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Harry Potter and the Perversion of Purity

By ACI100

Book 4: TBD

Chapter 3: Pawn Chains

July 18, 1994

The Burrow

7:09 PM

Flecks of red flashed in and out of sight as his hair whirled and his robes flapped in the rushing wind. A squawking murder of crows took wing below him, soaring up over the tree line and past his broom. Ron grinned despite himself. They were supposed to stay below those treetops, but he was sure obliviators would smooth everything out if it came to that.

One of his brothers smashed a bludger and sent it sailing in his direction. Ron swerved and let it swoosh past, then dove after a falling apple someone had blasted from its tree. Cedric swooped down after him, but Ron had a head start and snatched the apple from the air.

"We should probably call it there," Fred called as he swept back splaying strands of hair.

"Yeah," George agreed. "People will be showing up here soon. Don't want to get caught breaking rules."

"And here I thought you two had spirit," Cedric said with a sly smirk.

Ron laughed. It feels good laughing again. The sound had grown alien while pursuing the Patronus Charm, but this summer had been good.

A strange guilt came over him for thinking that. As good as it can be, at least. No one had died last year and none of his friends were hurt. It was easier smiling now than it had been a year ago, but nerves still gnawed at him.

You-Know-Who's back.

"You all right, mate?"

Ron blinked at Cedric. "Uh… yeah, fine. Just a bit tired."

The older boy's handsome face scrunched into a severe expression. "You've been sleeping better lately, right?"

"Sure has," said George, gliding closer to them. "We've been making sure of it."

They really had been. Ever since returning home, Ron had spent more time with the twins than ever. He had worried that first week or so that Cedric and his brothers might not get along, but there had been no need to fret.

Cedric's nod was sage and solemn. "Good lads." The Hufflepuff studied Ron's face. "You are feeling better, right?"

Ron could feel the mood change as if the very air had thickened and the surrounding scene had grown darker. "Yeah," he said with a sigh. "It's easier this summer. Nothing went wrong." Dark shadows swirled inside his mind's eye as he imagined the formless shape of You-Know-Who laying waste to cities and ruining lives cut short. "Well… nothing personal."

"You believe it, then?" Cedric asked, peering from face to face.

"Dumbledore said it," Fred intoned as if it was an incantation. "There's no reason for him to lie."

"That's what I keep coming back to," Cedric admitted. "Father doesn't believe him. He says Dumbledore's trying to make himself a hero after Skeeter's book last summer."

The Weasleys exchanged bitter looks. Ron had never imagined folk would be too blind to see the truth. "What do you think?" George asked.

Cedric peered out over the tree line and down toward the muggle village, too distant to make out more than outlines. "I don't know what to believe. I don't want You-Know-Who to be back. It's easier thinking he isn't, but… well, Dumbledore doesn't really seem the type to care about his reputation."

"Then why doubt?" George pressed.

Cedric shifted on his broom. "It feels wrong that there would be this huge Azkaban breakout, then nothing. If You-Know-Who is back, then what's he doing? Why not attack while no one's ready?"

"What's the rush?" Fred asked darkly. "If the ministry won't wise up, they'll never be ready. You-Know-Who can build his armies from the shadows and attack when he's strongest."

"That could be it, too," said George. "No one knows what happened to him the night he tried killing Potter. Maybe he's not as strong as he used to be, or maybe it's taking a while to get his power back."

The four of them drifted down and landed in the shadow of a cluster of apple trees. "A while?" Cedric asked when they all dismounted. "He's had nearly thirteen years."

"My twin's a moron," said Fred, "listen to me instead."

"I don't really have a counter for your argument," the Hufflepuff told Fred. "I guess it makes sense, but Merlin, I hope it isn't true."

Ron swallowed hard, remembering Tom Riddle's twisted smile and the way Potter had screamed under his wand. If that had been You-Know-Who at sixteen, Ron did not want to imagine how powerful he was now. "We all do, mate."

The quartet waited outside the Burrow and watched the sun sink toward the treetops. Voices wafted through the tangle of trees across the orchard. Ron's heart leapt as his father ducked through the branches, leading his two eldest sons.

"Bill!" Ron ran forward, throwing his arms around his brother's neck.

Bill chuckled, ruffling Ron's hair and slapping his back. "Hello, Ron. How's your summer been?"

Ron stepped back with burning cheeks. Had he really just done that in front of Cedric and the twins? Three grinning faces gave him his soul-crushing answer when he looked back. Oh, Merlin. They would never let him live this down. "It's been nice," he said, putting their future proddings from his mind.

Bill's shoulders relaxed. "I'm glad. How did you score in Ancient Runes?"

Ron scowled. "I got an E, but barely. I should've done better. I was… distracted."

"The Patronus Charm?" Bill asked kindly.

Ron kicked at a clump of grass. "Yeah, I—"

"The Patronus Charm?" His father frowned down at him. "What's this about the Patronus Charm?"

Heat flamed up in his cheeks again. Would the embarrassments ever stop coming? "I tried learning it," he told his father. "The dementors… they bugged me worse than the others. So I…" he trailed off.

His father's eyebrows knit themselves into a neat, red line. "That's ambitious of you."

Ron kicked at the grass a second time. "It didn't work," he grumbled. "I never even got mist."

"I wouldn't worry," Bill said. "Not many can cast a Patronus. You'd be the second in the family, if you managed it."

Ron frowned up at him. "Second? Who's the first?" Bill smirked and patted his own chest three times.

"Don't stroke his ego, Ron," Charlie advised, stepping forward and pulling him into a tight hug. An odd scent hung on Charlie's robes, somewhere between horse and snake. Dragon… he realized a moment later.

"I was close when I took my entry exams for the ministry," his father said. "I can conjure mist, but it's shapeless."

Bill knuckled his chin and looked their father up and down, as if seeing him for the first time. "You could probably do it if you practiced."

"Probably," the man admitted, "but I see no point."

"You had to try casting the Patronus Charm to get into the ministry?" Fred asked. They had come nearer while Cedric hung back, shifting from foot to foot. Ron realized then how awkward this must be for him.

"My office is part of the DMLE," their father explained. "There are standard entry exams for anyone in the department. Not many actually manage the Patronus. I can only think of a handful of aurors I know who can cast it." He looked back down at Ron. "The fact you tried at all is impressive."

Fred glowered at him. "It would be impressive if failing didn't turn him into such a massive git."

"Lighten up, Fred," Charlie said with a small smile. "We're all on the same side here."

Bill glanced past Ron. "You must be Cedric?"

Cedric jolted. "Um… yes, sir. You must be Bill. You were Head Boy, weren't you?"

"Dumbledore gave me the badge for one reason or another, yes." Bill stepped forward and clasped Cedric's hand. "Ron's told me about you. Thank you for helping him the past couple of years."

Cedric smiled. It was absolutely unfair. Was he ever ruffled by anything? "The pleasure's been all mine, sir."

"Bill," his eldest brother corrected. "Call me Bill."

Cedric's father arrived to take him home not long later and the younger set of Weasleys were ushered upstairs soon after. Ron peered from his bedroom window, watching a contingent of witches and wizards appear down in the yard.

His bedroom door opened soundlessly and the twins stepped inside. Fred closed the door while George waved his wand. Ron just shook his head. "Mum would kill you if she saw you casting wards around the house."

"Just enough for some privacy, little brother," George said, pocketing his wand and winking.

"I think she'd be more bothered by the Silencing Charm on your door," said Fred. "Always liked snooping, she did."

Ron looked from the twins to the wizened wizard outside. The emerald cloak wrapped around his slim shoulders must have been three sizes overlarge. "Do you still think they're all here for… you know?"

"To fight You-Know-Who?" Ron nodded. "Yeah, we do," Fred affirmed. "Dumbledore fought him last time. Makes sense they'd be doing it again."

"Why here, though?" Ron asked. "I mean, it's not exactly roomy, is it?"

The twins exchanged looks. "That's probably the point," George said slowly. "Fudge is looking for anything against Dumbledore. Can you think of a lower-key headquarters than here?"

"Guess not." Ron's lips curved down. "I just wish I knew what they were doing."

A pair of matching grins brought him up short as he wondered what he had stumbled into now. "Funnily enough," said Fred, his eyes glittering, "we too are unsatisfied with being kept in the dark."

"We thought you might be interested in a pair of these." George pulled something long and flesh-coloured from the pocket of his robes.

Ron eyed it. "What's that?"

"A prototype. Stick one end in your ear, feed the other under a door, and bingo!"

Ron grinned, his pulse fast and excited. "That's brilliant! Are we gonna try them?"

"Once we silence your feet," said Fred, drawing his wand and pointing it at Ron's socks.

The door opened soundlessly again a minute later and the three of them crept out onto the landing. Both twins smirked when they saw Ginny already there, leaning over the rail in an attempt to see into the kitchen.

She opened her mouth, but Fred placed a finger to his lips as George withdrew another one of their listening devices and mimed putting one end in his ear.

"Here we go!" Fred whispered when all four were ready, casting the other ends downstairs.

"Recruiting is the most important thing we can do while Lord Voldemort dwells in shadow." Ron's stomach lurched. Dumbledore? Here at the Burrow? Merlin…

"I agree," said a deep, booming voice Ron did not recognize. "He'll be marshalling his army and won't attack until he's sure he can win. We should do the same."

"Precisely." Dumbledore paused. The four Weasleys looked at one another. "Is everything all right, Molly?"

The blood drained out of both twins' faces. "Uh-oh," Fred whispered.

"I'm sorry, Headmaster," their mother said. Her chair scraped back. "I'll be back in just a moment."

"Run for it!" Both twins reached up to rip the devices from their ears, but they were too slow. Ron yelped as sudden weightlesness accosted him. The four of them flailed for railings as they were pulled down the stairs.

"And what," their mother hissed, holding up all four listening devices when their wearers skidded into the kitchen, "are these?"

"Hello, Mum!" Fred said, beaming from his place on the floor. "Lovely party!"

"Fred—"

"All we wanted was to know why we weren't invited." Ron might have laughed at George's wide, puppy dog eyes had circumstances been different.

"YOU'VE BEEN CASTING MAGIC AROUND THE HOUSE!" Ron's humour curdled like milk left out too long. "How many times have I told you never to use magic unsupervised?" their mother demanded. "How many warnings do you two need?" She glared next at Ron and his stomach twisted into anxious knots. "And now you're dragging your younger siblings into this mess, too." She was trembling with rage. "To your rooms, all of you!" She held up a finger when the twins made to leave. "Your wands. I'll take those first."

"You'll what?" George asked, sticking his hands behind his back as he retreated step by step.

Fred chose a different tack and took a half-step forward. "I don't bloody—"

"Fred!" Both twins quieted at once; their father seldom shouted. "If I ever catch you raising your voice to your mother like that again, you'll lose worse than just your wand."

"Hand them over!" their mother demanded with her hand outstretched.

"If I may," Dumbledore said in a soft voice which nonetheless carried as though he too had shouted.

A deep blush touched Molly Weasley's cheeks. "Of c-course, Headmaster."

Dumbledore rose from his seat at the kitchen table's head and strode past Molly. "You know why we are here." It was no question, but all four Weasley children nodded. "Good. Then you know what we discuss pertains to Voldemort and our best options for opposing him. That is the crux of it. I do not think you need to know any more."

George elbowed him in the ribs as his mouth half-opened, silencing him as Dumbledore turned his piercing gaze upon their mother. "That being said, their thirst for magic is understandable. Dark times ride dark winds and they will reach us soon. Allowing them practice and joy may be worth consideration. I suspect we will all need both soon."

"But… Headmaster, they were spying!"

"I'm afraid the fault is ours." Did Dumbledore look… amused? I must be seeing things. "Youth breeds curiosity; it is the responsibility of those older and wiser to anticipate that and prepare accordingly."

Dumbledore turned his attention back toward the still seated teens. "I would ask that no further attempts at eavesdropping of any kind are made. I know it must be frustrating and intimidating, standing by while everything unfolds, but rest assured, your time will come and I think the four of you will be less eager when it does. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

"He's barmy," Fred muttered as though speaking to himself when all four children were gathered back upstairs in Ron's room.

"Brilliant, though," said Ron.

"He better be," George murmured, staring out the window. "I doubt a miracle will stop You-Know-Who this time."

An hour or so later…

A large pot clinked and shuddered, lowering itself back onto the desk as steam spiralled up from a scalding mug of tea. Lucius sipped at the mug, clicking his tongue and setting it aside. "You learn well," he said, relaxing in his chair.

"I try." Regulus had been right — his lessons with Lucius had thus far been geared toward understanding the countries whose occupants made up Durmstrang.

Lucius glanced up at an ornate clock hanging above his study's door. "We have time enough for another introduction," the lord Malfoy said. "Which remaining nation interests you most?"

Harry recalled a hardened man staring down Grindelwald as his men died all around him and his son's screams echoed off surrounding mountains. "Russia," he said, crafting the answer into an offhand reply. "Theodore once said Russia and America were the only two countries that might match Britain in strength."

Lucius took another sip of tea. "It's tricky business, evaluating Russia. They're a secretive bunch and not much is known. There's no telling how strong they are."

"Really?" Lucius arched a single brow. "It's just that, in the muggle world, Russia's a big deal and a lot's known about them."

The hints of a snear slithered across Lucius's pale face. "We are not muggles," he said, elongating each word. "Remember that."

Harry watched again as blood poured out of a broken corpse and soaked through snow that had once shone pearly white. Trust me, he thought with grim disgust. "What is known?" he asked before his thoughts could spiral.

Lucius drummed long fingers against his polished desk. "The tale of Magical Russia begins with a man often called Peter the Great."

Harry's face twitched with unexpected recognition. "I've heard of him, but only from the muggles."

"Did they tell you he was a wizard?" Harry shook his head. "Shame." Lucius's smile cut like a knife. "The prominent members of the Romanov dynasty were all witches and wizards. There were squibs who died young, but they're unimportant."

Harry's brow furrowed as he realized squibs were something he had never contemplated. Where did they fall? Were they like the muggles — bitter and virulent as a slow-acting poison — or were their behaviours closer to that of witches and wizards? "Peter's known as one of Russia's great rulers, right?" Harry asked, as much to cover his confusion as out of any interest.

"He is," Lucius affirmed. "His coronation was carried out in 1682. That's where our tale begins." Harry tried remembering anything he could about Peter the Great, but he knew little sans the name.

"An uprising was mounted," Lucius continued. "Envious muggle rivals marshalled their forces and marched on the palace. Peter was a boy of ten and there were few wizards around him. The muggles seized the Kremlin. Peter was forced to watch them take men of value and cut them into pieces on the building's front steps until a ransom was agreed to."

Why are muggles so cruel? Harry's anger reared and roiled. The boy had been ten! "I'm guessing he had no love for muggles?"

"You could say that." Lucius smile brimmed with morbid humour. "Peter travelled off and on until his mother became regent in 1689 after a public fiasco. What he saw terrified him and he left Moscow in her hands while he began work on the Statute of Secrecy."

Harry jolted. Grindelwald must hate him. A part of him did as well. "So Peter came up with the Statute?" Keeping the ire from his words was no small task. Why had such a supposedly great man hidden?

Lucius pursed his lips. "The idea had been floating across Europe for years, but Peter was among the most important men who leant it his support. The man was certainly eager for it and did everything he could to distance himself from muggles when the bill was passed. They say he outlawed facial hair among wizards so they knew whose blood was clean."

"What does all of this have to do with Magical Russia?" Harry asked. "This was three hundred years ago."

"Everything." Lucius sipped his tea once more. "Peter's loathing for muggles was not inherited by his son Alexei, but Alexei's own son idolized his grandsire and followed his ways closely. Peter II reigned shortly following his father's death but faced resistance. Many yearned for the old ways and wanted nothing but to fight the Ottoman Empire."

Harry studied his lecturer across the desk. "I'm guessing Peter II wasn't keen?"

"Not quite, but that didn't matter for long. It was believed by most that Peter II died of dragonpox, but we know now that was a lie. He fled to a region of mountains called the Caucuses and founded Magical Russia." Lucius's lips twitched up. "His wife was even Ottoman."

Harry turned that over in his mind. "The Romanovs still rule Magical Russia, don't they?" This explained how that was possible when the muggles believed the entire family to be extinct.

"Their current Tsar is a hard man named Pyotr," Lucius confirmed. "His father was murdered by Grindelwald and he was forced to mount defences against him while still a teenager. His victory was remarkable and I'm told the Russians consider him a hero. Anyone not Russian sees little of him." The clock chimed and Lucius set down his mug of tea. "I must attend to other business. Our lesson is finished. We will discuss the reigns of Peter II and his son, Alexander, next time."

Harry slid from the room and down the corridor, descending a marble staircase and strolling through the gleaming entrance hall, out the front door and into sprawling gardens.

Harry picked his way through long, straight rows of flower beds whose contents bloomed with countless colours. The sweet scents shifted subtly as he passed from one marble row and moved alongside the next. Hedges, still warm to the touch, soon closed in around him. A peacock shook out its feathers on one up ahead, staring down at him with a palpable excess of lofty judgement.

The nearest hedge on his right side rustled and Harry paused, placing his back against the closest on his left and waiting until Draco walked around the corner. "You wanted a word?" Harry asked as he warded the surrounding area without words.

Draco's pale hair gleamed in the setting sunlight as he bobbed his head. His hair's not the only thing that's pale, Harry observed. His best friend's face was bloodless. "Something's happening." The words were low and rushed despite the ward.

"What do you mean?" Had his friend only just begun to realize that?

"Don't condescend me!" Draco snapped, taking a fierce step forward. Harry gave up no ground. "You've been acting different ever since summer started. You're here all the time. I see you come and go." The boldness drained out of Draco; his shoulders sagged and his voice grew faint. "You and the others."

Harry chewed his words. This ground was dangerous. "And you think it's all connected?"

"I know it is!" A soft breeze sighed through the surrounding hedges and almost drowned out Draco's words, yet their deliverance was harsh and jagged. "I can never see their faces because of some magic or another. That alone is suspicious, but you've started knowing things. Like the tournament. You could only know about that if someone told you."

Harry's stoic expression did not shift. "I told you that Regulus mentioned it to me."

"Regulus doesn't hang around the ministry half as much as Father, and I heard nothing." Draco's stare was as flat and hard as a slab of riverstone. "Something doesn't add up."

How was he supposed to answer that? "What are you saying, Draco?"

His friend's grey eyes darted 'round. There was nothing but them, the hedges, and a pair of peacocks perched nearby. "Is he back?"

Harry's stomach dropped a short but jarring distance. "Is who back?"

Draco's hands curled into fists. "Must I say it?" Harry remained still and showed off nothing. "The Dark Lord!"

"You think I met him last summer, don't you?" Draco's nod was stiff and sharp. "So you think I'd know if he was back?" The same curt nod. Harry released a breath he had held in too long. "Believing all that, you must not really think that I could tell you."

"Please." Shudders shivered up and down his close friend's spine and sent his shoulders shaking. A cold fist closed inside Harry's stomach. "M-my Father will serve him again." Draco was crying; it was sobs that shook his shoulders. "My m-mother never wanted anything to do with it. She thought it was s-s-stupid and dangerous."

"Be careful, Draco." Those words might mean death if Voldemort ever hears them. "If he really is back, you shouldn't say things like that to someone you think has talked to him."

Draco's twisted face was a grotesque display of pain and sorrow. "The things he did to his followers… the things Father's told me… he never thought he'd be back. He thought…"

"He thought that I would replace him." Cold certainty washed over him, seeping through his blood and settling deep into his bones. Harry saw now he had been wrong. Lucius never planned on selling me to Voldemort. Instead the Malfoy patriarch had sought to shape the next dark lord.

Harry gripped the nearest hedge. Its proms bit into his palm, but he did not flinch or relax his grip. What changed? Did he decide that Harry could never win when his old master reared his snake-like head, or was he merely scared?

Draco's Adam's apple rippled as he swallowed hard and breathed in deep. "He told me… he told me I should talk to you."

The feeling deepened, its cold so brisk it burned. "The alley—"

"No!" Draco's voice rose again, the single word an angry shout. "It was after that." The blond boy sniffed and wiped his eyes. "Once Diana and I told him about meeting you."

Warm relief ate at the cold. "So our friendship—"

"It's real." Draco's eyes rippled like a roiling mass of rain-flecked clouds. "I wouldn't tell you any of this if it wasn't, you have to believe me."

Harry's inner cold waned down into a dull, persistent chill. "I believe you." There was silence as he measured Draco the way he had never measured anyone before. "If the Dark Lord was back, I couldn't tell you. I think we both know that." Draco's gaze dropped toward the grass. "Sirius Black is dead." Draco's blond head snapped up. His face was slack. "I killed him the night Azkaban fell. There's no way he did it."

Draco would say nothing. Harry repeated that truth over and over inside his head. Any word of this would mean Draco's death and now he knew it for a certainty.

"How?"

"The Killing Curse, but that's not important. Azkaban fell and Black had no part in it. I think I've said enough." Harry stepped away between two hedges and drew up the hood of his long, black cloak as the swelling shadows lengthened.

A stone fence ringed the expansive property, a black iron gate set into its centre. Harry stepped through and inclined his head to the hooded silhouette that had been waiting for him.

"Have you apparated before?" Voldemort asked without preamble. Harry shook his head and the Dark Lord held out an arm. "You'll want to grip me firmly. I have never known one's first time to be an experience they look back on fondly."

Hot pain seared through his scar as Harry's hand closed around Voldemort's forearm. The world swam and his lungs went flat. The pain built, his cheeks pressed tight against his skull, his eyes felt fit to pop, and all throughout he could not so much as breathe.

His feet slammed into solid earth and pitched him forward. His hand released the Dark Lord's arm as if it had been scalded. Warm air filled his lungs and his scar throbbed hard enough to bring up bile, but then the pain receded. Bloody hell, touching him hurts. He would have to learn to apparate if it meant avoiding a repeat of that.

Harry pushed back up to his feet and looked around. Moss-eaten headstones were arrayed in neat rows to left and right. Between them was an open aisle which must have been pristine and well-kept once. Now the sprawl of sprouting dandelions was barely visible amid knee-high blades of grass. The rotted remains of what had once been a wooden fence enclosed a portion of the graveyard. Beyond it was an upward sloping hill, overgrown with gnarled oaks and a tangled mess of knotted brambles.

I've seen this place before. The humid air did not so much as stir, yet it was as though a gentle breeze blew across his skin. His scar prickled.

"Welcome to Little Hangleton." The venom in Voldemort's sneer could have accounted for the ruin all around them on its own. "Here lies my filthy muggle father." The Dark Lord's sneer fell from chalk-white lips and was replaced by a thin, half-smile. "Until recently, that is. Come, the graveyard houses nothing of interest."

Voldemort's pale wand slid from his sleeve and the fence's rotted remains curled into piles of black ash alongside the overgrown shrubbery ahead. Harry had never seen a spell like that and would not want to be on the receiving end of it.

"Little Hangleton holds a special place in my heart," Voldemort told him. Now that the obstructions had been cleared, Harry could see the shadow of what appeared to be a rustic church up the hill ahead.

"I wouldn't have guessed that," he said, wishing the night was clearer or that he had better eyes.

"Not from what I have told you, no." Voldemort stopped when the path broke off in opposite directions. One fork led left but was soon lost amidst a tangle of misshapen trees and hedges. The other continued uphill but away from the church, toward a large building whose details Harry could not make out in the lack of light.

Voldemort looked left. Harry had never seen such dispassion in him. "My mother's family lived here once." The words were half a murmur. "Only my uncle remained when I came — a pathetic man drowning in drink and despair, all glory breeded or beaten out of him. A shadow of what the Gaunts once were."

The Gaunts? The portraits in Slytherin's study bore the surname without exception — all but Riddle's. "What do you mean by 'breeded or beaten out of him'?" Harry asked as they continued up the path and toward what he now saw was a handsome-looking manor home.

"The Gaunts were ruined by pride and incest," Voldemort responded. "Their fortune was wasted away alongside their wits. My mother and uncle lived with their father in a shack smaller than most bathrooms. They were a sad sight in the end, but their blood was more precious than gold."

Magic is magic. The gates parted with a wave of Voldemort's hand and they stepped through.

A shadow descended over the Dark Lord's face as he stared up at the manor. "See the place my filthy muggle father lived." Voldemort's eyes roiled, red as blood and hot as burning coles. Harry wondered for the first time whether his false master was mad as the man stepped back and smiled. "Tonight it burns."

Harry looked up at the manor with its high-columned entrance and arched windows hewn from dark stained-glass. "Burns?"

"Yes." Those red eyes shone like bleeding stars in the deepening dim of spreading dusk as their owner turned his gaze to Harry. "I once promised you power. It is time I delivered. Have you heard of Fiendfyre?"

Inhuman laughter grated inside his skull, but Harry's expression did not change. My Occlumency's come a long way. "I've heard of it."

"The incantation is Fiendfyre, but the intent is what matters."

One of the four elemental incarnations of hatred… "Esoteric magic, then.

"I have heard Fiendfyre called the opposite of a Patronus Charm. One is born from the happiest memories a man holds dear, the other from the disturbeds' darkest desires."

This was madness. Harry had seen Grindelwald wield Fiendfyre. How am I supposed to cast that? "So what? I have to think of my worst memories?"

"That's a crutch to lean on for now, but the memories mean nothing. It is the feeling that matters. You must hate to cast Fiendfyre. You must hate so wholly that nothing else matters. You must forget about consequences and remember only hatred." Voldemort cast one last look at his father's former home. "Burn it."

Harry inhaled closed his eyes. Sirius Black smiled out from a copy of the Daily Prophet and Dudley's laughter chased him through a crowded playground.

Warmth leached out of the surrounding air. Its absence left him stiff and cold.

Flames licked up his trousers and a blonde woman he knew as Mother stared blankly from her place among a raging crowd. The cold spread and shook a tremble from him. Stones flew and a girl screamed. Her blood smeared against the church's wall, trickling down into the snow like red wine overflowing its glass and spilling out across white cloth.

The cold plunged past his chest and reached his very soul.

Harry wrenched his eyes open. No longer was he cold. "FIENDFYRE!"

Maroon-coloured flames fountained from his wand. Hot needles burrowed into his skin, the grass withered and then turned black, the air around him burned his lungs as if he was inhaling acid.

I did it. The flames swirled and cackled, a sound like rushing water if every droplet had been forged from jagged iron. I actually did it. The breath snagged in his chest and a deep strain shredded through his stomach as the flames swirled faster. Fuck… It was like a chord tied tight around his heart had snapped. The flames roared and swelled. Fuck!

Why had Voldemort never instructed him on how best to control the fire? All Harry could think of was Ignis Potentia and opposite intent, but this was different. There's no connection! It's like… it's like the spell has a mind of its own.

"Fiendfyre is unlike other magic," Grindelwald had once told him. "It is autonomous. It is hatred given form; its only purpose is to destroy."

Fuck!

Burning wings unfurled from the formless fire as it swooped towards them.

A basilisk twice the size of the approaching mass of fire, its own flames a red so dark that they were almost black, struck and swallowed Harry's construct whole.

The snake hissed, a shuddering cacophony of cracking bone and crying children. Voldemort watched on with no wand in sight.

Bullshit! There was no way he had cast that without a— The Dark Lord flicked a hand and the snake buried the manor in a rush of pluming smoke blacker than obsidian.

Harry could do little more than gape and inhale the spreading smoke.

A special thank you to my high-tier patron, Cup, for her generous and unwavering support.

PS: The next chapter will be out in one week. Remember that chapters can be read early on Discord, YouTube, and P*T*E*N! All those links are on my profile, and if any give you trouble, use my website's homepage. That site can be found via a generic Google search of my pen name.