The Greengrass Manor had never looked more alive.
Garlands of silver and emerald wound through the grand hall, chandeliers glittered like starlight, and the long dining table—stretching almost the full length of the room, gleamed under the soft golden light. The scent of roasted meats, herbs, and freshly baked bread hung thick in the air, mingling with laughter and the low hum of conversation.
It was the Nexus gathered in full, a sight that even after all this time, still carried a quiet sense of awe. Everyone under one roof.
Petunia, Adorabella, Amaryllis, Edmund, Percival and the girls had clearly gone all out. The table was a masterpiece of opulence—crystal goblets, silver cutlery, polished platters piled high with roast lamb, herb-buttered turkey, glazed ham, baked salmon, spiced potatoes, steaming Yorkshire pudding, stuffed mushrooms, steaks, brisket etc... There were almost 20-30 items on the table.
Harry sat near the center, between Abigail and Daphne, with Sirius and Vernon directly across from him, already in a deep debate about whether Ferraris could beat broomsticks in a race.
Abigail was rolling her eyes. "You two have been talking about cars for an hour. This is a dinner, not a car show."
Sirius pointed dramatically with his fork. "You wouldn't understand, Abi. This is sacred conversation."
"Sacredly stupid," she muttered under her breath, earning a chuckle from Harry.
Further down the table, Hermione was recounting something with Ron, while Ted Tonks was sharing an amusing story about a Ministry official mistaking his Muggle radio for a cursed artifact. Molly Weasley, as always, was fussing over everyone's plates, making sure no one left a dish untouched.
At one point, Luna leaned toward Harry, eyes dreamy. "Did you know, Harry, that wrackspurts get especially dizzy around happiness? I think they'd be positively spinning tonight."
Harry smiled, clinking his glass gently against hers. "Then let's make them dizzy, Luna."
He rose, drawing the attention of everyone present. "Everyone," he began, smiling as the room quieted. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see this sight — Nexus gathered like this, around one table, as family. And family we are. With that in mind, I'd like to—"
"Harry," Hermione interjected suddenly, exchanging a quick glance with Ron. "Actually, we'd like to announce something first."
Harry blinked, surprised but amused, and gestured toward them. "By all means."
Ron and Hermione stood, moving toward the open space near the end of the table. A ripple of curiosity passed through the group as the pair shared a quick, excited smile.
Ron began, his voice warm and steady. "You know, when Harry first came to visit our house — before the whole world went mad with everything that followed — I remember watching him catch Pettigrew like it was the easiest thing in the world." He grinned. "Wandless magic, silent apparation, and that bloody casual expression while doing it. I thought, 'Blimey, he's just built different.'"
Laughter rippled through the table.
"But later," Ron continued, "I found out that it wasn't just talent. It was… work. Relentless, obsessive work. He didn't just learn magic — he bent it, pushed it, reshaped it till it did what he wanted."
Hermione picked up smoothly, her eyes bright with nostalgia. "I still remember the first time I met Harry. He transfigured a Bertie Bott's bean into a clock that sang the time — just to make me laugh." She smiled softly. "And I was hooked. Since then, we've seen things most witches and wizards only dream about. Magic that shouldn't even be possible… and yet, there he was, doing it like it was second nature."
She turned toward Harry. "So we started wondering — not how powerful you were, but how much more you could become. And that curiosity turned into… well, a project."
Ron grinned proudly. "A project that nearly drove Hermione mad, mind you."
Hermione rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Maybe. But today, it's finally complete."
With a small flourish, Ron waved his hand. A shimmering crystal materialised above his palm—glowing faintly with a deep sapphire light.
Gasps rippled across the table.
"This," Ron said, his voice carrying easily through the hall, "is what we're calling the Aether Crystal. It can measure two things: the raw magical energy inside a witch or wizard — and their control over that energy."
Hermione nodded. "In other words, it's the first real system that can quantify magical potential. No more vague talk of 'talented' or 'gifted'. We can finally see it."
The crystal pulsed gently, reacting to the ambient magic in the room.
Hermione clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling. "Now, before we show you what it does, let us explain how it works."
Ron nodded. "Right. So this little beauty measures your magical strength in what we're calling Magical Power Units—or MPUs. It's the most basic unit that we could come up with to measure magical energy. Think of it this way, 1 MPU=1 magical energy."
Hermione continued smoothly, "There are seven main tiers we've created so far. The first is Novice, up to 1000 MPU—that's usually pre-Hogwarts children, barely aware of their magic. Then comes Apprentice—1001 to 8,999—which covers most Hogwarts students from first to third year."
She gestured lightly and the crystal projected faint holographic rings of light, each tier represented by a hue—pale yellow for Novice, deepening to gold for Magus.
"Next," Hermione said, "is Wizard, from 9000 to 29,999 MPU—that's the range of skilled students and ordinary adult witches and wizards. Then we reach Sorcerer, from 30,000 to 99,999—Aurors, professors, battle-trained professionals."
Ron picked up, "Then there's Archwizard, from 100,000 to 499,999—your top tier masters, spellwrights, alchemists. After that, Magus, from 500,000 to just shy of a million. Likes of Dumbledore, Voldemort, and the Flamels."
Hermione's tone softened, reverent. "And finally... Grand Sage. One million MPU and beyond. This is a theoretical tier that we are keeping to put the founders of Hogwarts and Merlin in. It's the theoretical limit of mortal magic."
The air seemed to hum with awe. Even Sirius whistled low under his breath. "Blimey, that's one hell of a range."
Hermione smiled. "The crystal also measures control — how well someone can channel their magic. Power without precision can be dangerous, so control matters just as much."
"Oh, almost forgot... We theorize that getting to the Archwizard tier actually lengthens your lifespan to about 200 years." Ron added quickly. "We are not sure about the Grand Sage tier though, since it's just a theoretical tier. But in theory it should allow you to live up to 1000 years."
"And the issue with that is, that if it was true, then the founders would still be alive." Hermione added.
The room went utterly still at that—the quiet hum of conversation fading into thoughtful silence.
Even the twins who'd been whispering among themselves, paused. The very idea of living a thousand years—of magic that vast and enduring... pressed at the imagination.
Vernon leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. "Well, that's a bit of a frightening thought. Imagine Salazar Slytherin popping out of a cave somewhere after all these centuries."
Sirius snorted. "He'd probably sue Hogwarts for emotional damage."
A ripple of laughter went through the table, the tension easing.
The only one who wasn't laughing was Harry, as he knew that Slytherin would probably be disappointed at most.
Hermione shook her head, smiling despite herself. "In all seriousness, though, it's only a theory. Magic isn't just power — it's will, intent, and soul. Even if someone reached that level, the strain on their existence might be… catastrophic."
Ron nodded. "Exactly. You'd need a magical core stable enough to hold that power without tearing yourself apart."
Harry leaned back in his chair, swirling the drink in his hand thoughtfully. "Actually," he began, tone calm but firm, "I don't think it's entirely theoretical."
All eyes turned toward him.
Harry continued, his voice steady — the analytical edge of a seasoned researcher slipping in. "Magic is energy. Living energy. And our magical core acts as both the reservoir and the converter — it grows stronger and more refined as we move up these tiers. Every time someone reaches a new level, it's not just their power that increases; their core evolves."
Hermione tilted her head. "You mean... a biological transformation?"
Harry nodded. "In a way. Think about Dumbledore. The man radiates magic, but it's stable. His core isn't just expanded, it's fundamentally altered. The same goes for Voldemort. Whatever dark rituals he used, his core underwent a forced transformation. And the Flamels? Their longevity isn't just from the Stone—it's because their cores were refined enough to withstand its power."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes bright with quiet conviction. "To reach Archwizard tier, I think every one of them had to go through a core transformation. The power increase alone would destroy a normal magical structure otherwise."
Hermione's eyes widened, the logic clicking into place. "So you're suggesting that to reach Grand Sage, the transformation would have to go even further?"
"Exactly." Harry's tone was calm, but his words carried the weight of certainty. "A new stage entirely. Maybe not even a transformation of the core itself — maybe something beyond that. Something that changes the very nature of a witch or wizard."
A soft silence followed, the kind that came when everyone knew they were hearing something profound.
Ron exhaled slowly, glancing at Hermione. "Bloody hell, that… actually makes sense. If the Archwizard level already changes the body and magic flow, then the next step would change what we are."
Hermione's gaze flicked back to Harry, half in awe, half in dread. "You really think that's possible?"
Harry smiled faintly, the kind of smile that promised trouble. "Just because no one's reached it doesn't mean it's impossible. Maybe no one tried hard enough. Or maybe they didn't know how."
At that, the entire table groaned in unison — a mix of fond exasperation and resigned amusement.
Sirius slumped back in his chair with a grin. "And there it is. The 'I'm going to break reality again' tone."
Petunia sighed softly into her napkin. "Wonderful. He's going to try it, isn't he?"
Abigail facepalmed. "Of course he is."
Hermione just shook her head, a small, helpless smile tugging at her lips. "You're incorrigible, Harry."
Harry smiled, "I'm not saying I can reach it. I'm just saying that it's possible. There is nothing impossible when it comes to magic."
"Even reviving the dead is possible with magic, if someone just tries hard enough."
For a moment, the entire hall went utterly still — forks halfway to mouths, eyes wide, the hum of quiet conversation instantly gone.
Then chaos broke out.
"WHAT?!" Sirius nearly choked on his drink, slamming it down on the table. "Don't just say something like that over dinner, pup!"
Hermione's voice overlapped his, sharp with disbelief. "Harry, that's necromancy! You can't— that's— that's beyond dark!"
Molly Weasley gasped, clutching her pearls like a scandalized matron. "Sweet Merlin, not at the dinner table!"
Daphne blinked, halfway between curiosity and horror. "Wait—are you saying you can bring people back?"
Across the table, Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. "Well, if anyone could find a way to make death reversible, it would be Harry."
"Luna!" chorused half the table at once.
Harry laughed, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright—no, I don't know a resurrection spell!" His grin widened as he leaned back. "I was making a point. Theoretically possible doesn't mean achievable. Yet."
But soon. Soon I'll complete that spell and revive you Lumos. I have not forgotten my word.
"Yet?" Sirius deadpanned, glaring at him. "See, that's exactly what worries me."
Pansy groaned, burying her face in her hands. "You can't just toss out 'reviving the dead is possible' like you're commenting on the weather, Harry!"
"Hey," Harry said mildly, tone light but eyes gleaming with that telltale spark of curiosity that terrified and fascinated in equal measure, "magic bends to will, right? I'm just saying — if there's a boundary, it can be studied. And if it can be studied…"
"…it can be broken," Percy finished, rolling his eyes. "Merlin's bloody beard, mate. You're going to give every Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries a collective heart attack."
Amaryllis, who'd been silently sipping her wine until now, finally chuckled. "He's already on every watchlist they have, I imagine. This just moves him up a few spots."
Pandora smiled. "Or maybe he's right. Maybe the line between life and death isn't as rigid as people believe. After all, magic itself isn't alive or dead. It simply is."
That earned her a few uneasy glances, but Harry only nodded appreciatively. "Exactly. It's about understanding it deeply enough."
Petunia sighed, shaking her head. "You and your philosophies, Harry. One day, you're going to turn the entire magical world upside down."
Harry smirked, "Hopefully for the good."
The laughter eventually softened into warm murmurs, the room settling into the comfortable hum of clinking cutlery and quiet conversation. Beyond the tall glass windows, the winter night stretched wide — velvet-black skies pricked with silver stars, and faint flakes of snow beginning to fall again over the Greengrass estate.
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"Dad," Harry said casually.
Vernon looked up, wary but patient. "Yes, son?"
Harry's tone was calm. Too calm. "I want to go to Azkaban."
The book slipped from Vernon's fingers. He blinked once, twice, and then stared. "...You what?"
"Azkaban," Harry repeated, as if he'd just mentioned a trip to the grocery store. "I need to visit it."
Vernon blinked twice, his mustache twitching. "Out of nowhere? On a perfectly fine afternoon, you decide you want to visit Britain's most cursed prison? Have you gone mad?"
Harry smiled faintly. "Not mad. Just… curious."
Vernon set the paper down, folding it deliberately — a sure sign that his patience was hanging by a thread. "Harry, unless you've decided you miss the smell of despair, there's absolutely no reason to go to Azkaban."
"There is," Harry said evenly. "There are a lot of Death Eaters there. Loyalists. Useful ones. I plan to take control of them."
The words were calm, matter-of-fact — but they hit Vernon like a shockwave. Then, slowly, his expression shifted as understanding dawned. "You mean…"
Harry nodded. "The Imperius Veritas spell. I'll need to use it on the worst ones. Grind their loyalty into truth. They won't even know they've switched sides."
For a moment, Vernon said nothing — just studied his son, the faint, cold determination in those green eyes. Finally, he exhaled, rubbing his temple. "And I'm guessing this isn't going to be… official?"
Harry's lips twitched. "No. Just something I'll handle myself. I only need to know if you've ever been to Azkaban. If you have, I can use Legilimency to see it through your memory — enough to Apparate safely inside."
Vernon's expression tightened. He'd seen Harry do impossible things before — things that didn't seem remotely human. But this was different. "You realize what's in there, right? Dementors, Harry. You're walking straight into their nest. You'd need a proper Patronus."
"You can right? Cast a Patronus?"
Harry nodded, lying quickly. "Yes, I can Dad. It's quite an easy spell to be honest."
Sorry Dad, I can't tell you that this spell is the one spell that I can't cast no matter what I do.
"Ohkay... what form does your patronus take?" Vernon inquired.
"A stag" Harry lied again. "I think it's because my father's animagus was a stag."
Vernon smiled faintly at that, the kind of soft, proud grin only a father could manage. "A stag, huh? Fitting. Strong, noble—like your old man."
Harry forced a small smile in return, but his chest felt heavy. The lie sat bitter on his tongue, because it wasn't a lie he wanted to tell. It was one he had to.
Vernon nodded slowly, taking a sip of his tea as if reassuring himself everything was fine. "Good. Then you'll be alright in there. Those things—Dementors—they can't touch you if your Patronus holds. Just remember that, yeah?"
Harry's voice came softer than usual. "Yeah, Dad. I'll remember."
But as Vernon turned away, his back to him, Harry's expression faltered. The quiet truth pressed against the back of his throat like a stone.He couldn't summon a Patronus — not even a flicker of light.
He'd tried everything.Every memory that should have worked — the first time Petunia hugged him, Abigail's laugh, the sound of Sirius calling him "pup," the family dinners, the warmth of home — none of it mattered. The spell never came.
For someone who could bend reality, who could command magic itself, he couldn't summon hope.
That thought alone stung more than any curse could.
Vernon's voice broke through his thoughts, rough but steady. "Alright, let's get started. When do you want to do it?"
"Dad," he said quietly, "I'll go now."
Vernon blinked. "What? Now? You can't—Harry, Azkaban isn't—"
Harry raised a hand, his tone patient but firm. "I just need you to picture it. As vividly as you can. The prison, the coastline, the sea around it. Everything you've seen."
Vernon's breath caught. "Harry—"
"Please, Dad."
Something in Harry's eyes — the steel, the quiet weight of decision — made Vernon stop protesting. Slowly, he exhaled, closing his eyes. "It's… cold," he began, voice low. "You can feel it before you even see the walls. The air smells like salt and death. The island sits in the middle of black water, cliffs jagged, wind howling like it's alive. The walls are gray stone, high and slick with moss, and there's a tower — no, three — twisting up like broken spears."
Harry's eyes glowed faintly as he used Legilimency to capture the image of the place from Vernon's mind. His eyes refocused as he got the complete image and even with just an image he was feel the despair of those grounds.
"Got it."
Vernon opened his eyes, worry etched deep across his face. "Harry… you don't have to do this alone."
Harry smiled, "Don't worry Dad. I'll be back in two hours at most."
Before Vernon could argue, Harry disapparated without a sound.
He arrived in darkness. The cold hit first—a living, suffocating cold that clawed at his lungs and pressed against his mind. The air was thick with misery, as if every breath came laced with someone else's grief.
Azkaban.
Truly a god forbidden place. He now understood how an island was able to house these criminals.
And then he felt them.
Dementors.
Dozens, maybe hundreds. Their presence seeped into the air, draining warmth and thought alike. The edges of his mind began to tremble, the memories tried to creep in, but his occlumency helped keep his mind clear.
"Not today," he murmured.
His eyes flared with faint gold light as he drew a complex sigil in the air — a pattern so intricate that space itself rippled in response.
"Praesidium Continuum."
The world folded around him.
A sharp hum resonated as translucent walls — faintly shimmering with refracted light — formed in a perfect cube around him. The air inside felt still, stable. Beyond it, the world looked distant, as though he were seeing it through glass submerged in deep water.
The Dementors halted mid-drift, confused. Their hunger reached for him but found… nothing.
Because Harry wasn't there.
He existed and didn't — a paradox locked within his own pocket of space.
The spell was unstable as his mastery over spacial magic had still not reached the desired level. Then again, according to the Continuum the control he needed should be at least demigod level for him to make the spell stable. But the issue was that he had absolutely no idea what demigod level control even meant.
He'd only ever tested it once — briefly, far from anything that could be destroyed.
But here… it was all he had.
He walked forward, each step echoing in both realities. His gaze swept over the fortress — its crumbling walls, its misery-soaked air.
Inside, the screams of prisoners faded and warped as they reached the barrier, dulled to a whisper. The Dementors hovered, confused, unable to perceive him, unable to touch him.
He reached the entrance gate and let out a slow, steady breath.
"This will do," he murmured.
Then, raising his wand, he began the sequence, a quiet, controlled chant as he prepared to extend his influence, to reach the minds of the Death Eaters within.
The cube flickered again — unstable, hungry for power.
Harry ignored it. His concentration was absolute.
The echo of his footsteps was the only sound left. Each corridor he walked through seemed more lifeless than the last — the air heavier, colder, as though despair itself was layered into the stones.
Cells lined the walls, each one filled with faint movements, broken murmurs, or hollow laughter that had forgotten its reason. Harry kept his focus razor-sharp — reaching out with his mind, feeling for the minds bound in those cells.
And then... the hum changed.
The cube flickered. Once. Twice.
Then it collapsed.
The sound was like a pop. Air rushing in to fill a space that shouldn't have existed.
Harry froze. His breath turned white.
From the darkness ahead, a shadow unfolded. Tall, tattered, and wrong. The air temperature plunged, and that feeling crept in again; the bone-deep cold, the pull at the edges of the mind, the suffocating, soul-sick despair.
A Dementor.
It was right in front of him.
Harry tried casting the spell again. "Praesidium Continuum"
Nothing. The sigil fizzled into dead light, the spell rejecting his command.
He backed up, heartbeat steady but sharp. The Dementor drifted closer, its rags dragging through the air, the sound like breath over ice.
Another step. The smell of rot and decay thickened.
The creature leaned in, and then suddenly froze.
It shuddered once, then again, violently, like it had touched something poisonous.
A low, guttural hiss tore from beneath its hood, not hunger, but disgust.
Harry blinked. "...What?"
The Dementor jerked back, twisting and spasming as if its very nature rebelled against being near him. Then, with a sound like tearing wind, it fled straight through the ceiling, its shriek echoing through the prison's endless halls.
For a long moment, Harry just stood there. The silence that followed was almost comic in its absurdity.
He lowered his wand slowly. "Right," he muttered.
A pause.
"Not sure if I should be grateful," he said dryly, "or insulted."
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January 4th, 1993
The great halls of Moonstone Dunvegan, were buzzing with activity. Breakfast being scuffed down, cats meowing, dogs barking, which everyone suspected was just Sirius, and owls flapped about in utter chaos as everyone present prepared to leave for Hogwarts again.
Over the holidays, the estate had fully transformed into a shared home: The Dursleys, The Blacks, The Tonkses, The Weasleys, The Grangers, The Greengrasses, the Parkinsons, the Lovegoods, and even Victor, Harry's ever efficient manager, all now called it home. What had once been an echoing ancestral castle was now a hive of voices, laughter, and occasional shouting about missing socks or stolen pastries.
To be fair, they had only moved in two days ago, but it still felt home.
Harry stood near the front steps, watching it all with quiet amusement. He'd grown again over the break — from five-seven to five-nine. His lean frame now starting to fill out, carrying that unmistakable mix of power and calm confidence. Even Ron and the other boys had shot up, most of them nearly brushing six feet now.
As the clock struck nine, the cars waited by the front drive and everyone was choosing one. Harry of course chose his McLaren F1.
He slid into the driver's seat with a small grin tugging at his lips, the engine purring to life with a sound that made everyone else to glance up.
He glanced toward the front steps. "So," he said, loud enough for the others to hear, "who's feeling brave today?"
To everyone's amusement — or horror — Luna skipped forward without hesitation, her radish earrings swinging as she smiled dreamily. "I think I'd like to see how fast reality can blur today."
Harry chuckled. "Perfect. Hop in."
She slipped into the passenger seat gracefully, smoothing her cloak. Harry leaned slightly to help her with the seatbelt, only for Luna to click it in place herself.
"Efficient," Harry noted, impressed. "Alright, Luna. Hold on to your life."
The rest of Nexus barely had time to react.
Petunia's voice rang out sharply from behind, "Harry James Potter Dursley, if you crash that car—!"
Her warning was drowned out by the thunderous roar of the engine. The McLaren shot forward like a silver streak, tearing down the long driveway, leaving a spray of snow and laughter behind.
Fred whistled. "Still not sure what's scarier — his magic or his driving."
Ron sighed, hefting his trunk into another car. "Mate, it's the same thing. Both defy common sense."
From the manor steps, Petunia was still fuming, while Sirius leaned on a column, laughing. "That boy's going to give her gray hair before she's fifty."
"Too late," Vernon said dryly, adjusting his coat.
As the rest of the Nexus convoy began to move out, the laughter and chatter faded into sounds of engine growling.
Around 9:15, Harry had just parked the McLaren in one smooth slide outside the station and stepped out like he'd done nothing remotely reckless. Luna stepping out from the other side, shaking like a cold kitten.
"Harry James Potter Dursley!"
Harry blinked, a sheepish smile forming instantly. "Good morning to you, Mum."
"Don't 'Mum' me," she snapped, jabbing a finger toward him. "You could've died driving like that! Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"
Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Not exactly, but it was around 160?"
The look she gave him could have vaporized lesser men. Even Sirius, standing behind her, muttered, "Merlin's beard… I'm staying out of that."
"Look at the condition of the poor, girl. You have scared her to death!"
"Um... She is just thrilled to have experienced that."
"And how in the hell did you get her after us all when you were the first to leave in the fastest car?"
"I was just giving her a tour of the city, Mum..."
The rest of the Nexus were already boarding, trying — and failing — to stifle their laughter. Ron was red in the face. Fred and George were practically wheezing. Daphne and Pansy smiled completely unbothered, while Hermione pretended to help Ginny with her luggage just so she wouldn't laugh out loud.
Harry, for all his unmatched power, looked like a guilty schoolboy, standing there with his head slightly bowed, nodding at every scolding word. The image was almost adorable — the boy who could outthink the greatest magical minds of the age being utterly defeated by his mother's stern tone.
Finally, Petunia's tirade wound down, ending with a firm, "And if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll have Vernon go and sell off every single car in the house, do you understand me?"
"Yes, Mum," Harry said quickly.
There was a pause. Then he stepped forward, hugged her tight, and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. "Love you."
Petunia blinked — startled, as always, by how effortlessly he could disarm her. Before she could respond, he'd already joined the others and was making his way towards the platform now.
Soon they were boarding the train and Petunia watched her son and daughter climb abroad, her irritation melted into a small, reluctant smile. "That boy will be the end of me," she murmured, half exasperated, half fond. "He does it just to make me worry."
Vernon chuckled beside her. "Or maybe he just likes watching you chase him."
Petunia rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her gaze lingered as the whistle blew, and the Hogwarts Express began to move.
From the window, Harry waved — bright-eyed, laughing — as the train rolled out of the station. And though her heart ached with the familiar mix of pride and worry, Petunia couldn't help but think…
Yes. He definitely did it to rile her up.