bertha Jorkins, I think. But I need more time."

"What did you find in Albania?"

Nico hesitated for a moment, as if deciding how much to reveal. "Voldemort was there. For a long time. I think that’s where all of this started." He looked like he might know something else, but didn’t say anything, his eyes trailing over the books nearby.

Harry felt a chill run down his spine at the mention of Voldemort. It was always unsettling to hear Nico speak so casually about him. He had no fear of the man—not that Harry did either. It was a name, and nothing more.

“Let’s head up to the Owlrey,” Harry suddenly said.

Nico looked up, his brows raising in confusion. “Why?” He asked, but he was already getting to his feet with Harry. 

Picking his bag up, Harry said, “I need to send a letter to Sirius. Besides, I need to check out Hedwig to see if she's got a rat for me."

Nico didn’t argue—and Harry was half-surprised when Nico agreed.

"Why do you need a rat for?" Nico asked skeptically as they got to their feet, Ariadne grumbling at the lose of attention.

Harry flushed ever so slightly. "It's for my year-end Healing project."

"A rat? If you're trying to gross Professor Phoebus out, I'd suggest using a snake."

"No—I need to do experiments to see if my theory is right."

"Theory? As in—“

"Well, Phoebus splits up the healing stuff into parts, right?"

"I can't take any classes," Nico said dryly, "but I guess you're right."

Continuing out, growing a bit more embarrassed as they climbed their way to the tower, Harry glanced out the window. "Well, the major project is supposed to have both sections of healing. um, theory and practice, I guess. We sort of need to combine those two for our final project."

"I'm surprised you haven't dropped out," Nico said, ducking away from a stray spell directed towards a fellow student's friend. "He's not easily impressed with healing."

"It's not hard," Harry grumbled, feeling his cheeks heat up.

"I didn't mean you aren't good at it," Nico said after a pause, looking a bit surprised.

"'tis alright," Harry said. "I thought I'd be bad at it too. But the spells are pretty easy."

"Don't let Phoebus hear that," Nico mused.

Harry almost shuddered at the thought.

-

The Hogwarts grounds never looked more inviting than when Harry had to stay indoors. For the next few days he spent all of his free time either in the library with Hermione and Ron, looking up hexes, or else in empty classrooms, which they sneaked into to practice. Harry was concentrating on the Stunning Spell, which he had never used before. The trouble was that practicing it involved certain sacrifices on Ron’s and Hermione’s part.

“Can’t we kidnap Mrs. Norris?” Ron suggested on Monday lunchtime as he lay flat on his back in the middle of their Charms classroom, having just been Stunned and reawoken by Harry for the fifth time in a row. “Let’s Stun her for a bit. Or you could use Dobby, Harry, I bet he’d do anything to help you. I’m not complaining or anything” — he got gingerly to his feet, rubbing his backside — “but I’m aching all over. . .”

“Try physical attacks, it'll help more," a voice suggested behind them.

Ron, for someone who seemed keen on laying on the ground, jumped into the air and whirled around. Harry couldn’t help stop the smile from appearing on his face. “Bloody hell!” Ron said, finally catching sight of Nico by the window. “Might as well wear a bell around your neck to let us know where you are.”

Nico raised an eyebrow and said, “pay attention to your surroundings. It might help spot me—or anyone else.”

“There’s nothing that can spot your creepy ass,” Ron grumbled.

Hermione interrupted them, shooting Ron a look. “What do you mean by physical attacks? I mean…we’re wizards so we can’t just not use our wands as weapons.”

Nico blinked at them innocently—and the shadows dispersed, revealing what looked like a black sword hanging at his waist, glimmering faintly in its sheath. Hermione gasped at the weapon, the shadows shriveling around them as Ariadne darted out from behind Nico's legs. She trilled at the others in greeting before pouncing onto Harry's prone form on the ground. Harry groaned in despair as it landed square on his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. He rolled onto his side as the cat strolled back towards Nico, whose hand was around the iron hilt, fingers tapping on the skull shape.

"Of course you have a fucking sword. Why don't you?" Ron grumbled, though his voice did sound a bit high. "Where'd you get it? Hell?"

A ghost of a smile crossed Nico’s face. “Something similar,” he mused. “There’s weapons—blades—that can act as an amplifier of magic like wands do, though they’re mostly used to deflect magic.”

Hermione leaned forward, slowly approaching the sword. “Is it—Is it because of your affinity? If you’re caught in a duel, can you use this to help you?”

Nico nodded. “I’ve had to use it before, when my powers aren't working that well. It comes in handy.” Nico unsheathed the sword and a wave of magic spluttered across the room. All three of them watched in awe as Nico brought the blade up into the light, parallel to his face. Shadows darted around them again and Ariadne meowed gently as she pushed herself around Hermione's leg, who was watching with her mouth agape.

Nico ignored the shadows licking at his face, flickering over his eyes. “This is Stygian iron. It isn’t able to cut through you—only monsters,” he said. He dipped the blade down, touching the end witht eh stone beneath them All three of them glance at Nico like he was insane. Harry felt a bit odd, looking at the blade. His instinct's were screaming at him not to touch it, and most of the time, his instincts were right.

“Use a spell or hex, I don’t mind.”

No one moved.

Nico said again, “look. Cast a simple charm on me. Doesn’t have to be dangerous.”

The three of them exchanged glances. It's not like they've been testing spells on each other earlier... Hermione hesitantly brought up her wand and shouted, “Stupefy!”

A beam of red light shot towards Nico and, just as quickly, Nico twisted his wrist in time for the light to hit the blade. The spell fizzled around the sword for a moment, absorbing around it like cracks of electricity, before rebounding back towards them. All three of them yelped and hit the floor as the spell whizzed past them, hitting the wall harmlessly before fizzing out.

“Trying to kill us?” Ron complained, getting to his feet again.

“I just proved it worked,” Nico said, sheathing the sword once more. He looked like he wanted to do more—but the bell above them rang, and the next class was going to happen. They hastily shoved the cushions back into Flitwick’s cupboard and slipped out of the classroom, quietly talking amongst themselves as they walked past the students.

"Are you going to let Harry use your sword?" Hermione asked, eyes skeptically dancing down to Nico's waist—it wasn't there anymore, it seemed the shadows had swallowed it.

Nico scowled. "No, well, I hope I won't have to. For one thing, I don't want Harry breaking my sword—"

"I've never broken anything—"

Nico placed a hand up placatingly. "Second, if Harry wants to do more than just deflect stuff with it, he's going to have to get his own sword, with his wands magical core for him to use it properly."

"That's if I want one," Harry said.

Nico side-eyed him. "You don't know what you're going to face in that maze—and I feel like something's going to go wrong."

“Well, you’ve been right the last couple times,” Hermione said. "It's reasonable."

“Reckon that if you stop having these feelings, the bad things will stop happening?” Ron asked.

“No."

“It was worth a shot.”

-

“Dumbledore reckons You-Know-Who’s getting stronger again as well?” Ron whispered.

Everything Harry had seen in the Pensieve, nearly everything Dumbledore had told and shown him afterward, he had now shared with Ron, Nico and Hermione — and, of course, with Sirius, to whom Harry had sent an owl the moment he had left Dumbledore’s office. Harry, Ron, Nico and Hermione sat up late in the common room once again that night, talking it all over until Harry’s mind was reeling, until he understood what Dumbledore had meant about a head becoming so full of thoughts that it would have been a relief to siphon them off.

Hermione had not spoken for ten minutes. She was sitting with her forehead in her hands, staring at her knees. Harry thought she too looked as though she could have done with a Pensieve. Harry feared her and Nico were in a competition for who could be the quietest, Nico hadn’t spoken once since Harry returned to the common room.

“Rita Skeeter,” Hermione muttered finally.

“How can you be worrying about her now?” said Ron, in utter disbelief.

“I’m not worrying about her,” Hermione said to her knees. “I’m just thinking . . . remember what she said to me in the Three Broomsticks? ‘I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl.’ This is what she meant, isn’t it? She reported his trial, she knew he’d passed information to the Death Eaters. And Winky too, remember . . . ‘Ludo Bagman’s a bad wizard.’ Mr. Crouch would have been furious he got off, he would have talked about it at home.”

“Yeah, but Bagman didn’t pass information on purpose, did he?”

Hermione shrugged.

“The twins seem to hate Bagmans guts too,” Ron grumbled.

Nico finally spoke and said, “I think that’s more to a bit of gambling more than anything…”

“What?” Ron asked.

Nico waved him off.

“And Fudge reckons Madame Maxime attacked Crouch?” Ron said, turning back to Harry with a final side eye to Nico.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but he’s only saying that because Crouch disappeared near the Beauxbatons carriage.”

“We never thought of her, did we?” said Ron slowly. “Mind you, she’s definitely got giant blood, and she doesn’t want to admit it —”

“It’s because Fudge is racist,” Nico said, twirling a shadow around his finger. “Madam Maxime has nothing to do with Crouch’s disappearance.”

Ron quietened down.

“What do you mean?” Hermione said.

With all eyes on him, Nico hesitated under his gaze. Unfortunately for him, Ariadne wasn’t there to distract him from them. Sucking in a breath, Nico said quietly, “Crouch and Jonkins had exchanged information before she disappeared. And—her blood was used in a ritual when I found her magic in Albania—it was the first step of the resurrection ritual.”

The wizards all froze and Hermione squeaked out, “She’s dead?”

Nico nodded grimly, his eyes darkening ever so slightly. That settled in Harry’s gut like a bucket of water being repeatedly dunked over him. Dead, Harry realized, the word repeating in his head.

“By Voldemort—so Crouch is involved,” Harry said, forcing himself away from the thought.

“This is why you need to be training. He might try something during the last tournament—but I don’t know what.”

And so, Harry spent the next three days training his ass off with Nico, Hermione and Ron. He learned the impediment curse with Hermione and Ron, sword fighting with Nico, who was mostly teaching him how to deflect attacks and how to properly stand with one.

Harry hasn’t gone to using a real blade yet, relying on a wooden sword to help. Harry wouldn’t like to admit to how many times he managed to smack himself in the face. Once or twice, he's sworn he saw Nico trying to hold back a smile. Unfortunately, when Harry recovered from the pain, Nico's face would be plain once again.

“I’m not teaching you how to use a sword in the traditional sense,” Nico said one afternoon. “You just need to learn how to block a spell. You don’t need to learn more than that.”

You suck at sword fighting, was Nico’s translation, not that Harry minded. His arm was aching in pain and the hilt was burning around his palms and he didn’t doubt he’d be getting blisters later on.

“One more time,” Harry said, raising the blade—wooden blade—again, squaring his shoulders and widening his stance. Harry didn’t feel guilty about wasting Nico’s time: Nico wasn’t studying for exams, so Harry would learn.

Eventually.

Hopefully.

Nico raised his hand, his eyebrows lifting in amusement. In the next moment, a shadow from the ceiling shot down towards Harry—who barely managed to heft the sword up to his face before he was sent backwards onto the ground.

When Harry looked up, Nico was standing over him with a frown. “This may take all of May and June,” Nico said, sounding utterly disappointed.

-

Harry handed over his paper for Healing feeling rather nervous. It was one of the toughest assignments he'd had to complete recently, and he worked harder than he probably should have on it. Alas, he was in the library the past couple of months studying how to defend himself, so Harry had lots to think about.

The paper was about how magic affects the human body—specifically how it could help treat genetic disorders like hemophilia. He had chosen to focus on how a potion, absorbed into the bloodstream over the course of several weeks, could take on the role of the missing clotting protein. The potion would wait in the bloodstream, ready to act when needed, allowing the body to clot as it should. It had taken a lot of research and more than a few late nights in the library, including throwing ideas at Nico (who hadn't had a clue on what was going on and was suspiciously quiet when Harry went over vaccines).

In short, Professor Phoebus had nearly cried when Harry handed the assignment in. What was perhaps more shocking to Harry, was when Professor Phoebus cornered him one day after class, which sort of made it feel like a horror movie.

"Potter, stay back for a moment," the professor said just as the other students were filing out, his voice quiet but firm, leaving no room for argument. Harry gave Hermione a pleading look, who shooed at him before disappearing out the door, forcing Harry to stay behind. Traitor, Harry thought for a moment as he slowly turned the face Phoebus.

Phoebus stood by his desk, flipping through some papers but clearly waiting for everyone else to leave. When the last student was gone, he gestured toward the door of his office. “This way.”

That was never a good sign.

Harry followed him into the professor's office, a room that looked oddly calm considering that Phoebus tended to be flashy with everything. Phoebus motioned to a chair opposite his desk, and Harry sat down, his eyes flickering to the trinkets on the shelves. He could see a lyre laying on a nearby desk, one that the Professor gave to them during their first year. The window was open and there seemed to be a bird feeder just outside. What animal would try and fly so far up here for some food? Harry didn't know. There's barely any birds around Hogwarts anyway, ones that aren't owls, that is.

"I’ve been reviewing your paper," Phoebus said, sitting down across from Harry, bringing the boy from his thoughts. His voice was different from before, something Harry’s never really heard the professor speak in, in the four years under his teaching. He sounded serious, sort of like a business type of way. Maybe it was so shite that he's throwing me off the balcony, Harry thought nervously.

“You’ve shown some real depth in your understanding of magical interactions with the human body.” He almost sounded excited.

Harry blinked once, twice, and a third time before he opened his mouth, tongue feeling numb. Whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn't that. “I… found the topic interesting,” he offered.

Phoebus’ eyes glinted, a faint smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “Interesting? You’ve got an eye for it, Harry.” He paused, leaning back slightly. “You could be quite good at this.”

Harry blinked in surprise. Perhaps he was expecting Phoebus to be less… upfront about it since he didn’t praise people often, not even Hermione, who did most of her assignments quite well. It’s not that he’s happy that people were good, it's more like that he’s seen a lot, and it's hard to compliment people for it.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, unsure whether to feel proud or intimidated. He never really had a one-on-one with the professor like this before - in this sense at least. When he needed something, he’d go in groups with Hermione and Ron. Even with the professor offering help with the second task—which Harry hadn’t realized at that point—he seemed more amused than anything.

Phoebus gave a small nod. “Which is why I wanted to speak with you. You’ve got potential Harry, more than you realize. And I’d like to offer you something that I’ve been thinking about since you gave me that mug."

“You’re only offering me this conversation because of it?” Harry asked skeptically, unable to help himself.

Phoebus leaned his head back and laughed, the sound jostling Harry. “That came out wrong but—sort of, I guess. I won’t go into the details because I know your poor brain will hurt if I tell you—but you're not quite anyone I’ve taught before—it reminds me of my old days, which I don't want you repeating, because I fear my heart cannot take it if someone refers to me as old. I miss teaching people and watching them succeed.”

Huh? Isn't that what he's doing right now?

“I want to offer you to become one of my personal students,” Phoebus said simply, realizing that Harry was still a tad bit confused.

Harry’s mind stalled for a moment. “An… what?”

“Yes. To skip the boring parts, you’d work with me, sort of like a minion, learning more about healing magic—far beyond what we cover in class. I’ve taught others—more than healing—and watched them become successful, which, as you can imagine, did a lot for my reputation. Though I guess, I also enjoy doing this too…” He trailed off with a small smile.

Harry felt his pulse quicken. So, like a mentorship program? Harry doesn’t remember anyone that was offered one from another professor. Maybe it was because Phoebus isn’t a British wizard. Honestly, Harry has no idea what it meant other than following Professor Phoebus around. Besides, surely, there was other people the professor asked? 

I mean... I usually hand in my work early in this class (I have nothing else to do than to stay in the library!)

It wasn't that hard to learn the spells since most of the studying is based certain types of spells that branch off... and are easy to predict...

I'm not helping myself, am I?

“What would it involve?” Harry asked, taking a moment to realize he was interested in it, if only a little bit. He wasted months away in the library when people wouldn’t talk to him, studying. Maybe those days were paying off, though Harry couldn’t really imagine himself doing more work. Nor could he imagine himself becoming a healer either. But, with the fact that he's getting attacked each eyar, it wouldn't be bad to have some healing techniques...

Phoebus’ smile widened ever so slightly. “You’d be assisting me, learning different ways to perform healing magic, more, probably. You’d be an assistant to third-years if you decide to take NEWT level healing once your sixth year comes.”

Harry was stunned. Maybe he had imagined Hermione doing this instead - he knew she worked on other healing projects for this class, but… It was far more than he had expected. Harry wasn’t exactly thinking of becoming a healer. He found defense against the dark arts but…

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything now.” Phoebus said, leaning back in his chair. “It extends into the summer as well, mostly to get you started and to see what course work you’ll be taking. And,” he added, his voice softening ever so slightly, “you’d be away from your Muggle relatives, if that holds any appeal.”

Harry’s breath caught. Spending part of the summer away from the Dursleys, but at the cost of learning advanced magic? Harry vaguely remembered letting the Professor know he didn’t like the Dursleys but he doesn’t think that…

“I’d… I’d be here for part of the summer?” Harry asked, barely able to keep the hope out of his voice.

“Precisely,” Phoebus replied smoothly, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Of course, if you want to, starting midway through July. Well, not at Hogwarts per se, but close enough.”

Harry’s head spun. “But… why me?” Harry asked, still trying to wrap his head around the offer. “I mean, there are loads of students who are better at this stuff than me. Hermione—”

“Hermione Granger has her own strengths,” Phoebus said, waving a dismissive hand. “She is diligent, yes. Brilliant, no doubt. But you, Potter… Spent more time and work on that paper. You’ve improved greatly since third year, more so than Hermione. Besides, Hermione's already been taken unfortunately.”

I'm filing that away for later...

“When do I have to decide?” Harry asked, letting his mind think it through.

Away from the Dursleys for the Summer. It sounded like a dream come true.

Phoebus smiled that small, knowing smile. “Take your time. Think it over. But I’ll need an answer by the end of term. If you choose to accept, we’ll begin over the summer.”

Harry nodded, stuffing his excitement down. “I’ll definitely think about it, Professor. Thank you.”

Phoebus stood, gesturing toward the door. “Good. See you in Astronomy, Harry.”

-

The mood in the castle as they entered June became excited and tense again. Everyone was looking forward to the third task, which would take place a week before the end of term. Harry was practicing hexes at every available moment. He felt more confident about this task than either of the others. Difficult and dangerous though it would undoubtedly be, Moody was right: Harry had managed to find his way past monstrous creatures and enchanted barriers before now, and this time he had some notice, some chance to prepare himself for what lay ahead.

Besides... he knows enough healing to pull himself through if he was hurt.

Tired of walking in on Harry, Hermione, Nico and Ron all over the school, Professor McGonagall had given them permission to use the empty Transfiguration classroom at lunchtimes. Harry had soon mastered the Impediment Curse, a spell to slow down and obstruct attackers; the Reductor Curse, which would enable him to blast solid objects out of his way; and the Four-Point Spell, a useful discovery of Hermione’s that would make his wand point due north, therefore enabling him to check whether he was going in the
right direction within the maze.

“You’re still doing really well, though,” Hermione said encouragingly, looking down her list and crossing off those spells they had already learned. “Some of these are bound to come in handy.”

Nico looked up from where he was sitting and said, “sword practice.” Ron and Hermione glanced at one another and backed away as Harry transfigured his wand to form his wooden sword that he’s sworn to hatred.

Harry placed the sword at his hip, pretending like it was imaginary sheathed and nodded towards Hermione. Hermione raised her wand and shouted, “stupefy!” A bolt of red shot from her wand and Harry instinctively raised his sword up to meet the blade. After a month of practice, Harry managed to stand his ground as the spell wove around the wood, looking for a way through. When it found none, it shot out from the sword and into the roof above, disappearing into red flecks of light.

“Well,” Nico said quietly. “You finally got it.”

“That was bloody amazing!” Ron cheered.

“Well done Harry,” Hermione said, looking pleased that she didn’t just stun her friend.

“Now, we’ll learn to reflect spells back to their targets,” Nico said.

And Harry groaned.

-

Harry’s nerves mounted as June the twenty-fourth drew closer, but they were not as bad as those he had felt before the first and second tasks. For one thing, he was confident that, this time, he had done everything in his power to prepare for the task. For another, this was the final hurdle, and however well or badly he did, the tournament would at last be over, which would be an enormous relief.

When he told the three of them what Phoebus offered him, Nico had been genuinely surprised while Hermione and Ron both congratulated him, though Hermione did say that her Ancient Runes Professor offered her the same thing. Harry wasn't too surprised since Phoebus did mention it before.

Breakfast was a very noisy affair at the Gryffindor table on the morning of the third task. The post owls appeared, bringing Harry a good-luck card from Sirius. A screech owl arrived for Hermione, carrying her morning copy of the Daily Prophet as usual.

“You still read that?” Nico asked, hovering above them like a dark cloud. Nico arrived early that morning, looking much better than usual, and had followed them to the Dining Hall but refused to sit down with them. Fred had remarked to Harry that Nico was like his bodyguard. Nico had shot Fred a look that would’ve made any other person crumble into dust. Unlucky for Nico, Fred had taken the look with a wink, which only pissed Nico off even more. Luckily, George had whisked Fred away before Nico could turn Fred inside out with his shadows.

They continued eating quietly, Hermione buzzing with excitement and ranting about different ways to catch Rita Skeeter in the act—if Phoebus hadn't done it already—when Professor McGonagall came walking alongside the Gryffindor table toward Harry. “Potter, the champions are congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast,” she said.

“But the task’s not till tonight!” said Harry, accidentally spilling scrambled eggs down his front, afraid he had mistaken the time.

“I’m aware of that, Potter,” she said. “The champions’ families are invited to watch the final task, you know. This is simply a chance for you to greet them.”

The Professor moved away, heading towards Fred who was managing to keep a steady conversation with Angelina. Harry gaped after McGonagall.

“She doesn’t expect the Dursleys to turn up, does she?” Harry asked Ron blankly.

“Doubt it,” Nico said, “Those Dursleys didn’t look too happy to see Professor Phoebus show up when he came by.”

Harry had almost forgotten that Nico was in Phoebus's car during that—it's been so long, it feels, since then.

“Well, good luck Harry,” Hermione said, getting to her feet. “Come on, Ron. We have a History of Magic exam!”

Harry finished his breakfast in the emptying Great Hall. Nico nodded goodbye to him before shadow travelling away. Harry saw Fleur Delacour get up from the Ravenclaw table and join Fred as he crossed to the side chamber and entered. Krum slouched off to join them shortly afterward. Harry stayed where he was. He really didn’t want to go into the chamber. He had no family — no family who would turn up to see him risk his life, anyway. But just as he was getting up, thinking that he might as well go up to the library and do a spot more hex research, the door of the side chamber opened, and Fred stuck his head out.

“Blimey, Harry,” Fred said, “gonna make everyone wait?”

Utterly perplexed, Harry got up. He walked across the Hall and opened the door into the chamber. As it turned out, the Weasleys had come for both Fred and Harry, both excited for them to be Hogwarts Champion. Fred didn’t seem to mind at all at the shared attention, though Harry knew it was probably because he had a bunch of other siblings…

-

Harry had a very enjoyable morning walking over the sunny grounds with Bill and Mrs. Weasley, showing them the Beauxbatons carriage and the Durmstrang ship.

“How’s Percy?” Harry asked as they walked around the greenhouses, feeling a bit guilty about that letter he sent him.

“Not good,” said Bill.

“He’s very upset,” said Mrs. Weasley, lowering her voice and glancing around. “The Ministry wants to keep Mr. Crouch’s disappearance quiet, but Percy’s been hauled in for questioning about the instructions Mr. Crouch has been sending in. They seem to think there’s a chance they weren’t genuinely written by him. Percy’s been under a lot of strain. They weren't going to let him fill in for Mr. Crouch as the fifth judge tonight but a couple of hours ago, before we arrived here, that Professor of yours arrived with some information that soothed over the ministry, as well as a missing court case that got unearthed. Arthur says there’s probably going to be a commotion soon enough when word gets out. Lucky that, since Cornelius Fudge was going to be the stand-in judge, but now he has to stay behind for an investigation being pulled through by the Aurors.”

“How the bloody hell did Percy get so lucky?” Fred grumbled somewhere behind them.

Bill ducked out of the way as Mrs. Weasley rounded on Fred.

When hey returned to the castle for lunch, Fred was keeping a wide berth from Mrs. Weasley, who was grumbling about being impolite. Eventually though, she had calmed down once Harry talked about Yule Bal; - and their dates, which Mrs. Weasley found quite interesting. The conversation had turned towards the girl that Fred had taken out for a date during the Yule Ball, which George gave way with little hesitance. Fred, for the first time in Harry's life, looked a tad bit embarrassed.

“Mum,” Fred said, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it—!” Mrs. Weasley parroted.

He was saved from explaining himself though.

“Mum — Bill!” said Ron, looking stunned, as he joined the Gryffindor table in time to save Fred. “What’re you doing here?”

“Come to watch Harry and Fred in the last task!” said Mrs. Weasley brightly, turning away from Fred. “I must say, it makes a lovely change, not having to cook. How was your exam?”

George and Ginny came to sit next to them too, and Harry was having such a good time he felt almost as though he were back at the Burrow; he had forgotten to worry about that evening’s task.

Nico joined them shortly afterward and, much to the Weasley’s siblings' horror, their mum asked if he had anything to eat lately. Nico, looking like he got that question a lot, flushed a bit and said, “yes. Professor Phoebus would have my neck if I didn’t.”

Harry, Bill (who had whispered to his Mum later that “Mum, you can’t just ask people if they’ve eaten anything!”) and Mrs. Weasley whiled away the afternoon with a long walk around the castle, and then returned to the Great Hall for the evening feast. Ludo Bagman and Percy Weasley had joined the staff table now. Mrs. Weasley waved at Percy, who looked slightly embarrassed, and was pulled along by Bill, who gave Percy a nod.

Bagman looked quite cheerful, but Percy, who was sitting next to Madame Maxime, looked nervous, which was understandable since he was questioned recently by the ministry. Whenever Harry made eye contact with Percy, he looked away (which was also understandable).

As the enchanted ceiling overhead began to fade from blue to a dusky purple, Dumbledore rose to his feet at the staff table, and silence fell. “Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes’ time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch field for the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr. Bagman down to the stadium now.”

Harry and Fred got up, who wished his Mum farewell. The Gryffindors all along the table were applauding them; the Weasleys and Hermione all wished him good luck, and Harry headed off out of the Great Hall with Fred, Fleur, and Viktor and the rest of the judges.

“Feeling all right, Harry?” Bagman asked as they went down the stone steps onto the grounds. “Confident?” Fred side-eyed Bagman the whole time but didn’t comment, which probably meant that something bad was going to happen to Bagman. Like a terrible prank.

“I’m okay,” said Harry. It was sort of true; he was nervous, but he kept running over all the hexes and spells he had been practicing in his mind as they walked, and the knowledge that he could remember them all made him feel better.

Percy had walked beside Fred, rather quietly, and was looking a bit white, maybe from the nervousness of the last few days.

The Champions walked onto the Quidditch field, which was now completely unrecognizable. A twenty-foot-high hedge ran all the way around the edge of it. There was a gap right in front of them: the
entrance to the vast maze. The passage beyond it looked dark and creepy. As Harry went to join the other champions, a shadow pulsed forward, wrapping around his leg. Harry paused and looked down, following the shadow back to Nico, who was waiting behind a bush, the shadows covering him. They shared a quiet look, Nico looking quite deep in thought.

“What?” Harry asked, wondering if Nico was about to warn him that he had a bad feeling (which would do no good for Harry’s nerves). Instead though, Nico brought out the sheath of his sword, lifting it towards Harry. Harry gaped at him, feeling a bit stunned. Nico would never offer me his own sword… what is he doing? Showing me how to use it in case I forgot?

“Take it,” Nico muttered quietly, his eyes glaring straight into Harry.

“What?” Harry asked, blinking down at the blade.

“I don’t want to repeat myself,” Nico said again, nudging the blade forward.

Harry hesitated, watched Nico once more for a sign of hesitation (which he did not find), before putting it between the folds of his robes, clipping it to his belt. It felt heavy at his side, the magic curling around him. He glanced around, to try and see if anyone one saw; Percy was talking quite quickly to Fred, who didn't look like he was quite paying too close attention. 

“Only use it if there’s a major curse involved,” Nico said quietly, eyes dark. Don’t fuck up. Don’t break my blade, Nico’s eyes seemed to say.

“I promise,” Harry said—and Nico nodded, taking a step back.

“What happens if I unsheathe it?” Harry asked. “Will you be alerted?”

Nico shook his head. “No—I can’t get involved in the Championship, even if I wanted to be.”

“Seriously?” Harry asked.

“I already directly helped you once,” Nico said. “I don’t want to do that again without being noticed.”

“Fair,” Harry said, wondering if Phoebus ever got Nico into trouble for helping Harry—probably not, knowing Professor Phoebus.

Nico paused after a moment, eyes darting to the other champion, and said, “Ariadne will help you if you need it.”

Harry was left wondering how a cat would help him in a situation where he would need to use a sword.

-

Five minutes later, the stands had begun to fill; the air was full of excited voices and the rumbling of feet as the hundreds of students filed into their seats. The sky was a deep, clear, blue now, and the first stars were starting to appear. Hagrid, Professor Moody, Professor McGonagall, Professor Phoebus and Professor Flitwick came walking into the stadium and approached Bagman and the champions. They were wearing large, red, luminous stars on their hats, all except Hagrid, who had his on the back of his moleskin vest.

“We are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze,” said Professor McGonagall to the champions. “If you get into difficulty, and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come and get you, do you understand?”

The champions nodded.

“Off you go, then!” said Bagman brightly to the four patrollers.

“Good luck, Harry,” Hagrid whispered, and the five of them walked away in different directions, to station themselves around the maze. Bagman now pointed his wand at his throat, muttered, “Sonorus,” and his magically magnified voice echoed into the stands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! Tied in first place, with eighty-five points each — Mr. Fred Weasley and Mr. Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts School!” The cheers and applause sent birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky.

“In second place, with eighty points — Mr. Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!” More applause. “And in third place — Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!”

Harry could just make out Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione applauding Fleur politely, halfway up the stands. He waved up at them, and they waved back, beaming at him.

“So . . . on my whistle, Harry and Fred!” said Bagman.

“Three — two — one —”

He gave a short blast on his whistle, and Harry and Fred hurried forward into the maze. The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path, and, whether because they were so tall and thick or because they had been enchanted, the sound of the surrounding crowd was silenced the moment they entered the maze. Harry felt almost as though he were underwater again. He pulled out his wand, muttered, “Lumos,” and heard Fred do the same just behind him.

After about fifty yards, they reached a fork. They looked at each other, Fred wearing a grin. “Won’t get in your way if you don’t get in mine,” Fred said.

Well, Harry didn’t want to get involved with Fred schemes anyway.

“Agreed,” Harry said, slightly panting, the weight of Nico’s sword on his back weighing him down a little bit. “See you,” Harry said, and he took the left one, while Fred took the right.

Harry heard Bagman’s whistle for the second time. Krum had entered the maze. Harry sped up. His chosen path seemed completely deserted. He turned right, and hurried on, holding his wand high over his head, trying to see as far ahead as possible. Still, there was nothing in sight.

Bagman’s whistle blew in the distance for the third time. All of the champions were now inside.

-

Harry kept looking behind him. The old feeling that he was being watched was upon him. The maze was growing darker with every passing minute as the sky overhead deepened to navy. He reached a second fork. Everything inside of Harry was warring with him, Nico’s sword humming to him. For a faint moment, Harry wondered if that voice was back or not. It hadn’t bugged Harry since all of this year, at least when Nico was around, but… Harry couldn’t be certain.

“Point Me,” Harry whispered to his wand, holding it flat in his palm. The wand spun around once and pointed toward his right, into solid hedge. The best he could do was to take the left fork and go right again as soon as possible.

The path ahead was empty too, and when Harry reached a right turn and took it, he again found his way unblocked. Harry didn’t know why, but the lack of obstacles was unnerving him. Surely he should have met something by now? It felt as though the maze were luring him into a false sense of security.

Something wrong is going to happen, Nico warned in his head, to be ready for anything.

Then he heard movement right behind him. He held out his wand, ready to attack, but its beam fell only upon Fred, who had just hurried out of a path on the right-hand side.

Fred put up his hands in mock surrender, looking like he came out of the wrong end of a cauldron. The sleeve of his robe was smoking. “Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts!” Fred hissed. “They’re enormous — I only just got away! If you shoot me now Harry, I’ll never forgive you.”

Harry drew his wand away, making Fred smirk. Fred dived out of sight, along another path. Keen to put plenty of distance between himself and the skrewts, Harry hurried off again.

Harry met nothing for ten minutes, but kept running into dead ends. Twice he took the same wrong turning. Harry’s only company was Nico’s humming sword. Finally, Harry found a new route and started to jog along it, his wandlight waving, making his shadow flicker and distort on the hedge walls. Then he rounded another corner and found himself facing a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Harry got rid of them with a couple of spells, one of which being the impediment curse, and hurried along, feeling slightly victorious.

He had been hurrying along a path for a few minutes, when he heard something in the path running parallel to his own that made him stop dead.

“What are you doing?” yelled Fred’s voice. “What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing?”

“Fred?” Harry whispered into the air, feeling nervous.

And then Harry heard Krum’s voice. “Crucio!”

The air was suddenly full of Fred's cursing. Horrified, Harry began sprinting up his path, trying to find a way into Fred’s hedge. Blimey, did Krum just use one of the three unforgivable curses against Fred? What the hell? When none of the paths that lead to Fred appeared, he tried the Reductor Curse again. It wasn’t very effective, but it burned a small hole in the hedge through which Harry forced his leg, kicking at the thick brambles and branches until they broke and made an opening; he struggled through it, tearing his robes, and looking to his right, saw Fred jumping away from Krum, who was still trying to Crucio Fred.

Evidently, Fred had managed to dodge Krum’s Crucio - or Fred had the pain tolerance of a god.

Harry pulled himself up and pointed his wand at Krum just as he looked up towards Harry. Krum turned and began to run, startling both boys. “Stupefy!” Harry yelled.

The spell hit Krum in the back; he stopped dead in his tracks, fell forward, and lay motionless, facedown in the grass. Harry dashed over to Fred, who was nursing a bruise on his jaw.

“Are you all right?” Harry said roughly, glancing over Fred.

“Just peachy,” Fred complained, voice a bit rough. “That was close though... Bloody hell…” Fred said, behind down to put his hands on his knees. Panting, Fred continued, “Yeah... I don’t believe it... he crept up behind me... I heard him, I turned around, and he had his wand on me...”

They stood there for a minute in silence, watching Krum's prone form.

“I can’t believe this . . . I thought he was all right,” Harry said, staring at Krum.

“So did I,” said Fred.

“Did you hear Fleur scream earlier?” said Harry.

“Yeah,” said Fred. “You don’t think Krum got her too?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry slowly.

“Should we leave him here?” Fred muttered.

“No,” said Harry. “I reckon we should send up red sparks. Someone’ll come and collect him . . . otherwise he’ll probably be eaten by a skrewt.”

“He’d deserve it,” Fred muttered, but all the same, he raised his wand and shot a shower of red sparks into the air, which hovered high above Krum, marking the spot where he lay.

Harry and Fred stood there in the darkness for a moment, looking around them. Fred began to grin into the darkness of the maze. “Let’s get a move on, then. Don’t want the cup to grow legs and run away, now do we?” Fred asked.

Harry nodded.

The two of them proceeded up the dark path without speaking, then Harry turned left, and Fred right. Fred’s footsteps soon died away. Harry moved on, continuing to use the Four-Point Spell, making sure he was moving in the right direction. It was between him and Fred now. His desire to reach the cup first was now burning stronger than ever, but he could hardly believe what he’d just seen Krum do.

The use of an Unforgivable Curse on a fellow human being meant a life term in Azkaban, that was what Moody had told them. Krum surely couldn’t have wanted the Triwizard Cup that badly. Harry sped up. Something fishy was going on, and Harry was really hoping that Nico was wrong and it was just a competition between champions and not… Voldemort.

Who had killed a person a couple of months prior.

For a Ritual.

I’m starting to have doubts, Harry realized quietly.

Every so often he hit more dead ends, but the increasing darkness made him feel sure he was getting near the heart of the maze. Then, as he strode down a long, straight path, he saw movement once again, and his beam of wandlight hit an extraordinary creature, one which he had only seen in picture form, in his Monster Book of Monsters.

It was a sphinx. It took Harry an embarrassing amount of time to reveal what the answer to the riddle was, but Harry got the answer in the end (it was a spider). Harry had to be close now, he had to be. . . . His wand was telling him he was bang on course; as long as he didn’t meet anything too horrible, he might have a chance... Harry broke into a run. He had a choice of paths up ahead. “Point Me!” he whispered again to his wand, and it spun around and pointed him to the right-hand one. He dashed up this one and saw light ahead.

The Triwizard Cup was gleaming on a plinth a hundred yards away. Suddenly a dark figure hurtled out onto the path in front of him. Fred was going to get there first. Fred was sprinting as fast as
he could toward the cup, and Harry knew he would never catch up, Fred was much taller, had much longer legs —

Then Harry saw something immense over a hedge to his left, moving quickly along a path that intersected with his own; it was moving so fast Fred was about to run into it, and Fred, his eyes on the cup, had not seen it —

“Fred!” Harry bellowed. “On your left!”

Fred looked around just in time to hurl himself past the thing and avoid colliding with it, but in his haste, he tripped. Harry saw Fred’s wand fly out of his hand as a gigantic spider stepped into the path and began to bear down upon Fred.

“Not fair!” Fred complained, reaching towards his wand.

“Stupefy!” Harry yelled; the spell hit the spider’s gigantic, hairy black body, but for all the good it did, he might as well have thrown a stone at it; the spider jerked, scuttled around, and ran at Harry instead.

“Stupefy! Impedimenta! Stupefy!” But it was no use — the spider was either so large, or so magical, wthat the spells were doing no more than aggravating it. Harry had one horrifying glimpse of eight shining black eyes and razor-sharp pincers before it was upon him. Harry’s hand itched towards Nico’s sword - but it wouldn’t do anything against the spider with Harry wielding the blade, at least.

Harry was lifted into the air on his front legs; struggling madly, he tried to kick it; his leg connected with the pincers and next moment he was in excruciating pain. He could hear Fred yelling “Stupefy!” too, but his spell had no more effect than Harry’s — Harry raised his wand as the spider opened its pincers once more and shouted “Expelliarmus!”

It worked — the Disarming Spell made the spider drop him, but that meant that Harry fell twelve feet onto his already injured leg, which crumpled beneath him. Without pausing to think, he aimed high at the spider’s underbelly, as he had done with the skrewt, and shouted “Stupefy!” just as Fred yelled the same thing.

The two spells combined did what one alone had not: The spider keeled over sideways, flattening a nearby hedge, and strewing the path with a tangle of hairy legs.

“Harry!” He heard Fred shouting. “You all right? Did it fall on you?”

“No,” Harry called back, panting. He looked down at his leg. It was bleeding freely. He could see some sort of thick, gluey secretion from the spider’s pincers on his torn robes. He tried to get up, but his leg was shaking badly and did not want to support his weight. He leaned against the hedge, gasping for breath, and looked around.

Fred was standing feet from the Triwizard Cup, which was gleaming behind him. “Take it, then,” Harry panted to Fred. “Go on, take it. You’re there.”

Fred glanced once towards the cup before shaking his head. “Mate, you just saved my life. You take it. You should win. That’s twice you’ve saved my neck in here.”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to work,” Harry said. He felt angry; his leg was very painful, he was aching all over from trying to throw off the spider, and after all his efforts, Fred had beaten him to it.

“The one who reaches the cup first gets the points. That’s you. I’m telling you, I’m not going to win any races on this leg.”

Fred looked at Harry dubiously before walking towards Harry. “Nope,” Fred said, picking up his wand. “Go on,” Fred said. He looked as though this was costing him every ounce of resolution he had, but his face was set, his arms were folded, he seemed decided.

Harry looked from Fred to the cup. For one shining moment, he saw himself emerging from the maze, holding it. He saw himself holding the Triwizard Cup aloft, heard the roar of the crowd . . . and then the picture faded, and he found himself staring at Fred’s shadowy, stubborn face.

“Both of us,” Harry said.

“What?”

“We’ll take it at the same time. It’s still a Hogwarts victory. We’ll tie for it.”

Fred stared at Harry. He unfolded his arms. “Are you sure mate?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah . . . we’ve helped each other out, haven’t we? We both got here. Let’s just take it together.”

For a moment, Fred looked as though he couldn’t believe his ears; then his face split in a grin. “You’re on,” he said. “Come here.”

Fred grabbed Harry’s arm below the shoulder and helped Harry limp toward the plinth where the cup stood. "Can't you just heal yourself?" Fred asked and they neared it. 

Harry shook his head "Magic... it requires a clear head or whatever, and I'm too exhausted."

"I guess that works," Fred mumbled. When they had reached it, they both held a hand out over one of the cup’s gleaming handles. “On three, right?” said Harry. “One — two — three —”

He and Fred both grasped a handle. Instantly, Harry felt a jerk somewhere behind his navel. His feet had left the ground. He could not unclench the hand holding the Triwizard Cup; it was pulling him onward in a howl of wind and swirling color, Fred at his side.

-

Harry felt his feet slam into the ground; his injured leg gave way, and he fell forward; his hand let go of the Triwizard Cup at last. Fred caught him before he could face plant into the ground. He raised his head. “Where are we?” he said.

Fred shook his head and pulled Harry to his feet, and they looked around. “This doesn’t feel right,” Fred said, mirroring Harry’s own thoughts. They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they had obviously traveled miles — perhaps hundreds of miles — for even the mountains surrounding the castle were gone. They were standing instead in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside.

Then, he could feel it, something he’d never wish to experience again. I see you, the eyes whispered to him, glaring at his back. Harry’s stomach clenched and he felt his legs begin to shake, but not from the pain.

Something bad is going to happen, Harry thought. Harry’s hand itched for the sword and he lowered his hand towards his back, behind his cloak. Nico was right.

Fred looked down at the Triwizard Cup and then up at Harry. “Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?” he asked. “Cause if not, this is a very dumb prank.”

Fred, for the first time Harry realized, looked a bit nervous and spooked. Not even the maze had him looking shaken.

“Nope,” said Harry. He was looking around the graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. “Is this supposed to be part of the task?”

“I dunno,” said Fred, voice a bit odd. “Looks like somewhere your friend would hang out.”

Harry almost questioned who he was talking—Nico. Oh. 

Fred was the first person to bring out his wand, keeping it at hip level but glancing around all the same. Harry kept looking around him. He had, yet again, the strange feeling that they were being watched. Suddenly, Harry felt something brushing against his leg. Harry nearly jumped in fright, startling Fred, who pulled the wand towards the creature ("Bloody hell! Scared the hell out of me there, mate)."

Harry let out a sigh as Ariadne come into view, her green eyes looking at the wand with disinterest. Her tail was swishing forward slightly, her ears high, listening, and the fur on her back was raised. “What are you doing here Ariadne?” Harry whispered, watching it swirl between Fred and Harry’s legs, trilling.

She froze, her chin pointing up. “Someone’s coming,” Fred said suddenly.

Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watched the figure drawing nearer, walking steadily toward them between the graves. Harry’s hand reached behind his back now, hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

Harry couldn’t make out a face, but from the way it was walking and holding its arms, he could tell that it was carrying something. Whoever it was, he was short, and wearing a hooded cloak pulled up over his head to obscure his face. And — several paces nearer, the gap between them closing all the time — Harry saw that the thing in the person’s arms looked like a baby . . . or was it merely a bundle of robes?

Harry’s hands had nearly unsheathed his sword now, the material the sword was made from was practically buzzing at Harry to be released. He would question Nico later on how such a sword could have such an urge to kill people. Yet, Harry didn’t let go of the hilt of the sword. Fred had glance towards him, to the sword by his side—and his eyes widened a bit. 

A branch snapped.

They both turned back to watch the approaching figure between the fog. “Don’t lower your wand Harry,” Fred said. Then he froze and did a double take at Harry. “Is that a—“

The figure stopped beside a towering marble headstone, only six feet from them. Fred closed his mouth and Harry ducked his sword behind his cloak, his heart hammering in his chest. The fog was thick and hard to see through.

For a second, Harry and Fred and the short figure simply looked at one another. And then, without warning, Harry’s scar exploded with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in all his life; Nico’s sword slipped from his fingers as he placed his hands over his face; his knees buckled; he was on the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head was about to split open.

He could hear Ariadne let out a hiss in warning.

Harry could feel himself keel over. His eyes found his sword through the fog—but he pushed all his effort into croaked out, “Fred!”

From far away, above his head, he heard a high, cold voice say, “Kill the spare.”

Something deep inside of Harry died—all of Harry’s lessons with Nico would go to waste. Harry cried out as a swishing noise and a second voice echoed through the clearing, screeching the words to the night:

“Avada Kedavra!”

Chapter Text

Harry tried to recall what happened.

Everything passed by in a blur of green—he couldn’t tell right from left, but his hand that had grasped for Nico’s sword hadn’t reached it in time—disappearing from the ground.

He heard a loud clang echo through the forest, echoing loudly through his ears. Harry flinched and turned his head away—hearing something heavy fall to the ground beside him.

An echo of magic breezed through the air; the pain in his scar reached such a pitch that he retched, and then it diminished; terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his stinging eyes.

Fred was lying on the ground beside him, coughing furiously with Nico’s blade beside him. His hands were burned and his uniform singed. He curled up on himself, wrenching into the grass.

What happened? Is… Harry felt very sick to his stomach.

And then, before Harry’s mind had accepted what he was seeing, before he could feel anything but numb disbelief, he felt himself being pulled to his feet. The short man in the cloak had put down his bundle, which said, “Aim true now! Make sure he regrets using such a blade.”

He’s alive… he used the blade!

And, to Harry’s horror as he was frozen still, a crack of red exploded through the end of the figure’s wand and down towards Fred. Harry cried out Freds name as the spell made an impact. Fred's body moved on its own accord and the noise Fred made was earth-shattering, the sound split through the graveyard and Harry was sure his ears would bleed. Fred was seizing on the ground, his wand long forgotten. And when the effects of the spell subsided, with Fred left panting on the ground, the man repeated the curse again.

The screaming continued through the clearing and Harry cried out, “STOP!” He could barely hear himself. What if Fred turns out like Neville’s parents? Tortured to insanity? That’s a much worse fate than death…  

Ariadne hissed and scratched at Fred's shaking form, the end of her tail raised more than should be possible.

Fred’s cries rang out in the graveyard, feeling like it had gone on for so long. The screams sang in his ears, although there was noise from the others lips. Fred laid there, curled in on himself, unmoving. Even his chest did not rise or fall.

Can someone die from pain? Harry thought in mute horror, eyes wide as he stared at Fred’s still body.

“You are wasting time, hurry,” the voice hissed.

Then, in a terrifying silence, the man raised the wand again. Harry saw the shape of his mouth form the killing curse, he saw the way the wand lifted - and the green light that exploded from it. Harry didn’t hear or see anything, for he was frozen in place.

The light hit Fred and his body jerked once, before freezing in time. Harry cried out, his throat dry. Fred did not move.

And Harry knew then, that Fred was dead.

Ariadne immediately went to Fred’s side and dug her paws into his skin, drawing red. Harry cried out, watching her. Stop. Stop. Stop.

Blood pooled on the grass and the cat trilled nervously, her green eyes watching the blood sink into the grass below. Her claws were longer than any normal cats should be - the claw marks much to deep to be possible. 

It turned towards Harry, letting out a quiet meow. The white spot on her fur was covered with blood and Harry did nothing as the the cloaked figure lit his wand and began dragging Harry toward the marble headstone. Harry saw the name upon it flickering in the wand light before he was forced around and slammed against it.

TOM RIDDLE.

The cloaked man was now conjuring tight cords around Harry, tying him from neck to ankles to the headstone. Harry could hear shallow, fast breathing from the depths of the hood; he struggled, and the man hit him — hit him with a hand that had a finger missing. And Harry realized who was under the hood. 

It was Wormtail.

“You!” Harry gasped, and the terror disappeared, replaced with a burning fury.

But Wormtail, who had finished conjuring the ropes, did not reply; he was busy checking the tightness of the cords, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, fumbling over the knots. Once sure that Harry was bound so tightly to the headstone that he couldn’t move an inch, Wormtail drew a length of some black material from the inside of his cloak and stuffed it roughly into Harry’s mouth; then, without a word, he turned from Harry and hurried away. 

For a moment, Harry feared that he wanted to get one last kick at Fred before returning, but the cat stayed in place, laying on top of Fred’s chest, watching Wormtail with a look of disgust. Harry couldn’t make a sound, nor could he see where Wormtail had gone; he couldn’t turn his head to see beyond the headstone; he could see only what was right in front of him.

Fred’s body was lying some twenty feet away. Some way beyond him, glinting in the starlight, lay the Triwizard Cup. Nico’s sword was on the ground at Fred’s feet. In the moment that Harry dropped the sword, had Fred picked it up and tried to defend himself with it? Or had the shadows sensed something wrong and went to Fred’s aid? 

Harry’s head was buzzing - all he knew was that Fred didn’t die the first time around. Nor should he be dead now. Some insane part of him was certain he was still breathing, still alive. Please don’t be dead, don’t be dead, oh god, don’t be dead. I’d pray to any god I know right now to make sure Fred isn’t dead.

Ariadne stared at Harry, eyes blinking, almost as if she heard his thoughts. She raised her head slightly, narrowing onto the blood-soaked grass illuminated by the moon, seeping into the ground. And for a terrifying moment, a sentence ran cold through him, to the point where Harry nearly shuddered.

The blood of kin runs through the ground.

The words repeated in his head until he could think of nothing else. Blood, blood, blood…

The prophecy - this part - had come true, and Harry... didn't see it coming.

He could hear noises at his feet. He looked down and saw a gigantic snake slithering through the grass, circling the headstone where he was tied. Harry just hoped it wouldn’t go near Fred in hopes of a meal, but it didn’t even glance towards the boy who had a glaring cat on top of him.

Wormtail came back within Harry’s range of vision, and Harry saw him pushing a stone cauldron to the foot of the grave. It was full of what seemed to be water — Harry could hear it slopping around — and it was larger than any cauldron Harry had ever used; a great stone belly large enough for a fullgrown man to sit in.

The thing inside the bundle of robes on the ground was stirring more persistently, as though it was trying to free itself. Now Wormtail was busying himself at the bottom of the cauldron with a wand. Suddenly there were crackling flames beneath it. The large snake slithered away into the darkness.

“Now . . .” said the cold voice.

Harry did not see the cat leave.

-

Nico watched the stands with a pit growing in his stomach. The Triwizard Tournament had been tense from the start, but this... something felt wrong. It was the same wrong when he approached Tarturas months ago, knowing that something wasn’t, well, right. 

He hasn't been back since, hasn’t touched the entrance of Tarturas, and he won’t until this year is over and Voldemort is dealt with.

Apollo had, annoyingly, made sure of it.

Fleur and Viktor had already been brought back from the maze, exhausted but alive. But Fred and Harry hadn’t appeared. The crowd was restless, their cheers and chatter fading into nervous murmurs. Nico could feel it, too—an anxious energy prickling the air. 

He stood, eyes scanning the field for any sign of movement. Fred and Harry were late, far too late. Nico pushed away from the stands. Something terrible had happened. He just knew it. Nico wasn’t exactly used to dealing with this. He should be out there, helping Harry. Instead, he was bound to sitting in the stands, unable to do anything.

He felt useless, far more than he would like.

He moved through the crowds, slipping past groups of students and teachers who were now whispering amongst themselves. The bushes bordering the maze loomed ahead, dark and foreboding. He could hear the judges talking in low voices, the sharp edge of concern cutting through their tones the further he went down the maze. Professor McGonagall was pacing, her lips pressed in a thin line, while Dumbledore stood still, eyes locked on the maze.

He didn’t really have to avoid the Professors, he was never seen anyway, even without the use of the shadows. But…

Nico wished Apollo were here. The god was annoying, yes, but he was useful. Far more useful than some other gods Nico had run into. But Apollo had to leave—something about the case being pushed forward, being ready to go. Thats if Apollo was there, and wasn't trying to flirt. Apollo needed to be there since he (technically, Nico found it, but he wasn’t about to go out into the open and announce it to the world. He didn’t want any more eyes on him, more than there already were) brought the issue into notice.

There had been whispers in the ministry while Nico was searching for Crouch. Those who knew, and those who didn’t. Nico knows for a fact that the only reason why Rita Skeeter isn’t dead right now, felled by a stray arrow, was because Apollo needed someone to write a rather scathing letter about the ministry…

As he stepped away from the bushes near the west entrance, he caught sight of Percy, the red-headed stand-in for Crouch. Unlike the rest of his brothers, Nico never saw him as an annoyance, if only because he was just as quiet as Nico - and didn't like sharing his business. Which Nico couldn't even be annoyed with since he did the same - though he was sure he wasn't as snappish, at the least.

Slowly approaching the Weasley, Nico noticed that he looked rather rattled, his face pale, eyes unfocused. 

“Weasley?” he called out, his hand itching for his blade. He should have-

No, Nico thought, its good that I gave it to Harry. He's in trouble, he needs it more than I do right now. I can fight without my sword.

The other didn’t seem to notice him, too busy focusing on the bushes, waiting for a spark of red to go up.

Wizards have no sense of their surroundings… I swear it.

He got closer, his foot stepping onto a broken tree branch.  Percy whipped around, wand drawn and a curse ready on his lips. Nico stopped short, hands raised defensively, his shadows darting out around him.

“It’s just me,” Nico said quietly.

Normally, that wouldn't have calmed anyone this anxious down, especially with the shadows surrounding him, but he's had enough run ins with the Weasley in the past two months that included meeting this way.

Percy lowered his wand slowly, blinking as if trying to clear some haunting vision from his mind. His hands shook slightly, and Nico noticed the sweat beading at his temples.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” Percy muttered, his voice trembling with something Nico couldn’t quite place— fear? Anxiety? He wasn’t good with his own emotions, let alone others.

“Sorry,” Nico said unapologetically. Pay more attention. “What are you doing out here? Have you seen Fred or Harry?”

Percy swallowed, glancing around nervously, eyeing the shadows. “No,” he said, his voice strained. “They... they haven’t come back yet.”

“I know that,” Nico said, his tone sharper than intended. “But you—you’re out here. What’s going on?” And you look live you've seen a ghost, was left unsaid, but Percy seemed to get the message.

Percy’s eyes darted away, and he seemed to be avoiding Nico’s gaze. For a moment, there was silence, just the hum of the crowd and the distant sounds of the night. Nico waited, his patience wearing thin. Something was clearly bothering Percy, something more than just the tournament’s stress.

It dawned on Nico, the same dawning realization he had when he had somehow known that Crouch’s son was still alive.

"You won't get in trouble," Nico offered.

Percy's jaw set slightly. 

"I didn't ask where, or even how you got that information, but I know you did - but if whatever it is-"

"A graveyard," Percy pierced in, voice colder - and now, he looked much more reserved.

Nico did not mean for that to come out as a threat - something he's used to happening by now. 

And then, Nico's mind halted for a brief, staggering, moment as he processed Percy's words. Graveyard. Missing Fred and Harry. Something was horribly wrong. A resurrection. Blood. Voldemort needed blood - 

Nico froze. Blood of kin runs through the ground. In front of him was Percy-

Oh dear. 

Nico should’ve been paying more attention to the Weasleys. 

Before he could ask anything more, perhaps asking if he saw where exactly the graveyard was, Nico’s body tensed. He felt it—his sword, the Stygian iron blade he kept so close, was unsheathed. His instincts flared to life. He reached for the shadows, intent on traveling through the darkness, but Percy’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm tightly.

“Wait!” Percy’s voice cracked with panic. “What’s going on?”

Nico paused, but his gaze snapped to Percy’s wide-eyed expression. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the smell hit him. It was faint, just a whisper on the wind, but it was unmistakable. It was putrid and ripe - but full of relief on the wind, of a tortured soul seeking peace.

Death.

His chest tightened, his senses going into overdrive. He could feel the pull, the sickening cold weight of something dark and final. Something terrible had happened, and it was too far away. He needed to-

A meow echoed through the grounds - and Percy's hands shot back, shaking in surprise. Nico slowly turned around, the shadows momentarily dispersing.  Turning, he saw his cat walking towards him, a small ball of light hovering just below her, near the white patch - covered by blood - on her chest.

Nico froze.

He could recognize a soul anywhere.

“How the hell…?” Nico began, more quietly than the wind. He didn’t have much time to think on it though, because the cat leapt up towards Nico, the soul following, her green eyes narrowing slightly.  And it hit Nico like a ton of bricks, making him feel quite insane to the point where he almost laughed. “I’m an idiot,” Nico muttered and turned back around to face Percy, who was watching Ariadne with wide eyes - and Nico like he was insane.

“Fred’s not dead, well, he is. But…”

Percy’s face twitched and maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say, but-

“He can’t die, not when death isn’t there to take his soul,” Nico said, Thank god Lupa made Percy stay with her longer… and whatever wizarding magic Ariadne somehow has to keep Fred's soul here.

Nico looked up at Ariadne. “Give me the soul, I’ll put it back.”

The cat meowed innocently at Nico, as if she couldn’t understand what he wanted.

“I can touch souls,” Nico said.

Percy watched them warily. Maybe he thought Nico had gone insane - Nico felt like he was. Though Percy was relaxing now, his body had stopped shaking, he still looked a bit lost for words. “Let me know if you’ve seen anything else-” Nico began, watching Ariadne slip the soul into Nico’s hands.

He stopped short as something dreadful crawled up his spine. He felt it, something ancient, roll through the bushes, making the leaves shake. Percy had gone completely still in front of him. “What was that?” Percy whispered.

“Resurrection,” Nico said darkly, feeling the soul jump in his hands. “Go,” Nico said, “Back to the front of the maze. I’ll make sure they’re there by the time you return.”

Percy nodded slowly, watching him for a moment, before disappearing back into a patch of bushes. With a sigh, Nico looked forward, narrowing his eyes onto what he needed. The smell of death, I should go there.

He pushed on the shadows, and they brought him forward.

-

“Crucio!”

It was pain beyond anything Harry had ever experienced; his very bones were on fire; his head was surely splitting along his scar; his eyes were rolling madly in his head; he wanted it to end . . . to black out . . . to die . . .  And then it was gone. He was hanging limply in the ropes binding him to the headstone of Voldemort’s father, looking up into those bright red eyes through a kind of mist. The night was ringing with the sound of the Death Eaters’ laughter.

Harry could see how people could be driven mad or even die from this curse. Harry couldn’t imagine what Fred went through, experiencing this for minutes…

Voldemort is alive, and breathing, and the death eaters… they’re all here…

Fred is dead, not breathing, and...

“Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand”

Wormtail approached Harry, who scrambled to find his feet, to support his own weight before the ropes were untied. Wormtail raised his new silver hand, pulled out the wad of material gagging Harry, and then, with one swipe, cut through the bonds tying Harry to the gravestone.

There was a split second, perhaps, when Harry might have considered running for it, but his injured leg shook under him as he stood on the overgrown grave, as the Death Eaters closed ranks, forming a tighter circle around him and Voldemort, so that the gaps where the missing Death Eaters should have stood were filled.

Wormtail walked out of the circle to the place where Fred’s body lay and returned with Harry’s wand, which he thrust roughly into Harry’s hand without looking at him. Nico’s sword lay unmoving by Fred’s side. Then Wormtail resumed his place in the circle of watching Death Eaters.

“You have been taught how to duel, Harry Potter?” said Voldemort softly, his red eyes glinting through the darkness. At these words Harry remembered, as though from a former life, the dueling club at Hogwarts he had attended briefly two years ago... All he had learned there was the Disarming Spell, “Expelliarmus” . . . and what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one? He had never learned anything that could possibly fit him for this, aside from using Nico’s sword. 

Harry knew he was facing the thing against which Moody had always warned . . . the unblockable Avada Kedavra curse, which not even Nico’s blade could completely block. The sword had backfired on Fred, sent his hands on fire and probably caused him great pain. The spell had been absorbed into a less evil spell — and Voldemort was right — his mother was not here to die for him this time. . . 

 Harry was quite unprotected.

“We bow to each other, Harry,” said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. “Come, the niceties must be observed. Dumbledore would like you to show manners. Bow to death, Harry.”

The Death Eaters were laughing again. Voldemort’s lipless mouth was smiling. Harry did not bow. He was not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing him... he was not going to give him that satisfaction. “I said, bow,” Voldemort said, raising his wand — and Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the Death Eaters laughed harder than ever.

“Very good,” said Voldemort softly, and as he raised his wand the pressure bearing down upon Harry lifted too. “And now you face me, like a man . . . straight-backed and proud, the way your father died. . . “

“And now — we duel.”

Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do anything to defend himself, before he could even move, he had been hit again by the Cruciatus Curse. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was. . . . White-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely going to burst with pain, he was screaming more loudly than he’d ever screamed in his life —

And then it stopped. Harry rolled over and scrambled to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as Wormtail had done when his hand had been cut off; he staggered sideways into the wall of watching Death Eaters, and they pushed him away, back toward Voldemort.

“A little break,” said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils dilating with excitement, “a little pause . . . That hurt, didn’t it, Harry? You don’t want me to do that again, do you?”

Harry casted a glance back towards the sword, and towards Fred. Harry had to get his hands on Nico’s sword, use it to defend himself - somehow. But Harry didn’t know how to wield such a weapon, nor would it be effective against a talented wizard like Voldemort (as much Harry loathed to admit it). 

And… If Fred was dead, Harry was going to die like that too, in that graveyard, probably never found…

Harry repressed a shiver.

Harry wasn’t going to play along. He wasn’t going to obey Voldemort . . . he wasn’t going to beg. . . At the very least, he could ask Nico? Surely, everyone must have realized something was wrong. Nico would probably be there to help Harry if Harry was insistent, right?

Nico could find him.

Hopefully.

“I asked you whether you want me to do that again,” said Voldemort softly. “Answer me! Imperio!” And Harry felt, for the third time in his life, the sensation that his mind had been wiped of all thought. . .  Ah, it was bliss, not to think, it was as though he were floating, dreaming . . . just answer no . . . say no . . . just answer no. . . 

“I WON’T!” And these words burst from Harry’s mouth; they echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state was lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been thrown over him — back rushed the aches that the Cruciatus Curse had left all over his body — back rushed the realization of where he was, and what he was facing. . . .

“You won’t?” said Voldemort quietly, and the Death Eaters were not laughing now. “You won’t say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die. . . . Perhaps another little dose of pain? Like you friend experienced…”

A couple of death eaters cast their glance towards Fred and Harry eagerly wanted them to turn away from him. Voldemort raised his wand, but this time Harry was ready; with the reflexes born of his Quidditch tracing, he shouted, “ Accio, Nico’s sword!”

The sword flew into Harry’s hand just as the curse hit the blade. Harry went flying backwards, but the sword held on, splitting the curse in half. But Harry could see it, cracks upon cracks in Nico’s blade, vibrating a bright green. The killing curse, Harry realized. It’s inside this.

The sword will not last Harry long and if it broke - Harry would not want to experience that.

“We are not playing with swords, Harry,” said Voldemort’s soft, cold voice, drawing nearer, as the Death Eaters laughed. “You cannot hide behind the blade for long. Does this mean you are tired of our duel? Does this mean that you would prefer me to finish it now, Harry? Come now, Harry . . . use a wand . . . it will be quick . . . it might even be painless . . . I would not know . . . I have never died. . .”

Harry went behind a statue and crouched behind it, tucking Nico’s blade in close. Harry wasn’t sure how much a new sword would cost, but he knew Nico wouldn’t be happy if Harry returned with a broken sword.

There was no hope . . . no help to be had. Nico was barred, probably barred by Phoebus and the judges, to help. And what could Nico do? Nico was drained when he used those shadows a year ago now.  And as he heard Voldemort draw nearer still, he knew one thing only, and it was beyond fear or reason: He was not going to die crouching here like a child playing hide-and-seek; he was not going to die kneeling at

Voldemort’s feet . . . he was going to die upright like his father, and he was going to die trying to defend himself, even if no defense was possible. . . 

Before Voldemort could stick his snakelike face around the headstone, Harry stood up, placing his wand beside the blade. I’ll just transfigure my wand to the blade - it should work, right? The wands magic will hold Nico’s blade in place, stop it from shattering. It should work since Nico’s blade is made of magical properties too! And he could use magic with it…

Harry pulled the two weapons together, mouthing the same spell that he used to transfigure the wand into a sword and watched in amazement as the wand broke apart slowly, slithering its way around the hilt of the blade, bits of orange poking out near the pommel - before resting where the blade met the hilt.

Harry righted himself, gripped the sword tightly in his hand, thrust it out in front of him, and threw himself around the headstone, facing Voldemort.

Voldemort was ready. 

As Harry shouted, “Expelliarmus!” Voldemort cried, “Avada Kedavra!”

A jet of green light issued from Voldemort’s wand just as the shadows around Nico’s blade exploded - the two meeting midair  — and suddenly, the sword was vibrating as though an electric charge were surging through it; his hand seized up around it; he couldn’t have released it if he’d wanted to — the shadows and the spell grew brighter and Harry’s whole body shook. Cracks were beginning to form around Nico’s sword more and more, bursts of green popping out.

Harry would not be able to hold on for long.

The shadows connecting Harry and Voldemort splintered; and though both their weapons remained in each others hands, a thousand more beams arced high over Harry and Voldemort, all made of shadows crisscrossing all around them, until they were enclosed in a shadowy, dome-shaped web, a cage of darkness, beyond which the Death Eaters circled like jackals, their cries strangely muffled now. . . 

“Do nothing!” Voldemort shrieked to the Death Eaters. Harry saw his red eyes wide with astonishment at what was happening, saw him fighting to break the thread of shadows still connecting his wand with Nico’s sword; Harry held onto the sword more tightly, with both hands, and the shadowy thread remained unbroken.

“Do nothing unless I command you!” Voldemort shouted to the Death Eaters.

And then an unearthly and beautiful sound filled the air. . . . It was coming from every thread of the dark-spun web vibrating around Harry and Voldemort. It was souls, Harry thought wildy. Of those who died…

And like a symphony of voices, they collided, forcing Voldemort away, the spell away.

“NOW!” Harry yelled; he didn’t think he could have held on for another moment anyway — he pulled the sword upward with an almighty wrench, and the shadow thread broke; the cage of light vanished, the phoenix song died — but the shadowy figures of Voldemort’s victims did not disappear — they were closing in upon Voldemort, shielding Harry from his gaze —

Nico’s blade exploded into pieces and the green light around it warped together, Harry’s wand reforming into place. It happened faster than Harry could accurately articulate, but he saw Nico’s shattered blades infuse with the killing curse, the green glowing onto the blades, sticking. But not reforming, not yet, leaving behind a shattered sword and a hilt.

Harry didn’t think twice. He scooped up the remnants of the blade - and his wand - and got to his feet, running as he had never run in his life, knocking two stunned Death Eaters aside as he passed; he zigzagged behind headstones, feeling their curses following him, hearing them hit the headstones — he was dodging curses and graves, pelting toward Fred’s body, no longer aware of the pain in his leg, his whole being concentrated on what he had to do —

“Stun him!” he heard Voldemort scream.

No one got a chance. Shadows exploded in the graveyard, sending statue’s flying around. Harry didn’t look behind him as he grabbed onto Fred, ignored the claw marks, and surged towards the cup. A hand reached his arm and he nearly snapped it free, but stopped short when saw Nico there, his eyes dark with such a murderous look on his face that Harry thought that for sure the army of death eaters were dead.

“Nico-” Harry croaked but Nico pushed him away from Fred as gently as he could.

“He’s dead, he was hit-” Harry tried again, reaching for the cup, but stopped short as he saw a white light escape Nico’s palms. With a finger to his lips, to shush Harry, he pushed the soul into Fred’s chest - at the exact same time Harry’s hand had wrapped around the cup.

-

Harry felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face was pressed into grass; the smell of it filled his nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey transported him, and he kept them closed now. He did not move. All the breath seemed to have been knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly he felt as though the ground beneath him were swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold himself steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still clutching: the smooth, cold handle of the Triwizard Cup and Fred’s body. He felt as though he would slide away into the blackness gathering at the edges of his brain if he let go of either of them.

Harry looked up, to perhaps find Nico, but the boy was gone.

Did I… Leave him behind?

Shock and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in the smell of the grass, waiting . . . waiting for someone to do something . . . something to happen . . . and all the while, his scar burned dully on his forehead. . . . A torrent of sound deafened and confused him; there were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams. . .  He remained where he was, his face screwed up against the noise, as though it were a nightmare that would pass. . . 

Then a pair of hands seized him roughly and turned him over. “Harry! Harry!”

He opened his eyes.

He was looking up at the starry sky, and Albus Dumbledore was crouched over him. The dark shadows of a crowd of people pressed in around them, pushing nearer; Harry felt the ground beneath his head reverberating with their footsteps. He had come back to the edge of the maze. He could see the stands rising above him, the shapes of people moving in them, the stars above.

Harry let go of the cup, but he clutched Fred to him even more tightly. He raised his free hand and seized Dumbledore’s wrist, while Dumbledore’s face swam in and out of focus. “He’s back,” Harry whispered. “He’s back. Voldemort.”

Fred - he’s dead. I don’t know what Nico tried to do but-

“What’s going on? What’s happened?” A voice exploded nearby. Harry turned to see Percy’s white face come into view as he landed beside Fred, looking almost as bad as Fred himself.  There’s more shouting around them, more people approaching. Percy, who had been closest due to being a judge, had reached them second to Dumbledore. The other judges approached as more uproar croaked through the crowd. 

Percy’s hand reached out for Fred’s wrist, hoping for a pulse. Then he scrambled for his wand, and muttered something under his breath and a spell was cast over Fred. He’s dead. I saw it. I saw him stop moving. 

However, the spell Percy casted showed that Fred was alive. His heart was beating and his chest had begun to slowly rise and fall. No, Harry thought wildly. No way. He should… he should be dead. I saw it.

Harry felt like he was on fire. Around him, alive was whispered through the crowd. 

Professor Phoebus had appeared then, in a pop sound that sounded like apparition. His cloak fluttered behind him and his face was grim as his eyes scanned Fred. He dropped to a knee and reached his hand out and a faint glow rose from under Freds skin.

The lines under Phoebus’s eyes deepened.

He took in a deep breath and said, “Dumbledore — he’s been tortured.”

The words were repeated, the shadowy figures pressing in on them gasped it to those around them . . . and then others shouted it — screeched it — into the night —

“Tortured!”

“Tortured!”

He can feel people he should now race towards them, see one of them jump over the stands in a hurry.

“Fred Weasley! Tortured!”

“Harry, you’ve got to let go of him,” Percy whispered, who looked like he was holding onto Fred just as tightly as Harry -  but Harry wouldn’t let him go. There’s more people now, crowding around him. There’s a voice nearby.

Harry’s stomach churned. He’s dead. I saw it. I saw it.

Then Dumbledore’s face, which was still blurred and misted, came closer. “Harry, you can’t help him now. It’s over. Let go.”

“He - he was crusciated,” Harry muttered — it seemed important to explain this. “We both… he di-”

“That’s right, Harry . . . just let go now. . . I’ve got him,” Professor Phoebus said. “He’ll be fine.”

Dumbledore bent down, and with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, raised Harry from the ground and set him on his feet. Harry swayed. His head was pounding. His injured leg would no longer support his weight. The crowd around them jostled, fighting to get closer, pressing darkly in on him — 

“What’s happened?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Weasley’s tortured!”

Somewhere along the way, - maybe he was there the whole time - Fudge was here, talking, looking a bit taken aback by Harry’s and Fred’s appearance. When did he get here?

“He’ll need to go to the hospital wing!” Fudge was saying loudly. “He’s ill, he’s injured — Dumbledore, Weasley’s parents, they’re here, they’re in the stands. . . ”

“I’ll take Harry, Dumbledore, I’ll take him —”

“No, I would prefer —”

“Dumbledore,  the Weasley’s running . . . they’re coming over. . . one jumped over the stands. Don’t you think you should tell them — before they see — ?”

“Harry, stay here —”

“Stop,” Percy whispered, hesitantly letting go of Fred as Professor Phoebus quickly muttered phrases under his breath. “I’ll tell them…” He disappeared from everyone’s view, through the crowd, towards his parents.

Girls were screaming, sobbing hysterically. . .  

The scene flickered oddly before Harry’s eyes. . . 

“It’s all right, son, I’ve got you . . . come on . . . hospital wing . . .” Dumbledore said.

Someone larger and stronger than he was was half pulling, half carrying him through the frightened crowd. Harry heard people gasping, screaming, and shouting as the man supporting him pushed a path through them, taking him back to the castle. Across the lawn, past the lake and the Durmstrang ship, Harry heard nothing but the heavy breathing of the man helping him walk.

Harry could feel the hilt of Nico’s sword clanking around in his pocket. Right, Harry thought weary, I should probably give what's left of it to Nico…Wherever he is.

“What happened, Harry?” the man asked at last as he lifted Harry up the stone steps. It was Mad-Eye Moody.

“Cup was a Portkey,” said Harry as they crossed the entrance hall. “Took me and Fred to a graveyard . . . and Voldemort was there . . . Lord Voldemort . . .”

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Up the marble stairs . . .

“The Dark Lord was there? What happened then?”

“Tortured Fred . . . they tortured Fred. . . .” He died. He died. But he’s not dead? Nico did something. Where did he go?

“And then?”

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Along the corridor . . .

“Made a potion . . . got his body back. . . .”

“The Dark Lord got his body back? He’s returned?”

“And the Death Eaters came . . . and then we dueled. . . .”

“You dueled with the Dark Lord?”

“Got away . . . sword. . . did something funny. . . . I saw my mum and dad . . . they came out of his wand. . . .”

“In here, Harry . . . in here, and sit down. . . . You’ll be all right now . . . drink this. . . ”

Harry heard a key scrape in a lock and felt a cup being pushed into his hands. He wondered when he would be able to return Nico’s sword to him - it seemed important. 

“Drink it . . . you’ll feel better . . . come on, now, Harry, I need to know exactly what happened. . . .”

Moody helped tip the stuff down Harry’s throat; he coughed, a peppery taste burning his throat. Moody’s office came into sharper focus, and so did Moody himself. . . . He looked as white as Percy had looked, and both eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Harry’s face.

“Voldemort’s back, Harry? You’re sure he’s back? How did he do it?”

“He took stuff from his father’s grave, and from Wormtail, and me,” said Harry. His head felt clearer; his scar wasn’t hurting so badly; he could now see Moody’s face distinctly, even though the office was dark. He could still hear screaming and shouting from the distant Quidditch field.

“What did the Dark Lord take from you?” said Moody.

“Blood,” said Harry, raising his arm. His sleeve was ripped where Wormtail’s dagger had torn it. Moody let out his breath in a long, low hiss. “And the Death Eaters? They returned?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Loads of them . . .”

“How did he treat them?” Moody asked quietly. “Did he forgive them?”

But Harry had suddenly remembered. He should have told Dumbledore, he should have said it straightaway —

“There’s a Death Eater at Hogwarts! There’s a Death Eater here — they put my name in the Goblet of Fire, they made sure I got through to the end —”

Harry tried to get up, but Moody pushed him back down. “I know who the Death Eater is,” he said quietly.

“Karkaroff?” said Harry wildly. “Where is he? Have you got him? Is he locked up?”

“Karkaroff?” said Moody with an odd laugh. “Karkaroff fled tonight, when he felt the Dark Mark burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them . . .Caused Fudge to come here himself… but I doubt Karkaroff will get far. The Dark Lord has ways of tracking his enemies.”

“Karkaroff’s gone? He ran away? But then — he didn’t put my name in the goblet?”

“No,” said Moody slowly. “No, he didn’t. It was I who did that.” Harry heard, but didn’t believe.

“No, you didn’t,” Harry said. “You didn’t do that . . . you can’t have done . . .” 

“I assure you I did,” said Moody, and his magical eye swung around and fixed upon the door, and Harry knew he was making sure that there was no one outside it. At the same time, Moody drew out his wand and pointed it at Harry.

“He forgave them, then?” he said. “The Death Eaters who went free? The ones who escaped Azkaban?”

“What?” said Harry.

He was looking at the wand Moody was pointing at him. This was a bad joke, it had to be. “I asked you,” said Moody quietly, “whether he forgave the scum who never even went to look for him. Those treacherous cowards who wouldn’t even brave Azkaban for him. The faithless, worthless bits of filth who were brave enough to cavort in masks at the Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark Mark when I fired it into the sky.”

“You fired . . . What are you talking about . . . ?”

“I told you, Harry . . . I told you. If there’s one thing I hate more than any other, it’s a Death Eater who walked free. They turned their backs on my master when he needed them most. I expected him to punish them. I expected him to torture them. Tell me he hurt them, Harry. . . ”

Moody’s face was suddenly lit with an insane smile. “Tell me he told them that I, I alone remained faithful . . . prepared to risk everything to deliver to him the one thing he wanted above all . . . you.”

“You didn’t . . . it — it can’t be you. . . “

“Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire, under the name of a different school? I did. Who frightened off every person I thought might try to hurt you or prevent you from winning the tournament? I did. Who nudged Hagrid into showing you the dragons? I did. Who helped you see the only way you could beat the dragon? I did.”

Moody’s magical eye had now left the door. It was fixed upon Harry. His lopsided mouth leered more widely than ever. “It hasn’t been easy, Harry, guiding you through these tasks without arousing suspicion. Especially with them around. I have had to use every ounce of cunning I possess, so that my hand would not be detectable in your success. Dumbledore would have been very suspicious if you had managed everything too easily. I’m so glad your American friend was just as eager to help you - he was punished for that, but I was more clever. As long as you got into that maze, preferably with a decent head start — then, I knew, I would have a chance of getting rid of the other champions and leaving your way clear. But I also had to contend with your stupidity. The second task . . . that was when I was most afraid we would fail. I was keeping watch on you, Potter. I knew you hadn’t worked out the egg’s clue, so I had to give you another hint —”

“You didn’t,” Harry said hoarsely. “Fred gave me the clue —”

“Who told Fred to open it underwater? I did. I trusted that he would pass the information on to you. Decent people are so easy to manipulate, Potter. I was sure Fred would want to repay you after his brother was being an arse to you and so he did. But even then, Potter, even then you seemed likely to fail. I was watching all the time . . . all those hours in the library. Didn’t you realize that the book you needed was in your dormitory all along? I planted it there early on, I gave it to the Longbottom boy, don’t you remember? Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean. It would have told you all you needed to know about gillyweed. I expected you to ask everyone and anyone you could for help. Longbottom would have told you in an instant. But you did not . . . you did not. . . . You have a streak of pride and independence that might have ruined all.”

“So what could I do? Feed you information from another innocent source - well, more innocent source. I heard you were taking that healing class with that American Professor…let it slip during a staff meeting about learning how to breathe under water in my Auror days when I was talking with Dumbledore…”

Moody’s wand was still pointing directly at Harry’s heart. Over his shoulder, foggy shapes were moving in the Foe-Glass on the wall. Harry could see shadows creep underneath the door. If Nico could appear at any time…right now would be good.

“You were so long in that lake, Potter, I thought you had drowned. But luckily, Dumbledore took your idiocy for nobility, and marked you high for it. I breathed again. You had an easier time of it than you should have in that maze tonight, of course,” said Moody. “I was patrolling around it, able to see through the outer hedges, able to curse many obstacles out of your way. I Stunned Fleur Delacour as she passed. I put the Imperius Curse on Krum, so that he would finish Weasley and leave your path to the cup clear.”

“The Dark Lord didn’t manage to kill you, Potter, and he so wanted to,” whispered Moody. “Imagine how he will reward me when he finds I have done it for him. I gave you to him — the thing he needed above all to regenerate — and then I killed you for him. I will be honored beyond all other Death Eaters. I will be his dearest, his closest supporter . . . closer than a son. . . ”

Moody’s normal eye was bulging, the magical eye fixed upon Harry. The door was barred, and Harry knew he would never reach his own wand in time. . .  “The Dark Lord and I,” said Moody, and he looked completely insane now, towering over Harry, leering down at him, “have much in common. Both of us, for instance, had very disappointing fathers . . . very disappointing indeed. Both of us suffered the indignity, Harry, of being named after those fathers. And both of us had the pleasure . . . the very great pleasure . . . of killing our fathers to ensure the continued rise of the Dark Order!”

“You’re mad,” Harry said — he couldn’t stop himself — “you’re mad!”

“Mad, am I?” said Moody, his voice rising uncontrollably. “We’ll see! We’ll see who’s mad, now that the Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side! He is back, Harry Potter, you did not conquer him — and now — I conquer you!”

Moody raised his wand, he opened his mouth; Harry plunged his own hand into his robes —

A ring of shadows slammed into Moody as the door to Moody’s office exploded into splinters. Moody was thrown backward onto the office floor, the shadows quickly warping around him to keep him still. Harry, still staring at the place where Moody’s face had been, saw Albus Dumbledore, Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall and Nico looking back at him out of the Foe-Glass. He looked around and saw the four of them standing in the doorway, Dumbledore in front, his wand outstretched with Nico’s hand up, shadows warping under his command.

At that moment, Harry fully understood for the first time why people said Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared. The look upon Dumbledore’s face as he stared down at the unconscious form of Mad-Eye Moody was more terrible than Harry could have ever imagined. There was no benign smile upon Dumbledore’s face, no twinkle in the eyes behind the spectacles. There was cold fury in every line of the ancient face; a sense of power radiated from Dumbledore as though he were giving off burning heat.

Dumbledore stepped into the office, placed a foot underneath Moody’s unconscious body, and the shadows slithered away as Dumbledore kicked him over onto his back, so that his face was visible. Snape followed him, looking into the Foe-Glass, where his own face was still visible, glaring into the room. 

Professor McGonagall and Nico went straight to Harry.

“Come along, Potter,” she whispered.

“We knew something was wrong,” Nico muttered, looking slightly disgusted at Moody.

The thin line of McGonagall’s mouth was twitching as though she was about to cry. “Come along . . . hospital wing . . .” 

“No,” said Dumbledore sharply.

“Dumbledore, he ought to — look at him — he’s been through enough tonight —”

“He will stay, Minerva, because he needs to understand,” said Dumbledore curtly. “Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery. He needs to know who has put him through the ordeal he has suffered tonight, and why.”

“Moody,” Harry said. He was still in a state of complete disbelief. “How can it have been Moody?”

“This is not Alastor Moody,” said Dumbledore quietly. “You have never known Alastor Moody. The real Moody would not have removed you from my sight after what happened tonight. The moment he took you, I knew — and I followed.”

Dumbledore bent down over Moody’s limp form and put a hand inside his robes. He pulled out Moody’s hip flask and a set of keys on a ring. Then he turned to Professors McGonagall and Snape.

“Severus, please fetch me the strongest Truth Potion you possess, and then go down to the kitchens and bring up the house-elf called Winky. Minerva, kindly go down to Hagrid’s house, where you will find a large black dog sitting in the pumpkin patch. Take the dog up to my office, tell him I will be with him shortly, then come back here.”

If either Snape or McGonagall found these instructions peculiar, they hid their confusion. Both turned at once and left the office. Dumbledore glanced at Nico, whose face was concealed. “I’m staying,” Nico said quietly, almost deadly.  “Frankly, I don’t completely trust you since you failed to notice Moody’s problem earlier.”

If Dumbledore was offended by Nico’s comment, he didn’t show it. “Very well,” Dumbledore said. He turned and walked over to the trunk with seven locks, fitted the first key in the lock, and opened it. It contained a mass of spellbooks. Dumbledore closed the trunk, placed a second key in the second lock, and opened the trunk again. The spellbooks had vanished; this time it contained an assortment of broken Sneakoscopes, some parchment and quills, and what looked like a silvery Invisibility Cloak. 

Harry took the time to turn to Nico and brought out the hilt of Nico’s sword, along with the shattered remains. “Sorry,” Harry whispered, raising the sword hilt towards Nico. “This is all that’s left of your sword.”

Nico looked it over and took the hilt into his hands. Harry waited for Nico to curse him out or storm away for breaking his sword, but his face was unreadable. Harry thought that the unreadable face was almost worse than one of anger. “Sorry,” Harry repeated.

Nico swallowed and pocketed the hilt of the blade.

The air was thick.

Nico's jaw worked.

“I’m honestly impressed by how you managed to break the sword," Nico finally said. “I’ve been using that sword for years now, killing creatures and people… but that sword has never broken yet.”

“Guess that means I don’t get to wield anymore swords?” Harry asked, the humour not raising to match his voice.

Nico nodded, something glimmering in his eyes.

Harry turned back to watch the chest and watched, astounded, as Dumbledore placed the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth keys in their respective locks, reopening the trunk, and each time revealing different contents, and finally, the real Mad-Eye Moody was revealed to them.

Dumbledore climbed into the trunk, lowered himself, and fell lightly onto the floor beside the sleeping Moody. He bent over him. Nico and Harry approached the chest, Nico looking slightly impressed.

“Stunned — controlled by the Imperius Curse — very weak,” Dumbledore said. “Of course, they would have needed to keep him alive. Harry, throw down the imposter’s cloak — he’s freezing. Madam Pomfrey - Apollo’s busy with Mr. Weasley - will need to see him, but he seems in no immediate danger.”

Harry did as he was told; Dumbledore covered Moody in the cloak, tucked it around him, and clambered out of the trunk again. Then he picked up the hip flask that stood upon the desk, unscrewed it, and turned it over. A thick glutinous liquid splattered onto the office floor - A Polyjuice potion.

Dumbledore pulled out the chair at the desk and sat down upon it, his eyes fixed upon the unconscious Moody on the floor. Harry stared at him too. Minutes passed in silence. . . 

“You know who he is?” Dumbledore asked towards Nico. 

Nico nodded and said, “Yes -  Professor Phoebus dropped by the ministry earlier. Everything is in a rush. We just didn’t know who he was impersonating. We found sufficient information from my investigation.”

Dumbledore nodded, looking slightly amused. “I see - I suppose you're grateful you won’t be going to Albania anymore to search for more clues?”

“Yes,” came Nico’s swift reply, which told more than his expressionless face

“And what about - ah - him? And that case?” 

Nico’s lips twitched. “It’s being held in the Summer."

A ghost of a smile crossed Dumbledore’s face, but disappeared as the face of the man on the floor began to change. The scars were disappearing, the skin was becoming smooth; the mangled nose became whole and started to shrink. The long mane of grizzled gray hair was withdrawing into the scalp and turning the color of straw. Suddenly, with a loud clunk, the wooden leg fell away as a normal leg regrew in its place; next moment, the magical eyeball had popped out of the man’s face as a real eye replaced it; it rolled away across the floor and continued to swivel in every direction.

Harry saw a man lying before him, pale-skinned, slightly freckled, with a mop of fair hair. He knew who he was. He had seen him in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, had watched him being led away from court by the dementors, trying to convince Mr. Crouch that he was innocent . . . but he was lined around the eyes now and looked much older. . . 

There were hurried footsteps outside in the corridor. Snape had returned with Winky at his heels. Professor McGonagall was right behind them.

“Crouch!” Snape said, stopping dead in the doorway. “Barty Crouch!”

“Good heavens,” said Professor McGonagall, stopping dead and staring down at the man on the floor. Nico, other than Dumbledore, was the only one who looked unsurprised.

Filthy, disheveled, Winky peered around Snape’s legs. Her mouth opened wide and she let out a piercing shriek. “Master Barty, Master Barty, what is you doing here?” She flung herself forward onto the young man’s chest. “You is killed him! You is killed him! You is killed Master’s son!”

“He’s not dead,” Nico supplied.

“He is simply Stunned, Winky,” said Dumbledore, clarifying. “Step aside, please. Severus, you have the potion?”

Snape handed Dumbledore a small glass bottle of completely clear liquid: the Veritaserum with which he had threatened Harry in class. Giving the man the potion, Dumbledore said, “Rennervate.”

Chapter Text

“Minerva, could I ask you to stand guard here while I take Harry upstairs?” Dumbledore asking, turning to the witch.

Harry repeated the words in his mind, mulling over every single world that Professor—no, Barty—said. How he was to blame. How Fred is (not, not, not) dead right now.

His skin burned.

“Of course,” said Professor McGonagall. Though Harry could not see her—his gaze focused on the ground—she sounded a bit ill.  Most people didn't sound so great either, except for Nico, who looked like he got the final piece of the puzzle.

“I’ll come with Harry,” Nico said after everyone began moving. Harry nodded—for all he knew, there could be another undercover Professor waiting to kidnap him around the corner.

He didn’t really safe around anyone else.

“Severus” — Dumbledore turned to Snape — “please tell Professor Phoebus to come down here; we need to get Alastor Moody into the hospital wing. Then go down into the grounds, find Cornelius Fudge, and bring him up to this office. He will undoubtedly want  to question Crouch himself. Tell him I will be in the hospital wing in half an hour’s time if he needs me.”

“I thought Professor Phoebus was dealing with Fred?” Harry asked, feeling a bit numb. There weren't enough emotions going through him to make him feel functional right now.

“He’s been sent to St. Mungo’s at the moment,” Dumbledore said gently, turning towards him. “He and Madam Pomfrey are working extra time right now to get everything figured out.”

Dumbledore nodded to Snape, who silently and swept out of the room.

“Harry?” Dumbledore said gently.

Harry got up and swayed again; the pain in his leg, which he had not noticed all the time he had been listening to Crouch, now returned in full measure. He also realized that he was shaking. Nico caught Harry’s arm before he could fall and after an assurance to Dumbledore, they went out in the hall, Nico hanging behind Harry as if ready to catch him again.

“I want you to come up to my office first, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly as they headed up the passageway. “Sirius is waiting for us there.” Dumbledore cast a questioning glance towards Nico, who frowned.

“I’ll stay with Harry, find out how the case is going,” Nico said, glancing towards the boy in question. “Be careful next time you go meet up with him. I saw you and Ron and Hermione go out to greet him during a Hogsmeade trip.”

Harry winced when he felt Dumbledore’s eyes on him. A kind of numbness and a sense of complete unreality were upon him, but he did not care; he was even glad of it. He didn’t want to have to think about anything that had happened since he had first touched the Triwizard Cup. He didn’t want to have to examine the memories, fresh and sharp as photographs, which kept flashing across his mind. Mad-Eye Moody, inside the trunk. Wormtail, slumped on the ground, cradling his stump of an arm. Voldemort, rising from the steaming cauldron. Fred… tortured… Harry could hear his screams echo through his mind, making him shudder. He was certain that Fred was directly hit with the killing curse, he saw him die, but he’s still alive. Somehow. 

He’s dead.

Should be.

Isn’t he?

It had something to do with Nico—and the ball of light he had. Fred should be dead. But he isn’t.

He’d have to grab Nico and ask him about it later—but not when Dumbledore was watching. Not when he looked so curious.

“Professor,” Harry mumbled, “Did—did the Weasley’s see everything?”

“They were in the stands,” said Dumbledore. His voice, which had been so calm throughout the interrogation of Barty Crouch, shook very slightly for the first time. “They’re with Madam Pomfrey now—only she knows how to deal with this predicament.”

They had reached the stone gargoyle. Dumbledore gave the password, it sprang aside, and he and Harry went up the moving spiral staircase to the oak door. Dumbledore pushed it open. Sirius was standing there. His face was white and gaunt as it had been when he had escaped Azkaban. In one swift moment, he had crossed the room.

“Harry, are you all right? I knew it — I knew something like this — what happened?” Sirius’s hands shook as he helped Harry into a chair in front of the desk. He glanced towards Nico, as if noticing him for the first time, and said, “You—You helped him?”

Nico inclined his head.

“What happened?” Sirius asked more urgently and Dumbledore began to tell Sirius everything Barty Crouch had said. Harry was only half listening. So tired every bone in his body was aching, he wanted nothing more than to sit here, undisturbed, for hours and hours, until he fell asleep and didn’t have to think or feel anymore.

Though, Harry did note that a pleasant (not) array of emotions did shower Sirius’s face as soon as Barty’s name was mentioned.

A shadow flickered across his arm, warmth filling up his neck. He could not thank Nico, for his mouth was dry and parsed, but he nodded slightly, hoping the other got the message.

His bones were like lead and his tongue felt like it was shrivelled up. Everything was too far from him to reach.

Nico’s soft voice came through the room, ever so quiet,“Knew something was wrong…Asked Winky to get into Crouch’s house but he wasn’t there…snuck into his office and his assistant found me - the redhead…read the letters and they were accurate…took to Albania…found remains of ritual…”

The words were drowning in Harry's ears. 

There was a soft rush of wings. Fawkes the phoenix had left his perch, flown across the office, and landed on Harry’s knee. “’Lo, Fawkes,” said Harry quietly. He stroked the phoenix’s beautiful scarlet-and-gold plumage. Fawkes blinked peacefully up at him. There was something comforting about his warm weight.

Dumbledore and Nico stopped talking. He sat down opposite Harry, behind his desk. He was looking at Harry, who avoided his eyes.

Dumbledore was going to question him. He was going to make Harry relieve everything. “I need to know what happened after you touched the Portkey in the maze, Harry,” said Dumbledore.

“We can leave that till morning, can’t we, Dumbledore?” said Sirius harshly. He had put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let him have a sleep. Let him rest.”

“He will remember more tomorrow—but he almost might forget if his brain thinks it too traumatic to remember,” came Nico’s faraway voice. Harry felt like he was underwater, and everyone else was above it, trying to get him to submerge.

Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward Sirius, some towards Nico, but Dumbledore took no notice of Sirius’s words. He leaned forward toward Harry. Very unwillingly, Harry raised his head and looked into those blue eyes.

“If I thought I could help you,” Dumbledore said gently, “by putting you into an enchanted sleep and allowing you to postpone the moment when you would have to think about what has happened tonight, I would do it. But I know better. Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it. You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you. I ask you to demonstrate your courage one more time. I ask you to tell us what happened.”

The phoenix let out one soft, quavering note. It shivered in the air, and Harry felt as though a drop of hot liquid had slipped down his throat into his stomach, warming him, and strengthening him. He took a deep breath and began to tell them. As he spoke, visions of everything that had passed that night seemed to rise before his eyes; he saw the sparkling surface of the potion that had revived Voldemort; he saw the Death Eaters Apparating between the graves around them; he saw Fred being crucioued for a couple of minutes, lying on the ground beside the cup.

Once or twice, Sirius made a noise as though about to say something, his hand still tight on Harry’s shoulder, but Dumbledore raised his hand to stop him, and Harry was glad of this, because it was easier to keep going now he had started. It was even a relief; he felt almost as though something poisonous were being extracted from him. It was costing him every bit of determination he had to keep talking, yet he sensed that once he had finished, he would feel better.

When Harry told of Wormtail piercing his arm with the dagger, however, Sirius let out a vehement exclamation and Dumbledore stood up so quickly that Harry started. Dumbledore walked around the desk and told Harry to stretch out his arm. Harry showed them both the place where his robes were torn and the cut beneath them. Harry casted a glance towards Nico, who had been quiet the entire time. His brows were pinched together and his eyes were dark, but his eyes were drawn towards the cut.

“He said my blood would make him stronger than if he’d used someone else’s,” Harry told Dumbledore. “He said the protection my — my mother left in me — he’d have it too. And he was right — he could touch me without hurting himself, he touched my face.”

For a fleeting instant, Harry thought he saw a gleam of something like triumph in Dumbledore’s eyes. But next second, Harry was sure he had imagined it, for when Dumbledore had returned to his seat behind the desk, he looked as old and weary as Harry had ever seen him.

“Nico, I assume you have your specific opinions on this?” Dumbledore inquired, looking over his glasses.

“My father wasn’t the happiest person to let me be involved here,” Nico said, bringing out the broken sword in his hand. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at it, but allowed Nico to continue talking. “But if he knows that someone’s meddled with… resurrection magic, he’ll probably keep me here longer.”

Nico said it like it was a terrible thing—to stay in Britain longer than necessary. 

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, “Has he made his decision?”

“No,” Nico said, looking a bit awkward. “He’s probably felt the blood magic by now. He'll be expecting me back.”

Dumbledore nodded and glanced back at Harry. “Harry, continue, please.” Harry went on, trying to ignore the odd conversation Nico had with his Professor—Sirius looked only half as confused as Harry did.

Harry explained how Voldemort had emerged from the cauldron, and told them all he could remember of Voldemort’s speech to the Death Eaters. Then he told how Voldemort had untied him, returned his wand, and prepared to duel. But when he reached the part where the shadowy beam of light had connected Nico’s sword and Voldemort’s wands, he found his throat obstructed. He tried to keep talking, but the memories of what had come out of Voldemort’s wand were flooding into his mind. He could see the old man emerging, Bertha Jorkins . . . his father . . . his mother . . .

He was glad when Sirius broke the silence.

“The magic connected?” he said, looking from Harry to Dumbledore to Nico. “Why?”

“It’s none of my magic,” Nico said, “my sword isn’t—wasn’t—made to deal with whatever happened. Harry just used it as a conductor.”

Harry looked up at Dumbledore again, on whose face there was an arrested look. “May I see the hilt, please?” Dumbledore asked.

Nico gave Dumbledore the sword. And Harry hadn’t even noticed that the usually sleek black hilt of Nico’s sword had changed shape—like it was transfigured. “He transfigured the blade,” Sirius said, also seeming to note the same problem as Harry. 

“Priori Incantatem,” Dumbledore muttered. His eyes gazed into Harry’s and it was almost as though an invisible beam of understanding shot between them.

“The Reverse Spell effect?” said Sirius sharply.

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore. “Harry’s wand and Voldemort’s wand share cores. Each of them contains a feather from the tail of the same phoenix. This phoenix, in fact,” he added, and he pointed at the scarlet-and-gold bird, perching peacefully on Harry’s knee.  “When you transfigured Nico’s hilt, you combined the material of your wand core to it, which is why Nico’s sword broke instead of your wand.”

“My wand’s feather came from Fawkes?” Harry said, amazed.

Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Mr. Ollivander wrote to tell me you had bought the second wand, the moment you left his shop four years ago.”

“So what happens when a wand meets its brother?” said Sirius.

“They will not work properly against each other,” said Dumbledore. “If, however, the owners of the wands force the wands to do battle . . . a very rare effect will take place. One of the wands will force the other to regurgitate spells it has performed — in reverse. The most recent first . . . and then those which preceded it..." He looked interrogatively at Harry, and Harry nodded. “Which means,” said Dumbledore slowly, his eyes upon Harry’s face, “that some forms appeared . . .less recent victims of Voldemort’s wand. . . .”

“An old man,” Harry said, his throat still constricted. “Bertha Jorkins. And . . .”

“Your parents?” said Dumbledore quietly.

“Yes,” said Harry.

Sirius’s grip on Harry’s shoulder was now so tight it was painful. “The last murders the wand performed,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “In reverse order. More would have appeared, of course, had you maintained the connection. Very well, Harry, these echoes, these shadows . . . what did they do?”

Harry described how the figures that had emerged from the wand had prowled the edges of the golden web, how Voldemort had seemed to fear them, how the shadow of Harry’s father had told him what to do. He looked around at Sirius and saw that he had his face in his hands. Harry suddenly became aware that Fawkes had left his knee. The phoenix had fluttered to the floor. It was resting its beautiful head against Harry’s injured leg, and thick, pearly tears were falling from its eyes onto the wound left by the spider. The pain vanished. The skin mended. His leg was repaired.

It reminded Harry of something else. He shot a glance towards Nico, perhaps asking permission. Nico didn’t do anything, he just watched Harry back—waiting to see what he would say. Will you tell him what I did? 

Harry swallowed and turned back to Dumbledore. Nico—Nico did something that shouldn't be possible. And if his Father was against the same thing, it could mean nothing good for Nico if he spoke up. Meeting Dumbledore's eyes, he spoke through his teeth, saying, “Nico found me—he used the shadows to send the Death Eaters away, and we warped out of there, back to the maze.”

Dumbledore nodded, his eyes lingering on Nico for a moment—perhaps he knew that Harry wasn’t telling the truth, but he didn’t say anything else. He turned back to Harry, his eyes a bit dark. “I do not want you returning to the dormitory tonight. A Sleeping Potion, and some peace . . . Sirius, would you like to stay with him?”

Sirius hesitated and said, “If I may?”

Dumbledore looked up, his eyebrow raising.

“If I could… I would like to bring him back there.”

Dumbledore shook his head and said, “it is not safe but for anywhere except Privet Drive.”

Sirius’s lips thinned. “It will be-”

“He can stay for a couple of days, I’ll be there since the case is settled by then,” Nico said, not even tensing as the older men turned to look at him. “I’ll protect him if anything happens. I’ll apparate him back to Privet Drive.”

Dumbledore seemed to hesitate, his eyes searching Nico for a moment. Finally, he said, “Very well. You'll have to stay in Privet Drive for the first week, at the very least. Until Harry's back from Professor Phoebus's orientation. You may go, Harry—Sirius.”

Sirius nodded and stood up. He transformed back into the great black dog and walked with Harry and Dumbledore out of the office, accompanying them down a flight of stairs to the hospital wing. Nico had wrinkled his nose and said something about a collar.

-

When Dumbledore pushed open the door, Harry saw Ron and Hermione grouped around a harassed looking Madam Pomfrey. They appeared to be demanding to know where Harry was and what had happened to him. All of them whipped around as Harry, Dumbledore, and the black dog entered, and a look of relief appeared on Ron’s face.

“Harry! Oh Harry!” Hermione called out.

Dumbledore placed a placating hand up. “Harry has been through a terrible ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me. What he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet. If he would like you all to stay with him,” he added, looking at his friends—and Nico, “you may do so. But I do not want you questioning him until he is ready to answer, and certainly not this evening.”

Hermione and Ron nodded furiously, both taking a glance to look at Sirius with wide eyes.

“Headmaster,” said Madam Pomfrey, staring at the great black dog that was Sirius, “may I ask what—?”

“This dog will be remaining with Harry for a while,” said Dumbledore simply. “I assure you, he is extremely well trained. Think of him as a service dog. Harry—I will wait while you get into bed.”

Harry felt an inexpressible sense of gratitude to Dumbledore for asking the others not to question him. It wasn’t as though he didn’t want them there; but the thought of explaining it all over again, the idea of reliving it one more time, was more than he could stand.

“I will be back to see you as soon as I have met with Fudge and Phoebus, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I would like you to remain here tomorrow until I have spoken to the school.” He left.

As Madam Pomfrey led Harry to a nearby bed, he caught sight of the real Moody lying motionless in a bed at the far end of the room. His wooden leg and magical eye were lying on the bedside table.

“Is he okay?” Harry asked.

“He’ll be fine, F—Professor Phoebus looked him over before heading back out there, on the field,” said Madam Pomfrey, giving Harry some pajamas and pulling screens around him. He took off his robes, pulled on the pajamas, and got into bed. Ron, Hermione and the black dog came around the screen and settled themselves in chairs on either side of him. Nico came to stand at the end of the curtain, like a guard. Harry would apologize for the broken sword again, but Nico was glaring at Harry, as if telling him his thoughts were too loud.

And his apology retreated to the back of his throat.

Ron and Hermione were looking at Harry almost cautiously, as though scared of him. “I’m all right,” he told them. “Just tired.”

Harry glanced towards Ron, suddenly remembering a jarring, rasped, scream, echo into his ears. Harry winced and said, “What—What happened with Fred? What happened when I left?”

Ron winced and leaned in on his seat, suddenly looking a bit worse for wear. “You came out of there like you were running for your life, shouting Voldemort is back and Fred—“ Ron didn’t say anything for a moment, but his eyes were darting around the room, as if trying to find an answer out there, in the air.

Then, a bit more shakily now. Ron looked back up at Harry. “Dumbledore got you first, right? I’ve never seen Percy so pale before and Professor Phoebus got there just as quickly. Mum and George were ready to jump the stands themselves to get to Fred, to see what was wrong. There was a lot of shouting but then…” Ron trailed off quietly.

Hermione intervened. “Someone shouted from the crowd that Fred was unconscious—Fudge had muttered something about him being tortured. Mrs. Weasley nearly fainted and George jumped over the railing. It was very busy, no one could tell what was happening, but Professor Phoebus managed to get rid of any physical remnants of pain left behind and he was transported to St. Mungo’s. Mr. Weasley is being owled. Mrs. Weasley, Bill and George left with Fred to the hospital while Percy and Ron stayed behind.”

“Oh…” Harry muttered off, coughing quietly. “Sorry…”

Ron looked a bit awkward as well—and seemed to jump when Hermione leaned back to stand closer beside him.

Madam Pomfrey, who had bustled off to her office, returned holding a small bottle of some purple potion and a goblet. “You’ll need to drink all of this, Harry,” she said. “It’s a potion for dreamless sleep.”

Harry took the goblet and drank a few mouthfuls. He felt himself becoming drowsy at once. Everything around him became hazy; the lamps around the hospital wing seemed to be winking at him in a friendly way through the screen around his bed; his body felt as though it was sinking deeper into the warmth of the feather mattress. Before he could finish the potion, before he could say another word, his exhaustion had carried him off to sleep.

-

Harry woke up, so warm, so very sleepy, that he didn’t open his eyes, wanting to drop off again. The room was still dimly lit; he was sure it was still nighttime and had a feeling that he couldn’t have been asleep very long.

Then he heard whispering around him. “They’ll wake him if they don’t shut up!”

“What are they shouting about? Nothing else could have happened, can it?” 

Harry opened his eyes blearily. Someone had removed his glasses. He could see the fuzzy outlines of Hermione and Ron—Nico wasn’t anywhere to be found.

“That’s Fudge’s voice,” Hermione whispered. “And that’s Professor McGonagall’s, isn’t it? But what are they arguing about?” Now Harry could hear them too: people shouting and running toward the hospital wing.

“Regrettable, but all the same, Minerva—” Cornelius Fudge was saying loudly.

“You should never have brought it inside the castle!” yelled Professor McGonagall. “When Dumbledore finds out—”

Harry heard the hospital doors burst open. Unnoticed by any of the people around his bed, all of whom were staring at the door as Ron pulled back the screens, Harry sat up and put his glasses back on. Fudge came striding up the ward, behind him was Percy. Professors McGonagall and Snape were at his heels.

“Where’s Dumbledore?” Fudge demanded of Hermione and Ron.

“He’s not here,” said Hermione hotly. “This is Hospital Wing. Why would—“

But the door opened, and Dumbledore came sweeping up the ward. “What has happened?” said Dumbledore sharply, looking from Fudge to Professor McGonagall. “Why are you disturbing these people? Minerva, I’m surprised at you—I asked you to stand guard over Barty Crouch—”

“There is no need to stand guard over him anymore, Dumbledore!” she shrieked. “The Minister has seen to that!”

Harry had never seen Professor McGonagall lose control like this. There were angry blotches of color in her cheeks, and her hands were balled into fists; she was trembling with fury. Somewhere to Harry’s right, Nico reappeared from the shadows, looking like he ate something quite disgusting.

“When we told Mr. Fudge that we had caught the Death Eater responsible for tonight’s events,” said Snape, in a low voice, “he seemed to feel his personal safety was in question. He insisted on summoning a dementor to accompany him into the castle. He brought it up to the office where Barty Crouch—”

“I told him you would not agree, Dumbledore!” Professor McGonagall fumed. “I told him you would never allow dementors to set foot inside the castle, but—”

“My dear woman!” roared Fudge, who likewise looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him, “as Minister of Magic, it is my decision whether I wish to bring protection with me when interviewing a possibly dangerous—” 

But Professor McGonagall’s voice drowned Fudge’s. “The moment that—that thing entered the room,” she screamed, pointing at Fudge, trembling all over, “it swooped down on Crouch and—and—” She glanced towards Nico, as if seeing him for the first time.

Nico, who looked paler than usual, almost shrunk under the gaze of everyone. Though, he remained quiet.

Harry was certain that Professor McGonagall would actually kill Fudge if no one said anything.

Finally, after a bit of shifting around, Nico started to speak, though he sounded the dead.“I managed to get the Dementor off of him.”

His hand reached down into his pocket, tapping the remains of his sword. Harry suddenly felt very awful all over again.

 “I’ve never experienced fighting dementors before, I would’ve used my sword, but I admit to…” Nico looked like he was having a hard time saying it; hid mouth was twisted and his face was still quite pale. “I looked at that dementor and I panicked. My shadows exploded everywhere—if Professor Snape hadn’t casted the protective charm in time, I’m sure the outcome would have been worse, but when I managed to calm the shadows down, Crouch was gone.”

”As in dead or—“ Ron began, eyes dark.

Nico didn’t answer.

Harry felt a chill in his stomach as Nico described what happened. If Crouch escaped…

“By all accounts, he is no loss!” Blustered Fudge. “That Dementor was torn to pieces when those—those shadows disposed of it. I suppose it saved us memories if we saw what Crouch’s body looked like. It seems Crouch has been responsible for several deaths!”

If the shadows killed Crouch… Harry thought, glancing at Nico—who looked quite awkward—before returning to stare at Dumbledore. Harry never imagined that Nico would ever fail to kill a monster or lose a duel. Nico must be thinking the same thing though—if he was so hesitant to speak. If Nico hadn’t seen dementors before, Harry could only imagine what Nico’s shadows might’ve done.

“But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore. He was staring hard at Fudge, as though seeing him plainly for the first time. Dumbledore wasn’t even looking at Nico’s direction, as if not seeing Nico at fault. “He cannot give evidence about why he killed those people.”

“Why he killed them? Well, that’s no mystery, is it?” blustered Fudge. “He was a raving lunatic! From what Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who’s instructions!”

“Lord Voldemort was giving him instructions, Cornelius,” Dumbledore said. “Those people’s deaths were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemort has been restored to his body. Although, it does not surprise me that you would try and deal with a person without putting them on trial first—after all, you’re in trouble for it now, are you not?”

Fudge looked as though someone had just swung a heavy weight into his face. Dazed and blinking, he stared back at Dumbledore as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard. He began to sputter, still goggling at Dumbledore. 

There’s a couple of whispers around them, McGonagall and Snape look at one another, Madam Pomfrey, who looked ready to flay Fudge alive, and Percy made a noise in the back of his throat. 

“It was all very busy back then! But, You-Know-Who . . . returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore . . .”

“As Minerva and Severus have doubtless told you,” said Dumbledore, “we heard Barry Crouch confess. Under the influence of Veritaserum, he told us how he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and how Voldemort—learning of his continued existence from Bertha Jorkin— went to free him from his father and used him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I tell you. Crouch has helped Voldemort to return.”

“See here, Dumbledore,” said Fudge, and Harry was astonished to see a slight smile dawning on his face, “you — you can’t seriously believe that. You-Know-Who — back? Come now, come now . . . certainly, Crouch may have believed himself to be acting upon You-Know-Who’s orders — but to take the word of a lunatic like that, Dumbledore . . .”

“When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he was transported straight to Voldemort,” said Dumbledore steadily. “He witnessed Lord Voldemort’s rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to my office.”

Dumbledore glanced around at Harry and saw that he was awake, but shook his head and said, “I am afraid I cannot permit you to question Harry tonight.”

Fudge’s curious smile lingered. He too glanced at Harry, then looked back at Dumbledore, and said, “You are — er — prepared to take Harry’s word on this, are you, Dumbledore?”

There was a moment’s silence, which was broken by Sirius growling. His hackles were raised, and he was baring his teeth at Fudge.

To Harry’s surprise—and Ron looked a bit gobsmacked—Percy asked quietly, “Perhaps we can leave this part to later? Harry, whether it be because of he-who-shall-not-be-named or a rogue death eater, just experienced something very traumatic, something that my brother was a part of. He will remember more in the morning.”

Perhaps because it came from the only other ministry worker with him, but Fudge sniffed—his odd smile remaining—and said, “Very well, Weasley. If only because I do not want to distress anyone else here tonight, I shall take my leave—even though worrying people about someone who has not returned is more stressful.”

“Voldemort has returned,” Dumbledore repeated. “If you accept that fact straightaway, Fudge, and take the necessary measures, we may still be able to save the situation. The first and most essential step is to remove Azkaban from the control of the dementors—”

“Preposterous!” shouted Fudge, suddenly turning. It appears Percy’s plan to calm things down had failed. “Remove the dementors? I’d be kicked out of office for suggesting it! Half of us only feel safe in our beds at night because we know the dementors are standing guard at Azkaban!”

“Sirius Black and Crouch escaped,” Nico offered, “the dementors don’t seem to be working.”

Fudge ignored him.

“The rest of us sleep less soundly in our beds, Cornelius, knowing that you have put Lord Voldemort’s most dangerous supporters in the care of creatures who will join him the instant he asks them!” said Dumbledore. “They will not remain loyal to you, Fudge! Voldemort can offer them much more scope for their powers and their pleasures than you can! With the dementors behind him, and his old supporters returned to him, you will be hardpressed to stop him regaining the sort of power he had thirteen years ago!”

Fudge was opening and closing his mouth as though no words could express his outrage. Behind him, Percy was backing up as if Fudge might explode. “The second step you must take—and at once,” Dumbledore pressed on, “is to send envoys to the giants.”

“Envoys to the giants?” Fudge shrieked, finding his tongue again. “What madness is this?”

“Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before it is too late,” said Dumbledore, “or Voldemort will persuade them, as he did before, that he alone among wizards will give them their rights and their freedom!”

“You — you cannot be serious!” Fudge gasped, shaking his head and retreating further from Dumbledore. “If the magical community got wind that I had approached the giants — people hate them, Dumbledore — end of my career —”

“You are blinded,” said Dumbledore, his voice rising now, the aura of power around him palpable, his eyes blazing once more, “by the love of the office you hold, Cornelius! You place too much importance, and you always have done, on the so-called purity of blood! You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be! Fail to act — and history will remember you as the man who stepped aside and allowed Voldemort a second chance to destroy the world we have tried to rebuild!”

“Insane,” whispered Fudge, still backing away. “Mad . . .”

And then there was silence. Madam Pomfrey was standing frozen at the foot of Harry’s bed, her hands over her mouth. Ron, Nico and Hermione were staring at Fudge.

“If your determination to shut your eyes will carry you as far as this, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, “we have reached a parting of the ways. You must act as you see fit. And I—I shall act as I see fit.” Dumbledore’s voice carried no hint of a threat; it sounded like a mere statement, but Fudge bristled as though Dumbledore were advancing upon him with a wand.

“Now, see here, Dumbledore,” Fudge said, waving a threatening finger. “I’ve given you free rein, always. I’ve had a lot of respect for you. I might not have agreed with some of your decisions, but I’ve kept quiet. There aren’t many who’d have let you hire werewolves, or keep Hagrid, hire that American Professor, or decide what to teach your students without reference to the Ministry. But if you’re going to work against me —”

“The only one against whom I intend to work,” said Dumbledore, “is Lord Voldemort. If you are against him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same side.”

It seemed Fudge could think of no answer to this. He rocked backward and forward on his small feet for a moment and spun his bowler hat in his hands. Finally, he said, with a hint of a plea in his voice, “He can’t be back, Dumbledore, he just can’t be . . .”

“I don’t know what you and your staff are playing at, Dumbledore, but I have heard enough. I have no more to add. I will be in touch with you tomorrow, Dumbledore, to discuss the running of this school. I must return to the Ministry.”

He had almost reached the door when he paused. He turned around, strode back down the dormitory, and stopped at Harry’s bed. “Your winnings,” he said shortly, taking a large bag of gold out of his pocket and dropping it onto Harry’s bedside table. “One thousand Galleons. There should have been a presentation ceremony, but under the circumstances . . .” He crammed his bowler hat onto his head and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The moment he had disappeared, Dumbledore turned to look at the group around Harry’s bed.

“There is work to be done,” he said. “Nico, can I count on you to talk to Apollo?”

Nico nodded.

”And I presume Crouch is missing right now?”

Nico hesitated, but nodded.

Dumbledore nodded, his gaze sliding to Harry’s for a moment.

“Minerva,” said Dumbledore, turning to Professor McGonagall, “I want to see Hagrid in my office as soon as possible. Also—if she will consent to come—Madame Maxime.”

Professor McGonagall nodded and left without a word.

“Poppy,” Dumbledore said to Madam Pomfrey, “would you be very kind and go down to Professor Moody’s office, where I think you will find a house-elf called Winky in considerable distress? Do what you can for her, and take her back to the kitchens. I think Dobby will look after her for us.”

“Very — very well,” said Madam Pomfrey, looking startled, and she too left.

Dumbledore made sure that the door was closed, and that Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps had died away, before he spoke again.

“And now,” he said, “it is time for two of our number to recognize each other for what they are. Sirius . . . if you could resume your usual form.”

The great black dog looked up at Dumbledore, then, in an instant, turned back into a man.

Everyone watched him turn back. Snape had not yelled or jumped backward, but the look on his face was one of mingled fury and horror.

“Him!” he snarled, staring at Sirius, whose face showed equal dislike. “What is he doing here?”

“He is here at my invitation,” said Dumbledore, looking between them, “as are you, Severus. I trust you both. It is time for you to lay aside your old differences and trust each other.”

Harry thought Dumbledore was asking for a near miracle. Sirius and Snape were eyeing each other with the utmost loathing.

“I will settle, in the short term,” said Dumbledore, with a bite of impatience in his voice, “for a lack of open hostility. You will shake hands. You are on the same side now. Time is short, and unless the few of us who know the truth do not stand united, there is no hope for any of us.”

Very slowly — but still glaring at each other as though each wished the other nothing but ill — Sirius and Snape moved toward each other and shook hands. 

They let go extremely quickly.

“That will do to be going on with,” said Dumbledore, stepping between them once more. “Now I have work for each of you. Fudge’s attitude, though not unexpected, changes everything. Sirius, I need you to set off at once. You are to alert the old crowd.”

“But—” said Harry.

He wanted Sirius to stay. He did not want to have to say goodbye again so quickly. “You’ll see me very soon, Harry,” said Sirius, turning to him. “I promise you. But I must do what I can, you understand, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah . . . of course I do.”

Sirius grasped his hand briefly, nodded to Dumbledore, transformed again into the black dog, and ran the length of the room to the door, whose handle he turned with a paw. Then he was gone.

“Severus,” said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, “you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready . . . if you are prepared . . .”

“I am,” said Snape. He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered strangely.

“Then good luck,” said Dumbledore, and he watched, with a trace of apprehension on his face, as Snape swept wordlessly after Sirius.

It was several minutes before Nico said, “Mrs. Weasley has returned.”

“I must go downstairs, then,” Dumbledore said.  “I must see her. Harry — take the rest of your potion. I will see all of you later.”

“Wait—“ Harry started but Dumbledore had already disappeared.

Hermione, Ron, and Nico were all looking at him. None of them spoke for a very long time.

“You’ve got to take the rest of your potion, Harry,” Hermione said at last. Her hand nudged the sack of gold on his bedside cabinet as she reached for the bottle and the goblet.

Ron said, “Try and think about something else for a while . . . think about what you’re going to buy with your winnings! I can imagine what I would do with it…”

“I don’t want that gold,” said Harry in an expressionless voice. “You have it. Anyone can have it. I shouldn’t have won it. It should’ve been Freds.”

The thing against which he had been fighting on and off ever since he had come out of the maze was threatening to overpower him. He could feel a burning, prickling feeling in the inner corners of his eyes. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling.

Ron shifted on the ground uncomfortably. “Look, mate, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I told him to take the cup with me,” said Harry. Now the burning feeling was in his throat too. He wished Ron would look away.

“Take the potion, we’ll think about it tomorrow,” Nico said, almost forcibly giving Harry the potion. “We’ll decide who has the winnings when you’re conscious.”

Harry drank it in one gulp. The effect was instantaneous. Heavy, irresistible waves of dreamless sleep broke over him; he fell back onto his pillows and thought no more.

-

When he looked back, even a month later, Harry found he had only scattered memories of the next few days. It was as though he had been through too much to take in any more. The recollections he did have were very painful. The worst, perhaps, was the meeting with the rest of the Weasleys that took place the following morning.

They had returned from the hospital the next day, George staying behind. They did not blame him for what had happened; they were glad that Fred was alive and everyone had returned.  Mrs. Weasley had cleaned herself from tears as her children were with her while Mr. Weasley seemed to be holding everything in. Externally, Fred recovered—his nerve endings were healed and all the sorts. But it gave way to a problem that most Hogwarts students had heard whispers about: Fred wouldn’t wake up for a while, not while they obliviate his mind of the memories, and let his body rest.

To make sure his mind would heal.

Not that Harry thought Fred would remember much, since he died. Harry was certain of it—especially with the way Nico kept on glancing at him.

The Weasleys had asked if any of the children wanted to return home—as George would be leaving early. Both Ginny and Ron declined, both a bit worse for wear.

Through it all, Harry never had time to give the winnings to any of the Weasley family.  

Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower the following evening. From what Hermione and Ron told him, Dumbledore had spoken to the school that morning at breakfast. He had merely requested that they leave Harry alone, that nobody ask him questions or badger him to tell the story of what had happened in the maze. Most people, he noticed, were skirting him in the corridors, avoiding his eyes. Some whispered behind their hands as he passed. He guessed that many of them had believed Rita Skeeter’s article about how disturbed and possibly dangerous he was months ago, before Phoebus had quelled her. Perhaps they were formulating their own theories about how Fred was tortured. He found he didn’t care very much.

Harry liked it best when he was with Ron, Nico and Hermione and they were talking about other things, or else letting him sit in silence while they played chess. Harry always felt the need to apologize to Ron, but Ron would always interrupt before Harry could speak. Whenever Harry wanted to give Ron the money to give to the twins, Nico intervened and told Harry to wait until one of the twins returned.

And then, after that, a week or so later, Harry felt as though all four of them had reached an understanding they didn’t need to put into words; that each was waiting for some sign, some word, of what was going on outside Hogwarts—and that it was useless to speculate about what might be coming until they knew anything for certain.

A week later, George returned to complete his exams. Harry wanted to find a way to corner George and get him alone, but George was either missing in action or with Lee Jordan, which Ron told Harry to not bother with.

So, it was with a heavy heart that Harry packed his trunk up in the dormitory on the night before his return to Privet Drive. He was dreading the Leaving Feast, which was usually a cause for celebration, when the winner of the Inter-House Championship would be announced. He had avoided being in the Great Hall when it was full ever since he had left the hospital wing, preferring to eat when it was nearly empty to avoid the stares of his fellow students.

When he, Ron, and Hermione entered the Hall, they saw at once that the usual decorations were missing. The Great Hall was normally decorated with the winning House’s colors for the Leaving Feast. 

Madame Maxime was still there. She was sitting next to Hagrid. They were talking quietly together. Professor Phoebus was talking with Nico, who looked a bit better than he did three weeks prior in that Hospital Wing. When the Professor caught Harry’s eye, he inclined his head towards Harry, before shooing Nico away from him.

Harry had barely spoken to the Professor, who seemed to do his best and avoid Harry. Not that it was hard; his exams were mostly finished for.

Further along the table, sitting next to Professor McGonagall, was Snape. His eyes lingered on Harry for a moment as Harry looked at him. His expression was difficult to read. He looked as sour and unpleasant as ever. Harry continued to watch him, long after Snape had looked away. 

Dumbledore stood up at the staff table. The Great Hall, which in any case had been less noisy than it usually was at the Leaving Feast, became very quiet. “The end,” said Dumbledore, looking around at them all, “of another year.”

He paused, and his eyes fIll upon the Gryffindor table. Theirs had been the most subdued table before he had gotten to his feet. “There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight,” said Dumbledore, “but I must first acknowledge the hopefully temporary loss of a very fine person, who should be sitting here,” he gestured toward the Gryffindors, to the Weasleys, “enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Fred Weasley, to his healthy recovery.”

They did it, all of them; the benches scraped as everyone in the Hall stood, and raised their goblets, and echoed, in one loud, low, rumbling voice, “Fred Weasley.”

Harry caught a glimpse of George through the crowd. His face was casted in the shadows by everyone standing, there’s a pained look on his face, but he didn’t look like he was crying.

Harry looked down at the table as they all sat down again.

“Fred is a person who exemplified many of the qualities that distinguish Gryffindor house,” Dumbledore continued. “He was a good and loyal friend, he bravely stood through the challenges of the tournament, and boldly stood out for his acts—as much as the staff here didn’t approve of it. His situation has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about.”

George hadn’t even looked up from his seat.

Harry raised his head and stared at Dumbledore. “Fred Weasley was tortured by Lord Voldemort.”

A panicked whisper swept the Great Hall. People were staring at Dumbledore in disbelief, in horror. He looked perfectly calm as he watched them mutter themselves into silence. “The Ministry of Magic,” Dumbledore continued, “does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so—either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Fred was tortured as the result of an accident, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.”

“There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Fred,” Dumbledore went on. “I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter.”

A kind of ripple crossed the Great Hall as a few heads turned in Harry’s direction before flicking back to face Dumbledore. Ron and Hermione squeezed closer to Harry.

“Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort,” said Dumbledore. “He risked his own life to return Fred to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honor him.”

Dumbledore turned gravely to Harry and raised his goblet once more. Nearly everyone in the Great Hall followed suit. They murmured his name, as they had murmured Fred’s, and drank to him. But through a gap in the standing figures, Harry saw that Slytherins had remained defiantly in their seats, their goblets untouched. Except for Draco, who tilted his head slightly in understanding. It brought Harry the memory of the World Cup, to Draco warning them to keep away.

Maybe he was actually genuine.

When everyone had once again resumed their seats, Dumbledore continued, “The Triwizard Tournament’s aim was to further and promote magical understanding. In the light of what has happened—of Lord Voldemort’s return—such ties are more important than ever before.” Dumbledore looked from Madame Maxime and Hagrid, to Fleur Delacour and her fellow Beauxbatons students, to Viktor Krum and the Durmstrangs at the Slytherin table. Krum, Harry saw, looked wary, almost frightened, as though he expected Dumbledore to say something harsh.

“It is my belief — and never have I so hoped that I am mistaken — that we are all facing dark and difficult times. Some of you in this Hall have already suffered directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Many of your families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a student was taken from our midst. Remember Fred. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, loyal, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Fred Weasley.”

-

Harry’s trunk was packed; Hedwig was back in her cage on top of it. He, Ron, and Hermione were waiting in the crowded entrance hall with the rest of the fourth years for the carriages that would take them back to Hogsmeade station. It was another beautiful summer’s day. He supposed that Privet Drive would be hot and leafy, its flower beds a riot of color, when he arrived there that evening. The thought gave him no pleasure at all.

The weather could not have been more different on the journey back to King’s Cross than it had been on their way to Hogwarts the previous September. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had managed to get a compartment to themselves. Pigwidgeon was once again hidden under Ron’s dress robes to stop him from hooting continually; Hedwig was dozing, her head under her wing, and Crookshanks was curled up in a spare seat like a large, furry ginger cushion. Harry, Ron, and Hermione talked more fully and freely than they had all week as the train sped them southward. Harry felt as though Dumbledore’s speech at the Leaving Feast had unblocked him, somehow. It was less painful to discuss what had happened now.

They broke off their conversation about what action Dumbledore might be taking, even now, to stop Voldemort only when the lunch trolley arrived. When Hermione returned from the trolley and put her money back into her schoolbag, she dislodged a copy of the Daily Prophet that she had been carrying in there. Harry looked at it, unsure whether he really wanted to know what it might say, but Hermione, seeing him looking at it, said, “Look at it. It only came just as our ride was departing.”

Reading that it was from Rita Skeeter, he felt quite nervous. That is, until he read over the title.

Sirius Black: Wrongly Imprisoned, Innocent All Along?

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent for The Daily Prophet

The wizarding world was left reeling earlier today as explosive new details emerged concerning the wrongful imprisonment of one of its most infamous criminals. Yes, dear readers, it seems that Sirius Black—the man long believed to have betrayed the Potters to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and murdered thirteen innocent Muggles—may not have been guilty after all.

This shocking revelation came to light when an anonymous source filed an inquiry to the ministry about Black’s trial. After investigations were pursued and came back without supporting evidence of said trial, further sources were pushed forth to find the truth. Black had come forward, allowing himself to be placed under Veritaserum during questioning by the Ministry. Under the influence of the truth serum, Black revealed that it was Peter Pettigrew, not himself, who had been entrusted with the Potters' protection under the Fidelius Charm. Pettigrew, as many will recall, was thought to have died a hero after supposedly being killed by Black in 1981, leaving behind nothing but a finger. But, according to Black, Pettigrew faked his own death and has been living in hiding ever since.

Let us pause to consider the ramifications of this revelation. Pettigrew, once thought to be a hero, is now being named as the true traitor. And where, one must ask, is he now? Fudge and his team have provided no answers. The fact that Black, who spent twelve long years in the hellish confines of Azkaban without so much as a trial, has been proven innocent throws the Ministry’s justice system into question. Is this the efficiency we expect from those meant to protect us?

One must wonder why no trial was ever held for Black in the first place. Who in their right mind would allow a man to be condemned without so much as a whisper of legal process? Enter Cornelius Fudge, our current Minister for Magic, who has long been criticized for his knee-jerk reactions and muddled leadership. Sources within the Ministry inform me that Fudge, eager to be seen as swift and decisive in the wake of the Potter tragedy, may have insisted on Black’s immediate imprisonment without following due procedure.

The Aurors, too, are not free from blame. Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office, reluctantly agreed to an interview, where he lamented that the case had been “poorly handled” from the start, admitting that several high-profile Aurors had “taken shortcuts” from the investigation he had lead earlier this week, as the prior head of office did not respond to him. When pressed for names, Scrimgeour declined to comment, but let’s be clear, dear readers: shortcuts were taken, and now, an innocent man has suffered the consequences.

This fresh embarrassment comes hot on the heels of a series of fiascos under Fudge’s watch. The Triwizard Tournament disaster that resulted in a student’s death, Bartemius Crouch Jr.'s escape from Azkaban under the nose of the Ministry’s own Dementors, and the catastrophe at the Quidditch World Cup (which saw Death Eaters terrorizing Muggle families) are just the tip of the iceberg. It’s no wonder that whispers of Fudge’s resignation are growing louder in the halls of the Ministry.

More than a few insiders are already calling for reform—and if you listen carefully at the Leaky Cauldron, you'll hear that the Ministry’s days under Fudge’s fumbling leadership may be numbered and there are many ready to take his place.

Harry read it over once, twice, and a third time before the news finally settled with him. Sirius was going to be free. He would be free of all charges and would be declared innocent. 

“An anonymous source?” Hermione said skeptically.

Harry remembered what Dumbledore had asked of Nico that night in Moody’s office, about the case being handled. He was talking about this. “It was Nico—no—Professor Phoebus,” Harry whispered quietly into the train compartment.

His friends stared at him as if he’d gone insane. “What?” Ron demanded.

And, reluctantly, Harry told them. 

After all, Phoebus did say that he'd deal with Rita Skeeter somehow.

-

Harry took the chance, before he got off the train, to go and find George. It wasn’t that hard to find him as he was near the front of the train beside Lee Jordan, looking out the window. Harry hadn’t stayed for long, looking at him for too long reminded Harry of Fred to the point where he couldn’t look at George properly without hearing screams in his mind.

He pushed the bag of winnings into his hand, whispering, “You deserve it more than I do.” He left before George could say anything, which was probably for the better.

The rest of the journey passed pleasantly enough; Harry wished it could have gone on all summer, in fact, and that he would never arrive at King’s Cross . . . but as he had learned the hard way that year, time will not slow down when something unpleasant lies ahead, and all too soon, the Hogwarts Express was pulling in at platform nine and three-quarters. The usual confusion and noise filled the corridors as the students began to disembark. 

Uncle Vernon was waiting beyond the barrier. Mrs. Weasley was close by him. She hugged Harry very tightly when she saw him and whispered in his ear, “I think Dumbledore will let you come to us later in the summer. Keep in touch, Harry.”

“See you, Harry,” said Ron, clapping him on the back.

“ ’Bye, Harry!” said Hermione, and she did something she had never done before, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Harry—thanks,” George muttered, walking past him, hands in his pocket as he waved goodbye to Lee Jordan. Harry nodded to him, turned to Uncle Vernon, and followed him silently from the station. There was no point worrying yet, he told himself, as he got into the back of the Dursleys’ car.

As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come . . . and he would have to meet it when it did.

Chapter Text

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing.

The only person left outdoors was a teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a flower bed outside number four. He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. Harry Potter’s appearance was accompanied by a black cat with a collar with what, to the boy's opinion, was sort of cliche coming from the owner: a skull and crossbones.

Harry and the cat were quite invisible to passersby. In fact, the only way he would be spotted was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living room window and looked straight down into the flower bed below.

On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not, perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth, but on the other hand, nobody was glaring at him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news, or shooting nasty questions at him, as had happened every time he had tried sitting down in the living room and watching television with his aunt and uncle.

Although, if his uncle and aunt saw Harry with the cat, who had a letter between its jaws, they would have tried throwing the cat out themselves. Harry nearly did the first time he saw her. It had been a long week since he heard news from Ron and Hermione.

Though a week wasn’t long at all, waiting to receive news that was promised made it feel all the longer. Not to mention that he was counting down the hours until he could leave to visit Professor Phoebus—and get started with the mentorship that the Professor had offered him.

And then, finally, he’d be able to go visit Sirius for the next couple of months.

Saturday could not come any sooner.

Ariadne, who Harry had gifted to Nico, was an odd cat. She grew twice her size over the Summer, so large that she was almost the size of a Golden Retriever. She would shrink when she needed to be stealthy, avoiding his aunt and uncle while hunting down mice.

Harry wasn’t too happy to see her at first because seeing her, meant seeing Fred whenever he closed his eyes. Ariadne had been sitting on him, had been clawing at him to the point where blood had seeped into the ground. Fred had died—but Harry believed that Ariadne hadn’t done it just because she was nervous or stressed.

There was no mistake as to why she disappeared just for Nico to reappear with that tiny light…

Harry winces momentarily, reaching up to clutch his head as the memories flew at him again. There was a graveyard there, there was blood on the ground, and his bound wrists were burning, friction making them bleed.

He bit his tongue.

Fred had died.

But now he’s alive.

Calm yourself.

He’s at the hospital. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.

Harry sighed, squinting, as he read the letter once again, the sunlight getting into his eyes.

Anything to distract him.

To not see how the blood has seeped and poured—the same colour as the torturing curse—

The letters were in cursive, sometimes misspelled or written out entirely. Harry was pretty sure he saw a word in Greek (what he thought was Greek, at least) one time. 

Blood. Could it be written in blood—

Harry ignored the thought. With trembling hands, he folded the letter again, his breath slightly uneven.

Harry and Nico had been writing one another letters throughout the Summer, Harry mostly asking about school but sometimes asking what the boy was up to. He even asked about what that light was, but Nico never responded to him. Once in a blue moon, Nico would respond with the fact that he was stuck with Professor Phoebus on a mission (which he often lamented about) or he had to stay at his house. He asked how Nico was doing, how America was and Nico had responded that he was okay, that he found his friend—who was currently in Alaska for some odd reason.

Harry did not take Nico for someone to have many friends. But then again, all the ones he mentioned, seemed to be doing odd stuff that Harry thought better to ask further about.

Harry doesn’t ignore the way Nico is the only person that refers to Voldemort as, well, Voldemort, and not He-who-must-not-be-named.

Harry sighed and wrote his correspondence to Nico and handed it back to the cat, who purred as it laid in front of him. Harry quietly rubbed behind the cat's ears as Vernon Dursley, Harry’s uncle, suddenly spoke through the open window.

“Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying to butt in. Where is he anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Aunt Petunia unconcernedly. “Not in the house.”

Uncle Vernon grunted. “Almost thought he’d left by now. Don’t reckon why he couldn’t immediately leave right away…”

Their voices trailed off.

Harry had asked Nico about the ministry, about Sirius (because said man had not responded), about Fudge. Nico had said everything was in an uproar, that Sirius had finally gone to trial again and was waiting for the final round now.

It was to take all summer and the first week was to be the worst.

Harry only wished he was there to cheer his godfather on.

But Dumbledore had insisted that he be kept here for the first week of summer.

Harry sighed, tapped the cat, and began to move. The cat purred once more, her claws digging into Harry for a moment before jumping off him, Harry’s letter between her teeth. The cat trilled at Harry once more before disappearing away with a pop. 

A magical cat indeed.

-

Harry walked through the neighborhood, hardly aware of the route he was taking, for he had pounded these streets so often lately that his feet carried him to his favourite haunts automatically. Every few steps he glanced back over his shoulder. Someone magical had been near him as he lay among Aunt Petunias dying begonias, he was sure of it. Why hadn’t they spoken to him, why hadn’t they made contact, why were they hiding now?

Harry felt a dull, sinking sensation in his stomach and, before he knew it, the feeling of hopelessness that had plagued him all summer rolled over him once again.

He still needed to gather all his stuff for tomorrow…

Harry found a shadow, which was nearly impossible with the sun so high in the sky, and said, “Nico—I think I’m being followed… It’s not that important, really.”

He was sure passing neighbour's thought he was insane.

Harry didn’t know why he said it—maybe he was just being paranoid. He hadn’t felt those eyes since the graveyard, which he’d rather not talk about.

He didn’t want more memories today.

Tomorrow morning he would be awoken by the alarm at five o’clock so that he could pay the owl that delivered the Daily Prophet—and, with any luck, there would also be owls carrying letters from his best friends, Ron and Hermione, though any expectation he had had that their letters would bring him news had long since been dashed.

“We can’t say much about you-know-what, obviously…”

“We’ve been told not to say anything important in case our letters go astray…”

“We’re quite busy but I can’t give you details here…”

“There’s a fair amount going on, we’ll tell you everything when we see you…”

But when were they going to see them? Nobody seemed too bothered with a precise date. Hermione had scribbled, “I expect we’ll be seeing you quite soon” inside his birthday card, but how soon was soon? As far as Harry could tell from the vague hints in their letters, Hermione and Ron were in the same place, presumably at Ron’s parents’ house.

Harry had asked Nico once about this, in which Nico had responded (in a rather short) letter that he and Professor Phoebus weren’t directly in contact with anyone else. 

Harry could hardly bear to think of the pair of them having fun at the Burrow when he was stuck in Privet Drive. In fact, he was so angry at them that he had thrown both their birthday presents of Honeydukes chocolates away unopened, though he had regretted this after eating the wilting salad Aunt Petunia had provided for dinner that night.

The only thing that made Harry feel slightly happy (which made him feel worse), was that Sirius was still working to see him, that Sirius wasn’t replying because he was on trial—busy. Besides, he’ll be out tomorrow. 

Maybe he’ll have more fun there.

And what were Ron and Hermione busy with? Why wasn’t he, Harry, busy? Hadn’t he proved himself capable of handling much more than they? Had they all forgotten what he had done? Hadn’t it been he who had entered that graveyard and watched Fred being tortured while he was tied to that tombstone and nearly killed?

Don’t think about that, Harry told himself sternly for the hundredth time that summer. It was bad enough that he kept revisiting the graveyard in his nightmares, without dwelling on it in his waking moments too. Even though its just been a week, those memories kept on flashing by, nonstop. He can't help but think he'd be better if he was other people.

When Harry reached the swings he sank onto the only one that Dudley and his friends had not yet managed to break, coiled one arm around the chain, and stared moodily at the ground. He would not be able to hide in the Dursleys’ flower bed again. Tomorrow he would have to think of some fresh way of listening to the news. In the meantime, he had nothing to look forward to but another restless, disturbed night, because even when he escaped nightmares about Fred he had unsettling dreams about long dark corridors, all finishing in dead ends and locked doors, which he supposed had something to do with the trapped feeling he had when he was awake.

The injustice of it all welled up inside Harry so that he wanted to yell with fury. If it hadn’t been for him, nobody would even have known Voldemort was back! And his reward was to be stuck in Little Whinging for four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical world, reduced to squatting among dying begonias so that he could hear about water-skiing budgerigars! How could Dumbledore have forgotten him so easily? Why had Ron and Hermione got together without inviting him along too? How much longer was he supposed to endure Sirius telling him to sit tight and be a good boy; or resist the temptation to write to the stupid Daily Prophet and point out that Voldemort had returned?

These furious thoughts whirled around in Harry’s head, and his insides writhed with anger as a sultry, velvety night fell around him, the air full of the smell of warm, dry grass and the only sound that of the low grumble of traffic on the road beyond the park railings. 

 He did not know how long he had sat on the swing before the sound of voices interrupted his musings and he looked up. The streetlamps from the surrounding roads were casting a misty glow strong enough to silhouette a group of people making their way across the park. One of them was singing a loud, crude song. The others were laughing. A soft ticking noise came from several expensive racing bikes that they were wheeling along.

Harry knew who those people were. The figure in front was unmistakably his cousin, Dudley Dursley, wending his way home, accompanied by his faithful gang. Harry got to his feet and stretched. Harry should consider himself lucky that Nico hadn’t come at all. Perhaps he was out on another mission - being bothered by whatever Voldemort was doing.

Stifling a yawn, yet still scowling, Harry set off toward the park gate. He walked quickly, so that halfway along Magnolia Road Dudley’s gang came into view again; they were saying their farewells at the entrance to Magnolia Crescent. Harry stepped into the shadow of a large lilac tree and waited.

“Same time tomorrow?” said Dudley.

“Round at my place, my parents are out,” said Gordon.

“See you then,” said Dudley.

Harry waited for the rest of the gang to move on before setting off again. When their voices had faded once more he headed around the corner into Magnolia Crescent, where he found Dudley half a block ahead. 

Harry was in no mood to catch up - for he feared what would happen if his anger got the better of him. He'd rather not get yelled at for even having a single finger around his wand. He watched Dudley disappear around the corner, slowing pace at every minute once he realized how his cousin seemed to be taking a scenic stroll after beating up a kid.

Harry did not get very far unfortunately. He turned the corner and Dudley was gone from sight - much faster than Harry expected. 

He was not the only thing gone from Harry's sight.

The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch-black and lightless — the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant grumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. He was surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them. For a split second Harry thought he had done magic without meaning to, despite the fact that he’d been resisting as hard as he could — then his reason caught up with his senses — he didn’t have the power to turn off the stars. He turned his head this way and that, trying to see something, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil.

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood  - and something seemed to crawl down his spine, like cold fingertips.

"Nico?" Harry asked loudly, hands itching towards his blade. He did not take Nico for pranks, but he'd rather have Nico be doing that and not...

A cold voice whispered into his ear, sending flutters of cold air down his neck.

Harry stood stock-still, turning his sightless eyes left and right. There was not a person in sight. 

It was not Nico and Harry would be a fool if he thought it was the boy's doings.

But... It was impossible - they couldn't... Not in Little Whinging.

He strained his ears - he would hear them before he saw them.

There was a hand on his back, ice cold. And Harry stumbled away from the touch, tripping over his feet. Then, he heard the whispers behind him; cold and evil, lurking dementors looking for their next victim. They were coming from all around - and as Harry stumbled to the ground, he realized there must be more than one wandering around him.

Harry muttered frantically, his hands flying over the ground like spiders. “Where’s — wand — come on — Lumos!” He said the spell automatically, desperate for light to help him in his search — and to his disbelieving relief, light flared inches from his right hand — the wand tip had ignited. Harry snatched it up, scrambled to his feet, and turned around.

His stomach turned over.

A towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly toward him, hovering over the ground, no feet or face visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it came.

Stumbling backward, Harry raised his wand. “Expecto Patronum!”

A silvery wisp of vapor shot from the tip of the wand and the dementor slowed, but the spell hadn’t worked properly; tripping over his feet, Harry retreated farther as the dementor bore down upon him, panic fogging his brain — concentrate —

A pair of gray, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside the dementor’s robes, reaching for him. A rushing noise filled Harry’s ears.

“Expecto Patronum!”

His voice sounded dim and distant... Another wisp of silver smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the wand — he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t work the spell —

There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter. . . . He could smell the dementor’s putrid, death-cold breath, filling his own lungs, drowning him — Think . . . something happy... But there was no happiness in him. . . . The dementor’s icy fingers were closing on his throat — the high-pitched laughter was growing louder and louder, and a voice spoke inside his head — “Bow to death, Harry... It might even be painless... I would not know... I have never died...”

He was never going to see Ron and Hermione again — He would be like Fred in that graveyard, still as ice and skin just as cold to the touch. He saw it then, with the dementor reaching for him. He saw the body move, he saw himself trapped, he saw him die, die, die. Why isn't he dead-?

The ground erupted with such force that Harry tripped back, away from the Dementor. He fell on the ground once again, rolling over concrete, where there was sure to be bruising later on. Coughing, Harry - with shaky fingers - righted his glasses and looked up, spotting a chasm opening from the ground. Through it, shadows came clawing up to the air, as if escaping. The wispy shadows stretched out like ink on parchment, spidering through the cracks in the roads before they began their ascent up the dementor, which began to back away from the shadowy hands.

The dementor could only raise its cloak ever so slightly, hooded eyes staring at Harry for a moment - and then his body was swallowed, the shadows striking out in a whirl of wind, scratching and scraping away at the dementor as it was its meal. The shadows hunger only grew and Harry knew if the shadows ate more, there would not even be bones left of the dementor.

Harry didn't have time to sit and watch the shadows though.

“Go,” a voice said to his right, pulling him up by his shoulder. The voice sounded bad, raspy and weak, missing syllables and slightly slurring over vowels. Like they were exhausted, but forced to speak. But, either way, Harry could not mistake the voice for anyone else.

 “There’s more,” the boy coughed, “I used too much energy getting here-”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice.

Wheeling around, he sprinted down the alleyway, holding the lit wand aloft. A horrifying thought stroked him: what of Dudley, who was a block ahead? Did he get attacked? “DUDLEY? DUDLEY!” There was no response, and Harry only hoped his cousin was home in time.

“Shit,” Nico breathed.

Harry could not believe what had just happened. Dementors here, in Little Whinging...

They turned the corner but Dudley was not there either, which only meant one thing: Dudley was at his house. He wasn't attacked, which worked out in Harry's favour. harry turned to Nico, going to thank him, when footsteps began echoing off the ground. Both of them raised their heads at the sound, noticing the way Nico's hand slid down to his side, where his sword would be (if he got a new one yet).

Mrs. Figg, their batty old neighbor, came panting into sight. Her grizzled gray hair was escaping from its hairnet, a clanking string shopping bag was swinging from her wrist, and her feet were halfway out of her tartan carpet slippers. Harry made to stow his wand hurriedly out of sight, but —

“Don’t put it away, idiot boy!” she shrieked. “What if there are more of them around? Oh, I’m going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!” She glanced towards Nico and said, “Oh thank god you got here, kid.”

“What?” said Harry blankly.

Nico opened his mouth to speak, but his voice worked hard against his throat, only sparing him a few words.

It couldn't be exhaustion then... Did Nico have a cold?

Trying to stop his lips from twitching, Harry forced an explanation through his mouth, muttering about what happened, trying to keep his voice down from the fact that apparently his neighbour was a squib. She looked ready to follow them back to their house when Nico had glared at her, which kept her mouth shut.

Oh, having Nico with him worked wonders to stop people from asking about.

Watching Mrs. Figg glance at them once more before disappearing down the street, Nico turned back to Harry, his dark eyes glancing over him, searching for any sign of cut. Not that Nico had to worry much - Harry was sure he could heal himself. There was a soft pop nearby, and in the corner of Harry's eyes, he saw Ariadne begin to walk over to them, meowing quietly.

Harry smiled.

“Let’s get back to your house, I’ll contact Phoebus,” Nico said, who already had Ariadne curling around his legs.

"Lets," Harry agreed in a mutter, wiping off the blood on his hands from where he scraped it. Nico reached a hand down to Ariadne, who had been watching both of them with great interest. She chirped up at Nico as he kneeled down, sending a shadow down to wrap around her collar. "Go to Apollo first, got it?" Nico scolded the cat, tapping her nose. "No treats first."

The scolding didn't seem to be effective because Ariadne merely headbutted Nico's hand, her voice beginning to purr. Nico sat there, looking defeated for a moment, before getting to his feet. "Go," Nico said again - though he scratched the cat again before he turned around. She watched Nico again before chirping - and disappearing into the shadows.

"How will Professor Phoebus get the message?" Harry asked as they began walking.

"Shadows," Nico said with a cough. "Don't use your wand from now on - you already broke enough rules."

"I wouldn't be using my voice from now on if I were you, but here we are," Harry said in disagreement, pointedly keeping his wand out to his side.

Nico side-eyed him. "It's for your own protection, muggles can see your wand."

"Just like I can still hear you talking," Harry said.

Nico narrowed his gaze - as if to argue back, but closed his mouth, as if figuring there wasn't a point in arguing with him. Which was disappointing, because Harry so severely wants to argue right now, there was anger pumping through his veins, complaints on the tip of his tongue and curses that he wanted to shouted. 

How everyone could do everything when Harry couldn't.

When they knew more than him.

When they were doing it on purpose.

When they did not know of what he dreamed of every night, after being told that its for his own good that he stay's out of peoples business. 

A flash of green caught Harry's eye for a moment, and Harry stilled. Dead, dead, there's laughter and a shot of red, there's blood, blood, he's dead. Why isn't he dead-?

"Harry?" Nico asked, sounding very faraway.

Harry blinked, finding that he had stopped moving and that his fingers had began shaking again. He hid them behind his pockets, finding that Nico was staring at him. "Lost in thought," Harry muttered quietly. He chanced a glance down, finding that the green had come from Nico's side. There was a blade there, Nico's blade. The hilt had returned to its natural form after Harry’s accidental transfiguration. The blade had been reformed in the same sleek black iron that it was made from - but once it hit the lights from the sidewalk, it flashed green. 

"Don't get lost again," Nico said. He sounded disappointed, annoyed. But when Harry looked up again, to Nico's face, the boy had stopped moving, and was looking at Harry intently. 

"I'm coming," Harry muttered, wrapping his fingers around the wand in his pocket like it was a lifeline.

And maybe it was.

He needed to talk - he needed something to say. To break the silence as they turned onto Harry's road.

“You were following me, for how long?” Harry asked, wondering if Nico had watched him sit at the playground alone for an hour - how embarrassing that would be. 

“Not that long,” Nico said. "I saw you leaving the park." 

“Why didn’t you join me?” Harry asked, trying - and failing - to keep the accusation from his voice.

“I don’t feel like causing an unnecessary scene if I don’t want to.”

“What does that mean?” Harry said, turning to face him, trying to keep his voice steady.

“There’s too many eyes watching your house - you’re being watched by both sides Harry. No one will make a move until the other does."

“They’ve been watching me? This whole time while I’m given radio silence?” Harry demanded, feeling his gut curl a bit.

“I saw Dumbledore give orders,” Nico said. Harry found that he had four inches on Nico, who looked a bit peeved for being so short. “Dumbledore told your neighbors to keep an eye on you but not say anything - you're too young.”

“Too young,” Harry said hotly, feeling like he might run another marathon. “I’ve experienced more things than most people have in their lifetime.”

Nico looked slightly amused. “I won’t comment on that.” Then, he twirled a shadow between his fingers, and his eyes glance towards the streetlamps. A bit wryly, Nico continued, "I didn’t show myself earlier in case Dumbledore tried paying me a visit. Though, your watchers are about to go through hell soon once Dumbledore finds out.”

After a couple more steps, Nico said, “Dumbledore will have to be alerted soon. The ministry is trying to get you in for anything at the moment - and underage magic is a good way to sign away your innocence.”

“But I was getting rid of dementors, I had to use magic — they’re going to be more worried what dementors were doing floating around Wisteria Walk, surely?”

“Fudge is grasping for straws, trying to get one more word in before he’s kicked from office. We figure he’s trying to land a hit on Hogwarts before he goes.”

Neither of them said anything else as they came up the steps to the house. Harry didn't know how Aunt Petunia would react to having a guest over, but she'd have to deal with it.

Harry did not even knock before he was entering, trying to keep as quiet as possible. With the door open, he could hear Aunt Petunia in the kitchen with Vernon in the living room, watching a golfing competition. The announcers were loud, loud enough to cover for Harry and Nico as they close the door behind them and continued up the stairs. The Dursleys wouldn't come to make sure he was home, so he ushered Nico into his room quickly, not bothering to announce his presence.

"Up here," Harry whispered, urging Nico forward. Together, they slipped into Harry's room, closing the door behind them as quietly as they could. Harry locked the door behind him, immediately turning towards his luggage, which was already fully packed for the next morning. Harry did not know if he could leave now - but what would a days difference make? Nico did not speak as Harry reached towards his bags, looking at the cage to see if Hedwig was back or not.

But at that precise moment a screech owl swooped in through the open window. Narrowly missing the top of Nico's head, it soared across the room in such a ruckus that Harry was sure his uncle heard from downstairs. And then, it dropped the large parchment envelope it was carrying in its beak at Harry’s feet, and turned gracefully, the tips of its wings just brushing the top of his bed, then zoomed outside again and off across the garden

Nico cursed, swiping at his head.

Harry dropped the letter momentarily and slammed the window shut - he would not have any more owls if he could help it. Hedwig would know to, er, knock. Harry turned slightly, towards Nico, who was looking at the envelope left on the bed. Below them, Harry heard Uncle Vernon getting up from the couch, which was never a good sign. It didn't give Harry the time he needed to pack everything and leave.

He tore into the envelope and pulled out the letter inside, his heart pounding somewhere in the region of his Adam’s apple. And lo and behold, it was a message from the Ministry for underage magic.

Harry read the letter through twice. He was only vaguely aware of Nico drawer closer to him. Inside his head, all was icy and numb. One fact had penetrated his consciousness like a paralyzing dart. He was expelled from Hogwarts. It was all over. He was never going back.

“What the fuck,” Nico cursed, looking over his shoulder. “We have to get to Apollo -”

Harry’s temporarily stupefied brain seemed to reawaken. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand. There was only one thing for it. He would have to run — now. Where he was going to go, Harry didn’t know, but he was certain of one thing: At Hogwarts or outside it, he needed his wand. In an almost dreamlike state, he pulled his wand out and finally zipped up his luggage.

The room was quiet for a while, no one talked. Harry packed the rest of his supplies in silence: his toothbrush and toothpaste and other toiletries he would have needed before he left in the morning. The silence was interrupted by the arrival of the second owl of the evening, which zoomed through the window of Harry's room like a feathery cannonball and landed with a clatter on Harry's desk - shattering the glass.

"What the hell?" Harry grumbled, raising his wand up, quickly casting a reverse charm before Vernon could come tumbling up the stairs in a rage. Though, this time, he left the window open. What the hell is wrong with owls... god...

Harry tore a second official-looking envelope from the owl’s beak and ripped it open as the owl swooped back out into the night.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Further to our letter of approximately twenty-two minutes ago, the Ministry of Magic has revised its decision to destroy your wand forthwith. You may retain your wand until your disciplinary hearing on 12th August, at which time an official decision will be taken.

Following discussions with the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion will also be decided at that time. You should therefore consider yourself suspended from school pending further inquiries.

With best wishes,

Yours sincerely,

improper use of magic office

Ministry of Magic

Harry read this letter through three times in quick succession. The miserable knot in his chest loosened slightly at the thought that he was not definitely expelled, though his fears were by no means banished. Everything seemed to hang on this hearing on the twelfth of August.

“Well?” said Nico quietly.

Harry turned around to face Nico and said, “I’m keeping my wand until the hearing on the twelfth of August - and I’m just suspended from Hogwarts.”

Nico nodded quietly as the shadows closed Harry’s trunk.

“Well, if that’s all,” said Harry, getting to his feet. He was desperate to be alone, to think, perhaps to send a letter to Ron, Hermione, or Sirius. He was desperate to get somewhere else - even if he didn’t have to run away.

“I’ll leave a note to your family about what happened,” Nico offered quietly. “That you went off early."

Harry nodded - Nico still looked a bit pale from the dementor incident. Back in June, a dementor took Nico by surprise and managed to allow Crouch to escape. He had been pale at that time, and Harry couldn't imagine that it was nice to see another one. Harry still felt a bit bad for Nico - which made him feel worse now that he realized that he snapped at Nico earlier.

“Sorry,” Harry said.

"For what?"

"Getting angry with you."

"You were angry with me?" Nico asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"For, er, snapping at you when we were returning here," Harry clarified.

Nico blinked and for a moment, he looked confused. And then, he nodded slowly, as if ingesting the words. "I don't care," Nico said simply.

Harry still felt terrible.

Another bird flew through the open, making Nico’s eye twitch, perhaps remembering the incident with the first owl. Harry pulled a roll of parchment from the owl’s leg. He was so convinced that this letter had to be from Dumbledore, explaining everything — the dementors, Mrs. Figg, what the Ministry was up to, how he, Dumbledore, intended to sort everything out — that for the first time in his life he was disappointed to see Sirius’s handwriting. 

Harry read Sirius’s message.

Arthur’s just told us what’s happened. Make sure when you get Apollo - Professor Phoebus - to watch over you. And don’t leave his house again, whatever you do. Harry found this such an inadequate response to everything that had happened tonight that he turned the piece of parchment over, looking for the rest of the letter, but there was nothing there. And now his temper was rising again.

Wasn’t anybody going to say “well done” for fighting off two dementors single-handedly? Both Mr. Weasley and Sirius were acting as though he’d misbehaved and they were saving their tellings-off until they could ascertain how much damage had been done. Not to mention that Sirius was treating Harry like a child. It gave him a small twitch to see that Sirius had to clarify who Professor Phoebus is, as if Harry didn't know his first name.

“I’m done,” Harry said, crumpling up the piece of paper and throwing it onto his bed. “Let’s go. I can’t handle this right now,” Harry grumbled.

Nico didn’t even bother asking what the letter said. He stood from Harry's bed and offered his hand out, which Harry took, letting the shadows envelope him. With a pull in Harry’s gut, Nico and Harry disappeared into the shadows.

-

The shadows dispersed from Harry’s vision and—Harry never really imagined what Nico’s hangout would look like. Perhaps Harry thought of the Bat cave, with shadows creeping at every corner. Though, Harry’s image did shift when Nico mentioned he was living with Professor Phoebus when he wasn’t out on missions. 

Perhaps that’s why Nico was always at Hogwarts.

And Harry knew there was no chance that Professor Phoebus would allow a bat cave as the theme of his house. He never wore anything black—and Harry, for a moment, imagined that there was a barrier line between the two American wizards. With a bright and sunny, glistening side of a house while the other side was a pitch black.

Harry's lips twitched.

Though, that thought was wiped with what he saw in front of him. They arrived a couple of feet ahead of the walkway leading to the house—and Harry sucked in a breath in.

A large stone house - cabin - sat just ahead of them, behind it were large mountains and flush green fields. Harry glanced around him to notice there weren't any other houses in sight, the dirt road behind them leading on for what looked like miles. At least, that's what Harry thought since it was completely dark out.  Letting go of Nico's wrist, he  stepped towards the rustic looking cabin. The door was red, the stones black with windows cornering each side of the house, the blinds pulled up to allow the moonlight to stream in.

Harry followed Nico towards the neatly trimmed path, feeling a bit out of place. He could practically feel his stress dissipating as he heard crickets and birds chirping from nearby trees, alive for the night. “Where are we?” Harry asked as Nico grabbed the key from a nearby garden pot.

Nico looked up and around him before shrugging. “Apollo wasn’t specific, we’re probably somewhere in the Scottish highlands.”

“Oh, is Professor Phoebus out or something?” Harry asked, glancing at the cabin. 

No lights were on.

“No - we’re not exactly at his house, but he’ll be back tomorrow. There was just some problems he had to deal with,” Nico said vaguely.

“Problems?” Harry asked, perking up. Is everyone getting ready to fight Voldemort -

“Dumbledore can’t find another Hogwarts Professor,” Nico said, cutting Harry off from his thoughts quickly.

“Seriously?” Harry asked. There’s got to be a few people out there that are willing to teach for Hogwarts. It's a renowned school so -

“Seriously,” Nico said, deadpan.

With a squeak of the door, Nico took a step inside, yelling out behind him, "Let’s head in. I don’t like mosquitos.”

Harry followed because he too did not like mosquitos.

“So, if Professor Phoebus doesn’t use this place, what's it used for then?” Harry asked, walking into the entrance room. The wooden walls were decorated with hanging potted plants. Harry was keen to avoid the carpet laid out in front of him, wary to be yelled at for dragging his muddy shoes through it. Glancing around for any other hazards, he saw Nico putting away his shows neatly, just below the coat hangers, one of them occupied by a yellow raincoat.

Harry did not have to guess which person the coat belonged to.

“It’s a safehouse,” Nico said, footfalls soft on the carpet as he makes his way towards the staircase. “It was built in the 1800s, I think. Apollo’s, uh, ancestors built it before coming over to America.”

“It looks good for the 1800s,” Harry said.

“Its been revamped,” Nico said dryly, giving Harry a look before pointing towards the shoe rack.

Trying to ignore the turn of events, he did as he was told and followed Nico up the narrow staircase, golden frames adorned the wall and when Harry drew closer, he could make out a couple of pictures. One held a photo who held similar appearance to Professor Phoebus, though his hair was buzzed and was wearing a World War 2 uniform. Behind him was plane - and looked quite serious. Actually, now that Harry's looking at now, it didn't look much like Professor Phoebus at all.

The next photo was a happier one, with a group of teenagers sitting across a campfire, one with a ukulele and another singing. If Harry had to guess, he'd assume that the photo was taken at a summer camp.

Harry looked away and continued climbing the stairs and followed Nico into an empty room, where Harry was greeted by green wallpaper and a slightly open window, where white curtains bellowed through the breeze. “Put your luggage here. I’m downstairs if you need me,” Nico said quietly, exhaustion hanging in the air around him. Harry opened his mouth, perhaps asking if Nico was alright, but Nico had already left the room.

The door closed behind him and Harry found himself staring at the wooden frame for a moment too long. And then, when he heard Nico's footsteps disappear, he turned around, his mind clicking as began to unpack. From what he remembered, he'd be here for a week or so before Sirius comes... If Harry's incident with the dementors didn't change anything.

Once Harry pushed everything into drawers, Harry stepped towards his bed, feeling the night wear down on him. The pillows were varying shades of green with what Harry hoped were artificial vines around the edges of the bed frame. The curtains had plants - hyacinths - which lined up by the window. 

Harry opened the window further and sucked in a breath of fresh air and looked around. The valley raged below him as it slowly gave way to a sea just ahead.  “I can’t believe this,” Harry muttered, patting his pockets quietly, looking for the comfort of his wand. He turned away from the window and laid down on the bed - staring up at the ceiling.

I’ve just been attacked by dementors and I might be expelled from Hogwarts. I want to know what’s going on and when I’m supposed to get out of here. Harry wrote these onto three separate pieces of parchment Harry found in a nearby room. I left with Nico, if not for my own safety, but because I felt more stressed than usual.

Harry addressed the first to Sirius, the second to Ron, and the third to Hermione. His owl, Hedwig, was off hunting; her cage stood empty on the desk. Harry had brought her to the safehouse with Nico. Once he settled down, he let her free from the cage as she had began hooting at him. She left towards the valley when the moon was still high, but she still hasn’t returned when the sun was slowly beginning to rise over the mountains. 

Harry paced the bedroom waiting for her to come back, his head pounding, his brain too busy for sleep even though his eyes stung and itched with tiredness. 

Harry could hear Nico walking around downstairs, and Harry felt bad for keeping him up all night.

The tranquility Harry once gained when he got to the cabin was now gone. Up and down Harry paced, consumed with anger and frustration, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists, casting angry looks out at the empty, star-strewn sky every time he passed the window.

Sleep would not come for him.

Dementors sent to get him, Mrs. Figg and Mundungus Fletcher tailing him in secret, then suspension from Hogwarts and a hearing at the Ministry of Magic — and still no one was telling him what was going on.

Why was Harry still trapped here without information? Why was everyone treating him like some naughty kid? Don’t do any more magic, stay with Apollo... At least he was not trapped back at Privet Drive… but Harry was still without information?

Harry kicked his school trunk as he passed it, but far from relieving his anger he felt worse, as he now had a sharp pain in his toe to deal with in addition to the pain in the rest of his body. Just as he limped past the window, Hedwig soared through it with a soft rustle of wings like a small ghost.

Harry, for a moment, thought she had a mouse between her claws before it quickly disappeared.

“About time!” Harry snarled, as she landed lightly on top of her cage. “You can put that down, I’ve got work for you!” Hedwig’s large round amber eyes gazed reproachfully at him over the dead frog clamped in her beak.

The door creaked open and Harry whipped around, wondering if Nico had finally had enough of him moving around and was about to come and yell at him to shut up. Instead, the door creaked further open and Nico’s black cat stretched out against the door before walking inside, stretching with a purr.

Hedwig cooed at the cat, which Ariadne match with a chirp. Ariadne jumped up onto Harry’s bed before jumping onto the window cell, precariously avoiding the potted plants, which was impressive since was quite the large cat. She curled up beside Hedwig and looked up at Harry with big black eyes. Harry’s anger wavered for a moment before he glanced back towards Hedwig.

“Come here,” said Harry, picking up the three small rolls of parchment and a leather thong and tying the scrolls to her scaly leg. “Take these straight to Sirius, Ron, and Hermione and don’t come back here without good long replies. Keep pecking them till they’ve written decent-length answers if you’ve got to. Understand?”

Hedwig gave a muffled hooting noise, beak still full of frog. Luckily, the mouse was gone.

“Get going, then,” said Harry.

She took off immediately and the cat purred once before disapparating. The moment they’d gone, Harry threw himself down onto his bed without undressing and stared at the dark ceiling. In addition to every other miserable feeling, he now felt guilty that he’d been irritable with Hedwig; she was the only friend he had at number four, Privet Drive. Harry had also snapped at Nico but apologized. Maybe Harry would try and get Nico something in consolation, but overall, Nico had accepted his apology. But he’d make it up to Hedwig when she came back with Sirius’s, Ron’s, and Hermione’s answers.

They were bound to write back quickly; they couldn’t possibly ignore a dementor attack. He’d probably wake up tomorrow to three fat letters full of sympathy and plans for his immediate removal to the Burrow. Or, at least, acceptance to stay at Professor Phoebus’s safehouse. And maybe even Sirius appearing at the doorstep.

And with that comforting idea, sleep rolled over him, stifling all further thought.

Chapter Text

Hedwig didn’t return the next morning. Harry felt like he might go insane.

Harry joined Nico downstairs for breakfast, which was almost as eccentric as the rest of the house. It looked more modern with white walls and dark green wooden cabinets. The table was in the middle of the room, illuminated by the morning sun through the large windows in front of the sink. There, Nico sat, quietly flickering over the newspaper, the sunlight brightening his skin to the point where Harry thought he was a ghost—but not in a bad way, more so of an ethereal way.

Harry tore his gaze away from Nico, quickly looking over the cabinets and quickly made himself breakfast, offering to do the same with Nico. He hesitated but Harry assured them it wouldn’t be anything too long, and he agreed. A couple of minutes later, they began to eat Harry’s gourmet breakfast (re: toast). They took their time as they sat there, the silence a relief to Harry, letting him think over the last couple of days quietly. Soon, his hand found  Ariadne, who sat contently between them on the chair, her black fur glowing under the sun whose purr was as loud as jet engine. “She’s spoiled,” Nico had grumbled when he had taken his hand away from the cat to flip over the paper. Ariadne looked up at Nico with big blue eyes and meowed protest.

“It just means that Ariadne knows you won’t say no to her,” Harry teased, finishing the remnants of his toast.

Nico scowled into the paper, his eyebrows furrowing. “No—it just means that she doesn’t know what patient means.”

“Uh huh,” Harry said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. Noticing the way Nico was glaring at him, Harry coughed into his fist and said, “When do you think Hedwig will return?”

Nico glanced over at Ariadne, who was glancing between them, her tail spiked up a bit in irritation. “She could take days to travel from Scotland to England,” Nico said.

“It didn’t take Hedwig to travel when I was messaging you.”

“I rarely spend my time here.”

“Right,” Harry said, suddenly remembering how weird this is. Here he was, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, guarded by Nico—who he didn’t even know the last name of—who he had met a year ago, instead of hanging out with Ron and Hermione, who won’t even properly reply to him.

Speaking of which…

“What’s your last name by chance?” Harry asked, trying not to sound too interested.

Nico looked up, his eyebrow twitching slightly. “Di Angelo,” Nico said after a moment of silence, looking slightly confused. Harry didn’t blame him. “Why?”

“Dunno,” Harry said, glancing out the window. "Feels weird to not know your last name."

-

Harry spent the rest day in his bedroom, leaving it only to go to the bathroom. He wasn’t going to do much anyway, Nico had told him that he would be going on a mission after breakfast. Harry had waved him goodbye, watching him leave. He hadn’t returned that night, nor the next day. By nightfall, Harry had grown increasingly worried. What if something happened? I wouldn’t be able to find him… and I don’t know where I am either. What if he’s hurt?

Trying to distract himself, he took to the library—disgustingly enough—and began reading over some of the books there, noting that most of them seemed to be in different languages. He sat on the couch with one of the few English books he had found, which happened to be about Greek mythology, and began to read.

The moon began to rise halfway through, shimmering over the lake. Harry looked up as he watched the lake flow, suddenly coming to see ruins near the cliff side—what looked like remains of a castle. It shouldn’t be too odd, seeing as though there’s tons of castle’s laying around, but Harry hadn’t noticed it before. Closing the book on a page about a Seer called Cassandra, Harry got to his feet, grabbing his wand. I’ll look at it tomorrow.

-

Early the next morning, Harry pocketed his wand and left before breakfast, and grabbed his broom. He needed air—and perhaps the castle he saw from the window would give it to him. It took a minute on the broom to get there and when he did, he landed on the outskirts of the ruined castle, by the small shore, just below the cliff.

Harry sat on a nearby log washed ashore (which looked ready to fall over any minute, in Harry’s opinion), and began skipping stones as the sun began to rise. The more Harry skipped stones, the more furious Harry got. He was furious at the whole lot of them for leaving him to stew in this mess—never talking to them about anything. And the whole court case problem now...

What if they ruled against him? What if he was expelled and his wand was snapped in half? What would he do, where would he go? He could not return to living full-time with the Dursleys, not now that he knew the other world, the one to which he really belonged.

. . . Was it possible that he might be able to move into Sirius’s house, as Sirius had suggested a year ago? Or would the matter of where he went next be decided for him; had his breach of the International Statute of Secrecy been severe enough to land him in a cell in Azkaban? Would Professor Phoebus allow him to hang out in this cabin for the next couple decades of his life?

Whenever this thought occurred, Harry slid off the log and began pacing down the shore again.

Harry was about to head back to the cabin with the sun fully in the sky, but stopped short at the sound of a growl coming from the ruins. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand. Harry immediately drew his wand, knowing more than ever, he should be on his toes at anything and everything. 

You’ve faced a basilisk, Harry, he thought. There isn’t much that scares you anymore, right?

Complete silence overtook the shore, aside from the lapping of waves. The crickets and birds chirping had gone silent. A breeze washed over Harry, spurring him forward towards the castle. His eyes scanned the ruins, the crumbled stones, the jagged edges of what used to be towering walls. For a moment, he saw nothing, just the ruined remnants of a castle.

I’m going bloody insane, Harry thought, feeling a sudden urge to laugh.

Then, out of the shadow of the ruined castle, a massive, hulking shape emerged.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. A huge, black creature padded silently out from behind the stones, its red eyes glowing ominously. Its body was covered in thick, dark fur, and its enormous paws left deep indentations in the earth as it moved. Jaws gaped open, revealing rows of glistening fangs. The creature’s low, rumbling growl vibrated through the air, sending chills down Harry’s spine.

It wasn’t a basilisk, but it was certainly as scary as one.

"What the hell...?" Harry whispered to himself, gripping his wand tighter. He had no idea what the creature was, he’s never heard of it, not even from Hermione. If only Nico was here…

The creature, whatever it was, began to circle him, eyes gleaming like it was hungry. Harry’s pulse quickened. It looked like a gigantic dog, but there was something... wrong about it. Something unnatural.

Harry raised his wand, his voice shaking slightly as he yelled, “Stupefy!”

The jet of red light shot toward the beast and struck it squarely in the chest. For a moment, Harry thought he had done it. But the creature merely shook off the spell, its glowing red eyes narrowing in response.

“No way…” Harry muttered under his breath. The Stunning Spell had no effect whatsoever.

The beast growled, low and menacing, and without warning, it lunged at him.

Harry barely managed to dive out of the way, stumbling over the loose rocks as he tried to put distance between himself and the monster. His heart raced as he shot off another spell, “Petrificus Totalus!”

The hex flew through the air, but just like before, it bounced off the creature’s hide without even slowing it down.

Harry cursed under his breath. This wasn’t working. What was this thing? He had never faced a creature like this before, and his usual spells weren’t doing anything to stop it. The beast prowled closer, jaws snapping at the air, and Harry could feel the ground tremble beneath him.

Backing up, Harry’s heel caught on a loose rock, and he tumbled backward, landing hard against a boulder. The creature advanced, its eyes glowing like embers. Harry’s breath quickened as he fired off a barrage of spells—none of them worked. They glanced off the beast’s fur as if it was made of stone.

He couldn’t keep dodging forever. The beast let out a thunderous roar, and Harry knew he was out of time.

There was only one thing left he could think of.

"Maxima Bombarda!" he shouted, thrusting his wand forward with all the force he could muster.

The explosion was immediate. The force of the spell blasted the creature backward, and for a split second, Harry feared it hadn’t worked either. But then the beast erupted into a cloud of golden dust, the remains of its form dissolving into the air as the magic tore it apart.

Harry lay on the ground, panting, his ears ringing from the blast. The dust settled around him, swirling in the cold wind that blew off the sea. The beast—whatever it had been—was gone.

And he sat there in silence for a moment, watching the dust blend into the rocks below.

What the fuck?

He pulled himself to his feet, wiping the dirt from his robes. Harry stared at the spot where the creature had stood, still in disbelief. Well - look on the bright side! It wasn’t a dementor, Harry thought, blinking.

He didn’t want to wait around for another one to appear. He turned on his heel and raced towards his broom and raced back to the cabin, feeling quite terrified. Nico had returned to the cabin an hour or so later but must’ve looked quite ill still because Nico asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, not sure if he would sound insane if he said anything. “Just saw a giant dog.”

-

On the fourth night after Hedwig’s departure Harry was lying in one of his apathetic phases, staring at the ceiling, his exhausted mind quite blank, when Nico knocked on Harry’s door. Harry blinked and got to his feet.

“Yeah?” Harry said, nudging the door open to get a look at Nico. The boy looked pale, paler than he usually is. “What happened?” Harry asked groggily, crossing his arms slightly, trying his best to not sound like he just got out of bed.

Nico blinked and opened his mouth, his lips parting-before stopping short very suddenly. His lips pursed and he glanced around the room, as if trying to find something incriminating. He didn’t look very successful. “Fred’s awake,” Nico finally said.

Harry’s breath hitched. He’s alive, he’s not dead, he’s alive. He should be dead. Dead. Dead—

“Harry,” Nico said sharply, his hand reaching out for a moment. Harry sucked in a breath, watching Nico’s fingers curl back into his pocket.

Just like—

“Nico,” Harry said quietly and the other boy froze. What did you do to Fred? But the words were stuck on his tongue, curled around his teeth and not budging. 

Nico peered up at him, waiting. His shadows danced behind him, curling up his leg and across the walls, making the lights flicker. 

They stood there in silence for a moment, but Harry was too much of a coward to ask. Too afraid that he would not like the answer. So, instead, trying to find a safer space to land, asked, “Can I see him? Fred, I mean.”

Nico blinked and the lights flickered again before the shadows dispersed, creeping into the corners, calmed. Nico opened his mouth slightly, eyes flickering around Harry, perhaps wondering if there was some secret message on him. 

He had nothing to find.

“No,” Nico finally said, the words harsher than Harry had expected.

“Why not?"

“He’s only allowed to be watched by medical Professionals. There’s some other, confidential, problems, but they say he’s expected to make a recovery by the end of August.”

“Right,” Harry said, nodding slightly. I should be happy he’s alive, that Nico helped him. But—

Maybe it was a dream. But no, it was too real. He could hear the curse being shouted.

Nico was studying him. Harry could tell by the way Nico watched him, watched every twitch—the way his eyes flickered. “He’s conscious. You can write a letter and I’ll have Ariadne deliver it to him.”

Harry spent the rest of the night writing that letter, writing, crossing stuff out, and revising. It took hours and by the end of it, he was feeling tired—and silly for taking so long to write such a short letter. Once the moon was high up in the sky, Harry called on Ariadne. The cat trilled as Harry greeted her, petting her as her tail raised in greeting. Harry gave her the letter and said, “Could you give this to the receptionist at the desk?”

Ariadne meowed before apparating away.

-

The room grew steadily darker around him as he lay listening to the night sounds through the window he kept open all the time, waiting for the blessed moment when Hedwig returned. Harry waited in silence, the crickets buzzing outside his window. In the corner of his vision, he saw that giant dog again, with those large red eyes—

Harry sat up abruptly and turned his light on. Harry took a few deep breaths, finding that there was nothing in the corner of the room, just shadows. Harry turned the lamp off and laid down again, breathing quietly. The house creaked around him. The pipes gurgled. Harry lay there in a kind of stupor, thinking of nothing, suspended in misery, suddenly worried that the giant dog would return again.

And then, quite distinctly, he heard a crash in the kitchen below. He sat bolt upright, listening intently. Nico was asleep by now, and he was much quieter, so who—? Harry thought for a moment that the giant dog was back again, or another beast had come to avenge its kin.

There was silence for a few seconds, and then he heard voices. Burglars, he thought, sliding off the bed onto his feet—but a split second later it occurred to him that burglars would keep their voices down, and whoever was moving around in the kitchen was certainly not troubling to do so. Nico no doubt would be up by now and would be out there, ready to attack whoever tried to get into the cabin.

Harry snatched up his wand from his bedside table and stood facing his bedroom door, listening with all his might. Next moment he jumped as the door gave a loud click and his door swung open. Harry stood motionless, staring through the open door at the dark upstairs landing, straining his ears for further sounds, but none came. He hesitated for a moment and then moved swiftly and silently out of his room to the head of the stairs.

Harry’s heart shot upward into his throat. There were people standing in the shadowy hall below, silhouetted against the soft light in the kitchen. “Trying to kill us?” A voice teased and Harry wavered.

Harry walked down the stairs, hand still wrapped around wand. Nico and Professor Phoebus stood in the doorway of the kitchen, both looking different kinds of ominous, though Professor Phoebus had a smile on his face.

“Professor Phoebus?” Harry asked, glancing down at the broken pot on the ground. “What are you doing here?”

“My, did I hit the wrong house?” The Professor asked, glancing around once more. Harry flushed and said, “Sorry—” Harry began.

"Come off him now, he just woke up," came a voice from outside, one that Harry instantly recognized. Harry watched, mouth opened a little bit in surprise, as Sirius shuffled into view, looking better for wear for someone whose been in and out of court for the past month.

“He’s just being an ass,” Nico grumbled, earning a gasp from the Professor. Nico glanced back at Harry, shadows casted over his face, and said, “We have another guest, not that Apollo would've noticed."

“I would've," Phoebus offered. "I know all those who enter here."

“You’re never here,” Harry said before he could stop himself.

“Yes, the humid air is terrible for my skin,” Phoebus said, missing a beat. "Why then we don't do introductions later? Your house was quite the busy place with all the Order around...I liked it better when it was just—"

“Order?” Harry repeated.

Both Sirius and Nico shot Professor Phoebus a look, who put his hands up placatingly. "Yes, yes, - skipped my mind."

"Nevermind him, Harry," Sirius said—he walked forward towards Harry, and though he felt so angry with his godfather, he could not feel it in himself to step away, not when Sirius grabbed him and pulled him in for a hug. "I wished that I have seen you sooner, but with all that has happened... Dumbledore said it was not wise for any of us to see you, to get you in more trouble than you're already in."

"Dumbledore says a lot of things," Harry says hotly.

Sirius pulled away with a wince, and somewhere behind him, Professor Phoebus asked, "Isn't that what Headmasters are supposed to do? Talk a lot—" He was caught off by Nico, but Harry couldn't see what happened because Sirius was moving them up the stairs. Harry could hear something muffled behind them, but Sirius carried on, as if nothing had occurred at all.

"Is this your room?" Sirius asked, nodding to the cracked-open door. Harry felt himself nod glumly—he hadn't really expected Sirius to come. Maybe a send a letter, but—

"How come you weren't responding to my letters?" Harry demanded when Sirius closed the door behind them.

Sirius sighed, leaning against the door quietly, and Harry's eyed twitched—it's like Sirius expected this! “I get it, Harry. I really do,” he began, eyes fixed on the floor as if sorting through his words. “You feel left out, and it’s frustrating. The thing is… it’s frustrating for me too. I wanted to be here sooner, to tell you everything I could. But there’s so much happening right now.”

Harry’s hands clenched at his sides, fingers digging into his palms. “Then why haven’t you?” he burst out, his voice low but edged with the raw frustration that had been building for the last week. “It’s like no one trusts me enough to just tell me what’s going on. Dumbledore thinks I’m better off kept in the dark like some… some kid who can’t handle it. I just—” His voice faltered as his emotions threatened to break through.

Sirius took a deep breath, his gaze finally meeting Harry’s. “Harry, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel that way.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking more worn than Harry had ever seen him. “The truth is… it’s been a mess. I’ve had my hands full with the Ministry. Even after all this time, they still think I’m a threat.”

Harry looked away, the tension in his jaw refusing to ease. He wanted to stay angry, to demand why none of them—Sirius, Dumbledore, anyone—had simply trusted him enough to keep him informed. But seeing the exhaustion in Sirius’s face, the years of weight that clung to him like a shadow, made it harder to keep hold of that anger. Still, the resentment simmered, a low flame that refused to be completely doused.

“So… what?” Harry said, voice taut. “Dumbledore’s using your house now as his—what did Professor Phoebus say—Order headquarters, and I’m not allowed to even know why?”

Sirius’s brow furrowed as he glanced down, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s not just Dumbledore’s call, Harry. The whole Order decided on it. They’re doing what they think is best… even if that means keeping some things quiet.” His words were soft, careful, but Harry could feel the truth in them. “We’re all doing our best to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” Harry scoffed, his frustration slipping back into his voice. “Well, they sure did a good job at that. Besides, I don’t need to be safe—I need to know what’s happening. I want to help. I can protect myself.”

Sirius’s face softened, and Harry felt irked even more. “I know you do,” he replied gently. “And honestly, I’m proud of you for that. But if you end up dying...” Sirius's throat worked, as if trying to keep up with his thought process. No words came out—and Harry’s shoulders slumped slightly, the anger softening into resignation. He still felt the weight of his frustration, but Sirius’s words seemed to ease it, if only a little. “It’s just… hard to sit here, feeling like I don’t matter enough to be trusted.”

Sirius’s grip on his shoulder tightened slightly, his gaze earnest. "The last thing any of us want is for you to feel left out. I hadn't really... had time to respond to you, and I must look like an arse—I had to attend hearings at the Ministry, court cases—just to make sure they don’t decide I’m still a danger.”

Harry’s face softened, but he could still feel the resentment lingering. “So, that’s why you couldn’t write back to me?”

Sirius nodded, regret evident in his eyes. “Yes. Writing too often could raise suspicion, more than we need right now. They’re still keeping a close eye on me, even now.” He sighed, his gaze drifting as he recalled the countless hours spent defending himself, arguing against every lingering accusation. “It’s been exhausting, Harry. And if anything were to happen, if they thought for even a moment that I was… involved in something dangerous…”

Harry met his gaze, frustration flickering into something softer, more understanding. “I just… wish I didn’t feel so useless. Like I’m sitting here while everyone else is out there doing something. I feel like I’m the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on.”

Sirius’s hand fell from Harry’s shoulder, and he turned to gaze around the room. “I didn’t want that for you, Harry. I wanted you to have… a bit of peace. That’s why we thought it best to keep you here, in this quiet place with Nico and Apollo. I trust them with my life—and yours.” He glanced at Harry, a faint smile touching his lips. “And I figured if anyone could keep you company, it’d be Nico. And Apollo, of course, though he’s not exactly the warm and fuzzy type.”

Harry managed a small chuckle, his tension easing. “Nico’s alright. And Phoebus… well, he’s Phoebus.” 

“Precisely,” Sirius said with a faint grin, though it faded quickly. “But know this, Harry—I haven’t forgotten you. None of us have. And once things settle, once we’re sure it’s safe, you’ll be brought into the fold. I promise.”

Harry looked down, nodding slowly as he took in Sirius’s words. The anger had left him, left him exhausted. He wanted to go to sleep, but he sourly wished he got an explanation from Ron and Hermione too. Wanted to see them apologize... "Alright," Harry said. And Sirius leaned reached towards him, and Harry let himself be hugged.

He couldn't remember the last time he had one.

"I wish things were different—that you'd be able to stay at my place sooner. But I need you to trust me, alright?”

“Alright," Harry said, muffled in Sirius's shoulder. "I trust you.”

Sirius’s face softened, and he gave Harry’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, leaning away from him. “Good. Now, about tomorrow…” His eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, the weariness momentarily lifted. “Apollo has some things to go over with you about that healing mentorship you’re interested in. He’s… well, he’s got a lot of information to share. Try not to let him bore you too much—not that I think that would be a problem.” 

Harry chuckled, the last remnants of tension slipping away. “I’ll try to survive.”

“And after that,” Sirius continued, his tone gentler, “I’ll take you to Grimmauld Place. Tomorrow night. Get some sleep, then. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

"Okay," Harry agreed, and watched as Sirius closed the door behind Harry, going downstairs to meet with Professor Phoebus and Nico, the former gone silent. Hopefully Nico hasn't done anything too bad to him. 

-

The next day passed far too quickly for Harry's liking. Everything happened so quickly: The four of them had breakfast together, Phoebus being very much alive, and Harry and Nico were pushed out of the house by Phoebus—who said he had something important discuss with Harry's magical guardian (Sirius) for the mentorship—and they decided for a walk across the cliffs, the ones Harry flew by a couple of days earlier. 

"Do giant dogs tend to live here?" Harry asked as they passed by the ruins.

"What?"

Harry took that as a no. "Just wondering—Wolves sure look different here," Harry said instead, though he knew whatever it was, was not a wolf. He doubted one would be able to stand against a normal wizarding spell.

Harry's musings were cut off by another cough—one that sounded rather painful—from Nico, whose nose had turned red over the Summer. Harry didn't even know it was possible to get a cold over the Summer, though Harry supposed it was because Nico mustn't be used to the drowsy type of weather around here.

"Do you, er, need like cough medicine or anything?" Harry asked.

"No," Nico said grouchily.

Harry nodded, though he did walk a bit further from Nico on their down the road.

Nico broke the silence a few minutes later, his eyes cast over the cliffside. Wind ruffled at their hair and once in a while, a cool breeze whispered by, making Harry wish he brought a jacket with him. "There's a magical community just over the hill there, fishing I think—smells terrible—but, we can stop there."

"Magical community?" Harry paused—When he thought of wizards, he always imagined that they lived in muggle London or somewhere like Diagon Alley. Not—

He could feel Nico rolling his eyes. "Do you think every wizard lives in crowded areas? It's mostly small places like Hogsmeade," Nico said—and Harry watched as he kicked a stone, sending it flying over the cliff.

"I didn't know it was here," Harry said quietly.

"You wouldn't. Most places are protected by glamours," Nico said.

And soon, as they walked over the hill, Harry could make out the town down below. The closest thing he could see was the town sign hanging by a tree: Kelpie's Bay.

"Nice name," Harry muttered.

"Probably because Kelpies live there," Nico mused.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Harry glanced suspiciously at Nico again, just for a moment, before walking down the stone path leading to valley down below. Growing closer, he could see a cluster of fishing boats bobbing in the bay, sparkling with magic—from what Harry assumed.

Nico strode ahead, glancing back only once to make sure Harry kept up. “Come on, Harry,” he muttered, leading Harry past a bustling dock where a few wizards, clad in heavy wool and cloaks, unloaded crates of fish that glistened with faint magical auras. Harry blinked at one fish in particular, noticing it was… blinking back.

They approached a squat, ivy-covered building with a sign that read, The Salted Selkie, swaying in the faint breeze. Nico slipped inside, and Harry followed, half-expecting Nico to be disappear on the other side, leaving Harry to fend for himself here.

He wasn't exactly sure why he followed Nico in the first place.

He followed Nico past the waiting area, where a waitress nodded to them as they passed, and followed Nico as he guided them towards a small corner table near the window. But just as they reached it, Harry froze, eyes widening ever so slightly. There, huddled at the table, were Ron and Hermione. They looked up at him in unison, surprise and relief flashing across their faces, and before Harry could say a word, to let his annoyance from the past couple of days rise, Hermione had jumped from her chair and wrapped him in a tight, breathless hug.

“Harry!” she exclaimed, her voice quivering slightly as she squeezed him. “Oh, Harry, it’s so good to see you! I’ve missed you terribly. You can’t imagine how dreadful it’s been, not being able to send a single owl—”

She pulled back just enough to examine him, her eyes darting over his face, her expression caught somewhere between joy and apology. Harry opened his mouth, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface, all the frustration of being kept in the dark about everything. But Hermione spoke again before he could get a single word out.

“They told us—the Order—that if we wrote, or even tried to, it might put you in danger! And then they said it would endanger us too, and, well—” She gestured helplessly, her hand gripping his arm. “It’s only been two weeks, but it’s felt like ages. I’ve wanted to reach out so much, you don’t know. And Ron—he’s just—well…”

She glanced back at Ron, her expression shifting to something soft and worried. Ron gave a half-hearted smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which looked tired, ringed with dark circles that spoke of sleepless nights. “Hey, mate,” Ron said quietly, offering a forced grin, his fingers nervously twisting a corner of the napkin on the table. “Bit of a surprise, yeah?”

Harry felt a wave of and concern wash over his anger. It faded so quickly, he hardly registered it as he glanced between them - Fred. But Harry felt like there was something else to it as well. “Ron… What—what’s happened? Why didn’t either of you—” He stopped himself, unable to finish the question, not wanting to dredge up his own frustration when they both looked so weary.

Nico, lingering just beside the table, cleared his throat as if sensing the tension. “I’ll, uh… get something to drink.” He slipped away, giving them a brief nod, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione alone at the table.

Hermione let out a deep breath and glanced back at Ron before turning back to Harry, her words spilling out in her familiar, slightly nervous rush. “It’s… been quite a mess, really. They aren't able to see Fred, right? And—a bunch of other stuff happened to, it's all so confusing! Well, we're all trying our best.” She slid back into her seat next to Ron and Harry followed, feeling his anger begin to dissolve. This isn't how its supposed to go... I'm... What? Get angry at them? Yell at them? 

Hermione glanced between them, her expression softening as she gave Ron’s shoulder a gentle nudge. “We’ve all missed you, Harry. It’s been—well, it’s been awful, to be honest. Not hearing from you. And knowing that you were just… out there, by yourself, with all that’s happened.” She looked down, wringing her hands nervously. “I wanted to write you a dozen times. Sirius and Professor Phoebus managed to sneak us out here tonight. We couldn’t stay long, of course… we’ll have to go back to Grimmauld Place soon.”

Harry’s head spun, a thousand questions bubbling to the surface, but he felt frozen, overwhelmed by everything they’d told him. The bitterness he’d felt, the loneliness, the constant gnawing worry—it all seemed so small in the face of what Ron and Hermione had been dealing with. He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “I—I didn’t know. I thought… I thought maybe you’d forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” Hermione’s eyes widened in horror, as though the very idea pained her. She reached across the table, taking his hand in hers, her fingers warm and steady. “Harry, you’re our friend. There was no way we’d forget you. We were just… we didn’t want to put you or us in more danger. You know how Dumbledore and the others are—they were adamant.”

Ron gave a small nod, his fingers tightening around his napkin. “Mum was the same way, mate. She didn’t want us doing anything reckless.” He managed a faint, sad smile. “Not that that’s ever stopped us before.”

Harry's lip twitched. 

Hermione leaned away, sighing as her head hit the back of the table. "Well, you 'ought to tell us what happened with you - they didn't really tell us - and we'll try to catch you up."

Harry raised an eyebrow - but nodded slightly, "Well... I was walking home..."

-

“What is Grimmauld place anyway?” Aside from Sirius's home. Harry had asked Ron and Hermione once he had gotten his story out. They had all looked horrified at it - and Harry let himself feel good to hear them apologize, if only for a moment. 

“Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,” said Ron at once.

“Is anyone going to bother telling me what the Order of the Phoenix — ?”

“It’s a secret society,” said Hermione quickly. “Dumbledore’s in charge, he founded it. It’s the people who fought against You-Know-Who last time.”

“Who’s in it?” said Harry, coming to a halt with his hands in his pockets.

“Quite a few people —”

“— we’ve met about twenty of them,” said Ron, “but we think there are more. . . .”

"What about Voldemort?" Harry asked, trying to keep his ire down. It isn't Ron and Hermione's fault that they were trusted with information - but not him. No, there was someone else that anger belonged to. “What’s happening? What’s he up to? Where is he? What are we doing to stop him?”

“We’ve told you, the Order don’t let us in on their meetings,” said Hermione nervously. “So we don’t know the details — but we’ve got a general idea —” she added hastily, seeing the look on Harry’s face.

“Before George left, he invented Extendable Ears, see,” said Ron.

“They’re really useful.”

“Extendable—?”

Then, it felt like Harry heard something wrong. “Wait,” Harry said, “you said ‘before George left.’” Harry remembers Nico telling him yesterday about Fred finally waking up from the hospital - but the look Hermione and Ron gave one another suggested it was more than that.

“It’s a long story,” Ron said slowly. “And…there’s more important things.”

“Is it about Fred?” Harry asked.

“Sort of, well,” Ron trailed off.

“It’s like a domino effect, really,” Hermione said.

"Well, at least Bill is here now," Ron grumbled.

“I thought he was working in Egypt.”

“He applied for a desk job so he could come home and work for the Order,” said Ron. “He says he misses the tombs."

“Charlie’s in the Order too,” said Hermione, “but he’s still in Romania, Dumbledore wants as many foreign wizards brought in as possible, so Charlie’s trying to make contacts on his days off.”

“Couldn’t Percy do that?” Harry asked. The last he had heard, the third Weasley brother was working in the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry of Magic. At these words, Ron   and Hermione exchanged darkly significant looks.

Oh, great, Harry thought hotly, another Weasley missing that they probably won’t tell me about. 

“Whatever you do, don’t mention Percy in front of Mum and Dad when you come to Grimmauld Place,” Ron told Harry in a tense voice.

“Why not?”

“Because every time Percy’s name is mentioned, Dad breaks whatever he’s holding and Mum starts crying,” Ron said. “It’s been awful.”

“What’s happened?” Harry said, trying to imagine different ideas in his head. 

“It’s sort of a combination of both George and Percy,” Ron said. “But it started with Percy. Percy and Dad had a row. I’ve never seen Dad row with anyone like that. It’s normally Mum who shouts. . . .”

“It was the first week back after term ended,” said Hermione. “They were about to come and join the Order. Percy came home and told them he’d been promoted.”

“You’re kidding?” said Harry. Though he knew perfectly well that Percy was highly ambitious, and could achieve it in such an amount of time, Harry couldn’t imagine Percy reaching higher than an undersecretary for the head of Magical Cooperation. At first, Harry had thought that Percy had committed the fairly large oversight of failing to notice that his boss was being controlled by Lord Voldemort (not that the Ministry had believed that — they all thought that Mr. Crouch had gone mad). Then, Harry had connected the pieces that Percy knew more than he should’ve - and that Nico had basically used Percy’s information about Voldemort's rising.

Percy knew more than he ought to.

“Yeah, we were all surprised,” said Ron, “because Percy got into a load of trouble about Crouch, there was an inquiry and everything. They said Percy ought to have realized Crouch was off his rocker and informed a superior. Apparently, records show that he did but was told off for it. But you know Percy, Crouch left him in charge, he wasn’t going to complain any further. . .”

“So how come they promoted him?” Harry asked.

“That’s exactly what we wondered,” said Ron, who seemed very keen to keep normal conversation going now that Harry had stopped yelling. “He came home really pleased with himself — even more pleased than usual if you can imagine that — and told Dad he’d been offered a new position in the ministry. A really good one for someone only a year or two out of Hogwarts - Stand-in position for Head of Magical Cooperation until Crouch’s trial and new vote for Head is in. He expected Dad to be all impressed, I think.”

“Only Dad wasn’t,” Ron finished grimly.

“Why not?” said Harry. Well, Harry thought, if Nico had convinced Percy to keep his mouth shut, then I’m sure they reached some sort of understanding. Nico would no doubt be pleased about having an informant of sorts in the ministry of magic.

“Well, apparently Fudge has been storming round the Ministry checking that nobody’s having any contact with Dumbledore,” said Hermione. “Trying to keep what's left of his power. Dumbledore’s name’s mud with the Ministry these days, see. They all think he’s just making trouble saying You-Know-Who’s back.”

“Dad says Fudge has made it clear that anyone who’s in league with Dumbledore can clear out their desks,” said Ron.

“Trouble is, Fudge suspects Dad, he knows he’s friendly with Dumbledore, and he’s always thought Dad’s a bit of a weirdo because of his Muggle obsession —”

“But what’s this got to do with Percy?” asked Harry, confused. “I’m coming to that. Dad reckons Fudge only wants Percy as a temporary head because he wants to use him to spy on the family and gain Percy’s trust — and to spy on Dumbledore.”

Harry let out a low whistle. If anything, Harry thought with amusement, the only thing Percy has to hide is his connection with Nico.

“Bet Percy loved that.”

Ron laughed in a hollow sort of way. “He went completely berserk. He said — well, he said loads of terrible stuff. He said he’s been having to struggle against Dad’s lousy reputation ever since he joined the Ministry and that Dad’s got no ambition and that’s why we’ve always been — you know — not had a lot of money, I mean —”

“What?” said Harry in disbelief.

“I know,” said Ron in a low voice. “And it got worse. He said Dad was an idiot to run around with Dumbledore, that Dumbledore was heading for big trouble and Dad was going to go down with him, and that he — Percy — knew where his loyalty lay and it was with himself and certain people. That uncertain phrase only made Dad madder. Percy told Dad that he and Mum are welcome to talk to him but he won’t be staying with them anymore if they won’t respect him. And he packed his bags the same night and left. He’s living here in London now.”

Harry swore under his breath. Well, Harry thought, at least Percy didn’t outright say he’s against him or anything. 

“Mum’s been in a right state,” said Ron. “You know — crying and stuff. She came up to London to try and talk to Percy but he won’t answer his door. I dunno what he does if he meets Dad at work — ignores him, I s’pose.”

“But Percy must know Voldemort’s back,” said Harry slowly. “He’s not stupid, he must know your mum and dad wouldn’t risk everything without proof —”

“Yeah, well, your name got dragged into the row,” said Ron, shooting Harry a furtive look. “Percy said that it didn’t matter or not if Voldemort was back or if it was a Death Eater that had attacked you. Said that it shouldn’t affect how Father should respond to him.  I think he was just more upset with Dad than anything…”

“And what about George?” Harry asked after a moment of silence.

Ron and Hermione shared a glance. Ron hesitantly said, “Told Mum he needed time away - until Fred was okay. Said so in Late July, a couple weeks after Percy left. Said that he’s going to work on the jokeshop..."

They all winced.

“And how’d that go?” Harry asked.

“Explosive,” Ron said. “Didn’t say anything mean like Percy but… he left in the middle of the night with a letter saying he’s moving out. Mum and George didn’t see eye to eye at all. No one knows where he's gone.”

“Reckon he’s with Percy?” Harry asked, “Where else would he have gone?”

Ron shuddered at the thought. “Doubt it,” Ron grumbled, “Percy doesn’t—didn’t—even like it when they shared the same floor.”

The conversation grew further and further away and by the time the sun was beginning to set, Hermione and Ron had gotten to their feet and had given him one last hug. "See you tonight, Harry," Hermione said.

"See you," Harry echoed quietly.

He didn't feel so excited to leave.

-

When Harry returned with Nico, Professor Phoebus had ushered Harry to the small library that Harry had been in earlier—and gave Harry a note. He blinked, looked down, and read over it, looking over the dates and times he was supposed to come to Professor Phoebus for extra teaching, along with paperwork to sign and fill out—Sirius's signature already on the guardian approval part—with a list of ingredients and other things to remember. 

"Regretting it already?" Professor Phoebus asked with a laugh.

Feeling himself blush, Harry shook his head. "No, its just too late at night for this."

It earned him another laugh. "You know what, I'll stop by later in the Summer so we can go over this more—I should've done this earlier," Phoebus said, rubbing his temple.

When the sun had completely disappeared over the hills, Harry found himself being ushered out of the house, Professor Phoebus looking almost excited for Harry to be leaving. He tried not to feel too offended over. 

“Perhaps a ride in the—” Phoebus began as Harry crossed the doorsteps, the moon high above them.

“No,” Nico said shortly.

"I'll just apparate us," Sirius added, appearing behind them, nudging all of them out the door. He gave no time for Professor Phoebus to respond—he grabbed his and Nico's hand, who grabbed Harrys—and they disappeared with a crack in the air. And then slowly, Harry’s vision began clearing until he could see individual headlights and streetlamps, chimneys, and television aerials. 

“And here we are!” Professor Phoebus said with a clap of his hands, looking quite happy for a person that didn’t sound it moments ago.

Shivering, Harry looked around. The grimy fronts of the surrounding houses were not welcoming; some of them had broken windows, glimmering dully in the light from the streetlamps, paint was peeling from many of the doors, and heaps of rubbish lay outside several sets of front steps.

“Quite the lovely place,” Nico remarked.

"Thanks," Sirius said dryly, lifting Hedwig's cage up.

"Love what you've done to the place," Professor Phoebus said charmingly.

"Yes, I've done so much since the last time you visited," Sirius said flatly.

The Professor took a step towards Nico, apparently not coming up with a comeback for Sirius. Instead, he found a new victim. "Well, no need to be all grumpy! You finally get your own personal space back again,” the Professor says, clapping Nico on the back, if only to annoy him even further.

Ignoring them, Harry took a step forward.

"Are we at your place then...?" Harry asked skeptically, looking at the building and back to Sirius.

"The kid loves it," Phoebus said.

"I thought you were opening it up," Sirius said.

"Since when?"

"Since you're the only person whose not carrying anything."

"Touché," Phoebus offered—and raised his hand and snapped his fingers and, all at once, all the streetlamps went out with a pop.  “That’ll take care of any Muggles looking out of the window, though I guess I could have obliviated them…” Professor Phoebus said with a shrug.

Sirius let out a short, almost derisive laugh. “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

“Oh? Planning to teach me the law now?” Phoebus tilted his head, a faint smirk dancing over his lips. “Or is it only reformed criminals who get to play at lecturing?”

“Just passing on what I’ve learned,” Sirius replied, an edge to his voice. “Not that you’d need it, of course.”

"Can both of you shut up?" Nico grumbled. "They'll hear you guys before they see you."

Phoebus looked ready to argue, mouth open, but Nico pulled Harry from the patch of grass, across the road, and onto the pavement, apparently not waiting for anyone else. Sirius followed behind them with the cage and his luggage, side-eyeing Professor Phoebus as he passed.

The muffled pounding of a stereo was coming from an upper window in the nearest house.

Phoebus knocked on the door and handed Harry a piece of paper, telling Harry to memorize it quickly. Harry looked down at the piece of paper. The narrow handwriting was vaguely familiar. It said:

The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

“The Order of the — ?” Harry began.

“Oh no, don’t speak it,” Professor Phoebus said, shushing Harry and setting fire to the parchment in Harry’s hand. 

“Why not?” Harry asked.

"Don't speaking something you don't want other people hearing," Phoebus offered.

"Poetic," Sirius said, drawing up behind him. "What is it that you teach again?"

"Astronomy—" 

Harry cut them off and looked around at the houses again. They were standing outside number eleven; he looked to the left and saw number ten; to the right, however, was number thirteen.

“But where’s — ?”

“Think about what you’ve just memorized,” said Professor Phoebus, “or, at least should have memorized. That’d be embarrassing if I had to write it down again.”

Harry thought about it, and no sooner had he reached the part about number twelve, Grimmauld Place, than a battered door emerged out of nowhere between numbers eleven and thirteen, followed swiftly by dirty walls and grimy windows. It was as though an extra house had inflated, pushing those on either side out of its way. Harry gaped at it. The stereo in number eleven thudded on. Apparently the Muggles inside hadn’t even felt anything.

Professor Phoebus prodded Harry’s back and whispered, “My body's already aching kid, get moving here."

Nico's jaw twitched—but Harry didn’t bother asking what the Professor meant.

Harry walked up the worn stone steps, staring at the newly materialized door. Its black paint was shabby and scratched. The silver door knocker was in the form of a twisted serpent. There was no keyhole or Letterbox. Phoebus pulled out his wand and tapped the door once. Harry heard many loud, metallic clicks and what sounded like the clatter of a chain. The door creaked open.

“I know it looks like I’m pushing you straight into hell with how dreadful it looks—no offence to your father Nico—but it’s best we don’t hang out here too long. I might draw attention.”

"It's too late for that," Sirius offered. "You're loud enough to alert everyone in a three mile radius."

"Only three?"

Nico grumbled something under his breath.

Harry stepped over the threshold into the almost total darkness of the hall. He could smell damp, dust, and a sweetish, rotting smell; the place had the feeling of a derelict building. He looked over his shoulder and saw Sirius and Nico filing in behind him.

Phoebus was standing on the top step,  and releasing a ball of light that his hand, which had stolen from the streetlamps; they flew back to their bulbs and the square beyond glowed momentarily with orange light before Phoebus strolled inside and closed the front door, so that the darkness in the hall became complete.

“I feel like I’m forgetting something,” Professor Phoebus mused.

“Your brain,” Nico said dryly.

Sirius snorted.

“No, not that,” Professor Phoebus said with a frown. Then, Harry saw a lightbulb appear overhead of the Professor.

“Here —” Phoebus rapped Harry hard over the head with his wand; Harry felt as though something hot was trickling down his back this time and knew that the Disillusionment Charm must have lifted.

“Now stay still Harry—Nico’s already perfected it—while I give us a bit of light in here,” Phoebus said in a theatrical whisper.

"I'm getting gray hair standing here," Nico said dryly.

"What about the wrinkles?" Sirius offered.

"That too if he doesn't hurry up."

The hushed noise of the house was giving Harry an odd feeling of foreboding; it was as though they had just entered the house of a dying person—and then, lights began to sprout from the lightbulbs above, candles floating a light.

Then, there were hurried footsteps and Ron’s mother, Mrs. Weasley, emerged from a door at the far end of the hall. She was beaming in welcome as she hurried toward them, though Harry noticed that she was rather thinner and paler than she had been last time he had seen her.

“Oh, Harry, it’s lovely to see you!” she whispered, pulling him into a rib-cracking hug before holding him at arm’s length and examining him critically. “You’re looking peaky; you need feeding up, but you’ll have to wait a bit for dinner, I’m afraid. . . ”

She turned to Professor Phoebus and Sirius, whispering urgently, “He’s just arrived, the meeting’s started. . . He said you’re allowed to join if you want.” The last part was directed to Phoebus—and Harry couldn't help but feel irked at being left out.

“I would love to but there’s a bed with my name on it,” Professor Phoebus said and his eyes glanced towards Nico. “But my young apprentice over here would love to.”

Nico blinked, as if he was thrown to the wolves. Though, Nico didn’t say anything as Professor Phoebus left the house.

“I would think Phoebus would’ve wanted to join us,” Harry whispered.

“He doesn’t like being in dirty work,” Nico said, watching Mrs. Weasley, who had began talking quietly with Sirius.

Harry blinked. “He doesn’t want to fight Voldemort?”

Nico didn’t say anything at first, his lips pursed into a firm line. Then—

“It’s complicated,” Nico said. “Phoebus can fight, but that doesn’t mean he wants to.”

“It’s a war,” Harry hissed. “Or going to be one. He can’t just—”

“He can, and he will,” Nico said, cutting through the air coldly. His eyes seemed to glitter and the next thing he said sounded quite bitter. “They always do.”

-

Nico wasn’t really sure what he was expecting out of the order. Maybe competent people? They had argued and fought like twelve year olds, worse than Camp Half-Blood’s war council. When the dinner was over, he turned to Harry and told him he was leaving, gone for a while. 

Hopefully he won’t be coming back until Harry leaves for school. 

He hated this place, hated how they washed out all the magic in it. All the darkness that had clung to Nico when he brought Sirius Black back to Grimmauld Place had disappeared when the Order moved in, sweeping the house free of any remnants of dark magic.

It wasn’t dark magic, not really. The house was old, Nico could feel it the first time he stepped in there. He could feel the old magic follow Nico as he had lead Sirius to the house elf that worked there. The house elf had given Nico a double-take and bowed down long to him, surprising Sirius.

“Welcome, Son of Dead, not of this land,” Kreacher had said before glancing back to Sirius with a small curl to his lips. “Master Black, as well.”

He didn’t sound so happy about that though.

Nico turned and walked out the house, feeling the lingering touches of magic stick to him like glue. Begging to stay, to be taken away. He brushed them off with a wave of his shadows and once he was outside, where the warm summer air brushed past him, he picked up his shadows and disappeared from the ground.

The next time he had been there, was with Apollo, who was checking to make sure Sirius's health hadn't dwindled, and had worked on his mind.

"I thought Dionysus was the god of that," Nico said dryly when the entered the house again. 

"We're not superheroes like those card games of yours—“

Nico flushed.

"—We all have control of everything, but some more powerful than others. I can go into mind and inflict madness, but not to what Dionysus could do. I'm sure Athena can sing, but the magic won't flow like it does under the command of its patron god."

"Right," Nico said. Whatever that meant.

Now though, he reappeared along the cliffside, a tight frown pulling at his lips. He watched the shore dance, meeting the cliffs with a roar that had Nico almost shivering. Focus, Nico scolded himself. Ariadne was waiting for him, perched on a tree, her tail swinging. There was a letter in her jaw and her eyes stared down into Nico’s, green eyes sharp.

“Ariadne,” Nico whispered. “Please come down.”

The cat murmured out her complaints, but obediently got to her feet and stretched. Her ears twitched before she jumped down onto the ground, strutting towards Nico carefully. Nico crouched low to the ground, letting Ariadne lean forward and brush her head against his hand.

Something warmed burned into Nico’s soul.

It will be gone later, a hideous thought whispered to Nico. He snapped his head up, towards the light of the cabin. Something dark curled around him, burning the warmth in his body. Ariadne trilled nervously, weaving her way between Nico’s legs.

Nico took a chance and opened the letter, finding it curt and rather formal.

…She is the most likely candidate…Scrimgeour does not like it one bit…Nothing good...

Nico dissolved the letter into the shadows and began his trek back to the cabin, wishing he had travelled closer. The lights were off once he reached the cabin, which was odd since it was only dusk. Hesitating slightly, Nico pushed open the door, his hand itching towards his sword.

Apollo is a god, Nico thought, there is no concern needed. 

Nico paused in the doorway. A pile of books laid across the ground and dirt from a flower pot that was thrown across the hallway. His shadows slithered forward, sent to explore. Ariadne purred quietly, not finding anything wrong. Nico didn’t do anything at first, waiting for a noise.

But nothing came.

Nico pushed forward, following the trail of dirt quietly. Did someone break in? It was a foolish thought—Apollo would have dealt with the problem, but—

Nico stopped short as a voice echoed through the walls, sending shivers down Nico’s spine. Ancient and mocking, an older males voice warped around a younger ones, serpent-like in its tone, raised through the cabin. Ariadne froze and her tail began to puff up—Nico would have done the same if he were a cat.

Nico looked up, trying to find the voice. It sounded like it came from upstairs—

They can die again, the voice mocked. Death has returned and so has the boy. Nico almost stumbled backwards into the wall.

But they need a prophecy, child of the dead. They need one for they are stuck. They are beginning to travel. But they dare not go further.

Nico’s face paled, feeling the walls begin to close in. It was ancient, mocking, too much and too little at the same time. And Nico—

Nico opened his mouth, forcing his hand to move towards the shadows. If I could get out of here—

The final death, only with him gone… This time, the voice was softer, more feminine. Footsteps appeared at the front of the stairs. Familiar ones. Nico’s stomach lurched. Only then… I can truly leave here… That I can return…

Ariadne hissed and it was enough for Nico to jolt forward. He tugged at his shadows and just as the footsteps began to fall louder and quicker down the stairs, the shadows moved and pulled Nico tight around them, warping him somewhere far away.

And when he landed, with Ariadne beside him, he heard a curse and a shout—before promptly passing out, pure exhaustion from the last two days catching up with him all at once.

Chapter Text

Nico woke to the unfamiliar hum of city noise—the distant rush of cars, a faint siren in the distance, and the muffled thrum of life beyond the walls of the flat. He blinked blearily, taking in his surroundings. Nico’s body felt heavy, his muscles stiff as if they had been frozen and thawed all at once.

The television was on, a low drone of news filtering through the room, blending with the sounds from outside. Nico shifted slightly, wincing as a sharp ache flared in his ribs. He wasn’t sure if the pain was physical or just the residual effects of overusing his shadows. Either way, it was enough to make him freeze for a moment, gathering himself.

He glanced around, taking in the flat. It was small but neat, with stacks of papers on the coffee table and a few framed photos on the shelves. The scent of strong tea hung in the air, and beside the couch where Nico lay, Ariadne lifted her head lazily, yawning. Her eyes gleamed as she settled back down, apparently uninterested in her sudden change of location.

Nico’s gaze flicked to the other side of the room, where George Weasley sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the television. He had his back to Nico, half slouched as if the weight of his own body was too much to carry. George didn’t seem to notice Nico had woken up—his attention was fixed on the screen, where a kids cartoon was playing.

Nico sighed quietly. Of all places to end up.

But… It’s better than landing anywhere else.

He had never intended to return here, but his shadows had taken him without thought or direction, to one of the last places he was last. And now he was stuck. Nico closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his strength. His limbs still felt like they were filled with lead, and his mind was sluggish, clouded with the remnants of visions and ancient voices that had torn through him. It was Apollo that was walking down those stairs… but that was… something else.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty,” rang a voice nearby. “Thought you were dead, you know.”

Nico’s eyes snapped open again, this time locking onto George. The redhead still wasn’t looking at him, but his voice was casual, as though he were discussing the weather. He tossed a crumpled bag of crisps onto the floor beside him, glancing over his shoulder. His gaze was sharp, despite his slouching form.

“You landed like a bloody meteor. Scared the shite out of Percy.” George’s mouth twisted into a half-smirk. “Not that it’s hard to scare Percy. The bloke’s a walking anxiety attack these days.”

Nico didn’t answer immediately, staring at George with an unreadable expression. The weight of exhaustion still pressed down on him, but it wasn’t just physical fatigue. Something else lingered—whatever happened back in that cabin. Focus on your surroundings first, with everything going on. First things first, George is here.

George tilted his head slightly, raising a brow as if expecting Nico to say something. When no response came, he sighed theatrically and dragged himself up from the floor, moving over to the couch with deliberate laziness. He dropped into the armchair across from Nico, sprawling out with a graceless ease-Nico felt his brow twitch.

“So,” George drawled, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “You going to explain what the hell happened? You looked like a corpse when you got here—Percy thought you were going to haunt the place.”

Nico blinked, the words washing over him, but he still didn’t reply. He wasn’t about to explain how he’d end up here and what happened—because even he didn’t know. He was in the cabin, listening to a voice far older and more powerful than any he’d ever encountered. He wasn’t about to explain why his shadows had brought him here, of all places, to Percy Weasley’s flat. There was no explanation that made sense, not one he could give to George without risking more questions—questions he wasn’t in the mood to answer.

But it seems like Apollo wasn’t being…

George let out a low whistle. “Tight-lipped, are we? Don’t worry. I won’t push it. But,” he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, “you might want to give Percy a heads-up next time you decide to teleport into his living room like a banshee. Nearly gave him a heart attack.”

Nico's lips pressed into a thin line. He shifted slightly under the weight of Ariadne, who meowed softly in protest before settling back down.

George’s tone shifted slightly, a note of curiosity slipping in. “Not that I care, but why Percy’s? There’s about a thousand other places you could’ve dropped into, and yet here you are. Seems a bit random, don’t you think?”

Nico turned his head, eyes narrowing. He didn’t have an answer to that, either. His shadows had taken him here instinctively, perhaps because of his previous dealings with Percy. It wasn’t like he trusted the older Weasley brother, but they had come to a tenuous understanding after their last encounter. Percy had the information Nico needed—about Crouch, about the Ministry’s current chaos—and Nico had extracted that information as efficiently as possible. Beyond that, he had no reason to be here.

George watched him for a moment, then shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Well, doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Nico stayed silent, his mind turning over the pieces of the puzzle in front of him. George was here, away from his family, and Percy… Percy had fallen out with the Weasleys a month ago and George had followed him to his flat weeks later, to escape pitiful eyes that watched him everywhere he went—And to distract himself by pranking Percy. 

“I didn’t expect company,” George said finally, breaking the silence again. “Percy’s off at the Ministry, probably filing his fifth report of the day or something equally thrilling. You sure you’re not going to tell me what the hell happened?”

Nico stared at him, his face still blank, unreadable. He wasn’t sure why George was pressing, but he wasn’t in the mood to explain anything. Not now. Not ever.

George rolled his eyes and stood up again, crossing the room to the small kitchenette. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Not like I’m particularly invested in this whole mess. But you’re here now, so I guess you might as well make yourself at home.”

Nico didn’t respond, his gaze drifting back to the television. As George rummaged through the cupboards, Nico let out a slow breath. He wouldn’t be staying long, but for the moment, he had no choice. He was too drained to move.

He just needed time to think.

-

The light was fractured when Apollo’s eyes flickered open. Hazy beams seeped in through the window, casting shadows that twisted in angles against the wall. He sat up slowly, the taste of something bitter and metallic lingering on his tongue, a trace of exhaustion weaving through his senses.

The room was silent, unnaturally so, the air thick with an unsettling calm. As Apollo’s gaze sharpened, he caught sight of the scattered wreckage around him. Furniture lay toppled, cushions thrown, a vase shattered across the floor with dirt and dried petals strewn around it. At first Apollo thought he went to a party with Dionysus and Hermes, but everything came back to him just as quickly. 

Apollo drew in a slow breath, his hand instinctively clenching the bedsheet, grounding himself. But the moment his gaze strayed to the far corner, where a stack of papers had been ripped and thrown, another flash hit him, biting and cold.

Seven half-bloods… Seven half-bloods shall answer the call. The words echoed from somewhere deep within, ancient and unbidden. He could almost feel them on his tongue, like a poison he was forced to speak, words laced with an ache older than he could understand. The flash of prophecy wasn’t uncommon to him, but it had rarely come this urgently, this unyielding in its repetition. The phrase echoed again, carving itself into his mind as if it were a warning rather than fate. It's been like this for years now, and it wouldn't leave.

For a brief moment, Apollo closed his eyes, trying to grasp at the prophecy, to wrestle it into something he could make sense of. His domain. It had turned on him when he’d been vulnerable to its reach. A prickle of resentment grew inside him, a gnawing dissatisfaction that unsettled him to his core. Prophecies were his birthright, his burden, but in this moment, they felt like shackles. For the first time, he felt a sliver of hatred for the very domain that defined him.

Not like you betrayed it first, a voice laughed in his head.

It wouldn't respond... Apollo thought back, rather bitingly.

But why bother talking in the first place?

He breathed in, steadying himself, and rose from the bed. Moving through the house, he took stock of the disarray, pieces of last night’s incident shifting together in his mind. Shadows lingered at the edges of his vision, remnants of Nico’s powers, his scent faint but unmistakable. Nico had been here. And now, he wasn’t.

A shudder rolled through Apollo, a feeling of unease twisting in his gut. What had happened? And how far had his reach gone before Nico escaped? Or, at least, Apollo hoped Nico escape. What a bother it would be to explain everything to Hades...

He ignored the guilt building behind his throat.

Fragments of last night began to return—echoes of something else when he had not been himself. Whispers of the future, faint and distorted,  memories he felt press in with the force of an oncoming storm. 

The image flashed before him again. Two doors, heavy and ancient, their massive frames stretching into darkness. They were being forced open by an unseen power, closing and opening ever so slightly. The darkness around them swirled, alive and pressing, a glimpse of Tartarus itself. His finger's twitched and the vision ran free—only for another to rise to replace it.

Shadows surrounded a figure, alone, a crossbow raised behind them, the bolt aimed at their back. He could see, slowly, as the shadowed person looked up, hand inching towards his waist—the flashes grew stronger, louder, refusing to be silenced. His vision blurred, shifting and fogging together, flashes he couldn't catch or remember. But he caught one, another one—centaurs, forming a tight circle in the depths of a forest, their gazes dark and wary. In the center of the circle, someone was screaming, their voice raw with desperation. They were being carried away as others watched—

Apollo steadied himself against the wall, breathing heavily, fingers pressed into the wood to ground himself. His pulse pounded, and slowly, ever so slowly, the sharp nails closing on his head retracted, dragging their claws down his skin before disappearing, making his skull ring.

A laugh echoed in his mind, dark and mocking, cutting through the silence. The laugh felt both foreign and familiar, an ancient cruelty laced with the recognition of a predator circling its prey. He tensed, his jaw tightening as he fought to expel it from his thoughts.

Stumbling into the main room, Apollo surveyed the damage with a detached sense of horror. His own memories of the night were scattered, fractured, but the destruction told its own story. He had torn through the cabin like a storm, unable to control himself, the force of prophecy and vision overtaking him with a vengeance. He was trying to get away.

He raised a hand, summoning a spark of power to clear the broken pottery, the dirt, to mend what could be repaired. But the magic stuttered, flickered out. He tried again, his patience thinning, only to find the same resistance. His power, usually swift and obedient, now seemed dulled, slowed by the lingering remnants of last night’s onslaught. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to remain calm.

With an irritated huff, he muttered a simple incantation, a cleaning spell from wizarding magic that wasn’t nearly as efficient as his own powers. But it did its job, sweeping away dirt and shards with a faint shimmer. The room looked slightly less disastrous, though the underlying tension remained, a reminder that something had gone very wrong.

The exhaustion hit him suddenly, a weight that seemed to press down on him from all sides. He swayed slightly, catching himself on the edge of a chair. The prospect of rest beckoned, a small reprieve from the relentless tide of visions that had consumed him.

He made his way back to the bedroom, feeling the ache in his bones. Sliding into bed, he let his body relax against the cool sheets, and let his eyes close. 

-

The doorbell rang several times a day, which was the cue for Sirius’s mother to start shrieking again, and for Harry and the others to attempt to eavesdrop on the visitor, though they gleaned very little from the brief glimpses and snatches of conversation they were able to sneak before Mrs. Weasley recalled them to their tasks.

Harry only wished that he got to spend time with Sirius, like the man had promised, but everyone had different ideas.

Snape flitted in and out of the house several times more, though to Harry’s relief they never came face-to-face; he also caught sight of his Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall, looking very odd in a Muggle dress and coat, though she also seemed too busy to linger.

Nico had stopped by once more during their visit, a black bag in his hands as he disappeared into the living room. He stopped by earlier that night, where Ginny had managed to trap him up in the attic with the rest of the group. He had looked tired, wary, and annoyed. Something happened—Harry could tell by the way his shadows seemed to fidget around him, swirling in every direction.

“Can you tell us what's happening?” Ginny said, more demanded than anything.

“There’s nothing much to say,” Nico said, unwavering at the fierce look on her face.

“Well? What about the outside world?” Ginny asked.

“You’re asking the worst person these questions, Gin,” Ron grumbled. “He probably hasn’t held a proper conversation in over a month.”

Hermione whacked him upside the head. “Ron!”

“I didn’t mean it!” Ron protested.

Nico didn’t look annoyed by that—Harry didn’t know if that was a bad or good thing. “There’s a few quips about Harry, but no information that Harry had a run-in with dementors,” Nico said.

“That’s good,” Harry said, “They don’t know I could be expelled, right?”

“You shouldn’t be expelled in the first place,” Nico argued. “That’s only for using high level dangerous curses. They’re trying to bend the rules.”

Nico’s eyes flickered to the Weasley’s and he said, “Fred’s in stable condition right now. Normal healers are allowed into the room and not just urgent care healers. He’s only woken up a couple of times, but George has stopped by to visit him.”

“When are we going to be able to visit him, then?” Ginny demanded, nearly tugging on Nico’s collar. Nico took a step back.

“I don't know—I'm not a doctor."

-

As Harry waited near the front room of Grimmauld Place, he heard a soft, distinct crack that signaled the arrival of whoever it'll be to take him to the courthouse.

How fun.

Harry looked up at the door, eyes narrowing a little bit. Ron and Hermione were staying upstairs, still sleeping while Harry had gone down early, not wanting to wake either of them. Tough, Harry couldn't help but blink in surprise as Professor Phoebus stepped through the doorway, straightening his jacket with a faint sigh. "Professor...?" Harry began, blinking rapidly.

He didn't think Professor Phoebus was part of the Order, no one said he was, but—was he taking Harry to the Ministry today? No one said anything about that! He took in Phoebus's appearance, noting the sunglasses were gone from view. Though he still carried himself with that effortlessly graceful air, something was off. Harry couldn't place it and though he's known the Professor longer than he's known Nico, Harry had a harder time reading what the Professor was thinking.

Had something happened?

“Morning, Harry,” Apollo greeted, stretching slightly before he clapping Harry on the back, in the same familiar way Sirius had done to Harry before.

Maybe it was an old man thing.

“Well, I hope you’ve got everything prepared—we'll be headed to the Ministry in just a few minutes. Then, afterward, to my cabin to pick up supplies and touch base with everyone. You know, knock two stones with one bird.”

"No one told you'd be, uh, driving me there," Harry said, choicing to ignore the fact that he said the phrase wrong. There's no point in correcting the Professor—and Harry's sure he only did it to annoy him (which Harry's certain he does with everything else as well).

"Don't sound so hurt now, Harry. We might go back to last name bases now."

Harry blinked. "Sorry, do you want to step outside and I can act surprised?"

"No, the moments already passed," the Professor said mournfully. "But come along now, please tell me you're ready?"

"Er," Harry began—and the Professor's face drooped ever so slightly. "Yes, I'm ready," he corrected himself, making the the Professor snort. 

"Sure, sure," he said, and took Harry’s shoulder with a gentle but firm hand and began to guide him toward the door. As they exited, Harry’s thoughts strayed briefly to Sirius. “Er, shouldn’t Sirius be coming with us?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual. He had hoped his godfather would be joining them, especially if the Professor didn't care that Sirius had joined them at the cabin. Beside him, Phoebus paused before glanced at him, one brow lifting. Placing a hand over his heart with an exaggerated pout, the Professor spoke, “Oh, I see. You’re already bored of my company, then?”

Harry stumbled over his words, heat flooding his face. “No, it’s not that—just…with Sirius, it’s been a while since we’ve—”

A low chuckle escaped Apollo, his serious expression slipping back into a smirk. “I’m kidding, Harry. Sirius would be here if he could, but he’s tied up with the final stages of his own trial,” he explained. “They’ve been building the case to clear him for good, officially restoring his freedom. They don’t want to take any chances by having him show up at the Ministry today.”

Harry nodded, the thought calming him. He’d heard about the trial, of course, and knew how much it meant to Sirius to finally clear his name, to remove any lingering suspicion that connected him to his old prison cell in Azkaban. “Right. I hope it goes well,” he said, his mind already drifting toward what lay ahead. He'd been so preoccupied, he'd completely forgotten that Sirius...

When they reached the Ministry’s entrance, Apollo guided Harry into the imposing atrium with a nod to the security wizards, who barely spared them a second glance. The familiar, eerie statue of the wizard with the house-elf and goblin kneeling at his feet loomed over them, the fountain’s burbling echoing around the hall. Apollo glanced at the statue, his lips twisting slightly, though he made no comment on it as they moved through the room.

"Please don't get lost," Professor Phoebus said as Harry began drift behind him, pushed by the crowd. "What a bother it'd be to spend extra minutes trying to find you." With a strong hold on his shoulder now, Phoebus pushed him out of the stream of Ministry employees heading for the golden gates, toward a desk on the left, over which hung a sign saying security. A badly shaven wizard in peacock-blue robes looked up as they approached and put down his Daily Prophet. 

Harry paused—behind him, Harry could hear someone approaching. He turned his head as the Professor began to speak with the man in front of them. "Nico? Harry asked, surprised. Phoebus hadn't even turned at the name—too busy with the man in front of him. The boy approached them warily, sparring the Professor a wary glance, his shadows curling at his shoes but sank out to greet Harry—which Nico watched with a furrowed brow.

In turn, Harry brushed his fingers through the shadows as he looked up at Nico. "What are you doing here?" He asked, noting the way Nico was still glancing skeptically at the Professor.

"Has he been acting strange?" Nico asked instead.

Harry blinked.

"What?"

"I guess not," Nico said, scowling. "I was going to meet up with you guys either way."

"Oh—are you watching the trial?" Harry asked.

Nico shrugged, "We'll see."

"Okay! Good to go," the Professor said, nearly making Harry jump. He turned back to the front, where the peacock-looking man had a faint glaze to his eyes. Before Harry could ask if Phoebus somehow cursed the man, the Professor was pulling both of them forward.

"Long time no see, Nico," Phoebus said as they floundered towards the elevator. "Thought you died."

"I'd rather be dead than making small talk with you," Nico drawled, though he was hanging back from Apollo, eye's glued everywhere but him.

What the hell happened? Harry wanted to ask—but the elevator was quickly approaching. 

"Strange, your father Father said the exact same thing—"

“Level five, Department of International Magical Cooperation, incorporating the International Magical Trading Standards Body, the International Magical Office of Law, and the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats.”

Nico, Professor Phoebus and Harry walked in, the lamp flashing above them. "Now then," Professor Phoebus mused, "I have a feeling—a sixth sense you can say—that the court hearing will start early, so you're to go straight for the court house."

Nico rolled his eyes.

"Why would it start early?" Harry asked skeptically.

"People in power like to do that sometimes," the Professor Phoebus said absently.

Harry didn't get to ask what the meant, because the elevator was already stopping.

-

It was going rather terribly, truth be told. Harry’s never been to many court cases, but this one had to be the worst one in existence.

Maybe Fudge was just bitter that Sirius was winning his case.

And Harry couldn't even get help, Professor Phoebus had to stay behind, but Nico had snuck in and was watching in the back. Harry couldn't even look back at him without raising suspicion. 

“Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” said Fudge in a ringing voice, “Into offenses committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. “Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Court Scribe—”

"—Witness for the defense, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” said a quiet voice from behind Harry, who turned his head so fast he cricked his neck. Dumbledore was striding serenely across the room wearing long midnight-blue robes and a perfectly calm expression. His long silver beard and hair gleamed in the torchlight as he drew level with Harry and looked up at Fudge through the half-moon spectacles that rested halfway down his very crooked nose. “And Nico Di Angelo,” Dumbledore spoke and behind him, Nico Di Angelo appeared from the shadows, eyes lingering on Fudge.

The members of the Wizengamot were muttering. All eyes were now on Dumbledore, some trailing to the 15 year old behind him. Some looked annoyed, others slightly frightened; two elderly witches in the back row, however, raised their hands and waved in welcome.

Harry wanted to catch Dumbledore’s eye, but Dumbledore was not looking his way; he was continuing to look up at the obviously flustered Fudge. Harry glanced at Nico, who caught his gaze as he stood to the right by the bench. He nodded slightly.

Why couldn't be done here earlier? Harry tried to get through.

Nico smirked. Powerful people like powerful entrances, he seemed to say back.

“Ah,” said Fudge, who looked thoroughly disconcerted. “Dumbledore. Yes. You, er, got our, er, message that the time and—er—place of the hearing had been changed, then?”

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, and Nico Di Angelo here managed to warn me, so no harm done.”

Nico looked up at his name and glanced around the room.

“Yes—well—I suppose we’ll need another chair or two—I—Beaverly, could you—?”

“Not to worry, not to worry,” said Dumbledore pleasantly; he took out his wand, gave it a little flick, and a squashy chintz armchair appeared out of nowhere next to Harry. Dumbledore sat down, put the tips of his long fingers together, and looked at Fudge over them with an expression of polite interest. “Do you need a chair Mr. Di Angelo?” Dumbledore asked, already summoning a chair.

Nico nodded ever so slightly, taking a seat.

Harry felt utterly lost.

The Wizengamot was still muttering and fidgeting restlessly; only when Fudge spoke again did they settle down.

“Yes,” said Fudge again, shuffling his notes. “Well, then. So. The charges. Yes.” He extricated a piece of parchment from the pile before him, took a deep breath, and read probably the longest list of charges Harry’s ever heard.

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at Harry over the top of his parchment.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the sixth of July?” said Fudge.

“Yes,” said Harry, “but—”

“Knowing that you are not permitted to use magic outside school while you are under the age of seventeen?”

“Yes, but—”

“Knowing that you were in an area full of Muggles?”

“Yes, said Harry angrily, “but I only used it because we were—”

“It’s not a question of how impressive the magic was,” said Fudge in a testy voice. “In fact, the more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle community!”

Those who had been frowning now murmured in agreement, but it was the sight of everyone’s sanctimonious little nod that goaded Harry into speech. “I did it because of the dementors!” he said loudly, before anyone could interrupt him again.

He had expected more muttering, but the silence that fell seemed to be somehow denser than before.

“Dementors?” said Madam Bones after a moment, raising her thick eyebrows so that her monocle looked in danger of falling out. “What do you mean, boy?”

“I mean there were two dementors down that alleyway and they went for me and my cousin!”

“Ah,” said Fudge again, smirking unpleasantly as he looked around at the Wizengamot, as though inviting them to share the joke. “Yes. Yes, I thought we’d be hearing something like this.”

“Dementors in Little Whinging?” Madam Bones said in tones of great surprise. “I don’t understand—”

“Don’t you, Amelia?” said Fudge, still smirking. “Let me explain. He’s been thinking it through and decided dementors would make a very nice little cover story, very nice indeed. Muggles can’t see dementors, can they, boy? Highly convenient, highly convenient . . . so it’s just your word and no witnesses. . . ”

“I’m not lying!” said Harry loudly, over another outbreak of muttering from the court. “There were two of them, coming from opposite ends of the alley, everything went dark and cold and my cousin felt them and ran for it—”

“Enough, enough!” said Fudge with a very supercilious look on his face. “I’m sorry to interrupt what I’m sure would have been a very well-rehearsed story—”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. The Wizengamot fell silent again. “We do, in fact, have a witness to the presence of dementors in that alleyway,” he said.

Fudge’s plump face seemed to slacken, as though somebody had let air out of it. He stared down at Dumbledore for a moment or two, then, with the appearance of a man pulling himself back together,s aid, “We haven’t got time to listen to more taradiddles, I’m afraid, Dumbledore. I want this dealt with quickly—”

“I may be wrong,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but I am sure that under the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, the accused has the right to present witnesses for his or her case? Isn’t that the policy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam Bones?” he continued, addressing the witch in the monocle.

“True,” said Madam Bones. “Perfectly true.”

“Oh, very well, very well,” snapped Fudge. “Where is this person?”

“Well, he’s right behind me. Mr. Di Angelo?” Dumbledore asked, glancing behind him. Nico, looking slightly amused, stood up.

“Full name?” said Fudge loudly, when Nico stopped moving. To Harry’s amusement, Fudge looked like he remembered Nico because his face had gone pale.

“Nico Di Angelo,” Nico said, bored, glancing around the room with dark eyes.

“And who exactly are you?” said Fudge, in an attempted bored and lofty voice to match Nico’s.

“I'm an American student under the mentorship program by Phoebus Apollo, a Professor at Hogwarts. As Professor Phoebus was also mentoring Harry at the time, I decided to drop by and discuss upcoming courses with him,” Nico said.

“And to our records, you do not have magic,” said Madam Bones at once.

“I’m an Umbrakinesis wizard, which means I can control shadows,” Nico said, like he had rehearsed it.

“An affinity, eh?” said Fudge, eyeing him suspiciously. “We’ll be checking that. You’ll leave details of your parentage with my assistant. Incidentally, can affinities see dementors?” he added, looking left and right along the bench where he sat.

Nico’s jaw twitched. “If I remember correctly, I was the one who dispelled them when you stormed into Hogwarts in June,” Nico said.

Fudge looked back down at him, his eyebrows raised. “I was not able to see that, but very well,” he said coolly. “What is your story?”

Nico looked like he wanted to comment but thought better of it. Nico casted a glance towards Harry once more, saying, “As I said, I was going to meet up with Harry to talk about tutoring shortly after nine on the evening of the sixth of July.”

Nico glanced sideways towards the audience. “I was about to make my way towards his house when I heard a disturbance down the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. On approaching the mouth of the alleyway I saw dementors running—”

“Running?” said Madam Bones sharply. “Dementors don’t run, they glide.”

“Same thing,” Nico grumbled. Then, with a bit more bite than last time, Nico said, “—Gliding along the alley toward what looked like a boy.”

“What did they look like?” said Madam Bones, narrowing her eyes so that the monocle’s edges disappeared into her flesh.

“I’ve seen dementors before, can’t say they looked different than last time. Big, ugly and were wearing cloaks. They hovered above the ground and smelled rotten, making rattling noises. It was very cold.”

Madam Bones’ eyes widened slightly. Harry could see red marks under her eyebrow where the monocle had dug into it. “What did the dementors do?” she asked, and Harry felt a rush of hope.

“They went for Harry,” said Nico, “He was trying to repel the dementor. He tried twice and produced silver vapour. I pulled out my version of a wand, this sword,” Nico said, gesturing to the blade at his hip, “and shadow travelled the dementors to another location, far away from Harry before they could do any more harm.”

Of course, Nico was omitting things. Harry discretely remembers the shadows quite literally swallowing the dementors whole, but Harry guessed that Nico didn’t want to say that when people were already looking at him with horror.

Madam Bones looked down at Nico in silence; Fudge was not looking at him at all, but fidgeting with his papers. Finally he raised his eyes and said, rather aggressively “That’s what you saw, is it?”

“Yes,” Nico agreed.

“Very well,” said Fudge. “You may sit.”

-

It was awkward experience as the court was close. Dumbledore had an abrupt departure, which took Harry completely by surprise. Once Harry got out of the room, Harry nearly collided with Professor Phoebus, who looked unbothered as ever. "Cleared, I take it?" Phoebus mused, noticing the grin on Harry's face.

Nico appeared behind them, muttering under his breath.

"A couple hiccups along the way then," Phoebus said, standing to his full height.

"They're annoying," Nico summed up.

Wizards and witches passed them, a few giving Harry  nods, and Madam Bones even greeted him  and turned to Nico with a respectful, “Morning, Di Angelo,” though most averted their eyes. Harry blinked, huh? He cast another glance at Nico, but the boy avoided his gaze, remaining silent.

Cornelius Fudge and the toadlike woman trailed behind, the woman casting an almost appraising glance at him as they passed. Nico’s scowl deepened as he tracked her leaving gaze. Harry seized the opportunity to ask, “Do you have a bad feeling about her?”

Nico’s dark eyes flickered briefly toward him before answering. “I can tell she’s going to be a handful to deal with.”