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Chapter Text

The ropes bit into Harry's chest and arms, binding him to the cold marble tombstone. His scar burned with a pain that made his vision blur at the edges, and his whole body ached from the fall after the portkey. A few feet away, Cedric Diggory's body lay crumpled in the grass, eyes staring sightless at the darkening sky.

Dead. Cedric was dead.

Harry's mind couldn't quite grasp it. One moment they'd both been reaching for the Triwizard Cup, and the next-

The graveyard spun around him. Ancient headstones jutted from overgrown grass, their inscriptions worn smooth by time. A church loomed in the distance, dark and silent. No one knew where they were. No one was coming to help.

A cold voice spoke from somewhere beyond Harry's line of sight, and his terror crystallized into sharp focus. Peter Pettigrew shuffled into view, his watery eyes fixed on something he carried in his arms. A bundle of dark robes, small and hunched, like a malformed child. It shifted, and Harry caught a glimpse of something that made his stomach turn-raw, glistening skin, barely human. Slits where a nose should be.

The thing in Pettigrew's arms gave an order, and the voice was high and cold and unmistakably Lord Voldemort's.

Pettigrew nearly dropped his burden. His hands were shaking so badly Harry could see it even from several feet away. Sweat gleamed on his forehead despite the cool evening air, and when he moved to set down the bundle beside a large stone cauldron that had appeared in the center of the graveyard, his movements were jerky and graceless.

Something felt wrong.

Harry couldn't identify what exactly-everything felt wrong, he was tied to a tombstone about to watch some kind of dark ritual-but there was a quality to the wrongness that made his skin crawl beyond simple terror. The air itself seemed to press against him, thick and cloying. The shadows between the gravestones appeared too dark, too deep. Even the fire Pettigrew conjured beneath the cauldron flickered strangely, casting light that didn't seem to reach far enough.

Or maybe it was just fear. Maybe everything felt like this when you were about to die.

Pettigrew drew a long knife from his robes, and Harry's breath stopped. The blade caught the firelight as Pettigrew approached the grave Harry was bound to-the tombstone at his back. Harry could just make out the name carved there if he turned his head: Tom Riddle. Pettigrew scraped the knife against the ground, and dust and bone fragments fell into the cauldron with a soft hiss. He was gasping something about bone of the father, his voice high and cracking.

The potion turned a poisonous blue.

Then Pettigrew was turning toward Harry with that knife, and Harry pulled uselessly against the ropes. The blade came closer. For one wild moment Harry thought Pettigrew would stab him, but instead he fumbled with Harry's sleeve, sawing at the fabric with trembling hands. He nearly dropped the knife twice.

Pettigrew raised the knife high over his own outstretched hand, whimpering something about flesh of the servant. The blade came down.

Harry looked away. He heard Pettigrew's scream, heard something heavy splash into the cauldron, heard gasping sobs. When Harry forced himself to look again, Pettigrew was cradling a bloody stump to his chest, his face bone-white. Blood dripped steadily onto the grass, almost black in the firelight.

The potion had turned a burning red.

Pettigrew lurched toward Harry, the knife still clutched in his remaining hand. His eyes were wild and unfocused. He was panting something about blood of the enemy as the blade bit into Harry's arm-too deep, clumsy, and Harry couldn't hold back a gasp of pain. Pettigrew collected blood in a small vial, his hand trembling so badly he nearly spilled it.

A single drop of Harry's blood fell into the cauldron.

The liquid turned, instantly, a blinding white. Sparks flew. The fire went out with a sharp crack, and steam began to rise-thick, black steam that obscured everything. Harry could hear Pettigrew's ragged breathing somewhere in the fog. The thing that had been Voldemort made no sound at all.

The steam rose higher, coiling like serpents. Harry's scar felt like it was splitting his skull in two.

Then, through the steam, a figure rose from the cauldron.

Tall and skeletal thin. Skin pale as bone, stretched tight over a skull-like face. No nose-only slits, like a snake. Eyes red as blood with vertical pupils. The shape of a man, but wrong, all wrong, something that shouldn't exist.

Lord Voldemort had returned.

He stood there, examining his new body with those red eyes. Long white fingers flexed. The lipless mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. He looked down at himself-naked and terrible-and spoke a single word. Pettigrew scrambled forward with black robes, still clutching his bleeding stump, and draped them over Voldemort's shoulders.

When Voldemort demanded his wand, Pettigrow produced it with something like reverence. Voldemort examined it, a long pale thing that seemed to writhe in his grip, and then turned those red eyes on Harry.

The scar pain intensified until Harry thought he might black out. But he couldn't look away.

Voldemort glided closer, his movements unnaturally smooth. When he spoke, his voice was soft and cold. He talked about that night, about Harry's mother's sacrifice, about how they were connected. Harry's throat was too dry to respond. His heart hammered against his ribs hard enough to hurt.

Voldemort circled the tombstone slowly, like a predator examining prey. A long finger traced the air near Harry's forehead without quite touching. Then he stepped back and called for his Death Eaters.

Sharp cracks echoed through the graveyard-Apparition. Within seconds, hooded figures materialized throughout the cemetery, surrounding them in a loose circle. They approached slowly, uncertainly, and when they reached Voldemort they dropped to their knees. One of them-Lucius Malfoy, Harry thought, recognizing the voice-reached out with a trembling hand to touch Voldemort's robes, confirming he was real.

The Death Eaters murmured among themselves, a sound like wind through dead leaves. Voldemort let them, watching with those red eyes, that terrible smile. Then he raised a hand for silence.

He would kill Harry Potter, he announced. Here, in front of them all. He would do what he should have done fourteen years ago. Prove, once and for all, that Harry's survival had been nothing but chance.

Harry's mind went blank with terror. The ropes held him fast against the tombstone. He pulled against them uselessly, panic rising in his chest like water. He was trapped. He was going to die here, tied up like an animal for slaughter, and no one would ever know what happened-

"Let me go!" The words burst out of him, part demand, part desperate plea. His voice cracked. "Let me go!"

Voldemort's wand moved. The ropes fell away instantly.

Harry stumbled forward in shock, barely catching himself before he fell. For a heartbeat there was only confusion-why would Voldemort-

Then Voldemort's mouth stretched into a smile. "Yes," he said, his voice smooth and cold. "A duel. I will prove my superiority in traditional combat. No one will be able to claim I murdered a bound and helpless boy." He looked around at his Death Eaters, red eyes gleaming. "You will all witness that Harry Potter fell in fair combat against the Dark Lord."

Harry stumbled forward, barely catching himself. His legs could hardly hold his weight. His arm throbbed where Pettigrew had cut him. Cedric's body lay just feet away, a constant weight in the corner of his vision.

Pettigrew scurried to retrieve Harry's wand from near Cedric's body and pressed it into Harry's hand. Harry's fingers closed around the familiar wood. It wasn't much, but it was something. Some small chance was better than none.

The Death Eaters formed a wider circle, backing away to give them room. Harry and Voldemort faced each other across several yards of overgrown grass and broken stone.

Voldemort said something about Harry's reputation in Defense Against the Dark Arts. About his Patronus. Then he commanded Harry to bow.

Harry didn't move. He wouldn't. If he was going to die, he'd do it on his feet.

Invisible force slammed into Harry, bending his spine, forcing his head down in a mocking bow. When the pressure released, Harry straightened, glaring. His wand was steady in his hand even though his whole body was shaking.

Voldemort's wand came up.

Green light shot toward Harry. He threw himself sideways behind a tombstone. The killing curse hit the stone with a crack that sent chips of marble flying past his head.

Harry's breath came in gasps. He had to move. Had to think. Had to-

Another curse, and Harry was rolling, running, darting between tombstones. Red light flashed past his ear. Green light exploded a stone angel above him, raining debris. He couldn't keep this up. Voldemort was toying with him, herding him like prey.

Harry spun around a large monument and raised his wand with both hands to steady it.

"Expelliarmus!"

His disarming spell was batted aside. Voldemort's laugh was cold and high, and it made something in Harry's chest go tight with terror.

More curses. Harry blocked one with a conjured shield that shattered immediately. Dodged another. His lungs burned. His legs were shaking. He couldn't win this. He couldn't-

A curse caught Harry in the leg. He went down hard, his chin cracking against stone, rolling through the grass. His wand flew from his hand and he scrambled after it on hands and knees, fingers closing around it just as another curse scorched the ground beside him.

He looked up. Voldemort was standing over him, wand raised. Red eyes gleaming with triumph. The lipless mouth was forming words for the Killing Curse.

Harry couldn't move fast enough. Couldn't dodge. Couldn't-

"Back off!" Harry screamed.

Voldemort took a step backward.

Just one step. His wand lowered slightly, and that terrible smile widened as though he'd meant to do exactly that.

But Harry wasn't thinking about Voldemort's expression. The Triwizard Cup-he could see it, still lying in the grass near Cedric's body. A portkey. A way out. That single step had given him just enough space, just enough time-

Accio! Harry thought desperately, pointing his wand. Accio cup!

The Triwizard Cup flew toward him. Voldemort shouted something and raised his wand again, a jet of red light trying to intercept it, but Harry was already diving forward, reaching-

His fingers closed around Cedric's arm with one hand, the cup's handle with the other.

The familiar jerk behind his navel yanked him away. Away from the graveyard, away from Voldemort's enraged scream, away from the Death Eaters and the tombstones and the terrible wrongness of it all.

Harry slammed into the ground with bruising force. Lights blazed around him-not the dim cemetery twilight, but the bright magical torches of the Quidditch stadium. Noise crashed over him: screaming, shouting, the sound of hundreds of people all talking at once.

He was back at Hogwarts.

Harry lay there for a moment, unable to move, unable to think. Cedric's arm was still clutched in his hand. Cedric's body lay half across him, heavy and still warm and dead.

Hands grabbed him, pulled him up. Dumbledore's face swam into view, ancient and terrible in its intensity. He was asking what happened, where they'd been, and Harry tried to answer but the words came out wrong, jumbled.

"He's back. Voldemort. He's back. Cedric-he killed-"

Dumbledore was commanding people back, calling for Fudge, for Madam Pomfrey. The crowd pressed in anyway, a wall of faces Harry didn't quite recognize. Someone was trying to separate him from Cedric's body, and Harry realized he was still gripping Cedric's robes, couldn't seem to let go.

"Cedric," he heard himself saying. "I tried to-I couldn't-"

Then Madam Pomfrey was there, pressing a goblet to his lips. Harry drank without thinking. The world went soft and gray around the edges, sounds becoming muffled and distant.

His last coherent thought before the dreamless sleep potion pulled him under was a question that made no sense.

Why did he let me go?

But there was no answer, and then there was nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to sunlight streaming through the window of his bedroom at number four, Privet Drive. His scar was throbbing, a dull ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat.

Cedric. He'd been dreaming about Cedric again.

The same dream, or some variation of it. The graveyard. The green flash of light. Cedric falling, his eyes going blank and empty. Sometimes Harry was tied to the tombstone, unable to move, forced to watch. Sometimes he was free but his legs wouldn't work, wouldn't carry him forward fast enough. Sometimes his wand wouldn't respond, the spells dying on his lips.

Always, Cedric died. Always, Harry couldn't stop it.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his scar. The ache was fading now that he was awake, but it left behind a hollowness in his chest that was almost worse. He'd been back at Privet Drive for two weeks, and every night brought the same dreams. Every morning brought the same suffocating silence of the Dursleys' house.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside his door. Harry tensed, listening. Footsteps-heavy, deliberate. Dudley, then, not Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon.

"Having another nightmare, were you?" Dudley's voice came through the door, pitched loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to wake his parents. "Heard you thrashing about. Calling for Cedric again."

Harry said nothing. He'd learned, over the past two weeks, that responding only encouraged Dudley.

"'Cedric, no, please,'" Dudley continued in a mocking falsetto. "'Don't kill him, don't kill him.'" A snort of laughter. "Bit pathetic, really. You talk in your sleep like a five-year-old."

The footsteps retreated down the hall. Harry stared at the closed door, his hands clenched into fists on the sheets. The hollowness in his chest had been replaced by something hot and tight.

He got up and crossed to his desk, where a small pile of letters sat. Three from Ron, two from Hermione, one from Sirius. He'd read them all multiple times, searching for information, for anything useful.

There was nothing.

Can't say much in a letter, Ron had written. Dumbledore's orders. You know how it is. But don't worry, we're keeping busy. Hope you're all right.

Hermione's letters were longer but no more informative. Lots of reassurances that they were thinking of him, that they wished they could tell him more, that he needed to be patient. We're not allowed to say anything important. Please try to understand. We're doing what we can.

They were together. That much was clear from the way they wrote, the casual mentions of "we" and "us." Together somewhere, doing something important, while Harry sat in his bedroom at Privet Drive and dreamed about watching Cedric die.

He'd written back, of course. Asked questions, demanded answers. The responses were always the same: We can't say. Dumbledore's orders. We're sorry.

Harry shoved the letters aside and pulled on his clothes. The house was quiet-the Dursleys would be at breakfast soon, but for now he had a few minutes of peace. He made his way downstairs to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and stood at the window looking out at Privet Drive's perfectly manicured lawns.

Two weeks. Two weeks of isolation and nightmares and vague letters from his friends who were apparently too busy with important secret work to tell him anything. Two weeks of the Dursleys tiptoeing around him like he might explode at any moment, while Dudley found new and creative ways to mock him whenever his parents weren't listening.

Two weeks since Voldemort had returned.

The thought sent a chill through him despite the warm summer morning. Voldemort was out there, somewhere, rebuilding his power. Gathering his Death Eaters. Planning-what? Harry had no idea. No one would tell him.

He drained the glass and set it in the sink, then headed back upstairs before the Dursleys emerged. He had no desire to sit through another silent breakfast where Uncle Vernon glared at him over the newspaper and Aunt Petunia pursed her lips at every sound he made.

Back in his room, Harry lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He was tired-he was always tired these days-but he dreaded falling asleep. Dreaded the dreams.

Except.

Except that wasn't entirely true, was it?

Some of the dreams were different.

It had started a few days after he'd returned to Privet Drive. Most nights, he dreamed about the graveyard, about Cedric, about his own helplessness. But some nights-not every night, but some-the dreams were different.

In those dreams, he wasn't in the graveyard. He was somewhere else, somewhere dark and cold. A manor house, he thought, though he couldn't say how he knew that. And he wasn't Harry Potter, fifteen-year-old wizard who'd barely escaped with his life.

He was powerful.

The first time it happened, Harry had been too confused to understand what he was experiencing. He'd been standing in a large room with stone walls and high windows. Several figures in dark robes knelt before him-Death Eaters, his waking mind would later supply. They were reporting on something, their voices anxious, eager to please.

And Harry had felt-not quite like himself. It was his mind, his thoughts, but filtered through something else. Someone else. Like watching the world through a window that distorted everything slightly.

One of the Death Eaters was stammering through an explanation of some failed task. The details were hazy, unimportant. What mattered was the surge of cold anger that rose in Harry's chest.

Pathetic, he thought.

And then-somehow-the thought expanded. Became words, spoken in a voice that wasn't quite Harry's. You have failed me. Again. Perhaps you require a reminder of the cost of incompetence.

A wand rose. Harry's hand, but not his hand. The Death Eater's eyes went wide with terror.

Crucio.

The curse came without conscious thought from Harry, but also entirely from his conscious thought. He'd wanted the man to hurt, wanted to punish the failure, and suddenly it was happening. The Death Eater writhed on the floor, screaming.

Harry had woken with his heart pounding, his scar aching, and a strange feeling of satisfaction curling in his chest. It had taken him several minutes to shake off the dream, to remind himself that he was Harry Potter, that he was at Privet Drive, that those Death Eaters were somewhere far away.

But the satisfaction had lingered.

The dream had come again two nights later. This time, Harry recognized it immediately-the cold room, the sense of power, the feeling of being himself-but-not-himself.

A Death Eater was reporting-something about outreach to other magical creatures. Giants, he was saying. And werewolves. Powerful allies if they could be recruited to the cause.

Harry felt interest stir. Yes. They're powerful. They're outcasts. They'd have reason to join.

"Continue," the voice said. "The werewolves especially. They have been persecuted by the Ministry for too long. Offer them what they want-recognition, rights, freedom from the restrictions that bind them. And the giants..." A pause. "Send someone capable. Someone who understands strength."

The Death Eater bowed. "Yes, my Lord. I will see to it personally."

No, Harry thought suddenly. He's not right for this. Too smooth. Too obviously a wizard. They won't trust him.

"Actually," the voice continued, "send someone who can speak their language. Who understands what it means to be feared and hated for what you are. Not you, Lucius."

The Death Eater-Malfoy, apparently-stiffened but bowed again. "As you wish, my Lord."

Harry had woken feeling strange. Uncertain. The decisions had felt right in the moment-tactically sound, patient-but now, in the morning light, he wondered where the thoughts had come from. That wasn't how Voldemort operated, was it? Voldemort was all about pure-blood supremacy, not empathy for outcasts.

But it had felt so natural in the dream. So obviously correct.

He shook his head and climbed out of bed. It didn't matter. They were just dreams. Stress dreams, probably, brought on by trauma and isolation. His mind's way of coping with helplessness by inventing scenarios where he had control.

That had to be it.

Another letter arrived from Hermione three days later. More of the same-reassurances, apologies, vague mentions of being busy. Please be patient, Harry. We'll see you soon. Everything will make sense then.

Harry crumpled the letter and threw it across the room. Patient. They wanted him to be patient while Voldemort rebuilt his army and plotted whatever he was plotting. Patient while his friends kept secrets on Dumbledore's orders.

That night, the dream came again.

He was in the cold stone room. More Death Eaters this time-a dozen, maybe more. They were discussing recruitment, how to approach potential allies, which families might be sympathetic.

Lucius Malfoy was speaking. Harry recognized his voice from the graveyard, smooth and cultured. He was proposing a raid on Azkaban, breaking out the imprisoned Death Eaters. "A demonstration of your power, my Lord. Proof that you have returned and that no prison can hold your followers."

Harry felt that familiar irritation. Dramatic. Attention-grabbing. Stupid.

No, he thought.

And then the words came: "Your enthusiasm is noted, Lucius, but misguided. We will not announce ourselves through such obvious methods. Let the Ministry continue to deny my return. Let them feel safe. While they are complacent, we will work. When we finally reveal ourselves, it will be because we already control everything that matters."

Lucius bowed. "Of course, my Lord. Forgive me."

Harry's anger spiked again. Forgive him? He questioned me.

The wand rose, almost on its own. Harry could feel the curse forming, the desire to punish-

No. Wait. Stop.

The thought came sharp and panicked. I don't want this. I don't want to hurt him just for being wrong.

The wand lowered, but slowly, reluctantly. "Do not let it happen again," the voice said, and there was something cold in it that made Harry's stomach turn even in the dream.

Lucius bowed lower and retreated.

When Harry woke, it was still dark outside. His scar was aching-not the sharp pain of the graveyard, but a dull throb that seemed to pulse with his heartbeat. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling...

Disturbed.

The dream had felt good at first-the power, the control, the ability to make decisions. But that moment when the wand had risen, when he'd wanted to hurt Malfoy just for questioning him... that hadn't felt good. That had felt wrong.

Even if it was just a dream.

Harry rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but it took a long time. The satisfaction he'd felt from the earlier dreams was tainted now by the memory of that curse forming, of how easy it had been to want to cause pain.

The pattern continued. Most nights brought nightmares-Cedric falling, green light flashing, Harry's own helplessness-but some nights brought the other dreams. The ones where he was powerful. Where he gave orders and people obeyed. Where he could choose to intervene when someone was about to be punished-or choose not to, and watch as Voldemort's rage played out.

That was the part that disturbed Harry most when he woke. Not that he could stop the punishments-that felt almost heroic, in a twisted way. But that sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he just watched, feeling satisfied, as Death Eaters who'd failed or questioned or simply annoyed him suffered for it.

Even if it was just a dream, it felt wrong to enjoy it.

Dudley continued his mocking. "Heard you last night," he'd say with a smirk. "Talking about someone called Wormtail. Is that another one of your weird friends? And something about crucifying someone? Bit dark, isn't it?"

Ron and Hermione continued their vague letters. We miss you. We wish we could tell you more. Be patient.

And Harry continued to dream.

In one dream, Severus Snape was there. Harry recognized him immediately-the greasy hair, the sallow skin, the sneer that seemed permanently etched into his face. He was reporting on something, his voice that cold, sneering tone Harry had heard in four years of Potions classes. Something about potion ingredients, about supply lines, about resources the Death Eaters would need.

Harry felt a surge of rage so intense it nearly blinded him. Snape. The man who'd made his life miserable since first year, who sneered and mocked and took points from Gryffindor for the crime of existing. Who hated him for no reason Harry had ever understood.

But something felt off about the report. Something in Snape's voice, in the way he was speaking. Like he was holding something back.

Is he lying? Harry thought. I need to know if he's telling the truth.

"Look at me, Severus," the voice commanded.

Snape's head came up, his black eyes meeting-meeting something. Harry couldn't see what, but suddenly there was a pushing sensation, like Harry was reaching toward Snape's mind. Images flickered: a dark classroom, shelves of potion ingredients, numbers and calculations. And underneath it all, something else. Layers of thought, of memory, of-

Snape flinched and the connection broke.

"Your information is adequate," the voice said, cold and flat. "You may go."

Snape bowed stiffly and left.

Harry woke feeling strange. Disturbed. What had that been? It had felt like-like he'd been inside Snape's head somehow. Seeing his thoughts. And the worst part was how natural it had felt in the dream, how right. Like it was something that just happened when he wanted to know if someone was lying.

But pushing into someone's mind like that... that was wrong, wasn't it? Even if it was Snape. Even if it was just a dream.

Harry stared at the ceiling, his scar throbbing. The dreams were getting stranger. More intense. And some part of him was starting to enjoy them in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable.

In another dream, Pettigrew was there again. He was stammering through an explanation of some minor task he'd completed-cleaning, organizing, something menial. His whole body was trembling.

Harry felt contempt more than anger this time. Pathetic. Useless. He's barely worth the effort of cursing.

But then again-someone has to handle the menial work. And better a groveling servant than a competent one who might harbor ambitions.

"Adequate," the voice said dismissively. "Leave."

Pettigrew scrambled from the room, relief evident in every movement.

Three weeks after returning to Privet Drive, Harry received another letter from Ron. More apologies, more reassurances. And one new piece of information: We'll be able to tell you more soon. Maybe even come get you. Can't say when exactly, but it won't be too much longer.

Harry set the letter aside and lay back on his bed. Won't be too much longer. That could mean anything. Another week? Another month? The rest of the summer?

He closed his eyes, feeling the familiar weight of exhaustion settle over him. Maybe tonight he'd dream about Cedric again, about his own helplessness in the graveyard. Or maybe-and this was what he found himself hoping for, even as part of him recoiled from the hope-maybe tonight he'd dream of the cold stone room.

The dreams where he could make choices. Where he could decide who deserved punishment and who deserved mercy. Where his anger could find an outlet without hurting anyone real.

Because they were just dreams. Just satisfying fantasies his mind created to help him cope with helplessness.

Weren't they?

Harry's breathing slowed. His scar gave one last pulse of dull pain, then faded to a barely-noticeable ache.

He drifted off to sleep, and dreamed of power.

Chapter Text

The dreams came more frequently as June turned to July.

Harry had stopped counting the days since his return to Privet Drive-it only made the isolation feel worse. But he'd started noticing patterns in the dreams. The nightmares about Cedric still came most nights, leaving him gasping and sick with grief. But the other dreams, the ones in the cold stone room, those were coming more often now. Every third night, maybe. Sometimes more.

And Harry had started-not quite looking forward to them, but not dreading them either.

It happened gradually, so gradually he almost didn't notice. He'd go to bed tense and anxious, afraid of what he might dream, what he might feel, what dark satisfaction might curl in his chest when he woke. But then he'd have three nights of Cedric nightmares in a row, and by the fourth night he'd find himself almost hoping for the other dream. The one where he had some measure of control. Where his feelings mattered.

Even if that control was twisted. Even if those feelings led to terrible things.

By the third week of July, Harry had started taking afternoon naps.

"You're sleeping an awful lot," Aunt Petunia said one day, her thin lips pursed with disapproval as she found him coming downstairs at nearly four in the afternoon. "Are you ill?"

"Just tired," Harry mumbled, heading for the kitchen.

"Teenagers," she muttered, but she didn't press further. The Dursleys had been walking on eggshells around him since his return, clearly afraid of triggering another "outburst" like the ones he'd had in previous summers. They didn't know that this summer, Harry had found a different outlet for his anger.

Dudley, predictably, was less cautious. "Having good dreams now?" he asked with a smirk that evening, catching Harry in the hallway. "Not crying about Cedric anymore. What changed?"

Harry pushed past him without answering, but the question stuck with him. What had changed?

He'd stopped crying out in his sleep-Dudley was right about that. The Cedric nightmares still came, but they'd become almost routine. Familiar. The sharp edge of grief had dulled into a constant, manageable ache.

And the other dreams-those had become something else entirely.

The afternoon naps didn't always bring the dreams. Most of the time, Harry just dozed fitfully, caught in formless half-sleep that left him groggy and disoriented. But sometimes, as the summer heat made the air in his small room thick and heavy, sleep would pull him deeper.

And he'd find himself in that cold stone room again.

One afternoon in mid-July, Harry woke from a nap with his heart pounding and his scar throbbing. He'd been in the dream-that much was clear from the lingering sense of power, the echo of cold satisfaction in his chest.

Death Eaters had been discussing recruitment strategies. How to approach influential pure-blood families who'd remained neutral during the last war. What promises to make, what threats to imply, how to convince them that Voldemort's return was inevitable and they'd be wise to choose the winning side early.

One Death Eater-a man with a rasping voice that Harry didn't recognize-had suggested targeting the families through their businesses. Economic pressure, subtle sabotage, making it clear that neutrality would cost them dearly.

Another had disagreed. "Too crude. We should appeal to their pride, their history. Remind them of what the wizarding world was before the Statute of Secrecy forced us into hiding. Promise them a return to the old ways, when magic-users ruled openly."

Harry had listened, and something about both suggestions had felt wrong. You can't just threaten people. They'll hate you for it. They'll be waiting for a chance to betray you. He thought about the Dursleys, how they'd never done anything for him unless they were forced, and even then they'd resented every moment. But just talking about the "good old days" won't work either. That's not enough.

You need- Harry wasn't sure what you needed, exactly. Just that neither approach was right. Make them feel like they're choosing it. Like they want to join.

"Both approaches have merit," the voice had said, and there was something almost thoughtful in it. "We will use economic pressure to demonstrate our reach, but frame it as removing obstacles rather than threats. And simultaneously appeal to their sense of history and tradition. Let them feel they are choosing to restore the natural order, not cowering before threats. Pride is a more reliable foundation for loyalty than fear."

The Death Eaters had murmured agreement, already discussing implementation.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed now, rubbing his scar. His mouth was dry, his head aching. The dream had felt more vivid than usual, more real. The Death Eaters' faces had been clearer. The cold stone walls more solid. The sense of power more immediate.

It was getting harder to dismiss them as just stress dreams.

But what else could they be?

Harry got up and splashed water on his face from the basin in the corner of his room. His reflection stared back at him, pale and drawn. Dark circles under his eyes despite all the sleep. Hair sticking up in all directions.

He looked haunted.

They're just dreams, he told himself again, but the words felt hollow. Just my mind coping with trauma. Nothing more.

Another letter arrived from Hermione a few days later.

Dear Harry,

I know you must be frustrated, and I'm so sorry. I wish we could tell you what's happening, but Dumbledore has made us promise not to put anything important in writing. Please try to be patient. We're working on getting you brought here-I can't say where-but it's taking longer than we'd hoped. The Ministry is being difficult about everything.

How are you holding up? We're all worried about you. Ron wanted me to tell you that he misses having someone to play chess with. (He's been beating everyone here handily, and it's making him insufferable.)

Please write back and let us know you're all right. We think about you all the time.

Love, Hermione

Harry read the letter twice, then set it aside with the others. Please try to be patient. Everyone wanted him to be patient. To sit quietly at Privet Drive while they did important work somewhere else. While Voldemort rebuilt his power. While Harry dreamed of-

He cut the thought off sharply.

But that afternoon, he found himself lying down for another nap. Found himself hoping, just a little bit, that the dream would come. That he'd have a few hours of feeling like he mattered, like his emotions could affect something beyond the four walls of his tiny bedroom.

The dream came.

This time, the Death Eaters were reporting on successful recruitment of several werewolf packs. They'd offered the werewolves recognition, rights, freedom from the restrictions that bound them. Had framed it as justice for the persecuted rather than simple alliance.

Harry felt satisfaction at the news. Good. Give people what they actually want. He thought about how the Ministry treated werewolves-like they were monsters, dangerous, not really people. Of course they'd join someone who treats them better.

"Excellent," the voice said. "Continue with this approach. Our ranks will be stronger with willing allies who fight for their own freedom, not mercenaries bought with gold or terrorized into submission."

One of the Death Eaters-Lucius Malfoy, Harry recognized his voice now-spoke up. "My Lord, the giants have also shown interest. Shall we pursue similar-"

"Yes," the voice interrupted. "But send someone who understands what it means to be treated as less than human. Someone who can speak to their anger, not someone who will condescend to them." A pause. "The werewolves succeeded because we offered them dignity. The giants will require the same."

Malfoy bowed, though Harry could sense his displeasure even through the dream. "As you wish, my Lord."

When Harry woke, late afternoon sunlight was slanting through his window. His scar was warm but not painful. And he felt-

Satisfied. More than satisfied. He felt like he'd done something right, something important. Like his instinct about how to treat people who'd been made to feel less-than-human had been recognized and acted upon.

Even though none of it was real. Even though it was just a dream.

Wasn't it?

A week passed. More letters arrived-one from Ron, shorter than Hermione's but with the same apologetic tone. Sorry we can't tell you more. Hope you're doing all right. See you soon. Harry barely bothered reading it before setting it aside with the others.

The Dursleys continued their careful dance around him. Uncle Vernon asked occasional awkward questions about school. Aunt Petunia served meals in near-silence. Dudley mocked him when his parents weren't listening, but with less enthusiasm than in previous summers, like he'd lost interest in the game.

And Harry dreamed.

Not every night. Not even most nights. But often enough that he'd stopped being surprised when he found himself in the cold stone room. Often enough that he'd stopped trying to convince himself they were just stress dreams.

In one dream, a Death Eater reported on difficulties recruiting younger pure-bloods. The families were interested, but their children-those who'd grown up during the years of Voldemort's absence-were hesitant. They'd been raised on stories of the Dark Lord's defeat. They saw him as a figure from history, not a present threat.

"They don't fear you, my Lord," the Death Eater said carefully. "They don't understand your power."

Harry felt irritation spike. So show them? No. Wait. If you just start killing people to prove you're powerful, you're just another terrorist. That's not-

The thought shifted, expanded. They need to see competence, not random violence. They need to see that following means winning.

"Then we will demonstrate competence," the voice said coldly. "Not through meaningless violence, but through success. Each family we recruit, each ally we secure, each strategic victory-these will prove our strength more effectively than a dozen corpses. The young are pragmatic. They follow power, yes, but they define power differently than their parents. Show them we are effective, organized, inevitable. Show them we win."

The Death Eater bowed and retreated.

Harry woke feeling strange. He'd just-what? Convinced Voldemort not to kill people to prove a point? That should feel good, shouldn't it? He'd steered Voldemort away from violence.

But the reasoning felt wrong. It wasn't that killing people was wrong-in the dream, he hadn't felt that at all. It was just that killing people was ineffective for this particular goal. Tactically unsound.

When had he started thinking like that?

Another dream came a few nights later, and this one was different.

Pettigrew was there, stammering through a report on some menial tasks he'd completed. Organizing supplies, preparing ingredients, cleaning rooms in whatever manor house served as Voldemort's base. His whole body was trembling, his voice high and anxious.

Harry watched him with contempt. Pathetic. Useless. Look at him shaking.

"Adequate, Wormtail," the voice said dismissively. "Continue your preparations."

Pettigrew started to leave, then hesitated. "My Lord, if I might-there was a question about the ritual components, whether the lunar timing-"

"I said adequate," the voice cut him off, cold and sharp. "Do not presume to question my instructions. Or would you like another reminder of the consequences of incompetence?"

Pettigrew's face went white. "No, my Lord. Forgive me, my Lord." He scurried from the room like a rat.

Harry felt-nothing. No satisfaction, no anger, no pity. Just a dull awareness that Pettigrew had been properly cowed. That he'd continue following orders out of fear. That he was more useful as a terrified servant than a dead one.

When Harry woke, gray pre-dawn light was seeping through his window. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, feeling hollow.

That dream had been cruel. The threat had been unnecessary-Pettigrew had already been complying, had just asked a question about timing. And Harry had felt... nothing. No impulse to stop it, no discomfort with the cruelty. Just cold assessment of Pettigrew's usefulness.

It's just a dream, he thought, but the words meant nothing anymore. They're all just dreams.

But if they were just dreams, why did Harry feel like he was losing something he couldn't name? Why did his reflection in the mirror each morning look more and more like a stranger?

He got up and went through the motions of another day. Avoided the Dursleys. Ignored Dudley's comments. Stared at the letters from Ron and Hermione without really seeing them.

That night, he dreamed of Cedric again. The green flash. The fall. Those empty, staring eyes.

Harry woke with tears on his face and an ache in his chest that felt like it might crack him open. The grief was still there, still fresh, still sharp when it caught him by surprise.

But increasingly, the other dreams were easier. The ones where he was powerful. Where cruelty was just tactical assessment. Where fear was just a tool.

Harry pressed his palms against his eyes and tried not to think about what that meant.

July 31st was Harry's birthday.

He woke that morning to silence. The Dursleys didn't acknowledge the day-they never had. No cards, no presents, no acknowledgment that he'd turned fifteen. Just another day of their cold, distant courtesy.

Two letters arrived by owl before breakfast. One from Ron, one from Hermione. Both wishing him happy birthday. Both apologizing that they couldn't be there. Both promising-again-that they'd see him soon. That they'd explain everything soon. That he just needed to be patient a little while longer.

Harry read the letters once and didn't bother responding. What was there to say? Thank you for the birthday wishes from wherever you are, doing whatever important thing you can't tell me about, while I sit here alone?

He spent most of the day in his room. Went down for meals because refusing to eat would only make the Dursleys ask questions. But otherwise stayed away from them, away from Dudley's mocking, away from the suffocating sense of being utterly, completely alone.

That evening, Uncle Vernon made an awkward attempt at conversation over dinner. "Big year ahead, is it? Fifth year at that school of yours?"

"Yes," Harry said flatly.

"Important exams, I suppose?"

"OWLs. Yes."

Uncle Vernon nodded, clearly relieved to have discharged his duty, and retreated back behind his newspaper. Aunt Petunia served dessert in silence. Dudley smirked across the table but, for once, didn't say anything.

Harry excused himself as soon as he could and went back upstairs. He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling as the summer evening faded into twilight. Fifteen years old. Voldemort had returned. Cedric was dead. His friends were somewhere else, doing important work without him. And Harry was here, trapped at Privet Drive, with nothing but his dreams for company.

Dreams where he had power. Where he made decisions that mattered. Where his emotions could shape things beyond his tiny, suffocating existence.

Dreams where he was becoming something he didn't entirely recognize anymore.

Harry closed his eyes, exhausted despite having done nothing all day. His scar gave a dull throb, then faded. His breathing slowed. Maybe tonight he'd dream of the cold stone room again. Maybe tonight he'd feel like he mattered.

But sleep pulled him under, and he dreamed-not of the cold stone room, but of the graveyard. Of Cedric falling. Of his own helplessness.

When he woke in the gray pre-dawn light, his face was wet and his chest ached with a grief that felt as fresh as the day it had happened. He lay there for a long moment, feeling the weight of it. Then, somewhere underneath the grief, he felt something else.

Frustration.

He'd wanted the other dream. The one where he had control. And instead he'd gotten this-more helplessness, more grief, more reminder that he was just Harry Potter, fifteen years old and useless.

The realization made him feel sick. What kind of person was he becoming, that he'd rather dream of being powerful and cruel than face his own grief?

But the thought didn't change the feeling. He still wished he'd had the other dream.

Harry got up and went to the window, looking out at Privet Drive's empty street. One more day until August. One more day, and then-what? More waiting? More vague letters? More isolation?

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and tried not to think about how much he was looking forward to his next dream. To the next time he'd feel like he had control over something, even if that control was twisted and wrong.

Fifteen years old, and Harry Potter had never felt more alone.

Chapter Text

The evening of August 2nd was unseasonably hot. The air over Little Whinging hung thick and still, pressing down on the rows of identical houses like a lid.

Harry walked beside Dudley through the underpass near Magnolia Crescent, the sound of their footsteps echoing against the tunnel walls. Dudley’s gang had peeled off a few streets back, leaving the two of them alone-an arrangement neither found pleasant.

They hadn’t spoken for several minutes. Every so often Dudley muttered under his breath about “freaks” and “nutters,” and Harry ignored him, staring straight ahead. Another long, airless evening. Another walk home to the house where no one spoke to him unless they had to.

He’d been thinking too much lately-about the silence, about how the letters from his friends said so little. About the dreams that had stopped after his birthday, and the strange hollow feeling their absence left behind.

A faint breeze stirred, carrying the sour tang of the drains. Then, almost imperceptibly, the air changed. The heat drained away, replaced by a cold that crept down Harry’s spine.

They entered the underpass.

Harry's breath misted in the air. The streetlights flickered once, twice, then died completely, plunging them into darkness broken only by the faint glow from Magnolia Crescent ahead.

"What did you do?" Dudley demanded, his voice pitched higher than usual. "What did you-"

Then Harry felt it. The cold that went beyond physical chill. The cold that sank into your bones and froze everything inside you. The sensation of every happy thought being stripped away, leaving only the worst memories, the darkest fears.

No. Not here. Not now.

He could hear it-them-the rattling breath of creatures that shouldn't exist outside Azkaban. His hand went to his wand automatically, pulling it free even as his mind reeled with confusion and terror.

Two dark shapes glided toward them through the underpass. Dementors. Impossible, but real. Very real.

"Run!" Harry shouted at Dudley, but his cousin stood frozen, his piggy eyes wide with terror.

The first Dementor swooped toward Dudley. Harry could see it clearly now despite the darkness-the rotting, skeletal hands, the hooded figure, the sense of overwhelming despair that radiated from it like cold from ice.

Dudley made a strangled sound and dropped to his knees.

Move, Harry thought desperately. Think of something happy. Anything.

But what happy thoughts were there? Cedric was dead. Voldemort had returned. His friends had abandoned him all summer. He was trapped at Privet Drive with people who hated him, dreaming of things that made him hate himself-

No. Focus. The Patronus Charm. You know this.

"Expecto Patronum!" The words came out weaker than he'd intended, and only a wisp of silver mist emerged from his wand. Not enough. Nowhere near enough.

The second Dementor was closer now, gliding toward Harry himself. He could feel it pulling at him, drawing out every terrible memory. The graveyard. Cedric falling. The cold voice speaking the killing curse. Pettigrew cutting his arm. His own helplessness-

And underneath those memories, something else. The dreams. The satisfaction he'd felt giving orders. The enjoyment of invading Snape's mind. The numbness watching Pettigrew cower in fear.

The Dementor loomed over him, and Harry felt its rattling breath on his face. Felt it lowering its hood. Preparing for the Kiss.

He tried desperately to think of something happy-his first time on a broomstick. That moment of pure joy, soaring over the Quidditch pitch, free and weightless and happy-

Yes. That. Hold onto that.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

The silver stag erupted from his wand, bright and solid and real. It charged at the Dementor above him, driving it back. Then wheeled and charged at the one hovering over Dudley's prone form, scattering both creatures into the darkness.

Harry stood gasping, his wand still raised, waiting for them to return. But the cold was receding. The streetlights flickered back to life. The Dementors were gone.

It had worked. The Patronus had come. But it had been harder than ever before-like reaching through layers of darkness to find that one bright memory. Like the good things were being buried under everything else.

He lowered his wand slowly and looked at Dudley.

His cousin was curled on the ground, his large body shaking. His face was pale-actually pale, not just flushed-and his eyes were unfocused, staring at nothing.

"Dudley?" Harry's voice came out hoarse. "Dudley, get up. We need to go."

Dudley didn't respond. Didn't even seem to hear him.

Harry crouched beside him, reaching out to shake his shoulder. "Dudley. Come on. They're gone. We need to get back."

"Cold," Dudley whispered. His voice was barely audible. "So cold. Empty. I saw-I felt-"

"I know." Harry grabbed his arm and tried to pull him up. "But they're gone now. Can you stand?"

It took several attempts, but finally Dudley got to his feet, leaning heavily on Harry. They stumbled out of the underpass together, Dudley's weight making Harry stagger.

"What were they?" Dudley's voice was still shaking. "What were those things?"

"Dementors," Harry said. "They guard the wizard prison. They shouldn't be here. They're not supposed to leave Azkaban."

"I saw things." Dudley's words came in gasps. "Felt things. About myself. About what I-" He broke off, shaking his head. "It was horrible. Everything was horrible. Nothing good. Nothing worth-"

"That's what they do," Harry said, trying to guide them toward Privet Drive. "They make you relive your worst memories. Feel your worst fears. Drain all the happiness out of you."

Dudley was silent for a long moment, then: "Is that what it's like for you? What happened to you?"

Harry stopped walking. Stared at his cousin. In fifteen years, Dudley had never asked him a question like that. Had never seemed to consider that Harry might have experiences worth asking about.

"Sometimes," Harry said finally. "Yeah. Sometimes."

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Mrs. Figg was waiting at the entrance to Privet Drive, her cat-print dress fluttering in the sudden breeze. She descended on them immediately, asking questions in a high, anxious voice. Had they been hurt? Were they all right? What had happened?

Harry barely registered her words. He was too focused on getting Dudley home, on keeping his cousin upright as he stumbled along.

When they finally reached number four, Uncle Vernon threw open the door, his face already purple with rage. "Where have you been? Your mother's been worried sick-"

He broke off as he saw Dudley, saw his son's pale face and shaking hands.

"What did you do to him?" Vernon's voice was low and dangerous. "What did you do to my son?"

"He saved him," Mrs. Figg said sharply from behind them. "Dementors attacked them. Harry drove them off."

"Dementors?" Aunt Petunia had appeared in the hallway, her thin face tight with fear. "But that means-Vernon, that means-"

"I don't care what it means!" Vernon roared. "Get inside, both of you!"

Harry helped Dudley into the living room, where his cousin collapsed onto the sofa. Dudley's eyes were still unfocused, his breathing rapid and shallow.

"Dudley, darling, what's wrong?" Aunt Petunia knelt beside him, her hands fluttering uselessly. "What happened?"

"Cold," Dudley managed. "So cold. They made me feel-see things-"

"He'll be all right," Harry said, though he wasn't sure if that was true. "It's the Dementor's effect. It wears off eventually."

"You." Vernon advanced on Harry, his massive hands clenched into fists. "You brought those things here. You put my son in danger with your freakishness-"

The sharp crack of an owl hitting the window cut him off. All of them turned to see a Ministry owl struggling with a letter pressed against the glass.

Harry's stomach dropped. He knew what that letter would say before he even opened it.

He crossed to the window and let the owl in. It dropped the letter at his feet and flew off immediately, clearly eager to be away from this house.

Harry picked up the envelope with hands that felt numb.

Mr. H. Potter,

We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle.

The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.

Harry read it twice, the words not quite sinking in. Expelled. They were expelling him for defending himself and Dudley from creatures that shouldn't have been there in the first place.

"Well?" Vernon demanded. "What does it say?"

"I've been expelled from Hogwarts," Harry said flatly. "They're sending someone to destroy my wand."

Aunt Petunia made a small sound. Vernon's face went from purple to a strange mottled red-white.

"Expelled?" Vernon repeated, and there was something like glee beginning to dawn in his small eyes. "They're kicking you out of that freak school?"

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia said weakly. "The boy saved Dudley from those things-"

"I don't care!" Vernon roared. "This is exactly what I've been saying all along! He's dangerous! His whole world is dangerous! And now they've finally seen sense and-"

Another owl hit the window.

Then another.

And another.

Within minutes, a dozen owls were battering themselves against the glass, each carrying letters. Harry opened the window and they flooded in, dropping envelopes and letters and small packages before fleeing back into the night.

Most of the letters were from the Ministry-notification of his hearing, location details, appeals processes. But among them were letters from other people. From Ron and Hermione, their writing panicked and reassuring in turns. From Sirius, his godfather's handwriting sharp and urgent.

Harry sank into a chair, sorting through the chaos, trying to make sense of it all. He had a hearing. That was something. They hadn't destroyed his wand yet. He had a chance to defend himself.

"What is all this?" Vernon's voice had gone quiet and dangerous again. "What's happening?"

Before Harry could answer, there was a tremendous bang from the kitchen. They all jumped, Dudley making a small whimpering sound.

A bellow of a voice echoed through the house: "We're here for the boy! Harry Potter! Where is he?"

Vernon's face went pale. "There are people-in my house-"

"It's all right," Mrs. Figg said from the doorway. "That'll be the advance guard."

Mrs. Figg. His neighbor. Speaking casually about magical guards and advance forces like she'd always known about magic.

Harry registered this distantly, filed it away with all the other impossibilities of the evening. It barely mattered. Nothing mattered except-

The Order of the Phoenix.

"Somewhere safe?" Vernon looked like he might explode. "He's not going anywhere! He's staying right here where we can-"

"You can't keep him," Mrs. Figg said flatly. "Not now. It's too dangerous. For all of you."

The living room door burst open. A group of people crowded into the small space-witches and wizards, all armed, all looking around the room with professional wariness.

At the front was a man with a wooden leg and a magical eye that swiveled independently of his normal one. Mad-Eye Moody. Harry recognized him from photographs, though they'd never met properly.

"Potter," Moody growled. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," Harry said, getting to his feet. "But Dudley-"

Moody's magical eye swiveled to look at Dudley, still pale and shaking on the sofa. "Dementors got to him, did they? He'll recover. Take a day or two, but the effects wear off."

A young witch with bubble-gum pink hair pushed past Moody. "Wotcher, Harry! I'm Tonks. We're here to take you somewhere safe."

"Who are you people?" Vernon demanded. "Get out of my house this instant!"

"We're leaving," Moody said, his magical eye now fixed on Vernon. "And the boy's coming with us. You'll be safer without him here anyway."

"I'm not letting him-"

"You don't have a choice." Moody's voice was flat. "Dementors don't attack Muggle neighborhoods by accident. They were sent. Someone wanted the boy dead. He stays here, you all stay in danger."

The room went silent. Harry saw Aunt Petunia's face go even paler, her eyes darting to Dudley.

"Pack your things," Moody said to Harry. "Five minutes. We leave before anyone else decides to come calling."

Harry turned toward the stairs, then stopped. Looked back at Dudley, still curled on the sofa, still shaking.

Their eyes met. And for the first time Harry could remember, there was no contempt in Dudley's gaze. No mockery. Just confusion and fear and something that might have been understanding.

"What happened to you?" Dudley asked again, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry didn't know how to answer that. Didn't know how to explain what it was like to live with the constant threat of Voldemort, of Dementors, of death. Didn't know how to explain the dreams, the power, the satisfaction he felt at things he knew were wrong.

"I don't know," he said finally, and turned away to pack.

Five minutes later, Harry stood in the hallway with his trunk and Hedwig's cage. The Order members-that's what Mrs. Figg had called them, the Order of the Phoenix-were clustered around him, wands out, clearly ready for trouble.

Uncle Vernon looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Aunt Petunia just stared at Harry with an expression he couldn't read.

Dudley had gotten up from the sofa and come to stand in the hallway. He still looked pale, still shaken, but something in his posture had changed. Less aggressive. Less sure of himself.

"Be careful," Dudley said suddenly.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"What?" Vernon looked at his son like he'd grown a second head.

"Those things." Dudley's voice was rough. "If they're really after him-be careful."

Harry felt something tight in his chest. Something he couldn't quite name. "Yeah," he said. "I will."

What happened to you, Harry thought, remembering Dudley's question from earlier. Everyone kept saying that. That Harry was different. Changed.

But he didn't feel different-did he?

"Right then," Moody growled. "Enough sentiment. We need to move. Potter, you're with Tonks on the broom. The rest of you, formation alpha. Keep your eyes open and your wands ready."

They stepped out into the night, leaving the Dursleys standing in the doorway of number four, Privet Drive.

Harry didn't look back.

The flight to London was cold and uncomfortable. Harry clung to the broom behind Tonks, his trunk levitating beside them on a charm, while the rest of the Order flew in formation around them. They swooped low over rooftops and through clouds, always moving, always watching for pursuit.

Tonks tried to make conversation-asked about his summer, about Hogwarts, about anything really-but Harry gave short answers and didn't ask anything back. He didn't care about her summer or her Auror training or whatever else she wanted to chat about.

All he could think about was the Order of the Phoenix. The name from his dream. The organization that wasn't supposed to exist outside his nightmares.

And underneath it all, a growing unease. Dementors didn't leave Azkaban on their own. Someone had sent them. Someone had tried to kill him.

Or have his soul sucked out, which was arguably worse.

They landed in a narrow, grimy square in what Harry assumed was London. Grimmauld Place, Tonks told him as they touched down on the pavement. The Order's headquarters.

"Right," Moody said, pressing a piece of parchment into Harry's hand. "Read that and memorize it. Don't say it aloud."

Harry read the note by wandlight: The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

The Order of the Phoenix. The name from his dream. The organization Snape had been reporting on to-

Harry's breath caught. His hand clenched on the parchment.

The Order of the Phoenix was real.

He looked up at the houses lining the square. Number eleven. Number thirteen. But no number twelve, at least not at first. Then, as he watched, a door began to appear between them. A house squeezed into existence, pushing the other buildings aside.

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

It was real. The name from his dream was real.

"Come on then," Moody said, pushing Harry toward the door. "Inside before anyone sees us."

Harry walked forward in a daze. The door opened before he reached it, and warm light spilled out into the dark square. He could hear voices inside-people talking, arguing, the clatter of dishes.

He stepped over the threshold into a narrow, dark hallway. The door closed behind him with a decisive click, shutting out the night and the square and the life he'd known for the past six weeks.

"Harry!"

Hermione appeared at the end of the hallway and rushed toward him, pulling him into a fierce hug. "Oh, Harry, we were so worried! When we heard about the Dementors-"

"Are you all right, mate?" Ron was there too, his ears red with emotion. "Mum's been going spare. She wanted to come get you herself but Dumbledore said-"

"I'm fine," Harry said automatically. But he wasn't fine. Nothing was fine.

The Order of the Phoenix was real.

"Come on," Hermione said, pulling back to look at him with concern. "You must be exhausted. Let's get you inside properly. Everyone's in the kitchen-"

"Everyone?" Harry let himself be pulled down the hallway, his mind still reeling.

"The Order," Ron said. "They've been meeting here all summer. It's Sirius's house, did you know? He's here too, though he's not supposed to leave. Ministry's still after him."

They entered a large kitchen at the bottom of a flight of stairs. It was crowded with people-Harry recognized some of them from the escort, others he'd never seen before. At the head of a long table sat Sirius, his face lighting up when he saw Harry.

"Harry!" Sirius stood, and for a moment Harry thought his godfather might hug him. But Sirius settled for gripping his shoulder firmly. "Thank god you're all right. When we heard-"

"Everyone said you were fine," Hermione said quickly, "but we wanted to hear it from you. What happened?"

Harry opened his mouth to explain. To tell them about the Dementors, about Dudley, about the expulsion letter and the hearing. But the words stuck in his throat.

Around him, the kitchen was crowded with people. Some he recognized from the escort-Tonks with her pink hair, Moody with his magical eye still swiveling independently. Others he'd never seen before. An older wizard with a purple nose. A witch with silvery blonde hair. Remus Lupin, looking even more shabby and tired than Harry remembered.

They were all looking at him with varying degrees of concern and curiosity.

"Sit down, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, pressing a plate of food into his hands and guiding him to a chair. "You must be exhausted."

Harry sat mechanically. Someone asked him about the Dementors-how many, how close they'd gotten, whether he'd seen who sent them. He answered in fragments, barely tracking his own words. The voices around him blurred together into a wash of sound.

"-unprecedented for Dementors to leave Azkaban-"

"-someone at the Ministry must have authorized it-"

"-the hearing is just a formality, surely they won't actually-"

Sirius's hand landed on Harry's shoulder, warm and solid. "Harry? You with us?"

"Yeah," Harry managed. "Sorry. Just-tired."

"Of course you are." Mrs. Weasley's voice was brisk. "He needs rest, not an interrogation. There'll be time for questions tomorrow."

"Actually," one of the Order members said-the witch with blonde hair-"we should establish what he knows about-"

"Tomorrow," Mrs. Weasley repeated firmly. "The boy's had a shock. Let him breathe."

Harry barely heard the exchange. His mind had snagged on something Hermione had said earlier. Something about meetings. About the Order.

They've been meeting here all summer.

All summer. While Harry had been trapped at Privet Drive. While he'd been dreaming of-

"I'll show you where you're sleeping," Hermione said, appearing at his elbow. "Come on."

Harry let her pull him to his feet and guide him toward the door. Ron followed, shooting worried glances at Harry's face.

The hallway outside the kitchen was dimmer, quieter. Harry's ears rang in the sudden absence of noise.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Hermione asked as they climbed the stairs. "You looked like you were about to faint in there."

"I'm fine," Harry said automatically.

They climbed another flight in silence. Harry's legs felt heavy, disconnected from his body. His mind kept circling back to that one thought: They've been meeting here all summer.

"Here we are," Hermione said, opening a door on the first floor of the house. "You're sharing with Ron and some of the others. Ginny and I are in the room next door. Fred and George are upstairs. It's a bit cramped but-"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted. His voice came out strained. "What's the Order of the Phoenix?"

She blinked at him. "Oh. Right. I suppose no one's explained properly yet." She sat down on one of the beds, gesturing for him to do the same. "It's the organization Dumbledore founded during the last war. To fight against Voldemort. They disbanded after he disappeared, but now he's back, so Dumbledore's reformed it."

"And they meet here?" Harry's mouth was dry. "All summer?"

"Yes. Nearly every day, actually." Hermione's voice took on that lecturing tone she used when explaining things. "They've been trying to figure out what Voldemort's planning, gathering intelligence, protecting important targets-"

"Intelligence." The word came out sharp. "What kind of intelligence?"

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.

"We don't know exactly," Ron said carefully. "They won't tell us much. Say we're too young. But Sirius mentioned they have someone on the inside. Someone who reports on what Voldemort and the Death Eaters are doing."

The room tilted.

Harry grabbed the bedpost, his vision graying at the edges. A spy. Someone who reported to the Order about Death Eater activities.

Someone like Snape.

He'd dreamed it. Weeks ago. Snape standing in that cold stone room, reporting on Dumbledore's activities, on "the Order of the Phoenix's movements." An organization Harry had never heard of before that dream.

An organization that was real.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Harry, what's wrong?"

If the Order was real-if he'd somehow known about something he couldn't possibly have known-

Then maybe the dreams weren't dreams at all.

The Azkaban raid he'd prevented. The strategy sessions about recruitment. The werewolf packs. The invasive push into Snape's mind. All of it.

All of it real.

"Harry, you're scaring us." Ron's hand was on his arm, steadying him. "What's going on?"

Harry forced himself to breathe. In and out. Slow and steady. The gray receded from his vision, leaving the room sharp and clear and too bright.

They were both staring at him with identical expressions of worry. Ron and Hermione. His best friends, who'd spent all summer here together while Harry rotted at Privet Drive. Who'd sent vague letters full of apologies and empty reassurances. Who'd kept secrets on Dumbledore's orders.

If he told them-if he said I think I've been in Voldemort's mind, I think I've been controlling him-what would they do? Tell Dumbledore? Try to stop it? Take away the one thing that had made Harry feel like he mattered this summer?

And why should he trust them with this when they hadn't trusted him with anything?

"Nothing's wrong," Harry said. His voice came out steadier than he expected. "I'm just-it's been a long night. Can I just sleep? Please?"

Hermione looked unconvinced. "Harry, if something's bothering you-"

"I'm fine." The word came out harder than he intended. "I just need to sleep. Is that allowed? Or do I need permission for that too?"

Hermione flinched. Ron's ears went red.

"Of course you can sleep," Hermione said quietly. "We'll just-we'll be next door if you need anything."

They left, closing the door softly behind them. Harry heard their voices in the hallway-low and concerned-but couldn't make out the words. Didn't want to.

He sat down on the bed and stared at his hands.Tomorrow there would be another Order meeting. Tomorrow, Snape would probably report on whatever Voldemort had been doing. And tomorrow Harry would know for certain whether the dreams were real.

Whether he'd been controlling the Dark Lord all summer long.

His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his knees.If it was real-if he really had that kind of power-then keeping it secret was the only smart choice. Because the moment Dumbledore found out, he'd want to study it. Control it. Use it for the war effort, probably. Or worse, he'd want to sever the connection entirely. Remove Harry's power because it was too dangerous, too dark, too much like the connection that had nearly killed him in fourth year.

No. This was Harry's. Whatever it was, however it worked, it was his. The one thing that had made him feel like he wasn't helpless this summer. The one source of control in a life that felt increasingly out of his control.

They'd kept their secrets all summer.

He'd keep his.

Harry lay back on the bed, still fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling. The house creaked and settled around him. Voices drifted up from downstairs-the Order meeting was still going, apparently. Discussing him, probably. Deciding what to do about him.

Without asking him.

Just like always.

His scar gave a dull throb. Harry closed his eyes.

Sleep was a long time coming. And when it finally did, he dreamed of cold stone rooms and kneeling figures and a voice that bent to his will like a terrible, seductive echo.

Chapter Text

Harry barely slept the night of his arrival at Grimmauld Place.

He lay in the narrow bed in the cramped bedroom on the first floor, staring at the ceiling while Ron snored in the bed next to him. The house creaked and groaned around them-old wood settling, pipes rattling, the occasional bang or crash from somewhere below that made Harry flinch despite knowing it was probably just the ancient plumbing.

But mostly, his mind wouldn't stop racing.

The Order of the Phoenix was real. He'd dreamed about it weeks ago-Snape reporting on its movements-and he'd never heard of it before that dream. Never seen the name anywhere. Never been told about any organization fighting Voldemort.

Which meant one of two things.

Either he'd somehow picked up information he didn't consciously know-overheard something, read something he'd forgotten-and his stressed mind had woven it into his dreams. That was possible. Unlikely, maybe, but possible.

Or the dreams weren't dreams at all.

Harry pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to push away the thought. But it kept coming back, insistent and terrible.

He needed proof. Real proof. Not just the name of an organization, but specific details. Things he couldn't possibly have known any other way.

The Order met regularly-Mrs. Figg had mentioned that. If Harry could overhear one of those meetings, hear what intelligence they had about Voldemort's activities...

Then he'd know for certain whether the dreams were real.

The next morning, Mrs. Weasley announced that they'd be spending the day cleaning.

"The house has been shut up for years," she said briskly, handing out mops and buckets and rags. "Sirius's mother kept it, but she's been dead for some time, and there's doxies in the curtains, a boggart in the writing desk upstairs, and heaven knows what else. We need to make it habitable."

She led them upstairs, directing different people to different rooms. Harry found himself assigned to help clear out a drawing room on the second floor with Hermione while Ron tackled the floor above with the twins.

They'd barely started when raised voices echoed from down the hall.

"-can't just throw them away!" That was Sirius, sounding frustrated.

"They're Dark Arts materials, Sirius." Mrs. Weasley's voice was firm. "Dangerous books. Objects that could curse someone just from touching them. They need to be destroyed."

"This is my family's house-"

"And your family was involved in the Dark Arts up to their necks! That's exactly why this needs to be done!"

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione. "I should probably see what's going on."

"Be careful," Hermione said, already turning back to the curtains they were de-doxying.

Harry slipped out and made his way down the hall. The voices were coming from what looked like a library-shelves lining the walls, filled with books that probably hadn't been touched in decades.

He stopped in the doorway, staying out of sight.

Mrs. Weasley and Sirius stood in the middle of the room. Between them was a large pile of books, some leather-bound and ancient-looking, others newer but clearly dark in nature. Mrs. Weasley had her wand out and looked determined. Sirius looked torn between anger and resignation.

"Some of these have been in my family for generations," Sirius said.

"That doesn't make them safe." Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at the pile. "The sooner they're destroyed, the better."

Harry's eyes swept over the pile. He could see titles on some of the spines: Secrets of the Darkest Art, The Fundamentals of Legilimency, Occlumency: The Mind's Shield, Bonds of Blood and Magic, The Nature of Mental Connections.

Books about mind magic. About mental connections. About things that might explain what was happening to him.

His heart pounded. He needed those books. But there was no way Mrs. Weasley would let him have them. She'd probably be horrified if he even asked.

Which meant he'd have to take them.

Harry glanced around. The argument was escalating-Sirius protesting that some of the books were valuable family heirlooms, Mrs. Weasley insisting that Dark Arts materials were too dangerous to preserve. Neither was paying attention to anything else.

Harry edged into the room, keeping close to the wall. The pile of books was between them, maybe fifteen feet away. If he could just-

A house-elf appeared with a sharp crack.

"Mistress's library!" Kreacher's voice was a rasping croak. "Blood traitor destroying Mistress's precious books! Kreacher will not allow-"

"Kreacher, get out of the way," Mrs. Weasley said sharply.

"These are Black family treasures!" The elf's voice rose to a shriek. "The blood traitor has no right-"

"I said get out!" Mrs. Weasley tried to move past him, but Kreacher darted in front of her, continuing his rant about blood traitors and the disgrace of the noble Black family.

Harry saw his chance.

While Mrs. Weasley and Sirius were both focused on the screeching house-elf, Harry moved quickly to the pile. His hands closed on several books-the Legilimency text, the one about Occlumency, the book on mental connections, another on magical bonds. He shoved them under his shirt, pressing them against his chest.

"-will not tolerate this insubordination!" Mrs. Weasley was saying, her face red. "Sirius, control your house-elf!"

"He's not exactly listening to me either," Sirius said, trying to grab Kreacher, who slipped away and continued his tirade.

Harry backed toward the door, moving as quietly as he could. His heart hammered against his ribs-or maybe that was just the books pressed against his chest.

He made it to the hallway. Turned. Walked quickly back to the drawing room where Hermione was still working.

"What was that about?" she asked, not looking up.

"Mrs. Weasley and Sirius arguing about what to destroy," Harry said, keeping his voice level. "Kreacher got involved. It's a mess."

"Oh." Hermione wrinkled her nose. "That house-elf is dreadful. The things he says-"

"Yeah," Harry said, moving to his corner of the room and positioning himself so she couldn't see his front clearly. "I'm just going to-I need to use the loo. Be right back."

He left before she could respond and hurried to his room. Pulled the books from under his shirt and stared at them.

Four books. All dealing with mind magic, mental connections, bonds between wizards. Things that might explain the connection to Voldemort. Things Mrs. Weasley would never have let him keep.

Things he'd stolen.

Harry shoved them into his trunk, burying them under his clothes. His hands were shaking slightly.

He'd just stolen Dark Arts books. Lied to Hermione. Used Kreacher's distraction to take things that were supposed to be destroyed.

And he didn't feel guilty. He felt satisfied.

Because these books might have answers. Might help him understand what was happening. Might give him the knowledge he needed to figure out the connection to Voldemort.

Harry closed his trunk and went back to help with the cleaning, forcing his expression into something neutral. Back in the library, he could hear the argument still raging-Mrs. Weasley's sharp voice, Sirius's protests, Kreacher's screeching.

No one had noticed the missing books.

No one would notice until it was too late.

That night, after Ron had fallen asleep, Harry pulled out the Legilimency book and read by wandlight.

The text was dense and academic, but Harry forced himself through it. Legilimency was the art of extracting feelings and memories from another person's mind. Occlumency was its opposite-defending one's mind against invasion. The book discussed the theory behind both, the mental discipline required, the ethical considerations.

The mind is the most intimate space that exists, one passage read. To invade another's thoughts without permission is among the darkest violations one wizard can commit against another. Yet to defend one's mind is among the most essential skills for survival in a world where Legilimens exist.

Harry thought about the dreams. About pushing into Snape's mind. About the invasive reaching he'd felt when he'd wanted to know what Snape was hiding.

Had that been Legilimency? Had he somehow used it without training, without understanding what he was doing?

The book discussed mental connections-how they could form between people, especially through trauma or shared experiences. How certain magical bonds could create pathways between minds.

In rare cases, the text noted, a connection may form through dark magic or blood ritual. These connections can allow thoughts and emotions to flow between minds, though typically only the more powerful will can dominate such a link. The nature of such bonds is poorly understood, as few wizards survive the creation of such connections.

Harry's scar throbbed.

A connection through dark magic. Like the one formed when Voldemort had tried to kill him. When some of Voldemort's power had transferred to Harry.

Was that what this was? Some twisted connection from that night, grown stronger when Voldemort returned to power?

The book had no answers. It dealt with theory, not specific cases. And certainly not with anything like Harry's situation.

He closed the book and stared at the ceiling. The text had given him possibilities but no certainties. He still needed proof. Still needed to know if the dreams were real.

The afternoon of the second day, Harry found himself desperate to escape Ron and Hermione.

They'd been hovering since breakfast, clearly worried about him. Hermione kept trying to draw him into conversation about OWLs. Ron kept suggesting games of Exploding Snap. Both kept exchanging concerned glances when they thought he wasn't looking.

Harry couldn't take it anymore.

"I need some time alone. Please."

Hermione's face fell. "Harry, we're just worried-"

"I know. I just need space."

He left before either could argue, wandering through Grimmauld Place's dim corridors until he found himself back at the library. The room was empty and quiet. Most of the dangerous books had been destroyed, but the walls still held hundreds of volumes-family histories, legal texts, books on wizarding traditions.

Harry moved along the shelves, not really looking for anything. Just wanting to be alone.

His fingers trailed across leather spines. The Noble Houses of Britain. Pure-Blood Genealogy. Wizarding Law and Custom Through the Ages.

He pulled that last one out, more from boredom than real interest. Flipped through pages describing ancient legal codes, long-obsolete customs, the formal structures of wizarding society before the Statute of Secrecy.

Then a chapter title caught his eye: "Bonds of Service: The Lord and Vassal Tradition."

Harry sank into one of the dusty armchairs and began to read.

In the centuries before the Statute of Secrecy, wizarding families openly ruled territories and commanded followers through bonds of service-magical contracts that bound vassal to lord. The lord's authority within his domain was absolute. His word was law to those bound to him. This concentration of power allowed decisive action during conflicts-a lord could command his forces with certainty, knowing his orders would be carried out without question.

The book described historical examples. Lord Armand Rosier, who had trained displaced wizards as warriors. Lady Morgana Selwyn, who had maintained strict control over her territory during the werewolf uprisings. The Blacks themselves, who had maintained vassal bonds for centuries.

Lords who invested in their vassals' training and capability generally maintained more effective forces. Whether this was motivated by genuine concern or practical recognition that capable servants were more useful varied by individual. The tradition declined after the Statute of Secrecy, but the old families remembered: there was a clarity to absolute authority that newer arrangements lacked. In his domain, a lord's will was law.

Harry lingered on that line. Lords of their own domain. Must be nice-having things under control for once.

The thought startled him as soon as it formed, but before he could chase it further-

"The young master reads of the old ways."

Harry jerked, nearly dropping the book. Kreacher stood beside his chair, silent as a shadow.

"I was just-" Harry started, then stopped. Why was he explaining himself? "Just reading."

Kreacher's bulging eyes fixed on the book. His expression was unreadable, but something in his posture suggested approval.

"Mistress would be pleased," the house-elf croaked. "The blood traitors want to destroy Mistress's library. Burn proper wizarding knowledge. But the young master saved some of Mistress's books. Kreacher saw."

Harry's chest tightened. Kreacher had noticed the missing books. But instead of reporting it, he approved?

"The old ways are proper ways," Kreacher continued. "The young master understands. Not like the blood traitor who lets the Mudblood destroy his family's treasures."

Harry should probably object to Kreacher calling Hermione that word. Should probably say something about the "old ways" not being worth aspiring to.

But he didn't.

Instead, he heard himself ask, "Were the Blacks good lords? To their vassals?"

Kreacher's expression shifted to something almost like pride. "The Blacks were a great and noble family. Chose their vassals carefully. Invested in them. Made them powerful. Those who served the Blacks were honored."

"And the vassals-they couldn't leave?"

"Bond was permanent," Kreacher said. "Unless lord released them. But great shame, that. Meant failure. Not worthy of service. Few survived such disgrace."

Harry looked down at the book. At the descriptions of lords who held absolute authority. Who commanded without question. Who trained their vassals to be capable and useful.

Lords who were in control. Complete control.

"Thank you, Kreacher," Harry said quietly.

The house-elf bowed-not mockingly, but with what seemed like genuine respect-and disappeared with a crack.

Harry sat alone in the dim library, the book heavy in his hands. He wasn't planning to bind anyone. The thought was absurd. This was just history. Just interesting reading.

But the ideas lingered...

The next day passed with agonizing slowness.

They cleaned more rooms, cleared out more dangerous objects. Harry found himself scrubbing floors with an intensity that made even Mrs. Weasley look concerned. Anything to keep his mind busy. Anything to avoid thinking about what he might learn that evening.

Two days later, during a break for lunch, Harry made his way back toward the library. The argument from before had ended with most of the books destroyed, but he'd heard Mrs. Weasley say there were more rooms to clear. More materials to sort through.

The library door was ajar. Harry peered inside-empty. A new pile of books sat on the floor, presumably pulled from another room. Waiting to be evaluated and most likely destroyed.

Harry glanced down the hallway. No one in sight. Everyone was in the kitchen eating.

He slipped inside and knelt beside the pile. More Dark Arts texts. Advanced Transfiguration of the Mind and Body. The Subtleties of Magical Compulsion. Blood Magic and Its Applications.

Harry grabbed three books that looked most relevant, shoved them under his shirt, and hurried back to his room. Added them to his trunk, buried under his clothes with the others.

Seven books total now. Seven sources of information that might help him understand what was happening. That might teach him how to use this power more effectively.

He'd tried reading more of them, but it was nearly impossible with Ron constantly around. The best he'd managed was skimming a few pages of the Legilimency text late at night when Ron was deeply asleep, and a few minutes alone with the book on magical bonds while Ron was in the bathroom. Not enough to truly understand anything-just enough to know there was knowledge here he desperately needed.

Knowledge he'd have to wait until Hogwarts to really study. When he'd have his curtains to hide behind. When he could claim he was studying for OWLs and Ron wouldn't question why he was reading so much.

Mrs. Weasley never noticed the missing books. Neither did Sirius. They destroyed pile after pile of Dark Arts materials, satisfied they were making the house safer.

And Harry's trunk held seven more lies he was keeping from everyone.

Finally, after dinner, adults began arriving. Order members filed into the house and disappeared down to the kitchen.

"Come on," Fred said, appearing at Harry's elbow with George beside him. "We've got a way to listen in."

He held up what looked like a flesh-colored string.

"Extendable Ears," George explained. "Our own invention. You can hear perfectly through doors with them."

"Don't tell him about those," Ron hissed at his brothers. "Mum will kill us if she finds out we told him."

Something hot and bitter flared in Harry's chest. Don't tell him. Just like they hadn't told him anything all summer. Just like they'd kept him in the dark on Dumbledore's orders while they were here, together, part of something important.

"Right," Harry said, his voice colder than he'd intended. "Wouldn't want to tell me anything useful."

Ron blinked at him. "What? Harry, I just meant-"

"I know what you meant." Harry followed the twins down to the landing outside the kitchen.

They crouched together, dangling the Extendable Ears toward the door. Below, Harry could hear the scrape of chairs, the murmur of voices settling down.

"Thank you all for coming," Dumbledore's calm voice rose above the rest. "We have much to discuss. Severus, perhaps you would share your latest intelligence?"

Harry's breath caught. This was it.

A pause. Then Snape's cold, measured voice.

"The Dark Lord's behavior continues to confound expectations. His approach has evolved significantly from his previous rise to power."

Harry's hands clenched on the edge of the landing.

"In what way?" someone asked.

"He is exercising remarkable patience," Snape said. "When several Death Eaters proposed an immediate raid on Azkaban to free imprisoned allies, he dismissed the idea entirely. Called it premature. Said it would reveal our hand too soon, that we should build power in the shadows while the Ministry remains complacent in its denial."

The floor seemed to drop out from under Harry.

The Azkaban raid. The one he'd felt was wrong, stupid, too soon. The one he'd prevented in his dream.

"That's unlike him," Dumbledore murmured. "Voldemort was never known for patience."

"Indeed. His recruitment strategies have also become more sophisticated. He has successfully brought several werewolf packs into his service-not through threats, but by offering them rights and recognition. He frames it as justice for the persecuted, restoration of their dignity."

Werewolves. Rights and recognition. Justice for the persecuted. Harry had dreamed about that exact approach. Had felt satisfaction when the recruitment succeeded.

No. This can't be-

"And his approach to neutral pure-blood families?" That was Dumbledore, his voice thoughtful.

"Sophisticated. He uses both economic pressure and appeals to tradition simultaneously-demonstrating strength while framing his cause as restoration of the natural order. Both approaches working in concert. Several families who remained neutral during the last war have now pledged support."

Both approaches. Harry remembered that dream so clearly. The Death Eaters debating which strategy to use. His instinctive sense that they needed both. His feeling that pride was a better foundation for loyalty than fear.

Every detail matched. Every single one.

Ron was saying something beside him about how scary it was that Voldemort had gotten smarter. Hermione was whispering about political strategies being harder to fight than terrorism. Fred and George were making dark jokes.

Harry barely heard them.

The meeting continued, but the words washed over him meaninglessly. He'd heard enough.

The dreams were real.

Harry stumbled back to his room in a daze. Sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

It's real. It's all real. I've been controlling him.

Every dream. Every decision. Every moment of satisfaction or frustration that had shaped Voldemort's actions. All of it real.

He'd prevented the Azkaban raid. He'd pushed Voldemort toward political strategies. He'd invaded Snape's mind. He'd shaped recruitment approaches. He'd felt pleasure at Pettigrew's suffering.

And it had all actually happened.

Harry's hands were shaking. His scar throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.

The question was: what was he going to do about it?

He could tell Dumbledore. Explain everything. Let the adults handle this impossible situation.

Or-

Or he could test it. Deliberately. Make sure it wasn't just coincidence. Make sure he actually had control.

Because if he did-if he really could control Voldemort-then maybe he didn't need to tell anyone. Maybe he could use this. Fix things himself instead of waiting for adults who'd left him isolated for weeks to decide what was best for him.

Harry lay back on his bed, his mind racing. The dreams always came when he was asleep. He couldn't control when they happened-at least, he didn't think he could. But maybe if he went to sleep thinking about what he wanted Voldemort to do, focusing on it, the dream would come and he could test whether his commands were actually followed.

It was worth trying. Better than sitting here paralyzed with uncertainty.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of everything except one clear thought: Stop recruiting werewolves. Shift resources to the Ministry. More Imperius curses on officials. Make that the priority. Political control matters more than building an army.

He repeated it to himself like a mantra, focusing on the intention, the desire, the absolute certainty that this was what needed to happen. His scar throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

Sleep came slowly. But when it finally pulled him under, Harry felt that familiar sensation of falling, of his consciousness sliding into another place.

And then he was there.

The cold stone room. The kneeling Death Eaters. The sense of power that responded to his thoughts like an extension of his own will.

But this time was different. This time, Harry was aware. Not just observing, not just feeling-but consciously present. Directing. Choosing.

The werewolves, he thought with crystalline clarity. They're a distraction. The Ministry is what matters. Political control. That's where we need to focus.

He felt the thought take hold. Felt it become part of the voice's intention, shaping the words that would be spoken.

"Enough with the werewolves," the voice said coldly. "We've secured sufficient support from them. Our resources will now be directed entirely toward the Ministry. I want more officials under the Imperius Curse. Mid-level administrators, department heads, anyone with access and authority. Political control of the Ministry is worth more than a hundred werewolf packs."

The Death Eaters murmured agreement. One asked about the recruitment efforts already underway.

"Suspend them," the voice said. "Unless opportunities present themselves with minimal effort. But they are no longer a priority. The Ministry is everything."

Yes, Harry thought with satisfaction. Exactly right.

The dream shifted, as they always did eventually. But Harry held onto the clarity, the sense of having consciously directed something real.

When he woke, dawn light was seeping through the window. His scar ached. His mouth was dry.

Had it worked? Or had that just been another dream-vivid and realistic but ultimately meaningless?

Harry wouldn't know until the next Order meeting. Until Snape reported on what Voldemort was doing. Until he could confirm whether his deliberate command had been followed.

He sat up, feeling strangely calm. Either he was losing his mind-creating elaborate delusions to cope with trauma-or he'd just given the Dark Lord a direct order.

And he had absolutely no idea which possibility terrified him more.

The next week passed in a blur of cleaning and waiting.

Mrs. Weasley had them scrubbing floors, de-doxying curtains, clearing out dangerous objects from rooms that hadn't been touched in years. Harry threw himself into the work with desperate intensity. Anything to avoid thinking. Avoid wondering. Avoid the terrible suspense of waiting to see if his test had worked.

He snapped at Ron over nothing. Ignored Hermione's attempts at conversation. Avoided everyone when he could, pleading exhaustion or headaches.

"Harry," Hermione cornered him one afternoon in the drawing room. "Are you all right? You've been acting strange since you got here."

"I'm fine," Harry said without looking at her.

"You don't seem fine. You seem angry. At us. About the summer."

Harry kept scrubbing the floor. "You were here all summer. You and Ron. Together. Part of all this. And I was stuck at Privet Drive with no information, no help, nothing."

"We wanted to tell you more," Hermione said quietly. "But Dumbledore said-"

"I don't care what Dumbledore said." Harry looked up at her then. "I needed you. Both of you. And you weren't there."

Hermione's face flushed. "That's not fair. We were following orders. Trying to keep you safe-"

"By isolating me?" Harry stood, throwing down his rag. "By leaving me alone with people who hate me? By not telling me anything?"

"We sent letters-"

"Useless letters that said nothing." Harry forced himself to speak more quietly. "I just-I needed you. And you chose Dumbledore's orders over me."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, and there were tears in her eyes now. "You're right. We should have found a way to tell you more. I just didn't want to make things worse by breaking the rules."

For just a moment, Harry felt something shift in his chest. She was right-she had wanted to tell him. He could see it in her face, hear it in her voice. She'd been trapped too, caught between Dumbledore's orders and-

But then the anger surged back, harder and colder. Of course you didn't. When it was Dumbledore asking, Hermione always found a way to justify following orders. Never mind that she'd broken plenty of rules when she thought it was necessary-brewing Polyjuice in a bathroom, keeping Rita Skeeter in a jar, setting Snape's robes on fire. But when authority figures she respected told her to do something, suddenly rule-breaking was too dangerous, too risky.

Even when it meant abandoning Harry for an entire summer.

"Harry, please-"

"I said leave me alone." His voice came out colder than he'd intended. Or maybe exactly as cold as he'd intended.

Hermione flinched. For a moment she looked like she might cry, then her expression hardened. "Fine. If that's what you want."

She left, closing the door with deliberate care-not quite a slam, but close.

Harry stared at the closed door. For a moment he could still see her flushed face, her eyes bright with tears. His chest tightened in a way he didn't like. Then he pushed it down. Pushed her down.

He felt nothing. No guilt. No regret. Just a hollow satisfaction that she'd finally felt a fraction of what he'd felt since returning to Privet Drive.

Harry was alone with his thoughts again. His guilt. His anger. His terrible, growing certainty about what he'd discovered.

His hearing was scheduled for August 12th. The days crawled by with agonizing slowness. Harry cleaned and brooded and avoided his friends and waited.

There were other Order meetings during that time, but Snape didn't attend them. Harry listened in when he could, desperate for confirmation, but heard only vague reports about Death Eater movements and Ministry politics.

Nothing specific enough to prove or disprove his test.

The morning of August 12th arrived, and Harry went to his hearing at the Ministry with Arthur Weasley.

The hearing was a blur. Harry registered Fudge's hostility, the toad-like witch's malice, Dumbledore's arrival. But none of it seemed to matter. The Ministry had changed the time and location without notice-some petty power play to catch him off guard. They ended up in a dungeon-like courtroom with the entire Wizengamot present, Fudge presiding with obvious hostility and a toad-like witch in pink watching Harry with malice.

Fudge tried to make it seem like Harry had acted recklessly. The pink witch-Umbridge-suggested he might have provoked the Dementors. Then Dumbledore arrived and spoke magnificently about self-defense and illegal Dementors in Muggle neighborhoods. Witnesses testified. The Wizengamot voted.

"Cleared of all charges," Fudge announced, looking furious.

Harry was free. Not expelled. His wand was safe.

None of it seemed to matter compared to the knowledge burning in his mind.

They returned to Grimmauld Place to find the kitchen full of Order members congratulating Harry on his acquittal. Mrs. Weasley made a celebratory lunch. Ron clapped him on the back. Hermione hugged him fiercely.

Harry smiled and thanked them and tried to feel relieved.

But all he could think about was whether there would be another Order meeting soon. Whether Snape would report. Whether Harry's test had worked.

That evening, as if in answer to his thoughts, more Order members began arriving. Harry didn't need the twins' prompting this time. He was on the landing with the Extendable Ears before they'd even finished setting up.

The meeting began with routine reports. Status updates on various Death Eater families. Concerns about Ministry appointments. Discussions of protective measures.

Then Dumbledore said, "Severus, you've been absent from our recent meetings. I trust you have new intelligence to share?"

"Indeed." Snape's voice was carefully neutral. "The Dark Lord has shifted his priorities rather dramatically in the past week."

Harry's heart stopped.

"The Dark Lord has deprioritized creature recruitment in favor of Ministry infiltration," Snape continued. "Several new Imperius victims have been identified in mid-level positions. The Dark Lord has become focused-almost obsessed-with placing more officials under the Imperius Curse. He believes political control of the Ministry is more valuable than building a larger army."

Harry couldn't breathe.

He'd done it. His deliberate command-shift resources to the Ministry, more Imperius curses, political control matters more-had been followed exactly.

"That's a significant strategic shift," someone said. "Why now?"

"I cannot say," Snape replied. "The Dark Lord does not explain his reasoning. But the orders were clear and emphatic. Ministry infiltration is now our primary objective."

The meeting continued, but Harry didn't hear any of it. His ears were ringing. His hands were shaking where they gripped the edge of the landing.

It worked.

He'd given Voldemort a direct order, and Voldemort had followed it immediately. Had shifted his entire strategy based on Harry's command.

The dreams weren't just real. The connection wasn't just passive influence through emotions.

Harry could control him. Deliberately. Completely.

He'd already won.

Ron was saying something beside him-probably about how unpredictable Voldemort was, how scary these strategic shifts were. Hermione was whispering analysis of what this might mean for the war.

Harry stood on shaking legs and stumbled back to his room.

He sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, staring at nothing.

He could control Voldemort. Give him orders. Shape his strategies. Make him do whatever Harry wanted.

He should tell Dumbledore. This was too big, too important, too dangerous to keep secret. The adults needed to know. They could figure out how to use this power, how to end the war, how to defeat Voldemort through this impossible connection.

But even as Harry thought it, he knew he wouldn't.

Because if he told them, what would happen? They'd try to study the connection. Try to understand it. Probably try to sever it "for Harry's safety." Or they'd try to control how Harry used it-give him orders about what to make Voldemort do, turn Harry into their puppet to control their puppet.

And they'd do it after leaving him isolated all summer. After keeping him in the dark. After making him feel worthless and helpless while they did important work without him.

Now they'd want to use him? Use his power? The power that was the only thing that had made him feel like he mattered during those terrible weeks at Privet Drive?

For a moment, Harry imagined telling Dumbledore. Pictured the relief of sharing this burden, of letting someone else carry some of the weight. The thought felt almost like drowning-the relief mixed with terror at losing control.

No, Harry thought. This is mine.

The realization should have horrified him. Should have been a warning that he was thinking about this all wrong.

Instead, it felt like relief.

He had power. Real power. Power over the Dark Lord himself. And no one else knew. No one else could take it from him or tell him how to use it or make him give it up.

There were dangers, of course. If Voldemort discovered the connection somehow, if Harry lost control, if something went wrong. But Voldemort didn't seem aware of being controlled. He rationalized everything as his own decisions, his own strategic thinking.

As long as Harry was careful, as long as he made sure his commands seemed like reasonable choices Voldemort might make on his own, the Dark Lord would never know.

And Harry could use this. Could prevent attacks. Could protect people. Could maybe even end the war without anyone dying.

Or at least, that's what he told himself.

The truth-the part he barely wanted to acknowledge even to himself-was simpler and darker.

He'd felt powerless for so long. Helpless in the graveyard. Isolated at Privet Drive. Kept in the dark by people who claimed to care about him. And now he had power. Real, terrible, absolute power.

And Harry was not going to give it up.

Not to Dumbledore, who'd left him isolated and helpless all summer.

Not to Hermione and Ron, who'd abandoned him on someone else's orders.

Not to anyone.

This was his. His power. His control. His secret.

And he would keep it that way.

Harry lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. His scar throbbed with its usual dull ache, a constant reminder of the connection to Voldemort. The connection Harry now knew he could use deliberately.

Tomorrow he'd return to Hogwarts. Tomorrow he'd have to act normal, pretend nothing had changed, keep this massive secret while surrounded by friends and teachers and people who thought they knew him.

But tonight, in the darkness of his room at Grimmauld Place, Harry allowed himself one moment of terrible, exhilarating certainty.

He'd spent the summer controlling the Dark Lord without knowing it.

And now he was going to keep doing it on purpose.

The war had already been won. The others just didn't know it yet.

And Harry had no intention of telling them.

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express was exactly as Harry remembered-crowded, noisy, filled with excited students reconnecting after the summer holidays. He found an empty compartment near the back and claimed a window seat, hoping the others would take the hint and leave him alone.

They didn't.

Ron arrived first, grinning as he hauled his trunk into the compartment. "Blimey, Harry, thought I'd lost you in the crowd. Hermione's helping Ginny find a compartment with her friends, but they'll be along in a bit."

Harry grunted in acknowledgment, turning his attention back to the window. The platform was still packed with families saying their goodbyes. He watched a mother fussing over her son's robes, adjusting his collar for the third time while the boy squirmed impatiently.

"So," Ron said, settling into the seat across from Harry with the air of someone determined to be cheerful, "reckon this year will be better than last? Has to be, right? Can't get much worse than the Tournament and-well. You know."

"Yeah." Harry's voice was flat.

Ron pressed on, apparently not noticing-or choosing not to notice-Harry's tone. "Wonder who they got for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Maybe someone decent for once? Though knowing our luck, it'll be another nutter. Or someone boring as dirt. Remember Binns? At least he teaches History of Magic, can sleep right through that, but Defense-"

"Don't know. Don't care."

That finally made Ron pause. He studied Harry for a moment, his smile faltering. "You alright, mate?"

"Fine."

The compartment door slid open before Ron could pursue it further. Hermione appeared, followed by Ginny and a girl with straggly blonde hair and enormous eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. She wore her Ravenclaw tie and what appeared to be radish earrings that swung as she moved.

Harry's eyes flicked to the prefect badges on Ron and Hermione's chests-bright and shiny, catching the light. They'd been appointed at the end of summer. Dumbledore had given Ron the badge instead of Harry.

Another decision made without him. Another sign he couldn't be trusted with responsibility. Another reminder that the adults saw him as someone to be managed, not someone to be empowered.

But that felt distant now. Unimportant.

Let Ron have his badge and his patrols. Harry had something far more important than a prefect's badge.

He had real power.

"Harry, Ron," Ginny said, "this is Luna Lovegood. Luna, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley."

"Hello," Luna said dreamily, drifting to an empty seat without waiting for a response. She pulled out a copy of The Quibbler and promptly turned it upside down.

Ron blinked at her, then shrugged and turned back to Harry. Hermione's eyes went immediately to Harry, her expression already concerned.

"Harry, how are you feeling?"

"I said I'm fine." Harry didn't look at her.

An uncomfortable silence fell. Ginny shifted her weight, glancing between Harry and Ron. Luna seemed perfectly content with her magazine, apparently unbothered by the tension.

Hermione bit her lip. "We're just worried about you. After everything that happened-"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But Harry-"

"I said I don't want to talk about it." This time his voice was sharp enough that Hermione flinched. Ron's expression darkened, caught between concern for Harry and irritation at his treatment of Hermione.

The door slid open again. Neville Longbottom stood in the doorway, looking uncertain, clutching something wrapped in brown paper along with his toad Trevor's cage. "Er-is there room? Everywhere else is full."

"Course there is," Ron said, his voice overly hearty in the strained atmosphere. "Come on in, Neville."

Neville squeezed in beside Luna, setting Trevor's cage carefully on his lap while balancing the wrapped package. He glanced around at the tense faces, clearly sensing he'd walked into something.

"What's that you've got there?" Ginny asked, apparently grateful for a change of subject.

Neville brightened immediately. "Oh! It's from my Great Uncle Algie. A Mimbulus mimbletonia!" He began unwrapping it carefully, revealing what looked like a small, gray cactus covered in boils. "It's really rare. This is only a baby one-they can grow up to be huge. And if you prod them, they squirt Stinksap."

"Fascinating," Luna said, lowering her magazine to examine the plant with genuine interest.

Ron wrinkled his nose. "Looks like a diseased organ."

"It's brilliant," Neville said defensively, cradling the plant protectively. "Really valuable. Great Uncle Algie knows I'm interested in Herbology, so he got it for me for my birthday."

Harry found himself watching Neville's enthusiasm with something almost like warmth. At least someone had simple, uncomplicated interests. At least someone wasn't looking at him with concern or worry or careful handling.

"That's pretty cool, Neville," Harry said, and was rewarded with a surprised, pleased smile.

"Really? I mean-thanks, Harry. I'm going to try to breed it, see if I can get seeds. Professor Sprout says she'll help me set up a proper growing environment in one of the greenhouses."

The conversation, such as it was, limped along after that. Ron made a few more attempts at enthusiasm-Quidditch prospects, Fred and George's shop plans, anything to fill the awkward silence. Harry responded in monosyllables when he had to respond at all. Hermione watched him with worried eyes, occasionally exchanging meaningful looks with Ron that Harry pretended not to notice. Ginny eventually gave up and started chatting with Luna about something to do with Nargles. Neville alternated between tending to his plant and reading a Herbology text.

Somewhere past the halfway point of the journey, Hermione pulled out the latest copy of the Daily Prophet. Harry caught sight of the headline-something about "Concerned Parents Question Potter's Stability"-and felt his jaw clench.

"They're still at it, then," Ron said, his voice carefully neutral. "The Prophet."

"It's gotten worse," Hermione said quietly, scanning the article. "They're printing letters from readers now. People saying their children shouldn't have to attend school with someone who's clearly disturbed. That Dumbledore is being irresponsible keeping you at Hogwarts."

"Let me see that," Ginny demanded, snatching the paper. Her eyes widened as she read. "This is rubbish! They're calling you a dangerous attention-seeker. Saying you made the whole thing up for fame."

"I know what they're saying," Harry said flatly. He'd seen enough copies of the Prophet over the summer, had endured enough headlines calling him a liar. "Doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters!" Hermione said. "They're poisoning public opinion against you. People are going to believe-"

"I believe you, Harry."

Everyone turned to stare at Neville. His voice had been quiet but steady, cutting through the discussion with simple certainty.

"What?" Harry said.

"I believe you," Neville repeated, meeting Harry's eyes. There was no doubt in his expression, no hesitation. "About You-Know-Who. About what happened. The Prophet can print whatever lies they want, but I know you're telling the truth."

The compartment went silent.

"My gran," Neville continued, his voice growing more confident, "she remembers the first war. She told me what it was like. How He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named worked. She says anyone who thinks he's really gone forever is kidding themselves. And you wouldn't lie about Cedric. About something like that."

Something tight in Harry's chest loosened slightly. He'd grown so accustomed to the weight of everyone's doubt, everyone's skepticism-or worse, the careful way people avoided the subject entirely-that Neville's simple statement of faith felt like cool water after days in the desert.

"Thanks," Harry said, and meant it. The word came out rough, his throat suddenly tight.

Neville nodded, going slightly pink but looking pleased. "Just thought you should know. That some of us believe you. That some of us aren't going to let the Prophet tell us what to think."

Ron cleared his throat. "We all believe you, mate. Course we do."

Harry's jaw tightened. Do you? he wanted to ask. Did you believe me enough to write me this summer? Did you believe me enough to tell me what was happening?

But he didn't say any of that. Not with Neville sitting right there, having just offered the first genuine support Harry had felt in months. Instead, Harry just looked back out the window.

"I know you do," he said quietly, and let them interpret that however they wanted.

The rest of the journey passed in relative quiet. Hermione tried a few more times to draw Harry into conversation, but gave up when she got nothing but monosyllables. Ron eventually pulled out a pack of Exploding Snap cards and started a game with Ginny. Neville fussed over his Mimbulus mimbletonia, occasionally looking up to smile tentatively at Harry. Luna continued humming, perfectly content in the silence.

Harry watched the Scottish Highlands roll past and thought about belief. About loyalty.

Ron and Hermione claimed to believe him, but they'd spent the summer keeping secrets on Dumbledore's orders. They'd chosen Dumbledore's trust over his need. Even now, they were trying to manage him, to carefully navigate around his anger as though he were something fragile that might break if handled wrong.

Neville, though-Neville had simply stated his belief. No caveats, no careful handling. Just faith. And more than that, he'd done it publicly, in front of everyone, when it would have been so much easier to stay silent. When the Prophet was calling Harry dangerous and disturbed, when even believing him carried a social cost, Neville had stood up and said it anyway.

The only one who hasn't betrayed me, Harry thought. Maybe he's someone I can actually trust.

It was strange, really. He'd never been particularly close to Neville before. They were dormmates, friendly enough, but never real friends. Yet here, on the train back to Hogwarts, it was Neville whose words actually mattered. Neville who made him feel less alone.

Harry found himself watching Neville surreptitiously for the rest of the journey. The other boy was absorbed in his Herbology book, occasionally checking on his new plant. There was something reassuring about Neville's steadiness, his complete lack of artifice. What you saw was what you got-no hidden agendas, no secrets kept "for your own good."

I should remember this, Harry thought. Who actually stands by me when it matters.

The Great Hall was packed with chattering students, the ceiling charmed to reflect the star-strewn sky outside, the floating candles casting warm light over the four long house tables. It should have felt like coming home.

Instead, Harry felt like he was watching it all from behind glass.

He sat between Neville and Dean Thomas while conversation flowed around him. Ron kept shooting him worried glances from down the table. Hermione was doing the same from across, though she at least tried to be subtle about it. Seamus Finnigan was arguing with Dean about the Kenmare Kestrels' chances this season. The first years at the far end of the Gryffindor table looked wide-eyed and overwhelmed, whispering excitedly to each other about finally being at Hogwarts.

"Before we begin the feast," Dumbledore's voice rang out across the Hall, instantly silencing the chatter, "I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you."

Scattered laughter and applause. Harry didn't join in. His eyes had already found the squat woman in lurid pink robes sitting beside Dumbledore at the staff table. He recognized her immediately-the toad-like face, the self-satisfied smile. Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. She'd been at his hearing, sitting on Fudge's right hand, asking pointed questions designed to make Harry look unstable. She'd voted to convict him.

What's she doing here?

The food appeared, and around Harry, students began filling their plates with enthusiasm. Harry served himself mechanically, his attention still on Umbridge.

What's she doing here? Harry wondered, though he had a sinking feeling he already knew.

"Who's that?" Dean asked, nodding toward the staff table. "The one in pink?"

"Dolores Umbridge," Hermione said quietly. "She works for the Minister. I can't imagine why she'd be here."

Harry had a very good idea why she'd be here, and none of the possibilities were good.

His suspicions were confirmed when Dumbledore stood to introduce the woman. "Professor Dolores Umbridge," he announced. "Our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Polite applause, though Harry noticed it was scattered and unenthusiastic. Most students were too busy exchanging confused glances. A Ministry official as their teacher? That couldn't be normal.

Then Umbridge stood, and Harry's attention sharpened.

She was still smiling that self-satisfied smile as she moved to the front of the staff table. When she began to speak, her voice was high and girlish, completely at odds with her toad-like appearance. "Hem, hem."

Harry's jaw clenched. There was something profoundly irritating about that little cough, that simpering tone. He'd heard it at his hearing, right before she'd suggested he was a dangerous fantasist who shouldn't be allowed near other students.

"Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome," Umbridge said, her smile never wavering. "And how lovely to see all your bright, happy faces looking up at me."

Around Harry, students shifted uncomfortably. The silence in the Hall had taken on a different quality-no longer the respectful attention given to Dumbledore, but the wary quiet of people uncertain what they were dealing with.

"I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all," Umbridge continued, "and I'm sure we'll be very good friends."

No, we won't, Harry thought coldly.

The speech went on-something about the Ministry's commitment to education, about preserving what ought to be preserved and perfecting what could be perfected, pruning where pruning was necessary. It was all couched in bureaucratic language that said everything and nothing, but Harry heard the message underneath clearly enough.

The Ministry was taking control of Hogwarts. Fudge was afraid of Dumbledore, afraid of what the Headmaster might do if he believed Voldemort had returned. So he was putting his own person in place, someone to watch and report and interfere. Someone who'd already demonstrated her loyalty to Fudge by voting to expel Harry.

Another obstacle, Harry thought bitterly. Another person trying to control me.

The anger simmered just beneath the surface, familiar and almost comforting. At least anger was simple. At least anger made sense.

"Thank you, Professor Umbridge, for that most illuminating speech," Dumbledore said, rising to lead the applause. His tone was perfectly polite, but Harry thought he caught a glimmer of concern in the Headmaster's eyes as he watched the woman return to her seat.

The feast ended eventually, and the prefects began herding the first years toward their respective common rooms. Harry followed the crowd of Gryffindors mechanically, Neville at his side, Ron and Hermione trailing behind with continued worried glances that Harry ignored.

The Gryffindor common room was warm and familiar, unchanged from the year before. Students scattered to their favorite chairs, catching up on summer gossip, speculating about the new Defense teacher. Harry headed straight for the boys' dormitory stairs.

"Harry, wait," Hermione called after him. "Don't you want to-"

"I'm tired," Harry said without turning around. "See you tomorrow."

He heard her worried whisper to Ron as he climbed the stairs, but didn't catch the words. Didn't particularly care to.

The fifth-year boys' dormitory was exactly as he'd left it. Five four-poster beds with scarlet hangings, his trunk already waiting at the foot of his usual bed, Hedwig's empty cage on the bedside table. Dean and Seamus were right behind him on the stairs, their earlier debate apparently resolved. Neville came last, moving more slowly, carefully carrying both Trevor's cage and his new plant.

Harry went to his trunk and started unpacking mechanically. Robes in the wardrobe, books on the shelf, the photograph of his parents on the bedside table where it always went. The familiar routine was oddly soothing after the chaos of the feast.

Ron arrived a few minutes later, closing the door behind him with more force than necessary. He looked agitated, his ears slightly pink.

"So," Seamus said, his tone carefully casual as he unpacked his own trunk, "had an interesting summer, then, Harry?"

Harry's hands stilled on his schoolbooks. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, just-" Seamus shrugged, not quite meeting Harry's eyes. "Lot of talk, wasn't there? About what you said happened at the end of last year."

"What I said happened?" Harry turned to face him fully, his voice dangerously quiet. "You mean what did happen? Voldemort came back. He killed Cedric Diggory. I watched it happen."

Seamus flinched at the name-whether Voldemort or Cedric, Harry couldn't tell. "Yeah, well. Me mam didn't want me to come back this year."

"What?" Harry said sharply.

"She didn't want me to come back," Seamus repeated, his voice taking on a defensive edge. "She thinks-well, she thinks you're lying. About You-Know-Who. The Ministry says you're unstable, says Dumbledore's losing it. She wasn't sure it was safe, sending me back to school with you here."

"So you think I'm a liar?" Harry's voice was very quiet now, very dangerous.

"I-I don't know what to think!" Seamus burst out. "You're saying one thing, the whole Ministry's saying another-"

"The Ministry is wrong!"

"Yeah? And how do you know? How do any of us know what really happened? We weren't there! We only have your word for it, and-"

"And what?" Harry snarled, taking a step toward Seamus. "Say it. What are you trying to say?"

"That maybe everyone else is right!" Seamus shouted back. "Maybe you are lying! Maybe you did make the whole thing up for attention, or maybe you're just-"

"Harry's not lying," Ron said sharply, stepping between them. "He's telling the truth. I know he is."

"How?" Seamus demanded. "How do you know? Were you there in that graveyard?"

"Because I'm his best mate," Ron said firmly. "Because I've been with him through everything-"

"Oh, so we're just supposed to believe him because you say so?" Seamus's face was flushed now, his Irish accent thickening with anger. "Because Harry Potter can do no wrong?"

"Maybe you should just shut your mouth," Harry said, his hand moving toward his wand, "before you say something you'll really regret."

"Harry-" Ron started, but Harry rounded on him.

"And where were you this summer, Ron?" Harry's voice was sharp, cutting. "When I needed someone? When the Prophet was calling me a liar every day? Oh, that's right-you were too busy following Dumbledore's orders. Too busy keeping secrets to actually help me."

"That's not fair," Ron protested, his ears going red. "We wanted to tell you things, we did, but Dumbledore said-"

"You were there," Harry continued, his voice rising. "With Hermione. With the Order. Part of everything. And I was alone at the Dursleys. So don't pretend you were 'with me through everything.' I don't care what Dumbledore said!" Harry's voice rose to a shout. "I don't care about his reasons or his orders or any of it! You chose to follow them. You left me alone all summer, Ron. You and Hermione both. You knew what I was going through, knew I was stuck at the Dursleys hearing nothing, and you chose to follow Dumbledore's orders instead of helping me."

"We wanted to help!" Ron protested, his face flushing. "But we couldn't just-"

"Stop it," Neville said quietly.

Everyone turned to look at him. He was standing by his bed, still holding Trevor's cage, his face pale but determined.

"Just stop it, all of you," Neville continued. "Harry's telling the truth. I know he is. And fighting about it-" He paused, struggling for words. "It won't help. We should be... we should stick together. Not fight each other."

It wasn't eloquent, but it was sincere. And somehow that mattered more.

"Stay out of this, Neville," Seamus said. "This isn't your-"

"No," Neville interrupted, surprising everyone. "I won't stay out of it. Harry's telling the truth about You-Know-Who. I know he is. My gran knows he is. Anyone who remembers the first war knows that You-Know-Who coming back makes more sense than him being gone forever."

He looked directly at Seamus. "Your mam's scared. I understand that. My gran's scared too. But being scared doesn't make the truth go away. It doesn't make You-Know-Who any less real. And turning on Harry won't make you any safer."

Then he turned to Harry and Ron, his voice still steady. "And you two-fighting won't help anything. Ron does believe you, Harry. I can see that. And you're right to be angry about the summer. But Seamus is the one saying you're lying, not Ron."

He took a breath. "I'm not saying you have to forgive Ron. I'm not saying you shouldn't be angry. But he's not your enemy. Seamus isn't your enemy either, even if he's too scared to see the truth right now." He glanced at all of them. "The only enemy any of us have is You-Know-Who. And fighting each other just makes his job easier."

Silence fell over the dormitory. Dean was staring at Neville with something like awe. Ron looked torn between gratitude and continued hurt. Seamus was red-faced and sullen, clearly unwilling to back down but lacking a good response.

Harry felt his anger drain away, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Neville was right, annoyingly. Fighting with Ron and Seamus wouldn't change anything. Wouldn't make the summer any less horrible. Wouldn't make the Prophet's lies any less damaging.

It was just... wasted energy.

And Neville had stood up for him. Not just on the train, but here, now, when it would have been easier to stay quiet and let them fight it out. When Seamus had told him to stay out of it, Neville had refused. Had spoken up anyway.

Harry remembered first year-Neville trying to stop them from leaving the common room after hours, thinking he was nearly a Squib but still standing up because he thought it was right. That same quality was there now. That same willingness to speak up when it mattered, consequences be damned.

"I'm going to bed," Harry said flatly, turning away from all of them. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

He drew the hangings around his bed without bothering to change into pajamas and lay on top of the covers, staring up at the scarlet canopy.

Behind the curtains, he could hear the others moving about. Quiet murmurs-Ron saying something to Neville, Neville's soft response. Seamus gathering his things. The door opening and closing; Seamus leaving.

Finally, Dean's voice: "That was good, what you did. Stopping them, I mean."

"Someone had to," Neville said quietly. "They're friends. They shouldn't be fighting."

Are we friends? Harry wondered, listening to the conversation through the bed hangings. Ron and I? Or did that end this summer, when he chose Dumbledore's orders over me?

He didn't know anymore. Didn't know what he felt about Ron, or Hermione, or any of them.

Except Neville.

Neville, who'd believed him on the train without being asked. Who'd stood up for him against Seamus just now. Who'd stepped into the middle of a fight to defend Harry, even when told to stay out of it.

He backed me when it mattered, Harry thought. Not just believed me-actually stood up for me.

That was different from Ron's belief, which came with complications and guilt and Dumbledore's orders tangled through it. Neville's support was simpler. Cleaner. No strings attached, no divided loyalties.

That matters, Harry thought as the sounds of his dormmates settling in for the night washed over him. That's worth remembering.

His thoughts drifted to the summer. To the dreams where he'd moved through Voldemort's mind, directing the Dark Lord's actions without the Dark Lord ever knowing. Would he dream tonight? Would he find himself in that strange, powerful place again, able to shape events with nothing but his will?

Part of him hoped so. Part of him wanted that escape, that feeling of control and power that was so absent from his waking life. Where everyone doubted him and manipulated him and kept him in the dark, in the dreams he had absolute authority. In the dreams, he was the one pulling the strings.

But he was tired, genuinely tired, and the confrontation had drained what little energy he had left.

Tomorrow, Harry thought. Tomorrow I'll see if the dreams come back. See if that power is still there.

Tonight, I just want to sleep.

Somewhere in the castle, Dumbledore was probably in his office, carefully keeping his distance from Harry for reasons Harry still didn't fully understand. Umbridge was probably writing her first report to Fudge about the unstable Potter boy. Hermione was probably lying awake worrying about Harry's coldness toward Ron.

Let them all think what they wanted. Let them worry and doubt and scheme.

Harry closed his eyes and waited for sleep to claim him.

At least Neville believes in me, was his last conscious thought. At least I have that.

Chapter Text

The first week back at Hogwarts fell into a rhythm that felt almost normal-if Harry ignored the stares in the corridors, the whispered conversations that stopped when he passed, and the way even some Gryffindors looked at him with uncertainty now.

Defense Against the Dark Arts with Umbridge was exactly as terrible as Harry had anticipated.

Their textbook was listed in their Hogwarts letters-Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard, a book so mind-numbingly boring that Hermione had actually looked personally offended when she'd first opened it at Grimmauld Place. The first lesson confirmed Harry's worst expectations.

"There will be no need to talk in my classroom," Umbridge announced in her girlish voice, her toad-like smile fixed in place. She wrote course aims on the board that amounted to: read the book, answer the questions, don't practice any actual magic.

Hermione's objections started immediately-something about needing practical application for their O.W.L.s-but Harry tuned it out. He'd already assessed the situation: Umbridge wasn't here to teach. She was here to watch him, to control information, to report back to Fudge. Challenging her directly would only paint a target on your back.

So while Hermione argued, Harry opened his book and appeared to read. Actually, he was thinking about the dreams. He'd had another one last night-Voldemort planning something, and Harry gently redirecting his thoughts toward patience.

I did that, Harry thought, staring at the meaningless words on the page. I changed his mind without him knowing.

The second week of term brought Harry's first detention with Umbridge.

He'd known it was coming. During their second Defense lesson, when Umbridge had made some comment about "recent events" being "greatly exaggerated," Harry hadn't been able to keep quiet.

Hermione had been arguing about practical application when Umbridge cut her off.

"There will be no need to practice defensive spells in my classroom, Miss Granger. The Ministry has determined that reading about them is quite sufficient."

Harry's hand shot up before he could stop himself.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?" Umbridge's smile widened.

"What if someone attacks us outside of Hogwarts?" Harry asked, keeping his voice level. "During holidays, or after we graduate?"

"The Ministry's Aurors are more than capable of handling any threats. Students learning dangerous spells creates far more risk than it prevents." Her eyes fixed on him. "After all, we wouldn't want anyone to be... hurt... by a classmate who thought they were 'practicing defense.' Some students may have... tendencies... toward violence that concern them."

Several students were looking at Harry now. The implication was clear.

"I don't have violent tendencies," Harry said, his voice sharp. "But I have been attacked. By real threats. And 'reading about' defensive magic wouldn't have saved me."

"Detention, Mr. Potter." Umbridge's smile never wavered. "Tonight. My office. Seven o'clock."

Harry had expected lines. Maybe cleaning without magic. The usual boring punishments.

He hadn't expected the blood quill.

"You'll be writing lines for me today, Mr. Potter," Umbridge said when he arrived, gesturing to a desk near her own. Pink plates decorated with kittens lined the walls. The whole room smelled like roses and something sickeningly sweet underneath. "I want you to write: I must not tell lies."

"How many times?"

"Oh, as long as it takes for the message to... sink in." Her toad-like smile widened. "You'll find a quill on the desk. No ink needed."

The moment Harry pressed the quill to parchment, pain lanced across the back of his right hand. He looked down to see the words appearing on his skin, carved into the flesh as he wrote them: I must not tell lies.

Harry froze, staring at his hand. The words gleamed wetly before the skin began knitting back together, leaving faint silvery lines.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Potter?"

Harry looked up at her. She was watching him with that toad-like smile, clearly expecting him to protest. To refuse. To give her an excuse to escalate.

She wants me to react. Wants me to complain so she can tell Fudge I'm out of control.

Harry thought about the Prophet articles calling him disturbed and dangerous. About Fudge's determination to discredit him. About how everyone was waiting for him to prove them right by losing control.

I won't give her the satisfaction.

"No problem, Professor," Harry said quietly, and started writing again.

The pain was worse the second time. His hand burned and throbbed as the quill carved the words into his flesh. But Harry kept his face blank, his hand steady. He wrote the lines over and over while Umbridge pretended to grade papers, occasionally glancing up to watch him with satisfied malice.

I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies.

By the time Umbridge finally dismissed him-"I think we'll need several more sessions before the lesson truly sinks in"-Harry's hand was throbbing, the words etched repeatedly into his skin in overlapping, angry welts.

He walked back to Gryffindor Tower in silence, his hand tucked into his pocket. The pain was sharp and insistent, but oddly focusing. Clarifying.

She tortured me. A Ministry official just tortured a student, and she'll get away with it because Fudge wants me discredited.

The anger was cold and controlled. Not explosive rage, but something more calculated.

Fine. If that's how she wants to play it.

That night, Harry lay in bed behind his curtains, waiting for the dreams.

When they came, he was ready.

He found himself in Voldemort's mind-that familiar sensation of being present but separate, able to observe and influence. The Dark Lord was in some cold room, Pettigrew cowering before him.

"My Lord," Pettigrew was whimpering, "I've done everything you asked-"

Voldemort's irritation was palpable. And Harry felt his own anger rise-Umbridge's torture, her satisfied smile, the pain still throbbing in his hand. All of it channeled into a single desire.

Hurt him.

The thought came unbidden, and for a moment Harry hesitated. This was Pettigrew-pathetic, cowardly Pettigrew who'd betrayed his parents. Who deserved punishment, surely. But using Voldemort to torture him, using the Cruciatus Curse as an outlet for Harry's own rage...

Hermione would be horrified. Ron would be disturbed. Even Neville would probably-

They don't understand, Harry thought. They weren't there. They don't know what Umbridge did.

And Pettigrew did deserve it.

The decision felt simple after that.

Hurt him.

Voldemort-without knowing why, without recognizing the impulse as anything but his own-raised his wand.

"Crucio."

Pettigrew's screams were cathartic. Harry felt the rage finding release through the Dark Lord's actions. The pain in his hand seemed to fade, replaced by dark satisfaction.

He let Voldemort hold the curse longer than necessary. Let the anger burn itself out through someone else's wand.

When Harry woke, his hand was still throbbing. But the rage had cooled to something manageable.

That's one way to handle it. Take it out on Pettigrew instead of everyone here.

But even as satisfaction settled in his chest, another thought followed. Using Voldemort to torture Pettigrew had felt good-better than it should have. But it was reactive. Stupid. How many times could he torture Pettigrew before the man died or went mad or became useless? And what would happen to Harry if he kept needing to hurt someone every time Umbridge gave him detention?

I can't keep doing this, Harry realized. Not like this. I need to be smarter about this. Need better strategies. Because if I keep losing my temper in class, keep getting detentions, keep needing violent catharsis just to cope... eventually something will go wrong.

The detention had taught him something: Umbridge wanted him to lose control. And if Harry kept using Voldemort as an outlet for his rage, he'd eventually slip.

I need better strategies. Better tools.

Thursday morning, Hermione cornered Harry in the common room before breakfast.

"Harry, I was thinking-would you want to come to Hogsmeade with us when the first visit comes up? We could go to Honeydukes, maybe the Three Broomsticks. It's been ages since we just... spent time together. Without all the stress."

Harry looked up from his Transfiguration homework. Her expression was hopeful, almost pleading.

"Can't," Harry said. "I'm helping Neville with something that day."

"You don't even know which day it is yet," Hermione said, frustration creeping into her voice.

"Doesn't matter. I'll be busy."

"Harry-"

"I said I'll be busy." Harry turned back to his essay, effectively dismissing her.

He felt her exchange a look with Ron across the room. Ron had been watching with worried eyes, clearly wanting to join the conversation but uncertain of his reception.

Finally, Hermione left.

They had all summer to include me, Harry thought. Why should I drop everything now just because they finally decided to care?

Besides, he really was meeting Neville. They were working on Herbology homework together.

Harry found Neville in an empty classroom near the greenhouses, already set up with his textbook and the Mimbulus mimbletonia.

"Harry! Thanks for coming." Neville smiled. "I wanted to compare notes on the Bouncing Bulb essay."

They worked in comfortable silence, occasionally discussing proper soil composition or propagation techniques. It was peaceful. Normal.

After about twenty minutes, Neville glanced at Harry's right hand, which was resting on the desk. The words from the detention were still visible-faint silvery lines spelling out I must not tell lies, overlapping and repeated.

"That looks painful," Neville said quietly.

"It's fine," Harry said automatically.

"My gran sent me some healing paste." Neville pulled a small tin from his bag. "Made from dittany and murtlap essence. Really good for cuts and burns. Helps with scarring too." He set it on the desk between them. "Keep it. Gran sent loads-I'm so clumsy I go through the stuff like water." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Between melting cauldrons and cutting myself while chopping ingredients in Potions, I think I use more healing paste than actual potion ingredients. Snape makes me so nervous I can barely hold a knife steady."

Harry stared at the tin. It would be easy to refuse, to push Neville away like he'd been pushing everyone else.

But Neville wasn't everyone else. He was just offering help, with no strings attached.

"Thanks," Harry said quietly, taking the tin.

Neville smiled, relieved. "Just take care of yourself, yeah?"

Harry opened the tin. The paste smelled faintly of herbs. He spread some over the words carved into his hand, wincing at the initial sting before a cooling sensation took over. The throbbing pain began fading immediately.

"That's really good," Harry admitted.

"Gran knows her healing herbs," Neville said, returning to his essay. "She always says proper wizards know basic healing."

They fell back into working on their essays. Harry found himself relaxing in a way he couldn't around Ron and Hermione anymore. No hidden agenda, no careful watching, no walking on eggshells.

Just friendship. Simple and straightforward.

When they packed up to head to dinner, Neville asked hopefully, "Same time next week?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "That would be good."

That evening, after the dormitory had settled down for the night, Harry lay awake thinking about privacy and strategies.

He needed a way to study without interruption. Without his roommates noticing what he was reading or wondering why he was awake so late. The Black library books were too risky to pull out otherwise.

The library might have something. Charms for privacy, for discretion.

The next day, Harry spent his free period browsing the Charms section. It didn't take long to find what he needed: several books on privacy charms and wards. Notice-me-not charms were mentioned in multiple texts-standard magic, similar in principle to the Muggle-repelling charms that protected places like Diagon Alley or the Quidditch World Cup grounds. Nothing dark or illegal, just practical magic for when you wanted to go unnoticed.

Harry checked out Advanced Charms for Privacy and Protection and brought it back to the common room. Over the next several days, he practiced in spare moments-not in the dormitory yet, too risky. But in empty classrooms, in quiet corners of the castle.

The charm was straightforward: a twist of the wand, a clear intent to be overlooked. Not invisibility-just making himself easy to miss, unremarkable, part of the background.

His first attempts were weak. Barely enough to make someone glance past without much thought. But he kept practicing, adjusting his intent, strengthening the magic.

By the end of the week, he could cast it reliably enough that students would walk right past him in the corridor without noticing unless they were specifically looking for him.

Good enough to start using in the dormitory, Harry decided.

He established a routine. Each evening, he'd head up about fifteen minutes before his roommates, ostensibly to organize his things for the next day. Really, he was casting the charms-carefully, repeatedly, building up the effect layer by layer on his bed and the immediate area around it.

By the second week, it was working reliably. Dean walked right past Harry's bed one evening while Harry was sitting on it, looking for his Transfiguration textbook-which was on Harry's bedside table. Dean checked the other beds, gave up, and left without ever noticing Harry watching him.

"Could've sworn I left it up here," Dean muttered as he headed back downstairs.

Harry waited until he was gone, then allowed himself a small smile.

Perfect.

More detentions came that week. Tuesday and Thursday brought more sessions of writing lines with the blood quill. Each night, he applied Neville's healing paste. The wounds healed cleaner than they would have otherwise, though the scarring was permanent now. The words remained etched into his skin: I must not tell lies.

Let them stay, Harry thought. A reminder of what she is. Of why she needs to be dealt with.

His dreams continued. Some nights he found himself in Voldemort's mind, able to observe and occasionally influence. He practiced subtlety-gentle nudges rather than strong pushes. A suggestion toward caution here, a redirected thought there. Nothing dramatic enough that the Dark Lord might notice something was wrong.

Think strategically, Harry reminded himself. Not emotionally.

Friday afternoon found Harry in the library, working on his Charms essay. It was due Monday, which meant he had the whole weekend-but Harry found himself wanting to finish it now, while the material was fresh in his mind.

It was strange, actually. In previous years, Friday afternoons had meant Exploding Snap in the common room, or chess with Ron, or a walk around the grounds. Homework was something you put off until Sunday evening, something you rushed through while Ron complained about how much Snape had assigned.

But without Ron suggesting they do something more fun first, Harry just... kept working. Got things done early instead of rushing through essays the night before they were due.

Huh, Harry thought, dipping his quill in ink. I'm actually keeping up this year.

"Harry?"

He looked up to find Hermione standing by his table, holding a stack of books. She looked uncertain-an unusual expression for her.

"Can I sit?" she asked.

Harry shrugged, returning to his essay.

Hermione sat down across from him, arranging her books carefully. She pulled out parchment and began working on what looked like the same Charms essay Harry was finishing.

They worked in silence for several minutes. Hermione kept glancing up, watching him.

Finally: "Your essay looks good."

Harry didn't look up. "Thanks."

"You've been doing really well this year. McGonagall mentioned your last Transfiguration essay was much improved."

"Good to know." Harry kept writing.

"Harry-" Hermione set down her quill. "Can we talk? Really talk?"

"About what?"

"About why you're spending every evening in the library instead of with us." Her voice was quiet. "You're avoiding us."

"I'm studying. Thought you'd approve."

"I do! I mean-" She looked frustrated. "Of course I'm glad you're taking school seriously. But not like this. Not because you'd rather be anywhere than with your friends."

Harry set down his quill. "You nagged me about studying for years, Hermione. Now I'm doing it. Make up your mind."

"That's not fair-"

"Isn't it?" Harry gathered his things. "Either you want me focused on schoolwork or you want me socializing. Can't have both."

He left before she could respond.

She got what she wanted, Harry thought as he climbed the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower. Just not the way she wanted it.

The thought gave him a cold sort of satisfaction.

Saturday brought another confrontation with Ron and Hermione in the common room.

"Harry, we need to talk," Hermione said, approaching where Harry sat by the fire.

"I'm busy," Harry said, not looking up from his Potions essay.

"No, you're not." Ron stepped forward, looking determined. "You're avoiding us. Have been all week."

Harry set down his quill slowly. "Fine. What?"

"We want-" Hermione glanced at Ron. "We're worried about you. You've been different since-"

"Since the summer?" Harry's voice was cold. "Wonder whose fault that is."

"That's not fair," Ron said, his ears reddening. "We explained about Dumbledore's orders-"

"Right. Orders." Harry stood, gathering his things. "Well, I'm not under anyone's orders anymore. And I'm choosing to study. Problem?"

"Yes, actually!" Hermione's voice rose. "The problem is you won't talk to us, you spend all your time with Neville-"

"So that's what this is about." Harry's jaw tightened. "You're jealous."

"We're not jealous!" Ron protested. "We're your best mates! Or we were until you decided you'd rather-"

"Rather what? Rather spend time with someone who didn't abandon me?" Harry's voice was quiet but cutting. "Someone who actually stood up for me when it mattered?"

He left before they could respond.

Let them worry. It's not my job to make them feel better about themselves.

By the second week of September, Harry's notice-me-not charms were working reliably. Strong enough that he felt comfortable taking the risk.

Late Sunday night, after everyone else was asleep, Harry lay awake listening.

Ron's snores were steady and deep. Neville's breathing was soft and even. Dean had stopped shifting around at least twenty minutes ago. Seamus-Harry waited, counting breaths. Yes, asleep.

Harry's hand moved to his trunk, then stopped.

What if the charms don't work as well as I think? What if someone wakes up?

He could explain most of his books. Charms texts, Transfiguration theory, even some of the advanced defensive magic materials. But Bonds of Blood and Magic? Stolen from Sirius's house? That would take some explaining.

The charms work, Harry reminded himself. Dean walked right past you yesterday.

Still, his heart was pounding as he carefully pulled out the book, keeping it low, opening it slowly to avoid any sound.

Around him, his roommates were all asleep.

See? Fine. They can't see you.

Harry finally pulled out one of the books from his trunk. Not the darkest ones-he'd start with something less obviously dangerous.

Bonds of Blood and Magic.

He settled back against his pillows, the book open on his lap. Around him, his roommates slept peacefully-Ron snoring softly, Neville's quiet breathing, Dean and Seamus motionless in their beds. The notice-me-not charms made Harry just another sleeping student if anyone happened to wake and glance around.

The book's introduction was straightforward: bond magic was ancient and powerful. When wizards joined blood and intent, they created connections that transcended normal magical limitations. Such bonds had shaped magical history-partnerships that accomplished the impossible, collaborations that changed the world.

Harry turned to the first chapter: "Partnership Bonds and Their Applications."

The concept was elegant in its simplicity. Two wizards-or more, though pairs were most common-could create a magical connection allowing them to share power, share strength, share knowledge. The bond was reciprocal by nature; both parties had to consent freely, both benefited equally. Neither could draw on the other without permission, neither could compel the other through the bond.

The ritual required blood from both parties mixed together, specific words spoken by both, and intent focused on partnership, mutual support, and trust. Once established, the bond was permanent unless both parties agreed to break it.

Interesting, Harry thought, scanning the examples. Combat partnerships where bonded wizards could coordinate perfectly, sensing each other's location and emotional state. Research collaborations where they could pool their magical strength for complex experimental work. Even marriages sometimes formalized with partnership bonds, creating deeper connection than simple vows.

A section near the end of the chapter caught his attention:

The greatest workings of magic recorded by our kind were wrought through bonds of true accord. Yea, Hogwarts itself standeth as the chiefest witness to this principle; for the Four Founders, being joined in sacred partnership, did weave wards of such art and puissance that they endure unbroken unto this day. Such a fabric of might could never have been wrought by single hand or isolated will, but only through the confluence of bonded purpose, wherein each wizard’s strength did flow into the other and return magnified.

Even in these latter centuries, the principle abideth. Those who labour in the Department of Mysteries-styled Unspeakables by the common tongue-are known to work in pairs joined by bond. By such joining they safeguard one another, each feeling when the other is assailed or in peril, and by their united power they essay magicks that would else consume a solitary mind. Thus is proved once more that unity, rightly ordered, yieldeth strength beyond measure.

Harry read the passage twice, thinking. A bond that let you share power, sense danger, call for help across distances. That sounded... actually useful. Not dark at all, just powerful.

The book went into technical detail about the ritual itself-the precise wording, the order of steps, the way magical intent had to be channeled. Harry skimmed it, not trying to memorize yet. Just getting a sense of how it worked.

Partnership bonds demand the true and willing consent of both parties, the text emphasized. The magic itself brooks no deceit nor coercion; it accepteth naught but the free and informed accord of those who would be joined. Should either party enter unready, or with mind clouded, the rite findeth no purchase, as though it had never been conceived.

Harry closed the book after finishing the chapter, his mind working. This was the kind of magic that had built Hogwarts. That Unspeakables used for research. Nothing inherently dark about it-just powerful, requiring skill and trust.

Worth knowing, Harry thought, carefully returning the book to its hiding place. Maybe useful someday.

He had no immediate plans for partnership bonds. But understanding them, knowing what was possible-that was its own kind of power.

Harry settled back into bed properly, pulling his curtains closed. His eyes were heavy, sleep pulling at him, but his mind was still working.

The table of contents had listed other chapters. "Familial Blood Magic." "Vassal Bonds and Historical Uses." "Breaking Bonds: Theory and Practice."

Vassal bonds, Harry thought drowsily. Older, stricter, bound up in hierarchy… yet I can see why families once relied on them.

But he was too tired to pull the book back out. Too tired to read more tonight.

One thing at a time, he thought as sleep began to claim him. Learn the tools first. Figure out how to use them later.

The rest of the week followed similar patterns. By Friday, Harry had attended six detentions total. His hand bore permanent scarring now, the words overlapping until they were impossible to remove completely.

But Harry never broke. Never gave Umbridge the reaction she wanted.

His notice-me-not charms grew stronger with practice. His dreams continued-some nights he found himself in Voldemort's mind, able to observe and occasionally influence with increasing subtlety.

And his friendship with Neville remained steady. Genuine.

They worked on Herbology together-where Neville helped Harry-and Transfiguration-where Harry returned the favor. Studied in the library. Walked to classes side by side while Ron and Hermione watched from a distance with worried expressions.

Sunday evening, Harry lay in bed thinking about the two weeks since term started. Six detentions with Umbridge. Permanent scars on his hand. Growing skill with privacy charms. Complete emotional distance from Ron and Hermione.

And Neville, who believed in him without question.

That's what matters, Harry thought, realizing how important it was to him.

He had privacy now through the charms. Had knowledge from the books he was studying. Had genuine friendship with Neville. Had growing control over his connection to Voldemort.

But he also had a problem: he was still losing his temper with Umbridge. Still getting detentions. Still needing to make Voldemort torture people just to manage his own rage.

That has to stop, Harry thought. I need to be smarter. More strategic. Stop giving Umbridge what she wants.

He understood it intellectually. Knew that open defiance was stupid, that losing his temper gave Umbridge exactly what she wanted.

Understanding it was easy.

Actually changing his behavior-that would be harder.

But Harry was learning. Getting better at controlling things. And soon, he'd be ready to stop reacting and start planning.

Soon, Harry promised himself as sleep pulled him under. Very soon.

Chapter Text

The third week of September brought another detention.

Harry had known it was coming even as the words left his mouth. Umbridge had been lecturing about the "proper role" of defensive magic-which apparently meant reading about it but never actually practicing-when she'd made a pointed comment about "certain students who seem to believe violence is always the answer."

Several people had glanced at Harry. The implication was obvious.

"Some individuals," Umbridge had continued, her voice sickeningly sweet, "display concerning patterns of aggression. Perhaps they've been through traumatic experiences that have... damaged their ability to think rationally. The Ministry believes such students would benefit from strict guidance rather than being taught potentially dangerous spells."

Harry's hand had shot up before he could stop himself. "Are you talking about me, Professor?"

"If you feel the description applies, Mr. Potter..." Umbridge's smile widened. "Though I'm certain you wouldn't want to confirm such concerning tendencies by becoming defensive about a general observation."

The trap was obvious. Deny it and look like he was protesting too much. Stay silent and let her implication stand.

Harry had chosen the third option: "Voldemort's back. Being prepared to defend yourself isn't aggression. It's common sense."

The classroom had gone silent.

"Detention, Mr. Potter. Tonight. Seven o'clock."

Walking back from that detention, Harry's hand throbbing with fresh cuts overlapping the permanent scars, he felt something crystallize in his mind.

I'm being stupid.

Not about defying Umbridge-she deserved worse than defiance. But about how he was doing it. He kept taking her bait. Kept giving her exactly what she wanted: proof that he was unstable, aggressive, unable to control himself.

She says I'm violent and irrational, and I prove her right by losing my temper in class.

The realization was frustrating. He knew what she was doing. Had known from the first lesson. But knowing it intellectually didn't stop him from reacting when she pushed the right buttons.

I need to be smarter about this.

Back in the dormitory, his roommates already asleep, Harry pulled out one of the books from his trunk. Not the bond magic text this time-he'd finished the partnership bonds chapter and wasn't ready to read darker material yet.

Occlumency: The Mind's Shield.

He'd skimmed it briefly at Grimmauld Place. The book was mostly about defending against Legilimency-mental invasion. But Harry remembered something about mental discipline, about controlling your emotional responses.

He opened to the introduction and started reading properly.

"Occlumency is the magical defense of the mind against external intrusion. A skilled Legilimens can extract feelings, memories, and thoughts from an unwilling subject. The Occlumens learns to recognize such intrusion and defend against it.

"However, the foundation of Occlumency is not the defense itself, but the mental discipline that makes such defense possible. An Occlumens must learn to observe their own mind with clarity-to recognize when emotions are clouding judgment, when memories are being triggered, when their responses are being manipulated. This awareness is the first step toward protection."

Harry read that passage twice.

Recognize when your responses are being manipulated.

That was exactly what Umbridge was doing. Manipulating his responses. Pushing buttons she knew would make him react.

He kept reading. The book outlined exercises for developing mental awareness. Not Occlumency itself-that required a Legilimens to practice against. But the foundational skills: clearing the mind, observing thoughts without being controlled by them, recognizing emotional reactions before acting on them.

"The untrained mind is reactive," the book explained. "A stimulus produces an immediate emotional response, which produces immediate action. The trained mind observes the stimulus, recognizes the emotional response, and chooses whether and how to act. This space between stimulus and action-this moment of observation and choice-is where true mental discipline resides."

Harry thought about his detentions. Umbridge said something designed to anger him. He felt the anger. He acted on it immediately by arguing back. And she got exactly what she wanted.

Stimulus. Emotion. Action.

What if he could put space between those steps? Feel the anger but choose not to act on it?

The book described a basic exercise: Sit quietly. Focus on breathing. When thoughts arise-particularly emotional thoughts-simply observe them. Notice the anger, the frustration, the desire to act. Don't suppress it or deny it. Just... watch it. Recognize it as something happening in your mind rather than something you must immediately respond to.

Like the meditation stuff from the other book, Harry realized. Different purpose, but similar technique.

He tried it. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, curtains drawn, notice-me-not charms making him easy to overlook if anyone woke.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Thoughts arose immediately. Umbridge's smug smile. The pain in his hand. The unfairness of it all. And with the thoughts came the immediate urge to do something, to plan revenge, to-

No. Observe it. Don't act on it. Just notice it's there.

But his mind wouldn't cooperate. The anger was too fresh, too immediate. Every time he tried to just observe it, his thoughts spiraled into planning what he'd say to her tomorrow, how he'd-

Harry opened his eyes, frustrated. This was harder than it looked.

He tried again. And again. Each time, his mind would start wandering within seconds, pulled by the intensity of his emotions.

After fifteen minutes of failed attempts, Harry gave up for the night. But he didn't put the book away.

This could work, he thought. If I practice enough. If I actually get better at it.

Over the next week, Harry practiced the exercises every night. Some sessions went better than others. Some nights he could maintain focus for a few minutes, actually observing his thoughts without being carried away by them. Other nights his mind was too agitated, too full of anger and frustration, and he couldn't manage more than a few seconds of clarity.

It was slow progress. Frustrating progress. But it was progress.

Monday's Defense lesson brought another pointed comment about "damaged individuals who resort to violence because they lack other coping mechanisms." Harry felt the familiar surge of rage.

Observe it. Recognize it. Choose.

He tried to keep his face blank, to not react. But his hand had already started rising before he caught himself and forced it back down.

Almost took the bait, Harry thought, his heart racing. Almost.

Umbridge had been watching him, clearly expecting a response. When none came, she'd looked almost disappointed-but then her smile returned.

"Though some seem to be learning better behavior. How encouraging."

The condescension in her voice made Harry's jaw clench. But he didn't respond. Didn't give her the satisfaction.

Small victory, Harry told himself. But I nearly failed.

Wednesday, she tried again. "Some students seem to believe that making wild accusations about the return of certain... individuals... will gain them attention and sympathy. In reality, such behavior suggests serious instability."

The anger was there, hot and immediate. Harry's hand was on his desk, his mouth opening to argue before he caught himself.

Stop. Observe. Choose.

He looked down at his textbook and turned a page. Pretending he was focused on the reading, not on her words.

It took everything he had. The urge to argue back was almost physical, a pressure in his chest demanding release. But Harry held it in, forced himself to stay quiet.

When he glanced up, Umbridge's smile had tightened slightly. She'd expected him to react. Wanted him to react.

Not this time, Harry thought with grim satisfaction.

But it had been close. Too close. He'd nearly lost control, nearly given her what she wanted.

I'm getting better. But I'm not good at this yet.

Friday brought a real test.

"Mr. Potter, perhaps you could share with the class your thoughts on the proper use of defensive magic? Since you seem to have such strong opinions on the subject."

Everyone was looking at him. This wasn't a subtle jab-it was a direct challenge. Refuse to answer and look cowardly. Answer honestly and give her ammunition.

Harry felt the spike of anger. Felt the urge to snap back, to tell her exactly what he thought of her "teaching" and the Ministry's lies and-

Stop. Breathe. Observe.

The anger was there. He acknowledged it. Let it be there without acting on it.

What would actually accomplish something here?

Not arguing. Not defending himself. She wanted him to lose control. So he wouldn't.

Harry took a breath. "I think the textbook covers the theoretical foundations adequately, Professor. I'm sure that's sufficient for the Ministry's purposes."

It was complete nonsense-the textbook was worthless and they both knew it. But the words were polite. Compliant. Gave her nothing to use against him.

Umbridge's smile froze on her face. She'd clearly expected him to argue, to give her cause for another detention.

"Indeed," she finally said. "I'm pleased to see you're learning appropriate behavior, Mr. Potter."

She moved on to the next topic, but Harry caught the flash of frustration in her eyes.

I won, he realized. By refusing to play.

The satisfaction was almost as good as the catharsis of arguing back. Almost.

And this time, he'd managed it without nearly slipping. The control had been easier, more natural.

I'm actually getting better at this.

The last week of September brought Potions with Snape.

Usually Harry worked with Seamus-had since first year. But this term, as their friendship had grown, Harry had started gravitating toward Neville's table instead.

"You don't have to," Neville had protested when Harry first suggested it. "I'll just drag you down. You know how I am in Potions."

"You're better than you think," Harry had said. "Snape just makes you nervous."

It wasn't entirely altruistic. Harry didn't want to deal with Seamus's mother's opinions about him being transmitted through awkward silences and careful avoidance. And working with Neville meant he could actually help his friend instead of just watching him struggle alone while Snape circled like a vulture.

Today they were brewing Draught of Peace-a complex potion that required precise timing and exact measurements. One mistake and the whole thing would need to be started over. Get it really wrong and the drinker would fall into a heavy, irreversible sleep.

Harry worked carefully, measuring out powdered moonstone while Neville prepared the syrup of hellebore. They'd developed a decent system over the past few weeks-Harry handled the measuring and timing, Neville did the preparation and stirring. It played to their respective strengths.

"Two clockwise stirs," Harry said quietly, checking the instructions.

Neville stirred carefully, his tongue between his teeth in concentration. The potion was a pale purple-not quite right yet, but not disastrously wrong either.

Across the room, Harry could see Ron and Hermione working together. Ron was making some joke that had Hermione rolling her eyes even as she smiled. They both glanced over at Harry periodically, their expressions worried.

Harry ignored them and focused on his own work.

"Porcupine quills next," Harry said, counting them out precisely. "Seven, added one at a time."

They worked in careful silence. Around them, other pairs were having varying degrees of success. Ron and Hermione's potion looked decent-a bit dark, but acceptable. Malfoy's was an acceptable blue, though darker than it should be.

Harry and Neville's was... close. A sort of lavender color that was in the general area of correct but not quite there.

"Two more counterclockwise stirs," Harry instructed, "then we let it simmer for seven minutes."

Neville stirred carefully. The potion shifted slightly in color, trending more toward blue.

Good. We might actually pass this time.

But then Snape appeared behind them, and Neville's hand jerked. The stirring rod wobbled, disrupting the careful rhythm.

"Longbottom." Snape's voice was cold. "Explain to me why your potion looks like dishwater."

"Sir, we're not finished yet-" Harry started.

"I didn't ask you, Potter. I asked your incompetent partner."

Neville's face had gone red. "We were just about to let it simmer, sir-"

"Let it simmer? In its current state?" Snape leaned closer to their cauldron. "Tell me, Longbottom, what do you think would happen if someone actually consumed this?"

"I-I don't know, sir, we haven't-"

"You don't know. Of course you don't." Snape straightened. "Because despite five years of instruction, you remain hopelessly incompetent at even the most basic potion-making."

The anger spiked, hot and immediate. Harry's hand tightened on his ladle.

Observe it. Don't act on it.

But this was different from Umbridge. This was years of accumulated hatred. This was-

"Perhaps we should test exactly how dangerous your incompetence is, Longbottom." Snape's voice was silky with malice. "Empty your cauldron. Start over. And when you've finished your second attempt, we'll use it to test the effects on your toad. Consider it motivation to actually pay attention this time."

Neville went white as chalk. "Sir-please-Trevor didn't do anything-"

"Are you refusing a direct instruction?"

"No, sir, but-"

"Then empty your cauldron and begin again."

The classroom had gone silent. Everyone was watching. Ron looked horrified. Even Malfoy seemed uncomfortable with the threat.

Harry felt rage surge through him-fiercer than anything Umbridge had provoked. But he forced it down, forced himself to think.

If I lose my temper now, it makes things worse for Neville. Snape wants me to argue. Wants an excuse to take points, give detention, make the threat even worse.

He couldn't afford to react. Not here. Not now.

They emptied the cauldron in silence and started over. Neville's hands were shaking badly now, making it nearly impossible to measure ingredients accurately. Harry could see tears forming in his friend's eyes.

"Hey," Harry said quietly, keeping his voice steady. "Look at me."

Neville glanced up, his face blotchy.

"Breathe. Just breathe. We're going to do this properly, and Trevor is going to be fine. I promise."

"But I can't-my hands won't stop-"

"Then I'll do the measuring. You just stir when I tell you to. Nice and slow. We've got time."

Harry took over the delicate work, moving with careful precision. He measured out each ingredient exactly, double-checking the instructions, making sure nothing was rushed or wrong.

"Okay, two clockwise stirs. Slow and steady."

Neville stirred, his breathing still ragged but more controlled. The potion began to take shape-better than their first attempt, actually. The color was closer to right.

"Good. That's good. Now we add the porcupine quills."

They worked through the rest of the potion in careful silence. Harry kept his voice calm, kept giving Neville simple instructions that didn't require thinking through panic. Just follow Harry's lead. Just stir when told.

By the end of class, their potion wasn't perfect-it was a bit darker blue than it should be-but it was acceptable. More importantly, it wouldn't poison anyone.

Snape came by for his final inspection, clearly disappointed that they'd actually succeeded.

"Barely adequate," he said coldly. "I suppose we'll see how 'adequate' it truly is when we test it next lesson." He emptied some into a vial and swept away.

When the classroom emptied, Neville sank onto his stool, his face in his hands.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I would've ruined it completely if you hadn't-"

"You didn't ruin anything. We did it together."

"You did it. I just stirred when you told me to." Neville looked up, his eyes red-rimmed but grateful. "But that's... that's what friends do, right? Help each other."

Harry felt something warm in his chest-unfamiliar after weeks of cold anger and calculated control. "Yeah. That's what friends do."

And Snape tried to use that against us, Harry thought as they left. Tried to use Neville's kindness and Trevor's innocence as weapons.

The thought made his rage burn colder, sharper.

That's something I won't forget.

As they walked back to Gryffindor Tower, Harry felt the anger still simmering.

The potion was acceptable-would make Trevor sleepy at worst, not harm him. Neville would be upset watching his pet tested on, but Trevor would be fine.

That wasn't the point.

The point was that Snape had deliberately terrorized Neville. Had threatened his pet to make him panic. Had set up a situation designed to make Neville fail.

Harry felt the rage building-hot and fierce, demanding action.

Observe it. Don't act on it.

But this was harder than ignoring Umbridge's baiting. This was about someone Harry actually cared about. Someone who didn't deserve any of this.

Focus on what matters. Making sure Trevor will actually be okay.

When they got back to Gryffindor Tower, Harry pulled out their Potions textbook.

"Look," Harry said, checking the description carefully. "A properly brewed Draught of Peace has a silvery sheen. Too much or too little of ingredients makes it dangerous-murky, or the wrong color entirely."

"But ours was blue-"

"Darker blue than it should be, yeah. But it was still clear, still the right consistency. That means our measurements were right, we just rushed the stirring a bit on the second attempt." Harry looked up from the book. "The dangerous versions are the ones that go wrong-grey, or muddy, or separated. Ours wasn't perfect, but it was acceptable. Trevor will probably sleep a bit longer than he would with a perfect potion, but he'll wake up fine."

"You're sure?" Neville's voice was small.

"I'm sure. Our potion was in the safe range. Just not the perfect range."

Neville nodded, but Harry could see he was still worried. Would be worried until it was over and Trevor was demonstrably okay.

Snape's a bastard, Harry thought as he went to bed that night. But getting angry about it doesn't help Neville. Being prepared does.

The dreams continued throughout late September. Most nights Harry found himself in Voldemort's mind, observing the Dark Lord's plans and occasionally nudging them toward caution or patience.

One night, about a week after the Potions incident, Harry observed something new.

He found himself in Voldemort's mind-that familiar cold sensation. But this time, the Dark Lord was in a meeting with several Death Eaters. Not the usual gathering in the stone room, but something smaller. More focused.

"The Department of Mysteries remains well-guarded," one Death Eater was saying. His voice was cultured, careful. "Our previous attempt to infiltrate the Hall of Prophecy has failed. The Ministry worker proved unsuitable. He was caught before gaining access."

"Then you will find someone better suited," Voldemort's cold voice cut through the darkness. "An Unspeakable would be ideal."

Hall of Prophecy? Harry thought, observing. What's in there that Voldemort wants so badly?

"It will take time, my Lord," the cultured voice said. "Finding suitable targets, placing them under the Imperius without detection-"

"Then begin immediately. I want options within the month. The prophecy must be retrieved."

The meeting continued, discussing targets and timing. Harry listened, understanding more now. Voldemort wanted something from the Hall of Prophecy. Something important enough to risk exposing his infiltration of the Ministry. He wouldn't go himself-too cautious, too careful about revealing his return openly. Harry's own influence, pushing Voldemort toward patience and strategy instead of direct action.

My own strategy being used against me, Harry thought with dark irony. Or maybe not. If he's being cautious, that's still better than open warfare.

When he woke, Harry lay in bed thinking. Voldemort was planning something at the Ministry. Trying to steal something from the Department of Mysteries.

I should probably tell someone, Harry thought. Dumbledore. The Order.

But even as the thought formed, Harry dismissed it. Tell them what? That he'd dreamed it? They already thought he was unstable. And if he told them about the dreams, they'd want to know more. Want to understand the connection.

Want to take control of it.

No, Harry decided. This is mine. I'll deal with it myself if it becomes a problem.

For now, it was just information. Useful to know, but not urgent. Besides, he had more immediate concerns. Like planning Snape's downfall. Like maintaining his control when Umbridge tried to bait him. The prophecy could wait.

The first week of October brought a shift in castle dynamics. The weather had turned properly cold, frost appearing on the windows in the morning, students bundled in their robes as they hurried between classes.

The next Potions lesson came with Neville pale and anxious. When Snape tested their potion on Trevor, the toad simply became drowsy and slow-moving for about an hour before returning to normal. Acceptable, as Harry had known it would be.

But Snape had still made Neville watch, had still taken pleasure in the boy's obvious distress. Even though Trevor was fine, the cruelty of it-the deliberate terrorizing of a student-left Harry cold with rage.

He enjoyed that. Enjoyed making Neville afraid.

Umbridge seemed to have given up on baiting Harry directly. She still made pointed comments about "certain unstable individuals," but without naming him specifically. Harry ignored them all, maintaining his careful neutrality in her class.

It was working. He'd gone three weeks without a detention. His hand was healing properly now, the scars permanent but no fresh damage being added. And Umbridge looked increasingly frustrated each time her attempts to provoke him failed.

Good, Harry thought every time she tried. Stay frustrated.

His friendship with Neville continued to deepen. They studied together most evenings now-working through homework for all their classes, quizzing each other on Charms theory, practicing Transfiguration, comparing notes on History of Magic. It was comfortable, uncomplicated. The one relationship in Harry's life that felt genuinely good.

Ron and Hermione watched from a distance, their expressions increasingly worried. Hermione had tried approaching Harry twice more, both times with some variation of "we just want to help." Both times Harry had brushed her off.

He didn't need their help. Didn't want their concern. They'd made their choice over the summer. Harry had made his now.

The only complicated moment came when Hermione mentioned the Hogsmeade visit.

"It's next weekend," she said, catching Harry in the library Friday afternoon. "I know you said you were busy, but-"

"Still busy," Harry interrupted without looking up from his Charms essay.

"Harry, please. We miss you. Ron especially. He knows he messed up over the summer, we both do, but-"

"Hermione, I'm trying to study."

"Right." Her voice was tight. "Of course. Wouldn't want to interrupt your studying."

She'd left, and Harry had felt a brief flicker of something like guilt. But he'd pushed it away.

They abandoned me when I needed them. The fact that they feel bad about it now doesn't change what they did.

October continued. The weather grew colder. Halloween approached.

Harry practiced his Occlumency exercises every night. Read more from the stolen books. Observed Snape with cold calculation, noting his patterns, his weaknesses, his blind spots.

Umbridge seemed satisfied that she'd broken him into compliance.

Snape seemed confident he'd remain untouchable under Dumbledore's protection.

Let them think that.

Harry was patient now. Strategic. And he was learning tools they didn't know he had.

Soon, he thought. When I'm ready. Not yet.

But soon.

Chapter Text

The dream came in mid-October. He found himself in Voldemort's mind during what appeared to be a Death Eater meeting. The familiar cold sensation washed over him as he observed through the Dark Lord's perspective.

"Well?" Voldemort's cold voice cut through the darkness. "Have you made progress on finding the right Unspeakable?"

"We have identified a promising candidate, my Lord." The voice was cultured, careful-Lucius Malfoy, Harry thought. "Broderick Bode. His security is less... rigorous than some of his colleagues. We are waiting for an opportunity now."

Harry felt a flicker of Voldemort's satisfaction. "How long before he can be secured?"

"A month, perhaps two. We must be patient-the Order watches the Department, though they cannot monitor every Unspeakable without drawing Ministry attention."

"Good. Patience serves us well. When you move, I want no mistakes."

The meeting continued, discussing other matters-recruitment efforts, political maneuvering within the Ministry. Harry observed it all, noting the careful strategy, the patient approach. His own influence, he recognized.

When Harry woke, he lay in bed thinking about what he'd seen. Voldemort was planning something at the Department of Mysteries. The Order was already watching the place-he'd overheard that much at Grimmauld Place. They'd handle it if something happened.

He had more immediate concerns anyway.

The second week of October brought a conversation Harry didn't want to have.

Harry was working through a Transfiguration essay with Neville-something about the theoretical limits of human transfiguration-when Hermione approached their table. She had that determined look she got when she'd made up her mind about something and wouldn't be dissuaded.

"Harry, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Harry didn't look up from his parchment. "Busy."

"It's important."

"So is this essay."

Hermione's jaw tightened. She glanced at Neville, who was studiously pretending to be very focused on his own work.

"Please, Harry. Just five minutes."

Harry set down his quill with exaggerated care and looked up at her. "What?"

"Not here." She glanced around the common room, which was fairly crowded for a Wednesday evening. "Somewhere private?"

"Anything you need to say, you can say in front of Neville."

Hermione's expression flickered-frustration mixed with something that might have been hurt. "Fine. Neville was just telling me he wants to learn proper Defense. Real defense, not Umbridge's theory-only nonsense."

Harry looked at Neville, who'd gone slightly pink. "That true?"

"Well, yeah," Neville said quietly. "I mean, You-Know-Who is back. We should know how to actually defend ourselves, shouldn't we? Not just read about it."

"And?" Harry turned back to Hermione. "What's that got to do with me?"

"I think we should organize a group," Hermione said, her words coming faster now that she'd started. "Students who want to learn real Defense. And I think you should teach us."

Harry stared at her. "You want me to teach Defense?"

"You're good at it. You've faced You-Know-Who multiple times, you can produce a corporeal Patronus, you-"

"No."

"Harry-"

"I said no, Hermione. I'm not interested in organizing some study group so you can feel like you're doing something useful."

"It's not about me," Hermione said, her voice tight. "It's about preparing people for what's coming. You-Know-Who is back, the Ministry is in denial, and Umbridge is ensuring we'll be completely defenseless when-"

"Then go to Dumbledore. Or McGonagall. Or any actual teacher."

"They can't. Not without admitting Umbridge's curriculum is inadequate, which would require admitting You-Know-Who is back, which the Ministry has forbidden them to do." Hermione leaned forward. "We need this, Harry. People are scared. They want to learn, and they trust you to teach them."

"They didn't trust me this summer," Harry said coldly. "When I said Voldemort was back, half the school thought I was lying or mad. Now suddenly they want my help?"

"People were confused. The Ministry was saying-"

"I don't care what the Ministry was saying. And I don't care about teaching people who didn't believe me when it mattered."

Hermione's face was flushed now. "So you'll just let them be defenseless? Because they didn't immediately believe something that sounded impossible?"

"That's not what I-" Harry started.

"I want to learn," Neville said quietly.

Both Harry and Hermione looked at him.

"I believe you," Neville continued, his voice stronger. "I believed you when you said You-Know-Who was back. And I want to learn how to defend myself. How to defend other people." He met Harry's eyes. "My parents can't teach me. They can't teach anyone anymore. But you can."

Harry felt something twist in his chest. Neville's parents, tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange. Neville, who had every reason to be terrified of Death Eaters and Dark Magic, but was asking to learn how to fight them anyway.

"Neville-"

"Please, Harry. If you won't do it for everyone else, do it for the people who actually believed you. Who actually want to be ready."

Harry looked between Neville's earnest face and Hermione's determined expression. His immediate instinct was still to refuse. To tell them both to leave him alone, to stop trying to pull him into their plans.

But Neville wanted this. Neville, who'd been a genuine friend this term without expectations or judgment. Who'd stood by him while others kept their distance.

And there was something else, something Harry recognized from the mental discipline exercises: Umbridge wanted him isolated and discredited. Teaching Defense-showing people he was competent and reasonable-that was the right kind of resistance. Not the explosive arguments that proved her point about his instability, but something that actually undermined her control.

"Fine," Harry said. "But I'm doing this for people who actually want to learn. Not for people who spent all summer deciding whether I was lying."

"That's all I'm asking," Hermione said quickly. "I'll organize it-find a place to meet, get the word out to people who are serious about learning. You just have to agree to teach."

"Where were you planning to hold these meetings?" Harry asked. "Because if you're thinking the common room or an empty classroom, Umbridge will find out immediately."

"I was thinking somewhere off grounds," Hermione admitted. "There's a meeting room at the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade-"

"The Hog's Head?" Harry's voice rose. "You want to hold a secret defense group meeting at a public pub?"

"It's not public, it's-"

"It's in Hogsmeade! Where anyone could see us, where anyone could report back to Umbridge or the Ministry!"

"Which is exactly why they won't think to look there," Hermione said stubbornly. "The school is being monitored-Umbridge has prefects and other students watching. But she won't be watching random pubs in the village."

"That's insane."

"Do you have a better idea?" Hermione challenged. "Because I'm open to suggestions, but we need somewhere to meet and organize before we can start actual lessons."

Harry wanted to argue. Wanted to suggest somewhere more secure-the Shrieking Shack, maybe, or anywhere that wasn't a public establishment. But Hermione had that look that meant she'd already made arrangements, already set things in motion.

"When?" he asked.

"This weekend. Saturday afternoon, during the Hogsmeade visit. I've already sent word to some people who I think would be interested."

"You already-" Harry bit off the rest of the sentence. "You organized this before even asking me?"

"I knew you'd say yes," Hermione said. "Eventually."

Harry wanted to be angry about that. Wanted to call her presumptuous, tell her she had no right to make plans that involved him without his agreement.

But Neville was looking at him with something like hope, and Harry had already committed himself.

"Fine," Harry said again. "Saturday. But if this goes wrong, if Umbridge finds out because you decided to hold a meeting in a public place-"

"She won't," Hermione said firmly. "I'll make sure of it."

She left, looking satisfied. Harry turned back to his essay, very aware of Neville watching him.

"Thank you," Neville said quietly. "I know you didn't want to do this."

"It's fine," Harry said. "You're right. People should know how to defend themselves."

Even if Harry's reasons for agreeing were more complicated than that. Even if part of him had already recognized that this was the right kind of resistance-the kind that made him look reasonable and responsible instead of volatile and dangerous.

The kind that gave him credibility while he planned very different things in the shadows.

That night, after the others were asleep, Harry pulled out Bonds of Blood and Magic again.

He'd finished the chapter on partnership bonds weeks ago. Had understood the history, the theoretical framework, the way such bonds were meant to create mutual strength between equals.

Now he turned to the next chapter: "Variations in Bond Magic."

The chapter opened by noting that bond magic in all its forms was considered Dark Arts by most modern practitioners due to its use of blood magic. Even partnership bonds, which created mutual benefit, required blood sacrifice and permanent magical ties that many found unsettling. The chapter then discussed variations on the basic ritual structure.

The primary variation discussed was the vassal bond-a different application of bond magic principles. The language was older, almost ceremonial, as if copied from a centuries-old grimoire.

The vassal bond is wrought upon principles akin to those that govern the partnership bond, yet its issue is of a different nature. Where the partnership bond joineth equals in mutual accord, establishing channels of shared strength and succour, the vassal bond ordaineth a single current of authority. The lesser party retaineth mind and will, yet yieldeth obedience; the lord’s word, once spoken with intent, becometh binding law upon the vassal.

Harry read on, absorbing the details. The bond functioned through magical intent-the lord had to consciously engage it to transform words into binding directives. This allowed normal conversation when the bond wasn't actively invoked. When engaged, the vassal would feel the bond activate.

The lord could give broad standing directives or specific immediate instructions. Vassals retained personality and autonomy in areas not under direct instruction. Unlike partnership bonds where power flowed freely between equals, vassal bonds gave lords discretionary control over sharing magical energy. A lord could strengthen their vassal when needed, or simply not engage that aspect of the bond.

Then the section on ritual requirements:

As with all high magicks of fealty, intent is the wellspring of the vassal bond. So long as both parties enter with the genuine will to bind themselves, the rite may find hold; for magic brooks no hollow oath. Chroniclers of old record divers causes by which such covenants were wrought: lesser scions pledging fealty to ancient houses for ward and governance, loyal retainers seeking the shelter of a lord’s hand, vanquished foes spared through sworn service, and captives yielding freedom that others might be preserved.

Interesting, Harry thought. You could give someone the option. Let them choose. Make it their decision.

The distinction felt important.

He kept reading. The chapter continued with technical details about how vassal bonds compared to other forms of magical direction. They differed from the Imperius Curse in permanence and in requiring initial acceptance. They provided more certainty than loyalty potions, which could be resisted or broken.

It was late when Harry finally closed the book. He'd only gotten partway through the chapter-there was more to learn, but it would have to wait for another night.

He put the book away and lay back on his bed, staring up at his curtains.

Useful information, he thought. Not that I'm planning anything. Just good to know what's possible.

Over the next few nights, Harry continued reading through Bonds of Blood and Magic. He'd finish his homework, retire to the dormitory early, and cast his notice-me-not. Just to be safe he'd wait until his dormmates were asleep, then pull out the book and pick up where he'd left off.

The vassal bond chapter went into more detail about applications and limitations. How the bond could be maintained over distance. How standing directives worked versus immediate commands. The level of awareness the vassal retained.

By the third night, Harry had finished the chapter completely. He understood the theory now-how vassal bonds worked, what they could do, why they were different from partnership bonds.

Just knowledge, he told himself as he put the book away. Understanding how magic works. Nothing wrong with that.

Saturday brought the Hogsmeade visit. Harry walked to the village with Neville, deliberately avoiding Ron and Hermione. The Hog's Head was dingy and run-down. About twenty-five students were waiting in the back room when they arrived.

"Right," Harry said once everyone had gathered. "You all want to learn Defense. Actual defense. Either you trust me to teach you, or you don't. If you don't, there's the door."

No one moved.

"How do we know You-Know-Who is really back?" asked Michael Corner.

"I was there," Harry said flatly. "I watched it happen."

"I believe him," said Neville quietly. "I know what Death Eaters are capable of."

"Cedric was my friend," Cho added. "If Harry says You-Know-Who killed him, I believe it."

Others nodded. They discussed what people wanted to learn-basic defensive spells, practical experience, real preparation.

"We'll need a name," Hermione said. "Something we can use in messages without being obvious."

"Dumbledore's Army," said Ginny. "The Ministry's worst fear, right? That Dumbledore's forming an army."

Several people laughed. "The D.A.," said someone else. "I like it."

"Everyone who wants to join should sign this parchment," Hermione said, producing it with a quill.

The barman was still watching from behind the counter. Harry kept glancing toward him, tension coiling in his shoulders. Anyone in this pub could be listening. Could report back to Umbridge or the Ministry.

This was a terrible idea, Harry thought for the tenth time.

People queued up. Harry watched them sign, noting faces and commitment levels.

They're choosing to follow me, Harry realized. Putting their trust in what I can teach them.

It felt good. More immediate than the dreams. More real.

Monday morning brought Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four: all student organizations were disbanded pending approval. Anyone found in an unapproved group would be expelled.

"You're the one who wanted to meet in a public place," Harry said as they stared at the notice. "What did you expect?"

Hermione flushed but didn't argue. "We just need somewhere she can't find us."

The answer came from Dobby two days later. The house-elf told Harry about the Room of Requirement on the seventh floor-a room that appeared only when someone needed it.

Harry tested it that evening. Walked past the blank wall three times thinking about needing a place to teach Defense. A door appeared, opening onto a perfect training space.

He experimented briefly-asked for a place to hide things, got a room full of junk. Asked for a place to study, got comfortable chairs. Interesting capabilities.

Very useful, Harry thought. And completely hidden.

Harry had begun studying the partnership bond ritual in Blood Magic and Its Applications.

The book was older, its pages yellowed and brittle. In a chapter titled "Bonds and Bindings," he'd found detailed instructions for the ritual. Required components, precise wand movements, incantations in Old English. The specific way participants' blood needed to be mixed. The runes that had to be drawn and in what order.

The incantations were clear enough, the wand movements he could understand from the diagrams. But the runes...

He stared at the complex symbols, recognizing some from general magical use but unfamiliar with most. The book assumed the reader understood runic meanings and provided only minimal explanation.

Should have taken Ancient Runes instead of Divination, Harry thought with frustration. Only took it because Ron wanted an easy class.

He copied down the runes carefully, making note of which ones he didn't recognize. He'd need to find reference books in the library.

Over the next several days, Harry made trips to the library between other activities, casually pulling books on runes and ancient magical symbols. He had to be careful not to seem too focused on any one topic. A general interest in magical history could explain looking at various texts.

By the following weekend, he'd identified most of the runes and understood their basic meanings-protection, connection, balance, strength. The partnership bond used runes that emphasized equality and mutual exchange.

Harry felt confident he understood the ritual well enough now to perform it if needed. Not perfectly-he'd never actually seen it done-but well enough to attempt it.

For Neville, he thought. If he wants it. If he's ready for that kind of commitment.

The first DA meeting happened the following week. Hermione had enchanted Galleons to show meeting dates.

Twenty-five students showed up. "We're starting with basics," Harry told them. "Pair up. Show me your Disarming Charm."

He moved between pairs, offering corrections. Some were competent-Hermione's spell sent her partner's wand flying across the room. Others struggled badly.

Neville's was the worst. His spell was so feeble it barely made his partner's wand twitch. Harry watched him try three times, each attempt weaker than the last, Neville's face getting redder with frustration.

"Hey," Harry said quietly, moving to stand beside him. "Don't worry about the power yet. Focus on the wand movement first. Nice and sharp, like this."

He demonstrated slowly. Neville tried again, and this time his partner's wand at least trembled.

"Better," Harry said. "Keep practicing. It'll come."

"You're a natural at this," Luna said during a brief break, her dreamy voice somehow managing to sound sincere. "Teaching, I mean. You make it seem simple without making people feel stupid."

"Thanks," Harry said, caught off guard by the compliment.

"People listen to you," Luna continued, tilting her head slightly. "They trust you. That's important, isn't it? Being trusted?"

Something in her tone made Harry look at her more closely. But Luna's expression was as serene and unfocused as always.

"I suppose," Harry said carefully.

"Yes," Luna agreed. "Very important."

She drifted away before Harry could respond.

By the end of the hour, most had improved noticeably. Neville's disarming charm was still weak-probably wouldn't disarm a fly, let alone a person-but he'd managed to make his partner's wand shake twice. Progress, at least.

"Next meeting, we'll drill this more," Harry said to the group. "You need to be able to disarm someone without thinking about it. Practice until it's automatic."

After everyone left, Harry stood in the empty room. The teaching had been satisfying-he was good at identifying problems and fixing them.

But more than that, he'd enjoyed the immediate response. He gave instruction, people followed right in front of him.

Direct influence, Harry thought. Not distant manipulation. This is different.

It felt good.

October continued. The DA met weekly, and Harry taught them defensive spells-disarming charms primarily, with occasional demonstrations of shields. Students were improving, listening to his instruction.

And Harry found himself enjoying it. Not just the strategic value, but the teaching itself. The immediate response when he gave direction. The way people looked to him for guidance.

This is different from the Voldemort dreams, Harry thought after one session. More direct. More real.

With Voldemort, he had to wait for dreams, work through layers of mental influence. With the DA, they chose to follow but could walk away tomorrow.

But there could be more, he thought sometimes. More certainty. More directness.

He had the knowledge now. Understood partnership bonds thoroughly. Had read about vassal bonds in theory-how they differed, what they could do.

Just knowledge, he told himself. Just understanding what's possible.

Hermione tried several more times to rebuild their friendship. Each time, Harry deflected.

"Are you ever going to forgive us?" she asked one evening in late October.

"Forgive you for what?" Harry asked without looking up.

"For this summer. We were following orders-"

"You made a choice," Harry said levelly. "I'm making mine."

She left frustrated, and Harry felt that cold satisfaction.

They made their choice. I made mine.

Chapter Text

November arrived with colder weather and shorter days. Harry continued his studies, continued teaching the DA, continued maintaining his careful distance from Ron and Hermione.

Harry's curiosity about the vassal bond variant had been growing. He understood the theory now-had read about it in Bonds of Blood and Magic. But theory wasn't the same as understanding the actual ritual procedure. What specific changes would produce such different outcomes?

Just to understand the differences, Harry told himself. To see exactly how the magic works.

He pulled out The Subtleties of Magical Compulsion one evening after everyone else had gone to sleep.

The book's cover was deep black. He opened it carefully and found the chapter on vassal bonds.

Unlike the other books, this one provided straightforward instruction without preamble. The ritual procedure was similar to the partnership bond-similar enough that someone watching might not catch the difference.

Harry pulled out his notes on the partnership bond and began comparing them.

The incantations were slightly different-invoking authority and direction rather than partnership and mutual strength. He read through them carefully, noting the changes. Complex material, requiring his full attention.

After an hour, his eyes were tired. He marked his place and put the book away.

Tomorrow, he thought. Continue tomorrow.

Harry started reading the vassal bond chapter in early November. The first few nights, he focused on understanding the incantations-how they differed from partnership bonds, invoking authority rather than mutual strength.

But when he reached the runic configurations, he hit a wall. These runes were different from the partnership bond ones-variations on symbols he'd seen, but twisted or inverted in ways he didn't understand.

Damn it, Harry thought. Should have taken Ancient Runes.

Over the next several weeks, he made careful trips to the library when he had time, pulling books on runic magic and ancient symbols. He had to be careful-looking up too many obscure runes at once might seem suspicious. So he varied his searches, looking at general magical history one day, ancient binding magic another, protective runes on a third.

Slowly, over the course of November, he pieced together meanings. These runes emphasized hierarchy, acceptance, direction. Where the partnership bond used symbols of balance and mutual exchange, the vassal bond used symbols of guidance and willing submission.

It took weeks of cross-referencing and study before Harry felt confident he understood the runic configuration completely. Only then did he return to studying the rest of the ritual procedure.

The book detailed how to use the bond after creation-how to engage it consciously to make words into directives, how to give standing instructions, how to choose what level of autonomy to maintain, how to share power through the bond when the lord chose.

By early December, nearly a month after he'd started, Harry finally felt confident - he had worked through the entire chapter carefully, comparing each element to the partnership bond. The comparison was instructive-seeing precisely what made the difference between mutual partnership and accepted authority.

When he finally closed the book for the last time, his hands were steady.

Useful knowledge, Harry thought. Good to understand how these things work.

He put the book back in his trunk, hidden but accessible.

The DA had continued meeting weekly through November and into December. Harry drilled them relentlessly on disarming charms, only moving to shield charms once most students could perform the disarming spell consistently.

Neville attended every session, his determination visible in how he stayed late to practice. His progress was slow but steady-by late November, his disarming spell could knock a wand from someone's hand more often than not. His shield charm was still inconsistent, appearing maybe half the time, flickering weakly when it did.

"You're getting better," Harry told him after one session in early December. "Really. You've improved a lot."

"It's because you're actually teaching us," Neville said. "Showing me where I'm not doing it right, correcting my form. It's not just theory."

Harry felt an odd warmth at that.

And he found himself enjoying the teaching more than he'd expected. The immediate response when he gave instruction. The way people looked to him for guidance and followed.

Direct influence, Harry thought. Not distant manipulation like with Voldemort. This is different.

With Voldemort, he had to wait for dreams, work through layers of mental influence. With the DA, they chose to listen but could stop any time.

But there could be more, he thought sometimes. More certainty. More directness.

The knowledge was there now, complete. Vassal bonds, partnership bonds, how they worked, how to create them. He'd studied it all carefully.

Just understanding options, he told himself. Just being prepared.

November turned to December. Snow covered the castle grounds, frost creeping across windows each morning. Students bundled in cloaks and scarves, breath misting in the cold air.

Harry found himself noticing Crabbe and Goyle more as the month progressed. They were always around Malfoy, following him through corridors, laughing at his jokes, doing whatever he told them to do. Stupid, loyal, obedient.

"Move," Goyle said to a second-year Hufflepuff one morning, shoving the smaller boy aside so Malfoy could pass.

The Hufflepuff stumbled, nearly dropped his books.

Malfoy didn't even acknowledge it. Just kept walking, Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him like dogs.

Death Eaters' sons, Harry thought, watching them go. Both fathers were named at the graveyard. Both serving Voldemort again.

Harry had seen them in dreams occasionally-Crabbe Sr. and Goyle Sr. standing among the Death Eaters at meetings, bulky and brutal-looking. Their sons were being raised to follow the same path. Already learning to be cruel, to follow orders without thought.

Already serving him through their fathers, Harry thought. And I control him.

The thought lingered as he headed to Transfiguration.

The dream came on a Monday night in mid-December, a week before Christmas break.

Harry found himself in Voldemort's mind with that familiar cold sensation. But this time there was another layer-Voldemort was possessing Nagini, seeing through the snake's eyes. Harry was watching through Voldemort watching through the serpent.

The perspective was strange, disorienting. Everything seemed larger, viewed from ground level. Heat signatures were more visible than shapes. The corridor of the Department of Mysteries stretched before them, dark and quiet.

A wizard in Ministry robes sat slumped in a chair against the wall ahead. Arthur Weasley, doing his late-night guard shift for the Order. His head was nodding forward, eyes closed-asleep at his post.

No, Harry thought with sudden urgency. Not him.

Through the double layer of connection, Harry felt Voldemort's cold satisfaction. An Order member, alone and vulnerable and asleep. Perfect.

Nagini was already moving forward, drawn by the scent of prey, her body coiling to strike-

Stop, Harry pushed at Voldemort's presence in the snake. Pull back. Don't kill him.

But the command had to travel through too many layers. Harry's mental influence, filtered through Voldemort's will, filtered through possession of Nagini. The snake was already striking, her massive body uncoiling, her fangs extended-

No venom! Harry pushed with everything he had. Don't use venom!

Voldemort's magic surged through the possession. The command reached Nagini just as her fangs sank into Arthur's side.

The wizard jerked awake with a cry of pain, his chair clattering over as he stumbled backward. Blood began seeping through his robes. But the bite was dry-no venom pumping into the wound, just the tearing damage of teeth.

Arthur fumbled for his wand with shaking hands, still conscious despite the shock and pain. "Expecto Patronum-"

Voldemort pulled back from the possession, and the dream began to fade. Harry caught a glimpse of Arthur's silver weasel bursting from his wand before everything dissolved.

Harry woke in his bed at Hogwarts, his heart pounding. The scar on his forehead throbbed dully.

He lay still for a moment, processing what he'd just witnessed.

Arthur Weasley had been attacked. Was probably in St. Mungo's by now, being treated for bite wounds. But he was alive. Conscious. Had summoned help himself.

Because Harry had intervened. Had stopped the venom-couldn't prevent the physical attack entirely, Nagini had already been striking when he'd pushed the command through, but he'd managed the important part.

If I'd fallen asleep a minute later, Harry thought, his chest tight. If I'd missed this dream...

Arthur would be dying right now. Dead by morning, killed by venom while Harry slept peacefully upstairs.

But he'd done it. Had saved someone who mattered.

Arthur Weasley, who'd always been kind to Harry. Who'd trusted him enough to tell him the truth about Sirius in third year, treated him like someone worth being honest with instead of a child to be managed. Who'd never looked at him with suspicion or fear.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, his scar still aching faintly.

It worked. I saved him.

But it had been close. Too close.

The next morning brought news that Arthur Weasley had been attacked at the Ministry during the night. He was in St. Mungo's with serious bite wounds but was expected to make a full recovery.

"Lucky he stayed conscious," Harry overheard someone saying at breakfast. "Got his Patronus off to summon help. If he'd passed out from the shock..."

Harry ate his porridge and said nothing.

Ron was pale and distracted all through morning classes, kept checking a piece of parchment that Harry assumed was updates from his mother. At lunch, Ron got another note and immediately stood up.

"Mum says Dad's awake and talking," Ron said, relief evident in his voice. "He's going to be okay. They said if the snake had used venom he'd be dead, but it didn't for some reason. Just bit him and left."

"That's good," Hermione said. "That's really good, Ron."

"Yeah," Ron said, sitting back down heavily. "Yeah, it is."

Harry focused on his sandwich. Arthur would be fine. The bite wounds would heal. He'd be back to work in a few weeks, probably-certainly by the new year.

I saved him, Harry thought. Used my control to stop the worst from happening.

The satisfaction was real.

Neville glanced at Harry. "You okay? You've been quiet."

"Fine," Harry said. "Just glad Mr. Weasley's alright."

And he was. Genuinely glad.

Thursday afternoon, Harry was heading to the library between classes when he heard sounds of a struggle from a side corridor. He turned the corner to find Neville backed against the wall, his wand on the floor several feet away.

Crabbe and Goyle stood in front of him, blocking his path to the wand. Neither had their own wands out-didn't need them. They were both significantly larger than Neville, using their size to intimidate. Malfoy was leaning against the opposite wall, looking bored.

"Go on, Longbottom," Goyle was saying. "Try to get past me. Let's see how tough you are."

Neville's face was red, his hands clenched at his sides. "Leave me alone."

"Or what?" Crabbe stepped closer, looming. "You'll try some magic? Oh wait, you can barely manage a simple charm. Practically a Squib, aren't you?"

Goyle laughed, nudging Crabbe. "Should make him try to summon his wand. Bet it won't even twitch."

Something cold and sharp crystallized in Harry's chest. Not just anger-something colder, more controlled. More dangerous.

Neville. His friend. The one person who'd stood by him without question.

Being tormented by Death Eaters' sons.

"Problem here?" Harry's voice was flat, cold. His hand was already on his wand.

Crabbe and Goyle turned, and Harry saw something flicker in their expressions-not quite fear, but wariness. They'd seen Harry duel. Knew what he was capable of.

Good.

Malfoy straightened, his expression shifting to studied indifference. "No problem, Potter. Just having a conversation."

"Didn't look like a conversation." Harry moved forward, putting himself between Neville and the others. "Looked like three against one."

"We were just leaving," Malfoy said. "Come on."

He walked away without waiting. Crabbe and Goyle hesitated a moment-Goyle actually looked like he wanted to say something-but then they followed Malfoy around the corner.

Harry waited until their footsteps faded, then turned to Neville. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Neville said quietly, retrieving his wand. His hands were shaking slightly. "Thanks."

"What happened?"

"Malfoy saw me coming out of the library. Sent those two after me." Neville's voice was bitter. "I tried to get to my wand but Goyle just blocked me. I'm not strong enough to get past him."

Harry felt cold anger settle in his chest. Neville had been trying to defend himself. But he wasn't big enough, wasn't strong enough to handle physical intimidation.

And Crabbe and Goyle had used that. Had deliberately targeted someone they knew couldn't fight back.

They walked to their next class in silence. Harry's mind was turning over what he'd just witnessed.

They hurt him. Went after Neville because they knew he couldn't stop them.

Neville had done nothing to deserve that. Had been loyal, genuine, kind-everything Crabbe and Goyle weren't.

Death Eaters' sons, Harry thought. Following Malfoy's orders now. Learning cruelty from their fathers.

Their fathers serve Voldemort. And I control Voldemort.

The thought sharpened into something more concrete.

Crabbe and Goyle were loyal. Obedient. Did what they were told without thinking too hard about it. Just followed whoever gave them orders-Malfoy now, probably the Dark Lord later when they were old enough to take the Mark.

Wasted on petty bullying. Could be directed toward something useful.

Harry pushed the thought aside as they entered Charms, but it stayed with him.

Friday brought the last DA meeting before Christmas break.

After the session ended and students began filing out, Harry lingered in the Room of Requirement. The space was quiet now, empty except for the practice equipment.

He thought about Arthur Weasley, recovering in St. Mungo's. About how close it had been-another minute and Harry would have been too late. The control had worked, but barely.

If I'd had someone here at Hogwarts, Harry thought. Someone who followed my direction immediately, not filtered through dreams and distance.

He thought about Neville, backed against that wall. About Crabbe and Goyle targeting him, enjoying his fear.

Their fathers serve Voldemort. That means they're already connected to my control, just indirectly.

It made sense. Crabbe Sr. and Goyle Sr. took orders from the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord followed Harry's will. The connection existed.

And they hurt Neville. That deserves consequences.

Harry left the Room of Requirement and headed back to Gryffindor Tower.

The knowledge was there in his head-vassal bonds, partnership bonds, how they worked. He'd studied it all carefully. Understood the mechanics, the requirements.

I could, Harry thought. If I chose to.

Voldemort could give their fathers orders. Could tell them to have their sons approach Harry, build a connection.

Not planning anything, Harry told himself. Just understanding what's possible.

The Hogwarts Express left Saturday morning. Students crowded the scarlet train, excited for Christmas break.

Harry found a compartment with Neville and Dean. Ron and Hermione passed by but didn't stop-Harry caught Hermione's hurt look through the window, but he didn't invite them in.

The train rumbled through the Scottish countryside. Harry stared out the window, thinking.

Arthur's attack had been too close. If Harry had been even slightly slower, had missed the dream entirely...

Direct control would be more reliable. Immediate instead of filtered through layers.

He pushed the thought aside as Neville offered him a Chocolate Frog.

"Thanks," Harry said.

"You okay?" Neville asked. "You've been quiet."

"Fine. Just thinking about break."

"Yeah," Neville said. "Me too. Gran wants me to visit Mum and Dad at St. Mungo's on Christmas."

Harry felt something twist in his chest. Neville's parents, tortured by Death Eaters. By people like Crabbe and Goyle's fathers.

And their sons were learning the same cruelty.

Maybe different direction would be better. For everyone.

The train pulled into King's Cross that evening. Mrs. Weasley was waiting, looking tired but relieved. "Your father's doing much better," Harry heard her say to Ron and Ginny. "He'll be home tomorrow."

Harry grabbed his trunk and headed over. Mrs. Weasley smiled when she saw him. "Harry dear, ready to go? Oh, you look thin."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said.

They headed for the exit. Harry caught a glimpse of Malfoy with his parents-Lucius cold and aristocratic, Narcissa elegant in expensive robes. Crabbe and Goyle were nearby with their own fathers, bulky men who looked like older, meaner versions of their sons.

Death Eaters. Named at the graveyard. Serving Voldemort.

Serving me, and they don't even know it.

Those men thought they were following the Dark Lord's orders. Had no idea their master followed Harry's will.

And their sons are being raised to follow the same path.

I could change that. Could give them different direction.

If I wanted to.

Harry followed Mrs. Weasley toward the car, his trunk dragging behind him.

Two weeks at Grimmauld Place. Time to think. Time to consider possibilities.

The cold London air bit at his face as they walked.

He was thinking about control. About people who hurt his friends. About what he was capable of doing. About whether any of it was right.

About whether he would.

Not decided yet, he told himself. Just thinking.

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place was crowded for the Christmas holidays.

Harry arrived with the Weasleys on Friday evening, dragging his trunk through the narrow hallway into the gloomy house. Mrs. Weasley was fussing over everyone, directing people to rooms, announcing that dinner would be ready in an hour.

"Harry dear, you're in the same room as Ron," she said. "The twins are across the hall. Ginny and Hermione are together upstairs."

Arthur was already home from St. Mungo's, moving slowly but recovering well. The bite wounds were healing cleanly, and he'd regained most of his strength. He smiled when he saw Harry.

"Harry! Good to see you. Glad you'll be spending Christmas with us."

"Good to see you too, Mr. Weasley," Harry said. "Glad you're feeling better."

And he was. Genuinely glad. Arthur's recovery was proof that Harry's intervention had worked, that his control over Voldemort could accomplish something good.

The evening was chaotic-people coming and going, Order members stopping by to check on Arthur, Mrs. Weasley coordinating dinner preparations. Harry mostly stayed quiet, responding when spoken to but not engaging much.

Hermione tried to catch his eye several times during dinner. Harry looked away each time.

Ron noticed. "You alright, mate?"

"Fine," Harry said. "Just tired from the journey."

After dinner, Harry retreated to the room he'd be sharing with Ron. He unpacked his trunk carefully, making sure his books were at the bottom, covered by clothes and other belongings. The notice-me-not charms he'd placed on them should help, but it was better to be careful.

The twins appeared in the doorway later.

"Oi, Harry," Fred said. "Bit quiet tonight, weren't you?"

"Long day," Harry said.

"Right," George said, exchanging a look with his twin. "Nothing to do with completely ignoring Hermione all through dinner?"

"We noticed you've been keeping your distance all term," Fred added. "But this seems worse than usual."

Harry didn't respond, just continued organizing his things.

"Fair enough," George said. "None of our business anyway."

They left, and Harry was grateful. He wasn't in the mood to explain anything.

The next day, Harry found himself wandering the house. It was easier than staying in the room with Ron, who kept trying to make conversation Harry didn't want to have.

He passed by the library and paused. Kreacher was there, dusting shelves with unusual attention.

The house-elf noticed Harry and bowed. "Master Harry seeks something?"

"Just looking for somewhere quiet," Harry said.

"The library is quiet," Kreacher said. "And Kreacher saved many good books from the blood traitor mistress and the Black master. Proper books, from when this house honored the old traditions. Master Harry saved the proper books from destruction. Kreacher remembers. Kreacher approves."

Harry glanced at the shelves. "What kind of books?"

"Many kinds. History. Magic that the current mistress calls 'dark' but is simply old. Traditional." Kreacher's expression was approving. "Master Harry understands the value of such knowledge. Not like the others."

"Could I read one?" Harry asked carefully.

Kreacher's face brightened. "Master Harry wishes to study the old ways? Kreacher is pleased. Very pleased." He moved to a shelf, reaching behind some newer volumes to pull out an older book. "This one. Traditional healing magic. Very old. Very proper."

The cover read Traditional Healing Rituals. Harry took it carefully.

"Thank you, Kreacher."

"Master Harry honors this house by valuing such knowledge," Kreacher said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice. "Not like the blood traitors who would burn such books."

Harry found a corner chair and settled in, opening the book. The pages were yellowed, brittle with age. The first chapter discussed healing rituals using herbs and careful timing-nothing unusual. But as he read further, he found sections on more advanced techniques.

Blood-based healing rituals. Using a person's own blood to strengthen healing charms, to purify infections, to speed recovery. The magic was complex, requiring precise measurements and specific incantations. Dark Arts by virtue of using blood magic, but the applications were practical. Useful.

This could actually help people, Harry thought as he read. No wonder the Ministry bans it. Can't have people learning magic that might actually work.

He was deep into a chapter on purification rituals when he heard footsteps.

"Harry? Are you in here?"

Hermione's voice.

Harry considered not answering, but she'd already spotted him.

"There you are. I've been looking for you. What are you-" She moved closer, her eyes landing on the open pages of the book in Harry's lap. Her face went pale. "Harry, that's blood magic."

"It's healing magic," Harry said flatly.

"Using blood! That's Dark Arts!" Hermione's voice had gone shrill. "What are you even reading? Where did you get that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters! Harry, you can't just read books about Dark Arts like it's normal! This is-this is dangerous!"

Harry closed the book carefully, keeping his finger to mark the page. "It's information. Knowledge. There's nothing dangerous about reading."

"There absolutely is when it's blood magic!" Hermione was wringing her hands now. "Harry, I know you've been through a lot, but you can't just-we need to tell someone. Mrs. Weasley, or Sirius, or-"

"No," Harry said, his voice cold. "We don't."

"Harry, I'm trying to help-"

"I don't need your help. I don't need you deciding what I can and can't read."

"It's Dark Arts," Hermione repeated, as if that explained everything. "You're reading about blood magic rituals, and someone needs to know about this before you-"

"Before I what?" Harry stood up, still holding the book. "Before I become a Dark wizard? Is that what you think?"

"I think you're making dangerous choices," Hermione said, her voice shaking. "And I think someone needs to help you before you go too far."

Harry stared at her. "So you're going to tell on me."

"I'm going to tell someone who cares about you and can help," Hermione said. "Because that's what friends do."

"Get out," he said quietly.

"Harry-"

"Get. Out."

Hermione turned and left, her jaw set with determination.

Harry was in his room when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Multiple people. Heavy, adult footsteps.

"Kreacher," Harry whispered urgently. "Hide the books. The books about the old ways, the ones in my trunk that we saved from destruction - Now."

He felt a faint pop of displaced air. The house-elf magic was subtle, but Harry saw the pile of clothes in his trunk shift slightly.

The door opened. Mrs. Weasley entered first, followed by Sirius. Both looked serious.

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley said. "Hermione told us you've been reading some... concerning material."

Harry's jaw tightened but he said nothing.

"Can we see your trunk?" Sirius asked.

"Go ahead," Harry said.

Mrs. Weasley opened his trunk carefully, going through his belongings. Textbooks, clothes, his Invisibility Cloak. Nothing unusual. Nothing Dark.

She frowned. "Hermione said you had a book on blood magic?"

"I was reading in the library," Harry said. "One of the books on the shelves."

Sirius and Mrs. Weasley exchanged looks, then headed back upstairs. Harry followed.

In the library, they found Traditional Healing Rituals on the shelf where Harry had hidden it behind some other books. Mrs. Weasley picked it up, flipped through it until she got to the purification rituals.

Her expression shifted as she read. "Blood purification rituals. Harry, this is Dark Arts."

"It's healing magic," Harry said. "Using blood, yes. But healing. Not curses or anything harmful."

"Blood magic is Dark Arts, Harry," Sirius said quietly. "Regardless of what it's used for. The Ministry classifies anything using blood magic as Dark."

"The Ministry classifies a lot of things as Dark that aren't actually harmful," Harry said. "That book could help people. There are rituals in there for purification, for speeding healing, for-"

"For using human blood in magic," Mrs. Weasley interrupted. "Harry, this isn't something you should be studying."

They searched the library shelves, but didn't find anything else immediately suspicious.

"We'll need to be more careful about which books are accessible," Sirius said to Mrs. Weasley.

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley said, turning to him. "I know you're curious about magic, and I know you want to be prepared. But Dark Arts-even ones that seem useful-they're called Dark for a reason. They change how you think, how you approach problems."

"I understand," Harry said, keeping his voice level.

"Do you?" Sirius asked quietly. "Because I've seen what happens to people who start down this path. They always think they can control it, use it responsibly. But Dark magic doesn't work that way."

"I said I understand," Harry repeated. "Can I go now?"

Mrs. Weasley looked like she wanted to say more, but Sirius put a hand on her arm. "Let's give Harry some space."

They left, and Harry returned to his room.

"Kreacher," he whispered.

The house-elf appeared with a soft pop, bowing low. "Master Harry called?"

"You hid the other books," Harry said quietly.

"Kreacher knows what books Master Harry values most," the elf said. "Kreacher protects the traditions, the old magic. Master Harry studies the old ways properly. Not like the blood traitor mistress and the Blacks who forget their heritage."

"Thank you," Harry said. "Where are they?"

"Safe," Kreacher said. "Kreacher will return them when Master Harry leaves. The old Black library had many such books. Good books. Proper magic."

Harry felt something loosen in his chest. The important books were safe. The bond magic texts, the compulsion studies-all hidden.

"Keep them hidden until I leave," Harry said. "Then put them back in my trunk before we go to the station."

"Does Master Harry wishes to continue studying the old ways properly? Away from those who would interfere?"

"Yes."

"Kreacher approves. Kreacher will add proper books to Master Harry's trunk before the journey." Kreacher said, and vanished.

Harry lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Hermione had gone straight to the adults instead of trusting him to make his own decisions. Had treated him like a child who couldn't be trusted with his own choices.

They don't understand, Harry thought. They see "Dark Arts" and panic without understanding what that actually means.

But he understood now. Understood that he couldn't trust Ron and Hermione with anything important.

They'd made their choice. Now he'd make his.

Dinner that evening was tense.

Harry sat at the table, responding to conversation when directly addressed but otherwise staying quiet. Hermione kept glancing at him, looking guilty. Ron seemed caught between them, uncomfortable.

"Everything alright, Harry?" Arthur asked at one point.

"Fine, sir," Harry said. "Just thinking about term."

After dinner, Ron tried to approach him in the hallway.

"Harry, mate, Hermione was just worried-"

"She didn't trust me to make my own decisions," Harry said. "She made her choice."

"That's not fair-"

"Fair would have been trusting me," Harry said. "You're backing her up, so you've made your choice too. We're done here."

He walked away, leaving Ron standing in the hallway.

Over the next few days, Harry avoided Ron and Hermione as much as possible in the crowded house. The adults seemed to notice the tension but didn't push. Too much else going on-Arthur's recovery, Order business, coordinating guard shifts at the Department of Mysteries.

Kreacher brought Harry tea sometimes when he was alone, small gestures of approval. The house-elf seemed pleased that Harry valued "proper magic."

And Harry spent time thinking.

About Crabbe and Goyle. About how they'd targeted Neville, someone who couldn't fight back. Death Eaters' sons, already being shaped to serve the Dark Lord. Already learning cruelty from their fathers.

But their fathers serve Voldemort. And I control Voldemort.

The thought was simple. Direct.

I could give them better direction. Better purpose than Malfoy's bullying.

He'd be their lord. Responsible for them, as the old texts described. They'd serve him, but he'd guide them. Protect them from Voldemort's influence.

Better than what they have now.

He knew how to create the bonds now. Knew the rituals, the requirements. Knew that intent to form a bond would be enough-the specific incantations and steps would determine which bond formed.

Voldemort can summon their fathers. Can give them orders. Can tell them to send their sons to me.

The plan was simple. Tell the Death Eaters to have their sons approach Harry with books, build trust. Eventually propose a partnership bond-blood magic that would prove commitment.

The Death Eaters would think they were setting a trap for Harry.

Harry would be ready.

Christmas Day came and went. Harry exchanged gifts with everyone, thanked Mrs. Weasley for the jumper, pretended everything was normal. But the coldness between him and Ron and Hermione was obvious.

"Harry," Hermione tried at one point, catching him alone. "I'm sorry. I really am. I was just worried-"

"I know," Harry said. "You were worried. So you went to the adults. I understand. But that doesn't change anything."

"Can't we just-"

"No," Harry said. "We can't."

He walked away.

That night, Harry went to bed early. He lay in the dark, thinking about Voldemort. About the connection between them.

Show me, Harry thought. Let me see what he's doing.

He didn't know if it would work. But it was worth trying.

Nothing.

The following night, he tried again.

Still nothing.

Finally on the third night, a dream.

Harry found himself in Voldemort's mind-that familiar cold sensation. The Dark Lord was alone in a dark room, planning.

Perfect, Harry thought, and pushed at Voldemort's consciousness.

Summon Crabbe. Alone. Private meeting.

Voldemort's hand moved to his wand. A moment later, the Dark Mark burned with his call-specific, targeted.

Crabbe Sr. appeared several minutes later, kneeling before Voldemort.

"My Lord. You summoned me?"

"Rise," Voldemort said, and Harry felt his own will shaping the words. "Tell me about your son. Does he believe in our cause? Will he join our ranks when the time comes?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Excellent. You have an opportunity to demonstrate why I let you take my Mark. And for your son to earn his. I have a task for you. One that requires discretion."

"Of course, my Lord."

"Potter is powerful. Talented. And increasingly isolated from Dumbledore's influence." Voldemort leaned forward slightly. "I have reason to believe he will be receptive to our advances. I do not expect full recruitment immediately. That would be... ambitious. But we can compromise him. Push him towards magic that Dumbledore and the Light cannot accept."

"My Lord?" Crabbe's confusion was evident.

"Potter grows isolated from Dumbledore. Disillusioned with the Light's restrictions." Voldemort's voice was cold. "Your son will approach him. Offer forbidden knowledge. Books on blood magic-academic at first. Build trust."

"My son is... straightforward, my Lord. He follows instructions well but may need clear guidance on this task."

"He need not be subtle. Only persistent. Potter hungers for real power, not Dumbledore's platitudes." Voldemort leaned forward. "Eventually, your son will propose a blood ritual. Even the Pact of Brotherhood suffices. Once Potter participates in blood magic, we have him."

Crabbe's eyes widened with understanding.

"Either he continues down that path and can be recruited, or we expose his use of Dark Arts. Force Dumbledore to denounce his precious savior. Either outcome serves us."

Understanding dawned on Crabbe's face. "A trap, my Lord. Once Potter takes that step, we win."

"Precisely. Your son will need to be patient. This is not accomplished in a week. Build trust first. Offer books-Dark Arts texts, but nothing that would immediately condemn Potter. Things that seem academic. Start with theory, move gradually toward practice."

Crabbe nodded slowly. "When should he begin?"

"After the holiday. Send him with books-things on Dark Arts theory, on blood magic principles. Have him approach Potter carefully. Say that he's heard Potter is interested in real magic, that he'd be willing to share what his father has taught him." Voldemort's cold voice held satisfaction. "The bond ritual comes later. Once trust is established. Once Potter is comfortable with the idea of learning from him."

"I understand, my Lord."

"This requires the utmost discretion. Tell no one else but your son. Commit him to secrecy. Report back on his progress."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Go. Send your son instructions. If he does well you will both be rewarded. But Crabbe-" Voldemort's voice dropped lower. "If this fails because your son is careless or stupid, you will answer for it."

"Yes, my Lord." Crabbe Sr. bowed deeply and vanished.

Harry watched through Voldemort's eyes as the Dark Lord sat back, considering.

One more, Harry thought, and pushed again.

Wait a moment. Then summon Goyle.

Voldemort nodded to himself. Two approaches would be better than one. If one boy failed, the other might succeed.

He raised his wand again. Another specific summons.

Goyle Sr. arrived, kneeling.

"My Lord?"

Harry fed the same words through again, making Voldemort repeat the explanation. Potter's isolation. The opportunity to compromise him through blood magic. Send your son with books, build trust, eventually propose a bond ritual.

"Your son will need to be patient," Voldemort said. "Persistent. This is a long-term mission. But if successful, the rewards are significant."

"Yes, my Lord. I understand."

"Tell your son this is his chance to prove his worth. To show me he deserves a place among my followers despite his youth. Can he manage that?"

"I believe so, my Lord."

"See that he doesn't fail. Dismissed."

Goyle Sr. vanished, and Harry felt satisfaction flow through Voldemort's mind. A good plan. Two Death Eaters' sons approaching Potter independently. One of them would surely succeed.

The dream began to fade.

Harry woke in his bed at Grimmauld Place, his scar aching dully.

He lay still for a moment, thinking about what he'd done.

It had worked. Both Death Eaters summoned, both given the same mission. They'd think they were setting a trap for Harry.

But the trap was Harry's.

Crabbe and Goyle would approach him after the holiday. Would bring books, offer to teach him, build trust. Eventually they'd propose the bond ritual.

They'll choose to form a bond, Harry thought. That part is real.

What happened after that... Harry would handle when the time came.

He closed his eyes, but sleep didn't return easily. His mind was active, thinking about what would happen when term started.

Death Eaters' sons, coming to him with their fathers' orders. Thinking they were recruiting him or setting him up for exposure.

Harry lay awake until nearly dawn, then finally drifted back to sleep.

The last few days of the holiday passed quietly. Harry kept his distance from Ron and Hermione. Kreacher continued his small gestures of approval. The adults remained busy with Order business.

On the train back to Hogwarts, Harry sat with Neville and Dean. Ron and Hermione were somewhere else. Harry didn't look for them.

"Good holiday?" Neville asked.

"It was fine," Harry said. "How were your gran and your parents?"

"Mum was having a good day," Neville said quietly. "She smiled when she saw the flowers I brought. Gran said that's progress."

"That's good," Harry said, and meant it.

The train rumbled through the countryside, carrying them back to Hogwarts. Back to where Crabbe and Goyle would be waiting with their books and their mission.

Harry stared out the window, thinking about what would happen next.

The orders were given. The pieces were moving. Soon one of them would approach him-maybe both. With books and offers and eventual proposals for a partnership ritual.

And Harry would be ready.

Death Eaters' sons, Harry thought. Already learning cruelty. Already being directed by Voldemort through their fathers.

Harry watched the Scottish landscape slide past and waited for everything to begin.

Chapter Text

Harry noticed Crabbe trying to catch him alone on the second day back at Hogwarts.

It was subtle-or as subtle as Crabbe could manage. Lingering near the Gryffindor common room entrance after meals, watching Harry in corridors, following at a distance when Harry left the Great Hall.

Harry pretended not to notice. Let Crabbe think he was being clever.

On the third day, Goyle started doing the same thing.

Separate missions. Just like I ordered.

On Thursday evening, Harry made it easy for Crabbe. He left the Great Hall after dinner and took a route toward the library that passed through a less-traveled corridor. Sure enough, footsteps followed.

"Potter."

Harry turned, affecting mild surprise. "Crabbe. What do you want?"

Crabbe looked uncomfortable, glancing around to make sure they were alone. "Can we talk? Somewhere private?"

Harry let suspicion show on his face. "Why would I want to talk to you privately?"

"I have something for you. Something you might be interested in." Crabbe shifted his weight. "Books. About magic they don't teach here."

"What makes you think I'd be interested in that?" Harry's voice was cold. "And even if I were, why would I want to learn anything from you?"

Crabbe didn't flinch. "Because you're powerful. Everyone knows it. And you're being held back." He paused. "My father says you're wasted on Dumbledore."

There it is, Harry thought. The recruitment pitch.

He let doubt show on his face, but kept his voice skeptical. "Your father. Right. And what does he want?"

"Just... just for you to see. What's out there." Crabbe shifted his weight. "If you don't want it, fine."

I don't know why they think this would work, Harry thought. Years of hexing me in corridors, and now they expect me to trust them with illegal books? But it doesn't matter. I know exactly what they're trying to do.

Harry appeared to consider, then gave a curt nod. "Fine. Tomorrow. But if this is some kind of setup..."

"It's not." Crabbe looked earnest. "Third floor, east wing. Empty classroom near Gregory the Smarmy statue. Seven o'clock."

"I'll be there," Harry said. "But Crabbe-if you're wasting my time..."

"I'm not."

Harry walked away, letting skepticism show in his posture.

Friday evening arrived, and Harry made his way to the third floor.

The classroom was dusty and clearly unused. Crabbe was already there, standing next to a desk where several books were stacked.

"You came," Crabbe said, sounding relieved.

"I'm curious," Harry said, keeping his tone guarded. "That's all."

"That's enough." Crabbe gestured to the books. "These are from my father's collection. Real Dark Arts texts. Not the sanitized stuff they teach in Defense."

Harry moved closer, examining the spines. Ritual Foundations. Advanced Ritual Theory. Blood Magic and Its Applications.

He recognized the last one from the Black library. The other two were new.

"These are illegal," Harry said slowly.

"That's the point. Ministry bans anything that works." Crabbe's voice held contempt. "They want everyone weak."

Harry picked up Ritual Foundations, flipping through it. New material-theory on ritual structure, preparation, magical anchoring. Useful information he hadn't studied yet.

"And you think I should read these?"

"Yeah. Should understand what's out there." Crabbe leaned forward slightly. "My father taught me some over the holiday. Basic stuff. But there's more..." He shrugged. "Said I should find someone to work with. Someone who'd get it."

That makes more sense, Harry thought. Crabbe wasn't positioning himself as a teacher-just someone who'd already started learning and could share what he knew.

"If anyone found out..."

"Won't. Just us." Crabbe's expression was earnest. "We can learn together. Figure out the advanced stuff."

Harry let silence stretch for a moment. Then: "Alright. But I'm not promising anything."

"That's all I'm asking." Crabbe looked pleased. "Same time next week?"

"Tuesday," Harry said. "Same time, same place."

"Tuesday works." Crabbe nodded. "Bring that one. We can talk about what you find."

Harry took Ritual Foundations and left.

On Saturday evening, Goyle cornered him near the abandoned transfiguration classroom.

"Potter. Need to talk to you."

Harry turned, raising an eyebrow. "Goyle?"

"Got something for you." Goyle glanced around nervously. "Books. About magic you'd actually want to learn."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think you know what I want to learn?"

"Because everyone knows Dumbledore's holding you back. You could be really powerful if someone showed you what's possible." Goyle's voice was earnest. "My father says you're being wasted."

"And why would I trust you?" Harry kept his voice skeptical.

"Got books. Real stuff." Goyle pulled out a piece of parchment. "Just look. If you don't want it, fine."

Harry took the parchment showing the classroom location. "What books?"

"Blood magic texts, mostly. Theory and practical applications. The real stuff." Goyle lowered his voice. "Tomorrow night, nine o'clock. Fifth floor. Just come see."

Harry appeared to consider. "Tomorrow night."

Goyle nodded and left.

Harry stood alone in the corridor, thinking about the two separate approaches. Different times, different locations, different books. Neither boy knew about the other's mission.

Perfect.

Sunday evening, Harry met Goyle in the fifth-floor classroom.

The setup was different from Crabbe's. Goyle had three books stacked on a desk-Blood Magic and Its Applications (which Harry recognized), and two others: Bloodwork: Theory and Practice and The Art of Blood Bonds.

"You came," Goyle said, looking pleased.

"You said you had books." Harry moved closer. "These are all about blood magic?"

"Yeah. That's what my father focused on. Says it's the foundation." Goyle picked up Blood Magic and Its Applications. "Start with this one. Why blood makes magic stronger."

Harry took the book, flipping through it as if he hadn't read it months ago. "And you've studied this?"

"Some. My father went through basics with me. But there's advanced stuff..." Goyle gestured to the other books. "Said I should work with someone else on it."

"What exactly did your father teach you?"

"Basic theory. How blood carries magic. How it makes rituals permanent." Goyle pulled out The Art of Blood Bonds. "Wants me to focus on this next. Bond magic."

Harry took that book too, examining it with apparent interest. "Bond magic?"

"Connections between wizards. Using blood to share strength, work together." Goyle's voice held enthusiasm. "Real teamwork magic."

"And you want to study this together?"

"Yeah. My father said two people working together learn faster." Goyle met Harry's eyes. "Wednesdays work?"

"Wednesdays," Harry agreed. "Same time, same place."

Goyle looked excited. "Bring those two. We'll talk about what you read."

Harry left with Blood Magic and Its Applications and The Art of Blood Bonds, already planning how to juggle studying with both boys without either realizing.

The next few weeks fell into a pattern.

Tuesday evenings with Crabbe, studying ritual theory and magical foundations. Wednesday evenings with Goyle, working through blood magic principles and bond theory. And scattered throughout, DA meetings where Harry taught Patronuses and defensive spells to students who actually wanted to learn.

The books Goyle had provided filled in gaps from what Harry had rescued from the Black library. The Art of Blood Bonds was particularly useful-it went deeper into bond magic than anything he'd read before, explaining variations Harry hadn't known existed.

Both boys worked from what their fathers had taught them over the holidays-basic theory and principles, enough foundation to build on. But they struggled. Crabbe focused on ritual magic and structure, but kept mixing up concepts. Goyle focused on blood magic and bonds, but had trouble with anything beyond simple memorization.

Harry had to pretend he was learning it all for the first time, while actually absorbing the new material they'd brought.

"The key to ritual magic," Crabbe started, staring at Ritual Foundations. He read a few words, then his eyes drifted to his wand on the table. Picked it up. Set it down. Started reading again. "Is the structure. You're building a... wait, what was the first part?"

Harry had already read the passage three times while waiting. "Framework that holds intent."

"Right. Framework." Crabbe tapped his fingers on the desk, shifted in his seat. "Can you just read it? Goes faster."

Harry took the book and read the passage aloud. Crabbe stopped fidgeting and listened, nodding along.

"Like creating a foundation?" Harry asked, as if this was a new concept.

"Yeah, exactly." Crabbe leaned forward, engaged now. "Preparation matters because every component, every symbol anchors the intent. Makes it stable."

He could explain it back when he'd actually paid attention. The problem was getting him to focus long enough to take information in.

The pattern repeated over the next two weeks. Crabbe would start reading, get distracted, lose his place. Harry would end up reading aloud while Crabbe listened. Then Crabbe could discuss the concepts-when he'd actually absorbed them.

But keeping his attention was exhausting.

After two weeks, Crabbe looked frustrated. "You're getting this fast. Really fast. I keep losing track halfway through."

"I'm just very interested in it," Harry said carefully.

"My father drilled this stuff into me for days. You're picking it up like..." Crabbe shook his head. "You're good at this."

With Goyle, the pattern repeated. Different evening, different classroom, different subject matter.

"Blood magic works because..." Goyle squinted at Blood Magic and Its Applications, his finger moving slowly under each word. "Blood carries your magic. It's... it's you. Your magic. In phy-phys-" He stopped, frowning at the page.

"Physical form," Harry supplied.

"Right. Physical form." Goyle kept his finger on the line, continuing slowly. "So using it makes rituals more personal and more per-perman-"

"Permanent."

"Permanent. Yeah." Goyle was still tracking across the line with his finger. "Blood binds magic to you."

Harry had already skimmed the next three pages while Goyle struggled through two sentences.

It continued like that. Goyle would labor through text, sometimes reading the same sentence twice to make sure he had it right. His finger tracked under each word. He'd pause on longer words, sound them out quietly.

After the third week, Goyle looked frustrated. "You read fast. Really fast. Takes me forever to get through this stuff."

"Your father taught you the basics though," Harry said.

"Yeah. He explained it. Showed me. That works better." Goyle gestured at the book. "Reading it myself... takes longer.""I just find it really interesting," Harry said.

"Yeah, but..." Goyle frowned. "You actually get it. Not just memorizing."

It was exhausting in its own way-not the magic, but the performance. Remembering what he'd "learned" from each of them, what questions he'd already asked, what level of understanding he'd demonstrated. Making sure his progression seemed natural to both.

But it was working. Both Crabbe and Goyle grew more confident with each session. More certain that Harry was genuinely interested in Dark Arts, that their recruitment was succeeding.

The fourth week, Crabbe was visibly restless during their session.

He'd been tapping his wand on the desk for the past five minutes, shifting his weight, looking around the room. Harry was trying to explain a principle from Ritual Foundations, but Crabbe kept interrupting.

"Can we do something?" Crabbe asked. "Not just reading and talking. Actually cast something."

Harry paused. "We're still covering theory-"

"We've been doing theory for weeks." Crabbe pulled out Blood Magic and Its Applications. "This has actual rituals in it. Practical stuff. Let's try one."

His eagerness was obvious. Sitting and reading made him antsy. Actually doing something-that was different. That held his attention.

"What kind of ritual?" Harry asked carefully.

Crabbe flipped to the marked page, the one his father had shown him. "This one. Blood bond. Two wizards working together."

Harry examined the book. "Moving to practice?"

Harry examined the ritual description. The same one he'd studied months ago from this book. Runes, incantation, blood mixing. All the components.

"Why this one?"

"Because..." Crabbe frowned, searching for words. "Doing it. Not just talking about it." He looked at Harry. "Proves it's real."

There it is, Harry thought. The test. The trap.

He let doubt show on his face. "A blood ritual? That's big."

"Yeah. Big." Crabbe leaned forward. "That's why it matters. Shows you mean it." He shrugged. "But if you're not ready..."

Harry studied the page for a long moment. "Can I think about it?"

"Yeah. Take your time." Crabbe tried to look casual. "Just... don't take too long."

Harry nodded slowly. "I'll let you know."

That evening, in the privacy of his notice-me-not and his bed with the curtains drawn, Harry pulled out parchment and began copying the ritual.

Except he wasn't copying the partnership bond from Blood Magic and Its Applications.

He was copying the vassal bond from The Subtleties of Magical Compulsion-the ritual he'd studied carefully over the past months. Similar structure to the partnership bond. Similar components. But with crucial differences.

The runes used different symbols-hierarchy instead of balance, guidance instead of mutual exchange. The incantation had different words in Old English. The wand movements were subtly altered.

Harry copied it all carefully, making his notes look like they came from the blood magic book. Anyone glancing at them would assume he'd transcribed the partnership bond ritual. But the details were different. Changed. Swapped.

He worked late into the night, making sure every rune was precise, every word correct. This had to be perfect. His first time attempting a binding-no room for error.

By the time he finished, he had a complete ritual transcription that looked like partnership but was actually vassalage.

Perfect.

Two days later, Goyle proposed the same ritual.

They were working through The Art of Blood Bonds when Goyle turned to a marked page.

"Got something to show you," he said. "Ritual my father wants us to try."

Harry looked at the page. The partnership bond-same ritual Crabbe had shown him, from a different book with slightly more detailed diagrams.

"Why this one?"

"Not just reading. Have to do it." Goyle looked earnest. "This one's safe. Just makes a connection. Shows you're serious."

Harry examined the diagram carefully. "Your father wants you to do this?"

"Yeah. Says the only way to really learn bond magic is to do it." Goyle met Harry's eyes. "Thinks you'd be good for it. You take this serious."

Same pitch, slightly different approach, Harry thought. But the same core trap.

"Let me think about it," Harry said.

"Sure. But Potter-" Goyle frowned. "It's real magic. Not just books and talking."

Harry nodded slowly.

"You prefer practical work," Harry observed.

"Yeah. My father showed me the ritual. Walked me through it step by step. That makes sense." Goyle gestured at the book. "Reading about it... that's harder."

Harry nodded slowly, filing that information away.

That night, he made a second set of notes-the same vassal bond ritual, but transcribed to look like it came from The Art of Blood Bonds instead.

Two sets of false notes. Two boys who thought they were teaching him the partnership bond. Two traps, ready to spring.

On Thursday, Harry found Crabbe in the corridor after Potions.

"I've thought about it," Harry said quietly. "The ritual. I'll do it."

Relief flooded Crabbe's face. "You will?"

"Yeah. But not in that classroom. Found a better place." Harry kept his voice low. "Seventh floor, across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Saturday night, nine o'clock."

"Better place?" Crabbe looked interested. "More private?"

"Much more private. No one will interrupt." Harry met Crabbe's eyes. "Bring everything we need."

"Saturday," Crabbe agreed, excitement showing through. "I'll be there."

Saturday evening, Harry arrived at the seventh floor corridor early.

He had his notes with him-the ones supposedly copied from Blood Magic and Its Applications for Crabbe. The vassal bond ritual disguised as partnership bond notes.

Harry paced three times in front of the blank wall, thinking: I need a private ritual space.

A door appeared. Harry opened it and stepped inside.

The room was perfect. Smooth stone floor, bare walls, a single table with ritual components already laid out-silver knife, shallow bowl, chalk. Everything needed.

Harry laid out his notes on the table, double-checking them one final time. The vassal bond configuration, disguised as partnership bond notes. The altered incantation written out clearly. Everything ready.

His hands were steady. This was his first time binding someone, but he'd studied the theory thoroughly. Knew every step. Just had to execute it precisely.

Can't afford mistakes.

At eight fifty-five, Crabbe knocked on the door.

Harry opened it. "Come in."

Crabbe entered, looking around at the room. "This is... perfect."

"It is." Harry closed and locked the door, casting silencing charms. "Everything's ready."

The ritual components were laid out on the table. Crabbe moved toward them, then noticed Harry's notes.

"You copied down the ritual?" Crabbe picked up the parchment, examining it.

"I wanted to make sure I had all the details right."

Crabbe read through the notes carefully, comparing them to what he remembered from the book. The rune configuration looked right-circular pattern, symbols at the cardinal points. The incantation seemed correct-Old English words about blood and binding. Everything matched what he'd been taught.

"Looks good," Crabbe said, setting the notes down. "You got it all."

Of course I did, Harry thought. Just not the ritual you think.

"I'll draw the runes," Harry said, picking up the chalk and his notes.

Crabbe nodded. "I'll watch, make sure they match your notes."

Harry knelt and began drawing. The vassal bond configuration-hierarchical symbols where partnership would use balanced ones, guidance where partnership would use mutual exchange. He worked carefully, checking his notes, making each rune precise.

This was it. Once he finished the ritual, there was no taking it back. Crabbe would be bound permanently.

Harry's hand paused over the final rune.

He thought about Neville backed against that wall. About Crabbe looming over him, enjoying his fear. About Death Eaters' sons being raised to torture and kill.

Better me than Voldemort.

Harry drew the final rune.

Crabbe knelt beside him, comparing the runes to Harry's notes. Everything matched. Harry was drawing exactly what he'd written down.

When Harry finished, Crabbe examined the circle carefully. "Perfect. Matches your notes exactly."

They both stepped into the circle. Crabbe held the knife and bowl.

"You ready?" Crabbe asked.

"Ready." Harry's voice was calm. Focused.

Crabbe cut his palm first, wincing slightly as blood welled up. He held it over the bowl, letting drops fall. Then he handed the knife to Harry.

Harry cut his own palm, watching his blood join Crabbe's in the bowl. The pain was sharp but bearable.

"Now we say the words," Crabbe said, pulling out his copy of the ritual incantation. "Together. You have your part memorized?"

Harry nodded, looking at his notes. Where Crabbe would speak words of blood joining and sacred binding, Harry's notes showed him speaking different words-words of willing service and authority.

Crabbe began: "Þurh blod freolic giefan, we bindaþ us in getreowþe-"

Through blood freely given, we bind ourselves in fidelity.

Harry spoke his part: "Þurh blod freolic beodan, ic gelæde mid wisdom, þu folgast mid willan-"

Through blood freely offered, I guide with wisdom, you follow with will.

The Old English flowed together. Crabbe was focused on his own part, trusting Harry's notes were correct. He didn't catch the differences in meaning.

Both pulled their wands. Crabbe made careful movements, following what he'd memorized. Harry made similar movements-but twisted slightly, redirected, the vassal bond gestures instead of partnership.

The blood began to glow. They clasped their bloodied hands. Magic surged between them-hot and demanding.

Harry felt something click into place. A connection forming, settling. Not balanced and mutual. Directed. Hierarchical.

The bond thrummed in his awareness-solid, real, permanent.

The glow faded. The blood in the bowl was gone, absorbed by the magic.

Crabbe let out a breath. "Is that it?"

"That's it," Harry said.

Crabbe looked at his palm, where the cut had already sealed, leaving just the slightest scar. "Don't feel different. Do you?"

"No." Harry kept his voice casual, even as satisfaction settled cold in his chest. It worked.

"Huh." Crabbe looked relieved. "We did it then. Partners now."

Not quite, Harry thought.

They cleaned up in silence. Harry pocketed his notes-no sense leaving evidence. He scuffed out the chalk runes with his foot.

"Same time Tuesday?" Crabbe asked. "Continue studying?"

"Same time Tuesday," Harry confirmed.

Crabbe left first. Harry waited a few minutes, then followed.

The bond was formed. Now he'd wait until their next meeting to test it.

Let him think it worked right. Let him feel safe for a few days.

Tuesday evening, Harry arrived at their usual classroom at seven o'clock.

Crabbe was already there, books spread out on the desk. He looked up when Harry entered.

"Hey, Potter. Ready to continue?"

"Actually," Harry said, casting a silencing charm at the door. "I wanted to review the ritual first. Make sure we did everything correctly."

"We did. You had good notes, we followed them exactly."

"Humor me." Harry moved to the desk. "Hand me that book."

His voice was calm. Conversational. Not a command-or at least, it didn't sound like one. But Harry pulled on the bond as he said it.

And Crabbe's hand moved.

Not a conscious decision. His arm just reached out, picked up Blood Magic and Its Applications from the desk, held it out to Harry.

Harry took the book, watching Crabbe's face carefully.

Crabbe stared at his hand, confusion dawning. "I... why did I..."

"Hand me that quill."

Crabbe's hand moved again. Picked up the quill. Held it out.

Understanding replaced confusion. Then horror.

"What-" Crabbe tried to pull his hand back, but it stayed extended until Harry took the quill. "What did you do?"

"Close the door," Harry said quietly.

Crabbe moved to the door and closed it, unable to stop himself.

"What the fuck did you do?" Crabbe's voice rose. "This isn't-we did a partnership bond!"

"You thought we did a partnership bond," Harry corrected. "You checked my notes, made sure I'd copied the ritual correctly. But you never checked whether the notes matched the book. You trusted that I'd transcribed it properly."

Harry's satisfaction was cold, certain. The bond worked exactly as the books had described. Perfect compliance.

"I saw the notes! I checked them!"

"You checked that the runes I drew matched what I'd written down. You didn't check whether what I wrote down matched the ritual in the book." Harry's voice stayed level. "If you'd paid more attention to the theory-understood how it worked instead of just memorizing steps-you might have noticed the differences."

"This is different," Harry explained calmly. "Looks like a partnership bond, but it's not. It makes you obey. You have to follow my orders. You agreed when you did the ritual."

"You-" Crabbe lunged forward, hands reaching for Harry's throat.

"Stop," Harry said sharply.

Crabbe froze mid-motion, arms still extended. His face twisted with rage and horror as he realized he couldn't move.

"Take two steps back and sit down. Be quiet while I explain how things work now."

Crabbe's body obeyed. He dropped back into the chair, mouth snapping shut despite clearly wanting to yell.

Harry pulled up another chair and sat facing him. "Here's how this works. Act normal with everyone else. Go to classes. Do your regular stuff. Nobody can know about the bond. You can't tell anyone. Can't tell them what happened. Can't try to break it or get help. Understand?"

Crabbe nodded jerkily, unable to speak.

"Meet me on the seventh floor, same place as the ritual, on Saturday. Eight forty-five. Don't be late."

Another nod.

"You can speak and move normally once I leave. But the orders stand. Act normal. Tell no one. Be there Saturday at eight forty-five."

He left the classroom, leaving Crabbe sitting frozen in the chair.

Behind him, Harry heard Crabbe try to stand-heard the chair scrape, then go quiet as the command held.

Harry continued down the corridor, satisfied.

One down. One to go.

Wednesday evening, Harry met with Goyle for their regular session.

Goyle still thought he was successfully building Harry's interest in Dark Arts. Still confident in his mission.

Near the end of the session, Harry brought up the ritual.

"That partnership bond," he said. "The one you showed me."

Goyle's face lit up. "Yeah?"

"I'll do it. Found a good space. Seventh floor, across from that tapestry with the dancing trolls. This Saturday. Nine o'clock."

"Really?" Goyle was practically bouncing. "You mean it?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be there." Goyle looked thrilled.

The week passed slowly. Harry saw Crabbe in corridors occasionally. He thought the bigger boy looked pale, shaken, but he was following orders. Acting normal. Telling no one.

Saturday evening arrived.

Harry made his way to the seventh floor early. He paced three times, thinking: I need a private ritual space with a screen to hide someone.

A door appeared. Harry opened it and stepped inside.

The room was similar to last time, but with a folding screen in one corner.

At eight forty-five, Crabbe arrived.

He looked worse than he had all week-dark circles under his eyes, his skin pale.

"Come in," Harry said. "Close the door behind you."

Crabbe obeyed, his movements stiff.

"Go behind that screen. Stay there. Stay silent. No matter what you hear, don't make a sound. Don't come out until I tell you to. Understand?"

"Yes." Crabbe's voice was hollow.

He walked behind the screen without another word. Harry heard him settle into position.

At nine o'clock exactly, Goyle knocked on the door.

Harry opened it. "Right on time."

"Potter." Goyle entered, looking around. "This place is amazing."

"It is." Harry closed and locked the door, casting silencing charms. "Everything's ready."

Harry felt more relaxed this time. More confident. He'd done this once already-knew the ritual worked, knew his notes were correct. Just had to execute it again.

Goyle moved toward the table, then noticed Harry's notes.

"You wrote down the ritual?" Goyle picked up the parchment, examining it.

"I wanted to make sure I had all the details."

Goyle read through carefully, comparing to what he remembered from The Art of Blood Bonds. The structure looked right, the components were all there. Everything seemed correct.

"Looks good," Goyle said, setting the notes down.

Behind the screen, Crabbe would recognize what was happening. Would know exactly what Harry was about to do. Would be unable to warn Goyle, unable to interfere.

The ritual proceeded much like Crabbe's had. Harry drew the runes while Goyle checked them against the notes. They both stepped into the circle. Blood was mixed. Incantation spoken-Goyle's part about blood and binding, Harry's substituted words about submission and obedience. Wand movements made-similar but crucially different.

The blood glowed. Their hands clasped, magic clicked into place with that same sense of direction, of hierarchy.

The second bond settled alongside the first in Harry's awareness. Two connections now. Two people bound to his will.

The glow faded.

Harry stood there for a moment, feeling both bonds thrumming in his awareness. Two people whose wills were now subordinate to his. Two lives he'd just permanently altered.

He'd done it. Twice. And it had been easy-easier than it should have been.

No going back now, Harry thought. And found he didn't want to go back anyway.

"That's it?" Goyle examined his healed palm. "I don't feel different."

"Stand on one leg, Goyle." Harry said, once again exerting his will on the bond.

Goyle's leg rose, confusion crossing his face.

"What-why-" Goyle stared at Harry, then tried to stand on both feet. Couldn't.

"Close your eyes."

Goyle eyes shut, his face going pale.

"Eyes open. Sit down."

Goyle sat. Tried to stand on his own. Couldn't.

"What did you do?" Goyle's voice went high. "This isn't-it's wrong!"

"This is a vassalage bond. I am your lord now. You are my vassal now, bound to follow my orders - like Crabbe does." Harry kept his voice level. "Crabbe, come out."

Behind the screen, Harry heard movement. Then Crabbe stepped out, his face miserable.

Goyle stared at him. "You knew? You knew and you didn't-"

"Couldn't," Crabbe said, his voice rough. "Can't disobey."

"No," Goyle whispered. "No, I was going to-" His voice broke. "My father. He'll kill me. He'll think I failed, that I-"

"Your father won't know," Harry said. "Not unless you tell him. And you won't tell him."

"Can't," Crabbe said bitterly from behind them. "He controls that too. Can't tell anyone anything."

Goyle's face went white. "Everything? You can control everything we-"

"Not everything. You can think what you want. Feel what you want. But when I give an order, you follow it."

The full horror of it settled over Goyle's face.

"You were going to recruit me," Harry said. "Or set me up. That's what your fathers said. But here's what really happened."

He pulled up a chair and sat, looking between them. The satisfaction was cold, justified. This was about consequences. About Neville backed against that wall.

"Your fathers sent you to me. Books, studying together, building up to the ritual. You thought it was a trap for me-recruit me or get me in trouble for Dark Arts."

Both boys stared at him.

"But your fathers didn't decide this on their own. Voldemort gave them orders. And I have an arrangement with Voldemort." Harry watched their faces. "Your fathers got summoned separately. Given the same mission. Neither knew about the other. Each one thought his son had something special."

Goyle's face went white. "My father thought... he said this was important. That I was being trusted..."

"He was being used," Harry said. "You both were. Voldemort told both your fathers the same thing. Sent you both on the same mission. You were bait from the start. I knew you'd both come. Just had to play along. Not let you get suspicious." Harry's voice stayed calm. "Your fathers thought they were trapping me. But the trap was for you. You got delivered to me. Both of you. Matched set."

The full scope of it hit them both. Their fathers serving the Dark Lord, following orders that led their sons directly into Harry's control.

"No," Goyle's voice was barely there. "Has to be a way to break it-"

"There isn't. Need another ritual. Need someone who knows how. Someone willing to help." Harry's voice stayed calm. "Who you going to ask? Your fathers? They tell Voldemort. Malfoy? He'll want to know why, and I'm telling you not to tell."

"Why?" Goyle demanded. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're Death Eaters' sons," Harry said flatly. "Being trained to serve Voldemort. Learning from your fathers how to be cruel. Already doing it to kids who can't fight back."

He thought of Neville, cornered and afraid. They deserved this.

"You went after Neville. Over and over. Because he's weak. Because he can't stop you. Because you thought it was funny." Harry's voice went colder. "You made choices. Followed your fathers. Now you follow me. Maybe you'll learn something different."

"We were just-" Crabbe started. "Our fathers told us to-"

"And now I'm telling you." Harry paused. "In a year or two, you'd be taking the Dark Mark. Torturing Muggles because your fathers said to. Killing because Voldemort ordered it. This is better. Better than that path."

He met their eyes.

"You're angry right now. I get it. But you'll see - you'll come to appreciate serving me. I'm not like them. This doesn't have to be a bad thing for you - I will be a good and worthy lord to you both."

Both boys stared at him, their expressions a mix of horror and fury.

"Here's how it works now," Harry continued. "Act normal with everyone. Go to classes. Do your normal stuff. Nobody can know about the bond. You can talk to each other-compare how you both got the same mission, both got sent separately, both got trapped. But nobody else. Not your fathers, not Malfoy, not anyone. Can't try to break it. Can't get help. Understood?"

"Yes," Crabbe said quietly.

"Yes," Goyle forced out.

"When you report to your fathers-and you will-tell them I did the ritual. Tell them I'm into Dark Arts, that everything's going good. Make it sound real."

"They'll want more," Goyle said weakly.

"Tell them what they want. I'm interested, I'm frustrated with Dumbledore, I want to learn more. True enough." Harry stood. "Meet me here every Wednesday, eight o'clock. I'll tell you what else to do then. Act normal. Tell nobody except each other. Those are your orders."

He unlocked the door and left them there, together in the Room of Requirement.

Behind him, he heard Goyle's voice, shaky: "What happened?"

And Crabbe's response, hollow: "What he said. We got delivered."

Monday afternoon, Harry was in the library when he noticed Draco cornering Crabbe and Goyle near the Restricted Section. Sharp gestures, angry face. Both boys shook their heads firmly at whatever Malfoy was demanding.

Draco turned and stalked away, shoulders rigid with anger.

Still pushing, Harry thought, returning to his essay. Won't get answers from them.

Wednesday evening at eight o'clock, Harry made his way to the seventh floor.

He paced three times, thinking: I need a private meeting room.

The door appeared. Harry opened it and stepped inside.

The room was simpler this time-just a table and three chairs. No ritual space, no screens. Just a place to talk.

Crabbe and Goyle arrived together a few minutes later. They looked wary, uncertain of what to expect.

"Sit," Harry said.

They sat.

Harry studied them for a moment. Both looked tired. Crabbe had dark circles under his eyes. Goyle's usual stoic demeanor was gone, replaced by nervous energy.

"How are your fathers?" Harry asked.

"Told them it worked," Crabbe said quietly. "Did the ritual, you're interested, want to learn more."

"Good. And Malfoy?"

"Won't stop," Goyle said. "Keeps asking what we're doing. Why we're acting weird. Keep telling him it's private but he won't drop it."

"Keep doing that. Tell him it's private, can't talk about it, none of his business. Let him be angry." Harry leaned back slightly. "Right now, just act normal. Go to classes, hang with Malfoy when it makes sense, don't make people notice."

"That's it?" Crabbe asked. "You just want us to act normal?"

"For now." Harry considered them both. "I'll have other tasks eventually. But right now, I need to make sure you can follow basic orders without screwing them up."

The insult landed. Both boys' faces flushed.

"We can follow orders," Goyle said stiffly.

"We'll see." Harry stood. "That's all for tonight. Same time next week."

They left, and Harry remained in the room for a few minutes, thinking.

Crabbe and Goyle were bound. Following orders. Resentful, angry, trapped. That would fade eventually-or at least settle into resignation. For now, they just needed to be kept under control.

Death Eaters' sons, Harry thought. Serving someone who actually plans ahead instead of just following Malfoy around.

He'd make better use of them than their fathers had.

He left the Room of Requirement and headed back to Gryffindor Tower, satisfied with how the evening had gone.

They deserved consequences. For what they did to Neville. For what they were being raised to become.

Harry thought about Neville backed against that wall, Crabbe and Goyle looming over him. About years of casual cruelty, targeting people who couldn't fight back.

Better they follow me. Better I give them direction.