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Chapter 24: The Boiling Point

The Great Hall was both joyous and subdued. Smiles shone in all directions, but their edges drooped and their owners' shoulders slumped. The weariest students rested their heads on their house tables. Harry had even spotted a line of drool trailing from one first year's mouth on the way in. Amusement played across his face as he polished off his last bite of eggs and dropped his fork with a dramatic flourish.

The clink it made against his plate drew a haggard Marlene's ire. "Can you at least pretend exams took it out of you the way they did the rest of us?" she snapped.

Harry stretched his arms above his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I feel fresh as a daisy."

Marlene flicked a clump of scrambled eggs at him. "Prat."

"You should be thanking this prat for whatever grade you get in ancient runes," he countered.

She crossed her arms and huffed. "You're impossible."

Harry breathed out an exaggerated sigh, aiming for the contented sound of stiff muscles unwinding underneath warm water. "I'll take that as a compliment." Marlene shot him a disgusted look and returned to her eggs and toast.

"Is there any point asking how your exams went?" Mary asked once she had regained mastery over her fit of giggles.

Harry fished a piece of sausage out from between his teeth using the tip of his tongue before replying. "They went all right. I could probably have done better in alchemy, but Belby makes it hard to care."

"I think he's brilliant," Lily disagreed.

"You would," Harry said. "You're a lot more patient than I am. I'd rather be doing things than writing or reading about how they might or might not be plausible."

"I guess that makes sense," Lily admitted. "You might actually be able to do some of it if given the chance. You have to realize that isn't true for the rest of us, though."

"I'm sure a couple people could pick up on it if they tried hard enough," Harry responded.

Lily's eyes flicked down the table, settling briefly on James and Sirius. Harry's heart sank. Anything that could be misconstrued as referencing the Marauders had bred conflict since their last trip into Hogsmeade. "What about you?" he asked in hopes of distracting her. "I know you were a bit worried about defence."

"I wasn't worried." It was startling how much like Prince she sounded.

"You know what I meant," Harry said in the lightest tone that he could muster.

"It went fine," Lily said. "I don't know if I'll get the outstanding I was hoping for, but it should at least be a high exceeds expectations, and our NEWTs will be more important than these end-of-term exams. I'll be happy as long as I score well on those."

Harry had almost forgotten about NEWTs. Probably best not to tell Marlene, he thought with a faint twitch of his lips. She would flay him alive if she knew how unruffled the idea of those tests left him.

He felt the tension giving way and opened his mouth, but a throat clearing nearby interrupted his attempt at levity. He looked up, then restrained a groan. His father could not have had poorer timing had he tried.

"Uh… morning, you lot. Harry, mind if I have a word?"

"Sure." It was best to remove James from this equation with due haste. "I'm finished anyway. Fancy a walk outside?"

"Blimey," James muttered once they had left the hall. "If Evans's stare could kill, I'd be deader than Merlin."

"If her stare could kill, I'd be buried right beside you," Harry replied as they exited the castle.

The snow had begun melting this past week. The banks were half their former height and caked with dirt and grime. The elves' care prevented the main path from becoming a mottled river during the peak of snow melt, but the muddy earth still sucked at their trainers and squelched beneath their feet.

Harry could not help but sweep his gaze along the sodden path. This had been the worst phase of all when waging war. Snow melt turned once ripe strongholds into marshy minefields and flooding cut off strategic routes that would otherwise have changed the flow of battle. The bright side had always been the knowledge that once this phase came, things were soon to ease.

Thinking so had been natural over the years, but recalling those times disgusted him. The logistics eased, but the fighting always grew intense in late spring. Those were the most violent months. It was perfect fighting weather. Warm and often clear, but not hot enough to burden battle. Harry shook his head. How had he ever looked forward to those times?

"What did you do?" James asked.

"Talked to you, I guess. She's been a bit snippy about it all along, but something about the Three Broomsticks rubbed her the wrong way. She's been a bit much since then."

James winced. "Sorry, mate. I'd offer to help, but I don't think anything good would come out of that."

"Probably not, but thanks anyway. I'm sure I'll live."

James looked left and right, but no one was nearby. "I'm not sure I will if the way my mum's been acting says anything about it."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked in his most offhand tone.

James came abruptly to a halt. "Oh, don't give me that. You know what I'm on about. I know you've got something to do with it."

"You must realize I can't tell you," Harry said, deciding there was no use trying to convince James his guess was off the mark. "If your mother found out—"

"How would she? Do you think I'd go and run my mouth about it?"

Harry gave him the sort of look he had often used on new recruits who thought they could outsmart their generals. "Do you actually think your mother wouldn't catch on?"

James's scowl was hanging by a thread. "Just because she knew I'd found out doesn't mean she'd come down on you."

Harry paused. Had he ever been so obtuse at James's age? "Who else would possibly have told you?"

James opened his mouth, then closed it. "The whole thing's mental," he grumbled. "How the hell am I supposed to go along with a plan I don't know anything about?"

"You do realize why your mother has a plan in the first place, don't you?" Harry asked.

"She thinks the same twats from last time might make trouble, but Dad doesn't think so and I agree with him. Why would they attack again so soon? Why not wait until our guard is down?"

Because that's not how Riddle thinks, Harry yearned to say. "Sometimes being predictable is the best way to be unpredictable," he told James instead. "Your mother's right to consider that whoever was behind that attack might try again."

"She told me I wouldn't even be there in my capacity as heir." James threw up his hands. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Harry waited. "Oh, forget it. I won't get anything out of you. Scheming bunch of snakes, the both of you."

The Entrance Hall was packed when they re-entered the castle. Harry craned his neck in search of his three friends. The Hogwarts Express would be taking students home for spring break in less than an hour, so the crowd was frantic and nigh impassable.

Lily looked ready to explode when he found them tangled in the throng. Her lips were pursed and her hands were on her hips. Most ominous of all was her trolley, unattended feet away from her. "Harry," she said in a poor imitation of his father's voice, "might I have a word?"

"Sure," he said with a sigh. He had hoped the tension would ebb over spring break, but there was little chance of that if it boiled over now. "In private, I'm guessing?"

"Here is fine." The clipped tones she spoke in reminded him of her sister and how Aunt Petunia would talk to him whenever she was playing at politeness.

It was a step too far. "Never talk to me like that again," he said in tones as cool and calm as faint wind blowing off smooth water.

Lily's nostrils flared. "The nerve of you—"

"Blow up at me if you want, but don't pretend to be all prim and proper if you don't want to be. I don't have time for people like that."

"Oh, but you have time for the Head Git? What, civility bothers you but that pompous asshole doesn't?"

"James has changed," Harry gritted out between clenched teeth.

"Has he really?" The sarcasm dripping from Lily's words was virulent. "He hasn't stopped leering at me across the classroom, or butting into conversations when he's not wanted, or interrupting things just because he wants a word."

"He hasn't harassed you the way he used to—"

"Oh, what lofty standards he's met," Lily drawled. "I'm shocked his broom can fly that high."

"He's trying!" Harry said with all the patience he could muster. "Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Less than him being a spoiled brat who thinks he owns the castle!" Lily took a step towards him. "What gives him the right to barge in whenever he wants, or to leer at me like I'm some trophy? I don't care who his father is. He does not own me and he never will!"

"What the hell has gotten into her?" Harry asked once she had stormed away. Mary's head swivelled left to right as she brushed hair behind her ear with an unsteady hand.

Marlene's response was less reserved. "Lils has been a right bitch lately," she said. "I don't know why you're so surprised."

Harry's shock had given way to wrath when the departing students were about halfway down the muddy lawns.

Riddle was responsible for all of this and Harry should have seen it coming. The monster had turned Lily and Marlene against each other some time ago. It was only natural he would poison them against any other influences that might contradict his own.

I'm running out of time. It was not the first time he had told himself so, but this was different. Before it had always been in panic and he had always assured himself he was being hasty.

This was the first time he really meant it, the first time rationale had failed to talk him down.

It meant one thing — the solstice would have to mark the end of this or it would soon be too late.

The mountains around Hogsmeade faded into rolling hills and dark forests flashing past the window. James stared bleakly out at all of it. Dark grey clouds were rolling in over the horizon. They reflected his mood well.

Sirius put down his book and huffed. "All right, what's got your knickers in a twist?"

James clenched his jaw. "My knickers—"

"Are twisted so tightly around your neck, your face is turning purple," Remus put in slyly.

"Fuck you, Moony," James snapped back at him. "Fuck all three of you."

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you." The words were light despite Remus's expression.

James was unmoved. "Well you can go and get fucked somewhere else then." The words were rolling through his head and out his lips like boulders down a mountain slope.

Sirius cocked his head. "And who exactly would be doing the fucking?"

James opened his mouth, but his words had splintered into scattered pebbles. "Fuck off."

The humour faded from his best friend's face. "Seriously, Prongs, what's going on?"

James squeezed the edge of his seat and breathed out as long as he could bear. "My mother's planning something for the solstice," he began. "She said I wouldn't be attending in my capacity as heir, whatever the hell that means. Harry's got something to do with it, but I don't know what it is."

"I thought you hated politics," Peter piped in.

James shot a dark look out the window at the approaching storm clouds. "I do."

"It's not about the politics, Wormtail," said Sirius. "Prongs's ego has been bruised."

"My ego has not been bruised!"

"Then why are you shouting about it?" Remus's quiet question contrasted against James's shout so starkly that he could not think except to wonder when his voice had grown so loud.

"You want them to attack again, don't you?" Sirius's expression was grimmer than Scrimgeour's severed leg.

James tried responding with half a dozen retorts at once but succeeded only in devolving into a fit of coughs. His three friends waited while he drank deeply from a flask of water. "Why would I want them to attack?" he asked once finished.

"You want to be there when it happens," Sirius answered without hesitation.

James spluttered. "I—"

"You want to make up for how it went last time," Sirius continued. "You want to prove you can handle it."

"And maybe make some headlines," Remus added.

Peter was nodding along by now. "And if Lily happened to see them—"

"No," Sirius cut in. "This isn't about Evans. It's not about anyone, really. It's just about James."

They were all looking at him. "So what if it is?"

Sirius's lip curled. "If it is, it should drive you to improve, not to be a fucking idiot."

James's anger mounted. "I never said anything about—"

"You want to be there," Sirius said again. "You don't have to say anything. Just thinking that is idiotic enough."

"My family—"

"Will be well-guarded. Probably by venators this time." James found himself shrinking back from Sirius. Those steel grey eyes of his could cut as sharp as any sword. "You'll be one of them one day, but you're not yet. Leave the fighting to them. Everyone will be safer for it. It's fucking madness you're this upset over the possibility you might not be there if everything goes tits up."

"We're Gryffindors." The retort came out feebler than it had sounded in his head.

"Which means we should be brave, not that we should be foolish." Remus's words stung. They were the sort he might have used against a first year being childish and a part of James realized he deserved them. "Not being afraid of something isn't the same as running headlong into it."

James hardened his resolve for one last push. "We should do what is right instead of whatever we think's easy," he declared.

"And is it right to put yourself at risk for nothing but your pride?" Remus asked. "Do you think your mother or your father would think that was right? Do you think it would make their lives better if it all went wrong?" James tried to argue, but finding the right words was like chewing chalk.

Sirius crossed one leg over the other. "You know, for someone who throws Dumbledore quotes in our faces as if that makes you right, you don't know much about him."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" James hated how sullen he sounded now that his anger had begun cooling. What had he been thinking? His own words galled him and he wanted nothing more than to bow his head and pretend the last five minutes had been an unpleasant dream.

"What did Dumbledore do when Russia repelled the empire?" Sirius inquired. "Did he rush back in like a hotheaded idiot and try to prove himself?"

James could feel his cheeks burning. "You're right." His idol had done no such thing. Dumbledore had planned his next move carefully and had not returned until victory was certain. "I just… I can't stand how fucking useless I was. And now Mum just thinks I'll be useless all over again."

Sirius squeezed his shoulder. "We've got time. The fuckers won't know what hit them in a few years."

James nodded and turned his head away. Staring out the now rain-soaked window was easier than facing his friends. He had to be better.

The sun was setting as Harry stepped onto solid ground just off a coastal highway. The air was softer here, filled with a hint of salt but easier to inhale. The breeze was like a gentle caress after the harsh gusts early spring summoned up into the Scottish Highlands.

Not that he was comfortable. Every second step felt awkward and unsteady as his burden bumped against his hip and made him overthink each stride. His too thick limbs and excess bulk weren't helping.

He paused outside the lone storefront. Large windows flanked its slim glass door, and in them he could see broad shoulders and a strong face resting proudly beneath blond curls. A whirlwind of feeling spun inside him as he stared into the reflection of his altered face.

He shook himself and pushed inside. Maintaining his wits was paramount. No missteps could be afforded. He reminded himself that repeatedly as he was ushered through the lobby and into Narcissa's private meeting room.

Some time had been spent steeling himself, but seeing her still struck him. The Narcissa he remembered always wore plain but well-made robes. Her posture had been much the same. Pristine, but in the precise way sculptures were. Stately in the way a statue was.

Bracing for that had been his mistake.

This Narcissa was pristine, but seeing her did not remind him of an abstract piece of art. Her stateliness was not the artificial perfection imposed upon smooth stone.

"Mister Renn?"

Those cool words doused his mind with clarity. She was still Narcissa Black. "Sorry," he said with a slight incline of his head, "it's been a long day. What was that you said?"

Her smile could have melted most men where they stood, but he could see its insincerity. "I was reiterating what I said in my last letter," she informed him. "Your terms are strict. Either you have misrepresented the importance of your commission, or it's likely to cost a fair heap of gold."

Harry wondered what qualified a fair heap. The gold he had been paid for infiltrating the muggle compound was plentiful, but would it be enough? What would he do if it fell short? "You'll see in a minute I'm not misrepresenting anything."

When she gave no answer, he withdrew their contract from the pocket of his robes and let her see her own signature one last time before unclasping the burden from his hip. Fleeting astonishment flashed across Narcissa's face when the setting sunlight streaming through the nearest window shone along the silver blade.

Harry could not help but smile. He had been right in starting with the sword. It had her undivided interest, but if she failed to identify the enchantments he already knew it bore, then he could consider this a lost cause. "I take it you know what this is?"

Narcissa looked between his smile and the sword. "I know what you think this is."

"You'll find out whether I'm right soon, won't you?" The sword of Gryffindor was mere feet away from her, and still she cast aspersions?

Narcissa probed him with her eyes. "You understand that this sword is the legal property of Lord Tom Marvollo Riddle?"

"And you understand that the nondisclosure restricts you from publicizing anything about this sword or who possesses it?" he returned.

Narcissa's face was smoother than the quiet sea outside. "I will require you to sign a nondisclosure of my own," she said. "It would be… problematic if this business became public knowledge."

Harry produced a second contract from the pocket of his robes. "I thought you might say that."

The second document was shorter and simpler than the one she had already signed, and so she looked it over quickly. "I'm glad you thought ahead." She reached into a drawer and removed an ink-black quill. "It would have been a shame, had things been delayed." Narcissa signed beside his false name without so much as flinching. "It's rare I'm so interested in a potential project."

"I'm guessing that I pay upfront?" Harry inquired.

"No." Narcissa tapped the blood quill against her desk's edge. "There is always a chance I can't fulfill a request the way I hope to, or that it becomes a larger project than anticipated, so there's one more thing for you to sign."

It was half an hour later when he emerged back out onto the coastal highway. The sun had almost set. Its waning light painted the sea scarlet and reduced the distant cliffs to jutting shadows.

Harry threw a glance both ways, then apparated several miles down the road. Once certain no one was close enough to watch him, he undid his glamours. That had been the easy part. Getting the eyes right would be more difficult and he was in a time crunch. There was less than ten minutes until his portkey activated.

Charlus Potter refused to fidget, but he was having a hard time deciding what to do instead. Sitting still had never been a skill of his and there was nothing interesting in sight.

A soft drumming sound attracted his attention and he almost cursed aloud. His fingers had been tapping on the tabletop against his will.

Damn her, he thought, looking up towards the nearest clock. Why did Viallo have to doddle tonight, of all nights?

Charlus's eye twitched towards his son, but he would not look at James. A glance in the wrong direction could ruin everything if Dorea's concerns were well-founded. He was still skeptical, but the stakes were too high.

Dorea stroked his arm. "Any minute now, my love," she whispered. "The governess won't risk tardiness when it might offend you."

So instead she would flirt with it outrageously, as though doing so granted her some unseen edge. Oh, how he hated politics. Whoever had come up with the notion of being fashionably late deserved a thorough thrashing.

Charlus rubbed the ring on his right hand but regretted it at once when unpleasant memories accosted him. Why had Albus convinced him that taking it was for the best?

Charlus drew his gaze along the garish tapestries. There were forested canopies, vibrant vines ripe with vegetation, rushing rivers frothing white, high and mighty waterfalls — it was like the Amazon Rainforest stared back at him no matter where he looked.

What am I doing with myself? he wondered for the thousandth time. How had he grown tangled up in these backward games? This was not his place.

The doors swung open, as if in defiance of his regret.

The procession stepping in was small; three venators, some servants, a handful of personal guards, a stooped old woman with short white hair, and the governess herself. Tall and olive skinned with dark green eyes and long black hair, Isabella Viallo wore a dress that looked almost as though it had been fashioned using summer leaves in place of silk.

"And this must be young James," Viallo said after shaking Charlus's hand and embracing Dorea. "Look at you. The last time I was here, you were still a little boy."

The boy crooked a lazy smile. "It's nice to see you again, Lady Governess."

Dinner was a tiresome affair. The courses kept on coming, but Charlus could indulge in none of them. It was customary for him to sample each dish but to gorge himself on none. It was a rubbish custom, as far as he was concerned.

Had he been able to indulge, the food might have relaxed him. As it was he worried all throughout the meal, hoping no disaster would befall them. There was a near miss when his inexperienced cupbearer came close to spilling wine across the silken table cloth, but the boy's reflexes had always been among his strongest qualities.

It was not long later when Charlus retired to an antechamber alongside his alleged heir and Governess Viallo. Two venators and two of her own guards flanked the room's lone exit, but the only accomplice joining her in conference was the old woman.

After half an hour went by without any form of incident, he felt himself relax. The relief was mounting. He could tell because a sudden impulse to laugh came over him. Bless Dorea. She was thrice the politician he would ever be, but she was often over cautious.

A part of him realized that was unfair. Ignoring the silver mask's arrival would have been unwise at best. There was no blaming her for that. Though if he ever found who had raised a false alarm, there would be hell to pay.

"Do you smell that?" Viallo asked.

Charlus sniffed. "Smell what?"

The boy beside him tensed. "Fire."

"Fire?" Charlus asked. "Are you—" There was a sound like thunder from a nearby room and the shadow of a scream. It was cut short too soon for him to hear the shape of it. Almost nothing else was audible over…

The doors burst open at the same time he realized what was going on. All six venators, plus a portion of his aurors and Viallo's guard poured into the conference room.

"Lord Governor." The broad, dark skinned venator was not one he recognized. "If you'll follow us, we will escort you and your family outside." Charlus attempted to slip past him, but the bald man moved between him and the doorway. "Lord Governor, I'm afraid I must—"

"Get out of my way!" Charlus demanded. "My fam… my wife is out there! I'm staying."

"It's nothing we can't handle," the venator insisted in a steady baritone. "Your family will be escorted with you."

"That's Fiendfyre!" Charlus exploded. "Are you prepared to fight that?" The venator's expression remained stone still, but a subtle flinch betrayed his worry.

High Martial Alastor Moody laid a firm hand on his man's arm. "He's right, lad. We'll get the fire put out faster with him here."

"No." Charlus drew his wand. "See that my family is escorted out with Governess Viallo!" They had wasted too much time already, but neither of them moved. "That's an order! You too, James, go with them!" The boy's eyes flicked in his direction. "Go!"

Charlus charged out after them and ran headlong into a sea of smoke. His first inhale burned. It was no mere scratching in his throat or shortness of breath. This was far worse, like a hot iron scraping down his windpipe.

His next breath came more easily and he gasped in a second lungful. The smoke was still thick around him, but a sphere of magic enclosed his head. A bubble-head charm? His instincts must have been sharper than he had given himself credit for.

Charlus brandished his wand and the smoke parted like hecklers fading into a crowd. The line of sight revealed a monstrosity slithering its way out of a smoking crater. There was no sign of the floor that had once surrounded its point of entry.

Charlus faced the nightmare with his wand raised. A quick glance might have told him it was made from oil had he not known better. It was the first time he had seen Fiendfyre in this shade, a red so dark that it was almost black, but what struck him most was its solidity. Whoever controlled it possessed a mastery he had never seen before. No flame flickered and no ripple disturbed its surface. It was an entity separate from laws that bound the mortal world.

The manifestation's head swivelled towards the exit and Charlus steeled himself. It could not be permitted further into the manor. If its entire body wriggled free, it would fill most of the ground floor and vaporize everyone inside.

Charlus closed his eyes and concentrated. The ring flared.

The air around him misted and cold crept up his arm. It felt as if his hand had turned to ice in the split-second before a storm burst into being and howled against the hellfire.

Harry ducked his head and seethed. Not only was it difficult to breathe on account of all the smoke, but the manor had become a furnace. Behind him, it sounded as if the world had turned against itself and cried out with anguish.

None of it should have been happening. After so many years of dealing with him, he should never have misread Riddle.

This scenario was not unlike the one he had exploited over the holidays. Harry had expected that. Narcissism demanded it. That much he had counted on.

But he had assumed Riddle would attack in the same way, just to prove he could have succeeded if not for being caught off guard.

What Harry had failed to realize was that Riddle's ego only needed people to believe that was what had happened. The papers would compare the attacks because of what they shared in common. They would not take the same amount of time and effort illustrating how one differed from the other.

That was good enough for Riddle, who never made the same tactical mistake twice unless emotionally compelled, and so he had been strategic.

The proof of that was all around him as Harry stumbled down a corridor whose tapestries had been knocked askew. Sounds of struggle were coming from outside and Charlus was locked in battle against Riddle's Fiendfyre. The attack was masterful. The flames would flush everyone out into the courtyard, where an ambush had evidently been orchestrated.

Sparks spat and swirled around the Elder Wand as Harry hurried his pace. The attack might have been masterful, but it was imperfect. Riddle had expected heightened resistance and greater vigilance. For those things he had planned accordingly.

But he had not expected Harry and that would be the difference.

Charlus was trembling as the wailing of the fire's death throes faded. Cold sweat trickled down his brow and his knees bowed as he steadied himself the best he could. It felt as if he had run five miles underneath a blazing sun, yet he was chilled and weak, as though he had a fever.

It will be the death of me one day, Charlus thought as he rubbed the ring on his right hand. Such great gifts it gave, but so steep a price it stole each time. Often he wondered whether it would suck him dry one day.

He forced himself to take a shaky step. The manor was a ruin. Shattered stones were strewn across blackened clay on which an ornate floor had rested. Smudges of cinder discoloured bubbled marble where Viallo's tapestries had hung. Scarce columns remained standing around what had once been the banquet hall's perimeter, but most of them had crumbled. Large portions of the ceiling had collapsed and the debris was scattered everywhere.

Charlus had taken three steps when a breeze blew through a gap punched into the outer wall. The final clouds of smoke dispersed and the governor came up short.

Black robes hugged a slender frame that had been hidden among the smoke. He looked up at the eyeholes set into the silver mask. It was as if the man had hot coals in place of eyes.

Charlus relaxed a fraction. He was weary to the bone, but better this madman come after him. It meant James and Dorea were as safe as they could be.

And he had the ring.

"Ah yes, the ring." The man had altered his voice. It was like dull iron dragging over uneven stone, like jagged steel grinding against unyielding bone. "Curious."

Charlus held up his wand. "I'm giving you one chance to surrender."

"How generous of you."

Charlus squared his shoulders. "I assume you're not accepting, then?"

"No," his adversary replied. "I have a proposition of my own to offer."

Charlus knew where this was heading, but he grunted acquiescence. "Be quick about it." There was no use rushing into this fight alone when reinforcements might be on the way.

"Answer my questions and I promise you a painless death." It was said simply and without inflection, the way one might state a simple fact. "Answer truthfully and I will not hunt down your son and wife for slaughter." Or, Charlus amended, the way a serial killer might recount their gruesome deeds.

And so he called the wind a second time.

It howled like a thousand uncaged wolves. It tore up earth and sent it streaming at his assailant. It shot like an arrow towards his tormenter and sent horse-sized stones sailing through the space between them.

The earth was scattered and the stones were blown apart in mid-air. The winds faltered mere feet from the madman as if they had slammed into a mountain. Charlus strained with all his mental might, but the winds arced around their target and then guttered out.

Their echo faded and left him reeling. What the hell had just happened?

Green light flashed, but he flicked his wand in time to intercept the killing curse. The stone he had summoned shattered into a spray of emerald fire he sent streaming across the field of battle.

The fire passed through open air and splashed against one of the remaining pillars.

Charlus stared. Where the hell—

Silver glinted on his right and he threw himself aside, then flowed up onto his feet and deflected three curses at top speed. His shoulder spasmed and his footing was offset. He cursed. This man was fast. Much too fast for him to match if it came down to trading spells.

The air around the masked man turned to acid, but it was driven back before it could eat into him. Charlus grunted. How the hell had the man done that?

He turned on his heel but stumbled. A silver spell hissed past his head. Had he not staggered, it would have found its mark.

Backpedaling, he redirected three more spells and surveyed his surroundings. An eerie gloom enclosed them. It cast grey-green patterns across the marble walls and was reflected off his assailant's silver mask in subtle waves.

That was when he realized what had caused it and looked up. The same skull he had first observed on Samhain hung like a grotesque headstone high above. A forked tongue lolled out of its mouth and Charlus could not help but feel as though he were being mocked.

Harry hissed in pain as a line of heat carved its way down his arm. A stray spell must have struck his shoulder, but he had seen no sign of it. There were too many men and too many spells. It was the worst kind of fighting. The more tightly packed the battlefield, the heavier luck weighed.

Harry batted aside a gouging curse and moved the Elder Wand the way one might crack a whip. There was a blinding burst of silver light and a chorus of short screams. White spots swam before his eyes, but he could see the shadows sprawled across the courtyard. The concussive blast had knocked out at least twenty of them.

He looked around but saw few enemies nearby. That probably meant reinforcements had arrived and were rounding up the stragglers. This force had been poorly trained and many of them had already fallen.

There had been no sign of the fearsome fighters inside Riddle's ranks. No Bellatrix, no Dolohov, neither Lestrange brother. It made him uneasy. Riddle had taken great care in plotting this attack, so why throw away lesser men for nothing when a stronger ambush might have succeeded in wiping out his targets?

"Who the fuck are you?" Moody demanded. It was odd seeing the man with two normal eyes and without his artificial leg.

"An ally," Harry responded.

Moody snorted. "I got that part, smart mouth."

Harry squinted through the eerie gloom. "What we really need to worry about is finding James."

"Well I thought he was right beside me, didn't I?" Harry had dropped his facade some time ago in the hopes that James, who had been disguised as his father's cupbearer, would come out into the open and be escorted away.

He felt the worry welling up in him. Where could James have gone off to? The governess had long since escaped and the ambushing force had never been a proper threat, so it was unlikely he had fallen in the fight.

Unless…

The blood drained out of his face. "Fuck." It was not until considering how few choices they had been given that it clicked.

Riddle had never been relying on this lesser force. The ambush only mattered if his goal had been flushing out his targets.

Harry conjured up an emerald mask and placed it over his face. "Finish here!" he told Moody.

"What—" A rush of wind cut off Moody's question and launched Harry skyward.

James limped his way down a soot-stained hall and towards the dazzling array of lights ahead. His chest clenched with each breath and his shoulder throbbed. His head was sent spinning whenever he tried lifting his left arm.

None of it mattered. His father needed him.

Recent events were hazy, but he remembered enough to know there was an ongoing attack. Everyone except his father had been fleeing the manor and James had doubled back in hopes of providing aid.

That was the last thing he was sure of prior to waking up face down in an abandoned hallway with half the roof collapsed not ten feet from where he lay.

The fight was now close enough for him to see. His father's mouth was open and his hair was slick with sweat. His spell work was still exquisite, but he was tired and conceding ground.

Three-pronged forks of lightning stabbed down one after the other, but each strike fizzled halfway to the ground. There was an odd blur each time it happened.

It was air, James realized. Solidified air dense enough to block a lightning strike.

The lightning vanished and the air around his father rippled. It flowed towards the masked man and split into a hundred birds of prey. Each was fainter than a shadow, but James knew they would be lethal and deathly difficult to counteract.

A tongue of dark-red flame licked out of the masked man's wand and snaked around him. The fire surged up too fast. There was a ten-foot-high ring of it where nothing had been just a heartbeat prior.

James took an unsteady step and staggered. Fiendfyre.

The fire spat and hissed as the birds soared through. Sounds like muggle artillery resounded in the blaze. The earth heaved and rumbled, but the flames did not so much as flicker.

James was almost upon them as Charlus drew back his wand. The fire screamed and struck. The sound was halfway between a lion's roar and a grieving woman's wail, but its pitch was unlike either.

Charlus shouted as he fell.

"No!" James leapt forward and felt his feet slide out from under him. Then he was rolling.

"Well, well, well." The madman breathed heavily but was standing tall. The flames around him faded as fast as they had surged. "I believe this is the end, Lord Governor."

James set his will to shoving down the pain. He had to get up, but his limbs were unresponsive and his lungs felt filled with fire.

"No." He could hear his father scrabbling behind him. The sound was not encouraging.

The man behind that silver mask waited for the governor to fall still. "You are going to tell me all about that ring before I kill you."

"Go to hell!" The sound of his father's voice scared him far worse than any torment.

James's palms burned as he fumbled for position and pushed himself up towards his feet.

"Crucio."

The world blackened and turned into all consuming-pain. Every nerve was burning, every bone was crumbling, every muscle was being torn apart.

And then it ended.

This time his body moved, but its twitches and convulsions were out of his control.

Why did it matter? Why did he want to move? It felt as if he would never move again. It would be easier that way. Easier to lay in agony and bear the taste of blood.

"Tell me about the ring, or I will leave nothing but a husk in place of your only son."

"No." James had never heard his father cry before. "Please, I—"

"Crucio."

Somewhere there was a scream. It was a raw and wounded sound. A broken wail. A skull-rattling release of anguish.

But it was so far away.

All that mattered was the pain. There was nothing but the pain. There would never be anything but for the pain.

"Fine! Please, you win! Just stop!" were the next words he heard after the agony receded. The taste of blood was stronger now and he was panting. Each ragged exhale keened like the whining of a beaten dog, but there was nothing left in him that cared. "We all have one," his father was saying in a rush. "The five of us. They were given years ago. I don't know what the others' do, I—"

Three gong-like notes rang out in quick succession, each one louder than a thunderclap.

Moving was the hardest thing that he had ever done, but James forced himself to look up.

No fires burned nearby, but smoke billowed up around the newcomer. Heat was rolling off the man in waves. James could feel it boring into him and lurched back away from it.

His surroundings spun past his eyes. Moving had been an error.

He struggled to regain his bearings. Two men were facing off across an open patch of blackened earth. Both wore black robes, but one was taller and their masks were different. The madman's was silver and had scarlet slits in place of proper eyeholes, where the other's…

Emerald, James thought as a great weight bore down on him. Like Lily Evans's eyes.

Emotions crashed into Harry like pounding waves breaking against a rocky shore as he took in the man he had been hunting for all of his adult life. Riddle's robes were singed and his chest moved too fast for easy breathing, but his posture was unbowed and he wore malice like a second skin.

The rational part of him urged caution. Riddle was weakened, but far from incapacitated. A wounded animal was oftentimes the most dangerous of prey.

No, he told himself. Not now. Too long had been spent second-guessing and wounded prey was most dangerous if given time to make a final stand.

Harry focused on the sounds of Charlus whimpering behind him and felt his anger rise up to the surface. So many times he had heard sounds like these and so many of them had been Riddle's fault.

Then he turned his head and took in the sight of his father slumped into a lifeless heap. Not dead — there was still the pulse of a living soul — but close enough to bring forth more memories.

So many more.

The anger surged. For years it had simmered low enough for him to tread its surface, but now he let it boil over and felt himself sink into it.

A hundred thunderbolts tumbled around Riddle. They pounded into the earth and sent up sprays of dirt and stone. Harry watched as Riddle stumbled drunkenly behind his cracking shield as if a great pair of hands were swatting the bastard back and forth.

Then the shield shattered and Riddle was sent sprawling.

Emerald fire gushed between them like a river that had burst its dam, but Riddle was already melting into a cloud of smoke and drifting off.

"No!" The flames leapt skyward, but there was nothing for them to burn. Riddle had disapparated while incorporeal. "NO!"

"They've promised that dreams can come true — but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams, too."

— Oscar Wilde

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.A.T.R.E.O.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.