Smoke hung heavy in the air, turning every breath into a struggle.
The cottage on the edge of the village was almost gone, swallowed by flames that lit up the night. What had started as screams was now just silence, broken only by the occasional crack of burning wood.
In the wreckage of what used to be the living room, a man stood alone. He was tall, lean, with neatly slicked-back hair and a face that might've been handsome if not for the cruel curve of his smile. His eyes—once just an ordinary brown—now glowed faintly red, as if something unnatural had taken root inside him.
He wasn't shaken. He wasn't panicked.
Whatever dark ritual he'd done to get here, he looked more than ready to do it again.
"Please..." The elderly wizard at his feet was barely recognizable now. Blood matted his silver beard, and his limbs bent at unnatural angles. "Tom... you were... my student..."
Lord Voldemort—for that was who he was now, Tom Riddle long since buried—flicked his wand lazily. The old man's body contorted again, his bones cracking with such force that they pierced through his skin.
"Your student?" Voldemort's voice was silky, almost pleasant. "No. I was never yours. You were merely a stepping stone on my path to greatness."
The cottage continued to burn around them, yet not a single flame touched Voldemort. His heavy and oppressive magic crackled in the air.
"The texts," the old wizard gasped. "You can't... they're too dangerous..."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Nothing is too dangerous for Lord Voldemort."
Slowly, taking his sweet time to savor the moment, he reached into his robes and withdrew an ancient tome bound in what appeared to be human skin. The pages had yellowed with age as they peeked out from the binding, covered in symbols that seemed to shift and crawl across the parchment.
"Do you know how many have tried to keep this from me? Seven. All dead now." He smiled thinly. "You will be the eighth."
The old wizard's eyes widened with horror. "The Grimoire of Eternal Shadow... you don't understand what it—"
"I understand perfectly." Voldemort cut him off with a hiss. "You've hidden pieces of it for decades. Did you think I wouldn't find them all? Did you think I wouldn't solve the puzzle?"
He opened the book to a specific page. The symbols on it glowed with an eerie green light, casting strange shadows across his face.
"This particular ritual requires... significant sacrifice." Voldemort's smile widened. "It requires pain. It requires death. But most importantly—" he leaned closer to the old man, "—it requires someone who once held power over you."
The man's breathing became shallow. "Tom... please..."
"I am Lord Voldemort!" The shout reverberated through the burning cottage, causing what remained of the walls to tremble. "And you, Horace Slughorn, are nothing but a means to an end. Take this for what it is—an honor for the service you did to me when you gave me the knowledge. An honor that would live on even after you are dead."
Before Slughorn could speak, Voldemort began to chant words in a language so ancient and infernal that the very air seemed to recoil from it. With each syllable, Slughorn's body convulsed more violently. Blood began to seep from his eyes, his ears, his mouth—not flowing but floating upward, defying gravity, drawn to the book in Voldemort's hands.
"An essence of my very being," Voldemort whispered between incantations, "Forever bound and sealed. Power beyond measure..."
The screams that followed were inhuman—not just from Slughorn, but from something deeper, something primal that recognized the fundamental wrongness of what was occurring. The old wizard's body began to desiccate, his very life force being siphoned away, consumed by the dark magic Voldemort wielded.
And then, silence. The flames still crackled, but all else was still.
Voldemort closed the book with a soft thud. His hands trembled ever so slightly—the only indication of the immense magical exertion he had just undergone. But his eyes glowed brighter than ever, and when he slipped a simple gold ring onto his finger, the stone set within it seemed to absorb the surrounding darkness, becoming a void within a void.
"Eternity," he whispered, "it has its price, but it's a price worth paying."
Without another glance at the withered husk that had once been his professor, Voldemort strode from the burning cottage. Behind him, the flames climbed higher, erasing all evidence of what had transpired.
All except for the ring on his finger that glowed unnaturally and the imperceptible green glow being emitted by the evil grimoire clutched in his grasp.
-Break-
Harry's eyes opened slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains of his private room on the right wing of the third floor. No gasping, no cold sweat—just a lingering unease and the fading images of fire, blood, human skin, and a strange gold ring.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. The dream had been vivid—too vivid. It wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of Voldemort, but the details had never been this sharp before.
A soft murmur beside him drew his attention away from the disturbing visions. Turning his head, he found himself sandwiched between two sleeping forms—Daphne on his left, Regina on his right. Somehow, they had both ended up using his chest as a pillow during the night.
Regina's dark hair spilled across his torso like ink, while Daphne's blonde locks caught the sunlight, glowing almost silver. The contrast would have been poetic if Harry was in a more contemplative mood.
As it was, he was primarily aware of the weight of their bodies against his and the complicated series of warming and silencing charms they'd had to cast around his bed the previous night. Those two could be loud, alright, and he wasn't sure the wards on the door alone could keep everything private.
"Morning," came Daphne's sleep-roughened voice. She hadn't opened her eyes yet, but her fingers traced lazy patterns across his bare chest.
"Been awake long?" Harry asked, the dream already receding to the back of his mind.
"Mm, not really." She yawned, finally cracking open one blue eye to look up at him. "You were muttering in your sleep."
Harry tensed slightly. "Was I?"
"Something about rings and shadows." Daphne lifted herself onto one elbow, studying his face. "Bad dream?"
"Just weird," Harry deflected. He didn't want to think about Voldemort, not now, not with Daphne's warm body pressed against his side and Regina beginning to stir on his other flank.
Regina's awakening was less gentle. She sat up abruptly, her hair a wild tangle around her face, blinking rapidly as she took in her surroundings.
"Shit," she said eloquently. "What time is it?"
"Early enough," Harry replied, amused by her disorientation. "No one's up yet."
Regina relaxed slightly, falling back against him. "Good. Because after last night, I need at least another hour."
Daphne smirked. "You've got stamina issues, Parkinson."
"Says the girl who passed out first," Regina shot back, but there was no real heat in her voice. Her hand found Harry's beneath the covers, intertwining their fingers.
Harry couldn't help but smile as the two girls fell into their usual banter. It was a strange arrangement they had—not quite a relationship, not quite casual. He still remembered when Daphne had first approached him after the debacle with the Goblet of Fire when most of the school had turned against him. Regina had also been arranged by her, initially just for getting in some practice and releasing the unintended side-effects of the ritual he'd undertaken, but things had changed significantly among them.
Now, after a few weeks, here they were, and Harry couldn't imagine a life without these two being a significant part of it.
He was brought out of his thoughts when Daphne's fingers traced up his neck, tilting his face toward hers. "You're thinking too much," she murmured before pressing her lips to his.
The kiss was slow and intimate—exactly how he'd come to regard his connection with Daphne. It was, in his opinion, her specialty. She never rushed anything, treating each moment as if it were a calculated move in a grand strategy. Even now, her tongue parted his lips with precision, exploring his mouth with practiced ease.
Not to be outdone, Regina shifted beside him, her lips finding the sensitive spot just below his ear. Her approach was always more impulsive, more raw—all instinct and desire without Daphne's careful calculations.
"If you two don't stop," Harry said between kisses, "we're going to miss breakfast entirely, and I don't give any guarantees about your lessons either."
Daphne's laugh was soft against his lips. "Would that be so terrible?"
Regina's teeth grazed his earlobe. "I vote we stay here."
Harry groaned as Daphne's hand slid down his chest, her touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Regina's lips had moved to his neck, and the sensation of both of them working in tandem was making it increasingly difficult to think clearly.
"Fuck breakfast," he decided, his hands finding their way to Daphne's waist as Regina's mouth claimed his, kissing him hotly. His hands tightened on Daphne's waist, pulling her closer as Regina's lips pressed harder against his. The room was quiet, the silencing charms holding strong, muffling the soft gasps and rustling sheets.
Daphne's fingers slid lower, brushing over his stomach, her touch light but teasing. Regina's teeth nipped at his lower lip, a low hum escaping her as she shifted to straddle his hips. Both these girls knew how to play, be it solo or tag-team. Harry never complained, for he was the one enjoying their ministrations.
Daphne broke away from his mouth, her breath warm against his cheek as she moved to kiss along his jaw. Her blonde hair tickled his skin, and he tilted his head to give her better access. Regina's hands were on his chest now, her nails digging in just enough to send a shiver through him. She rocked her hips slightly, the friction pulling a groan from deep in his throat.
"Mmm," Regina murmured, her voice rough as she leaned down, her lips grazing his collarbone. Daphne's hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, her fingers wrapping around his manhood, and she began to pleasure him with a slow, teasing stroke. Harry's breath hitched, his hips jerking up instinctively.
Daphne let out a soft chuckle, her lips brushing his ear. "Eager already?" she whispered, her hand moving with agonizing precision. Regina's mouth was on his chest now, her tongue flicking over a nipple, and the dual sensations were almost too much. Harry's hands moved to Regina's thighs, gripping the smooth skin as she pressed herself closer.
"Fuck," he gasped as Daphne's grip tightened, her thumb circling all over the tip in a way that made his head spin.
"Ready?" She asked Regina as she pulled her hand off, and the brunette didn't waste even a second. Harry let out a groan that was swallowed by Daphne's lips as Regina slammed down onto him in one furious motion, burying him to the hilt inside her quivering snatch.
Daphne shifted, draping herself over him, her lips finding his again. Her kiss was deep, her tongue sliding against his as her hand kept up its steady rhythm, stroking his chest intimately.
Regina's began rolling her hips in no time, more sensual this time, and he could feel the heat of her pussy as it enveloped him manhood tightly, her walls sliding around his length as she bounced her ass, fucking herself raw on his cock. She let out a low moan, her hands sliding up to tangle in her hair just as Daphne fisted his, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss.
Regina's movements grew more urgent, her breaths coming in short, sharp pants as she bounced on top of him. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and desire, the warming charms making the space beneath the curtains feel like a furnace.
Harry's hands roamed, one sliding up Regina's back to press her closer, the other finding Daphne's perky rear, his fingers digging into her soft skin. Regina's moans grew louder, her hips moving faster, and he could feel her trembling above him. Daphne pulled back from the kiss, her eyes dark as she watched Regina's face, a smirk playing on her lips.
"Fuck," Regina gasped, her head tipping back as her movements became erratic. Harry's hand moved to her hip, guiding her rhythm, his own breaths ragged. Daphne's hand quickly joined in, fondling his balls as Regina sped up, her strokes firm and unrelenting, and Harry's vision blurred at the edges.
"Close," he managed to choke out, his voice barely audible. Daphne's smirk widened, and she leaned down, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered something too soft to catch. Regina's moans turned into a sharp cry, her body tensing as she shuddered above him, her nails digging into his shoulders.
The sight of her unraveling pushed Harry over the edge. His hips bucked, a low groan tearing from his throat as he erupted inside her. Regina shook and writhed above him, and Daphne pulled her down. Harry wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest as she shuddered in climax.
Harry let out a groan when Daphne pulled him out of Regina's creampied snatch and he watched as his warmth spilled over Daphne's hand. She kept moving, drawing out every pulse until he was gasping, his chest heaving. Regina stayed collapsed against him, her breath hot against his neck, her body still trembling.
Daphne eased back, her hand slipping away as she licked her fingers clean with a slow, teasing motion that made Harry's stomach twist.
"Mmm," she hummed, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. Regina let out a shaky laugh, her face buried in Harry's shoulder.
"Fuck, that was…" Regina trailed off, her voice muffled. Harry's arms wrapped around her, his hands stroking her back as he tried to catch his breath. Daphne stretched out beside him, her body pressed against his side, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.
They lay there for a moment, the only sounds their heavy breathing and the faint rustle of sheets. The room was still silent, the rest of the castle oblivious to the tangled mess of limbs and charms hidden behind the curtains. Regina shifted, rolling off him to sprawl on her side, one arm flung across his chest.
"Think we're skipping breakfast?" she asked, her voice still rough but laced with amusement. Daphne snorted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at them both.
"After that? I'd say we earned a lie-in," she said, her tone smug. Harry chuckled, his head still fuzzy, his body heavy with satisfaction. He reached out, pulling Daphne closer, her bare curves flush against him as Regina's hand found his again, her fingers lacing through his.
The curtains blocked out most of the morning light, but a few stray beams slipped through, catching the sweat on Regina's skin and the flush on Daphne's cheeks. Harry's mind was blissfully blank, the lingering unease from his dream buried beneath the weight of their bodies and the afterglow.
Regina turned her head, her lips brushing his shoulder. "You good?" she asked, her voice soft. Harry nodded, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.
"Yeah," he said, his voice low. "More than good."
Daphne's fingers slid up to his jaw, turning his face toward her. She kissed him, slow and relaxed, her lips soft against his. Regina's hand tightened on his, and he felt her shift closer, her breath warm against his neck. The kiss deepened, Daphne's tongue teasing his, and Harry's hand moved to her hip, pulling her flush against him.
Regina's lips found his ear again, her teeth grazing the lobe as she let out a soft hum. "Round two?" she murmured, her voice playful. Harry groaned, the sound half-laughter, half-desire, as Daphne's hand slid down his chest again, her touch sparking heat in his veins.
"Fuck it," he said, his voice rough. "Why not?"
Regina's laugh was low and throaty as she glanced at Daphne who grinned and climbed onto him, her thighs on either side of his hips. Regina's lips moved to his neck, her hands roaming, and the world narrowed to the heat of their bodies, the slide of skin against skin, and the soft sounds filling the charmed space.
Daphne's movements were slower than Regina, more calculated and teasing, her hips rolling in a steady rhythm. Her wet pussy glided over his manhood, combining all three of their juices in a way that made Harry's breath catch. Regina's hands were everywhere—his chest, his thighs, his hair—her touch light but insistent. She kissed him again, her lips hungry, her tongue curling against his in a way that made his head spin.
"Ahh," Daphne moaned as she finally aligned him with her entrance and slammed down, taking his entire length inside her in one firm pus. She leaned forward, her hands braced on his chest as she started slow and soon began to move faster, her breaths coming in short gasps. Harry's hands gripped her hips, guiding her, his own hips lifting to meet her. Regina's lips left his, trailing down his chest, her tongue flicking over sensitive skin, and he groaned, the sensation overwhelming.
The air was thick, the warming charms amplifying the heat of their bodies. Daphne's moans grew louder, her movements frantic, and Harry could feel the tension building again, his own breaths ragged. Regina's hand slipped between them, her fingers brushing where Daphne and Harry met, and Daphne let out a sharp cry, her body trembling.
"Fuck," Harry gasped, his hands tightening on Daphne's hips as the pressure became too much. Daphne's cry turned into a low moan, her body shuddering as she collapsed against him, her breath hot against his chest. Harry followed a moment later, a groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside her, his vision going white.
Regina's lips found his again, her kiss soft and lingering as she pressed herself against his side. Daphne's weight was heavy on his chest, her breaths slowing as she nuzzled into his neck. Harry's arms wrapped around them both, his hands stroking their skin, the afterglow washing over him like a tide.
They stayed like that, tangled together, the world outside the curtains forgotten. The silencing charms held, the entire right wing of the floor silent, and for a moment, there was nothing but the warmth of their bodies and the steady rhythm of their breathing.
"Worth missing breakfast," Regina mumbled, her voice slurred with exhaustion. Daphne laughed softly, her fingers tracing patterns on Harry's chest.
"Definitely," she said, her voice warm. Harry smiled, his eyes half-closed, his body heavy with satisfaction. The dream was a distant memory, buried beneath the reality of the two girls pressed against him, their warmth chasing away the last traces of unease.
By the time they finally emerged from their early morning activities, they found they were well within the time for breakfast. Harry reckoned he should've checked the time, since it seemed they'd gotten up much earlier than they'd thought.
Daphne, ever composed, looked as if she'd spent the morning in the library. Not a hair out of place, her Slytherin tie knotted perfectly, she could have been heading to a formal dinner rather than a Charms lesson.
Regina was less put together, her Slytherin robes slightly rumpled and her hair hastily tied back. But her eyes held a satisfied gleam that more than made up for any dishevelment.
As for Harry, he felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. The dream of Voldemort had been pushed so far back in his mind that it might as well have never happened.
"Looking forward to more tonight," Regina remarked with a wink as they prepared to go their separate ways in the corridor.
"Don't be greedy," Daphne chided, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. "You have NEWTs to study for, remember?"
Regina waved her hand dismissively as Harry just smirked. "We'll see."
With a last lingering look, the girls departed, heading in opposite directions to not give off the impression that they'd been together. Harry watched them go, savoring the moment of normalcy before the reality of his situation came crashing back.
Sighing, Harry turned and headed toward the Great Hall. He might as well grab something to eat before facing the rest of the day.
-Break-
The shift in public opinion was as dramatic as it was predictable.
Just a week ago, Harry couldn't walk through the corridors without hearing whispered accusations of cheating, seeing antagonistic gestures, or feeling the weight of hostile stares. Now, those same students who had vilified him were suddenly his biggest supporters.
"Harry! Harry Potter!"
A group of third-year Hufflepuffs waved enthusiastically as he passed them in the courtyard. Harry nodded tersely in acknowledgment but didn't slow his pace.
He had expected it all after the swift change following the first task. Diggory's near-fatal encounter with the Ironbelly had shocked the school into remembering just how dangerous the Tournament really was. And Harry's own masterful handling of the Horntail had transformed him from "cheating glory-seeker" to "Hogwarts' best hope" overnight.
It was amusing, in a bitter sort of way.
"Mr. Potter!" A fifth-year Ravenclaw hurried to catch up with him, clutching what appeared to be a handmade card. "I just wanted to say how brilliant you were with that dragon! The way you used those sticky orbs—absolute genius!"
Harry accepted the card with a polite nod. "Thanks."
"If you ever need help with anything—" the girl tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling shyly, "—research or spellwork or, well, anything at all... I'm really good at Arithmancy."
"I'll keep that in mind," Harry replied, already moving away. It wasn't the first such offer he'd received that day. In fact, it wasn't even the tenth.
Most of these sudden admirers were female, he couldn't help but notice. Apparently, narrowly avoiding death by dragon was an aphrodisiac of sorts. Who knew?
The only reason he had not rebuffed them something fierce was because he had not felt any warning from his trustworthy runes. If there was something he trusted beyond everything, it was the judgment of his magic. Even then, it didn't mean he was going to entertain them beyond being polite.
As he approached the entrance to the Great Hall, a gaggle of Beauxbatons students exited, their blue silk uniforms like a splash of sky against the stone walls of Hogwarts. Among them was Fleur Delacour, her silvery-blonde hair catching the light.
For a split second, their eyes met. Hers widened slightly before darting away, but not before Harry caught a glimpse of something—confusion? Curiosity? It was gone too quickly to identify.
It wasn't the first time he'd noticed her watching him. Since before the first task, she seemed to be studying him when she thought he wasn't looking, her expression always slightly puzzled, as if he were a complicated Arithmancy problem she couldn't quite solve. This behavior had only intensified after the task.
Even though he had his theories, Harry didn't particularly care why the French champion had suddenly developed an interest in him. He had more pressing concerns—like figuring out who had put his name in the Goblet of Fire and why.
Entering the Great Hall, he was greeted by a chorus of whispers and pointed fingers. A few students even applauded. Harry ignored them all, making his way to the Slytherin table where Regina was already seated with Daphne opposite her to keep up appearances, a book propped open beside her plate.
"Your fan club seems to be growing," she commented without looking up as he sat down beside Regina who scooted closer, smirking or raising an eyebrow at the students who seemed to glance their way.
"Don't remind me." Harry reached for a sandwich. "Yesterday, a second-year asked me to sign her textbook. Her bloody textbook."
Daphne's lips curved into a smirk. "Fame is a fickle friend, Mr. Potter."
"Fuck fame," Harry muttered, biting into his sandwich with more force than necessary. "And fuck these sheep. Last week they were calling me a liar and a cheat. Now they're falling over themselves to be my best mate."
"That's people for you," Daphne replied, finally closing her book. "They follow whoever looks strongest at the moment. Right now, that's you."
Harry snorted. "Lucky me."
"Could be worse," she pointed out. "At least no one's trying to jinx you in the corridors anymore."
That was true enough. The active hostility had ceased, replaced by this nauseating adulation. Harry wasn't sure which he preferred.
"Anyway," Daphne continued, lowering her voice, "I've been looking into that dream you mentioned this morning. The one with the ring."
Harry stiffened. "I told you it was nothing."
"You talk in your sleep sometimes, Harry." Her blue eyes were serious now. "And not just 'ring' and 'shadow.' You said 'Voldemort' at least twice."
Harry glanced around reflexively, but no one was close enough to overhear. "It was just a dream."
"Was it?" Daphne held his gaze.
Before Harry could respond, a gruff voice interrupted their conversation.
"Potter."
Harry looked up to find Professor Moody standing beside their table, his magical eye swiveling wildly while his normal one fixed on Harry with an intense stare.
"Professor," Harry acknowledged.
"Walk with me," Moody growled. It wasn't a request.
Harry exchanged a quick glance with Daphne, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Sure," he said, rising from the table. "See you later, Regina, Greengrass."
Daphne merely inclined her head, but her eyes followed them as Moody led Harry out of the Great Hall. In front of her, Regina was no different.
-Break-
"Impressive work with that dragon, Potter," Moody said as they walked along the edge of the lake. "Not many wizards could have managed what you did."
"Thank you, sir," Harry replied, studying the Professor out of the corner of his eye. Since his arrival at Hogwarts, Moody had been something of an enigma—feared by many students, respected by the staff, and apparently, now interested in Harry's performance in the Tournament.
"That suit of yours," Moody continued, his magical eye spinning to fix on Harry, "Basilisk scales, wasn't it? Rare. Expensive. Not something your average student would have access to."
Harry shrugged. "I got lucky. Killed a Basilisk in my second year. Figured I might as well make use of it."
Moody barked out a laugh. "Killed a Basilisk in your second year, facing dragons in your fourth. You've got quite the resume, Potter."
"Not by choice," Harry replied dryly.
"No, I don't imagine so." Moody came to a stop, turning to face the lake. His scarred face was inscrutable as he stared out over the water. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. Your... participation in this Tournament."
Harry tensed slightly. "What about it?"
"Karkaroff wasn't happy with your performance," Moody said, changing tack abruptly. "Gave you a zero, didn't he? Bloody farce."
"It was expected," Harry said with a shrug. "He's clearly biased toward Krum."
"Biased?" Moody snorted. "The man's practically sucking Krum's cock at this point. Disgusting display of favoritism."
Harry's eyebrows shot up at the crude language. "I don't think professors are supposed to talk like that in front of students, sir."
Moody waved a dismissive hand. "Bollocks to that. You've faced things most adults would piss themselves over, Potter. I think you can handle a bit of colorful language." His magical eye swiveled to fix on Harry again. "Besides, I'm not just talking about Karkaroff's scoring. I'm talking about his reaction when your name came out of that Goblet."
"What about it?"
"Pure, genuine shock," Moody said, tapping his temple beside his magical eye. "I've interrogated enough Death Eaters in my time to know when someone's faking surprise. Karkaroff wasn't."
Harry frowned. "So you don't think he put my name in?"
"No," Moody said bluntly. "I don't."
This was unexpected. Harry had been almost certain that Karkaroff, a former Death Eater, had to be involved in whatever scheme had landed him in this Tournament.
"Then who did?" Harry asked.
Moody's normal eye narrowed. "That's the question, isn't it? Who would have access to the Goblet? Who would have the skill to confound an ancient magical artifact? And most importantly, who would benefit from putting Harry Potter in mortal danger?"
Harry considered this. "Snape hates me enough."
Moody's head shook almost immediately. "Snape's a sour bastard with a grudge, but he's in Dumbledore's pocket. Whatever history he has with you, he wouldn't risk Dumbledore's trust like that."
"Then Karkaroff—" Harry began, but Moody cut him off again.
"Karkaroff's a coward," he growled. "Sold out his fellow Death Eaters to save his own skin. He's spent years building a new life far away from Britain and his old master. The last thing he wants is to draw attention to himself by targeting you."
Harry frowned. It made sense, loath as he was to admit it. "So who, then?"
Moody's smile was grim. "Someone who wants you dead, Potter. Someone who can operate right under Dumbledore's nose without raising suspicion. Someone connected to You-Know-Who."
A chill ran down Harry's spine, the dream from that morning suddenly vivid in his mind again. "You too think Voldemort's behind this?" He deliberately used the name, watching for Moody's reaction.
The Defense professor didn't flinch at the name, which Harry found interesting. Most wizards couldn't even hear it without cringing. But then this was Moody, the man who had put dozens of Death Eaters behind the grimy walls of Azkaban. If there was someone who would not flinch, it had to be him.
"I think," Moody said carefully, "that there are forces at work here beyond a simple school competition. I think you being in this Tournament is no accident. And I think you'd better prepare accordingly."
Harry studied Moody's face. "You know something, don't you? Something you're not telling me."
Moody's laugh was harsh. "I know many things, Potter. Most of them would give you nightmares."
"I already have those," Harry muttered, thinking again of the vivid dream—Voldemort, the old wizard, the strange ritual with the ring.
Moody's magical eye fixed on him with unnerving intensity. "Bad dreams, eh? About what?"
Harry hesitated. Normally, he wouldn't share something so personal with a professor, but Moody wasn't an ordinary professor. And if anyone might have insight into dreams about Dark Lords, or whatever it was... There was also the factor that his runes never prickled when in Moody's presence even when he focused on them, which reassured him immensely. The man might be odd and unnerving, but Harry believed he was an ally, and as such, someone he could trust.
"Voldemort," Harry admitted. "I see him sometimes, in dreams. Doing things. Hurting people."
"Anyone in particular? Someone you've heard of?"
"Well," Harry cleared his throat, "the most recent one had an old man whom Voldemort called Horace Slughorn."
Moody was silent for a long moment, both eyes—natural and magical—focused entirely on Harry now. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost thoughtful.
"Horace Slughorn was the potions professor here before Snape. He was killed during the war, a few months before that Halloween night."
"By Voldemort himself," Harry said softly.
"When we arrived, everything had been burned. Fiendfyre."
"It was a memory then, not a random dream," Harry's voice was curt.
"That scar of yours…" Moody eyed his forehead intently. "It's faint. Must've healed."
"Something happened with a dementor a few months ago."
"Albus did tell me about it," Moody muttered. "I believe that scar of yours was no ordinary curse mark, Potter. It connected you to him in ways I doubt even Dumbledore fully understands."
Harry's hand unconsciously went to his forehead, fingertips brushing the remnants of the lightning bolt scar. "Dumbledore's said something similar over the years."
"Aye, I believe he must've," Moody said gravely, "Take my advice, Potter. You need to be prepared. Do more than you're doing already. You've already seen enough in the past three years, and now, it's this tournament. Dark times are coming, and you'll need to go beyond what you ever expected."
"So you know about the last three years as well," Harry muttered.
"There is little that Albus hides from me, Potter," Moody informed him. "He knows better."
Harry nodded. Dumbledore and Moody must be closer than he'd initially thought, then.
A gull cried overhead, the sound eerily sharp in the sudden silence between them. Harry watched as Moody turned back toward the castle, his wooden leg thumping against the ground with each step. He pondered on it for a moment before deciding to just do it.
"Sir," Harry called after him, "what should I do? Beyond what I'm already doing?"
Moody paused, looking back over his shoulder. "You'll need all the help you can get for what's coming, Potter. All the help you can get." His twisted smile returned. "Fortunately, I'm in a position to offer some of that help."
And with that cryptic statement, he continued his uneven stride back toward the castle, leaving Harry standing alone by the lake with more questions than answers.
Help? What kind of help could Moody offer? And what exactly did he think was coming? Harry had some ideas about the latter, and none of those were reassuring.
The dream surfaced in Harry's mind again—the burning cottage, the old wizard's screams, the ritual, the grimoire, and the ring. It had felt so real, so vivid... almost like a memory rather than a dream.
Harry's jaw clenched. He didn't know who had put his name in the Goblet of Fire, but he was becoming increasingly certain of one thing: Voldemort was connected to it somehow. And if Moody was right—if this Tournament was just the beginning—then Harry needed to be ready for whatever came next.
The second task wasn't far off. And beyond that... well, beyond that was a darkness Harry could sense but not yet see—a gathering storm on the horizon, drawing closer with each passing day.
For now, though, he had preparations to make. Daphne would be waiting for him in the room, ready to continue her research. And Regina would join them after her last class, greedy for more as always. At least it was a way for him to unwind and relax, and all three of them knew how much he needed it. He might go insane otherwise.
Releasing a deep breath, Harry took one last look at the placid surface of the lake, its waters deceptively calm despite the creatures that lurked in its depths. Then he turned and followed Moody's path back toward the castle, his mind already racing with possibilities and plans.
Whatever was coming, he would be ready. He had to be.
TBC.
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