Past
Winter holiday 6th year
The Burrow had always been a place of comfort for Harry—a warm haven amidst the chaos of war. But now, as he stood in the cramped sitting room, its usual coziness felt suffocating. The weight of the destroyed Horcrux sat heavy on his mind, and the faint sting of his still-healing wounds reminded him of the cost of their victory.
Ron and Hermione sat nearby, their silence more telling than any words. They had barely spoken since returning from Little Hangleton. The encounter with the Horcrux had shaken them all, but Harry couldn't bring himself to address it. There was no time for reflection, no room for fear. They had to keep moving.
The door to the sitting room creaked open, and Molly Weasley stepped inside, her expression a mix of worry and fury.
"Harry James Potter," she began, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger, "what in Merlin's name were you thinking?"
Harry braced himself, his jaw tightening. "What are you talking about, Mrs. Weasley?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" she snapped, her hands on her hips. "Ron came back from that mission with bruises the size of Quaffles, Hermione looks like she hasn't slept in days, and you—" she gestured to his bandaged arm—"you're barely holding yourself together! What were you doing out there? Why didn't you tell the Order?"
Harry felt the heat rise in his chest. "We're doing what has to be done," he said sharply. "Something the Order clearly isn't capable of."
Molly gasped, her face turning red. "How dare you? Do you have any idea what we've sacrificed—what we're risking—to keep you safe?"
"I never asked you to keep me safe!" Harry shouted, stepping forward. His voice echoed through the room, startling Hermione and Ron. "I don't need protection—I need answers. And if the Order had been doing its job, we wouldn't even be in this mess!"
Molly's hands trembled as she pointed a finger at him. "Sirius's death wasn't our fault, Harry," she said, her voice softer but no less angry.
Harry flinched as if she'd struck him. "You think this is just about Sirius?" he hissed. "He's gone because we waited. Because we let Voldemort get ahead of us. And now he's out there, splitting his soul into pieces, and no one's doing anything about it!"
Hermione and Ron exchanged uneasy glances, but they stayed silent.
"What are you talking about?" Molly demanded.
Harry hesitated, realizing he'd said too much. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. "It doesn't matter," he muttered.
"It does matter!" Molly insisted, stepping closer. "If you're keeping things from us—if you're keeping things from the Order—you're putting everyone at risk!"
Harry spun back around, his eyes blazing. "The Order doesn't need to know everything," he said coldly. "They'd just get in the way. This is my fight, not theirs."
Molly's face fell, her anger replaced by hurt. "Harry… we're all on the same side. You don't have to do this alone."
Harry's voice softened, but the anger didn't leave his eyes. "I won't lose anyone else because of your 'side,' Mrs. Weasley. If I have to do this alone to make sure Hermione and Ron survive, then that's what I'll do."
Molly left the room without another word, her shoulders slumped in defeat. The silence that followed was deafening.
Hermione finally spoke, her voice tentative. "Harry… maybe she's right. Maybe we should tell the Order—"
"No," Harry interrupted, his tone final. "The more people know, the more dangerous this gets. Voldemort isn't going to stop until he's destroyed everything we care about. I'm not giving him any more targets."
Ron frowned. "But we're already targets, mate. Don't you think the Order could help?"
Harry shook his head. "The Order is too slow. They're too… reactive. We need to stay ahead of Voldemort, not wait for him to make the first move."
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. "I just… I don't know if we can keep this up, Harry. What happened with the Horcrux—it was dangerous. It could've killed you."
"It didn't," Harry said simply. "And the next one won't either."
Hermione looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn't. Instead, she stood and left the room, muttering something about finding more research materials.
Two days later
The Burrow, typically a sanctuary of warmth and light but with Harry and Molly's second confrontation of the holiday it was now thick with tension. This time it seemed Harry's argument with Molly Weasley had escalated, his words cutting through the room like a blade. Hermione and Ron again remained silent, knowing any attempt to mediate would likely worsen things.
"You think I'm just a kid who needs protecting?" Harry's voice rang out, sharp and cold. "You think Voldemort's going to wait until I'm of age to come after me?"
"Harry, that's not what I'm saying," Molly protested, her tone firm but tinged with desperation. "But you're reckless—putting yourself and my son in danger!"
"I'm not reckless," Harry shot back, his emerald eyes blazing. "I'm prepared. More than anyone in the Order seems to be."
Molly opened her mouth to retort, but Harry didn't give her the chance. He stepped forward, his wand clutched tightly in his hand.
"You think I don't know what I'm doing?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Let me show you just how unprepared the rest of you are."
The room grew unnaturally cold as Harry raised his wand. Hermione's eyes widened in alarm, but she didn't move to stop him. She had seen Harry practice spells he had no business knowing—spells far beyond what even the most skilled adult wizards would attempt.
With a flick of his wand, Harry muttered an incantation under his breath, and the shadows in the room began to shift and writhe. The flames in the hearth flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.
"What are you doing?" Molly demanded, her voice trembling slightly.
Harry didn't answer. Instead, he pointed his wand at the kitchen table. A black mist swirled around it, and suddenly the table groaned and warped, its wood twisting as if alive. Thick, thorny vines erupted from the surface, coiling like serpents.
Ron took a step back, his face pale. "Blimey, mate…"
"This is what we're up against," Harry said, his voice calm but cold. He waved his wand again, and the vines recoiled, shrinking back into the table until it returned to its original form. "Voldemort doesn't play by the rules. If we're going to win, neither can I."
"That—what you just did—that's dark magic!" Molly stammered, her face a mixture of fear and disbelief.
Harry turned to her, his expression unyielding. "And do you think Voldemort's going to stop and ask what spells are 'appropriate'? I'm not going to let your fear hold me back. If I don't use everything I have, more people are going to die."
Molly turned to Hermione, her voice rising. "You let him do this? You encouraged it?"
Hermione's hands trembled slightly as she stood, her chin held high. "I didn't encourage anything," she said carefully. "But I found a way around the Trace. If Harry is going to survive, he needs to learn."
"You what?!" Molly's voice cracked, her anger now directed at Hermione.
"It's not illegal," Hermione said quickly, her voice defensive. "The Trace isn't on the person—it's on their environment. If we practice magic in places already saturated with it, like Grimmauld Place or here, the Ministry can't detect it."
Molly looked horrified. "I can't believe this. You're endangering all of us—"
"No," Harry interrupted, his voice sharp. "I'm keeping us alive. If the Order had been half as prepared as we are now, maybe Sirius would still be here."
Molly flinched, but Harry didn't back down.
The silence that followed was heavy, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire that had reignited in the hearth.
"You need to understand something, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, his voice softer but no less intense. "I don't want to use this kind of magic. I don't want any of this. But Voldemort doesn't care what I want. He's coming, and he's not going to stop until he's destroyed everything we care about. The only way to beat him is to be ready."
Molly stared at him, her anger slowly giving way to something else—fear, yes, but also a reluctant understanding.
"I hope you know what you're doing," she said quietly, her voice heavy with resignation.
Harry met her gaze, his green eyes burning with determination. "So do I."
Later that night, Harry sat alone in Ron's room, staring out the window. The crescent moon hung low in the sky, its pale light casting long shadows across the walls. His wand lay on the bed beside him, its tip faintly glowing from the residual magic of the spells he had cast.
"You alright, mate?" Ron's voice broke the silence as he entered the room.
Harry didn't look away from the window. "I'm fine."
Ron sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the hem of his jumper. "That was… intense. You think she'll ever forgive you?"
Harry finally turned to him, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Molly forgave Fred and George for turning her kitchen into a swamp. I think I'll be alright."
Ron chuckled, though the tension in the room didn't entirely dissipate. "Just… don't scare my mum too much, yeah?"
Harry's smirk faded, replaced by a serious expression. "I'm not trying to scare anyone. I just need them to understand what we're up against."
Ron nodded, but his brow furrowed. "That thing you did with the table… that wasn't normal magic, was it?"
Harry hesitated, then shook his head. "No. It's… something else. Something I can't explain yet."
Chapter 4
The dream started softly, like a memory submerged in murky water. Harry floated in the haze, his surroundings muted and distant. The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone, the faint whisper of water dripping echoing in the stillness. Shadows coiled and slithered like living things, and somewhere far off, the faint strains of a mournful melody filled the void.
A throne loomed before him, carved from dark obsidian, jagged and commanding. It was cracked, a long, deep fissure running down its center as though the weight of eternity had finally broken it. At its base, the blackened remains of a once-mighty tree stretched lifeless branches upward, its roots half-buried in ashen soil. A golden fruit lay crushed among the rubble, its juice glistening like molten light against the dark stone.
The figure on the throne was barely visible, draped in shadow. A crown rested askew on their head, gleaming faintly with an unearthly light, as if reluctant to lose its shine. Their form was imposing, regal even, but slouched—as though the weight of the world had pressed them into submission. The sound of shackles clinking faintly broke the silence, their iron links snaking from the throne's arms and vanishing into the darkness beyond.
A voice echoed in the distance, fragmented and layered, like the whispers of a thousand souls. Harry couldn't make out the words, but the tone was sharp and commanding, filled with disdain. It circled the throne, growing louder with every passing moment.
As if in response, the shadowed figure on the throne shifted, their hand rising to clutch the armrest. There was power in the movement, restrained but palpable. Yet, something cracked in the still air—a sound like shattering glass. The figure's hand faltered, and a golden ichor seeped from the cracks spreading across their form.
Then came the laughter.
It started soft, almost gentle, but grew into a cacophony of mocking voices. Figures emerged from the darkness—indistinct shapes with glowing eyes, their movements serpentine, their presence oppressive. They encircled the throne, their jeers growing louder. Words began to take shape among the noise: "Weak," "Fallen," "Forgotten."
The figure on the throne raised their head, and for a fleeting moment, Harry thought he caught a glimpse of their face. The eyes, molten and fierce, seemed to bore into him. They weren't pleading, nor angry. They were resolute. A defiance burned in them, a fire that refused to be extinguished.
The ground trembled. The encircling figures flinched but held their ground, their whispers turning to chants. The words were in a language Harry didn't recognize, but their intent clawed at his mind. The air thickened, the weight of it pressing down until Harry's chest ached.
Then the throne began to sink.
The obsidian cracked and splintered as the ground beneath it opened, revealing a yawning chasm of lightless void. The shackles grew taut, their chains pulling the figure down as the chanting reached a fever pitch. The figure struggled, their golden blood seeping into the ground, but the pull was too strong. The crown tilted, its gleam dimming as it slipped from their head and disappeared into the darkness.
A single word cut through the cacophony, clear and sharp. It wasn't spoken aloud—it resonated within Harry's mind, an ancient truth buried deep in his bones.
"Balance."
And then, silence. The dreamscape shifted, the void closing, the throne vanishing. Harry was left standing on barren ground, the ashen soil cracking beneath his feet. In the distance, a shadowy figure walked away, their silhouette framed by faint, flickering light. He tried to call out, to move, but his voice was caught in his throat, his body frozen.
The figure paused, turning their head slightly as if sensing his presence. Their molten eyes burned in the distance, the only thing Harry could see clearly. A storm churned behind them, clouds darkening and lightning flashing with golden brilliance.
The whisper returned, soft but insistent.
"Remember."
The storm surged forward, and Harry jolted awake, gasping for air. The room was dark, the faint hum of his magic pulsing erratically in his chest. His hands trembled as he wiped the cold sweat from his brow, the echoes of the dream still ringing in his mind.
He didn't know what he had just seen, but the weight of it lingered, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, he thought he felt the faint pressure of unseen chains against his wrists.
"What am I supposed to remember?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the night. But the only response was the quiet hum of his magic, restless and alive.
It was a long time before he got back to sleep that night.
Scene change
The next morning Harry woke with a sharp inhale, his body tense as the remnants of the dream clung to him like a second skin. The images—disjointed and chaotic—blurred as they slipped through his waking mind, leaving behind an eerie sense of foreboding. He rubbed his face and let out a shaky breath, his fingers brushing against the faint dampness of sweat on his forehead.
Shaking off the lingering unease, he sat up and surveyed the chamber his magic had created. The obsidian pillars, etched with glowing runes, stood silent and imposing, their presence a constant reminder of what had built them. The throne at the center loomed like a shadow over his thoughts, and the faint hum of magic in the air only deepened his discomfort.
Harry sighed, pulling out his wand as he stood. "Right," he muttered, more to himself than anyone—or anything—else. "You're not exactly subtle, are you?"
The chamber was remarkable, but Harry knew better than to assume it was safe. He didn't trust the city—or this world—not to send something after him while he slept. If he was going to stay here for any length of time, he needed to secure the area. A shelter like this was only as strong as its defenses, and he had no intention of leaving his survival up to chance.
Taking a deep breath, Harry made his way to the edge of the clearing, the cool night air grounding him as he stepped into the dense forest. The soft crunch of leaves underfoot and the faint rustle of branches above provided a rhythm to his thoughts as he began walking the perimeter of his temporary sanctuary.
With his wand raised, Harry whispered incantations under his breath, the words flowing easily as he began to weave the protective wards. Sparks of light flared at his feet with each step, leaving faint traces of glowing runes etched into the earth behind him. Each rune pulsed briefly before fading into invisibility, their magic sinking into the ground to form an unseen boundary.
As he worked, Harry noticed something strange: his magic responded more fluidly than ever before. It wasn't just the power—it was the way it moved, as though it were alive, anticipating his intentions before he even finished forming them.
"Alright," he muttered, glancing down at the latest rune as it shimmered faintly. "You're definitely different. A bit eager, aren't you?"
His magic pulsed faintly in response, a sensation that made him pause mid-step. It was subtle but unmistakable, like a quiet whisper in the back of his mind. He'd always known his magic had an almost instinctive quality to it, but this… this was something else entirely.
"You're not making this easy, you know," Harry said, his voice dry as he resumed walking. "First the dreams, now this. I get it—you're trying to tell me something. But could we maybe be a bit less cryptic about it?"
The hum of his magic grew faintly warmer, almost amused, and Harry shook his head with a small, reluctant smile. "Brilliant. My magic's got a sense of humor now."
By the time he finished the perimeter, Harry had woven several layers of protection into the wards. The outermost layer was a detection field, designed to alert him if anything crossed the boundary. Beneath that, he'd added a shielding charm that would repel weaker threats and slow down anything stronger. Finally, at the core of the ward scheme, he'd carved a rune cluster designed to channel his magic back into the earth, reinforcing the barrier over time.
Returning to the center of the clearing, Harry planted his wand into the ground, focusing on the protective scheme he'd created. A faint golden glow spread outward, rippling across the forest floor as the wards activated fully. The air around him seemed to shift, the faint hum of magic growing quieter, more contained.
Stepping back, Harry surveyed his work with a critical eye. The wards weren't perfect—there were gaps in their design that more experienced wardmakers might have avoided—but they were strong enough to hold for now. The shelter was secure, at least for the night.
"Not bad," Harry muttered to himself, slipping his wand back into his robes. "And a lot less flashy than the rest of this place."
He glanced back at the chamber, its towering pillars and carved throne still exuding an air of quiet power. Despite its grandeur, it felt like an extension of himself—something raw and instinctive, born from the same chaotic magic that now hummed in his veins.
"Still, you're a bit showy, aren't you?" Harry said aloud, addressing the chamber as if it could hear him. The magic pulsed faintly in response, and Harry shook his head with a small laugh. "Right. Glad we're on the same page."
With the wards in place and his shelter secured, Harry allowed himself a moment to breathe. Tomorrow, he would figure out his next steps—possibly find a way back to Britain, where he might uncover something familiar. For now, though, he leaned against one of the obsidian pillars, his thoughts still swirling as he gazed up at the stars.
Scene change
Later the same day
Before Harry had ever considered touching the deeper magics, he understood that manipulating the elements directly—without a wand, without runes—was the mark of only the most powerful magic users. Back in his world, elemental magic wasn't unheard of, but it was difficult.
Most wizards couldn't control raw fire, water, or wind without careful incantations and tools. Only the greatest magical minds—mages, warlocks, high-wizards—had mastered bending the elements to their will, and even they did so with years of training. Magic, by nature, resisted direct control. It had to be shaped, directed, coaxed into obedience through spells.
But here, now, Harry's magic didn't resist him. It responded like something alive.
Magic was in fact alive. He had always known that, in a way, but never quite like this.
Wizards used wands, spells, and rituals to shape magic, to bend it into something useful. Even the most powerful wizards still had to command it. Magic, by its very essence, manipulates reality and the natural order of the universe resists direct control.
But here?
This world was different, his magic didn't resist him. It responded to him as if it was listening, waiting for his will. Sometimes it even seemed to ask questions.
That thought unsettled him.
He needed to test it.
Harry had already experimented with fire when he was younger, often watching as the golden flames curled toward him like eager serpents, twisting and reshaping themselves without the need for spells. It had felt natural—too natural. Now, he wanted to push further.
If fire reacts this way… what about something harder to control?
Shadows.
Harry exhaled, stretching out a hand. He didn't cast a spell, didn't even try to use the usual guiding words. He just… willed the darkness to move.
And it did.
The shadows lengthened and shifted, creeping toward him in silent obedience.
Then began to pool at his feet, his blood ran cold. Magic shouldn't respond like that. It should resist, and should need to be shaped. But these shadows wanted to be used, just as the fire had stretched toward him like it recognized him.
It wasn't that Harry was particularly skilled with shadow magic. He had no real training in it. But it obeyed him anyway.
Like it knew him.
And that was what disturbed him the most.
He clenched his fist, and the shadows immediately receded, as if sensing his unease.
A chill ran down his spine. Why is it listening to me?
This is wrong.
Even in the magical world, elemental control wasn't common. Shadows, in particular, resisted most magic. Darkness was something wizards could ward against, could dispel—but to command it directly? That was old magic. Ancient. The kind even Dumbledore had barely touched upon.
And yet, it obeyed him as if it had been waiting.
He took a slow breath, staring at his hand. His magic wasn't just stronger here—it was acting like it knew him. As if it remembered something he didn't.
His thoughts drifted back to the ritual so many years ago. And then he had been summoned here, was this on purpose? Was there some plan in the works that involved him? But to what end? Was this world affecting his magic, or was it revealing something that had always been there?
Either way, he had to tread carefully.
He needed to get a hold of his magic, only then he can be sure to fight back against whoevers plan he has stumbled upon. Without that assurance his magic might just consume him.
For now, he needed to test his limits—understand what he was becoming before it was too late.
Magic had rules—ones Harry had been forced to learn the hard way. But here, in this world, those rules seemed… softer, less rigid.
Fire bent without resistance. Shadows obeyed without coercion.
And now, he wanted to test something even more dangerous— elemental summoning.
Summoning was common enough—any decent wizard could call objects to their hand with a simple Accio, and skilled duelists could even conjure creatures from magic itself. But what Harry was attempting was something far older, far rarer.
According to legend, there had once been mages—not just wizards, but true magic-wielders—who could call forth elemental creatures, beings formed from the raw forces of nature itself. Unlike conjurations or transfigured animals, elementals were alive. They had thoughts, instincts, and sometimes, even willpower.
No wizard had successfully summoned a true elemental in recorded history. Not since the age of Atlantis, the lost empires of magic, or whatever came before.
But Harry wasn't just a wizard anymore.
Thanks to that ritual all those years ago… He was something more.
And his magic—ancient, untamed, almost sentient—had been reacting differently ever since he arrived in this world. If elemental summoning was real, if it was possible, then this was the place to test it.
He knelt on the cold ground, pressing his fingers into the damp soil. He didn't force his magic. He didn't command it.
Instead, he reached.
And something reached back.
The wind stirred unnaturally, rustling through the trees without direction. Shadows deepened, stretching toward him like ink spilled across the forest floor.
Harry inhaled, letting his instincts guide him. He called—not with words, but with intent.
The first attempt yielded nothing more than a wisp of smoke, curling briefly into the vague form of a snake before dissipating.
The second attempt was stronger. A wraithlike shape rose from the ground—formed from the very soil beneath him, its body shifting like stone crumbling and reforming in an endless cycle. It had no eyes, no mouth, just an unnatural presence, as though it wasn't meant to exist.
It lasted a few seconds before collapsing into dust.
Harry wiped sweat from his brow. I'm close.
One more try.
The air thickened.
A shape began to form—not a mindless conjuration, but something with purpose.
Harry's heart stopped.
The elemental he had summoned… wasn't an elemental at all.
Harry's breath caught in his throat as the mist twisted and condensed, forming the shape of a bird. It was unmistakable—the soft curve of her wings, the sharp tilt of her beak. The shade trembled as it took full form, and then, with an almost hesitant movement, it opened its eyes.
They were milky, almost translucent, but they were familiar.
"Hedwig," Harry whispered, his voice barely above a breath.
The spectral owl cocked her head, a soundless hoot forming in her throat. She stretched her wings, translucent and flickering like moonlight on water.
Harry swallowed hard, his fingers trembling. She was not fully alive, not truly there. She was a shade—an echo of a life lost, tethered only by his power. But she looked at him as if she knew him.
As if she remembered.
Harry exhaled shakily. "I didn't mean to bring you back like this."
Hedwig only blinked, then flapped her wings and took off, circling the chamber once before landing lightly on his outstretched arm. She was weightless, like holding a whisper of wind.
A lump formed in his throat.
He had tried to summon an elemental creature, a mere wisp, and instead, his magic had sought out one of his own.
She was connected to him, even in death.
"I missed you," he murmured.
Hedwig tilted her head, then nudged his cheek with her beak.
Harry closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her presence despite her incorporeal form. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt a piece of home settle within him.
Even in death, some things refused to be forgotten.
It was Hedwig.
Not a copy. Not a conjured replica. It was her, or at least something connected to her, formed from the very magic that responded to him.
She flapped her wings once, hovering in the air, her spectral form flickering slightly, as though caught between real and unreal.
Harry's fingers clenched into fists. "How…?"
The owl simply watched him, unblinking. She wasn't confused. She wasn't afraid. She just was.
This wasn't some broken fragment of magic. This wasn't a hallucination.
He had called upon the elements.
And the first to answer him…
…was the one who had never stopped watching.
Scene change
His day of experimentation and practice had passed in a blur, the once-brilliant sunlight now fading into the horizon. As dusk settled, shadows stretched across the land, creeping forward like a silent predator ready to claim the night.
Harry stood at the edge of the dense woods, the eerie glow of Sunnydale flickering in the distance. The weight of his newfound power, the unsettling summons of Hedwig's shade, and the cryptic dream still gnawed at the back of his mind. But now, something else pulled at him—a need for answers.
Sunnydale was his starting point, but it was just a piece of a larger puzzle.
Harry turned his gaze toward the night sky, his thoughts drifting beyond the cursed town. If this world had Sunnydale, then what else did it have?
If this place mirrors my own, then maybe…
His eyes narrowed. Maybe Hogwarts is still out there.
If he was going to make sense of this world, he needed to leave. But getting to Britain—his Britain—wouldn't be as simple as catching the Knight Bus or slipping into the Floo Network. He was a stranger here, and every action had to be careful, deliberate.
For now, he had no real resources. He needed a plan.
Step 1: Gathering Supplies
Before he could travel, he needed the basics:
•Food & Water – He wasn't sure how long he'd be on the move. Living off the land was possible, but he needed reserves.
•Travel Equipment – Cloaks, mundane disguises, and a bag with an Undetectable Extension Charm (if he could craft one).
•Maps & Information – He needed a way to orient himself in this world, to learn what had changed between his reality and this one.
Sunnydale wasn't exactly a wizarding hub, but he could feel traces of old magic—hidden corners, places that felt out of sync with the mundane world. If he searched, he might find something useful.
Step 2: Finding a Way Across the Ocean
Harry frowned. Travel was trickier. He had no money, no documents, and no connections. But much like the fake Mad-Eye once said he had his wand.
Possible options:
•Portkey – Hard to create, dangerous over long distances, but doable.
•Apparition – Not ideal—crossing an ocean blind was suicidal.
•Other Magical Travel – There were ley lines, hidden pathways, even ancient rituals that could transport him if he could find the right spell.
He'd have to scout the town for clues. Maybe there was an old warlock, a hidden sanctuary, something overlooked by the non-magical world.
Step 3: Investigating While Traveling
If this world wasn't exactly like his, he needed to map the differences. Was the wizarding world still hidden? Were the Ministry of Magic and Hogwarts the same?
And more importantly—was there someone like him out there?
Because the more he thought about it, the more he realized… Dawn wasn't the only piece of this mystery.
There were others—those who remembered what might have happened.
As he formed his plan, fragments of his dream resurfaced. The fall of Hades, the betrayal, the severing of power. The pieces were still vague, but a gut feeling told him that Britain held answers.
Hogwarts, the Ministry, if the existed and the old magical sites—they might have the key to understanding why he had been summoned, why his powers were so unpredictable, and what his growing connection to Dawn truly meant.
Harry exhaled, his grip tightening on his wand.
His path was clear.
Now, he just had to find it,
Scene change
Dawn knew better than to leave after dark—especially after last time. Being kidnapped, nearly sacrificed, and then caught in the middle of summoning the so-called Morningstar had been more than enough trauma to last a lifetime. But if she had to go anywhere, daylight was the best bet.
No time was safe in Sunnydale, not really. But safer? That was the window she was banking on.
She'd left the house around five o'clock, just as the golden light of the setting sun began stretching long shadows across the streets. Not quite night, but close enough to make her nerves hum with tension. She didn't tell anyone—not Buffy, not Willow, not even Tara. Especially not Tara. They were watching her too closely now, hovering, whispering about her when they thought she wasn't paying attention. Not in a cruel way, but in the way adults did when they thought they needed to fix something.
Dawn wasn't stupid. She knew they were trying to protect her. But after everything—after Harry, after Glory, after her mother's worsening condition—she felt like she was suffocating.
And right now, she just needed to see her mom.
Just one conversation. One moment of normalcy. That's all I need.
The last time she'd visited, Joyce had looked at her with wide, glassy eyes and asked, Who are you?
Dawn had laughed it off at the time, pretended like it hadn't cut through her like a blade. The doctors said it was the tumor, just another cruel trick played on her mother's mind. A momentary lapse. An accident.
But what if it wasn't?
Dawn needed to hear her mom say her name. Needed to hear her mom, not the confused, distant shell that had stared through her last time.
She kept her head down as she walked, her hoodie pulled tight around her. The air was cooling fast, and the sky was turning from orange to deep blue. Just get there, see Mom, and get back before dark. No big deal.
She hadn't noticed how fast the shadows were stretching behind her. How the street lights flickered—just a little too much. How something just out of sight seemed to move when she wasn't looking.
She should've noticed.
Dawn slipped into the hospital unnoticed, a skill she had honed over time. The Scooby Gang worried about her safety outside the house, but she doubted any of them had considered keeping tabs on her inside a well-lit hospital. Besides, she'd learned how to move unnoticed—when to walk with purpose, when to make herself small and invisible.
The halls of Sunnydale Memorial smelled like antiseptic and something metallic beneath it, like old copper pennies. She hated it. The way the place always felt too sterile yet somehow always carried an undercurrent of wrongness—not supernatural, just… human. A place where suffering was constant, where lives began and ended every day, wrapped in white sheets and fluorescent lighting.
She didn't slow until she reached her mother's room.
Pushing the door open, Dawn braced herself.
Then—
"Dawnie."
Her mother's voice, warm and familiar, melted the tension in her shoulders almost instantly.
Joyce sat propped up in bed, looking… good. Maybe not great, but perceptively alert. If you didn't know what to look for—if you weren't used to the way she used to carry herself, the way her energy used to shine—you wouldn't have known she was sick at all.
Dawn sucked in a shaky breath, her vision suddenly blurring.
"Mom," she whispered.
Joyce immediately opened her arms.
Dawn was in them in an instant.
She pressed her face into her mother's shoulder, the scent of hospital shampoo mixed with something uniquely Joyce grounding her. She needed this. Needed this proof that her mother was still here. That the last time—when she hadn't recognized her, when she'd asked Who are you?—had been nothing but a fluke.
But as much as Dawn wanted to believe in the moment, something felt off.
Her mother's grip, though firm, trembled slightly. And when Dawn pulled away, she saw the exhaustion beneath Joyce's smile, the way the lines around her eyes were just a little deeper.
Then Joyce winced.
"Mom?" Dawn pulled back, alarmed.
Joyce clutched at the blanket, her breath catching.
And then—
Her body seized.
Dawn's heart stopped. "Mom! MOM!"
The machines screamed before she did, their beeping turning erratic, warning of a system gone haywire. The next few moments blurred. Doctors and nurses rushed in, shoving Dawn aside. She fought against them at first, tears blurring her vision as she tried to push closer.
"No—please! Let me—"
Strong hands pulled her back. A firm voice, calm yet urgent, told her she had to step away, that they needed space to help her mother.
Dawn was helpless.
She could only stand there, watching as they worked, as the world spun out of her control.
She didn't know how long it lasted. Maybe a few minutes, maybe hours. But eventually, the chaos settled.
Joyce stabilized. The nurses adjusted the machines. A doctor gave Dawn a look that was equal parts sympathy and exhaustion and told her, She needs rest now. It's best if you let her sleep.
Dawn barely processed it.
She just nodded, numb, watching as her mother lay there, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.
The realization was suffocating.
She's dying. And there's nothing I can do about it.
The thought looped in her head as she left the hospital, her mind too clouded by grief to register much else. It wasn't until the automatic doors slid shut behind her that she realized—
It was dark.
Night had fully fallen.
Sunnydale, the Hellmouth, stretched out before her, bathed in an eerie quiet.
She shouldn't be out.
She knew better.
But she was too emotionally drained to care. Too wrapped up in her own grief to notice the figure that had been watching her.
Following her.
Patient. Silent.
Waiting.
Scene Change
The creature moved like a whisper, blending seamlessly with the night.
Stalking was its favorite part of the hunt—the anticipation, the way fear built slowly in its prey, seeping into their bones before they even realized they were being watched. It was a game of patience. A game it had perfected over decades.
And tonight, it had found something special.
A lone girl.
She was young, vulnerable. She reeked of sorrow, of grief so deep it clouded her instincts. The perfect prey.
It had been watching her for some time, waiting. The hospital was too risky—too many people, too much light. But the moment she stepped outside? The moment she entered the darkness alone?
She was his.
The creature remained cautious. The Slayer was in this town, and it had no intention of running into her. Not yet. But the Slayer wasn't here now. And this girl—this frail, distracted thing—was easy pickings.
It kept its distance at first, lurking just beyond her periphery, letting her own exhaustion do the work for it. Let her feel safe. Let her think she's alone.
Then, it let itself be felt.
The soft scrape of claws against pavement.
A fleeting shadow in her vision, gone when she turned.
A whisper of movement that made the air shift.
It felt her hesitation. The way her steps faltered, how she hugged herself tighter.
Yes. Good. She was starting to sense something was off. The first sliver of fear was settling in, slithering down her spine.
But it wasn't time to strike. Not yet.
Intimidate first. Corral next.
Like a skilled predator, it maneuvered subtly, nudging her down the path it wanted. A streetlamp flickered out as she passed beneath it. Another step forward, and a trash can tipped over—just far enough behind her that she would second-guess whether it was real or just her imagination.
Her pulse quickened.
She knew something was wrong now.
She quickened her pace, but the creature was already guiding her—nudging her subtly toward a side street, a darker, more secluded stretch of road. Nowhere to run. No one to hear her scream.
It grinned, baring its fangs.
Soon.
Scene Change Dawn's POV
The street was too quiet.
Dawn's pulse thrummed against her ribs as she quickened her pace, her sneakers scuffing against the pavement. She told herself she was fine—it's just a short walk, nothing you haven't done before—but the unease slithering down her spine refused to listen.
She'd made a mistake.
She should have stayed at the hospital, even if sleeping in those stiff chairs sucked. She should have waited until morning. You know better than this, she scolded herself. After last time? After what happened with the summoning?
But she had just needed some air. She had needed to get away.
Now she was out here, alone, with only the flickering streetlights and her own hammering heartbeat to keep her company.
Then she heard it.
A whisper of movement. Soft, but deliberate.
Dawn stopped walking. The world seemed to hold its breath.
Slowly, carefully, she turned her head.
A figure stood at the mouth of an alley. Just beyond the reach of the streetlights.
Watching her.
Her throat went dry.
The thing wasn't human. Not really. It stood upright, sure, but the way it moved—jerky, unnatural, like it had too many joints—sent ice through her veins. Its skin was pale, almost grayish under the sickly glow of the streetlamps, and its grin was too wide.
Not a vampire. At least, not like the ones she'd seen before. Its eyes glowed faintly, a sickly yellow, and the fingers that twitched at its sides ended in elongated claws.
Dawn took a step back.
The thing took a step forward.
She turned on her heel and ran.
The air rushed past her ears, her heart slamming against her ribs as she sprinted down the street. Don't look back, don't look back—
A blur of movement.
The creature was suddenly in front of her.
Dawn skidded to a halt, nearly tripping over her own feet.
No way. No way had it moved that fast.
Its grin stretched wider, revealing needle-sharp teeth. "Run, little girl," it purred, voice rasping like dry leaves. "Go on. I like it when they run."
Dawn's breath came in ragged gasps as she rounded a corner, her legs burning with the effort of running. She could hear the creature behind her, its snarls growing louder, the scrape of its claws against the pavement sending shivers down her spine.
She stumbled, nearly falling, but caught herself on a trash bin and kept moving. Her mind raced, searching for an escape, but the alleys all looked the same—dark, narrow, and empty.
The creature lunged, and Dawn felt its claws graze her shoulder. She cried out, stumbling forward as pain flared down her arm.
Dawn's stomach turned to stone. She was going to die..
The thing lunged again.
Dawn scrambled backward, slamming into the alley wall. Her breath came in short, frantic bursts.
Trapped.
No Slayer. No Scoobies. No weapons.
The creature advanced, slow and deliberate, relishing her fear. Its claws flexed.
She had to do something—anything—
Then, out of nowhere, something swooped down from the sky.
A gust of wind, sharp and sudden. A flash of white feathers.
Something landed on her shoulder.
Dawn flinched, expecting claws, expecting pain—
Instead, a pair of glowing silver eyes stared back at her.
An owl?
Its feathers were impossibly white, its form nearly translucent. It was large—too large, its wingspan stretching wider than any owl she'd ever seen. It radiated something other, something powerful, and when it turned its piercing gaze to the creature stalking her, the thing hesitated.
A ripple of unease passed over its grotesque face.
The owl let out a sound—not a normal hoot, but something deeper. Resonant. The shadows around them seemed to shudder in response.
Dawn barely had time to process before a new voice cut through the darkness.
"Y'know," drawled a British voice from above, "I don't think she's interested in whatever horror movie monologue you're about to give."
The figure dropped down from the rooftop.
He landed between her and the creature, his stance casual, but the air around him hummed with something indescribable.
Dawn blinked, breath still catching in her throat.
It was him.
Of course. It was just her luck. The freaking MorningStar.
The creature let out a low growl. "You," it spat, its earlier confidence evaporating.
Harry smirked. "Me," he confirmed cheerfully.
Dawn had no idea how he kept so calm. She was seconds away from having a heart attack.
The creature took a step back, clearly reconsidering its choices.
Harry tilted his head. "Go on," he said mockingly. "Do the thing where you pretend you're not afraid before you turn tail and run."
The creature snarled. Then it did exactly that—vanishing into the darkness like it had never been there at all.
Harry sighed. "They never let me have any fun."
Dawn slumped against the wall, her legs suddenly jelly. "What the hell was that thing?"
Harry glanced at her. "I believe it just might have been a Crumple-Horned Snorckak," he admitted. "But I didn't know it had so many teeth."
Dawn just stared at him. "A what?"
Harry grinned, then gestured to the owl still perched on her shoulder. "Never mind that. I see you've met Hedwig."
Dawn blinked. "This is yours?"
Hedwig turned her gaze back to Dawn, blinking once.
Dawn swallowed. "She, uh. She scared it."
Harry nodded. "Yeah, she does that. Just be happy she wasn't glaring at you."
Dawn looked between him and the owl, still trying to process. "So, what, you just keep a ghost bird around?"
Harry chuckled, reaching up to run a hand over Hedwig's feathers. She preened slightly, but remained on Dawn's shoulder.
"She's not a ghost," he said. "She's a shade. Kind of like a memory made real."
Dawn exhaled shakily. "Right. Of course. Because that makes so much more sense."
Harry flashed her a grin. "C'mon. Let's get you home before another nightmare tries to make you its next meal."
Dawn hesitated. Then, with one last glance at the empty alley, she nodded.
Hedwig took off into the sky as they started walking, her glowing form disappearing into the night.
Dawn let out a shaky breath.
This night had been way too much.
Harry stepped closer, his gaze softening. "You're bleeding."
Dawn glanced down at her arm, where the creature's claws had torn through her jacket. Blood seeped through the fabric, staining her sleeve.
Harry muttered something under his breath, and a faint golden light enveloped her arm. The pain faded as the wound knitted itself closed, leaving only a faint scar behind.
"There," he said, lowering his wand. "Better?"
Dawn nodded slowly, her mind still reeling from what she'd just seen.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Dawn shifted awkwardly, unsure whether to thank him or demand an explanation.
Finally, she settled on, "Why are you here?"
Harry's smirk seemed to be forced as he admitted, "For you, I think."
Scene change
The streets of Sunnydale were unusually quiet as Harry and Dawn walked side by side, the cool night air brushing against their faces. The tension between them had eased slightly, but it was still there—an undercurrent of unspoken questions and unshared truths.
Dawn stole a glance at Harry, her thoughts swirling. He was so… different. Not just because of the magic or the way he'd saved her life, but something deeper. There was a sadness in his eyes, like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"So," she said finally, breaking the silence. "Are you going to tell me who—or what—you really are?"
Harry glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "That's a complicated question."
"Try me," Dawn challenged, crossing her arms.
Harry let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "You're stubborn. I'll give you that."
"Runs in the family," Dawn shot back, her tone sharp but playful.
Harry's smile faded, and he looked ahead, his gaze distant. "The truth is… I don't know what I am. Not anymore."
Dawn frowned, her curiosity deepening. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Harry hesitated, his steps slowing. "I come from a world where magic is… different. Controlled. Structured. I was supposed to be a hero, the one who saved everyone. And for a while, I was."
He paused, his voice growing softer. "But things didn't go the way they were supposed to. People I cared about died. And in the end, I had to make choices that no one else would. Choices that changed me."
Dawn stared at him, her heart aching at the pain in his voice. "That sounds… lonely."
Harry glanced at her, surprised by the softness in her tone. "It was," he admitted. "But I thought it was over. I thought I'd done my part, paid my dues. And then I was brought here."
"Here as in… Sunnydale?"
"Here as in this dimension," Harry said. "Where everyone thinks I'm some kind of devil."
Dawn winced. "Yeah… about that. Those demons called you the Morningstar. And, uh, that's kind of a big deal here."
"I gathered," Harry said dryly.
They walked in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling over them.
Dawn hesitated, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. She'd been holding her feelings in for so long, letting them fester and grow, and now they threatened to spill over.
"You're lucky," she said suddenly, her voice trembling.
Harry frowned, glancing at her. "Lucky?"
"At least you know who you were," Dawn said, her gaze fixed on the ground. "Even if it's messy, even if it hurts… you still have that. I don't have anything."
Harry stopped, turning to face her. "What do you mean?"
Dawn let out a bitter laugh, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm not real. I'm just… something that was made. A thing pretending to be a person."
Harry's brow furrowed. "That's not true."
"You don't know that," Dawn snapped, her voice rising. "You don't know anything about me!"
Harry didn't flinch, his gaze steady. "Maybe not. But I know what it's like to feel like you don't belong. To feel like your whole life is just… someone else's idea of a bad joke."
Dawn blinked, taken aback by his words.
"I know what it's like to question everything," Harry continued, his voice softer now. "To wonder if anything about you is real. But I also know this: you're more than what other people say you are. You're more than what you've been told."
Dawn stared at him, her chest tight. "How do you know that?"
Harry's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Because you're here. And that means something."
They resumed walking, the silence between them no longer uncomfortable but thoughtful.
"What happened to you?" Dawn asked after a while, her voice quieter now.
Harry sighed. "That's a long story. But the short version? I made a choice to stop playing by the rules. To fight back the only way I knew how. And because of that, people started calling me a traitor. A betrayer."
Dawn frowned. "That doesn't sound fair."
"It wasn't," Harry said simply. "But life rarely is."
Dawn glanced at him, her curiosity burning brighter. "So… what's your name? Or is that a big secret too?"
Harry hesitated, then met her gaze. "Harry. Harry Potter."
She tilted her head, her brow furrowing. "Doesn't ring a bell."
Harry chuckled softly. "Didn't think it would."
"You're… not what I expected." Dawn admitted.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Good or bad?"
"Good," Dawn admitted, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I think."
Harry smiled faintly. "I'll take it."
Dawn and Harry continued to walk side by side under the dim streetlights. The night was quiet, the kind of eerie silence that made Sunnydale's streets feel even more dangerous. Dawn knew she should feel scared, but somehow, Harry's presence calmed her nerves.
"You know," Dawn said with a sideways glance, "you've got a habit of showing up whenever I'm about to get murdered. It's kinda your thing now."
Harry chuckled softly. "Yeah? Maybe I should get that printed on a business card: 'Professional Life Saver—Discount Rates.'"
Dawn laughed. It was a tired, nervous laugh, but it helped. She sighed, her smile fading as they neared her house. "I don't know how I'm going to explain this to Buffy. She's already on my case 24/7."
"Your sister?" Harry asked, curious.
"Yeah. She's… protective. A little too protective sometimes. Slayer duties and all."
Taking note of the word since it was the second time she called her sister this term, Harry's raised an eyebrow. "Slayer?"
Dawn hesitated. "Uh, it's… complicated. Let's just say she's not a fan of random strangers with magic powers. You might want to brace yourself."
"Good to know," Harry said, filing the word Slayer away for later consideration.
They stopped at the foot of the Summers' porch. Dawn fidgeted, her hands stuffed in her hoodie pockets. "Thanks for, you know… everything tonight. Again."
Harry gave her a small, reassuring smile. "No problem. Just try not to wander around alone at night anymore, yeah?"
"Yeah, yeah. I know." Dawn rolled her eyes, but her voice was softer, more grateful.
Harry nodded. "Alright. You get inside. I'll—"
Before he could finish, the front door burst open. Buffy stormed out, followed closely by Xander, Willow, and Giles. Their faces were a mixture of panic and relief—except for Buffy's, which was all stern concern.
"Dawn!" Buffy called, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. "Where have you been?"
Dawn froze. "Uh… hi, Buffy."
"Don't 'hi, Buffy' me!" Buffy marched down the steps, her gaze shifting to Harry. Her expression hardened. "And who's this?"
Harry blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden interrogation. He straightened, keeping his tone calm and neutral. "I'm Harry. Just helping Dawn get home safely."
"And how exactly did you meet my sister?" Buffy asked sharply, crossing her arms.
"We, uh… ran into each other," Dawn cut in quickly. "It's not a big deal. He saved me from… something bad."
"Something bad?" Xander echoed. "Oh, great. Sunnydale special—'bad thing tries to kill you, mysterious stranger shows up out of nowhere.' Classic."
Harry frowned slightly. He wasn't sure what to make of the group. He hadn't expected this level of hostility right away, though he understood the concern. Still, he wasn't in the mood for a long interrogation.
"Look," Harry said evenly, "I don't want any trouble. Dawn was in danger. I helped. That's it."
Buffy stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "You don't want trouble? Funny, because people like you—people who just 'show up' in Sunnydale—always bring trouble."
Harry met her gaze without flinching. He didn't know who Buffy was or why she seemed ready to accuse him of something, but he wasn't about to be intimidated. "Well, maybe tonight you got lucky," he said coolly. "Not all strangers are here to cause problems."
The tension thickened, and for a moment, it felt like a standoff. Dawn, sensing things escalating, quickly stepped between them.
"Okay! Let's all just take a breath, alright?" she said, waving her hands. "Buffy, I'm fine. Harry's not some evil demon. Can we not jump straight to that conclusion for once?"
Buffy's jaw tightened, but she relented slightly, stepping back. "Fine. But we're going to talk about this later," she said, her tone firm. She glanced at Harry again, still wary.
"Great," Dawn muttered under her breath. She turned back to Harry. "You should probably go before things get… weirder."
Harry gave her a small smile. "Yeah, I got that impression." He nodded politely to the rest of the group. "Stay safe, Dawn."
Without another word, he turned and walked into the shadows, disappearing down the street.
Buffy watched him go, her tension easing only slightly. "Weird guy," she muttered.
"Well, he did save me," Dawn said defensively. "Maybe you could, I don't know, say 'thank you'?"
Buffy didn't reply right away. Instead, she exchanged a look with Giles, who seemed equally pensive.
"Whoever he is," Giles said softly, "we'll need to keep an eye on him. There are… patterns in this town. And new arrivals rarely mean anything good."
Dawn crossed her arms, frustrated. "You guys are always so paranoid. Not everyone's out to kill me, you know."
"On the Hellmouth?" Xander said, raising an eyebrow. "Pretty sure that's the standard welcome package."
"Come on, Dawn," Buffy said, steering her toward the house. "Let's get inside. We'll talk more about this tomorrow."
Dawn sighed but allowed herself to be led inside. She cast one last glance down the street, hoping for another glimpse of Harry, but the night was empty and still.
As the door closed behind her, the Scoobies exchanged concerned glances.
"Alright," Buffy said quietly. "Tomorrow, we're figuring out who this guy is. And what he's really doing here."
A/N: sorry for the wait
Comment responses
Ronin Kenshin: Thank you, I hope you enjoyed it
RedOuroboros: thank you
Tempest S: Thank you for pointing out those errors. My writing process involves creating multiple scenes and then piecing them together at the end, which can sometimes lead to inconsistencies. Regarding this part of your comment: "And Dawn didn't mention the name Morningstar in her explanation," I believe you're referring to her not immediately telling the gang. That was intentional—she's trying to keep her promise not to reveal Harry's secrets.
Gary: Thank you
Starstider: Thank you