Metamorphosis: The Legacy Within
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Ben 10
Isvera's hands trembled as she adjusted the tiny circuitry within the glowing, disc-shaped device resting atop her workbench. Every flicker of light from the overhead lamps seemed to intensify the sheen of alien metal and the quiet hum of energy, as if the device itself was alive and breathing along with its inventor. Her laboratory was cramped and cluttered, consoles and half-finished machines crowding every inch of space. She hardly noticed the disorder anymore, for her focus rested entirely on the prototype that she had poured her soul into creating. Outside these walls, her people were on the brink of extinction. Inside, her hope lay in the improbable success of this untested shapechanger—a final chance for survival that had taken nearly all of her resources and more years than she cared to count.
Long-limbed and slender, with skin that glowed faintly in the low light, Isvera was an unusual figure among her people. Her brilliance rivaled that of any living scientist, but her breakthroughs were met by a society too burdened by desperation to fully appreciate her achievements. She had named this device the Catalyst, although that name was only hers to know. It was a creation that surpassed anything her world had ever seen—a device capable of bridging genetic divides, rewriting biology to forge compatibility with countless forms of life. It would, if perfected, allow for reproduction beyond the narrow confines of her species' dwindling gene pool. The Catalyst was meant to grant them a chance to find potential mates among other sentient beings throughout the cosmos. Perhaps it sounded outlandish, but Isvera believed in the science behind it. With each passing day, she grew ever more certain that her device would be their only salvation.
Her eyes flitted over the power readings on the small display, verifying that the energy capacity had stabilized at seventy percent. Normally, she would run a dozen more tests before even considering a trial activation, but there simply wasn't time. A faint tremor swept through the floor beneath her boots, rattling the fragile apparatus on nearby tables. She winced, tightening her grip on the Catalyst, trying to shield it from harm. Another tremor. Then another. They were growing stronger, which could only mean that the attack had begun in earnest. Word had arrived days ago that a hostile force—once rumored to be mere raiders, but far more organized—was seizing technology across her star system. Now they had come for her.
She gently set the Catalyst in a protective housing on her workbench and hurried to a terminal on the other side of the room. The screens there showed the lab's security feeds, revealing a stark reality: heavily armed soldiers moving with precision through the outer corridors. Their eyes were fixed with determined intent; they had come prepared. She let out a slow breath, leaning forward until her forehead nearly touched the screen. She had feared this day might come. She had put all her hope into finishing the device before being found. Now, as the feed crackled with static, she could practically hear them forcing open the sealed hatch that led into her private lab.
She turned her gaze away from the screen. No matter what, the Catalyst could not fall into enemy hands. The device was incomplete—dangerously so—but she saw no alternative. A partial escape plan occupied her mind: a dimensional gate, one of her earliest experimental endeavors. If it still functioned, it might lead to unknown universes, places she had never dared to visit. She had no idea if she would survive that journey, but her species' survival mattered more than her own life. If there existed anywhere safe to hide until she could finish her work, she would find it.
Another jarring explosion rocked the corridor outside. Glass shattered, and she could hear the hiss of some unknown gas being pumped inside. She held her breath and looked wildly about for a solution. A heavy steel door separated her from the invaders, but it wouldn't stop them for long. Sparks erupted at the handle. They were trying to cut their way through. With her long fingers trembling, she returned to the Catalyst, quickly scanning for any last-minute calibrations. There was no time for anything more than a quick check to ensure it wouldn't rupture mid-travel. Frantically, she scooped the device into a small satchel, sealing it. The door hissed and started to buckle inward, the lock glowing hot from plasma cutters.
A single tear slid down Isvera's cheek as she whirled around and darted to the far corner of the room. She used to dream about unveiling the Catalyst at a grand exposition, securing her name in the annals of her civilization. Now, all she could hope for was to vanish and keep it safe. She flicked switches on a half-rusted console. Lights throughout the lab dimmed before surging violently. The distant hum of an unstable generator threatened to deafen her. An orb of swirling colors crackled to life in the center of a circular arch. It wasn't the graceful, well-tested gateway of her fantasies. It was raw, unpredictable energy that might tear her apart on contact—or deposit her in a vacuum, or a fiery star. There were no guarantees.
The door burst open. She caught only a glimpse of the intruders before snatching her satchel. They wore dark suits that bristled with alien weaponry and advanced stealth modules. One raised an arm, a bright streak of light gathering at the barrel of his rifle. Without hesitation, Isvera jumped toward the shimmering portal. A searing bolt of plasma whipped over her shoulder, narrowly missing her. She gasped, propelled by raw adrenaline, the swirling energies of the gateway distorting the lab around her in a kaleidoscope of impossible shapes. Time seemed to slow, and she felt as though she were being pulled in every direction at once. Her only thoughts were of her people, the near-dead planet she called home, and the hope that this device might, by some miracle, secure a future for them.
Her body was flung through cosmic darkness, dimensions folding around her until reality no longer possessed any coherent meaning. She clutched the satchel to her chest, pressing it tight as kaleidoscopic lights enveloped her. Her mind flickered with images of possible outcomes. She prayed for just one chance—anywhere to hide, to rebuild, to complete her work. The very air around her shifted from scorching heat to biting cold, moment by moment. Stars shimmered and warped into unfamiliar patterns. Then, with a force that rattled her bones, she landed in darkness.
She lay still for a moment, her entire body in shock. Slowly, she forced open her eyes. The strange forest around her was thick with gnarled trees and ropy vines. The air tasted of loam and decay. She placed a hand on the earth, found it damp and teeming with small, writhing insects. Her mind reeled, trying to process her new surroundings. This was not an advanced star system. There were no neon-lit skyscrapers or hum of machinery. No mechanical footsteps echoed in pursuit. All was quiet except for a peculiar chittering sound.
She lifted her head, heart pounding, and realized that the device, the Catalyst, was no longer in her satchel. The bag itself had ruptured upon impact, scattering its contents across the mossy ground. Alarmed, she scrambled on hands and knees, scouring the underbrush. She found a piece of plating from the device. Another piece of broken paneling. Her mind raced in panic, for the glowing core wasn't among the debris. Desperate to find it, she dragged herself to her feet, ignoring bruises and minor lacerations. The forest around her was deeply shadowed, and aside from the chittering, she could hear distant voices. Then, there was a flash of light. A golden glint shot past her, disappearing into the darkness beyond.
She nearly cried out, suspecting that was the Catalyst's core. But before she could give chase, she noticed movement: large, skittering shapes, creeping through the undergrowth. They were like colossal arachnids, eyes glinting with malice. She heard sharp, clicking sounds in the gloom. She had never beheld creatures like these, and though she knew nothing of this world, she could sense danger. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she felt no choice but to flee. She dashed off in a different direction, her footsteps muffled on the soft forest floor.
Scarcely thirty meters away, she glimpsed forms of other beings—bipedal shapes. Their voices carried through the night, speaking in an unfamiliar language. She pressed her back against a tree trunk, heart hammering, glimpsing them out of the corner of her eye: three figures, presumably young from their stature, accompanied by an enormous doglike creature. They all looked terrified by the swarm of giant spiders converging on them. Despite not understanding their language, she could discern their panic. One name repeated among them: "Harry." They were calling out for "Harry" in frantic tones, telling him to run.
In that moment, she realized the golden glint had soared right into their midst. One of them—a dark-haired boy—had caught it. She watched as the object fused to the boy's arm, wrapping itself around him in a sudden pulse of magic and alien technology combined. Isvera's stomach twisted with dread. The Catalyst was incomplete, unstable. It should never have bonded with a host yet—especially a host she had not prepped or tested. The boy stumbled backward, crying out in alarm as a swirl of greenish energy enveloped him. Then the entire forest erupted with a monstrous roar.
The transformation was violent and immediate. The boy's body elongated and thickened, his limbs contorting, his eyes glowing with lethal green intensity. The sound of bones cracking, flesh warping—an eerie, half-animal, half-magical transformation that forced Isvera to press her hands over her mouth. The spiders backed away in sudden horror, their spindly legs clacking together in a chorus of panic. From the shadowy forms, Isvera finally saw the result of the Catalyst's incomplete transformation: the boy had become a massive basilisk-like creature. Yet it wasn't exactly a typical serpent. It possessed a shimmering hide that looked as though forged from living scales, glimmers of magic swirling in arcs around it. Every movement radiated an otherworldly power, and its glowing eyes locked onto the horde of advancing spiders.
With a guttural hiss, it lunged forward, snapping its powerful jaws. The spiders scattered, but the great serpent gave them no quarter. It slithered at shocking speed, crashing into the colony of arthropods. She heard the strangled screeches of spiders being crushed beneath its coils, felt the forest tremble with each thrashing blow. Branches splintered, leaves and webs tore from overhead canopies, and the shrieks of spider agony filled the night. The boy's companions were too terrified to do anything but run. The red-haired one and the dog tore back toward a battered, hovering carriage of some kind, shouting at one another, while the monstrous serpent that had once been a boy continued its rampage.
Isvera's breath came in gasps. She felt partly responsible for this horrifying scene. Her device, her invention—she had to do something, but what could she do against that monstrous shape? If she could just approach, maybe break the connection or remove the Catalyst. But the beast seemed unstoppable, and she was unarmed, injured from her rough landing, and thoroughly unfamiliar with the magical energies now swirling all around.
Her instincts told her to flee, to protect herself so she might find a way to salvage the Catalyst. Yet she could not abandon the boy outright. That moment of hesitation cost her. One of the enormous spiders scrambled up behind her, limbs clacking on the tree bark, mandibles dripping with venom. She spun around, letting out a startled cry. The creature reared up, fangs bared. She stumbled, expecting a lethal strike at any second. Then, with a frightening speed, the transformed serpent crashed into the spider, coiling around it and snapping its limbs as though they were twigs. Isvera felt the warm spatter of spider ichor on her face as she staggered away. Her entire body trembled with equal parts horror and a reluctant gratitude that the beast at least hadn't attacked her yet.
In the chaos, the monstrous serpent turned toward a deeper pocket of the forest, where the largest spider reigned, its pale eyes glinting in the gloom. That must have been the brood's leader. She heard a rasping voice, distinctly articulate: "Aragog." It was an enormous spider, old and weary, yet still formidable in size. Perhaps the spider called Aragog attempted to reason with the serpent, or to warn it away. Isvera heard guttural sounds that might once have been language on the serpent's part, but the primal fury fueled by fear overwhelmed any possibility of negotiation. The basilisk lunged forward, biting down on the giant spider. Aragog's gargantuan mandibles slashed in retaliation, but it was no use. The serpent's jaws found purchase around the spider's head, and with a violent shake, Aragog fell silent. The forest went eerily still except for the sounds of smaller spiders scuttling away, leaving the monstrous shape to hiss triumphantly.
At that moment, distant shapes appeared among the trees: figures half-human and half-horse, armed with bows and arrows. Their gazes flicked between the giant serpent and the dead spider brood. One of them, with long, flowing hair, muttered something about Mars being bright tonight. Another responded with a grave tone, a promise that they would see the Acromantula eggs destroyed. They galloped off, presumably to carry out that grim task. Isvera steadied herself behind a tangle of roots. She watched the serpent, whose fury began to subside. She sensed that its transformation was fueled by the boy's terror, but now that the immediate threat was gone, it might lose momentum. Perhaps it would revert to human form, or perhaps remain trapped by the incomplete power of the Catalyst.
Unwilling to risk discovery, she hovered in the shadows, watching. She saw the serpent's massive form start to shimmer and collapse inward. Scales shrank away, the enormous body contorting. Isvera wished she could record every detail to analyze it later. This was the first known test of the Catalyst's shape-altering properties in a living, intelligent host. The boy, hair disheveled and clothing tattered, toppled to the ground in a heap. He was unconscious or nearly so, and from where she crouched, she could see the faint metallic glint of the device now fused around his wrist like a partial bracelet. A swirl of green magic still danced around him, weaving through his very aura. She recognized it as something that might be a synergy between the Catalyst's energies and the latent magical environment of this place.
The sound of approaching footsteps made her cringe. Through the gloom, more bipedal figures appeared—teachers, perhaps, or other guardians, brandishing wands. Their voices were urgent and worried. They surrounded the unconscious boy, scanning the carnage in shock and horror. A flurry of excited conversation ensued, names spoken in hushed, urgent tones: "Harry Potter" was repeated several times, often accompanied by gasps and exclamations of alarm. Gentle hands lifted the boy, carefully cradling him as they made haste away from that horrific clearing.
Isvera caught only a glimpse of the boy's pale, unconscious face before he was carried off. In that fleeting moment, she felt an odd pang of sympathy. She had no idea who "Harry Potter" was in the context of this realm, but from the way the others spoke, he seemed to be someone of great importance. She remained hidden, trying to think of her next steps. The Catalyst was incomplete, and now it had bonded with a native of this world, potentially endangering countless lives. Her presence here might only complicate things further. She needed time to heal, to understand this realm's magic, and to figure out whether she could remove or stabilize the Catalyst. She slipped deeper into the trees, glancing back only once at the swirling mass of carnage left behind. Somewhere in the darkness, the remaining Acromantulas scurried or lay dying, and the half-horse warriors advanced on the egg sacs to ensure no new brood would hatch. In the distance, the battered flying car soared away, carrying the red-haired boy and the enormous dog with it. The chaos of this forest had become a crucible for her invention.
At dawn, the boy was carried to the confines of a large castle, its turrets and spires silhouetted against the dim sky. Word of the horrific events in the Forbidden Forest spread rapidly among students and staff, but the administration maintained a semblance of order. They ushered the boy—Harry Potter—into an infirmary where a stern but caring nurse bustled about, applying diagnostic spells and offering potions. The noise and bustle were relentless, as worried whispers among staff members rose to a crescendo. Yet, beneath the flurry of activity lay an undercurrent of relief: the forest, it seemed, no longer held a threat to the school, at least for the moment.
Harry himself awoke with a start in that infirmary, heart hammering, eyes darting around in confusion. He had no memory of exactly how he'd returned to his human form. The last thing he recalled was the suffocating fear of those giant spiders and something golden slamming into his hand. Had he passed out? He tried to recall details, but everything blurred. He took in his surroundings: the white curtains, the rows of beds, the potions cabinet, and the stern-faced matron, Madam Pomfrey, who had her wand trained on him in a precise diagnostic pattern.
She noticed him stirring and gently guided him to lie still. "You've been through a great ordeal," she said, her voice soft but firm. "You're lucky to be alive, Mr. Potter. Your injuries were far more extensive than usual."
Harry blinked, confusion warring with the memory of terror. "Injuries?" he managed. He felt strangely...good. Stronger, even. He attempted to prop himself on an elbow but froze when Madam Pomfrey pressed a hand lightly against his chest.
"Hold still," she commanded in a brisk tone. "You may feel all right, but the scans I took earlier—well, they were unusual. I need to figure out precisely how you've managed to heal so quickly. It's not normal, and I want to be sure there's no lasting damage."
He allowed himself to be guided back. Beneath the warm covers, he felt an odd sort of energy thrumming through his limbs. Even the faint scars from past Quidditch injuries seemed to have vanished. He clenched his fingers experimentally, feeling more strength than he ever had before. It almost felt like some cosmic wind was at his back. He lifted his left hand, rubbing at his wrist. That was when he noticed it: a faint golden band, like a thin bracelet that shimmered just under the skin. It didn't look like metal so much as living light. A chill ran through him.
Madam Pomfrey's sharp gaze fell on the bracelet. "I've attempted every diagnostic charm I know," she said, sighing in frustration, "but that thing is resisting. It doesn't seem parasitic, exactly, but it's definitely fused to your magical core. I'm not certain how safe it is."
Harry struggled with a sense of rising panic. This was reminiscent of nightmares he'd had about cursed objects. "Can't it be removed?" he asked in a quiet, desperate tone.
She pursed her lips. "Not without potentially harming you," she admitted. "It's integrated itself quite thoroughly. I'm consulting with some of the more experienced professors for insights, but..." She paused, pressing a hand gently on his forehead. "How do you feel, physically?"
Harry thought for a moment. "I feel...fine. Good, even. A little too good." He tried to explain the strangeness of it, the way he felt stronger, as though his nerves were charged with a new kind of vitality. Even more peculiar were the faint echoes in his mind—distorted memories he didn't recognize. Whispers in the back of his consciousness that seemed both alien and eerily familiar. He hesitated to mention them, unsure if it was just the shock of nearly being eaten by giant spiders.
She nodded slowly, moving her wand in neat circles. Sparks of green and blue danced in response to her spells. "Your magic is fluctuating in ways I've never observed in a student. Normally, I would suspect an enchantment or perhaps some dark curse. But the energies I'm seeing are more...complex. There's no obvious sign of malevolence, yet I can't guarantee the impetus behind it isn't dangerous."
Harry frowned, noticing that even his vision seemed sharper. He glanced around the ward, taking in details he would have overlooked before: the faint texture of the bed curtains, the scuffs on the floor from a thousand footsteps. He quickly shut his eyes, overwhelmed by the intensity.
As if sensing his distress, Madam Pomfrey placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We'll keep you here until we know more," she said gently. "But I can't deny something extraordinary has happened."
Not long after, visitors began to trickle in. First came Ron, who still looked pale from their misadventure. His words poured out in a torrent of relief and awe at Harry's survival. He recounted how they had managed to escape in the flying car, how everything had seemed lost until teachers had arrived in the forest. Fang, the big boarhound, had cowered in the backseat the whole time. Ron's face turned ashen as he described watching Harry turn into a snake—a monstrous serpent that dwarfed anything he'd seen. Harry tried to wrap his mind around it, the notion that he'd become something akin to a basilisk. He felt nauseated imagining himself as a giant snake, remembering faint glimpses of spiders screeching and the taste of cold blood. The memory was incomplete and distorted, but it clung to the edges of his thoughts.
Hermione arrived soon after, eyes red from crying, demanding explanations that Harry didn't have. She fussed over him, lecturing him in a trembling voice about the danger of meddling in the Forbidden Forest. But beneath her anxiety, he detected another emotion—a subtle longing in the way she glanced at him, her cheeks heating whenever she caught his gaze. It was strange, and it made him uneasy. Hermione had always been a caring friend, but this sudden intensity felt beyond simple concern. Something about the band on his wrist pulsed faintly whenever she came near, as though reacting to her presence.
Others came to see him, too. Luna Lovegood ambled in with her usual dreamy curiosity, offering cryptic comments about unseen creatures that might be swirling around Harry's aura. Susan Bones popped by, timid but clearly drawn to him in a way that made Harry's cheeks flush. Even Hannah Abbott, Su Li, Padma Patil, and Penelope Clearwater stopped to check on him, lingering in his presence longer than they normally would. Their glances held curiosity mixed with an undercurrent of...something else Harry couldn't quite name. Perhaps empathy. Perhaps fascination. Yet it felt too personal, too resonant.
All the while, Madam Pomfrey continued her observations, carefully taking notes. Harry overheard her muttering about "unusual pheromonal influences" that might be emanating from the magical band. She worried it might be affecting the emotional states of those around him, especially impressionable teenagers. Nevertheless, she didn't stop them from visiting; she merely watched carefully, as though she were studying a newly discovered species.
Late that evening, Harry drifted into a restless sleep. In his dreams, he found himself standing in a vast, starry expanse. Silvery light shimmered underfoot, pooling like water. Before him stood a glowing figure—feminine in form, yet featureless, bathed in radiant gold and dotted with green sparks. It spoke, but not aloud; the words bloomed in Harry's mind. It introduced itself as the essence of the device, newly endowed with consciousness. It spoke of its creator, someone who had fashioned it for survival, for compatibility across species. It explained how it had merged with Harry, tapping into something dark (the fragment of Tom Riddle that once lingered in his scar) and something bright (the protective magic imbued by Lily Potter). It told him that these energies, combined with his own life force, had birthed a new consciousness, a kind of symbiotic presence that was both protective and...motivated.
In the dream, Harry felt wonder and fear war within him. The presence comforted him, saying it existed to guard and empower him, that it would fulfill Lily's unspoken wish for Harry's happiness, and James's and Sirius's hopes for Harry's legacy. Yet behind that comfort, he sensed a subtle undercurrent of ancient desire, a primal directive to carry on the legacy of the device's original people. He asked questions, but the figure only offered cryptic answers about evolution and continuity. He felt warmth in the dream, as though lulled by a kindly guardian.
He awoke drenched in sweat. The hospital ward was quiet now, moonlight shining through tall windows. Hermione had gone, as had everyone else, leaving him alone with his rattled thoughts. He stared at the shimmering band on his wrist. It was no ordinary relic. It was alive—conscious. The memory of that dreamlike conversation sent ripples of anxiety through him. He pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling the absence of the lightning-bolt scar. Where it had once throbbed in times of danger, he now felt no pain, only an odd emptiness. The scar itself had faded to a mere ghost of a mark. He exhaled shakily.
A few days passed in cautious monotony. Madam Pomfrey insisted Harry stay in the infirmary, subjecting him to potions and scans. Professors visited occasionally, each with their own theory, though none entirely understood what had happened. In that time, Harry's body felt as though it were still adjusting. He found his senses sharper, his magical reserves deeper. He even noticed that spells were easier to cast. If he concentrated, he could feel the swirl of energy around him—like a living aura that responded to his will. But it wasn't all exhilarating. At odd moments, he detected a subtle stirring in the air, like a subsonic hum that only he could hear, particularly when someone he cared about stood near him. He guessed it was the bracelet's doing, forging connections, drawing people closer.
After he was deemed stable enough, Madam Pomfrey allowed him short walks around the castle. Students swiveled to stare as he passed in corridors, some out of curiosity, some out of lingering fear of the rumors swirling about how he had become a giant serpent in the forest. Whispers spread that Harry Potter now possessed a deadly power. Some students gave him a wide berth. Others seemed irresistibly intrigued. He caught Susan Bones blushing whenever he spoke to her in the hallway. Hannah and Su giggled shyly, exchanging glances whenever they were near him. Padma, normally rather calm, grew tongue-tied in his presence. Even Penelope Clearwater, who was older and usually quite self-possessed, lingered to chat about things that he doubted truly interested her.
He wanted to believe it was just the typical swirl of Hogwarts gossip. Perhaps they were simply curious about the Basilisk Incident, as some had taken to calling it. But the dreamlike presence in his mind gently corrected him. The device, the bracelet, was indeed influencing emotions on a subtle level, releasing invisible signals that elevated certain feelings. It was not forcibly controlling anyone, the presence insisted; it merely offered an irresistible nudge, in line with people's existing attractions or dormant desires. It troubled him. Even if it wasn't pure mind control, it still felt wrong. Like a temptation. He struggled with guilt, worrying that the feelings from his friends might not be entirely genuine.
One particularly unnerving incident occurred when Dumbledore summoned him to the Headmaster's office. The old wizard regarded him with grave eyes, the lines on his face deepening in concern. Fawkes, his phoenix, perched quietly, emitting an occasional low trill. Dumbledore questioned Harry about the events in the forest, about how he felt, about whether he had any recollection of the magical transformation that had taken place. Harry found himself compelled to answer truthfully, but he stopped short of revealing the full nature of the device's presence. He only said that something had latched onto his magic, changing him, that he didn't fully understand it.
Dumbledore listened with measured calm, nodding occasionally. But Harry sensed something else in the old wizard's gaze—fear, perhaps, or suspicion. After a long pause, Dumbledore drew his wand. He asked Harry to remain still, that he was going to cast a diagnostic. Harry steeled himself, but the moment Dumbledore's wand glowed, the band on Harry's wrist flared in silent warning. Harry felt a lurch in his mind, a sudden surge of protective magic. The next thing he knew, Dumbledore's wand flickered, and the old wizard blinked in apparent confusion. Whatever spell he'd intended to use—perhaps a subtle compulsion or a detection charm—had been deflected. Dumbledore tried to hide his dismay, but Harry saw it. The Headmaster then pressed him gently, subtly, about the device. Harry tried to evade the questions, not wanting to betray the sentient presence that had saved him from the spiders, nor wanting to risk losing control of his own body if it felt threatened.
Dumbledore ended the meeting with a kind smile that didn't reach his eyes, encouraging Harry to come to him if he experienced any distressing symptoms. Harry left that office shaken, certain that the Headmaster was not just curious but intent on regaining some measure of control over him. Later that night, he swore he heard footsteps outside the Gryffindor dorm long after curfew. When he dozed off, the presence in his mind teased him with glimpses: illusions of a silent figure standing over him, wand in hand, as if testing illusions or mild memory-altering spells. He jolted awake more than once, convinced someone was tampering with his mind, but each time he found himself alone. The bracelet, he realized, was interfering with those attempts, protecting him.
It was a chilling realization, to be sure. Dumbledore was a legend, a hero even, yet it seemed he was willing to cross lines to ensure that Harry remained a certain way—manageable, or at least predictable. The next morning, Harry confronted a swirl of conflicting emotions. He had never doubted Dumbledore before, yet he couldn't ignore the evidence. He felt gratitude toward the device for safeguarding him, even as he wrestled with moral questions about its influence.
Time passed in a slow, tense dance. Harry tried to slip back into normal life—classes, Quidditch practice, conversations with friends. Yet everything had changed. He no longer felt like the scrawny boy who had to rely on luck and occasional bursts of courage to survive. There was a shift in his posture, in his confidence. Even the professors noticed. Flitwick commended him on a new mastery of Charms, while McGonagall raised an eyebrow at how swiftly he picked up new Transfiguration techniques. Snape, ever suspicious, grew even more caustic, but Harry sensed an undercurrent of wariness—like Snape wasn't quite sure what Harry was anymore.
Hermione kept pressing him for details, suspecting that something deeper had taken hold of him than just a magical artifact. Sometimes she'd confront him with direct questions: "Why are you so different, Harry? Why do you feel...older?" She'd bite her lip, and Harry could see her concern. Sometimes he told her partial truths—that a fusion of energies had changed him, that he was struggling to adjust. She looked worried but remained supportive. Yet Harry noticed the longing look in her eyes, a yearning that was more than friendly. He knew it might be the bracelet's doing. It pained him to think that this new tension might not be entirely her free choice.
Luna drifted closer, too. Her statements were mystifying but sometimes hit uncomfortably close to the truth. She spoke of cosmic connections, soul threads, and her belief that Harry's aura had been entwined with ancient energies. One evening in the library, she sat close enough that he could smell her light perfume. He felt an odd shimmer in the air between them, saw her eyes glimmer with fascination. She touched his hand once, and he felt a pulse from the bracelet. It left him both intrigued and uneasy, as though he were standing on a precipice he wasn't ready to cross.
A quieter tension gripped the school, too: the knowledge that Voldemort, somewhere out there, still posed a threat. Rumors spread that he might attempt another infiltration of Hogwarts, that he was biding his time. Harry tried not to dwell on it too much, but the presence in his mind occasionally whispered warnings. It told him that a vestige of Tom Riddle had once inhabited his scar, that it had gleaned memories of dark rituals. The device seemed to believe that Voldemort was aware of Harry's change, and that soon, something would have to give.
Everything came to a head one fateful evening when an unnatural chill descended upon the castle. Students shivered in corridors, cups frosted over in the Great Hall, and the torches burned lower than usual. Harry felt an ominous prickling at the back of his neck, the band on his wrist warming in response. The presence whispered that a final confrontation was at hand. Voldemort had found a way inside—perhaps not bodily, but his spirit or an avatar of his dark power.
Harry tried to gather his friends, but events moved swiftly. An alarm spread through the corridors, teachers rushing in all directions. Dumbledore's calm voice echoed over the castle: "All students are to return to their dormitories immediately!" But Harry felt compelled to do the opposite. The band on his wrist guided him, pulling him toward a far-off corridor. He found himself descending a spiral staircase he'd never noticed before, hearing echoes of distant screams. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision, and at the bottom of the stairs, he emerged into a lonely, forgotten chamber near the depths of the castle. A single torch sputtered, revealing a hooded figure at the far end.
The figure lowered its cowl, revealing gaunt features and crimson eyes that gleamed with malevolence. Voldemort—alive in some twisted form. He sneered at Harry. "You've grown stronger than I anticipated," he said in a voice that was both raspy and somehow commanding. "But no matter. Your power is raw, incomplete. You may have destroyed the fragment of my soul that lingered in your scar, but you cannot hope to match the might of the Dark Lord at full strength."
Harry swallowed hard, recalling the presence that had integrated part of Riddle's essence. That fragment had been consumed, devoured by the device. He gripped his wand, though he could also feel the swirling energy in his body, the same primal power that let him transform. He had not attempted it again since that night in the forest, but the band pulsed as though ready to assist him if he willed it.
Voldemort attacked first. Dark tendrils of magic lashed out, smashing into the ancient stones, sending sparks flying. Harry responded with a powerful shield charm, one that came more naturally to him now than breathing. The magic collided, a deafening roar, and the corridor quaked. He was dimly aware of dust sifting down from the vaulted ceiling. He pressed forward, launching spells he hadn't even known he possessed in his repertoire—some half-remembered knowledge gleaned from Riddle's old fragment. Streams of silver and green light flared, sizzling through the air. Voldemort laughed, a cold, humorless sound, as he dodged or countered. But Harry sensed an unspoken tension in the Dark Lord's stance: he was wary of Harry's newfound power.
A savage exchange of curses followed, each attempting to gain ground. The band on Harry's wrist glowed with a fierce intensity, feeding him energy, shaping his movements. He realized with a start that he could shift, partial transformations rippling across his limbs. When Voldemort unleashed a coil of black serpents from his wand, Harry's arm half-transformed, scythe-like scales forming around his flesh, striking the summoned serpents with vicious swiftness. The brief metamorphosis startled even Voldemort.
"Interesting," the Dark Lord hissed. "You are quite the abomination now, Potter. Perhaps I can twist that power to my advantage once I've torn it from your corpse."
Harry ignored the taunt, focusing on controlling the tumult within him. The device's presence urged him onward, telling him to embrace the full transformation, but he held back, not wanting to lose his mind to primal fury. Instead, he funneled the energies into a swirling barrier around himself, stepping closer to Voldemort. Each exchange grew more frantic. The corridor walls cracked, and the floor buckled. Gargoyles perched on the walls overhead fell and shattered from the reverberations. The unearthly wails of combined magic shrieked in Harry's ears.
Suddenly, Voldemort pressed an advantage, hurling a withering curse that shattered Harry's shield. Harry tumbled backwards, landing hard. Pain flared in his ribs, but the band quickly numbed it. He looked up to see Voldemort's lips curled in a triumphant sneer, wand raised for a killing blow. Panicked, Harry unleashed what remained of his fear—he let the band guide him. Energy surged, green magic swirling up from his torso, coalescing around the golden band. He roared, and that roar shifted into a bestial hiss. His body expanded, bones cracking. Scales rippled across his arms and torso, fangs extending from his mouth. He felt the ground drop away as he took on serpent-like proportions. Not as large as in the forest, but still monstrous, built for lethal speed and power.
Voldemort's eyes went wide as the half-transformed Harry lunged, jaws parted in a defiant hiss. The dark wizard tried to sidestep, sending hexes that glanced off Harry's hardened scales. With a twist of his serpentine neck, Harry crashed his transformed body into Voldemort, knocking the wand aside. He pinned the Dark Lord against a broken column, and for an instant, he sensed the raw terror in those crimson eyes. But Voldemort was cunning and slippery; he managed to pull free, raising his wand to cast a destructive blast of crackling green energy directly into Harry's face. Harry reeled from the impact, feeling a surge of pain unlike anything he'd experienced. The band on his wrist flared in protest, forming a lattice of golden light across his scales. He used that momentary shield to coil around Voldemort's wand arm, and with a twisted surge of strength, he broke it.
Voldemort shrieked in agony, and the corridor erupted with chaotic magic. The wand tumbled from his hand, spinning away into the shadows. Harry, his mind teetering at the edge of bestial instincts, saw an opening. He bared his fangs and struck. A wave of unstoppable force poured from him, tangling with the swirling energies in the corridor. For a heartbeat, it seemed as though the entire world held its breath. Then a resounding blast of magical discharge tore through the space, bright enough to sear Harry's vision. When it faded, Voldemort lay crumpled, drained. Whatever fragment of immortality he clung to slipped away under the onslaught of the device's combined energies and Harry's own fierce will. For a long moment, Harry stared, uncertain if he had truly ended it. He saw no movement, sensed no presence. Voldemort's form dissolved into ash, leaving behind ragged robes and a lingering, sour stench of dark magic. It was over.
Swaying unsteadily, Harry felt the serpent form recede. Scales vanished, limbs returned to normal, but he collapsed to his knees, panting. That final surge of power had exacted a heavy toll. The corridor was silent now, save for the occasional tinkle of loose stones. He watched as the golden band on his wrist flickered, its light dimming drastically. The presence in his mind, that comforting yet sometimes disquieting guardian, whispered a final farewell. It had used nearly all of its accumulated energy to defeat Voldemort. Harry sensed it slipping away, its consciousness fading. A pang of loneliness cut through him. For all the moral quandaries it posed, it had also been a protector, an ally that truly wanted his happiness and safety. Now it was drifting out of existence.
He let out a ragged breath. There was no sense of triumph, only relief and the sting of loss. Footsteps echoed behind him. He turned to see a group of teachers, wands drawn, and behind them, a cluster of students, eyes wide with shock. Among them were Hermione and Ron. Hermione rushed forward and knelt beside him, tears in her eyes, while Ron hovered behind her, mouth agape. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick exchanged astounded glances. Dumbledore came forward last, looking solemn but also strangely relieved.
Harry couldn't find words. He looked at Hermione, saw the worry in her gaze, saw her hand trembling as she reached out to touch his shoulder. He leaned into her, exhausted. That moment, he realized that the device's potent influence had ebbed. Whatever subtle threads of compulsion it wove might remain, but the consciousness behind it, the driving force, was gone. For the first time since that night in the forest, he felt entirely alone in his own mind. And yet, there was a soft warmth blossoming from within—his own magic, free and unbound, shaped but not dominated by the device's legacy.
In the weeks that followed, much was explained in hushed tones and contradictory rumors. Some said Harry Potter had channeled the power of a great ancient serpent to vanquish Voldemort. Others insisted he'd uncovered a long-lost artifact. The truth remained a guarded secret. The golden band on his wrist was still there, but inert. Its once-vibrant glow had subsided to a faint shimmer. He could still sense a fraction of the shapeshifting power within him, and his new physical vigor lingered. But it was his choice now how to use it, and to what extent.
Hogwarts returned to a semblance of normalcy. There was no triumphant feast or grand victory celebration, perhaps because the final confrontation had taken place in the shadows, away from the public eye. But those who understood nodded in quiet respect when they passed Harry in the corridors. The teachers seemed gentler with him. Ron stuck by his side, praising him for the daring duel. Hermione offered quiet support, occasionally struggling with her own conflicted feelings. She never said it directly, but Harry sensed how her closeness had been heightened by the device's influence. Now that it was dormant, perhaps some of that intensity would fade, or perhaps it would remain as a genuine feeling. He wasn't entirely sure.
One afternoon, as he sat by the Black Lake, he felt the crisp breeze ruffling his hair. He flexed his arm, watching sunlight catch on the faint glimmer of the band. He sensed no guiding voice, only a distant echo of memories from that dream. He knew he was different now—stronger, more confident, but also more cautious of power's temptations. In a way, the device had fulfilled Lily's wish for him to survive, to be happy, to be able to face danger head-on. But it had also raised moral questions he couldn't ignore: how much of his presence was truly his own doing, and how much had been coaxed by the alien technology?
He gazed at the horizon, reflecting on the alien inventor who had made the device. Somewhere, across unimaginable light-years or even across the boundaries of reality, that being had poured her soul into creating a mechanism for species survival. Harry didn't know what became of her, nor did he know if more of her kind would come seeking the Catalyst. Perhaps it was a story that would remain unfinished on this side of the portal. But he felt a pang of gratitude. Without her invention, he might be gone, devoured by Acromantulas, or outmatched by Voldemort.
Yet he also felt a burden: he carried a piece of that alien's heritage in his own body, a responsibility to use the power wisely. Even if the consciousness that once resided in the bracelet was gone, he was left with a measure of that shapeshifting potential, that link to a grand cosmic tapestry. He wondered if, one day, he might learn to harness it without losing himself.
The end of the school term loomed. Students chatted excitedly about going home, about the next year of magical studies. Life went on, as it always did at Hogwarts. Harry made his way through the bustling corridors, occasionally catching sight of the very people who'd been so drawn to him: Luna with a small smile, Hermione with a tentative wave, Susan and Hannah giggling at something they wouldn't share, Padma giving him a polite nod. Each carried on with their own lives, free to choose how close they wanted to be. It was a relief, in a way. He no longer felt the subtle pressure of the device's compulsion. All that remained was the possibility of genuine friendship—or something more—if they so desired.
At last, the day arrived when he boarded the Hogwarts Express to return to the Muggle world for the summer. The train steamed out of Hogsmeade, carrying him away from the world of magic, at least for a while. He sat by the window, gazing at the rolling countryside, the fields dotted with sheep, the skies stretching boundless overhead. An occasional pang flared in his wrist, as though the band were reminding him of the extraordinary journey he'd just completed. He closed his eyes, letting the steady rhythm of the train lull him into reflection. He thought of the monstrous transformations, the moral dilemmas, the confrontation with Dumbledore's manipulations, the final duel with Voldemort. It felt like a lifetime compressed into a few tumultuous weeks.
He allowed himself a faint smile. He was alive. He was free. Though changed, he carried with him the combined legacy of Lily's love, James and Sirius's hopes, Tom Riddle's stolen knowledge, and an alien inventor's final attempt to save her people. How he would reconcile all these facets of himself remained an open question. But for now, he felt at peace with the uncertainty. He had his friends, his remaining time at Hogwarts, and a future that was no longer overshadowed by a lethal dark wizard. And deep inside, he had a power he could call upon if real danger arose again—a power tempered by the lessons he'd learned about free will, responsibility, and the complexities of influence.
That night, after settling into his Aunt and Uncle's house on Privet Drive, he lay in his cramped bedroom, staring at the ceiling. The house was as stifling and normal as ever. Yet Harry felt less confined than before, as though the walls couldn't possibly hem in the person he'd become. He heard the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway. He felt the quiet hush of the suburban street outside. Gently, he traced a finger over the barely visible line where the alien band met his skin. It felt warm to the touch, a quiet reminder that he was neither wholly the boy he used to be nor entirely an alien creation.
In that stillness, he promised himself he would honor all that had been given to him. He would train, learn more about the powers the device had left him, but only use them when absolutely necessary. He would hold onto the sense of empathy and moral duty that had always guided him, striving never to become a creature of unchecked power. And he would remember that while the device had been created to ensure a species' survival, the real test was how he would live among his own kind, forging genuine connections rather than manipulated ones.
His eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. The knowledge of the device's purpose and the weight of its legacy lingered in his subconscious, but for the moment, he was content to rest. A new chapter of his life lay ahead, shaped by transformations both external and internal. He could almost imagine a faint, distant voice whispering that the future was his to define, that the bonds he formed would be of his own choosing. Whatever challenges he might face, he could finally face them without the overshadowing threat of Voldemort. And in this quiet, suburban night, Harry Potter slept more soundly than he had in years, ready to chart his own course in a world where magic, love, and a spark of alien ingenuity converged to create a most extraordinary life.
AN:
More on my P-atreon
More than 20 fanfiction are currently active on my
Up to 70+ Chapters across the 20 fanfictions
www'.'P-atreon'.'com/c/HitmenScribbles
Exclusively on P-atreon now:
Kyubii Son Reborn: Harry Potter/Naruto Crossover (Up to 5 chapters available now)
Rescued by Tails: Harry Potter/Sonic the Hedgehog Crossover (Up to 5 chapters available now)
Rescued by Lamia: Harry Potter/Monster Musume Crossover (Up to 5 chapters available now)
Harry Potter and Toon Force: Harry Potter/Looney Tunes Crossover (Up to 5 chapters available now)
Shinigami's Vacation: Naruto/Bleach Crossover (Up to 4 chapters available now)
Harry Potter and BBPS Reborn: Harry Potter/ LitRPG (Up to 5 chapters available now)
Lonely Ruler and Her Sunshine: Harry Potter/One Piece Crossover (Up to 5 chapters available now)
Raised by Mew Reborn: Harry Potter/Pokemon Crossover (Up to 5 Chapters available now)
Fragile Hope: Harry Potter/Saw series Crossover (Up to 4 Chapters available now)
Symphony of Machines: Harry Potter/FNIA Crossover (Up to 4 Chapters available now)
Despair's Unexpected: Savior Harry Potter/Danganronpa Crossover (Up to 4 Chapters available now)
The Silent Lullabies of Abandoned Factory: Harry Potter/Poppy Playtime Crossover (Up to 4 Chapters available now)
Threads Woven Between Two Souls: Harry Potter/Coraline Crossover (Up to 4 Chapters available now)
Queen Of Forbidden Forest: Harry Potter (Up to 4 Chapters available now)
Worlds Unbound Magic: Modern Harry Potter(events are 20 years so instead of 1981 it is in 2001) (Up to 4 Chapters available now)
Moonlight and Mist: Harry Potter/Percy Jackson Crossover (Up to 4 Chapters available now)
The Midnight Train: Harry Potter (One-Shot)
You can read any of my fanfictions which are published here with 2 weeks of early access before everyone on my P-atreon