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The Room of Requirement had become Harry's sanctuary in the three days since he'd walked out of the Great Hall. He paced past the familiar stretch of wall, his mind focused on a single desire: I need a place to practice magic without being disturbed. The door materialized, and he stepped into a chamber that resembled a smaller version of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, complete with practice dummies and cushioned floors.
Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it at one of the dummies. "Stupefy," he said, watching the red light streak across the room. Simple enough. But that wasn't what he was here for.
He tucked his wand away and held out his empty hand toward the same dummy. The magic felt different without a wand. It took several attempts before he managed to produce even a weak stunner, and when he did, the spell came out purple instead of red.
Interesting.
For the next hour, Harry practiced basic spells wandlessly, growing more frustrated with each failed attempt. It shouldn't be this difficult. He'd done accidental magic for years before Hogwarts. But this felt different—like trying to paint with his non-dominant hand.
Then, he remembered what he had dreamed last night.
The wand is a crutch, came a voice that wasn't his own. Magic flows through intent, not instrument. Feel the power in your blood, not your hand.
Shaking his head, he tried again. This time, instead of pointing his hand like a wand, he focused on the feeling of magic itself—the warm current that flowed through his veins when he cast spells. He imagined that current extending outward, shaped by his will rather than channeled through wood and core.
"Stupefy."
The spell erupted from his palm with such force that it not only struck the dummy but sent it flying backward into the wall. Harry stared at his hand in amazement. The magic had felt more natural than breathing, as if he'd been doing it his entire life.
The door to the Room of Requirement opened, and Harry spun around to find Hermione stepping inside. She looked tired, her usually neat hair hanging in limp curls around her face.
"I thought I might find you here," she said quietly, closing the door behind her. "You missed dinner again."
"Not hungry," Harry replied, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice. He'd been hoping for at least another hour of uninterrupted practice.
Hermione's eyes flicked to the practice dummy embedded in the far wall, then back to Harry's face. "Harry, we need to talk."
"Do we?" Harry crossed his arms, studying her expression. The concern there was genuine, but it irritated him more than it comforted. "Let me guess—you're here to tell me I'm being too hard on Dumbledore. That he's still a good man who made a few mistakes."
"No," Hermione said, and her answer surprised him. "Actually, I... I've been thinking about what you said. About all the times he could have done things differently." She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly looking very young. "You're not wrong, Harry. About any of it."
Harry felt some of his anger deflate. He'd expected her to defend the headmaster, to rationalize away the old man's failures with her usual logical arguments.
"But," Hermione continued, and there was the catch he'd been waiting for, "that doesn't mean we should completely cut ties with him. Like it or not, Dumbledore is still the most powerful wizard alivethat is in our side. He's still the leader of the Order. And with Vol—with You-Know-Who back, we need every advantage we can get."
"We don't need anything," Harry said coldly. "I'm done being Dumbledore's weapon. Done letting him decide who lives and dies in his grand chess game."
"Harry, please." Hermione stepped closer, her voice pleading. "I'm not saying you have to trust him completely. I'm not saying you have to forgive him. But maybe... maybe you could keep some kind of relationship with him? For strategic purposes, if nothing else?"
Harry laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Strategic purposes? You want me to pretend to be his loyal little soldier while planning behind his back? That's very Slytherin of you, Hermione."
She flinched at the comparison. "That's not what I meant—"
"Isn't it?" Harry's green eyes glittered dangerously. "You want me to use him while making him think I still care about his opinion. To manipulate the great manipulator." He shook his head. "I won't do it. Dumbledore is dead to me. Completely and utterly dead. The sooner you accept that, the better."
Hermione's face crumpled slightly. "Harry, your anger is understandable, but—"
"My anger?" Harry's voice rose. "My anger is the only honest thing in this entire bloody school. Everyone of the Order is walking around pretending that Sirius died for some noble cause, that his death meant something. But we both know the truth, don't we? He died because I was stupid enough to trust a man who treats people like chess pieces."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Hermione spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What happened to you in there, Harry? When you went through the Veil? You've been different since you came back. Colder."
Harry's expression didn't change. "Maybe I just finally learned to see the world as it really is. If you want my advice Hermione, you and Ron should do the same, you two need to get stronger if you want to survive the upcoming war."
Hermione stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I should go. Ron's worried about you, by the way. We both are."
"Tell Ron I'm fine," Harry said, turning back to the practice dummies. "Tell him to focus on his own problems."
He heard the door open and close, but didn't turn around. When he was certain Hermione was gone, he raised his hand again and focused on the feeling of magic flowing through his blood.
This time, the stunner came easily.
Two days later, Harry was making his way back from the library when he heard footsteps behind him in the empty corridor. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was—the distinctive sound of billowing robes and measured steps could only belong to one person.
"Potter."
Harry stopped but didn't turn around. "Professor Snape."
"How touching," Snape's silky voice dripped with venom as he moved to block Harry's path. "The famous Harry Potter, wandering the halls like a lost ghost. Tell me, how does it feel to be responsible for your godfather's death?"
Harry's hands clenched into fists, but he kept his voice level. "What do you want, Snape?"
"What I want," Snape said, stepping closer, "is for you to stop contaminating these halls with your pathetic grief. Black was a fool who died a fool's death, and your melodramatic mourning is becoming tedious."
Something dark and dangerous stirred in Harry's chest. "Don't," he said quietly. "Don't you dare talk about him."
Snape's lips curved in a cruel smile. "The truth hurts, doesn't it, Potter? Your precious godfather threw his life away for nothing. Just like your father would have done. At least now you're free of his corrupting influence."
The rage that exploded through Harry was unlike anything he'd ever felt. Before he fully realized what he was doing, his wand was in his hand and he was speaking words in a language that felt ancient on his tongue.
Red chains burst from his wand tip, wickedly barbed and moving like living things. They wrapped around Snape's wrists with supernatural speed, the spikes biting into pale flesh. Snape gasped in pain and surprise, his black eyes widening as blood began to seep through his sleeves.
For a moment, they stood frozen—teacher and student locked in a tableau of violence that neither had quite expected.
Then Snape's expression hardened into something deadly. Without reaching for his wand, he spoke a single word: "Diffindo."
The chains shattered like glass, fragments of red light scattering across the stone floor before dissolving into nothing. Snape flexed his bleeding wrists, his dark eyes fixed on Harry with anger.
"Interesting," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been respect. "That's not a spell they teach in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Harry glared back at him, his wand still raised. "Stay away from me, Snape. And keep Sirius's name out of your mouth."
"Or what?" Snape stepped closer, seemingly unaware of the danger radiating from the fiveteen-year-old boy in front of him. "You'll attack a teacher again? How very like your father—all righteous fury and no control."
"I'm nothing like my father," Harry said, his voice deadly quiet. "And that should terrify you."
For just a moment, something flickered across Snape's face—uncertainty, perhaps even a hint of fear. Then the familiar mask of cold disdain slipped back into place.
"Five points from Gryffindor for wandering the halls after hours," Snape said, turning away. "And Potter? Perhaps you should learn some self control, because no matter how strong you get, if you can't control your own emotions, then you cannot control your own power, and sooner or later, someone will get hurt because you allowed anger to guide you."
Harry watched the Potions Master disappear around the corner, his breathing still ragged from the confrontation. He looked down at his wand, noting the faint red glow that still emanated from its tip.
The same chains he had used against Bellatrix. With her, she had overpowered them easily, and the same was for Snape, but was there more to this spell? Harry was sure of it, he just needed to practice more, and to get stronger.
The Next Day
The Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library had always felt like a tomb to Harry, but today the atmosphere seemed particularly fitting.
"Archaic Methods of Magical Justice," he read from the cover, settling into a corner table where Madam Pince couldn't easily spot him. He'd already been through half a dozen books about the Department of Mysteries, most of which contained frustratingly vague references to "the archway" or "the ancient portal."
This one, however, proved more promising.
The Veil of Death, as it came to be known in common parlance, served as the Ministry's primary method of execution from 1692 until 1801. Unlike the crude methods employed by Muggles, the Veil offered a clean disposal of criminals deemed too dangerous for imprisonment...
Harry's eyes widened as he read on. The book described the Veil's history in clinical detail—how it had been discovered in a cave system beneath what would eventually become London, how the Ministry had claimed it and built the Department of Mysteries around it. The archway itself was apparently far older than wizarding civilization, its origins lost to time.
...prisoners sentenced to death would be brought before the Veil during the dark of the moon. The condemned would be given a choice: walk through willingly, or be pushed. Records indicate that many chose to walk, drawn by the whispers that emanated from beyond the archway...
"Whispers," Harry muttered, remembering the soft voices he'd heard calling to him that night. They'd sounded like his parents.
He flipped several pages, scanning for more relevant information.
The practice was abandoned in 1801 following the establishment of Azkaban Prison. Minister Horatius Klugg declared that "the Veil's permanence leaves no room for mercy or the correction of judicial error." The decision was met with considerable opposition from traditionalists who argued that certain crimes warranted absolute punishment...
Harry found himself nodding in agreement with the traditionalists. Some people—like Bellatrix Lestrange, like the Death Eaters who tortured Muggles for sport—didn't deserve the chance at rehabilitation or release. They deserved exactly what Sethis of Blackmoor had received: a one-way trip through the archway.
He read on, growing more fascinated and disturbed with each paragraph. The book mentioned failed experiments to retrieve objects thrown through the Veil, the complete disappearance of a researcher who got too close, and the Ministry's eventual decision to simply leave the archway alone.
No living being has ever returned from beyond the Veil. This fact has remained constant throughout recorded history, leading most scholars to conclude that passage through the archway represents true death rather than transportation to another realm...
Harry stared at the words, feeling a mixture of pride and unease. He was apparently the first person in magical history to return from the Veil. That had to mean something, didn't it? But what?
"Excuse me?"
Harry jumped, slamming the book shut and spinning around to find Nymphadora Tonks standing behind him. Her hair was its natural mousy brown today, and she looked almost as tired as Harry felt.
"Sorry," she said quickly, holding up her hands. "Didn't mean to startle you. I was looking for you, actually."
"Oh." Harry wasn't sure what to say. He liked Tonks well enough—she was funny and unpretentious in a way that most adults weren't—but he didn't know her particularly well. "What can I do for you?"
Tonks shifted her weight from foot to foot, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "I wanted to apologize. About Sirius. I know how much he meant to you, and I... we should have done better. Protected him better."
Harry took a deep breath, pushing down the familiar surge of grief and anger. "It wasn't your fault," he said quietly. "None of you could have predicted what would happen."
"Maybe not," Tonks said, "but that doesn't make it easier, does it?" She paused, studying his face. "What are you planning to do this summer?"
The question caught Harry off guard. "Why do you ask?"
"Just wondering. You'll be going back to your relatives, I assume?"
Harry's jaw tightened. "Unfortunately, yes. Back to my stupid relatives that I hate." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Tonks nodded slowly. "I saw how they were during last summer when I was told to watch over you. I don't understand why Dumbledore insists on sending you back there every year."
"Blood wards," Harry said with a shrug. "Apparently there's some kind of protection around the house. As long as I return there for at least a week once a year and consider it home, I'm protected from Voldemort."
"Do you?" Tonks asked, tilting her head. "Consider it home, I mean?"
Harry let out a bitter laugh. "I've never considered Privet Drive my home. Not even before I knew I was a wizard. That place has never felt like anything but a prison."
Something flickered across Tonks's face—anger, maybe, or determination. "Well," she said carefully, "Dumbledore has asked me to keep watch over your house sometimes during the summer. Keep an eye on things."
"Why are you telling me that?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
"Because I want you to know that I'll make sure your relatives don't give you too much trouble this time around."
Harry frowned. "Dumbledore will tell you not to interfere unless there's a magical threat."
"Probably," Tonks agreed, her lips curving in a small smile. "But this time, I plan to intervene regardless. Magical threat or not."
"Why would you go out of your way to do that?" Harry asked, surprised by her willingness to defy orders.
Tonks's expression softened. "Because you've got enough on your mind without dealing with relatives who are too full of themselves—both figuratively and literally."
Despite everything, Harry found himself laughing. It was the first real laugh he'd had since Sirius's death, and the sound surprised him so much that he immediately stopped, guilt washing over him.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For the talk. And the support. It... it means more than you know."
Tonks reached out and squeezed his shoulder briefly. "Take care of yourself, Harry. And if you need anything—anything at all—find a way to let me know, yeah?"
Harry nodded, watching as she made her way back through the library stacks. When she was gone, he opened the book again and continued reading, but his mind kept drifting to their conversation. It was strange to think that someone—especially someone he barely knew—cared enough to risk Dumbledore's displeasure on his behalf.
Maybe the summer wouldn't be quite as unbearable as he'd thought.
He turned the page and found a new section titled "Theoretical Implications of Veil Traversal." The text was dense and academic, full of complex magical theory that made his head spin. But one paragraph near the end caught his attention:
Should an individual somehow survive passage through the Veil and return to the living world, it is theoretically possible that they would retain some connection to the repository beyond. Such a person might find themselves privy to knowledge or abilities that originated with previous travelers. However, this remains purely speculative, as no such case has ever been documented...
Harry stared at the words, his heart pounding. A connection to the repository. Knowledge from previous travelers. That would explain the strange familiarity he'd felt with the red chains spell, the way wandless magic seemed to come so naturally to him now.
It would also explain the dreams.
He closed the book and leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. If the theory was correct, then his journey through the Veil had fundamentally changed him. Made him something new, something unprecedented.
The question was: what exactly had he become?
One Week Later
Harry had just finished his final training session in the Room of Requirement when the familiar sensation of being watched prickled along his spine. He turned slowly, unsurprised to find Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway, his blue eyes taking in the scorch marks on the walls and the pile of shattered practice dummies in the corner.
"Impressive," Dumbledore said quietly, stepping into the room. "I don't believe wandless magic is typically taught until sixth year."
Harry said nothing, simply staring at the headmaster with cold green eyes. Seven days of avoiding this conversation had apparently come to an end.
"Harry," Dumbledore continued, his voice carrying that familiar grandfatherly warmth that now made Harry's skin crawl, "I was hoping we might have a word before you depart for Privet Drive tomorrow."
"No," Harry said flatly.
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said no." Harry's voice was calm, controlled—a far cry from the screaming rage he'd displayed in this very office ten days ago. "We have nothing to discuss."
"I rather think we do." Dumbledore stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back. "Your recent behavior has been... concerning. Professor Snape mentioned an incident—"
"Snape can go to hell," Harry interrupted, his tone never changing from that eerily calm register. "And so can you."
For a moment, Dumbledore's mask of benevolent concern slipped, revealing something harder underneath. "Harry, I understand that you're angry—"
"Angry?" Harry laughed, but the sound held no humor. "I was angry ten days ago. Now I'm simply... clear-headed."
"I see." Dumbledore studied Harry's face carefully. "And this newfound clarity—does it have anything to do with what happened to you when you passed through the Veil?"
Harry's expression didn't change. "What makes you think anything happened?"
"Because, my dear boy, no one has ever returned from beyond that archway. Not in all of recorded history. Yet here you stand, apparently unharmed but... changed."
"Changed how?" Harry asked, his voice deceptively casual.
"Colder. More controlled. And capable of magic that should be far beyond your current abilities." Dumbledore gestured toward the destroyed practice dummies. "What did you see beyond the Veil, Harry?"
Harry was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant. "Darkness," he said finally. "And voices. Lots of voices."
"What did they tell you?"
"Nothing you'd want to hear." Harry's attention snapped back to Dumbledore, his eyes hard as emeralds. "But that's not why you're here, is it? You're not concerned about what happened to me—you're concerned about what I might do with whatever I brought back."
Dumbledore's silence was answer enough.
"You know," Harry continued, "I've had time to think these past few days. About choices. About trust. About the difference between protection and manipulation."
"Harry—"
"Did you know," Harry interrupted, "that I spent an entire year being tortured by Umbridge while you ignored me? That every detention involved her carving words into my hand with a blood quill?" He held up his left hand, showing the faint white scars. "I must not tell lies. Ironic, don't you think?"
Dumbledore's face had gone pale. "I didn't know—"
"No, you didn't," Harry agreed. "Because you were too busy avoiding me to notice. Too concerned with keeping your distance to realize that one of your teachers was torturing students." His voice remained eerily calm. "Tell me, Professor, what exactly were you protecting me from that was worse than that?"
"Harry, I can explain—"
"Can you?" Harry stopped pacing and fixed Dumbledore with a stare that seemed far too old for his fifteen years. "Can you explain why you thought Snape was a suitable Occlumency teacher when he hates me more than anyone alive except Voldemort? Can you explain why you never told me about the prophecy when knowing it might have prevented Sirius's death?"
"I was trying to preserve your innocence—"
"My innocence?" Harry's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "I stopped being innocent the night my parents died. I stopped being innocent when I faced Voldemort at eleven years old. When I fought a basilisk at twelve. When dementors tried to kiss me at thirteen. When I was forced into a deadly tournament at fourteen." His magic began to stir around him, making the air shimmer with heat. "When exactly did you plan to stop treating me like a child?"
Dumbledore opened his mouth to respond, but Harry held up his hand. The old wizard's words died in his throat—not by choice, but because he suddenly couldn't speak. The wandless silencing charm had come as naturally as breathing to Harry, but Dumbledore easily broke it.
Harry might be stronger now, but he was still far beneath Dumbledore. He needed to get stronger.
"I want you to listen very carefully," Harry said. "I trusted you. Completely and without question. I believed that you knew best, that your decisions were made with my welfare in mind. I was wrong."
"Harry, you must understand—"
"I understand perfectly," Harry cut him off. "You made choices for me without consulting me. You decided what I could and couldn't know. You used me as bait for Voldemort while keeping me ignorant of the dangers I faced." His green eyes blazed with cold fury. "And when your strategy failed, when your secrets and manipulations led directly to Sirius's death, you admitted it was your fault and expected that to somehow make it better."
"It was my fault," Dumbledore said quietly. "I failed you, and I failed Sirius. If I could undo—"
"But you can't," Harry interrupted. "He's gone. The last person who might have been family to me is dead because you thought you knew better than everyone else." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Our relationship—whatever it was—is over. I won't be your weapon anymore. I won't follow your plans blindly. From now on, I make my own choices."
"Harry, please—"
"I don't want to hear from you this summer," Harry continued as if Dumbledore hadn't spoken. "No letters, no visits, no attempts to guide my decisions. The blood wards will hold whether you meddle or not."
"The dangers you face—"
"Are mine to handle." Harry's voice was final. "I managed to survive them for four years with your help. I suspect I'll do better without it."
"Harry, wait." Dumbledore's voice carried a note of urgency that made Harry pause at the threshold. "Whether you like it or not, you will need help to defeat Voldemort. You cannot do this alone—it does not matter how powerful you become, you cannot defeat him and all his supporters by yourself."
Harry turned back slightly, his expression cold. "I won't be asking for your help."
"I wasn't speaking of my help," Dumbledore said quietly. "I was speaking of your friends. Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley are deeply worried about you, Harry. They've noticed the distance you've put between yourself and them these past days."
Harry's jaw tightened. "That's not your concern."
"Perhaps not," Dumbledore acknowledged. "But you might not want my support anymore—and I understand why—but you should not cut everyone else out of your life. Hermione and Ron have stood by you through everything. They've risked their lives for you, just as you've risked yours for them."
"And look how well that turned out," Harry said bitterly. "I nearly got them all killed at the Ministry."
"They chose to follow you," Dumbledore said gently. "Just as they would choose to stand with you again, if you let them. Don't let your anger at me destroy the friendships that have sustained you."
Harry was quite for a long minute, as much as he hated to admit it, Dumbledore was right on this. His friends had done nothing to earn his ire, and he would not help them by ignoring them, but still, Harry said nothing and left Dumbledore alone with his thoughts.
While Harry knew he wanted their friendship, he still wanted to know just how much trust they had on Dumbledore, because if they were blind fools, then Harry would make sure to be careful around them, but if they saw the truth, then he would welcome them with open arms.
The Hogwarts Express
Harry found their compartment easily enough—the sound of familiar voices carried through the corridor, though they fell silent as he slid open the door. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, and Neville were already settled in, their trunks stowed overhead.
"Harry," Hermione said softly as he walked in with Tonks behind him and took the remaining seat beside Luna. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Harry replied, settling back against the cushions. The train lurched into motion, and he watched the Scottish countryside begin to roll past the windows.
"Official Ministry protection," Tonks explained with a slight grimace, gesturing to herself when she saw the confused looks of Hermione and Ginny. "Apparently the Boy Who Lived needs an escort to London now."
"Just them trying to save face," Harry said quietly. "Make it look like they're taking my safety seriously after spending a year calling me a liar."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the compartment. Ron shifted in his seat, clearly wanting to say something but not sure how to begin.
"So," Ginny said finally, her brown eyes fixed on Harry, "what are everyone's plans for the summer?"
"The usual," Ron muttered. "Helping Mum with the garden, playing Quidditch with the twins." He paused, glancing at Harry. "What about you, mate?"
"Privet Drive," Harry said with a shrug. "Same as always."
"Your relatives still awful?" Ginny asked, and there was an edge to her voice that suggested she had strong opinions about the Dursleys.
"They don't understand our world, and they don't want to."
Tonks made a soft noise of agreement. "Some people are just determined to be miserable," she said. "Especially when faced with something they can't control or understand."
Hermione leaned forward slightly. "Harry, I've been thinking about what you said. About preparing ourselves. You're right—we can't just wait for adults to handle everything."
"Mum and Dad trust Dumbledore completely," Ron said slowly. "They think he knows what's best for everyone."
"Maybe he does know what's best for everyone," Ginny said sharply. "That doesn't mean what's best for everyone is what's best for Harry."
Luna nodded dreamily. "Sometimes the people who see the whole picture miss the details that matter most to individuals."
Tonks glanced between them, her expression thoughtful. "I take it there's been some... disagreement?"
"You could say that," Harry said dryly.
"Harry's not wrong to question things," Hermione said firmly. "Adults make mistakes too. Sometimes big ones."
Ron looked uncomfortable. "But Dumbledore's fought dark wizards before. He knows what he's doing."
"Does he?" Ginny asked. "Because from where I'm sitting, his strategy of keeping Harry in the dark nearly got all of us killed."
"The Ministry battle wasn't Dumbledore's fault—" Ron began.
"Wasn't it?" Harry's voice was quiet but carried an edge that made everyone look at him. "If I'd known the truth about the prophecy, about why Voldemort wanted it so badly, would I have been so quick to believe that vision?"
Tonks was watching him carefully now, her dark eyes sharp with understanding. "Sounds like you and the headmaster had quite the conversation."
"We did," Harry said simply. "It was... illuminating."
"And now you're not on speaking terms," she said. It wasn't a question.
"No. We're not."
The silence that followed was heavy. Finally, Luna spoke up in her usual dreamy tone.
"I think Harry's right about training. The war won't wait for us to graduate."
"Exactly," Harry said, grateful for her support. "We need to be ready. All of us. Because next time, there might not be any adults coming to save us."
"What kind of training?" Neville asked quietly.
"Combat magic. Defense. Things they don't teach us at school. The same training we had during our D...our meetings during the year," Harry's eyes were hard. "Things that might actually keep us alive."
"That's... not a terrible idea," Tonks said slowly. "Though you'd have to be careful about the Trace."
"There are ways around that," Harry said, and something in his tone made Hermione look at him sharply.
Before anyone could ask what he meant, the compartment door slid open with a bang. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, his pale face twisted with fury.
"Potter," he snarled. "This is all your fault."
Harry looked up calmly. "Hello, Malfoy. Come to gloat about your father's arrest?"
Draco's face went even paler, then flushed red with anger. "He's innocent! The Ministry has no proof—"
"The Ministry has plenty of proof," Harry interrupted. "They caught him red-handed in the Department of Mysteries, fighting alongside Death Eaters. Everyone knows what your father really is now."
"You filthy—" Draco started forward, his hand moving toward his wand.
He never got the chance to draw it. Tonks was on her feet with her wand pointed at his throat before anyone else had even registered the threat.
"I'd think very carefully about your next move, Malfoy," she said pleasantly. "Keep this up, and your daddy might get a new cellmate for a week."
Draco went deathly pale, stumbling backward into Crabbe. "You can't—the Ministry wouldn't—"
"The Ministry takes threats against Harry Potter very seriously these days," Tonks said with a sharp smile. "Now, I suggest you run along to your own compartment before I decide you're enough of a threat to warrant immediate action."
Draco shot one last venomous look at Harry, then turned and fled down the corridor with his cronies stumbling after him.
Tonks settled back into her seat, tucking her wand away. "Well, that was entertaining."
"Can you really send him to Azkaban for a week?" Ron asked, looking impressed.
Tonks's smile turned sad. "Not for coming here and saying hurtful things, no. The Ministry's not quite that draconian yet." She paused. "Though if he'd actually drawn his wand..."
"His father's really in Azkaban then?" Ginny asked.
"Along with the rest of the Death Eaters we caught," Tonks confirmed.
"Good," Hermione said firmly. "They deserve everything they get."
They deserve death, Harry wanted to say, but held his tongue, they would not understand, not yet.
The conversation drifted to safer topics after that, but Harry found himself only half-listening. His mind was already turning toward the summer ahead, toward the training he would need to do, toward the power he could feel growing stronger within him each day.
The war was coming, whether the adults were ready or not. And when it did, Harry intended to be prepared.
No matter what it cost him. He would not allow another person dear to him to die.
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