CHAPTER 1: A REUNION FROM THE ASHES
"Hermione," Hermione's warm greeting pierced the stillness of the room, much like the precision of one of those exquisite Japanese kitchen knives Uncle Vernon had gifted Aunt Petunia over the summer.
A faint smile graced Harry's lips as he responded, "Hey, Hermione."
Hermione, with her characteristic unruly mane of hair, an expression of concern etched upon her lips, and teeth that seemed somewhat out of proportion, made a beeline for Harry with remarkable swiftness.
It struck Harry that she hadn't changed much. He remembered his cousin Dudley once explaining to his henchman, Piers Polkiss, that girls metamorphosed into stunning women during their teenage years. This notion had made Harry's smile widen just a tad. Dudley seemed to believe that this transformation would occur overnight, akin to some peculiar, human caterpillar morphing into a butterfly. Of course, Dudley's understanding was based on a severely limited experience with girls and an overindulgence in adult magazines. In Dudley's logic, Hermione should have emerged as a gorgeous butterfly by now. Harry couldn't help but picture his cousin's wide-open mouth, piggy eyes, and multiple chins, which evoked a chuckle. But to him, Hermione wouldn't be Hermione without those idiosyncrasies, just as Ron wouldn't be Ron without his freckles, and Harry wouldn't be Harry without his glasses.
Hermione's hand fluttered before Harry's face, and she fired off a series of questions with the speed of a Firebolt. "How has your summer been? Have you started your studies? What classes are you taking this year? Have you finally dropped Divination?"
Harry blinked, trying to keep up with the rapid-fire interrogation. "It was actually not too bad," he admitted, struggling to recall the other questions amidst the sudden verbal barrage.
Perhaps I've spent a bit too much time alone this summer, he mused. But it beats being Aunt Petunia's garden slave.
"And your classes? Divination?" Hermione folded her arms, taking a step closer.
Harry instinctively retreated a couple of steps, saying, "Runes and Arithmancy. And yes, I dropped Divination."
Hermione, her curiosity piqued, opened her mouth to inquire further when Harry quickly added, "Trelawny was starting to run out of original predictions for my death."
Harry decided it was best to keep the extent of his summer studying to himself, realizing he wasn't quite ready for one of Hermione's passionate tirades.
"Harry! Don't you know you can't take fourth-year Runes or Arithmancy without completing the third-year course?" Hermione shook her head, her lip gnawed in worry. "You really should've checked. Now you'll have to work hard to catch up or join the third-year class. You should've studied during the summer."
"I'm sure I'll find a way," Harry replied with determination. "Focus and intent, that's the key." He smiled to himself, reflecting on how much he had accomplished in magic with limited knowledge. "It's a miracle I managed any magic before. I barely had any idea what I was doing."
Hermione gnawed at her lip, her concern still evident. "Well, I can help you catch up. I know all the material you'll need, and I'm far enough ahead that I can spare some time for you." She scanned the area. "Where are the Weasleys?"
"Attempting to pack, I think," Harry said, catching her eye and grinning.
Hermione sighed. "Ron..."
Just then, one of the twins thundered down the stairs, exclaiming, "Harrikins!"
The entire Weasley family seemed to materialize around Harry, chattering away, their energy infectious.
It's not me, is it, or did they get even louder over the summer? Harry couldn't help but wonder as elbows and hands brushed against him. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly.
"Is everyone here?" Mrs. Weasley bustled around, pausing before a bleary-eyed and disheveled Ron. "Honestly, Ronald." She straightened his collar and sighed. "Percy was ready before you, and he's not even interested in Quidditch."
"Time to go," Mr. Weasley announced, shuffling out of the huddle and stifling a yawn. "Can't afford to be late."
The group surged forward in a whirl of motion and a blur of conversation, settling back into their seats.
"Bulgaria will win," Ron declared with conviction. "Krum is brilliant."
"We disagree, Ronnikins. We don't mean to challenge the greatness of Krum," one twin began.
"—But our money is on the Irish," the other twin chimed in.
"Technically, George, our money is on the Irish and Krum," the first twin clarified.
"Very true, George, very true. We're rooting for Ireland to win, but Krum to catch the snitch."
It seemed that today, they were both answering to "George."
"I still think Bulgaria will win it," Ron argued. "Krum will catch the snitch long before the Irish can score that many points."
"Stop fighting," Ginny hissed, her attention fixed on the approaching teams.
As the Bulgarian cheerleaders strode onto the field, they appeared as though they had just stepped out of one of those American high school drama shows that Dudley secretly watched in his room when he believed his parents weren't watching.
A hushed silence fell over the crowd.
The cheerleaders twirled into a captivating dance, their movements creating a mesmerizing spectacle beneath the collective gaze of thousands, a blurred whirl of silver and pale skin.
Harry couldn't help but stare, thoughts racing. These cheerleaders don't move like any I've seen before. They don't have silver hair that begs to be touched, lips as sweet as sugar, or eyes that shimmer like stars.
Leaning forward, Harry whispered, "If I stood up, would they see me? Would they notice?"
His thoughts responded in a smooth, haunting voice, lingering at the back of his mind like cold, dark water: They won't see me. They never do, no matter how much you wish for it.
As the distance seemed to grow between his seat and the silver-haired cheerleaders, a gentle tug at his heart pulled him into a cold, hollow place. Harry leaned back from the edge, hunching into his seat.
The cheerleaders' dance came to a graceful pause, the crowd's clamor surging. Two sets of Quidditch players burst into the stadium.
The Quidditch World Cup final began in a whirlwind of motion, and Harry lifted his omnioculars from his lap, bringing the green and gold blurs into focus as a trio of Irish chasers. Yet his attention fixated on Krum, the Bulgarian seeker who soared free as a bird, distinct from everything below.
A faint, small smile crept onto Harry's lips.
Krum suddenly swiveled and plunged out of sight. The crowd roared in response, and something struck Harry's cheekbone. His glasses slipped from his nose, and the omnioculars tumbled into the rows below.
"Where did my glasses go?" Harry muttered.
He peered under his chair and spotted a glint of reflected light at the very back. Harry extended his arm, but the light seemed to hover just beyond his fingertips. Resolving to solve the issue, he retrieved his wand from his pocket and used it to hook the glasses within reach. The lenses were marred with a slew of scratches.
"Inevitably," Harry sighed. He closed his eyes, visualizing smooth, unblemished glass, and with a tap of his finger, he repaired them. "Guess it was a good thing I sat on them. Even if I had to spend three days trying to fix them without a wand." Harry discreetly slipped his wand back into his sleeve and shot a quick glance at Hermione.
Her eyes were fixed on the game, lips pressed into a thin, white line.
"Good," Harry thought. "If she'd seen, I'd never hear the end of it."
He followed her gaze to the referee, who had paused to show off some dance moves and flex his muscles in front of the Bulgarian cheerleaders.
Harry chuckled as the referee displayed his questionable dancing skills. "He's a terrible dancer. He's going to be very embarrassed when he snaps out of it."
Hermione leaned in closer and whispered, "They're Veela. There's a section about them in the school library, mostly filled with silly drawings, but I did find a reference to them in a potions book while researching amortentia."
Harry raised an eyebrow, teasing, "Isn't amortentia a love potion, Hermione?"
Hermione blushed deeply, and Ginny's face turned as red as her hair. "Harry, be serious. The book said Veela aren't entirely human and can use their magic to charm anyone who finds them attractive. They're trying to influence the referee with their magic!"
Harry threw another, longer glance in the direction of the Bulgarian team's cheerleaders. A faint thrill coursed through him, but he took a deep breath and suppressed it. "Interesting. I'm still curious why you were reading about amortentia, though?"
Hermione huffed and turned away to speak to Ginny.
He smiled, thinking, "For someone who likes to know everything about what I'm up to, she doesn't like to share half as much."
Harry leaned back in his seat and focused on a small, blank circle on a white page in his mind, tuning out the crowd noise and the whirl of the game, allowing his heartbeat to steady.
Suddenly, a massive roar erupted from the crowd, shattering his concentration. Ron sprang to his feet, narrowly missing Harry's glasses with his elbow.
"What?" Harry exclaimed, rising to his feet.
Viktor Krum hovered over the stadium, his strong features set in a determined frown, and one hand raised high above his head. Harry thought he could see the twitching wings of the snitch in Krum's grasp.
"He looks rather upset for someone who just caught the snitch," Harry observed, glancing at the scoreboard. "Oh, they still lost."
The Veela cheerleaders continued to dance with triumphant smiles. Ludo Bagman's voice echoed the match's outcome over the crowd, and their joyous celebrations abruptly froze. Feathers sprouted along their arms, their eyes darkened and widened, and their lips and chins elongated into curved, sharp beaks.
Harry realized they were not entirely human, a fact that sent a shiver down his spine.
"It's time to head back to the tent, Arthur," Mrs. Weasley said, her gaze still fixed on the transformed Veela.
Her husband nodded, though he kept one eye on the mesmerizing creatures.
Blue flames materialized in the hands of some of the cheerleaders, and a heated scuffle erupted between the other match officials and the enthralled referee.
As they descended a set of steep steps, Harry remarked, "I'm pretty sure there weren't this many steps on the way up."
Hermione turned to him, a glint of knowledge in her eye. "It's a very clever space manipulation spell. You step onto a stair, and the space is stretched upwards, so you end up going much higher than you'd expect. It's like a tiny magical escalator for each step."
Ron grumbled, "It means a lot of different sets of steps for different levels, though."
"It's brilliant, Ron," Hermione retorted, her tone growing more intense. "It's really clever. I was reading about these space manipulations over the summer, and they're fascinating..."
As Hermione launched into an impromptu lecture, Harry concealed a sigh beneath his breath. He allowed a torrent of arithmancy and runes to wash over him. But he consoled himself with the thought that at least some of his summer studying had proven useful, as some of the concepts were starting to make sense now.
Hermione's lecture continued until they found themselves back at the Weasleys' tent.
"So you do need to breathe," Harry quipped during a brief lull. "I was starting to wonder."
Hermione's lips curved into a small smile. "This tent is another fascinating application of spatial expansion, Harry, much like what you see in 'Doctor Who.'"
"In what?" Ron squinted at Hermione and Harry. "Is this another weird Muggle thing?"
"Look at all this, Harrikins," the twins waved fistfuls of gold in front of Harry's nose as they passed. "Bagman bet against our prediction, and he gave us good odds too."
"It should be enough now, Fred," the twin wearing the G-emblazoned jumper boasted.
"Indeed it should, George," his twin agreed, shoveling handfuls of gold from their pockets into their trunks. "Best hide it before Mum sees we've been gambling."
Above the tents, fireworks exploded and screeched, marking the Irish celebrations.
"It's too loud again," Harry thought as he slipped past Ron and Hermione's discussion and Percy's lecture on Bertha Jorkins's shortcomings. He settled down on the cot, and sleep began to draw him into its embrace, scattering his thoughts like bursting fireworks in the dark.
A sudden jolt shook his arm, snapping him awake with a cold rush of adrenaline.
"Harry," Mr. Weasley snapped, his expression grave. "We need to leave, now. Get Ron and Hermione and get out of the camp. Stay together."
Harry fumbled for his glasses and wand, stumbling toward the entrance. Ron and Hermione peered out from the door, their faces pale.
"Come on, Harry," Hermione whispered, her fingers lightly tugging at his arm. "We need to get out of here."
An uneasy sensation prickled under Harry's skin. He frowned and pulled his arm away.
Screams echoed nearby.
"Let's go," Ron mumbled urgently. "Quick."
They fled from the tent toward the woods, caught in a surging torrent of panicked people. Smoke hung in the air over burning tents at the camp's center, wafting over them on a strong breeze, thick and acrid enough to make it difficult to breathe. Harry ducked down and scrambled through the crowd, making his way toward the distant view of green trees.
Flashes of light cast eerie shadows against the veil of smoke, and the dull echoes of explosions rang out over the roar of the flames.
"HARRY!" Hermione's desperate cries pierced through the smog. "Where are you?!"
Before he could respond, something struck the side of his head, and his vision exploded in a flash of white sparks.
Warmth seeped into his cheek, growing hotter and more intense by the moment. Harry flinched, feeling a sticky substance crack and split on the skin of his face, causing his glasses to slip down his nose.
With great effort, Harry pulled himself to his feet and clapped his glasses back into place. The acrid tang of smoke clung to his mouth, like tar. Flames engulfed a line of tents just a few meters from his face, and a roiling mass of pitch-black smoke hung beyond them, resembling dense autumn fog.
Staggering toward the safety of the trees, he peered through the swirling gray haze, hoping that everyone was all right.
Thick, soft, warm gray ashes carpeted the ground and fell like gentle snow from the sky. Harry wondered what could have caused this destruction. Perhaps a dragon? He thought, trying to make sense of the chaos. As long as it's not Voldemort or Dementors again. I'd rather face a dragon than them; dragons are manageable as long as you leave their eggs alone. Besides, I'm no Hagrid.
He pressed forward through the eerie silence, a distant world obscured by smoke stretching out before him. The soles of his shoes burned from the hot embers, and he felt the charred remnants of furniture or worse crunching beneath his heels, echoing like distant thunderclaps in the ash.
Suddenly, bright purple light seared his eyes, and something hissed past his face. Harry swiftly twisted around and snatched his wand from his sleeve.
Two pale purple spells streaked toward him.
He threw himself to one side, rolling in the ash and catching a fleeting glimpse of a thin, almost skeletal wizard draped in black robes.
"Lacero," the robed wizard croaked, and another purple curse flashed at Harry.
Harry swiftly dived behind a mound of ash, and the purple curse sailed away into the dense smoke.
"I must remain unseen and behave," the wizard muttered to himself, his wand snapping up and unleashing another trio of curses. They tore through the ash, grazing Harry's left elbow in a flash of searing pain.
"Expelliarmus!" Harry cried out, sending his spell towards his opponent. However, it ricocheted off a glowing white barrier of magic and sputtered out in the ash.
"Stay unseen," the wizard murmured, his wand hand trembling. He dug his fingers into his temples so fiercely that his knuckles turned white, and blood trickled down his face. "No." His voice shifted, becoming hoarse and sharp. "The Dark Lord will reward me beyond all others when I accomplish something great."
Harry realized with a sinking feeling that he was facing Voldemort once again. Please, let there not be more Dementors, too.
"Expelliarmus!" Harry cast the spell again, but it dissipated on the same shield, fading in a faint wash of red.
His opponent cackled with madness. "Crucio," he crooned, and a red curse shot past Harry's ear.
"I'm free! Free!" His cackling voice resembled a radio with a cracking signal. "When I take you to the Dark Lord, I will be his most trusted servant! Greater than Lucius! Better than Goyle! Superior to Bellatrix!"
Another red curse hissed past, and the third one struck Harry's arm. White-hot fire coursed through his body, and he collapsed into the hot embers, curling up in agony.
"I am his most loyal follower," the mad wizard declared, raising his wand again, its tip glowing crimson.
"No," Harry thought desperately, his gaze locked onto the wand's tip. "I don't want to feel that again."
As Harry wrestled with the events unfolding around him, the tattered capes of the Dementors fluttered through his thoughts. Voldemort's malevolent red eyes gleamed amongst them, framed by chalk-white skin and bathed in the crimson glow of the Philosopher's Stone. The shadow of the basilisk loomed over him like a dark cloud obscuring the sun, and Pettigrew snivelled and scuttled away into the grass in the cold light of a full moon.
A shard of ice tightened near his heart, and Harry felt his magic snag on it, like a sleeve catching on the thorns of Petunia's roses. He knew that wishing for a different outcome would be futile.
With determination, Harry slashed his wand at the cackling Death Eater, and the ash swirled on the wind. From the smoke emerged a colossal ebony basilisk, which lunged and smashed into the Death Eater's chest, hammering him into the ground before vanishing in an explosion of hot smoke.
A deep, numb ache gripped Harry, and he tottered and swayed, clutching his wand with sweat-slickened fingers.
The mad wizard lay motionless beneath a settling shroud of grey ash. Harry inched closer, his wand held out with trembling fingers, his breathing shallow and quick.
Bright, gleaming points of bone poked out from the tattered robes, while a gaping wound revealed red gore and glistening blue entrails pulsing with fading crimson spurts. A thick, foul stench filled Harry's nose, causing him to gag, and he pressed his face into the crook of his elbow, squeezing his eyes shut. "He's dead. Gone," he thought, staring at the wand in his hand, which trembled with every throb of his pounding heart. "And I did that."
Smoke swirled around him, and a thin, pale sheet of ash settled over the wizard's corpse. Harry stumbled a few paces back, retreating until the stench faded, and then he slumped to the ground, his mind reeling. "I did that," he muttered to himself, memories of Quirrell's burning face twisting and melting in his mind's eye. His stomach churned, just as it had on that fateful day in the Chamber of Secrets.
The ash began to bury his legs, enveloping him in its soft, warm embrace. Harry wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in them, allowing the world to drift into the distance. "I think I'll just stay here for a bit."
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