The next chapter marks a shift in tone. As I mentioned before, the story changes, and new characters appear—perhaps abruptly, perhaps not—but everything has a purpose later on.
This chapter is somewhat dark, featuring both psychological and physical torture. However, this was warned about from the very beginning of the fic.
Thank you to everyone who reads and continues reading.
I've tried to rely on several editors who have helped me a lot in improving my grammar and punctuation, so you don't have to struggle while reading. Please keep in mind that English is not my native language.
Enjoy!
Chapter XI: By his own rules
The morning arrived with a dull, gray light seeping through the heavy curtains, a reminder that the day was rising unrelentingly, just like the weight of his decisions. Harry awoke with a dull ache in his muscles, the memory of the previous night still fresh in his body: the bruises on his sides, the cuts that were beginning to heal, and the heavy sense of exhaustion that followed him even in his sleep. However, it wasn't the pain that kept him awake. It was the shift in his plan, the reckless decision that he had made in the last moments before sleep overtook him.
He had considered countless strategies, replayed every scenario in his mind, and yet, in the end, he had chosen to act in a way he hadn't anticipated. Instead of continuing with his original plan to unravel hidden secrets in the shadows, he had decided that his target had to be more direct, more tangible. The Malfoy mansion, a place always shrouded in mystery and silence, had become his new objective. Rumors were spreading quickly in the resistance circles, and though there was no concrete evidence, the gossip was clear enough: Voldemort was staying there, in that grand estate filled with secrets.
With a heavy sigh, Harry pushed himself off the bed, the pain in his sides flaring slightly as he made the movement. He walked over to the small desk where Daphne's letter still rested, carefully folded. He hadn't touched it since the night before, but her words echoed in his mind: "Take care of yourself, even if you insist on pretending you don't need anyone." Harry didn't know if those words were driving him forward or simply reminding him of what he had to do.
The silence of the morning enveloped him as he dressed. His clothes were slightly wrinkled, but he didn't care. His focus was entirely on the decision he had made. The Malfoy mansion was no longer a mere piece of the puzzle; it was the next step in his pursuit of Voldemort, and he knew the risks involved. Every action carried consequences, but there was no turning back now. If Voldemort truly resided there, Harry would have no choice but to confront him directly. With a sigh, he steeled himself and began the journey.
A sense of quiet resolve settled over him as he strapped on his wand and gathered the few essentials he would need. The bruises and scars on his body might fade, but the memories of the battle ahead would stay with him—until he put an end to it all. The morning sun climbed higher as Harry moved swiftly through the fields toward the mansion, his every step calculated and deliberate. The air was crisp, yet it carried a weight that mirrored his own thoughts.
By the time he reached the Malfoy mansion's outer gardens, Harry's heart pounded in his chest, but not from exertion. His ritual had gone off without a hitch—no one had suspected a thing. The Death Eaters, confident in their hold on the mansion's defenses, had no idea that they were slowly being unraveled, thread by thread, by the complex magic he'd woven. It had been difficult, but Harry's knowledge of ancient and dark magic had given him the foundation to understand the Codex Mexica. The ritual, a discovery from his recent research, had pushed the limits of his skill, yet he had executed it with precision. He didn't need to master every nuance of the Codex; all he needed was to wield its power to tear down the barrier between the mansion's interior and the outside world.
As he crouched in the shadows, hidden among the darkened trees, the first wave of his creation struck. A screech tore through the air, unsettling the Death Eaters as their spell-casters and guards whirled around, their wands raised. Amid the garden's manicured hedges and ornate fountains, a mass of spectral figures, ghostly shapes, translucent and shimmering with an eerie blue light—appeared out of nowhere. They howled and wailed, casting the garden into a state of terror. The plants around them withered and died in an instant, a symbol of the raw, dangerous power Harry had unleashed.
"What is this?!" shouted a Death Eater, his voice a mixture of disbelief and panic as he cast a shield charm to protect himself from a ghostly apparition that passed through his body. "We're being attacked! But by what?"
"They can't be real," another Death Eater murmured, raising his wand to cast a binding spell. "It must be an illusion... a trick."
Harry smiled grimly, his eyes scanning the scene, knowing full well that his enemies were wrong. These spirits weren't illusions—they were necromantic creatures conjured through his power, drawn from the Codex's twisted teachings. They weren't there to fight, not directly. Their purpose was to disorient and distract. They moved like fog in the garden, a constant presence of fear and confusion, passing through the living without leaving a mark but still managing to send a chill into the bones of those who encountered them.
From his vantage point, Harry watched as the Death Eaters' confusion deepened. Some attempted to banish the spirits with spells, but the ghosts simply flickered and reappeared elsewhere, creating a sense of helplessness. Others tried to rally, calling for reinforcement, but Harry's magic had already infected the mansion's grounds, nothing would go as they planned. The once-pristine garden was now a battlefield of shadows, shifting figures, and crackling dark magic. Harry could feel the rising chaos, the surge of power he had triggered.
A Death Eater who had been trying to cast a defensive spell suddenly screamed in pain as a zombie—a reanimated corpse from the local graveyard Harry had raised—emerged from the ground beneath him, grabbing his legs. The zombie's gaping mouth reached for the man's throat; its dead eyes glazed over as it dragged him toward the ground.
"Imperio!" a voice yelled in frustration, the curse cutting through the air like a knife. The spell wasn't intended for the undead but to control the living—yet in this case, it was nothing more than an act of desperation. The Death Eater who cast it was just as powerless against the growing madness as the others.
The battle escalated. Harry watched in grim satisfaction as the Death Eaters' desperate attempts to regain control grew more frantic. More zombies surged from the earth, shambling forward in their grotesque, slow-motion assault. The spirits shrieked and howled, disorienting the Death Eaters further, and the garden was engulfed in a frenzy of curses and magic.
"How are we supposed to fight this?" one Death Eater shouted, his voice thick with panic. "It's... it's beyond anything we've ever faced!"
"They have no idea what they're fighting!" another one growled, launching a curse toward a particularly aggressive spirit that flew through him, disappearing only to reappear behind. "This magic is ancient... they're not human!"
The truth was, they weren't human. But Harry wasn't just controlling them—he was using them as a veil for what came next. Voldemort needed to be pulled into the battle, and Harry knew the Dark Lord wouldn't resist. Voldemort thrived in chaos, and he wouldn't be able to ignore the magic swirling around him.
The moment came when the air shifted heavily, cold, and suffocating. The presence of darkness pressed in, and Harry felt a chill run down his spine. There, standing at the edge of the battle, was the figure he had been waiting for. Voldemort.
"Enough of this!" Voldemort's voice rang out across the battlefield, his red eyes glowing like fire. "You think this is enough to defeat me? You think I will be caught by such tricks?!" His pale hands twitched, and with a hiss, his magic lashed out, clearing the battlefield of spirits and zombies alike. His power was like a hurricane, sweeping everything in its path. "Reveal yourself, Potter! I know you are here!"
Harry's pulse quickened. Voldemort had taken the bait. He had fallen into the trap. As the Dark Lord advanced, his wand raised, Harry knew the time had come.
A gust of wind swept through the battlefield, carrying the echoes of panicked Death Eaters as Harry's summoned horrors continued their relentless assault. The air crackled with residual magic, the clash of spells illuminating the garden in violent bursts. Yet, amid the chaos, Harry remained poised, his mind focused not on the battle, but on the true objective. Every move had been calculated, every detail accounted for—Voldemort's arrival was merely the signal to move forward.
The Dark Lord's presence was suffocating, his aura pressing against the very fabric of the night. Harry could feel the cold weight of his gaze, the unspoken challenge hanging between them like a blade poised to strike. But he wouldn't strike—not yet. This was not a duel; it was a distraction. The real battle was unfolding elsewhere, beyond Voldemort's notice.
Taking a slow step back, Harry let his heartbeat steadily, his breaths controlled and measured. Then, with a sharp turn, he vanished into the shadows, leaving only the echoes of his spellwork in his wake.
But Harry wasn't done yet. The second part of his plan had to be executed perfectly. He had already set the mansion's wards to his advantage, and with distracted Voldemort, Harry slipped quietly through the garden gates, unseen, into the mansion itself.
Inside, the mansion was eerily quiet. The grandeur of the Malfoy family's estate loomed around him as Harry crept through the hallways, moving quickly and silently. The walls themselves seemed to whisper with the residue of dark magic, and Harry could feel the weight of the mansion pressing down on him. He didn't have much time. Voldemort was still out there, engaged in the chaos Harry had orchestrated, but he knew the Dark Lord would return soon. He had to find what he was looking for—the answers that could finally end this nightmare.
As Harry moved deeper into the mansion, his mind focused solely on his task, he couldn't shake the feeling that every step brought him closer to something far darker than he had anticipated. But for now, there was no turning back. He would find the answers or die trying.
The battle raged outside, but inside, Harry was on a different mission entirely—one that would change the course of the war forever.
Inside the Malfoy mansion, Harry's heart pounded with the adrenaline of his success. He had evaded detection, and now, deep within the labyrinth of corridors, he had found something that felt... important. A single, unassuming door, heavily guarded by a wizard with the look of someone who knew how to protect something precious. The wizard's wary eyes met Harry's for a moment before they darted down, as if assessing whether he should fight or flee. It was a wizard Harry didn't recognize, but he could tell he wasn't a mere servant. The man's nervousness seemed to suggest that whatever lay behind that door was being closely guarded.
Without a second thought, Harry drew his wand, his movements sharp and purposeful. "Move," Harry ordered, his voice low but firm.
The man seemed hesitant, his hand shaking as he reached for his wand. His face was pale, his nerves clearly getting the better of him. He wasn't very skilled in magic, that much was clear. Harry quickly overpowered him. It wasn't a real fight—it was almost absurd, how easily the man faltered. The wizard was no formidable opponent, but his importance might be another matter entirely.
"Expelliarmus!" Harry called, sending the man's wand flying out of his hand. He fell to his knees, gasping for air, too overwhelmed to do anything else.
"Pathetic," Harry muttered as the man scrambled for his wand again, his desperation a clear sign of his weakness. "You're of no use to me as a fighter."
Despite his initial dismissal because of the wizard's incompetence, Harry's mind raced. This man could still be useful, even if only as a source of information. Deciding swiftly, Harry resolved to place him under custody for interrogation. If he was guarding something behind that door, he knew more than he let on.
Harry's eyes flickered toward the door, but just as he took a step forward, a soft noise broke his concentration. Footsteps, deliberate and measured, echoed through the dimly lit corridor. His grip on his wand tightened as he turned slightly, listening.
The Death Eater before him seized the momentary distraction and fled, vanishing into the shadows before Harry could react. He swore under his breath but remained still, waiting. The footsteps grew louder, each step resonating with a quiet authority. Whoever was approaching wasn't rushing, this was calculated.
The door creaked open before he could make a move. Harry turned sharply, wand raised, ready for anything. A familiar figure stepped inside with the grace of a predator.
Narcissa Malfoy.
She took in the scene with a slow, assessing gaze, her sharp eyes landing on him with a mixture of amusement and disdain. Her elegant robes were immaculate, her posture impeccable, as if she hadn't just walked into a room where chaos had unfolded moments before.
"Potter," she murmured, her voice carrying a quiet authority that sent a chill down his spine. "Did you really think you could come here unnoticed? You underestimate us."
Harry's heart pounded, but he remained silent, calculating his next move. He had no time for this. Narcissa's expression hardened as she took another step forward, her wand slipping into her hand like an extension of herself.
"You've made a grave mistake."
Before he could react, she flicked her wand, sending a sharp pulse of magic toward him. Harry barely managed to cast a shield charm in time, the force of her spell making his arm tremble slightly from the impact.
"You're quick," she observed, her lips curling in a faint smirk. "But you lack discipline."
She attacked again, this time aiming at the ground beneath him. The stone cracked and split open, threatening to pull him down into the crumbling floor. Harry leapt to the side, rolling smoothly before coming up on one knee, wand steady. He retaliated with a stunning charm, but Narcissa deflected it with practice ease.
She was relentless. The air between them crackled with magic as curses and counter-curses flew in rapid succession. She was faster than he had anticipated, her movements precise, each spell meant to push him back, to disorient him.
But Harry had learned from master's beyond her comprehension.
He shifted his stance and, in a single fluid motion, invoked a spell from the Codex Mexica. The magic meandering through the air like a living thing, weaving past her defenses and catching her wand mid-incantation. It yanked the weapon from her grasp, sending it clattering to the floor.
Narcissa froze, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she stared at him, eyes blazing with something between fury and surprise.
Harry wasted no time. He advanced, stepping past her fallen wand, his focus returning to the door. But the damage was done, the echoes of their battle had spread through the corridors, drawing attention.
He didn't need to turn to know what was coming. He could feel it, like the gathering of a storm on the horizon.
Voldemort was on his way. Harry cursed under his breath. He needed to move quickly.
The air vibrated with an impossible tension. Outside, the battle had reached its climax, but inside Malfoy Manor, an even more dangerous confrontation was about to begin. Voldemort emerged from the shadows, his mere presence distorting the atmosphere with suffocating power. His red eyes scanned the scene, assessing the devastation Harry had caused with magic that few would dare to even comprehend.
It wasn't just power that Potter had invoked. It was an impossible mixture: magic from the forgotten gods of Egypt, enchantments stolen from the depths of Hades, forbidden rituals from times when humanity barely understood the scope of the soul. Voldemort couldn't ignore it.
"Potter..." The Dark Lord's voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of imminent judgment.
Harry didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the sealed door, the secrets behind it more important than the shadow of death lurking at his back. But Voldemort was not a patient adversary. In an imperceptible gesture, his wand rose, and the air seemed to freeze before an invisible roar exploded from the tip of his wand.
Confringo Maxima.
The explosion wasn't just a simple destruction spell: reality itself seemed to collapse into a point of pure annihilation, tearing pieces of the manor's structure and warping the space around it. Harry barely had time to invoke a reinforced Protego Totalis with the runic power of the Mayan inscriptions he had studied. The impact threw him backward with tremendous force, shattering the ground beneath his feet.
Voldemort didn't wait. He moved with the precision of an absolute predator, his wand spinning with barely perceptible movements. From his core, threads of dark energy emerged, not simple curses but fragments of magic that devoured light, forms of Primordial Necromancy that had been eradicated from magical books millennia ago.
Harry rolled across the rubble, feeling the energy of the attacks swirling around him. A second slower, and his body would have been reduced to a forgotten echo.
"This is not a duel, Potter. This is your execution."
But Harry was no ordinary wizard. His mind worked in fractions of a second, every instinct sharpened by years of hunting. He couldn't just evade. He needed to change the structure of the battlefield.
He raised his wand and uttered the unthinkable.
The ground beneath them cracked with a deafening roar. It wasn't just an earthquake; it was something worse. The very lines of magic were giving way, the fabric of reality tearing as shapeless shadows emerged from the fissures. Forgotten spirits, condemned to exist between the world of living and the dead, screamed in unnatural wailing.
Even Voldemort stepped back.
"What have you done?" he whispered with a hint of disbelief.
But Harry didn't answer. He took advantage of the slightest hesitation, and with a flick of his wand, bent gravity to his favor, propelling himself down the hallway with impossible speed for a human. The walls around him began to collapse in spirals of destruction, consumed by the unstable energy of the spell.
Voldemort reacted instantly.
"You won't escape."
Darkness took form. Ancient curses, impossible to block with conventional defenses, slithered after Harry like hungry predators. But he had anticipated something like this.
With one final word in a language no longer remembered by human memory, he unleashed his final card.
Ignis Divinum.
The flames were not ordinary fire. They weren't even Fiendfyre. They were a manifestation of pure magic, a response to Voldemort's curse, a flame that devoured not matter but the very essence of magic.
The explosion was catastrophic. The clash of opposing forces tore through the air, consumed the manor's structure in a vortex of light and darkness.
And in that moment of utter chaos, Harry vanished into the shadows.
The Dark Lord stood among the ruins his gaze fixed on the void.
It wasn't rage burning in his eyes.
It was something more dangerous.
Intrigue.
As Harry vanished into the mansion, his footsteps silent and measured, a quiet sense of satisfaction stirred within him. Voldemort might have been the terror that plagued the wizarding world, but Harry had made it clear, he was no mere pawn. He was neither a servant of light nor a disciple of darkness. He was something more complex, shaped by both yet beholden to neither. He had embraced the full spectrum of magic, unrestrained, willing to sacrifice anything, even his own soul.
His plan had worked, but it wasn't the outcome that mattered most. It was the message. The next time their paths crossed, Voldemort would feel it, Harry Potter was no longer a piece in the game. He had become the strategist, the player who bent the rules to his will. He had woven threads of defiance through every corner of this conflict, and now, those ripples would reverberate. Voldemort would soon understand that this was no longer just a battle for survival. It was a war for control, and Harry had crossed into the territory of the predator, not the prey.
Far from the chaos Harry had left behind, Voldemort's fury simmered beneath the surface, an intensity so cold and calculated it radiated from him like a silent storm. His pulse quickened, but his thoughts remained precise, methodical. He paced the dimly lit chambers of the Lestrange mansion, the walls adorned with dark relics and treasures that reflected his own twisted sense of control. Every corner seemed to constrict around him, as though the very air was thickening with the weight of his contemplation. The devastation at the Malfoy estate, an unexpected disruption, churned in his mind, but he would not allow himself the luxury of reaction. There was time for anger, but now was the time for clarity.
Bellatrix Lestrange stood motionless in the room, her loyalty unquestioned, yet even she refrained from speaking. Narcissa Malfoy, however, stepped forward, her demeanor cautious, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Master," she said, her voice trembling with the gravity of the report, "The mansion was nearly destroyed. The wards you placed... shattered. The magic used by Potter was far beyond anything we expected. The manor itself... it groaned under the power unleashed."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed slightly, his focus never leaving her as he processed the information with unsettling detachment. "What of the one guarding the entrance? Wormtail?" His question, sharp and deliberate, caught the room off guard. A subtle shift in the air, a signal of the underlying tension, made Bellatrix pause, sensing the unspoken weight in the Dark Lord's tone.
Narcissa hesitated before answering, her discomfort clear, but her voice remained steady. "He did not survive. Potter's magic confused our ranks. In chaos, Peter was... overwhelmed." She faltered, searching for words that would cushion the blow. "He fell, my Lord."
The silence that followed felt suffocating, but Voldemort's response was chillingly composed. His eyes never wavered as he absorbed the loss. A flicker of something unreadable passed through him, an imperceptible tightening of his jaw, but he dismissed it quickly, as if it never occurred. He turned away, his fingers curling tightly around his wand, his grip reflecting his cold resolve.
"No matter," he said, his voice void of emotion, though his gaze betrayed the seething intensity lurking within. "Potter's interference will not go unanswered. Let this serve as a reminder that no one is safe." His gaze swept across the room, his presence imposing, daring anyone to challenge him, his mind already calculating the next move.
"And the rest?" Voldemort asked, his voice flat but laced with an undercurrent of simmering fury. The question hung heavy in the air, its weight pressing on the shoulders of his followers.
Narcissa swallowed, trying to maintain her composure. "The damage was catastrophic. It wasn't just destruction, Master. The spells... we couldn't trace them. Some were necromantic in nature, others... something older. The curses were unrecognizable. Even the dark magic Potter employed... it defied our understanding. It was unlike anything we've seen before."
She spoke carefully, her thoughts briefly drifting to the fact that Lucius had been fortunate enough to be away in Italy, escaping the chaos that had consumed their home. Her son, Draco, had also been absent, a fact that spared them both from Voldemort's wrath. She felt a fleeting sense of gratitude amidst the tension, but it quickly faded under Voldemort's scrutinizing gaze.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed as he processed the information, his mind working with frightening speed. Potter's magic was beyond anything he had anticipated—chaotic, ancient, and unfathomably potent. But that was the only thing he understood. Potter's move had been audacious, yes. It had rattled him, but it had also revealed his weaknesses, his lack of understanding. Potter was playing a dangerous game, but Voldemort would not allow him to outmaneuver him again.
"Fools," Voldemort muttered, his voice almost imperceptible but dripping with disdain. He turned away from Narcissa, raising his wand with a calculated, almost methodical precision. A flash of green light burst from the tip of his wand, striking the wall with such force that the ancient stone cracked under the impact. His voice, now cold and filled with venom, echoed through the room. "Incompetence. All of you."
He spun back to face the gathered Death Eaters, his fury now contained, but still palpable beneath the surface. "How could you allow a mere man to strike at us so?" His voice was like ice, but the anger simmered beneath it, building to something darker.
The room fell into a suffocating silence, the Death Eaters shrinking under his gaze, too afraid to utter a word. Yet Voldemort's fury began to subside, replaced by a quiet contemplation that was far more dangerous. His mind, ever sharp and calculating, turned inward. Potter's move had been clever—an unexpected strike, yes—but it was not a fatal one. It had caught him off guard, forced him to regroup, but it had also revealed the nature of his opponent.
Voldemort's eyes grew cold as his mind absorbed the implications of what had occurred. Potter had used something beyond conventional magic. Something that defied even the darkest spells. But that was a challenge Voldemort could overcome.
"Potter..." Voldemort hissed under his breath, his voice low but laced with a dangerous calm. "You think you can outplay me. But you are no match for me. Not yet."
Turning back to his Death Eaters, his expression became one of chilling calculation. "Gather yourselves. We will regroup. I will not allow this insult to stand. Potter's insolence will be punished. He will pay dearly for his actions. But first, we wait. We plan. We strike when the time is right."
Voldemort's mind, sharp and methodical, was already formulating the next step. Harry Potter had won a battle, but the war was far from over. Voldemort would ensure that. His eyes flickered to the shadows where one of his most trusted operatives remained concealed—unseen, unheard, yet always present.
"Severus," Voldemort's voice sliced through the stillness, commanding yet eerily calm. From the darkness, a figure emerged, the long cloak of the former spy sweeping behind him as he materialized before the Dark Lord. The room held its breath as Snape stepped forward, his face unreadable. Though presumed dead by most, Severus Snape had always been a shadow, a ghost of sorts, lingering at the periphery of Voldemort's schemes.
"Your task remains unchanged," Voldemort continued, his cold gaze unwavering. "You will go the resistance. Specifically, to the old fool. I want to know their position, where they stand on Potter. Do not reveal what has transpired here." His tone broke no argument. "And remember, Snape... your true loyalty lies in our victory, not in the illusions of the past."
Snape nodded slightly his expression carefully neutral. While the Dark Lord's eyes blazed with calculated fury, Snape's thoughts remained hidden, as always. He did not know Harry Potter personally, but the remnants of Dumbledore's influence still haunted him, even in the wake of his death. The fragile alliance with Voldemort and the precarious position of his double life required him to treat carefully, no matter what the cost.
And so, as Voldemort's resolve solidified, his followers stood in the shadows, waiting for the inevitable. Harry Potter had made his move. Now, it was time for Voldemort to make his.
And so, as Voldemort began to steady himself, his Death Eaters stood in the shadows, awaiting the next command, the next move. Harry Potter had made his move. Now, it was time for Voldemort to make his.
Far away from Voldemort fury and reflections, the once vibrant castle of Hogwarts stood now as a hollowed sanctuary, its walls weathered by time and burden. Where laughter and the hum of youthful energy once resonated, now lingered murmurs of despair and discontent. The sprawling grounds, overrun with wild grass and makeshift shelters, housed hundreds of witches and wizards—refugees of a shattered world.
Beneath the dim light of an enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, Neville Longbottom stood at the head of the platform. The enchanted torches flickered, their light casting shadows across a crowd of anxious faces. It wasn't the Great Hall he remembered from his school days; the long tables had been replaced with scattered benches, crates, and chairs, a makeshift arrangement for displaced people.
"Tell us, Neville!" a voice rang out, sharp and accusing. A tall wizard with a weathered face and a missing eye stepped forward, his tattered robes dragging on the stone floor. "What are we doing here? Hiding like rats, waiting for salvation that never comes?"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Neville raised a hand to quiet them, but it was clear that tensions were high.
"The situation isn't what any of us wanted," Neville began, his voice steady but heavy with weariness. "I know it's been hard—years of hard—but every move we've made has been to protect as many as possible."
"Protect?" another voice cut through. This time, it was a woman, her face pale and drawn. "We've been running for decades. Voldemort's shadow looms over everything. We thought you had a plan, but all we've seen is more bloodshed and loss."
The words stung, and Neville's jaw tightened. "Do you think I don't know what's been lost?" he shot back, his tone sharper now. "Do you think I don't carry the weight of every life taken; every family torn apart?"
A heavy silence fell over the hall.
"But running headfirst into Voldemort's grasp isn't the answer. His forces are embedded everywhere in the Ministry, patrolling the streets. We've survived because we've stayed together, because we've stayed hidden. That's not weakness; that's strategy."
"And what about Harry Potter?" someone muttered from the crowd, barely audible but enough to draw a collective breath from those around them.
Neville's gaze hardened, but his expression remained calm, as though he had anticipated the question. "Harry..." he began, his voice steady but tinged with quiet defiance, "Lord Potter isn't the answer to this war. He fought his own battles; we are fighting the Dark Lord forces not headlines or gossip reporters."
He scanned the room, letting his words settle. "This isn't his fight. It's ours. If we want to see an end to Voldemort's reign, it's not going to come from some savior. It's going to come from us. From the choices we make here, now."
The crowd murmured uneasily, but no one dared challenge him further.
"But where is the fight?" the tall wizard pressed, his voice rising. "We can't sit here forever. Every day, Voldemort grows stronger, and we grow weaker."
Neville looked out over the sea of faces. He saw the desperation, the anger, but also the glimmer of hope that hadn't yet been extinguished.
"The fight is coming," he said, his voice resolute. "But it's not a fight we'll win by rushing into it unprepared. We need each other now more than ever. Trust me, or don't—but know this: I'll fight until my last breath to see Voldemort fall. And if you'll stand with me, we'll find a way."
The crowd murmured again, less hostile now, though the unease remained. Neville stepped back from the platform, his shoulders heavy with the weight of their hopes and fears. In the far corner of the hall, the weathered banners of the four houses hung limply, reminders of what they had lost—and for what they still fought.
The long stone corridors of Hogwarts echoed with the sharp sounds of hurried footsteps and raised voices. Neville Longbottom and Susan Bones strode side by side, their argument cutting through the silence like a blade.
Here's the revised segment with your requested changes:
"You've been too cautious, Neville!" Susan snapped, her tone sharp, frustration and desperation radiating from her. She took a few steps forward, her posture stiff, as if physically trying to bridge the distance between them. Her eyes locked onto him, imploring. "I've been saying it for weeks. We need to contact Harry. We can't keep ignoring it, pretending we can do this without him. No matter how dark or complicated the methods he used are, he has the answers we need. And you know it."
Neville stood rooted to the spot, his jaw clenched tight, his hands twitching at his sides. His voice was low, a tremor of barely controlled fury edging his words. "Harry Potter isn't the solution, Susan. Dragging him into this will only add to the chaos we're already drowning in." He turned away briefly, his eyes flashing with frustration. "Do you think I don't see it? The suffering out there? I see it every single day." He paused, swallowing, before continuing, his tone colder. "But I won't make the mistake of creating more problems for us—least of all by chasing after someone who's spent years walking around with dark arts and shadows."
Susan's breath hitched, and with a sharp turn, she cut him off. Her sudden movement brought them face-to-face, forcing him to halt. She was no longer just a commander, she was a person standing in the ruins of a crumbling world, her voice trembling with raw emotion. "Mistakes? Dark arts? Shadows?" Her voice broke, but she pressed on, eyes blazing with a fire that hadn't been quenched on time. "People are dying in the streets! Families torn apart!" Her hands fisted at her sides, and she took a step closer, the words spilling out of her as if she could no longer hold them back. "And you're afraid of making a mistake? What happened to the Neville who stood up to Voldemort himself? The one who led us after Dumbledore died, when we had nothing but each other?"
Neville's eyes hardened, a flash of anger and something deeper flickering in them. His jaw tightened even further, his fists balling at his sides. "He grew up," he spat, his voice hoarse but resolute. "He learned that charging blindly into danger isn't bravery. It's stupid." He took a deep breath, his gaze steady now, yet heavy with the weight of a thousand battles. "I'm doing what I have to do to keep us alive."
Susan's posture faltered, but only for a moment. Her chest rose and fell with the intensity of her breathing, but her voice cracked with a sharp, painful edge. "Alive for what?" The words seemed to tear at her. She leaned in slightly, her face so close that her breath mingled with his. "To watch everything, we love to crumble around us. To wait until there's nothing left to fight for?" Her eyes softened for just a moment before she quickly masked it with an air of defiance.
The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. They stood there, both struggling with the weight of their differing beliefs. The only sound was the faint creak of stone beneath their boots as they resumed their march toward the headmaster's office, the heavy tension lingering between them like an unspoken challenge. Neither of them spoke again, but their hearts pounded in the same rhythm, torn by duty, fear, and the knowledge that every decision made now could very well be their last.
When they reached the gargoyle guarding the entrance, Neville muttered the password, "Phoenix's Ashes," and the spiral staircase groaned to life. They ascended in uneasy silence, the air thick with unspoken thoughts, each step carrying them further into the heart of the war that raged outside these walls. As they neared the top, the office that once belonged to Albus Dumbledore loomed before them, a quiet echo of a time when hope still had a chance.
But as they entered, they immediately sensed something was off.
The room, already dim from the fading light of day, felt colder than usual. And then they saw him, Severus Snape. His presence was unmistakable, a figure both battered and formidable, standing near the center of the room as though he owned it. His robes were torn and scorched, yet he stood tall, shoulders squared, his defiance evident despite the toll the fight had clearly taken on him. His pallid complexion had a deathly hue, his gaunt features drawn tight as though the weight of his own existence had become a burden too heavy to bear.
Snape's black eyes flickered in the dim light, burning with an intensity that still commanded respect. The shadows from the hearth seemed to cling to him, emphasizing his sharp angles, his very essence, a contrast of light and dark. In the stillness, it felt as though time itself had slowed, the only movement the flickering of the fire, casting transient shapes over his rigid form. Behind the desk, Dumbledore's portrait hung, its painted eyes filled with silent concern, though it did nothing to break the tension that filled the air.
The silence stretched between them, thick with uncertainty, until Snape finally spoke, his voice cutting through the stillness with its usual sharpness. "Longbottom, Miss Bones," he greeted, his tone icy but laced with something else curiosity. His gaze shifted between them, weighing them, as if trying to gauge their next move. "Still predictable in your paranoia, I see. Wands drawn before questions asked—how very Gryffindor."
His words hung in the air, a pointed reminder of their differences, but they also invited a challenge, as though he were testing them, gauging how far they had come since the days of unquestioning loyalty.
Neville stepped forward with his wand unwavering. "You shouldn't even be alive," he said coldly. Susan was right beside him, her expression taut with suspicion and anger.
"And yet, here I am," Snape replied smoothly, though his voice was hoarse, from more than exhaustion. He gave a sardonic tilt of his head, a gesture that did nothing to calm their mistrust. "It seems not even death is enough to grant me peace."
Susan's grip on her wand tightened. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "The last we heard, you were dead, killed for being a double agent, or so they said. And if you really are the one who killed Dumbledore, why should we trust a word from you?"
Snape's expression shifted ever so slightly, his lips curling into a faint sneer. "Believe what you wish, Miss Bones, but you might first consider why I would crawl back here in this condition if not for necessity."
Before Susan could retort, Neville cut in, his tone like ice. "Necessity? Or another game of manipulation? We've had enough of your lies, Snape. If you're here to show more division, I'll—"
"Enough," Dumbledore's portrait interjected, his calm yet commanding voice cutting through the escalating tension. The three froze, their gazes snapping to the painted figure of the late headmaster. "Severus is here for a reason, and it is imperative you hear him out."
Neville didn't lower his wand. His eyes never left Snape his mistrust palpable. "Why now? After years of silence, years of betrayal, do you expect us to trust you because Dumbledore said so?"
Snape's gaze hardened, his expression a mix of exasperation and disdain. "I expect nothing from you, Longbottom. But if you want to cling to your self-righteous indignation while the Dark Lord tightens his grip do so. It will make his victory all the easier."
Susan stepped forward her wand now aimed squarely at Snape's chest. "And why should we believe anything you have to say? What proof do you have that you're still not working for him?"
Snape's eyes narrowed, his voice heavy with a mix of urgency and frustration. "I didn't come here to debate my loyalties, Longbottom," he said, his tone clipped. "I came because you need to know what happened at Malfoy Manor today. I don't survive that attack by chance—nor was it a simple skirmish." He gestured vaguely at his tattered robes, streaked with blood, the evidence of the brutal battle.
Neville's eyes hardened, his wand still gripped tightly in his hand, but he said nothing.
"The attack was a surprise," Snape continued, his voice low, each word dripping with weight. "Magics older than anything you've seen—dark, ancient—unleashed by none other than Mr. Scandalous man himself." He paused, letting the name settle in the air like an ominous threat. "Harry Potter is playing a game, but it's not the one any of you think. He's not a pawn in this war, Longbottom. No—he's a knight. And a knight has the power to turn the tide of the game in ways you can't predict. You'd be wise not to underestimate him."
Susan's jaw clenched, her gaze flicking between Snape and Neville. "Harry Potter? You're telling me he's behind the devasting attack at Malfoy Manor?"
Snape gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. "He orchestrated it, I think. It was a solo mission. The destruction, the casualties, it was his move." His eyes darkened. "I don't claim to understand Potter's full intent, but I know this: He's not a simple player in Voldemort's game, and neither are you if you're still alive to hear me say this."
The room was thick with tension, the air heavy with the weight of his words. Dumbledore's portrait watched silently, his painted eyes shifting between the three figures, but the old headmaster said nothing.
"I don't know what Potter's goal is," Snape continued, his voice hard as stone, "but I do know one thing: He's dangerous. And you'd better prepare yourself for the unpredictable."
Neville's grip tightened on his wand. "And you expect us to believe you? After all this time?"
Snape's lips curled into a cold smile. "Believe me or don't, Longbottom. That's your choice. But what you don't have the luxury of is time. The game has already started, and if you stand still for too long, you'll be left behind."
A tense silence filled the air as Snape reached into his robes and pulled out a Portkey, his movements deliberate but swift.
"You'll see soon enough," he said, his tone mocking. Before Neville or Susan could react, the Portkey activated, and Snape disappeared in a blur of magic, leaving behind only the faintest trace of his presence.
Neville didn't lower his wand his eyes never left the spot where Snape had vanished. The tension in the room was palpable, the weight of Snape's words settling like a heavy fog.
"He's hiding something," Neville muttered, his jaw tightening. His gaze flickered toward the desk, where the faint shimmer of light from a vial of memories caught his attention.
Susan followed his line of sight, her expression hardening as realization dawned. "That's what he meant," she said quietly, her voice laced with suspicion. "Whatever happened at Malfoy Manor... it might be in there."
Dumbledore's portrait observed them both with quiet intensity, his painted features betraying a flicker of approval. "The board is shifting, Neville," he murmured, his voice soft yet penetrating. "And every piece has its role to play, whether you see it or not."
The vial of memories sat on the desk, its surface catching the faintest glimmers of light. Neville and Susan stood silently before it, their focus unbroken.
With a soft, almost imperceptible nod, Dumbledore signaled them to begin.
As Susan's fingers touched the vial, the world around them shifted. They were no longer in the dimly lit room with Snape's lingering presence, but instead, they found themselves amid a chaotic scene, the scent of earth and magic thick in the air. The garden of Malfoy Manor stretched before them, though they could see no sign of Snape.
"Where are we?" Neville whispered, his eyes darting about, trying to comprehend the scene unfolding.
"This is where it all happened," Dumbledore's voice echoed gently, as if it were a whisper from within their own minds. "You will see what Severus could not speak of."
They both felt the shift in the air as the first wave of magic struck. Figures—spectral and eerie—suddenly manifested in the garden. The spirits wailed and howled, causing the very plants around them to wither and die at their touch. Neville's eyes widened with shock, but it wasn't the spirits that caught his attention; it was the sheer, otherworldly power they exuded.
"Impossible," Susan muttered, her gaze fixed on the spirits swirling around the Death Eaters, their terror palpable. "This isn't just magic... this is."
"Necromancy," Neville interrupted, his voice heavy with grim realization. "But it feels... different."
The Death Eaters were in disarray, their confusion spreading like wildfire. One of them shouted, "What is this?!" as the ethereal forms passed through their ranks, untouchable. Another, desperate to regain control, cast curses wildly, barking, "It's an illusion. A trick!"
But then, from the edges of the chaos, a shadow moved—fluid, deliberate, and calm. Amid the screams and clattering of curses, Susan didn't need to see the figure's face to recognize him. Her eyes narrowed, instinctively knowing who was behind this. A Death Eater shrieked as a zombie's gnarled fingers gripped at his legs, and Neville felt a chill pierce his spine. The scene before him was a nightmarish revelation. Dark rituals, yes, but this? This was beyond what he had been warned about.
It's Potter," Susan said quietly, her voice carrying a strange mix of certainty and disbelief. There was no question in her tone, she had seen this before. The way the spirits moved, the seamless control he had over them, the raw power behind each spell, it was unmistakable. She recalled the mission in Surrey, where Harry had unleashed similar magic, a devastating blend of dark and ancient forces. The complexity and magnitude of it now, however, was on an entirely different scale. No one else could command such power except Voldemort itself.
Neville turned his gaze toward her, his expression solemn, but he didn't need words to communicate the depth of the realization. "No one else could wield magic like this. Not after Westminster... not after Surrey." His voice trailed off, the weight of their shared experiences pressing down on them both. It was clear now, there was no doubt. Harry Potter had crossed a line they had never anticipated.
The battle raged on, the spirits flickering and disappearing, only to reappear elsewhere, disorienting the Death Eaters further. Their curses flew wild, but they couldn't seem to hit their mark. It wasn't until Neville noticed the rising chaos and the cold, suffocating air that something clicked.
The Death Eaters' panic only grew. One of them yelled, "This magic is ancient... they're not human!" But it was the moment the air itself turned heavy, thick with darkness, that Neville realized what was happening. The real target of this attack had yet to reveal himself.
And then, they saw it. A towering presence emerged at the edge of the battlefield. The unmistakable form of Voldemort himself.
"Enough of this!" Voldemort's voice rang out, a deep, menacing sound that sent a ripple through the scene. His wand lashed out, sweeping away the spectral forces and reanimating corpses with a single, furious wave. "Reveal yourself, Potter! I know you are here!"
Neville's chest tightened. He could almost feel the tension in the air, Potter's plan had worked. He had drawn Voldemort into the battle.
From the corner of his eye, Neville saw Susan's face pale as she stood frozen. Her voice, a whisper, broke the silence. "Not surprise here, but all this... wow, we are so…"
Neville's grip on his wand tightened. He had expected many things from Voldemort, but Harry Potter, an unknown wizard, but this level of destruction and power was overwhelming.
The memory began to fade, and they were once again in the dim office with the vial now empty. They stood, unmoving for a moment, processing the gravity of what they had witnessed.
"Harry Potter isn't just a pawn in this game," Neville said quietly, his voice heavy. "He's playing by his own rules now. And no one, not even Voldemort, is ready for that."
Susan stood in stunned silence; the implications of the vision settled in her mind. "What does this mean for us, Neville?" she asked, her voice raw with uncertainty.
"It means we're in deeper than we thought," Neville replied, his gaze steady. "And we need to figure out where we stand—before the game's already over."
Far from Neville and Susan's reflections, in the quiet solitude of his study, Harry stared at the disarray on his desk—an intricate chaos of books, scrolls, and notes, the remnants of long, grueling nights spent immersed in research. His focus had been death in its many forms, examined through the lens of various cultures. Yet amid this sea of knowledge lay the true crown jewel: the Mexica codex. An unmatched source of power, it revealed the forbidden magic of the past—a dark, primal force that, in the right hands, could bring either devastation or salvation. Its potential was limitless, but so was its danger.
Leaning back in his chair, Harry narrowed his eyes, the weight of his recent actions settling over him. The attack on Voldemort had served its intended purpose, but it had done more than it had proven something vital. It had shown Voldemort that Harry, too, could shape the world, bend it to his will with the same terrifying abandon. Voldemort had always been a master of chaos, but now, Harry had demonstrated that he could play that game just as skillfully—if not better.
Unlike Dumbledore, who through Neville still clung to ideals of righteousness, Harry had embraced a world that no longer fit into the binary of good and evil. Light and dark were not opposing forces but intertwined aspects of the same whole. It was a truth Dumbledore, for all his wisdom, had failed to fully accept. The old man's morality, rigid and outdated, had been passed down—unwittingly—to those like Neville Longbottom, who still believed there was a singular path toward balance. But the world had changed, and those who failed to adapt would be swept away.
For thirty years, Voldemort had kept Dumbledore's king in check, forcing him into a game of endurance rather than conquest. The old wizard had been a brilliant strategist, his mind sharp, his resolve unyielding, but in the end, he had played to survive, not to win. He had held back a final masterstroke, a move that would turn the board, but Harry doubted it. Dumbledore's refusal to embrace the ambiguity of light and dark had left him vulnerable. Now, that same philosophy had passed to Neville, who had yet to learn the one lesson that might save him, the old ways were no longer enough.
A deep, aching fatigue settled over Harry; a toll exacted by the magic he had wielded. Each spell, each incantation, left its mark—both physically and mentally—an exhaustion that no amount of rest could erase. His wounds, though not fatal, had yet to fully heal, and with each passing hour, new scars seemed to form. Some were raw, inflamed reminders of battle, while others cut deeper, etched into his very soul by the weight of the dark magic he had commanded. His skin, pale and thin from years of magical exertion, felt stretched taut, a fragile barrier barely containing the chaos within. His bones ached, a silent warning of the price he had paid.
His gaze drifted to an open book; its yellow pages filled with ancient Mayan script. It detailed sacred rituals of purification—practices designed not just to cleanse the body, but to strip away corruption from the soul itself. The Mayans had believed that darkness, whether an external force or the weight of one's own sins, could taint the spirit, and only through transformation could one be reborn.
One such ritual centered on water, drawn from sacred cenotes and rivers. The priest would first purify the space, anointing it with incense made from copal and other fragrant herbs to clear the air of malevolent energy. A ring of candles surrounded the ritual site, each flame representing an element of purification—fire, air, water, earth. The practitioner would enter, stripped of clothing and adornments, symbolizing a return to their most primal state, unburdened by the world's influences.
Then came the cleansing with water. Ritual water, infused with herbs and ceremonial offerings, would be poured over the individual's body, cascading from head to feet. As the water touched the skin, the priest would chant prayers in an ancient dialect, invoking the power of the gods and the elements to wash away impurities. The Mayans believed that water had the power to dissolve not just dirt, but the very essence of evil, purifying the soul of its darkness. The practitioner would then fully immerse themselves, either in a cenote or a prepared basin, allowing the water to envelop them completely rebirth, a renewal.
Harry found himself drawn to the simplicity of the ritual. There was something both primal and sacred about it, a connection to the elements he had never considered in such a direct way. He was no stranger to destruction, but the idea of using a force as essential as water to cleanse and restore resonated with him on an almost spiritual level. It was not a grand spell or a forbidden incantation, but a return to something elemental, something pure. And it was what he needed. After years of wielding magic that bent the natural laws of the world, this ritual offered a counterbalance—a moment of respite amid the chaos he had so willingly embraced.
He traced the words on the page, almost feeling the cool sensation of water against his skin. The idea of such a ritual, so simple yet profound, appealed to him more than he had anticipated. It was not about power or control but about equilibrium. And yet, as the thought of renewal settled within him, reality crept back in, his work was not yet done.
The true objective of his master plan still lay in the depths of Potter Manor. His house-elves had understood his message, and in the wake of his calculated chaos—the Fiendfyre that had torn through the estate—they had captured a Death Eater named Peter. The man had been standing guard at a particular door, one Harry had noted with suspicion. Why guard that door amid a collapsing battlefield? What was behind it that Voldemort's forces deemed more valuable than their own survival?
A thrill of anticipation ran through him. There was still more to uncover, more dark magic to wield before he could grant himself the luxury of renewal. He had no illusions about what came next. Breaking a man had little to do with spells that inflicted pain and everything to do with finding the cracks in his will. He didn't know if this Death Eater held the answers he sought, but the circumstances alone were enough to intrigue him. Voldemort's men did not guard empty rooms.
With a flick of his wrist, Harry seized his wand and strode purposefully toward the door. There was still work to be done.
The Potters, a family deeply rooted in the magical world, had long been regarded as stalwart defenders of the light. Though the last Lord Potter had passed more than forty years ago, whispers of their legacy still lingered. James Potter, murdered before he could claim the title, had left that mantle unfulfilled. His father, Fleamont Potter, had been the last to actively engage in the pureblood elite and the Wizengamot—until Harry's recent rise.
For generations, the Potters had been respected for their unwavering principles, sometimes neutral but always honorable. Few could imagine that, within the ancient walls of their estate, there existed a dark, cold prison—a place of confinement. And yet, in the silence of one such cell, lay a captive Death Eater: Peter Pettigrew.
For generations, the Potters had been known for their unwavering principles, sometimes neutral, but always honorable. Few could have imagined that, within the ancient walls of their estate, there existed a dark, cold prison. Yet in the silence of one such cell lay a captive Death Eater: Peter Pettigrew.
Bound and trembling, Peter's rat-like eyes darted around the dim space, searching desperately for an escape that did not exist. Fear clutched at his chest, his breathing shallow and uneven. He couldn't comprehend how he had ended up here. The last thing he remembered was the chaos at Malfoy Manor—screams, fire, the relentless clash of spells. He had tried to flee, slipping into the shadows as he always did, but his cowardice had betrayed him once more.
He had thought he was safe when his pursuer became entangled in a duel with Narcissa Malfoy. But then the elves came. Swift, merciless, and utterly relentless, they intercepted him with practiced precision. He had managed to evade the first pair, scrambling through the wreckage, but two more emerged from the smoke, their small forms belying their ruthless efficiency. Before he could transform, iron-like bindings snapped around his wrists, magical restraints that suppressed his Animagus abilities. One blink later, he was here trapped and powerless.
A low, guttural groan tore through the silence, yanking him back to the present. Peter froze. The sound was unnatural—deep, hollow, and filled with something beyond pain. His pulse quickened as a slow, dragging scrape echoed through the cell. Footsteps.
From the darkness, something moved. A grotesque figure emerged, its decayed form staggering toward him with agonizing slowness. Its hollow, white eyes locked onto his, unblinking, empty yet somehow aware. Its moans filled the space—a ghastly lament that sent ice through Peter's veins.
He pressed himself against the cold stone wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His mind screamed at him to look away, to deny what he was seeing, but he couldn't.
Then, a voice sliced through the air, smooth and deliberate.
"Let's start with the basics."
The creature stopped.
Outside the bars, Harry Potter stood with his wand lazily leveled at the horror inside the cell. A faint smirk played on his lips, his expression unreadable—calm, almost amused.
"I know your name is Peter," he continued, his tone edged with quiet malice. "But who are you, really?"
The fear on Peter's face was almost suffocating, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps as he struggled to form words. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, like a fish dragged onto dry land. Harry watched the spectacle unfold with a slow, amused smile, his expression carrying a distinct edge of cruelty.
"You'd better speak quickly," he murmured, voice smooth as silk but sharp as a knife. "My friend here isn't very patient once he catches his prey."
Peter flinched, his wide, darting eyes bouncing between Harry and the rotting figure that inched closer, its decayed hands reaching hungrily. The cell was too small. There was nowhere to run, not really.
"What, what is this? Who are you?" he stammered, pressing himself against the cold stone wall.
Harry tilted his head, pretending to consider the question. "A friend, if you want to call me that," he said, his voice laced with mockery. "Or maybe just the poor bastard who has to clean up after my friend is done with you. You see, zombies are slow. Stupid and even clumsy. Until they catch you."
The corpse let out a low, rattling groan, its breath reeking of rot and death. Its milky-white gaze never wavered from Peter, its body twitching forward with a singular, unrelenting hunger.
With a cry of desperation, Peter threw himself to the ground, knocking the creature off balance just long enough to scramble away. He clawed his way to the far side of the cell, his hands slipping against the damp stone floor. But the zombie was undeterred. It straightened, turned its hollow eyes back toward him, and resumed its advance.
Harry twirled his wand between his fingers, leaning against the bars of the cell as if this were nothing more than an evening's entertainment. "So, Peter," he mused, his voice carrying an easy, almost conversational tone. "Are you going to tell me what I want to know? Or do you want to see just how long you can keep dodging him?" His grin widened and his eyes gleaming with malice. "I've got all the time in the world. You, on the other hand… not so much."
"I don't know anything!" Peter shrieked, his voice cracking with hysteria. He lurched sideways as the zombie swiped at him again, its rotting fingers just missing his sleeve. "I don't know what you want from me!"
Harry sighed, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. "Same old excuses," he murmured. "I suppose you need a demonstration."
With a flick of his wand, a razor-sharp bolt of magic sliced through the air. The zombie's right hand separated from its wrist with a wet, sickening snap, landing on the floor with a lifeless thud. But the creature didn't even slow. It didn't notice. It just kept coming, reaching with its remaining hand, driven by an insatiable hunger.
"See?" Harry said lightly. "He doesn't even care."
Peter's breathing hitched; his gaze locked on the severed limb as though it were a warning written in blood. His back pressed hard against the stone wall, his entire body trembling.
"Maybe you need a clearer example." Harry's voice remained calm, almost casual. Another flick of his wand sent the zombie flying backward, crashing against the opposite wall with a gruesome crunch. The impact shattered bone, Peter could hear it, but it barely slowed the thing down. The corpse twitched, its dislocated arm hanging uselessly at its side as it staggered back to its feet. Its soulless eyes found Peter again, and it resumed its slow, inevitable march toward him.
Harry let out a soft chuckle. "Persistent bastards, aren't they?"
Peter shuddered violently, his mind racing for an escape, any escape. His wide, frantic gaze snapped back to Harry, and then, suddenly—recognition flickered in his eyes.
"Wait a second," he muttered, his voice thick with dread. He squinted, his breath still coming in sharp bursts. "Those eyes… that face…"
His pupils dilated as realization dawned.
"You're…you're James and Lily's son," he breathed. "You're Harry."
For the briefest of moments, relief flickered across his features, like a man grasping onto the last plank of a sinking ship. "You're Harry," he repeated, his voice rising with desperate hope. "You wouldn't, you wouldn't hurt me. You're…"
The zombie lunged.
Peter barely managed to throw himself aside, the putrid hand swiping through empty air where his throat had been moments before. He crashed onto the floor, scrambling away in a frantic, undignified sprawl.
Harry exhaled a laugh, sharp and utterly devoid of warmth.
He leaned against the bars, his green eyes gleaming like a predator studying its trapped prey.
"Now, Peter," he whispered, his voice a soft, venomous promise. "Are you going to tell me what I want to know?"
The zombie took another step.
"Or do I let my friend here… finish the conversation?"
Though Harry's demeanor remained calm, his mind raced. His objective was clear, yet Peter's recognition of him and his parents stirred something unexpected deep within. Hunger, not for revenge, but for truth.
"You know," Harry began, his voice measured yet laced with menace, "I could take the easy route. A little Veritaserum, a quick dive into your memories… but that would be dull." He let the words hang, his faint smile betraying the danger beneath.
His wand flicked, and the undead creature prowling Peter let out a guttural moan. Another figure stirred in the darkness, its hollow eyes locking onto the trembling wizard. Peter turned, only to find himself flanked by a third.
"One is manageable," Harry mused, "but a crowd?"
Peter's breath hitched as he stumbled back, the creatures closing in, their rotting fingers inches from his skin. A strangled cry escaped his throat.
"Enough!" he gasped. "I'll talk! Just—just call them off!"
Harry's expression darkened. He tilted his head, unimpressed.
"Let's make something clear, Peter," he said softly. "Your life is worth nothing to me. If you die screaming, it changes nothing. The only thing keeping you breathing is your ability to make yourself useful."
Peter's eyes darted wildly between the creatures and Harry. He swallowed hard. "I talk, you let me speak freely. No tricks. No games."
Harry considered him, then flicked his wand. The undead figures dissolved into shadows, leaving only an eerie silence behind. Peter sagged with relief, too soon.
A jet of dark magic struck him in the chest. His skin cracked, his veins shriveling as moisture was torn from his body. He convulsed, gasping for breath.
"I don't do negotiations," Harry said coldly. With a lazy wave of his wand, tendrils of darkness coiled around Peter, lifting him off the ground and pinning his limbs in place. The air thickened with an oppressive force.
"You thought the monsters were bad?" Harry whispered, stepping closer. "That was mercy. This… is what you should fear."
Pain erupted through Peter's body as an unseen force wrenched at his very essence. Not fire, not ice—something deeper. Shadows seeped into his skin, suffocating, drowning him in an abyss of terror.
His screams filled the chamber, raw and broken.
Harry watched impassively. Then, with deliberate slowness, he crouched to meet Peter's gaze.
"Now," he murmured, his voice almost gentle, "let's begin."