Thank you very much to everyone who adds this story to their favorites, and once again, I apologize if there are any grammatical or punctuation errors. Honestly, it's a titanic task, but I'm doing the best I can.
English is not my native language.
I know some things may seem curious or confusing, and yes, everything is far from the personalities written by Rowling. But let me remind you, this is an AU. If something doesn't seem right or you don't like it, I simply recommend you stop reading.
In this story, Harry is a grey wizard—not bound to the light but not consumed by darkness either. Some people have asked me why Harry sometimes doesn't finish off the Death Eaters or simply eliminate them. The answer is simple: he's unpredictable. Dumbledore is right to have reservations about him.
The pairing is Haphne. I'm trying to include a bit of romance amidst all the dark magic and battles. Also, keep in mind that Voldemort doesn't have full control. The Ministry is very similar to how it was during Fudge's era, but it's subtly controlled by Voldemort. The existence of Death Eaters is known, the war is acknowledged, and it's clear that there are sides. But, in simple terms, it's like the Cold War between the United States and Russia but magical.
Once again, thank you for reading.
Chapter VIII: A force to be reckoned with
The Potter Mansion sat in eerie silence, the kind that settled into every corner as the night wore on. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic scratching of Harry's quill against parchment, the lines of the ancient scrolls spread before him, their cryptic glyphs slowly yielding to his patient translations. The glow of enchanted candles illuminated the texts, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. As Harry worked, he could feel the weight of the magic in the room—dark, ancient, and brimming with a kind of power he wasn't sure he fully understood.
He had been absorbed in his task for hours when, without warning, the temperature in the room plummeted. A chill slithered down his spine, and the shadows around him seemed to stretch unnaturally, their edges sharpening like dark tendrils. The air thickened, as if the very atmosphere were bracing for the arrival of something—or someone.
"Still playing with fire, I see," Death's voice sliced through the silence, sharp and cold as it materialized from the shadows.
Harry didn't look up immediately. His quill paused, but only for a moment. He finished the line he was writing, then leaned back in his chair, his posture casual, but his expression unreadable. "Playing with fire is what I do best," he replied evenly, his voice laced with defiance, though his eyes never left the scrolls.
Death's form materialized before him, her skeletal presence filling the room with an oppressive power. Her shape was an unsettling blend of ethereal and malevolent, as if she were both part of the shadows and apart from them, an embodiment of inevitability. "You're treading dangerously close to the edge, Harry," she intoned, her tone sharp with warning. "These scrolls… this magic… it's not meant for you. You're delving into forces you cannot control."
Harry raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "I thought you wanted me to succeed. Isn't that what this is all about? Understanding every tool, every weapon?"
Her hollow eyes gleamed, a flicker of something like contempt crossing her face. "Do not mistake my support for permission to defy the natural order." Her voice grew colder still. "These texts are vital, yes, but not in the way you think. They are not meant to be your weapon, nor your salvation. You are meant to learn, not wield."
Harry's jaw tightened, and a flicker of frustration bubbled to the surface. "Then why are they here? Why did they come to me if not to be used? You always speak in riddles, Death. If you know so much, then tell me—what is their purpose?"
For a long moment, Death didn't respond, her hollow gaze fixed on him. The silence stretched uncomfortably, but Harry refused to break it. Then, at last, she stepped closer, her presence suffocating, as if the very air thickened in her wake.
"You will discover their purpose in time," she said, her voice now laced with an eerie calm. "But pay attention, Harry: if you dare to use what you learn here to bend the balance of life and death, I will make you pay. I will ensure you pay the price. Do not test me."
Harry stood slowly, locking eyes with her. There was no fear in his gaze—only defiance. He could feel the weight of her words, the promise of consequences, but something in him refused to yield. "You're quick to make threats," he said, his voice low, steady, unyielding. "But what about the games your sister is playing? Don't think I haven't noticed how much of this—Daphne, everything—is tied to her."
Death's expression darkened, and the temperature dropped even further, the room growing colder with her growing anger. The flickering candlelight dimmed, and the shadows lengthened unnaturally. "You think you have control over that?" she spat. "Over her? Fate does not play games, Harry. She weaves paths. Daphne Greengrass is a thread in yours, yes, but do not mistake her presence for an invitation to lose focus."
Harry's jaw clenched, his frustration rising. "I'm not losing focus. And yes, I know Daphne's involvement isn't random. But this isn't some distraction. If anything, it's grounding. You may not understand that, but it's true."
The coldness in Death's voice sharpened. "Grounding? You risk losing yourself, Harry. That girl is bound by duty, by family, by obligation. Do not forget that her path leads to Theodore Nott, not to you. If you entangle yourself further, you could ruin everything."
Harry's eyes flashed with anger, but his voice remained steady. "I know what I'm doing. Daphne's choices are hers to make, just like mine are mine. Whatever happens, I won't let it interfere with the mission."
Death studied him for a long moment, her hollow gaze unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she raised her hand, and a sudden wave of excruciating pain crashed through him. Harry's body seized up, his muscles looking like a sharp, unbearable agony lanced through his chest. He gasped, his vision blurring, and he staggered forward, clutching the edge of the desk for support. Every muscle screamed, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse.
"Do not mistake your resilience for invincibility," Death's voice cut through the pain, cold and unyielding. "I am not your equal, Harry. I am your master, and you are alive only because I allow it."
The pain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving Harry gasping for breath, his hands trembling as he straightened himself. He looked up at her, fury burning in his chest, but his resolve was unshaken. "Understood," he muttered, his voice hoarse but firm, the words as much a challenge as they were an acceptance.
Death leaned in closer, her cold presence washing over him like a wave of ice. "I will leave you to your decisions," she said softly, though her tone was no less menacing. "But understand this: if you falter, if you allow sentiment to cloud your purpose, I will intervene. Daphne Greengrass may be a thread in your story, but she cannot come before your duty."
Harry held her gaze without flinching, his chest still heaving from the pain. "I'll remember that."
For a moment, Death said nothing, her hollow eyes studying him with something that might have been curiosity—or pity. With a flick of her hand, her form began to dissolve into the shadows, her voice lingering in the air like a fading whisper.
"What you did in London was... acceptable," she said, her words almost grudging. "You've brought change, and for now, I will let you continue. But tread carefully, Harry. Your path is fraught with danger, and not all of it comes from your enemies."
The last vestiges of her form flickered, dissolving into the darkness. "And remember," her voice echoed faintly, "the scrolls you study are vital, but they are not your weapon. They were never meant to be yours to wield. Their purpose will become clear in time. Until then, learn—but do not touch the fire."
And then, she was gone. The cold that had filled the room dissipated, leaving Harry standing alone in the dim candlelight, his breath still uneven but his determination only growing. The weight of her words hung in the air, but it was the knowledge that he controlled his path—not her, not anyone—that kept him steady.
As the room settled back into its eerie quiet, Harry knew that the road ahead was fraught with peril. But one thing was clear: he wasn't about to let anyone—or anything—deter him from the choices he was determined to make.
Harry sank into his chair, rubbing his temples as he processed the encounter. His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp tapping of an owl at the window. He rose to retrieve the letter, noting Susan Bones's familiar handwriting.
The note was brief but urgent, outlining the resistance's request for his help in rescuing a group of Muggleborns held in Surrey.
Harry read the letter twice, his mind racing. The conversation with Death still echoed in his thoughts, but this was something immediate, something tangible.
With a sigh, he put the letter down and began preparing. Whatever awaited him in Surrey, it would be another step forward in the tangled game he was determined to win. The weight of his choices pressed heavily on him, yet he knew there was no room for hesitation—not with everything at stake.
Harry stood and Moments later, he stepped into the sprawling gardens of the mansion and, with practiced ease, vanished into the night. Traveling from Glasgow to Hogsmeade wasn't as complex as doing so from London, but it still required precision and focus. The cool embrace of the Scottish night greeted him as he emerged in one of the deserted cobbled streets of the wizarding village, the faint glow of distant lanterns casting long, flickering shadows.
The air in the streets was colder still, sharp and biting, as if the darkness carried its own weight. As Harry made his way through the empty streets, his gaze settled on a hooded figure standing in the shadows. It was Susan. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the soft whisper of the wind, their shared tension amplifying the gravity of the mission ahead.
Susan's face was tight with focus, her brown eyes scanning Harry for any sign of hesitation. She had seen him before, in the thick of battle, but never like this. There was something different about him tonight—something darker. "This isn't an official mission," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Neville doesn't know, and Dumbledore would never approve. But these people need us, and the resistance is stretched too thin."
Harry raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something dangerous in his gaze. "So, you've gone rogue then?" His voice was even, calm—but underneath it, there was a palpable rage, a silent fury burning behind his words.
Susan hesitated for only a moment before nodding, the weight of her decision settling into her chest. "I couldn't just leave them. But I need your help. You're... efficient."
Harry smirked faintly, the corners of his mouth curling upward in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Efficient, huh? Alright, I'll help, but we do this my way. No second-guessing, no hesitation. If you're in, you're in."
She swallowed, doubt flickering across her face for the briefest of moments. But after a heartbeat, her shoulders squared, and she nodded firmly. "Fine. I'm in."
The safehouse in Surrey was hidden in plain sight, tucked between a series of dilapidated warehouses in a quiet, industrial corner of town. To the untrained eye, it looked like just another abandoned building. But Harry knew better. The wards around it were strong—ancient, carefully crafted—and they'd taken him only a few moments to dismantle. His wand moved swiftly, a blur of calculated gestures as he broke the magical barriers one by one. A faint pulse of dark magic vibrated through the air with every flick of his wrist, a cold, electric sensation that prickled the skin.
They had barely crossed the threshold when they were met with resistance. A pair of guards stood just inside the entrance, their wands raised, their eyes narrowing at the sight of the intruders. Before either of them could react, Harry moved, his voice a murmur as he cast a silent curse. The first guard's chest exploded in a spray of blood, his body slumping to the ground in a lifeless heap.
The second guard hesitated, but Susan was quicker. She cast a stunning spell that hit him square in the chest, sending him crashing to the floor with a grunt. But Harry wasn't finished.
Kneeling beside the fallen guard, Harry muttered an incantation, his voice low and guttural. The air around them grew colder, thicker with the dark magic he was about to unleash. Susan's breath hitched as the dead guard's eyes snapped open, glowing with an eerie, unnatural light.
"What are you…?" Susan began, her voice trembling as she instinctively stepped back.
"Information," Harry said, his tone detached, cold. He leaned in closer to the reanimated corpse, his gaze unwavering. "Where are the prisoners?"
The guard's voice was hollow, his lips moving as though words were being forced from him. "Basement… third door... farthest corner... prisoners... map... layout..." His voice was nothing more than a mechanical rasp.
With a flick of his wand, Harry silenced him. The glow faded from the guard's eyes, and with another wave of his wand, the body slumped lifeless to the floor once again.
Susan's breath came in shallow gasps, her face pale with a mixture of shock and revulsion. "That… that was necromancy."
Harry stood, brushing the dirt from his robes, his expression impassive. "It was necessary. You wanted my help; this is how I work." His voice was clipped, without remorse.
Susan didn't respond immediately. The horror she felt was obvious, but beneath that was a flicker of reluctant understanding. It worked. The magic was undeniable, powerful. But she had never imagined she'd be standing beside a wizard, watching him so casually wield such dark magic.
They moved deeper into the base, and the further they went, the stronger the resistance became. Death Eaters, traps, and wards—they were everywhere. Harry led the way, his spells sharp and efficient, cutting through enemies with chilling ease. He was unstoppable, each curse more brutal than the last, his magic leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.
Then, they saw him—a figure who carried himself with an air of authority, as though he was the leader. His face was partially obscured by the shadows, but there was something unsettlingly familiar about him. Harry's mind raced—this man had been in London, he was certain of it, even watching his movements. Beside him stood another Death Eater, the pair clearly prepared for the encounter. Without exchanging a word, Harry and Susan split their focus. Harry stepped forward, wand drawn, to confront the apparent leader, while Susan squared off against his companion, her posture tense and ready for the fight to come.
This Death Eater was relentless, fast, and brutal. His curses came faster than Harry could counter, their wands clashing in a flurry of light. For a moment, Harry was on the defensive. The man curses were more than just lethal—they were savage, born from a thirst for blood.
The Death Eater cast a bone-breaking curse that struck Harry's leg with a sickening crack. Harry's scream echoed in the corridor, but his defiance never wavered. He fell to one knee, but the battle wasn't over. A second curse struck his shoulder, the shockwave of pain making his vision swim, his body threatening to collapse.
As he fought to stay upright, the familiar style of the Death Eater's curses triggered a jolt of recognition, pulling Harry's thoughts back to London. He had already faced this man before—he knew those movements, that precision, the spellwork that had nearly ended him once before.
The battle reached its climax as the Death Eater leader stepped forward; his wand aimed squarely at Harry. The two exchanged a flurry of spells, each one faster and more lethal than the last. Harry finally disarmed him with a powerful Expelliarmus, sending the man's wand skittering across the pavement.
The masked Death Eater leader grinned under his enchanted mask his posture defiant despite his trembling hand. Harry's wand remained raised, its tip glowing faintly, but his focus shifted as the man's taunt pierced through the chaos.
"Smile for the camera, Potter," he sneered again, louder this time, ensuring the hidden lenses captured every word.
The sneer and the memory of that phrase reignited Harry's anger. Another memory surfaced: Sergei, a Russian mercenary Harry had once teamed up with during a mission in St. Petersburg. Sergei's gravelly voice echoed in his mind, cold and unapologetic: "Leaving alive an enemy who has been lethal and powerful with you only guarantees that he will learn from his mistakes and cause you greater problems later. The solution? The crueler his death, the better. The satisfaction of being superior to him twice is intoxicating."
Harry's rage flared at the thought, surging through him like wildfire. The pain in his leg and shoulder faded into the background, replaced by an overwhelming drive to end this battle decisively.
Susan, locked in her own fight with another opponent, glanced toward him, her heart dropping. She could see the pain in Harry's face, but she couldn't stop helping. There was no time.
But Harry's rage was a tidal wave. He gritted his teeth, his vision blurring, but he fought through the pain. Using a combination of healing and stabilizing spells, he managed to keep his leg intact, the bones temporarily mended enough to allow him to move. With a growl, he summoned a swarm of vicious, razor-sharp birds, their talons tearing into the Death Eater in front of him.
The man screamed as the birds shredded his flesh, their talons ripping through his robes and flesh with relentless precision. But Harry didn't stop. His eyes burned with fury as he watched the man writhing in pain, the memories of London surging through him like an uncontrollable torrent. He had let him live once. Not again.
With a sneer of pure malice, Harry raised his wand. The Killing Curse erupted from his lips its green light more sinister than ever before. The spell hit the man squarely in the chest, but instead of an instant death, it lingered—slowly seeping into his body, corrupting it. The man's screams intensified, but they were cut short as the curse took full hold, twisting his insides until he fell, his body collapsing into a twisted heap, lifeless and broken.
Harry stood over him, his breathing heavy, his wand still raised, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. The satisfaction of finally ending it was cruel, but intoxicating. He had been superior to this man—twice now.
Susan had finished her fight, disarming her opponent, but she hesitated, her breath ragged as she glanced at Harry. There was something different in him now. Something terrifying—darker and colder.
Harry limped toward her his eyes as cold as ice. "Step aside."
She looked at him, startled. "What?"
"Step aside," Harry repeated, his voice low and hard, devoid of any warmth or hesitation.
Without a second thought, Susan moved back, her heart hammering in her chest. She wasn't sure if she was afraid of him or afraid of what he had become. But she obeyed. And Harry wasted no time. His wand snapped up, and the Killing Curse erupted from his lips again, this time without a flicker of doubt.
The Death Eater fell, lifeless before his body even hit the floor.
Susan stood frozen, her voice barely a whisper. "You didn't have to…"
"I did," Harry said firmly, cutting her off. His eyes locked on her, a harsh finality in his tone. "He would've come back for us. For the prisoners. For anyone who got in his way. I won't take that risk."
Susan didn't speak. She couldn't. The man she had fought beside was someone darker, someone she couldn't fully understand. And she wasn't sure if she should fear him or mourn the man he had been.
The mission ended with the successful rescue of the Muggleborn captives, who were quickly transported to a secure location. But the cost of victory was evident in the haunted looks exchanged between Harry and Susan.
As they parted ways, Susan glanced back at him, her voice tremulous. "You scare me sometimes, Harry," she admitted softly. "But… maybe that's what we need right now."
Harry didn't respond. He only watched her leave, his face unreadable, the weight of his choices pressing down on him like an unrelenting weight. He wasn't the same man who had stepped into this mission. The path he was walking had no return. And he would keep walking it, no matter the cost.
The silence lingered as Harry watched the door close behind her. Deep inside, a dark certainty settled—there was no turning back from what he had done.
Elsewhere, in a chamber deep beneath Hogwarts, the morning sun streamed through the high, narrow windows, casting long shadows on the cold stone floor. The quiet of the room was heavy, thick with the weight of the decisions made, as the leaders of the resistance gathered around a weathered table. Susan Bones stood at its center, her figure tense yet resolute. The gravity of what had transpired hung in the air like a storm cloud, and as she spoke, her voice was steady, though not without the faint tremor of someone who had crossed a line.
"I went to Harry Potter," she began, her words measured but firm. "The mission in Surrey wasn't sanctioned, but it had to be done. And because of his help, it was a success."
A murmur rippled through the room, a mix of disbelief and concern, before Dumbledore's portrait spoke up, his voice heavy with disapproval, as if his gaze pierced right through her.
"Miss Bones, do you understand the gravity of what you've done? Involving Mr. Potter in such a venture, especially without the council's approval—such recklessness. And his... methods?" The portrait's painted eyes narrowed his tone heavy with disgust. "Necromancy? The Killing Curse? You've seen how easily he resorts to such dark magic, Susan. It's abhorrent."
Susan stood her ground, her chin held high, unflinching in the face of his judgment. "I know what he did, Headmaster. And I don't regret it. Harry's methods may be unorthodox, but they worked. We saved them. The captives are free, thanks to him."
The silence in the room thickened. Dumbledore's expression, though painted, seemed to darken, his disappointment palpable. "At what cost?" he asked, his voice sharp. "Do you not see the danger in what you've done? Aligning yourself with someone who so easily wields such dark magic? He is a power we cannot control. His actions threaten to unravel everything we stand for."
Susan opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Neville Longbottom, standing a few feet away, raised a hand, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Enough, Professor," he said calmly, but with a quiet authority that commanded attention. "Susan made the right call. We can't afford to be bound by old rules when lives are on the line."
All eyes in the room turned to Neville, his quiet resolve speaking louder than any argument. The room fell into a heavy silence as the weight of his words settled.
"We've spent months trying to pull off missions like this," Neville continued, his gaze steady. "And we've failed. Over and over. We've lost people, resources, and momentum. But this time, we won. The captives are free, and Voldemort's forces took a hit. That's what matters."
Dumbledore's portrait frowned deeply. "Mr. Longbottom, you cannot condone…"
"I'm not condoning the methods," Neville interrupted firmly. "I'm acknowledging the results. Harry Potter might not play by our rules, but he gets things done. And right now, we need that more than ever."
Minerva McGonagall, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke. Her tone was sharp but measured. "Miss Bones, your actions were indeed reckless. Taking such initiative without consulting this council endangered not only yourself but the mission itself."
Susan's shoulders stiffened, but McGonagall continued before she could respond. "That said, I cannot deny the results. The rescue in Surrey is a victory, a significant one. However, let me be clear: Mr. Potter's use of necromancy and the Killing Curse is not something I can condone."
Her lips thinned as she added, "Though I suspect, if I'm honest, my disapproval is more a matter of principle than practicality."
Susan blinked in surprise, but McGonagall's expression remained stern. "Be that as it may, we must tread carefully. This war is as much about ideals as it is about survival. If we abandon our principles entirely, we risk becoming what we fight against."
Neville crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful but resolute. "I hear you, Professor, but ideals don't mean much if we're dead. Voldemort isn't playing by any rules. If Harry's willing to take the risks we can't, then we should let him."
Dumbledore's portrait sighed heavily. "And when those risks lead to consequences we cannot undo? What then, Mr. Longbottom?"
Neville's gaze hardened. "We deal with it. Just like we've dealt with everything else. But right now, Harry's not the problem, he's the solution."
Susan finally spoke again, her voice quieter but no less determined. "I didn't make this decision lightly. I knew the risks of involving Harry, but I also knew the risks of not acting. Those captives needed help, and now they're safe. Isn't that what we're fighting for?"
Neville gave her a small, approving nod. "You did good, Susan."
The words brought a rush of relief, though Susan knew not everyone in the room shared Neville's sentiment.
The meeting ended with no clear consensus. Dumbledore's portrait remained visibly disheartened, while McGonagall appeared torn between her principles and the undeniable success of the mission. Neville, however, seemed more resolute than ever, his focus fixed on the future.
As Susan left the chamber, she couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and unease. The mission had been a victory, but the methods that achieved it were already sowing division within the resistance.
In her heart, she knew one thing for certain: Harry Potter was a force unlike any other, and whether for good or ill, he was changing the rules of the game.
Far from the turmoil of the resistance, the morning sun cast a pale light over the Potter Mansion, its serene surroundings belying the chaos brewing within. Harry sat in his study, his leg propped up on a cushioned stool, his wand carefully tracing over the torn skin and bruised muscle. The healing process was slow, made worse by the toll of the necromancy he had employed during the mission. His shoulder ached fiercely, and his leg throbbed with every pulse of blood, but he gritted his teeth and worked through the pain.
His elven healer, Wrix, had just finished applying a numbing salve to Harry's leg when a familiar chill filled the room. Death materialized behind him, her skeletal form flickering briefly before solidifying.
"Your penchant for dramatics is almost entertaining," she said dryly, her hollow eyes gleaming with amusement.
Harry didn't look up; his focus was on wrapping his leg. "I thought you'd approve. Isn't death supposed to be messy?"
Death let out a low chuckle. "Oh, I approve. But even I can't help but admire your flair for pushing boundaries. Necromancy, Harry? Truly? You do enjoy playing with fire."
Harry exhaled sharply, setting down his wand. "It worked, didn't it? The mission was a success."
Death tilted her head. "And the cost? How much longer can you endure before your body or your soul rebels against you?"
He leaned back in his chair, picking up a glass of firewhiskey. "Long enough," he said simply.
Death leaned closer, her presence pressing down like a weight. "Remember what I told you play the game but know your limits. Even you are touchable."
Before he could reply, a sudden, deafening explosion shook the mansion, rattling the very walls. The force of it sent books tumbling from their shelves, and the glass in his study window cracked in jagged spiderwebs.
Harry shot in his feet, his injured leg screaming in protest, and grabbed his wand. The firewhiskey spilled across the desk as he turned toward the door, his heart pounding.
"What now?" he muttered under his breath.
Death faded into the shadows, her voice trailing behind her. "Your next trial has arrived, Harry. Let's see how well you fare this time."
Harry burst into the grand foyer, his wand raised and his senses sharp. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke, and the front doors hung askew, blown inward by the force of the explosion.
Standing at the center of the destruction was Theodore Nott, his eyes wild and bloodshot, his wand sparking erratically at his side. His unsteady posture and the bottle clutched in his other hand made it clear he was drunk, but the malice in his expression was deadly sober.
Behind him, Daphne Greengrass stood frozen, her face pale with fear and fury, her robes torn and stained with blood. A towering Death Eater loomed over her, one hand gripping her wrist with cruel force, the tip of his wand pressed firmly against her neck.
Harry's stomach twisted at the sight, but he kept his voice calm and cold. "Nott. You've got a lot of nerve showing up here uninvited."
Nott sneered, his words slurring slightly. "You think you can just waltz in and take whatever you want, Potter? My fiancée. My dignity. My place. I'm here to remind you who you're dealing with."
Harry's gaze flicked to Daphne, his grip on his wand tightening. "Let her go, Nott. This isn't about her."
"Oh, but it is," Nott said, his voice rising. "She's mine, Potter. And you... you've been sniffing around where you don't belong."
The Death Eater behind Daphne pressed his wand harder against her neck, drawing a small cry from her lips. Harry's eyes darkened, a dangerous calm settling over him.
"Let her go," he repeated, his voice low and deadly.
Nott laughed bitterly. "Or what? You'll kill me, too? Like you did in Surrey? I know what you did, Potter. I know exactly what kind of monster you are."
Nott's words were swallowed by the sudden roar of fire erupting from his wand. The jet of flame surged toward Harry, illuminating the room in searing orange. Harry moved without hesitation, his body twisting as he cast a shield charm that buckled but held, the edges of the flames licking at his robes.
"You're out of your depth, Nott," Harry said, his voice icy. He retaliated with a piercing hex that shattered the bottle in Nott's hand, sending shards flying.
The Death Eater holding Daphne snarled and yanked her to the side, his wand emitting a cruel, green light. Harry saw it in the corner of his eye and reacted instantly. A slashing motion of his wand sent a streak of crimson energy that struck the man's arm, forcing him to drop Daphne.
"Stay down!" Harry barked at her, but there was no time to ensure she obeyed.
Nott lunged forward, his wand slashing through the air with reckless speed. A jagged curse spiraled toward Harry, who deflected it, but the force sent him stumbling back.
The room became a war zone. Chunks of plaster rained from the ceiling as spells missed their mark, carving deep gashes into the walls. A chandelier crashed to the floor, scattering sparks and glass across the marble tiles.
Harry's wand moved like an extension of his will, conjuring jagged spears of stone that erupted from the ground, forcing Nott to dive aside. Nott countered with a slicing hex that grazed Harry's arm, drawing a crimson line across his sleeve.
"You're weak, Nott," Harry spat, his voice steady despite the pain. "Even drunk, you thought you could challenge me?"
Nott laughed, but it was a hollow, desperate sound. "You think this is about strength? It's about taking back what's mine!"
Their duel intensified each spell more viciously than the last. Harry conjured a tempest of shadows that swirled around Nott, slashing at him with claws of pure darkness. Nott screamed, the shadows tearing through his robes and leaving thin trails of blood on his skin.
In a fit of desperation, Nott unleashed a wave of raw magic, the force knocking both combatants off balance. Harry rolled to his feet; his wand steady as he sent a bolt of fire slicing through the air. It struck Nott's shoulder, the smell of charred flesh filling the room as he screamed in agony.
"You've already lost, Nott," Harry growled.
But Nott wasn't finished. With a guttural roar, he summoned all his strength and sent a spell surging toward Harry—a swirling mass of black and green energy that screamed as it flew. Harry didn't flinch. He thrust his wand forward, meeting the spell with a shockwave of pure light.
The two forces collided in the air, sending shockwaves rippling outward. The ground trembled, and the windows shattered, glass cascading like rain.
With a final push, Harry's magic overwhelmed Nott's, the blast sending him flying across the room. He slammed into the wall and crumpled to the ground, his wand clattering from his hand.
Harry stalked toward him his wand aimed steadily at Nott's chest. Blood dripped from a cut on his temple, his breathing heavy but controlled.
"It's over," Harry said, his voice devoid of mercy.
Nott coughed, blood staining his lips as he glared up at Harry. "You think this changes anything? You'll never—"
Harry silenced him with a flick of his wand, binding him in chains of glowing light. He turned to Daphne, who stood trembling near the shattered remains of the chandelier.
"It's over," he repeated, softer this time.
Daphne nodded, tears glistening in her eyes as she stumbled toward him. "Harry..."
He didn't respond, his eyes still locked on Nott, who lay broken and defeated. This wasn't just a battle. It was a warning. And Harry knew it wouldn't be the last.
The faint crackle of residual magic lingered in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of burnt wood and scorched stone. Harry stood motionless, his wand still aimed at Nott, whose labored breaths punctuated the silence. Slowly, Daphne stepped forward, her gaze darting between the two men. The destruction around them was a grim testament to the ferocity of the battle, but the tension was far from over.
The air in the grand foyer of the Potter Mansion was charged with tension, the aftermath of the previous clash still evident in the shattered furniture and scorch marks along the walls. Theodore Nott lay groaning on the floor, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. Daphne Greengrass stood between Harry and Nott, her torn robes and disheveled hair doing little to diminish the fierceness in her voice.
Harry's expression darkened, his green eyes blazing with a dangerous light. "You think letting him crawl back to Voldemort is justice? No, Daphne. That's not how this works. He crossed a line, he came here, to my home, and dragged you into this. He doesn't get to walk away."
Daphne stepped closer; her hands clenched at her sides. "You're better than this. You don't have to stoop to his level."
Harry's jaw tightened, his pride stinging at her words. "Better? Stooping? This isn't about morals, Daphne. This is about making sure he never does this again. To me, to you, to anyone."
The argument escalated, both of their voices rising as they stood toe-to-toe. Daphne's desperation grew, but Harry's resolve was unyielding, his instincts demanding vengeance for the insult and the danger Nott had brought to his doorstep.
Before either could make another point, a low, guttural laugh interrupted them. Nott had staggered to his feet, his wand shaking but aimed with deadly intent.
"You're both pathetic," Nott sneered, his words slurred but venomous. "Arguing like schoolchildren while I…"
He didn't finish. With a flick of his wand, a jet of dark energy exploded from Nott's hand, striking Daphne squarely in the chest. She cried out as the force of the curse sent her flying across the room, her body crashing into a column before crumpling to the floor.
"Daphne!" Harry roared, his voice echoing through the shattered hall.
She lay motionless, her figure protected by the shimmering glow of a hastily conjured shield. Harry's wand hand trembled as he stared at her still form, his breath ragged.
The destruction around him blurred, replaced by the searing image of Daphne hurt and vulnerable.
Then he turned back to Nott.
The look on Harry's face was something primal, a predator staring down at his prey. A cold, malicious smile spread across his lips as he stepped forward.
"You know," Harry said, his voice low and dangerous, "she's the only reason I wasn't going to kill you quickly. But now? Now you've made this personal."
Nott's face twisted in fury, and the two wizards launched into a new battle. The air crackled with energy as spells collided, their dark magic tearing through the already devastated mansion.
Harry moved with calculated aggression, his leg still aching but his adrenaline dulling the pain. Nott, no longer hindered by alcohol, fought with a viciousness that matched Harry's.
Black tendrils of cursed fire spiraled toward Harry, who countered with a wave of icy shards that shattered midair, scattering the room with lethal fragments. Nott retaliated with a binding curse that coiled around Harry's torso like chains, but Harry broke free with a burst of raw magical energy that sent Nott staggering.
The fight grew darker, the magic employed by both wizards leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Walls crumbled, the floor cracked, and the chandelier above shattered, raining glass onto the battlefield.
Nott snarled as he conjured a massive serpent that lunged at Harry, its fangs dripping with venom. Harry responded with a spell that transformed the creature into a swarm of ravens, which descended on Nott with razor-sharp talons.
The intensity of the battle reached its peak when Nott, panting and bloodied, made a desperate move. He conjured a wave of raw dark energy, aiming to overpower Harry in one final, devastating attack.
Harry stood his ground, his green eyes alight with fury. With a sudden surge of power, he deflected the wave, redirecting it toward the already ruined ceiling.
In that split-second distraction, Harry seized his opportunity. He moved swiftly, firing a barrage of precise curses that left Nott scrambling to defend himself.
The final blow came when Harry conjured a pair of spectral hands that grabbed Nott's legs, holding him in place. As Nott struggled, Harry stepped forward, his wand aimed directly at his opponent's chest.
Harry's eyes glinted with a cold fury, his grip tightening on the wand. He had spent far too much time dealing with those like Nott. But now, this was personal.
The words of an ancient incantation flowed from Harry's lips. Anima Tormentum.
The air around him grew heavy, the temperature dropping as shadows writhed and coalesced into tendrils. This spell, unearthed in the ruins of Delphi, was said to be a curse gifted by Hades himself. It was not a spell of death, but of suffering—designed to expose its victim's soul to their deepest regrets and fears, tearing apart their essence.
The tendrils wrapped around Nott, piercing into him as his screams echoed through the hall. The spectral hands tightened their grip, holding him still as the curse plunged him into a torment unlike any other.
"This is for Daphne," Harry said coldly.
Nott's body convulsed violently, his screams turning into broken gasps. Harry stood motionless; his face devoid of mercy as magic did its work. The spell's power surged, and Nott's form collapsed, lifeless and hollow, onto the ruined floor.
Silence fell, broken only by Harry's ragged breathing. The shadows dissipated, leaving behind an eerie stillness.
Harry turned toward Daphne, limping slightly as he approached her still form. The shield around her flickered and faded as Harry knelt beside her, his hand trembling as he touched her face.
Her skin was cold, the faintest hint of magic still clinging to her form. He checked her pulse, his fingers brushing against her neck, relief flooding through him when he felt the steady beat. She was alive.
"You're not getting rid of me that easily," Harry whispered, his voice hoarse as he gently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.
"Daphne," he murmured, his voice breaking. "Wake up."
Her eyelids fluttered, and a soft groan escaped her lips. Relief flooded Harry's features as she opened her eyes, blinking at him in confusion.
"It's over," he said quietly. "You're safe."
Daphne's gaze shifted to the lifeless body of Nott, then back to Harry. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something—gratitude or understanding.
"Harry," she whispered, her voice weak. "You... you didn't have to..."
"Yes, I did," he interrupted firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He crossed a line."
Daphne said nothing more, her exhaustion overtaking her. Harry conjured a stretcher and carefully lifted her onto it, his mind racing with the implications of what had just happened.
The battle was over, but the war was far from finished. And Harry knew that the path he had chosen would only grow darker from here.
Before turning his focus to the devastation around him, Harry knelt beside Daphne's stretcher. Gently brushing her hair from her face, he whispered, "You'll be fine now." With a snap of his fingers, a small female elf with a kind but anxious expression appeared at his side.
"Millie," Harry said firmly, "take Daphne to the east wing. Make sure she's comfortable and well cared for. Don't leave her side until she wakes up."
"Yes, Master Harry," the elf squeaked, bowing low. With a wave of her hand, she levitated Daphne carefully and disappeared with a soft pop.
As silence settled over the Potter Mansion, Harry exhaled, exhaustion tugging at his limbs. With a flick of his wand, he summoned the Potter family elves. They appeared instantly, their wide eyes taking in the destruction without a word. Together, they began to work, their magic weaving through the air like a symphony. Shattered furniture reassembled itself, scorch marks faded from the walls, and the grand chandelier reformed piece by piece above them. Harry supervised silently, his thoughts elsewhere, as the mansion slowly returned to its former glory.
Once the last remnants of the battle were erased, Harry gave a curt nod to the elves, his eyes drifting to the lifeless body of Theodore Nott still lying in the center of the room. He exhaled slowly, exhaustion clinging to him like a shroud, but his focus remained sharp. The morning light streamed weakly through the cracked windows of the Potter Mansion, a stark contrast to the chaos that had erupted the night before. Harry stood in the dimly lit foyer, his wand idly twirling as he stared at the corpse. His face was a mask of cold determination as he muttered a spell, conjuring a black wooden box just large enough to contain the body.
Inside the box, Harry placed Nott's broken and lifeless form. Beside it, he set a small vial of silvery memories extracted from his own mind, carefully selected to show the highlights of the battle, the intense spells, the raw power, and the precise moment when Nott had met his end.
Finally, Harry pulled out a thin strip of enchanted parchment, enchanted to play his voice upon activation. His tone was sharp and deliberate, each word chosen to send a clear message.
"Lord Voldemort," Harry began, his voice steady and cold. "A couple of months ago, I received your so-called welcome message. Its consequences were devastating—an innocent paid the price for your macabre greeting. Today, I return the courtesy. Theodore Nott crossed a line when he came to my home and dragged others into your games. Let this serve as a reminder: I am not someone you can intimidate. The next time you test me, think carefully—you might not survive what you find."
Harry sealed the box with an intricate series of dark spells, ensuring only Voldemort himself could open it. With a flick of his wand, he summoned a large raven-like bird, its feathers shimmering with enchantments. Tying the box securely to the bird's talons, he sent it into the morning sky.
Harry watched as the enchanted raven disappeared into the distance, its powerful wings slicing through the morning mist. He stood there for a moment longer, the weight of the battle and his message lingering heavily on his shoulders. Turning away, he entered the mansion, the echo of his footsteps fading as the house began to settle into silence once more. Somewhere far away, he knew his message would find its mark.
Far from the tranquil morning at the Potter Mansion, shadows deepened within the foreboding halls of Malfoy Mannor. Voldemort sat in his high-backed chair, his red eyes narrowing as a cursed raven flew into the room, carrying the ominous black box. The Death Eaters in the room shifted uncomfortably as the bird landed before their master, releasing its burden.
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort unsealed the box. The lifeless form of Theodore Nott spilled onto the floor, and gasps echoed around the room. Voldemort's expression remained unreadable as the vial of memories and the enchanted parchment hovered before him.
The message played first. Harry's voice echoed through the chamber, his words biting and unapologetic. The Death Eaters exchanged uneasy glances as Voldemort's grip tightened on his wand.
Then, Voldemort activated the vial of memories, his mind plunging into the scenes of the battle. He saw the brutal exchange of spells, the dark magic Harry wielded with precision, and the cruel, calculated way Nott was dispatched.
When Voldemort returned to the present, his face was twisted in fury. The sheer audacity of Harry Potter to send such a message burned in his chest. And yet, beneath the rage, he felt a grudging sense of intrigue.
The magic Potter had displayed was formidable, darker, and more advanced than Voldemort had anticipated. It was clear now that this wasn't just some reckless, arrogant wizard; Harry Potter was a force to be reckoned with.
Voldemort's serpentine gaze swept over the gathered Death Eaters, his words a chilling promise that silenced the room. The tension hung thick in the air as the dark lord rose from his chair, his aura crackling with restrained power. "Leave me," he commanded, his voice sharp and final. The Death Eaters bowed and retreated, leaving Voldemort alone with his dark thoughts, the weight of his humiliation fueling the storm he would soon unleash.
Back at the Potter Mansion, the morning sun streamed through the newly restored foyer, casting light over the once-shattered space. The wreckage of the battle had been erased, thanks to the tireless work of the Potter elves. Hours later, a sharp crack echoed through the hall. Cyrus Greengrass, dressed in immaculate dark robes, appeared amidst the remnants of what had been the scene of destruction. His sharp features twisted into a grimace as he surveyed the now pristine but still somber surroundings.
Harry emerged from the shadows, his face calm but his eyes betraying the exhaustion of the past hours. "Lord Greengrass," he greeted, inclining his head. "Thank you for coming."
Cyrus's eyes narrowed. "An elf informed me of the events here. Where is my daughter?"
Harry gestured for him to follow. "She's being treated in one of the guest rooms. My healer, Wrix, has been tending to her injuries. She'll be fine."
Cyrus followed Harry silently, his cane clicking against the damaged floor as they made their way to Daphne's room. Inside, Daphne lay on a plush bed, her complexion pale but her breathing steady. Wrix, the elf, stood nearby, carefully applying a salve to her bruises.
Cyrus's expression softened as he stepped closer, brushing a hand over Daphne's hair. "She'll recover?"
Wrix bowed. "Yes, Lord Greengrass. Miss Daphne will be well soon. She just needs rest."
Cyrus nodded, his sharp demeanor giving way to a moment of paternal relief.
After ensuring Daphne was comfortable, Cyrus joined Harry in his study. The room, though still cluttered with remnants of Harry's research, was quieter and less chaotic than the rest of the mansion.
Harry poured two glasses of firewhiskey, sliding one across the desk to Cyrus. "I imagine you have questions," Harry said, leaning back in his chair.
Cyrus took the glass but didn't drink immediately. "What happened here, Potter? And why was my daughter involved?"
Harry met his gaze directly. "Theodore Nott came here, drunk and looking for blood. He brought a Death Eater with him, who took Daphne hostage. I did what I had to do to protect her and end the threat."
Cyrus's fingers tightened around the glass. "And Nott?"
Harry's expression hardened. "He's dead."
For a moment, Cyrus said nothing, his face unreadable. Then he raised his glass, taking a slow sip. "Good."
Harry arched an eyebrow, surprised by the response.
"I've tolerated Nott long enough," Cyrus continued. "He was a liability, arrogant, reckless, and unworthy of any alliance with my family." He set his glass down, his gaze piercing. "But you should know, Potter, this situation has far-reaching consequences. Voldemort will not let this insult go unanswered."
Harry smirked faintly. "I'm counting on it."
Cyrus studied him for a moment before leaning back in his chair. "You're playing a dangerous game, Potter. But you may be the only one bold enough to win it."
The room fell into a tense silence, both men lost in their thoughts. For Harry, the battle had been a turning point—a declaration of his place in the war. For Cyrus, it was a reminder that alliances were shifting, and the stakes had never been higher.
The day had been a whirlwind of destruction, confrontation, and uneasy resolutions. As the sun set over the battered Potter Mansion, Harry Potter stood by the window of his study, staring out at the sprawling grounds, his mind heavy with the events that had unfolded.
The conversation with Cyrus Greengrass had been brief but pointed. The older man had made it clear that while he appreciated Harry's intervention and understood the necessity of Nott's death, he wouldn't have dared act similarly. His long-standing neutrality in the wizarding war had been a shield for his family, but now, with Daphne caught in the crossfire, that shield seemed increasingly fragile.
"I don't approve of your methods, Potter," Cyrus had said, his tone measured but firm. "But I respect your resolve. You've done what I could not, what I would not. For that, I'm grateful. But be careful. You've painted a target on your back, and by extension, my family's."
Harry had nodded, understanding the weight of Cyrus's words. "I don't take this lightly, Lord Greengrass. I know what's at stake. But I promise you, if Daphne is involved, I'll do everything in my power to protect her."
Before leaving, Cyrus had informed Harry of his plans to take Daphne back to Greengrass Manor to recover. He accepted a letter from Harry for Daphne, a quiet acknowledgment passing between the two men.
Daphne,
I owe you an apology. For my impulsiveness, for the way things unfolded with Nott, and for putting you in danger. My actions aren't always kind or clean, but they're mine, and I stand by them. I know my way of handling things isn't easy to accept, and I won't ask you to agree with me. But if you can respect who I am and the choices I make, then maybe we can figure out... whatever this is between us. Because whatever it is, it's something, and I don't want to lose it.
Yours,
Harry
Once the Greengrass family departed, the weight of Harry's injuries became impossible to ignore. His leg throbbed with every step, his shoulder ached with a sharp, biting pain, and the toll of his dark magic use lingered like a poison in his veins.
Realizing he couldn't continue to push through on sheer willpower, Harry sent an urgent request to Susan Bones for assistance. Hours later, as twilight deepened, Susan arrived at the mansion with Madame Pomfrey in tow.
The sight of the no-nonsense healer brought a flicker of relief to Harry's weary features. Pomfrey wasted no time ushering him into a chair and examining him with her practiced wand movements.
"Well," Pomfrey said, her tone brisk but tinged with concern, "you've certainly done a number on yourself, Potter. Broken bones, torn ligaments, magical strain... and that's just the obvious damage. You've been reckless."
Harry managed a wry smile. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Pomfrey clicked her tongue disapprovingly but began her work without further comment. Her spells knit his bones back together, soothed the torn muscles in his shoulder, and eased the burning ache in his veins.
As Pomfrey worked, Susan sat nearby, her arms crossed as she watched Harry closely. "So," she said, breaking the silence, "are you going to tell me what happened?"
Harry sighed, leaning back as Pomfrey moved to his shoulder. "It happened. A couple of Death Eaters, drunk, angry, and stupid enough, came here looking for revenge for what happened in London. They took someone I care about hostage and were after blood."
Harry deliberately omitted both the name of Daphne and Theodore. He wanted to protect her identity, knowing it was safer for her to remain anonymous. Additionally, he avoided naming Nott to mislead anyone in the resistance who might connect the incident to Gringotts months ago. With Hannah Abbott aware of those events, even an unintentional leak could put her in grave danger.
Susan's eyes narrowed. "And you killed them."
Harry met her gaze evenly. "Yes. They gave me no choice."
Susan didn't flinch, her expression neutral but her tone sharp. "You always seem to find yourself in situations where killing feels like the only option."
Harry shrugged, wincing slightly as Pomfrey adjusted his arm. "It's not about feeling like the only option. It's about making sure the threat is gone. They weren't going to stop, Susan. Letting they live would've been a bigger risk."
Susan was silent for a moment, then sighed. "I can't say I agree with your methods, but I can't deny the results, either. It's... complicated."
Harry smirked faintly. "That's one way to put it."
Pomfrey finally stepped back, wiping her hands as she surveyed her work. "You'll be sore for a few days, but you're patched up. Try not to get into any more fights."
She hesitated, then added, "You should know, Mr. Potter, that one of the muggleborns you rescued in Surrey was my nephew. For that, you have my thanks."
Harry's eyebrows raised in surprise, but he nodded. "I'm glad I could help."
Pomfrey's lips pressed into a thin line, and she gave a curt nod before leaving the room.
As the door closed behind Pomfrey, Susan turned back to Harry, her expression softer than before. "You're a hard man to pin down, Harry. One minute, you're terrifying. The next, you're saving lives."
Harry chuckled weakly, leaning back in his chair. "Guess I'm full of surprises."
Susan smiled faintly, shaking her head. "Yeah, you are. Don't mess it up."
Harry's smile faded slightly, replaced by a thoughtful expression. "I'll try not to."
As the night deepened, Harry was left with his thoughts. The pain in his body was lessened, but the weight of his choices remained. The road ahead was as uncertain as ever, but for now, he allowed himself a moment to rest.