Lightning Amongst the Stars

by The Eternal Ursine

Flung into 1977, in a world where the lines between friend & foe blur, Harry must navigate a perilous path using the knowledge of the past & his future to alter the course of history. But can he save the woman he loves from the darkness that threatens to consume her? Can Harry prevent the rise of a Dark Lord he never beat, even if it means sacrificing everything he ever held dear?

11. The Cross to Carry

Lightning Amongst the Stars

Chapter Eleven – The Cross to Carry

Beta-writer: Aeoncs

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A/N: Yes, Aeoncs is back! I hope you join me in welcoming them back, and with another chapter for you all to enjoy! Thank you very much for your support.

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Transfiguration was an exercise in profound boredom and the rigid precision grated on Bellatrix's nerves like fingernails scraping down stone. Every precise diagram Professor McGonagall etched onto the blackboard and every measured incantation made the classroom feel more and more like a cage. It wasn't that she lacked aptitude – Bellatrix excelled, naturally, her casting smooth and fast – but rather that she despised the subject as taught by McGonagall specifically; it was as incessantly meticulous as it was tedious, achingly dull, all rule and limitations. McGonagall's approach was the antithesis of the thrilling, boundary-pushing magic Professor Bodie explored in their private sessions and it certainly didn't help that the classroom felt unusually stifling this afternoon. Perhaps it was the lingering scent of singed hedgehog from the previous class, or perhaps it was the sheer, mind-numbing boredom of Professor McGonagall's lecture on the ethical ramifications of organic Transfiguration, but Bellatrix found it difficult to feign interest. She was sat near the front, her quill poised above her parchment, feigning rapt attention as McGonagall lectured on. But her mind drifted, as it so often did these days. Shielded by a curtain of dark hair, her gaze flickered sideways, settling on a figure two rows forwards.

Harry Sayre.

The boy who fought like a cornered animal but often moved through the castle with a strange, watchful stillness. The boy whose intense green eyes seemed to hold a knowledge and a weariness that felt far older than his years. The boy she had danced with. Seeing him focus and the controlled manner he adopted when casting sent an unwelcome echo through her mind, back to that dimly lit corridor just days ago. Rabastan and his idiot friends and their stupid attempt at intimidation. And Sayre…

She suppressed a shiver. The shift in him had been instantaneous, like flipping a switch from guarded annoyance to something utterly cold and inhumanly focused. The way his eyes had gone flat, empty of anything but cold, lethal intent. The terrifying efficiency as he'd moved. It wasn't like watching teenage anger flare. It was like watching a predator, unleashed. Avery, petrified instantly, hitting the floor like a felled tree. Wilkes, choking and silenced. Mulciber, screaming as his leg bone snapped. Bellatrix closed her eyes, but it did little to scrub the image of her three classmates who had been so close to death.

And then, Rabastan. Sayre had turned on him, and Bellatrix had felt it; years of being exposed to the Dark Arts had ingrained within Bellatrix a sense of them, not to mention that she had experienced the misfortune of being exposed to the raw end of Sayre's wand one too many times before. She had also seen enough duels, enough real violence, to know the difference between wanting to win and wanting to destroy. So when Bellatrix saw Sayre with his wand aimed squarely at her future brother-in-law, it wasn't a specific curse she recognised but the feeling of it resonated with magic designed not just to harm, but to utterly destroy. In that split second, Bellatrix hadn't thought about family loyalty, or pure-blood solidarity, or even her own frustration pertaining to Rabastan's stupidity. She knew that had she not intervened, Rabastan would be little more than a series of chunks and smears that Filch would still be muttering angrily about as he scrubbed the walls and floors clean.

A shiver ran down Bellatrix's spine. She had reacted instinctively, throwing herself forward, casting the strongest shield she knew and praying to Merlin that it held – it had, but it barely contained the dark energy Sayre had unleashed. She could still feel the phantom impact, the violent shudder as Sayre's curse slammed into her shield, cracking it, jarring her arm to the bone and threatening to overwhelm her completely. It was more than a little terrifying, but her intervention hadn't been about protecting Rabastan. His idiocy was not her issue, and frankly, he deserved whatever came his way for provoking Sayre so foolishly. In that instant, logic had fled. Analysis had vanished. It had been overridden by a single, inexplicable, instinctive command: Stop him. Bellatrix couldn't explain it, not even to herself. She didn't care if Sayre had cursed Rabastan into oblivion, if he got himself expelled or thrown into Azkaban. So why? Why had she reacted with such desperate, unthinking force to prevent him from crossing that line?

And yet, despite the threat Sayre had posed, Bellatrix had been undeniably impressed. Where had he learned to fight like that? Durmstrang had a reputation, yes, but the spells he'd used against Avery, Mulciber, and Wilkes – as well as the precision and relentlessness he used them with – were honed by something far more visceral than classroom practice.

Bellatrix opened her eyes. No. Durmstrang taught the Dark Arts, but even they drew the line at students attempting to murder one another, which brought her back to Sayre's reactions. It wasn't something one picked up on a curriculum, which meant he had experience, a real, lived experience of trying to kill a person, or several. Who was he? Did Professor Riddle know what Sayre was capable of?

Speaking of professors, it had been five days since the confrontation in the sixth-floor corridor. Five days, and nothing. Bellatrix felt a flicker of grim satisfaction mixed with lingering disbelief. She had expected repercussions, detentions, point deductions, perhaps even suspensions. An attack involving such unbridled, borderline Dark magic should have triggered a significant response from the professors. Yet, there had been absolute silence. Why? She knew Rabastan wouldn't have kept quiet out of any sense of nobility or fair play. Rabastan was many things, but forgiving wasn't one of them.

Fear, undoubtedly, played a significant part. Bellatrix had seen it in their eyes as they scrambled away – the raw terror. Sayre's sudden transformation from awkward transfer student to cold, ruthlessly efficient combatant had clearly shaken them to the core. They were, for perhaps the first time in their lives, genuinely subdued. Bellatrix had observed them closely in the common room, in the corridors, even here in class. The usual swagger was gone, replaced by a nervous energy, a wary avoidance. They didn't seek out Sayre, didn't taunt him, didn't even meet his eye if they could help it. Rabastan in particular seemed jumpy, his usual sneering arrogance replaced by a sullen resentment mixed with palpable fear. Wilkes kept rubbing his throat unconsciously, and Mulciber still walked with a noticeable limp, his newly mended leg clearly causing him discomfort.

Bellatrix realised she was staring, her quill hovering forgotten over her parchment. Sayre, perhaps feeling her stare, glanced back, his green eyes meeting hers for a fraction of a second before quickly looking away. Bellatrix felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. Good. Let him be unnerved. Let him wonder. She was still trying to figure him out, and until she did, keeping him off balance was a useful tactic.

McGonagall gave an instruction and Sayre turned back to their assigned task. McGonagall had sketched the intricate bone structure of Cavia porcellus, a common guinea pig. Their task was to turn a pewter goblet into the rodent, a NEWT-level exercise requiring precise visualisation and a nuanced understanding of transformation matrices. Dismissing Sayre from her thoughts with an internal scoff, Bellatrix turned her attention back to her own pewter goblet. It sat gleaming dully on the desk before her, solid, inanimate, unyielding metal. She picked up her wand while McGonagall droned on about cellular structure and maintaining vital functions, but Bellatrix tuned her out. She didn't need the plodding, step-by-step instructions. Transfiguration, for her, was instinctual. It was about imposing her will upon the object, bending its very essence to her desire.

Closing her eyes briefly, she focused. Bellatrix pictured the goblet not as it was, but as it would be. She saw the smooth, cool metal softening, warming, shifting. She felt the imagined texture of fur beneath her fingertips, heard the faint squeak, smelled the faint, earthy scent of sawdust and rodent. She visualised the tiny, beating heart, the twitching nose, the bright, dark eyes. She poured her intent into the thought, focusing the magic within her. "Mutatio Cavia," she whispered.

Magic flowed, warm and potent, from her wand tip towards the goblet. The pewter shimmered, losing its hard edges, seeming to melt and reshape itself like cooling wax. It buckled inwards, then expanded, sprouting short, stubby legs. Reddish-brown fur rippled across the surface, replacing the dull grey metal. A twitching nose appeared, followed by bright, inquisitive black eyes. With a final, soft pop, a perfectly formed, but undeniably alive guinea pig sat on the desk where the goblet had been moments before, blinking in the sudden light and letting out a small, inquisitive squeak.

Bellatrix allowed herself a faint, satisfied smirk. Perfect. Effortless. She glanced sideways towards Sayre's desk. He wasn't failing, not exactly, but his results lacked the effortless finesse Bellatrix achieved. Sayre was clumsy, almost brutish, yet undeniably effective. His guinea pig, slightly lopsided but furry and twitching, solidified on the desk before him. Bellatrix watched as Sayre poked it tentatively with his wand tip, his brow furrowed in concentration, before he turned to his left and muttered something to Pinner. Admittedly, he was doing better than the majority of their classmates, most of whom were struggling, their attempts to transfigure the goblets into rodents resulting in misshapen lumps of metal with twitching whiskers or, in Wilkes' case, a furry goblet that merely sprouted a tail before collapsing with a sad, muffled clink. Pathetic.

McGonagall was moving down the rows now, her sharp eyes scrutinising each student's efforts. She offered curt nods of approval, sharp critiques of failed attempts – Wilkes's goblet had sprouted six legs and was attempting to scuttle off the desk – and precise instructions for improvement.

She reached Bellatrix's desk and paused before the perfectly formed, reddish-brown guinea pig currently nibbling delicately on a stray piece of parchment. McGonagall leaned down slightly, examining it closely, her lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line. She gave it a light poke with her finger; the guinea pig squeaked indignantly and shuffled backwards. McGonagall tapped it once, sharply, with her wand, presumably running a silent diagnostic. She examined it closely and her already thin lips seemed to vanish entirely.

"Acceptable structure, Miss Black," McGonagall said finally, her tone clipped, offering the bare minimum of praise. "Fur density is correct. Vital signs appear stable." She tapped the creature lightly with her wand; it squeaked and scurried in a tight circle. "A competent execution."

Bellatrix inclined her head politely, masking her irritation. Competent? It was flawless. McGonagall moved on to Sayre's desk. Bellatrix watched out of the corner of her eye. Bellatrix saw McGonagall examine Sayre's slightly lopsided guinea pig, her expression thoughtful.

"A rather robust specimen, Mr. Sayre," McGonagall commented. "And the fur has uniformity. However," she added, tapping the creature, which seemed to vibrate with an almost nervous energy, "there appears to be some residual metallic sheen near the left hind leg. The core transformation is sound. Better control is required for a more refined result. Practice the containment exercises."

Sayre merely nodded, already making notes on his parchment. Bellatrix felt another flicker of annoyance. McGonagall seemed almost lenient with him. Bellatrix chewed her lip in annoyance.

A sudden burst of laughter drew her attention. Linda Rosier, seated beside Sayre, was practically draped over him whilst whispering something in his ear, her hand resting on his arm with a casualness that made Bellatrix's teeth clench. Sayre looked up from his transfigured guinea pig, offering Linda a faint, polite smile – the kind one might offer a slightly annoying garden gnome – before turning his attention back to his work, seemingly oblivious to her blatant overtures. Linda, undeterred, simply laughed again, tossing her perfectly curled blonde hair back over her shoulder. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. Sayre was difficult to read, but Linda was insufferable and transparent. Vapid, ambitious in the most transparently grasping way, and utterly shameless in her pursuit of social advancement. And now she was latching onto Sayre.

A strange tightening occurred in Bellatrix's chest, an unfamiliar possessiveness that she immediately, violently rejected. Jealousy? The thought was absurd. But seeing Linda touch him, seeing Sayre offer even that fleeting, polite smile in return, sparked something else within her. It definitely wasn't jealousy, she told herself fiercely. It was disdain. Disdain for Linda's pathetic attempts at manipulation. Disdain for Sayre's apparent obliviousness, or worse, his tolerance of such blatant sycophancy. How could she be jealous over Sayre? Certainly not jealous, but Sayre was her puzzle, her rival. Bellatrix didn't want Linda muddying the waters with her tiresome flirtations. He was not meant for the likes of Linda, with her empty-headed gossip and her desperate social climbing. Linda was clearly trying to attach herself to someone she perceived as gaining notice. It was pathetic.

Bellatrix watched as Linda's shoulder brushed against Sayre's. Sayre looked slightly uncomfortable, shifting away subtly, but he didn't outright rebuke her. He just endured it, with that infuriatingly calm politeness that drove Bellatrix mad. Linda laughed again, the sound high and grating, then reached out, her fingers fussing with the collar of Sayre's robe, lingering for a beat too long near the line of his jaw. Bellatrix's grip tightened on her wand, the walnut almost groaning under the pressure.

Enough.

McGonagall had turned to the blackboard, demonstrating the complex wand movements required for those that were still struggling to complete the task. It was the perfect opportunity. Channelling the irritation simmering within her, Bellatrix subtly flicked her wand beneath the desk, the spell directed silently towards Linda.

It wasn't a harmful hex, just embarrassing. The effect was almost immediate. Bellatrix watched, her expression carefully neutral, as Linda gasped, her hand flying to her scalp. A few strands of meticulously styled blonde hair near her temple began to glow, shifting rapidly through shades of purple before settling on a vibrant, unmistakably garish shade of bubblegum pink that clashed horribly with her pale complexion. A collective titter rippled through the nearby students

"Miss Rosier!" McGonagall's sharp voice cracked through the stifled giggles and whispers. She turned from the blackboard, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line, her stern gaze fixed on the squirming, pink-haired Linda. "Is there something amiss?"

Linda scrambled to her feet, her face crimson from sheer, mortifying embarrassment. "N-no, Professor," she stammered, frantically trying to smooth down her now luminous pink hair. "My hair…" She trailed off, looking utterly bewildered and humiliated.

"Your hair?" McGonagall repeated. "Your hair which has spontaneously decided to adopt a rather vibrant hue? In the middle of my lesson on advanced transfiguration principles?" She fixed Linda with a steely glare. "Perhaps you would find it less distracting to control your personal beautification habits outside of my classroom, Miss Rosier. Five points from Slytherin for disrupting the lesson. And see me after class."

McGonagall waved her wand almost dismissively, neutralising the charm. The pink faded, but the burning flush of profound embarrassment remained, painting Linda's cheeks a deep crimson. Utterly mortified, tears welling in her wide eyes, Linda collapsed back into her seat as if her legs had given out. She refused to look at anyone, hunching her shoulders and burying her face in her hands. Bellatrix allowed herself a small, internal smirk of satisfaction. A job well done. Petty, perhaps, but satisfying nonetheless. Linda Rosier wouldn't be batting her eyelashes at Sayre again anytime soon. Bellatrix glanced at Sayre. He was watching the aftermath, a slight frown creasing his brow. He looked confused, perhaps even slightly concerned for Linda. Oblivious, as always. It was, she admitted reluctantly to herself, almost endearing. Almost.

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Harry tried to focus on McGonagall's precise explanation of the inherent dangers in organic transfiguration but the complex theory swam meaninglessly before his eyes. He was exhausted. Harry rubbed his temples, trying to ignore the persistent ache behind his eyes and the symphony of dull throbs emanating from various muscles he hadn't even known he possessed. Defence with Bodie that morning had been particularly brutal, a gruelling combination of complex theory and punishing drills. Bodie's focus on practical application and simulating real combat scenarios, was relentless, leaving Harry nursing a collection of aches and bruises under his robes. He suspected Bodie of deliberately singling him out, his "sparring" sessions lasting longer, the spells being cast with more force. It added another layer of stress to his already complicated existence.

It wasn't just Bodie's class leaving him unable to concentrate, though. It was the waiting. It had been five days since the confrontation in the corridor. Five days since he had lost control, something that still made Harry's stomach churn with self-disgust when he allowed himself to think about it. Five days since he had almost crossed an unforgivable line with Rabastan Lestrange. Five days since Bellatrix Black, of all people, had thrown herself between his curse and his target.

And in those five days, absolutely nothing had happened.

Harry had expected immediate repercussions. A summons to Riddle's office that very night, demanding an explanation for the near-lethal magic. He had braced himself for Slughorn's disappointment, Riddle's fury, for detentions that would likely involve scrubbing the entire dungeon floor with a toothbrush. Rabastan and his cronies were subdued, giving him a wide berth, but they hadn't reported him. They hadn't approached him, hadn't whispered threats, hadn't even glared. No repercussions. No retaliation. It was as if it hadn't happened. Why hadn't they snitched? Why hadn't Rabastan run straight to Slughorn or Riddle demanding Harry's expulsion? Was reporting such an incident to a professor seen as weak, a failure to handle one's own affairs? Admitting defeat, especially to someone they viewed as an inferior half-blood, might be more damaging to Rabastan's pride than letting the incident slide. Perhaps they were planning their own form of retribution, waiting for the right moment. That thought sent a fresh wave of unease through him.

And what about Riddle? Harry found it almost impossible to believe the Headmaster did not know. Riddle seemed omniscient within these walls, so was he deliberately allowing the silence, observing Harry, and assessing the ruthlessness he had displayed? The lack of reaction from Riddle was perhaps the most unsettling of all. Whatever the reason, the lack of consequences was a welcome relief.

A giggle beside him pulled him back to the present. Linda Rosier was leaning close, whispering something about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend. Linda was nice enough, he supposed, but her constant chatter and her attempts to engage him in gossip were irritating. Harry offered a noncommittal grunt, trying to focus back on McGonagall and the intricate diagrams she sketched on the blackboard detailing the skeletal structure of a guinea pig – the target for their current transformation exercise. He had no interest in gossip, nor who was snogging whom behind the greenhouses.

"You know, Harry," Linda whispered again, "you really should come to the next Slug Club dinner. Professor Slughorn was asking about you, seeing as you've missed the last two. He thinks you're terribly promising." She lightly touched his arm, her fingers tracing a pattern on his sleeve. "And, the rumour is Angela Edgestone fancies you rotten. She always inquires where you are and even asked me to find out if you were available for the next one."

Harry sighed inwardly. He wasn't interested in Edgestone. Romance was the last thing on his mind. "I'm focusing on my studies, Linda," he said, smiling politely, turning his attention pointedly back to his slightly lopsided guinea pig.

"Oh, always studying," Linda teased as she pouted at Harry. She leant closer, her shoulder brushing against his. "You work too hard. You need to relax, have some fun. And help to dress yourself, apparently." She reached out and adjusted the collar of his robe, her fingers lingering near his neck as she smoothed it out. Harry froze at the sudden, unexpected contact. "Maybe I could help you study? We could review Transfiguration notes together? In the library… or maybe somewhere more private?"

Before Harry could formulate a polite refusal, Linda gasped, her hand flying to her hair. He looked up, startled. Strands of her blonde hair were shifting, changing colour, turning a bright, lurid pink.

"Miss Rosier!" McGonagall's sharp voice cut through the stifled laughter that had erupted around them. "Is something amiss?"

Harry watched, confused, as Linda stammered an explanation, her face crimson with embarrassment. He hadn't seen anyone cast a hex, hadn't felt any magic directed towards her. It was bizarre. McGonagall, unsurprisingly, was having none of it. Her reprimand was swift, sharp, and utterly withering. Linda wilted under the verbal onslaught, sinking back into her seat in humiliated silence, tears glistening in her eyes.

Harry felt a flicker of sympathy for her, despite her earlier annoying persistence. He knew what McGonagall's disapproval felt like. He glanced around, wondering who could have hexed her, and why. He scanned the nearby students, looking for a tell-tale smirk, or wand being hidden away. His gaze drifted towards the next row, settling on Bellatrix. She was intently examining her fingernails, her expression one of perfect, bored innocence. Then, just for a fraction of a second, the barest hint of a curve at the corner of her lips.

Bellatrix. Of course. It had her signature all over it. Harry felt a surge of anger. Why target Linda? Just because she was talking to him? Hang on… was Bellatrix jealous? He pushed the thought away, forcing himself to focus on McGonagall, who was now demonstrating how to turn the guinea pig back into a goblet.

Harry looked again at Bellatrix, who was now idly levitating her quill, seemingly lost in thought. What game was she playing? And why did he feel increasingly like he was just another piece on her board? He pushed his goblet away, the desire to study completely gone, replaced by a weary apprehension about what the rest of the year would bring.

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It was some days later that Harry found himself in the Great Hall with Vince and Lenny, the three staked out across a section of the Slytherin table. The relative quiet after lunch was a welcome change from the usual cacophony. Sunlight streamed through the high arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and casting long shadows across the worn flagstones. Most students had dispersed to afternoon classes or sought out quieter corners of the castle. They sat there, quiet as they studied, their Herbology textbooks spread out amongst the debris of their finished lunch. The lingering smell of roasted chicken and gravy hung faintly in the air, though their plates were scraped clean, goblets drained, with a lone, slightly squashed Cauldron Cake looking forlorn on a napkin.

Unlike previous study sessions where Vince might feign interest while trying to charm answers out of Harry or copy Lenny's notes, today he seemed genuinely focused. His quill scratched across his parchment poking at a diagram of a Snargaluff plant, occasionally pausing as he frowned at Professor Sprout's dense text on self-propagating flora. Harry was concentrating on the reproductive cycles of Fanged Geraniums, as Lenny chewed on the end of his quill. He seemed to be in the throes of working out the six properties of Bubotuber Pus.

"Right," announced Vince, slamming his textbook shut with more force than necessary, making Lenny jump. "Anyone fancy explaining the Gurdyroot's pollination process? Because I'm drawing a blank." He ran a hand through his hair, agitation evident in the gesture.

"It uses airborne spores, Vince," Lenny explained, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Attracted by moonlight intensity."

"Moonlight intensity," repeated Vince flatly. He reached for a goblet of pumpkin juice and took a large gulp, before swallowing. "Brilliant. Absolutely riveting stuff." He put the goblet down and slumped back against the bench, staring morosely at the enchanted ceiling. "And yet, I can't seem to find reference to that anywhere."

"Maybe check One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi?" Harry suggested. "Or Goshawk's Guide to Herbology? I'm pretty sure she wrote about lunar-influenced sporulation in chapter eight, the section on nocturnal bloomers."

Vince sat back up and eyed the heavy books with distaste. "Suppose I have to," he grumbled, reluctantly pulling Goshawk's Guide towards him. He flipped through the index. "Right... Gurdyroot... pollination... lunar influence... page 272." He opened the book, scanning the page with a frown. "Merlin's beard, look at this diagram. It looks like something exploded in a bowl of moss."

Lenny leaned over to look. "Oh, yes," he said thoughtfully, tapping the page with a finger. "Diagram 11.3. See the variable spore dispersal vectors depending on the lunar phase? Fascinating, isn't it?"

"Fascinatingly tedious," yawned Vince.

"I can run it through with you, if you want?" offered Lenny.

Vince shook his head hastily as he picked up his quill. "No thanks, Len. I'll manage."

"Harry? Do you need help?"

Harry chuckled. "I think I'll pass on that one, thanks."

Just as Harry turned back to his own book, determined to make some progress, a figure appeared at the end of their table.

It was Penny Warrender.

She stopped a few feet away, clutching a Potions textbook to her chest like a shield. Her face was pale, her eyes slightly red-rimmed, as if she hadn't been sleeping well. Her chin was held high, with a determined, almost defiant set to her mouth. She pointedly avoided looking at Vince, her eyes settling somewhere near Harry's left ear.

Harry tensed, bracing himself. Vince slowly sat up straight, his expression hardening and eyes narrowing as he looked at Penny.

"Vince," said Penny coolly, though Harry detected a faint tremor beneath the surface. "You still have my copy of Magical Drafts and Potions and I need it back. I also have this from last year, I believe it's yours."

She held out a thin volume – Advanced Potion-Making. Vince stared at the book for a long moment, before slowly reaching out and taking it. Then, without a word, he reached into his bag, pulled out Magical Drafts and Potions, and slid it across the table towards Penny, who picked up the book, her fingers brushing against his for a fraction of a second. Both recoiled slightly, as if burned.

"Thank you," said Penny.

Another agonising silence descended. Penny shifted her weight, her gaze darting around the Hall, anywhere but at Vince. "So," she began, her voice a little too forced, "how were your holidays?"

Vince snorted. "Peachy," he said sarcastically. "Spent most of it dodging questions from my mum about why my ex-girlfriend decided she couldn't stand the sight of me."

Penny recoiled, her face flushing a brilliant red. "Vince, don't," she whispered, glancing at Harry and Lenny, who were both pretending to be intensely interested in their textbooks.

Vince stared at Penny, his eyes boring holes into her. Penny turned to leave, but Vince spoke. His voice came out sounding as if strained. "Is that it, Penny?"

Penny froze. "Is what it?"

"Is that all you have to say?" Vince pressed, his voice gaining an edge. "After everything?"

Penny finally turned, facing him fully now. Her eyes were filled with hurt, anger, and stubborn resentment. "What more is there to say, Vincent?" she asked. "We've been over this a thousand times."

"Have we?" challenged Vince, standing up slowly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Have we really? Or have you refused to just listen to me?"

"Listen to what?" Penny shot back, her voice rising. "Listen to your lies that you didn't cheat on me? That I didn't see you with that harlot in Hogsmeade last year, practically glued together?"

Ah, there it was. The old wound, reopened. Harry exchanged an uneasy glance with Lenny. This was getting messy.

"For the last time, she asked for my help studying, Penny!" insisted Vince. "I did not cheat on you! How many times do I have to say it? I was helping her! That's all! End of story!"

"Is it?" hissed Penny. "Is it really, Vince? Because it didn't look like 'end of story' to me. And you expect me to just believe that? It's not the first time you've snogged some other girl that just happened to conveniently fall into your lap, so tell whatever lies you want, Vincent! I saw what I saw!"

That brought Harry up short. Vince hadn't mentioned this to him before.

"So you just assume the worst?" asked Vince in disbelief. "You throw away everything we had because of a misunderstanding?"

"A misunderstanding?" Penny laughed bitterly, wiping angrily at her tears. "Vince, how can I trust you? How can I trust anything you say? Time and time again you let me down; maybe it was never going to work between us anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Vince demanded. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about…" Penny hesitated, then plunged ahead, her voice hardening. "Oh - I can't keep doing this, Vince! Waiting for you and wondering, hoping you'll change! I need someone I can rely on! Someone who isn't going to break my heart again!"

"I never broke your heart!" said Vince passionately, pointing a finger at Penny before poking his own chest. "You broke mine when you refused to believe me!"

"It doesn't matter anymore!" Penny cried, tears now fully streaming down her face. "It just… it doesn't matter! I've moved on."

"Yeah, I saw. What's his name?"

"That's none of your business, Vincent."

"Isn't it?" snorted Vince. "I think I deserve to know who's with my ex-girlfriend. Who is he, Pen? Is it someone I know?"

Penny's head snapped up, her eyes flashing with anger. "What does it matter to you?" she said, crossing her arms across her chest. "Who I see, who I talk to… it's my life! It's nothing to do with you anymore. I can seen anyone I like and do anything I like! For all you should know, I could have dated the whole of the Falmouth Falcons!"

"I suppose that'd explain their recent form."

CRACK.

Harry watched, dumbfounded, frozen in his seat. He saw the bright red imprint bloom instantly on Vince's pale cheek. He saw Penny standing there, her chest heaving, her hand still raised slightly and trembling. Her face was a mixture of furious tears and something that looked terrifyingly close to shock at her own actions. Her eyes met Vince's for a fraction of a second. Then, with a choked sob that was equal parts anger and pain, she turned abruptly and fled.

Vince remained standing, stunned, his hand slowly rising to touch the stinging red mark on his cheek from where Penny had slapped him. His eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on the spot where Penny had just stood. The earlier anger, the bitter defiance – it had all vanished, replaced by a look of pure, stunned disbelief.

Around them, the whispers started. Students at nearby tables stared openly, then quickly looked away, pretending to be engrossed in their books or conversations, though their furtive glances betrayed their curiosity. Harry felt a surge of protective anger on Vince's behalf.

Lenny looked horrified. Harry pushed his chair back slowly. "Vince?"

Vince didn't seem to hear him. He finally lowered his hand from his cheek, his fingers shaking. He stared down at them, then slowly sank back onto the bench, his movements stiff and mechanical. He didn't look at Harry or Lenny. He just stared blankly ahead, his eyes hollow, his expression utterly desolate.

"Mate," Harry said softly, placing a hand on Vince's arm.

Vince didn't respond or move. He continued to look at nothing, lost in his own private world of pain. Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair. As much as he liked Vince, Harry felt as if he had overstepped a mark.

"Vince," began Harry. "I know you're hurting. But you were out of line, mate. Don't get me wrong, Penny shouldn't have lumped you, but you shouldn't have said that."

A muscle twitched in Vince's jaw. Harry wondered if Vince had heard him when:

"I know."

Harry sighed. "Look, I'm going to check on Penny and make sure she's fine, then I'll come back and we're going to have a chat. Look after my bag and books."

Harry pushed himself away from the table and stood up. "Len, look after him."

Lenny nodded vigorously as Harry turned towards where Penny had ran off to. He walked, ignoring the whispers from the other students. Harry headed towards the massive oak doors Penny had fled through moments before. He ignored the whispers and stares from the few remaining students; let them gossip. Right now, his focus was on finding Penny.

He stepped out into the Entrance Hall, the vast space echoing with his solitary footsteps. Where would she have gone? He scanned the area. Not towards the dungeons, certainly. The library? Maybe, but it felt too public after such an emotional outburst. Harry decided to try the upper corridors, the ones less frequented by students during free periods.

He reached the fourth floor and started walking down a long, deserted corridor lined with faded tapestries and suits of armour. It was quiet here, the sounds of the castle muffled and distant. He checked a few empty classrooms, their dusty interiors offering no sign of Penny. Harry was about to give up when he heard it – a soft, muffled sob coming from a deep window alcove further down the corridor.

Harry approached cautiously, his footsteps softening on the stone floor. Penny was huddled on the wide window seat, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face buried in her arms. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Harry hesitated, feeling like an intruder. He cleared his throat softly. "Penny?"

She jumped, her head snapping up, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. She quickly wiped at her tears with the back of her hand, trying, and failing, to regain her composure. "Sayre," she said, her voice thick, choked. "What… what do you want?" There was a defensiveness in her tone, a warning to keep his distance.

Harry held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Nothing," he said quietly. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright." It sounded lame, but it was the truth.

It was a fair question. Why did he care? He barely knew her. Was it just because she was Vince's ex? A flicker of Padma's face, hurt and confused after their last argument, flashed through his mind. He pushed it away. "Because," Harry said simply, "what happened back there, it was rough. For both of you. And nobody deserves to feel like…" He trailed off, unsure how to finish.

Penny stared at him for a long moment, her gaze searching, suspicious. Then, something seemed to crumble within her. Her shoulders slumped, and a fresh wave of tears welled in her eyes. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, I'm not okay." She buried her face in her hands again, her sobs louder now, echoing slightly in the quiet corridor.

Harry felt a pang of sympathy. He walked over slowly and sat down tentatively on the opposite end of the wide window seat, leaving a respectable distance between them. He didn't say anything, just sat there, offering a silent presence, letting her cry. He knew from experience that sometimes that was all you could do.

After a few minutes, her sobs began to subside, replaced by ragged, shaky breaths. Penny fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, blowing her nose loudly. She still didn't look at him.

"He just… he doesn't understand," she mumbled finally, her voice thick with tears and frustration.

"Vince?" Harry asked gently.

She nodded, sniffling. "He thinks… he thinks it's all so simple. That I should just forget about it. Forgive him and pretend it never happened."

"Hogsmeade," Harry stated quietly. "Last year."

Penny looked up sharply, surprised. "He told you?"

"He mentioned it," Harry said carefully. "Said it was a misunderstanding. That he didn't cheat."

Penny laughed bitterly, a harsh, broken sound. "A misunderstanding," she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Right. Because catching your boyfriend with his arms around another girl, laughing intimately in a secluded corner of the Three Broomsticks, is just a simple misunderstanding." Her eyes flashed with renewed anger. "I saw them, Harry. The way she was looking at him. The way he looked when he saw me. Like a Kneazle caught with its paw in the cream."

"Vince has always said he was helping her study, Penny."

"Maybe it started off that way, but it certainly didn't look it when I got there. And when he finally saw me standing there, the look on his face… it wasn't surprise, Harry. It was guilt. Pure, unadulterated guilt. He knew he'd been caught." She shook her head, wiping angrily at her eyes. "How could I not believe he was cheating? It shattered my trust, Sayre. Completely."

Harry didn't know what to say. "That must have been rough to see."

Penny nodded, sniffling. "It was," she whispered. "It broke something inside me. And Vince just expects me to forget it? To pretend it didn't happen? To trust him again, just like that?" Penny's voice rose slightly in indignation. "He doesn't understand how hard that is! He doesn't understand that trust, once it's broken like that, doesn't just magically reappear!"

"No," Harry agreed softly. "It doesn't." He thought of Ron and Lavender, of his own jealousies regarding Ginny, the corrosive nature of doubt in a relationship. Trust was fragile.

"And then he makes that remark! He's such an arse! He has no right, and I cannot believe he finds it all so funny he can make jokes about it!"

"No, Penny," Harry said firmly. "He doesn't think it's funny. He was being a git. Don't get me wrong, he shouldn't have said it. It was out of line and I've told him as such. But Vince feels like you judged him unfairly, no matter what he says."

Penny looked at him, her expression conflicted. "Maybe," she conceded reluctantly. "But that doesn't give him the right to be cruel. And it doesn't change the fact that I can't trust him."

"No," Harry agreed. "It doesn't. It was a stupid, horrible thing to say, even if he was angry and hurt."

"So was I!" Penny flared, turning back to him, her eyes flashing. "But does that give me the right to slap him? Does it make me right?"

Harry didn't answer immediately. "No," he said finally, meeting her gaze. "No, it doesn't. But I think I understand why you did."

Penny looked surprised, then suspicious again. "You do?"

"He pushed you," Harry said. "Kept pushing. About Hogsmeade. About the new guy you're seeing."

Penny opened her mouth to retort but Harry cut her off.

"Penny, I know it's none of my business, really-"

"You're correct there, it isn't! How dare you question me? I am happier now-"

"Are you?" Harry interrupted gently. "Or is he just not Vince?"

Penny flinched slightly. "That's not fair," she mumbled.

"Maybe not," Harry conceded. "But are you really over Vince? Or are you just trying to convince yourself you are?"

Penny didn't answer. She just stared out at the lake, her expression troubled. Harry let the silence sit for a moment.

"It helps," Penny said almost defensively, "to not think about Vince all the time."

Harry nodded slowly.

"Vince is a good person, Penny," Harry said quietly. "Underneath the bravado and the jokes, he's loyal. He cares deeply. Maybe too deeply, sometimes. He makes mistakes, yeah. Says stupid things when he's angry or hurt. But he wouldn't deliberately betray someone he cares about. I don't believe he would."

Penny looked at him, her eyes searching his face. "You really believe him?" she asked. "About Hogsmeade?"

Harry met her gaze steadily. "I believe Vince when he says he didn't cheat on you. He's been miserable this year. That kind of hurt, it doesn't come from guilt. It comes from loss."

Penny was silent for a long time, staring out the window, her expression thoughtful, conflicted. Harry didn't push her. He let her process his words, let her wrestle with her own doubts, her own pain.

"Maybe," she whispered finally, so softly he almost didn't hear her. "Maybe I was wrong." She shook her head, fresh tears welling. "But it doesn't matter now, does it? I said horrible things. He said horrible things. I… I slapped him." She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. "How can we possibly come back from that?"

Harry didn't have an answer. He reached out tentatively and placed a hand on her shoulder again. "I don't know, Penny," he said honestly. "Maybe you can't. Or maybe you just need time. Both of you."

"I know," Penny whispered. "I shouldn't have hit him." Shame washed over her face. "I just - I lost my temper."

"It happens," Harry said quietly. He knew all about losing his temper, about letting anger override reason. "Doesn't make it right, but it happens." He sighed. "Look, Penny, I'm not trying to tell you what to do. Or who to be with. But maybe don't shut Vince out completely? Maybe just talk to him? Properly? When you're both calm?"

Penny looked at him. "Why are you doing this, Harry?" she asked softly. "Why do you care?"

Harry shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "Vince is my friend," he said simply. "And… I don't like seeing people hurt."

"Thank you, Harry," Penny murmured. "For listening and not judging."

"Anytime," he said, offering a small, supportive smile.

Penny took a deep, shaky breath and stood up, smoothing down her robes. "I should probably go," she said, avoiding his gaze again. "Thanks again."

"Alright," Harry said, standing up as well. "Take care, Penny."

She nodded mutely, then turned and walked quickly down the corridor, disappearing around the corner without looking back. Harry watched her go, a heavy weight settling in his chest. He felt exhausted, emotionally drained. He hadn't fixed anything, not really. Vince was still heartbroken. Penny was still confused and hurt. Their relationship was still in ruins.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He turned and started walking back towards the Great Hall. Harry knew he couldn't solve everyone's problems. He couldn't heal every wound. All he could do was try to survive, try to protect his new friends, try get home to his old friends and Padma, and hope that, somehow, someday, things would get better. It felt like a very distant hope right now. Just another small casualty in a world teetering on the brink of war.

---

The heavy oak door of the Headmaster's office clicked shut behind Harry, sealing him into the familiar space. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the towering bookshelves and the strange, intricate silver instruments that whirred and puffed softly on side tables. It felt like a sanctuary, a bubble separated from the growing unease that permeated the rest of the castle.

"Good evening, Harry," Riddle said without looking up. He was meticulously arranging a series of complex, interlocking silver spheres on his desk, their surfaces etched with intricate runes that seemed to shift and writhe in the low light. "Punctual, as always. Excellent. Please, sit."

Harry sank into the familiar armchair opposite the desk, placing his satchel on the floor beside him. These private lessons, held twice a week in the evenings, had become a strange sort of routine. Partly magical training, it was also a complex mentor-mentee relationship built on a foundation of mutual need, and a burgeoning trust. Riddle looked up at Harry, and it was then Harry noted there were faint lines of fatigue around the Headmaster's eyes that hadn't been there before Christmas. The escalating Acolyte attacks were clearly taking their toll, even on him.

"How was your day?" Riddle asked, rolling up a chart with practised ease. "Professor Bodie's class was earlier, I believe? I trust it was fruitful."

Harry snorted as he shifted slightly. "That's one way of putting it, sir" he replied. "Mainly exhausting, if I'm honest. Professor Bodie doesn't believe in half measures."

"Discipline and rigour are essential, especially in Defence. How are you finding your other classes?" Riddle asked, setting aside a stack of reports. "I hope they are proceeding without issues?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. "Professor Flitwick is pleased with my Charm work. Professor McGonagall is demanding, as ever. It's Professor Bodie's classes that are vigorous."

"Vigorous training builds resilience," Riddle commented mildly, though his eyes lingered on Harry for a moment, as if gauging more than Harry had said. "Essential in these times. Complacency, as I've said, is a luxury we can ill afford. A lesson many in the Ministry seem incapable of grasping."

He pushed the spheres aside. "Before I start with your training, there is something I wish to discuss with you. The Daily Prophet continues its sensationalist coverage of the Acolyte attacks," he gestured towards a copy lying nearby, "but beneath the hysteria, there is a pattern emerging. A strategy."

Riddle rose and walked towards a large map of Britain pinned to one wall, enchanted markers glowing faintly over recent attack sites.

"The Ministry, predictably, is floundering. Minchum issues platitudes while the Aurors are being picked off one by one." He gestured towards the map, where the magical markers glowed faintly, indicating recent attack locations. "Exeter. York last month. Norwich during the break. The pattern is clear."

Harry leant forwards. "They're relatively isolated areas."

"Precisely," Riddle agreed. "Easy targets, designed to sow fear, to demonstrate the Ministry's incompetence, and to test our response times. Classic Grindelwald tactics, updated for a modern audience. He creates chaos on the periphery, stretches Ministry resources thin, fosters a sense of helplessness and then, when his opponents are distracted and weakened, he strikes at the heart. He used similar strategies in France in the late thirties." He tapped a location on the map.

"The Ministry," Harry murmured.

Riddle nodded, then moved his finger towards Scotland, hovering over Hogwarts. "The Ministry. Or Hogwarts. Or both."

"He wouldn't dare attack Hogwarts," Harry said automatically. Hogwarts was the safest place for anything.

Riddle smiled faintly. "Wouldn't he? Hogwarts is more than just a school, Harry. It's a symbol, of both British wizarding power and of Albus' legacy. Hogwarts falling would be a devastating blow, both strategically and psychologically. He would dare, if he believed he could succeed. Much like your Voldemort believed, and succeeded. Although, he operated differently, through fear, terror, and brute force, I believe?"

Harry nodded grimly. "Yes. He inspired fear, but demanded obedience. His followers obeyed because they were terrified of him."

"And yet," said Riddle, "they obeyed. Out of fear or loyalty, they obeyed."

"It probably helped they agreed with his plans," muttered Harry.

Riddle nodded slowly. "The seductive power of ideology," he murmured. "Yes. Albus recognised that danger with Grindelwald early on. Grindelwald doesn't just conquer territories; he conquers minds. He twists ideals, perverts notions of progress, turns legitimate grievances into fuel for his hateful fire. It makes him incredibly difficult to fight. How do you defeat an idea, Harry?"

"You offer a better one," Harry said quietly. "You show people that there's another way. Hope. Unity. Love." He felt a flush creep up his neck, expecting Riddle to scoff and dismiss his words as naive sentimentality.

But Riddle simply looked thoughtful. "Love," he repeated, the word seeming foreign on his tongue. "Albus believed in its power implicitly." He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Perhaps he was right. But love is a fragile shield against the kind of power Grindelwald wields. Hope can be extinguished. Unity can be fractured."

"But it's still worth fighting for," Harry insisted.

"Indeed," Riddle agreed. "But we must also fight fire with fire. Grindelwald's methods are arguably more insidious than Voldemort's. He inspires devotion. He manipulates and persuades, offering a seductive vision of a world where wizards are no longer constrained, where their power is celebrated, not hidden. He preys on resentment, on ambition, on the desire for belonging. But, we can beat them if we have a clear understanding of the enemy's methods and weaknesses. We cannot afford idealistic purity when facing such a foe. Sometimes, uncomfortable measures are required to counter his influence."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Isn't that what he does?" he asked carefully. "Grindelwald?"

"The difference lies in intent, Harry," said Riddle smoothly. "Our intent is to protect and preserve order, to prevent mass hysteria and bloodshed. For Grindelwald and his Acolytes, their intent is to dominate, to control, to impose their will through fear and deception. The methods may appear similar, but the morality is worlds apart."

"I see. But I fail to see where you need my help, sir. It's not like I can fight Grindelwald.

"I disagree. You fought a war, Harry," said Riddle, "against a Dark Lord whose ideology mirrored Grindelwald's in many ways, though his methods, perhaps, were cruder. Your experience is invaluable. Your insight into how such movements gain traction, how they operate, how they are ultimately defeated… it gives us an edge we desperately need."

"It's going to be harder than dealing with Voldemort," said Harry, running his hand over his face. "At least his return was confirmed, eventually."

Riddle nodded grimly. "That is why we must be prepared." He looked up at Harry. "These attacks, they demonstrate a level of coordination and magical prowess that suggests more than just disorganised fanatics. There is training involved. And likely, inside knowledge."

"A spy," Harry said, the word tasting like lead.

"Possibly several," Riddle corrected. "Within the Ministry, certainly. Perhaps even here. But that is not for you to concern yourself with. On to your training."

Harry stood as Riddle waved his wand and the room made space, the desks swept away up against walls and trinkets put away. Riddle moved towards the edge and gestured towards a series of silver spheres on his desk. "Tonight, Harry, we focus less on brute reaction and instead more on finesse and control. Non-verbal casting under duress requires not just power, but precision and focus."

He waved his wand, and the spheres detached from the desk, rising into the air and beginning to orbit each other in complex, unpredictable patterns. "These are training spheres, enchanted to fire minor jinxes and hexes at random intervals and from varying angles. Your task is simple: maintain a continuous, non-verbal Shield Charm while simultaneously disarming each sphere as it prepares to fire. Focus on minimising movement, conserving energy, and maintaining absolute concentration."

Harry drew his wand, his heart rate picking up slightly.

"Begin," Riddle commanded softly.

The spheres immediately whirred to life. A jet of red light shot towards Harry from his left. 'Protego,' he thought fiercely, visualising the shield, pouring his will into it. The spell materialised, shimmering faintly, deflecting the jinx. Almost immediately, another sphere glowed orange. His silent command sent a bolt of magic towards the sphere, neutralising it just as it fired a stinging hex that sizzled against his shield.

It went on like that for what felt like hours. Jinxes, hexes, curses, charms – the spheres attacked relentlessly, their patterns random, forcing Harry to react instantly, constantly adjusting his shield, firing back with non-verbal disarming spells. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead, his wand arm beginning to ache. It wasn't just the physical exertion; it was the mental strain. The constant need for focus sapped his energy. He faltered once, distracted by a flicker of movement from one of the portraits, and a minor sticking charm hit his shoe, momentarily gluing it to the floor.

"Concentration, Harry," Riddle's voice cut through the air. "Distraction is death in a real duel. You must learn to filter out the irrelevant, to maintain absolute focus on the threat."

Harry broke the sticking charm with a muttered counter-spell, his cheeks flushing with annoyance. He redoubled his efforts, pushing aside the fatigue and frustration. Slowly, he found his groove. His movements became more fluid, his shields stronger, his disarming spells quicker, more precise. He wasn't just reacting anymore; he was anticipating, sensing the build-up of magic in each sphere before it fired, neutralising the threat with increasing efficiency. He felt the familiar surge of power, the thrill of magic responding to his will, but tempered now with the control and precision that Riddle was drilling into him.

Finally, Riddle waved his wand, and the spheres deactivated, settling gently back onto the desk. Harry lowered his wand, his arm trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was exhausted, but also exhilarated.

"Better," Riddle conceded, his expression neutral, but Harry detected a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes. "Your instinct and power are undeniable, Harry. But power without control is wasted energy. Worse, it is dangerous. Precision, efficiency, mental discipline – these are the hallmarks of a truly skilled wizard, the qualities that separate a duellist from a mere brawler."

He gestured towards the deactivated training spheres resting silently on his desk. "We have made progress with non-verbal casting and shield work under pressure. We will continue this next time, where I shall begin to teach you to recognise, counter and, when necessary, use the magic the Acolytes are fond of employing."

The casual statement hit Harry like a Bludger to the chest.

"Wait," Harry said sharply, louder than he intended. Riddle paused, turning slightly, one eyebrow raised in silent query. "Wait a second," Harry repeated. "You're going to teach me the Dark Arts?"

Riddle turned fully to face him, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of something – amusement? Impatience? – crossed his features. "A rather broad and often misleading term, Harry," he said smoothly. "I intend to teach you about the specific curses, hexes, and counter-curses favoured by Grindelwald's followers, magic designed for aggressive combat, for causing significant harm, magic that standard Ministry-approved defence training barely acknowledges."

"But that is Dark magic!" Harry insisted. This contradicted everything he thought he understood about this version of Riddle. "I thought you rejected that path!"

Riddle frowned. "Understanding darkness is not the same as embracing it, Harry," he said, his voice calm and reasonable. "And rejecting an ideology does not mean blinding oneself to the tools that ideology employs. To defeat an enemy as ruthless and ideologically driven as Grindelwald, to protect the students under my care, to prevent the future you experienced, we must comprehend the weapons they wield. Thoroughly."

He stopped a few feet from Harry. "The Acolytes, like the Death Eaters you faced, will not adhere to Ministry regulations or duel with honour. They use curses designed to maim, to torture, to kill with brutal efficiency. Your standard Protego will shatter under the force of some of their hexes. Your counter-curses will be utterly inadequate. You need effective defences, Harry. And to defend effectively, you must first understand the nature of the attack."

"But you said use it," Harry pressed, suspicion warring with confusion. "You said you'd teach me to use their magic."

"Yes," Riddle confirmed evenly. "Recognise it. Counter it. And, in certain, extreme circumstances, employ similar levels of force defensively to neutralise an immediate, overwhelming threat when lesser magic fails." He saw the revulsion on Harry's face and held up a hand. "Listen to me carefully, Harry. I renounced the ideology that fuels the darkest arts – the lust for power through domination, the casual disregard for life, the abomination of fragmenting one's own soul. That path leads only to ruin and self-destruction. I know this better than anyone.

"But magic itself, Harry, is merely a tool. An extension of will. Its morality lies not in the incantation, but in the intent of the caster and the consequences of its use. A Cutting Curse can be used for murder, yes. But it can also sever bonds in an emergency, disable an opponent's weapon, or clear a path to safety. Intent. Context. Control. These are the crucial factors."

"But the Dark Arts are classified as such for a reason," said Harry, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I agree. Yes," answered Riddle patiently, "there exists powerful, aggressive magic that falls into a grey area. Magic the Ministry, in its caution, might classify as 'Dark', but which can be wielded effectively, even necessarily, for defensive purposes against those who only understand force. I choose not to employ the truly abhorrent forms of magic myself – the Unforgivables, soul-damaging curses – because I understand their irreversible, corrupting nature. I choose the path Albus set me upon."

Riddle looked pointedly at Harry. "But deliberately remaining ignorant of potent, aggressive magic simply because it can be misused? Refusing to learn how to defend against it, or even, in extremis, how to counter it with comparable force? That is not virtuous, Harry. It is wilful ignorance. And in the war we are facing, it is tantamount to suicide."

"Some would say that death is preferable to whatever the Dark Arts do to you," said Harry through gritted teeth.

"Is it?" Riddle asked calmly, as he sorted the room. "Is it worse than death? In war, Harry, the lines blur. We must be prepared to use effective tools, even if they make us uncomfortable. Our enemies will show no such hesitation."

"But where does it stop?" argued Harry, feeling a surge of defiance. "If we start using magic like that, how are we any different from them?"

"Intent, Harry," Riddle repeated. "That is the difference. A crucial one. Learn the theory, Harry. Understand the mechanics. You need not cast it yourself unless absolutely necessary. But you must know how to recognise it, how to defend against it. Knowledge is power and in this war ignorance is, as I said, fatal."

Harry felt conflicted and deeply uneasy. Apparently, Riddle saw Harry's internal conflict all over his face. He sighed, and faced Harry. "I will teach you to recognise these spells, Harry. I will teach you the most effective, often complex, counter-curses and shield modifications required to survive them. And yes," he met Harry's uneasy gaze directly, "I will teach you how to wield certain powerful, aggressive spells yourself. Not to inflict needless suffering, not for personal gain, but as a last resort. To neutralise a deadly threat swiftly and decisively when your life, or the lives of others, are on the line, and standard defensive measures have failed. It is not about embracing darkness, it is about possessing the necessary arsenal to survive its assault."

"But isn't that dangerous?" Harry finally asked. "Learning those spells, even for defence? Doesn't it risk changing you? Corrupting you?"

Riddle's expression became unreadable for a moment. "The risk always exists, Harry," he admitted quietly. "Magic, particularly powerful magic, magnifies what is already within the caster. The danger lies not inherently in the spell, but in the wizard. It requires immense discipline. Unwavering control over one's emotions, and a firm grasp on one's own moral compass."

Riddle placed a hand lightly on Harry's shoulder. "I have wrestled with my own darkness, Harry. But I also understand the consequences. I made my choice. I believe you are capable of making the right choices as well. You possess a fundamental core of decency and a strength of will forged in adversity. I believe you can learn this magic, understand it, and wield it responsibly, if necessary, without succumbing to its darker potential." He held Harry's gaze. "The question is, Harry, do you believe it?"

Do you believe it? The question echoed in the sudden quiet, ricocheting off the carefully constructed walls Harry had built around his own fear, his own shame. Did he believe he could wield powerful, aggressive, potentially dark magic responsibly? Did he believe he wouldn't succumb?

His mind flashed back, unbidden, to the dimly lit sixth-floor corridor just days ago. Rabastan Lestrange's sneering face. Respect your betters. The instant, blinding surge of cold fury. The way Harry had responded before he'd even consciously thought, lashing out with brutal efficiency. Avery, petrified mid-sneer. Wilkes, clawing at his own throat while gasping for air. And Mulciber… the sickening crack of bone under the force of his curse. He hadn't needed teaching to do that. That had come from somewhere else entirely, some dark reservoir forged in the heat of real battle, fuelled by years of loss and helpless rage.

He remembered turning on Rabastan, the black energy gathering at the tip of his wand, the absolute intent to erase him from existence. It wasn't defence. It wasn't control. It was pure, vengeful fury, the same darkness he'd fought in Voldemort, now erupting from within himself. Only Bellatrix's shield and intervention had stopped him from crossing a line from which there might have been no return.

And even before that, there had been the duels with Bellatrix in Bodie's classroom. He'd told himself he was just defending himself, but he remembered the thrill of matching her power, the surge of satisfaction when he landed a hit, the flashes of anger that made him push harder, use spells sharper and crueller than necessary for a practice session. He felt a wave of profound self-disgust. He had refused to teach Bellatrix, judged her for her ambition, for the darkness he sensed in her, warned her away from a path he himself had already stumbled onto. The hypocrisy burned like acid in his gut.

Riddle said he had a core of decency. Dumbledore had believed the same. But Dumbledore hadn't seen him in that corridor. Dumbledore hadn't felt the cold satisfaction of Mulciber's bone shattering. Dumbledore hadn't known the annihilating curse that he had been about to unleash on Rabastan. Could he wield such magic responsibly? The darkness was not just a potential threat; it was a part of him, a beast barely contained, ready to break free at the slightest provocation.

Harry looked at Riddle, at the calm, intelligent eyes and the patient expression. He saw the man Dumbledore had believed in, the man fighting against Grindelwald. But he also saw the shadow of the boy who had created Horcruxes.

Do you believe it?

Could Harry trust himself? Could he walk this path without becoming the monster he swore to stand against?

"I…" Harry swallowed, his throat dry. The honest answer was no. He didn't believe it, not entirely. He was terrified of what he was capable of. But he could not admit that to Riddle.

"I have to believe it, sir," Harry said finally.

"I want you to survive, Harry," said Riddle firmly. "And I want us to win. Sometimes, in war, difficult choices must be made. Morality becomes flexible. You must learn to navigate those grey areas. You must learn to follow your instincts and trust in them."

"I'll try."

Riddle held his gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Harry felt stripped bare, certain Riddle could see the lie, the fear and the hypocrisy beneath his words. But Riddle simply nodded slowly.

"Trying, Harry," he said softly, "is the first, and perhaps the most crucial, step. It is a battle fought daily." Riddle stepped back, breaking the intensity of the moment. "Very well. We will proceed, but slowly. I would not want you to be overwhelmed."

Riddle turned back towards his desk. "That is all for tonight. Rest and review your performance. Remember my earlier words: mental fortitude is the foundation upon which all else is built."

Harry nodded numbly, feeling utterly drained. He had acknowledged, if only to himself, the hypocrisy of his position, the darkness he carried. He was also being mentored by a man who understood that darkness intimately, a man who had walked that path himself, in another life. Could he learn from Riddle without becoming like him? Could he fight this war without losing himself in the process? It was a terrifying realisation. He gathered his things, his hands still trembling slightly, left Riddle after bidding farewell and headed for the common room.

---

The familiar, pervasive damp of the Potions dungeon clung to the air, mingling with the acrid scent of the last classes simmered ingredients and the low murmur of seventh-year students settling around their cauldrons. Harry took his usual spot beside Vince, pulling out his battered copy of Advanced Potion-Making. Harry had spoken with Vince later the same day after Penny had slapped him. It had not been an easy conversation but Harry had voiced what needed to be said. He acknowledged Vince's hurt and he didn't excuse Penny slapping him – that was unequivocally wrong – but Harry steered the conversation towards Vince's own cutting remark. He pointed out, more as an observation than an accusation, that the comment, born of pain and anger, had been cruel, designed only to wound just as Vince himself had been wounded. Vince hadn't argued, nor did he try to defend his actions. He had been resigned and sighed, before acknowledging the bitter truth. They'd agreed to let the painful subject rest and to move on.

Potions with Slughorn was always a mixed bag – moments of genuine fascination interspersed with the professor's tedious anecdotes about former star pupils and blatant attempts at networking. Today, however, there was a different energy in the room, a buzz of anticipation. Professor Slughorn bustled to the front of the dungeon, beaming, radiating an almost obscene, childlike level of cheerfulness that felt jarringly out of place. He stood beaming by his desk, his considerable girth straining the limits of his embroidered waistcoat, his eyes twinkling more brightly than usual.

"Alright, settle down, settle down, everyone!" Slughorn boomed, clapping his plump hands together, his large belly jiggling behind his garish purple robes. "A very special lesson today! Forget your standard NEWT revision, and put away those notes on the Draught of Living Death – fascinating though it is, of course! Today, we embark on something creative! Today, we embrace innovation!"

A ripple of interest went through the class. Slughorn rarely deviated from the established curriculum, which usually involved meticulous replication of established recipes.

"As you know," Slughorn continued, puffing out his chest, "true mastery of Potions lies not just in replication, but in innovation! The ability to create something new, something beneficial, something – dare I say – marketable! Many a fine witch and wizard has made their name, and indeed their fortune, through potion invention. I remember a young protégée of mine, Gloria Goshawk – remarkably talented girl, wrote the definitive guide to Herbology, you know – she dabbled in potion creation in her seventh year! Why, even Fleamont Potter's Sleekeazy's…"

Harry let Slughorn's voice fade into a background drone, exchanging a long-suffering look with Vince. He knew Slughorn's penchant for name-dropping and self-aggrandisement could easily derail the entire lesson.

"...and so," Slughorn finally arrived at his point, beaming as if bestowing a great gift, "your primary challenge for the remainder of this term, culminating in a formal presentation and demonstration just before your NEWT examinations, is this: you will work in pairs to conceive, develop, brew, and safely test an entirely new potion!"

A collective gasp filled the dungeon, followed by a surge of excited, anxious chatter. A new potion? From scratch?

"Now, now, settle down!" Slughorn chuckled, clearly enjoying the reaction. "The potion must be practical, something beneficial to the wider wizarding community. Think convenience, think common ailments, think everyday improvements! It must, of course, be demonstrably safe, stable under standard conditions, and reproducible with readily available ingredients – no dragon hearts harvested under a blue moon, if you please!" He beamed again. "The pair demonstrating the most ingenuity, efficacy, safety and, shall we say, commercial potential, will not only achieve top marks but will also earn my personal recommendation to certain influential figures at the Ministry and beyond. They might even find their creation featured in Practical Potioner magazine! A chance, perhaps, for your names to be etched alongside the greats of the field!"

Pair work in Potions was hardly popular, especially not with Slughorn's often-random assignments. Harry inwardly groaned. He usually worked with Vince, but Slughorn rarely allowed them to choose their own partners for major assignments.

"Now, for the pairings," Slughorn announced, rubbing his hands together gleefully. He produced a small, plush velvet bag that shimmered faintly. "To ensure fairness, and perhaps encourage some inter-house collaboration… though mostly intra-house today, I see… I shall draw partners using these enchanted tokens." He plunged his hand into the bag. "Let's see… Nott and Rosier… An intriguing pairing! Talkalot and Warrender… hmm, strength there… Pinner and Wilkes…"

Vince slammed his head onto the desk with a loud thud. "Kill me now," he groaned into his textbook. "Wilkes? You've got to be kidding me. The bloke thinks 'stir clockwise' is a suggestion."

Harry offered a commiserating grimace, his own apprehension mounting. Who would he be stuck with?

Slughorn had continued drawing tokens, pairing others. The number of students Harry was left to pair with was going down, and his anxiety was going up. "...McDermott and Edgestone..." Slughorn reached into the bag for the final pair. Harry's heart fell for what felt like several floors as he realised who he was paired with.

Slughorn beamed at Harry, then shifting to the other side of the room. "And finally… Sayre and Black!"

The plummeting feeling didn't stop. Harry risked a glance towards Bellatrix. She looked equally horrified, her face paling slightly. Her grey eyes, wide with disbelief, flew to Slughorn, then darted, with venomous fury, towards Harry. He saw her lips form a silent, furious "No," her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of her desk. The sheer outrage radiating from her was almost palpable. Harry felt a perverse flicker of satisfaction – at least she hated this as much as he did.

"Excellent! Such promising pairings! I anticipate truly remarkable results!" Slughorn bustled back to his desk. "This project will constitute a significant portion of your final NEWT grade, so I expect your utmost effort and collaboration!" He bustled back towards his desk. "Now, find your partners, claim a workstation, and begin discussing your initial concepts. I want preliminary proposals – potion name, intended effect, target audience, potential key ingredients – on my desk by the end of next week! Time is of the essence! Don't dawdle!"

The dungeon erupted into noise again as students scraped chairs, gathered belongings, and moved to join their assigned partners. Harry remained frozen, his mind numb with disbelief and dread. Work with Bellatrix? Collaborate? On a potion? For months? It was a nightmare scenario.

"Blimey, Harry," Vince whispered, leaning close as he gathered his things to join the lumbering Wilkes. "Talk about bad luck. You and Black? Merlin's beard. Rather you than me, mate." He offered a sympathetic grimace. "Good luck, eh? Try not to end up as one of her ingredients." He clapped Harry on the shoulder, then trudged off reluctantly towards Wilkes.

Harry slowly stood up, gathering his own books. This was impossible. How could he possibly work with her? They could barely be in the same room without sparks flying – and not just the magical kind. He glanced towards her again. Bellatrix was still standing by her cauldron, radiating an aura of barely suppressed fury. She hadn't moved. She was clearly waiting for him to approach her. Arrogant witch.

Harry took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders and started walking towards her, feeling like a man walking towards his own execution. As he approached, Bellatrix finally turned, her expression a mask of cold indifference, though he saw the fury still simmering in her eyes.

"Sayre," she acknowledged, her voice clipped.

"Black," he replied, equally as cold.

An awkward silence stretched between them.. Harry set his bag down, pulled out parchment and a quill, and tried to focus. Finally, Harry was the one to break it.

"Listen, about the other day, in the corridor—"

"Don't," Bellatrix interrupted instantly, her voice sharp, cutting him off mid-sentence. Her eyes flashed a warning. "Don't talk about it, Sayre."

Harry frowned. "But—"

"I said don't," she repeated, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss. "What happened, happened. It was dealt with. Bringing it up again is pointless and potentially unwise."

Harry looked up. Bellatrix's face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn't looking at him, but rather surveying the dungeon, checking, perhaps, that no one was close enough to overhear. He opened his mouth to ask what her problem was, but she cut him off.

"Let it lie, Sayre.

"Alright," Harry conceded. "Fine. Let's just focus on the potion then. So, ideas? Slughorn wants something practical and safe…"

"Safe is boring," Bellatrix interrupted, her voice sharp. "And practicality is pedestrian. We should aim higher and make something powerful."

"Powerful doesn't mean dangerous," Harry countered. "And Slughorn was clear about the safety requirements."

Bellatrix didn't look at him. "I'm thinking a potent truth serum, refined beyond Veritaserum's limitations."

Harry frowned. "They're restricted for a reason, Black." He remembered Umbridge's use of Veritaserum and the violation of it.

Bellatrix finally turned to look at him, her lips thinned. "Don't lecture me on safety, Sayre. I'm well aware of the regulations. But where's the challenge in brewing a simple calming draught or pepper-up potion? He wants innovation, not glorified sleeping draughts." There it was again, that burning ambition, that relentless drive that reminded him so forcefully, and uncomfortably, of Hermione.

"We can still make it without going mad," Harry repeated. "Think about everyday problems. Things people actually struggle with."

"Fine," said Bellatrix. "Practicality. What mundane 'everyday problem' were you considering solving, Sayre? A cure for cauldron Potion sickness?"

Harry ignored the sarcasm. "Focus," he said simply. "Concentration. Especially now, with NEWTs, with… everything else going on. People are stressed. A potion that enhances mental clarity, sharpens focus, blocks out external noise… that would be useful. And potentially very marketable."

Bellatrix looked thoughtful for a moment, tapping a perfectly manicured fingernail against the stone workbench. "A focus potion," she mused. Her eyes narrowed slightly, a competitive glint appearing. "But it would have to be potent. More effective than anything currently available. Stable, long-lasting, without addictive properties or unpleasant side effects like the memory fog some concentration draughts cause."

"Exactly," Harry agreed, surprised they had found common ground so quickly. "Mental clarity. Everyone needs it. Students for exams, Ministry workers drowning in paperwork, even Aurors needing to stay sharp during long stakeouts. A potion that genuinely enhances concentration, blocks distractions, sustains mental energy without side effects would be useful and marketable.

"It would need carefully balanced ingredients," Bellatrix continued, her mind clearly already working, analysing the possibilities. "Perhaps powdered dragon claw for mental acuity, essence of moonflower for clarity, maybe crushed scarab beetles for stamina…"

"Too volatile," Harry interjected. "Dragon claw interacts badly with moonflower unless buffered correctly. And scarab beetles cause severe palpitation in some individuals." He drew on his own extensive, hard-won potion knowledge, knowledge that went far beyond the seventh-year curriculum.

Bellatrix looked at him, a flicker of grudging respect in her eyes. "Alright, Sayre, suggest alternatives. The base would need careful balancing," she murmured, already sketching on her parchment. "Distilled Murtlap essence provides a clean focus, but for clarity it needs a potent stabiliser. Hmm… Hellebore, yes, but the ratios would need to be critical to avoid lethargy…"

"Powdered Moonstone," Harry suggested. "Finely ground. And maybe Sopophorous bean extract, very small quantity, to counteract the Hellebore's drowsier effects."

Bellatrix smirked. "You are an idiot after all, Sayre. Sopophorous bean? With Hellebore? That's unconventional. And not to mention, risky. How do you propose to buffer it?"

"It will work if it's introduced at precisely the right temperature, after the Moonstone has fully dissolved," Harry countered, drawing on instinct and half-remembered lessons from Snape's heavily annotated copy of Advanced Potion-Making. "It creates a stabilisation effect."

"And how do you know that, genius?"

"Just trust me, Black."

"No. I will not 'just trust you' and have you cock up this potion and quite possibly an entire NEWT," hissed Bellatrix. "Tell me."

Harry threw up his hands. "I learnt it in Durmstrang, okay?" he lied. "Satisfied?"

"For now. Powdered dragon claw is going to be hard to get a hold of, which is the only problem I can foresee… we could switch it out for griffin claw?"

Harry pulled a face, confused. "Does it make a difference?"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "Burn the bloody witch, Sayre! Yes, it will make a difference! In fact," Bellatrix rifled through her textbook, frowning before jabbing a section of text with her finger and crowing triumph, "Yes! Look! It offers sharper mental acuity than dragon claw, and it's less prone to volatile reactions, especially with Moonstone present."

"If you say that works," said Harry.

"I do and it will," snarked Bellatrix. "We'll need something to boost duration. Ashwinder egg, perhaps? Just the one."

"I think one should do," agreed Harry. "Carefully filtered to remove any residual heat signatures. If I compare it to the Concentration Draught, it should be added during the third counter-clockwise stir phase, just as the potion turns lilac."

For the next hour, they worked. They argued over proportions, debated brewing temperatures, dissected the precise sequence of ingredient additions. It was a strange dynamic, a constant back-and-forth of suggestions, counter-suggestions, arguments, and reluctant compromises. Bellatrix's theoretical knowledge was vast, drawing on obscure texts and, Harry suspected, restricted Black family grimoires. Harry, drawing on his practical experience and his future knowledge of what worked and what disastrously didn't, countered with safer, more stable alternatives.

They argued about brewing temperatures, stirring techniques, the precise order of ingredient additions. It was strangely invigorating. He hated admitting it, but Bellatrix's knowledge was formidable, her intellect razor-sharp. When she wasn't being deliberately obstructive or insulting, she offered insights that genuinely improved their theories. They pushed each other, challenged each other, their competitive spirits forcing them to refine their ideas, to strive for perfection. He saw flashes of brilliance in her suggestions. He also saw her frustration when he pointed out flaws in her complex theories, a frustration that manifested as a tightening of her jaw, her hand clenching, a glare that could freeze firewhisky. Yet, she listened.

He glanced around the dungeon. Vince, working sullenly with Wilkes, occasionally caught Harry's eye and offered a sympathetic grimace, clearly wondering how Harry was surviving being partnered with Bellatrix.

By the end of the lesson when Slughorn called time, the simmering hostility between Harry and Bellatrix hadn't dissipated, but it had been overlaid with a thin veneer of grudging respect. They hadn't finalised the recipe, far from it, but they had a solid framework for a potentially groundbreaking Focus Potion.

"The framework is adequate," said Bellatrix. "But stabilisation matrix for the Murtlap-Hellebore interaction needs refinement. I'll do some research." She began packing her supplies with swift, precise movements.

"This could actually work," Harry admitted, looking over their combined, ink-stained notes, surprised by the progress they had made.

Bellatrix offered a curt nod, her expression unreadable, though he thought he detected a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. "It will work, Sayre," she said firmly. "Failure is not an option. Not for me. We'll meet in the library tomorrow evening after dinner. Seven o'clock. Don't be late."

Before Harry could respond, she swept away, leaving him standing by the cauldron with the remnants of their collaboration spread across the workbench. He watched her go, a strange mix of relief and apprehension swirling within him. Working with Bellatrix Black was going to be challenging. But maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be the complete disaster he had anticipated. Harry sighed, gathered his own belongings and left the classroom as well.

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A/N: Thank you for reading. Please feel free to leave a review.