Harry Potter and the Alliance of Families

by Stormf0x

Summary:

Harry was devastated after Cedric's death.
What if the Dementor would have happened differently?
What is the weird organized group helping Harry?
Why are they hooded?

Chapter 1: The Attack

Thank you, Lydia, for editing my works!
Hey there!
This is the first FanFiction I am writing, coming from a scientific background and having written a book for work once.
I have most of the story already planned, but there is only one more chapter written in advance to reduce pressure for me. The updates will be pretty slow, so you are warned now!
Without further ado, I present to you: Harry Potter and The Alliance Of Families

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This chapter is dedicated to Lydia for the tremendous support she provided writing this chapter and the coming ones. Thank you so much. People like you give me the inspiration I need for this

Hiding behind a bush, Harry felt sadness wash over him. It was his safe space. The place he would visit when he wanted to get his thoughts in order or just needed some time alone. He was savoring his first minutes alone without the Dursleys, finally escaping the sheer amount of household work he had been forced to endure all summer.

The painfully suppressed memories of the graveyard popped into his mind. The images of Cedric when he had been hit by the Rat’s dreadful green spell. Lifeless eyes looking at Harry, an accusatory look on the student’s face.

An overwhelming feeling of guilt washed over him. 

It is my fault he was murdered, Harry sighed. Why did I have to try and share the victory?

What made things even worse was the reaction of Amos, Cedric’s father. The look of pure agony and disbelief on the older man’s face still broke Harry’s heart.

‘No one should have to bury their son,’ Harry murmured, ‘It is just not fair.’ 

He was still thinking about writing a letter to Cedric’s father, even if it was just to tell him the truth about how his son died and how it was all his fault, but he couldn’t bring himself to inflict any more pain. 

Harry’s body trembled, and a lone tear ran down his cheek.

“No one else can die because of me,” he vowed to himself.

“Crying, Freak? Are you crying because your freak mom left you?” 

Harry spun around. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice that Dudley, his cousin, had found him, ready to indulge in his favorite hobby – bullying Harry. 

“Talk, Boy! Did you swallow your tongue? Poor baby Potter,” Dudley snarled with an ugly smirk on his face.

“Just leave me alone, Dudley, not rig-,” Harry attempted to respond when the fist of the older boy crashed into his chest, forcing the air out of his lungs. The last thing he saw before his vision went black and his body fell on the floor was the other fist flying right toward his face.

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“-ke up, Freak.”

Harry was disoriented, his head throbbing painfully. He couldn’t recall why he was lying on the floor or who the person who was talking to him was. Rough hands began to shake him violently, desperately trying to lift him up. When he finally managed to attempt to open his eyes, Harry was blinded by the streetlight, the throbbing headache worsening.

“We need to go home, Freak. Now! I’m hungry.”

Then Harry remembered the hit, and fury surged inside of him. 

How dare he to hit me? Enough is enough! Harry pulled out his wand, unaware of the consequences of hexing his cousin. Should he be kicked out of Hogwarts and the magical world, it didn’t matter anymore. If all he was getting from it was pain, why would he keep trying to save all of them from Voldemort? He wasn’t going to let anyone treat him like trash anymore. 

The tip of his wand was already glowing in a bright green color, even though Harry didn’t know how he learned to cast the spell of his nightmares. The cast was interrupted when the streetlight began flickering. Harry lost his focus as he was startled by the situation.

Harry felt something wasn’t quite right, and he looked around, wondering what could be the cause of this while keeping his wand in a ready position if he needed to defend himself.

This is weird; now all the lights in the street start to flicker, Harry thought, puzzled. 

That was when he saw the grass next to them starting to move. It started slowly at first, as if a simple breeze was the reason why it was moving. But it was only a short time before its movements increased in intensity. When he began to feel a cold wave roll over him, a realization started to dawn on Harry. 

And then he saw them: Twenty figures were floating around the corner of Privet Drive. Their long black hoods hid all of their features except the gray, slimy hands raised towards Harry as if trying to pull him into a hug. 

Why are there Dementors here in little whinging? Harry asked himself, I thought they were only allowed in Askaban.

“What are you doing, boy? Stop it. You are going to get expelled! I am going to tell my parents!” Dudley shouted, his face showing the sheer terror the boy was facing. This reminded Harry of his cousin’s presence. 

Even though he is the biggest git I know, I still can’t let him get kissed, he decided. 

Aiming his wand at the nearest Dementor floating towards them, Harry concentrated on the one memory that did produce his patronus, his parents caring for him, the family he never had, and Sirius. But the thoughts didn’t create the big, happy feelings they usually would. Instead, he felt a pang of guilt. They were all gone, all gone because of him. Still, he tried to get prongs to appear.

“Expecto patronum!” he shouted insecurely, hoping his silvery stag patronus would appear. But only some light mist formed, barely enough to be visible. 

Knowing it wouldn’t be sufficient, he considered other memories he could use. First to his mind came Hermione and Ron, his best friends from school. He quickly shook this idea off when raw disappointment started to surface, all the mistrust and being held back by Ron affecting the memory too much to work.

When Harry looked back up, the Dementor was mere meters away. He had only one chance left. Thinking frantically about what would be enough, Harry pulled against better knowledge all memories of his favorite sport, Quidditch, into his mind, not having any better idea. Happiness started to fill Harry. 

This is my last chance, Harry thought through the thick mist that began clogging his mind. 

Out of the corner, he could see a second Dementor reaching Dudley. Harry was unwilling to let him die; he would have to get the patronus now.

 

“Expecto patronum!” Harry shouted for the second time today, with only some dense mist leaving his wand. He willed the fog to move towards Dudley and the Dementor, who started to pull the boy into the air on the hem of his shirt. Harry knew it wouldn’t be enough, but he had to try either way. The mist started to thin out the further it spread, only the tiniest amount hitting the Dementor, who quickly brushed it away. 

Harry knew it was over; his mother’s crying started to overwhelm his mind. Defenseless, he could only watch the Dementor pulling Dudley higher and higher, its second hand scrambling to remove the hood of their cloak.

What Harry saw brought shivers all over his body. A face without eyes or a nose appeared under the hood; the only thing visible on the pale gray, smooth face was a big open mouth right in the middle of the bubblehead-like face. He could only watch as the Dementor started to pull Dudley’s face towards it. With each centimeter, they got closer, and a more enormous amount of white fog was being sucked out of the boy’s mouth.

A quiet “NO” was the only thing Harry could whisper in his weakened state when he saw their lips touch and a big glob of light leaving his cousin, being swallowed by the Dementor. Having what it wanted, it let the teenager’s lifeless body fall to the ground as if it disposed of trash it didn’t want anymore.

Harry stood frozen in place from what he had witnessed when the other Dementor reached him. I am sorry, Mum. I couldn’t do it; I disappointed you. With this last thought, excruciating pain in his forehead washed over him when the Dementor’s lips touched his.

His world went as the Dementor’s icy touch pulled him deeper into despair. He could hear the eerie, soul-chilling wails of the creature echoing in his ears as his memories twisted and contorted, manifesting as his deepest fears and most painful experiences. The darkness seemed endless, and Harry felt his consciousness slipping away.

Chapter 2: Afterlife?

Welcome back!

Thank you for the great reception of the first chapter, I could have never imagined the amount of people enjoying the stories. The next chapters will be around this length again and coming soon! I would love a review and a kudos for the story!

Have fun…

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This chapter is dedicated to Mel, my best friend since twenty years! Thank you so much for all your support, I am really glad to have you as a part of my life.

Harry’s body started to stir, aching in the most uncomfortable way it ever had, making him want to scream out in agony. The constant slight pain in his scar that he had carried with himself since the night in the graveyard felt like it was about to rip his head apart, maybe even his whole body. His mind was entirely consumed by the sheer hurt that he was feeling; Harry didn’t notice the voice trying to talk to him, attempting to soothe his pain.

I want to die. Please let this not be what the afterlife feels like. Harry thought desperately, tears of pain streaming down his face.

When he thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, another wave of hurt washed over his body, and he felt his scar physically rip apart, a blood-like liquid running down his forehead, but black and thick as honey. The more of the liquid emerged out of Harry’s head, the clearer his thoughts were and the pain slowly began to fade away.

“Harry, come back to me. It will be over soon, just hold on a little longer,” a comforting voice of a trying to tend to Harry kept repeating over and over again as if singing a weird chant when Harry finally was conscious enough to hear and understand the words said to him. The tone of the voice was oddly familiar to him; he remembered it but couldn’t put a name to its owner.

This was when Harry noticed that the texture of the ground beneath him was different. Gone were the rough paved stones of privet drive that had been hurting his resting arms and legs since he had crashed down, replaced by a warm but still hard floor of the granite he was now laying on. Continuing to explore the floor around him with his hands, Harry expected a large pool of blood to be right in front of his face but was surprised by the lack of it. The only thing he could feel was a steady stream of the liquid seemingly flowing away from him.

Still feeling the blood-like liquid oozing out of the wound on his head, Harry tried to slowly open his eyes. However, he couldn’t see anything, as if a thick white fog was lying over his eyes. In shock, Harry started searching for the glasses he had been wearing since he was an infant. When he noticed that they weren’t on his face, panic started to flood his mind.

Where are my glasses? Harry wondered, desperately fidgeting around on the floor, trying to locate the glasses he seemed to have lost when he had been deposited from the Dementor.

The scariness of the situation, as Harry was lying defenseless and blind on the floor, started to overwhelm him; the panic taking a firm hold of his actions. His movements became more uncontrolled and erratic as if Harry was in a frenzy.

“Everything is alright, my boy; you are safe here,” the voice, a male one, was trying to calm him. It was a steady and friendly voice, but its authority was unmistakable. The man sounded like somebody in his mid-twenties but it had the experience of a year-long, battle-hardened veteran.

Harry was sure he never heard the voice of the older man, but it was soothing to him nonetheless. He knew now that he wasn’t alone and didn’t doubt the unspoken promise of this man even for a second; he would keep him safe here, a feeling the young man didn’t know.

Being safe was a foreign concept for Harry. He had never been safe before, not in Hogwarts or any other place in the wizarding world, and never when he had lived with the Dursleys. But now he felt safe, being protected by the robust and warm man that was next to him. It was a feeling Harry was savoring, making him relax entirely in the soothing warmth it radiated through his body.

Harry didn’t know how long he was lying like that, unable to talk yet, when he felt a tingling, cold feeling under his skin moving towards his eyes. The feeling was foreign but familiar at the same time. It felt similar to the times Harry used powerful magic, especially transformations. But it was different than usual. It was cold, so very cold. He couldn’t understand how something could feel so warm and freezing simultaneously.

He noticed the presence moving around in his body, poking and probing every now and then, making Harry shiver. It went higher and higher, starting from the tips of his toes. When it reached his eyes, he could feel the feeling slow down, as if taking its time to figure out what issue was within them since his birth. After what felt like an hour, the sensation started moving something in his eyes, evicting a small wave of pain throughout Harry’s body. He felt the pain ebb away in the blink of an eye, replaced by a sense of happiness that, strangely, didn’t feel like his own. It felt a bit like how the sensation had felt just a few seconds ago; it felt familiar.

It was then that the feeling started to retreat into Harry’s core, and his vision slowly began to clear. The fog lit up in small patches, letting glimpses of scenery through it, with the first thing in sight being a newspaper rack.

The daily prophet! Harry thought cheerfully.

But something wasn’t right. The displayed papers were plain white as if they had never seen a drop of ink. And now that Harry had a moment to think about it, he started wondering why the rack was so transparent. It reminded him a lot about the ghosts of Hogwarts in their silvery, shiny visuals.

After taking the rest of the scenery in, Harry was able to recognize the place he was at. Memories flooded him - his first meeting with the Weasleys, the hope of a better life, and the enormous big red train, the Hogwarts Express. Standing in front of the majestic vehicle, Harry knew that something weird had happened. He was at platform 9 3/4, at King’s Cross station in London, clueless about how he got there.

Not a soul was around, and the only things he could see was the Hogwarts Express, ready for departure, and the trickle of blood that had finally stopped flowing from the wound in his head. The remaining liquid continued like a snake towards one of the benches at the platform, the end starting to trail away from Harry.

Filled with curiosity, the boy stood up, noticing the apparent ease of his movements. Only a faint glimpse of the pain he had been in during his whole life was left. He knew that it came from the sheer amount of abuse he had to endure in his youth; all the broken bones and concussions, followed by the neglect of those injuries seemed to affect his body in the long term. Even Madam Pomfrey hadn’t been able to fix the issues in his time at Hogwarts, stating it would be permanent, so he had come to terms with living with the pain as best as he could.

But now, it seemed to be almost gone. Harry didn’t feel the aching of his muscles anymore; his bones felt normal. Most importantly, his constant headaches were also gone, both the one in his scar and the usual ones. He only felt a tiredness he wasn’t accustomed to, a deep, satisfied tiredness from the feeling in his core.

Standing straight, Harry took a few cautious steps towards the bench where the trickling of blood had fully disappeared. The sight that he was greeted by left the boy in shock. A sickly-looking baby was lying under the seat, the last drops of blood currently pushing into the infant’s navel area, penetrating the skin. The young body was trembling as if dunked into ice water, even through the warm temperature at the station, its body sickly thin.

When it opened its eyes, Harry recoiled. He immediately recognized the eyes looking back at him, the pure red slits being burned into his mind from the duel he had at the end of last year.

“How is this possible? Why does this child look like Voldemort?” Harry shouted in utter confusion, unable to understand why he was there and what this baby was. He recognized the face. Now that he was able to connect the dots, he saw the expression of his year-long foe. The enemy that found him year after year, making his life terrible. The enemy that killed his parents but couldn’t kill the one-year-old Harry Potter. The enemy that ripped away all the happiness the boy was supposed to have.

“Harry. I will explain.”

The boy spun around swearing under his breath; How could he forget the two people that had been here with him? He recoiled again at the sight that awaited him when he turned to face the voice. It was as if he was looking into a mirror, the man he was standing in front of had exactly the same features as him. From the black untamed hair to the high facial cheekbones, even his ears. If the person in front of him hadn’t looked around a decade older, Harry would have sworn it was his clone.

That’s when their eyes locked, and Harry could see their difference. The glistening eyes filled with unshed tears looked at the boy before him. They were the only thing revealing the fond and saddened soul of his father through the reserved stance the man portrayed in his body language.

“Dad? Is that you?” Harry asked incredulously as his eyes were starting to water up, even though he was dreading the answer. It couldn’t be; his father had been dead since he was one year old; how could he be here?

“Yes, my son. It is me. Come with me. We have a lot to talk about and not enough time.” James Potter said to his son, careful about keeping his composure, as he held his hand out for the younger Potter to take.

Harry wanted to take the hand, immediately reaching out, when he remembered the baby under the bench. He didn’t want to leave it there. It looked so miserable, he had to do something to help it, even if it looked like the foe that had inflicted him and his family so much pain.

“Can we do anything about the baby? We shouldn’t leave it here,” Harry pleaded to his father.

“I am sorry, son, but we can’t. It doesn’t have a chance anymore. There is only a faint piece of a soul left, and that part will be collected as well soon. Son, we need to go,” The older man wore an apologetic look on his face. 

When Harry reluctantly took his hand, James led Harry towards a bench on the other side of the platform, right in front of the train.

“Am I dead?” Harry blurted out the moment they sat down.

“Not yet, my son. We are in Limbus right now. You are neither completely alive nor dead at the moment. You are right in between,” James explained. He then stopped to think about the best way he could explain everything to Harry. “I believe you can decide which way to take. It is your decision if you get on the train and join the next big adventure.”

“You sound just like Dumbledore when you say that,” Harry chuckled, having heard that exact wording multiple times from his headmaster. Pondering about it, he realized that the headmaster seemed to have had a huge influence on James. The stoic man in front of him was not the careless prankster he was back at school anymore. James Potter had aged considerably.

“What happens on that great adventure? I don’t think I want to go back. There is nothing that is holding me there. I am scared, Dad,” he admitted to his father, bitterly seeking comfort.

“I know Harry. The world treated you badly. You shouldn’t have to deal with the problems you have to deal with.” James’ words were filled with sadness. “You never chose any of this… Let me share something with you before you make your final decision..”

“When you were born, a prophecy was made, and ever since, it has been affecting both you and Voldemort, Harry. You were born into a war, a war so cruel, I had nightmares about it every night. That prophecy demands that YOU have to be the person to kill the Dark Lord. It can only be you, and we went into hiding to protect a mere baby from the wrath of a serial killer.” James was finally able to tell his son the things that he had been keeping inside for so long. “I am sorry, but we let you down. He found us in the end. I cannot tell you the full prophecy. I am not allowed to. Find it in the ministry, my son, and listen to it. The magical world is probably on your shoulders. I would rather have you join us, but it’s not the right time yet. Not until you are truly ready and have lived a long and happy life, maybe even some grandchildren for me and Lily.” James winked suggestively after the last statement.

Harry was confused by all the information disclosed to him. How could a teenager be expected to kill a full-grown wizard, especially the most potent wizard of the generation? However, things were now starting to fall into place for him. He was finally able to understand why Voldemort had been trying so hard to kill him repeatedly. Why had the wizard taken Harry’s blood for his resurrection ritual? Why didn’t nobody tell him? Why was he treated like this if he was meant to kill the Dark Lord in the end?

“But why should I go back? I just want peace. I don’t care about the wizarding world anymore. They can die for all I care because of how they treated me!” Harry shouted into the face of his father.

He was furious, hurt by the secrets that were kept from him, the pain he was subjected to, and the training that he would have needed. Disappointed in the support he had been given from Dumbledore and all the other wizards. His anger rose higher and higher until he felt two strong hands pull him into an embrace, causing his rage to collapse like a house of cards, replaced by deep sadness. Because he already knew that his father was right. He would need to return, unwilling to let the wizarding population lose this conflict. Even more than that, He wanted the dark lord dead, killed by his own hands. He wanted to punish Riddle for what he did to him.

“I know, son. I know. But that isn’t you. I’ve seen it. You are a protector, just as my father has been. As much as I would like you to, Potters don’t run away from their res-” James tried explaining to his son, but he was interrupted by the teenager.

“Is it my responsibility? I don’t think so, and maybe I should just run away like you did.” Harry blurted out, but once he saw the evident hurt in his father’s eyes, he regretted his words in an instant. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“It is alright,” a saddened James Potter said, “I’ve never been as brave as you or Charlus. I never had to. Being born into a world of peace, there was no need to be scared my whole life. I never learned my family’s magic because it wasn’t needed. Until the war started and you have become a target, we tried living a normal life. Then, it was too late; nobody could train me anymore when Charlus and my mother, Dorea, were killed by the dark lord. The only thing I tried since then was to protect you. I did EVERYTHING I could. I’m so sorry it wasn’t enough, Harry.”  

The boy could see the feeling of utter defeat his father had experienced. He understood him. There was no need for a warrior, so his father developed into one only when it was almost too late.

“But I am not a fighter either, Dad. I am not taught well, I have bad grades, and I’m not overly powerful.” Harry confessed. “I won’t be able to defeat him. I am nothing.”

Harry could feel the arms around him tightening, squeezing him a little, the warmth of his father radiating towards him.

“Bullshit, Harry. Yes, you shouldn’t have been this lax with your education, but I can’t hold that against you as a former marauder. But that isn’t something you cannot fix. You have the drive you need!” James encouraged him. “And you are really powerful. Didn’t you feel your magic repair your eyesight? All of the other injuries you had? I’ve bloody seen it. You were glowing. Not even the old goat has produced such an aura in a long time.”

Harry thought about that, about the tingling he had felt a few minutes ago, and had to accept that his father was right. There was a lot of power inside of him. He could feel it. Power that he didn’t have before everything that happened that day. It was enclosed in his core. However, he sensed it lacked the pure warmth he was used to. He felt like something had come back, something that had been inside of him for a long time, and was now settling back into his core, being readily greeted by the usual warmth.

“Dad, what is this feeling inside of me? This tingle. I remember it from using spells, but it is different now.” Harry questioned his father, fueled by curiosity. “Why does it feel different after I got kissed by the Dementor?”

James Potter chuckled at his son’s lack of knowledge until he saw the confused look on Harry’s face. “You really don’t know? What did the old goat Dumbledore even teach you? The answer is quite simple: It is your magic.”

“Magic as we know it resides in all living beings, yes, even the muggles. But it depends on how much of it you have and if you can access it. If you want to know more about it, you will find a book about it pretty soon.” James started to explain, taking a break after answering the first question.

An expression of uncertainty was painted all over his face as he continued. “About the second question, I don’t know it either.” The older Potter ended his explanation, a shimmer of guilt twitching in front of his hazel eyes.

“What should I do now, Dad? How should I continue?” Harry asked, missing the glimpse in his father’s eyes. “Will I just wake up and train more than ever before? Get myself ready for the inevitable fight?”

The expression of the man changed into a more thoughtful look. “Yes, Harry. I believe you will just wake up. But even though it hurts me, I don’t think you should return as Harry Potter, at least not yet.”

Harry looked confused, not understanding what his father meant. “Not as Harry Potter? What do you mean, Dad?”

“I think it is time you become the lord you were destined to be. That would make your work a lot easier. You will have to take be Lord Potter soon.” James explained further, raising his hand as he noticed his son wanted to talk back, silencing him. “Harry, stop. I know from experience that it is hard to go this way. I hated politics just as much as you do. But it is the only way. The ministry will be coming for you. I wouldn’t even be surprised if they try to imprison you for performing a patronus on an open street. Fudge has always been a fool.”

“But I DEFENDED myself, Dad.” Harry roared in a barely concealed fury. “Aren’t we allowed to use magic in life-threatening situations?”

James laughed. “I mean, yes, theoretically, you are. But these are politicians we are talking about. They don’t have a sense of right or wrong and will use this to their advantage. I’ve seen it happen the last time around. To save you, they would have to admit that they lost control of these monsters if they didn’t send them themselves.”

Harry had to concede that point to his father. He knew which route the minister would take. They would lay the blame on ‘The boy who lived,’ would try to take him in, put him on trial, and throw him into Azkaban, just as they did with Sirius all these years ago. Fudge would never put up the courage to help Harry. The minister instead took the coward’s way to deny all the proof presented to him. He had to help himself like he always had done.

“You are right, Dad. I need to be strong right now, a strength my name cannot carry yet.” Harry accepted his father’s advice just as he started feeling a pulling sensation right around his navel. “Dad, something tries to pull me away from here. I don’t want to go yet.”

James’ eyes started to fill with tears, noticing that their time here was coming to an end.

“It will be alright, son. I feel it, too. We both have to go. Death wants me back and would like to take you, too. You need to go before he is here, son.” The older Potter closed the gap between them once more and hugged his son tightly, trying to show all the love he was feeling for him with this simple physical act.

The boy reveled in the feeling a second time this day until he felt the pull strengthen. “Dad, I need to go. I can feel it. I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, Harry! Lily loves you. She wanted to be the one to come and see you, but it had to be me. We will wait for you. But make sure to find a woman, just as wonderful as the one I’ve found. Someone who is going to tell me all your embarrassing stories.” Chuckling, James reluctantly let go, stepping away as he saw Harry starting to fade away.

“Be careful, son.” Was the last thing the man managed to say before seeing his son vanish with a determined look on his face.

Chapter 3: A new beginning

Hey!

This chapter took way longer than I thought, but now it is here. I tried writing a bit more in this chapter and took some writing courses, please comment your opinions and if I should stick to bigger or smaller chapters.

Without further ado, have fun reading this chapter.

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This chapter is dedicated to my Parents. Thank you for everything.

Harry awoke with a start, his heart pounding not just from the vivid images of his encounter at King’s Cross Station, but also from a deep-seated dread that clung to him. Lying on the cold, hard floor of the paved street, the ethereal realm he had just left felt like a distant dream. He lay there for a moment, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the fragments of his strange adventure - the meeting with his father and the haunting choices ahead of him.

Despite the weight of these revelations, Harry felt a renewed sense of purpose. His resolve to defeat Voldemort and protect those he cared about solidified, transforming into a driving force that bordered on pure hatred. He was at his limit; too many had been hurt, and the death of his cousin was the last straw for the young Potter. Their relationship, dominated by mockery and bullying, had been a painful chapter in Harry’s life. But, in his heart, he knew that even Dudley didn’t deserve such a cruel fate.

As the first rays of sunrise crept across the sky, Harry pushed himself up, brushing off the dirt from his clothes. His mind raced over his next moves. He was unsure how long he had been unconscious, but the immediate need to retrieve his belongings and make a strategic return to the magical world loomed over him. Walking into Diagon Alley as Harry Potter was out of the question if he wanted to stay a free man, at least for now. A disguise, a carefully crafted one, was essential.

Stealthily rising to his feet, Harry glanced around, his eyes inevitably drawn to the lifeless form of his cousin. Dudley lay there, a reminder of the daunting fate that had befallen him. For a moment, Harry’s resolve wavered as he was overpowered by a mixture of feelings - resentment, pity, and a deep, unsettling sorrow. This was more than the end of their relationship; it was a stark reminder of war’s costs, a foreboding to the pain yet to come. With a heavy heart, Harry knew he had to conceal the body. The value of Dudley’s body as evidence of the Dementor’s attack was too great to ignore, and Harry would have to use this to his advantage.

Harry contemplated using magic to hide Dudley, but the risk of detection was too high; the Ministry would have an easy way to find it. Harry decided that, in his current situation, concealing the remains in a nearby bush would be the best solution he had. Time was of the essence. As he dragged the body, Harry’s hand brushed against Dudley’s cooling skin, a chilling confirmation of the grim reality that made him shiver. There was no time for proper goodbyes. Harry turned on his heels and fled from the alley, vowing never to return to Privet Drive - a chapter of his life now definitely closed.

Pushing these thoughts aside, Harry focused on the immediate task at hand. He had to act quickly and discreetly. The first step was clear: return to the Dursleys to collect his belongings. It was a risk, but a necessary one.

As he made his way through the familiar streets, Harry pondered the arts of disguise. Hogwarts hadn’t prepared him for this kind of subterfuge. His experience in sneaking around had been limited to the invisibility cloak that he hadowned since his first year at school.

It won’t help me much this time, Harry thought grudgingly. I need to be able to shop and get gold.

Without his usual method of disguise, Harry considered his options. The Trace only tracked his wand’s activity, so anything done without using a wand would be a valid option. But what could he use? He didn’t know of any potions that would aid his situation, except maybe Polyjuice Potion, which was way too complex.

Then he remembered Sirius’ abilities. He had seen the ex-Azkaban convict use his Animagus ability without a wand. If high-level transfiguration could work wandlessly, then perhaps simpler forms would work as well.

Transfiguration had always been one of Harry’s strengths, but this would be different. This time it wasn’t just about changing an object’s form; it was about transforming parts of his face, something far more complex and risky, especially when tried without a wand. Inspired by the feats of Sirius, Professor McGonagall, and Dumbledore, and knowing it was his best chance, Harry decided to give it a try.

Reaching the relative safety of a secluded alley, Harry took a deep breath, focusing his mind on the task that lay ahead. He recalled the advanced Transfiguration techniques he had learnt last year at Hogwarts, envisioning the specific alterations he needed to make. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, feeling the familiar surge of magic coursing through him. But it was different, the new, cold part of his magic seemed to pull him in a specific direction.

After a few seconds, the pull went away at a moment’s notice. When he opened his eyes again, his reflection in a puddle revealed a stranger. It was not the blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy he had thought about. The shoulder-long grey hair he was now wearing hid his high cheekbones, pointed nose and bright, grey eyes. It was a face Harry had never seen.

Who is this? Harry confusedly murmured, but pleased with the feat he achieved. I like it.

Brushing his hair behind his ear, Harry felt a surge of confidence. He achieved a challenging feat of magic on his first attempt. It was time to face the Dursley’s home for the last time. As much as he loathed the idea, he needed his invisibility cloak, his broom, and a few other items that would be crucial for his journey ahead.

The house at Privet Drive loomed before him, a place that had never been a home, merely a shelter. Harry approached cautiously, alert of the possibility of a ministry ambush or a watchful eye. He needed to be quick and silent, like a shadow slipping through the cracks.

Inside the house, Harry moved with practised stealth, heading straight to his room on the first floor. Every step was measured, every breath controlled. As he neared the top of the stairway, a floorboard under his foot squeaked loudly, causing Harry to freeze. He carefully lifted his foot off the offending board, listening intently. After several tense seconds of silence, he continued, avoiding the noisy board. In his room, Harry quickly gathered most of his belongings, his heart pounding not just with the rush of the theft-like mission, but with the realization that this was a goodbye. Goodbye to the life he had known, the life he was leaving behind.

As he was about to leave, a small, sentimental part of him urged him to take a last look around. The room, though barren and small, had been both a prison and a sanctuary - a place where Harry’s frustrations and dreams grew side by side. It was here that he had d-eamt of a different life, a life of magic and adventure. And now, that life was calling for him, louder than ever.

Harry let Hedwig out of her cage. “Go girl, you will find me,” Harry told his companion, knowing that the snow-white owl would be a giveaway. The bird chirped affectionately, landing on the boy’s shoulder. Giving his ear a last little bite, Hedwig took off, flying into the dark.

With his belongings secured and his heart set on the path ahead, Harry stepped out of the house at Privet Drive, closing the door softly behind him. There was no fanfare, no dramatic goodbye, just a silent departure into a new chapter, a chapter where he was no longer just Harry Potter, but someone his enemies were to fear, someone who would take them down with all that was needed. He was treading a delicate path in a world both familiar and full of dangers, a balancing act he had to maintain for now.

The Knight Bus was his next destination, as it was his best bet of transportation. Using his broom would have been a high risk and he hadn’t yet learned to apparate. Standing next to the street in front of Privet Drive, Harry held up his wand, calling the bus. Mere seconds later a loud bang announced the arrival of the three-story vehicle, skidding to a stop right in front of Harry.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike and I will be your conductor this-” Stan Shunpike started to talk away, just as Harry remembered it from his first ride with the bus.

“Hello.” Harry interrupted dryly, trying to stop the conversation in its tracks, as he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. “How much is a ride to the leaky cauldron?”

“In a hurry are ya?” An irritated Stan scolded, seeming more than annoyed with the disturbance. “It’s eleven sickles, but you can have-” He started again, trying to sell Harry other goods with the ride.

“Thank you, only the ride will do.” Harry interrupted Stan again, knowing the offers already. He didn’t like being this rude, but he had to cover his tracks and the risk of slipping information grew with every single word he said. He took a galleon out of his pocket and gave it to the conductor.

“Ok, Ok. Jump in.” Stan huffed, pocketed the money and gave Harry his change, leaving the door open for Harry to get on the bus. “An’ off we go, Ernie,” the unkempt man shouted to the driver in the front seat.

The Knight Bus lurched forward with its typical reckless speed, the world outside the windows blurring into streaks of colour as they sped through the streets of London. Harry held to his seat tightly, his legs keeping the luggage in place that pertained all of his belongings. He couldn’t help but feel a tinge of nostalgia; the last time he was on the bus, he was a much different person. He missed being the innocent Boy-Who-Lived, having nothing else to fear than the Dursleys. Now, under the guise of his new appearance, he felt both free and isolated, he was a lone traveller into uncertainty.

As the bus rattled and swayed, Harry’s mind wandered back to the tasks ahead. He needed to access his vault at Gringotts to refill his diminished gold supply, gather some basic supplies, and most importantly, lay out his plan. He would need to get books regarding wizarding law and ancient families for that part. His time as a small boy was over, and with it the last vestiges of his childhood. Ahead lay a path filled with danger and uncertainty, but Harry felt ready. The recent events had hardened him, sharpening his focus and resolve. He had to defeat Voldemort, he couldn’t live in peace while his foe was still alive.

---

After what seemed to be an eternity of near-misses and abrupt speed changes, the Knight Bus finally skidded to a halt.

“The Leaky Cauldron,” was announced by the conductor, eliciting a happy sigh from Harry.

“Finally,” Harry muttered under his breath, as he quickly disembarked the vehicle, eager to escape the chaotic ride.

As he stepped on the pavement, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Was it paranoia, or was the Ministry already on his trail? Maybe even Voldemort’s followers? He quickened his pace, determined to stay a step ahead, reaching the door of the pub after a few long steps. The game of cat and mouse had begun, and Harry was not about to get caught.

---

The Leaky Cauldron, with its dimly lit exterior and the hum of hushed conversations, felt worlds apart from the sterile suburbs of Surrey. The air was filled with a tangy aroma of fresh barbecue food when Harry opened the door. As always, the pub seemed to be filled by only visitors barely trying to disguise their affiliation to the magical world.

Harry approached the bar, keeping his head down to avoid drawing attention. “A room for the night. Keep the rest,” he said in a low, unrecognizable voice, sliding a galleon over the counter. Tom, the barman, gave him a cursory glance, nodded and gave him a key, not asking any questions.

Room secured, Harry made his way upstairs, fleeing from the tumult of the pub. Every step felt heavier than the last. The gravity of his situation was setting in; he was truly alone for now, on a path he had carved himself. He would not let anyone get hurt anymore. Nobody will be taken from him, not again. Even in disguise, his new identity also felt like a new beginning, a chance to redefine his destiny on his terms.

Entering the small, spartan room, Harry let out a sigh. It was far from the comfort of Gryffindor Tower, but it wouldn’t be his space for a long time anyway. He set his belongings down and sat on the edge of the bed, his mind racing with plans and possibilities. He needed to think strategically, but still be flexible. Every single plan he forged in the past had been scrutinized, torn apart by the reality of his situation. He needed to outplay the plethora of enemies that tried to either kill him or see him rot in jail. Because not only Voldemort and his followers would be a danger to him; the ministry, corrupt and misled, posed an even bigger threat to his current situation. They had almost infinite resources to catch him and could expect the support of the general population.

As he sat there, the weight of solitude pressed down on him. He missed Ron, Hermione and all his other friends. But he needed to be prepared before returning to Hogwarts. Tomorrow, he will venture into Diagon Alley, armed with his new identity. For tonight, though, Harry allowed himself a moment of rest.

He lay back on his bed, his eyes staring at the ceiling. Letting go of the small pull on his magic, that he felt since changing his appearance. Harry could feel his features shift back to a face he was more used to. He sighed, the tension easing from his body as he watched his features revert back to the familiar ones of Harry Potter, his magic relaxing along with him. In the silence of the room, Harry Potter, the boy who had lost so much, closed his eyes. This time not to escape his reality but to brace himself on the journey ahead. It was time to secure his future.

---

As the dawn broke over Diagon Alley, the cobblestone street glistened with the morning dew. The shops, with their colourful facades and displays, were just beginning to stir to life. Wizards and witches, young and old, bustled through the alleys, their laughter mingling with the chime of shop bells. They chatted animatedly in clusters, waving wands and examining magical wares, their robes a swirl of colours against the backdrop of quaint storefronts.

Among them, a young man with shoulder-length grey hair and bright grey eyes navigated the bustling alley. This was Harry Potter, though no one could recognize him in his new guise. He was blending into the early morning crowd seamlessly, moving with purpose, his mind focused on the tasks ahead. His first destination was clear: Gringotts, the wizarding bank, stood as his immediate goal.

But before Harry could enter the majestic, wizarding bank, something on the Daily Prophet’s stand caught his eye. It was his face, staring at him from the front page, with a headline that made his heart sink: “Harry Potter: Wanted for questioning.” His gaze lingered on the page, a feeling of dread settling in his stomach. The article speculated about his involvement in recent events, painting him as a deeply troubled boy who tried to break the statute of secrecy. Harry’s mind raced with the implications. This meant increased scrutiny and danger - the wizarding world, influenced by this news, would now be on the lookout for him.

Steeling himself, Harry pushed the worry to the back of his mind. He couldn’t afford to get distracted now. He needed access to his vault, buy his stuff and leave Diagon Alley as quickly as possible. The danger he was in, was only rising the longer he stayed here. Every step he took, every decision from here on, had to be calculated and precise until he fixed the trouble with the ministry. Under this new pressure, Harry quickened his pace approaching the huge marble building, while avoiding eye contact with the crowd.

Arriving at the imposing white bank, Harry took a deep breath before stepping inside. The grandeur of Gringotts never failed to impress him, with its towering marble columns and the stern faces of the goblin bankers. He approached a teller, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I need access to my vault,” Harry announced to the goblin. “It is the number 687,” he hastily added, putting his key on the counter.

The goblin teller, with a discerning look, peered at him. “Follow me,” it said curtly.

As they walked, memories of his first visit to Gringotts with Hagrid flooded his mind, a stark contrast to his lonely journey now. Harry’s mind was racing. They were going a different way.

They walked for a while, before reaching the grand entrance of a goblin’s office, Harry’s heart was thumping with a mix of fear and nervousness. The door was a masterpiece of goblin craftsmanship, towering and formidable. Made of what appeared to be solid iron, it was embossed with intricate designs that seemed to tell a story of ancient goblin wars, mythical creatures, and long-lost treasures. The reliefs were so finely detailed that the figures seemed almost alive, with warriors brandishing tiny, perfectly shaped weapons and dragons with scales that shimmered in the dim light of the underground corridor.

“Go in, he is waiting for you,” the leading goblin instructed Harry in a no-nonsense voice.

With a deep breath, Harry reached out and grasped the handle. The sheer size of the entrance and the wealth displayed cowering him. The metal felt cold and slightly rough under his fingers. He pushed, and to his surprise, the door opened smoothly, despite the weight, and revealed the opulent office in it.

As Harry stepped into the chamber, the first thing that struck him was the lavishness of the room. The walls, hewn from ancient stone, shimmered with thousand small gold and silver scales, reflecting the flickering light of the emerald-encased lamps that hung from the high, arched ceiling. The floor was a mosaic of rare stones, each piece placed into the sprawling form of a dragon hoarding a mountain of treasure. The room was dominated by a massive desk of dark wood in its middle.

Behind it sat a goblin, its sharp features accentuated by the dim light, casting deep shadows across his wrinkled, leathery face. His eyes, piercing and intelligent, flicked up to regard Harry with a mixture of curiosity and caution. His aura showed a distinct seniority, something he never had seen with any other goblin.

“Hello, Mister Potter. I am Garnok, the president of Gringotts,” the old goblin introduced himself. “Come join me.”

Harry’s heart pounded. “How did you know?”

“Goblins, especially old ones, have a way with magical signatures. Yours is unique. It shares a lot with your fathers, but is very distinct,” Garnok explained, a frown marrying his face, as if he was trying to figure him out. “Now come and sit,” he snapped just a moment’s notice later.

Harry nodded, realizing the depth of goblin magic. More at ease, he approached the desk, noticing the intricate details of the goblin’s attire - a finely tailored waistcoat adorned with shimmering threads, and cufflinks that glinted with huge rubies. The goblin’s fingers, long and dexterous, were adorned with several elegant, gold rings, each set with a stone that seemed to glow faintly in the lamplight. Everything he saw screamed wealth.

“You do not have to worry, Mister Potter,” the goblin tried to calm the nervous boy. “We at Gringotts value client confidentiality above all else. We will not divulge your presence here with your ministry.”

Garnok’s eyes seemed to bore into Harry’s as he spoke again, his voice carrying an undercurrent of seriousness. “You are here for more than just a visit to your vault, Mister Potter. You are the last Potter that belongs to this world, and with that comes certain responsibilities and a big problem.”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. A big problem? Why did things always have to be difficult for him?

“The Potter lordship,” Garnok continued, “is yours by right of blood. However, there is an issue. The lord ring, a symbol of your family’s legacy and a source of considerable influence has gone missing. After Lord Charlus Potter’s disappearance, the whereabouts of the ring are unknown, and it must be found. Until then you must take up your role without it.”

Harry’s mind was reeling. A lord ring? Missing? And what about this Charlus Potter?

Garnok, sensing the overwhelm, leaned forward. “Fear not, for there is an heir ring in the Potter vault. It does not possess the magical ability of the lord ring and you won’t be able to control the Potter wards, but it holds significant political power. It will aid in solving your little issue with the Department of Justice,” the goblin explained with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. It was a sight Harry had not expected.

“Why are you helping me, Sir?” Harry questioned the goblin in suspicion. “What is in it for you?”

The president showed him a huge grin in response, his yellow, uneven teeth reflecting the greenish light of the room. He was seemingly pleased with the question. “That is a really good question, Mister Potter. Especially young humans tend to trust blindly,” the old creature sighed, “most don’t get less foolish. It gives me hope that you aren’t one of them.”

Garnok’s eyes seemed to bore in his own again. This time he noticed something searching in his mind, prodding and poking on its way through his memories. Seemingly satisfied with his findings, the feeling stopped abruptly.

“I am sorry, I had to do that, Mister Potter,” the goblin continued, genuine remorse marrying its features. “I had to make sure that you are trustworthy. Now that I know you are, I can explain.”

“At the beginning of the first rise of Voldemort,” the goblin started, mentioning the name of the Dark Lord with deep hatred, “he tried to extinguish his most dangerous foes quickly. Dumbledore was out of his reach at that time, staying in the safety of the Hogwarts vault for most of the year. So he looked for another victim. It was my dear friend Charlus and his wife Dorea that he visited. Their research capabilities were too big of a risk for the Dark Lord. So he went to their home and tried to kill them, where they were thought to be safe,” Garnok creaked out in pure emotion.

The hate the goblin felt for Tom Riddle was evident, the creature didn’t cope well with the loss of its friend. Trembling it continued, “He had broken through the wards, and had already entered the house when they woke up. They had no chance, nothing was left of them, not even the ring. Everything exploded when a wayward spell hit the prototype Charlus was working on,” Garnok choked out, his throat seemingly having closed by silent tears running over his cheeks, “it doesn’t make sense, these rings should even withstand Fiendfyre .”

Harry’s head started to pound with an impeding headache, all the information confusing him greatly. His grandfather had been killed by Voldemort as well. How should he find the ring now?

“I’m sorry Garnok,” Harry tried to calm the pained goblin, who was sobbing silently, “I’ve lost friends as well, I can understand your hurt.”

Nodding gratefully, the bank president looked into Harry’s eyes. “Thank you,” drying his tears, he continued, “That is why I help you. I want Voldemort dead, and I want Charlus’s family to survive.”

“I will assist you with anything I can within the confines of Gringotts,” he explained, his expression turning sombre. “Our relationship with the wizarding world is delicate though, Mister Potter. We cannot risk another war. Our assistance must be discreet, limited to financial advice and the safekeeping of your assets.”

Harry understood. The goblin was offering what support he could, but the weight of the responsibility was his to bear alone. He would have to navigate the complexities of wizarding politics, find the missing lord ring, and fight his foe.

Garnok extended a gnarled hand, on which lay a small, intricately designed ring. “This is the heir ring. Take it, Harry Potter, and with it, embrace your heritage and the challenges it brings.”

As Harry reached out to take the ring, a sense of determination settled over him once again. He would be Lord Harry Potter soon. It was time to bring the Potters back to the glory they had.

Chapter 4: The well of knowledge

Notes:

Welcome back.

This chapter was really fun to write, but my time was unfortunately limited. I will try to stick to at least one release every second week, with the goal of once weekly.
Please comment your opinions about the longer chapters and if I should do shorter ones or stick with this length.

A like and subscribe is highly appreciated.

Have fun!

Thank you ZedGreene for editing this

This chapter is dedicated to my Firefighter group. Thank you for all the good times we have and stay as you are.

---

Under the cloak of his well crafted transfiguration, Harry Potter navigated the bustling streets of Diagon Alley with staggering feet. The brisk evening was casting a golden glow over the cobblestone path, illuminating the storefronts along with their array of magical wares. Harry’s  destination was Flourish and Blotts, the famous bookstore known to every Hogwarts student. Today, however, he wasn’t seeking school books, but texts regarding British lordships and wizarding law. Before confronting the ministry, he must know the privileges, Garnok, the Gringotts leader, had hinted to him.

The bell above the door rang like a fairy as Harry set foot inside the shop, the familiar scent of fresh parchment and ink filling his nose.His eyes gazed upon towering shelved with multicolored stacks of unassorted books. Moving cautiously among the aisles, his eyes scanned titles that ranged from alchemy, runes and wizarding history to standard household spells.

Harry’s search was never-ending and the books he found on wizarding law were either too specific on other topics or not specific enough. Even those touching pureblood traditions seemed sanitized, offering little beyond common knowledge. As hours passed by his frustrations grew, the weight of his task pressing on him.

As Harry perused he couldn’t help but overhear a hushed conversation. Two cloaked figures stood in a secluded corner of the store, their voices low and secretive. In desperation, Harry edged closer under the guise of examining a nearby bookshelf. 

“You sure we can trust him?” one whispered, his voice filled with uncertainty.

“The dealer? We don’t really have another option than to trust him. He’s the only one who trades this kind of knowledge,” the other replied, her tone confident yet cautious. “Rare texts, forbidden tomes… things you won’t find in any ordinary library.”

Harry’s interest piqued. This could be what he was looking for. He casually drifted closer, pretending to scrutinize a book’s spine. 

“Excuse me,” Harry interjected, feigning innocence. In his desperation, he needed to get this information, uncaring for the high risk. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re talking about a book dealer?

The pair exchanged a wary glance before scrutinizing Harry.The man’s eyes narrowed, assessing him. 

“And why would such a thing interest a young wizard like you?” He asked, his voice laced in suspicion. 

Harry met his gaze squarely, maintaining his casual facade. “I’m searching for… certain books. Hard to find ones. I heard you mention someone who might help.”

The woman tilted her head, examining Harry with a mix of curiosity and caution. “This dealer deals in the rarest of texts, things not meant for the faint of heart. What kind of ‘certain books’ are you looking for?”

Realizing this was a pivotal moment, Harry leaned in, lowering his voice to match their conspiratorial tone. “I’m interested in ancient wizarding laws, the kind of knowledge that has been lost to time. I believe there’s much to learn from the past, secrets that can help us understand our present.” `

The pair shared a look, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, the man nodded slowly. “Alright, this dealer you seek, he operates in Knockturn Alley.”

He scribbled something on a piece of parchment and handed it to Harry. It was a set of cryptic directions, twisting through the darker parts of Knockturn Alley.

“And remember,” the woman added, her eyes piercing, “this dealer doesn’t help just anyone. You’ll need to prove your worth, show that you’re seeking knowledge beyond mere curiosity.”

Harry pocketed the quick-scribbled note. “Thanks. I’ll be careful.”

As he turned to leave, the man’s voice stopped him. “One more thing, young wizard,” he interjected, his tone serious. “In that part of our world, knowledge is power, and power is dangerous. Be sure you’re ready for what you might uncover.”

Harry nodded, his resolve firm. “I am”

With that, he left the shop, his mind racing with possibilities and the weight of the task ahead. The journey to uncover the secrets of his heritage and the boons that came with it was about to take an even darker, more mysterious turn.

Knockturn alley was his next destination.

---

The further Harry ventured into Knockturn Alley, the more the ambience shifted. The shops here were darker, their wares dangerous, and clientele more furtive. Nothing was left of the happy chatter of Diagon Alley, completely replaced by cloaked figures rushing through their way. He followed the directions given by the wizards from Flourish and Blotts meticulously, turning down narrow, dark alleyways and taking sharp turns until he reached an unmarked door. It was so well-concealed and plain that one might walk past it a hundred times over without ever noticing it.

Taking a deep breath, Harry knocked on the inconspicuous door. The door creaked open, revealing a narrow entrance that led to a small and dimly-lit room. Sitting behind a cluttered desk in the corner of the room, was an old wizard - his age made unrecognizable by the sheer amount of shawls and robes he wore. Their eyes, sharp and discerning, focused on Harry with an intensity that made him uncomfortable.

“I was told you could help me find … certain books,” Harry began, trying to appear confident.

The old dealer leaned forward, peering at Harry. “Books, yes. But not the kind for light reading. You seem a bit young to seek the shadow of knowledge my collection pertains to,” he said in a deep whisper.

Harry explained his need, carefully omitting any hint of his true identity. The dealer listened carefully, their expression unreadable. Then, without a word, the librarian stood and beckoned Harry to follow them.

They led Harry through a hidden door behind the desk, revealing a large, underground library. Filled with a thick scent of old pages, maybe even centuries-old parchments, Harry had never seen a library this extensive, even Hogwarts’ fell short in comparison. It was a treasure trove of ancient scrolls, leather-bound tomes, and manuscripts that whispered the knowledge of an era long gone. He stepped into a well of knowledge that few knew existed.

If Hermione were here, it would be heaven for her. His bushy haired friend was a bookworm, and it would certainly be near-impossible to get her out of this library, until she consumed all the knowledge presented to her. A pang of sadness washed over Harry thinking about his dear friend. He wished to be able to see her, share memories, and hear her contagious, happy laughter. But he knew it would have to wait because Harry needed to protect them, and currently, they were safest not in contact with him. He wouldn’t make them another target.

“You may find what you seek in here,” the dealer said, tearing Harry out of his thoughts. “But remember, knowledge, especially of this kind, comes with a price.”

Harry nodded, understanding the weight of the warning. He focused on the task ahead again, delving into the library that would change the course of his quest.

---

Harry moved methodically through the aisles of the gigantic library, his fingers grazing the spines of ancient tomes and scrolls, as he read their titles. Each book he opened seemed to creak with the weight of its secrets, revealing the hidden or forbidden knowledge for generations.

Hours passed as Harry looked over the texts on the arcane laws governing the ancient families of Britain, the intricacies of the Trace, used to detect magic performed by minors and the hidden protocols of the wizarding world. Most of the information revealed was unsettling, revealing a side of magic that was manipulative and leaned heavily into dark traditions. The unfairness in the wizarding society and the lengths to obscure it shocked Harry. Yet, he needed to understand his place and rights within the magical community.

As he delved deeper, Harry discovered a section on the history and responsibilities of magical heirs. It detailed how, in ancient times, young heirs were expected to uphold and defend their families’ honor and position, often requiring magic outside of school, even before wizarding maturity. Because of this responsibility, the Trace had been removed or not applied to them. The law allowing it is still in effect, even though modern society has forgotten about the Trace’s actions.

Harry’s mind raced at the implications. If he could prove his status as the Potter heir, he could perhaps challenge the ministries’ claim against him. But there was also a sense of danger he noticed. The knowledge he was uncovering would undoubtedly put him in a precarious place with powerful entities within the wizarding world.

Lost in thought, Harry almost didn’t notice the old dealer re-entering the room. “You have found what you were seeking, I presume?” They asked, their voice breaking the silence.

“Yes, more than I expected,” Harry replied, his voice heavy with the newfound knowledge. “What do I owe you?”

The dealer shook his head. “Nothing. knowledge you need should never be hidden from a keen mind,” they explained to Harry in a raspy voice, the gaze penetrating. “Remember, young man, knowledge can be a weapon or a shield. How you use it will define your path. Be wary of those who seek to take it from you.”

Their words swarmed Harry with warmth, “I understand. Thank you for all this.”

As he prepared to leave the dealer handed him a small, unmarked parchment. “If you ever need more … unconventional knowledge, use this to contact me, Mister Potter.”

Before Harry could ask them; how they knew his name, the old wizard vanished into the library, leaving a confused Harry Potter in the entrance room of his shop. He pocketed the parchment and made his way out of the room. The world outside seemed different now as if he had been granted a lens that revealed the unseen machinations of the wizarding world.

---

Emerging back into the abandoned Knockturn Alley, covered in darkness, the weight of the knowledge he had discovered in the shadowy library settled heavily on him. The ancient texts and scrolls he had pored over contained more than just ancient laws and traditions; they held truths about the wizarding worlds that few knew about and even fewer dared to speak of.

The realization that he, Harry Potter, was now one of these few was empowering and daunting. He understood the need for caution because every piece of information he learned was a double-edged sword, capable of protecting and endangering him. Now he understood the warning from the old wizard, the price was his innocent view of the world he was thrown into four years ago. He would never see it as he had before, the weight of the intrigue weighing on his conscience.

As he entered the populated Diagon Alley, his mind worked furiously. To prove his claim and rights as the Potter heir, he would need a powerful ally. Without one, even entering the ministry would be a risky move. He would need somebody who didn’t support Voldemort, nor be close to Fudge. Somebody who was fair, in a position of power, and willing to listen to his case. He disregarded multiple options and started with Mister Weasley and ended with Dumbledore, his thoughts circled back to one name - Amelia Bones.

Madame Bones, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was known for her integrity and fairness. She was one of the few in the Ministry who seemed resistant to bribery and political machinations. But more importantly, Harry remembered Susan talking fondly about her in their joint herbology classes, praising the kindness and protectiveness her aunt showed. It was a big risk, but Harry didn’t have other options and would need to rely on Madame Bone’s fairness.

But how to approach her without drawing attention? Any direct contact with the Ministry was risky, especially now that he knew more about the powers that steered it. He needed a discreet way to reach her, a way that would not alert the wrong eyes or ears.

An idea began to form in Harry’s mind. He remembered the discreet pubs and cafes that dotted the wizarding world, where people went for quiet meetings, away from privy eyes. He could arrange to meet her in one of these places, away from the Ministry’s watchful gaze. It would certainly be a neutral ground, safe for such a conversation.

Determined, Harry made his way to the mail office, his steps were quick and purposeful. He would send a message to Susan, requesting Susan to forward it to her aunt. It would ask the woman to meet him in the Hog’s Head, far away from the place he was residing in, but a familiar place. He had visited the grim bar on one of his Hogsmeade weekends and would feel safer knowing where they would meet. In his message, he would explain his need for confidentiality and the importance of their meeting.

---

As the evening descended upon Hogsmeade, Harry Potter, in his transfiguration disguise, made his way to the Hog’s Head Inn. His new identity was already becoming a part of him, after all the time he had spent in Diagon Alley under it. The shock he felt seeing his new appearance in the mirror was replaced by a comforting familiarity. He finally walked in public without the gawking of the other witches and wizards, it was a feeling of freedom Harry had never felt before.

The Hog’s Head, with its dimly lit interior and the faint smell of something strong and earthy, was sparsely populated. The patrons, each indulged in their own little world, paid no mind to Harry as he entered. His eyes quickly found Madame Bones, sitting alone at a table in the back, her posture erect and vigilant, searching the room with her eyes constantly.

Approaching the table, Harry felt a mixture of nervousness and insecurity. He didn’t know how this would turn out, but it was the best chance he had if he wanted to lose his wanted status. He pulled out a chair and sat down across from her, trying to appear more confident than he was. She should at least think that he was in control.

“Madame Bones,” he greeted, his voice slightly altered by his disguise, a feat that took days of training to achieve.

Madame Bone’s sharp gaze studied him for a moment before she spoke. “Mister Potter, I presume? I must admit your disguise is rather impressive, actually more impressive than most of my trainees achieve. Still, you’re recognizable to those who know how to look.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, realizing his efforts at disguise were less effective than he had hoped. “It is Lord Potter, Miss Bones. But yes it is me, I thought it best to … blend in,” he answered with a chuckle, “and I don’t think my usual appearance would do me any good currently.”

“Understandable,” she replied, though her tone held a note of caution. “But you failed in every other regard. Walking in here openly, even disguised, could have led you in a trap, if I wanted this to be one. You didn’t observe the area before or even make sure to bring me out of balance,” the experienced woman chastised Harry, in a no-nonsense tone. “You are not dealing with the usual adversaries here, there should be no place for error.”

Harry flushed in embarrassment as the realization of his stupidity hit him. He hadn’t even thought about additional steps to secure his safety, and didn’t even fully consider the extent of danger he would be in this evening. “I … hadn’t thought of that.”

“Always assume you are watched,” Madame Bones advised sternly. “Especially in the times we live in,” she added, with a tinge of sadness and fury in her steely eyes. “Now, let’s discuss why you’re here. I noticed you calling yourself Lord Potter?”

Harry nodded, reassured by her directness. The woman in front of him was exactly what he had been told about her. It was almost like when his Head of House, Professor McGonagall, had called him to her office. But underneath the stern facades, both women had a protective personality. The similarities were quite unnerving.

As he spoke, Madame Bones listened intently, her expression one of keen interest. “This is significant, Mr. Potter,” she acknowledged after Harry finished, “if Susan didn’t promise me that you are not the type to lie about this stuff, I wouldn’t believe the story you told me. However, presenting this to the Ministry will be a delicate matter. We must proceed with caution and strategy,” she rebutted, although offering her support.

Harry felt a sense of relief, tempered by the realization of the issues ahead. “I understand. I just want to ensure that my rights are respected. I can’t have the Ministry controlling my actions based on outdated laws.”

Madame Bones nodded in agreement. “You have a strong case, but navigating the Ministry’s bureaucracy will require careful planning. I’ll help guide you through this process. I think going to the hearing that is scheduled for you would be our best bet.”

“A hearing?” Harry questioned suspiciously, “I would rather not have to surrender myself to the Ministry.”

The Head of Magical Law Enforcement eyed him apologetically. “I know, Mister Potter. But it is the best chance we have. A friend of mine is a lawyer specializing in the field. If you want to get out of this, you need to trust him and myself.”

Harry jumped out of his seat. “This was a bad idea,” he murmured, more to himself than the woman across from him. “I will go, let us just forget this meeting,” he explained hurriedly to Madame Bones and turned on his heels.  

Before he could even take a step, Harry felt a hand on his shoulder. Spinning around in an instant, Harry looked into the eyes of the Ministry woman, his wand drawn and pointed to her throat.

“Let me go,” he growled, his eyes dancing like green vivid flames.

The air grew thick as if trying to suffocate, Madame Bones. The young man was radiating an amount of raw magic the ex-auror had never seen before. “Relax, Harry,” she tried to calm the wizard in front of her through her fear. “This is going to attract a lot of attention.”

She felt the magic ebb away slightly, but still felt it lingering around, proving its readiness. With the overwhelming amount gone, she was able to explore it more deeply, the nature of his magic. It was so much similar to Charlus Potter’s magic, a man she had only met once before his murder in the first wizarding war. She felt the same strength that she had this time but mixed with something dark, something cold.

“I have never felt magic like this,” Madame Bones conceded to Harry. “Your magic is really potent, but a conundrum at the same time. For itsit’s warmth it’s certainly chilly.”

Harry shrugged and turned around, not wanting to use any more time at this place. He had wasted enough time. “When you are finished looking, I will take my leave now.”

The older woman looked at him with the same sadness as before. “Harry, wait!” She urged him, but he didn’t miss the pleading sound in her voice.

The young man turned around reluctantly, ignoring the despair he heard in her voice. It was an unexpected reaction from such a strong woman.

“My brother and his wife have been killed by Voldemort,” she announced in a broken voice. “Susan wasn’t even a year old when it happened and doesn’t remember, but I am haunted by the memory of finding them forever.” A quiet sob escaped the woman’s throat as she continued, “They were used as an example of what happens if you defy him. Their bodies are used for their enjoyment. I want this monster dead, I want revenge for my family. You are the best hope I have.”

Harry slumped back in his chair. “I am so sorry for your loss, Madame Bones.” He understood her, the pain she had endured, and the need for closure. “You are right, we will have to work together. What do you have planned?”

A look of pure relief presented itself on the older woman’s face. “I will have to make some talks, I will write to you. For now, it would be best to hide further,” seeing his unhappy expression, she quickly added, “but that will change soon. Until then, take this book.” Reaching into her robes, she pulled out an unorganized tome filled with handwritten notes.

“This is an author’s manual, it will tell you the strategies my department uses and some useful spells,” she explained to Harry, putting the book between them. “But be careful and don’t use your wand yet, the trace still exists. Have a good night, Mr. Potter. Remember vigilance is key.” With that warning spoken, the stern woman left the tavern, leaving Harry and the book at the table.

Moments later, Harry left the Hog’s Head Inn under the cover of the night. He knew the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but with Madame Bones’ support, he felt better equipped to face them.

Chapter 5: A New Task

Notes:

Welcome back, once again.

Sorry for the delay, we had a lot of firefighter emergencies recently and I didn't have the time to upload it, but chapters will continue on thursdays again from now on.
This has been my first time writing Tonks, I would appreciate some feedback about that.

If you are interested, I do have a discord server now under: discord [dot] gg [slash] bVMgs2JanK

Have fun!

This chapter is dedicated to my grandparents. I love you, thank you for everything.

Nymphadora Tonks, known for her vibrant metamorphmagus abilities and an unfortunate tendency to clumsiness, was in a state of chaos. The bright rays of morning light filtering through her blinds were completely ignored as she lay sprawled across her bed, entangled in a mess of sheets. Her alarm clock had long been silenced after several unsuccessful attempts to wake her up, now laying on the floor, a victim of her hasty, half-asleep swat. 

The room around her was an eclectic reflection of her erratic personality. A multitude of  Weird Sisters posters adorned the light blue side walls, their figures moving and singing softly in the beat of silent music, adding a touch of magic to the cluttered space. The shelves were crowded with an assortment of objects — a mishmash of Auror gear, brightly colored potions, and personal mementos.

With a sudden jolt Tonks eyes snapped open as she woke up, realizing that she had overslept. Her hair, having been her favorite color of pink, morphed into a vibrant red shade— a visual indicator of her sudden panic. In her rush to get out of bed, she tripped over the tangled blanket, making her tumble onto the floor with a thud.

“Merlin’s beard!” She cursed, untangling herself. Her morning routine was now a race against the time. She stumbled to her feet, hastily brushing the dust of her hair. A quick flick with her wand had her clothes flying from her wardrobe, having to dodge a pair of shoes that aimed for her head.

Breakfast was a chaotic whirlwind; she managed to burn her toast and spill her coffee, leaving a trail of crumbs and a few coffee stains on her now-dressed form. Her apartment, usually a controlled chaos, felt like a battleground as she frantically searched for her misplaced, brown holly wand and Auror badge.

Finally, equipped with her essentials, Tonks took a brief moment to glance at her reflection. Her hair had settled on a more composed shade of coral. The dark circles under her eyes and signed Auror robes, proved the exhausting workload the newly graduated Auror had.  

Readying herself to apparate into the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, she hoped that the day in the department would be less eventful than her morning. Little did she know that her day was about to become much more complicated.

---

Stumbling lightly, Tonks finished her apparition twist, appearing at one end of the very long and tall hallway, with its highly polished, dark wood floor. The teal-tiled walls were shimmering in the cold white light, emitted by small white, magical orbs floating under the ceiling. 

As always the grand, cylindrical room it led into, was bustling in activity, something that did little to lessen the knot of anxiety in her stomach. Being late could bring much trouble, especially after the mistake she had made only the day before– letting Mundungus Fletcher escape once more. I really hope it will only be more paperwork.

Tonks navigated the sea of witches and wizards, each absorbed in their daily lives, with a limp, the result of her earlier entrapment in her blanket and the consequent fall. On her way towards the elevators that would bring her to her department on level two, she bumped into a multitude of visitors, apologizing profusely.

Finally reaching the golden cage that would take her up to the needed level, she greeted the security wizard as she always did. “Wotcher Max, why don’t you come up to the department later and relieve me of the paperwork?” she chirped with a wink, receiving only a chuckle from the older man, who had gotten used to her antics by now.

Finally reaching the relative privacy of her cubicle in the Auror Office, she let herself fall into the comfortable office chair of her cluttered desk. Like her apartment, every inch of space was filled to the brim. It was an organized chaos to Tonks and she wouldn’t want it any other way. 

“I hate offices,” the vibrant Auror exclaimed frustrated. “I didn’t know at the time that I would rot at the desk when I’d become an Auror.” She eyed the parchment towering in the middle of her desk. “Bugger me, that’s a lot of reports to go through.”

“A good morning to you as well, Tonks,” Dawlish, her senior auror, drawled, his eyes glinting with smirk. “Or should I say evening with how late you arrived?” His expression looked gleaming, as he leaned against the partition of her cubicle. 

Tonks clenched her jaw, Greeting him with a not-so-genuine smile. “Wotcher Dawlish. What is on the agenda today?”

Tonks hated the sleek, slimy Auror, a feeling her partner seemed to share. Ever since Tonks had been selected to replace his retired friend, she had been drowned in paperwork, leaving almost no time for field work. She had only been a quarter of an hour late and he made it seem as if she had missed her whole shift.

The grin on the older man’s face grew wider, a sense of dread filling Tonks. “You have a lot of your reports to go through and I even saved some of mine for you,” he chanted in a sweet, disgusting voice. “But before that, Madame Bones wants to see you. I really hope she will fire you,” he continued with a hopeful smile on his face.

Tonks’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, mirroring her now scarlet hair of fury. “Thanks for the heads-up, Dawlish,” she gritted through clenched teeth, trying to stay respectful.

As he sauntered away seemingly happy about himself, Tonks pondered why the head of the department wanted to talk to her. Amelia Bones was a busy woman after all, why would she take the time to have a conversation with a freshly trained Auror and not one of Tonks more experienced co-workers.

“Bollocks,” Tonks muttered under her breath. I better not test her patience.

She picked up her notebook from her small work table clutching it until her knuckles turned white, in an attempt to gather her wits. She straightened her robes, patted down her hair that had settled on a nervous shade of purple, and took a deep, steadying breath. Madame Bones’s summons could mean anything - a new assignment, a reprimand, or worse, a review of her recent performance. I hope I won’t get fired for my clumsiness

Her walk to Madame Bones’s office was a careful one, mindful of the pitfalls that seemed to naturally gravitate towards her. The corridors of the Ministry were a labyrinth of activity and potential hazards. She sidestepped a junior wizard enchanting a stack of files to levitate, only to encounter a small puddle of spilled potion.

Tonks’s foot hit the slick spot, and she skidded, arms flailing wildly. A quick grab at a nearby statue, a stoic goblin holding a lamp, saving her from a complete fall, while ripping its hand off. A few nearby wizards paused to watch, some with concern, others with poorly concealed amusement.

Her heart racing, Tonks regained some composure, grateful for the avoided bruise, and continued on her way, now hyper aware of every step she took. She reached the office of the Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement, pausing outside of the imposing wooden entrance.

Behind this door lay either an opportunity or a setback. Either way, she knew she had to face it with as much grace as she could muster. Reaching out to knock on the heavy wood, she finally noticed the hand and lantern she still clutched. ‘Bollocks, how could I not notice?’ Tonks chided herself, dropping the item onto the table of the assistant. She knocked firmly, her hand surprisingly steady.

“Come in,” came the firm, authoritative voice of Madame Bones after a few seconds.

Tonks entered the office, a stark, orderly room that reflected the personality of its occupant. The walls were lined with certificates and accolades, and the desk was meticulously organized. Amelia Bones’ office was as sterile as it could be, only disturbed by the picture of a young, red-haired girl in Hogwarts uniform, who was sitting right in the middle of the plain desk. 

Madam Amelia Bones, a formidable figure in the wizarding law enforcement community, having arrested almost as many Dark Wizards as Mad Eye Moody did, sat behind her desk. Her gaze was as piercing as ever yet not unkind as it settled on Tonks, as if trying to assess her.

“Tonks, please sit down,” she instructed the young Auror, gesturing for the simple chair in front of her desk.

Tonks took a seat, her hands clasped in her lap to hide their slight tremble. “You wanted to see me, Madame Bones?” She probed her boss.

The woman regarded her for a moment with a frown, her expression thoughtful. “Yes, Tonks. I’ve been reviewing the report from your last assignment. There were some… complications.”

Tonks braced herself for a reprimand, her mind racing through a litany of excuses and explanations. “I stumbled, I am sorry that Mun-”

However, Madame Bones surprised her, by holding up her hand in a motion to silence her. “But that’s not why I’ve called you here today. I have a new assignment for you, one that requires discretion and your unique talents.”

Tonks’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, her hair flickering to a confused shade of yellow. “A new assignment, ma’am?”

Madame Bones nodded slowly, seemingly still deep in thought. They fell silent for several moments, until the middle-aged witch shook her head in resolution and continued talking, her eyes thoroughly assessing Tonks’s reaction. “Yes, and it’s of highly confidential nature. You are to observe and protect Harry Potter for the time being.”

The name sent a jolt through Tonks. Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived? Why would Madame Bones want to protect him, when he was wanted by the Ministry. 

“You will only report to me, and nobody else. Not even the minister himself; understood Tonks?” Bones cut into her thought process, startling the young witch. “This assignment is not required, but if you were to accept it, then you would be doing me a great favor,” the Head of Department explained in a no-nonsense voice, making sure Tonks understood the importance of this task ahead.

 This seems to be really important to her, the young Auror concluded. It seems rather unofficial though. Her hair shifted through a plethora of colors as she thought about the possible repercussions of the task. She couldn’t be found supporting a wanted wizard, she would lose her job, or worse she could be convicted. But Madame Bones wouldn’t ask her such a favor, if there wasn’t a big reason for it. The reputation of the ex-auror was second to none after all, just surpassed by the loyalty the woman possessed for her subordinates.

Making a decision, Tonks looked towards her boss. “I’ll do it,” she responded in a shaky voice, filled with both anticipation and dread about the task ahead.

“Perfect, listen in to the details, Tonks.” Madame Bones replied with a now big grin plastered across her face. “I am really happy that you are going to help.”

They spent around an hour in the office, discussing the details of the assignment, emphasizing the need for utmost secrecy and subtlety time and time again. Tonks was to shadow Harry, ensuring his safety while remaining unseen. No one, not even Harry, was to know of her involvement. 

“And remember, don’t do something stupid,” Madame Bones warned the burdened auror again. “I will not be able to help you if something happens. This task is not cleared with the Ministry. Be careful Tonks.”

Taking the dismissal for what it was, a strongly confused Nymphadora Tonks stood up from the old chair, stretching her joints slightly to rid them of the fatigue. With a final goodbye, she left the Head of Department’s office, her mind abuzz with questions and apprehensions. Protecting Harry Potter was a significant responsibility, compounded by the necessity of secrecy. It was a challenge unlike any she had faced before, and she felt both apprehensive and exhilarated at the prospect.

Returning to her cubicle, Tonks’s thoughts were no longer on her earlier clumsiness. She had a mission now, a purpose that required all her focus and skill. She was about to become the unseen guardian of one of the most famous wizards in the world.

---

In the dim, comforting glow of the Leaky Cauldron, Nymphadora Tonks sat wearily in a well-worn armchair. Her fingers wrapped around a mug of hot tea, while she gazed absently at the stairway leading to the rooms of the tavern. The past week had been a relentless test of her skills and patience, a challenge that had pushed her abilities as an Auror to their limits. 

For three grueling days, she had scoured the streets of the wizarding world in search of Harry Potter. Her task, initially seeming straightforward, had proven to be a formidable one. Harry had seemingly become rather adept at disguising himself, blending into the crowds nicely. Tonks, despite her talents as a metamorphmagus and her keep observational skills, had found herself outmatched by his disguise, not having seen hide or hair of him.

Each day had ended in frustration, with Tonks returning to her apartment, her spirits dampened by failure. The realization that Harry Potter, a teenager without proper training, could so effectively elude her watchful gaze was both impressive and concerning. 

It wasn’t until Madame Bones finally decided enough time of hide and seek had passed, prompting her to provide a photograph of Harry in the disguise he wore at their meeting, that the tide began to turn. Her boss had been deeply satisfied with Harry’s knack for the subject. Armed with this new information, Tonks took the streets again, her eyes keenly searching through the crowds of witches and wizards. 

The breakthrough came on the morning of the fourth day, as she finally spotted him leaving the Gringotts Wizarding Bank. There he was, the Boy Who Lived, in the same disguise, he had taken on with Madame Bones. It was a feat in transformational magic that even surpassed the knowledge of many of her coworkers.

From that moment on, Tonks’s task became somewhat less frustrating, but no less demanding. She shadowed Harry through Diagon Alley, maintaining a discreet distance. Her heart pounded with a mix of adrenaline and relief; she had finally managed to locate her charge.

As the days passed, Tonks found herself growing more accustomed to the rhythm of Harry’s life. She observed his interactions, noted his frequented spots, and stayed ever-vigilant for any sign of danger. Her ability to transform her appearance proved to be invaluable, allowing her to remain undetected as she kept her watchful eye on him. 

Now sitting in the Leaky Cauldron, Tonks allowed herself a moment of respite, knowing that Harry was in his room and she had the only entrance in her sight. The weight of the past week’s efforts lay heavy on her shoulders. The initial days of fruitless searching, the breakthrough with the photograph, and the subsequent days of close surveillance had taken their toll on her.

Yet, despite the exhaustion, there was a sense of fulfillment. She had succeeded in her mission so far and Madame Bones was completely satisfied with the results. Harry Potter was safe and monitored, and she played the main part in ensuring that.

Tonks took another sip of her tea, her mind already gearing up for the days ahead. The assignment was far from over, and she needed to stay alert. Madame Bones had been clear that this task was indefinite, it could last one more day, a week or even months. And even though she would rather not stay here for months, she had become quite interested in the young man she observed. Interested in the obvious talent in disguise and the cunning he displayed. She wanted to see how far he could take it, what the boy would achieve. 

---

Harry Potter watched from the shadows, his invisibility cloak rendering him unseen by the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron. His gaze was fixed on Nymphadora Tonks, who sat wearily at the table, nursing a cup of tea. Over the past week, he’d become increasingly wary of her presence, the constant familiar magic making her disguises all but useless against him. He could feel her follow him for multiple days now and he needed to know why. 

Moving with silent precision, he navigated through the tables, his cloak making him nothing more than a whisper in the crowded tavern. Reaching Tonks, he positioned himself behind her, his wand drawn but hesitating. Despite her lack of awareness, she was still a highly trained auror and had a significant advantage over him.

In a swift motion, Harry dropped his cloak and pressed the tip of his wand lightly against her back. “Miss Nymphadora Tonks,” he said quietly, ensuring only she could hear him, “we need to talk.” His voice was a mixture of caution and curiosity, a clear sign that he was seeking answers.

---

Too startled to even care about the use of her first hated name, Tonks froze, her heart pounding. She recognized the voice instantly and realized the gravity of the situation. The Boy Who Lived, the very person she had been assigned to protect and observe, was now confronting her, wand at her back. How did he know her name? How did he find her?

“Mr. Potter,” she responded cautiously, trying to keep her voice even. “I can explain, but please, can we talk without the wand?”

She could feel the wand slide lower on her back, losing the uncomfortable contact to her skin, but Harry didn’t put it away. That’s good, Tonks praised him in her thoughts, he is careful. One moment later, she felt him walk around her, never turning his back to her. He moved to sit across from her, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any eavesdroppers. 

His wand was still trained on her, when he felt a set of privacy charms encapsulate them, cast from the glowing palm of his free hand. “Why have you been following me?” His tone was direct, demanding an explanation. 

Tonks, aware of the delicate nature of her assignment, hesitated. Should she disclose the task given by Madame Bones? How would he react to be spied on by the ministry? How much did he know about her?

“I’ve been… assigned to keep an eye on you, for your safety,” she said, choosing her words carefully, but regretting them just a second later. Harry’s eyes turned their signature green color, filled with pure fury, making them look like green flames dancing in the light. 

“I don’t need to be looked after,” he growled in a deep voice, making Tonks shiver in discomfort. “Who sent you?” he almost spat. “Fudge!?”

Deeply intimidated by the young man in front of her, lying didn’t even cross Tonks’s mind. Too high was the risk of burning bridges forever, or even being hurt. She noticed the slight shimmer of his wand, and understood that it would take only the blink of an eye to be hit by the already primed spell. “I was sent by Madame Bones,” she started. “She believes that you’re in potential danger. And she told me not to tell you, yet.”

Harry’s expression softened considerably, but his eyes still didn’t revert back to their concealed color. “And you just followed orders without questioning them? Even if it meant going against the law and spying on me?”

Tonks shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not like that, Mister Potter. I was mostly there to protect you, you cannot use a wand after all.”

Harry sighed, the weight of the situation evident in his posture. “This is all too secretive for my liking. I need to know I can trust the people around me and spying won’t help you or Madame Bones.”

“I understand, Harry,” Tonks said earnestly. “But believe me, my priority is your safety, even against the Ministry. Nothing more.”

Harry studied her for a moment, his expression softening slightly. “Alright, I believe you. But from now on, no more secrets. If you’re going to watch over me, I need to be aware of it.”

Tonks nodded, relieved that he was giving her another chance. “Agreed. A new beginning?” She asked the younger man.

Harry only offered her his hand, waiting for her to grasp it before he offered: “Hello, I am Lord Harry Potter, but call me Harry.”

“Wotcher, Harry. I am Tonks, just Tonks. And don’t use my first name again,” she added with a pointed look.

As they continued their conversation, the tension eased. Harry was still wary, but he recognized Tonks’s genuine intention to protect him and he couldn’t refuse the help. For Tonks on the other hand, it was a relief to not hide her mission from Harry anymore, even if it meant bending the rules of her assignment slightly. Together, they would navigate the situation better, bound by a mutual understanding and a shared goal - Harry’s safety.

Notes:

Once again, please comment and give some feedback, I am switching up my style quite a bit, the more I write. The chapters will stay this length for now.

The plot is going to pick up in the next chapters, this is still a bit of a prelude.

Chapter 6: Decisions

Finally, after way too long, I present a new chapter of Alliance of Families. I hope you enjoy and please comment and like. Next chapter should be much sooner, as I finally have some time again to write more :)

If you are interested, I do have a discord server now under: [slash] 3CmDUcvgxa

---

Thud

Thud

Thud Thud

The persistent thudding echoed through the room, wrenching Harry from the depths of sleep. Groggy and slightly disoriented, he blinked against the veil of darkness, trying to identify the source of the disturbance. Only the faintest rays of light were peeking into the room, which was still shrouded in the soft embrace of early dawn through the heavy curtains.

I must have imagined it, Harry concluded after several moments of eerie silence. Resolved to use his last minutes of sleep, he turned around, burying his face in the soft pillow of the tavern’s room.

Thud thud thud

Harry groaned in frustration, annoyed at being forced to leave the warm bed but unable to ignore the persistent sound anymore.

Blinking the traces of sleep out of his eyes, Harry rolled off his bed while his fingers tightened around the wand already in his grasp. He had made it a habit of stashing it under his pillow, a precaution that proved its worth once again.

With stiff knees from abruptly being woken up, Harry crept towards the window from which the repetitive sound came. Every muscle in his body seemed to strain against the movements, trying to force him to run from an approaching danger he couldn’t yet see. With every step Harry took towards the window hidden behind the long and dark curtains, his anticipation and drive to flee increased, almost bringing him to burst into emotion.

He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of being observed even after discovering the task Tonks was fulfilling. Had the shadow figure decided it was time to finish him? Would he be attacked when he saw their face? Not being able to unveil his stalker had been highly distressing to Harry, especially after he had been able to spot a well trained Auror after only a short time of surveillance. His enemy had to be either extremely resourceful or skillful, maybe even both?    

Shaking the worried thoughts out of his mind, he refocused on the task ahead. His wand was trained on the source of the sounds, ready to cast various dangerous spells at a moment’s notice if the person behind the window meant any harm.

On finally reaching the window Harry stretched out his trembling offhand, slightly pulling the heavy curtains aside with only his Gryffindor courage preventing his body from spinning and fleeing.

Harry’s tension abated momentarily as he peered through the newly created  gap, finally spotting the source of the concerning sound.

Through the dim light he could discern a large, tawny owl with its beak tapping rhythmically against the window, chipping away tiny fragments of glass with every impact. A chuckle escaped Harry’s lips, and his shoulders finally loosened as he realized the absurdity of his fear. I am getting paranoid.

In the bliss of his ebbing adrenaline, Harry unlatched the window with a slight flick of his hand. Swinging open, it admitted the pushy bird into his room. The owl perched on the edge of his tiny desk next to the pictures of his friends, reminders of the people he fought for. Their grinning, happy faces looked at him as they always did when Harry approached the desk with intent to relieve the owl of its letter that had been sealed by the emblem of the noble house of the Bones family.

His heart rate quickened in fear. Was it time? Could this be one of his last wizarding days? Was it right to trust Madame Bones with his secrets?

With careful fingers, he untied the scroll, each movement deliberate, unrolling it slowly to reveal its contents. On the pristine parchment was the small and exact handwriting of Amelia Bones:

“H,

The Ministry has scheduled a trial for you tomorrow. In a not-so-surprising twist, they sent the letter to your family and didn’t even try to contact you personally. They intend to proceed without your knowledge to avoid as many uncomfortable questions as possible.”

As he read, a storm of anger and resignation brewed in Harry’s chest. The Ministry’s underhanded yet painfully predictable tactics did little to surprise him. He wouldn’t have expected anything less of Fudge, but that did not quell his anger in any way.

“However, we can use that to our advantage. I have devised a plan - risky, yet potentially game-changing.”

Reading through the plan by Madame Bones lifted Harry’s spirits considerably, his mind already racing in with the possibilities of outmaneuvering their adversaries. Harry’s smile grew wider and wider with every line he read, developing into chuckles within seconds as he imagined the stunned expressions that would soon grace the faces of the Wizengamot. Madame Bones’s plan was audacious, requiring precision and perhaps a bit of luck. Fortunately,Harry was no stranger to taking risks, especially when they were his best option.

“*Be ready to act and stay vigilant.

A.B.*”

Putting the finished letter in the still-burning fire of his room, he scribbled a quick response on a note. It would be better for him if there were no traces of their plan in the room when he left.

Offering the royal bird still perched on his shoulder, seemingly awaiting an answer, an owl treat from Hedwig’s jar, he tied the note to the leg of the owl. Watching it take flight into the slowly brightening sky, delivering his answer to his ally, Harry closed the window, sitting on the edge of his bed, pondering his plans for the day. Sleep would probably be elusive now as his mind was buzzing with thoughts of the trial and the possible outcomes of their plan.

With a longing glance towards his comfortable bed, Harry stretched his arms and legs to shake off the remnants of sleep. Time to get up and get going.

Like he had been doing since he started his Quidditch training in his first year at Hogwarts, Harry changed into his long, cotton training suit, which was part of his sports uniform. The runs, which had started as a chore twice a week in the first years, had grown on Harry, allowing him to increase his schedule to a daily ritual over the last few years. At this point, he was increasing the intensity of the sessions and resolved to improve his physical fitness with his magic.

After over a week of inhabiting, his room in the Leaky Cauldron had transformed into his personal haven, a sanctuary amidst the world’s chaos. He felt rather safe in the place, his position unknown to the Ministry, and hopefully, the Death Eaters gave him time. The time he dearly needed to get himself, at least a little, prepared. Hopefully, Tonks can help me.

The small desk that had been used as a landing spot by Madame Bones Owl was filled to the brim with the happy memories of his friends and the few pictures he owned of his parents. Next to it, dozens of books on charms, defense, and magical law were stacked, most of which he had read in the last week. However, most of the spells he had tested seemed to only succeed with his wand.  

With a final smile, Harry left the room and quickly passed through the empty tavern, intending to finish his run as soon as possible to prepare himself for tomorrow’s trial.

---

Stepping into the muggle world, Harry inhaled the fresh morning air, feeling a sense of freedom. The modern buildings, adjourning the street of the Leaky Cauldron, were casting golden shadows of morning light on the empty, paved roads, portraying London like a fairy tale. Stretching next to the tavern’s entrance in anticipation of the hour-long run he would do, he noticed the heavy, wooden door opening again with a loud screech, the magical presence of Tonks spilling out of the gap.

“Wotcher Harry,” the woman greeted Harry cheerfully, her hair a dark blue, matching the sky above them. “Not jumpy today?” she asked curiously, seemingly confused by the considerably less strained behaviour of the disguised teen. His visage was impressive again, but knowing what she was looking for and Harry not trying to hide from her made her see his usual features through his transfiguration.

Harry gave her a nod of acknowledgement, finishing the last minute of his stretching session before answering the attractive woman standing before him as she eyed him curiously. “I knew it was you right before you opened the door,” he snarled, still not knowing what he thought about the woman.

She had observed him. He was sure that Madame Bones thought it would be for the best, but he still didn’t like being left out. He sighed a heavy breath as he noticed the unfriendly behaviour he had shown. He had made it up; he shouldn’t be so reserved. “Do you want to join my run?” he offered the taller woman standing next to him in a peaceful gesture.

The round and friendly face of Tonks brightened up, her eyes sparkling in anticipation. “It has been a long time since I ran with somebody,” she acclaimed happily, “the others from the office don’t do much physical training.”

Harry nodded, secretly pleased for the company in the morning. “Just try to not fall behind,” he joked.

Tonk’s laughter, light and melodious, danced through the streets. “A promise, Potter?” she teased, eyes sparkling with challenge. “How about a bet?”

Suspiciously, Harry eyed the junior Auror. His gaze swept over the body of the young woman in front of him, trying to pick out any details that would give him a hint about her physique and if she would be able to beat him. As he inspected her more thoroughly than ever before, he had to admit she was beautiful.

Get your mind out of the gutter, Harry chided himself, blushing furiously as he noticed her watching his explorations with a knowing, teasing smirk.

“What is the stake?” he asked in a rush, stumbling over his own words as he tried to resolve the embarrassing situation quickly, having decided that he should be able to beat her.

Her smirk widened further. “You will invite me to the new restaurant in Diagon Alley?” Tonks teased, her tone playful yet flirtatious.

“You wish,” Harry laughed, both refreshed and mortified by his new friend’s unashamed, playful flirting. “If you teach me how to do the smell masking spell,” he offered.

Tonks’s grin widened. “We have a deal, Potter, let’s go,” she agreed, quickly morphing her form into an attractive, blonde teen around Harry’s age. “I think it is better if nobody recognises me.”

Harry’s face went scarlet once again. “This form isn’t quite subtle either, though,” he started but fell silent as Tonks started jogging away, already putting a significant margin between them. Mesmerised by her fluid, almost cat-like movements, he began to pick up the pace, pulling next to her after a bit. This is going to be rough, he sighed internally, finally understanding his mistake in underestimating the Metamorph.

What started as a pretty fast-paced but comfortable pace for them soon turned into a friendly competition, with both trying to predict how fast the other could be. With her Auror training and innate agility, Tonks quickly matched Harry’s fast pace.

After multiple minutes of trying and probing each other’s fitness, Harry took off, determined not to be outdone. He accelerated further and further, straining his muscles already painfully at the brutal pace he was going at. He couldn’t keep up this tempo for a long while, but he only needed to win the bet quickly and lose her.

He ran for around twenty seconds when his breathing started to labour, the long, powerful strides getting more forced, and his muscles starting to protest in pain from the prolonged stress. But he had succeeded and couldn’t see his fellow runner beside him anymore. I got her, he cheered internally, starting to slow down slightly.

“Already done?” The voice of Tonks cut through the sound of the blood throbbing in his head, being much closer than he anticipated. The woman surpassed him only moments later, not even breaking a sweat. “Let me show you how fast you need to be,” she goated him with a smirk as she accelerated, her form blurring as she used her metamorphmagus abilities to adjust her physique to accommodate faster running.

In an attempt to follow the young Auror, Harry sped up once again but could not even reach a fracture of her speed. His already burning muscles were screaming in pain, only pushed by Harry’s unwavering resolve that prohibited him from giving up. His heart was pounding as if bursting through his chest when Tonks finally slowed down, allowing Harry to catch on. Bloody hell! In only a few meters, she was already so much ahead.

Tonks came to a stop, grinning towards the exhausted boy. Harry wouldn’t have believed what she had just done if he hadn’t seen it himself. Her form was once again the usual, bubbly form that he had underestimated so much, but she hadn’t even broken a sweat from the full-on sprint that they just did.

“You’re not bad, Potter,” Tonks praised, her hair shifting to a soft pink hue, reflecting her excellent spirit. “But you should never underestimate powers you don’t know enough about.”

Harry bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “I guess I deserved that. I didn’t know you could use your ability for stuff like this,” he managed to say, having learned the lesson Tonks had taught him.

“It can do so much more,” she teased with a sultry, seductive voice, breaking into roaring laughter as Harry’s face flushed an embarrassed bright red.

“Tonks,” the boy called her name almost pleadingly, the discomfort clearly showing on his face.

Tonks chuckled for a moment. “It’s way too easy to tease you. Let’s go back; you must prepare for the trial tomorrow.”

As they walked towards the Leaky Cauldron, the early morning sun casting long shadows on the path, Harry felt a sense of camaraderie with Tonks. At this moment, they were just two friends enjoying a morning run away from the complexities of the wizarding world. It was a brief respite, a moment of normalcy and connection, a reminder of the simple joys life could offer.

The day awaited them, with all its uncertainties and dangers. But for now, they walked side by side, sharing stories and laughter, and the bond between them was strengthened by the shared experience of the morning’s run. Harry could get used to it, her beautiful laughter and happy nature.

---

With a big, fat smile, Britain’s Magical Minister Cornelius Fudge entered the chilly, dim courtroom designated for the trial of one Harry Potter, who had been a thorn in the Minister’s side for far too long. Ever since the boy had increasingly aligned himself with the fool Dumbledore, they had brought far-reaching complications to his position.

He can’t be back. The Minister repeated to himself as if it was a mantra he had to convince himself of. After all, Lucius was unmovingly sure about it, and the Lord had never led him wrong since he started to be the Ministry’s advisor.

With its black tiles and sturdy demeanour, the room he found himself in had seen many of the worst wizards and witches punished to time in the gruesome Azkaban. Yet, the chill Fudge felt was not only from the room’s dark history but also the dark creatures he hadn’t expected. Dementors, he confusedly noticed. They haven’t been here for years.

“Hem, hem,” Dolores Umbridge’s sugary voice sliced through the Minister’s thoughts like a hot knife through butter. “Shall we start the proceedings of the day?”

The woman stood next to his reserved, regular spot, a little over five feet tall and dressed in an awful mix of pink shades that clashed with the melancholic atmosphere of the courtroom. She sported a vicious grin towards her boss that made the senior man sick in the stomach, knowing about his undersecretary’s unforgiving and occasionally cruel tendencies. Without Lucius’s explicit recommendation, this woman would have never been part of his cabinet. Regardless, the Lord would know what was best and had consistently led him right. I will have to trust her.

“Sure, Madame Umbridge,” he responded with a forced smile as he felt the Dementors’ terrifying effect on his body increase second by second the further he reached the stands of the Wizengamot. “My Lords, My Ladies,” he greeted the attending members of the chamber with a winning smile that he had perfected after countless years in his position. The wizards and witches on the stands looked increasingly uncomfortable, not understanding the necessity of the called-upon meeting. A full-fledged trial for misuse of underage magic was unprecedented, after all.

Having reached the Minister’s seat in the front of the cabinet, facing away from the several members, only seconds later, Fudge still felt the eyes of the attending fixed on the back of his head. “I believe it is time to start,” the Minister called out as the clock announced the scheduled start of the trial, nodding towards Lord Greengrass on his right wing, the newly elected Mugwump of the Wizengammot, ready to give him the word.

“Good Evening, High Wizengamot. In today’s emergency trial, we are to decide on account of two claims regarding Mister Harry James Potter,” the greying old man started reading his notes when he was interrupted by a small, seemingly ancient witch on the light side of the chamber.

“I do believe we should wait for the accused to arrive at his own trial?” She questioned, casting an accusatory glance around the chamber. “Isn’t it common knowledge that every citizen of this country has a right to defend themselves in court?”

Lord Greengrass sighed, knowing that the old lady’s attempts would be for nothing in this case, as the Minister saw it as a personal affront and wouldn’t be stopped by such a simple thing as the law. He admired her strictness on the law, but most of the chamber wouldn’t hold to such a high moral standard and instead try to leave this place as quickly as possible.

“Lady Longbottom,” he started, focusing his eyes on the unmistakably upset woman, trying to convey his suggestion to drop the topic to his highly-regarded colleague. “You would be right in many cases, but the accused has been notified of the trial and did not attempt to reschedule,” he reminded her of the law introduced only weeks before. “Therefore, as the law, passed sixteen days ago, suggests, we are to start the trial at our earliest convenience.”

The members of the Wizengamot aligned with the light exchanged worried glances and whispered amongst themselves. Although something unusual was happening, no one raised any further questions, leaving them uneasy.

“If there are no additional requests, I will offer the stage to Miss Umbridge, this case’s prosecutor, by personal request,” Lord Greengrass announced, eliciting even more suspicious frowns from most chamber members. Why would this woman, who is not working for the DMLE, take such a high interest in the case and take over the prosecution? They could only guess, but the feeling of dread still overwhelmed the ones knowing the cruel woman.

Unfazed by the wary glimpses of the assembled Lords and Ladies, Umbridge looked highly enthusiastic about presenting her case. She almost leapt out of her seat as soon as she was called upon by the new Mugwump. The shift in chamber administration would help her, as Greengrass wouldn’t reign her in nearly as much as Dumbledore permanently did. Patting down her robes, she turned towards the gallery consisting of a few visitors and three members of the press. She would destroy the filthy half-blood’s reputation, just as his life, and would see him in prison momentarily as well. My master will be delighted with the boy Potter, finally weakened in Azkaban.

With a sickening, girlish cough, the pink woman gained the attention of the whole chamber. In the deafening silent room, Dolores Umbridge started to recite her well-practised address in a rancid, sweet voice. “The prosecution accuses Mister Potter, residential in Privet Drive, Surrey, of Misuse of Underage Magic, as registered by the respectful department, a break in the statute of secrecy, by use of the Patronus Charm, and lastly,” she explained, holding the last reason in dreadful suspense, before resuming. “The disappearance and probable death of Dudley Dursley, the defendant’s cousin,” she concluded, happy with the shocked reaction she received from the chamber.

The room was laid in silence as the accusation started to settle in. The expressions of pure surprise many of the members wore were only broken by the looks of glee the darker houses sported. This had gotten even better for them, with their annoying enemy finally being convicted and imprisoned. Loud chattering started as more and more people broke out of their stupor. The sound level in the chamber grew and grew until it reached ear-shattering levels when members of both sides of the room started to essentially yell at each other in full force, some purpling with rage as particles of spit flew through the ranks.

Cornelius Fudge was exceptionally satisfied with the speech of his undersecretary; the still raw emotion would, after all, help him to convict the boy quickly, finally disposing of the danger. With a pointed glance towards Lord Greengrass, he told the man to silence the courtroom, desiring to close the trial as soon as possible.

“Silence in the courtroom,” the magically enhanced voice of the Mugwump echoed through the dark room as his gavel crashed on his stand, silencing the crowd quickly with only a handful of conversations finishing their sentences. “Miss Umbridge, continue as you will.”

After revelling in the attention she commanded, Dolores Umbridge continued her address. “The evidence on the suit is overwhelming. We have proof of the employed magic at the specified location,” she laid out, showing the pictures taken by the deployed magical forensics team and the report of the trace observing instrument. “This undoubtedly displays that at least a Patronus charm has been cast. We also have an anonymous source vowing that the accused has been associating with the known fugitive Sirius Black.”

She paused for the dramatic effect, letting the gravity of the situation settle in the minds of the Wizengamot members. “Furthermore, we have a sworn affidavit from the Dursley family, who were the primary witnesses to the disappearance of Dudley Dursley. They attest that Harry Potter utilised magic against their son, which resulted in his vanishing without a trace.”

The room was packed once more with murmurs and whispers as the members of the body absorbed the information. Accusations of such magnitude were stunning especially against The-Boy-Who-Lived, the population’s highly esteemed war hero.

“As the defendant isn’t in attendance nor a lawyer is in his stead, I suggest we continue the proceedings and cast a vote,” Minister Fudge hurriedly declared, to finish the proceedings as soon as possible, receiving a cheerful glee from Lucius, who was seemingly beaming in happiness by his easy manipulation of the governing body.

On the other hand, Lord Greengrass cast an extremely dubious but resigned look towards his Minister, knowing he wouldn’t be able to protect the boy. His bosses would not be happy. The fate of Harry Potter seemed to be decided already, and the man’s face fell as the votes came in. “The Wizengamot declares Mister Harry Potter, residential in Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, as guilty an all cou-” he started to announce, getting interrupted by the now standing female reporter in the gallery, her voice barely raised above a whisper but sending chills down the spine of any attending member.

“Excuse me, Lord Greengrass,” the inhumanly beautiful lady interjected, her voice carrying an air of authority and danger that made many of the attending flinch by the pure power conveyed. Her blonde hair flowed over the gorgeous, blue one-piece suit, giving her an appearance of false innocence harshly broken by her fierce, steely expression. Schooled into an emotionless but steady mask, her noble features faced the Minister directly as she continued to speak. “I believe there seems to be a grave oversight in this trial.”

Umbridge jumped forward in poorly hidden rage, glaring at the beautiful woman. “And who might you be?” She challenged the intruder with a shout, launching droplets of spit towards the woman daring to intrude into her moment. “The press is not allowed to intervene in Wizengamot affairs,” she spat. ” You should know that. You are to watch only, you filthy Veela creature.”

On the other hand, the woman only calmly presented her credentials to the courtroom, returning a blazing glare to the pink toad, making the short ministry official cringe at the piercing gaze. “I am Pauline Delacour,” she explained to the governing body, ignoring the insult, “solicitor for Heir Harry Potter. It has come to my attention that the Ministry planned for my client to abstain from this trial in an attempt to avoid rather uncomfortable questions.”

The room fell silent as Miss Delacour continued, an aura of strength and knowledge surrounding her. “According to the new law you utilised today, a high house member is exempt from the new ruling. This makes proper evidence and the attendance of the accused necessary, only allowing the body to apprehend them if they don’t come to the trial on their own accord. My client, Mr. Potter, was not properly contacted about this trial, and the evidence presented is questionable at best.”

Umbridge faltered into her own form, cowered by the sheer amount of authority emitted by the solicitor. She had been caught off guard by Miss Delacour’s interruption and not yet able to regain her composure. “I-I assure you, we f-followed all necessary procedures…”

The stern, blond woman aggressively cut her off. “Madame Umbridge, I have evidence and dozens of witnesses here in the chamber that my client’s rights have been violated in this issue. I demand that this trial be halted immediately until these matters are resolved.”

The Wizengamot members were now in disarray and confusion. Miss Delacour had thrown a wrench into Umbridge’s carefully orchestrated plan, and it was clear the trial would not proceed as smoothly as the Ministry had intended.

“But we already have a verdict,” Minister Fudge interjected, a victorious smile on his lips. He was confident that the woman was too late; Harry Potter would go to Azkaban, his reputation in shatters, and nobody could alter that anymore.

Turning her attention towards the leader of the Ministry, Miss Delacour gave the man a predatory smile. “You don’t even understand what you did,” she admonished the man, who was turning his bowler between his hands in visible discomfort by the penetrating glare. “With the attempt to illegally imprison a future Lord of one of the sacred twenty-seven, you and your undersecretary made yourself guilty of attempted line theft.”

“But dear Miss, isn’t that a bit farfetched?” Lord Greengrass interjected though he couldn’t hide his satisfaction that the heads of their country were finally shown their limits. They had clearly bitten off too much this time and would have to choke on it now.

“Oh no, Lord Greengrass,” Miss Delacour denied, “as our own laws state: ‘The theft of a lineage or house is attempted if there is proof or witness of illegal activity leading to the death, severe bodily injury or other permanent damage to the last of a House. With punishment a minimum of 10 years in Azkaban and loss of their respective line if they were reigning Lord or Lady.’”

A collective gasp ran through the isles of wizards and witches as they understood the grave mistake that had been made today. Yet, Madame Umbridge did not respond, boiling in immense rage. She had overstepped, and nobody could save her this time.

Fudge, on the other hand, was stricken in fear. He had fucked up, and the Wizengamot and the population would demand action regarding that mistake. This could cost him his job, finishing him for good and giving Dumbledore the position the old man sought so fiercely. He couldn’t let that happen. “I am really disappointed in you, Dolores.” He declared towards the Wizengamot in his best imitations of a grandfather scolding his granddaughter. “How could you give me wrong information about this case and Mister Potter’s family status? Why didn’t you tell me they are one of the sacred twenty-seven? I never had contact with them before; how should I know?” He had to throw the woman under the bus and redirect the blame onto her; it was his only chance, and he had no love lost for the woman after all.

“Miss Umbridge, I hereby arrest you on the counts of attempted line theft. Aurors, take her in.” Lord Greengrass announced, with a satisfied smile, evicting gasps of shock and relief in the rows of the Wizengamot. “In accordance, the illegally voted conviction of Heir Harry James Potter is annulled, and the case reopened, led by Madame Amelia Bones.”

“Miss Delacour, can you apprehend Mister Potter so we can finish this case with his attendance?” Minister Fudge questioned the solicitor who had caused him so much trouble already. Even if he had just taken a major hit on his reputation, he would at least see the Potter boy convicted today. With that victory, the papers would have something more important to report than the stupid mistakes made by the awful woman in his cabinet. “Then we can continue the trial and show the proof we have apprehended.” He was still sure that Potter could be convicted, as the evidence they held would still be enough. This will actually be two birds with one stone.

The courtroom doors banged open loudly just as he finished his thoughts, echoing off the thick and cold walls of the courtroom. Entering was a significantly fitter Harry Potter than he had met merely two years ago, with his broad shoulders held high in dignity. The boy radiated a feeling of magical power that he had never seen from somebody as young as the boy now in front of the leaders of the nation. Not a single blink or shudder showed a hint of fear or respect for the body sitting there, and his shining emerald eyes were filled with a violent blaze of green flames. How had this boy changed that much in such a short amount of time? Had he made a mistake trying to take the boy down?

“Hello, Miss Delacour,” Harry Potter greeted his solicitor as if they had been good friends for the longest of times. He thoroughly ignored the flood of the most critical witches and wizards, not even giving them as much as a glance. “My attention got requested?”

Carefully schooling her impressed expression, Miss Delacour returned to the matter on hand. It would be of utmost importance to dismiss this case brutally to prevent Fudge from repeating this treacherous coup. “Correct, Heir Potter. Are you acquainted with the details of this trial?”

“I’ve been informed, yes.” Harry cordially replied to his solicitor. “I believe it would be time to provide the counter-evidence?”

Appoline chuckled a second before getting back into control of her temperament. He followed the plan in minute detail, portraying the stoic, strong leader they planned to convey in this farce. She turned towards the governing body before her, glancing at each attending for a moment before starting the speech that would give her a space in the history books of coming generations.

“Lord Greengrass, members of the Wizengamot. In this trial, you had been given proof of the usage of a Patronus charm by Heir Potter. This evidence is entirely correct, and my defendant is not declining that accusation. But as each and every one of you knows, the usage of spells outside of school is allowed in any situations that threaten an individual’s life, magic or soul. I want to ask any of this body. Why would my defendant use a Patronus charm in a muggle region? I charm that doesn’t attack and hurt the people in vicinity?” She took a short break in the stunning silence as the first people started connecting the dots. “On the day of the used magic, Heir Potter had been attacked by two Dementors in the middle of a muggle district. These two Dementors attempted, unsuccessfully as you can see, to suck the soul of my defendant out of his body.”

Pandemonium erupted in the large courtroom as every single person seemed to start shouting incoherent words ranging from ‘Liar’ to ‘The poor boy’. Only after dozens of deafening bangs by the Mugwump’s gavel and multiple minutes of discussion did the courtroom return to a functioning state. “Dementors? Impossible!” Fudge declared, still in rage, by the backhanded accusation. “This is just a story the boy invented; don’t let them fool you,” he nearly pleaded towards the governing body.

Resigned Miss Delacour continued her speech. “I had hoped you wanted to start an investigation instead of accusing Heir Potter of lies in front of this high court. We obviously do have proof of these allegations as, unfortunately, my defendant was only able to rescue his own soul from the attack. On the other hand, his cousin Dudley Dursley was not as lucky and had been kissed by one of the Dementors before Heir Potter could drive them away. The body is being submitted right this moment to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and you, Madame Bones, should get word about the status in the next few seconds.”

As if her words had triggered a spell, the court’s heavy, dark wood doors sprang open with a loud bang, startling many of the attending wizards and witches. “Madame Bones,” a man cloaked in Auror’s red exclaimed towards his boss. “Mere seconds ago, a muggle had been brought in. The body had been administered a Dementors’ kiss; we have no doubt of that. A cryptic note stuck on his closing advised us to give this information to you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Patrick. You may leave,” a visibly smug-looking Madame Bones dismissed her Auror, having the evidence she needed to dismiss this case in favour of her ally.

“This gives you all the proof you require to dismiss Heir Potters’s case, as it was clear self-defence, and invoke an official investigation towards the purpose these Dementors have been in a muggle region without supervision by any Ministry Aurors. The danger of such a situation is immense. It could have cost us many more muggle lives or even the discovery of the magical world. Thank you.” With this last reminder of the possible dire consequences of the past situation, Pauline Delacour concluded her fierce speech. Giving Lord Greengrass an appreciative smile before sitting back in her seat.

“The prosecution agrees with the verdict of the defender and drops all charges against Heir James Potter due to proof of innocence and use of self-defence as a result. Furthermore, we request an investigation of the Dementors.” Amelia wholeheartedly agreed, facing towards the Mugwump to finish the proceedings.

Lord Greengrass couldn’t stop the satisfied grin that formed on his face. Harry Potter was safe and even came on top of the Wizengamot. His organisation would be happy to get this information. “You can leave, Heir Potter; your trial is dismissed. Minister Fudge, I expect the investigation results to be on my desk and in the Department of Law Enforcement at the end of the month. Miss Umbridge will be held in custody until her charges are thoroughly investigated and a trial is held. Court dismissed.”

And with a final bang by the Mugwumps gavel, Harry was out of the door of the moody courtroom. They had done it. He was finally save once again and even got one of Fudge’s worst accomplices out of office with a high prison sentence pending. It had been a good day, after all.

Chapter 7: Oliver Wilson

Notes:

Welcome back!

Sorry for the day delay, but now the chapter is here. Uploads will continue on Sunday though.

Without further ado, read and enjoy!

Harry Potter: The Boy Who Defended? 

By Oliver Wilson

In an unprecedented turn of events that rocked the Ministry of Magic’s very foundations, Harry Potter (16), known to the wizarding world as “The Boy Who Lived”, found himself once again at the heart of controversy. But this time, dear readers, the spectacle unfolded within the hallowed walls of the Wizengamot, offering a drama that could rival last year’s Quidditch World Cup.

Yesterday’s short-notice trial, intended to scrutinise young Potter’s alleged underage misuse of magic outside of school grounds, rapidly escalated into a full-blown indictment of the Ministry’s integrity. The proceedings, marked by startling accusations and explosive revelations, have left the wizarding world and our readers reeling, questioning the very pillars of our society. 

At the centre of this whirlwind stands Harry Potter, whose defence not only shattered the Ministry’s case but also exposed a plot so nefarious it has sent shockwaves through our society. Represented by the astute and fiercely eloquent Pauline Delacour, Potter turned the tables on Senior Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge, resulting in her imprisonment in Azkaban until further trial. The pair revealed her desperate measures to silence him. 

The verdict? Acquittal, amidst a storm of applause from those present, a rare moment of unity in our often-divided world. But the questions it raises are far from celebratory. How deep does the rot within the Ministry go? What does this mean for our fight against the darkness that threatens us all? 

The aftermath of this trial will, without a doubt, shape the future of our world. Will we see a ministry reborn from the ashes of its disgrace, or will this be the spark that ignites a civil war within our community? Only time will tell, but Harry Potter is no longer a boy to underestimate. In defeating the Ministry’s machinations, he has proven himself a formidable force in his own right.

Stay tuned, dear readers, as we continue to navigate these turbulent times together. In the meantime, one can’t help but wonder — what will our Hero Harry Potter do next?

Oliver Wilson, International Special Correspondent, The Daily Prophet

---

A deep frown married Harry Potter’s features as he laid his newest “The Daily Prophet” print on the greasy table of the Leaky Cauldron. 

“They seem oddly supportive,” Harry muttered, more to himself than to Tonks sitting beside him. “Rita Skeeter frequently brands me as a chaotic petite child in every article, especially after the third task.”

“It does indeed not make sense,” Tonks had to admit, remembering the slandering articles towards Harry over the last summer. These had been the first friendly words said by the wizarding paper. “But at least you’ve won some more groupies over, eh?”

Harry cracked a wry smile, a flicker of amusement lighting up his sparkling-green eyes. “Yeah, ‘groupies’ might just be what I need to fend off Voldemort,” he said, his tone laced with sarcasm. Tonks let out a soft chuckle, her characteristic pink hair morphing into a shade of turquoise today, causing a few heads to turn in the pub’s dim lighting. 

The conversation, however, took a more serious turn as Harry’s gaze drifted back to the newspaper, his mind processing the potential ramifications of the article’s content. “It’s strange,” he pondered aloud, “how quickly public opinion sways. It feels like my second year. Yesterday, they all would’ve believed me a killer. Today, I’m the hero again.” 

Tonks, sensing the weight of Harry’s thoughts, leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do ya reckon there’s more to this? Oliver Wilson… never heard of the lad before. Could be a nickname, or perhaps someone’s playing a larger spiel.”

Harry nodded, his expression contemplative. As he lowered his voice to continue their conversation, waves of the familiar magic crashed over her. The juvenile auror watched in awe as her companion emitted the same energy as at their first meeting. The comfortable, cold signature of the charms forming around them felt like a lovely, enveloping embrace to Tonks, making her feel relaxed and safe in the bustling tavern. 

But this time, things were different. Gone was the prickling sensation in the air that had promised danger in the proximity. The aggressiveness had also disappeared, leaving only the raw power of pure magic. Still, the force of the surrounding charms was overwhelming, leaving no doubt in the magical potential the enigmatic teen in front of her possessed, if cared for appropriately.

Tonks was surprised, as the charms didn’t revolt against her diagnostic probing of the sphere like they did last time. The small detection charm she had cast revealed a large white dome around their table, pulsing with raw power. She recognised most interwoven spells as a simple, if not trivial, mesh of different compulsion, notice-me-not and silencing charms. But these spells, cast by a teenager without a wand, were impossible for almost all wizards. Still, the pieces of protection that emitted the distinct, cold signature she now connected to Harry were unrecognisable to her.  

“Sorry, I gotta ask,” she interrupted Harry, who had just started listing possible culprits. “What are these charms you just used? Some of them I’ve never seen.” 

When their eyes met, Tonks could see a deep confusion and concern in her young companion, as if he didn’t understand what she meant. “What spells? I cast nothing!” His wand was in hand, searching through the room. He was ready to defend them against any threat that would show their face. 

It was right there! 

The surrounding air developed the same prickly feeling she had noticed at their first meeting, humming with waves of power that radiated from Harry. Looking at her friend, she saw traces of light shimmering in his youthful body, enveloping him in a shield-like substance. The sight was breathtaking. 

“Calm down, Harry,” she tried to pull the teenager out of his focus. With a playful smirk, she added, “You’re leaking magic like a faucet. I mean, it’s hot, but I believe the women here will jump you soon.”

Harry, in response, only blushed intensely, his face turning a scarlet red colour as he tried to avoid her eyes. “I’m sorry, I lost control,” he conceded, while putting his holly wand back in the holster attached to his arm. 

“It is your magic that I can feel. Are you sure you didn’t cast anything?” 

This time, instead of falling into a paranoid stance like before, Harry’s countenance morphed into a grimace of concentration. After several minutes of silently examining the surrounding magic, he spoke again: “Yeah, I can feel it as well. It feels really familiar, like a part of me I didn’t know. I can’t put a finger on any but some of the basic charms.” 

Tonks was confused. 

How could he cast something he didn’t know? 

And how did he cast it without even trying to? 

Even a well-versed practitioner of silent magic like her couldn’t do a spell without willing her magic to comply with her intent. 

Only one option existed, but how did that make sense? Wasn’t it impossible? 

“It sounds close to accidental magic, but more controlled, Harry,” she cautioned her friend. “Accidental magic is usually volatile and can go wrong quickly. You’ve gotta be careful until we understand it.”

“Fudge’s gonna have a field day if he finds out,” Harry murmured, his voice low, a hint of worry creeping into his tone.  

Tonks, sensing his unease, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out, Harry. You’re not alone in this. And the Ministry’s got other shit to do, not only monitor every flicker of magic from you.” 

“I hope you’re right.”

Changing the subject, Tonks leaned in, her expression turning serious. “Back to the article, though. Do you think there’s a chance this Oliver Wilson is working under someone’s instructions? To paint you in a certain light?”

“It’s possible,” Harry conceded, his mind racing through potential suspects. “But to what end? To rally public support? To set me up for something else?”

“Could be either or something we haven’t thought of yet,” Tonks said, her brow furrowed in thought. “What we need is more information. Maybe there’s a way to learn more about this Wilson guy.”

Harry nodded, a plan forming in his mind. “Tomorrow, I’ll head to the Daily Prophet’s office. See if I can learn anything about him.”

“Count me in,” Tonks offered. “Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

As they finalised their upcoming plans, Harry couldn’t stop a warmth flooding his body. He wasn’t alone anymore. The allies he had made over the last few days stood steadfast on his side, helping him with their might. The orphan, who had faced abandonment during every challenging period of his life, experienced a newfound feeling. Madame Bones and Tonks had supported him through his trial and continued doing so. This summer had already brought friends and allies; what else could he do, now that he wasn’t in his Dursley prison anymore?

---

Under the guise of a cloudy morning that promised rain but delivered none, Harry and Tonks navigated the familiar cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, leading to the towering structure of the Daily Prophet. The crowd of the busy shopping area was charged with an electric tension, mirroring the storm of thoughts whirling through Harry’s mind. Oliver Wilson’s article differed from the recent correspondence of the Daily Prophet, which surprisingly depicted Harry in a positive light. The author berated the Ministry and exposed their intentions of discrediting The Boy Who Lived. With an air of certainty, Harry fearlessly pursued the truth, determined to unravel the enigma.

The grand entrance into the most prominent news outlet of the British magical world loomed ahead, its gloomy and old facade a testament to the newspaper’s extensive past. Over the years of reporting, the company had accumulated tremendous controversy, ranging from false reporting to open propaganda. But even after all that, most wizards continued reading the paper and believed most of the articles without a second thought.  

“I can’t believe everybody still believes that rag, Tonks. After the bullshit they reported in my fourth year? Or in my second when they accused Hagrid of opening the Chamber of Secrets once again?” Harry was exasperated with the sheer amount of naivety of the population. Nobody seemed to question the papers of the wizarding world, basing their opinion on an organisation with a debatable track record.  

“Lads like to take the easy way, Harry. It’s easier to believe than to think.”

As they stepped through the revolving doors, they were swept up in the frantic pace of the newsroom, where the air buzzed with the sound of scribbling quills and the flutter of papers. Their pace quickened towards the front desk on the side of the entrance in a more secluded area of the large bureau. 

“We would like to meet one of the paper’s managers,” Harry asked the woman behind the high counter, engrossed in the newest witch’s weekly edition. 

Without looking up from her paper, the woman enquired their name in an unfriendly, practically hostile fashion, annoyed by the disturbance. After arguing for multiple minutes and with Harry threatening to complain publicly if he didn’t get to meet with the manager, they were told to follow the receptionist.  

Their short walk through the bustling building, with the many paper planes delivering notes between different departments, ended in front of the office of Barnabas Cuffe, the editor-in-chief.  

“Mr Cuffe will see you now,” she spat, barely concealing her displeasure of getting interrupted from reading her rag. 

The office was expansive, with shelves overflowing with books and past editions of the Prophet. The man himself sat behind a massive oak desk, his sharp eyes assessing them over a pair of half-moon spectacles. “Mr Potter and Ms Tonks, to what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice was smooth, tinged with a note of intrigue. “You were rather adamant about this meeting.” 

Harry wasted no time in introductions or niceties, remembering the less than pleasant actions of the prophets over the last weeks. “We’re here about the article by Oliver Wilson,” he stated, his gaze steady and piercing. 

Cuffe’s expression remained unreadable, but a spark of disdain flashed in his eyes. “Ah, yes, a rather interesting piece, wouldn’t you say so?” The disgust in his voice conveyed his loathing of the article and that—in his opinion—there wasn’t anything interesting about it. 

Harry and Tonks shared a short, confused glance, both having the same question in mind. Why was Oliver Wilson’s work in the Daily Prophet if the editor had such a disdain for it? 

Shrugging, Tonks turned her gaze towards the editor. “We would like more information about the author.”

“I’m deeply apologetic, but I will not comply with this request.” 

Harry smirked at the elderly editor. “You will comply. As the law of wizarding Britain states, a head of a pureblood family may receive this information from any news agency that is certified by the Ministry. I am the Head of the Potters.” He and Tonks had found this specific law in the early morning before coming to the Daily Prophet. The disgusting advantages of the purebloods baffled Harry more and more. It came as no surprise that few muggle-borns or half-bloods achieved financial success in the wizarding world and many rather left after graduating. 

“I apologise, Heir Potter,” Cuffe drawled, clarifying that while he was sorry for being caught, not the attempt to conceal the truth. “Unfortunately, I still cannot give you much information, as we don’t have a lot ourselves. Oliver Wilson is a pseudonym I have never seen before this morning when the article was layed on my desk.” 

“I doubt that, Mr Cuffe. Don’t treat me as stupid,” Harry’s voice had decreased to barely above a whisper, but he still commanded the power of the young wizard. “Why would you publish this piece if you don’t know the author and when it is so different from your regular line?” 

“And that is the correct question, Mr Potter. I felt compelled to publish this as soon as I read it. I don’t know why I did it, but I assure you I would’ve never put this rubbish into the Daily Prophet otherwise. It is time for you to leave now. I told you everything I was required to. Good day, Heir Potter, Ms Tonks.”

They knew any further questioning wouldn’t get any additional information from the editor, so they took the dismissal and left the building.

---

In the dimly lit solitude of his highly secure underground office, a grey cloaked individual sat behind his meticulously arranged desk. The dark wood shimmered with the bluish hue of dancing flames floating throughout the office. His thick, grey robes with the golden trim and hood totally obfuscated any recognisable detail of the wizard in it, only leaving a faint thrumming in the air. His face, obscured by an unnatural blackness, was contorted with an expression of deep thought as he watched the instruments on the opposing side of his office. The silence of the empty room was deafening, with not even the sound of animals or society reaching the study deep under London.

For minutes his shadow-covered face stared towards the shiny, spinning silver objects on a heavy oak table in the far-left corner of his room. The slight squeaking sounds of the cone-shaped contraption increased with every turn of it, reaching constant deafening levels before suddenly quietening down. Pressing a gloved hand on a slightly bluish glowing rune on the desk, a silent gong sounded through the complex.

Within seconds the door opened after a careful knock and a swish of the inhabitants wand, unlocking the heavy, pitch-black entrance door. In the doorway stood a giant of a man, his robes stretching around the muscular features of his physique, his gigantic seven feet in height barely fitting through the door stock.

“You called?”

“Yes, Martin. Tell Ace that Potter is on the move. Our secret is safe, for now. Tell the team to stay close.”

Notes:

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This was a bit of an interlude chapter, but the story will pick up pace coming next chapter.

Until next sunday!

Chapter 8: A Meeting

Notes:

Sorry for the delay in updates. I was not having this much motivation last week and a lot going on, but I will return to weekly uploads from this week on.

Thank you for all the great feedback and support of both of my stories! You all are the best.

Without further ado, have fun with the story!

Harry strode through the sunlit streets of Diagon Alley, Tonks by his side, the cobblestones clicking beneath their feet. The bustling street was alive with witches and wizards going about their daily business, oblivious to the peculiar pair in their midst.

“Right, so what is first on the list?” Tonks asked, the shiny black hair she wore today glinting in the bright sunlight.

Harry pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket. “Potions supplies, I reckon. Snape will have my head if I show up unprepared.”

Tonks chuckled. “Slimy old Snape is still a miserable bat? Some things probably never change.”

As they weaved their way through the crowd, dodging owls and enchanted paper aeroplanes, a thought struck Harry. “Isn’t it odd that neither Dumbledore nor Sirius tried to contact me yet? After everything that happened?”

“Yeah, it’s definitely strange. Amelia brought that up as well.” Tonks frowned, her brow furrowing. “It’s weird he doesn’t even check up on you.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, his eyes scanning the shop windows as they passed. “I mean, he’s always been pretty hands-on when it comes to my life. Why the sudden abandon?”

“Maybe he’s got his hands full with something else,” Tonks suggested, shrugging. “Or maybe he’s just giving you some space to sort things out on your own.”

Harry snorted loudly. “Since when has he ever given me space? No, there’s something else going on here. I can feel it.”

They paused outside the apothecary, the pungent smell of herbs and potions ingredients wafting through the open door.

“Well whatever it is,” Tonks said, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder, mirth dancing in her eyes, “We’ll figure it out together. But now, let’s get our leetle boy ready for school.”

Harry groaned, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Bugger off Tonks, I should’ve never told you that.”

The woman only grinned, her hair flashing her signature pink for a second before settling back to her chosen black. “Not telling your friend about a veela trying to seduce the poor young schoolboy? Where would be the fun without that?”

Harry quickly fled into the dimly lit shop, trying to hide his flushed face in the hem of his long, black robes, Tonks following on his heel. The bell above the door tinkled merrily as they began searching for the necessary supplies.

---

The musty scent of parchment and old ink filled Harry’s nostrils as they finally entered Flourish and Blotts after what felt like hours of modelling all kinds of robes and muggle clothes for Tonks. She had insisted on getting a better wardrobe for the young wizard, clothing that showed his future standing and importance for the society. They had bought more clothing than Harry had ever owned before, ranging from gorgeous and very formal dress robes to emerald-green sweaters and jeans.

He recalled his previous visits to the shop; the memory of Lockhart’s book signing, a chaotic whirlwind of flashing lights with screaming fans in the background, brought a wry smile to his face.

“Right, let’s see,” Harry muttered, scanning the shelves. “Standard Book of Spells, Volume Five … The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts… ah, there it is.”

He pulled out a copy of ‘Defensive Magical Theory’ by Wilbert Slinkhard. The cover depicted a wizard in a pristine robe, holding a want with a delicate, almost hesitant grip. Harry’s stomach dropped. The wizard’s posture practically screamed ‘theory over practise’.

“Defensive Magical Theory. Who came up with this shit?” Tonks snorted from beside him, peering at the book with a disgusted look. “Is the Minister trying to get y’all killed?”

Harry sighed, flipping through the book’s dry academic text. His hopes for a decent Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, already hanging by a thread, seemed to evaporate entirely. Another year of useless theory, of waving wands and memorising spells without ever truly learning how to defend oneself.

He had really hoped that Alastor Moody, or rather Barty Crouch Jr. as they found out at the end of last school year, would change the tide in their magical defence teaching. 

A death eater had to be the first one to teach me fighting. What a joke.

Yes, Remus Lupin had taught the school body plenty of valuable knowledge as well, stuff that had saved his life in the Triwizard Tournament multiple times, but it had been limited to magical creatures and their weaknesses. He needed to learn how to fight wizards as well in order to survive the coming encounters with Voldemort.

But this year’s teacher wouldn’t be a help once again and Harry was sure the Minister planned all of this. After all, the best way to prevent people from fighting you is to not teach them how.

He glanced at Tonks, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. “Maybe … you could teach me some actual defence this year, Tonks? You know the stuff they don’t teach you in school?”

Tonks raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Ooh, getting desperate, are we, Potter?” She teased, her voice laced with amusement. “But what do you recon your classmates will think if you vanish with a girl every time you’re in Hogsmeade?”

Her tone turned serious. “Look, what the fake Moody taught you last year, that’s a start. But fighting Death Eaters, it’s…” she paused, searching for the right words. “It’s not about knowing every spell in the book. It’s about instinct, power and about knowing when to strike and when to dodge. It’s about…” her eyes flickered to his scar, “…wanting to survive and being prepared for anything.”

She sighed. “I see what we can do. We can at least meet every few weekends in the Shrieking Shack.”

“Thanks Tonks,” Harry said happily, his grip tightening on Slinkard’s book. “Every bit helps. I need to be ready.”

“Right, well.” Tonks clapped a hand on his shoulder, her touch firm and reassuring. “Enough doom and gloom for one day. Let’s get out of here. I could kill for a nice butterbeer right now, but we have to leave to meet Amelia soon.”

She steered him quickly towards the shop’s counter, leaving Harry to contemplate the weight of her words. Instinct. Being prepared for everything. He had a feeling this year at Hogwarts was going to be anything but ordinary.

---

The muggle taxi drive to the small village had been uneventful, though filled with Tonks’ usual chatter about everything and nothing at all. He had tried to listen, offering the occasional nod or grunt of acknowledgement, but his mind had already been occupied with other, more pressing thoughts. Amelia Bones, meeting us in a place like this … Why is it so remote? What could it be that’s so vital, so secret, that it couldn’t be discussed at the Ministry? So important to necessitate muggle transportation?

He glanced at Tonks, who was humming along to the radio, her hair a vibrant shade of bubblegum pink to match the upbeat pop song blasting from the speakers. He couldn’t help but smile, feeling a small flicker of warmth in the pit of his stomach. Even with the weight of the world on his shoulders, the ever-present threat of Voldemort looming large, Tonks had a way of making everything seem brighter.

They finally reached the village, a cluster of quaint cottages and shops nestled amidst rolling hills, its facades tinged in the golden hue of the setting sun. It was the kind of place time seemed to forget, where the biggest worry was probably which flavour of jam to buy at the local market or whether the local pub would have a decent pint on tap. A stark contrast to the turmoil brewing in the wizarding world, the fear that clung to every shadow. The place was almost radiating peace, from the beautifully chirping birds sitting in the fresh, green trees of the village to the kids playing football on the streets, their laughter echoing in the late afternoon air.

Amelia Bones awaited them in a small park, seated on a bench beneath a sprawling oak tree, its branches reaching out like protective arms. She wore muggle clothing - a simple blouse and trousers - but the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the way she held herself with an air of silent authority, was unmistakable.

“Afternoon,” she greeted the pair, her voice low and steady. “Thank you for coming. I thought it best we meet somewhere … discreet.” He shifted a little under her gaze, acutely aware of his appearance. The disguise he had adopted ever since their first meeting was looking more refined, as if an unfamiliar face was becoming second nature to him. Still, being scrutinised by Amelia Bones always put him on edge. She had a way of looking right through you, as if she could see every secret you tried to hide.

“I apologise for the secrecy,” she continued, “but these are dangerous times, Harry. News travels fast, and we cannot be too careful.”

He nodded, taking a seat beside her on the bench. The rough wood dug into his palms, but he didn’t mind. Not when there were more pressing matters at hand. Tonks perched on the edge of a nearby fountain, her eyes scanning their surroundings. Always vigilant.

“Right, then,” Bones said, pulling out a small, silver locket from her pocket. “Before we begin, I believe this belongs to you.”

Harry’s breath hitched. On the front of the expensive-looking piece of goblin craftsmanship, he could clearly see the coat of arms of his family, the spread-winged griffon on a shield quartered with lions. And interwoven with the Potter crest, another familiar sight: the Black family’s signet ring, a serpent coiled tightly around a sword. It was heavier than he expected, warm to the touch. Like it was pulsing with a life of its own.

“What … how?” he stammered, his gaze fixed on the mysterious object. “Why does it have the Potter and Black signet interwoven?”

“That Harry,” she said, a knowing smile flickering across her lips, “is a story for another time. I will only say a friend of mine gave me this object a few days ago. For now, let’s discuss the reason I asked you here.”

Amelia’s smile faded immediately, her expression turning serious. “I have unsettling news regarding Hogwarts, Harry. The Minister is set on meddling with the school, in an attempt to ‘limit’ Dumbledore’s influence on your generation and prevent a revolt led by the Headmaster. Expect significant interference in the curriculum and daily life.”

A powerful surge of anger, mingled with a strange sense of vindication, filled Harry. “I knew it,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his hands balling into fists. Fudge was truly losing it.

“Indeed,” Bones continued, her gaze unwavering. “Fudge is determined to control the narrative, to discredit both you and Dumbledore. He sees Hogwarts as a breeding ground for dissent.”

“So what does that mean for me?” Harry asked, a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach. “Should I even go back or is the danger too high?”

“That is a decision only you can make, Harry,” Bones replied, her tone measured. “However, I believe that attending Hogwarts, even under these circumstances, is crucial. Knowledge is power, and you will need all the power you can muster in the years to come.”

Harry could only nod. Hogwarts had always been a home to the young wizard, but the changes that were going to come made him anxious about the school’s future. He would need to go back anyway, if only to finish his studies on the other subjects, while getting tutoring from Tonks in Defence. “I agree, I still have much to learn and Hogwarts will still be the easiest and best place for that. Tonks agreed to teaching me Defence anyway, that’s got to be enough…”

Amelia nodded slowly, her gaze flickering between them. “I understand your concerns, and I agree. Which is why…” she paused, “Tonks here is going to stay in Hogsmeade for the school year, to… monitor the children, obviously.” She added the last part with a wink to Tonks, making clear what the official story would be.

“Thank you, boss,” Tonks said happily, glad to have a reprieve from the currently boring daily work at the Ministry. Less paperwork for an entire year, jackpot.

---

A few hours later and after further discussions and plans with Madame Bones, Tonks and Harry currently sat in the bright ice cream parlour of the village, deep in friendly chatter and teasing.

The saccharine sweetness of the establishment faded as a wave of bone-chilling cold washed over the village. Laughter died in throats, replaced by a strangled silence as the world seemed to grey out, colours draining away like lifeblood. A child’s joyous shriek curdled into a terrified scream. Harry felt a jolt of primal fear. He knew this icy grip, this soul-crushing despair.

Dementors.

“Tonks!” he hissed, shoving away his empty sundae dish. “We need to re-“

His warning died on his tongue as a dozen figures materialise in the centre of the square, their black robes billowing like storm clouds. One figure stood taller, radiating an aura of icy command. Not only Dementors were here. Death Eaters.

Tonks swore, her usual bubbliness replaced by steely focus. Her features shimmered, morphing into something unrecognisable. “They’ve got anti-apparition wards up,” she muttered, drawing her wand. “We’re trapped.”

Panic tightened its grip on Harry’s chest, but a powerful resolve pushed through. He had faced Death Eaters before, had stared into the face of certain demise and lived to tell the tale. This, however, was different. The amount of silver masks and black cloaks was suffocating. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds, were scattered throughout the entire town.

“Finish your task, recruits, join us on the side of our Lord,” the figure in the middle of the procession bellowed, his voice magically amplified over the cries of despair of the villagers. “Burn this village, kill them all. Prove that they are nothing against us, like in the old times. Prove your loyalty to the Dark Lord.”

---

The silver arrows spun with a manic energy, their needle-sharp points glinting menacingly in the dimly lit room. Each one, a meticulously crafted replica, enchanted to mirror the movements of the boy. Except now, they danced a chaotic jig, their erratic spins a testament to the turbulent magic swirling around their target. The cloaked figure watched, a frown etching its way across his shadowed face. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Something was wrong.

He rose from his chair, the heavy wood creaking under the shift. The boy, he was an enigma, always one step behind them but ahead at the same time. It caused frustration, exhilaration, and madness all at once. And now this. This disruption, this … silence.

He strode towards a grotesque gargoyle perched atop a silver stand, its ruby eyes gleaming with malevolent amusement.

“Mar,” he barked, his voice a low growl. The ornament’s eyes flickered in recognition from his friend’s call sign. “My office. NOW.”

The gargoyle shuddered, its mouth opening before Martin’s deep voice, gravelly and laced with dark amusement, echoed through the room.

“Eager, are we? Got news about the little guy, hm?”

“Silence, Martin. We have a situation,” the cloaked figure snapped, his patience wearing thin. The gargoyle’s amusement grated on his nerves.

A moment later, the office door swung open, and a hulking figure ducked through the entrance. Martin towered over the room, his shadow falling across the intricately woven rug like a shroud.

“You summoned me, boss?” Martin asked, any sort of amusement gone from his voice as he recognised the situation as something serious.

“The trackers,” the cloaked figure said, pointing a gloved hand towards the wildly spinning arrows. “They’ve gone haywire. I believe he is behind powerful wards. Contact the team and make sure they have sight on the target.”

With a small flick of his wrist, Martin’s wand came leaping into his fist, immediately glowing a bright white light as he dispatched the necessary messages. A multitude of silvery, translucent giants leapt out of his wand after a short swish, splitting into four different directions with inhuman speed.

“What kind of wards could trigger such a reaction?” Martin asked his old friend, worry now lacing his deep baritone. He knew of the importance of the Potter boy to their plans, and losing him could bring heaps of trouble to their efforts.

The cloaked figure could only shrug, the deep frown invisible in the unnatural shadow of his cape. “I don’t know. These devices are finicky at best without any interference. Even the smallest wards could affect them.” A loud sigh was audible. “For them to go this crazy though, it has to be something strong, like anti-transportation wards or even a Fidelius.”

“Could he have found Potter manor? Maybe he is there?”

The cloaked man seemed to ponder a moment about that idea. “I don’t see there being a chance. He would need the Potter lord ring to get access to it, and we know with certainty he doesn’t have that.”

Before they could ponder any other possibility why the devices lost contact with the boy, a silver jackal leapt into the room, coming to a sudden stop in front of the cloaked figure. A calm sound came out of the creature’s mouth.

“Lost contact with the boy. In a muggle village north of London. Powerful anti-transportation and repellent wards active. Wolfie cannot break through quickly. No visual. Sabre, out.”

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” The cloaked figure shouted in pure fury, the walls of his office shaking from the power in the man’s voice. “HOW could they lose him? I better HOPE they can fix it.”

He was in a rage. This could not happen. They had no contact with the boy and didn’t know what was happening in the village.

“I will prepare team alpha, but they might not be available for a while, as you know,” Martin quickly said, before taking his leave. He would have to get the team together and get them ready to intervene. Hopefully, it won’t be too late. He hadn’t seen his friend in such a fury for a long time. Actually, he had seen it only once. On that day, everything changed. The day they found a leader.

Notes:

Thank you for reading the story! Please like and review if you want, it really helps me!

See you next week.

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Chapter 9: The Village

Notes:

Good evening guys!
This chapter went on and on and I didn't dare to make another extreme cliffhanger so here is a double chapter :)
Hope you enjoy my first ever written action scene.

Thank you for all the great reviews and mistakes that were pointed out. I will try to fix them tomorrow, so expect accidental updates of the stories.

Thanks to Reynair as always for editing this, all the mistakes left are still mine though.

“Finish your task, recruits, join us on the side of our Lord,” the figure in the middle of the procession bellowed, his voice magically amplified over the villager’s cries of desperation. “Burn this village, kill them all. Prove that they are nothing to us, like in the old times. Prove your loyalty to the Dark Lord.”

Flames erupted from quaint cottages, painting the idyllic countryside scene of the small muggle village with strokes of violence. Screams, sharp and sudden, pierced the air, only to be choked by the suffocating, icy grip of the Dementors.

The acrid smell of smoke stung Tonks’ nostrils instantly, a grim prelude to the carnage unfolding around them. Fear, raw and visceral, pulsed through the gathered villagers. She tightened her grip on her wand, her heart hammering against her ribs. It was a scene ripped straight from a nightmare, a scene the young Auror would never get out of her mind.

“We need to get outta here,” her tone, sharp and urgent, sliced through the chaos. Her usual playfulness had vanished, replaced by the steely focus ingrained in her by Moody’s brutal training.

“We can’t,” Harry said, his voice barely a whisper. “We cannot let the Death Eaters run rampant all over these innocent villagers.” His voice openly projected the despair within the schoolboy’s soul, the need to keep the unprotected safe, the urge to rescue those in need. It was like he was being locked deep inside of his mind, still and overwhelmed as Tonks continued to plot a way to escape their doom.

“Sorry, but we have to go, Harry,” she said, her voice barely loud enough to be audible to the boy. She didn’t want to reveal themselves, it was essential to stay unspotted.

But Harry gave her no reaction, not even acknowledging she’d said anything. Her patience wore thin. With a firm shake of his arm, she broke him out of his thoughts. “I’m sorry, Harry,” Tonks repeated, her brilliant purple eyes showing the sorrow for what they would have to do. “But we cannot save them. There are too many. And you are too important to die at their hands.”

Before Harry could say even one more word, she dragged him through a side door into the parlour, away from the chaos engulfing the village square. The stench of burning wood and the chilling wails of Dementors followed them like vengeful ghosts. Fear, sharp and cold, clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to focus on leading Harry into safety.

“There are so many,” Tonks muttered again, her eyes scanning the scene, assessing the situation, as they reached the back exit, showing carnage never seen in their life before.

Twisted and molested bodies dumped left and right, limbs severed and strewn over the blood splattered cobblestones. Lifeless eyes looking upon the two magicals.

“All of this is my fault,” Harry whispered, pure horror etched on his features. “The Death Eaters somehow found out I am here and are trying to catch me like this, I’m sure.”

Her heart broke seeing her friend's expression. How could he believe it was his fault? Or better: Why did he believe it? “Bullshit, Harry. You heard it yourself. This is one of their twisted initiation rituals. It would’ve happened without you as well. We need to get going. Now!”

They sprinted through narrow alleyways, the cobblestones slick with the mixture of fog and blood coating the smooth stone. Each ragged breath she took tasted of smoke and impending doom. They had to get out, had to find a place to apparate from, or a place she could call the help they so desperately needed.

“There!” Tonks hissed, pointing towards a break in the buildings ahead. It was a narrow passage, barely wider than her arm span, but the glimmer of grass behind the buildings offered a sliver of hope in the suffocating darkness. “I will go first to make sure it is safe.”

As Tonks squeezed into the passage, the rough stone scraping against her skin, she felt Harry stop behind her. “Harry, come on, we must go,” she urged, tugging on Harry’s loose, grey t-shirt.

“I can’t…”was the only response she got, right before the thin piece of fabric she had been grasping was ripped out of her hand, as Harry shot away from the tiny passage.

It took Tonks multiple seconds to turn and squeeze out of the entrance backwards, her whimpers betraying the pain she felt from the cuts that were starting to form on her limbs and side. “Stupid hero complex,” she muttered.

But as she finally took in the scene in front of her, Tonks understood.

In the middle of the abandoned alleyway, two laughing Death Eaters, their masks shimmering grotesquely in the firelight, advanced towards a sobbing mother clutching her child. Her insides twisted. How many children had fallen victim to the vicious group today? How many lives extinguished in the name of proving one’s worth to a Dark Lord? Now she understood why Harry had snapped, understood why he had run back, even when their odds were as bad as they were.

---

He couldn’t just stand there, couldn’t let them hurt anyone else. Not while he drew breath. Ignoring Tonks’ protests and the searing pain in his lungs from all the running, Harry sprinted through the alleyway, his wand a blur as he cast a silent Stunning Spell.

The brilliant red spell hit the first Death Eater square in the chest, sending the masked figure flying backwards into a pile of burning rubble, before sliding down with a sickening crunch as his neck broke on impact. The second Death Eater, caught off guard, whirled around to his comrade, not yet understanding what had happened.

“Max, what’s going on?”

When he faced the body of his friend, with his head sticking in an unnatural direction, his hand instinctively reached for his wand, turning towards where he presumed the attack came from.

Too late.

Rage, a primal surge of protective fury, lent speed to Harry’s reactions. Before the Death Eater could even unsheathe his wand, Harry had slammed his fist into the man’s disguised face. The sickening crunch of bone against bone was audible even over the roar of the flames and the quieting cries of the villagers around.

The Death Eater crumpled, his mask askew, revealing a face contorted in pain and shock. But Harry wasn’t finished. Not even close. He grabbed the fallen Death Eater by the robes, hauling him upright, ignoring the man’s muffled groans of pain.

“You still think this is funny?” Harry snarled, his voice hoarse with fury. “You think you can just waltz in here and terrorise innocent people? Hurt a defenceless child?”

“Potter,” the Death Eater spat, blood staining his teeth. “My master has been searching for you. He will be extremely happy that we caught you.”

“Caught me?” Harry laughed, a humourless, chilling sound. “You’ve not caught me yet. And I will inflict as much damage as I can before you will.”

He slammed his fist into the Death Eater’s face again, feeling a savage satisfaction as the mask finally shattered, revealing the man’s bloodied and broken nose.

The ear-splitting screams of the Death Eater, as he was getting repeatedly struck by the Boy Who Lived, echoed off the facades of the surrounding buildings for multiple seconds before Tonks finally reached Harry, the Death Eaters and the now fleeing family.

He was swinging viscous blow after blow into the bludgeoned face of the middle-aged wizard, held up only by the fist grasping the man’s robes, even as the man went limp in his grip. He needed to hit the man, make him pay for the inexcusable acts he had partaken in, the gruesome experience he had put many of the villagers through. No punishment was enough for the monsters that took part in this massacre. Nothing could bring back the raped and killed souls of the people, dumped onto the street like trash.

Just before he could draw his fist back for another hit, he felt a hand, warm and soft, on his biceps, together with the pleasant scent of raspberry and cedar Harry connected to his new friend, Tonks. Before he knew what he was doing, he stopped his swinging, his hands sliding down the sides of his body limply, letting the Death Eater slump into a heap on the ground with a loud thud.

“It’s over, Harry,” he could hear Tonks' firm voice, her hands roughly whirling him around to face her. Intense purple eyes stared into blazing emerald ones. “I will not let you die here, and standing still leads to dying.”

---

Albus Dumbledore adjusted his robes, the cool, smooth tiles of the hallway leading to the Department of Mysteries sending a familiar shiver down his spine. Ever during his years as the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, he had always found this particular branch of the Ministry unsettling. And now he would seek entry with neither knowledge nor permission of those that worked within: The Unspeakables. The dark, always hooded magicals were shrouded in secrecy, their identity staying hidden to each and every other employee of the Ministry, even him. Only codenames were known and even these were a well-hidden secret, a secret Albus Dumbledore was keen to unravel.

Tonight, however, his concern wasn’t for the Department’s myriad of mysteries, but for a single, crucial prophecy hidden within its depths. The prophecy about Harry Potter and Voldemort, a burden of knowledge he alone carried in its entirety. A burden, he now realised, that had become impossibly heavy.

The air crackled with an almost imperceptible energy as Albus Dumbledore neared the door to the Department of Mysteries. It was subtle, a mere tingling sensation on his skin, but to a wizard of his experience, it spoke volumes. He clutched his Elder Wand a little tighter, the wood strangely cold beneath his wrinkled fingers. A foolish sentiment, clutching his wand for reassurance as if it or any wand could truly defend him from the powers that could possibly protect the oldest department of the ministry.

He paused, azure eyes scanning the seemingly innocuous wooden door. Wards, powerful and ancient, cloaked the entrance, guarding the secrets within from prying eyes and those with ill intentions.

“Intentions,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the silence of the deserted corridor, “are often difficult to discern, for an old man like myself, and even more so by some non-sentient wards.”

He had to be certain. The stakes were too high, the potential consequences too dire to risk entering the Department. His position as Headmaster, his very presence at Hogwarts, was a shield for his students, a shield that would be ripped away should his actions this night come to light. The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, a puppet of the Ministry and, Dumbledore suspected, a far more sinister influence, would waste no time in exploiting any vulnerability.

The prophecy about Harry’s and Voldemort’s fate, nestled among countless others on its dusty shelf inside, was not merely an object, but an echo of fate, a whisper of possibilities either terrible or glorious. The Ministry had been its sole keeper for the years since the incidents at the Potter’s. But recent events, the unsettling shift in the air, the growing audacity of Voldemort's followers, and finally the Dark Lord's resurrection, had stirred a deep unease within him. He could no longer afford to leave the prophecy solely to the Ministry’s defences.

Carefully, he extended a hand, his long fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. His touch, feather-light, elicited a ripple of magical energy, the wards responding to his presence. He delved deeper, his mind sifting through layers and layers of intricate spells, analysing their structure, potency and purpose.

They were old, these protections, relics of a time when magic was viewed in a perspective long forgotten. Powerful, yes, but not impenetrable. Not anymore. Not with the dark magic that Voldemort wielded seeping back into the world, its insidious tendrils seeking to unravel the very fabric of their society.

He took the ultimate step towards the door, his hand touching the ancient black wood with its fine golden engravings. His aged fingers traced the familiar runes etched into the door, the air growing noticeably colder. This close to the enchanted wood’s core, he could feel the magical signatures of the men once casting the protections for the top-secret tract of the Ministry, the power wielded by the wizards of the past. But something felt different.

Dumbledore frowned, a crease marrying his brow. He sensed a taint, a faint but undeniable trace of modern magic clinging to the wards. Someone had been here, someone with enough power to affect and change the outer layers of the defences. His heart pounded a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. Nobody, not even himself, should be able to manipulate the wards in this way, not even to strengthen them.

The signature was oddly familiar to the old headmaster, something he had felt a long time before but couldn’t quite recall where. The power of the enchantment was undeniable to the Grand Sorcerer, a highly skilled improvement to the ancient ward scheme multiplying the protection tenfold.

“Who could’ve done this?” Albus Dumbledore murmured in confusion. As far as he knew, the Department never had enough funds or even skilled enough employees for this kind of project. They were a researching facility after all. “Why would anybody invest so much time to improve the wards of a place that isn’t a target?”

It was something he would have to investigate further when the time allowed it, but for now, simply adding his own warding layers, the current protections should be enough to prevent Voldemort from gaining the Prophecy for long enough to intervene.

With a flick of his wand and a few murmured incantations, a shimmering silver web spun out from his fingertips, laying itself seamlessly on top of the existing protections. These were no mere deterrent spells, but powerful enchantments designed to ensnare and confound any who tried to seek entry without either being an Unspeakable or having good intentions. They would not harm a soul, but they would alert him instantly should anyone attempt to breach the Department’s defences, be it with force or subterfuge. He was very proud of this particular series of spells, as it was some of the most powerful intent-based magic he had ever created.

Satisfied, Dumbledore stepped back, surveying his handiwork The faint hum of magical energy radiating from the door was almost imperceptible now, his own enchantments almost invisible to even his own trained eye. It was a delicate operation, akin to threading a needle with a spider’s silk, but the stakes were far too high for anything less than perfection.

The fate of the wizarding world, the fate of young Harry Potter, rested on his vigilance. He had made many mistakes in his long life, but leaving the prophecy vulnerable would not be one of them.

As he turned to leave, a sudden chill ran down his spine. The air, moments ago still and silent, crackled with an unexpected surge of magic. A soft, silvery glow emanated from the far end of the corridor, solidifying into the unmistakable form of a corporeal Patronus.

Dumbledore’s heart skipped a beat. Only one person he knew possessed this Patronus. He recognized the gorgeous lynx immediately as the work of his long-time friend, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Something must’ve happened. He had instructed the battle-hardened Auror not to contact him today and the reliable man would not disobey without an important reason.

“Albus,” the lynx spoke, its voice echoing in the deep baritone of Shacklebolt that transcended the physical limitations of the Patronus Charm. “Come to my office. Immediately.”

---

Kingsley Shacklebolt straightened his already perfectly arranged desk, his gaze on the memo-plane that had arrived mere minutes ago. He smoothed a hand over his cleanly shaven head, a nervous tick he hadn’t realised he’d developed until recently. The weight of Dumbledore’s impending arrival, and the news he carried, pressed on him.

The office door swung open with a barely audible whisper of magic. Albus Dumbledore stood framed in the doorway, his robes a deep, midnight blue that seemed to absorb the light. His piercing cerulean eyes bored into Kingsley, conveying the displeasure and concern the old wizard felt.

“Kingsley,” Dumbledore greeted quickly, his voice low and steady but carrying a sense of haste. He moved into the room with his usual grace, but Kingsley sensed a weariness clinging to him, a heaviness in his step.

“Headmaster.” Kingsley gestured to the seat opposite his desk. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Dumbledore settled into the chair, his gaze sweeping over Kingsley’s cluttered bookshelves and numerous framed articles of Auror raids lining the walls. “I must confess, Kingsley, your message was discerningly vague. I trust this is a matter of some urgency?”

Kingsley met his gaze, his dark eyes resolute. “I believe it is, sir. We received a report from the Office of Improper Use of Magic just a few minutes ago.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore’s brow furrowed slightly. “A rather small department that seems to intervene in much more than the name seems to suggest. Which mundane spell warrants an expulsion this time?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Headmaster.” Kingsley’s voice was low, hesitant. He picked up the fresh memo laying prominently on his desk, its text written in a quick surly handwriting, as if made in haste. “There’s been … an incident. A village in Yorkshire.”

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened, his fingers drumming a slow, rhythmic beat against the armrest of the chair. “I don’t know of any muggleborn students living in this area. Most curious. Go on, Kingsley.”

“The Trace,” Kingsley began, his voice a low murmur. “It was activated by Harry Potter.” He paused, gauging Dumbledore’s reaction. The old wizard's face remained unreadable, but the subtle tightening of his jaw betrayed a flicker of concern. “It originated from the edges of the village, sir. A spell was cast, powerful enough to trigger an alert despite numerous wards in the area.”

“Wards in a muggle village. How peculiar.” Dumbledore’s face scrunched in thought. “And the nature of this spell, Kingsley?” His voice was soft, but a worried glint had entered his eyes.

Kingsley took a breath. “A Stunning Spell, Headmaster. Extremely overpowered, focused, and probably with much more than the usual effect of a Stupor.” He laid the memo back on the desk between them.

Silence descended upon the room, thick and heavy. Kingsley watched as Dumbledore absorbed this information, his expression carefully neutral. Finally, the old wizard reached out, his long fingers delicately lifting the note. Seconds passed as the old headmaster read the note multiple times, keen to not miss any small information Kingsley’s informant had provided.

“How will Fudge react to this?” Dumbledore asked his companion. Harry Potter had just escaped a fate without magic, luckily without him having to step in and save the young man. He needed to keep his distance until the boy had learned Occlumency after all. “Will he try Harry once again?”

“I don’t know, sir. I reckon he will, but who knows with Fudge?”

The door crashed open with a loud bang, before Dumbledore could say another word. In the doorway stood the tall form of an Auror captain, his face scrunched in exertion.

“Sir, I … we got a report … the group … a muggle village …” the Auror stammered, his face pale and slick with sweat.

Kingsley stood, his imposing figure radiating an air of calm authority that belied his own growing concern. He placed a reassuring hand on the younger Auror’s shoulder. “Easy now, Savage. Catch your breath. Now, tell me, what happened in that village?”

Savage drew in a shuddering breath, his eyes wide with barely contained terror. “Dementors, sir. And … and the group. They're attacking a village around Yorkshire. It’s burning.” He shuddered again, his gaze daring around the room as if the very walls held unseen horrors. “There are … rituals, sir. And extremely tough wards.”

A chill snaked down Kingsley’s spine. Dementors and Death Eaters working together, openly attacking a Muggle village? This was a blatant disregard for the Statute of Secrecy, an escalation of violence he hadn’t expected yet. He exchanged a grim look with Dumbledore, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation.

“Are they still there?” Dumbledore asked, his voice soft yet laced with a steely undercurrent, deep concern edged in his features. “And what is the name of the village?”

Savage swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yes, but my Auror’s cannot penetrate the wards. It’s Kettlewell, sir.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore shouted out loud, before leaping off his chair in a movement that defied his age. “Kingsley, you stay here and assemble a force. I will travel there and find Harry.”

Before Kingsley Shacklebolt could say another word, Albus Dumbledore had already stormed out of his office.

Fuck, Harry Potter is in the middle of a Death Eater attack.

---

The air crackled with dark energy. The stench of decay, thick and suffocating, filled Harry’s nostrils, a grim reminder of the horrors unfolding around them. Flames danced across his vision, painting grotesque shadows on the crumbling walls of the alleyway. Tonks, her face etched with a mixture of fury and calculation, gripped his arm.

“We have to go, Harry! Now!”

He knew she was right. Two Death Eaters were already down, one with a broken neck, the other with his skull a bloody mess. The sounds of screams and the whoosh of flames were getting closer, heralding the arrival of more Death Eaters. Harry felt a thrill course through him, a heady mix of terror and exhilaration to punish the ones that had caused him and the magical community so much pain, but the look on Tonks’ face sobered him. They were hopelessly outnumbered, and fighting would mean their certain death.

“This way,” she said, pulling him towards the end of the alleyway.

They burst out onto a narrow side street; the cobblestones slick with rain. A group of hooded figures, their faces hidden behind grotesque silver masks, materialised in front of them, blocking their path. Their wands were already raised, spewing a rainbow of coloured lights. Tonks reacted instantly, shoving Harry behind a stack of overflowing dustbins.

“Protego!” she roared, conjuring a shimmering shield that deflected the incoming spells. The air vibrated with the force of the impacts.

“Run, Harry!” Tonks yelled, her voice strained with effort. “I’ll hold them off! Run to the end of the wards, imagine where you want to go and twist, you can do it!”

Run? Leave Tonks to face a dozen Death Eaters alone? His blood ran cold. He couldn’t let his friend perish to save him. He had let it happen to Cedric already. But never again. He wouldn’t leave her to die. Not while he still had breath left in his body.

He pushed himself off the grimy wall, ignoring Tonks’ furious cry. “Stupefy!” he roared, his wand spitting a jet of scarlet light.

The nearest Death Eater grunted as the spell hit him squarely in the chest, sending him flying backwards. Another Death Eater, masked and menacing, stepped forward to take his place.

“So eager to die, Potter?” the Death Eater rasped, his voice muffled by the silver mask. “We will first capture you and then have our fun with your little girlfriend here, before we bring you to the Dark Lord.”

Fury, raw and unbridled, surged through Harry. He didn’t plan, didn’t even think. He just reacted. “Reducto!” he snarled, exploding the head of a nearby Death Eater that didn’t shield quick enough to block the lightning fast spell, before charging towards the taunting enemy.

His foot connected with the Death Eater’s stomach, a satisfying crunch echoing in the narrow street. The man doubled over, gasping for air. Harry didn’t hesitate. He followed through with an uppercut, his fist connecting with the Death Eater’s jaw. The mask flew off, revealing the pained and surprised face of Walden McNair.

“Harry, no!” Tonks shouted, her voice a desperate plea. “Flee!”

But he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when something in his blood was singing with a dark, exhilarating melody. He was vaguely aware of Tonks fighting beside him, her wand a blur of motion, her face a mask of grim determination. He saw flashes of spells, heard the clang of metal against metal, felt the sting of a glancing blow on his arm.

He fought with a ferocity he hadn’t known was laying dormant in his blood, his earlier restraint shattered. Each block, each spell cast, was fuelled by a desperate, burning desire to survive, to save Tonks and maybe even himself from a premature end. He fought like a man possessed; the world shrinking until it was just him, Tonks, and the relentless assault of junior Death Eaters all encompassed in a red haze.

But they were outnumbered. Outmatched.

He felt a jarring pain in his shoulder as a stray jinx found its mark. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the searing pain that spread down his arm. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming for respite.

Beside him, Tonks was tiring as well. Her usually vibrant hair was losing its colour, slowly fading to a dull brown. Her movements, once fluid and precise, were becoming sluggish.

They were running out of time and the around a dozen fallen Death Eaters were continuously replaced by others that joined from everywhere in the village.

A vibrant red jet of light shot from the darkness at the edge of the battlefield, aimed with deadly precision at Tonks’ back. Time seemed to slow down, every detail etched into Harry’s consciousness - the surprised gasp that escaped Tonks’ lips as she realised she couldn’t dodge or shield from the spell anymore, the way her hair flickered from the hint of purple to deep black, the glint of triumph in the eyes of the masked Death Eater who had conjured the curse.

There was no time to think, only react. With a roar that tore from his throat, Harry lunged forward, throwing himself between Tonks and the incoming curse. A searing, white-hot agony exploded in his chest as the hex, aimed for Tonks’ heart, slammed into him, lifting him off his feet and throwing him back. His vision swam with black spots, his ears ringing a deafening high tone. A scream, high-pitched and filled with terror, echoed in the distance, but he couldn’t tell if it was his own or Tonks’.

Then he was airborne again, his body twisting through the air. Tonks had grabbed him, her strong arms hauling him towards the nearest building. He landed with a bone-jarring thud on a cold, hard floor, the oxygen knocked from his battered lungs. The world spun, a sea of pain and blurred colours. He could vaguely make out Tonks’ frantic movements as she slammed the door shut and threw her weight against it, muttering frantic spells under her breath. He tried to speak, to reassure her he was alright, but the words wouldn’t come. A cough rippled through his chest, together with the iron taste of blood filling his mouth. His chest felt as though a giant hand was squeezing his heart, stealing his breath.

“Harry, stay with me!” Tonks’ voice, sharp with panic, cut through the fog of pain. She was kneeling beside him now, her face ashen, her eyes wide with fear. “Merlin’s beard, Harry, you shouldn’t have …”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence; he knew what she meant. She thought he shouldn’t have jumped in front of the curse. He should’ve run and apparated away, leaving her to her death. Now, they were both trapped, cornered, with only a flimsy wooden door standing between them and certain death. A door that was already being hammered with spells and shaking in its frame.

But he was glad he had done it. He had tried to save a friend, a person that had become one of the most important to him over the last weeks.

His vision narrowed, the edges turning to black. He tried to focus on Tonks, on the frantic energy that radiated from her as she desperately reinforced the door with every locking and protective spell she could muster. He wanted to reach out, to touch her, tell her they were in this together, but he couldn’t even lift a finger.

His eyelids fluttered closed.

He was dimly aware of Tonks shaking him; her cries a desperate whisper against the roaring in his ears. “Harry! Don’t you dare close your eyes! Stay awake, damn it!”

He wanted to obey, but the darkness was seductive, pulling him down, down, down into its silent embrace. He clung to consciousness with the last reserves of his strength, the pain in his chest a distant, throbbing ache.

He was vaguely aware of Tonks conjuring a Patronus, a silvery-blue doe that cried mournfully into the night. A last, desperate plea for help before the darkness swallowed him whole.

---

Panic swelled, hot and suffocating, as she pressed a hand to Harry’s chest, feeling the erratic thump of his heart against her palm. His face, normally so alive with that youthful defiance, was drained. Like a sheet of paper stretched taut over sharp bones.

“Stay awake, damn it!” Her voice cracked, raw with fear that tasted like ash in her mouth.

Another blast of magic shuddered against their makeshift barricade. It wouldn’t hold for long. In a last effort raising her wand to cast her Patronus. Please let there be a rescue team searching for us.

“Expecto Patronum,” she called out, expecting her shimmering mountain lion to appear, but was shocked when the ethereal sight of a blueish-silver doe blasted out of her wand. The majestic animal looked at her for a long moment before leaping out of the building as if knowing where it had to go.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice tight with unshed tears, the now unconscious Harry still laying in her arms. “Please, let somebody be there and fast.”

Time stretched, each second an eternity. Harry shuddered, a low groan escaping his lips. Then, a flicker at the edge of her vision outside of the window. A shimmer in the air, different from the multicoloured spells of the Death Eaters. Hope, fragile as a newborn bird, fluttered in her chest. The air crackled, a resounding boom echoing as the wards surrounding the village shattered.

A shimmering veil rippled in the air, and five figures materialised out of thin air. They wore plain grey robes that shrouded their bodies entirely, the only adornment being a coat of arms over their heart - three wands and an axe crossed - each person’s in their own colour with a big α under it. Their faces were hidden beneath grey hoods, throwing their features into dark shadows, making it impossible to even discern women from man.

Tonks’ heart leapt, a surge of relief so strong it nearly buckled her knees. Help had arrived, but who were these mysterious figures? They looked oddly familiar to the Unspeakables from the Department of Mysteries, but since when did they fight?

The figures moved with a synchronised grace, fanning out in a practised formation. One of them, taller than the rest, stepped forward, raising a stone in the palm of his hand. A shimmering dome of energy expanded from their palm, encasing the area around Tonks’ and Harry’s building, while another smaller figure moved towards the door Tonks’ warded.

The Death Eaters’ curses ricocheted off the barrier, their furious shouts muffled. The remaining three hooded figures advanced, wands drawn, and the air crackling with the energy of their magic.

Tonks watched, transfixed, as the figures engaged the Death Eaters. Their movements were fluid, almost dance-like, as they wove through the chaos, their spells precise and devastating. Death Eaters fell like marionettes with cut strings, some bound in shimmering ropes, others losing their lives to vicious spells, including the Unforgivables.

In a matter of minutes, the battle was over. The village square was littered with the prone form of the remaining twenty Death Eaters, and an eerie silence settled over the scene.

The hooded figure standing at the door tilted their head. “May I?” The voice was soft, feminine, but strangely distorted by the hood, as if echoing from a great distance.

Tonks hesitated, her hand still hovering protectively over Harry’s still form. Trust didn’t come easily, especially not after the day she’d had. But Harry desperately needed help and these strangers, whoever they were, had just saved their lives. “He needs a healer,” she said, her voice hoarse. “He’s weak and lost consciousness.”

The figure nodded, and Tonks lowered the wards on the door, but kept her wand trained on the stranger. The giant stone used for the barrier disappeared with a wave of the figure's wand and they closed the door behind them, shrouding the three of them in the dim light of the battered safe house.

“Let me see him,” the figure said, stepping closer. Tonks moved aside, her gaze never leaving the stranger as they crouched beside Harry.

The figure’s gloved hands, the fabric as dark as the starless night, hovered over Harry’s prone form for a moment before the figure drew their wand and swerved it in endless, complex patterns atop of the unconscious young man. “Merlin’s beard,” the figure breathed, their voice laced with concern. “He’s way worse off than I thought.”

Tonks’ stomach clenched. “Worse how?”

The figure didn’t answer right away. Instead, they pulled back one of their gloves, revealing a hand that was surprisingly delicate, the fingers long and nimble. A faint, silvery glow emanated from their palm as they placed it over Harry’s heart. “His magical core,” the figure said, their voice tight. “It’s nearly depleted. The spell hit his heart and only his magic is keeping his body alive. If it is depleted …”

“Then what?” Tonks pressed, fear twisting like a knife in her gut.

“He will die,” the figure stated matter-of-factly. “He needs more than just a potion, Auror. He needs powerful magic, and he needs it yesterday.”

Her breath hitched, a strangled sound trapped in her throat. “No,” she breathed, shaking her head fiercely. “There has to be another way.” Her eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything, that could offer a solution. But the room remained unchanged: dusty furniture, cracked walls, the heavy scent of magic and fear clinging to the air.

The figure rose, their form blurring slightly, as if wavering in and out of focus. “There might be a way,” they conceded, their voice a low hum that seemed to reverberate through Tonks’ very bones. “There is a connection between you and the boy, a bond woven from sacrifice.”

Tonks frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”

The figure turned. “You bear a life debt, Auror. The boy saved your life, did he not?”

“Yes,” she whispered, the images of Harry throwing himself in front of her and taking the blow playing in her mind. “But how …”

“The magic of a life debt is ancient and powerful,” the figure interrupted, their voice taking on a distant, almost lecturing tone. “It binds two souls together, for better or worse. And in this instance,” they continued, stepping closer, their form solidifying once more, “it might be the key to his survival.”

“How?” Tonks repeated, hope flickering through the fear.

“Your magic,” the figure explained, their gloved hand reaching out to gently touch her chest, right above her heart. “It resonates with his, echoes with the same inherent strength. You can merge your magical cores, replenish his reserves with your own, I believe.”

“But,” Tonks started, apprehension creeping into her voice, “wouldn’t that drain me too? What if it’s not enough?”

“It is a considerable risk,” the figure conceded, their voice steady, reassuring. “Especially with his core’s considerable size. But it is a risk you will need to take. The alternative …” They trailed off, leaving the unfortunate truth unspoken.

Tonks pondered about her future for a long moment, before coming to a conclusion. Harry had given his life for her, taken a spell that was meant for her and threw away all the hope of the magical world just to keep her safe. She needed to help the young man that she had come to appreciate much more than she ever thought she would.

But before Tonks could voice her agreement, a cold, insidious presence descended upon the village. A shiver ran down Tonks’ spine. This was no ordinary chill, no stray gust of wind. This was something ancient, something evil.

Voldemort.

She knew it with a certainty that had her hand instinctively tightening around her wand. It was exactly how Moody had always told her, and now she was to face him as well, just like her mentor. The air crackled with a palpable tension, a pressure that seemed to suck the very sound from the room.

The hooded figure, still standing beside Harry’s prone form, stiffened, their head snapping up as they sensed the presence that had settled over the village.

“He is here,” the figure breathed, their voice a low hiss that seemed to blend with the creaking of the floorboards beneath their feet. Their gaze was fixed on the boarded-up window. “He who must not be named.”

Dread, cold and heavy, settled in Tonks’ stomach, a stark contrast to the warmth that had filled her chest just moments ago. Voldemort. Here. Now. It was one thing to hear whispers of his return, to chase shadows and rumours, but to face him, to feel the oppressive weight of his magic … It was suffocating, like being trapped five feet underground.

The hooded figure straightened, their form wavering again as if caught between two worlds. They turned to Tonks, their voice strangely devoid of fear, resolute.

“We need to start right now, Auror. Harry Potter is not stable enough for our Portkey. My team will buy us time.” For the first time Tonks could hear a hint of sorrow in the voice of the female, as if knowing that her partners would die to save them all. “Start pouring your magic into him. This is only intent-based, Auror. Think about how you want to strengthen him, become one with his magic, and aid him. Do it now. I will help you.”

“Alright,” she breathed, steeling her nerves, pushing down the fear that threatened to consume her. This was Harry’s life on the line and she wouldn’t fail him. Not again.

She knelt beside him, the hooded figure a protective sentinel at her side. Reaching out, she placed her hand over Harry’s, his skin cold beneath her touch, his magic a faint tremor against her own. Closing her eyes, she focused, pushing past the terror that held her heart in an icy grip, and delved into the well of magic that lived within her.

It was something completely different to casting a spell, different from her morphing and different from any other type of magic she had ever experienced. It was like trying to coax a wild animal to bend to her will. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

She imagined her magic, a vibrant, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of colours, flowing from her core, down her arm, and into Harry. It wasn’t a forceful push, but more like a gentle nudging, a merging of two rivers, to become one.

A low groan escaped Harry’s lips, and his grip tightened on her hand, his fingers digging into her skin. She felt his magic, a raging storm compared to her own, chaotic and powerful, oh so powerful. It slammed against her own, like waves that threatened to pull her under.

“Hold fast, Auror!” The hooded figure’s voice, though still distorted, held a new note, one of respect and something akin to awe. “Let your magic meld, to become one. He fights, but he is weak. You must be his anchor in the storm, that is his magic.”

Gritting her teeth, Tonks delved deeper, pushing past the exhaustion that threatened to drag her down. She felt her own magic begin to wane, the vibrant colours dimming, but she couldn’t stop, not now. She had to give Harry everything she had.

As she poured more of herself into the connection, she felt a shift, a blurring of the lines between them. She felt Harry’s pain, sharp and searing, a white-hot poker stabbing at his chest. She felt his fear, cold and suffocating, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

But she also felt his determination, a fierce, unyielding ember burning in the storm's heart. It resonated with her own, giving her the strength to hold on, just as she calmed the storm more and more.

Time lost all meaning as they existed in that space between, their magic a swirling vortex of power and desperation. Tonks felt her own energy draining away, her vision blurring at the edges, but still, she clung on, fueled by Harry’s unyielding will and her growing feelings for the young man.

His magic, though still chaotic, was beginning to settle at their contact points, finding harmony with her own. It was like watching a wild animal slowly being tamed, its raw power tempered by her unwavering presence. And just as she felt the beast inside them both purring in contempt, the world went black and pulled Nymphadora Tonks out of consciousness.

“Activate,” and a rip behind her navel was the last thing she noticed before fading into the deep void.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the chapter.

Please leave a review and tell me how you liked my first action scenes :)

As always:
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Chapter 10: Sacrifices

Notes:

Thank you for the great support of this story and all the kind comments! You all are amazing!

This chapter was not planned as is, but it just flowed and I think it worked out pretty well, feel free to give me feedback in the comments!

Without further ado, have fun!

Silver glinted, catching the light as the spinning arrows danced across the smooth surface of the desk. Each whirred and pulsed with an internal light, casting fleeting shadows across the darkened office.

“How did they not breach the wards yet?”

The cloaked figure watched intently, a loud huff escaping his concealed lips. The air crackled with tension, a palpable weight pressing down on the room.

The insistent hum of the spinning arrows filled the silence. Then a flicker. One of the silver darts stuttered, its light dimming for a fraction of a second before resuming its frantic dance. The cloaked figure leaned closer, his breath catching in his throat. Another flicker, this time from a different arrow. It too dimmed, the light within sputtering like a dying candle. It didn’t turn on again.

The arrows suddenly stopped their frantic spinning, now moving in a more cohesive way.

“Finally,” the cloaked figure sighed, relief clearly audible in his strained voice. “The wards fell.”

But the brief break from worrying came to a sudden end.

More flickers followed. Soon, a wave of dimming swept across the silver arrows, their once-bright luminescence fading into a dull, sickly yellow, slowly losing more of its brightness with every second.

“Fuck!” the cloaked figure yelled, the pure distress of the man distinct. “The boy is injured.”

The intercom rune started to glow a brilliant blue, telling him that a message from Martin would come through momentarily.

Martin’s booming voice sliced through the muted office. “Team Alpha just reported that —”

“Quiet!” the cloaked figure bellowed, his gaze never leaving the faltering arrows. The sight of them still darkening sent dread through him. “Send a message. Tell Ace the target is severely wounded.” The cloaked figure paused, his eyes gleaming with an icy fire.

“And Martin,” he added, his voice low and dangerous. “Tell him to hurry. We might not get another chance. Potter cannot die.”

“Aye, boss.”

He hoped the team would arrive early enough and could save the young man. Should Harry Potter die, the war would be virtually over. He didn’t have a single person strong enough to defeat the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore’s morals prevented the Grand Sorcerer from finally getting rid of Tom Riddle. They would be doomed if Harry Potter were to lose his life today.

The cloaked figure stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the slowly moving silver arrows, frustrated with the limited information he had. The uncertainty was draining the man. Each flicker, each dip in their luminescence, sent a jolt of anxiety through him. Time seemed to stretch, each second an eternity as he waited, a prisoner of his own making.

How much easier had it been when he was still on active duty. When he had been on the front, helping the teams. But he had gotten too old, not fit enough for the challenging tasks anymore.

The flickering intensified. Some arrows pulsed weakly, their light threatening to extinguish entirely. An icy dread crept up his spine. He knew what that meant. The boy was slipping away.

“Come on, Harry,” he muttered, his voice raspy with tension. “Fight.”

And then, just as he thought the lights would extinguish for good, the flickering subsided just as suddenly as it began. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the arrows began to brighten, their luminescence returning hope like a long awaited sunrise. He watched, transfixed, as one by one, the arrows regained their brilliance, their dance regaining its frantic energy. Relief washed over him, leaving him weak. He gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white with the force of it.

A loud high-pitched chime echoed through the office as the communication rune on his desk pulsed a frantic red light. The team’s messages are going to be transmitted to him as well.

“Boss,” a gruff voice, Ace, one of his most capable operatives and the alpha team’s leader, crackled through the speaker. “Auror and target found. Target in bad shape. Aph preps them for evac. No approx yet. Wolfie on guard. Black on ward stones now.”

“Good,” the cloaked figure breathed, the word heavy with relief. “Info about hostiles?”

A beat of silence, then. “two zero dispatched on arrival. TR just arrived. Att, Max, and I engage, but…”

The cloaked figure’s blood ran cold. “But?”

Wolfie’s voice was tight with strain. “We are outmatched. Won’t hold long.”

Fuck.

“Use everything necessary to bring the target here.” the cloaked figure’s voice was tinged with a deep sadness. They would probably lose many of their operatives today. But it was necessary. Harry Potter needed to survive, to be brought to them. “I’m sorry, Ace. Godspeed”

“Affirm, Boss. It was an honour. Over and out.”

---

Ace raised his hand, a silent signal, and Att and Max, flanking him like the shadows they were, followed him towards the apparition point of the Dark Lord.

“Everybody clear?” He asked his team, receiving nods from his two friends. “We know our mission. Delay TR. Go!”

Three against one. Easy, some might call it. But it was not any usual adversary they were going to stand against, but one of the most powerful dark wizards in modern times. What they were planning to do was suicide. But some fights you simply didn’t back down from, no matter the odds. Not when the fate of their world hung in the balance.

Harry Potter needed to be safe, Ace knew that. He had the future of the wizarding world in his hand. If he died today, Tom Riddle would be impossible to stop. It wasn’t the time yet for Harry to fight the Dark Lord, he still needed to be prepared.

Voldemort materialised from a wreath of black smoke in front of them in the alley of the small muggle village. His crimson gaze swept over the ravaged houses, lingering for a moment on the shimmering shield protecting their remaining two operators and the targets. His pale lips twisted in a cruel smile.

“So, my faithful Death Eaters lie dead, their worthless lives extinguished by … you?” His voice, high and cold, cut through the air. “Playing heroes, are we?”

Silence. The hooded figures didn’t move, didn’t speak. Their defiance, their unwavering stillness, was more unsettling than any grand display of magic.

“Bring me Harry Potter and I will let you live,” Voldemort purred, the sound like silk scraping over broken glass. “Maybe I will even reward you.”

Still nothing. Not even the slightest twitch ran through the alpha team. Not a syllable uttered, just endless, suffocating silence, that was only broken by the occasional crackling of the surrounding fires.

There was nothing to say, nothing that would change the outcome of this fight. They would not give him the satisfaction of seeing their fear. Not when every second earned was a moment closer to Harry reaching safety.

“Very well,” the Dark Lord ground through his clenched teeth, fury audible in his voice. “Have it your way.”

The first spell came as a blinding jet of green light, swift and deadly. Ace rolled, feeling the heat as it singed his robes as he countered with a piercing curse, carefully aimed at Voldemort’s wand arm. It hit its mark, but the Dark Lord merely laughed, the sound like shattering of glass, the pierced hole in his arm completely ignored.

“I’m invincible,” he gloated, the hole already growing back together, only leaving a dark-purple scar on his forearm. “Give me the Potter boy and you will get a quick death.”

The air crackled with raw magic as the three operatives unleashed a torrent of spells: Blasting Curses, Organ-Liquifiers and other nasty curses they’d picked up from the darker side of their line of work. Each one was dodged with effortless grace, deflected or swallowed by the vortex of dark energy swirling around Voldemort. He was a whirlwind of malevolent power, toying with them, herding them toward their inevitable end.

But they were the best for a reason. Att, a master of shields, kept a shimmering barrier between them and the worst of Voldemort’s attacks, quickly dispatching of the Unforgivables with conjured slabs of marble. Max, a duelist with reflexes honed to perfection, weaved around the spells, returning fire with deadly accuracy. Every curse, every jinx, every hex was aimed to maim, to slow him down, to buy Harry and the others just a few more precious seconds.

He was their leader, their rock, when the tide seemed to roll over them. Supporting each of his mates whenever necessary, he seamlessly switched between his two roles, barking a command or two every few seconds.

Their teamwork was seamless, a dance of death they’d practised countless times, though never for an audience like this. They moved as one, covering each other’s weaknesses, anticipating each other’s moves, like they had trained for so many years. Their magic was a unified force against the storm of dark energy, barely holding Voldemort’s onslaught of vicious spells back.

Voldemort, for all his power, seemed almost annoyed by their resilience. He hadn’t expected such resistance, not from Unspeakables. They were a research unit, after all, and didn’t have any reason to have fighters this capable. They were ants beneath his feet, yet they clung to his ankles, biting, stinging, refusing to be swept aside.

“You are powerful,” Voldemort hissed, his eyes narrowed, “but, ultimately, insignificant.”

He raised his wand, and the surrounding air grew heavy, oppressive. “Let me show you true magic.”

A wave of pure, undiluted magic erupted from his wand, pitch black, cold and utterly devastating. It slammed into Att’s shield, seemingly having no effect on the golden shimmering barrier. The unbelievably powerful, steady stream of magic flowed into the shield, getting absorbed by the strong magical protection. Ace was thinking the Dark Lord had overestimated his power, right when he noticed a slight glow being emanated from Att’s chest.

“Att, stop the shield now!” he shouted, panic in his voice. This couldn’t be good. It wasn’t what was supposed to happen with this exact shield.

The bloodshot eyes of his friend stared at him. “I can’t. My magic doesn’t respond anymore.” Came a strangled whisper from Att’s lips. “Run, Ace.”

“COVER!” was the only thing the team leader could shout before his friend’s chest exploded like a bomb, sending rays of magic everywhere. Only moments before the strands of pure magic could hit them, both of the remaining operatives hastily conjured big slabs of marble, blocking their path. The force of the impact sent Ace and Max flying backwards, crashing into the cobblestone street.

Ace struggled to breathe, pain lancing through his ribs. He saw Att, or rather his head, laying a few feet away, his eyes wide in shock and pain. Max was propped against a wall, blood trickling down his chin, his wand lying broken beside him.

They were out of time.

“Pathetic,” Voldemort sneered, approaching slowly, savouring their defeat. “Did you truly believe you could stand against me?”

Ace laughed, a dry, rasping sound. “No,” he croaked, pushing himself up on one elbow, “But that wasn’t the objective.”

A flicker of understanding crossed Voldemort’s face, replacing his triumphant smirk. “You …“ he began, his voice dangerously low, “you were merely a distraction.”

His gaze darted to the shimmering barrier. It pulsed with an unnatural energy now, the air around it thrumming. He could sense it - a potent cocktail of ancient magic and raw power. The people behind those wards were performing a powerful ritual, and these … insects … had bought them the time they needed.

“Activate.” A sharp, triumphant cry echoed from within the barrier, muffled but audible enough. Before he had any chance of putting anti-transportation wards up, they were gone, Voldemort knew it. The realisation was visible on his face, the look of pure fury tinged with a pinch of fear, showed Ace everything he needed to know.

They had succeeded. Harry Potter would be safe, able to fight another day.

“You dare?” Voldemort spat, each word laced with venom. “You insignificant creatures dared to defy me?”

Ace coughed, a splatter of blood staining his lips, but his voice remained steadily devoid of fear. “He lives to fight another day, Tom,” he rasped, a defiant smirk twisting his bloodstained features. “And that’s all that matters.”

Max, leaning heavily against the rubble, echoed his sentiment, a bloody grin splitting his face. “We did it, brother,” he wheezed, his voice barely a whisper. “He’s safe.”

“Fools!” Voldemort roared, his voice cracking with rage. “Do you think your pathetic sacrifice will mean anything? I will find him. I will find them all, and they will pay for this!”

The Dark Lord raised his wand, a maelstrom of dark energy gathering at its tip, his features twisted in a mask of pure hatred. “But you,” he hissed, his voice dripping with malice, “you will not live to see it.”

Good luck, Harry Potter. Make our sacrifice count.

It was Gideon Prewett’s last thought before a flash of sickly green light hit him and his brother.

---

The air felt like it was filled with static, thick with the residue of dark magic, a grim testament to the carnage that had unfolded. Dumbledore landed softly amidst the wreckage, his heart heavy with a growing dread. The sweet scent of hot chocolate, once a comforting aroma from the nearby cafe, now mingled nauseatingly with the metallic tang of blood. He surveyed the scene, his gaze swept over splintered wood, shattered glass, and the still forms scattered amongst the debris. Each lifeless face was a hammer blow to his already burdened heart.

He recognised the signs of a dark ritual: scorched earth, strange symbols etched into what remained of the cobblestone street. Death Eaters. They had grown bolder, more brazen in their attacks. A shiver, colder than the lingering chill of magic, ran down his spine. It was an unwelcome echo of a past he had hoped never to relive.

His eyes, however, searched for one specific figure amongst the chaos. He muttered the locating spell, his voice a low rasp, but the familiar pull of Harry’s presence remained frustratingly absent.

Where was the boy?

Those wards, he realised while examining the shimmering barrier that currently flickered around parts of the village, were unlike anything he’d encountered. Old magic, yes, but woven with an intricate web of modern enchantments, amplifying its potency tenfold. Someone had gone to great lengths to secure the house in front of him. But why?

His gaze fell upon three figures, their cloaked forms strangely untouched by the surrounding devastation. They stood unmoving, like sentinels in the aftermath of a storm. A flicker of hope, faint yet insistent, sparked within him. Could they hold the answers he sought?

He moved towards them, his steps measured, each one a careful calculation against the unknown. As he reached out, not to touch, not yet, but to draw back their hoods, a faint hum resonated from beneath their cloaks. He recognised the telltale shimmer of a Portkey activating, too late to stop it.

Three blinding flashes of light, one after the other, and then silence. The cloaked figures were gone.

---

A chill permeated the room, emanating not from the stone walls or the night air creeping through the open door, but from the magical wards that engulfed the entire complex in its protective blanket.

Just moments ago, Croaker had felt a heart wrenching stab into his intestines, an unbelievable pain he had only been subjected to twice before. It had happened right after his instruments tracking Harry Potter had burst into sparks by an energy he couldn’t understand. The feeling of hot, blunt knives dug deeper and deeper in his gullet, spreading the fiery feeling throughout his whole body.

On that fateful day forty years ago, when his wife had died while in the organisation’s duty, was the first time Croaker had been punished for his mistakes, for his overconfidence in their training. He had lost himself in continuing their efforts ever after, not willing to accept his wife died for nothing, a death that wouldn’t change the world if he didn’t fight for her legacy. It was time to finish the Dark Lord for good this time, rid the evil from the face of earth.

The second instance of the wards’ punishments had happened mere hours later, causing him even more pain and almost snapping his mentality. It had been a close call, and only his close friend had saved him from the inevitable madness that had begun to overcome the once powerful magician.

Today, the wards were furious. Not only had one of his operatives died, he understood that much. It would be a dark day in the organisation’s history, tainted by the death of three close friends, two people he had worked with for many years. He didn’t know how many it was yet, or if they accomplished the main objective: Rescuing Harry Potter.

Croakers’ thoughts were suddenly put to a halt, as Martin entered the room.

“I’ve already given Arc the news. He is preparing to contact the families and prepare the burial,” the towering man spoke softly, sorrow deeply ingrained in his features. “It was a tough decision, Croaker. But you should know that both Arc and I are standing behind you. You did what was necessary, even if it cost us many lives.”

The face of their training officer was uncharacteristically soft, willing Croaker to believe him. It wouldn’t do for one of their leaders to fall back into the hole of darkness they had barely escaped only a few years ago.

Croaker sighed, his shoulders sacking back. “Thank you, Martin.” They had been friends ever since he had come here, supported each other through every backlash and fight necessary, and with Arc they made a team that was able to accomplish almost anything. But not anymore. They were old, not as powerful anymore as they had once been.

The new generation had taken over only a couple of years ago, well trained and supported with every single method the trio could think about. They had focussed their own strengths together, achieving a much stronger and more resilient Alliance.

“What is the status of the mission, Martin?” He had to know. Was the sacrifice made by his friends enough? Did Harry Potter survive? Was the Dark Lord still defeatable?

“The mission … was a success, mate,” Martin exclaimed, but his unsteady voice betrayed the agony that Croaker felt as well. They had both lost friends, companions for years and most importantly: Family.

“Ace?”

“He … fulfilled his objective, Croaker. But at the ultimate cost.”

The still hooded man remained silent. He didn’t need to ask. The silence itself was an expectation, a demand for every gruesome detail.

“It took significantly longer to stabilise Harry than expected. Ace, Att, and Max held the line, but … they are gone. Voldemort’s fury demolished them mere seconds before Aph and Wolfie could extract the Auror and Harry.”

Croaker turned slowly, the dim light briefly illuminating his hazel eyes. “And what about Harry?”

“Alive. Barely. The remaining team brought him to our Hospital Wing. He is under constant surveillance, should anything change. He is on the brink, Croaker. He may not …”

But the man held up his hand in a silencing manner. “Harry is strong. He’ll recover.” His voice was filled with a chilling certainty, the distorted sound of it unwavering.

Martin fidgeted for a few seconds before he spoke again. “We may have a problem, bud. The girl I was supposed to recruit … she was still with him.” The enormous man shuffled his feet, not knowing how to tell his old friend what had happened in the last minutes of the village’s battle.

“What happened, Martin? What has thrown you out of balance so much?” Croaker questioned, his voice retaking the steely glint that had been absent for most of their conversation.

“Aph explained that the potential recruit owed Harry a life debt. She believes the girl is in love with the boy.”

“That is not a problem, right? Love is a powerful magic that should be used.”

Martin visibly grinned, remembering the many lessons of arcane magic and how much he had learned from the mentor in front of him. “True, but when Aph told the recruit that Harry was going to die and there wasn’t anything she could do, the Auror combined their both magical cores in an attempt to supply Harry with enough energy to heal.”

Croaker stiffened, shock freezing him into place momentarily. “She did WHAT?”

“Their magic … is now intertwined, bud. The healers are baffled. They say they’ve never encountered such a thing. Aph’s ritual was only supposed to transmit power, but …”

Now Croaker got agitated. All the stuttering and beating around a bush didn’t help them right now. “MARTIN! Tell me what happened!”

“Their magic never left each other’s core. Both of their magic is basically a perfect mixture. We don’t know how that will affect each of them and will have to wait until they wake to conduct further tests.”

Only the future would show what had happened to the pair and how it would affect Harry Potter and Nymphadora Tonks. Croaker desperately hoped that the joining of their cores would provide a benefit. It may even be “The power the dark lord knew not”. Love, even if not yet acknowledged, was a powerful protector, a magic much more powerful than anything else he had ever researched.

“Details of this discussion will not leave this room. I will meet Arc to get him up to speed. Take a break Martin.”

Notes:

Thank you Reynair for editing this story once again, you are a great help and speed up my writing a ton.

Please like and send a comment!

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Chapter 11: A Bonding

Notes:

Good Morning Fellas.

It unfortunately has been a while, but life has been busy and the muse small.
I will try to get back into my weekly updates on Sunday from this week on, but no promises.

Have fun!

Nymphadora Tonks stirred, her body heavy as lead. Every single muscle in her body felt like stone sinking through the muddiest swamp.

“Please, Mum,” she whimpered softly, “Only a few more minutes before I have to go to work.”

She tried to turn onto her side to shut out the searingly bright light passing through her eyelids, but her limbs felt like they were filled with lead. A dull ache throbbed at the base of her skull, and her mouth was as dry as parchment.

Work. She needed to get to work, her foggy brain screamed at her.

Her eyelids fluttered, conciousness seeping back into her mind. She blinked once, twice, her vision slowly coming into focus.

White. Everything was white.

For a moment, she thought she’d left her curtains open again, the morning sun streaming through her bedroom window. But as her senses sharpened, she realised the light was different. Softer. More Artificial.

Tonks attempted to sit up, but her body refused to cooperate. A soft groan left her lips, her throat raw and scratchy.

“Wotcher,” she mumbled to herself, her voice barely above a whisper.

As her eyes adjusted, her exhausted brain began to make out more details of her surroundings. This wasn’t her flat. The ceiling was too high, the walls too bare. The air smelled of disinfectant and broom polish. A weird combination.

A hospital?

Confusion clouded her mind. Why was she in the hospital? She couldn’t remember getting hurt. Couldn’t remember much of anything, really.

Tonks turned her head to the side, wincing at the effort. Her gaze fell upon another bed next to hers, its occupant hidden beneath crisp white sheets.

“Ouch!”

Something had just tugged at the edge of her consciousness. A faint sensation, like a whisper in the back of her mind. It was an unfamiliar feeling, yet somehow comforting. She couldn’t quite grasp it, the feeling slipping away like sand through her fingers every time she tried to focus on it.

She blinked slowly, her eyelids growing heavy once more. Time seemed to stretch and distort around her, each second lasting an eternity. The rhythmic pumping of her heart deafening in stock silent room.

thump-thump thump-thump

“What was that?” She asked herself.

From the same spot in her mind, she could hear an echo of her heartbeat, but much slower, yet with much more force.

Tonks tried to piece together what was happening, but her memories were still a jumbled mess. Flashes of images danced behind her eyes - a village, screams, flashes of emerald and crimson light, fire. But none of it made much sense. It felt more like a half-remembered nightmare rather than reality.

She let out a shaky breath, her chest tight with an emotion she couldn’t name. Something was wrong. Something was different. But in her groggy state, she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

The figure in the bed next to her shifted slightly, drawing her attention once more. She squinted, trying to make out who it was, the weird sensation ever-so-present in the back of her conscious. But through her blurry vision, she couldn’t identify the other person.

The strange sensation flared momentarily, transitioning from a mild probing to a gentle tug towards the other bed. Tonks frowned, her foggy mind struggling to understand what was happening.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling. It was warm, comforting, like a soft blanket wrapped around her magical core. An unimaginable well of power that lay dormant and calm around her. But it was also foreign, a presence that hadn’t been there before.

Tonks opened her eyes again, her gaze fixed on the other bed. Who was lying there? Why did she feel this inexplicable connection to them?

She tried to speak, to call out, but her voice failed her. Her throat was too dry, her tongue too heavy in her mouth.

Time slowed to a crawl, each tick of the clock on the wall echoing in the quiet room. Tonks drifted in and out of consciousness, her mind a haze of half-formed thoughts and fragmented memories.

She was tired. Oh, so tired.

In her lucid moments, she tried to piece together what had happened. But every time she thought she was close to remembering, the memories slipped away, leaving her more confused than before. Small snippets, almost like dreams, resurfaced all the time, starting to rebuild the memories lost.

The strange sensation moved all the time, but continued being a constant presence at the edge of her awareness. It ebbed and flowed like the tide, sometimes strong enough to make her gasp, other times so faint she could barely feel it.

Tonks turned her head towards the other bed once more, straining to see its occupant. She caught a glimpse of messy black hair against the white pillow.

Black hair. Green eyes. A scar.

Harry!

Everything came crashing back, the meeting with Amelia, the Deatheater attack, how Harry had jumped in front of her, his lifeless body and finally: The ritual.

“Bloody hell.” She whispered, her voice cracking every syllable.

She tried to call out to him, but her voice was still nothing more than a whisper. “Harry?” she managed to croak, the word barely audible even to her own ears.

There was no response. The figure in the other bed remained still, save for the slow rise and fall of their chest.

Tonks let out a frustrated sigh, her head falling back against the pillow. Where were they? Where did the hooded figure bring them?

A pang of happiness shot through her. Harry was alive. Whatever had happened, at least it had been successful and he didn’t have to die for her miscalculations.

The strange sensation pulsed again, even stronger this time. The feeling of a heartbeat that was not her own intensified. It was still slower, steadier, a comforting rhythm that seemed to sync with her own pulse.

Her gaze was drawn once more to the other bed. To Harry. She was now certain that it was him, though she couldn’t explain how she knew.

She reached out with her magic, instinctively seeking the source of that strange sensation. As she did, she felt something shift within her. It was as if a door had been opened, a connection established.

For a brief moment, she felt … whole. Complete in a way she’d never experienced before. But as quickly as it came, the feeling faded, leaving her even more confused than before.

As she lay there, staring at the ceiling, she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had changed. That she had changed. But how? And why?

All she could do was lie there, listening to the steady rhythm of their hearts. And wait. Wait for answers. Wait for understanding.

Wait for Harry to wake up.

---

“Fuck,” Croaker muttered, his head resting heavily in his hands. “What a bloody mess.”

Harry Potter, Dead or Alive? By Rita Skeeter

After the tragic events of yesterday’s attack on a muggle village, reportedly arbitrated by the escaped convict Sirius Black, concerned voices are starting to rise. Was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, at the location of the crime? This reporter has investigated on the claims and was able to verify Harry Potter’s location and potential use of magic in the location.

But the question is: Was this in fact a coincidence? Or did Harry Potter support Black in the murder of dozens of muggles? Where is the rogue teenager now? And why hasn’t he been seen since the dubious activity at the triwizarding tournament?

This reporter will keep you in touch.

“Couldn’t this woman have been silent once?” Croaker groaned. Rita Skeeter had been a thorn in his eye for many years by now, almost accidentally exposing the organisation on two occasions already.

At least the Tonks woman had finally woken up from her coma after the second day, however short it was. It had given them important information, intel they needed to decide on the fate of the two injured.

“Ash,” he called out to his co-leader of the organization. “What do you think of them both? Do you have any use for them or should we obliviate them?”

His counterpart, standing on the opposite site of his office desk, had an indecipherable look on his old face, the sunken eyes adorned by huge dark circles, proof of the last sleepless nights.

“Potter is a huge risk,” he spoke in his raspy voice, his icy eyes flicking from his friend to the headlines. “He has potential, but he is young, maybe too young.”

A silence fell over the two companions as they both dwelled in their thoughts, attempting to construct a mental picture of the boy’s ability.

“Tonks, on the other hand, would make a superb recruit,” Ash said, a rare giddiness audible in his voice. “Her metamorph ability would be a great boon to us, especially with an already trained Auror.”

Croaker nodded, agreeing with his friend’s assessment. “I agree, my friend. But I believe we will not get her without Harry. The bond they formed is rather impressive. Separating them could be a danger to them, maybe even detrimental this early. And after the village …”

He didn’t have to finish what he was starting to say. Too dark was the hole ripped into their chest by losing three of their operatives. Ace, Att and Max had been an integral part of the Alliance for many years by now, and they would have to be replenished quickly in these dark times.

“I believe we should try it, Croaker,” Ash finally said. “The boy was mature enough in the library when I talked with him. With the right tutelage and motivation, he will fulfill his destiny.” He frowned for a moment, remembering how their two injured future operatives came into their current situation. “Scratch that, he already has his motivation.”

---

A gentle hand on his shoulder roused Harry from the depths of a dreamless sleep. He fluttered his eyes open, squinting at the blurry figures hovering above. The room swam into focus - stark white walls, the sterile scent of a hospital wing. He tried to sit up, a sharp pain coursing through him. He crumpled back onto the bed with a gasp.

“Easy there, Heir Potter,” a gruff voice cautioned. “You’ve had a bit of an accident.”

His vision cleared, and he recognised three figures donning similar grey cloaks as their rescuers had worn in the village, but with some significant differences that stressed their difference. The missing Greek letter stitched on top of their hearts sprung into Harry’s eyes immediately as well. The person on the left side, small in their stature, a green trim surrounding the cloak, had a clipboard in her hand.

“Where’s Tonks?” Harry rasped, his throat scratchy and dry.

He didn’t know if he imagined a small twitching as if from a chuckle on the second person with that, before they inclined their head towards the bed next to him. Brown hair peeked from the cover, framing the face of a woman that was so familiar, yet different all the same.

“She’s just waking up as well, Heir Potter,” the green cloak spoke, her voice soft but firm. “You both gave us quite a fright. But as your healer, I can promise you that you will make a full recovery.”

Harry glanced at Tonks. Her face was pale, but her chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm. Relief washed over him. She was alive. He was alive. It had been a close call, closer than he cared to admit, an impossible one if it weren’t for the greycloaks.

“The village,” Harry choked out, his voice tight with guilt. “The Death Eaters …”

“It’s alright, Heir Potter,” the person on the left said, their gold-accented cloak shimmering in the bright light. “The village is safe. The Death Eaters were dealt with.”

Dealt with. Dead. His magic thrummed beneath his skin, a dark echo of the rage that had consumed him. He remembered the sickening crunch of bone against his fist, the iron smell of his enemy’s blood, the desperate struggle to stay alive. It felt like a lifetime ago, and yet the coppery scent of blood still lingered in his nostrils.

“We lost good people that day,” the person in the middle said, donning the same golden trim, their voice low and rumbling like distant thunder. “But you, Heir Potter, you survived. That’s what matters now.”

Harry wanted to argue, to tell them that none of it mattered if he couldn’t even protect an innocent village from a handful of Death Eaters. But before a single word crept out of his mouth, he felt himself calming down, a soothing feeling wrapping around him like a warm blanket on a winter’s night.

“Wotcher, Harry,” a tired voice came directly to his right. The soft mattress of the hospital bed sinking from the weight of his friend sitting down at his side. “Fancy seeing you awake. It was bloody boring all alone here.”

Harry couldn’t stop the grin from spreading onto his face. Tonks. She was fine, back to her usual, bubbly self, even when she sounded as tired as he felt. “Hi Tonks.”

Tonks flashed him a tired grin. Her usually vibrant purple eyes dimmed with exhaustion. But there was something else in their depths, a flicker of something unfamiliar.

He felt a strange pull towards her, a warmth that spread through his chest as if they were basking in the sun together. It was comforting, grounding. It took him a moment to register that the feeling intensified when she sat down, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

“Heir Potter, Auror Tonks,” the healer spoke, her voice drawing his attention back to the figures at the foot of his bed. “Allow us to introduce ourselves properly. I’m Healer Peak,” she inclined her head, “These are Croaker,” she pointed to the taller man with the golden trim in the middle, “and Ash,” gesturing to the one on the right. “You can recognize them by their golden trim and after we leave this room, the name tags on their chest.”

Croaker stepped forward, his features hidden beneath the deep shadows of the hood. “We are the leaders of the Alliance of Families, Heir Potter. And we owe you an explanation.”

He now turned to Tonks, who had been watching the exchange with a perplexed frown. “But before we begin, Auror Tonks,” Croaker began, his voice warm and soft. “You acted with incredible bravery and quick thinking. Your actions, the risk you willingly took, the ritual …”

He trailed off, as if at a loss for words.

“It is the only reason Heir Potter is still alive, and that deserves our deepest respect.” Ash continued. “But there are side effects that were not predictable, not to Aph, nor anyone else here. This is totally new territory.”

“Side effects?” Tonks echoed, her brow furrowed. “What side effects? What is going to happen to me?”

Healer Peak cleared her throat, stepping forward. “Auror Tonks, during the attack you performed a rather … unconventional procedure on Heir Potter. One that went differently than any we’ve seen before. It may have unforeseen consequences.”

Tonks’ eyes widened, darting between Healer Peak and Harry. “Went differently? How? What happened?”

The healer hesitated, glancing at Ash and Croaker as if seeking their permission. After a curt nod, she began slowly. “It appears,” her voice trembling in excitement, “that in an attempt to stabilise Heir Potter’s magical core, you both inadvertently merged a part of your magic.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implications Harry couldn’t begin to grasp. Merged their magic? What did that even mean?

“Merged?” Tonks whispered, her gaze fixed on Harry, her eyes wide with disbelief. He could feel her confusion, her fear, but underneath it all, a growing sense of wonder.

It was as if he just knew what she felt, his body instinctively mirroring her emotions and attempting to soothe her simultaneously.

“We believe it’s the reason you both survived,” Croaker rumbled, his voice laced with awe. “None of your cores could consume the weaker, as they communicated through their bond, only taking as much as possible.”

Bond. The word struck a chord within Harry. Was it that what he was feeling, this strange pull towards Tonks? Was this connection, this shared magic, the bond Croaker spoke of?

“No more questions,” Ash gruffly stated, breaking the silence. “We already told them too much without their oaths in place, Croaker. Heir Potter, Auror Tonks, if you are both feeling up to it, we would like to invite you to Croakers office. We have to talk about a lot.”

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It has been a lot of deleting and rearranging to happen like this and I'm not ultimately happy with it. But the show must go on :)

If you did, feel free to leave a review and join my discord: linktr . ee / stormf0x

Chapter 12: The Alliance

Harry glanced at Tonks, a silent question passing between them. She nodded her expression a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. He turned back to Croaker and Ash. “Alright”, he agreed, his voice steady even through the turmoil of emotions swirling within him.

Croaker gestured towards the door. “Follow me, please.”

They followed Croaker through a labyrinth of corridors, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and subtly humming magic. Torches flickered on the wall, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with unseen life. Harry’s hand instinctively went for his wand, a nervous habit he couldn’t quite shake. He glanced at Tonks, seeing a look of intrigue he was sure his face reflected. Her vibrant purple hair was streaked with a multitude of colours, mirroring the turmoil in her thoughts. She returned his gaze, a wave of appreciation flooding through what he now identified as their bond. They were in this together, whatever this was.

Croaker stopped before a heavy wooden door, carved with unfamiliar symbols. He pushed it open, revealing a circular chamber bather in soft ethereal light. The walls were lined with bookshelves that stretched towards the high, domed ceiling, filled with volumes bound in leather and secured with gleaming clasps. In the centre of the room, a large, circular table dominated the space, its surface polished to a mirror sheen. Ash sat at the table, his expression unreadable.

“Please, sit,” Croaker invited, gesturing to two empty chairs.

Harry and Tonks got down on their respective seats, the silence in the room amplifying the weight of the situation.

“First,” Croaker began, his voice low and measured, “we owe you an explanation. The Alliance of Families is…”

BAAM.

A hard hit on the table startled Harry and Tonks. The fist of Ash was shakingly sitting on the desk, his knuckles white in stress.

“You know the rules,” the grey-robed man gritted through his teeth, his voice dangerously quiet, making Harry shiver. “The oath.”

Croaker’s posture stiffened, a little huff of annoyance barely audible to Harry and Tonks. “It’s n-“

“No,” Ash stated, his voice still tight with tension, volume rising with every word spoken. “This is too bloody important. They need to understand the damned gravity of what we’re about to reveal!”

An uncomfortable silence stretched, thick and heavy. Harry exchanged a look with Tonks. He would bet that if he could see the men’s eyes, he would notice a look of extreme power. But what could be so serious that it warranted this level of secrecy? To friends to fight over an oath, before explaining even the smallest of pieces. He felt a prickle of unease, a sense of foreboding that settled deep in his gut.

Croaker sighed, one of his hands disappearing under his hood. “Ash, you’re being dramatic. They’re hardly going to blab this all over Diagon Alley.” He turned to Harry and Tonks. “I apologise for my colleague’s… theatrics. He can be a bit overzealous at times.”

“Overzealous?” Ash scoffed. “This isn’t some childish game, Croaker. This is about the very survival of our world.”

Croaker’s shoulders tightened again, his posture more regally than ever before. “And I’m well aware of that, thank you very much. But scaring them witless isn’t going to help matters. It’s a lesson you still have to learn, my old friend.” He turned back to Harry and Tonks. “What Ash is trying to say, in his own gruff way, is that before we should tell you anything more, you’ll need to swear an oath of secrecy. A magical oath.”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. A magical oath? That sounded serious. The light pulse of Tonks’ heartbeat quickened, showing the quickening thoughts of the Auror.

“What kind of oath?” Tonks asked, her voice cautious.

“A very specific one,” Croaker replied. “You will swear to never reveal what we’re about to tell you inside of this room today to anyone other than myself or Ash. That’s it. Nothing after today will be affected by this.”

Harry considered this. It didn’t seem unreasonable, but he didn’t know much about magical oaths. He would have to trust Tonks in this one. She was raised in the wizarding world, after all, and probably knew much more.

“And what happens if we refuse?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Ash leaned forward, his posture predatory. “Then we tell you nothing, wipe your brain of anything we already said and dispose of you.”

Croaker huffed. “Ash! Honestly…” He turned back to Harry and Tonks. “If you don’t swear the oath, we will bring you into Diagon Alley and you will never hear of us again. We will have to wipe your mind of this location though.”

Harry looked at Tonks, seeking her opinion. She met his gaze, her expression thoughtful. He thought about everything that had happened in the past few weeks. The Dementor attack, the trial, the merging of his magic with Tonks, the attack on the village, the mysterious people who had saved them… That now offered to tell some of their secrets. It all felt connected, like pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. The oath seemed very specific and wouldn’t affect them after today, so was there still any risk?

“Look, I understand your hesitation,” Croaker interrupted his train of thoughts. “But I assure you, this is for your own protection, as much as ours. The information we’re about to share is highly sensitive, and if it fell into the wrong hands, it could have… disastrous consequences.”

Harry and Tonks shared another glance, both seeing determination in each other’s eyes. A warm, soft feeling hugged Harry like a soft blanket, bringing him security and trust. He could feel it coming from the bond he shared, an unwavering support from his close friend.

“We will do it,” Tonks said, her voice strong and steady. “We will take the oath.”

Croaker's shoulders sacked down, his tension falling away in a heartbeat. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate your trust.” He turned to Ash. “The oath, please.”

Ash nodded curtly and raised his hand. A faint, silver light emanated from his palm, swirling and combining into a shimmering ball. The object that had just materialised pulsed, casting an ethereal glow over the room.

“Place your hands on the sphere,” Ash instructed, his voice devoid of any emotion. “And repeat after me.”

Harry and Tonks set their hands on the ball. The silver light flowed over their skin, tingling just a bit.

“I swear,” Ash began, his voice a deep resonance, “upon my magic and life…”

“I swear upon my magic and life…” Harry and Tonks repeated.

“…that I will never reveal the secrets I am about to learn today in this office…”

“…that I will never reveal the secrets I am about to learn today in this office…”

“…to anyone that is not currently present…”

“…to anyone that is not currently present…”

“…so mote it be.”

“…so mote it be.”

As the last words were spoken, the silver orb flared brightly, melting into strands of metal. It flowed over their hands like a snake. It was cool, but not uncomfortable.

As quick as it began, the metal was gone, leaving a cold tingling sensation in their hands. The oath was taken.

Croaker sighed. “Excellent,” he said. “Now, where were we?” He paused, his expression turning serious. “Ah, yes. The Alliance of Families…”

---

Croaker adjusted his hood, a familiar gesture Harry was beginning to recognise as a sign of the man’s contemplation. “The Alliance of Families,” Croaker began, his voice low and steady, “isn’t some rogue group operating outside the law. Quite the opposite, actually. We are deeply entwined with the Ministry, though its members remain blissfully unaware.”

Harry glanced at Tonks. She, too, seemed surprised by this information. He could feel a faint ripple of confusion through their shared magical connection, a subtle echo of his own bewilderment.

“You see,” Croaker continued, “the Ministry and the Alliance were founded by the very same entity centuries ago - the Unspeakables. Before they were known as the enigmatic researchers delving into the topics no non-member should know about, they kept our world in balance.”

“The Unspeakables,” Croaker elaborated, “realized that a bigger, more organizational entity was needed to organize the rapidly growing wizarding world. The birth of the Ministry of Magic was sealed on that day.”

Croaker paused, his shoulders tightening. “But they also understood that the fledging Ministry would be susceptible to corruption, to internal power struggles that could cripple its ability to protect the wizarding world. And worse, they foresaw threats far greater than political machinations - threats that could shatter the very fabric of our society.”

“And as we see, they were bloody correct in believing that,” Ash interrupted. “The Ministry is filled with a bunch of worth- and spineless idiots nowadays. Too weak to protect their citizens and too corrupt to notice even that.”

Croaker chuckled. “Ash here is rather opinionated about the ministry. But actually we are a part of the Ministry in some form. When the Unspeakables created the Alliance, they deeply rooted us in the constitution of the very form that we are supposed to oversee. They put us in the heart of wizarding Britain. Today, we are an organization operating in the shadows, safeguarding the wizarding world from those who would seek to exploit or destroy it.” He gestured around the room. “We are the descendants of those original Unspeakables, carrying on their legacy, their duty.”

“But if you’re part of the Ministry,” Tonks questioned, her brow furrowed, “why all the secrecy? Why the hoods? Why operate from this… hidden headquarters?”

“Because,” Ash interjected, his voice sharp and clipped, “visibility breeds vulnerability. We are most effective when we are unseen, unknown. An entity that is unpredictable. We thrive on the effect of surprise. Our anonymity is our greatest weapon. It allows us to move freely, to gather intelligence, to act decisively without being hampered by bureaucratic lines or bloody political maneuvering.” He ran a hand over the smooth surface of the table. “The Ministry, for all its good intentions, is a lumbering beast, easily swayed by whispers and rumours. We, on the other hand, are swift, precise and utterly unburdened by public opinion.”

“Our presence within the Ministry,” Croaker added, “is compartmentalised. Only a select few know of our existence, and even fewer understand the true extent of our operations. We have operatives embedded within various departments, acting as our eyes and ears. And most importantly, we have our department providing us with information we need to stay one step ahead of our enemies. The Department of Mysteries.”

“And what exactly are those…enemies?” Harry asked, his curiosity peaked.

Croaker’s posture hardened. “Anyone who threatens the stability and safety of the wizarding world. Corrupt officials, power-hungry politicians, dark wizards, creatures of immense power… We deal with them all. You could compare some parts of us to the Aurors.”

Ash snorted. “We are nothing like those bumbling Aurors,” he scoffed. “They react. We anticipate. They investigate. We prevent. They are bound by laws and regulations. We are bound only by our duty to protect the wizarding world, by any means necessary.”

“Ash… No need to overdramatize,” Croaker sighed, his voice laced with a hint of annoyance and warning. “Our methods might not always be… conventional. But there are limits to even our operations. We do move outside of the boundaries of accepted wizarding law, often resorting to measures that would be deemed… unacceptable by the Ministry at large. This is another reason why secrecy is so important. If our methods were to become public knowledge, it would not only jeopardise our operations but also potentially destabilise the very institution we are sworn to protect.”

Harry absorbed this information, the weight of their words settling heavily upon him. The Alliance was not what he had expected. They were not simply a group of vigilantes taking the law into their own hands. They were something far more complex, far more… powerful.

“And what about the Department of Mysteries?” Harry asked, recalling the name from a history lesson at Hogwarts and the mystic atmosphere and whispers of that place. “What is it?”

This time, it was Ash that spoke. “The Department of Mysteries,” he said, “is our ancestral home. It is where our founders first conceived of the Alliance, where they laid the groundwork for our operations. It is a place of immense power and the very reason for the Ministry’s location. And, in many ways, the heart of our organization.” He paused, his body language intense." It is also the place where the most dangerous information is hidden away and the most dangerous parts of training are done. That is why it’s so secretive and heavily warded. Nobody, except members of the Alliance, has stepped a single foot into our halls since its creation and …"

“I believe that’s enough information for now, Ash,” Croaker interrupted his counterpart. “We should come for the reason you are in this office tonight. We would like you to join the Alliance, to become a member of our operations group, like the one that recently saved you from the village.”

Harry and Tonks reared back in their chairs, surprise etched on their features. “Join a combat unit?” Tonks yelled, her voice higher pitched than Harry was used to. “Harry isn’t even of age and you ask him to probably sacrifice his life, like the freaking team that rescued us? Are you bloody mental?” She shot up, the chair behind her cluttering to the floor. “Do experiments on us. That is all okay, but really? You want to risk the life of Harry freaking Potter in this? An underage wizard?”

Irritation prickled at Harry. Tonks’ outburst, while understandable, felt… presumptuous. He appreciated her concern, her protective instincts, but he wasn’t a child anymore. He’d faced Voldemort, Dementors, Death Eaters. He’d stared death in the face more times than he cared to count. He didn’t need her speaking for him.

“Tonks,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I appreciate you trying to look out for me, but I can speak for myself.” He turned to Croaker and Ash, his expression serious. “You’re asking me to join… your paramilitary group?” The words felt strange on his tongue.

Croaker hesitantly nodded, his hood still obscuring his features. “In essence, yes. Though we prefer the term ‘Alliance’.”

“And what exactly would that entail?” Harry pressed, his mind racing. Training? Missions? He’d barely begun to process the revelation of the Alliance’s existence and now they were asking him to join their ranks.

Ash leaned forward, a glint of something unreadable in his posture. “It would entail dedication,” he stated, his voice low and intense. “Discipline. Sacrifice. You would be trained in combat, strategy, infiltration, and leadership. You would be expected to follow orders, to put the needs of the Alliance above your own.”

“You would risk your life,” Croaker added, his tone grave. “If current times are to be an indicator, regularly. There are no guarantees of survival in our line of work. But for that you would get the best magical training that anybody shy of Voldemort can give you and so much more.”

Harry considered this, a strange calmness settling over him. Risk was nothing new. He’d lived with it his entire life. He’d faced many dangers. And if he was honest with himself, he craved the opportunity to decide on his own fate. To be prepared for war, instead of stumbling from one fight to the next. It was his chance to fight back, to make a real difference in the war against Voldemort.

But he needed a friend. If he was to live this life of secrecy, of total isolation, he couldn’t do it alone. He needed to talk to Tonks, make sure she wouldn’t leave him, and fight on his side. At the moment he even thought of that, a thin dome of pure light surrounded Harry and Tonks, clearly separating the pair from the leaders of the Alliance.

“Wow,” Tonks said in awe, feeling the pull on her magic that flowed into the shield. “I’ve never seen something like this before. It’s as if we both cast the spell together.”

“It’s… us,” Harry breathed, mesmerised by the shimmering dome of light that enveloped them. It felt warm, protective, an extension of their shared magic. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the luminescent surface. It yielded slightly, like a membrane of water, then sprang back into place. “We cast this together.”

Tonks nodded, her eyes wide with wonder. “I felt it too. A surge of power, like… like our magic intertwined, amplifying each other.” She ran a hand through her hair, the strands shifting from their usual vibrant purple to a shimmering, ethereal silver. “I’ve experienced nothing like it.”

The shared shield, a testament to their unintended magical fusion, pulsed gently around them, a silent barrier against the world. Harry felt a strange sense of intimacy, of connection with Tonks. It was more than just their shared magic; it was a shared experience, a shared secret. They were bound, not by choice, but by circumstance, by a twist of fate that had thrown them together amid chaos and danger.

He looked at Tonks, really looked at her, seeing beyond the quirky Auror, the clumsy metamorphmagus. He saw a strength, a resilience, that mirrored his own. They were both survivors, forged in the fires of adversity. They understood each other’s pain, each other’s fears. And now, they were connected by something far deeper, far more profound, than either of them could have ever imagined.

He thought of Croaker and Ash, of the Alliance, of the war that loomed over them like a dark cloud. It was a daunting prospect, a path fraught with peril. But he knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within his soul, that he couldn’t face it alone. He needed someone by his side, someone he could trust, someone who understood the burdens he carried.

“Tonks,” he began, his voice hushed, almost reverent in the face of their shared magic, “they asked us to join them. To fight. To risk everything.” He paused, searching her face for a sign, a flicker of understanding. “Would you… would you do it with me?”

Tonks’s expression softened, her brilliant purple eyes meeting his with a mixture of concern and determination. “Harry,” she said gently, “you know I’d do anything for you. But this… this is different. This is life or death. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

Harry met her gaze, his emerald green eyes blazing with a fierce intensity. “I’ve been ready my whole life,” he replied, his voice unwavering. “I’m tired of running, of hiding. I want to fight back. I want to make a difference.” He reached out, his hand hovering just above hers. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

Tonks’s hand trembled slightly as she placed it in his. Her touch sent a jolt of warmth through him, a surge of energy that resonated through their shared magical core. “Alright, Harry,” she said, her voice filled with a newfound resolve. “We’ll do it together.”

As their hands clasped, the shimmering shield around them flickered and dissolved, the magical energy receding back into their bodies. The intimacy of the moment lingered, a silent promise hanging in the air between them. They were a team now, bound not just by magic, but by a shared purpose, a shared destiny.

Harry turned to Croaker and Ash, his expression resolute. “We accept,” he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. “We’ll join the Alliance.”

Croaker nodded, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his hidden mouth. “Welcome aboard,” he said, his voice warm with approval. “You’ve made a wise decision. The wizarding world needs people like you. People who are willing to fight for what’s right, no matter the cost.”

Ash, however, remained impassive, his hood still concealing his features. “Don’t get ahead of yourselves,” he warned, his voice sharp and clipped. “This is only the beginning. The road ahead is long and dangerous. You’ll be tested, pushed to your limits. Many who join our ranks don’t survive.”

Harry met Ash’s gaze, undeterred by his ominous words. He’d faced death before, and he wasn’t afraid. He was ready. He was ready to fight. He was ready to make a difference. And he was ready to do it with Tonks by his side.

“And what about my education?” he asked, practicality winning over the rush of adrenaline. He was still a student, after all. He still had a year left at Hogwarts.

“We can arrange for… alternative educational opportunities,” Croaker replied, his voice carefully neutral. “Tutors, private lessons. Your education will not be neglected.”

Harry felt a flicker of scepticism. He doubted any tutor could replicate the experience of Hogwarts, the camaraderie, the sense of belonging. But he pushed those thoughts aside. Right now, his priority was not academic achievement. It was survival. And defeating Voldemort.

“And Tonks?” he asked, glancing at the metamorphmagus, who still stood stiffly by the overturned chair. “What about her?”

“Tonks is already a valuable asset to the Alliance,” Ash stated, his tone matter-of-fact. “She has proven her loyalty and her skill. Her continued involvement is… non-negotiable.”

Tonks finally seemed to regain her composure. She straightened up, her expression hardening. “I can make my own decisions,” she said, her voice regaining its usual strength. “I don’t need anyone speaking for me, either.” She turned to Croaker and Ash. “I’m in. If Harry’s in, I’m in.”

A flicker of something that might have been approved crossed Ash’s face. “Good,” he said, his voice curt. “Then we can begin your training immediately. You will be assigned to a team, given a rank, and taught everything you need to know to survive in this new… reality.”

“Hold on,” Harry interrupted, holding up a hand. “Before I make any decisions, I need to know more. What are the Alliance’s goals? What is its long-term strategy? And what exactly is expected of me?”

Croaker and Ash exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, Croaker spoke. “Our primary goal,” he said, “is the preservation of the wizarding world. We seek to protect it from all threats, both internal and external. Our long-term strategy is… fluid. It adapts to the changing circumstances, to the ever-present threat of Voldemort and his followers. As for what is expected of you… that will become clear in time. For now, suffice to say that you will be trained to fight, to kill, and to do whatever is necessary to ensure the survival of our world.”

Harry met his gaze, a shiver running down his spine. This was it, then. A turning point in his life. A chance to take control, to become something more than just the boy who lived. He glanced at Tonks, a silent question in his eyes. She nodded, her expression resolute. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

“Alright,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m in.”

---

Harry followed Croaker and Ash down a long corridor, the walls lined with portraits of wizards he did not recognise. Tonks walked beside him, her fingers occasionally brushing against his in a gesture that felt oddly comforting. The connection between them hummed with energy, a constant reminder of their newly formed bond.

“This way,” Ash said, stopping before a heavy oak door. He pressed his palm against it, and Harry felt a surge of magic as the wards recognised him. The door swung open quietly. “The wards recognise your magical signature and decide if you should have access to that room,” Croaker explained. “One of our proudest developments.”

Inside was what appeared to be some sort of outfitting room. Shelves lined the walls, filled with neatly folded cloaks in various shades and trims. In the centre stood a large table with measuring instruments and what looked like identification cards. The room smelled of fresh fabric and subtle enchantments—a scent that reminded Harry of Ollivander’s wand shop, that same sense of ancient magic bound to purpose.

“This,” Croaker explained, gesturing around, “is where the new life of every member of the Alliance started, a new beginning, a fresh path.”

Harry eyed the cloaks with interest. They seemed ordinary enough at first glance, but his instinct told him they were absolutely not normal..

“Our cloaks are not just for show,” Croaker continued, as if reading Harry’s thoughts. He pulled one from a shelf - a deep charcoal grey with a slight shimmer to the fabric - and held it out. “These cloaks are our primary means of protection. Not just physically, though their special materials let them resist most minor hexes, but protection of identity.”

Harry took the cloak, feeling the fabric between his fingers. It felt like liquid silk, cool to the touch and impossibly light.

“The charms woven into the fabric prevent anyone from recognising your true identity while you wear the hood,” Croaker explained. “The Anonymity Charm is our greatest defence. When worn, no one can identify you—not through voice, appearance, or magical signature. They’ll perceive a face, but never remember its details. Your voice will be heard but instantly forgotten. Even your most distinctive features become unremarkable.”

Harry thought of his scar—the cursed lightning bolt that had branded him since infancy. “Even this?” He brushed his fringe aside.

“Especially that.” Croaker nodded. “The charm adapts to what needs hiding most. But remember—” His voice lowered. “As Operator, I can permit specific individuals to see through the enchantment with a counter-charm. Leadership can always identify members, and both you and I can grant that ability temporarily to others when missions require it.”

Ash laughed. “Well, let’s step over the freaking details, its doing what a cloak does, isn’t it? Your identity is the most valuable asset for you. Most operators have a life outside of the Alliance and the risk of exposure threatens their bloody families.”

Tonks accepted an identical cloak from Ash, inspecting it meticulously. “From what I can feel, it is closely related to the Fidelius? But applied to clothing rather than a location.”

“Sort of,” Croaker agreed. “There is a lot more magical theory behind it, but this is close enough. And the secret keeper theorem also applies to our cloaks. That allows you to permit specific people to see through it.”

Harry slipped the cloak over his shoulders, feeling the weight of what it represented settle around him. It wasn’t just a garment; it was a commitment, a symbol of his allegiance to the Alliance. Instantly, the magic activated—a cool sensation washing over him like stepping into cold water. The hood remained down, but even without it, he felt something shift in how the others perceived him.

“No trim,” Harry observed, noting the plain edges.

“Didn’t bloody earn it,” Ash almost spat out. “The trim comes with achievements. Bronze for senior members, silver for those who’ve saved their team from certain death, and gold—” He gestured to his own robe. “Reserved for leadership.”

“Put the hood up,” Croaker instructed.

Harry adjusted the hood, feeling the magic settle around him like a second skin. The sensation was peculiar—a subtle pressure that seemed to press against his consciousness. According to Croaker, this should have rendered him unrecognisable to others, his features obscured by powerful enchantments.

He turned to look at Tonks, expecting to see a faceless figure beneath her hood. Instead, he found himself staring directly at her heart-shaped face, her features as clear and distinct as if she weren’t wearing the cloak at all. Her eyes—currently a warm chocolate brown—gazed back at him with the same puzzlement he felt.

“I can see you perfectly,” Harry said, his voice hushed with surprise. “Your face, your eyes—everything.”

Tonks tilted her head, the confusion evident in her expression. “Same here. You’re just... Harry. No blurring, no distortion.”

Croaker stepped forward, his own hooded figure suddenly alert. “What did you say?” The usual measured calm in his voice had given way to sharp interest.

“The cloaks,” Harry explained, gesturing between himself and Tonks. “They’re not working—at least not between us. I can see her clearly, and apparently she can see me too.”

Croaker and Ash exchanged a significant glance. Even with their faces obscured by their hoods, Harry could sense their surprise.

“That’s impossible,” Ash muttered, moving closer to inspect their cloaks. “These are recent issues, top-quality enchantments. Not faulty bloody merchandise.”

Croaker raised his hand, silencing his colleague. “Not impossible. Merely... unprecedented.” He circled Harry and Tonks slowly, his analytical gaze almost palpable through the concealment of his hood. “What we’re witnessing is likely an extension of your magical bonding.”

Harry felt a flutter of unease. The magical connection with Tonks had already altered his life in ways he hadn’t begun to comprehend. Now it seemed to interfere with even the Alliance’s most sophisticated magic.

“The bond you share appears to supersede our Anonymity Charms,” Croaker continued. “Your cores recognise each other regardless of magical concealment.” He paused, seemingly lost in thought. “Fascinating. Simply fascinating.”

Tonks shifted uncomfortably beside Harry. “Is this going to be a problem?” she asked. “For missions or whatever it is you have us doing?”

“Not a problem,” Croaker replied, though his tone suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Rather, an anomaly that warrants further investigation. The implications could be... significant.”

“What implications?” Harry pressed, sensing there was more to Croaker’s interest than mere academic curiosity.

“If your magical bond can bypass our most powerful concealment enchantments, what else might it overcome?” Croaker’s voice had dropped to a near whisper. “Conventional magical barriers? Protective wards? Perhaps even...” He trailed off, appearing to reconsider his words.

Ash stepped forward. “We’ll need to run some tests. Determine the extent and limitations of this phenomenon.” Despite the hood, Harry could hear the frown in his voice. “For now, keep this between us. The last thing we need is panic spreading through the ranks if word gets out our anonymity spells aren’t infallible.”

Harry nodded, though a part of him bristled at being treated like an experimental subject. Yet another way he was different, special, apart from the norm.

“Don’t worry,” Tonks said, reading his discomfort with uncanny accuracy. “We’ll figure this out together.”

“Indeed,” Croaker agreed. “This development may prove advantageous. A team that can identify each other when no one else can? That’s a tactical advantage most would kill for.”

“But now for your designations.” Croaker circled them, appraising. “Names have power, Harry Potter. Within these walls, your birth name becomes a liability. From this moment, you are Bolt.”

Harry felt the name settle onto him like a second skin. Bolt. Simple, direct—an acknowledgment of his scar and characteristics without explicitly referring to it.

“And you—” Croaker turned to Tonks. “You will be Sylph.”

Tonks nodded, her hood bobbing in acceptance.

“These names protect you as much as the cloaks,” Croaker continued. “Even under Veritaserum, your mind will resist revealing Alliance identities. The charm compels you to use code names even in private conversation with other members.”

Harry fingered the edge of his cloak. “And our roles?”

“Those come after training,” Croaker replied. “Fist, Support, Healer, Ward Breaker—each requires specific aptitudes. We’ll determine your strengths over the coming weeks. For now, you’re recruits—no trim, no specialisation, much to learn.”

The enormity of what he’d stepped into washed over Harry. No longer just a student or the Boy Who Lived—he was Bolt now, a nameless operative in a shadow war. The path ahead appeared both terrifying and liberating.

“Tomorrow,” Croaker said, “your real training begins. It will assess your strengths and weaknesses, determine where you’ll be most effective within our operations. But for tonight, familiarise yourselves with your cloaks. Sleep with them nearby—they’re keyed to your magical signature already.”

Harry glanced at Tonks—no, at Sylph—finding an unreadable gaze beneath her hood. Together, they’d become something new. Something dangerous. Something necessary.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It took a long time to write this as I was really busy and not in a great mental state.

Feel free to leave a review and join my discord: linktr . ee / stormf0x