The room was in shambles — not from chaos, but transition. Stacks of parchment towered on the desk, sealed files were vanishing into enchanted crates, and house-elves in faded Ministry livery darted from shelf to shelf like well-trained rodents, stripping the office bare with surgical efficiency.
Behind the desk stood Barty Crouch, sleeves rolled up, wand sheathed, a battered case of personal effects open at his feet.
"Valemont," he said. "Close the door."
Harry obeyed.
Barty yanked a folder from the mess and tossed it onto the desk between them. "That's your exam. Scored it myself. You passed."
Harry flipped the folder open. A perfect "O" — encircled in black ink, unambiguous.
He raised an eyebrow. "I thought professors weren't allowed to release exam scores before they were owl'd officially."
Barty snorted. "I'm not a professor. Not anymore. And even if I were — what are they going to do? Fire me again?" His mouth twisted into something between a grin and a sneer. "I've got a week left in this office and half a mind to piss in the kettle just to see the look on Slughorn's face."
Harry smiled, careful and neutral. "Well… thank you for the early feedback, Professor."
Crouch nodded once, then began sorting through a drawer of metal-plated identity tokens. "The Ministry will be watching your progress, Mr. Valemont. Closely. Your conduct this year has drawn interest in certain departments."
"I'm flattered," Harry said coolly. "Though I imagine that could mean several things."
"It does," Crouch said bluntly. "And some of them contradictory."
He snapped the briefcase shut with a sharp click, and looked at Harry once more.
"Don't waste your potential."
Harry inclined his head. "I don't intend to."
There was a long pause.
Then, Barty leaned forward, tapping his knuckles against the desk. "I wanted to ask you something. Not as an Auror. Not even as a professor."
Harry tilted his head. "Am I under investigation?"
"No," Crouch replied. "You've answered enough questions already. I'm just... curious."
Harry said nothing.
Crouch continued. "The dementor attack. There's been so much censorship around it, I can't get a clear picture. Internal memos vanished. Witness logs scrubbed. Even most of the students are barred from speaking about it publicly."
A dark look passed over Harry's face.
"I've noticed," he said. "And I think it's disgraceful."
Crouch arched a brow.
Harry pressed on. "Parents of the Muggleborns weren't properly informed. They were bribed. Subtly, of course. Promises of safety, stipends. The Ministry didn't want outrage—they wanted silence. And they got it."
Crouch didn't interrupt.
"And worse," Harry continued, "the students who survived it—saw it—can't even speak about it without risking disciplinary action. How is that just?"
"It isn't," Crouch said quietly. "But the truth? Mass panic is worse. The public would revolt if they knew the Ministry had lost control of Azkaban's leash."
Harry's voice sharpened. "Then maybe it's time someone admitted that the Ministry never had control to begin with. And if they're this helpless, maybe it's time they studied that leash. Founded a proper research initiative. Started asking hard questions."
Crouch regarded him carefully, then nodded once. "Fair point."
Another pause.
And then Harry said it—absently, too quickly.
"Of course, the Unspeakables wouldn't allow that."
Crouch stilled.
His eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in something colder. Calculating.
"How do you know about them?"
Harry shrugged with practiced ease. "They're the only division in the Ministry not subject to legal oversight, public records, or budget review. Any curious teenager could put that together. It's not a secret. Just an omission."
Crouch exhaled. Then, almost reluctantly, a grin ghosted across his face. "You're good."
Harry said nothing.
Barty swirled his Firewhisky, eyes distant.
"They're worse than goblins, those bastards," he muttered. "Shadowy deep state freaks. Slither in, slither out, whisper into the Minister's ear and vanish like smoke. I've spent forty years watching them move like ghosts behind locked doors."
He drained his glass.
Harry waited a moment, then tilted his head slightly. "Why are you leaving?"
Crouch didn't answer right away. He tapped the rim of his glass once, then snorted. "A pureblood brat got uppity. Apparently, I 'struck' his precious heir one too many times. Boy had been torturing magical creatures for fun. Left a kneazle nailed to a barn wall."
Harry shook his head. "No no… That still doesn't explain why you're leaving this job. The Defense post."
Crouch gave a dismissive shrug. "I've no patience for children. First and second years—infants in robes. I was here for the upper years. Sixth and seventh. The ones who might live long enough to need the spells."
"And Dumbledore?"
Another scoff. "The acting headmaster? He says my methods are 'too extreme.' That I scare the younger students. As if fear isn't educational."
He stood and began sealing one of the Ministry crates with a flick of his wand. "They won't let me teach upper years exclusively. And if I can't train the ones who matter, what's the bloody point?"
"My condolences," Harry said.
Crouch snorted, "For whatever its worth, atleast the food's glorious here."
Harry laughed.
"Yes. The one thing this miserable post has going for it. Roast lamb on Wednesdays. I'll miss that most of all." Crouch continued.
"It's odd, though," he mused, almost absently. "About the Defense post."
Harry's head tilted ever so slightly. "What do you mean?"
Crouch leaned back against the desk again, arms folded. "Ever since Dumbledore started running things behind Dippet's back—ten, eleven years ago—no one's lasted in the job. Not one year. They burn out, quit, get shuffled off. I am the latest one."
Something cold unspooled in Harry's gut.
Crouch went on, oblivious. "Hells, some of the boys in my old department think the position's cursed."
The words hit like a hammer.
The air around Harry tightened—his pulse spiked, and his mouth went dry.
A jinx.
On the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.
In his timeline, that had been Voldemort's curse. A retaliatory enchantment when Dumbledore refused him the post. It had allegedly used one of his Horcruxes as a focal point—the only way such a durable, adaptive curse could last through staff changes, structural shifts, and even multiple headmasters.
And if that jinx already exists in this timeline—
Harry's mind was racing. His breathing shallow. There's a Horcrux in Hogwarts. Now. Now. Now.
Crouch chuckled again. "Maybe someone cursed the chair, eh?" he muttered. "Ah well."
Harry stood abruptly, hands twitching.
"I… need to be somewhere."
Crouch blinked. "You alright?"
"Yes," Harry said with too much calm. "Thank you, Professor."
He left without another word.
The Hunt Is On
Boots pounding over ancient stone, his breath coming in ragged gasps, robes trailing behind him like the tattered ends of a nightmare.
He rounded the final corner, skidding to a stop across from the stretch of wall he knew too well.
Where is it. Come on. Come on.
He turned. Walked once.
I need to see the place I saw in my timeline—the place where he hid it.
Twice.
I need the Room of Hidden Things. The Horcrux vault. The lost and discarded.
Three times.
The wall shimmered. Folded inward.
A door appeared.
Harry wrenched it open and stepped inside.
And there it was.
A mountain.
A grotesque, towering graveyard of forgotten detritus—broken furniture, banned books, stained cauldrons, cursed tapestries, cages that still rattled with old memories. The stench of ancient dust and long-buried secrets filled his lungs.
He stared at it.
Then drew his wand.
"Bombarda."
The front wall of junk exploded outward, crashing into a splintered piano and showering the floor with debris.
"Depulso!" he roared, sending half a wardrobe rocketing into the ceiling.
He charged forward, carving a path through it all. Blasting. Banishing. Tearing.
He overturned desks, shredded crates, slashed through cobweb-covered cloaks that burst into ash. He climbed over heaps of rusted armor, pushed aside crates of moldy parchment, screaming spells between ragged breaths.
Where is it? WHERE IS IT?
He fell to his knees, cast his wand in every direction. Probing charms. Revealing hexes. Detect-enchantment fields.
Nothing.
Nothing.
It should be here. The diadem. The cursed tiara. Riddle's trophy. His piece.
Harry tore through another stack of junk, hands bleeding now. He ripped open a trunk filled with rotting wigs, shoved aside a shattered mirror, clawed at the stone underfoot like he could will it to be there.
But it wasn't.
It wasn't.
It wasn't.
And finally—
He stopped.
Breathing hard.
Hands shaking.
He collapsed to the floor, dust swirling around him.
And for the first time in years, he wept.
Shoulders shaking, face pressed to the cold floor, the echo of his sobs swallowed by the mountain of things no one wanted. No one remembered.
He had remembered.
He had come.
And it still wasn't enough.
.
..
It wasn't here.
The Room was wrong. Or the timeline was wrong. Or he was wrong.
In the darkness, memories came uninvited.
Ron's grin when he held the sword.
Hermione's shaking hand on his arm when it shattered.
The look on her face when the ground gave way in that collapsed church north of Dover.
Bones. Always bones.
And Dumbledore—dying alone, sipping something green and screaming for forgiveness from gods Harry had never known.
"We chased shadows," he whispered. "And they bled us for it."
He thought of the locket that shattered Gryffindor's sword. The ring that was a fake. The altar that held only cursed ash. The cursed vaults. The lies. The price paid in names and blood for every false lead.
And he thought of now. Of this time.
He had time. And he had nothing.
No Horcrux. No leads. No idea where to even start. Dumbledore, in all his infinite, maddening wisdom, had chosen riddles over guidance, whispers over plans. Dark magic leaves traces, Harry. You must trust yourself, Harry. It is a journey of understanding.
It was a bloody war, Harry thought bitterly. Not a coming-of-age novel.
And still, Dumbledore had left it up to him. Had hoped he'd figure it out while running from werewolves and watching his friends die.
"No," Harry muttered, standing abruptly. "Not again. Not this time."
He paced in a wide arc, fury simmering under his skin.
He wasn't alone this time. Not anymore.
He had Tonks, brilliant and terrifying in equal measure. He had Marlene and Dorcas, resourceful and unhinged. James Potter of all people was on his side now. Crouch was gone, but Hogwarts was still open. He had time.
OWL month was over.
Summer was coming. And with it, a deadline.
He couldn't waste another season hunting myths alone. Not when something could be here already. Not when the curse on the DADA post had already begun.
Harry looked around the ruined Room, exhaled through clenched teeth.
"No more running blind."
He turned and stalked toward the exit.
It was time to build a team.
Time to find the truth.
Before the castle was emptied for summer.
Before whatever was hiding inside Hogwarts found them first.
And this time, he'd be ready.
The Tiger Stalks Its Prey
The Room had changed again.
Gone were the endless towers of discarded things, the cluttered chaos of forgotten relics. Tonight, it was sparse—stone walls dimly lit by floating orbs of soft gold, a single table between two chairs, all carved from the Room's will and Harry's design. It looked like a war council stripped of pomp, reduced to quiet resolve and shadowed urgency.
Narcissa Black sat across from him
"You better have a damned good reason for dragging me back here," she said flatly, "after the month we've had."
Harry didn't blink.
"It's time to return to practical matters," he said coldly. "Not glitterbombs, not impersonations, not OWLs. I'm talking about what actually matters."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Killing a Dark Lord."
Her gaze sharpened.
Harry's mouth twitched in something bitter—half a smirk, half an accusation. "You remember him, don't you? From my memories? Voldemort. The snake-eyed fanatic. He was in your house often enough."
Narcissa exhaled slowly, not rising to the bait. She reached into her satchel, the leather creaking, and drew out a deep green bottle of something unmistakably expensive.
She said nothing as she summoned two glasses from the air with a flick of her wand, filled both with a steady pour, and pushed one across the table to Harry.
Only then did she speak.
"Tell me everything."
.
..
For every secret spilled, the Room conjured another glass and Narcissa pulled out another bottle. A ritual of unspoken understanding. Neither of them spoke of the magic, but they both noticed. Every time the past got darker, the wine got heavier.
The first bottle was emptied by the time Harry had explained the basics—what a Horcrux was, and what it meant. That Voldemort had torn his soul into pieces. That he had hidden those pieces across Britain like some deranged god preparing for resurrection.
Narcissa, to her credit, said nothing for a long while. Just sipped and listened, her sharp eyes unreadable.
"The diary," Harry said, voice low, fingers tracing the rim of his third glass. "It was one. It possessed Ginny Weasley when she was eleven. Used her to open the Chamber of Secrets."
Narcissa's brow arched. "The real Chamber? The one the Pureblood Cartel throws around like an in-joke during solstice galas?"
"It's real," Harry said flatly. "There's a basilisk in it. I killed it."
She studied him for a long moment. "You're full of surprises, Valemont."
The Room quietly set another bottle on the table.
He didn't mention Lucius. Not once. Not the man's pale hand placing the diary in Ginny's cauldron. Not the way Narcissa's future husband had nearly ushered in Voldemort's resurrection through sheer aristocratic negligence. That piece, he kept buried.
Instead, he moved to Slughorn.
"Horace knew about the Horcruxes. He told Tom Riddle how the magic might work. Years before."
Narcissa grimaced. "That senile lecher."
"He was sharp when he wanted to be," Harry muttered. "But terrified. Riddle cornered him as a student, asked if it was possible to split the soul more than once. He didn't just make two, Narcissa. He made seven."
The glass she held froze halfway to her lips.
"He fractured himself six times—willingly."
Another bottle appeared. Neither of them touched it.
Narcissa set her glass down, slowly. "You realize what kind of magic that requires?"
"I lived it," Harry said quietly.
She stared at him. There was no mockery now. No distance. Only a growing, sober awareness.
"How many have you found?"
He hesitated. "None. Not in this timeline. I had a lead in the Room of Hidden Things. It turned up empty."
"Which means?"
"Which means… either the timeline diverged sooner than I thought, or he's hidden them in new places. Maybe better ones."
The wine sat untouched now.
Narcissa leaned back. "You think there's one in Hogwarts."
"I think there's a curse on the Defense post already. Just like before. Which means something of his is still here."
.
..
Narcissa reached into her enchanted satchel and retrieved another bottle—sleek, dark-glassed, no label.
She uncorked it without a word. Poured into both glasses, her movements deliberate, sovereign. Not generous. Not performative. Simply inevitable.
Harry raised an eyebrow as he accepted the glass.
Narcissa caught the look and arched one back. "Don't flatter yourself. I don't share wine. I allocate it."
Harry gave a faint, tired chuckle. The wine was rich, older than either of them, and absurdly smooth. Still, the world had begun to tilt. Not unsteadily—just enough to make every syllable taste heavier.
They drank in silence for a moment longer.
Then Harry said, tone neutral, "Tonks did mention your… extracurricular habits."
He gestured subtly toward the bottle.
Narcissa didn't even flinch. "She would. Her own 'habits' are loud, chaotic, and generally leave scorch marks."
"She's not wrong, though," Harry said bluntly. "You have an alcohol problem."
Narcissa's gaze snapped to his, cold and sharp even through the haze. Her voice was soft. Dangerous.
"I suggest you tread carefully, Valemont. If we're passing judgment on coping mechanisms, I might feel compelled to dig into yours."
Harry said nothing, though his fingers tightened slightly on the stem of his glass.
She continued, tone silk-wrapped iron. "Unless you'd like to swap roles, of course. You're welcome to replace me in the Black family for a year. See how long your spine holds up under the weight of legacy."
Harry exhaled slowly through his nose.
"No," he murmured. "You win."
Narcissa smirked, drained her glass, and poured again.
"I usually do."
.
..
"I don't disagree with your premise," she said at last, voice cool and even. "If there's a Horcrux inside this castle, we need to find it. Before Dumbledore fobs it off as some metaphysical stain left by ancient House Elf warfare."
Harry raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt.
"But," Narcissa continued, "you and I both know the consequences of acting too soon. We can't go tearing Hogwarts upside down like drunken curse-breakers. Not unless we're sure."
Harry exhaled slowly, nodding. "I know."
She tapped one nail against the side of her glass. "If your memory is accurate—and I have no reason to think it isn't—the inflection point wasn't the murders. It wasn't the diary. It was Slughorn. Telling a young Dark Lord how the magic works."
Harry leaned forward slightly. "We find out if he did it again."
"Exactly," Narcissa said. "Same man, same weakness: flattery. It's entirely possible someone else asked the right question in this timeline. Perhaps a different name, a different face."
Harry considered. "We'll start with him. Subtly."
Then he hesitated. "There's something else. A book."
Narcissa's eyes flicked up.
"Magick Most Evile." Harry said.
That earned a dry laugh. "That abomination? It's cited in half the Unforgivable experiments and all of the pureblood coming-of-age ceremonies. Half the Dark families treat it like gospel. The other half treat it like a manual. Assuming of course if the real copies of it could be found. 9/10s of them are all fake."
"I know," Harry said. "That's what worries me."
Narcissa's brow furrowed. "Explain."
Harry swirled the remnants of his wine, watching the red cling to the glass. "I don't doubt the book itself. But the one in the Hogwarts library—the one Tom Riddle supposedly found? What if it's a fake? A plant? Something he left behind deliberately, to mislead the next poor fool who tried to follow his path or track him down."
Narcissa tilted her head. "You think he forged his own legend."
"I think he booby-trapped it." Harry said. "In my timeline, every serious attempt to destroy a Horcrux—except one—failed. Cursed, misdirected, obliterated the spell but left the soul untouched. That kind of failure doesn't happen by accident."
She leaned back in her chair, expression unreadable. "So you think Riddle seeded misinformation about Horcruxes to protect the real method."
"I think if he wanted to ensure his immortality, he wouldn't stop at hiding the pieces. He'd hide the truth itself."
Narcissa reached for the bottle, tilted it to check its weight, then set it down. "Then we start there. With Slughorn. And the book."
Harry nodded. "Tomorrow."
She smirked faintly. "Assuming we don't wake up hungover and hexing each other."
He smiled back, tight and grim. "That would be a very short alliance."
"Then let's make it count," she said.
.
..
The door clicked shut behind them with the finality of a prison cell, and the two of them—Harry and Narcissa—stood in silence for a full three seconds.
Then, in perfect synchronicity, both groaned.
Narcissa pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, "I need scalding water. And a bath. Preferably one that boils the first three layers of skin off. He looked at me like I was a lollypop."
Harry leaned against the wall and exhaled hard. "He spent fifteen minutes describing his private collection of unicorn marrow and then asked if I'd ever considered writing a memoir. I'd like to rip my tongue out for even pretending to laugh."
Narcissa turned to him with narrowed eyes. "You laughed?"
"I had to," Harry said flatly. "He was telling a story about being lost in the Forbidden Forest and taming a manticore with raspberry tarts."
She blinked. "That was your survival tactic?"
"Do not judge me," Harry said, raising a finger. "You complimented his mustache."
"I said it had character," Narcissa hissed, as if that made it better.
There was a long beat of silence, filled only by the echoing sound of a painting weeping from having overheard Slughorn's last anecdote about Fudge's nose hairs.
Finally, Harry said it.
"We can't do this."
Narcissa looked relieved. "No. We can't."
They turned toward each other, exhausted and vaguely traumatized.
"I thought I could flatter him," Harry said. "Charm him. Work the old Gryffindor-saves-the-world angle. But after twenty minutes I started contemplating my own death as a mercy."
"I thought I could weaponize my lineage," Narcissa said. "Mentioned the Black family twice, even dropped the words 'ancestral enchantment'—and he just leaned forward and asked if I'd like to 'look at his collection of rarely published celebratory ballads.'"
They stared into the abyss for a moment together.
Then Harry sighed. "Slughorn isn't the problem."
Narcissa folded her arms. "He's a symptom."
"Of Hogwarts."
"Of everything," she muttered. "A bloated, grinning relic floating atop a school filled with ghosts, trauma, and bureaucratic indulgence."
Harry smirked faintly. "Well. We agree on that, at least."
She gestured down the corridor. "Come on, Valemont. Let's go cleanse our souls. And plot."
"Plotting sounds excellent. So excellent, I took the liberties of volunteering you for my next bit involving Slughorn," Harry said.
Narcissa stopped mid-step. "What. Did. You. Do."
Harry only grinned, far too pleased with himself, and opened the door to the unused Prefects' Study Room.
Inside, sitting stiffly on an old velvet chair, was a girl with curled blonde hair, peacock-feather earrings, and enough jewelry to bankrupt a goblin family. Her eyes were ringed with kohl and fury.
Narcissa recoiled slightly. "Who—or rather what—is that?"
Harry stepped aside with courtly flair. "Lady Black, may I present the future bane of the British press… Miss Rita Skeeter."
Rita's lips curled. "Shove it, Valemont," she snapped. "Shove it sideways and with a wand on fire."
Narcissa blinked. "Charming."
Harry crossed his arms, unbothered. "You'll have to forgive her. She's a little tense. See, Dumbledore might have placed me on disciplinary probation. No clubs, no dueling teams, no dark arts debating society. Tragic, really."
He smiled wider. "But he never said I couldn't create a club. Only that I can't run one."
Narcissa's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Go on."
"I founded Hogwarts' first official underground student newspaper," Harry said grandly. "And dear Rita here has just volunteered to be our lead columnist."
Rita all but shrieked. "He blackmailed me! Threatened to have me thrown in Azkaban!"
"I never said Azkaban," Harry replied mildly. "I said a holding cell. Briefly. For minor violations of the Animagus Registration Act. A mere fine at best."
Rita glared daggers. "He's making me work for free!"
Narcissa's brow lifted. "Is that so?"
"Oh yes," Harry said, smiling innocently. "Because young Miss Skeeter here has just achieved a rather impressive magical feat. She's become an Animagus."
He let the silence hang for a beat.
Then: "A moth."
Narcissa turned slowly to Rita. "A moth?"
"A very sharp moth," Rita spat, cheeks coloring.
Narcissa blinked, then turned back to Harry.
"Your schemes are getting sloppier."
She cast a glance at Rita, who was now furiously polishing one of her ridiculous rings with the edge of her sleeve.
"The Ministry will release her in under a week," Narcissa added. "They won't press charges on a registration delay unless it's political."
Harry's grin widened. "Oh, they might reconsider… if they knew where young Miss Skeeter here has been sneaking in that illegal Animagus form of hers."
Rita went rigid in her chair.
Harry began counting on his fingers. "The teacher's lounge. The broom cupboards—"
Rita's face turned crimson. "That was research—!"
"Where couples were snogging," Harry continued, unbothered. "The Quidditch showers—"
"That was a dare!" she cried. "I didn't see anything—!"
"—and, most recently, a little winged fly-by into the exam chamber before the OWLs were printed."
Narcissa's head tilted, eyes suddenly sharp. The room shifted.
Harry watched her absorb it, saw the glint in her eye as she finally understood.
"Misuse of an Animagus form," she said softly. "Especially one unregistered, and used for espionage, stalking, and academic theft—that's a felony. At least five violations stacked."
Harry leaned back smugly. "A felony which, as a Hogwarts prefect, you—Lady Black—have every right to report."
Rita looked between them, panicked. "You wouldn't—"
Narcissa turned to her with a cruelly elegant smile. "Oh, I very much would."
Harry, entirely unmoved, gave her a sympathetic shrug. "Rita, we're doing you a favor. Consider this… vocational guidance."
"Please," she hissed. "I'll do anything. I'll write what you want, I'll smear who you want, I'll even pretend Tonks is fashionable—just don't let them take my wings!"
Narcissa reclined slightly, resting one gloved hand beneath her chin. "Mm. Begging suits you better than peacocking."
Harry leaned in, voice quiet but firm. "Then listen carefully, Skeeter. You're going to spend the summer—and the remainder of your time here at Hogwarts—doing what you do best."
Rita blinked, hopeful. "Writing?"
"No," Harry said, deadpan. "Stalking."
Rita froze.
"I want everything," he continued. "Every overheard whisper. Every improperly signed receipt. Every corked potion bottle and suspiciously expensive cigar. You're going to follow Horace Slughorn like a moth to flame—no pun intended—and get me everything even mildly incriminating."
Rita's eye twitched. "That man bathes in perfume and shame."
"Then you'll write it down. Every drop."
Narcissa stood smoothly. "And if you don't?"
Harry smiled, slow and cold. "Then we stop protecting you."
Rita swallowed. "Right," she said weakly. "Operation… Horace."
"Don't give it a name," Narcissa snapped. "It makes it sound like a children's book."
Rita nodded furiously, already fishing out a quill. "Noted."
Harry opened the door with a courteous bow. "Happy hunting, Skeeter."
She scurried past them like a winded beetle.
Once the door closed, Narcissa glanced sideways. "You're terrifying when you're efficient."
Harry just smiled. "We've all got our talents."