Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the intellectual property associated with Harry Potter.
Hi all,
Here's the third chapter of my new story.
Chapter 3
The shelves stood in disarray, books torn from their places and scattered haphazardly. Several lay open, their pages bent and crumpled beneath the weight of their fall. A globe in the corner spun lazily, its surface marred by a spider web of cracks. Nearby, the remnants of a crystal ball lay in a glittering puddle, whatever visions it might have held now lost forever.
The portraits lining the walls watched in stunned silence, their occupants huddled at the edges of their frames as if seeking shelter from the storm that had torn through the room. Even Fawkes, usually so regal on his golden perch, looked bedraggled, a few crimson feathers drifting to the floor in the aftermath of Harry's explosive grief.
In the centre of this chaos, Harry slumped in the chair across from Dumbledore's desk, his chest heaving. The fury that had driven him to such destruction had burned itself out, leaving behind a hollow ache that threatened to consume him. His hands trembled, knuckles raw and bleeding from where he'd struck the walls in his blind anger. The pain was a dull throb, barely registering against the crushing weight of loss that pressed down on him.
Dumbledore surveyed the wreckage with tired eyes, his usual twinkle extinguished. He made no move to repair the damage, instead focusing his gaze on the broken boy before him. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, laden with sorrow.
"Oh, Harry. I cannot begin to express how sorry I am."
Harry's jaw clenched, a fresh wave of anger surging through him. "Sorry?" he spat. "Sirius is dead. He's dead because of me. Because I was too stupid, too reckless-"
His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. He wouldn't cry. Not here. Not now.
"You mustn't blame yourself," Dumbledore said softly. "Voldemort—"
"Don't." Harry held up a hand, his eyes flashing. "Just... don't."
Silence fell between them, heavy and oppressive. Harry's gaze drifted to the window, where the dying light painted the grounds in deep shades of purple and crimson. It seemed wrong, somehow, that the world could look so peaceful when everything inside him felt shattered.
The quiet whirring of the few remaining silver instruments grated on Harry's nerves. Each tiny sound felt like a needle piercing his skin, a reminder of the normalcy that had been violently torn away. Fawkes trilled softly from his perch, but even the phoenix's soothing song couldn't ease the ache in Harry's chest.
"Sirius deserves a proper funeral," Harry said abruptly, his voice low and rough. He turned back to Dumbledore, green eyes burning with intensity in the gathering gloom. "In Godric's Hollow, next to my parents."
Dumbledore's brow furrowed, his long fingers steepling together on the desk. "I'm not sure that's wise, Harry. The security risks—"
"I don't care about risks!" Harry's shout echoed through the office, causing several of the portraits to mutter in disapproval. Fawkes ruffled his feathers, eyeing Harry with concern. "He died because of me. Because of this stupid war. The least we can do is honour him properly."
The words tore from Harry's throat, raw and painful. Images flashed through his mind—Sirius's laugh, his pranks, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about Harry's parents. Gone. All of it gone.
"Harry, please try to understand," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but tinged with worry. "We must consider the bigger picture. Voldemort's followers—"
"No, you understand this," Harry cut in, leaning forward in his chair. "If Sirius doesn't get a proper funeral, I'm done. I'll leave Hogwarts. I'll leave Britain. You can find someone else to fight your war."
The threat hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and defiance coursing through him. Part of him recoiled at the idea of abandoning everything, but a darker part whispered that it might be easier to just run away from it all.
Dumbledore's eyes widened behind his half-moon spectacles. "Surely you don't mean that."
Harry met his gaze unflinchingly. "Try me."
For a long moment, they stared at each other. The portraits held their breath, watching the confrontation with rapt attention. Finally, Dumbledore's shoulders sagged, the fight seeming to drain out of him. He suddenly looked every one of his considerable years, the weight of two wars and countless losses etched into the lines of his face.
"Very well," he said softly. "I'll make the arrangements."
Harry nodded curtly, some of the tension leaving his body. He stood, his legs feeling oddly unsteady. The anger that had sustained him was ebbing away, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.
As he reached for the door handle, Dumbledore spoke again. "Harry... I am truly sorry. For everything."
The memory shifted, fracturing into a kaleidoscope of haunting images from that fateful night at the Department of Mysteries. Flashes of spellfire illuminated twisted faces, their features contorted in rage and fear. The acrid smell of dark magic filled Harry's nostrils, mixing with the musty scent of ancient tomes and shattered prophecies.
Sirius materialised before him, his handsome face alight with the thrill of battle. His barking laugh echoed off the stone walls as he danced around Bellatrix's curses, every movement full of grace and defiance. For a moment, Harry's heart soared, seeing his godfather so alive, so vibrant.
But then came the moment that had haunted Harry's nightmares for years. Bellatrix's spell struck true, and time seemed to slow. The laughter died on Sirius's lips, replaced by a look of stunned surprise. Then Sirius was falling, his body arcing gracefully as it passed through the tattered veil. Harry's scream of denial tore from his throat, raw and primal, as the last link to his parents slipped away forever.
"No," Harry growled, fighting against the tide of despair. "Not again. I won't relive this again."
"Harry." Kaze's voice emerged, cutting through the confusion. "Snap out of it."
The wind spirit's words were like a lifeline, dispersing the last remnants of the memory like fog before a storm. Harry latched onto them, using them to pull himself back to the present. He blinked rapidly, the world around him coming into focus.
He found himself suspended high above Manchester, invisible currents of air holding him aloft.
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, shaking his head to clear the last cobwebs of memory. "I hate Dementors."
"They are disgusting creatures," Kaze agreed, materialising beside him. "But you cannot let them affect you. Look below. Your intervention is needed."
Harry's gaze snapped downward, and his eyes widened at the scene unfolding beneath him. In the heart of Manchester's city centre, a convoy of sleek, black cars was parked on the street. Surrounding them, a swarm of Dementors swooped and dove between buildings, their tattered cloaks billowing ominously.
The temperature plummeted, frost creeping across shop windows and car windscreens despite the warm spring day. Pedestrians collapsed on the pavement, overwhelmed by the sudden wave of despair. Harry could see figures in dark suits surrounding the cars, wands drawn. Silvery wisps of attempted Patronuses flickered and died, overwhelmed by the sheer number of Dementors.
"Is that..." Harry squinted, spotting a familiar flag on the lead car. "Bloody wind!. It's the Queen!"
Indeed, the royal standard fluttered weakly from the lead vehicle, now slowed to a crawl by the Dementor assault. Traffic had ground to a halt, horns blaring as panicked drivers abandoned their vehicles. Although they couldn't see the Dementors, they could see the adverse effects of their presence.
"Enough," Harry growled, his eyes shifting from emerald green to a piercing azure blue. Power thrummed through his veins, the wind responding to his call.
He plummeted towards the ground, the air parting around him like water. At the last moment, he pulled up, hovering just above the ground. With a thought, he cancelled the wind that had been rendering him invisible.
There were gasps and shouts of surprise from the assembled wizards. One of the suited men, his face pale and drawn, raised his wand towards Harry.
"Stand down!" he barked, his voice shaking slightly. "Identify yourself immediately!"
Harry paid him no mind, his focus entirely on the writhing mass of Dementors above them. He raised his hand, fingers splayed wide, just as a Dementor swooped down, its rotting hands reaching for his face.
"Let's see how you like this," Harry muttered, his voice cold with rage.
With a sharp snap of his fingers, a vortex of wind erupted from his palm. The funnel shot upwards, growing in size and intensity until it dwarfed even the tallest buildings around them. The attacking Dementor was caught in the maelstrom, its unearthly shriek cut short as it was sucked into the vortex.
The assembled wizards watched in awe as Harry, with small gestures of his hands, directed the tornado. It moved with impossible precision, plucking the Dementors out of the air. But the creatures fought back, their chilling influence battling against Harry's wind.
The wind howled, drowning out the screams of terror from the people below. Buildings creaked and groaned under the strain, windows rattling in their frames.
For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed the Dementors might break free. The vortex wavered, and a few of the foul creatures began to slip through the gaps. Harry could feel their icy tendrils probing at his mind, trying to drag him back into his worst memories.
"No," Harry snarled, his eyes blazing with azure fire. "You don't get to win. Not today."
Harry thrust both hands towards the sky. The vortex surged, doubling in size and intensity. The escaping Dementors were sucked back in, their otherworldly wails lost in the howling wind.
In a matter of seconds, it was over. The last of the foul creatures disappeared into the vortex, leaving only their unearthly shrieks as evidence of their capture. Harry slowly lowered his hands, compressing the funnel until it was no larger than a garage, the trapped Dementors swirling within like a nightmarish snow globe.
"That should hold them," Harry said, more to himself than anyone else. "At least until I can get them back to Azkaban."
As the immediate danger passed, Harry noticed a flurry of activity around the perimeter of the scene. The wizards who had been part of the royal security detail fanned out, their wands raised discreetly as they began modifying the memories of the people who had witnessed the Dementor attack.
He watched with a mixture of fascination and unease as the confused expressions of the Muggles shifted to blank stares, then to mild bewilderment as false memories were implanted. A middle-aged woman blinked rapidly, then turned to her companion. "Did you see that? Must have been some sort of movie stunt."
"Good lord," her friend replied, the glazed look fading from his eyes. "Gave me a right fright, it did. They ought to warn people before pulling stunts like that."
Harry's brow furrowed as he observed the efficiency with which the wizards worked. He turned to the wizard who stood a few feet away, a tall, stern-looking man with close-cropped grey hair.
"I didn't realise Her Majesty had wizards in her security detail," Harry said.
The man glanced at Harry, his expression a mixture of wariness and respect. "Standard procedure. We've had magical protection built into the royal security protocols for quite some time. Can't be too careful, especially after recent events."
Harry nodded slowly, understanding the implicit reference to Voldemort's reign of terror. "Makes sense. Though I'm surprised the Statute of Secrecy allows for it."
The bodyguard's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "The Crown has been aware of our world for centuries."
"Is it over?"
The voice, firm and regal despite the lingering effects of the Dementor attack, cut through the chaos. Queen Elizabeth II stepped out of her car, her eyes sharp as she surveyed the scene of urban mayhem around her.
One of the suited wizards hurried to her side. "Your Majesty, please, it isn't safe—"
"Nonsense," she cut him off. "The danger appears to have passed, thanks to this young man." Her gaze fell on Harry, curious and assessing. "Now, would someone kindly explain what just happened?"
The wizard, looking rather flustered, launched into a hurried explanation. "Those creatures, your Majesty, they're called Dementors. They feed on human happiness, leaving only despair in their wake. We've been trying to contain them since they abandoned Azkaban, but—"
"Azkaban?" The queen interrupted. "The wizarding prison?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," the wizard confirmed.
"Now, young man," she turned to Harry. "May I have your name?"
Harry, who had been silently observing the exchange, straightened. His eyes had already returned to their usual emerald green.
"Harry Potter, Your Majesty."
Recognition flashed in the queen's eyes. "Potter? The one who's been fighting against that dark wizard... Voldemort, isn't it?"
"Yes. I've been involved in the fight against Voldemort."
The queen's eyes narrowed slightly. "I see. And this display of power... is this common among wizards?"
Harry shook his head. "No. It's... complicated. But I assure you, I mean no harm. I'm simply trying to protect innocents from these foul creatures."
She studied him for a long moment, her gaze piercing. Then, to the surprise of her entourage, she smiled. "Well, Mr. Potter, it seems we owe you a debt of gratitude. Those... Dementors, you called them? They were most unpleasant."
"That's putting it mildly. They're some of the foulest creatures in existence. May I ask what you were doing here to be caught up in the incident?"
"I suppose you wouldn't have heard about it," she sighed. "A bridge collapsed here in Manchester, killing dozens of people. I felt that I needed to pay my respects to the dead."
"What was the cause of the collapse?"
"I think you already know the answer to that."
Harry grimaced. "If only Dementors could be killed. They can't be locked up soon enough."
"Indeed. And you've managed to capture them all? In that... funnel of wind?"
Harry nodded, gesturing to the swirling vortex that still hovered above them. "Yes, Your Majesty. I'll be taking them back to Azkaban for containment."
"Good," she murmured. Then, seeming to come to a decision, she straightened. "Mr. Potter, I wish to discuss something with you. Would you be willing to visit the palace in a week's time?"
Harry blinked, caught off guard. He glanced at the wizard who had been speaking earlier, noting the man's shocked expression.
"I'm not sure I'm the best person to—"
"Nonsense," the queen cut him off. "You've demonstrated not only extraordinary power but also a clear commitment to protecting the citizens. I can think of no one better."
"Very well. I'll be there."
"Excellent. My staff will be in touch with the details." She turned to the flustered-looking wizard. "I trust you can arrange that?"
"Of course, Your Majesty," he stammered.
The queen turned back to Harry. "Until then, Mr. Potter. And thank you again for your timely intervention."
"It was my pleasure, Your Majesty."
As Harry prepared to depart, the queen's voice cut through the air once more.
"Mr. Potter, a moment, if you please."
Harry paused, hovering just above the ground. He turned back to face the monarch, whose eyes now held a mix of curiosity and concern.
The queen stepped closer, lowering her voice. "This Voldemort... is the conflict still ongoing? The magical world has been rather tight-lipped about the whole affair."
"Voldemort is dead. As are most of his followers."
The queen's eyes widened, and a collective gasp arose from the wizards within earshot.
"Dead?" she repeated. "When did this happen?"
"Yesterday."
The queen studied him intently, processing this information. "I see. And you were instrumental in this... victory?"
"I was involved, yes."
"Well," the queen said, "it seems we have even more to discuss than I initially thought. I look forward to our meeting, Mr. Potter."
"As do I, Your Majesty," Harry replied.
He summoned the wind and became invisible again before rising into the air, leaving a group of stunned onlookers behind. The funnel of wind, which held the trapped Dementors, trailed behind him.
Harry leaned against a partially rebuilt wall of Hogwarts, his emerald eyes scanning the bustling grounds below. The past few days had been a whirlwind of activity, each moment blending into the next in a haze of exhaustion and grief.
After returning from Azkaban, where he'd deposited the captured Dementors in their new, reinforced cells, Harry had thrown himself into repairing the castle. It felt good to focus on something tangible, to see broken stones mend and shattered windows reform under his wand. The physical labour helped quiet the tumult in his mind, if only for brief moments.
It was during one of these repair sessions that Ginny had approached him. They'd found a quiet corner amidst the rubble, away from prying eyes and ears.
"Harry, I... I'm sorry," she'd begun, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her jumper. "I know you told me not to wait, but I still feel like I've let you down somehow."
Harry had shaken his head. "You've nothing to apologise for, Ginny. This year was hard on all of us."
Ginny nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It was awful, Harry. The Carrows, the constant fear... Neville was a rock for all of us. For me. I don't think I would have made it through without him."
Harry understood. He'd been gone, fighting his own battles, while Neville had been there, leading the resistance at Hogwarts. It was a bittersweet realisation but one that Harry found he could accept with surprising ease.
Later, Neville had sought him out as well.
"Harry, mate, I never meant for things to... you know," Neville had stammered, his old nervousness resurfacing due to the topic of the conversation.
Harry had clapped him on the shoulder. "You were there when she needed someone, Neville. When I couldn't be. I'm glad it was you."
The conversation had been awkward but necessary. As Harry reflected on it now, he felt a sense of closure and the realisation that maybe he wasn't as upset as he should be by not getting back together with Ginny. Was this because their relationship was doomed to fail, or was this the result of his connection with Kaze?
Beyond the walls of Hogwarts, the wizarding world was in an uproar. Owls arrived daily, bearing newspapers and letters from all corners of Britain. The articles ranged from glowing praise of "The Saviour" to dark speculation about the nature of Harry's newfound powers. The Great Hall was constantly filled with the rustling of feathers as owls delivered mail.
Rita Skeeter, predictably, was having a field day. Her latest piece in the Daily Prophet had been particularly inflammatory:
"POTTER: SAVIOUR OR FUTURE DARK LORD?
Sources close to The Boy Who Lived reveal shocking new abilities. Has our hero gone too far in his quest for power? This reporter wonders if we've traded one Dark Lord for another..."
Harry had crumpled the paper in disgust. How would the wizarding world react to his wind abilities? Would they fear him? The whispers in the corridors and the sidelong glances from some of the younger students suggested that the fear was already taking root. But there were equally as many who were looking at him with reverence. He didn't know which one he hated the most.
Kingsley, now Acting Minister for Magic, was doing his best to maintain order, but the task seemed Herculean. The Ministry was in shambles, riddled with corruption and the lingering influence of Voldemort's regime. He was desperate for more workers, especially in the Auror department. During a visit to Hogwarts, he'd cornered Harry in a quiet corridor.
"Harry," Kingsley had said, his deep voice laced with exhaustion, "we need good people. People we can trust. I'm prepared to waive the NEWT requirements if you'd consider joining the Aurors."
Harry wasn't sure he was ready for more responsibility just yet. He'd promised to think about it, but the thought of diving into work so soon after the war made his stomach churn. He may have thought about becoming an Auror, but that no longer had the appeal it once did. The idea of chasing dark wizards for the rest of his life seemed almost... small, compared to the power he now wielded.
Headmistress McGonagall was already offering students the chance to return for a repeat year. "Your education has been disrupted enough," she'd announced in the Great Hall one evening. "I hope that you return and have a peaceful year where you can focus on your schoolwork."
Hermione, predictably, was already enthusiastic about the idea. Ron, on the other hand, had looked positively green at the thought of more schooling.
"Blimey, Harry," he'd whispered, "do you reckon we could just... not? I mean, we did save the world and all."
Amidst the chaos of rebuilding, there was the difficult task of arranging funerals for those killed in the battle. They would take place on the Hogwarts grounds, near the lake where Dumbledore had been laid to rest. The first funeral would be in three days, and everyone was scrambling to make the castle grounds presentable before people descended on the castle.
Ginny had approached Harry earlier that morning with an idea.
"We should organise a Quidditch match after all the funerals are over," she said. "To raise donations for the families of the fallen. Give people something to look forward to, you know? I was thinking we should build two teams comprising the students and former alumni."
Harry had been taken aback, but the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea.
"That's brilliant, Ginny," he'd said, a genuine smile crossing his face for the first time in days. "I'll write to Oliver and see if he's interested in captaining the alumni team."
Harry raised his head when he heard a flutter of wings, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand before he registered the familiar shape of an owl soaring towards him. The bird, a sleek tawny owl with piercing yellow eyes, landed gracefully on the crumbling stone wall beside him. It regarded Harry with an almost haughty expression as it stuck out its leg, a scroll of parchment tied neatly with a crimson ribbon.
Harry untied the scroll. Before he could even consider offering the owl a treat, it spread its impressive wings and took off, disappearing into the twilight sky with barely a sound.
Harry turned the scroll over and recognised Gringotts Wizarding Bank's ornate wax seal. The goblin-crafted insignia seemed to glint ominously in the fading light. Harry broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.
The letter was a summons to appear at the bank tomorrow to discuss his accounts and the break-in. Harry groaned. He knew he would have to deal with it at some point but he wished he had more time.
"And here we go again," he muttered. "Once more into the trenches."
So, what do you think? In the next chapter, Harry visits Gringotts. Will he have another fight on his hands?
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