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The dream began differently this time.
Harry found himself standing in what appeared to be a vast underground chamber, its walls carved from black stone. Torches burned in sconces along the walls, their flames an unnatural blue-white that cast dancing shadows across intricate runic patterns etched deep into the rock.
At the center of the chamber stood a woman unlike any Harry had ever seen, even in dreams.
She was breathtakingly beautiful in a way that seemed almost supernatural—tall and graceful, with long silver hair. Her skin was pale as porcelain, unmarked by age or hardship, and her eyes were a striking green. She wore robes of deep crimson silk that clung to her curvy form, her large breasts were quite distracting, and her body was beautiful, it felt like looking at a goddess.
But there was something wrong in her beauty, something that made Harry's dream-self instinctively wary. Her smile was too perfect, it felt like looking at a beautiful woman who was hiding a knife.
Around her, carved into the stone floor, was a complex ritual circle inscribed with symbols that hurt Harry's eyes to look at directly. The lines of the circle were dark with what could only be dried blood, and at seven points around its circumference stood iron cages, each containing a figure in wizard's robes.
The captives were clearly terrified, pressing themselves against the bars of their prisons as the woman moved between them with satisfaction. Some pleaded with her in languages Harry didn't recognize. Others simply wept. All of them were young, beautiful in their own right, and Harry realized with sick certainty that she had chosen them as carefully as a connoisseur selecting fine wine.
"My darlings," the woman purred, her voice melodious and warm despite the horror of the situation. "You should feel honored. Your sacrifice will serve a purpose far greater than your small, ordinary lives ever could."
She approached the first cage, where a young wizard with golden hair cowered against the back wall. The woman reached through the bars, caressing his cheek with fingers that left trails of silver light on his skin.
"Such a pretty thing," she murmured. "I remember how eagerly you came to my chambers when I smiled at you in the tavern."
The wizard tried to speak, but he coud not talk, his lips were full of blood and all that came out of him were strange sounds as if he was choking.
"Oh, I took your voice hours ago, my sweet. Can't have you spoiling the ritual with unseemly noise."
She moved to the center of the circle, raising her arms as she began to chant in a language that predated Latin. The words seemed to vibrate through the stone itself, and the dried blood in the carved lines began to glow with a sickly red light.
One by one, she approached each cage. Harry wanted to look away, wanted to wake up, but found himself trapped as an observer. The woman didn't use a blade—instead, she drew cutting curses through the air with her finger, opening precise wounds on her victims that bled freely into chalices that appeared at her command.
With each collection, she grew more radiant. Her skin began to glow, her hair took on an almost ethereal shimmer, and her green eyes glitered like gems.
"Seven souls willingly given," she chanted, though Harry noted grimly that 'willingly' seemed a generous interpretation. "Seven streams of life to fuel the sight beyond sight."
As the final chalice filled, the woman raised it high above her head. The liquid within wasn't red anymore—it had transformed into something that looked like a pool of water full of stars, glittering.
She drank it all.
Power radiated from her in visible waves, and her eyes blazed so brightly that Harry had to shield his face even in the dream. When the light faded, she stood, still beautiful, but her skin was different, it was shinning as if it were made of stars.
Then she turned, looking past Harry toward something he couldn't see, and her perfect lips curved in a triumphant smile.
"I can finally see you," she whispered, her voice filled with awe and hunger. "You've been watching all along, haven't you?"
Harry spun around, following her gaze, but saw nothing except empty shadows. The woman was clearly addressing something—or someone—but whatever she perceived was invisible to him.
"Don't hide from me now," she continued, taking a step toward the empty space. "I've paid the price. I've opened the sight. Show yourself."
The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft whimpering of the dying captives in their cages. Harry strained his senses, trying to perceive whatever the woman was seeing, but detected nothing.
Was she mad? Had the dark ritual finally broken her mind, leaving her speaking to phantoms and shadows?
The woman raised her hand, drawing a cutting curse across her palm. Blood welled from the wound, but this time it was different—silver mixed with red, glowing with the same ethereal light as the chalice had contained.
"One more gift," she murmured, letting the luminous blood drip onto the ritual circle. "One more sacrifice to strengthen the connection."
But before Harry could see what happened next, the dream shattered like glass, leaving him gasping and shivering in his bed at Privet Drive.
He sat up slowly, running shaking hands through his hair as he tried to process what he'd just experienced. The dream had been more vivid than any before it—not just visual, but filled with sounds, smells, even the phantom sensation of that otherworldly energy radiating from the transformed witch.
"Mad," Harry muttered to himself, his voice hoarse in the pre-dawn darkness. "She was completely mad. All that power, all that blood, and for what? To talk to empty air?"
The blood magic book lay on his desk where he'd left it the night before, wrapped in its black cloth like something shameful that needed hiding. Harry stared at it with growing revulsion. If that's what blood magic did to people—drove them to murder innocents and speak to phantoms—then he wanted no part of it.
But even as he tried to dismiss the dream as a cautionary tale about the dangers of dark magic, doubt gnawed at him. The woman hadn't seemed mad in the conventional sense. Ruthless, certainly. Evil, without question. But her actions had been calculated, purposeful. She'd known exactly what she was doing throughout that horrific ritual.
And she had definitely seen something.
Harry rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the memory of her violet gaze fixed on that empty space with such intensity. What if she hadn't been insane? What if the ritual had actually worked, giving her the ability to perceive something that existed beyond normal human senses?
After all, who was he to dismiss the impossible? He'd survived falling through the Veil—something no one in recorded history had ever accomplished. He could speak to serpents, a very rare ability. His accidental magic had always been unusually strong, and now he was learning wandless spells at a rate that shocked even experienced Aurors.
If he could do the impossible, why couldn't others?
Harry's gaze drifted to his window, where the first hints of dawn were beginning to lighten the sky. What if there really were things watching from beyond the Veil? Things that had taken notice when he'd done the impossible and returned from their realm?
The idea made his skin crawl. During his time beyond the Veil, he'd experienced that terrible emptiness, that dissolution of self. But what if something else had been there in that void with him? Something that had followed him back?
He shook his head violently, trying to dispel the paranoid thoughts. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of—letting the dreams and the stress of his situation drive him toward the same kind of madness that had consumed the blood witch.
Standing abruptly, Harry grabbed the blood magic book from his desk. For a moment he considered throwing it out the window, letting it fall into Petunia's precious flower garden where it could rot with the mulch. The temptation was strong.
Instead, he wrapped it more tightly in its black cloth and shoved it into the bottom of his trunk beneath his winter robes. He wouldn't read it again, wouldn't let its promises of power tempt him down the same path as the beautiful witch in his dream.
There were other ways to grow stronger. Safer ways.
The wandless magic book still lay open on his desk, its pages filled with techniques that felt natural rather than corrupting.
This was the path he would follow. Difficult, certainly, but clean. He would become strong enough to protect those he cared about without sacrificing his sanity or his soul in the process.
The blood witch could keep her phantom conversations and her terrible power. Harry had seen where that road led, and he wanted no part of it.
Afternoon - The Following Day
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the back garden of Number Four Privet Drive, but Harry barely noticed the heat. He stood in the shade of the oak tree, sweat beading on his forehead from concentration rather than the weather, his right hand extended palm-up as he attempted the spell for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath, focusing on that strange mix of rage and protective instinct that had first called the chains into existence. The memory of Bellatrix's cruel laughter echoed in his mind, followed immediately by Snape's sneer as he'd mocked Sirius's death.
A faint red shimmer appeared above his palm, wavering like heat distortion before solidifying into a single crimson chain link. Harry's heart leaped—progress at last—but the manifestation lasted only seconds before dissolving back into nothing.
He lowered his hand with a frustrated sigh, rolling his shoulders to work out the tension. The spell was there, lurking just beneath the surface of his consciousness like a half-remembered song. Every time he reached for it, he could almost grasp its essence, but it slipped away the moment he tried to force it into being.
It was different from the wandless magic he'd been learning from Cassius Meridian's text. Those spells required careful meditation, a conscious channeling of his magical core through will and intent. The chains, however, felt instinctive—like flexing a muscle he'd never known he possessed until crisis had awakened it.
Harry glanced around the garden. The sensation had been growing stronger all day, a persistent itch between his shoulder blades that suggested hidden watchers. The neighboring houses looked innocuous enough—net curtains drawn against the afternoon heat, gardens empty save for the occasional cat.
He was being paranoid. Had to be. The dream of the blood witch had unsettled him more than he cared to admit, leaving him jumpy and suspicious of every shifting shadow.
"Focus," Harry told himself firmly, raising his hand once more. This time he tried a different approach, thinking not of rage but of protection—of wrapping chains around those he cared about to keep them safe from harm.
The red shimmer appeared again, stronger now, coalescing into three interlinked chains that stretched from his palm toward the garden shed. They were translucent, lacking the solid menace of the versions that had wounded Bellatrix and Snape, but they were undeniably there.
Harry held them for nearly a minute before they faded, satisfaction warming his chest. It was progress, even if the chains lacked the vicious spikes and autonomous movement of their more violent incarnations.
A soft crack from behind the garden fence made him spin around, wand appearing in his hand. Nothing. Just Mrs. Figg's cat picking its way delicately across her vegetable patch. But the feeling of being observed persisted, stronger now, as if his paranoia was feeding on itself.
By the time evening shadows began to lengthen, Harry had managed to produce the chains seven times out of fifteen attempts. Each success felt like solving a puzzle where half the pieces were missing—he could see the shape of what he was trying to accomplish, but the method remained frustratingly elusive.
The soft thump of feet landing on the garden shed's roof announced Tonks's arrival before she dropped not so gracefully to the ground, her hair a warm auburn. She'd traded her usual Auror robes for dark jeans and a fitted green t-shirt that did interesting things to Harry's ability to concentrate.
"Evening, Potter," she said with that crooked smile that never failed to make his stomach do small somersaults. "How goes the secret training?"
"Slowly," Harry admitted, then hesitated. The urge to demonstrate his progress warred with uncertainty about how she might react to seeing magic that even he didn't fully understand. "Though I did make some headway on something."
Tonks tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her dark eyes. "Oh? Care to share with the class?"
Harry glanced around the garden one more time, that persistent sense of observation making his skin crawl. "Do you... do you feel like we're being watched?"
She followed his gaze, her posture subtly shifting into the alert readiness of a trained Auror. After a moment, she shook her head. "Nothing magical, at least. Why?"
"I've had this feeling all day. Like someone's keeping tabs on me." Harry rubbed the back of his neck, feeling foolish. "Probably just paranoia."
"Paranoia keeps Aurors alive," Tonks said seriously, though she relaxed slightly. "Trust your instincts, but don't let them paralyze you. Now, what were you going to show me?"
Harry took a steadying breath and extended his hand, focusing on that protective instinct he'd discovered. The red chains materialized more easily this time, perhaps responding to Tonks's presence—three interwoven links stretching from his palm to wrap loosely around a garden gnome's ceramic hat.
"Bloody hell," Tonks breathed, her eyes widening. "Harry, what is that?"
"I'm not entirely sure," he admitted, maintaining the chains with careful concentration. "It first happened when I fought Bellatrix at the Ministry. Then again when Snape... when he said some things about Sirius. I've been calling it Catena Cruenta—Blood Chain—because of the color and how it seems to respond to strong emotions."
Tonks circled around him slowly, studying the manifestation from different angles like an Auror examining evidence. "I've never seen anything like this. Chain conjuration isn't taught at Hogwarts—hell, I don't think it's taught anywhere. Where did you learn it?"
"That's just it—I didn't learn it. It just... happened." Harry let the chains fade, flexing his fingers to work out the lingering tingle of magic. "It feels familiar, like something I've always known but forgot until I needed it."
"That's..." Tonks paused, clearly choosing her words carefully. "That's not normal, Harry. Spontaneous spell creation is advanced magic, usually requiring years of theoretical study."
"Nothing about me has been normal lately," Harry pointed out with a wry smile. "Why start now?"
"Fair point. Can you do it again?"
Harry complied, this time managing four chains that moved like snakes through the air. As he worked, Tonks moved closer, ostensibly to get a better view of the magic but bringing her near enough that he could catch her scent—something floral with an underlying hint of the night air she'd flown through.
"The way they move," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear as she leaned in. "They're almost alive."
The chains wavered as Harry's concentration faltered, distracted by her proximity. "They feel alive sometimes. Especially when I'm angry. Like they want to hurt whatever I'm angry at."
"That's what worries me." Tonks stepped back, though not as far as she probably should have. "Magic that responds to strong emotion can be dangerous, Harry. It can get away from you."
"Everything about magic can be dangerous," Harry replied, letting the chains dissipate. "But I need to understand this. It could be useful."
"Or it could hurt someone you care about." Her expression was serious now, the trained Auror overtaking the young woman. "Promise me you'll be careful with this. Don't practice when you're upset or angry."
"I promise," Harry said, meaning it. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally hurt Tonks—or anyone else—with magic he didn't fully control.
The moment stretched between them. Tonks was close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, could count the light freckles across her nose. Her gaze dropped to his lips for just an instant before she caught herself and stepped back properly.
"Right," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "Shall we get on with the actual training then?"
But even as they moved through their usual routine of combat drills and wandless practice, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that they were performing for an invisible audience. Every shadow seemed to hide potential watchers.
And when Tonks corrected his stance, her hands warm against his shoulders as she adjusted his position, Harry found himself wondering if their unseen observers were taking note of that too.
Night
The house had been quiet for hours when Harry finally allowed himself to relax. He sat cross-legged on his bed, the wandless magic book open in his lap, trying to focus on a particularly complex passage about magical core refinement. But concentration eluded him—that persistent feeling of being watched had only grown stronger throughout the evening, even after Tonks had left.
Every creak of the settling house made him look up. Every whisper of wind through the trees outside had him checking the windows. The Dursleys had been asleep for over an hour, their snores filtering through the thin walls, but Harry couldn't shake the sensation that something was wrong.
He was reaching for his water glass when instinct screamed a warning.
Harry threw himself sideways just as a bolt of sickly yellow light seared through the air where his head had been, striking the wall behind his bed and leaving a smoking crater in the plaster. He hit the floor hard, his book flying across the room as he rolled and came up with his wand in hand.
"Lumos!"
Harsh white light flooded the room, revealing a figure that made Harry's blood run cold. The house-elf was old, very old, almost like a Dumbledore of elves, his wrinkled skin hanging in loose folds like old parchment. His ears were enormous even by elf standards, drooping nearly to his shoulders, and his nose was so long and crooked it resembled a twisted branch. But it was his right arm that drew Harry's attention—from shoulder to fingertip, it glowed a bright, angry red like heated metal.
The elf wore what might once have been a tea towel, though it was now so stained and tattered it looked more like a collection of rags held together by spite. His bulging eyes fixed on Harry with malice.
"Harry Potter," the elf said, his voice like grinding stone. "At last, Reggy finds the boy who must die."
"Who are you?" Harry demanded, keeping his wand trained on the intruder while his mind raced. House-elves attacking wizards was virtually unheard of—their magic bound them to serve, not harm. "What do you want?"
"Reggy has told you—Reggy is here to kill Harry Potter and his dear relatives," the elf replied with disturbing calm. "Reggy has been commanded, and Reggy obeys."
"I don't care what happens to the Dursleys," Harry said quickly, hoping to defuse the situation. "You don't need to—"
"LIES!" Reggy shrieked, his voice rising to a pitch that made Harry wince. "Harry Potter protects them with blood magic! Reggy can smell it—old magic, powerful magic! They are precious to Harry Potter!"
The elf raised his glowing red arm, and Harry barely had time to throw up a shield before a wave of scorching air slammed into him. The magic wasn't wizard kind, it was elf magic.
He gestured with his normal left hand, and the floorboards beneath Harry's feet suddenly became liquid, sucking at his trainers like quicksand. Harry yelped and dove forward, rolling across his desk chair just as the wooden floor snapped back to solidity with a sound like breaking bones.
"What the hell are you?" Harry gasped, scrambling to his feet.
"Reggy is old," the elf said conversationally, as if they were old friends. "Older than Harry Potter's bloodline. Older than the house Harry Potter lives in. Reggy remembers when wizards begged elves for magic lessons."
Another gesture, and Harry's bedroom window exploded inward in a shower of glass and twisted metal. But instead of falling, the shards hung suspended in mid-air, rotating slowly before launching themselves at Harry like a swarm of crystal wasps.
Harry threw himself behind his bed, feeling glass fragments tear through his pajama shirt. "Protego!"
His shield held for perhaps three seconds before the sustained barrage shattered it. More glass cut across his shoulders and arms as he rolled desperately across the floor, leaving bloody streaks on the carpet.
"Incendio!" Harry snarled, sending a gout of flame toward the elf.
Reggy made a dismissive sound and waved his red arm. The fire bent around him like water flowing around a stone, leaving him completely untouched. Worse, the flames seemed to feed his arm's glow, making the crimson light pulse brighter.
"Fire feeds Reggy," the elf explained helpfully. "Reggy's master marked Reggy with flame that never dies. Now fire makes Reggy stronger."
He clapped his hands together, and the air around Harry suddenly became thick as honey. Each breath required tremendous effort, as if he were trying to inhale syrup. Harry staggered, his lungs burning as he fought against the suffocating atmosphere.
"Finite," he wheezed, pouring as much power as he could into the counterspell.
The thickened air cleared, but Reggy was already moving. The elf leaped from floor to wall to ceiling, his long fingers leaving deep gouges in the plaster wherever he touched.
"Harry Potter fights well for a child," Reggy observed from his perch upside-down on the ceiling. "But Reggy has killed many wizards. Strong wizards. Clever wizards. They all die the same."
He dropped like a stone, his red arm extended toward Harry's face. Harry threw himself backward, feeling heat wash over him as the glowing limb passed inches from his nose. The elf landed in a crouch and immediately spun, his leg sweeping Harry's feet out from under him.
Harry hit the floor hard, his wand skittering across the room. He rolled desperately as Reggy's burning hand slammed into the carpet where his head had been, leaving a smoking handprint in the fibers.
"Accio wand!" Harry shouted, grateful when his holly wand flew back to his grasp.
"Clever boy," Reggy acknowledged, then gestured at the walls around them. "But trapped boy."
Harry's blood ran cold as he realized what the elf meant. The walls of his bedroom were stretching upward, the ceiling rising higher and higher until it disappeared into shadow. But the room wasn't actually getting bigger—instead, the floor beneath them was sinking, creating a pit with smooth, unscalable sides.
In desperation, he reached for the one spell that might work. Not through careful meditation or conscious channeling of his magical core, but through raw need and the fury of being hunted.
Harry raised his wand, thinking of chains, of binding, of wrapping something so tightly around his enemy that escape became impossible.
"Catena Cruenta!"
A red chain erupted from his wand tip like a striking serpent, but this one was nothing like the gentle practice versions he'd shown Tonks. This chain was thick as his wrist with small spikes along it. And at its tip—
Harry's breath caught as he saw the chain's terminus had formed into the shape of a bird's head, complete with a cruel hooked beak and eyes that burned like coals.
Reggy's confident expression vanished, replaced by something Harry had never seen in the ancient elf's features before: pure, primordial terror.
"No," Reggy whispered, pressing himself against the wall of the pit. "Not that magic. Reggy knows that magic. Reggy fears that magic."
The chain-serpent struck with lightning speed, coiling around the elf's throat before he could react. Reggy screamed—a sound of such anguish that Harry instinctively tried to call back the spell.
"Stop," Harry commanded, but the chain ignored him.
The bird's head at the tip opened its beak wide and bit down on the chain itself, forming a perfect noose around Reggy's neck. The ancient elf clawed at the binding with both hands—normal and glowing—but his fingers passed through the magical construct without affecting it.
"Please," Reggy gasped, his bulging eyes now bulging for an entirely different reason. "Reggy was only following orders. Reggy must obey. Reggy has no choice."
"I said STOP!" Harry shouted, pouring all his will into canceling the spell.
The chain tightened further, cutting off Reggy's words. The elf's struggles grew weaker, his glowing arm beginning to dim. Harry felt sick—this wasn't what he'd intended. He'd wanted to bind the elf, not execute him.
But the spell remained beyond his control, operating according to its own vicious logic. The chain-serpent seemed to pulse with satisfaction as it slowly strangled its victim, and Harry realized with horror that he'd created something that fed on pain and death.
Then a spell Harry didn't recognize struck the chain, and it crumbled to nothing.
The chain crumbled like ash the moment the unknown spell struck it, releasing Reggy to collapse gasping on the floor of what had been Harry's transformed bedroom. The ancient elf clutched his throat, wheezing desperately as his glowing red arm flickered like a dying flame.
"MINISTRY AURORS!" The commanding voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt boomed through the night as dark figures poured through the shattered window frame. "Nobody move!"
Harry raised his hands slowly, his wand held carefully away from his body as half a dozen Aurors surrounded the scene. The pit Reggy had created was already reverting to normal, the walls shrinking back down to their proper height with a sound like reality reasserting itself.
"Stupefy! Stupefy! Incarcerous!"
Multiple spells struck the still-gasping house-elf simultaneously. Reggy went rigid, his bulging eyes rolling back as thick ropes wrapped around his ancient form. The red glow of his arm finally died completely, leaving him looking like nothing more than a particularly ugly garden ornament.
"Harry!" Tonks's voice cut through the organized chaos as she vaulted through the window, her violet hair wild and her dark eyes scanning him frantically for injuries. "Are you hurt? What the bloody hell happened?"
Before Harry could answer, she was at his side, her hands moving professionally over his arms and shoulders, cataloguing the cuts from the glass shards and the burns from Reggy's heat magic.
"I'm okay," Harry said, though his voice came out shakier than he'd intended. "Just cuts and scrapes."
"Drink this and let me handle the cuts."
Harry obeyed, feeling the potion's warmth spread through his system as his minor injuries began to close. Around them, the other Aurors worked, securing the scene and documenting everything with quick-quotes quills and magical cameras.
"Mr. Potter." Kingsley Shacklebolt approached, his deep voice careful and controlled. The tall Auror's expression was unreadable as he surveyed the damaged room. "Are you able to give us a preliminary statement?"
"The house-elf attacked me," Harry said immediately, wanting to make that clear before any assumptions were made. "He said his name was Reggy, and that he was here to kill me and the Dursleys. I was just defending myself."
A murmur went through the assembled Aurors. Harry caught fragments of their whispered conversations—"house-elf attacks are practically unheard of" and "binding magic gone wrong" and "what kind of spell creates chains like that?"
"He attacked unprovoked?" Shacklebolt asked, his quill hovering over an official-looking form. "You did nothing to threaten or provoke him?"
"I was reading in my room," Harry said. "He appeared and immediately started throwing killing curses. Well, not Avada Kedavra specifically, but spells that would definitely have killed me if they'd connected."
Tonks finished healing his cuts and moved to examine the scorch marks on the wall and carpet. "The magical residue is definitely house-elf magic," she reported to Shacklebolt. "But it's unlike anything in our databases. This elf was using combat magic—offensive spells designed to kill."
"Impossible," one of the other Aurors muttered. "House-elf magic is bound by their nature to serve and protect."
"Tell that to the crater in my wall," Harry said dryly, gesturing at the smoking hole where Reggy's first spell had struck.
Shacklebolt crouched beside the unconscious elf, studying the ancient creature with professional interest. "This one's old. Very old. The binding magic on him feels... different. Corrupted, perhaps."
"What about the chains?" another Auror asked, this one Harry didn't recognize. "We detected the magical signature from three streets away. That kind of power spike usually indicates dark magic."
Harry's stomach clenched, but Tonks answered before he could speak. "Self-defense magic often registers as darker than it actually is," she said smoothly. "Adrenaline and fear can push spells beyond their normal parameters."
"Indeed," Shacklebolt agreed, though his sharp eyes remained fixed on Harry. "Mr. Potter, I'm afraid you'll need to come with us to provide a full statement. The use of unknown magic in a residential area, even in self-defense, requires official documentation."
"Am I in trouble?" Harry asked.
"No," Shacklebolt said firmly. "You were clearly defending yourself against an unprovoked attack. But the Ministry needs to understand what happened here tonight. House-elf attacks on wizards are so rare they're practically mythical, and the magic you used..." He paused delicately. "Well, it's not in any of our textbooks."
Harry nodded, relief flooding through him. At least he wasn't going to be arrested for defending himself.
"Can I get dressed first?" he asked, suddenly aware that he was still in his torn, bloody pajamas.
"Of course," Shacklebolt said. "Tonks, stay with him. The rest of you, finish documenting the scene and prepare for transport."
As the other Aurors dispersed to their tasks, Tonks stayed with Harry as he starts wearing better clothes.
As he pulled on his jeans, Tonks moved closer, lowering her voice further. "Hey," she said gently, "everything's going to be alright. It would have been troublesome if the elf had disappeared before we arrived, but since he's captured, you have nothing to worry about."
Harry paused in buttoning his shirt, a new concern forming. "Does this mean the Ministry will decide to have me stay somewhere else? Since it's clear this place isn't safe?"
Tonks hesitated, her hair shifting to a darker shade that reflected her uncertainty. "I'm not sure myself," she admitted. "That'll be up to Bones and the new Minister, I suppose. But Harry, after tonight..." She gestured at the destroyed room. "It's hard to argue that the blood wards are providing adequate protection."
A sharp crack announced the arrival of more Ministry personnel—members of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, judging by their distinctive bronze badges.
"Right then," Shacklebolt called out. "Time to go. Mr. Potter, if you're ready?"
Harry nodded, casting one last look around his destroyed bedroom. The Dursleys would wake to find their nephew gone and their house damaged by a magical battle they'd slept through. Somehow, he doubted they'd be particularly surprised.
As Tonks offered him her arm for Side-Along Apparition, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. Reggy had been old, ancient even, with knowledge of magic that predated modern wizarding society.
And he'd been sent to kill Harry specifically.
The question was: by whom?
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The interrogation room was nothing like the courtroom where Harry had faced the Wizengamot the previous summer. Instead of towering stone walls, this space felt almost civilized—polished oak table, comfortable chairs, and soft magical lighting. Harry supposed that was intentional; they wanted him cooperative, not defensive.
Madam Amelia Bones sat across from him, her square jaw set in professional neutrality as she arranged a stack of parchments. Her monocle caught the light as she glanced up, and Harry was struck again by how different she seemed from the stern figure who had presided over his trial. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood near the door.
"Well then, Mr. Potter," Bones began, her quill poised over a fresh piece of parchment. "Shall we begin with what happened tonight? In your own words, please."
Harry was very calm. "I was in my bedroom, reading. It was just past midnight when this house-elf appeared—"
"Appeared how?" Bones interrupted gently. "House-elf magic leaves distinct traces. Did you hear the characteristic crack of Apparition?"
"Yes, a sharp crack. Very loud." Harry said calmly. "The elf called himself Reggy. He said he was there to kill me and my relatives."
Bones's quill scratched across the parchment. "Those were his exact words?"
"He said, 'Reggy is here to kill Harry Potter and his dear relatives.' Then he claimed I was protecting the Dursleys with wards, that he could smell it."
"Interesting." Bones made another note. "House-elves are typically bound by their nature to serve and protect wizards. For one to actively seek harm..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Continue, please."
"He attacked immediately. Yellow curse. I don't know what it was, but it would have killed me if I hadn't dodged. Then he started using magic I've never seen before."
Kingsley spoke up from his position by the door. "What kind of magic?"
"He made my floor liquid, like quicksand. Exploded my window and controlled the glass shards like they were alive. The air around me became thick as honey. I could barely breathe." Despite what he was saying, Harry's voice remained calm. "And he had this glowing red arm. Said fire made him stronger."
"A glowing red arm?" Bones leaned forward, her monocle gleaming. "That's not in any of our records for house-elf magic."
"He claimed he was older than my bloodline. Said he remembered when wizards learned magic from elves." Harry met her gaze steadily. "I was completely outmatched. He was toying with me."
"But you fought back," Kingsley observed. "The magical residue we detected suggests you used considerable force."
"I used whatever I could to survive. Standard spells did nothing. My fire curse just made his arm glow brighter. I was getting desperate when I remembered the spell I'd used at the Ministry."
"The chain spell," Bones said, consulting her notes. "Catena Cruenta, according to the magical signature analysis. Where did you learn this magic, Mr. Potter?"
"I didn't learn it anywhere." Harry's voice was still calm. "It just... happened. First time was after Bellatrix Lestrange killed...Sirius. I was angry, desperate to stop her, and suddenly there were these red chains."
"Spontaneous spell creation is extraordinarily rare," Bones said carefully. "Usually requiring years of theoretical study and advanced understanding of magical principles."
"Well, apparently I'm a special case," Harry replied with a bitter laugh. "Seems to be the story of my life."
Bones and Kingsley exchanged a meaningful look. "Mr. Potter," she said slowly, "are you aware that your magical signature has been... altered since your experience in the Department of Mysteries?"
Harry went very still. "Altered how?"
"We're not entirely certain. The Department of Mysteries has been studying the Veil for centuries, trying to understand its properties. What we do know is that no one has ever returned from beyond it." Her voice grew gentle. "You accomplished the impossible, Mr. Potter. There may be consequences we don't yet understand."
"Consequences like spontaneous chain magic?"
"Perhaps. Your magical core shows enhanced resonance, heightened sensitivity to ambient magic. It's possible your time beyond the Veil has awakened dormant abilities." Bones set down her quill, studying him intently. "We've flagged your signature for monitoring, but not for punishment, for research. If we can understand what happened to you, it might help us better comprehend one of magic's greatest mysteries."
Harry absorbed this information, unsure whether to feel relieved or worried. "So I'm not in trouble for using unknown magic?"
"Mr. Potter," Kingsley said with something approaching warmth, "house-elf attacks on wizards are so extraordinarily rare that we've only recorded three cases in the past five hundred years. All were elderly elves whose binding magic had degraded due to their masters' deaths. This Reggy creature..." He shook his head. "What you've described defies everything we know about house-elf limitations."
"Indeed," Bones agreed. "You defended yourself against an unprovoked assault using whatever means necessary. The fact that your defensive magic was both unknown and effective is remarkable, not criminal."
"Then I'm free to go?"
"Not quite yet." Bones smiled slightly. "Minister Scrimgeour has specifically requested a meeting with you. He's rather eager to make your acquaintance."
"Is that a request or a command?"
"A request," Bones assured him. "Though I suspect you'll find Minister Scrimgeour rather different from his predecessor."
"Different how?" Harry asked. Tonks had said the same thing, that this new Minister wasn't like the old one.
"He actually believes Voldemort has returned, for one thing," Kingsley said dryly. "And he's not in the habit of putting teenagers on trial for defending themselves."
"Small mercies," Harry muttered.
Bones gathered her parchments. "You've been through a traumatic experience tonight, Mr. Potter. The Minister understands that. This meeting is as much about ensuring your wellbeing as anything else."
Harry doubted that, but he nodded anyway. After everything he'd endured, Umbridge's blood quill, Fudge's persecution, the Daily Prophet's smear campaign, he'd learned to be deeply suspicious of Ministry officials bearing reassurances.
"One more thing," Bones added as she stood. "Your friend Miss Tonks spoke quite passionately about your need for proper protection. The blood wards at your relatives' home clearly failed tonight."
"They've been failing for a while," Harry said quietly. "I never considered Privet Drive home."
"Yes, well. That's something the Minister will want to discuss with you." She moved toward the door, then paused. "Mr. Potter? For what it's worth, I'm glad you survived tonight. Both the attack and what came before it."
As the door closed behind her, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the lingering scent of parchment and ink, he couldn't help but wonder what fresh complications awaited him in the Minister's office. One thing was certain, after tonight, his quiet summer of secret training was well and truly over.
The waiting room felt like a velvet trap, all burgundy leather chairs and mahogany side tables that probably cost more than the Dursleys' entire living room set. Harry sank into one of the chairs, but the expensive comfort only made his skin crawl. Everything here was designed to make visitors feel important while they waited to be used.
The walls were lined with moving portraits of former Ministry officials, their painted eyes following him with the kind of polite interest that made Harry want to hex something. He'd had enough of being watched, studied, and catalogued to last several lifetimes.
The door opened with a soft click, and Tonks slipped inside, her hair a subdued brown that told Harry more about her mood than words could. She looked as drained as he felt.
"Finished giving your report?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer from her expression.
"Three bloody hours of it," Tonks said, dropping into the chair beside him with less grace than usual. "They wanted to know everything, the magical signatures, the timing, what you had for dinner, probably what color socks you were wearing."
"Red," Harry said automatically. "With holes in the toes."
That earned him a tired smile. "Of course they were." She studied his face, her trained Auror eyes cataloguing details. "How are you holding up?"
Harry considered the question seriously. How was he holding up? The honest answer was that he felt like a piece of parchment that had been crumpled, smoothed out, crumpled again, and was now being prepared for yet another bout of rough handling.
"I keep thinking about last year," he said finally. "The trial, the Dementor attack, all of it. Fudge hauled me in front of the entire Wizengamot because I cast a Patronus to save my cousin. Now I've used completely unknown magic to nearly kill a house-elf, and they're treating me like a curious research subject instead of a dangerous criminal."
"Different Minister, different priorities," Tonks said pragmatically. "Scrimgeour actually believes Voldemort's back, which puts you on the right side of history for once."
"Lucky me." Harry's voice carried enough acid to etch glass. "Though I notice they still want to parade me around for political gain. Some things never change."
Tonks shifted in her chair, turning to face him more fully. "Harry, you need to understand something about Rufus Scrimgeour. He's not Fudge, he's smarter, more ruthless, and infinitely more ambitious. He sees you as a weapon in his arsenal against Voldemort."
"I'm not anyone's weapon."
"I know that, and you know that, but he's going to try to convince you otherwise." Her voice dropped to the tone she used for Auror briefings. "He'll offer you things, protection, resources, information. All of it will come with strings attached."
Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at the ornate ceiling where golden phoenixes chased each other in endless circles. The metaphor wasn't lost on him. "What kind of strings?"
"Public appearances. Endorsements. Carefully scripted statements about how the Ministry is doing everything right and the public should have faith in their leadership." Tonks's hair darkened another shade. "He wants to turn you into a symbol, Harry. The Boy Who Lived, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Ministry against the forces of darkness."
The thought made Harry's stomach churn, but another part of his mind, the part that had been carefully cataloguing Dumbledore's failures and planning his own independence, began to calculate. If Scrimgeour wanted to use him, that meant he had something the Minister needed. And things that were needed could be traded.
"What if I don't cooperate?" Harry asked.
"I don't think he will do anything drastic, he is not Fudge, but he can make your life more difficult, and he and the Ministry will not support you, and he might try to convince others that siding with you is not a good idea, he might try to paint you as Dumbledore's puppet."
"So my choices are puppet or completely alone."
"Those are the choices he'll present to you, yes." Tonks met his eyes directly. "But you're not the same boy who sat in that courtroom last year, are you? You've learned things. About magic, about people, about how power really works."
She was right. He wasn't the same frightened fifteen-year-old who had stumbled through Fudge's political ambush. He'd walked through the Veil and come back changed. He'd broken with Dumbledore and survived it. He'd been training, learning, growing stronger.
"If he wants my cooperation," Harry said slowly, "then he's going to have to pay for it."
"Now you're thinking like a Slytherin...a Good one," Tonks's approval was evident in her voice. "What do you want from him?"
Harry closed his eyes, letting his mind work through the possibilities. What did he actually need? What could a Minister of Magic provide that would be worth the cost of public association?
"Justice," he said finally. "For Sirius, for what happened to me last year, for all of it. And protection, real protection, not just political theater."
"Scrimgeour might actually be able to deliver on that," Tonks said thoughtfully. "He's got the political will that Fudge lacked."
"Then we'll see how much my cooperation is really worth to him." Harry opened his eyes, and Tonks was struck by how much older they looked than they had just months ago. "I won't be anyone's puppet, but I'm not stupid enough to refuse help when it's offered."
"Just remember," Tonks said softly, "every favor comes with a price. Make sure you know what you're paying before you agree to anything."
Harry nodded, his mind already working through potential demands, concessions, and the careful balance of give and take that seemed to define adult relationships. The boy who had blindly trusted authority figures was gone, replaced by someone who understood that power was currency and cooperation was a transaction.
The only question now was whether Minister Scrimgeour was prepared to pay Harry's asking price.
.
.
The Minister's office felt like stepping into the den of a apex predator who had decorated with the bones of his enemies. Everything was designed to project strength, dark wood that gleamed like armor, magical portraits of stern-faced wizards who radiated authority, and a massive desk that could have doubled as a shield wall. Harry settled into the chair across from it, his posture relaxed but alert, like a duelist waiting for his opponent to draw.
When Rufus Scrimgeour entered, Harry understood immediately why the man had clawed his way to the top of the Ministry food chain. He moved like a lion.
"Mr. Potter." Scrimgeour's voice carried through the room as he rounded his desk. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
"Minister." Harry's tone was politely neutral. "Though I suspect 'agreeing' is perhaps too generous a word."
A smile ghosted across Scrimgeour's weathered features as he took his seat. "Direct. I appreciate that in a man." He steepled his fingers, studying Harry. "I imagine you have questions about tonight's events."
"I have questions about many things," Harry replied smoothly. "Tonight's events are merely the most recent addition to a rather extensive list."
"Such as?"
"Such as why the Ministry spent an entire year painting me as either a delusional attention-seeker or a dangerous dark wizard, only to suddenly decide I'm worth protecting."
Scrimgeour had the grace not to flinch. "The previous administration made regrettable mistakes in their handling of your situation. Cornelius was... shall we say, overly concerned with maintaining the appearance of stability rather than addressing the reality of our circumstances."
"Regrettable mistakes." Harry tasted the words like wine gone sour. "Is that what we're calling Dolores Umbridge's blood quill? Sending Dementors to attack me in Little Whinging? Fudge hauling a fifteen-year-old before the full Wizengamot for defending himself?"
"I said regrettable, Mr. Potter. I didn't say forgivable."
"How refreshingly honest of you, Minister." Harry's voice could have frosted glass. "Though I notice you stopped short of an actual apology."
"Would you believe one if I offered it?"
Harry considered it seriously, recognizing the trap within the trap. If he said yes, he'd appear naive. If he said no, he'd seem unreasonably hostile. Either answer would hand Scrimgeour an advantage.
"I might," Harry said finally, "if it came with meaningful action rather than empty words."
"Ah." Scrimgeour leaned back in his chair, and Harry caught a flash of genuine approval in those calculating eyes. "Now we're getting to the heart of the matter, aren't we?"
"Are we?"
"Indeed. You see, Mr. Potter, I find myself in need of something only you can provide, while you, I suspect, find yourself in need of things only the Ministry can offer. This strikes me as the foundation for a mutually beneficial arrangement."
Harry said nothing, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. It was a technique Snape had inadvertently taught him—sometimes the most powerful response was no response at all.
Scrimgeour was the first to break. "Public morale is at its lowest point since You Know Who was at his most powerful during the first war. His return has shattered the illusion of safety that most wizarding families took for granted. People are frightened, Mr. Potter. Frightened people make poor decisions, and poor decisions lose wars."
"And you believe my endorsement would calm their fears?"
"I believe your endorsement would give them hope." Scrimgeour's voice carried the weight of absolute conviction. "You're the Boy Who Lived, the only wizard to ever survive the Killing Curse. More than that, you're the wizard who stood in the Ministry's own halls and declared You Know Who's return when everyone else was too cowardly to speak the truth."
Harry felt something cold settle in his stomach. "You want me to be your tool."
"I want you to be our symbol." The correction was swift and pointed. "The Ministry and the Chosen One, working together to protect magical Britain from the forces of darkness."
"Chosen One?" Harry's eyebrows rose fractionally. "That's an interesting phrase, Minister. What exactly do you think I was chosen for?"
Scrimgeour waved a dismissive hand. "The specifics matter less than the perception. People need to believe that destiny is on our side, that we have advantages You Know Who lacks."
Harry stared at the Minister for a long moment, processing the implications. Scrimgeour didn't know about the prophecy—didn't know that Harry was genuinely prophesied to be the one to defeat Voldemort. He was simply gambling on the symbolic power of the idea, using Harry's reputation to bolster public confidence in the Ministry's ability to win the war.
It was brilliant, in a coldly calculating way. And it told Harry exactly how much leverage he actually possessed.
"I see." Harry's voice was thoughtful, as if he was only now beginning to understand the scope of what was being offered. "And in exchange for this public support, what would the Ministry be prepared to offer?"
"Protection, for one thing. Real protection, not the half-measures that clearly failed tonight." Scrimgeour leaned forward. "Resources. Information. Access to magical knowledge and training that would normally be restricted to fully qualified Aurors."
"Speaking of which," Scrimgeour continued, his tone shifting to something almost conversational, "I understand you have aspirations to join the Auror Corps after completing your education at Hogwarts. That could be easily arranged, naturally. The right recommendations, accelerated training programs, priority placement..."
"That's very generous, Minister. But I'm afraid my current priority is somewhat more immediate than career planning."
"Oh?"
"Survival." The word dropped between them like a stone into still water. "Everything else is rather academic until Voldemort is dead."
Scrimgeour's eyes sharpened with what might have been respect. "A pragmatic viewpoint."
"The only rational one, under the circumstances." Harry said casually. "Tell me, Minister, what exactly would this public support entail? I've had quite enough of being the Ministry's dancing bear."
"Carefully managed appearances. Selected interviews with approved journalists. Perhaps a few photo opportunities showing you working closely with Ministry officials." Scrimgeour's tone suggested these were minor inconveniences rather than the soul-crushing political theater Harry knew they would be.
"Controlled propaganda, in other words."
"Effective messaging," Scrimgeour corrected smoothly. "The truth, presented in its most compelling form."
Harry almost smiled at that. Almost. "And what truth would that be, exactly?"
"That the Ministry of Magic and the Chosen One stand united against the forces of darkness. That Harry Potter has confidence in our leadership and our methods. That victory is not only possible but inevitable, because we have advantages our enemies cannot match."
The words were polished, focus-tested, probably rehearsed in front of a mirror. They were also completely hollow, and Harry suspected Scrimgeour knew it as well as he did.
"I see." Harry steepled his own fingers, unconsciously mirroring the Minister's earlier gesture. "And if I were to decline this generous offer?"
"Then you would, of course, be free to pursue your own path." Scrimgeour's smile was sharp as a blade. "Though I imagine you'd find that path considerably more difficult without Ministry support. Particularly given the... unusual nature of your magical development since the Department of Mysteries incident."
Harry found himself genuinely impressed. Scrimgeour was everything Fudge had never been—intelligent, ruthless, and utterly without the self-deception that had made his predecessor so easy to manipulate. This was a man who understood power and wasn't afraid to use it.
Unfortunately for the Minister, Harry had learned a few things about power himself.
"An intriguing proposition," Harry said, his tone giving nothing away. "Though I suspect you'll understand if I don't simply accept your first offer. After all, if my cooperation is as valuable as you suggest, then surely it's worth more than vague promises and veiled threats."
Scrimgeour's smile widened, and for the first time since entering the office, Harry saw genuine pleasure in the man's eyes. "Indeed it is, Mr. Potter. Indeed it is. What did you have in mind?"
"Several things, actually," Harry said, settling back in his chair with the satisfied air of a negotiator who had just gained the upper hand. "Shall we discuss terms? I have four specific requirements that must be met before I'll consider any public association with your administration."
"I'm listening." Scrimgeour said right away.
"First," Harry said, his tone crisp and businesslike, "Dolores Umbridge must be arrested and prosecuted to the full extent of magical law. She sent Dementors to attack me in Little Whinging—a clear violation of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, not to mention attempted murder. She also tortured students under her care using a blood quill, which I believe violates several statutes regarding the abuse of minors."
Scrimgeour's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Those are serious accusations, Mr. Potter."
"They're serious crimes, Minister." Harry's voice could have cut glass. "I have the scars to prove the blood quill, and there were witnesses to the Dementor attack and I have witness of her admiting that she was the one who sent the dementors. Surely the Ministry's investigative resources are sufficient to build a case."
"Indeed they are." Scrimgeour made a note on the parchment beside his elbow. "Though I trust you understand that even with compelling evidence, proper legal procedures must be followed. We cannot simply throw someone into Azkaban based on accusations, however credible."
"Of course not." Harry's agreement came smoothly, but his eyes remained hard. "I wouldn't want anyone to suffer the same fate as my godfather—condemned without trial, imprisoned without evidence. Justice delayed by bureaucracy is preferable to justice denied entirely."
The barb struck home. Scrimgeour's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he nodded. "A fair point. Madam Umbridge will receive a thorough investigation and, if the evidence warrants it, a full trial before the Wizengamot."
"Excellent." Harry made his own note, though his was mental rather than physical. One demand granted, with reasonable caveats. Time to push his luck. "Second, I want a complete accounting of the Death Eaters captured at the Department of Mysteries. Their current status, expected trial dates, and likely sentences."
"That's easily provided." Scrimgeour consulted a different parchment, his movements suggesting this was information he'd expected to share. "Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Augustus Rookwood, and six others are currently awaiting trial in the Ministry's holding cells. The cases are largely procedural, they were caught red-handed in the act of committing numerous crimes, including assault on Ministry personnel and attempted murder of minors."
"Red-handed indeed," Harry agreed, though his tone suggested he was building toward something more complex. "I assume they'll receive the standard Azkaban sentences?"
"Life imprisonment, most likely. The evidence is overwhelming."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on something beyond Scrimgeour's shoulder. When he spoke again, his voice carried a weight that made the Minister sit up straighter.
"With respect, Minister, I don't think Azkaban is sufficient."
"I beg your pardon?"
"They should be executed." The words dropped into the silence like stones into a deep well. "All of them."
Scrimgeour's carefully maintained composure cracked, revealing genuine surprise beneath. "Mr. Potter, that's... quite a departure from your usual stance on such matters."
"My usual stance," Harry said with bitter precision, "was formed when I believed in the rule of law and the possibility of redemption. Recent events have provided a more practical education." He met Scrimgeour's eyes directly. "Voldemort is back, Minister. The Dementors have abandoned Azkaban to join him. Those prisoners won't suffer in their cells—they'll simply wait for their master to free them, adding their wands and their knowledge to his forces."
"And if they're dead?"
"Then Voldemort loses experienced lieutenants, and the remaining Death Eaters receive a clear message about the consequences of their choices." Harry's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "Fear is a language everyone understands since the moment they feel it, Minister. Perhaps it's time we became fluent."
Scrimgeour stared at him for a long moment, and Harry could practically see the man's mental image of the Boy Who Lived crumbling and reforming into something considerably more dangerous.
"That's... not the advice I expected from Harry Potter," Scrimgeour said finally.
"Harry Potter the symbol might disagree," Harry replied evenly. "Harry Potter the person who's watched friends die and enemies escape justice repeatedly finds the logic compelling."
"I'll... consider your recommendation." The words came slowly, as if Scrimgeour was still processing this new version of the boy he'd thought he understood. "Though such measures would require significant political maneuvering."
"Of course." Harry moved on as if discussing execution orders was perfectly routine. "Third demand: Nymphadora Tonks is to be assigned as my official bodyguard, with full Ministry authority and resources."
"Granted." The relief in Scrimgeour's voice suggested he was grateful for a request he could fulfill without moral complications. "Auror Tonks has already proven herself capable of protecting you, and frankly, your safety is a Ministry priority regardless of our other arrangements."
"And fourth," Harry continued, his tone suggesting he was saving the most important for last, "I require exemption from the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. I need to be able to defend myself without worrying about Ministry persecution."
Scrimgeour's expression tightened. "Mr. Potter, that statute exists for good reason. Underage wizards lack the control and judgment—"
"Minister." Harry's interruption was gentle but implacable. "I've survived encounters with Voldemort, faced down Dementors, battled Death Eaters, and returned from beyond the Veil itself. I think we can safely assume I'm not your typical underage wizard."
"The Wizengamot would never approve such a blanket exemption."
"Then it's fortunate I'm not asking for one." Harry's smile was perfectly reasonable and utterly inflexible. "My primary magical development has been in wandless casting, which is considerably more difficult for your monitoring systems to detect. I'm simply asking for official acknowledgment that my unique circumstances warrant special consideration."
The distinction was subtle but crucial, and Harry could see Scrimgeour working through the implications. Wandless magic was indeed harder to trace, and Harry was essentially offering to practice his more questionable abilities in a way that would give the Ministry political cover if questions arose.
"You're quite certain your wandless abilities are sufficiently developed for self-defense?"
"Would you like a demonstration?"
"That won't be necessary." Scrimgeour made another note. "Very well. Limited exemption for wandless magic in matters of self-defense, subject to review if circumstances change."
Harry inclined his head graciously. "Acceptable."
"Four demands, all granted with reasonable caveats." Scrimgeour set down his quill and studied Harry with newfound respect. "I admit, Mr. Potter, you've proven more sophisticated in these negotiations than I anticipated."
"I've had excellent teachers, Minister. Some of them even meant to be." Harry leaned back in his chair, projecting satisfied confidence. "Now then, as a gesture of good faith on my part, I'd like to share something that might prove useful in your propaganda efforts."
"Oh?"
"Voldemort's real name." Harry let the words hang in the air like bait. "His identity before he became the Dark Lord."
Scrimgeour went very still. "You have that information?"
"Tom Marvolo Riddle." Harry spoke the name. "Born 1926, educated at Hogwarts, sorted into Slytherin House. Half-blood."
The Minister's eyes widened as the implications hit him. "Half-blood? You're certain?"
"Completely. Rather undermines his pure-blood supremacy message, doesn't it?"
"Indeed it does." Scrimgeour was practically vibrating with excitement. "His own followers would be appalled to learn their 'pure-blood' leader is actually a half-blood with Muggle ancestry."
"Precisely. Though I'd suggest saving this revelation for maximum impact." Harry's smile was purely predatory now. "Nothing quite like destroying an enemy's credibility when they least expect it."
"You've given this considerable thought."
"I've given many things considerable thought, Minister. The war, politics, the various ways information can be weaponized..." Harry trailed off meaningfully. "One learns to think strategically when one's survival depends on it."
Scrimgeour nodded slowly, his expression suggesting he was rapidly revising his entire assessment of the young man across from him. "Indeed one does. Very well, Mr. Potter, I believe we have the foundation for a mutually beneficial arrangement."
"Excellent. Now, I need to know what happened to my godfather's inheritence."
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