Chapter Text
(Somewhere Between Smoke and Secrets)
Draco Malfoy had never felt so abandoned.
The World Cup celebrations had been all light and noise, banners snapping in the wind, but now the air tasted like copper and ash. He stood in the dim edge of the clearing that led towards an embankment. They had found him, as if attracted towards the guilt and desperation.
The first scream reached him like a warning bell.
Hermione swallowed. “There’s still people out there—”
Draco turned away, voice flat. “Go on then. Save them. Be brilliant. Just don’t pretend you’re not playing the same game.”
What finally broke him, he thought as she finally turned at Harry’s shout, was seeing Hermione Granger—someone he once mocked for her blood—being admired by Viktor Krum in front of the entire wizarding world. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
The rest—the accusations, the anger—was projection. He didn’t really hate them.
He just didn’t know how to keep standing while everything he understood was upended. He stood still as they left. And no one even looked back.
Then came the second scream—closer.
The air shifted. Lanterns toppled. Someone shouted in Bulgarian, another in French, and then a hot crack of spellfire split the sky. He stumbled backward, his hand hovering near his wand.
Figures in black cloaks emerged from between the tents, their masks glinting in the erratic firelight. One of them turned its head toward him. Draco froze, throat dry.
Then the figure inclined its head—acknowledgment, recognition. They knew his name.
The rioters swept past him, their boots churning dirt and trampled grass, sparks rising behind them. They didn’t touch him. Didn’t even slow.
He followed.
Through the chaos, the noise shifted: roars from drunk wizards had turned to something sharper, something real . Spells whined and cracked. A wagon ignited in emerald fire. Draco’s stomach twisted, but he kept moving, following the cloaked backs deeper into the fringe of the camp.
Then—
The rioters stopped abruptly, some faltering mid-step. A dozen cloaked figures faced something unseen in the shadows between the trees.
A voice cut through the smoke. Cold, measured, female: “You go no further.”
Draco slipped behind an overturned cart and peered out.
A woman in deep indigo robes stood with her wand drawn, backlit by the faint silver light of a protective ward. Lady Bones. He recognized her voice from Ministry functions, from his father’s grumbling stories, from her wedding .
Beside her, Augusta Longbottom strode into view, bearing no wand but radiating a terrifying authority. Her presence alone seemed to force the masked figures to hesitate.
And flanking them—two more adults in dark cloaks. Draco squinted through the smoke and almost choked.
Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.
The masked rioters hesitated. Their bravado faltered. Spellfire hissed across the dirt as the first curse arced—green and sharp—toward Amelia Bones.
She batted it aside with a snarl. “Aurors, now! ”
From the shadows, half a dozen Ministry wizards erupted, wards flaring around them in tight formation.
The battle ignited.
Draco couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.
Spells tore the night into jagged light—streaks of green, gold, and violet. A tent erupted into splinters. Smoke rolled across the clearing. The rioters weren’t laughing now; some broke formation, running, while two fell hard to the dirt, wands kicked aside by precise jinxes.
One of the fallen masks tilted, and Draco saw a sliver of pale cheek, young and sweaty. Not his father. Someone else’s son.
Draco swallowed hard, frozen in the crook of the overturned cart. His wand shook slightly in his hand. A crunch of leaves behind him made him whirl, heart in his throat—
“Draco! ” Harry Potter’s face appeared through the smoke, Neville right behind him, both crouching low. Harry’s eyes were wide, darting between the chaos and Draco. “ What are you doing out here? ”
“I—” Draco’s voice cracked. “I wasn’t… I just— ”
Neville grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down just as a jinx sizzled overhead. They huddled behind the cart together, three boys pressed into the mud while the night exploded around them.
Then Harry went still. His gaze cut through the smoke toward the duel in the clearing. “Draco,” he said quietly, “your father’s here.”
Draco stiffened. His head whipped toward the fight, pulse roaring in his ears.
And there—masked but unmistakable in his height, his stance, the cut of his dueling posture—Lucius Malfoy. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t striding forward like the others. He wasn’t chasing fleeing Muggles or hurling curses at tents. He was holding the line. Spells from other rioters arced past him, and his wand moved with precise elegance—not to strike but to deflect. Shielding, not killing. Twice, he turned his wand to block jinxes that would have hit other masked wizards in the back.
“He’s… ” Neville whispered. “… He’s not attacking them. He’s protecting his own. ”
“And the leaders know it,” Harry muttered. His eyes flicked to Amelia Bones, Augusta Longbottom, Sirius, and Remus. They were all facing the rioters, holding formation—but not one of them angled a spell toward Lucius.
For a breath, it felt like the world had gone silent except for the clash of sparks and the thud of distant boots. Then Harry grabbed Draco’s wrist. “Come on. We’re leaving. ”
Draco hesitated—half in pride, half in disbelief—but the pressure of Harry’s grip and Neville’s urgent nod left no room for argument.
They scrambled from cover, crouching low as they darted toward the tree line. And then—
High above the treeline, something twisted in the sky. A single green bolt soared upward and burst into the shape of a skull with a serpent tongue.
The Dark Mark.
The battle froze.
Riots turned to gasps and screams. Spells sputtered out. Even the masked wizards staggered back. Draco’s lungs seized. He had never seen it in person. Only in books. Only in whispered memory. Harry and Neville yanked him toward the forest edge.
That’s when a small shape stumbled out of the underbrush, muttering in high-pitched panic. An elf—trembling, wide-eyed, clutching a wand almost as long as its arm.
“Master Barty—no, mustn’t see, mustn’t see—! ” it squeaked.
They froze, three boys staring down at the quivering figure.
None of them knew her name. None of them knew what this meant.
But in the distance, the screams had started again, and the Mark bled across the night sky like a wound that would never close. And as the Mark loomed over the camp, the thought that hit him hardest was simple: They didn’t leave me behind. Not all of them.
By the time they reached the edge of the main camp, the world had dissolved into smoke and frantic shouting. The air reeked of burned canvas and ozone; glowing embers drifted like fireflies as the Ministry shouted orders over the panicked crowd.
Draco, Harry, and Neville slipped between abandoned trunks and overturned chairs, their shoes slick with trampled mud. None of them spoke. Behind them, the echo of the battle still clung to their bones. The image of Lucius Malfoy—mask on, wand raised defensively—wouldn’t leave Draco’s mind. His father’s spellwork had been flawless, restrained. Not the cruelty the world expected from a Death Eater’s hand.
And none of the leaders had aimed at him. Not one.
They ducked behind a toppled table as a pair of Aurors sprinted past, dragging a stunned wizard by his collar. In the distance, the Dark Mark loomed—its serpent tongue coiling in a sky too bright for any natural night.
“Do we—” Neville started, then stopped to catch his breath. His face was pale under the dirt and smoke. “Do we tell anyone?”
Harry tilted his head. “About the elf?” He glanced toward the smoke curling over the tents, toward the distant glint of Amelia Bones’ duel-worn robes. He thought of Sirius and Remus somewhere in that mess, of Augusta’s thunderous gaze. “No,” he said finally. “We keep this between us.”
They sank into a silence that was thicker than the smoke.
Somewhere deeper in the camp, the Aurors were corralling wizards for questioning. Orders flew in clipped voices. A baby wailed. And from behind a half-burnt tent, a small voice whispered again, panicked and high-pitched: “ Mustn’t tell… mustn’t tell Master Barty… ”
The elf had fled into the chaos before any of them could move.
Harry rubbed the heel of his hand against his brow. “If the Ministry finds her with that wand—”
“They’ll believe whatever they want,” Draco cut in, sharper than intended.
Neville exhaled slowly. “Then it’s decided. No one hears it from us.”
A distant voice called Harry’s name—familiar, frantic. Aunt Petunia.
The three boys exchanged a single look. Not friendship, not yet. But something bound them all the same. A night of smoke and jagged light, a father’s shadow, and the truth none of them could ever say aloud.
They rose without a word and walked toward the shouts and lanterns, leaving the mud, the elf’s footprints, and the fading Mark behind them.
(Somewhere Between Salt and Soulfire)
The sea was unnaturally still.
No waves lapped the boat’s edges. No gulls cried above. The silence was thick, reverent, the kind that pressed into your chest and whispered that something ancient was watching.
Harry stood at the prow, wind slicing through his damp hair, wand clenched tight. Beside him, Hermione held the leather-bound journal—Flamel’s—its corners worn, its ink salt-stained. She was whispering again. Repeating the Protocol. Just in case.
Sirius paced near the stern, restless, muttering under his breath. “This is mad. There’s nothing here. Just water. We should have seen—”
“It’s not here,” Remus said, voice calm but taut. “It’s beneath. ” His eyes flicked to Harry. “Isn’t it?”
Harry gave a small nod. “I can feel it. Like… like the Map when it wakes. It’s calling.”
Neville stirred beside Ginny. “That’s not comforting, mate.”
“It’s not meant to be,” Amelia Bones said crisply, drawing her Ministry-issued cloak tighter. She had agreed to come against her better judgment. But the coordinates checked out. And more importantly—Dumbledore hadn’t objected. Which meant he knew . “The journal says the entrance is keyed to blood and will.”
“Two things we’re not short on,” Ginny muttered.
Hermione stepped forward, flipping her journal to a marked page. “Phoenix Protocol 17. Line four. ‘When seven walk the sea, the vault shall stir. Three bloods Flame-bound, three truth-seekers, and the one who carries both.’”
Her eyes flicked to Harry. The one who carried both.
He exhaled slowly. Then raised his wand. “Ignis Veritas. Aperio. ”
The air rippled. The sea beneath them began to churn, not violently, but as if something huge and sleeping were turning in its bed. Then—a hiss. A circle of light appeared on the ocean’s surface, pale gold, pulsing. Symbols shimmered within it—ancient runes none of them recognized except Hermione. And she gasped.
“It’s the Veritas Crucible. It’s here .”
Suddenly, the boat began to sink—not downward, but through the light. There was no resistance. Just a soft pull, like falling asleep. And then they were beneath.
The sea fell away. They stood on solid stone in a cavern that hummed with magic so old it hurt to breathe. Columns of salt-white rock stretched to a vaulted ceiling. Suspended in the air were glass orbs, hundreds—memories drifting like starlight. A basin at the center glowed softly. The Veritas Crucible.
But what stopped them all cold was the wall behind it. Scorched across black stone, in runes pulsing faint red:
THE FLAME DOES NOT FORGET WHO TRIED TO STEAL IT.
Below it was a handprint. Human. Burnt into the wall.
Hermione swallowed. “Someone was here.”
Sirius stepped forward, brow furrowed. “That… that’s his signature. Riddle. I saw it once—in a book he wrote at school.”
Remus looked grim. “Then he found it. Or tried to.”
Neville was staring at the Crucible. “Why didn’t he take it?”
Harry stepped up to the basin. Within it, fire danced—but it was silent. Coiled. Waiting. “He couldn’t,” Harry said quietly. “It wasn’t his .”
Hermione moved beside him. “Then maybe it’s ours now.”
The flame flared in the basin—just once. As if in answer.
The sea churned beneath them, but the rock they stood on remained still — too still, as if anchored in something beyond gravity. The coordinates had brought them here: to an obsidian-black outcrop just barely breaking the surface of the waves. Cold wind howled around them, but no tide touched their boots.
The Crucible shimmered in a circle ahead, ancient runes glowing on the ground. Not Flamel's work — older. The kind of magic that judged, not welcomed. And still, one by one, they stepped inside.
Harry stepped first. The moment his foot touched the runes, light snapped shut around him.
He stood in the Forbidden Forest—but not as he remembered it. The trees breathed, and above them loomed the stars of a sky he couldn’t name. From the shadows emerged two figures: one with James Potter’s voice, the other with Lily’s eyes. But they didn’t speak. A mirror formed between them. Harry saw not himself—but all the selves he could have been. Slytherin Harry. Ilvermorny Harry. Head of House Harry. Dead Boy Who Lived. One by one, they stepped forward, until the real Harry — this Harry — whispered, “Enough.” The mirror cracked. The path opened. He walked on.
Hermione expected logic. Instead, she found silence.
A library stretched before her, infinite, but every book had its title scraped off, its language wrong. She ran her fingers over the spines and wept—not because she couldn’t read them, but because she could feel them thinking back. One book floated into her hands. It whispered her name in three tongues—one of which she had never learned. One of which wasn't human. When she opened it, her own handwriting stared back at her. A journal she hadn't written. Yet. And on the last page: “What is known must be protected. But what is hidden must be loved.” Her crucible was trust.
Remus stood in a meadow. Moonless. Wandless. Helpless. But the transformation still came. Bones cracking. Fur bursting from skin. The monster, bare and burning in his veins. Except this time, he didn’t lose himself. He heard Sirius's voice in the distance, and then James’s laugh, and Harry’s name—shouted in anger, whispered in love. He stayed conscious. Felt every muscle. Felt every choice. And then the Crucible offered him a gift: control. It was the first time he howled without fear.
Sirius stepped into a prison. Azkaban. Again. But there were no bars. Just mirrors.Each one showed a different face: Regulus. Bellatrix. His mother. Harry. James. Himself. And behind every face — the choice he didn’t make. One mirror showed a version of him who’d stayed behind. Raised Harry himself. Taught him to ride a broom at five. Held Remus's hand before the full moon. Another showed a Sirius who died at sixteen, choking on the Black name. He smashed each mirror with his fists, bleeding. And then the Crucible asked, “Which one are you ?” He answered.
“The one who’s still choosing. ”
Neville expected shame. He found a battlefield.
No one else stood with him. Just wands, broken and strewn across ash. The sky was red with war. And from the smoke came Tom Riddle—not a boy, not a man. Something else. Neville was terrified. But he did not run. He held his grandmother’s voice in his bones and lifted a sword he had never seen before—silver and old and pulsing. When he swung it, the world cracked in two. And from that wound, a new root began to grow.
The Chamber returned for Ginny. It always did.
But this time, she wasn’t a girl. She wasn’t possessed. She stood in the center of it, Agatha’s voice whispering through her blood. Tom was there. Young. Pale. Charming. Dead. But when he stepped forward, so did another — herself. Older. Wiser. Wearing flame-colored robes and with a snake coiled at her wrist. They merged. Ginny didn’t even blink. And then she said to Tom, “I carried you once. Never again.” The basilisk rose. And she did not run.
Amelia Bones didn’t enter the Crucible. It entered her.
For her, the visions were all paper and ink. Lives reduced to case files. Deaths tabulated. The law speaking louder than the truth. She stood at a desk as parchment bled ink, flowing over her hands. A thousand names she hadn’t saved. The Crucible whispered, “Will you serve what is written —or what is right ?” She set down her wand. Picked up a quill. And rewrote the first name.
Harry Potter.
They emerged one by one, changed.
None of them spoke. Not at first. The sun was setting. The tide was gone.
The Crucible was gone.
But its weight was still in their bones. And in the distance — perhaps miles, perhaps centuries — a phoenix cried once. Then went still.
(Somewhere Between Law and Legacy)
The study at the Bones estate was heavy with the smell of ink and fire. Scrolls lay in ordered chaos across the polished table, a map of the world as only the Circle could see it—bloodlines, accords, ghosts. The room’s single enchanted lantern flickered, throwing long shadows that seemed to lean closer to listen.
Amelia Bones stood at the head of the table, hands braced against the wood. Her robes were still travel-stained from the Crucible, the hem darkened by seawater that wasn’t there anymore.
“Never,” she said finally, voice low and rough, “have I seen the law bend like that.”
Augusta Longbottom inclined her head, her eyes sharp. “The law bends every day, Amelia. It just doesn’t usually speak while it does it.”
Andromeda Tonks leaned back in her chair, arms folded, the Black family rings glinting in the lantern light. “The Crucible didn’t ask for laws. It asked for oaths . And it took them all the same.”
“Even Harry,” Sirius muttered from near the window. His voice was tight, half pride, half worry. “He saw it. He answered it. He’s fourteen.”
Petunia’s hands tightened around her teacup. “Harry’s older than fourteen. He had to be.” Her gaze flicked to Amelia. “What he saw in this world… would’ve broken a lesser man.”
“Or a lesser child,” Remus murmured, quiet as always.
The room fell silent. They had all felt it—the pull of the Crucible. The way it had peeled away their justifications and masks, leaving only what they had sworn to protect, or failed to.
“Then it’s decided,” Amelia said finally, squaring her shoulders. “We accept the ICW’s proposal. The Triwizard Tournament will be hosted at Hogwarts. We need the eyes of the magical world here—not abroad. Let them see the alliances we forge.”
“You mean,” Andromeda said dryly, “let them see Harry Potter stand in the center of it all.”
Sirius bristled, but it was Petunia who answered. “He will. He always was going to. But now… he understands why .”
A quiet knock interrupted them.
The door opened. Harry stood there, face pale but resolute. He’d changed into clean robes, but there was still a stiffness in his movements, a quiet gravity in his green eyes that none of the adults could meet without a twinge of guilt.
“I heard,” he said simply. “About the Tournament.” Sirius opened his mouth, but Harry held up a hand. “They don’t have to convince me anymore. I’ll allow it.”
“Harry—” Remus began.
“We’ll host it,” he said again, firmer this time. “If it’s here, I can watch it. I can… stop it. If it goes wrong.”
“You’re a child,” Andromeda said quietly, though without mockery.
Harry met her gaze and didn’t flinch. “I was a child before the Crucible, too. That didn’t stop it from showing me what it did.”
The room was very still.
Amelia finally nodded. “Then it’s done. Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament.”
Augusta raised her teacup. “And the world will remember this year, one way or another.”
No one cheered. No one smiled.
Because in the back of all their minds was the same unspoken truth: the Crucible had marked them, and whatever game they had agreed to play now, it would not end with a trophy.