Chapter 6: Allostatic Overload
Time seemed to slow for Harry Potter as he witnessed the ominously familiar flashes of green light that often haunted his nightmares. His heightened alertness from the earlier paranoia enabled him to execute his next move quickly and precisely.
He dove beneath the metal table, crashing onto the unforgiving stone floor. Tommy and Billy fell from their seats, slumping to the ground without any reflexes or reaction. He was certain they were unconscious, given their utter stillness.
Moments later, nearby onlookers were drawn to the commotion; some trick-or-treaters mistook the scene for a Halloween spectacle or some form of entertainment.
Harry's heart thundered in his chest as he prepared to flee. Uncertain of the unfolding events and why his nightmares were materializing, he recognized imminent danger when it was staring at him.
Footsteps approached, followed by a stern male voice demanding, "Harry Potter, emerge from under the table, or I will kill your remaining two friends."
Harry shivered at the command, his inexperienced mind slow to accept that Tommy and Billy, motionless on the floor, were likely deceased.
He could see Ivy and Eric's legs, still positioned at the table, unnaturally rigid. Were they also dead? Had they fainted in their seats? Why were they so still?
One thing was clear to Harry: to survive he needed to vanish as he had at the Dursleys over two years ago.
He seized Ivy and Eric's legs, which felt surprisingly warm, and squinted, willing himself to disappear and reappear elsewhere with them in tow.
Doubt lingered about Billy and Tommy's fates, but approaching their bodies would expose him to the dangerous people behind the table.
He concentrated intensely, desperate for something to happen.
A chilling, high-pitched female voice suddenly declared, "I will count to five, little boy. If you don't come out from behind the table with your hands empty and raised, your little girlfriend here dies."
His heart raced as he mentally urged himself on, the seconds dragging by. "C'mon, c'mon, C'MON!" his mind screamed, willing himself to disappear again.
Suddenly, the woman's voice escalated as she shrieked, "AVADA KEDAVRA!"
In a panic, Harry tugged forcefully at Ivy's legs, causing her body to topple onto him. Uncertain if she was struck as the woman had promised, and if so, whether it meant actual death. Regardless, he knew they were all in peril.
Attempting to pull Eric down too, his body merely toppled as a flash of green light struck him in the chest as he yanked hard, and then yanked again.
Harry emitted a shrill scream, though he was only dimly aware of the sound until the woman spoke again.
"Now it's just you, Harry Potter. Do you wish to die, little boy? Step out now if you want to live, hands above your head, empty. Now, child!"
Clutching Ivy's body, Harry rocked back and forth, his breaths interspersed with strange gasps and intermittent shrieks.
He struggled to grasp the reality: were his friends truly gone? What kind of weapon emitted these pulses of light? Could the weapons be responding to the words they yelled?
His mind raced with confusing and overwhelming thoughts, and he could not decide what to do, what could he do in this situation?
A sudden realization hit him: they were shouting 'Avada Kedavra,' a phrase he recalled as a common incantation for magic trick shows! Perhaps this was all a prank after all?
Yet, the stillness of his friends was unnervingly convincing; no one could feign such immobility for so long, as far as he knew. They looked truly asleep, though he did not detect any breathing motions from any of their still forms.
Suddenly he gasped in shock and was jolted out of his traumatized wanderings when a loud crash came from the table he was hiding behind, like someone had kicked it hard.
A voice had yelled, "Now Potter, come out n—" and was cut off, as he found himself in front of Number 4 Privet Drive, on the lawn, a young red-haired girl still clutched in his arms.
He sat there for a moment, breathing shallowly and gasping for air.
After a moment, a strange calm came over him. He suddenly felt like laughing, but even that was too much for him. A numb, buzzing blanket wrapped around his mind as he tried to think about what was happening.
He lay Ivy down on the grass, not even looking up to see if anyone was around. He sat on his knees in the grass, hands limp in his lap, staring off into the starry sky above his old home. He just sat there, no emotions, no tears, no thoughts. He didn't move a muscle, just sat there, a blank expression on his face, as Ivy lay in front of him, her body growing colder.
Mad-Eye Moody knew he was walking into a trap. He always expected traps, regardless of how dangerous or easy the situation and target seemed. Constant vigilance had saved him more times than he could count. Only fools underestimated their enemies and thought that their enemies were less clever and resourceful than they were. He was no fool and always played the game as if this was Voldemort's strongest supporter he was hunting.
His strides were slow and deliberate, his fake left leg giving him a noticeable limp. He rarely used the disguise anymore since too many had seen him walk normally since the war, but he figured if he was walking into a trap, he might as well pull out all the tricks.
His mind flashed back to the dark fight that had led to his scars and severe injuries.
He remembered the dark rainy night, sitting around a low candle with the Order of the Phoenix, looking at magical maps and discussing the intel they had received.
The plan had been simple enough. Voldemort was going to attack two places, and one of those places would be a distraction. The intel had been clear that the Ministry was going to be the real attack, with the Minister of Magic himself as a target.
The plan had been simple enough. Dumbledore would confront Voldemort at the ministry and hold him off, while Moody and the majority of the Order of the Phoenix would protect Diagon Alley in case the attack was any more than just a distraction.
Voldemort himself had tortured him during the ensuing battle with the Order of the Phoenix in front of the broomstick shop in Diagon Alley. Moody and his comrades had been outnumbered, with many from the Ministry staying back due to injuries and fear. In the end, the Potters, Longbottoms, and a few dozen others managed to hold back Voldemort just long enough for Dumbledore to arrive.
The Death Eaters had been clever, diverting Dumbledore and a large force of Aurors to the Ministry while they launched their real attack on Diagon Alley. It had taken more than a dozen powerful witches and wizards to hold Voldemort off. Moody had been a top duelist, but Voldemort's spells had shredded him while making everyone else dance and dodge his killing curses. Moody could not fathom how Voldemort had grown so powerful.
He could remember clearly how Voldemort's cunning, ferocious eyes had met his for a split moment, and there had been a look, like Voldemort had been sizing him up.
Voldemort had proceeded to launch a wave of spells at Moody, colors and lights flashing toward him at blinding speeds, overwhelming and shattering every attempt at shielding or protection spells. Moody remembered clearly the wall of spells as he dodged and weaved, desperately trying to slow the onslaught.
It had only taken fifteen seconds for the first spells to hit Moody. He remembered distinctly the cutting pain smashing through his brain like an explosion.
He had lost a leg, and an eye, and had been left in a pool of blood, unable to move due to a spinal cord injury.
He remembered the feeling of lying there, helpless to the darkness. He remembered the fury and righteous anger he had felt in those moments. Cold as space, hot as a volcano. He had promised to himself in that moment, lying in a pool of blood, that he would never be a victim like that ever again.
To say that his paranoia intensified after that fight would be an understatement.
When Dumbledore had finally arrived, even the old man had struggled with the ferocity of Voldemort's attacks. Moody had healed from most of the damage with the help of his friend Nicholas Flamel, keeping some scars for dramatic effect. Intimidation could be the edge that meant victory.
His magical eye had been a gift from Nicholas Flamel as well, who warned him to report any unexpected behavior from it. Moody was grateful for the eye, which had saved him countless times. When he heard of the Potters' fate and the boy who vanquished Voldemort, he had been skeptical. It seemed unlikely that Sirius Black had been a double agent, and even more so that a baby had defeated the Dark Lord.
Dumbledore had made him swear not to investigate, claiming that any meddling could ruin everything. Still, after about a year, Moody had given in to his curiosity and gone to the Potters' home and used his eye to see the scene from the outside.
He remembered clearly the sad devastation of the Potter's home.
The Potter's house in Godric's Hollow remained a haunting relic of that fateful night. The cottage lay in desolate ruins, untouched and unfixed by magic or cleaning crews.
The roof was still blown off, jagged edges of wood and shingles pointing skyward, stark against the gloomy backdrop of overcast skies. The upper floor was exposed to the elements, its contents scattered and dark with recent rain. Broken beams and rafters jutted out, their once sturdy forms now crumbling and splintered.
The walls, once warm and inviting, were now cracked and blackened, bearing the scorch marks of dark magic. Vines and ivy had begun to creep up the stone facade, nature's slow reclamation adding a touch of green to the somber scene. Windows were shattered, their glass shards long since fallen, leaving empty, hollow frames that stared blankly into the distance.
Inside, the remnants of a family home lay scattered and decayed. Dust and cobwebs coated everything, from the overturned furniture to the forgotten toys of a child who never got to grow up there. The fireplace, once a source of warmth and comfort, was now cold and filled with debris.
In the garden, overgrown and wild, a sign stood as a silent sentinel. It was covered in messages of hope and remembrance from the wizarding community, their ink fresh and their sentiments enduring. Flowers, both real and conjured, lay in varying states of decay, a testament to ongoing visits from those who still remembered the Potters' bravery.
The atmosphere around the house was thick with a sense of loss and reverence. It was a place frozen in the moment of tragedy, a physical reminder of the night Voldemort fell and a boy became the symbol of hope for the wizarding world.
He had looked carefully at every detail, and he had felt a deep sense of loss in his chest, even as he had investigated carefully and with intense focus.
He had remained highly skeptical of the story but had trusted Dumbledore, and let it rest for the time being, or until he could figure out what he should do with his skepticism. It hardly seemed to matter how it had happened now, since Voldemort was defeated. How the boy had survived a killing curse was very relevant, but he was certain Dumbledore would be investigating such an important event.
When he learned that the Potters' vault had been emptied, his skepticism had returned in full force. The Potters were wealthy, but not enough to be targeted like that. James Potter had not been frugal, and their family vaults had dwindled with war expenditures. Moody was certain the Potter vault needed to have contained something else valuable enough to attract a crew of immense skill.
There were dots that needed to be connected and stories that needed to be told, but he felt in his heart that he was on to something big.
As he cautiously approached the gates of the house where his target was likely hiding, he noticed the property looked abandoned, with dark metal gates, peeling paint, and an overgrown yard. A single lit lamp cast eerie shadows at the entrance. He took a deep breath, raised his wand, and whispered, "Peribis Completum." The gate entrance vanished with a muted flash of silver light from his wand, though it made no sound.
He moved slowly onto the property, scanning the inside of the house with his magical eye while his regular eye watched for traps along the worn and dirty pathway leading to the front door.
There appeared to be no one inside, but it took time to scan every pocket of space.
Suddenly, he felt a change in the air. He stopped, crouching with his wand at the ready. A soft breeze carried the scent of salt to his nose and ruffled his messy hair. He took a slow, deep breath as he continued scanning.
Seconds passed, but nothing happened.
Suddenly, a soft disembodied voice spoke from the direction of the house. "Surely you knew you were walking into a trap, Mad-Eye Moody. Why are you so desperate to find us?"
"I get a lot of gold," Moody barked, his magical eye frantically trying to locate the voice.
"Ah, gold is your sin. I can give you more gold than you were offered. How about double?" The voice was calm, controlled, and unmistakably female.
"Sin? You religious? Isn't it a sin to steal what ain't yours?" Moody replied, eyes still scanning.
Before the voice could respond, Moody found its source—buried six feet under the earth, on the other side of the house.
"I'm not religious, Mad-Eye Moody. But I won't help you much. I was part of the theft, as you call it, but not a major player. You came all the way here, but I don't know enough to justify the trip."
Moody laughed, preparing his next spell. He had to get this part perfectly right. "Nice try, whoever you are. You know enough to be helpful, and I'll get everything I need from you, whether you want to or not. I will give you one chance: I will use Veritaserum if you give up now and come out with your palms facing forward. If you make me extract you, it will be painful and slow."
Drawing on his magical core, he whispered, "Semita Catenae Serpentes Leti." Chains of light shot from his wand into the ground, moving towards the target. This was a powerful spell that he knew would immediately bind even a very powerful wizard or witch if it was successful. If the chains missed or the target moved too quickly, the magic would explode, releasing all its energy. The last time that had happened, Moody had taken two weeks to recover and had killed the target, who hadn't deserved death.
The circumstances were such that Moody felt confident. The target was in a small pocket of space in the earth, six feet under. They would neither see the magic coming nor have anywhere to go.
As the light moved closer, the figure suddenly turned to face the chains. Moody cursed. How were they seeing through the earth?
"Nice try, old man," the woman's voice sounded slightly concerned but not scared.
A second before the lights hit, she vanished. Moody leaped back, shielding his head and neck as the chains exploded, sending a wave of fiery magic and debris through the yard.
When the dust settled, the house lay in ruins. A large gash marked where the spell had exploded, and Moody cursed, feeling the burns on his body. On the ground lay an old wizard, probably in his seventies by appearance, but likely much older by wizard standards.
The man groaned and sat up, looking annoyed. When he spoke, it was with a woman's voice. "Why would you do that? What kind of stupid spell is that?"
The man waved his wand, and his voice grew deep and raspy. "You are a reckless wizard, for all of your paranoia"
"What's with the female voice?" Moody asked, training his wand on the man.
"You know, in case I got away. You'd never find me if you thought I was a woman. Worth a try."
Moody laughed, appreciating the trickery. "Give it up. I don't want to hurt you."
"Really? You just said you'd use painful methods if I didn't give up the first time. Is that still your plan?"
He rolled his eyes, feeling impatient. He moved suddenly, darting forward with inhuman speed, roaring spell after spell. The first beam hit the man, a powerful stunner. Moody grabbed the man, cast a shrinking spell, followed by warding and protection charms, and stuffed him into his pouch.
Glancing around at the destroyed property, Moody shrugged and began casting powerful repair charms. Moments later, the property looked newly built and shining.
He apparated away from the property and the beautiful magical town with an audible "pop", reappearing on the edge of the wards in his muggle safehouse.
He had a lot of interrogating to do, and no time to lose. If anyone found out who he had captured, things would get complicated very quickly.
Peter Pettigrew sat in his cage on the cluttered table of the grimy bedroom, his beady eyes glinting with frustration and resentment. The Weasleys had left, their destination unknown, leaving him trapped and seething. He had ventured out of the house earlier, perhaps for too long, and now he faced the repercussions of his recklessness.
The cage was a cruel prison, its iron bars cold and unyielding. Scattered around him were the remnants of the Weasleys' chaotic life: discarded robes, tattered books, and stray socks. The air was thick with the musty scent of neglect and the faint, electric buzz of old magic. It was a far cry from the comfort he had once known, but Pettigrew had learned to adapt. Still, this confinement was a waste of time that he could scarcely endure.
He had been provided with enough rat food and water to last for days, but the rations only deepened his sense of captivity. There was no escape, no way to outwit this simple yet effective trap. In his rat form, he was powerless, his wand useless and hidden away. Even if he transformed back into a man, the cramped space of the cage would crush him before he could make his escape.
His tiny claws scratched restlessly at the metal floor, his mind racing with thoughts of vengeance and desperation. The walls of the room seemed to close in on him, and the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight danced menacingly, mocking his predicament. Pettigrew's heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and fury. He was getting a lot closer to the freedom he had been promised. He only needed a few more ingredients, and the potion would be ready for him to drink.
Peter Pettigrew was missing three critical ingredients: two vampire teeth, a feather from the wings of a griffin, and a vial of venom from a spider called a "Caloway Neckbreaker," which was reportedly extinct. He could likely buy most of the ingredients, but he was completely out of cash. Stealing from the Weasleys was out of the question. Any sign of theft might raise suspicions about him being an Animagus. Besides, the Weasleys had no money, making the point moot.
His time outside the house was limited before one of the younger children noticed his absence, leaving him no realistic way to make extra money and purchase the ingredients. He would have to hunt them himself, a task that could take months of searching, returning to the Weasleys, picking up old trails, and eventually tracking and killing the creatures for their parts.
The Caloway Neckbreaker was extinct, and its venom would be a fortune to buy. Peter decided to leave that ingredient for last, as the potion could be left simmering for a long time without spoiling at that point. The first step was killing a vampire.
Vampires had been disappearing at alarming rates worldwide. They were already a small population, likely no more than a few hundred, but sightings had become exceedingly rare. There was a bar Peter remembered from his time with Voldemort, a place that attracted werewolves, vampires, and other afflicted humans. Yet, when Peter visited, it was empty, with only a single werewolf as the bartender.
The man sniffed at him suspiciously but didn't seem to recognize him. Peter nursed his butterbeer for thirty minutes, hoping a vampire might drop in for a drink. When none appeared, he tipped the wolf generously, hoping the gesture would make him forget his scent, and then left.
Wherever the vampires and werewolves had been disappearing to, Peter had to find them—or at least one of them. He needed to obtain the vampire teeth soon, or the potion would start losing its potency. As he brooded over his predicament in the dark cell of his cage, a memory surfaced.
A seventh-year boy at Hogwarts had been turned into a vampire when Peter was in his second year. What had that boy's name been?
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to recall the details. The boy had been a Slytherin, tall and pale even before the transformation. His name flickered at the edge of Peter's memory, tantalizingly close but just out of reach.
Then it struck him: Burke. Something Burke. Yes, that was the last name. Maybe Gregory?
"Maybe Gregory Burke" had been turned into a vampire under mysterious circumstances, an event that had sent ripples of fear and curiosity through the school.
Peter's mind raced with possibilities. He would need to track down Mr. Burke, which was probably as simple as sending him an owl and following it. If that failed, for some people did have protections against such methods of tracking, then Peter would have to find him the old-school way.
As the shadows deepened in the cluttered bedroom, Peter began to plot his next moves, thinking about contingencies, and how he would get an owl without being suspicious or spending money he didn't have.
Moody used four drops of Veritaserum the moment the target awoke from the Enervate spell. The older man sat in a cold metal chair, bound with both magical and physical ropes, facing Moody's own seat.
Moody knew that even an experienced occlumens with strong defenses would struggle to resist four drops of the potion. It was considered "dangerous" and "unsafe" to use that amount, but Moody knew it was more dangerous to get the wrong information now. The potion had a very short half-life, and Moody needed answers quickly.
"Why did you break into the Potters' vault?"
Dumbledore sat at his desk, engrossed in a Muggle book titled "Foundation" by Isaac Asimov. It was a fascinating read, typical of Dumbledore's eclectic tastes. He loved the way Muggles thought! As he flipped the page, his eyes widened at the unfolding drama within.
Barely finishing the page he was reading, the Floo network burst into green flames, and a head appeared, breathless and gasping. Dumbledore stood rapidly, drawing his wand and pointing it at the head in the Floo.
"Dumbledore!" Mad-Eye Moody gasped, "The boy, where is Harry Potter?!"
Dumbledore sat in front of Moody, who had reluctantly taken the chair across from the old wizard. Moody found the man infuriating, but he knew that to save the child, he had to play along with Dumbledore's methods.
"Begin from the start, Alastor," Dumbledore began gently.
Moody shook his head. "No, Albus, I cannot. I don't have time to explain. I have reason to believe that Harry Potter is in immediate danger, and from multiple sources!"
Dumbledore's twinkling eyes fixed on him, recognizing the urgency in Moody's voice. Never had he seen his old friend so hasty and panicked.
"The boy is protected at his relatives' home. They are good people, and I check on them frequently. He cannot be harmed, even by Voldemort, as long as he is under their care."
Alastor seemed to relax slightly, though his eyes remained sharp, his mind racing to piece everything together.
"How confident are you that the boy is there right now?" he asked, locking eyes with Dumbledore.
"Confident. I was there just last night, as a matter of fact. I enjoy watching their dinners, though I suppose it sounds a bit odd saying it out loud."
Moody nodded but then hesitated. "Albus, please, if you don't mind, let me go and check. Just in case. I promise to reveal nothing of his protection or situation."
Dumbledore stared off into space for a long moment, clearly recalling past betrayals. However, if Alastor were going to betray the Order or Dumbledore, he would have done so long ago.
Finally, he nodded. "I will tell you where he is and how to see everything. But do not meddle. Look carefully, confirm that Harry Potter is where I last saw him, and then leave immediately. Do not draw any attention to yourself or let the boy see you. Once you confirm he is safe, come back here and tell me everything"
Mad-Eye Moody was gone in a flash, heading toward Number 4, Privet Drive, as fast as he could manage.
Harry remained on the front yard for what felt like years, unmoving and staring off into the sky, oblivious to the world and his recent trauma. Hours passed before his mind snapped into lucidity, and he looked down at Ivy for the first time since her death.
She looked beautiful and peaceful in death, Harry thought. Her hair shone with the same inner light he always remembered, and her eyes, though lifeless, retained the beauty he had always admired. Unsure of what to do, he gently closed her eyes, mimicking the way actors did in movies, and rested her arms on her stomach. Now, with her eyes closed and her arms folded neatly, she looked as though she were deeply sleeping.
Harry stood up, his legs creaking from his prolonged, frozen position. He stretched, feeling the stiffness and pain from having remained so still. He wondered why he still felt nothing—no tears, no sobs, no anger, no fear.
As he glanced at the Dursleys' front windows, his expression changed to shock. In the window, Harry saw an impossible scene: there he was, sitting with the Dursleys, even Uncle Vernon, laughing and enjoying supper together in a warm, joyful ambiance.
The moment he noticed the windows, the sounds of supper reached his ears. How was this possible? Harry's brain struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. Had he traveled back in time like in that weird show Aunt Petunia had once obsessed over on the telly?
Harry stumbled backward, shocked and confused. Everything felt like a dream, and he felt dissociated, unable to process the events of the past few hours. He closed his eyes tightly, wishing for a safe place, a place where he could think and sleep in silence, where the world made sense.
Scrunching his eyes hard, he tried to will himself to vanish again. He did not consider the repercussions of leaving Ivy's body on the lawn, nor would it likely have changed much for him if he had.
Harry focused hard, willing himself to move, to disappear. It was a shout that did it, a gruff, sharp voice that yelled, "Harry Potter!" before fading away. Then, Harry felt himself reappear somewhere—somewhere indoors, and much warmer.
Moody cursed to himself, feeling foolish. He had seen the scene play out in the windows, but his magical eye had seen through it right away. Number 4, Privet Drive lay abandoned, with empty cabinets, empty bedrooms and wardrobes, and no sign of life.
It had not taken long to see the "for sale" sign on the front yard through the illusion and then to see who he assumed was Harry Potter sitting in the grass, cradling a dead girl.
The boy had stood up, stretching, and he had watched, curious and alarmed, to see what the boy would do next, but he had not anticipated the boy's next moves until he had seen a tiny flash of magic being activated with his eye.
It had been too late. Moody was not able to follow, because he had not yet entered the wards of the now abandoned house.
He would need to find Harry, and soon, or the boy would certainly be kidnapped.
Dumbledore needed to know right away, and he would help him find the boy!
A/N: The story is starting to reveal some of its skeletons, and the plot should be moving along nicely now. Hogwarts coming up very soon!
Don't forget to check my profile for constant updates on my writing schedule. I post what % I am up to in the next chapter, and when it is being edited. If I have delays, it will be there that you will find them.
As always, please review if you have any comments, praise, criticism, corrections, or complaints. I always appreciate your reviews!