Author's Note: On December second, I had LASIK surgery. Unfortunately for me, I'm part of the small percentage of people who have problems. So, for the first two weeks I couldn't read or write at all, and only recently have been able to get back to work on writing WSOSW. So, I'm sorry for the delay! I did start "writing" a new short fanfiction using the talk-to-text feature on my cell phone out of sheer boredom/desperation, which was inspired by my two-week "blindness". Using talk-to-text is both unbelievably frustrating, and at times amusing with the auto-correct feature and my strong accent. So, I wasn't completely useless, just mostly useless. :D ENJOY!

Once again, an extra-large thank you to everyone who helped make this all work! GJMEGA, jdh41, Costin, and MayaCC!

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Time and the bell have buried the day,

The black cloud carries the sun away.

-T.S. Eliot (Four Quartets)

Fleur Delacour heard the scream first.

Every ounce of her concentration had been on Viktor Krum, her wand moving in elegant circles, fire like a whipping tail as she moved to the dance of battle. Krum was more than a worthy opponent; she had needed every trick and talent she had to equal him.

But that scream; it was raw, terrible, and it was female.

Had the Academy boy been able to actually take down the vicious Durmstrang girl?

Fleur glanced over her shoulder, and what she saw made the flames she held flicker and die.

She only had a moment to appreciate seeing Johanna Karkaroff on the ground, writhing in agony as boils covered her in an magnified version of the same curse that had taken out one of Fleur's own teammates.

Standing beyond the girl was Harry Potter, but in a way she could barely comprehend.

It was the wings that struck her first; pure veela appreciation filled her at the sight of them, her own jealousy at being unable to attain a winged form overridden with awe at the majesty of them, their black and silver brindled pattern, the odd metallic ring as the feathers mantled with a threatening display.

Here was a man worthy to be a Veela's consort.

But then, his green eyes met her own, and he began to step towards her, and that thought fell away like dead leaves in the fall. His power, so far beyond what she had sensed in their previous encounters, filled her senses like smoke. Her skin heated as if near an open flame, pressing in on her, hammering home the truth through all of her wishes and dreams.

Harry Potter would never submit. He would never be willing to simply be hers, would not be able to be what Fleur wanted in a mate. If his power was not enough, it was the furious look in his eyes, the hunger for battle and pain. He would fight her, and he would win, and the Vélane inside of her would hate every minute of being overcome.

Fleur fell back a step, her wand hand dropping to her side, her heartbeat loud in her ears, any flicker of longing gone as fear pressed in on her. His green eyes were locked on her, intent in every muscle, and she knew he would not even have to speak to destroy her.

She dropped her eyes, unable to meet his gaze, as her Vélane sang a different type of song, one she hoped to never feel in her bones again.

"I forfeit." She said softly.

If she had to be defeated, it would be on her own terms.

Albus Dumbledore felt the power first; a sudden explosion of pressure, thick and angry, above their heads.

He was sensitive to such things. His own power, carefully bound tight inside himself, reacted immediately to that presence, as it only did when encountering another wizard or witch of such a calibre.

Like it had with Flamel and Grindelwald, Tom Riddle and Zachary Gryffon.

And Harry Potter.

And it was that boy's power that he recognized, but on a scale he had never known it before. He had no time to feel relief; relief that the boy, and hopefully Ms. Granger, were present for the Challenge, safe and well.

He only felt worry at the anger, and the sheer level of magical strength. Of course he knew Harry Potter was a mage; even before his old mentor Nicholas had confirmed it he had sensed that magic laying within the boy. Had even seen it himself, on the few occasions the young wizard allowed his power freedom.

This was different. This was raw emotion, frustration and darkness.

Albus looked up from where he sat on the judges seat, just as Mr. Sawyer's shield fell and the flickering power above them exploded in rage. He knew Gryffon felt it as well; he felt the American man's own power raise as his own had, recognizing the threat for what it was.

And his anxious blue eyes saw the figure jump from the stands six tiers above the sand of the wide dueling ring, black wings arrowed back, and his old heart stuttered in shock at the sight.

The boy cast an unknown spell; the green shield flickering like a wall of electricity as it turned back the Karkaroff witches curse. But it wasn't the spell or the wings or the fury on the boy's face that made his breath catch.

It was the runes.

Albus recognized a few from where he sat in the judges platform. The glaring, obvious signs of the boy's corruption decorated his flesh, scars littering every limb, dark magic rituals of power and blood. So much power wafted from the boy it made the hair raise on his arms, his own magic uncoiling further from inside with lethal strength to meet a potential combatant.

How had the boy managed to hide this level of power from him? How could he possibly have such control over it? What had happened to cause Mr. Potter to be here, now, in this half dressed state, uncaring that he was giving away so many carefully hidden secrets?

Harry Potter stood on the sand, steel grey and black wings fanned out in an aggressive display beside his friend, and the scars across his pale skin stood out in raised ripples of knotted flesh.

Runes! How had the boy possibly done such rituals without his or Flamel's knowledge? How could he have fallen into such dark magic, and why would Fawkes, would any phoenix, leave him for a wizard capable of such acts?

He could only watch as the other champions backed down, mind frantically racing to find some way to turn this situation around.

But then, Harry Potter spoke, and his world again began to reel.

Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort. Returned.

Albus knew Igor was part of the plot the minute Mr. Potter spoke Gyldenpalm's name.

The Headmaster beside him had flinched; and the man, arrogant and satisfied throughout the duel, had paled at the sight of the winged boy.

He knew immediately that Igor Karkaroff was going to try to flee, and he had to stop him. Even if he had to go through a dozen Durmstrang professors and the Norwegian Ministry first.

He would have his answers, because he had no doubt the foolish boy was about to do exactly as he had threatened and attempt to destroy the Goblet. And once he did, the Minister would brand him a criminal and try to throw him in Azkaban, where Albus could not touch him to find out the truth.

When Harry disappeared with his friend in an impressive display of orange and red fire, Albus turned to meet Igor's black, scared eyes.

"You've been keeping secrets from us, Headmaster Karkaroff."

The man began to shout in denial.

Sirius knelt on the floor of Grimmauld Place, Kreacher hovering over his elbow.

Failure. Another seeking ritual, and again no result. Where was his godson?

The house-elf wrung his hands together; Sirius growled in frustration.

For a long time, the black-haired wizard stared blankly at the wall across from him, letting the minutes pass in agonizing frustration and worry.

Behind him, Kreacher suddenly let out a happy gasp.

"Master Black!"

The blasted elf sensed him!

Sirius whirled, grabbing onto the house-elf as it began to teleport away, unwillingly taking the wizard with him as it disappeared.

And he had an instant to see the familiar surroundings of Hallam St. before a cloying, suffocating force picked him up and pinned him against the wall.

"Harry! Stop!" He heard a feminine voice squeak in alarm. But Sirius could not look away from the narrowed green eyes focused unseeingly on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but could gain no air.

His godson snarled, standing with a wide stance, those infernally sharp wings of his taking up far too much room in the space they were in. And the boy was wearing no shirt, only trousers torn and ragged, and across his skin Sirius saw things he had never seen fully on his godson before.

Symbols. Dozens of them, raised scars that spiraled across his skin. And one, a simple slash across his godson's throat, made his grey eyes widen in horror. He had known of the rituals; he had been told months before. But he had never seen them like this, all at once. And the sight made his head spin even more than the swell of power in the room had.

"Stop it! It's just Sirius! Stop it!"

Hermione reached out from beside his godson, her hands trembling as they touched his side, and Harry's eyes slowly focused. With a grimace, the power withdrew, and Sirius slumped to the ground. To the side, unharmed, Kreacher was grinning. Sirius sent a scowl towards the house-elf.

Harry closed his eyes.

"Don't sneak up on me right now. I'm not in complete control."

Sirius rubbed his chest, a wry grin coming to his face as relief finally began to flow through him.

Harry was safe, and at least appeared unharmed. Hermione, her robes askew, smiled faintly at him. Sirius raised an eyebrow, taking in how close they stood to one another, the girls hand wrapped tightly around his godson's arm.

"Please don't tell me all this fuss was over you two sneaking off to snog."

Harry had taken them both back to Hallam St. directly from Durmstrang. He had barely had time to breathe before Sirius had appeared, the sudden magical burst causing every one of his senses, already on alert, to spring into action.

For a long moment, he had struggled to only hold the intruder, his throat burning with the desire to attack. To consume.

But Hermione and Dread both had managed to break through his anger enough to let him recognize, and release, his godfather.

What on earth was Sirius doing in Britain? And with Kreacher, no less?

Harry ignored his godfathers question and frowned, looking at the house-elf.

"What's going on?"

Kreacher bowed low, wide eyes fixed on his feet.

"Master Black could not be reached. Kreacher and Dobby both felt the summons, and could not respond. Kreacher thought it prudent to inform the other master of this, but he was useless."

Sirius growled at the elf, but Kreacher was unperturbed at the sound.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. Then he brought his mind into order.

There were things that needed to be done. Immediately.

"Dobby! Blossom!"

With simultaneous pops, both house-elves appeared, their relieved eyes fixed on him. Dobby began to blubber pleas for forgiveness, but Harry cut him off with a quick wave of his hand.

"Dobby. Pack all of our things at Durmstrang. Don't forget Fawkes as well, he can't teleport yet. Bring them here. Then, you and Ivy both pack everything personal of mine at this location. I'm abandoning Hallam St.."

Hermione gasped, brown eyes blinking in shock.

"What! Why?"

Harry's face was grim. "Because this is the location the Ministry knows of as my residence. And after what I've done, and I'm about to do, they will be looking for me here."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Harry had turned to Kreacher.

"Kreacher. Go to Gringotts, Griphook's office. Tell him I personally sent you to tell him to be expecting inquires on my estate's properties. He is to bury anything he can about Australia and New York. Let them know about the houses in Egypt and Spain, we won't be there. Grimmauld Place is safe, its under Fidelius. Let him know I will be visiting him in secret within a few hours to explain. Go."

All of the house-elves disappeared without question. Sirius gawked.

"What is going on, Harry?"

Harry didn't answer. He turned to Hermione, moved her hand from his arm to cradle it in his own grasp as he spoke aloud.

"Explain it all to Sirius. I have to move, now, before they have a chance to respond."

"What are you doing?" Hermione whispered, holding him tightly.

Harry's mouth tightened. "I'm setting you free. I'll be back here for you both as soon as I can. We will all need to leave this place quickly."

Hermione shook her head wildly, but Harry stepped back, away from her.

She reached out, eyes pleading.

"Harry, you can't just break into the Ministry! They'll... they'll… you'll be a criminal!"

Harry looked her in the eyes, and spoke softly into her mind.

Don't worry.

And as her brown eyes narrowed, Harry called up the flame and let it take him away.

Hermione had wanted to say the Ministry would stop him. She also wanted to say they might hurt him. But as she had looked at him, she knew both were unlikely with Harry in his current mood. The worst outcome she could even think of was that he would be a criminal; that the Ministry would send the aurors out for him, that they would be forced to flee Britain.

But Harry had already planned for it. When her friend disappeared, Hermione crossed her arms mutinously, annoyance filling her.

Just like Harry, to run off and leave her behind.

"So… explain?" Came the careful voice beside her, and Hermione turned to look at Harry's godfather.

Then, with a sigh, she began to explain the events of the last day. All of it, that is, except what even she didn't understand; the sixth runic set and just how wrong it had gone.

In the span of an hour, Zachary Gryffon and Agent Jackson watched as Albus Dumbledore singlehandedly restrained and guarded Igor Karkaroff until the Norwegian authorities arrived; and somehow convinced the aurors it was in their best interest to actually use Veritaserum on the wizard.

It seemed the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards was capable of thwarting the laws in several different countries. The Norwegian aurors practically tripped over themselves to please the elderly wizard.

It certainly helped that Mr. Potter's declaration had been recorded on several pairs of omnioculars, and his words witnessed by thousands, more than a hundred of different nationalities than Norway. Voldemort, the self stylized Dark Lord of Britain, had been a threat to most of Europe before his demise. The possibility that he was back to wreck mischief, and had infiltrated Norway's premier school, had spurred their Ministry into immediate action.

It did not hurt either that the Norwegian Minister himself had been present with his school-age son, and that the wizard had no love for Karkaroff.

Politics.

Before long, aurors from three different countries were convening, a blustering Bagman explaining the events to several men in scarlet red robes from Britain, while the other representatives spoke in their own languages to more wizards and witches. Reporters were writing frantically, others taking photos or buying them from students in the milling crowd.

And when Karkaroff was led off, bound, Gryffon knew what they would learn. Harry Potter had been beyond angry; he had been near to the end of his control. He wouldn't have lied.

That meant Durmstrang was infiltrated by wizards or witches loyal to a magical terrorist, one that had already attempted to kill a student. A very powerful, important student.

So Gryffon only spared a moment to inform the anxious Beauxbatons Headmistress of his intentions before he strode from the room.

It was time to leave. And with Jackson here, returning to the States and the Bureau would be much more simple than it otherwise would have been.

When they reached the suite, he wasn't the least surprised to find that all of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger's things had been removed.

The young wizard was smart. Gryffon could only hope that that intelligence would keep him alive long enough for HYBRID to catch up to him. No wizard, no matter how powerful, was immortal. And with the amount of enemies the boy was racking up, he would need every advantage and ally he could get.

Fury beat like another heart in his chest, and his power moved to its rhythm.

It all lead back to the Goblet of Fire. Without that creation, Hermione never would have been able to be forced into the Tournament. Harry would never have followed her. They would not have been taken; and Harry would not now be tainted with a darkness he could barely control.

A dark hunger that burned his throat and multiplied his anger to unbearable levels.

The Goblet of Fire. How could the Ministry not see it for the danger it was? How could they not realize just how horrible it is to have something that could bind against someone's will? What would it be used for next?

Harry Potter let the phoenix flame go and looked about the Ministry's Atrium. He had automatically put up invisibility charms; but past the large fountain that graced the middle of the atrium, the golden gates that led to the rest of the Ministry were strongly warded. As soon as he tried to pass those gates, he would become visible.

But nothing said he had to go through them. Harry focused on the lifts behind the gates, and with another jump through flame, teleported straight past the security checkpoint.

He glanced back to where the security guard was checking wands, and grimaced.

For the first time, he realized that not only was he missing his own phoenix wand, but Hermione must not have hers either, leaving her defenseless. He would have to get her another wand, and soon.

Harry turned back to the lifts, absently stepping out of the way of the random witches and wizards who approached him, unable to see him there.

Where would the goblet be stored? He knew it was in the Ministry, as it was their own invention. Harry glanced at the directory posted on the walls beside the lifts, eyes roving over the names on each level starting from the first.

Minister for Magic and Support Staff, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, Department of International Magical Cooperation, Department of Magical Games and Sports, the Atrium which was his current location, and directly below him the Department of Mysteries and the Courtrooms.

Harry frowned at the list, then raised one palm, concentrating on his own power.

With a low sound, Harry whispered the name of the artifact.

"The Goblet of Fire."

And Harry flung his magic from him, ignoring the startled looks of the witches passing by as they sensed the release of power. He was rewarded seconds later when he felt the distinct sensation of a hook settling into place and a sharp tug. He had it, and the object was below him.

Harry glanced around, then waited for an empty lift and quickly strode inside, waiting for the door to close before hitting for the only level located beneath him that could be reached from the lifts.

Level Nine, the Department of Mysteries.

Harry's power flared with the coming destruction, anger focused solely now on the Goblet, anticipation rolling through him. He would tear it apart. He would melt it, shred it, eat it...

Eat it? Harry paused, and realized that the slashes on his wrists were flaring, echoing the pangs across his stomach and back and worst of all the one across his throat.

Hunger.

The lift doors opened before he could think more on the sensation. A long hallway stretched out in front of him, lit with torches that glowed with an eerie blue-white light. Stairs to the side lead down to level ten, but his magic was tugging him forward. Harry followed it down the corridor until he reached a black door, which was open onto a wide circular room. There were three wizards inside, dressed in grey robes.

Unspeakables.

Harry ignored them, looking at the many doors in the room. None were open or marked in any way. But his magic pulled him towards the left.

One of the doors opened, and a witch stepped through. She greeted the others, and the floor under his feet trembled.

Suddenly, as the door behind her closed, the room began to revolve. None of the Unspeakables seemed phased, which told him that it was completely normal. And now, his magic pulled him to the right.

The doors had changed position.

Harry frowned. He didn't understand why the room revolved, and it didn't really matter. But if he opened the door in front of the Unspeakables, they would know someone invisible was there and had passed them by. Even if they didn't see him open the door, when the room revolved it would be obvious what had happened.

He didn't have long. Surely the Ministry representatives would be returning from Durmstrang with haste, and it had already been nearly an hour. If they took his threat seriously, they would know he would be coming to the Ministry for the Goblet. They would try to stop him.

Harry narrowed his eyes on the correct door, then stepped around the chatting Unspeakables. It was time to make his move. He put up a shield, then reached for the handle and stepped through quickly, closing the door behind him.

He heard the room behind him revolve, and the startled exclamations. But Harry locked the door with a quick ward, and faced forward.

It was a long room, and it was far from empty.

Various artifacts were scattered about, some on long tables, others on pedestals of their own. Four people in grey moved between them, wands in hand, casting spells and writing notes.

And all turned to face the door with inquisitive eyes.

"Who's there?" One, a wizard, demanded. Harry quickly strode towards them, looking over the tables he passed, as another wizard demanded he reveal himself.

The third, a witch, cast a spell, but it only splashed the wall behind him. The first wizard turned to chide the witch.

"Don't cast spells! You might harm the experiments!"

"But someone is here, sir!" The witch hotly spat back. The fourth Unspeakable folded his arms with a narrow stare as he looked about him.

"Geoffrey, if that's you, this isn't funny. We've had enough of your jokes!"

Harry ignored them all, and passed to the end of the room, the spell still tugging him forward. The Unspeakables were arguing now among themselves.

Another door was in front of him, and when he tested it he found it locked. Harry looked over the vast wards with a growl of annoyance. It would take hours to disable them all. Hours he didn't have. The Goblet was behind this door.

"By the door! I saw the knob turn!" Harry glanced behind him, and saw three Unspeakables coming towards him, the fourth trying to open the entrance door to the revolving chamber.

"The entrance is locked! Sound the alarm!"

Two cast spells towards him, standard petrification and binding. They only splashed harmlessly against Heth's shield, but in doing so gave away his location. Harry snarled and whirled to face the door. He reached out and lay his right palm against the rough wood.

"Zayin!"

Harry growled the rune's name, and felt the lightning arch from his palm, green and deadly, and crackle through the door with a thunderous sound of splintering wood and the smell of burnt ashes.

"Look at that!" "The alarm!" "Stop him!" The Unspeakables were yelling now behind him, and he heard the entrance door crash open as a loud siren split the air.

Harry took a step back and yelled out his rune's name again.

"Zayin!"

The air sparkled with electricity, and the door exploded under the second strike. Harry jumped through the ragged hole and entered another room, this one square. Inside, only three objects were placed in honor.

One, a triangular lump of metal. Another, a replica of a brain in sparkling crystal. The third a roughly hewn wooden chalice.

Harry strode for the third object, feeling magic striking Heth at his back, hearing loud shouts of spells and directions.

"He's in the Will Room, past the Thought Room!" "Petrificus Totalus!" "Stupefy!" "He's trapped, we've got him hemmed in!" "Expelliarmus!" "Petrificus Maximus!" "He's invisible, he has some shield up we can't penetrate!"

Harry raised his palm towards the Goblet, and again cast his most destructive spell, Zayin, Weapon.

"Zayin!"

And for the first time since he mastered the rune, he saw it do nothing. The pedestal under the chalice trembled; the air around it warped. But the lightning only stretched and rippled around the wooden surface, fizzling into air. Harry cast again and again, then tried more traditional blasting charms one after another after another, and finally a burst of phoenix flame.

The Goblet only hummed, its power unfazed by the display, the wards protecting it still in place. Harry looked at those wards and fought off the urge to howl. They were of some design he had never seen before, layers upon layers of them, and tied to some place below the ground he stood in, a wardstone of sorts.

He had to destroy it. He had to.

"Mr. Potter!"

The shouts behind him had died in the last minute. At the sound of his name, Harry turned a fraction, his hands clenched.

Rufus Scrimgeour stood there, his yellow eyes fixed on where he stood, and Harry realized that news from the Tournament had indeed finally reached the Ministry.

Harry dropped his invisibility charms, and saw the man's eyes widen before they narrowed again in fury. Behind the Head Auror nearly a dozen Unspeakables had filtered into the room, eyes locked on where he stood with amazement.

Scrimgeour stepped forward, speaking with forceful restraint.

"So it's true, what Bagman claimed. I didn't believe it until I heard the alarm. What madness is this?"

Harry gritted his teeth.

"This thing you've created here bound my friend against her will. It's revolting and sick and needs to be destroyed."

Scrimgeour folded his arms.

"It's not up to you, Mr. Potter, to decide that. Bring it up with the Wizengamot if you must. The Goblet of Fire is priceless, one of a kind. Its creator died in the process of making it, and we do not even understand how it came about. It must be studied."

Harry's wings flared out in anger at the words.

"Studied? Your Ministry used this object without even knowing how it works! Why should I think it won't be used again to bind someone? If all it needs is a simple signature? It could even bind you."

Scrimgeour's arms fell, and Harry saw the tall man had a brown wand clasped in his right hand.

"That won't happen. The Goblet can only be used with the consensus of the Wizengamot. The Tournament was its first test, and it performed its function. The repercussions with Ms. Granger were unfortunate, but we now know its dangers and will act accordingly."

Unfortunate? Anger rocked through him, growing and growing, and the reins he had on his power began to slip, allowing it to arch out of him in widening circles. A false wind began to blow, carrying the sharp smell of ozone with it. The Unspeakables shifted in concern, but Scrimgeour held steady, yellow eyes unfazed by the display.

Harry whispered his response in a voice that shook with rage, darkness creeping in at the edge of his vision.

"Then it's even more unfortunate for the Ministry, because I will not allow it to bind her a minute longer."

Scrimgeour glanced to the side, and another Unspeakable stepped forward, a wizard with long hair and harsh brown eyes.

"The Goblet cannot be destroyed, Mr. Potter. It is made to flourish even with blue Fiendfyre in its hold. Nothing can tarnish it."

Harry felt desperation flowing over him at that fact. Fiendfyre was one of the most destructive spells in existence, and unstoppable. At least, until now.

Scrimgeour spoke again, and his voice this time was gentle.

"Step away from the Goblet. Come to my office, and we will speak of this and the other allegations you made in Norway. We all understand you are under a great deal of stress for one your age. This won't be held against you."

There were murmurs of dissent from the crowd, but Harry ignored them. His mind was turning over again, sorting through the facts with lightning speed, evaluating his options.

The Goblet could not be overcome and destroyed with magic. It was a creation of magic, not only wood and spells, but some part of its creator's life as well. Life and magic, entwined together.

Harry's throat burned with hunger.

"Please, Harry. We will help you."

Harry hadn't realized his eyes had closed until they opened to focus on Scrimgeour, who had taken a few more steps closer to him. Harry met the man's hawk like stare.

"They weren't allegations. Lord Voldemort is back, and this Goblet was part of the scheme to kill me. I'm sorry."

But he wasn't. He was angry, furious, and not willing to step aside and be helped. He would help himself.

More rumbles from the Unspeakables. Scrimgeour's frown was fierce. But Harry knew what he had to do.

The darkness began to creep closer, his eyes seeing differently, a dark cloud passing over his mind.

He turned to face the Goblet, steel wings flared behind him, Heth's shield firmly in place. He heard Scrimgeour's commanding voice, directing the Unspeakables and now aurors around him to spread out in formation.

They would try to take him. And, perhaps, three or four rounds of spells from over a dozen wizards might actually pierce Heth. Harry hadn't forgotten the way Quirrell had overcome Heth once before, years ago. But Harry wasn't going to give them that chance.

Harry locked eyes on the Goblet, and felt the scar across his throat flare with agonized pain, echoed faintly on his wrists as he held them out towards the pedestal.

Harry remembered the black stone Vessel he had consumed only hours before, and how the stone and its magic both were taken away. How not only the souls and magic of the Death Eaters he had slain had been destroyed, but their bodies as well.

He had no word for his sixth set. Not even a simple emotion for it, surrounded as it was with a kaleidoscope of love and fear and hate and sorrow. He only had its Origin, the Void, and the overwhelming hunger for life and magic.

Harry reached for the hunger and let it have him.

If the Goblet could not be broken with magic, than he would take what made it magical.

It wasn't the same as during the ritual. It wasn't as powerful, as overwhelming, as absolute. It had a limit, now, and that limit was Harry himself.

But it was enough.

Harry, his eyes black with dark hunger, lunged forward and put his hand into the wards that encircled it, pushed through until they wrapped around the Goblet itself, its wood rough under his fingers, and he let the hunger swirl up inside of him and consume.

Fire black as pitch sprouted around his hands, flowing like water over the wooden Goblet with ravenous speed. Darkness flared through him with every swallow of magic the flames consumed. The object tasted differently than the Death Eaters had; there was no taste of coppery blood or the knowledge of a soul; instead it was dusty wood and long-lost life, and the magic of a wizard who had given everything to make something of his own.

Harry took it all into himself, every drop of magic, and when his hands dropped and the flame flickered out, the pedestal was empty, only a slight ring impression left on the stone as a hint that an object once sat there.

The Goblet of Fire was gone, and Harry felt bloated and over-full. He turned, deaf and blind, and knew that there were people around him, dangerous people, people who wanted to cage him and harm him, but he could know nothing else past the debilitating feeling of magic not his own inside of his chest, and the darkness pressing upon him to take more of what had not been given to him.

With a desperate groan, Harry thought frantically of safety, and let the phoenix flame take him away.

Minister Cornelius Fudge destroyed his office, retreating into anger to cover his fear.

Dolores saw both emotions and the culmination of all their efforts go up in flames. What chance they may have had to bring Mr. Potter under their thumb was gone forever.

All that was left was salvaging the pieces, and regaining a measure to power. The Boy-Who-Lived could not be allowed to disrespect the Ministry in such a blatant manner, with all the world aware of just what he had done. It was intolerable.

He would pay. No matter what devious things he had done to himself, no matter how powerful he was.

The Ministry of Magic was not to be trifled with.

Mr. Potter would learn this lesson, if it was the last thing Dolores Umbridge would do.

Damn that foolish boy!

Rufus paced the floor of his office, alone for the first time in over an hour, and knowing the respite was brief.

The Minister was furious. The reporters were swarming.

The Boy-Who-Lived had broken into the Ministry; and the reports streaming from those who attended the Tournament in Durmstrang seemed more and more ludicrous; and yet more believable than ever.

Because Rufus had seen it with his own eyes. The teen hadn't even taken the time to put on a robe, still dressed in the trousers he had worn in the pictures taken from Durmstrang. Just like he had promised Albus Dumbledore, he had come to the Ministry and destroyed a priceless artifact, and the entire world would know it and why.

It was an embarrassment. It was a catastrophe.

Worse, Rufus knew if he had been in Potter's place, he might have done the same. Knew that many other witches and wizards who read the story might think that as well, if public opinion wasn't swayed appropriately.

But damn the boy anyway for going through with it.

Rufus paused and leaned against his desk, his old war wounds in his leg aching with stress and overuse.

He had seen the boy's wings; if those hadn't been startling enough. He couldn't wait to see what the papers made of that phenomenon; magic was capable of odder things, but it was still an amazing sight. But it was the scars the boy bore that made his heart sink.

He, and anyone who worked with or against dark wizards, would know something of scars like those. Blood magic, without a doubt. A great deal of it, based on the amount of symbols he had seen. Rituals of that sort were banned for a reason in Britain and most of the wizarding world. They required sacrifices, dark magics, evil things. They twisted people, changed them, made them dangerous. Gave them power they did not deserve.

Rufus Scrimgeour had sworn that he would hunt down dark witches and wizards until he couldn't any longer. It was why he was an auror; it was why he fought in the last war. He had seen enough, done enough, to know what he did was right.

But Harry Potter was just a boy. Rufus had liked what he had seen of him, the few times they met. He had known the teenager was hiding something; but he never guessed it was a proficiency in dark magic.

And now, he had no choice but to start an all-out hunt for what most of the country still thought of as their savior.

Well, they wouldn't for long, that was a given. If Fudge had his way, hunting down Harry Potter and bringing him to justice would be his new election slogan.

And in the fervor to catch him, the man would ignore what Potter had said, that a far greater danger had returned.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Rufus circled his desk and fell into his chair with a weary sigh.

Muggles. Voldemort. Potter.

Suspected Death Eater activity, beginning to increase. The Ministry, broken into by a teenager who, if Rufus was not mistaken, was a mage-class wizard, though if it was natural or by blood magic he couldn't know. The muggle radicals, the Hounds, threatening to expose their world. Minister Fudge, blind to the true threats.

The Ministry of Magic was about to be under siege, and no one seemed to see it but himself and Amelia Bones.

How could they possibly fight a war, if no one knew they were fighting it?

Harry lay upon the stone altar of Heliopolis, and let the Sun warm his skin.

Was it odd, that inside himself the only place he truly thought of as safe was the ruined temple in Heliopolis? Was that because of the wards there, unbreakable and ancient, or because it was where the Sun had changed him and made him better? A place where only the Sun ruled, where blood had been spilled countless times by others and himself, where phoenixes roosted and sang songs of fire.

It was safety, of a sort. Perhaps not the most comfortable kind however.

His mind had cleared enough, now, to remember he was running out of time. The Ministry would be moving swiftly to apprehend him, he was sure of it. And the first place they would go was Hallam St., where Hermione and Sirius and his house-elves waited for him.

But it was hard to move, even harder to think. The presence of the Sun had burned away the darkness that the hunger had called up inside of him, but it couldn't disperse the magic he had taken. Not only from the Goblet, but from that Vessel he had caught, and before it the nine Death Eaters. A lot of that magic had left when the Void left him; but enough remained to make him sluggish, trying to pull him down into unconsciousness, a healing sleep while his magic mixed and assimilated the new substance.

But he couldn't sleep, not yet. Harry fought the pull of it and struggled to a sitting position, swinging his legs over and bowing his head in exhaustion.

At least now he knew something of what the sixth set did. He wasn't sure how useful the ability would be in battle, if he would feel the effects he was feeling now. During the ritual, any excess magic he consumed had been swallowed by the Void, which had pushed him further and further on to take more and more magic. Without it, the magic had no where to go but inside him, and there was only so much he could take before it rendered him unconscious. If he could only find some way to get rid of it as easily as it was taken…

Harry shook his head slowly, frowning. He should be horrified. The ability to steal another person's magic, their very life, was evil. It should be impossible. But he was just too tired to think about what he could now do.

Too tired to contemplate that he had also killed nine people during his ritual. But they had been evil wizards, full of hatred and arrogance. And he couldn't even bring himself to feel sorry for ridding the world of them.

And most definitely not Evan Rosier, who had held Hermione in his grasp with dark intent, his giggling laughter in her ears, his hands on her, his tongue on her neck...

Anger flared again, and he pushed it down. He didn't have time for it.

Harry forced himself to his feet, and with a hard swallow called up flame and brought himself to Hallam St..

He was greeted with a brief sad phoenix song, and he looked blearily towards where Fawkes perched, his growing feathers ragged and downy. The juvenile phoenix chirped at his gaze, and Hermione ran back into the room, her brown eyes wide with relief.

"Harry! You're back! Its been hours!"

Hours? Harry closed his eyes briefly, feeling her arms slide around him. For a long moment he took comfort in her embrace.

Then he pulled away. Sirius had entered the room, and he saw the trunks piled in one corner where Fawkes sat.

"Let's go." Harry said softly. "Before I collapse."

Hermione looked down at Harry as he slept. He had taken Sirius back to New York first, further strengthening the wards there, then with the help of the house-elves they had relocated all of their things to the two story house in Kondinin, Australia.

It had been left to Hermione to explain why they were there to the Steel boys, as Harry had fallen into a nearly catatonic state once they arrived. Dobby had helped her bring him to one of the guest beds, which was where he was now, laying upon his stomach with his wings laying limply against his back and trailing to the floor. Blossom was currently in the kitchen, making a dinner under the fascinated eyes of Kerr and his fiance, Janice, a muggle woman whom Hermione had just met. Ivy, Blossoms mother, had elected to stay at Hallam St. and field any questions from the Ministry. Hermione wasn't sure how Harry would feel about that when he woke up, but there was little she could do without outright commanding the old elf.

Hermione still didn't like the idea of forcing house-elves to do anything, despite how much they seemed to crave it.

Idly, she reached out and ran a hand across one of the steel feathers, its sharp edges turning soft as velvet at her touch, and let out a sigh.

So much had happened, and she hadn't had a single moment alone with Harry to talk about it. She was worried about him. Worried about how he had lost control, how the sixth ritual was affecting him. Worried that they were now, technically, on the run.

What on earth would her parents think?

"Still out?"

The question made her look up, seeing the awkward form of Tiny, another one of the Steel boys. The teenager was tall, so much so that his nickname seemed silly. Hermione smiled slightly.

"Yeah."

Tiny shrugged.

"That, ah, elf thing said the food's ready."

Hermione stood, brushing off her dirty robe, and nodded. With one last glance at Harry, she left the room, following the teen down the stairs.

DAY ONE

BRITAIN

Boy-Who-Lived Wins Second Challenge Single-Handedly! Pictures Included!

The-Boy-Who-Went Dark? Has Durmstrang Corrupted Harry Potter?

Harry Potter Claims You-Know-Who Returned!

NORWAY

British Ministry Infiltrated By Celebrity; Priceless Artifact Destroyed!

FRANCE

Potter Suspected Of Using Dark Magic!

Amazing Pictures From Durmstrang Tournament!

NORTH AMERICA

Boy-Who-Lived Destroys Goblet Of Fire To Save Friend

Special Edition: Norwegian Ministry of Magic Responds to Kidnapping Allegations

GERMANY

North American Bureau of Magic Withdraws Academy Representatives From Durmstrang

Durmstrang Headmaster Igor Karkaroff Confesses Crimes Under Veritaserum; Norwegian Ministry To Hold Press Conference

DAY TWO

BRITAIN

Triwizard Tournament Cancelled! Hogwarts and Beauxbatons Students No Longer Safe!

Minister Fudge Claims Harry Potter Dark Wizard; Possible Evidence, Page Four

FRANCE

British Minister Denies Claims of Dark Lord's Return

Albus Dumbledore Refuses To Comment on Possible Location Of Boy-Who-Lived

NORWAY

Harry Potter Suspected To Have Fled Britain

Hjalmar Gyldenpalm, Most Wanted! If Sighted, Report To Local Ministry Officials

GERMANY

British Ministry Of Magic Demands Neighboring Countries Apprehend Harry Potter If Found

North American Bureau Of Magic Offers Asylum To Harry Potter, Angering European Ministries; See Responses on Page 2

NORTH AMERICA

Special Task Force Created By British Minister Fudge To Hunt Down Boy-Who-Lived: Is This Admissible?

British Witches and Wizards Sympathize With Celebrity; Protests Planned In London

Neville slapped down another article on the table, brown eyes solemn.

"You believing any of this?"

Blaise Zabini glanced up with casual indifference.

"I'm sure there are some facts in there somewhere in between all the rubbish. But we both already knew about the wings and runes. Still no word?"

Neville sat with a growl, looking about the mostly empty library.

"No. But it hasn't been long enough for an owl to reach us, if they would even send a letter by owl If they are actually out of the country. If they even have an owl. If, if, if. For all we know, they've been kidnapped again!"

Blaise raised a single black brow.

"Unlikely. I don't think it went very well for the Dark Lord the first time."

Neville's eyes narrowed.

"You've heard something then."

Blaise's smile was vicious.

"My mother is not, and never was, a Death Eater. She looked down on them for being weak, and would never deign to bow to anyone. But she was sought after for her… unique specialties. She heard the rumors lately, and she heard even more after Harry's show at Durmstrang. It seems certain Ministry employees are missing, and a few other suspected Death Eaters. Dead, probably. I received a letter from her this morning with a few not-so-subtle hints. Seems she would like to meet Harry, next time he's around. Give her congratulations on a job well done."

Neville grimaced.

"That won't be for a while, with the Ministry the way it is."

Blaise smile did not fade.

"Perhaps sooner than you think. She had a few choice things to say about that as well. Fudge isn't doing as good as a job as he thinks with the Prophet. Seems a lot of people aren't buying his tales of Harry being some future Dark Lord. The Wizengamot is being swayed against the Minister, though she isn't sure where the pressure is coming from. Dumbledore, maybe, but more likely someone within the Ministry. Bones, perhaps."

Neville nodded slowly. "Then…"

Blaise leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Then all we need is some proof that what Harry said was true. That You-Know-Who is back. And all Fudge's backing that's left to him is gone. And we get a new Minister."

"Who might not be better." Neville pointed out. Blaise simply met his doubtful gaze.

"It would be hard to be worse. Way I see it, we've got three likely options."

"Lady Bones? Headmaster Dumbledore?" Neville asked, and Blaise nodded.

"And Lord Malfoy."

Neville's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Who would be nothing more than a puppet for You-Know-Who. Even Draco would have to see that."

Blaise frowned.

"Have you seen him?"

Neville knew who his friend meant immediately.

"Not outside of class, no. He says he's working on something. I've seen him wandering all over the castle. Has he talked about the Ball any?"

Blaise shook his head. "No. Said it was fine, that's all. Which obviously means it was not. Though whether that was because of his father, or Hermione, I can't say for certain. But I'm leaning towards Hermione."

Neville sighed.

"Yeah, probably."

For a long moment silence grew between them. Then Neville shrugged his shoulders and stood.

"Well. I'll see you tonight at the next study meeting. Maybe we can corner him then and get some information."

Blaise's face was expressionless when he replied.

"Just leave him alone. He probably needs some space."

Zachary Gryffon leaned back in his leather chair and looked at the wooden ceiling of his tower. Across the wooden beams, various planetary models hung, rotating gently at a perfectly calculated speed.

Jack, leaning against the nearby bookshelf, sighed.

"I can't believe they just let you come back here. Its only been two days."

Zak snorted, not taking his eyes away from where Pluto hung. To his muggle colleagues in HYBRID, he had stubbornly insisted the small rock was, indeed, a planet. Why must the muggles so misunderstand a large object's ability to influence the world, simply because it was smaller than other large objects in space? He always did like the underdog.

"Are you listening to me?" Jackson sounded annoyed. Zak didn't blame the agent. He had probably been through hell and back with the Bureau.

"Of course." Zak said simply. "And they couldn't stop me."

"Lovick was furious Potter got away." Jack said softly. "I convinced them they were better off offering the boy sanctuary on North American soil if they wanted to speak to him. The pictures coming out of Norway helped."

Zak softly whistled, and sat up, his feet hitting the floor from where they had been propped up on a stool.

Blue eyes fixed on the agent.

"So that's why you're here. You've found out we have a certain British citizen in the sanctuary."

Jack raised a brow. "Your nephew wasn't aware it was a secret. We were very intrigued to realize Potter had some relation to a werewolf, one who has been living on a certain werewolf sanctuary in North Carolina."

Zak sighed. "Dillon." He shook his head. "There is no guarantee he will come here, but if he does I'll speak to him. You didn't have to come personally to ask."

Jackson's gaze didn't falter. "This is HYBRID business, not just a personal favor, Zak. A lot of people in the Bureau don't understand why we are getting involved. Hell, a lot of people in HYBRID don't get it. Potter's a threat, and he's shown he has no respect for his own government's authority. They don't want him on our soil where he might cause us problems. But if he can easily break into the British Ministry, if he has been associating with a group whose mission is the downfall of the Statute of Secrecy, he might be this Hound group's greatest asset. We have to talk to him, reason with him if need be. You say threats won't work, and I'm inclined to agree after what I saw. He's a wild card, and he's been pushed around enough already. But there must be something this boy wants that we can give him to gain his cooperation."

Zak leaned back again in his chair, his fingers clasping together as he thought on what his friend had said and all it might mean.

There were divisions in his own government. He wasn't surprised; no one had all the facts. He doubted HYBRID's officials would want many knowing about not only the Hounds themselves, but that a mage might be working with them.

And HYBRID wanted Potter bad enough to bargain.

But what did Harry Potter want?

He thought back on the times he had spent with the kid, both at the sanctuary and at Durmstrang.

Zak looked over at the agent and sighed.

"Protection, not for himself, but his friends. He came here for Lupin, because the werewolf laws in Britain are not desirable. He went to Durmstrang to protect Ms. Granger. What we saw at the Tournament, that is how he reacts when one of his own is threatened. Offer protection for the ones he cares about, and he would probably do anything."

Albus Dumbledore was a busy man. The time he had taken to travel to Durmstrang with his students had been nearly too much; even cut short with the cancellation of the Tournament.

The Triwizard Tournament, his hope to bring the continent together, a failure. The possibility that Voldemort had returned despite his vigilant eyes, a disaster.

His first action upon return to British soil had been to reestablish the Order of the Phoenix on Hogwarts grounds. One of the few secret passageways from Hogsmeade had been useful for that venture. But among his old comrades from the war, few were still in fighting condition. Many had families, and more did not want to face the reality of another war.

And Albus had nothing to go on but the furious words of Harry Potter, who had vanished once again, and the statements Karkaroff had made under Veritaserum before being whisked off to Nurmengard prison. His contacts in Egypt had already reported the boy was not there, at least. But the Potters had many properties, and Gringotts was being difficult with the details.

Bill Weasley had already reported failure on that part; his first task as a new member of the Order.

Albus glanced towards the empty perch in his round office, feeling a pang in his heart.

I miss you, friend. Now more than ever.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes, long fingers resting on his temples, trying to soothe the growing ache in his mind. Too much to do, too little sleep, too many people counting on him. Mr. Potter was gone, after breaking into the Ministry and destroying the Goblet. The boy had done what he promised.

Britain would need him. Only Harry could destroy Lord Voldemort; it was prophesied. Mr. Potter had to be returned to the country.

Which meant Albus had to do all in his power to take Cornelius Fudge from office, and put someone in his place who would be willing to extend forgiveness to Harry Potter before it was too late. Surely the boy would want to return to his home country as a free man and not a criminal.

But he had no idea what to think of the boy's physical condition.

Albus Dumbledore had found the time to research some of the symbols cut into his previous student's skin. One, in particular, had been glaringly obvious.

Ankh. Egyptian Hieroglyphic.

A rune for life. Eternal life. And a master rune in a complete sequence, if Albus knew anything about wards and rituals. Flamel had spoke of such more than once; and Albus in his own studies had delved into ancient rituals. The British Ministry might have managed to rewrite some of their own history, but they couldn't completely hide the existence of ancient wizards across the world and their unique abilities when it came to using magic. Abilities that would make what Voldemort was capable of look like the spellcasting of a first year. Perhaps the power the prophecy spoke of was not love after all.

If Dumbledore did not know how the prophecy must end, he would be worried about that fact. A wizard after the ancient fashion would be far more dangerous than one rogue dark lord. Though how Mr. Potter had managed to discover the means of becoming one, and not only that but succeeded when most were rumored to fail, was beyond him.

But Dumbledore had been researching the ways to kill Voldemort for a long time, every piece of the wizard's soul that had been scattered about in objects, horcruxes. And if what he suspected was true, Harry Potter would not have the time to wreak havoc.

Because in order for Tom Riddle to die, Harry Potter must die as well. And before Albus passed from this world, he would make it his mission to correct both of his worst mistakes.

Dolores kept a careful eye on every step the task force took to track Potter down.

Scrimgeour, the grizzled head auror, was dragging his feet. She saw it, and delicately wrested him from his position on the second day. She put herself there; to Cornelius's delight and with his personal seal of approval, she took personal interest in the hunt.

The criminal's main residence, Hallam Street, was empty, except for one idiotic house-elf. In her opinion, the old thing was useless at giving information and better off put down before it could aid the Potter boy.

She had Phillip remove the creature to a cell, warded to prevent house-elf transportation. If it did not talk soon, it would be dealt with. Perhaps as a bargaining chip; the Potter boy had shown an unnatural fondness for lesser creatures. She had that information from a good, reliable source.

The goblins of Gringotts, nasty little things, frustrated her at every turn. Mr. Potter's records were misplaced; lost, or destroyed, a random fire in the caves, an avalanche outside his vaults. Umbridge vowed their destruction behind a perfect smile; but goblin relations were finicky things, and the balance delicate. With gold and fortunes at stake, she could not press them.

But Ms. Granger had not returned, either.

Dolores could only assume the silly chit had fled with her despicable boyfriend. As far as she was concerned, the girl was now an accomplice; and on the third day of the hunt, Dolores Umbridge turned her smiling eyes to a muggleborn family.

If Potter would not come out of his hiding hole on his own, perhaps the mudblood would, if her parents were at risk.

The Ministry must do what it had to. It was their righteous job to punish those who disobeyed, who disrespected, the law that was there to protect the people.

She would protect them from this new lying, cowardly menace; She would be their new savior.

With a soft smile, she adjusted her pink frock and prepared to send her force out onto a muggle street.

Umbridge smiled sweetly at the two Unspeakables, the hoods on their symbolic grey robes pulled back to show the features of the witch and wizard who had been chosen to speak with her on the important matter of Harry James Potter.

"Again, you claim the Goblet should not have been destroyed?" Dolores repeated, putting down her delicate white cup of tea in its saucer with a soft chink.

The asian witch, who had introduced herself only as Unspeakable Neka, sniffed haughtily.

"It is a fact under the parameters that we understood. The Goblet of Fire utilized a form of blue Fiendfyre in its ritual bindings, one of the most destructive forces known to magical kind. The foreign wood the chalice was carved from showed no signs of weakening or cracking under the stress, and the tests we performed on it all agreed that the protective ward structure bound into it by its creator resisted all physical and elemental damage of any kind. It was, until recently, the only object in the wizarding world that had been proven to be indestructible."

Dolores's smile didn't falter.

"Then would you agree that its destruction at the literal hands of Mr. Potter must be related to the illegal blood magic he has obviously used upon himself?"

The wizard, Unspeakable Howard, shifted in his seat with a soft rustle, cutting off his companion from answering the question with his own opinion.

"I've looked over the pictures from Durmstrang, and seen Mr. Potter's skin in person during the brief skirmish in my department. The runes we are currently studying should not have had the effects seen on the Goblet. In fact, what exactly the runes do can only be guessed at, as the runic scheme follows none we have ever seen. Some are not even legitimate runes, but simple archaic words and symbols. If I must guess, the hodge podge of runes he has used were created personally by himself, with meaning known only to him."

Dolores raised a single eyebrow.

"Then, we can only assume that what he has done to himself is responsible. No matter if we can not determine the type of blood magic; it is still that despicable kind of dark magic, and illegal in the country of Britain. Mr. Potter will be brought to justice for his crimes, the destruction of the Goblet only the last in a long list."

Neka looked at Howard, then back at Dolores with a blank gaze.

"The type is extremely important, Madam Umbridge. Some blood magic gives only limited effect, determined by the type of sacrifice and whether the blood was given willingly or unwillingly. Other kinds work only under a certain time limit, or can only be used once or twice without being rededicated. Much of our knowledge of blood magic has been lost in the last century, reduced to the few ancient books that survived the Ministry's purges. If you wish to capture Mr. Potter, you need to know how to stop him from doing whatever he did to the Goblet."

Dolores smiled, reaching out to softly pat the witches knee with a soothing gaze.

"Mr. Potter is a boy using magic he cannot possibly understand any more than your department does. Our trained task force will have no issues once he is tracked down."

Neka looked at Umbridge's hand with a flicker of a frown before her expression became blank once more.

Madam Umbridge leaned back in her chair, her smile beatific.

"If that is all the information you've been able to gather?"

"She's stupid! A fat, pompous, hag!" Neka spat as she paced, her slanted eyes furious. "Won't listen, blind to the facts. I was there! I saw what that boy did, and it doesn't matter how old he is, he possesses enough power to slaughter her precious task force and leave the carcasses on her office floor."

Howard sighed, gently massaging the bridge of his nose as he sat in his office chair with slumped shoulders. "They would have to catch him first, which is unlikely given he teleported out of a warded area with no effort. Sit, Neka, you're making my headache worse."

His employee sat with a flounce of grey robes, her chest rising and falling with agitation. Howard was careful not to let his eyes linger for too long, even in the privacy of his own office.

Unspeakables could only have true relationships with those bound by the same rules to keep the same secrets. He, unfortunately, was bound much tighter than she, but together they had made their own secrets. And keeping secrets was something Unspeakables did best.

"She's going to piss him off, with all due respect, sir." Neka growled, one foot crossing the other and bouncing with agitation. "The black flame that consumed the Goblet, the way his eyes changed. His words to the Head Auror. After reading the articles coming out of Norway, it all makes sense. He's been pushed to the edge. He's already wanted, now, and the world knows what he is. There is little reason for him to play at staying within Ministry law. Being convicted of using blood magic is an automatic life sentence to Azkaban. Nothing he does could possibly make it worse."

Howard closed his eyes, picturing the scene again in his mind.

He had been standing close, Rufus Scrimgeour next to him, the older auror's hawk-like gaze pleading even if his words were strong.

Howard could tell the man meant his words, about working things out, even as he knew as well as anyone what the scars on the boy would mean.

There would be no working it out. Blood magic could not be forgiven. The Goblet of Fire could not be destroyed. Harry Potter would not be pardoned.

Three impossibilities in his mind; and then the raven haired boy, wings of metal spread out like a black shield, had proven one thing very much possible. His green eyes had gone black; black with power, and black with some sentient thing that had chilled him to the core. And the flames had spread up his arms with a misty quality, seeming to eat the very light that touched it.

And when the boy wrapped his hands around the Goblet, the fire ate it piece by piece, like an acidic potion, until nothing was left but empty air.

When the boy had turned his black eyes back to them afterwards, Howard had seen no recognition there; only emotionless superiority, and the heavy feeling of power pressing down upon him, making his knees tremble, giving him the oddest desire to simply fall to the ground and give that magic anything it wanted to save his miserable life.

No one had cast a spell; they had been unable to speak in the heavy air, as if opening their mouth would let it inside them, stealing their will and their very souls.

Then, fire of purest white and orange and red had arisen about him like a halo of Light, and Howard had seen the boy's eyes gleam green before the wizard and his oppressive power both had disappeared.

Nothing had remained on the pedestal, not even the faintest magical signature. In contrast, the stamp of Harry Potter's power had been upon every wall, their diagnostic spells telling its own story.

Harry Potter was a mage, the first in Britain since Albus Dumbledore and You-Know-Who. And the blood magic upon his skin had not registered, instead showing nothing but yet another impossibility; magic of the greatest Light, and the greatest Dark, intertwined together.

The Dark was his worst fear; the Light their only hope. Howard had only been able to pray that Harry Potter was more Light than Darkness. And Neka was right; Potter had been pushed into showing his cards, his friend threatened with losing something priceless, and if the boy's claims were correct, the Goblet had been part of a trap for the boy.

Howard opened his eyes and looked across his desk to where Neka sat, arms folded, wand tapping her forearm with the same cadence with which one foot bounced in the air. The picture of a petulant woman, so at odds with her public persona of cold disinterest that a small smile came to his lips.

"It's not our job to deal with Mr. Potter, it's the aurors and that new task force. We can only give them our advice in regards to his magical potential. If Madam Umbridge refuses to listen, it's on her own head, not ours."

Neka grimaced. "I almost feel sorry for her, except she touched me. And all that pink! It was nauseating."

Howard only sighed.

Principal Beth Valerian fixed stern eyes on her student.

"Emotional Anxiety?"

Dillon Sawyer nodded solemnly. "Absolutely. I am so distraught, I absolutely must take a few weeks, maybe even a month, away from school. Of course I completely expect to be sent school assignments, considering I graduate in a few months."

Beth raised a brow.

"And where do you expect this medical leave to be taken?"

Dillon let out a long drawn-out sigh. "Normally I would desire to return to my house, but the only one who can help me overcome my trauma is my dear uncle, Zachary Gryffon. I really must go to him at the sanctuary so I can feel safe."

Beth Valerian snorted at the dramatic words coupled with the boys large, soulful eyes.

She wasn't an idiot. She knew what the boy was trying to pull. The fact that two of her teachers had even fallen for the act was ludicrous.

More like, they were sick of the boy already and wanted him gone. Dillon Sawyer was a menace when he was bored; when he had an agenda, he was a terror.

She was certain that his trauma had already induced several mishaps that were suitably traumatic for her staff.

Beth clasped her hands together on her desk.

"Mr. Sawyer. I understand your desire to jump back into the thick of things. But you are my student, my responsibility. Going to Durmstrang was dangerous enough; a werewolf sanctuary is out of the question. Your parents would never allow it..."

"Mom says I can go!" Dillon burst out, and rustled in his jacket to pull out a slim envelope and push it towards her.

Beth took it with a frown, reading over the brief text with a growing scowl.

It had the stench of the Bureau written all over it. Which made sense, considering Carol Sawyer was an official high up in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement under the Head Lovick. Mrs. Sawyer was also known for her fiery temper and stubborn tenacity, and if for some reason she wanted her son to go to North Carolina, she would get him there.

Which meant there was a reason, and it had nothing to do with Dillon Sawyer's mental health and everything to do with whatever really went down across the ocean two days before.

And Beth Valerian had no desire to get her school involved. If trouble was following Mr. Sawyer or his uncle, better it be far away from the Academy.

The principal looked up and narrowed her eyes at the forlorn blond.

"I expect you to be on your best behavior for your uncle. I will let your teachers know to owl your assignments to you."

Dillon's eyes glimmered with triumph as his entire body straightened. Beth continued, her lips pursed to prevent a smile.

"Pack your things and return here. I will floo Mrs. Sawyer."

Dillon shot out of his chair like a muggle bullet, the attempt at moroseness lost.

As the door swung shut behind him, Beth turned toward her fireplace with a reluctant sigh.

She hated dealing with the government.

It was Dillon who broke the news to Remus Lupin.

Zachary Gryffon had not told the werewolf anything, retreating to his tower to flip through books on rituals and their effects, anything that might give him a clue into Harry Potter's abilities. Everything had been hints; tall tales of ancient wizards who used wandless magic to wicked effect, of the many catastrophes blamed on natural disasters, actually caused by such wizards going insane with too much power.

Wizards who teleported with a mere thought, made forests grow from dust, leveled mountains and built cities, who healed with a touch and killed with a glance.

Power. So much power that life seemed meaningless; normal people nothing but pawns for their entertainment, the rules of nature broken at a whim. Gravity a mere annoyance; the elements not even a factor. The legends told of such wizards going mad, retreating into solitude or committing suicide in arcane rituals to join directly with Origins of Magic. Or worse, going on bloody sprees that killed thousands of muggle and magicals alike, sacrificing the unwilling to their dedicated gods.

Like with the Mayans in South America, whose entire civilization was destroyed.

Wizards who ancient muggles counted as immortal gods themselves, and sacrificed to for their own protection. Wizards who ruled like gods, barbaric and evil. Wizards who had to be slain, each and every one, at the cost of hundreds of magical lives, to stop their tyranny. The proof of their existence lost with the passing of time.

Stories, all that was left. Most found in old dusty tomes or carved in ancient walls. There was rumors of a book on such magic; on the rituals to attain such power. But dark lords and ladies had sought after it for centuries, some even claiming to possess it only to lose it again and again, the book itself seeming to have a will of its own.

A book to give one the means for ultimate power; but in order to do so, giving up any hope for a true life.

Zachary Gryffon did not know how Harry Potter could have come to possess such a book; if that was even the means he had used in his rituals. He only knew that he had seen the rune Ankh on the boys chest, directly over his heart. And that was a rune known to start the ancient blood magic rituals.

And if that was indeed what Mr. Potter had done, it was a miracle the boy had lived. For all the stories were very clear on that point; of a hundred boys who would attempt the rituals under a Master, only one might live to the completion of the rituals, a process rumored to take years.

So when Dillon Sawyer stumbled through his floo, Gryffon barely spared a glance for the boy, his eyes glued to the dusty tomes scattered across his workspace.

When the boy left with a shrug he did not even notice.

What he did notice was when an extremely irate werewolf burst into his tower and growled, golden eyes afire with anger.

Zak looked up at Lupin and blinked.

Then he sighed. "Dillon."

His nephew really needed to learn to keep his mouth shut.

The werewolf bared his teeth, voice low with threat as he spoke.

"What in Merlin's name happened to Harry."

Harry woke up alone. It was dark, only a soft golden glow emanating from where Fawkes perched in the corner

He was in Australia, he remembered that much.

"Dobby."

Harry called softly, his head still laying against the soft pillow underneath him, and the house-elf appeared immediately with a bow.

"Master Harry, sir! You is awake!"

Harry smiled slightly.

"Is everything alright?"

Dobby nodded quickly, then gave him a quick description of what had passed while he slept.

While he slept an entire day away.

Harry groaned at that news, but nodded. He supposed he should have expected that. But he felt refreshed now, and beyond powerful, the new magic inside of him finding its home throughout his body.

He carefully sat up, and withdrew his wings when he saw the damage they had scored onto the wooden floor on either side of the bed where they had draped. He repaired the marks with a frown and casual flex of power.

"And Hermione?" He asked, turning back to Dobby.

"Mistress is sleeping, Master Harry. In the room across the hall."

Harry nodded again, and stood with a stretch.

"What time is it here?"

"Dobby thinks it is four in the morning, sir."

Harry did a quick mental calculation. They were nearly half a day ahead of Britain in Australia, which made it only seven at night in London. Gringotts was open twenty-four hours, but it would be less crowded at night.

Harry didn't plan on being seen, regardless. Hermione and the others wouldn't wake for another few hours, and he could go to the bank now and return in time for breakfast.

"Thanks, Dobby."

Harry dismissed the elf and quickly dressed with clothes from his trunk.

Time to test the waters in Britain and see how the world had fared in his absence.

Griphook had a stack of newspapers nearly two feet thick on his desk. It took Harry nearly an hour to read through them, scanning each revelation with narrowed eyes.

Minister Fudge had branded him a dark wizard and a criminal, which was no surprise. Pictures of himself were scattered across most wizarding papers, his runes and wings highlighted in vivid detail.

Harry did not like what he saw of himself in those pictures. His clothing torn, the scars that littered his skin far too detailed for the world to contemplate. Worse, his face was set in cold, angry lines, and in many Dillon could be seen clearly kneeling at his feet.

It looked bad. He looked like a dark wizard; he looked like a monster.

It did not surprise him that the Tournament had been canceled, though the news that the Durmstrang Headmaster was involved in Voldemort's plans was. Most surprising was the clear offer of sanctuary from North America that followed the British Ministry's declaration of intent to hunt him down for destroying the Goblet of Fire. Why would the North American Bureau want to protect him? He was a student of the Academy on a technicality only, and no citizen of theirs.

They obviously wanted something from him, just like everyone else. Everyone but Hermione, who only wanted him.

Griphook had been smart. Not only had he gathered news from Britain, but from several other important countries. He had also easily danced around the inquiries and demands from reporters and the Ministry, though an auror waited uneasily in the corridor outside the goblin's office.

Harry had wondered what the Ministry hoped to accomplish with that. Even if the wizard actually saw Harry coming, there was no way he could subdue him by himself.

Griphook had also carefully hidden the documents that might have led the British Ministry back to New York or Kondinin.

The problem, of course, was that the Australian Ministry would know that Harry Potter had a house on their soil. And if they wanted, they could give that address to a foreign government.

The question was would they. The Australians had less love for European wizards than North American ones did. He had a good chance that they would deny the British the information on sheer principle.

Still, more wards needed to be a priority. Strong enough that Harry would have time to remove the Steels from danger if it came calling.

Harry knew what his weakness was, and it was the people he considered family. If the Ministry or Voldemort ever learned of the existence of Kerr and Tiny, they would be in danger the rest of their lives.

Harry wouldn't let that happen if he could help it.

It was an easy manner to slip past the guard and visit his vaults with Griphook. From the Black Vault he withdrew one of the wands he had passed over when searching for one for Sirius.

The flexible wand that felt like fire. He had a feeling it might work well for Hermione.

He didn't bother to get one for himself. The phoenix wand had held one of Fawkes' tail feathers, and that had made it precious. No other wand could compare.

He could only assume that his and Hermione's original wands had been snapped.

Before leaving Gringotts, Harry left what instructions he could with his manager. The goblin had never questioned him on what happened; if anything, the creature seemed eager to rebel in any way against the wizarding Ministry. Harry took that allegiance as the valuable thing it was; and promised rewards in the goblin way of blood and gold.

Then, with a bottomless pouch filled with an amazing amount of wealth, he called up flame and teleported across the ocean.

He had a debt to repay.

The sun had long since set in North Carolina when Harry arrived at the Pungo Lake Werewolf Sanctuary.

Harry had considered how he would reach Dillon without problems, and sending such a large amount of money by owl was not an attractive prospect.

He had settled on the werewolves. When Gryffon returned to his tower, Maurice could give the wizard the galleons to give to his nephew.

Harry did not fear either man would attempt to steal the prize. He trusted them both.

And after Harry talked to Remus, he doubted the werewolf would want to stick around for very long. If Harry could not attend Sirius' trial, Remus would. Someone had to be there to speak in Sirius' defense regarding the events that happened the night Peter Pettigrew was slain.

Harry had every intention of preparing a statement. Remus could read it in his place.

And if Minister Fudge tried to throw Sirius in Azkaban again, Harry would be waiting.

He had already broken too many laws to start obeying them now.

Electric lights beamed from the large square lodge ahead, and Harry saw the gleam of the muggle television playing inside.

Another muggle game, probably.

Harry headed in that direction, his tread steady, any uncertainty he might have had days ago about flaunting Ministry law gone. He would do what he had to do to keep his family safe, all of them, wizard and muggle alike.

If he had to go against the entire wizarding world to do it. If he had to turn traitor to his own country and take sanctuary in America. If he had to kill, if he had to hide, he would do it.

Ahead, the lights on the porch flickered.

Harry stopped. He stepped away, and the lights returned to their steady stream.

A step forward, they flickered. Another, and one bulb blew out with a sharp pop of ruptured glass.

Harry stepped away with a frown. His power mantled his shoulders; the bulk of it had been carefully wrapped inside, but the excess spilled out and over his skin, wrapping about his form like a cloak, protective and dormant.

But even dormant, something in it was disrupting the muggle electricity ahead. And Harry had no where else to put it.

The porch door opened, a dark skinned man craning his head out to squint at where he stood in the dark.

Harry heard the man take in a large sniff of the air. Then Maurice, the alpha of the Pungo Lake Pack, smiled.

"Harry Potter! Remus will be glad to see you. He has been worried."

At the man's words, there was a commotion inside. Maurice stepped aside to allow Remus Lupin to spill out the door, the brown haired wizard's eyes frantic as they ran over him.

"Harry! Are you alright? Where's Hermione? What's going on?!"

Harry blinked in surprise as the older wizards enveloped him in a hug before stepping back, eyes still roving over him as if looking for wounds.

They hovered for a long minute at the scar across his forehead, the tail of the symbol Mem trailing low between his eyes.

"I'm alright." Harry said quietly as Remus's gaze came back to meet his own, the golden wolf staring out at him from human eyes. "Did you see the newspapers?"

Remus shook his head.

"No. Your friend, from the Academy, he told us this morning. He had news from Britain, too. Harry, the Goblet… is it true?"

Harry looked over Remus's shoulder and saw Dillon lurking in the doorway. The teen waved half-heartedly, one corner of his mouth lifting in an apologetic smile.

Harry straightened under the older wizard's hold.

"Yes, it's true. It had to be destroyed." Harry looked over at Maurice. "I understand if you would rather not have me here, considering all that has happened."

The alpha snorted.

"If one of my pack was threatened by some magical artifact, I'd rip it to shreds. You and your packmates are still welcome here."

Remus squeezed his shoulder.

"Come inside, Harry, it's cold out here. We need to talk."

Harry glanced at the lights across the porch, and frowned.

"I… probably shouldn't. I need to get back to Hermione, I've been gone long enough as it is. She was asleep when I left."

Remus's brow lowered slightly.

"She's still with you? I thought you would take her back to her parents."

Harry stiffened; and suddenly felt his world tilt again.

He hadn't even thought of it. In fact, the thought of being away from Hermione was so distasteful, it hadn't even been considered for a moment.

But Hermione might want to return to her parents. They would certainly be worried about her if they had been contacted by the Ministry. The aurors could be there. Harry hadn't even thought of protecting them from the fallout. There was no reason Hermione should be on the run from the Ministry as well. She could go back to Hogwarts, go back to school. Go back to Draco and Neville, their friends. To safety.

Why hadn't Hermione said anything about returning?

Had he even given her a chance?

Harry felt himself pale, but he didn't allow any other sign of the emotion to show on his face.

"Not… yet."

Remus shook his head.

"Come inside, just for a minute. I'd like to know what happened out there. What you plan to do."

Harry had planned to tell him more than that. He had planned to discuss Sirius's trial.

But the flickering of the lights and what it might mean bothered him, and his new thoughts about Hermione stole all of his attention.

Harry lifted the bag in his hands and threw it towards Dillon, who caught it with a surprised step.

As the teen opened the bag with widening eyes, Harry turned back to Remus.

"I can't stay. Come with me; I can bring you back in a few days for the full moon."

Remus hesitated a second; then he nodded quickly. "I'll get my bag." Without another word, the werewolf turned and jogged away towards one of the separated cabins.

"Wait!" Dillon called, his head jerking up from his mesmerized stare at the gold in the bag. "Uncle Zak needs to talk to you before you leave!"

Harry frowned.

"You can tell him I appreciate everything he did for us at Durmstrang. I'll be back with Remus before long."

Dillon's face fell.

"Please, Harry, just let me go get him. It's not just him. Some friend of his from the Bureau is here too, at his tower. My mother even sent me here thinking I could talk to you into listening to him. I think it's silly, you don't know me that well, but she figures you owe me for the duel, which you don't." The boy quickly clarified before continuing. "I even think I should give you this gold back, or at least part of it, because even if we won the whole Tournament I never would have gotten all of it." The boy paused in his ramble, shaking his head before continuing. "But I came anyway because I really didn't want to stay at the Academy, where everyone was bothering me about you and Durmstrang. A guy likes a little popularity, but there's a point where enough is enough. I'm in a lot of those pictures that are in the newspapers. They didn't exactly get my good side."

The boy ended his spiel with an exaggerated groan.

Harry folded his arms.

"Is this about the Bureau offering sanctuary?"

Dillon shrugged. "I don't know, but probably. Did you get a letter or anything?"

Harry raised a brow.

"I read it in the papers. I doubt an owl could reach me where I've been."

Dillon rolled his eyes.

"I should have known that. Stupid question. Just wait a moment, please."

"I'm back!" Remus called, a canvas bag that looked of muggle design slung over one shoulder.

Another wonder of magic. Packing could be accomplished with a great deal of speed.

Harry turned back to Dillon and shook his head, smiling slightly at the teens wilted look.

"Tell him I'll be back on the full moon. I'll talk to his friend from the Bureau then if he wants. Look on the bright side; you get to stay here longer."

At that, Dillon's smile returned, with a hint of mischief at the edges.

"Alright. He'll hold you to that."

Harry reached out to grasp Remus's arm, then looked at Dillon one last time.

"As for the gold, you do deserve it, and more. You helped save Hermione from breaking that contract. I owe you a favor still."

Before Dillon could argue with a response, Harry raised the flame and took them both back to Kondinin.

When Harry appeared in the front lawn outside the old house, the electrical lights flickered.

Harry watched the dimming bulbs for a long second, confirmation beginning to swirl in his mind, before he casually stepped a few strides away from Remus and the house, looking out over the wide dirt fields of the nearby farms.

It was just past dawn in Australia, the temperature mild for January. Harry figured the Steels would be awake soon, and Hermione with them. There would be questions, explanations… and few good answers.

"Harry?"

Remus' voice questioned him softly, and Harry turned around, fixing his friend with a small smile.

"I may have another problem."

Remus frowned, dropping his bag to the ground with a soft thud and walking closer to him.

"What's wrong?"

Harry shrugged slightly, shaking his head with a frustrated breath.

"What isn't would be a better question. Dillon told you about what happened at the Tournament?"

Remus dipped his chin in a nod. Harry looked away.

"We were kidnapped by one of the Norwegian officials, taken to Voldemort. I think he planned to make an example of me. I… didn't cooperate." Harry's mouth moved into a cold smile. "And he has a few less followers to cower around him now. But something happened, with these…" Harry gestures to the runes on his hands, holding up his arms with a grimace. "Something dangerous. I can't really say what it's done to me, but it's given me a new ability, one I can hardly control. And the repercussions of using it look to be very inconvenient."

Remus's face seemed even more confused than before. Harry laughed, though there was little humor in it.

"I know I'm not making much sense. I can't really explain something I don't understand. But what happened to me made my magic… greater. Before, I've been able to wrap it inside myself, like a ball of string, or a folded blanket. I could control it. Now, it just… spills out of me. And it's effecting the lights."

Harry gestured toward the porch, and Remus followed his gaze to the single yellow bulb.

The werewolf blinked in surprise.

"I see. That's… not good. "

Harry laughed again, shaking his head.

"That's one way to put it."

Remus smiled, his hazel eyes kind as they came back to him.

"It's not the end of the world, Harry. Mr. Gryffon has the same problem in the lodge. You've been there, he has to stay away from a lot of the muggle appliances, especially the television." Remus's smile grew. "Just ask him how he handles it, I'm sure it will be fine."

Harry knew what Remus was referring to. He had seen the effects himself.

"But did he ever have trouble with the lights? I'm not sure I can even go inside the house without messing something up."

Remus's brows lowered into a frown.

"Well, I haven't seen it personally, but I heard some stories. If he did any spells, or got riled up about anything, they had issues."

Harry slowly nodded, and now recalled a similar instance himself. In Wilson's elevator, the lights had flickered when Harry's power had risen.

The problem was Harry's magic now didn't have to rise. It was already spilling out of him without his consent.

There was simply no where to put it inside his skin.

No where to put it.

Harry sucked in a breath. A Vessel! He had swallowed a Vessel that the masked Death Eater had thrown at him, something that held generations of magic. Something similar to the large black stone outside the Black vault, a repository for magic.

Harry could get rid of the excess in that way. He would need something portable, a stone…

He needed Flamel's notes, and he needed a place to practice the maneuver away from muggle technology.

Harry smiled at Remus.

"I think I might have an idea. But I need to go to Grimmauld Place."

Remus looked surprised.

"Grimmauld Place? Why not Hallam St.?"

Harry sucked in a breath. Perhaps Dillon hadn't told Remus as much as Harry thought he had.

"Ah, about that…"

Remus was not happy with him.

After the man stomped away to see who was awake inside the house, Harry let out a long breath.

He shouldn't be surprised. Who wants to learn that their best friends' son is now on the run from the government? And to make matters worse, Remus couldn't be openly seen with him, not if the man was going to be able to go to Sirius' trial.

Remus would need to make a show of being alone, perhaps getting a room in Diagon Alley before the trial. And the werewolf was not happy about it.

"Harry?"

The soft, feminine inquiry brought his head swinging around.

Hermione stood on the porch, dressed in a light muggle tshirt and jeans, her arms huddled to her chest in response to the chill in the air.

Harry didn't feel the cold, but he did feel hot at the sight of her.

Beautiful. She was beautiful, her chocolate brown eyes still bleary with sleep, her wild tangle of hair spilling over her shoulders.

Inside his mind, Dread spoke for the first time since Harry had awoken, the quetzalcoatl moving inside of him like a ripple across the water of his power.

"I still do not understand, Master. She-who-explains is no danger to us, but our heart beats faster, as before a striking-slash. Why?"

Harry felt a flush rising up his neck, and swallowed thickly.

"We are happy to see her, that's all."

Dread let out a hiss of disbelief. Before the serpent could press harder, Hermione spoke, stepping down with quick steps to move closer.

"Remus said we're leaving. What's going on?"

Harry took in a breath.

"I'll explain it all, but… Hermione, are you going back to Hogwarts? The Tournament's been canceled."

The question that had been burning in his gut since Remus had mentioned her parents tasted like acid on his tongue, any excitement he had felt at being back with her vanishing at the thought she might leave.

Hermione stopped in surprise; then her hands rose to her mouth, her eyes widening.

"My parents!" She gasped. "I need to talk to them, let them know what's really going on."

His stomach sank, but he expected no less.

"Yeah. I thought, maybe I drop you off there before I take Remus to Grimmauld Place."

Hermione's hands fell, her mouth turning down in a frown.

"But Harry, the Ministry might have sent aurors to my house by now, if they think you're with me."

Harry's eyes darted away from her face, looking blankly across the yard.

"It won't take long, and they can get you back to Hogwarts."

Hermione sniffed, her hands balling into fists that she planted on her hips.

"You are not getting rid of me that easy, Harry James Potter, don't even think about it. I'm staying with you."

Harry's eyes jumped back to her in astonishment.

"What!? Hermione, you can't!"

The brown-haired girl lifted her chin.

"Tell me why I can't."

Harry's eyes widened, then he laughed in incredulity. "Because! Hermione, the Ministry has it out for me now. I'm not going to be taking my O.W.L.s anymore, or the N.E.W.T.s. I can't show my face in Diagon Alley, and probably shouldn't go out in public anywhere in Britain at all. I'm… I'm in trouble. Voldemort is still out there, and with the Hounds gearing up… Hogwarts might be the safest place you can be."

Hermione's eyes softened. Then she stepped closer, her hand lifting to take his and squeeze it gently.

"Harry. We haven't had time to talk about what happened, but… you did that ritual on purpose, didn't you? You could have broken free on your own."

Harry's eyes darkened at the memory, and he couldn't meet her gaze.

"Why does it matter?" He asked softly, and Hermione leaned closer to him.

"Because I've been thinking about it, and the only reason you wouldn't have simply broken free and grabbed me was you were afraid that insane Evan would have gotten there first. I saw you looking at me, Harry. I could feel you, your emotions. You were afraid. For me."

Harry closed his eyes. "It dosen't matter. I botched the whole thing anyway. I nearly killed you. You aren't safe with me, either."

He jumped when Hermione's hand lightly smacked his chest, her eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"That's not true. Harry, you think Voldemort isn't even more aware than ever that you are dangerous? You think any of your friends aren't going to be watched? Hogwarts might be safe, but those teachers won't be at my side, in my head, and they certainly wouldn't allow themselves to be cut open and sacrificed to whatever the hell you summoned in order to protect me. I'm staying with you. And don't think I haven't figured out that I was the one who called you back from whatever you had done. You need me."

Any words he could think to say stuck in his throat. It was the truth; he did need her. He needed her reasoning, her kindness, her humor. Her light to push back the darkness that waited with hungry claws in the new scar across his neck.

Harry let out a breath, his shoulders slumping, and Hermione moved into his arms, burrowing under his black cloak with a happy sound of contentment.

"Just tell me I'm right." She mumbled into the fabric, a slight shiver running through her, and Harry absently let the power over his skin envelop her with a warming charm.

She relaxed further, and Harry smiled.

"You're right, like always."

Inside his mind, Dread hissed in laughter. Hermione joined in, her arms tucked around his middle.

"Plus, the entire reason you're in trouble is because you destroyed the Goblet, and that was entirely because of me. My parents will understand when I tell them. I can study for my O.W.L.'s on my own, just like you were. We will write them a letter, and have Fawkes bring it to them. He's about ready to fly I think."

Harry pulled back and looked down into her face, searching. When he saw the firm tilt of her lips, he dipped his head to rest it on her shoulder, speaking softly through their bond.

Thank you.

Hermione's voice whispered back across his mind, a burst of color echoing with it.

You're not alone, Harry. Never.

Dread coiled tightly at her words, the serpents own voice replying.

Never.

It took both words and a demonstration of Harry's unfortunate ability to blow out light bulbs before Kerr Steel was satisfied that he had to leave so soon. With farewell hugs to Kerr and Tiny, and a nod to Rick, Harry waited for Remus and Hermione to gather close before he took them all to Grimmauld Place. Dobby and Blossom were relocating their things once again, and Fawkes was perched upon the stair railing at the end of the hallway entrance, overseeing the process with the benevolent grace of a monarch.

When Harry and the others settled at the kitchen table with a late breakfast, Harry began the short tale of what transpired with Voldemort.

He glossed over the ritual details; only hinting at what had happened. But he could tell the werewolf read between the lines.

And it was hard to tell a man like Remus that he had killed people. Harder still that he couldn't pretend to feel sorry for actually killing them; only sorry that that the man might think less of him.

The Death Eaters would have killed him or Hermione if they had the chance. Had been planning to, in fact.

But to his surprise, Remus didn't seem to care either. His hazel eyes gleamed with the wolf, angry at the threat they had been under, and just as bloodthirsty as the darkness that lurked inside of Harry now.

Perhaps if anyone could understand the hunger Harry now felt, it was a werewolf.

"What about the trial, then? It's in two weeks. A one day affair, going over the details of Peter Pettigrew's death, the first time and the second."

Remus stated, his head tilted in inquiry.

Harry frowned.

"Sirius and I have gone over the facts and what he plans to say. I had hoped to be there personally, give my own statement. Now, I want you to give it, if you are willing."

Remus sat back, running a hand through his greying brown hair.

"I'm a werewolf, and I was involved the second time. I'm not sure I'm a good choice. You would be better off asking the Headmaster."

At the mention of Albus Dumbledore, Harry scoffed.

"No. I don't need to owe him any favors. And it doesn't matter what you are; I only need you to read my own words."

"Alright." Remus said simply, his head tilting down in a nod. "If that's what you want. What do we do till then?"

Harry sighed at the question that had been plaguing his own mind.

"There is little to do about the trial. Sirius is in New York until then, with his… girlfriend." Harry's face twisted at the word. "I need to use the Black library, figure out how to control my magic and research what has happened to me. Flamel's notes should be helpful."

Hermione perked up at that, her face avid with excitement. Harry grinned at her, nodding at the question she did not even have to ask.

Her emotions bloomed inside his mind like a budding flower, eagerness to get her hands on the research of one of the world most respected scholars. Harry found himself smiling across at her, until he was distracted by Remus clearing his throat. Harry quickly looked away, cutting off his desire to squirm at being caught mooning over the Gryffindor like a loon.

"What can I do?" Remus said softly, and Harry's brow furrowed in thought.

"The Ministry is going to be looking for me. I need someone out there, telling me what's going on. I can't risk getting owls here, but I can use Fawkes to communicate with you."

Remus nodded swiftly.

"I can go to the Leaky Cauldron. They get Ministry employees in there all the time, with wizards and witches from all over passing through. If anything happens, you can hear about it at the pub. What about the full moon? It's the day before the trial."

Harry's eyes were hard.

"I'll get you from your room that afternoon. Take you and Sirius both to the sanctuary, we can spend it with the pack. Then you two come here, make your own way to the Ministry. Sirius was promised he wouldn't be put in chains if he showed up on his own accord to the trail. It's what happens afterwards that's up for debate."

Remus tapped a finger against the table.

"And if he is found guilty?"

Harry smiled with cold conviction.

"Then he'll never reach Azkaban. Once you've broken one Ministry law, I don't see much harm in breaking another."

Remus's eyes were sad.

"That's a slippery slope, Harry. You can't just do whatever you want."

Harry laughed scornfully.

"Neither can the Ministry. The government has to be accountable to someone when they are wrong."

The werewolf leaned back in his seat with grim features.

"And that someone is going to be you?"

Harry shrugged and looked away, out over Grimmauld Place's kitchen, now spotless and clean.

"What use is all this power if I can't do something with it? Things have to change, have to be better. Someone has to start it, someone has to make them see that what they are doing is wrong. They can't bully magical creatures and muggleborns and half-bloods for power and greed. They can't thwart justice to save face when all the proof is in front of them. The Ministry is corrupt, rotten to the core. A few good people in it don't make it worth saving. It's time for things to change, and they will changeone way or another, with or without me. But I'm going to try to make that change good and not bad."

"You sound like a Hound." Remus said softly, and Harry met his gaze.

"I am one, Remus. I've been one since Mr. Steel took me in off the streets. I've fought with the idea and danced around it, denied it. I'm not James, I don't want people hurt for revenge or whatever his motive is. But Mr. Steel didn't want that either; he always wanted to do the right thing. Honesty. Muggles deserve it, and their magical children do as well. Magic shouldn't be a dirty secret or a curse. And I happen to have the power to help change that."

Remus let out a long breath, his eyes closing for a moment. Then he stood, nodding once.

"Alright. I'll go to Diagon Alley."

"The full moon." Zak said simply, and Dillon nodded with a quick glance towards where Jack sat, long lets spread out in front of him in a careless posture.

Zak groaned. "More than a week to wait. The Bureau will be knocking down my tower door by then for information."

Jack spoke up, one eyebrow raised. "Hate to tell you this, but we're here already. See me? HYBRID told me to stay as long as it takes."

Dillon looked between the two. "What's hybrid?"

Zak glared at his friend, then turned to his nephew. "Nothing you need to worry about yet. Run along and count your money, it's probably the most you'll ever see at one time."

Dillon looked mutinous; but with a glance at the pouch in his hand, scampered out the door. Zak threw up wards with a flicked finger and a few quick words.

Then he turned back to Jack with a scowl.

"Careful what you say. Dillon isn't stupid, he'll put it together faster than you can dissuade him."

Jack shrugged. "He looks like good recruitment material to me. Graduates in only a few months, right? Bring him into the fold. If he stays friends with Potter, he'll move up the ranks quick enough."

Zak stood and paced across the room with restless grace. "Don't even go there. There's a war looming on the horizon, and you want to bring my nephew right into the middle of it? Being friends with Potter is dangerous now."

"I know." Jack's eyes were calculating. "You're feeling it yourself. Don't think the Bureau has missed that you've hidden information from us regarding the boy. You're lucky they need you."

"Lucky." Zak Gryffon tossed his head with a grating laugh. "I was born powerful, and trained to use it to its full potential. They'll never let me go entirely. There will always be some favor they need, some desperate mission, some crucial information. I convince Potter to take their offer, and he will learn the same. No retirement for us, no true peace. We're tools, weapons. Anything they give us they ask back twofold in return."

Jack watched the tall wizard pace, then rolled his eyes.

"Stop with the pity party already. Most of us would kill to be in your position. You ask for nearly anything, and they would give it to you, because they need you. And Potter would be the same. Wizards like you two will never be lacking for money, influence and power. You change the rules of the game just by being on the board. Every country in the world wants more of your kind on their side."

Zak came to a stop, blue eyes locked on where Jack still sat, his body relaxed.

He knew that the agent's posture was a front. If attacked, he would be ready in an instant. Jack lounged with the easy knowledge that nothing could surprise him.

But it wasn't true. Even the best of them could be blindsided with the unexpected.

"Anonymity is power too." Zak whispered softly. "I've dealt with over a dozen assassination attempts off American soil. I can't travel without precautions, I can't risk a family. I won't put a spouse and children through blackmail or kidnapping attempts. I have my research here, my hobbies. I have the werewolves as friends, because no one cares about them but me. I'm not sorry for myself, Jack. I'm sorry for Mr. Potter, because he doesn't fully realize yet what he has done. All eyes are on him, on everything he does, everyone he has been associated with. The entire world is waiting to catch him or kill him or court him. He can't hide from it, there is no where he can run to and be free. I remember the boy I first met here in the summer, and I don't know if he can handle it."

Jack finally sat up, clasping his hands together.

"Then help him handle it, Gryffon. He's going to need you, because the world isn't going to wait for him to grow up."

"I know." Zak said, and turned away to look out the window, over the trees of the vast animal refuge that spanned the werewolf territory. "I know."

Fawkes stretched his wings in a scarlet and gold spread of luxurious feathers.

Harry watched him, looking over the juvenile feathers with careful eyes, before nodding at Hermione.

"He says he can take a letter, if not much more, and he looks well enough."

Fawkes let out a trill of agreement, the bird's black eyes fixed on where he sat.

Hermione bit her lip, then held out a single piece of parchment carefully tucked inside a cream colored envelope that she had dug out of her trunk.

"Here, to my parents." She cast a glance at Harry. "I just told them not to worry, that the Tournament was dangerous and we left there, but that the Ministry may come asking questions. It's all I could think of to say without being there in person. They're going to worry about me."

Harry reached out and took her hand, as Fawkes snapped the letter up in his beak and hopped away. With a eruption of flame, the phoenix launched into the air and disappeared.

Harry reached into his pocket, and pulled out what he hoped would ease the forlorn expression on Hermione's face.

Her brown eyes widened.

"A wand! When did you have time to get one?"

Harry shrugged, lifting it up for her to take. "It's for you. I got it from Gringotts, when I went there to meet with Griphook about my accounts and the Ministry. I think it might work for you."

Hermione gently picked it up, cradling it in her hand before giving it a flick.

Red sparks danced from the end, falling to the ground in a soft wave. Hermione smiled, though the expression was not as bright as he would have hoped.

"I think it likes me. What's it made of?"

Harry looked at the slender length of wood, the slight flex in it and the close grains. "Honestly, I have no idea. I think it has a dragon heartstring, because I get a sense of fire from it. But I guess only someone like Ollivander would know. Or maybe Sirius, seeing as it was from the Black vault. I got his wand from there, and he knew its story."

Hermione nodded, running her fingers over the wand, before tucking it away.

"It dosen't matter. A wand's a wand, right?"

Her eyes were watery. Harry pulled her closer.

Then he stopped.

He felt something; something odd, a song of sorts, a thunder in his mind. Hermione stiffened next to him.

What is that? She asked softly inside his mind, and Dread hissed in agitation.

"Master, it is the winged squeaker!"

At the quetzalcoatl's words, Harry focused his mind.

The thunder. It was like the sound of battle, and it was sung in a phoenix's lilting tones.

He stood. Fawkes would not have returned right away, not if Hermione's' parents were writing a response. But Harry had never tried to communicate with the phoenix over long distances, had never even explored the bond now between them.

-brother-of-light- Harry called with his power, searching for the bond of fire inside himself, wrapped around his core as tightly as Dread was.

The answer came swiftly.

-danger!-protect!-

Harry felt himself go cold; the phoenix was at the Granger house.

Hermione's parents.

Her mind was right alongside his, connected to his thoughts by the hand he still held in his own. She gasped, fear running through her like a cold poison.

Harry! Her mind cried out, and he turned to meet her eyes.

"Are you ready?"

She stiffened; then raised her right hand, the new wand held tightly in one fist.

"Let's go."

It was unexpected, when the fire came.

They had been assigned the day previous to keep the Grangers under close supervision and wait for a sign of Potter.

They could have waited on the street. They could have charmed the area, placed surveillance spells, even made themselves invisible and waited out of sight and mind inside the very house.

But for two of the four wizards in the task force, it was personal.

Harry Potter was a fiend from hell; a demon, an entity who had slain purebloods, family. Mulciber, their beloved older uncle, vanished as if wiped clean like a slate. They had seen it with their own eyes; seen the monster with blackness in his gaze look at the Death Eater and make him nothing.

It didn't matter that Potter was there to be killed. It didn't matter that their uncle was a Death Eater, and them as well, and Potter their enemy.

The boy was supposed to be weak; supposed to be easy prey. They were servants of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! The greatest Dark Lord the world has ever seen.

It shouldn't have happened.

Something had gone wrong. And none of their acquaintance would speak of that night, would listen to their theories.

The Death Eaters were scared. The Dark Lord was in hiding, or dead. Potter had done that; Potter had destroyed their dreams of a new world, where blood meant something again.

And they would have revenge. It was simple. A life for a life.

Or two, as they were only muggles, and worth less.

It was a concise plan; as they took shifts, they would wait. Wait until the other two aurors went home, home to rest and relax, ignorant of their fellows' plan. Then they would strike; and Potter, when he returned, would feel what loss they had felt. And never know just who had struck to take it.

When they stood over the bound forms of Mr. and Mrs. Granger, the muggles' terrified eyes fixed upon them, everything had seemed to be falling into place.

Until a flash of fire had interrupted their fun.

A phoenix, of all things. A phoenix, standing between them and their prey, a wall of fire and flame to block them.

The muggles were tied to chairs; and those chairs propped tight against a table. The woman bled; they had enjoyed listening to the man plead for them to stop. The phoenix was between them, but it wasn't taking them away.

It was weak. The Death Eaters, the aurors, the members of the new taskforce, had both attended Hogwarts. They knew of the Headmaster's phoenix and its burnings days. They understood they had time, still, before the bumbling old man came to save more trash from justice.

They had to get rid of the phoenix before it thought to warn its master.

Their spells were swallowed in phoenix fire; the bird began to sing, a thunderous song of retribution for the pain they inflicted.

Until they cast the killing curse, and the phoenix swallowed it whole, and burst into flames.

The fiery wall fell; the bird cheaped weakly in a pile of ash. Immortal even when faced with the worst curse a wizard could cast. Minutes had passed, ferocious minutes of spellfire and heat. One of the wizards stepped up to the phoenix with a triumphant smile.

"Would you like to watch us kill them, birdie? Tell the old coot how much they enjoyed our attentions?"

The other only grunted in distaste at the taunt, fixing dark eyes on the two muggles.

"Let's finish and get out of here."

With a shrug, the first lifted his wand; and then, the world went black.

Harry had taken the entire scene in with the same flashing clarity he had felt when bound upon the stone courtyard in front of Voldemort.

Mrs. Granger, bleeding from cuts, bruises and boils on her skin, her face red and blotched, her clothing torn.

Mr. Granger, crying, the strong man whom he respected brought low.

Fawkes, in a pile of ash and downy feathers, the scars of fire on the floor around him.

Hermione, her horror, her grief, her fear, her love, her hate, her rage.

Darkness swarmed in his vision, inside his mind, and he lost her; lost in the tide of her emotion, his neck burning, his wrists on fire, his black flayed and his stomach a line of scorching pain.

The bulbs above their heads exploded; he heard glass shatter and metal shake. The room fell into darkness, and the Void came for him on that wave of feeling, came inside of him and held him in its arms and whispered its lullaby.

-we-can-

Harry stepped away from his Light and faced the two wizards who raised wands towards the Grangers and the fire rose in his mind and along his arms, black fire, black mist, water and heat, chaotic, impossible, the fiendfyre of the Void, uncontrollable, a poison that sank its claws into his soul and made its hungry demand.

They had hurt him; he was no longer sure how, but they had, and he would return the favor with ravenous pleasure.

-blood-

Harry took their hands first; took the wands from their hands and let his fire take their flesh. When they screamed and fell, he took their feet, watching as they fell to their knees, horror and pain a haunting mix.

-magic-

Then he took their arms, their torso's oddly bloodless amid the carnage, every life giving drop eaten by the darkness that claimed them.

-life-

Their legs. their knees, their thighs. He took their blood and gave it away to the song of blood and hunger, and his throat was on fire with it.

-more-

He was kneeling beside them, jumping from one place to another with a flex of crushing power, and the lights that had been illuminating the place were long gone, the bulbs eradicated, anything electrical long fried and gone, the air heavy with the smell of fire and ozone and liquid metal, the floor trembling under his feet, the vinyl tiles curling when he knelt, melting away as if present near some great fire.

Harry reached out a hand; fingers wreathed in fire, staring down at the two wizards whose horrified eyes were glazed now with approaching death, the pain splintering their minds and breaking their souls. He reached out and took ahold of the pieces, the memories, and he knew they were Death Eaters and he knew they were Philip and Charles Mulciber, twins, loved by their mother and uncle, knew they had lost their father to a muggle bomb in London, knew that Harry had killed the one family member they had left, that the two wizards were full of hate and pain before they ever entered the Granger residence.

And he saw the round face of a woman, Umbridge, pink and gaudy, decorated with kitten badges, and he knew as the Mulciber boys knew that the woman knew of their pain, knew they would exact their revenge, and her smiling cold eyes wanted that with all of her evil heart.

-more-

The fire took what was left of them, blood and flesh and bone, and nothing remained but ash.

A mercy, an act of contrition.

Mercy from the darkness and the pain, though he had none for himself. The Void was singing to him, calling to him, and his fingers were shaking with it as he knelt upon the muggle floor, the dining room glowing with phoenix light and something else, power, magic…

Harry stood and turned, and she was there, light spilling from her wand to cast lengthy shadows in every direction. Her wide brown eyes locked on his, and he saw the struggle there, fear and love, and the emotions were pushing at him, seeking entrance, trying to overcome what he was.

He wanted her. He wanted the magic that came from her, wanted it with the same driving urge he had wanted the lives of the wizards who were no more. She was coming closer, stepping towards him, chocolate brown eyes gentle and full of sadness.

She was whispering something, and he couldn't hear it over the hungry song in his mind, urging him to take more, and more, and more, driven by the very emotion that this woman was going to push on him again, triggered by her rage and anger, not his own.

She stopped a breath away, and he saw the tears in her eyes. The spell light made them sparkle like diamonds, precious stones of immeasurable value. Her hand touched his cheek, and he felt her mind there, waiting, pushing, trying to speak to him.

"I'm sorry."

She said, and her voice was loud in his ears now, like a shout, pleading even when spoken with tenderness.

"My fault. Come back to me, Harry. Come back. I'm sorry, please, help me. Come back to me. I need you."

The blackness began to recede from his vision; the fire on his hands flickering away as her voice gained in strength. He heard another song now, angry and burning, and it was Fawkes, the baby phoenix's voice weak but full of righteousness.

There was a serpent too, his own soul in another form, and its voice spoke words he could understand.

"Master, shadow-upon-the-ground, we must flee. Darkness surrounds us."

Darkness.

Harry closed his eyes, and shut out the Void's song. His throat was raw; his power so far outside his own control he had no hope of reeling it in.

He had done it again, killed, and this time it had not even been his intention. He had found another hidden flaw within the sixth set, a trap laid ever so carefully for him.

Emotion. The emotion that had born the sixth set, emotion tied so tightly to Hermione Jane Granger that her own feelings could open him to the Darkness-Between-The-Stars. His savior and his downfall, all wrapped into one.

"Harry."

Her arms wrapped tightly around him. Fawkes sang softly in comfort, Dread hissed fervently in warning.

He was like a wild animal, a leashed dog, set free in the direction of an enemy to wreak carnage. But once he was loose, everyone around was fair game.

The Void wanted everything, everyone, and Harry carried it inside of him.

It wanted him most of all, and it would never rest until it consumed him. Eventually, Hermione wouldn't be there; or wouldn't be able to pull him back into the light. What then? He could only hope the darkness took him first, before he could kill others.

Harry stepped away from her, saw the fear lighting up her eyes as they searched his own, looking for loss of control, looking for the monster inside of him.

But it wasn't there. He was just Harry, now.

Just Harry.

He turned, saw that she had loosened the bindings on her parents, that Mrs. Granger was wrapped tightly in Mr. Grangers arms, her head tucked into his chest, the man's eyes locked on where Harry stood with his daughter.

Mr. Granger's eyes were filled with satisfaction when they darted to the ashy remains of the wizards who had tormented them.

Harry smiled coldly at the muggle, then grasped Hermione's hand tightly in his own, pulling her beside him as he walked toward the Grangers.

"You're coming with us."

They did not argue. They packed swiftly with the summoned help of Dobby and Blossom, their way lit with Hermione's wand light.

Harry stayed downstairs, watching the muggle street through the window, and made his plans.

The woman, the monstrosity in pink. The force behind the Mulciber twins and the Ministry's task force.

She wanted him.

He would give her exactly what she wished for.

Phoenixes existed in a cycle outside of time. They were not born; they became, out of sunlight and purest magic; beings blessed with the Sun's guidance and desire for justice.

They were everything good in the world, they were immortal innocence; and yet, they were also sacrifice, giving up their power on days of burning weakness and sorrowful reflection. Love made them stronger; and the wizards of Light in the world brought them joy.

Phoenixes understood humanity only so much as they understood darkness; it was something that came about without the Sun's guidance, and tended to lead to sorrow. Just as the darkness inevitably was defeated in the Sun's gaze, so humans died, some in short days and others in many.

New phoenixes found it hard to understand death. Young birds of fire tended to burn the hottest in their dedication to the Sun; and the Sun did not die. Death was something of darkness, of the Void, and therefore avoided at all cost. Their antithesis.

There was more than one reason phoenixes so rarely bound themselves to witches and wizards. To see their bonded die was enough to drive a phoenix to the edge of darkness itself, crying tears of fire, burning from the inside out with emotions so very hard to understand. Many phoenixes never risked the feeling again.

Fawkes was not one of the young of his kind. He had existed in the world since the time phoenixes were worshiped as messengers of the Sun God and given sacrifices of magic and blood. When humanity would bow down in tears for the blessing of their song, would kill themselves for the healing sorrow of a phoenix on a dying loved one.

He had bound himself to wizards in the time of the ancients, always to those in greatest need, who possessed the power to change the world for the better. He saw the Light when it shone, even in the darkest places. He soothed the sorrowful, he healed the wounded. He mourned each lost partner, every one falling into darkness, whether through death or the Dark.

And then he burned, and was reborn, and sought again the Light in mankind.

Fawkes would be a sovereign, if his kind had kings. Instead, he was known only as passing-of-day, dawn-and-dusk, the-Rising-Sun and the-Falling-Day. He was looked upon by other phoenixes with respect and pity alike, for his path was one of continual sorrow.

The phoenixes of Heliopolis had long memories, and yet each of Fawkes' losses echoed across the desert and mountains, a dirge of yet another failure as if it was the very first wizard lost to darkness.

But never before had ones loss turned into another binding within moments. Never before had a phoenix gone so quickly from a broken bond onto another one.

Never before had a phoenix dared to be bound to a being so tainted with darkness that the Void could look from their eyes and consume them.

There was only one way for a phoenix to truly die; and Harry Potter possessed that power. A runic wizard of the ancient paths, dedicated first to the Moon, and then the Sun, and then the Darkness-Between-The-Stars. A being so close to falling into eternal darkness, a void so deep none survived it.

Only fragile threads still bound him to the Light. Only the small thin bonds of those who loved him had a chance of saving him.

Fawkes, had he been young, would have fled. Had he been a weaker creature, he would have vanished into fire to await his bonded's death. Had he been new to the world, he would have seen the coming darkness with disdain, and thought himself noble for dissolving their bond.

But Fawkes was none of those things. Fawkes saw what few other phoenixes could understand with their distance from humanity.

He, as one of those fragile bonds, had a chance to defeat the darkness in his partner for the first time in his eternity on the Earth. He saw clearly with a phoenix's eyes and the understanding of sacrifice and justice.

Harry was not just another bonded; he was a brother-of-light, one gifted with phoenix form and song by the Sun, passing through judgement and fire and living. The Darkness had grasped its insidious claws into his brother through the darkness present in all men; and gained prevalence using the Sun's own gift, love.

To leave Harry Potter to the darkness would be a failure that made all others pale in comparison.

And to stay, and succeed, would be the only victory he would ever need, for his brother-of-light to turn to the Sun would be to forever revoke the darkness in all of its forms. Only with Fawkes could a man hope to survive it; the Sun would not tolerate such darkness, would burn it from his brother like the poison it was, and in the process also take something crucial to all of humanity; that seed of darkness that made them so in tune with the Moon and the Void.

His brother would never be the same; but he would live.

And Fawkes would do all in his power to fight back the Darkness until his brother could be brought completely into the Light.

The room was lit only with candles.

Dark and gloomy, the stone walls seeped moisture, the air dank and cold. A cavern far beneath the earth, a hidden place of sanctuary for Svart the assassin, a place to take his prey and kill them for his Master.

Or a place to hide one's Master, when the enemy is far more terrible than suspected.

Hjalmar Gyldenpalm had borne his Master's wrath, the punishment for forcing the Dark Lord to flee was swift and painful.

For two days, he had lain in pain upon his own floor, until Crouch had tended his wounds and brought him back from the brink of insanity.

His Vessel, gone, sacrificed to the darkness that had possessed the Boy-Who-Lived. Centuries of magic, his special weapon, his last minute defense. Gone, in a blink, in a swallow.

Just as his grandmother had said it could happen. Just as the Gyldenpalm family had known it could. Mere witches and wizards were only playthings to the darkness, to the true Dark, the eater of souls, the black wyrm.

Hjalmar expected to hear of Potter's death, as well.

His world rocked again to learn the boy, a mere child, had survived the force of such a thing.

"Explain it all to me." His Master demanded, voice cold and sibilant, on the third day.

Hjalmar crouched in torn robes of the finest silk money could buy. Crouch was there; the only Death Eater summoned from wherever all the others had fled. The only one his Master trusted, now.

Nine dead, that they knew of. Nine eaten by the Dark.

"It was the Dark." Hjalmar whispered brokenly, and began to explain how he knew.

How Gyldenpalms, the golden hands of Norway, had always told stories of the blackness that lurked in the world, in the deep places of the Earth, between the Stars, a wyrm of terrible strength and hunger, always eating and never full.

An Origin of magic, modern alchemists would call it. Like the Sun, like the Moon, like the Earth.

The Dark.

Void.

Gyldenpalms had watched for it; some had worshiped it, and perished; others had fought it, and been consumed. One could not give a sacrifice to such hunger and not be eaten. One could not give it anything without giving one's entire self as well.

"Its only desire is to destroy. Everything it touches, everything it looks upon. The more magic, the more desirable. It would destroy the Earth, if the Sun did not shine upon Her, if the Moon did not constantly hover over Her shoulder. And it would only want more. No one can harness its power and live."

"And yet, Potter did." His Master hissed, with fury in his scarlet eyes.

Hjalmar flinched.

"Not for long. It's impossible. It will consume him eventually."

"Eventually isn't good enough." The Dark Lord roared, coming to his feet, and Hjalmar spasmed in pain as the wandless spell crashed over him.

He panted when it faded, and whispered into the shadows at his feet.

"The pictures. The runes. I've looked at them. Some are symbols of the Sun, the only force that can overcome the darkness. It must be keeping him alive somehow."

Voldemort spat out his response.

"I've seen them. What I want to know is how to kill him."

Hjalmar looked through his limp hair, long since fallen out of its groomed state from days ago. Then he spoke the words that fought to close up his throat in reluctance.

"Summon the Dark, and let it have its servant."

For a long moment, the Dark Lord looked down at him, eyes narrowed.

Then, he smiled.

And Hjalmar Gyldenpalm felt fear settle deep in his heart as he had never known it before.

~To Be Continued: Pink Flesh and Red Blood~

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