Authors note: I do have somewhere im going with this story, I promise. But for now I'm just enjoying soap opera:ing it out for a while. Sorry not sorry.
The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. It was late, and the rest of the students had long since gone to bed. Harry and Hermione sat across from each other on the worn-out couches, the flickering firelight casting long shadows around them. Harry had spent the past few minutes trying to explain what had happened to him during the second task, but the words felt clumsy and inadequate. He'd never been good at putting things like this into words.
"So, what did you actually do?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowed in that way it always did when she was deep in thought.
Harry stared down at his hands, turning them over as if the answer would somehow materialize in his palms. "I don't really know. I guess... I sort of turned the water inside out around me. I wasn't really moving, but it was like everything else shifted. It felt like I got... pulled deeper into the lake. Instantly."
Hermione's eyes widened slightly as she considered his words. "So, you turned everything around you? Almost like... Apparition?"
Harry shook his head. "I've never Apparated before, so I don't know. But I didn't move. But just like all of a sudden everything was pitch black and my ears hurt like hell. It was like an explosion inside my head, the pressure was so bad. I have honestly no idea how to explain it better."
Hermione nodded, chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Well, the theory behind Apparition is that you turn on the spot, and that somehow displaces you to a new location. But from what you're describing, it wasn't you turning. It was everything else around you that shifted."
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "I didn't feel like I was doing the moving. It's hard to explain."
Hermione looked away for a moment, clearly considering the implications of this. "I didn't think it was Apparition either, because, well, it's impossible to Apparate on school grounds. But this... this sounds like something similar." She paused, then looked at Harry with a spark of curiosity. "Do you think you could try it now? Just—just see if you can do whatever you did again? Maybe move to the other side of the common room or something?"
Harry stared at her, "I... I don't know. I don't even know how I did it. I was just trying to save the hostages- well, you."
Hermione blushed a bit, but she didn't back down. "Well, maybe you can try to recreate it. Just... focus on turning things around you, like you said. You're in a safe place, nothing's trying to drown you this time."
Harry hesitated, then nodded. "It'd probably be easier if someone were.."
He closed his eyes, trying to remember the sensation from under the lake. The feeling of the world collapsing around him, of the water folding in on itself. He visualized the common room in front of him, the sofa across the room, the thin air between him and it. He tried to imagine what it would be like if he could look behind the air—if he could peel it back like a curtain, and see what was hiding on the other side.
Minutes passed in silence, and Harry kept concentrating, his breaths slow and deliberate. Hermione sat quietly across from him, her eyes never leaving his face. There was an intensity in the air, like they were both waiting for something—anything—to happen.
He opened his eyes slowly, trying hard to concentrate on the feeling of that intensity. The space in front of him seemed to bend, like a mirror turning without edges. His heart pounded in his chest as he focused on it, and before he could even process what was happening, he was staring at himself from across the room.
Harry blinked, his mind racing as he tried to grasp the impossible. It was like looking into a reflection—he could see himself and Hermione sitting on the couch, but from the other side of the room.
"I gotta try something.." He muttered.
Carefully, he grabbed a pillow from beside him and, still concentrating on the strange tear in space, threw it toward the mirror-like distortion.
Hermione gasped softly, her hand covering her mouth. Harry watched in disbelief as the common room flickered—and the pillow sailed towards them. But not in one piece.
Half of the pillow landed in front of him with a soft thud, feathers spilling out in a slow drift. The other half... was still falling from across the room, cut cleanly in two by the moment the rift had closed.
Harry turned his head slowly to look at Hermione, who was staring wide-eyed at the half-pillow in front of them. Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to find the words.
"You just..." Hermione whispered, her voice trembling with awe. "Harry, I think you just broke the laws of magic or something."
Harry looked down at the feathers gently floating to the ground, his heart pulsing so loud in his ears he actually might turn deaf. He had no idea what he'd just done.
"Or something, indeed."
When Harry and Hermione finally told Ron about what had happened in the common room, they were met with a reaction that neither of them had expected.
Ron blinked at them both, his expression somewhere between disbelief and mild amusement. "Right," he said slowly, scratching the back of his head. "So, you're telling me you folded space or something and threw a pillow across the room... and it got cut in half?"
Harry nodded, his brow furrowed with frustration. "Yes! It—it was like the air just... shifted. And then the pillow... well, you know, split."
Ron raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes wide with excitement. "We're serious, Ron! It happened. It's not like any magic we've ever seen before. It could be something completely new!"
Ron snorted softly, though not unkindly. "You sure it wasn't just a trick of the light? I mean, mate, we've all been through a lot lately. Maybe it's, you know, stress?"
Harry shot him a look, but Ron held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright! I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Let's see this... folding space thing."
A short while later, the three of them stood in an abandoned classroom, Harry and Hermione huddled together near a dusty old desk, while Ron leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching them with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
"Go on, then," Ron said, giving Harry a half-smile. "Show me how it works."
Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione, feeling a flicker of uncertainty. He hadn't been sure how he'd done it the first time, and the idea of trying to replicate it under Ron's watchful eye only added to the pressure. Still, he nodded and took a deep breath, focusing his mind on the space in front of him.
He closed his eyes, trying to summon the same sensation he'd felt the night before—the feeling of the air bending, of reality itself twisting around him. He visualized the room folding inward, the same way it had in the common room, and tried to pull the edges of the space around him, like turning a mirror.
Minutes passed, but nothing happened.
Beside him, Hermione watched in quiet concentration, but the anticipation in the air slowly began to fizzle. Harry opened his eyes again, frustration gnawing at his insides. The classroom looked exactly the same—no ripples in the air, no bending space. Just the same dusty room.
Ron let out a small sigh, looking almost relieved. "You sure you're not just tired, mate? Or maybe you ate something weird at dinner?"
Harry groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. "I know what I did, Ron. I just... I can't seem to do it again."
Ron pushed off from the wall and stretched. "Look, I'm not saying you didn't do something, but..." He glanced between them. "I'm not exactly subscribing to this whole transcendental meditation stuff. My mum tried to get me into it once. Said it'd help me 'relax my spirit.'" He shook his head. "Didn't work then, and I doubt it's going to work now."
Hermione pursed her lips, looking mildly irritated. "It's not meditation, Ron. It's—well, we don't really know what it is. But it's magic, I'm sure of it."
Ron shrugged. "Maybe. But whatever it is, I think you might need more than a dusty classroom to figure it out." He gave Harry a pat on the back. "Look, I've got to head to Charms. You two can keep at it if you like, but I think I'll leave the mind-bending magic experiments to you two."
With that, he grabbed his bag and sauntered off, leaving Harry and Hermione standing alone in the empty room.
Harry sighed, sitting down on one of the old wooden chairs. "Maybe he's right. Maybe it was just... a fluke."
Hermione, who had been pacing slightly, stopped and shook her head. "No, Harry, it wasn't a fluke. You did something incredible. We just... we need to figure out how."
They spent the next twenty minutes trying everything—Harry focusing as hard as he could, Hermione suggesting different ways to think about the problem. They even switched spots, tried different objects, different angles. But no matter what they did, the room stayed stubbornly still, no sign of the strange bending space from the night before.
Frustration began to mount. Harry's head throbbed from concentrating so hard, and even Hermione, ever the optimist, was starting to look a little disheartened.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Harry slumped back in the chair. "I don't think I can do it again."
Hermione sat down across from him, biting her lip. "You will do it again, Harry. You just need to figure out what triggered it in the first place. We'll keep working on it."
Harry nodded, but doubt gnawed at him. What if it had been a one-time thing? What if he could never do it again?
The bell rang in the distance, signaling the start of the next class, and Hermione stood up, giving Harry an encouraging look. "Come on. We'll figure it out. But right now, we'd better get to Charms before Professor Flitwick thinks folds our grades and makes them disappear."
Harry chuckled, grabbing his bag as they left the classroom.
At charms, Professor Flitwick immediately after they filed in and found their seats started talking animatedly about the theory behind banishing charms, his small form nearly hidden behind a stack of books he was using to prop himself up. Harry slouched in his seat, and quickly stopped paying attention, his mind wandering back to the strange incident in the common room.
Harry had been sat a few seats away from Ron, who had arrived earlier, and one row behind him. He found himself again trying to replicate what had happened in the common room the other night. He imagined it just like before—the air bending, folding in on itself. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the back of Ron's head, trying to recreate that same shift.
For a split second, nothing happened.
And then, the familiar sensation returned. The rimless mirror twisted inward, folding space around itself. Harry's heart jumped in his chest as, suddenly, he found himself looking straight into Ron's eyes from the other side.
Ron's startled face stared back at him, wide-eyed . Then, with a loud yelp, Ron jerked back in his seat, nearly toppling out of his chair.
"Bloody hell!" Ron gasped.
The fold in the air silently snapped shut. Harry blinked, suddenly back to staring at the back of Ron's head again.
The entire class turned to look at Ron, who was still breathing heavily, his face flushed with shock.
Flitwick, who had been in the middle of explaining a particularly tricky bit of wand movement, stopped mid-sentence, his tiny hands perched on the edge of his podium. He raised an eyebrow, clearly irritated by the interruption.
Ron, still shaken, turned back to Harry with a wild look in his eyes. "I—I just—" he stammered, struggling to find the right words.
"Mr. Weasley, if you've finished your theatrics," Flitwick said, his squeaky voice dripping with impatience, "perhaps you'd like to demonstrate the banishing charm for the class, seeing as you seem to find today's lesson so exciting."
Ron paled, his gaze darting from Flitwick to Harry, and then to the rest of the class, who were all watching him intently. "Er—right," he mumbled, standing up slowly.
Flitwick flicked his wand, sending a small cushion into the air in front of Ron. "Banishing charm, if you please, Mr. Weasley."
Ron gripped his wand, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He muttered the incantation, "Depulso," but nothing happened. The cushion remained hovering in the air, completely unmoved.
"Then maybe stop the antics, and focus, if you please." His tone was sharp but not unkind. He waved his own wand, effortlessly sending the cushion flying across the room.
Ron turned to face Harry, his expression a mix of confusion and accusation. "Mate," he whispered, "what the hell was that?"
Harry shrugged his shoulders in amusement. Ron looked from Harry to over his head with sort of a stunned look. In fact, Flitwick stopped mid sentence. Harry looked behind himself at the classroom door, blinking in surprise as Professor Dumbledore stepped into the room. There was a moment of stunned silence across the entire class. The headmaster rarely interrupted classes in person.
"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of urgency. "I need to borrow Mr. Potter for a short while."
Flitwick, looking surprised but not questioning, nodded immediately. "Of course, Headmaster. Potter, off you go."
Harry's stomach dropped. He glanced at Ron and Hermione, who both gave him puzzled, worried looks, before quickly gathering his things and standing up.
Dumbledore didn't say another word as Harry joined him. Without waiting for an explanation, Dumbledore turned on his heel and set off down the corridor, walking briskly. Harry had to half-jog to keep up, the sound of his shoes echoing in the otherwise empty hallways.
He stole a glance at Dumbledore, wondering if he should ask what was going on, but the headmaster's expression was unreadable, and Harry didn't dare interrupt. They moved quickly through the castle, past students, up staircases, and through long, twisting corridors, until they finally reached the familiar stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office.
"Cockroach Cluster," Dumbledore murmured, and the gargoyle sprang aside, revealing the spiral staircase that led to the headmaster's study.
Without another word, Dumbledore ascended, Harry following closely behind. The tension in the air was palpable, and Harry's curiosity mixed with growing apprehension. Dumbledore's unusually fast pace, the lack of explanation—it all made Harry's mind race with possibilities.
When they entered the study, Harry's eyes immediately went to the figure standing by the fire. His heart leapt into his throat.
"Sirius!" Harry exclaimed, rushing forward.
Sirius Black turned from the fire, a smile spreading across his thin, weathered face as he opened his arms to greet Harry. "Harry," he said, his voice rough but filled with warmth. "Good to see you."
Before Harry could ask what was going on, Dumbledore cleared his throat, stepping toward his desk. "I apologize for the sudden nature of this meeting," he said, glancing between Harry and Sirius, "but given the... complexity of the situation, I felt it was necessary to make an exception."
Harry looked between Dumbledore and Sirius, his curiosity now burning. "What's going on?"
Sirius exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then gestured for Harry to sit. "There's things you need to know, Harry," Sirius said, his tone serious now, his earlier warmth tempered with concern.
"I've promised in exchange for being allowed to be here, that I would not speak until Dumbledore is finished."
Harry nodded slowly.
And then Dumbledore's study grew quieter still, the hum of the silver instruments the only sound as the weight of the conversation loomed.
It was then that Dumbledore began, as if he were picking up from an earlier point. "The impostor is dead." he said, his voice calm but heavy.
The warm light of Dumbledore's office cast long shadows across the walls, reflecting off the many delicate silver instruments that hummed and clicked softly on the shelves. Fawkes sat perched in the corner, preening his scarlet feathers, while the soft rustle of parchment seemed to blend with the quiet, familiar ticking of the various instruments.
Dumbledore's eyes, usually so warm and twinkling, seemed to grow a touch cooler as he leaned back in his chair. "It was Barty Crouch Jr.," he said simply, his voice calm but with an edge of impatience. "The son of Bartemius Crouch."
Harry's eyes widened in shock. "What? But I thought—didn't his father... wasn't he supposed to be dead?"
Harry looked from Sirius to Dumbledore. Sirius was mostly rigid, but gave a brief nod. Dumbledore continued.
"Yes, his father wanted us to believe he was dead. But as I am sure you have already learned, Harry, many things are not as they seem in our world."
Harry opened his mouth to ask more, but Dumbledore's slightly impatient air made him hesitate. He wanted to know how Barty Crouch Jr. had managed to stay hidden, how he had fooled everyone, but something told him that now wasn't the time to press the matter.
Instead, Harry shifted in his seat and asked the question that had been nagging at him for days. "Why did the impostor—Barty Crouch Jr.—want me in the Triwizard Tournament? What was the point?"
There was a long pause. Dumbledore's fingers tapped lightly on the arm of his chair, the quiet rhythm mixing with the background hum of the office. The silence stretched on, the air thick with unspoken tension. Finally, Dumbledore broke the silence, his voice quiet and deliberate.
"He was sent here to kidnap you," Dumbledore said, his clear blue eyes boring into Harry's. "His goal was to bring you to Voldemort for a... blood ritual."
Harry felt his stomach twist. "A blood ritual?"
"Yes," Dumbledore continued, his tone measured. "The purpose was to steal your blood, Harry. Voldemort... intended to use it in a ritual to restore his body."
Harry's mouth went dry. "That's... that's.." he sputtered, his heart racing. The idea that Voldemort would come back—it was horrifying. He stared at Dumbledore, waiting for a reaction, for some sign that this was just as terrible as it sounded.
But Dumbledore simply looked at him with an unreadable expression. Sirius was studying the ceiling, avoiding his eyes at all cost it seemed.
"Is it outrageous?" Dumbledore asked quietly. His blue eyes held an unusual intensity, something deeper than Harry had ever seen before. "Is it truly... terrible?"
Harry blinked, taken aback by the question. "Of course it is!" he exclaimed. "Voldemort would—he'd come back! He'd be more powerful than ever, right? How could that not be terrible?"
Dumbledore hesitated, his fingers steepling in front of him as he considered Harry's words. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, filled only by the soft clicking of the silver instruments around the room. Finally, Dumbledore spoke again, his voice strangely casual. "It wouldn't be altogether terrible... if you were to, let's call it.. go along with it."
Harry's mind stuttered. "What?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dumbledore's gaze remained steady, almost as if he were weighing each word before he spoke. "If you were to allow Voldemort's ritual to happen willingly, the deep magics involved... the result would be... Unintended"
Harry frowned, his confusion growing by the second.
Dumbledore sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he leaned back in his chair. "The implications are... unclear, but what is known is this: your role in the ritual is that of the unwilling enemy. Voldemort intends to use your blood, the blood of his greatest foe, to restore his body. Your nonconsent is crucial to the magic he intends to use."
Dumbledore gave a faint smile. "If you were to willingly participate, the ritual's intended purpose would unravel. The magic would lose its potency, its focus. In fact..." He paused, his eyes twinkling briefly with a flicker of amusement. "It would be... rather funny, in a way."
Harry stared at him, incredulous. "Funny? You think that would be funny?"
Sirius looked sharply at Dumbledore, but the headmaster continued, his voice calm but deliberate. "Perhaps not funny in the traditional sense. But you see, Harry, by willingly offering your blood, you would invert the entire dynamic of the ritual. Instead of taking something from you by force, Voldemort would find himself receiving something that no longer holds the power he seeks."
Harry's mind was racing, trying to keep up with the conversation. "So... if I just let him do it, willingly, then what? Would it... weaken him?"
Dumbledore's face grew more serious. "The ritual is designed to reconstruct Voldemort's physical form. There are several parts to it. His corporeal reconstitution requires bones, flesh, and blood, and some terribly complicated enchantments, potions, and certain celestial conditions needs to align... The bones of his father form the foundation, the life force of a servant fuels his existence, and your blood... the blood of his enemy, essentially fills his veins with magic."
Harry's eyes widened as he pieced it together. "So... if I went along with it, the blood portion would, what?"
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed with a hint of amusement. "Perhaps," he said with a slight shrug. "This is deep waters, but it's likely Voldemort would be reborn a squib."
But something still didn't sit right with him. Dumbledore was being unusually nonchalant about the whole thing, as if the stakes weren't as high as Harry had thought. Was it really that simple?
The room fell into a heavy silence again, the clicks and hum of the office the only sound as Harry tried to process everything.
Dumbledore's expression shifted as Harry's question hung in the air. The slight amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by a more contemplative look, as if he were weighing the gravity of the conversation. He folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward, the quiet hum of the office making the pause seem even longer.
"You see, Harry," Dumbledore began softly, "Voldemort wouldn't permanently be a Squib if the ritual were to go awry. The issue is more... complex than that."
Harry frowned. "But you said if I went along with it, it could mess up the ritual. That it might make him powerless?"
Dumbledore gave a slow nod. "Yes, it would certainly weaken him—terribly so. In the body that is reconstructed using your willingly given blood, Voldemort would find himself unable to cast spells. Nothing he could do in that body would restore his magical abilities."
Harry blinked, trying to understand. "So... he wouldn't be able to cast any spells at all?"
"No magic whatsoever. Wouldn't even be able to brew the simplest potion. Likely even to the point where he is affected by the sort of magic that we use to keep muggles from wandering into Diagon alley and the likes.
Dumbledore confirmed, his blue eyes sharp. "But—and this is an important but—he wouldn't be without options. His body would become a shell, unable to wield magic. However, Voldemort, being the brilliant and twisted mind that he is, would recognize the failure. He would eventually know that his only recourse would be to destroy that body and attempt the ritual again. Essentially, he would be forced to start from scratch."
Harry's heart sank a little as he processed that. "So, he wouldn't stay powerless forever."
"No," Dumbledore admitted, his tone measured. "But he would be severely weakened. And the next set of celestial conditions necessary for the ritual won't occur for another ten or twenty years."
Harry felt a flicker of hope at that. "So, if we just... didn't let him do it now, he'd miss his chance, right? Couldn't I just not show up? Then he'd have to wait for another window."
Dumbledore sighed softly and shook his head. "If only it were that simple, Harry. Voldemort is not lacking for enemies. The ritual, at its core, does not need your blood specifically. What it needs is the blood of an enemy, taken by force. While Voldemort has singled you out as his primary nemesis, the ritual would work with the blood of any enemy."
Harry felt his stomach drop. "So... if I don't go, he'll just find someone else?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said, his gaze heavy. "There are many who oppose Voldemort. And the ritual itself is designed to function using the blood of an unwilling enemy. Voldemort's fixation on you—the Boy Who Lived—makes him believe that your blood will grant him a greater power."
Harry stared at Dumbledore, and then Sirius, and then back to Dumbledore, his mind racing. "So if I refuse to go along with it, and he succeeds in taking my blood by force, he'll come back, fully?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Correct."
Sirius, leaning forward slowly. "And what about afterwards? How's Harry supposed to get out of there once the ritual's done? We can't leave him to fend for himself."
Dumbledore turned, regarding Sirius with a calm but calculating expression. "There are a number of alternatives," he replied thoughtfully. "A pre-arranged means of escape could be arranged."
Sirius cut in, voice sharp with concern. "What about Apparating? Harry could just Disapparate as soon as it's done."
Dumbledore shook his head. "That is not likely without his wand, and we must assume Voldemort will ensure Harry does not have access to it. To expect otherwise would be... unwise."
Sirius opened his mouth to protest, but Dumbledore continued, "A portkey might be more reliable. We could arrange for one to activate after the ritual is complete. Or sooner if Harry wishes for it. There must always be an immediate out for him, lest the ritual happen against his will.."
Sirius, however, was not convinced. "What if they find it? What if they—" he hesitated, glancing at Harry before continuing. "What if they remove his clothes and check him?"
Harry felt a wave of indignation rise in his chest at the thought, but before he could say anything, Dumbledore spoke again, his voice calm. "A subcutaneous portkey would be impossible to discover."
Harry blinked, frowning. "A sub—what?"
Sirius leaned back, considering it. "A portkey under the skin," he clarified. "They'd never be able to find it."
Harry's mind raced. Under the skin? He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
"That could work," Sirius said, though he still looked uneasy.
But Harry wasn't satisfied just yet. "What if I just learned to Apparate?" he asked, turning to face Dumbledore. "Couldn't I just learn how to do it myself, in case I need to escape?"
"Just learn to.." Sirius muttered. Dumbledore paused, then smiled faintly.
"Sure," Dumbledore said, after a moment of contemplation. "But not from your godfather."
Sirius looked crestfallen, his shoulders slumping slightly.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with the faintest hint of amusement. "The escaped convict will unfortunately not grace us with his presence for long enough to engage in such affairs.."
He turned to Harry, his expression softening. "There is no harm in skill acquisition, Harry. Learning to Apparate could be useful."
Harry's heart lifted slightly. "When can I start?" he asked, eager to have something—anything—that gave him control over his own fate.
Dumbledore glanced at his schedule, then nodded to himself. "I believe Professor Snape may have time this coming weekend to teach you."
Harry's excitement faltered. "Snape?" The thought of spending hours with Snape, learning something as complex as Apparition, drained away any enthusiasm he'd had.
Sirius stiffened beside him. "I don't want Harry learning from Snape."
Harry didn't want that either. "Is there anyone else?" he asked, almost desperately.
Dumbledore gave them both a calm but final look. "It's the final offer, Harry. Professor Snape is more than qualified to teach you, and there is no time to seek out another instructor."
Harry exchanged a glance with Sirius, both of them clearly unhappy with the arrangement. But there was no way around it. With a sigh, Harry finally nodded. "Alright... I'll learn from Snape."
Sirius, clearly still displeased, muttered something under his breath but eventually gave a reluctant nod as well.
Dumbledore's expression softened. "Very well, then. You'll begin this weekend."
