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The familiar warmth of their conjured hideaway felt like a sanctuary as Harry settled between Hermione and Ginny on the comfortable sofa they'd transfigured from wooden chairs.
"So," Hermione began, "how did the meeting with Dumbledore really go?"
Harry had given them a brief overview when he'd returned the previous evening, but he could see in both their expressions that they wanted the full truth. He took a deep breath, running his hands through his unruly hair.
"He knows I'm hiding something," Harry said finally. "Maybe not the specifics, but he definitely suspects there's more to my abilities than I told him."
Ginny shifted beside him, her hand finding his. "What exactly did you tell him?"
"That I can manipulate shadows. I even demonstrated it." Harry's voice carried a note of frustration. "But I didn't mention the Goblet speaking to me, or the Peverell name, or..." He glanced at Hermione. "Or the dream about Alaric."
"Harry," Hermione said gently, though concern colored her tone, "why didn't you tell him about the voice? About what the Goblet called you?"
Harry felt a familiar surge of irritation—not at Hermione, but at the situation itself. "Because I don't trust him, Hermione. Not completely."
Both girls exchanged glances, and Harry could see the worry in their eyes. Ginny was the first to speak.
"That's... that's a serious thing to say about the headmaster, Harry. Dumbledore's supposed to be—"
"Supposed to be what?" Harry interrupted. "Looking out for me? Protecting me? Because if that's what he's supposed to be doing, he's doing a bloody awful job of it."
Hermione leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
Harry stood up, beginning to pace in the small space. The shadows seemed to respond to his agitation, deepening in the corners of the room.
"Think about it," he said, his voice rising slightly. "My name came out of that Goblet two months ago. Two months, Hermione. And what has Dumbledore done about it? Has he investigated who might have put it in? Has he tried to get me out of the tournament? Has he shown any urgency whatsoever about the fact that someone powerful enough to confuse a magical artifact specifically wants me in mortal danger?"
Ginny bit her lip. "Well, he—"
"He's done nothing," Harry continued, his hands clenching into fists. "Just like he's always done nothing when it matters most."
"Harry—" Hermione began, but he cut her off.
"First year," Harry said, counting on his fingers. "He left the Philosopher's Stone at Hogwarts, protected by obstacles that three first-years could get through. He knew Voldemort was after it, knew someone was trying to steal it, and he what? Left school? Left it as bait with children in the castle?"
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again, frowning.
"Second year," Harry continued, his voice gaining momentum. "Students were being petrified. Students, Hermione. And what did he do? Let it continue for months. Never investigated properly, never took serious action until Ginny was literally dying in the Chamber."
Ginny flinched at the reminder, and Harry immediately felt guilty for bringing it up. But he pressed on.
"And last year? He allowed Dementors—soul-sucking creatures—to guard a school full of children. Creatures that specifically affect me worse than anyone else. And when they nearly killed me during a Quidditch match, what was the consequence? Nothing. They stayed. If they had been ordered to go away after that incident, I wouldn't blame Dumbledore as much, but they remained here still, if he had wanted to, he could have pointed out that the one they are trying to protect the most almost died because of those bloody creatures."
The room fell silent except for the soft crackling of conjured flames. Harry could see his words were having an impact, but not necessarily the one he'd hoped for.
"Harry," Hermione said quietly, "I understand why you're frustrated. And you're not... you're not entirely wrong about some of those things. But Dumbledore is—"
"Dumbledore is a politician," Harry said firmly. "And I'm starting to think that to him, I'm just another piece on a chess board. Something to be moved around and sacrificed when necessary for the greater good."
Ginny stood up and moved to him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "But Harry, keeping secrets from him could be dangerous too. What if you need his help? What if your shadow magic is connected to something he could help you understand?"
Harry looked into her brown eyes, seeing the genuine concern there. "Ginny, yesterday he asked me specifically if I'd experienced any dreams or visions or voices. He knew. Somehow, he knew to ask about exactly the things I'm experiencing."
"Maybe that's a good thing," Hermione suggested hopefully. "Maybe it means he can help—"
"Or maybe it means he knows more about what's happening to me than he's letting on," Harry countered. "Maybe he's been expecting this. And if he has been, why hasn't he told me? Why am I finding out about my abilities by accident?"
"I'm not saying Dumbledore is evil," Harry said more softly, returning to sit between them. "I'm just saying I don't think his priorities and mine are the same. And until I understand what's happening to me, until I know what these abilities really mean, I think it's safer to keep some things to myself."
Hermione reached for his hand. "But Harry, what if keeping secrets makes things worse? What if you need help and you're too stubborn to ask for it?"
"I'm not too stubborn to ask for help," Harry said, squeezing her hand. "I'm asking you two for help. I trust you completely. Both of you. More than I've ever trusted anyone."
"And we'll help you," Ginny said immediately. "Whatever you need, Harry. But we're just students. Our knowledge is limited."
"I know that," Harry acknowledged. "But at least with you, I know your motivations. I know you care about me as Harry, not as the Boy-Who-Lived or as some symbol in a larger war."
Hermione was quiet for a long moment, her brilliant mind clearly working through the implications. "You really think Dumbledore sees you as a chess piece?"
"I think Dumbledore sees everyone as chess pieces," Harry replied. "Some more valuable than others, but pieces nonetheless. And I'm tired of being moved around without understanding the game."
Ginny leaned against his shoulder. "So what do we do?"
"We keep researching," Harry said decisively. "We keep practicing. We keep learning. And we share information with people we trust—people whose motives we understand."
"And Dumbledore?" Hermione asked.
Harry considered this carefully. "We don't lie to him. But we don't volunteer information either. If he asks direct questions, we'll answer them. But until I understand what's really going on, until I know whether his goals align with my survival and wellbeing, we keep the most important things to ourselves."
Both girls nodded slowly, though Harry could see they weren't entirely comfortable with the decision.
"I just want you to know," Hermione said softly, "that I trust your judgment, Harry. If you don't think it's safe to tell Dumbledore everything, then we won't tell him everything. But promise me—promise us—that if things get dangerous, if you need help beyond what we can give, you won't let pride or distrust stop you from asking for it."
"I promise," Harry said, meaning it. "You two are the most important people in my life. I won't do anything to risk that."
Ginny smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. "Good. Because we're not going anywhere, Harry Potter. You're stuck with us."
Morning
The morning post arrived with its usual flurry of wings and excited chatter as dozens of owls swooped into the Great Hall. Harry was mechanically eating his porridge, his mind still turning over the previous night's conversation with Hermione and Ginny, when a familiar snowy white shape landed gracefully beside his plate.
"Hedwig," he said softly, immediately perking up. It had been weeks since he'd heard from Sirius, and the sight of his owl carrying a letter tied with black ribbon made his heart race.
He glanced around quickly, noting that most students were focused on their own mail or breakfast conversations. Hermione and Ginny, seated across from him, noticed his sudden alertness.
"From Sirius?" Hermione asked quietly.
Harry nodded, carefully untying the letter from Hedwig's leg and offering her some bacon, which she accepted regally before flying off to the owlery.
The letter was written in Sirius's familiar, slightly untidy handwriting:
Harry,
I hope this finds you well and in one piece. I've been following the tournament coverage in the Prophet (between the lines, of course—that rag wouldn't know real news if it bit them). Your performance in the first task has raised some eyebrows, and not all of them friendly.
I need to know—are you safe? Really safe? I know you tend to downplay danger, but the fact that someone put your name in that Goblet still has me worried sick. Have there been any other incidents? Any attempts on your life beyond the usual Hogwarts mayhem?
Write back immediately.
Padfoot
Without hesitation, Harry pulled out a piece of parchment and began writing his response, keeping his voice low as he spoke to Hermione and Ginny.
"I think I should tell him everything."
Ginny glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "Are you sure that's safe? Sending that kind of information by owl?"
"Sirius taught me some basic code words in the letters he send me during the summer," Harry explained, continuing to write. "And besides, I trust him completely. If anyone can help us figure this out, it's him."
Harry's letter was longer than Sirius's, but he kept the most sensitive details carefully coded:
Padfoot,
I'm safe for now, though you're right to be worried. The person who entered my name is still unknown, and Dumbledore doesn't seem particularly concerned about investigating.
I have to tell you something. The Goblet spoke to me—called me something I'd never heard before. "Heir of Peverell." Since then, I've developed abilities I've never learned, connected to shadows and darkness. I can manipulate them, travel through them, create things from them.
Hermione and Ginny know, and they're helping me research and practice safely. But we can't find any information about the Peverell name or shadow magic. It's like all records have been deliberately hidden or destroyed.
I've told Dumbledore about the shadow abilities but not about the voice or the name. After our conversation last night, I don't think I trust him with the full truth. He asks the right questions like he already knows some answers.
Can you help? Do you know anything about the Peverells or shadow magic? I need answers, Padfoot. These abilities are powerful, but I'm learning they might be dangerous too.
Prongs
Harry sealed the letter and sent it with a school owl, knowing it would take at least two days to reach wherever Sirius was hiding.
The wait was agonizing. Harry found himself checking the sky constantly during meals, much to Hermione and Ginny's amusement. When the responding owl finally arrived three days later during breakfast, Harry nearly knocked over his pumpkin juice in his eagerness to read it.
Prongs,
Your letter both relieved and terrified me. I'm glad you trust me with this, but bloody hell, Harry—shadow magic? That's not something you hear about every day.
I'll be honest: I know nothing about shadow magic itself. But the name Peverell... that rings a bell. A very old, very faint bell. I think I remember something my bloody mother used to say, but I'd need to research properly to give you real answers.
What I can tell you is this: if the Goblet recognized you as an heir to an ancient family, that's significant. Goblets of Fire respond to magical bloodlines and inheritances. It didn't just randomly choose that name.
Here's what we're going to do. The next Hogsmeade weekend, I want you to meet me. There's a secluded spot in the forest on the north side of the village—follow the path past the Shrieking Shack for about half a mile until you find a circle of standing stones. I'll be there at sunset.
Come alone, but tell Hermione and Ginny where you're going. Be careful who you tell this. Ancient magical bloodlines attract attention from people who would use that power for their own purposes.
I'll do what research I can before we meet. The Black family library might have information that's been lost elsewhere. We'll figure this out, Harry. But until then, be extremely careful with these abilities. If they're connected to an ancient bloodline, they're probably more powerful than you realize.
And Harry? Your instincts about Dumbledore might be right. I believe he truly wants the good of people, but he's always believed the ends justify the means. If he thinks your abilities serve some greater purpose, he might not prioritize your safety and autonomy the way he should.
Trust your friends. Trust yourself. And trust me to help you figure this out.
Padfoot
P.S. - Burn this letter after you read it.
Harry read the letter three times, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Finally, he had an adult ally who could potentially provide real answers—someone whose only agenda was Harry's wellbeing.
"Good news?" Hermione asked, noticing his expression.
"Very good news," Harry said quietly, discretely vanishing the letter with a whispered Incendio. "Sirius wants to meet. He thinks he might be able to find information about the Peverells in the Black family records."
Ginny's eyes widened. "When?"
"Next Hogsmeade weekend. He's being very careful about secrecy—wants me to meet him in the forest. He also told me that the Goblet of Fire recognises ancient bloodlines,"
"That's... that's brilliant," Hermione said, though worry still creased her brow. "But Harry, be careful. If Sirius is right about your abilities being connected to an ancient bloodline, there might be people looking for exactly that kind of power."
"I know," Harry said. "But Hermione, for the first time since this all started, I feel like I might actually get some real answers. Sirius doesn't have any agenda except helping me understand what's happening."
"And he knows you well enough to give you advice you'll actually listen to," Ginny added with a small smile.
Harry was about to respond when he noticed someone watching him from the Hufflepuff table. Susan Bones sat with a group of her housemates, but her attention kept drifting toward the Gryffindor table—toward him specifically. For a moment, Harry tensed, expecting another confrontation. Most Hufflepuffs had made their feelings about him quite clear this year, treating him like a cheating attention-seeker who'd stolen their champion's spotlight.
But Susan's expression wasn't hostile. When their eyes met across the Great Hall, her face flushed crimson, nearly matching her vibrant red hair, and she quickly looked away.
"Well, well," Hermione said softly, following his gaze. "It seems you have an admirer."
"What?" Harry blinked, refocusing on his friends.
Ginny grinned wickedly. "Susan Bones has been stealing glances at you for the past five minutes. Very obvious glances, I might add."
"She's probably just—" Harry began.
"Planning to ask you on a date?" Hermione suggested with a teasing smile. "Because that's definitely not the look of someone who thinks you're a cheating tournament crasher."
"Will she be your third girl then?" Ginny asked with mock seriousness.
"Ginny!"
"What? I can't blame you for noticing her," Ginny continued, thoroughly enjoying Harry's discomfort. "Susan's beautiful, and she's certainly... developing nicely this year."
Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. "I am not trying to form a harem."
"Could've fooled us," Hermione said with barely contained laughter. "First you seduce me, then you charm Ginny into your bed, and now you're collecting the attention of pretty Hufflepuffs."
"I didn't seduce anyone!" Harry protested, his voice slightly muffled by his hands.
"Oh, so we seduced you?" Ginny asked innocently. "How very forward of us."
"You two are impossible," Harry muttered, though he couldn't quite hide his smile.
"Hey, Harry don't worry, if you want to have a talk with her, just tell me. I will make sure you two are in a private classroom with no one nearby to interrupt your 'talk'" Ginny teased, clearly enjoying Harry's reaction as he gave her a deadpan look.
Night
The Gryffindor common room hummed. Harry had claimed his favorite armchair in a corner that offered both privacy and an excellent view of the room's occupants.
A burst of giggling drew his attention to the cluster of first-years sprawled on the carpet near the fireplace. They'd abandoned their homework in favor of what appeared to be an increasingly ridiculous shadow puppet competition. Harry watched as tiny hands waggle frantically between the flames and the wall, creating wobbly rabbits, lopsided birds, and what might have been a dragon if viewed from precisely the right angle while squinting.
"No, no, you're doing it wrong!" piped up a boy with dark hair. "Look, you have to angle your fingers like this to make proper sword!"
The boy demonstrated, and Harry had to admit the result was surprisingly sword-like. The shadow stretched across the stone wall, dark and sharp-edged in the flickering firelight.
A shadow sword, Harry thought, and suddenly felt as though someone had struck him with a bolt of lightning.
The thought sent a thrill through him that had nothing to do with the fire's warmth. His fingers began moving almost without conscious direction, small and subtle beneath the cover of his transfiguration textbook. He focused on the shadows cast by his own hands, feeling that familiar tingle of power as the darkness responded to his call.
But this time, instead of letting the shadows flow freely, he tried to compress them, to force them into a specific shape. They felt alive under his mental touch, almost sentient in their willingness to bend to his will.
A tiny blade of pure shadow materialized between his fingers, no longer than a quill but perfectly formed and wickedly sharp. Harry's breath caught. The construct felt solid, substantial, real in a way his previous shadow work had never achieved. It wasn't cold like metal, but it hummed with a dark energy that made his pulse quicken.
"Bloody hell, Potter!"
Harry quickly dismissed the shadow blade and looked up to find three first-years staring at him with wide eyes. The dark haired boy who'd been demonstrating sword techniques was practically bouncing on his toes.
"How'd you do that?" demanded a girl with bushy brown hair that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Hermione's first-year appearance. "That was brilliant!"
"Do what?" Harry asked innocently, though he couldn't quite suppress his grin.
"That shadow thing!" the dark haired boy insisted. "It looked like a real knife!"
Harry chuckled, pulling out his wand with a flourish. "Just a bit of fourth-year charm work, nothing too exciting." He cast a perfectly ordinary spell that created dancing shapes for entertainment. Several harmless animals pranced across the wall, earning delighted gasps from his audience.
"Can you teach us?" the bushy-haired girl asked eagerly.
"Afraid not," Harry said with exaggerated regret. "Fourth-year magic, remember? You'll have to wait a few years before McGonagall thinks you're ready for this level of sophisticated spellwork."
"But it's not fair!" protested a small boy with startling red eyes. "We're stuck with baby spells while you get to do all the interesting stuff!"
"Life's tragically unfair," Harry agreed solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. "Why, just five days ago I was forced to face a Hungarian Horntail while you lot got to sit safely in the stands eating sweets. Really makes you think about the cruel inequities of existence."
The first-years giggled, and Harry felt that familiar warm satisfaction that came from making people laugh.
"Will you show us some more spells?" the dark haired boy asked hopefully.
"Perhaps another time," Harry said, closing his textbook with theatrical finality. "I've got very important fourth-year business to attend to. Like figuring out why my Transfiguration essay is three inches too short and whether McGonagall will accept 'fighting dragons is surprisingly time-consuming' as a valid excuse."
The children laughed again and reluctantly returned to their own homework, though Harry caught them stealing glances at him throughout the evening. He supposed being the tournament champion had its perks—even the first-years thought he was worth watching.
But as the evening wore on and the common room gradually emptied, Harry found his thoughts returning obsessively to that moment of creation.
Time for some private experimentation, he decided, already mentally cataloging everything he'd need for a proper testing session.
Tomorrow
Harry slipped through the doorway of their familiar abandoned classroom like a thief entering his own vault. The space welcomed him with dusty silence, moonlight streaming through grimy windows to paint silver rectangles across the worn floorboards. Perfect conditions for what he hoped would be a breakthrough—assuming he could coax his newfound theory into reality.
Time to find out if I'm a genius or just another fourth-year with delusions of grandeur.
He positioned himself in the center of the room, rolling his shoulders to dispel the tension that had been building since his common room revelation. The practice dummies Hermione had conjured stood at attention like loyal sentries, their straw-stuffed forms ready to endure whatever punishment he might devise.
"Right then," Harry murmured, extending his hand toward the shadows pooling in the room's corners. "Let's see if you lot are as eager to become deadly as you seemed downstairs."
The shadows responded immediately, flowing toward him with that familiar hungry eagerness. But when he tried to compress them into the blade shape he'd visualized, they scattered like startled cats. Wisps of darkness curled around his fingers before dissolving into nothing, leaving him grasping at empty air.
Brilliant start, Potter. Really inspiring stuff.
He tried again, this time attempting to force the shadows into submission through sheer willpower. The result was equally pathetic—a vague, sword-shaped smudge that lasted approximately three seconds before evaporating like morning mist.
"Come on," Harry growled, frustration creeping into his voice. "I know you can do better than this. We've done harder things together."
Another attempt. Another failure. The shadows seemed to be mocking him now, responding enthusiastically to his call but refusing to maintain any coherent form. It was like trying to build a sandcastle from water—the materials were there, but they wouldn't hold together.
Harry paced the room like a caged panther, his mind racing through different approaches. Maybe he was thinking about it wrong. Maybe instead of forcing the shadows into shape, he needed to convince them. Maybe—
Wait. Harry paused mid-stride, remembering something from his first successful shadow-walking attempt. He'd succeeded when he'd stopped fighting the magic and started working with it. When he'd asked rather than demanded.
He returned to the center of the room, this time closing his eyes and reaching out with his magical senses rather than his sight. The shadows weren't just darkness—they were potential, possibility, the space between what was and what could be.
"I need a weapon," he whispered to the darkness. "Not just any weapon. Something that can cut through lies and pierce deceptions. Something worthy of a Peverell heir."
Power surged through him like liquid starlight, and when he opened his eyes, a blade of pure condensed shadow had materialized in his grip.
Holy bloody hell.
The weapon—and it was definitely a weapon, not some ethereal shadow-play—hummed with dark energy that resonated in his bones. It resembled a gladius, elegant and lethal, its surface absorbing light. The blade felt substantial and perfectly balanced, as though it had been crafted specifically for his hand.
"Tenebris Gladius," Harry breathed, the Latin flowing off his tongue like an incantation.
But maintaining the blade required constant focus. He could feel his concentration being drawn into the weapon like water down a drain. The moment his attention wavered, even slightly, the edges began to blur and fade.
Fantastic. A sword that disappears the second I think about anything else. That'll be useful in a real fight.
Still, it was a start. Harry moved toward the nearest practice dummy, raising the shadow blade experimentally.
The first strike cleaved through the dummy's torso with shocking ease, separating straw-stuffed fabric as cleanly as a master swordsmith's finest steel. Harry stared at the bisected dummy in amazement—the cut was perfect, surgical in its precision.
So it's not just for show. Good to know.
But was that all it could do? Was this simply an ordinary sword that happened to be made of shadows, or did it possess abilities beyond conventional weapons? Only one way to find out.
Harry dismissed the first blade with a thought and immediately conjured another, this one flowing into existence with slightly less effort than its predecessor. He attacked a second dummy, watching carefully as the shadow weapon carved through its target.
This time, he noticed something extraordinary. Where the blade had passed through the fabric and straw, dark tendrils lingered like ghostly flames. The substance—if it could be called that—resembled white/black fire, writhing and dancing before slowly fading from sight.
What in Merlin's name was that?
Harry leaned closer, studying the cut marks with intense curiosity. The white/black flames had vanished completely, leaving no trace of their presence except for a faint chill in the air. Had they been merely visual effects, or had they served some deeper purpose? Did they weaken whatever they touched? Corrupt it somehow? Or were they simply his imagination running wild?
Another mystery for the ever-growing pile.
He conjured a third blade, then a fourth, each manifestation becoming marginally easier as his muscles developed the magical equivalent of memory. But the energy drain was becoming serious—by the fifth conjuration, sweat beaded his forehead and his breathing had grown labored.
Note to self: shadow swords are brilliant but exhausting. Probably shouldn't plan on wielding one for hours at a time.
Harry dismissed the final blade and slumped against the wall, his body thrumming with residual magic and exhaustion. Despite the fatigue, excitement coursed through him like electricity. He'd done it—actually created a functional weapon from pure shadow magic. Harry could already image what else he could create with shadow.
But the limitations were equally important to understand. The blades required constant concentration to maintain, drained his magical reserves significantly, and their special properties—whatever those white/black flames had been—remained completely mysterious.
Training regimen, then. Build up endurance, practice maintaining focus under stress, figure out what those flames actually do.
Harry pushed himself upright, already planning his next session. He'd need to test the blades against different materials, experiment with varying sizes and shapes, perhaps even try creating multiple weapons simultaneously.
And maybe, he thought with a grin that would have made his enemies nervous, I will finally be able to stand against my enemies.
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