Chapter 2 - Hurting

Present

The trilling of Fawkes, soft and melodic, drifted through the air, mingling with the gentle whir and click of silver instruments spinning and puffing on their spindly legs. The office, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, was a place of order amid chaos. But Albus Dumbledore, seated behind his great, claw-footed desk, felt no such order in his thoughts.

He studied the boy—young man, he corrected himself—seated across from him. Harry Potter. The boy who lived. The boy who had vanished. And now, the boy who had reappeared, out of nowhere, with a name plucked from the Goblet of Fire like a spectre summoned from a forgotten past.

Harry's presence was unsettling. His face was too calm, his body still in the chair, his eyes—a brilliant, unnerving green—roving lazily over the room, as if the oddities of Dumbledore's sanctuary were mildly amusing at best. His black robes hung perfectly tailored, the fabric absorbing light, lending him an air of quiet, almost oppressive elegance. He looked utterly at ease.

Dumbledore, however, was not.

"We have been looking for you, Harry," Dumbledore began, his voice soft but probing. "For years."

Harry didn't respond, his gaze now fixed on Fawkes, whose plumage gleamed in the dim light.

Dumbledore pressed on. "Your name disappeared from the Book of Admissions when you were just a child. It was as though you had… ceased to exist. No trace of you in the wizarding world. No sign, no whisper."

Harry finally turned his eyes to Dumbledore. His face was blank, unreadable, but something about the way he tilted his head, ever so slightly, made the hairs on the back of Dumbledore's neck prickle.

"I didn't cease to exist," Harry said, his voice soft, low, carrying none of the uncertainty of youth. "You just didn't know where to look."

"And where should we have looked?" Dumbledore leaned forward, his piercing blue gaze locking onto Harry's. "Where have you been, Harry?"

"Everywhere," Harry replied, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Dumbledore inhaled deeply, choosing his words carefully. "And where did you learn magic?"

Harry's smirk vanished, replaced by something harder to read. He didn't answer.

"You are a wizard," Dumbledore pressed, "and your name came out of the Goblet of Fire. How is it possible that your name was entered?"

"I entered it myself," Harry said simply.

Dumbledore blinked. "You… what? How?"

Harry's eyes gleamed, the smile returning, sharper this time. "I asked nicely."

Dumbledore exhaled slowly through his nose, his long fingers steepling before him. "Harry, this is not a game. The Goblet of Fire is an ancient, deeply magical artefact. It does not simply… respond to asking."

"Oh?" Harry's tone was almost playful, but his expression betrayed no mirth.

Dumbledore regarded him closely. His instincts told him that there was far more to Harry than he was letting on—far more than his brief, evasive answers revealed. "You must understand, Harry," he said slowly, "the consequences of this tournament are grave. If you are unprepared—"

"I'm not."

The words were firm, clipped. Dumbledore paused, his gaze sharpening. "Harry," he said softly, "I must ask you not to lie."

The response was immediate. Harry's calm façade cracked, his voice snapping like a whip. "I don't lie."

Dumbledore sat back, surprised. Harry's hands gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white, his expression suddenly cold, unyielding. "I can't," Harry added, his voice quieter now, though no less sharp. "I never lie."

The silence stretched between them, taut and heavy. Finally, Dumbledore leaned forward again, his tone softer but no less insistent. "Then help me understand, Harry. Where have you been? What have you been doing all these years? You must see how strange this is to us—your disappearance, your reappearance. Your name in the Goblet."

"I see it," Harry replied, but offered nothing more.

"Where were you raised?"

"Far from here."

"By whom?"

Harry's lips twitched. "By no one."

"Have you studied magic?"

"I've learned what I needed to."

"And where—"

"Everywhere."

Dumbledore felt a flicker of frustration, uncharacteristic but undeniable. The phoenix trilled again, a soft note of consolation, but even that couldn't quiet the growing unease in his chest.

"Harry," he said, his voice low, almost pleading now, "you must give me more than this. We cannot help you if you won't tell us the truth."

"I've told you the truth," Harry said. His voice was steady, implacable. "Every word."

Dumbledore's hands tightened slightly on the desk, his normally serene expression faltering for just a moment. "Then tell me this, Harry," he said finally, leaning forward. "What is it you want? Why are you here?"

Harry's smile returned, small and razor-sharp. He leaned back in the chair, his posture relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world.

"Because you called me," he said, his voice quiet but deliberate. "I heard it. The Goblet called me, and I answered."

Dumbledore sat back, his mind racing. The instruments on the shelves behind him whirred and clicked furiously as if reflecting his own inner turmoil. Fawkes let out another soft trill, but this time, even the phoenix's song couldn't dispel the sense of foreboding that filled the room.

Harry Potter had returned. But who—or what—he had become was a question that even Albus Dumbledore, for the first time in his long life, didn't know how to answer.

#-#-#-#-#-#-#

The corridors of Hogwarts were quiet, the usual bustle of students dulled by the hour and the lingering tension of Harry's arrival. The torches lining the walls flickered, casting long, shifting shadows that danced across the stone. Harry walked beside Dumbledore, his black robes brushing lightly against the flagstone floor, his steps soundless, deliberate.

Dumbledore's presence beside him was measured, deliberate as well, though there was a faint tension in the air between them, like a string stretched just shy of breaking. The Headmaster's long stride kept pace with Harry's calm, almost languid gait. His silver beard gleamed faintly in the torchlight, and his hands were clasped behind his back, though the occasional flicker of his blue eyes toward Harry betrayed his concern.

"As a Triwizard Champion," Dumbledore said, his voice warm but edged with careful politeness, "you are entitled to private accommodation here at Hogwarts for the duration of the tournament."

Harry said nothing, his green eyes focused ahead, scanning the endless stretch of corridor before them. The castle loomed around him, its high ceilings and ancient tapestries lending a sense of grandeur that might have awed others. But Harry's expression didn't change. He walked as though the weight of the castle, its centuries of magic and history, meant nothing to him.

Dumbledore continued, undeterred by the silence. "If there is anything you need, Harry—anything at all—I would be most happy to assist you. I want you to know that."

Still, Harry didn't speak. His pace remained steady, unhurried, his presence as quiet and unsettling as the shadows flickering along the walls. Dumbledore's words seemed to dissipate in the air between them, unanswered, as though the boy beside him absorbed them without thought or care.

They stopped before a large portrait of a regal-looking witch holding a golden wand. She nodded at Dumbledore, her painted features neutral as she stepped aside to reveal a passageway leading to a private room.

"This will be yours," Dumbledore said, gesturing toward the entrance. "You will find it outfitted with all the essentials. Should you find anything lacking, the house-elves will be delighted to assist you."

Harry stepped forward, his expression still unreadable, his eyes flicking briefly to the room beyond. Without a word, he crossed the threshold, his black robes disappearing into the dim light beyond the portrait hole.

Dumbledore lingered for a moment, watching the boy—young man, he reminded himself—disappear from view. His hand twitched faintly at his side, a rare hesitation. He had so many questions, so many concerns, but the door had already closed between them.

The portrait swung back into place, the regal witch resuming her pose with an air of finality. Dumbledore stared at it for a moment longer, his thoughts heavy, before turning away, his footsteps echoing softly down the empty corridor.

#-#-#-#-#-#-#

Past

Harry's tired footsteps thumped along the quiet streets of Surrey in the stillness of early dawn. Harry walked them barefoot, his blackened robes dragging lightly against the pavement, leaving faint smears of blood and dirt behind him. His body, though unbroken, still ached with the phantom pains of wounds that had mended unnaturally. The night air was cool, but his skin burned with the heat of something new, something alive within him—or perhaps not alive at all.

When he reached the corner, he stopped, his eyes lifting to the familiar sight of Number 4, Privet Drive. The house stood just as it always had, neat and pristine, its hedges trimmed with military precision. A normal house for a normal family.

Harry's lips curled in a slow, deliberate smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. His green gaze burned with something cold and ancient, something that had no place in the soul of a boy. He turned away, leaving the house behind, and walked toward the nearby park.

The park was empty, the swings creaking softly in the faint breeze. Harry stood in its centre, surrounded by patches of grass made silver by the pale light of the moon. His hands hung loosely at his sides, but his fingers twitched with anticipation.

Closing his eyes, he took a breath, deep and slow, and reached inward. The well was there, as it always was now, dark and sticky and endless. It pulsed faintly in response to his touch, a slow rhythm that matched the beat of his heart.

He let it unfurl.

The power spilt out of him like ink, seeping into the ground, spreading in cold, invisible tendrils. He felt it as it moved, slithering through the soil and into the world around him, searching. The grass beneath his feet began to wither, the blades curling in on themselves, their green brilliance fading to brittle brown. The circle widened as his power extended, the life in the grass dying in waves, leaving a perfect ring of decay.

But Harry wasn't paying attention to the grass. His senses had expanded with the power, stretching outward, touching things he couldn't see but could feel—small, faint echoes of something long gone.

There, beneath the earth. A bird, its delicate bones brittle and worn. Nearby, the remains of a rabbit, its skull still intact, its fur half-rotted. Smaller still, the skeletal fragments of rats and worms, scattered and silent. The well inside him whispered, and Harry listened.

He reached out to the echoes, touching each one gently, reverently. The power flowed through him like a tide, surging into the dead things, filling them, lifting them from their slumber. He didn't need to tell them what to do; they responded to him as naturally as leaves to wind, his will wrapping around them like a warm, dark embrace.

The earth shifted. The brittle bird skeleton moved first, its hollow bones creaking as they came together, its lifeless body reassembling itself in jerking, unnatural motions. The rabbit followed, its limbs stiff as it clawed its way out of the soil, its empty eye sockets fixed on Harry. One by one, the dead things rose—rats, worms, fragments of creatures long forgotten, each drawn to the surface by the pull of his power.

When Harry opened his eyes, they were there, surrounding him in a perfect circle. The creatures stood or lay or writhed in silent reverence, their hollow forms unmoving but watching. The grass beyond the circle of death swayed gently in the breeze, but here, in this space, there was only stillness.

Harry looked at them, at the grotesque assembly of things that should not have been but now were, and his grin widened. There was no revulsion, no fear, not even hesitation. The well inside him thrummed with satisfaction, and he let it fill him, warming him from the inside out.

"Wonderful," he whispered, the word slipping from his lips like a prayer.

The creatures didn't respond—they couldn't—but their presence was enough. They were his. Death's gift. They would follow him, obey him, exist because he allowed them to.

He knelt in the centre of the circle, his bloodied hands brushing against the earth. His laughter was soft at first, almost inaudible, but it grew louder, filling the silence. He threw his head back, his dark, matted hair catching the moonlight, and laughed until the sound echoed through the empty park.

#-#-#-#-#-#-#

Harry stood at the edge of Number 4, Privet Drive, his thin frame wrapped in the inky darkness of the early morning. The streetlights flickered faintly, their orange glow barely touching the spot where he lingered, obscured by the shadows. They clung to him like a lover, soft and comforting, curling around his shoulders and arms as if to hold him still, hold him safe. He didn't mind. He belonged to the dark now, and it to him.

His creatures moved swiftly, silently. They crossed the threshold of the house like ghosts, their shapes indistinct and jerky as they slipped through cracks and gaps under doors. He didn't follow them. He didn't need to. Instead, he let his power hum faintly, the sickly, sticky well within him thrumming in satisfaction as his creations carried out their purpose.

The house remained quiet for a moment, a fleeting instant where the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then the lights began to flicker on.

One by one, rooms filled with warm yellow light, chasing away the dark but not the horror. There was a muffled sound—a thud, perhaps, or a crash—and then came the first scream. It tore through the stillness like a jagged knife, high and panicked, followed quickly by another.

Harry didn't flinch. The sound didn't bother him. He stood still, his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his robe, his green eyes watching the house with the detached calm of an observer at a play. The shadows around him thickened, pooling at his feet, pressing against him like an eager child seeking attention. He felt their anticipation, their hunger, their readiness for what was to come.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall with a resounding crack. Vernon Dursley stumbled out first, his face red and blotchy, his breathing ragged. In his thick arms, he carried Dudley, pale and wide-eyed, his limbs limp and useless. Blood seeped from gashes along Dudley's neck and arms, staining his clothes in dark crimson streaks. Behind them, Petunia clutched at Vernon's shoulder, her face frozen in a mask of terror.

"Help!" Vernon bellowed, his voice hoarse and broken. "Someone—help us!"

They didn't see Harry. They didn't see the way the shadows at the edge of the street writhed and coiled, moving as though alive. Harry tilted his head slightly, watching as they stumbled onto the lawn, their frantic footsteps leaving patches of crushed grass and blood in their wake.

The first strike came fast.

An undead hawk, its skeletal wings spread wide, dove from the darkened sky with a screech. Its claws tore into Dudley's chest, ripping fabric and flesh alike. The boy let out a weak, gurgling cry, his head lolling as the hawk flapped its tattered wings, pecking and clawing with ferocious determination.

"Get off him!" Vernon roared, swinging wildly, but the hawk was relentless. Its hollow, glowing eyes glared with unfeeling malice as it turned its attention to Vernon, its beak latching onto his face. Blood sprayed in wild arcs, painting the pristine white siding of the house in grotesque streaks.

Petunia screamed a shrill, piercing sound that echoed down the quiet street. Lights flickered on in the neighbouring houses, curtains twitching as confused, groggy faces appeared in windows. But no one came outside. The screams from the Dursleys' lawn held something primal, something wrong, and it rooted the neighbours in place.

More creatures emerged from the house—rats with exposed ribs, a rabbit with half its skull missing, birds with patchy feathers and gleaming bones. They descended upon the Dursleys like a tide, their grotesque forms ripping and tearing with savage efficiency.

Vernon collapsed first, his knees giving out as his cries turned to choking gurgles. Blood streamed from his torn throat, pooling on the lawn as the creatures swarmed over him. Petunia clutched at Dudley, her sobs coming in ragged bursts as she tried to shield her son's limp body with her own. It didn't matter. The creatures tore through them, relentless, pitiless.

Doors opened, and hesitant figures stepped onto porches. A man from Number 6 shouted something, his voice trembling, but he didn't move closer. Someone else—a younger woman—dialled frantically on a phone. The flashing blue lights of police cars soon lit the street, and uniformed officers rushed toward the scene, canes holstered, shouting for the creatures to disperse.

But nothing worked. One officer tried to pull a barely alive Petunia away, only for a skeletal hawk to rake its claws across his face, sending him sprawling back with a scream.

By the time the wizards arrived, it was over. The creatures had gone, their task complete, leaving behind only carnage. The Dursleys lay still on the blood-soaked lawn, their bodies mangled almost beyond recognition. Petunia's face was frozen in a twisted mask of terror, her eyes wide and glassy. Vernon's hands were clenched into useless fists, his once-red face now pale and lifeless. Dudley's body was sprawled limply, his mouth open as though still trying to scream.

Harry watched from the shadows with curiosity, still wrapped in their comforting embrace. The black-robed ones moved quickly, their expressions grim, but Harry felt no fear. They wouldn't find him. They wouldn't even see him.

He turned away, his green eyes gleaming in the faint light of the rising sun. Death had done its work tonight, and it was beautiful.

As Harry turned to leave, the first rays of dawn stretched timid fingers across the bloodied streets of Privet Drive. The chaos behind him—screaming neighbours, barking dogs, the frantic shouts of authorities—was fading, muffled, irrelevant. The work was done. The shadows clung to him like an old friend, wrapping his form in a comforting shroud as he began to step away.

But then, he saw it.

A faint silvery glimmer danced in the air just ahead, flitting like the wing of an insect caught in the breeze. It hovered near the lawn, gleaming against the grim tableau of blood and broken bodies, untouched by the death and decay surrounding it. The sight stopped him in his tracks.

Harry narrowed his eyes, tilting his head as he studied the curious shimmer. It pulsed faintly, irregularly, almost as if it were breathing. He didn't know what it was—he'd never seen anything like it before—but something about it called to him. He raised his hand, his fingers forming a precise pinch as he mimicked catching it, though it was still several feet away.

With a sharp snap, his fingers pinched together.

The glimmer froze mid-air, as if caught in a spell, its soft, erratic pulsing halting entirely. Harry breathed in deeply, his chest expanding as the faint silvery wisp trembled. With a subtle tug of his fingers, he pulled it across the distance. The glimmer obeyed, zipping through the air like a thread of light unraveling from some unseen spool. It floated closer, closer, until it hovered just above his lips.

He opened his mouth slightly, and with a breathless gasp, the glimmer flew inside.

Warmth. It flooded his chest instantly, golden and radiant, a stark contrast to the cold, sticky oil of his well. Harry staggered slightly, his knees buckling as the sensation rippled outward, filling him with an almost overwhelming joy. It wasn't just a feeling; it was a presence, a living thing, soft and comforting, wrapping around his very soul.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back as he swallowed. The warmth coursed through him in waves, mingling with the dark power inside him. The roiling oily well stirred, sluggish at first, but then it rose—excited, eager, jubilant. The darkness in him embraced the warmth, pulling it into its depths like a ravenous beast consuming a morsel too sweet to resist.

The contrast should have been jarring. It should have felt wrong, the light and the dark clashing within him. But it didn't. Instead, it felt whole, complete. He let out a soft sigh as his head swam with giddiness, his power rising to heights he hadn't thought possible. He felt elevated, untouchable, as if the world itself had tilted in his favour.

The giddiness ebbed, but the satisfaction remained. Harry exhaled slowly, sinking back into the shadows that waited for him, patient and protective. They welcomed him like an old friend, curling around his limbs, soft and warm. He closed his eyes, his bloodied hands brushing against the ground as he leaned back.

A deep sense of joy settled over him, an unfamiliar but intoxicating sensation. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt… complete. Whole. As though every piece of him—light, dark, human, and not—had finally aligned.

The world around him faded into the quiet hum of early morning, but Harry paid it no mind. He let the satisfaction wash over him, a smile curling his lips as he sank further into the dark, the well inside him still thrumming with delight.

With a final, contented sigh, Harry disappeared into the shadows, leaving Privet Drive behind, forever changed.

#-#-#-#-#-#-#

Present

The castle was changed following the events of the night before, a strange hush hanging over the halls of Hogwarts as though even the stones themselves were still processing what had happened. Hermione Granger walked alone, her books clutched to her chest, her steps echoing faintly against the walls. The chatter of students buzzed faintly in the background—clusters of them huddled near the windows and staircases, whispering, always whispering.

She saw Ron Weasley across the hall. He was leaning against a pillar, his head bent close to Dean and Seamus, who were gesticulating wildly, clearly caught up in some animated tale. Ron glanced up and saw her. For the briefest moment, their eyes met. But then he turned away, his expression shutting down as he mumbled something to the others, his shoulders hunching against her presence.

Hermione frowned but didn't linger. It wasn't worth it. Not today.

"Morning, Hermione," Neville Longbottom greeted her as he stepped out from the Gryffindor common room. His face was bright, his round cheeks pink with the crisp autumn air.

"Morning, Neville," she said, managing a smile. She matched his pace as they walked together, their path winding down the familiar stairs. It was comforting, being with Neville—his presence was steady, uncomplicated.

"They're all talking about him, you know," Neville said, his voice hushed but curious. "Harry Potter. The boy from last night. The one in black."

Hermione sighed. "Of course they are."

Neville glanced at her. "You think he's… you know, really him?"

Hermione hesitated, gripping her books a little tighter. She didn't want to admit how much she'd been thinking about him. That figure, draped in robes blacker than any shadow, his too-sharp face and those eyes that felt like they'd seen far too much. There was something about him, something that made her feel unsteady in a way she couldn't quite put into words.

"He feels… off," she muttered finally, not quite sure how else to describe it. "There's something about him that feels wrong. Foreboding."

Neville nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, like the air goes cold when he's around."

They turned a corner, and Hermione, too focused on her thoughts, walked straight into someone.

Her books tumbled from her arms as she staggered back. "Oh! I'm so sorry—" she began, stopping abruptly when she looked up.

It was him.

The boy in black.

Harry Potter.

He stood impossibly still, like a statue carved from marble, his sharp features catching the faint glow of the torchlight. His green eyes locked onto hers, vibrant and intense, the kind of green that wasn't just a colour but a warning. His black robes clung to him, immaculate and elegant, flowing with a weight that made them seem alive. There was something almost inhuman about his beauty—too sharp, too perfect, too wrong.

Hermione felt herself shrinking under his gaze. "I—I didn't mean—" she stammered, her words failing.

Harry tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, slow and deliberate. It wasn't a warm smile. It was something else entirely—something dangerous. He leaned closer, his movements unhurried, deliberate. His face was so close now that she could see the unnatural smoothness of his skin.

"You should be careful what you say," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, like the distant roll of thunder. "Words have a way of… lingering."

Hermione's breath hitched, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. His gaze lingered on hers for a beat too long, and then his eyes flicked downward, to the books scattered at their feet. He crouched smoothly, his long fingers brushing against the cover of one before he handed it to her. The light touch of his hand against hers sent a shiver down her spine, though it wasn't the cold that caused it.

"Wouldn't want you to hurt my feelings," he added, his voice curling around the words like smoke, "or I might hurt something back."

And then he was gone, his robes sweeping behind him as he disappeared into the corridor, his steps soundless against the stone.

Hermione stood frozen, her books clutched to her chest. Her heart was still racing, her cheeks still flushed. She glanced at Neville, who was wide-eyed, clearly just as stunned as she was.

"What was that?" Neville whispered, his voice barely audible.

Hermione didn't answer. She felt her knees tremble as a wave of cold washed over her.

She shivered, pulling her robes tighter around her as she looked down the corridor where Harry had vanished. Whatever he was, whoever he was, she couldn't stop thinking about him.

And that terrified her most of all.