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Harry awoke before dawn, the familiar symphony of the Burrow already playing in his ears despite his best efforts to dampen his enhanced hearing. Mrs. Weasley's soft footsteps in the kitchen below. The gentle creaking of Mr. Weasley's chair as he leaned forward to read the morning Prophet. Fred and George whispering conspiratorially in their room, no doubt planning some mischief for the World Cup.
He smiled to himself. Two months ago, these sounds would have overwhelmed him completely. Now, they were just background noise—something he could acknowledge and then push aside, like turning down the volume on a wireless.
Progress, Harry thought as he stretched. Slow, but definitely progress.
Ron's bed was already empty, which surprised Harry. His friend typically needed to be dragged from sleep, especially before sunrise. The fact that Ron was already up spoke volumes about his excitement for the Quidditch World Cup.
Harry had just finished pulling on his jeans when the door creaked open slightly. His nostrils flared automatically, identifying the visitors before they even appeared. Vanilla and parchment. Cinnamon and sunshine.
"You're up early," Hermione whispered as she and Ginny slipped inside, closing the door carefully behind them.
"So are you," Harry replied, unable to keep the smile from his face. "Both of you."
Ginny crossed the room and kissed him quickly. "Couldn't sleep. Too excited."
"For Quidditch or for this?" he asked, pulling her in for another kiss.
"Both," she admitted with a grin. "Though I'm not sure which has me more worked up."
Hermione approached more cautiously, glancing at the door. "We shouldn't stay long. If your mother finds us here—"
"She won't," Ginny assured her. "She's much too busy making enough food to feed a small army. Besides, we just wanted to check on you before things get... chaotic."
Hermione nodded, finally relaxing enough to take Harry's hand. "The World Cup is going to be overwhelming. Tens of thousands of people, all those sounds and smells and emotions in one place."
"I know," Harry said. "But I've been practicing. The dampening techniques are working better now."
"Still," Hermione persisted, her brow furrowed with concern, "it might be wise to have a signal. Something you can give us if it becomes too much."
Harry smiled, appreciating her practicality even as he found it slightly unnecessary. "I'll be fine, Hermione. I'm not going to let this condition stop me from experiencing a once-in-a-lifetime event like the World Cup."
"No one's suggesting you should," Ginny interjected, squeezing his arm. "But having a backup plan isn't the same as expecting failure."
"Fine," Harry relented. "If it gets too much, I'll tug my ear. Just the right one. Simple enough?"
Hermione's face relaxed slightly. "That works. And if you need to step away—"
"One of you can come with me while the other makes excuses," Harry finished for her. "I've got it. Really."
Ginny smiled mischievously. "And if you need more... intensive support, we can—"
A loud crash from downstairs interrupted whatever suggestion she'd been about to make.
"That'll be the twins," Ginny sighed. "We should go. Separately."
Harry nodded, but caught Hermione's hand before she could leave. "Thank you," he said softly. "Both of you. For everything."
Hermione's eyes softened, and she leaned in to kiss him quickly. "Always," she whispered against his lips.
After they left, Harry finished dressing, his mind replaying their brief interaction. There were moments when the sheer improbability of his situation struck him—that he, Harry Potter, orphaned and raised in a cupboard, now had not one but two incredible witches who accepted every part of him, including the wolf.
Life is strange, he thought as he headed downstairs. Beautifully, wonderfully strange.
The kitchen was indeed chaos. Mrs. Weasley darted between the stove and table, directing various breakfast items with her wand while simultaneously packing supplies into enchanted backpacks. Mr. Weasley was checking a list of items, muttering to himself. The twins were attempting to smuggle what looked suspiciously like fireworks into their rucksacks, while Percy pontificated about proper Ministry protocol to anyone who would listen (which was no one).
"Ah, Harry dear!" Mrs. Weasley called when she spotted him. "Breakfast is nearly ready. Did you sleep well?"
"Fine, thanks," Harry replied, sliding into a seat beside Ron, who was staring longingly at the sizzling bacon.
"Morning, mate," Ron greeted him through a yawn. "Can you believe it? The actual World Cup! Krum versus the Irish Chasers!"
"I didn't know Krum would go against the entire other team by himself," Harry said, earning a chuckle from Ginny who happened to hear Harry's answer.
"Good morning, Harry," Mr. Weasley said, looking up from his list. "We've got quite the journey ahead. The Portkey is set to activate at exactly seven-thirty, so we'll need to leave here in"—he checked his watch—"forty minutes."
Mrs. Weasley began loading the table with plates of eggs, towers of toast, and piles of bacon. The family descended on the food like a pack of hungry wolves, a comparison that made Harry smile privately to himself.
"Now," Mr. Weasley continued between mouthfuls, "we'll need to be careful about how we conduct ourselves. The campsite is run by Muggles, though they've been given a bit of memory modification to accept the sudden influx of peculiar campers."
"What about Harry's... condition?" Fred asked.
"Just keep things as normal as possible," Mr. Weasley replied. "Most of the wizarding world doesn't know about Harry's partial lycanthropy, and there's no reason to advertise it."
"Though if Malfoy shows up, Harry could always growl at him," George suggested with a grin. "Might be worth it just to see him wet himself."
"George!" Mrs. Weasley scolded, though Harry noticed Mr. Weasley hiding a smile behind his teacup.
"No special werewolf business," Harry agreed, helping himself to a fourth piece of toast. His metabolism had been running at double speed since the transformation, and he found himself constantly hungry. "I've gotten pretty good at controlling it anyway."
After breakfast, they began gathering their supplies. Mr. Weasley had procured several Muggle-style backpacks, which he insisted they use to maintain their cover while at the campsite.
"Here, Harry," Mr. Weasley said, handing him what appeared to be the largest and heaviest pack. "I hope this isn't too much for—"
Harry lifted the pack with one hand, swinging it onto his shoulder as effortlessly as if it contained nothing but feathers. Mr. Weasley's eyebrows shot up, and Harry just grinned, but noticed the other boys were also looking at him.
"Er, sorry," he muttered.
"No need to apologize," Mr. Weasley assured him. "Just... perhaps try to make things look a bit more difficult when we're around others?"
Fred and George exchanged impressed glances.
"Blimey, Harry," Fred said. "You could probably throw Snape out a window with that kind of strength."
"And right into the lake," George added. "One-handed."
"While brewing a perfect potion with the other," Fred concluded.
"I'd never throw Snape out a window. The giant squid deserves better company." Harry added with a little smile, making Ron laugh.
"Boys!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "That is no way to speak about a professor."
"Sorry, Mum," they chorused, not looking sorry at all.
"Even if he is a greasy git," Ron muttered under his breath, earning himself a sharp look from his mother.
"Right then," Mr. Weasley said, checking his watch again. "Time to be off. We've got a bit of a walk to Stoatshead Hill where the Portkey is waiting."
They filed out of the house into the pre-dawn gloom. The air was cool and crisp, heavy with dew and the promise of a beautiful day. Harry took a deep breath, sorting through the various scents automatically—wet grass, wood smoke from the Burrow's chimney, the distinctive smell of gnome that always lingered around the Weasley garden.
As they began walking, Harry found himself naturally falling into step between Hermione and Ginny.
Ron walked ahead with the twins, still discussing Quidditch statistics and the various merits of the Irish Chasers versus Krum's legendary Seeking abilities. Percy followed behind with Mr. Weasley, deep in conversation about some Ministry regulation or another.
"How are you doing?" Hermione asked quietly.
"Fine," Harry replied honestly. "It's actually easier out here. More space for the sounds to dissipate."
The forest around them was alive with early morning noises—birds calling, small animals rustling through underbrush, the distant babbling of a stream. Two months ago, these sounds would have been an overwhelming cacophony to Harry. Now, they were simply part of the background tapestry, easily acknowledged and just as easily set aside.
"You've gotten much better at filtering," Ginny observed, sounding impressed.
Harry nodded. "It's like... I don't know, like learning to focus on a single conversation in a crowded room. At first, it's impossible. Then it's difficult. Then one day, it's just... natural."
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, climbing steadily upward as the first golden rays of sunrise began to peek over the horizon. Harry found himself watching the light play through Hermione's curls, turning them from brown to burnished gold. Beside her, Ginny's hair was like living flame in the dawn light.
"Almost there!" Mr. Weasley called from ahead as they approached the summit of Stoatshead Hill. "Keep an eye out for the Portkey. It could be anything—an old boot, a punctured football, any sort of Muggle rubbish really."
"Charming," Hermione murmured, making Harry grin.
As they crested the hill, Harry's ears picked up the sound of approaching footsteps from the other side—two people, one with a longer stride than the other. He tensed automatically before recognizing that these were ordinary human movements, not a threat.
"Ah," Mr. Weasley said with a smile, "that'll be the Diggorys. Right on time."
Sure enough, two figures appeared over the opposite ridge—a tall, ruddy-faced older man with a scrubby brown beard, and a handsome youth that Harry recognized as Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff Seeker.
"Arthur!" the older man called jovially. "Splendid morning for it, eh?"
"Indeed it is, Amos," Mr. Weasley replied, stepping forward to shake his hand. "Everyone, this is Amos Diggory. He works in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I believe most of you know his son, Cedric?"
The Weasleys all nodded, though Harry noticed that Ron's greeting was somewhat less enthusiastic than the others'. Likely still sore about Hufflepuff beating Gryffindor in their last match.
"And is that Harry Potter?" Amos Diggory asked, his eyes widening as they fell on Harry. "By Merlin, it is!"
Harry shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.
"The Boy Who Lived, eh?" Amos continued. "Ced's told us all about playing against you, of course. Told us about that match last year." He clapped his son on the shoulder with obvious pride. "Always said to him, 'Ced, that'll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will... you beat Harry Potter!'"
Cedric looked mortified. "Dad," he muttered, "it was an accident. Harry fell off his broom. I told you a hundred times..."
"Yes, but you didn't fall off, did you?" Amos said heartily, either missing or ignoring his son's discomfort. "Always modest, our Ced. Always the gentleman... but the best man won, I'm sure Harry would say the same, wouldn't you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don't need to be a genius to tell which one's the better flier!"
Harry felt a flash of irritation, not at Cedric but at his father's overbearing pride. Before he could respond, he felt Ginny's hand brush against his, a subtle calming gesture.
"I think that's the Portkey," Cedric said quickly, clearly desperate to change the subject. He pointed to an old, mildewed boot sitting at the very top of the hill.
"Ah, yes, must be," Mr. Weasley agreed, sounding relieved at the interruption. "Everyone gather round. We've got about a minute until it activates."
As they arranged themselves in a circle around the boot, Harry caught Cedric's eye. The Hufflepuff gave him an apologetic look, which Harry answered with a small nod. No hard feelings.
"Everyone touch a part of the boot," Mr. Weasley instructed. "Just a finger will do."
Harry reached out along with the others, his finger brushing against the decrepit leather. As they waited for the Portkey to activate, he found himself listening to the steady heartbeats of everyone in the circle, distinguishing each person's unique rhythm.
Hermione's was slightly faster than normal—she was nervous about the Portkey travel. Ginny's was steady and strong. Ron's thumped with excitement. The twins' hearts beat in near-perfect unison, something Harry had noticed before. Cedric's was calm and measured, while his father's was robust and slightly elevated.
The Portkey activated, and Harry felt the familiar but unpleasant sensation of a hook behind his navel, yanking him forward into a swirl of color and sound. The world spun around him, and then they were off, hurtling toward the greatest sporting event in the wizarding world.
The Portkey journey was like being dragged through a tunnel of swirling colors and howling winds—at least, that's how it felt to Harry's enhanced senses. Every nerve in his body screamed in protest as the magical transportation whipped him through space, the sensations magnified tenfold by his partial lycanthropy. He clenched his jaw, fighting the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.
When they finally landed, Harry stumbled and nearly fell. The world spun violently around him, his equilibrium completely shot. He felt a small, steady hand on his arm, grounding him.
"Deep breaths," Hermione murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "Focus on one sense at a time."
Harry nodded slightly, following her advice. First, he concentrated on the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet. Then, the sound of Hermione's breathing beside him. The scent of grass and morning dew. Slowly, the world stopped spinning.
"Thanks," he whispered.
"Seven thirty from Stoatshead Hill," a bored-looking wizard in plus-fours announced, checking them off a long list. He barely glanced at their group, clearly having processed dozens of Portkey arrivals already that morning.
As they moved away from the arrival point, Harry got his first real look at the campsite—and froze in astonishment.
Thousands of tents stretched in every direction, covering what must have been several square miles of moor. Some were ordinary Muggle-style tents, clearly belonging to wizards making an effort to blend in. Others were so obviously magical that Harry had to stifle a laugh. One had three chimneys and a weather vane. Another had a front garden complete with bird bath and sundial. A third resembled a miniature palace, with peacocks tethered outside.
But more overwhelming than the sights were the sounds and smells. Thousands of witches and wizards from dozens of countries, all crammed together in one space. Harry's enhanced senses detected hundreds of different languages, cooking aromas from every continent, and the distinct magical signatures of various national traditions.
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed beside him. "I've never seen so many wizards in one place."
"It's incredible," Hermione agreed, her eyes wide as she took in the spectacle.
Mr. Weasley led them through the campsite, occasionally stopping to greet acquaintances or point out particularly interesting tents. Harry found himself automatically cataloging the various magical signatures around him—the sharp, spicy feel of what he guessed was Egyptian magic; the deep, resonant pulse of something African; the crisp, clean sensation of Nordic spellwork.
"Here we are," Mr. Weasley announced, stopping at a small empty patch near the edge of the woods. A small sign hammered into the ground read "WEEZLY."
"Couldn't have spelled it correctly, could they?" Percy sniffed disapprovingly.
"Not the best spot," Mr. Weasley admitted, "but the Ministry was working flat-out. We're lucky to get a space at all. Now, we'll need to set these up the Muggle way, since there are so many Muggles about."
He opened his backpack and began pulling out tent components with the excited air of a child with a new toy. "Right, Harry, Hermione—you two might know more about this than the rest of us..."
"I've never actually been camping," Harry admitted, eyeing the pile of canvas and poles skeptically.
"I have, once," Hermione offered. "But that was years ago with my parents."
They set about trying to erect the tents with Mr. Weasley providing enthusiastic but largely unhelpful suggestions. After fifteen minutes of struggling with poles and canvas, Harry found his patience wearing thin.
"Let me," he said, taking a tent stake from Fred, who had been attempting to hammer it into the ground with the heel of his shoe.
Without thinking, Harry pressed the metal stake against the ground and pushed. It sank into the earth as easily as if he were pushing it into soft butter, all the way to the flat top.
"Blimey," George whispered, staring at the perfectly embedded stake.
Harry, realizing what he'd done, quickly glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. A wizard from a nearby tent was watching with raised eyebrows.
"Good soil here," Harry called to him with a casual shrug. "Surprisingly soft."
The wizard nodded slowly, though he didn't look entirely convinced.
"Perhaps a bit more subtlety, Harry," Mr. Weasley murmured, though he looked more amused than concerned.
"Sorry," Harry replied, then added in a whisper, "I keep forgetting how strong I am now."
"Just try to use tools like the rest of us mere mortals," Ginny suggested with a playful nudge as she handed him a mallet.
"You know, Ginny, some girls appreciate a man who can drive a stake into the ground with his bare hands. Just saying." Harry said with a cheeky smile, causing Ginny to turn red like her hair.
Harry took it with a grin and made a show of hammering the next stake with exaggerated effort, earning him an eye-roll from Hermione and stifled laughter from the twins.
Eventually, they managed to erect two shabby two-man tents that seemed far too small to accommodate their entire party.
"We'll be a bit cramped," Mr. Weasley said, crawling through the entrance of the first tent, "but I think we'll all squeeze in. Come and look."
Harry ducked inside and immediately stopped, his mouth falling open. He had walked into what appeared to be an old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Strangely, it was furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mrs. Figg's house: there were crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats.
"Well, it's not for long," Mr. Weasley said, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief. "I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn't camp much anymore, poor fellow, got lumbago."
"It's brilliant," Harry said honestly, thinking of the stark contrast between the tent's mundane exterior and its magically expanded interior. Yet another reminder of how appearance rarely told the whole story in the wizarding world—something that felt increasingly relevant to his own condition.
After depositing their bags, Mr. Weasley sent Harry, Ron, and Hermione to collect water from a tap marked on a small map of the campsite.
"We'll need plenty," he explained, handing Harry a large kettle and several saucepans. "And it'll give you a chance to explore a bit. Just try not to linger too long—we'll want to cook lunch soon."
The three set off across the campground, weaving between rows of tents. Every few steps brought new sights, sounds, and—for Harry—scents. Children zoomed around on miniature broomsticks, barely skimming the ground. Ministry wizards hurried back and forth, trying to contain the more obvious displays of magic. A group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: THE SALEM WITCHES' INSTITUTE.
"Been here long?" a wizard with a thick Australian accent called as they passed.
"Just arrived this morning," Ron replied.
"Ah, you missed the excitement then," the Australian said. "Bloke from New Zealand tried to enlarge his tent last night—ended up with something like a circus marquee and squashed half a dozen structures around him. Took ten Ministry wizards to sort it out."
As they continued through the campsite, they encountered wizarding families from all over the world. Near a patch of tents covered in shamrocks, they found Seamus Finnigan with his best friend Dean Thomas and his mother.
"Harry! Ron! Hermione!" Seamus called, waving them over. "Can you believe this? It's going to be the match of the century!"
"Ireland's going to flatten Bulgaria," Dean predicted confidently.
"Krum might have something to say about that," Ron countered. "Best Seeker in the world, he is."
They chatted for a few minutes before continuing toward the water tap. The path took them through a section of tents decorated with Bulgarian flags and posters of a surly-looking, dark-haired player who could only be Viktor Krum.
"He looks really grumpy," Hermione observed, looking at the scowling faces on the posters.
"Really grumpy?" Ron repeated incredulously. "Who cares what he looks like? He's unbelievable. He's really young too. Only just eighteen or something. He's a genius, you wait until tonight, you'll see."
"Someone's got a crush," Harry teased, earning himself a punch in the arm from Ron.
"It's not a crush, it's respect," Ron insisted, his ears turning pink. "Professional admiration!"
"Of course," Hermione said solemnly, though her eyes danced with amusement. "Completely professional."
"Tell you what, I'll use my werewolf strength to kidnap him after the match so you can get his autograph. That's what friends are for." Harry suggested, earning a glare from Ron, and Hermione burst out laughing.
They had to queue for the water tap behind a pair of elderly wizards engaged in a heated argument. One wore a long flowery nightgown; the other, a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes.
"Just put them on, Archie," the galoshes-wearing wizard was saying exasperatedly. "You can't walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate's already getting suspicious—"
"I bought this in a Muggle shop," the other wizard retorted stubbornly. "Muggles wear them."
"Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these," said the first wizard, brandishing the pinstriped trousers.
"I'm not putting them on," old Archie said indignantly. "I like a healthy breeze 'round my privates, thanks."
Hermione was overcome with such a strong fit of giggles at this that she had to duck out of the queue until they had collected their water.
As they made their way back through the crowded campsite, their path crossed with a group of Hogwarts students heading in the opposite direction.
"Harry! Ron! Hermione!" called a familiar voice.
Harry turned to see Neville Longbottom waving at them, accompanied by an elderly witch in a tall, vulture-topped hat—obviously his formidable grandmother—and a girl with long red hair that Harry vaguely recognized.
"Hello, Neville," Hermione greeted warmly. "Excited for the match?"
"Gran thought it would be educational," Neville replied with a slightly pained expression that suggested his grandmother's definition of "educational" might differ significantly from his own.
"Longbottom," the elderly witch acknowledged with a crisp nod to their group. "And this must be Potter," she added, her sharp eyes fixing on Harry. "Yes, you look just like your father. Except the eyes. Your mother's eyes."
Harry nodded, used to such observations but never quite comfortable with them. His attention drifted to the red-haired girl standing slightly behind Neville, who was watching him with interest.
"Oh!" Neville said, noticing Harry's gaze. "This is Susan Bones. She's in our year, Hufflepuff."
"Nice to meet you," Harry said, though he was fairly sure they'd been introduced before, probably during their Sorting in first year.
"We've met, actually," Susan replied with a small smile. "Though I'm not surprised you don't remember. I tend to be rather quiet in classes we share."
Harry took a moment to really look at her. Susan was pretty—very pretty, in fact—with wavy auburn hair that fell past her shoulders and warm, intelligent eyes. He'd never paid much attention to her before, but something about her seemed familiar in a way he couldn't quite place.
"Your aunt works at the Ministry, doesn't she?" Hermione asked. "I think I've read about her in the Daily Prophet."
Susan nodded. "Aunt Amelia is head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She's the reason we got such good seats for the match."
"We should be going," Mrs. Longbottom announced. "Neville needs to change into proper attire for the Top Box."
"See you at school," Neville said as his grandmother steered him away.
"Nice meeting you properly," Susan added, and Harry could have sworn she blushed slightly before following Neville and his grandmother.
"Susan Bones," Ron mused as they resumed their journey back to the tent. "Don't know much about her, do you?"
"She's very clever," Hermione observed. "Always near the top in Charms and Transfiguration, though she doesn't raise her hand much."
"And apparently she's got connections," Ron added. "Top Box seats! Dad could only get ours through work, and they're not nearly as good."
Harry found himself oddly distracted by the encounter. There had been something about Susan that triggered... not attraction, exactly, but a strange sense of protectiveness. Maybe it was the red hair?
"Earth to Harry," Hermione said, waving a hand in front of his face. "You went somewhere else for a moment there."
"Sorry," Harry said, shaking his head to clear it. "Just... processing. There are so many magical signatures here, it's a bit overwhelming."
It wasn't entirely a lie. The campsite was a riot of magical energy, each national group having their own distinct magical "flavor" that Harry could sense more acutely than ever before. But Hermione's knowing look suggested she hadn't entirely bought his explanation.
"She was pretty," Hermione observed casually. "Susan, I mean."
"Was she?" Harry replied, trying to sound indifferent and knowing immediately that he'd failed.
Ron, oblivious to the subtext, nodded enthusiastically. "Definitely. Don't think I'd ever really looked at her before. Bit quiet in class, isn't she?"
"Sometimes the quiet ones surprise you," Hermione said, giving Harry a significant look that made him wonder if she was still talking about Susan at all.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off once more, this time wandering toward an area where the tents grew increasingly elaborate. They passed a miniature palace made entirely of silk, a three-story tent with balconies and turrets, and what appeared to be a small cottage complete with garden and white picket fence.
"Some people really don't understand the concept of 'blending in,'" Hermione remarked as they passed a tent shaped like a giant purple mushroom.
They turned down a row of particularly elegant structures and found themselves in what seemed to be an international diplomatic section. Flags from various ministries fluttered overhead, and the wizards moving between tents wore formal robes despite the summer heat.
"Look at that one," Ron said, pointing to a particularly striking tent at the end of the row.
It was constructed of midnight-blue fabric that seemed to shimmer with stars when the light hit it just right. Above the entrance hung a flag featuring a double-headed eagle on a field of red, and Cyrillic letters were embroidered in silver thread around the doorway.
"Russian, I think," Hermione said, squinting at the lettering.
As they approached, Harry became aware of a subtle but distinct magical aura emanating from the tent—different from the ambient magic of the campsite. It felt powerful, with an edge of something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Then the scent hit him—metallic and cold, like frozen iron. And beneath that, something else. Something that made his muscles tense instinctively.
Blood. Old blood.
Before Harry could mention this to the others, the tent flap opened, and a man stepped out.
He was tall and painfully thin, with alabaster-white skin that seemed almost luminous in the late afternoon sun. His hair was jet black, pulled back in a severe ponytail, and his eyes—startlingly blue against his pallor—fixed immediately on Harry.
Most striking of all was his right hand—or rather, what replaced it. From the wrist down, his arm was a gleaming construct of silver metal, intricately carved with what looked like ancient runes. The fingers moved with perfect fluidity as he raised the hand to shield his eyes from the sun.
"Well," the man said in heavily accented English, his gaze never leaving Harry. "This is unexpected. A young wolf, so far from the forest."
Harry froze, stunned by the stranger's immediate recognition of his condition. Ron and Hermione tensed beside him.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said carefully, aware that they were in a public area.
The pale man smiled thinly, revealing teeth that were normal except for canines that seemed just slightly too sharp. "Of course you do, молодой волк. I can smell it on you. Just as you can smell what I am."
He stepped closer, moving with an unnatural grace. "Forgive my directness. It is rare to meet another... partial. My name is Mikhail Volkov."
Harry hesitated, then made a split-second decision. If this man had already identified his condition, there was little point in denying it. "Harry Potter."
Mikhail's eyebrows rose slightly. "The famous Harry Potter? Even in Russia, we have heard this name." He gestured toward his tent. "Perhaps you would honor me with a brief conversation? It is not often I encounter someone who might understand certain... complexities."
Ron leaned in close to Harry. "Mate, I don't think—"
"It's fine," Harry assured him, though his own instincts were sending mixed signals. The vampire—or whatever he was—didn't seem threatening, exactly. Just... unsettling.
"Your friends may join us, of course," Mikhail added, though his tone suggested he considered this a concession rather than a genuine invitation.
The interior of the tent was as impressive as its exterior suggested. Unlike the Weasleys' borrowed tent with its shabby, cat-scented furnishings, this one was appointed with elegant, antique furniture that looked as though it had been transported directly from a Russian palace. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the air was pleasantly cool despite the summer heat outside.
"Please, sit," Mikhail said, gesturing to a cluster of velvet armchairs.
Harry took a seat, with Ron and Hermione flanking him protectively. Mikhail settled into a chair opposite them.
"So," he said, fixing Harry with those unnervingly bright blue eyes. "How did it happen? The bite?"
"It wasn't a bite," Harry corrected him. "It was a scratch. From a werewolf."
Mikhail raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. And yet it was deep enough to transfer the condition partially. Rare, but not unheard of. The wolf's name?"
"I'd rather not say," Harry replied.
Mikhail inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Of course. Discretion is important in such matters." He flexed his silver hand, the metal catching the light. "As you can see, my own encounter was somewhat different."
"What happened?" Harry asked, curiosity overcoming his caution.
"Ten years ago, I was conducting research in the Carpathian Mountains," Mikhail explained, his voice taking on a storyteller's cadence. "A region rich in magical history, but also home to several ancient vampire clans. I was... careless. Overconfident in my abilities."
He held up his metallic hand. "When the vampire bit me, I knew I had perhaps thirty seconds before the venom reached my heart. So I made a choice." His voice remained clinical, detached. "I severed my own hand with a cutting curse, just above where the fangs had punctured my skin."
Ron made a choking sound. Hermione's face had gone slightly pale.
"It was not enough to prevent all effects," Mikhail continued. "Some of the venom had already entered my bloodstream. I am not a full vampire—I can walk in sunlight, though it weakens me. I can eat food, though it provides little nourishment. And I do not need to drink blood, though sometimes..." He trailed off, a strange light in his eyes. "Sometimes the craving is difficult to ignore."
Harry leaned forward slightly. "What was it like? The first few months?"
Mikhail's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Difficult. Confusing. My senses heightened to painful levels. My magic became... unpredictable. Powerful in ways I could not control." He studied Harry's face. "You are experiencing similar changes, yes?"
Harry nodded cautiously. "My senses, my strength... it's all different now."
"And you are fighting it," Mikhail observed. "Trying to suppress the wolf. I can see the effort in your eyes."
"I'm managing it," Harry said defensively.
Mikhail smiled, a cold expression that didn't reach his eyes. "For now, perhaps. But let me offer you some advice, young wolf. The more you cage the beast, the harder it will fight to be free."
"I'm not caging anything," Harry insisted. "I'm learning to control it."
"Control is an illusion we create to comfort ourselves," Mikhail replied. "What you call control, I call temporary containment." He leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. "Tell me, what happens when you are angry? When your heart races with fear or excitement? Can you control it then?"
Harry didn't answer, remembering the moments when his emotions had triggered involuntary responses—his eyes glowing, his strength surging beyond his conscious control.
"As I thought," Mikhail said softly. "And what of blood? Have you encountered that test yet?"
"Blood?" Harry repeated, confused. "I'm part werewolf, not vampire. Blood doesn't affect me that way."
Mikhail laughed. "Oh, молодой волк (Young Wolf). All predators are drawn to blood. The form matters less than the hunger." He tapped his silver fingers against the arm of his chair, creating a soft, rhythmic chiming. "When blood scents the air, your control will be tested. This is a universal truth."
Harry felt a chill despite the comfortable temperature of the tent. "I've been injured before. Seen blood. It didn't trigger anything."
"Not yet," Mikhail agreed. "But there is blood, and then there is blood. The scent of fear, of violence—it changes the essence. Makes it... potent." His nostrils flared slightly, as if remembering a particular scent. "You will understand when it happens."
Hermione, who had been listening intently, finally spoke up. "Mr. Volkov, how have you managed to integrate into society with your condition? Are there legal restrictions on half-vampires in Russia?"
Mikhail glanced at her as if noticing her for the first time. "The magical community in Russia has a... practical approach to such matters. If you are useful, certain accommodations can be made. I was a respected magical researcher before my encounter, and my expertise remained valuable afterward."
"So there's no registry? No required disclosures?" Hermione pressed.
"There are records," Mikhail said vaguely. "But they are... selective in their enforcement." He turned his attention back to Harry. "Your government, I believe, is less accommodating. Your wolf friend would be wise to keep his condition private."
Harry tensed at the implied threat, but Mikhail raised his silver hand placatingly.
"I have no interest in exposing your secret, Harry Potter. On the contrary." He reached into his robes and withdrew a small silver vial filled with a ruby-red liquid. "I would like to offer you assistance."
"What is that?" Harry asked, eyeing the vial suspiciously.
"A formula of my own creation," Mikhail replied. "For emergencies only. When the beast threatens to overwhelm the man, this will... quiet it. Temporarily."
He held out the vial. Harry hesitated, then accepted it, feeling the cool weight of the silver against his palm.
"I'm not sure I need this," he said.
"Perhaps not," Mikhail agreed. "But it is better to have options, yes? Three drops under the tongue—no more. It will provide approximately one hour of clarity."
"What's in it?" Hermione asked, her voice tinged with both academic curiosity and concern.
Mikhail smiled again, showing those slightly-too-sharp canines. "A proprietary blend. Nothing harmful, I assure you. I have used it myself during... difficult moments."
Harry tucked the vial into his pocket, not entirely sure why he was accepting it but feeling it would be unwise to refuse. "Thank you."
"You are welcome, молодой волк." Mikhail stood with that same unnatural grace. "I must prepare for the match now. The Bulgarian Minister expects me to join his delegation."
As they rose to leave, Mikhail placed his flesh hand lightly on Harry's shoulder. The touch was cold, even through Harry's shirt.
"Remember what I said about blood," he murmured. "And perhaps consider that fighting your nature may be less productive than learning to direct it."
Outside the tent, Ron let out a long, shaky breath. "Bloody hell, Harry. That was..."
"Fascinating," Hermione finished, though she too looked unsettled. "A half-vampire! I've read about them, of course, but there's so little reliable information. The fact that he stopped his transformation by severing the bitten limb—that confirms theories I've read about the transmission vectors of vampire venom."
"Fascinating?" Ron repeated incredulously. "That bloke was creepy as a graveyard at midnight! Did you see his hand? And those teeth?"
"He wasn't threatening," Harry said slowly, trying to sort through his jumbled impressions. "Just... intense."
"He knew what you were right away," Hermione said quietly, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot. "If he could tell, do you think others might be able to as well?"
Harry shook his head. "I think it takes one to know one. He said it himself—it's rare to meet another 'partial,' as he called it."
"Are you actually going to keep that... whatever it is he gave you?" Ron asked, nodding toward Harry's pocket where the silver vial rested.
"For now," Harry replied. "I don't plan to use it, but..." He shrugged. "Could be useful to analyze, at least."
"I could research it," Hermione offered immediately, her academic curiosity clearly piqued. "There might be references to similar potions in the Hogwarts library."
As they walked away from the Russian tent, Harry found himself mulling over Mikhail's warning about blood. Was it just the half-vampire projecting his own condition onto Harry's, or was there something to his concern?
"Do you think he was right?" Harry asked Hermione quietly while Ron had hurried ahead to examine a cart selling miniature flying models of famous Quidditch players. "About blood affecting werewolves?"
Hermione's brow furrowed in thought. "I don't recall reading anything specific about partial lycanthropy and blood sensitivity. But... it does make a certain biological sense. Wolves are predators, after all." She gave him a reassuring smile. "But I'm sure there's nothing to worry about it, it's just blood."
Harry nodded, though Mikhail's words still echoed in his mind. There is blood, and then there is blood.
"Let's catch up with Ron," he suggested, pushing the unsettling thoughts aside. "Looks like the souvenir carts are setting up."
As they rejoined Ron at the merchandise stand, Harry tried to focus on the excitement of the upcoming match rather than the half-vampire's cryptic warnings. Tonight was about Quidditch, about celebrating with friends and experiencing the wizarding world at its most vibrant.
They arrived back at their tents to find the rest of the Weasleys sitting outside, watching the bustle of the campsite with fascination. Mr. Weasley was having the time of his life, pointing out the most outlandishly dressed Ministry wizards.
"That's Cuthbert Mockridge, head of the Goblin Liaison Office... Here comes Gilbert Wimple, he's with the Committee on Experimental Charms; he's had those horns for a while now..."
As Harry set down the water, Ginny caught his eye with a subtle raised eyebrow. He gave her a small shrug, trying to convey without words that nothing interesting had happened.
The afternoon wore on pleasantly as they helped Mr. Weasley cook sausages and eggs on a fire. Percy, Charlie, and Bill arrived just as the food was ready, having Apparated directly from the Burrow.
"Just Apparated, Dad," Percy said loudly. "Ah, excellent, lunch!"
Harry found himself sitting between Hermione and Ginny as they ate, enjoying the comfortable anonymity of being just another wizard in a sea of thousands.
Mr. Weasley jumped to his feet suddenly, waving and grinning at a man striding toward them. "Aha!" he said. "The man of the moment! Ludo!"
Ludo Bagman, Head of Magical Games and Sports and their ticket into the stadium, had arrived—and with him, the promise of the spectacle to come.
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