The world shifted. Stone walls emerged from the darkness, slick with condensation and etched with ancient, writhing serpents. The soft glow of flickering green light cast shadows across the Chamber of Secrets. The hiss of running water echoed faintly in the distance, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay.
He wasn't alone.
She was as he remembered her—tall and impossibly beautiful, her long black hair pooling like silk down her back. Her fairness snow, her neck alabaster, her hands ivory, making her seem almost ethereal. High cheekbones framed a face that could have been carved from marble and set onto symmetrically were two amethyst jewels.
Harry's chest tightened.
"Harry Potter," the exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. The sound sent a shiver down his spine.
"Emily," he said simply, unease unfurling underneath his skin.
She smiled faintly, her coral lips curving in a way that was both alluring and dangerous. "Still so serious," she murmured. "You've always been so… resolute."
"You're not real," Harry glared at her.
Emily tilted her head, her smile widening slightly. "Not real?" she repeated, her voice a whisper that seemed to echo in the chamber. "And yet, here I am. I think that makes me real enough, don't you?"
Harry's gaze darkened. "What do you want?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she began to move toward him, her steps slow and deliberate. Her movements were graceful, each one a study in control and elegance. It gave time for him to drink her in, his eyes tracing every delicate line and curve, her lithe form prowled towards him. When she stopped, she was so close that Harry could feel the coolness radiating from her skin.
"You've grown stronger," she said softly, her purple eyes drifting over him. As if to repay him in kind, taking in his features.
Harry forced himself to hold her gaze. "I didn't come here to listen to you."
Emily laughed gently, the sound low and melodious. "Oh, Harry. You think you're in control? That's adorable."
Before he could respond, she moved closer, her body brushing against his. Her hand rose, ghosting over his chest before settling there-cold yet searing like ice catching fire.
Harry froze, his breath hitching sharply. She was too close, her presence overwhelming, her beauty almost suffocating. He willed himself to step back, to retreat, yet his feet remained rooted, betrayed by the spell she cast.
"You've felt it, haven't you?" Emily whispered, her face inches from his. "The power. The way it surges through you, bending to your will. It's intoxicating, isn't it?"
Harry's jaw tightened. "I'm not like you."
Her smile turned softer, almost pitying. "No? You used Parseltongue to summon fire in the shape of a serpent—a creature of destruction and dominance. You whispered its name, and it obeyed without question. Tell me, Harry… if that isn't who you are, then why did it feel so natural?"
"It was survival," Harry countered.
Emily's eyes narrowed slightly "And survival is what makes us who we are."
Her hand moved, tracing lightly up his chest to rest against his shoulder.
"You're afraid," Emily murmured, her voice almost tender. "Afraid of what you've awakened. Afraid of what it means. But fear is only natural, Harry. It's what keeps us sharp. What keeps us alive."
Harry's green eyes burned with defiance. "I'm not afraid of you."
Emily's smile returned, "No, you're not afraid of me. You're afraid of what I represent. Power. Legacy. Destiny." She leaned closer, her breath brushing against his ear. "You're afraid of what you might become."
"I'll never become like you," Harry said, his voice steady despite the chill crawling up his spine.
Emily pulled back slightly, her piercing eyes locking onto his. For a moment, there was no mockery in her gaze—only a strange, unsettling sadness. "That's what I told myself once," she said quietly. "I thought I could use power without letting it use me. But power is a living thing, Harry. It demands. It consumes. And it leaves you hollow."
Before he could retort, her other hand pressed against his chest, firm and unyielding. With a sudden push, she shoved him backward.
Harry fell—but instead of hitting the soft mattress beneath him, he slammed onto uneven cobblestones. His arms instinctively shot out to brace his fall, the rough surface scraping his palms as the sound of chatter and movement crashed into his senses.
The world around him was alive.
The heat hit him first, a humid, sticky warmth that clung to his skin and made the air feel heavy in his lungs. Vibrant colours surrounded him: stalls draped in bright fabrics, carts piled high with exotic fruits, and shopfronts painted in faded hues of turquoise and coral. The scent of roasted meat mingled with sharp spices and the faint metallic tang of magic lingering in the air.
"Where…" Harry gasped, his voice barely audible over the din. He staggered to his feet, his eyes darting around the bustling marketplace. Wizards and witches moved among the crowd, blending seamlessly with the muggle vendors and shoppers. Children darted between stalls, their laughter ringing out like bells.
"Brazil," Emily's voice purred in his mind. Harry stiffened, looking over his shoulder, but she wasn't there. "Specifically, Rio's magical marketplace. Lovely, isn't it?"
"What are you planning?" Harry hissed, his voice rising as his eyes darted over the unfamiliar scene.
"No games this time, Harry," Emily replied, her tone light and amused. "This is a lesson. A memory."
Harry's stomach dropped. "A memory of what?"
Emily didn't answer immediately. The crowd around him began to shift, the lively atmosphere dimming as something rippled through the air—an almost imperceptible crackle of tension.
"You'll see," she whispered, her voice laced with anticipation.
The marketplace stilled. Conversations faltered, and the laughter of children faded into uneasy murmurs. Harry's chest tightened as the crowd began to part, people stepping aside as a group of figures emerged from the haze of sunlight and shadows.
Five wizards moved in formation, their dark robes flowing like liquid shadows as they cut through the crowd with predatory grace. Their faces were tacit, their eyes scanning the marketplace with cold precision.
"What's going on?" Harry asked, his voice low.
"These," Emily whispered in his mind, her tone suddenly serious, "are hit wizards. The finest enforcers the Ministry of Brazil has to offer. And they're here for you-well me"
The words sent a chill down Harry's spine. "Why?"
"Let's just say I upset some… important people," Emily replied, her voice tinged with amusement. "But don't worry, Harry. They're not real. This is only a memory. Well…" She paused, her tone turning wicked. "Not for you."
One of the hit wizards spotted him. Their gaze locked, and Harry felt the weight of their attention like a physical force. The wizard barked a command in Portuguese, and the rest of the group turned toward him in unison, their wands snapping into their hands like extensions of their arms.
"Run," Emily whispered, her tone almost intimate "Let's see if you survive."
Harry didn't wait to be told twice. He turned and bolted, shoving past the now-frozen crowd. The cobblestones beneath his feet were uneven, threatening to trip him with every step. The sound of spells exploding behind him spurred him on, the air crackling with energy.
'I need cover'
Harry darted into the tangle of stalls, his pulse pounding in his ears. The once-bustling marketplace was now a war zone of overturned carts, shattered crates, and the desperate cries of vendors scrambling to shield their wares. The air was thick with dust and smoke, the sharp tang of burnt wood mixing with the arabian spices that lingered from the now-abandoned stands.
A curse exploded inches behind him, scattering the fragments of a pottery stall across his path. Shards of vibrant blue and white tiles skittered underfoot, forcing Harry to leap awkwardly to avoid slipping. His legs burned with every stride, but the frantic rhythm of pursuing footsteps urged him forward, faster, faster.
"Come on, Potter," Emily's voice purred in his mind, silken and infuriatingly calm. "Don't let them catch you now. You'll embarrass us both."
Harry bit down a growl, his lungs heaving as he swerved left, shoving through a curtain of colorful beads that clattered noisily behind him. The passage narrowed, flanked by towering stacks of crates and barrels. The smell of rotting fruit wafted up, sour and pungent, as his foot clipped the edge of an overripe mango, nearly sending him sprawling.
A jet of red light flashed overhead, striking the far wall. The force of the blast sent a rain of loose bricks cascading into the alleyway. Harry flinched as one grazed his shoulder, the pain sharp and immediate.
Think, think, think!
His eyes darted wildly, searching for something—anything—that could buy him time. His gaze landed on a stack of barrels teetering against the alley wall, their wooden frames already cracked and weathered.
"Use it," Emily murmured, her tone darkly amused.
Harry raised his wand, his instincts screaming as the sound of footsteps closed in. He didn't know the spell—didn't remember learning it—but the words tore from his throat like second nature.
"Relictum Praesidio!"
The barrels shot forward as if yanked by an invisible force, colliding with the edge of the alley to form a haphazard barricade. It wouldn't hold for long—he could already hear the pounding of footsteps slowing but not stopping—but it was enough.
Harry spun on his heel and bolted deeper into the maze, his shoes slapping against the stone.
The farther he ran, the tighter the stalls seemed to close in, their awnings sagging low enough to snag on his hair as he ducked beneath them. The suffocating heat pressed down on him like a physical weight, sweat dripping from his temple and stinging his eyes.
Behind him, the hit wizards showed no signs of slowing. Their shouts echoed through the maze, laced with the unmistakable snap of commands. Every turn Harry took felt more desperate than the last—every dead end that loomed ahead brought his heart higher in his throat.
Another spell struck a wooden stand to his left, the explosion ripping through sacks of flour. A blinding white cloud filled the narrow corridor, and Harry stumbled through it, coughing as the fine powder clung to his damp skin.
"Do you know what I like about this memory?" Emily's voice cut through the chaos, almost playful. "It shows just how fragile you are. Look at you, stumbling, choking, running. It's pathetic, really."
"Shut up!" Harry hissed, his voice barely audible over the pounding in his chest.
"Oh, Harry," she cooed, her tone mockingly tender. "You're wasting precious breath arguing with me. Focus, or they'll catch you."
The alley opened suddenly into a wider street, but it was far from relief. Vendors had abandoned their stalls in haste, leaving behind piles of goods that created a treacherous obstacle course. Wooden carts lay on their sides, their wheels spinning lazily. Fruit spilled across the cobblestones, smashed into slippery pulp.
Harry stumbled forward, his boots sliding in the mess, and crashed against a cart laden with bright red chilies. The sharp, acrid scent burned his nose as the chilies scattered, their seeds sticking to his sweat-slicked skin.
A curse slammed into the cart, shattering it into splinters. Harry dropped to the ground just as a second spell crackled overhead, striking the far wall.
"Protego!" he shouted, barely managing to conjure a shield as another curse barreled toward him. The spell collided with the shimmering barrier, sending a shockwave that rattled his bones.
The shield flickered out, leaving Harry exposed. He scrambled to his feet, the uneven cobblestones digging into his palms as he pushed off the ground.
Ahead, he spotted a narrow staircase leading to the upper levels of the marketplace—a network of connected rooftops that stretched across the sprawling bazaar. He bolted toward it, his legs screaming in protest, and ascended two steps at a time.
The hit wizards were relentless. Harry could hear their spells ricocheting off the walls below, the sharp cracks of magic splitting the air.
He reached the top and spun around, his wand raised. His chest heaved as he stared down at the figures pursuing him, their dark robes billowing like shadows against the sunlit alley.
"Desperation suits you," Emily whispered, her tone laced with a cruel sort of delight. "Now, let's see if you're willing to get your hands dirty."
Harry gritted his teeth, his knuckles white as they gripped his wand. The spell came to him unbidden, the words curling on his tongue like smoke.
"Silencio Tempestus!"
The air rippled with unseen energy, and suddenly, the alley below fell eerily silent. The hit wizards' voices vanished mid-command, their lips moving soundlessly as their curses fizzled into nothing.
Harry stared for a moment, his heart pounding as the silence wrapped around him like a shroud. The spell had worked—he'd done it.
But the victory was fleeting. The hit wizards were already regrouping, their movements deliberate as they adjusted to the new obstacle.
Harry didn't wait for them to perform the counter curse.. He turned and sprinted across the rooftop, the heat of the sun baking the tiles beneath his feet.
The edge of the rooftop loomed ahead. He faltered, his steps slowing as panic clawed at his throat.
"Jump," Emily's voice commanded.
Harry froze. "Are you mad?"
"Jump!" she snapped, impatiently.
A curse exploded behind him, showering him with fragments of broken tile. With no other choice, Harry flung himself off the edge.
The world tilted, the air rushing past him in a dizzying blur. He crashed into a pile of discarded fabrics below, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Pain lanced through his side as he rolled onto the cobblestones, coughing and gasping for breath.
Harry staggered to his feet, his entire body trembling. The sounds of pursuit had faded, the marketplace around him dissolving into shadow.
"Well done," Emily's voice murmured, soft and mocking. "a passable performance"
The world collapsed into darkness, and Harry woke with a jolt, his chest heaving as the memory lingered like smoke in his mind.
The corridor was quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy, pressing down like the weight of the ancient stones that framed the castle walls. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through arched windows, pooling onto the cold flagstones in uneven patches. Harry walked aimlessly, his footsteps echoing softly in the stillness.
He didn't have a destination in mind—The solitude of the halls suited him better, letting his thoughts wander and dissipate.
But his steps faltered when he heard it.
Voices.
They carried faintly down the corridor, muffled but distinct enough to pull him from his reverie. As he drew closer, the words sharpened, cutting through the air like splinters.
"Look at her," sneered a boy's voice, low and venomous. "Think she's better than us, doesn't she?"
"She's quiet because she's afraid," said another, laughing cruelly. "Greengrass's little runt."
Harry rounded the corner slowly, his eyes narrowing at the scene ahead.
She stood against the wall, her back pressed firmly against the cold stone as if willing herself to disappear into it. The girl couldn't have been more than fourteen, hair spilling like silver threads gleamed faintly in the moonlight, except for one small braid near the front of her face.
Her eyes drew Harry's attention next—two different colours, One eye a warm hazel, and the other a soft, muted green. They were wide with fear, darting between the three older boys who surrounded her.
"Please," she said softly, her voice trembling. "I didn't do anything."
The tallest boy leaned in, his sharp features twisted into a smirk. "Didn't do anything?" he echoed mockingly. "Your sister thought she could embarrass Flint and get away with it. That's not how things work, Greengrass."
"Should've taught her some manners," another boy chimed in, his tone dripping with false sympathy. "But I guess she's just as arrogant as you are, hmm?"
The girl—Astoria, Harry guessed—shook her head, her hands clutching the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles turned white. "I didn't—"
"Didn't what?" the tall boy sneered, stepping closer.
Harry's fingers brushed his wand instinctively as his voice cut through the darkness.
"Is there a problem here?"
The voice were spoken slowly, each syllable carefully measured.
The three older Slytherins turned in unison, their expressions shifting from smug confidence to uneasy wariness as Harry stepped into the faint light, pupils constricted tightly like angry black beads within crystallin emeralds bouncing between them before landing briefly on the pale-haired girl pressed against the wall.
The tallest boy features twisted into a smirk. "Potter," he drawled. "This doesn't concern you."
Harry's lips curved into a smile, but it was a small, tight thing, and it didn't reach his eyes.
"Doesn't it?" he asked, his tone conversational, almost pleasant.
"Three of you. One of her."
His gaze shifted to the girl pressed against the wall, her pale face half-hidden behind the loose braid that hung near her cheek. "That doesn't seem very sporting, does it?"
The tall boy sneered, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "What're you going to do, Potter? Wave your wand and scare us off?"
Harry tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Scare you?" he said softly, the faintest trace of amusement threading his tone. "I don't need to do that. You were in the stands yesterday, weren't you? Everyone was."
The taller boy's smirk faltered, but he quickly recovered. "So what?"
Harry took a slow step forward, his hands still at his sides. "So you saw it," . "You saw what I did. The entire world did. Big arena. Angry dragon. Sound familiar?"
The shorter boy shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching toward his wand. "Yeah, and? That doesn't mean you can just—"
"No?" Harry interrupted, his eyes seemed to glow brighter with a gentle, rhythmic beat, like a beating heart. His voice didn't rise, but the weight behind it seemed to fill the corridor. "You saw what I conjured. The fire. The basilisk. Do you think that was the extent of what I can do?" He tilted his head, his smile sharp, like the edge of a knife. "Do you really want to find out what's next?"
The taller boy swallowed hard, his confidence visibly wavering now. His friends exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier bravado quickly eroding under Harry's quiet intensity.
"Leave," Harry stated , his tone devoid of emotion. "Now."
The words were soft, almost gentle, but the air around him felt charged, crackling faintly with restrained magic. For a moment, no one moved.
Then the tall boy muttered something under his breath, stepping back sharply. "Come on," he snapped to the others. "We're done here."
The three of them retreated quickly, their footsteps echoing loudly in the silence.
The corridor was still, the silence between them stretching long after the Slytherin boys had fled. Astoria walked beside Harry, her pace hesitant, her head slightly bowed. She clutched the strap of her bag tightly, her knuckles white, as though grounding herself in something tangible.
Harry glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. The dim torchlight reflected off her platinum-blonde hair, making it shimmer like woven silver. It was striking, really—like spun moonlight—but the way she carried herself dulled it, like she was used to making herself small, unnoticed.
"You didn't have to do that," she murmured, voice quiet but weighted.
Harry raised an eyebrow, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "You're right," he said easily. "I didn't. But I wasn't going to stand there and let them push you around."
Astoria let out a slow breath, fingers tightening on her bag. "They wouldn't have done it if my sister were here."
Harry frowned slightly. "Daphne?"
She nodded, mismatched eyes flicking to his before quickly darting away. "She's... well, she wouldn't have let it happen in the first place."
The way she said it wasn't bitter or resentful—if anything, there was admiration in her voice. But there was also something else, something more complicated.
Harry studied her for a moment before saying, "Then why not tell her?"
Astoria shook her head quickly. "I don't want her involved."
Harry arched a brow. "Why not? If she could stop it—"
"Because she'd never let it go," Astoria interjected. "She'd hover, she'd fight my battles for me, and I'd never hear the end of it." She hesitated, then added, "She means well, but... I don't want to be someone she constantly has to protect."
Harry considered that, then shrugged. "Fair enough."
Astoria looked up at him in surprise. "You're not going to argue?"
"Why would I?" he asked, smirking faintly. "I get it. You want to handle things yourself. Doesn't mean you shouldn't have backup when you need it."
Astoria's lips pressed together, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then, finally, she exhaled. "I suppose that's fair."
They walked in silence for a while before she spoke again, voice more hesitant this time. "You really don't care what people think of you, do you?"
Harry sighed, tilting his head slightly. "Not anymore."
Astoria frowned. "But how? Doesn't it bother you? Everyone whispering, the way they look at you?"
Harry's smirk faded, replaced by something more contemplative. "It used to," he admitted. "But you get used to it. People will think what they want. No point losing sleep over it."
Astoria looked away, fingers twisting the strap of her bag. "I wish I could think like that."
Harry arched a brow. "Yeah? You don't strike me as someone who gives a damn about what people think."
Astoria huffed softly. "It's different for you. You don't have a sister who seems perfect at everything. People don't compare you to someone else and find you lacking."
Harry blinked. "Daphne Greengrass?"
Astoria nodded. "She's everything a Greengrass should be. Confident, poised, strong. And I—" She faltered.
"—am none of those things?" Harry finished for her, brow quirking.
Astoria's lips pressed together before she nodded, a hint of shame in the movement.
"Well, that's bollocks," Harry said.
She blinked, looking up at him in surprise.
Harry rolled his eyes. "You held yourself together against three older boys who thought they could intimidate you. You didn't cry, you didn't beg—you didn't even give them the satisfaction of fighting back. That takes more control than throwing a hex at them ever would."
Astoria frowned. "That's not strength."
"Isn't it?" Harry countered, smirking slightly. "Strength isn't just hexes and duels. It's standing your ground. It's knowing when to act and when to hold back." He shrugged. "Besides, you're thirteen. You shouldn't have to be strong. That's what people like me are for."
Astoria's lips parted slightly, caught off guard. "People like you?"
Harry grinned, winking. "Hero complex. Can't help myself."
A startled laugh escaped her before she could stop it, and she quickly covered her mouth, eyes widening in embarrassment.
Harry pretended to consider. "Actually, hero complex might be inaccurate. Maybe I just like being dramatic."
Astoria shook her head, but there was a small smile tugging at her lips.
"Speaking of dramatics," she said, voice softer, "you really fought a dragon."
Harry snorted. "What, only now remembering?"
"No, but…" Her expression grew animated, mismatched eyes shining. "You faced a Hungarian Horntail and won. And you used Parseltongue—in front of everyone." She hesitated, then admitted, "It was the most terrifyingly incredible thing I've ever seen."
Harry chuckled. "Well, when you put it like that, it almost sounds impressive."
She scoffed, exasperated. "You do realise what you did, right?"
Harry grimaced. "Survived."
"Survived?" Astoria repeated, aghast. "You conjured a massive basilisk out of fire, Potter. It coiled around you like something out of legend." She shook her head, awe clear in her voice. "I don't know if you realise, but that's not normal."
Harry chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well… normal's never really been my thing."
Astoria stared at him for a moment before sighing dramatically. "You're impossible."
He grinned. "That's the general consensus, yeah."
She huffed, but her shoulders were lighter now, the tension that had coiled around her beginning to ease. They walked in silence for a few more steps before Astoria spoke again, her voice quieter.
"You really don't care what people think of you?"
Harry glanced at her, his grin fading into something more thoughtful. "People say a lot of things," he murmured. "Most of it's rubbish."
Astoria nodded slowly. "I know the feeling."
Salazar's dark eyes glinting with something unreadable as Harry approached. The flickering torchlight caught the sharp angles of his face, casting elongated shadows that made him look almost alive.
"You look unsettled, heir." Salazar's voice was smooth, but there was a knowing edge to it. "Something has shifted."
Harry came to a stop in front of the portrait, his green eyes narrowing slightly. "Dumbledore said my magical core is changing. He said it's tied to Parseltongue, to Slytherin's legacy." His jaw tightened. "I need answers."
At the mention of Dumbledore, Salazar's expression darkened slightly. His lips pressed together in something close to irritation.
"Ah," the founder murmured, leaning back in his frame. "So the old fool noticed, did he?"
Harry frowned. "What's happening to me? What does it mean that my core is 'changing'?"
Salazar regarded him for a long moment, his gaze sharp and unblinking. "Your magical core, Harry, is the foundation of your power. It is not a mere well of energy, but a living force—one shaped by lineage, experience, and intent." His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his throne. "What Dumbledore observed is a fundamental transformation within that force. A shift that has long been inevitable."
Harry's brows furrowed. "Inevitable?"
Salazar inclined his head. "Your connection to my magic, to Parseltongue, and to what Voldemort left within you on that fateful night… these are not separate things. They are threads woven together, tangled within your core. And when you cast that spell during the First Task, you did more than summon fire. You reached into something older. Something buried."
Harry felt his stomach twist, but he pressed on. "Dumbledore said Parseltongue amplifies magic. That it's tied to intent. Is that true?"
Salazar's expression sharpened, It is more than tied to intent—it _is_ intent." He studied Harry carefully, as if measuring his reaction. "You must understand, Parseltongue is not just a language. It is a conduit. A means of channeling raw magic without the limitations of structured incantations. That is why it felt so natural when you called forth the basilisk of fire."
Harry's hands curled into fists. "So what, my core is changing because I used Parseltongue to cast that spell? That doesn't make sense. I've spoken it before—nothing like this ever happened."
Salazar's gaze didn't waver. "You have used Parseltongue to command. To communicate with creatures. But when you cast Serpens Ardor, you did something else entirely." His voice lowered. "You merged with it."
Harry stiffened.
"You didn't just speak the language," Salazar continued. "You invoked it. You allowed it to shape your magic, to respond not just to words, but to the very essence of your will. That is why the basilisk did not simply exist—it obeyed you."
Harry swallowed. "And because of that… my cire is changing?"
"You're right," Salazar continued, his voice cold but firm, "your core is changing. But not in the way Dumbledore would want you to believe. It's not just Parseltongue or bloodline magic at play here. This transformation—it's far more complex
. "Because of what still lingers inside you, heir. You were marked by the Dark Lord, and though the fragment of her soul is gone, the imprint of her power remains. It is not Voldemort's soul that influences you now—it is the residue of what she left behind. That power is _bleeding_ into you, awakening something that was always there but had never been fully realized."
Salazar leaned in, his expression unreadable, his words deliberate. "The bleedthrough is not just from Voldemort. It is also from the girl you met—the one who shares the same blood as he does. Emily Riddle, not Voldemort himself, is merging with you. The influence of her soul, her memories, her instincts—those will start to take root within you. It is her you're becoming intertwined with, not the Dark Lord."
Harry's frown deepened, his fingers curling into fists as the weight of the revelation hit him. "You mean—her memories, her thoughts… they're merging with mine?"
Salazar's gaze didn't waver. "Your memories may merge. Your instincts may shift. Your morality—your sense of self—may be altered in subtle ways." His voice grew quiet. "And worst of all, you will not notice it happening until it is already done."
Harry's pulse pounded.
"The longer this continues, the more you will inherit," Salazar said. "It is fortunate, then, that Emily Riddle is the one merging with you."
Harry's entire body locked up. "What?"
Salazar studied him, his expression unreadable. "Not Voldemort," he clarified. "Emily Riddle."
Harry's mouth felt dry. "What's the difference?"
Salazar exhaled slowly. "Emily Riddle was a girl raised in an orphanage, clever and ambitious. She was capable of cruelty, yes, but she was also capable of brilliance. That is the version of the Dark Lord that lingers within you—not the madwoman she became, not the one who butchered her own soul. Emily Riddle was still whole."
Harry sucked in a breath, memories flashing in his mind. He recalled his conversation with Dumbledore.
"Emily Riddle was someone who could have been great. She had a choice. Voldemort… Voldemort no longer had a choice."
Salazar's gaze bore into him. "That is why you are lucky, heir."
Harry let out a bitter laugh. "Lucky?"
Salazar smirked faintly. "You will not become a vessel for another. You are not being consumed." His fingers tapped against the stone throne. "You will consume her."
A slow, creeping horror spread through Harry's chest. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Salazar said, "that her knowledge—her instincts—will not overtake you, but become part of you. You will inherit fragments of her strength, her understanding of magic, perhaps even decades of experience. But it will not be all at once. It will be slow. It will be painful." His voice dipped lower. "And it will cost you something."
Harry's voice was barely above a whisper. "What?"
Salazar's gaze was cold. "Your sense of self. Your perception of the world. Who you were before this… will fade. It will not vanish entirely, but you will never be just Harry Potter again."
A shudder crawled down Harry's spine.
He forced himself to steady his breathing. He couldn't afford to panic. Not now.
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Great, so I get to become part of the woman who's tried to kill me?"
Salazar's lips curled in a slight smile, though it held no humor. "Perhaps, but think of it this way: understanding your enemy gives you power over them. The memories of Emily—her thoughts, her rationale—are now accessible to you. If you embrace them, you could gain insight into her motivations, into Voldemort's mind, which may help you understand how to defeat them."
Harry's gaze darkened. "Isn't there a risk I'll become her? Lose myself in those memories?"
"Indeed," Salazar acknowledged, his voice cool. "The bleedthrough is gradual but relentless. Your soul is larger than Emily's, Harry. But it won't be without its sacrifices. There will be moments when your own memories may blur, when her instincts could rise to the surface. The trick is to maintain control." He paused, a strange flicker of sympathy crossing his features. "And don't forget, Emily Riddle's mind isn't entirely the same as Voldemort's. She was once a woman—ambitious, calculating, but with a depth of humanity Voldemort lacked. It's not all darkness."
Harry's thoughts spiraled. "So... I'll be fighting this battle inside my own head, between me and her?"
"Exactly," Salazar said, his voice heavy with unspoken truths. "But the reason you will prevail is because you're not just any heir. The magic coursing through you—the legacy you carry—means you're not bound to merely survive this process. You will master it. And in doing so, you will absorb her power without losing yourself."
Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "And what about the cost?"
Salazar's smirk returned, sharper this time. "The cost is who you once were. The boy who lived—the Gryffindor hero. That part of you, Harry, will fade. But it is necessary. The man you will become will wield power like none before."
A wave of unease washed over Harry. "And if I fail?"
Salazar's eyes darkened. "Failure would be the least of your concerns. If you cannot master what lies within you, it will consume you. But," he said, his tone turning reflective, "if you succeed, you will not just be the heir of Salazar Slytherin. You will be something greater."
Harry swallowed hard. "And what exactly is that?"
"A vessel of power," Salazar said, his voice carrying the weight of ancient magic. "A being shaped by the magic of your bloodline, your connection to me, and now, to Emily. You will carry more than just the legacy of Slytherin—you will become an embodiment of both your past and your future. The question, Harry, is whether you're ready to embrace it."
"Your body is changing as well."
Harry stilled.
Salazar tilted his head. "The magic of my bloodline is taking root in you. You are becoming a vessel for it—more than just an heir in name. This transformation will not be immediate, but in time, you will notice changes."
Harry's stomach twisted. "What kind of changes?"
Salazar's smirk returned. "Subtle things, at first. Your features may bend a little not for the worse, your senses will grow keener. Your core will expand to accommodate this power. But more than that… the castle itself will begin to respond to you in ways you have never known."
Harry swallowed hard.
Salazar's voice softened, though the weight in his words remained. "You are becoming, heir."
A cold shiver ran down Harry's spine.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure if he wanted to.
The walk to the Great Hall felt heavier than usual. Harry's footsteps echoed faintly along the cold stone corridors. His robes hung loose around him, still a little too big despite Pomfrey's potions but he was still growing, improving. He tugged at the edges idly as he passed small groups of students chatting in hushed whispers. Conversations seemed to stutter as he approached, eyes darting toward him, and Harry caught fragments of hurried whispers trailing behind him.
"That was him—"
"Did you see the basilisk? It was massive—"
"I heard he spoke in Parseltongue."
The faint murmurs pressed against his back along with the stares, but he didn't slow down. His hand tightened on the strap of his bag, his jaw setting as he pushed open the heavy doors to the Great Hall.
The room was alive with activity. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, casting warm hues across the long house tables. The clinking of cutlery and low hum of chatter filled the space, but it felt like a vacuum the moment Harry stepped inside.
Eyes turned to him, a ripple of silence following in his wake as he made his way toward the Gryffindor table. Conversations faltered mid-sentence, heads leaned together as whispers replaced words. He ignored them, his gaze steady, his stride unfaltering.
As he reached the table, he spotted familiar faces—Dean, Seamus, Lavender, and a few others—gathered near the middle. They looked up as he approached, their expressions flickering between surprise and nervousness.
'No Ron or Hermione'
"Harry," Seamus started, offering an awkward smile. "Haven't seen you in a while. You, uh, alright?"
Harry slid onto the bench without answering, reaching for a piece of toast from a nearby platter.
Dean tried next, leaning forward slightly. "Mate, what you did out there—it was insane. That basilisk—"
"Was it Parseltongue?" Lavender cut in, her voice quieter but laced with curiosity. "People are saying it sounded like… I don't know, dark magic."
Harry didn't look up. "People say a lot of things," He took a bite of the toast, chewing slowly as the group exchanged uneasy glances.
"Come on, Harry," Seamus pressed, leaning forward.
"You can't just ignore everyone. You've been gone for weeks. The whole school's been talking about it. We thought—"
"You thought what?" Harry interrupted, well aware that almost the entire great hall was sneaking glances at him. He arched an eyebrow'. "That I'd come back and pretend everything's normal? That we'd have a nice little chat about how I nearly got burned alive in front of half the wizarding world?"
The words hung in the air, cold and heavy. The Irish boy opened his mouth to reply but closed it again, his face flushing
Before anyone could say anything else, Harry's attention was drawn to a flash of movement near the Slytherin table. His gaze landed on Astoria Greengrass, who was seated near the edge of the group. Her platinum-blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight.
She looked nervous, her forehead creased as she fidgeted with her food. Her heterochromatic eyes darting around, as though she were trying to avoid attention.
Their eyes met briefly, and Harry's expression softened. He offered her a small, reassuring smile, a silent gesture that seemed to convey some sort of comfort.
Astoria blinked, her wide eyes darting away quickly, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. She tilted her head slightly, just enough to acknowledge his gesture, but didn't look back.
Harry's gaze swept back over the table, noting the way his housemates shifted uncomfortably, their eyes avoiding his. He exhaled sharply, pushing his plate away. "Just leave it, alright?"
A sharp screech broke through the tension. Hedwig swooped down, her snowy feathers gleaming in the morning light as she landed gracefully beside him. A rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet was clutched in her talons.
"Thanks," Harry muttered, stroking her feathers briefly before untying the paper.
As he unrolled it, the headline hit him like a hex:
Harry Potter: Dumbledore or Grindelwald in the Making?
He froze, his jaw tightening as he skimmed the article. Rita Skeeter's voice practically dripped from the page:
"It was a sight to behold—The Boy Who Lived standing atop the scorched remains of a Hungarian Horntail, his wand alight with ancient, forbidden magic. Witnesses report that Potter spoke in Parseltongue, invoking a fiery basilisk that bore an eerie resemblance to Grindelwald's legendary Protego Diabolica. Could this be a sign of his growing affinity for dark magic, or merely the desperate act of a cornered child?"
Harry Potter has once again proved a reckless disregard to anything normal, and perhaps mortal. In a shocking display of arrogance, the 14 year old boy summoned a Basilisk made of verdant fire, unleashing it upon a Hungarian Horntail, arguably the most dangerous breed of a dragon. The result? A gruesome, unsanctioned one sided slaughter.
Should we be surprised?
Dumbledores golden boy has long been shielded from consequences especially in his meddling with dangerous magic. Some may say Potter's latest stunt echoed not only Dumbledore's but his one and only equal. Gellert Grindelwald. Afterall who else had once imposed his will onto the wizarding world with no regard for the laws of magic. How many ruins have been left in his wake? Storm Calypso is said to still have been stronger than ever with no signs of stopping.
Potter has decided to follow in his footsteps, seemingly stealing the fire and wielding it like Prometheus, yet unlike the Titan Potter is no noble rebel, no saviour to wizarding kind. He is a child playing with magic far too potent and far too large for his shoulders.
Harry's hands clenched around the edges of the paper, the corners crumpling slightly. His eyes darted to the accompanying image—a grainy still of him surrounded by the green glow of the fire basilisk, his face half-hidden by smoke.
"Dumbledore or Grindelwald," he muttered under his breath. "What a choice."
The words drew a few curious glances from nearby students, but Harry ignored them, his mind racing. The comparison to Grindelwald sent an uneasy ripple through him—not because it was entirely inaccurate, but because it wasn't the first time the dark wizard had crossed his mind.
He hasn't been back Harry thought, his stomach twisting. No dreams, no whispers. Just Emily.
A sardonic smile tugged at his lips as he folded the paper. "Two dark lords in my head. Lucky me."
"Harry!"
He looked up to see Colin Creevey rushing toward him, his face alight with excitement. The younger boy skidded to a stop near the table, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
"Did you hear? They've announced the first Quidditch match of the season! Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff—it's happening next weekend!"
Harry blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"The team, Harry!" Colin exclaimed. "Are you going to play? Angelina said you might not, but we need you out there! Gryffindor's been in a slump ever since you stopped practicing."
Harry hesitated, his gaze dropping to the table. He hadn't thought about Quidditch in weeks. The tournament had consumed him, and his time in the Chamber with Salazar left little room for anything else. But the idea of flying again—of feeling the wind against his face, the freedom of the skies—it stirred something in him.
"I don't know, Colin," he said slowly.
"But you've got to!" Colin pressed, his voice filled with determination. "It's against Hufflepuff! You can't let them win! Not after all the trouble they caused"
Memories of Smith's smile pressed into his skull.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright," he said finally, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "I'll play."
Colin beamed. "Brilliant! I'll let everyone know!"
As Colin darted off, Harry leaned back in his seat, his eyes drifting toward the enchanted ceiling. Flying might not solve anything, but maybe it would clear his head.
The late afternoon sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the Quidditch pitch. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of freshly mown grass and the distant chatter of students lingering near the stands. Harry strode onto the pitch, his broom slung over his shoulder.
As he approached, he could see the rest of the Gryffindor team already gathered. The usual warmth and camaraderie were notably absent, replaced with knowing silence. Angelina Johnson stood at the centre, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she directed instructions to the others.
The chatter stopped when they noticed him.
Angelina turned first, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as she looked him over. Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell stood nearby, their expressions a mix of awkwardness and guilt. The twins were positioned off to the side with his Cleansweep in hand, giving Harry hesitant glances, but theirusual enthusiasm was noticeably muted.
"Potter," Angelina greeted, her tone clipped.
"Johnson," Harry replied evenly. He dropped his broom onto the grass, his green eyes scanning the group briefly. "I heard we've got practice."
Angelina's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah, well, we need you," she said bluntly. "Hufflepuff's been on a winning streak, and with Cedric Diggory gone, they've got Smith leading the team. He's… motivated."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Motivated to what? Talk everyone into a stupor?"
Katie snorted, but the sound was quickly stifled by a sharp glance from Angelina.
"Harry," Angelina said, stepping forward. "Look, I know things have been... tense. And I know you've got the tournament, but the team—"
"Needs me," Harry finished for her, "I know."
Angelina hesitated, clearly trying to find the right words, but Harry cut her off before she could speak again.
"I'll practice. I'll play," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "But let's get one thing straight—I'm not here to talk about the past. So, if you're planning on some heart-to-heart about how we're all in this together, save it."
Alicia frowned, stepping forward slightly. "Harry, that's not fair—"
"What's not fair," Harry interrupted, his voice sharpening, "is everything that's happened since my name came out of that Goblet. The stares, the whispers, the hexes in the corridors. You didn't stop it. None of you did. And now, you want me back like nothing's changed?"
Katie opened her mouth to respond, but Harry's gaze shifted to Angelina, pinning her with a look that made her falter.
"You put your name in the Goblet, didn't you?" Harry stated.
Angelina stiffened, her eyes narrowing. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything," He stared at her. "Cedric was chosen as Hogwarts' champion, not you. Even if I had cheated my way in, my name came out after it chose Cedric, so it thought i was worthy.
You didn't even come close
The words were left unsaid but the message was clear.
Harry continued, "And yet, you're standing here, acting like you've got some claim to this—like you've got the right to question me. "
"That's not what I'm doing," Her knuckles dug into her ribs.
"Isn't it?" Harry countered. "You, Alicia, Katie—you were like older sisters to me. But the second things got complicated, you all disappeared. And now, because the team needs me, I'm supposed to just fall in line?"
The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of Harry's words settling over the group.
Angelina's jaw tightened, but she didn't respond. Alicia and Katie exchanged guilty looks, their shoulders slumping slightly.
"Here's how this is going to work," Harry said finally. "I'll train. I'll play. And I'll win. But that's it. No conversations, no pretending everything's fine. We're here to play Quidditch, not talk."
With that, he picked up his broom and strode toward the centre of the pitch, leaving the others to follow in his wake.
The next week, the castle was alive with anticipation. The upcoming match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had drawn the attention of nearly everyone, with students donning house colours and making bets on the outcome.
Harry made his way toward the entrance hall, his Firebolt resting across his shoulder. The hum of excitement in the air barely registered as he focused on the path ahead, his mind running through strategies for the game.
As he rounded a corner near the main staircase, he spotted a familiar figure waiting near the stone balustrade.
Astoria stood with her hands clasped in front of her. She wore a simple green scarf draped over her shoulders, a subtle nod to her house colours. Her brightened slightly when she saw him.
"Harry," she said softly.
He stopped, cocking his head slightly. "Astoria."
She hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her scarf. "I just… I wanted to wish you luck. For the match."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. "Thanks,"
Astoria glanced down briefly, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. "I know it's not my place, but… after everything that's happened, it's nice to see you doing something you love again."
Harry's lips quirked into a small, genuine smile. "It is," he admitted. "Flying's… different. Simple."
She nodded, her gaze lifting to meet his. "You'll win," she said with quiet certainty. "I know you will."
Harry studied her for a moment, the sincerity in her voice cutting through the guarded walls he'd built around himself. He gave her a slight nod, his smile lingering.
"Thanks, Astoria," he said. "That means a lot."
She ducked her head slightly, her braid slipping over her shoulder. "Good luck," she repeated, stepping back as Harry turned toward the doors.
As he walked away, Harry couldn't help but glance over his shoulder. Astoria was still standing there, watching him go, her expression a mix of shyness and quiet admiration.
The roar of the crowd was deafening as Harry Potter stepped onto the Quidditch pitch, Firebolt slung over his shoulder. The stands were a sea of crimson and gold on one side, vibrant yellow on the other. Flags waved furiously in the breeze, and enchanted banners flashed messages like "Go Gryffindor!" and "Smith will smash you!"
"And here he is!" boomed Lee Jordan's voice, amplified by Sonorus. "The Boy Who Lived! The Dragon Slayer! HARRY POTTER!"
The Gryffindor stands erupted into cheers, a roar that shook the air. But mingled within were murmurs and whispers—doubt, uncertainty. After all, this was the boy who had vanished for weeks, only to emerge and perform the most dangerous magic anyone had seen in decades.
"And stepping up for Hufflepuff, their fearless leader—ZACHARIAS SMITH!" Jordan continued, his tone suddenly less enthusiastic. "Honestly, I don't know why they let him be captain, but, hey, I don't make the rules."
"JORDAN!" Professor McGonagall's sharp voice cut through the commentary.
"Right, sorry, Professor. Professionalism. Got it," Lee muttered, clearing his throat. "As I was saying, Hufflepuff's got their team lined up! They're looking strong, determined, and… well, maybe a little overconfident."
The Hufflepuff captain, Zacharias Smith, smirked as he mounted his broom. His Beater's bat rested casually on his shoulder, but his eyes were locked on Harry, a spark of challenge glinting within them.
Madam Hooch strode to the center of the pitch, her silver hair gleaming under the autumn sun. "Mount your brooms!" she barked. "I want a clean game. No fouls, no funny business, and keep the hexes off the pitch!"
Harry swung his leg over his Firebolt, feeling the familiar hum of magic beneath him. He glanced over at his team: Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, Fred and George Weasley, and Ron Weasley at the goalposts. Each wore determined expressions, though tension lingered in their eyes.
"Alright, you lot," Angelina said, her voice low and commanding. "This is our game to win. Stick to the plays, keep your heads in it, and for Merlin's sake, don't let Hufflepuff think they've got a chance."
Harry didn't speak. He simply nodded, his focus locked on the pitch.
Madam Hooch's whistle cut through the noise, and fourteen players shot into the air like rockets.
"And we're off!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed. "The Quaffle is in play, and Alicia Spinnet takes immediate possession—GO, GRYFFINDOR!"
The crowd roared as Alicia shot across the pitch, weaving through Hufflepuff's Chasers with practiced ease.
"Hufflepuff's Chasers are closing in! Oh, nice feint by Spinnet—AND SHE PASSES TO ANGELINA JOHNSON! Beautiful play there!"
McGonagall's voice cut through the air again. "Jordan, less bias!"
"I'm just calling it as I see it, Professor," Lee said innocently.
Meanwhile, high above the chaos, Harry had already begun his tactic. He flew wide, circling the entire pitch at high speed, his Firebolt cutting through the air with surgical precision. The move gave him an unparalleled view of the field, but it also made him a harder target for Hufflepuff's Beaters.
Zacharias Smith was quick to target Harry. With a sharp whistle, he signaled his Beaters, sending the first Bludger rocketing toward him.
Harry felt the shift in the air before he saw it. He twisted sharply, his Firebolt rolling beneath him as the Bludger tore through the space where he'd been a moment ago.
"Smooth dodge by Potter!" Lee Jordan crowed. "The man's got reflexes like a cat—no, a jaguar! No, a bloody Hungarian Horntail!"
Smith wasn't deterred. He barked another command, and the second Bludger hurtled toward Harry, this time from above. Harry reacted instantly, rolling into a sharp dive that sent him streaking toward the pitch.
"LOOK AT THAT SPEED!" Lee yelled. "Harry Potter is practically a blur out there!"
The dive wasn't just an evasion—it was a setup. As Harry leveled out, he glanced over his shoulder, confirming that both Bludgers were now trailing him.
With a sharp twist of his broom, Harry shot toward Fred and George. The twins exchanged a brief, incredulous glance as Harry pointed toward himself and barked, "Send them back!"
"What?" Fred shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd.
"Just do it!"
The Bludgers were closing in, their sharp cracks splitting the air. With expert timing, Fred and George swung their bats, redirecting the deadly spheres straight toward Harry.
The crowd gasped.
Harry surged upward, the Bludgers hurtling after him in a blur of black and iron. Zacharias Smith gave chase, his broom wobbling slightly as he struggled to keep up.
"Potter's leading the Bludgers and Smith in some kind of insane… spiral?" Lee Jordan's voice faltered. "I have no idea what he's doing, but it's bloody brilliant!"
The air howled around him as Harry shot upward, the Firebolt vibrating faintly beneath his hands. He could feel the Bludgers tearing through the air behind him, their sharp cracks like thunderclaps at his back.
Smith was chasing him, of course.
Harry smirked faintly, his lips curving in a tight, almost cruel line. 'Perfect.'
He twisted the Firebolt into a spiralling ascent, his body pressed low against the broom as he pushed it to its limits. The world around him blurred—scarlet banners and golden sunlight bleeding into a dizzying whirlpool of color.
The Bludgers followed faithfully, their trajectories wild but relentless. Harry could feel their presence, the sharp, predatory energy of enchanted iron closing the distance.
And then there was Smith.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught the glint of Hufflepuff yellow weaving erratically through the spiral. Smith's face was set in a determined scowl, his bat clutched tightly in his hand. But his broom wobbled under the pressure, the spiraling winds throwing off his balance.
Harry tilted into an even sharper curve, his grin widening as he felt the forces of the spiral intensify. 'Come on' he thought, his green eyes narrowing. 'Just a little closer.'
The first Bludger struck.
It smashed into Smith's shoulder with a sickening crunch, the force of the impact jerking him violently to the side. His grip faltered, his bat spinning uselessly into the air.
Harry didn't stop. He pushed harder, his Firebolt carving through the sky like a blade.
The second Bludger followed.
It caught Smith square in the chest, driving the air from his lungs and sending him tumbling backward. For a split second, Harry caught the look in Smith's eyes—wide and panicked, the dawning realization that he'd lost control.
And then Smith fell.
The Hufflepuff captain plummeted like a stone, his broom spiraling uselessly behind him. Harry didn't look back. His gaze was locked on the Snitch, its golden wings beating furiously as it darted toward the centre of the pitch.
So close.
The world seemed to slow as Harry reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold, metallic surface of the Snitch. It wriggled in his grip, its tiny wings flapping desperately, but Harry held firm.
The whistle blew.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, but Harry barely heard it. His chest heaved as he hovered midair, the Snitch clenched tightly in his hand. Below him, Zacharias Smith was sprawled across the pitch, motionless but alive, his teammates rushing to his side.
'Hufflepuff deserved this.'
A faint grin tugged at Harry's lips. He didn't feel guilty. Not even a little.
The Gryffindor stands erupted into cheers, their voices rising like a tidal wave of triumph. On the other side of the pitch, the Hufflepuff supporters were silent, their earlier enthusiasm extinguished by the sight of their captain's defeat.
"AND THAT'S IT!" Lee Jordan's voice rang out, triumphant and unapologetic. "POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH, GRYFFINDOR WINS, AND—MERLIN'S BEARD—THAT WAS THE MOST BRUTAL ENDING I'VE EVER SEEN!"
"JORDAN!" McGonagall's outraged voice followed immediately.
"Apologies, Professor, but you can't deny it! That spiral maneuver—those Bludgers—it was a BLOODY MASTERPIECE!"
Harry landed lightly on the pitch, the Snitch still clutched in his hand. His teammates swarmed him, their cheers ringing in his ears as they clapped him on the back.
"You were brilliant, Harry!" Angelina exclaimed, her eyes shining with exhilaration. "Absolutely bloody brilliant!"
Harry didn't respond. His gaze flicked to the Hufflepuff team, where Madam Hooch was helping Smith to his feet. The boy's face was pale, his movements stiff as he clutched his side.
Harry felt no sympathy.
The cheers of the crowd had faded by the time Harry made his way back to the castle. His body ached from the strain of the match, and the weight of the Snitch in his pocket felt heavier than it should have.
He wasn't expecting to see them.
Ron and Hermione stood in the shadow of the entrance hall, their expressions a mixture of guilt and apprehension.
Hermione's tear-filled eyes searched Harry's face for any sign of the boy who had once been her closest friend. Ron, too, stood frozen, his fists clenching and unclenching as if trying to grasp the right words to say.
"Harry," Hermione pleaded again, her voice breaking, "please. We made a mistake—a terrible one—but we want to make it right. We want to fix this."
Harry's gaze flicked between them, his face unreadable.
"I don't hate you," Harry said at last, "I don't even blame you anymore."
Hermione's breath hitched, hope flickering briefly in her eyes.
"But," Harry sighed "that doesn't mean we're friends. Not anymore."
Ron took a step forward, his voice desperate. "Harry, come on! We've been through so much together! You can't just throw it all away—"
"I'm not the one who threw it away," Harry interrupted, eyes hardening. "You did. Both of you."
He looked at Hermione then, his voice softening slightly, but the weight of his words remained. "You were supposed to believe me. After everything we've been through, you were supposed to trust me. And instead, you turned on me. You let everyone else turn on me."
Hermione's tears spilled over, her hands trembling as she clasped them in front of her. "We were scared, Harry. We didn't know what to think."
"And I was alone," Harry said, his voice low and steady. "I had to fight through all of it on my own. Do you have any idea what that felt like? To look at the people you trusted most and realize they don't believe you?"
Ron's jaw tightened, but he didn't reply.
Harry took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I don't have hard feelings," he said, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. "You stuck with me for three years. That's more than I could've asked for."
"But?" Hermione whispered.
"But that's over," Harry said firmly. "I've got better things to do than wonder if I'll have to plead my innocence to you again. So… good luck. With everything."
He brushed past them without looking back, his footsteps echoing in the quiet corridor.
Harry didn't look at anyone, didn't acknowledge the whispers or glances that followed him. His mind churned with everything he hadn't said, every bitter thought that still lingered.
'They didn't deserve to be forgiven.'
Not after the way they'd looked at him in those first few days—Hermione's accusing stares, Ron's muttered comments about fairness. Not after they'd made him feel like he had to defend himself to them.
They hadn't trusted him, and now he couldn't trust them.
And maybe… maybe that was fine.
Harry climbed the stairs to the dormitory, his thoughts heavy but steady. He didn't need them. He didn't need anyone. He'd survived the basilisk, the Dementors, and now the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. Alone.
'Survival is what matters. Trust doesn't keep you alive.'
Still, his mind drifted as he sank onto his bed, his eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. A flicker of curiosity sparked in the back of his mind, nagging at him like an itch he couldn't scratch.
Protego Diabolica.
The spell had been mentioned in one of the articles about him—Rita Skeeter's latest nonsense, calling him everything from the "next Merlin" to "an heir of Grindelwald." It had made his stomach churn, but the comparison had stayed with him.
The spell had reminded him of something… something darker, more deliberate.
Grindelwald's fire spell.
He remembered the swirling walls of flame described in textbooks, a defence so potent it could distinguish friend from foe. And the basilisk he'd conjured had felt almost alive.
Harry sat up, his curiosity sharpening into resolve. He needed answers.
The library was quiet, the faint scratching of quills and rustling of parchment the only sounds that broke the silence. Harry moved between the towering shelves with purpose, scanning the titles for anything that might hold the information he sought.
He found it in the Restricted Section.
'Perks of being a champion' Harry scoffed at his own thought.
The book was old, its spine cracked and its pages faded. The title was embossed in peeling silver: Flames of the Dark Arts: A Study of Fire-Based Magic.
Harry hesitated for a moment, his fingers hovering over the cover. A part of him wondered if he should wait, ask Salazar about it instead. But the other part—the part that had survived the dragon, the basilisk, and Voldemort himself—told him he didn't need anyone's permission.
He opened the book.
The pages were filled with diagrams and descriptions, spells and rituals that made his skin crawl. But there, in the middle of the section on advanced fire magic, was what he'd been looking for.
Protego Diabolica: The Devil's Shield.
The description was chilling: A defensive spell of ancient origin, Protego Diabolica creates a wall of flame that burns away all who harbour ill intent toward the caster. The fire is sentient, capable of distinguishing friend from foe.
Harry's breath hitched as he read. The spell required immense magical control, its effects devastating if mishandled.
'This is what Grindelwald used.'
The fire basilisk he'd summoned wasn't the same, but it wasn't far off either. The intent behind the magic had been similar: destruction, dominance, survival.
A thought whispered in the back of his mind, unbidden but persistent.
What else can I do?
The library was silent, save for the faint scratch of a quill and the occasional rustle of parchment. Harry sat in the farthest corner of the Restricted Section, surrounded by books on advanced duelling techniques, rituals, and magical theory. His expression was focused, his green eyes scanning the pages of an ancient tome as he committed spell diagrams to memory.
He didn't flinch when the sharp sound of footsteps echoed through the aisles, growing louder as they approached. He knew who it was before she even stepped into view.
"Potter," Professor McGonagall said sharply, her tone as stiff as ever. "This has become a habit of yours, hasn't it? Hiding yourself away."
Harry didn't look up, his quill still scratching across the margin of his notebook. "I'm not hiding," he replied coolly. "I'm studying. Isn't that what you're supposed to encourage?"
McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line as she set a sealed envelope down on the table in front of him. "As much as I appreciate your sudden interest in academics, there's a matter that requires your attention."
Harry glanced at the envelope but didn't touch it. "What now?"
"The second task," McGonagall said briskly. "The Ministry has… restructured the tournament. The champions will be leaving Hogwarts to participate in an international duelling circuit, hosted by the French Ministry of Magic."
Harry's quill paused mid-stroke. He slowly looked up, his emerald eyes narrowing. "International duelling circuit?"
McGonagall folded her hands in front of her, her expression unreadable. "The French Ministry has proposed the tournament as part of an initiative for international magical cooperation. The second task will serve as both a test of skill and an opportunity to showcase the champions on a global stage."
Harry let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Of course. Why just humiliate me in front of Britain when you can do it in front of the entire world?"
"This isn't about humiliation, Potter," McGonagall said sharply. "This is about proving yourself. The eyes of the world will be on you. This is your chance to—"
"To what?" Harry interrupted, his tone sharp. "Prove that I can be the Ministry's poster boy? Or show everyone that I don't belong here?"
McGonagall's jaw tightened, but she didn't rise to the bait. Instead, she took a deep breath and continued, her voice measured. "You won't be going alone. A small delegation from Hogwarts will accompany you to France. Cedric Diggory, as the official champion, of course. Fred and George Weasley have been selected to represent their exceptional skill in innovation—"
Harry raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching slightly despite himself. "You're sending the twins?"
"They are remarkably clever, despite their… unconventional methods," McGonagall said, her tone clipped. "Additionally, Susan Bones will attend, as her family has a notable history with duelling. Su Li has also been chosen—her older sister is a renowned duellist in international circuits.
Harry arched a brow. "So we're sending people based on name and politics, then."
McGonagall's silence was telling.
His smirk was slow, laced with something bitter. "At least you're honest about it."
Her jaw tightened slightly, but her voice remained level. "You leave in a week. Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick will oversee the delegation. I suggest you use the time wisely."
A beat of silence stretched between them. Harry finally picked up the letter, rolling the parchment between his fingers without unsealing it.
McGonagall's gaze lingered on him, "You've changed, Potter."
His grip on the letter tightened, but his expression didn't flicker. "Good."
McGonagall studied him a moment longer before giving a small nod, as if coming to a decision. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, her steps precise as ever.
Harry didn't watch her go.
Instead, he broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter, his green eyes scanning the words that would decide the next stage of his fight.
Dear Mr. Potter
You are hereby invited to participate in the International Duelling Circuit, hosted by the French Ministry of Magic. This event has been integrated into the second task of the Triwizard Tournament and will serve as a test of skill, endurance, and adaptability.
Details of the event are as follows:
Location: The Catacombs of Paris
Format: Three rounds of consecutive duels, each increasing in difficulty.
Special Conditions The duelling arena will shift between rounds, introducing unpredictable magical hazards and challenges. Champions must navigate these changes while conserving their magic and stamina.
More information will be provided at a later date.
Delegation Members
- Cedric Diggory (Official Champion)
- Fred and George Weasley (Innovation Representatives)
- Susan Bones (Youth Ambassador)
- Su Li (Dueling Representative)
- Harry Potter (External Champion)
This event will be broadcast internationally. The eyes of the magical world will be upon you. Good luck.
Harry's fingers tightened around the parchment.
'Of course it'll be broadcast' he thought bitterly. 'Why waste an opportunity to put me on display?'
His gaze lingered on the words Catacombs of Paris. The idea of duelling in such a dark, confined space sent a shiver down his spine, but he pushed the feeling aside. He'd faced worse in the Chamber, if anything it would feel like home.
A week wasn't much time to prepare, but it would have to be enough. He'd faced worse. He'd survive this too.
…He always did.