Chapter 3 - A Hag and Hermione
Past
The darkness embraced Harry like a lover, warm and weightless, folding around him in a comfort he'd never known before. It was infinite, silent, yet alive, whispering secrets he didn't understand but instinctively craved. He floated within it, his body suspended, his limbs slack as though the boundaries of his physical form no longer mattered. Here, he wasn't small. He wasn't vulnerable. He was whole, powerful, infinite.
A soft rumble rose in his chest, pulling him from his reverie. He burped, the sound incongruous and mundane in the perfect quiet.
From his lips, the glimmer emerged.
The silvery light spiralled outward, growing brighter as it twisted and coalesced. Harry tilted his head, watching with mild interest as the glimmer resolved into a figure—gaunt, flickering, and impossibly familiar.
Aunt Petunia.
Her face was a grotesque mask of rage and fear, her features twisted and ravaged. One of her eyes was missing, the socket hollow and ringed with torn, darkened flesh, the other wide and glassy, darting frantically as though searching for something solid in the infinite black. Her clothes were in tatters, strips of fabric clinging to her spectral frame as though they, too, were terrified of the void.
She was screaming. A long, piercing wail, the sound tearing through the stillness like a jagged blade. Her voice carried anguish, terror, and a deep, guttural hatred that sent ripples through the darkness.
But Harry smiled.
Petunia's scream faltered as she spun, her head jerking sharply, her one remaining eye staring into the infinite void around her. The blackness seemed to close in, her ragged breaths echoing in the oppressive silence.
Then she saw him.
Her face twisted further, the sheer hatred radiating from her almost palpable. "You!" she spat, her voice cracking with fury. "You did this! You ended… everything!"
Harry laughed. A low, rich sound that rippled through the darkness like an oil slick spreading over water. He floated closer, his movements languid, unhurried. "Yes," he said, his green eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
Petunia staggered back, her ghostly form faltering as though trying to flee. But every time she tried, her body snapped back, yanked toward him by an invisible force. She clawed at the void, her screams turning frantic. "No! No, I won't—I won't stay near you, you freak! You monster!"
Harry tilted his head, intrigued. He closed his eyes, focusing on the connection he could feel deep in his chest, a thread of something dark and unbreakable. When he opened them again, he saw it: a faint spectral tether, black as ink but shimmering faintly in the void. It stretched from his chest to hers, binding them together, her futile attempts to escape only tightening the bond.
"You belong to me now," Harry said softly, his voice almost kind. Almost.
Petunia turned to him, her expression shifting from terror to rage. "You're unnatural!" she shrieked. "A curse, just like your mother! She was just like you, spreading her filth—"
"Shut up," Harry snapped, his voice cutting through her rant like a whip.
Petunia's mouth clamped shut immediately, her lips pressing together so tightly they turned white. But muffled sounds still emanated from her throat, incoherent wails and protests that she couldn't hold back, though she couldn't form words either.
Harry's eyebrows lifted, intrigued. He drifted closer, studying her as though she were a particularly interesting specimen. "That's new," he murmured, his voice tinged with delight. "So you can't disobey me. Let's try something, shall we?"
He tilted his head, his lips curling into a small, predatory smile. "Open your mouth."
Petunia's jaw unhinged instantly, her lips parting wide like a patient waiting for a doctor's examination. The silence was complete, but the submission was unmistakable. Harry circled her, his eyes gleaming as he considered this new discovery.
"Tell me everything you know about my parents," he said finally. "Truthfully. Honestly."
Words spilled from Petunia's open mouth, flowing in a torrent Harry hadn't expected. Her voice was flat, mechanical, like a broken music box forced to sing. She spoke of her sister, Lily, and the way she'd always been so different, so special. How she'd turned teacups into frogs, how sparks of light had leapt from her fingers when she was excited.
Her words shifted from facts to memories, tales of strange letters delivered by owls, of a woman named McGonagall, standing at the door with a warm smile and kind words. She recounted the day her parents had looked at Lily with pride and at her—plain, ordinary Petunia—with pity.
"She was the favourite," Petunia spat, though her voice remained monotone, her expression frozen in fury. "She always was. With her spells, her tricks, her magic."
Harry listened, his green eyes gleaming in the darkness. Every word stoked the well of power within him, every detail of a world he'd never known filling him with cold, calculated determination.
As Petunia's voice droned on, describing wands and charms, castles and secrets, Harry's smile grew wider. The tether between them thrummed faintly, vibrating with her hatred, her fear, and his unrelenting control.
She belonged to him. And now, so did her memories.
#-#-#-#-#-#
Present
Memories haunted Dumbledore as he sat behind his great oak desk, his hands folded lightly on its surface, the tips of his long fingers touching. His expression was serene, but his mind was anything but. Around him, the office hummed with tension, the sound of voices rising and falling like a storm just beyond the windowpanes. The trilling of Fawkes, perched nearby, offered little comfort.
Igor Karkaroff leaned forward, his sharp features made sharper still by the flickering light of the torches. His voice, heavily accented, was like a blade dragged over stone. "This is an outrage, Dumbledore! A boy—this child—appears out of nowhere, and you expect us to accept this farce? Harry Potter, entered into the Goblet? It is impossible!"
Madame Maxime stood near the edge of the room, her large frame looming over most of the other occupants. Her French-accented English was smooth but laced with irritation. "Oui, Igor is correct. This is not right. The rules are clear—there are only three champions. Who put zis boy's name in ze Goblet?"
Barty Crouch Sr., his face lined with years of stern discipline, adjusted his robes and spoke with measured authority. "The rules of the Triwizard Tournament are unyielding. If a name comes from the Goblet, that individual must compete. To deny participation would strip the boy of his magic."
"Rules, rules," Karkaroff spat, throwing up his hands. "Who cares for rules when the situation is absurd? Someone clearly manipulated this! Who has done this, eh? The Goblet does not simply conjure names out of thin air!"
Dumbledore said nothing. His pale blue eyes, sharp and piercing, drifted over the room, taking in each player in this strange tableau. Karkaroff's outrage, Maxime's indignation, Barty's cold logic, and Ludo Bagman's fidgeting—the man looked as though he'd much rather be anywhere else. And, of course, Cornelius Fudge, shifting nervously in his chair, his eyes flicking repeatedly to Dumbledore for direction.
But Dumbledore's thoughts weren't on them. They were on the boy who had emerged from the shadows last night. Harry Potter. He had looked so unlike James, and yet… there was something in his presence that was hauntingly familiar. That same quiet power, the same intensity, but cloaked in a darkness that had nothing to do with Lily or James.
The prophecy echoed in his mind, an unwelcome refrain: Neither can live while the other survives. Had Voldemort's equal returned, forged in some twisted path of fate? Was the boy who had vanished from the wizarding world now the champion destined to face the rising darkness?
Dumbledore's gaze flicked to the others. Fudge was wringing his hands. Karkaroff was nearly shouting now, pacing like a caged animal. Maxime crossed her arms, her frown deepening. Barty was speaking again, his voice sharp and unwavering.
"Whoever entered his name," Barty said, "knew precisely what they were doing. The Goblet's magic is absolute. It binds the champion to compete. There is no undoing this."
Fudge cleared his throat nervously, leaning forward slightly. "Albus," he said, his voice thin, his words carefully chosen. "We… we need your guidance here. What should we do?"
Dumbledore allowed the silence to stretch for a moment, his eyes drifting to the soft glow of one of his silver instruments, its delicate whirring steadying his thoughts. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but firm.
"Harry Potter is not competing for Hogwarts," he said.
The room fell silent, every eye turning to him.
Dumbledore continued. "Cedric Diggory is the rightful champion of this school. Hogwarts has as much claim on Mr. Potter's participation as Durmstrang or Beauxbatons. He has no place here, no ties to this castle or its traditions."
"But—" Karkaroff began, his voice rising in protest.
Dumbledore silenced him with a raised hand. "Mr. Potter is welcome to remain at Hogwarts during the tournament. However, his participation will not be under the banner of this school. If he chooses to compete, he does so as an independent entity."
There was a heavy pause. Fudge, ever the sycophant, nodded vigorously. "Of course, of course, that makes sense, Albus. Very wise, very reasonable."
Maxime muttered something in French under her breath, her expression stormy. Karkaroff sneered but said nothing further, though the tension in his posture betrayed his dissatisfaction.
As the others continued their bickering, Dumbledore's thoughts wandered again. The boy's appearance, his calm, quiet power, the way he had shrugged and said he'd entered his name by "asking nicely." It was deliberate, unsettling. There was something beneath the surface, something vast and unknowable.
And yet… there was something else. A light that had not gone out, even in the boy's strange, dark aura. Dumbledore's hand rested lightly on the desk as he stared into the distance, his mind awhirl with questions he dared not voice aloud.
The gathering darkness was more than just Voldemort. It was in the boy himself. And it worried him deeply.
#-#-#-#-#-#
Past
Harry felt no worries at all. The darkness was no longer just an absence of light—it was a companion, a guide. Harry moved through it, his steps light, his breath steady, as if the void itself whispered secrets into his ear. The shadows wrapped around him, curling like living tendrils, obscuring his form and shielding him from prying eyes. They were not cold but warm, soft as velvet, and they seemed to pulse faintly in rhythm with the power that now churned within him.
He didn't know where he was going, not exactly. He only knew that the darkness had answers, and if he listened closely enough, he could find them. Strange, unintelligible words slipped from his lips, not in a language he knew but one that came from deep within. The sounds twisted and folded in the air around him, and the shadows responded, shifting and parting to reveal his path.
The streets were unfamiliar, and yet he knew them. His feet carried him forward, guided by instinct and the faint tug of something unseen. When he finally emerged from the inky void, the crooked, twisting street of Diagon Alley stretched out before him.
As Harry stepped into the magical thoroughfare, the air seemed to shimmer around him. Wizards and witches bustled past, their robes brushing against one another in the narrow street, their conversations a low hum. Harry paid them no mind. His focus was elsewhere.
He took a deep breath, and with it, he pulled her back.
The silvery glimmer of Petunia's specter flickered into being for the briefest moment, her twisted, screaming face visible only to him. With a soft, satisfied exhale, Harry drew her into himself, her soul dissolving into the oily blackness of his well. The warmth it brought was intoxicating, a sharp burst of joy that filled his chest and made his steps lighter.
Power coursed through him, and he smiled faintly. He would never tire of this.
The bell above the door jingled faintly as Harry pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit confines of Ollivander's. The shop smelled of wood and varnish, a faint tang of magic lingering in the air. Dust motes floated in the slanted beams of light filtering through the high windows.
Ollivander appeared from the back, his pale eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the sight of the boy before him. His gaze lingered on Harry's too-sharp features, his unnaturally calm expression, and the faint darkness that seemed to cling to him.
"Mr. Potter," Ollivander said quietly, his voice carrying a note of surprise. "I hadn't expected to see you for another year… at least."
Harry inclined his head slightly. "I'd like a wand."
Ollivander hesitated but nodded, gesturing for Harry to step closer. "Very well. If you're here, it seems we ought to see what the wands have to say."
He began pulling boxes from the shelves, each containing a wand carefully crafted from magical woods and cores. Harry took them one by one, his slender fingers wrapping around each wand's hilt. But nothing happened. No spark, no warmth, no sign of connection. The wands remained inert in his hand, lifeless.
Ollivander frowned as he worked through wand after wand, his movements growing slower, more uncertain. Finally, he sighed, setting down the last box with a heavy hand. "It seems… none of my wands are suited to you, Mr. Potter."
Harry said nothing, his expression unchanging.
"Wait," Ollivander murmured suddenly, his eyes narrowing as a thought struck him. He disappeared into the back of the shop, returning moments later with a small, unassuming box. "This one has been long forgotten. Perhaps…"
Harry took the wand, his hand closing around it. For a moment, there was the faintest phantom of a spark—a flicker, like a breath held too long. But it vanished as quickly as it came. Harry set the wand down.
Ollivander looked at him, a faint sadness in his gaze. "It is clear you have magic," he said softly. "But no wand is willing to accept you."
Harry shrugged, turning without a word. He left the shop as silently as he had come.
The streets of Diagon Alley bustled around him, but Harry barely noticed. Something deeper was calling to him, an invisible pull that drew him away from the bright storefronts and colourful banners. His feet carried him past Gringotts without a second glance, the marble steps and gold-lettered sign fading into the periphery.
He didn't question it. He let the pull guide him, winding through narrow alleys and shadowed paths until the light grew dimmer and the air colder. The twisted, crooked storefronts of Knockturn Alley rose before him, their dark windows and ominous displays promising secrets best left untouched.
She stood near the entrance to an old shop, her hunched frame wrapped in layers of tattered cloth, her face hidden beneath a heavy hood. Her hands were thin and clawed, her nails long and yellowed, and her teeth, when she smiled, were sharp and broken.
"Well, well," she rasped, her voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "What have we here? A little lost lamb, wandering into the wolf's den?"
Harry stared at her, unblinking.
"Fancy a game, boy?" the hag asked, her grin widening. "If you win, I'll give you a treat. If you lose…" Her grin turned predatory. "You'll give me one."
He nodded, his curiosity outweighing his caution.
The hag pulled out three cups and a small, bone-white ball. She moved with surprising speed, shuffling the cups back and forth, her motions erratic and dizzying. "Find the ball, little lamb," she hissed, stepping back with a flourish.
Harry pointed to a cup, his expression unchanging. The hag lifted it, revealing nothing beneath. Her smile grew sharper, her eyes gleaming.
"Ah, unlucky," she crooned, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Now, it's my turn for a treat."
The hag moved with unnatural speed, lunging toward Harry with a shriek. He felt it before he saw it—the dark, decaying energy radiating from her, ancient and twisted. Instinctively, he reached out with his power, tugging at the unnatural energy within her. She stumbled, a flicker of surprise crossing her grotesque features.
But she recovered quickly, her long, claw-like nails flashing in the dim light. One pierced his neck, sinking deep as her giggles filled the air. "Such lovely blood," she murmured, leaning in to drink.
Pain exploded through Harry's body, sharp and all-encompassing. He gasped, his hands clutching at the wound as the hag's laughter rang in his ears. The darkness around him wavered, his vision narrowing as the edges of his world blurred.
He closed his eyes, and the blackness claimed him once more.
#-#-#-#-#-#
Present
The inky blackness of the potion was interrupted with soft bubbles, as the last few pairs of students hurried to decant their potions. Hermione Granger meticulously poured her brew into a small vial, corking it with precision before wiping her hands on a cloth. Professor Snape's voice cut through the room, sharp and dismissive.
"Leave your samples on my desk. Class dismissed."
Hermione sighed, gathering her things and tucking the vial neatly into her bag. As she stepped out of the dungeons, her mind was already on Transfiguration, running through the chapter she'd reviewed that morning. She wasn't expecting to see him there.
Ron Weasley.
He was leaning against the wall, his hands shoved deep into his robes, his head bowed. At the sound of the door, he glanced up briefly, catching her gaze. For a fleeting second, Hermione thought he might say something.
Instead, he turned on his heel and began to walk away.
"Ron!" she called after him, her voice sharper than she intended. He paused, but only for a moment. She hurried after him. "Ron, will you ever speak to me?"
He hesitated, his shoulders stiff, but he didn't turn back. Without a word, he continued walking, his pace brisk, his back hunched as though shielding himself from her.
Hermione stopped in her tracks, watching him go, disappointment flooding her chest. She let out a shaky breath, her hands clutching the strap of her bag.
"Does he not like you?"
The voice, smooth and low, came from just behind her. She jumped, spinning around to see Harry Potter, his figure draped in shadows that seemed to ripple unnaturally even in the bright corridor light.
"Don't do that again!" she snapped, taking several steps back. Her heart pounded as she looked at him, his too-sharp features illuminated by the torches on the wall. There was something about him that felt wrong—off.
Harry didn't move closer, only watched her carefully. His green eyes glinted, and though his expression was neutral, there was something about his stillness that made her feel small.
"I asked you a question," he said softly, his voice carrying an undertone of impatience. "I'm waiting for a reply."
Hermione swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand straighter. "If you must know," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her effort to steady it, "Ron Weasley's feelings towards me are none of your business."
She turned sharply, intending to leave, but from the corner of her eye, she saw her shadow flicker unnaturally. And then, as if stepping out of the air itself, Harry materialised in front of her.
Hermione gasped, stumbling back. "You can't Apparate in Hogwarts!" she blurted instinctively.
Harry tilted his head, his lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile. "Good to know," he said lightly, as though tucking the information away.
"Then how did you—" she began, but he cut her off.
"I didn't."
The simplicity of his reply made her shiver. His calm, measured tone only deepened the unease twisting in her gut.
"I want to learn about this castle," he continued, his voice soft but commanding. "Show me."
Hermione's throat felt dry. "I would love to help," she said, her words faltering. "But… you should go bother someone else. I have classes to attend."
Harry's smile widened, sharp white teeth glinting in the light. "You'll regret not helping me," he said, his tone pleasant but laced with something far darker.
Hermione stopped in her tracks, whirling around with her wand drawn. "Is that a threat?"
He didn't answer, only smiled, his teeth unnervingly bright, his gaze fixed on her. "I don't think that will be necessary, Hermione Granger," he said smoothly, her name rolling off his tongue with unsettling familiarity.
#-#-#-#-#-#
By the time she reached Transfiguration, Hermione's hands were still shaking. She tried to focus, taking her seat near the front of the room, but before the lesson could begin, Professor McGonagall approached her desk.
"Miss Granger, a moment, if you please."
Hermione stood quickly, smoothing her robes as McGonagall led her to a quieter corner of the room.
"You are one of our most diligent students," McGonagall began, her tone brisk but warm. "And so, I believe you would make a fine guide for our newest arrival, Mr. Potter."
Hermione's stomach dropped. "Guide?" she repeated, her voice higher than usual. "For Harry Potter?"
McGonagall nodded. "Yes, of course. He's unfamiliar with Hogwarts, as you can imagine. He was informed this morning during breakfast."
Hermione's face flared crimson. "He knows already?"
"Indeed," McGonagall said, glancing at her watch. "It would be best if you sought him out during lunch. He may have questions."
Hermione nodded mutely, her heart sinking as she returned to her seat. The idea of spending more time with Harry Potter—this strange, shadow-draped boy who made her skin crawl—was enough to make her head spin.
As the lesson began, she could only think of one thing: how utterly mortifying it would be to face him now.
#-#-#-#-#-#
Past
Harry faced the empty blackness, a void so still that he thought he might have ceased to exist entirely. Then came a faint pressure, a whisper of weight against his limbs, and the sensation of being drawn upward, as though the darkness itself cradled him and lifted him gently. When he opened his eyes, Death was waiting.
She stood over him, her tailored black suit immaculate, her short bob of midnight-dark hair perfectly in place. Her eyes, empty pools of endless pitch, gazed down at him without emotion. The space around her felt different from the darkness he had known before—colder, quieter, heavier.
Harry stirred and turned his head, frowning slightly when he saw a lifeless body lying next to him. It was his. Pale, bloodied, and limp, his broken neck at an awkward angle.
"She killed me," he said, his voice rasping but calm, as though commenting on the weather.
"Yes," Death replied, her voice low and smooth, resonating with the weight of inevitability.
Harry sat up, his movements slow but deliberate. "What happens now? Will you let me go again?"
Death tilted her head slightly, her gaze unblinking. "Once was a favour of fate. Twice would be tampering with Death itself."
He considered this, his green eyes narrowing. "But I've only just started doing your work."
She said nothing, her silence absolute.
He burped suddenly, a low, guttural sound that broke the solemnity of the moment. From his lips emerged Petunia, her spectral form twisting in the void, screaming the moment she saw Death.
"Please," Petunia begged, her voice ragged and trembling. "Take me away! I can't stay with him—please!"
Harry watched her, amused, then turned to Death. "I brought you a gift."
Death's dark eyes shifted briefly to Petunia. With an unremarkable wave of her hand, she produced a small glass vial that seemed to shimmer in the darkness. Petunia screamed as her form compressed into a single silvery glimmer, spiralling into the vial. Death capped it with a flick of her wrist and held it aloft, studying it briefly.
"This was already mine," she said, her voice sharp and cold. "You held her improperly. That is not a gift."
Harry frowned. "Then what do you want?"
Death tilted her head, considering. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, before she finally spoke. "Something grand. Something worthy of a third chance at life."
Harry didn't hesitate. "Take whatever you want."
Her lips curved slightly, a cruel approximation of a smile. "Your ability to lie," she said.
He shrugged. "Done."
Death's brows lifted, as though surprised at his lack of hesitation. "Be warned," she said. "It is a larger sacrifice than you can imagine."
"I don't care," Harry said, his voice calm and resolute.
Death extended her hand, and something faint and intangible slipped from Harry's chest. It was colourless but heavy, a small, writhing thing that she held in her palm for a moment before it disappeared. Harry felt no different.
Death gave him a long, piercing look. "Very well," she said. "But tread carefully. Soon, you will have nothing left to bargain."
#-#-#-#-#-#
With a wave of her hand, she vanished, the darkness dissipating around her.
Harry gasped, his bleeding body jerking awake on the cold ground of Knockturn Alley. His neck throbbed where the hag's nail had pierced him, but his power stirred sluggishly, oily and thick, knitting him back together. The absence of Petunia's soul tugged faintly at him, a hole where she had been, but the thought didn't bother him. He was alive.
And he wanted vengeance.
He closed his eyes, reaching outward with his senses. The well within him stirred, spreading its tendrils through the alley like a predator sniffing for prey. He caught it—her death energy, faint but unmistakable, further down the alley. His lips curled into a slow, predatory smile.
The air in Knockturn Alley was thick and heavy, the kind of darkness that seemed to seep into the skin. The buildings leaned precariously toward one another, their cracked windows and warped doors whispering of secrets long forgotten. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the cobblestones as though alive, creeping toward Harry as he walked.
As Harry passed, a man in tattered robes ducked into an alcove, his eyes flicking nervously over the boy. Further down, a witch with a crooked nose and clawed fingers muttered incantations to a jar filled with something writhing. None dared approach him. The air around Harry was colder and sharper, and the oily energy radiating from him made even the most hardened denizens of the alley recoil.
He followed the pull of the hag's energy, the sensation growing stronger with every step until he reached a dilapidated hovel. The door hung ajar, creaking softly as the shadows pooled around its edges.
Inside, the air was thick with the stench of decay and stale mead. The hag sat at a crooked table, cackling softly to herself, a bottle of mead in her gnarled hand. The liquid inside was dark and viscous, unmistakably laced with his blood and flecks of his flesh.
Harry stepped inside silently, his shadow stretching long across the floor. The hag didn't notice him until his hand closed around her neck. She yelped, her bottle crashing to the ground as he squeezed, her brittle bones creaking under his grip.
"You," she rasped, her eyes wide with shock and fury. "You should be dead!"
Harry leaned closer, his green eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "You first."
He reached into himself, calling on the inky, sticky power of his well. It surged outward, clinging to the hag's death energy, unbalancing it, pulling it toward him. The hag shrieked, her body convulsing as her withered skin stretched tight over her bones. Her hair turned to brittle strands, her face hollowing out as the life was drained from her.
Her screams faded into soft, pitiful wails before she fell silent. Her body crumbled to dust in his hands, leaving nothing but an echo of her death. A faint glimmer rose from the remains, but before Harry could catch it, it darted away, disappearing into the shadows.
Harry stood in the dim shack, his breath steady, his heart calm. The long shadows danced around him, brushing against his arms like silk. The hovel was damp and crumbling, its corners thick with cobwebs and rot, but to Harry, it felt… right.
He looked around, his lips curling into a small, satisfied smile. Yes. This would do. This would do perfectly.