Harry Potter
The dormitory was quiet except for the familiar symphony of sleeping boys, Ron's thunderous snores, Neville's soft mumbling about something that sounded like "repot the Venomous Tentacula," and Seamus's occasional sleep-talking in what might have been Irish Gaelic. Dean slept like the dead, as always, barely making a sound.
Harry lay on his back, staring at the canopy above his four-poster bed. Dawn light crept through the gaps in the heavy curtains, painting thin lines of pale gold across the fabric.
He hadn't slept well.
Every time he closed his eyes, Venefecia appeared before him. She spoke to him about the Holy Magic, spoke to him about making something called the Holy Order. Harry was not sure what that meant, but Venefecia was of his blood after all; he was sure he could trust her. But, he didn't even know how to make this Holy Order, and Venefecia wasn't willing to share much information with him, besides a name.
Harry rubbed his eyes and sat up, pushing the curtains aside. The cold morning air hit his bare chest, and he shivered, reaching for the jumper he'd draped over the bedpost. He pulled it on and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet finding the cold stone floor.
The memory vial sat on his bedside table, exactly where he'd left it three days ago. The silver thread inside caught the dawn light, swirling lazily like smoke trapped in glass. It was beautiful, in a way. Hard to believe something so delicate held the key to whatever nightmare the second task had in store.
He'd been avoiding it. He knew that. Dumbledore had told him to take his time, and Harry had seized on that permission like a lifeline, using the Hogsmeade trip, the Skeeter operation, the Dueling Tournament announcement, anything to justify putting it off.
But the excuses had run out. It was Sunday morning, there were no classes, no obligations, no convenient distractions. Just the vial, the Pensieve waiting in the Room of Requirement, and whatever truth was trapped inside that silver thread.
Harry picked up the vial and turned it over in his fingers. The memory shifted with the movement, catching light differently, tiny silver and gold fragments swirling together. He thought about the corpse in his nightmare, the one sitting at a desk writing "I'm sorry" over and over until its hand cramped and its heart stopped. The memory had been embedded in that corpse's skull, hidden behind layers of guilt and self-destruction.
What moment from his life had the tournament's magic considered significant enough to hide there?
"Mrph."
Harry looked up to see Ron stirring in the next bed over, his red hair sticking up in eleven different directions. Ron cracked one eye open, squinted at Harry, and groaned.
"Wha' time is it?" Ron mumbled.
"Early," Harry said. "Go back to sleep."
"Can't," Ron yawned, pushing himself into a sitting position with the enthusiasm of a man being dragged to his own execution. "Stomach's awake. Stomach doesn't care about weekends."
Harry smiled.
Ron rubbed his eyes and blinked at Harry more clearly. "You're up early. Everything alright?"
"Fine. Just couldn't sleep."
"Thinking about the tournament?" Ron's eyes lit up at the word. "Because I signed up first thing. Well, second thing. First thing was breakfast. But right after breakfast, straight to the sign-up sheet."
"The Dueling Tournament?"
"What else? Harry, this is massive. A real tournament, not some life-threatening, nightmare-inducing death trap. Just... dueling. Spells. Showing what you've got." Ron grinned. "I've been practicing, you know. Those sessions you ran? I've actually gotten decent. Lavender says my Shield Charm is—"
"I don't need to know what Lavender says about your Shield Charm," Harry cut in.
"It's a compliment! She said it was solid. Firm. Reliable."
"She was definitely talking about the Shield Charm."
Ron threw a pillow at him. Harry caught it, laughing, and tossed it back.
"So?" Ron pressed. "You signing up or what? Because if you don't, people are going to think you're scared."
"I'm signing up," Harry confirmed. "Might as well. Could be good practice."
"Good practice," Ron repeated, shaking his head. "Only you would call a hundred-Galleon tournament 'good practice.' The rest of us mere mortals are doing it for the gold and the glory, mate."
Harry's smile faded slightly as his eyes drifted back to the vial in his hand. Ron followed his gaze.
"Is that the memory?" Ron asked, sounding more serious now. "From the task?"
"Yeah."
"You haven't watched it yet?"
"No."
"You going to?"
"Today," Harry said. "After breakfast. I've put it off long enough."
Ron nodded slowly. "Want me to come with?"
Harry considered it. Ron was his best mate. But this felt like something he needed to face with the people who'd been in the dome with him, who'd endured their own nightmares. Fleur had her own memory to view.
"I appreciate it," Harry said carefully. "But I think I need to do this with Fleur and Hermione. The clue is about the second task, and Fleur's a champion too. She has her own memory to view."
"Yeah, alright," Ron said. "Makes sense." He paused. "But if you need to talk about it after, you know where to find me."
"Stuffing your face in the Great Hall?"
"Exactly where you'd expect." Ron grinned and swung out of bed, immediately hunting for socks. "Come on, then. Let's get breakfast before Seamus wakes up and starts his whole morning ritual. I swear he spends more time on his hair than Lavender does."
Harry pocketed the memory vial and followed Ron toward the door, pausing only to grab his wand from the bedside table and a small piece of parchment. He needed to send a message to Fleur before breakfast.
He pulled out his wand and tapped the parchment twice, a communication trick Hermione had taught him. The words appeared in his neat handwriting:
Room of Requirement. After breakfast. Bring your memory.
He duplicated the message and sent both pieces floating out of the dormitory window, one toward Gryffindor Tower's girls' dormitories and another toward the Beauxbatons carriage, each enchanted to find its recipient. Harry watched the parchments disappear into the grey morning sky.
Ron was already at the door, bouncing on his heels with the restless energy of someone whose stomach was making demands. "Coming?"
"Yeah," Harry said, taking one last look at the pale dawn light filtering through the window. "Let's go."
The Great Hall was already buzzing when they arrived, despite the early hour. Sunday mornings at Hogwarts were usually sluggish affairs, students trickling in late with sleep-heavy eyes and bedhead. But the Dueling Tournament announcement had changed the energy entirely. The Hall felt charged, electric, like someone had cast an Invigoration Draught into the air vents.
Harry could see the sign-up sheets from across the room. There were four of them, one posted near each house table, and all four were already surrounded by clusters of students arguing over spots and scribbling their names. Ron had just signed his name and was now returning.
"See?" Ron said proudly, loading his plate with enough scrambled eggs to feed a small army. "Told you I signed up early. Third name on the Gryffindor list."
"Who beat you?" Harry asked, reaching for toast.
"Fred and George," Ron said darkly. "They were waiting outside the common room at midnight. I think they slept in the corridor."
"That sounds like them."
Harry glanced toward the Slytherin table and caught Malfoy's name near the top of their sign-up sheet, written in that pretentious, overly elegant script that Malfoy probably practiced in front of a mirror. Beneath it were Crabbe and Goyle, because of course they'd follow Malfoy into anything, even something that required them to think on their feet.
Further down the Slytherin list, Harry spotted a name that made him pause: Daphne Greengrass. He remembered her from the Private sessions, her sharp eyes and sharper questions, the way she'd flirted with him, and how Fleur's duel had put her firmly in her place. She was good, though. Harry had to give her that. Not on Harry's level, not even close, but she was better than most of her year.
At the Hufflepuff table, Cedric's name was predictably first. Susan Bones was listed just below him, along with several sixth and seventh-years Harry didn't know well.
The Ravenclaw sheet was the most orderly. Cho Chang's name was listed, along with several older students and, surprisingly, Luna Lovegood. Harry smiled at that. Luna would bring... something to the tournament, that was certain. Whether it would be conventional dueling skill remained to be seen.
"Hermione!" Ron called out, waving his fork. "Over here!"
Hermione appeared at the end of the table, her bag slung over one shoulder and her hair still slightly damp from a shower.
"Morning," she said, sitting down next to Harry and reaching for the toast rack. "I got your message."
"Good." Harry lowered his voice. "After breakfast?"
"After breakfast," Hermione confirmed. She glanced at the sign-up sheets. "I see the whole school has gone dueling-mad overnight."
"It's brilliant, is what it is," Ron said through a mouthful of eggs.
"It's concerning," Hermione corrected. "Another competition on top of the Triwizard Tournament? Don't you think the timing is suspicious?"
Ron shrugged. "Moody's the one who suggested it. He's paranoid about everything, but he knows what he's doing."
"Does he?" Hermione murmured, so quietly that Harry barely caught it. She was looking at the staff table, where Moody sat hunched over his plate, his magical eye spinning its endless circuits around the Hall.
Harry followed her gaze. For a moment, Moody's magical eye locked onto him across the room. Harry felt that same chill from last night.
Then the eye spun away, and Moody returned to his breakfast as if nothing had happened.
"Harry?" Hermione touched his arm. "You alright?"
"Fine," Harry said automatically. He picked up his toast and bit into it without tasting anything. "Let's eat fast. We've got work to do."
The Room of Requirement had outdone itself.
When Harry paced three times before the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, thinking I need a place to view a memory safely, the door that materialized was different from the ones he'd conjured before. The wood was darker, reinforced with iron bands that looked ancient, and the handle was shaped like a coiled serpent, its eyes set with tiny emeralds.
Harry pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room had manifested as a circular study, intimate and warm despite the stone walls. A fire crackled in a hearth set into the far wall, casting dancing shadows across bookshelves that curved with the room's shape. The shelves were stocked with volumes that Harry suspected weren't random. He caught titles as he passed: Memory and Mind: A Comprehensive Guide to Pensieve Use, The Architecture of Magical Recollection, and, somewhat ominously, What the Dead Remember.
But the centerpiece of the room caught all of his attention.
The Pensieve sat on a stone pedestal in the exact center of the floor, positioned beneath a shaft of soft light that seemed to come from nowhere. It was a shallow stone basin, wide as a large dinner plate, its rim carved with runes and symbols that shimmered faintly with an inner light. The surface of the basin was empty, waiting, its stone interior polished to a mirror finish that reflected Harry's face back at him, slightly distorted, like looking into still water.
Harry approached it slowly. He'd seen Dumbledore's Pensieve before, but this one felt different.
He pulled the vial from his pocket.
"Do not open it yet."
Harry turned. Fleur stood in the doorway. She wore simple clothes today, dark trousers and a cream-colored jumper that somehow made her look more beautiful than her Beauxbatons robes ever did. In her right hand, she held her own memory vial, the liquid inside a pale, shimmering blue.
"I got your message," Fleur said, stepping inside. Her eyes swept the room with approval. "I still cannot believe Hogwarts has a room like this,"
"That's sort of its thing," Harry said.
Fleur crossed to him, her hand finding his cheek briefly. "You look tired, mon coeur."
"Didn't sleep well."
"Bad Dreams?"
"Confusing dreams," Harry admitted, and his tone made it clear he didn't want to talk about it.
The door opened again, and Hermione slipped inside, slightly out of breath. Her bag was slung over her shoulder.
"Sorry I'm late," Hermione said, closing the door behind her. "Lavender cornered me on the stairs. She wanted to know if I thought Ron had a chance in the Dueling Tournament."
"What did you tell her?" Harry asked.
"That he'd do fine as long as he remembered to actually cast spells instead of just waving his wand and hoping for the best."
Fleur snorted. Hermione set her bag down in one of the armchairs and joined them at the Pensieve, her eyes immediately drawn to the runes along its rim.
"Oh," Hermione breathed, leaning closer. "These are extraordinary. This isn't a standard Pensieve. The runic matrix is far more complex. See here?" She pointed to a cluster of symbols near the base. "These are containment wards, but they're layered with something else. Translation enchantments, I think. The memory will present itself in a way the viewer can understand, regardless of the original language or time period."
"So if the memory is from centuries ago..." Harry began.
"You'll still be able to understand what's happening," Hermione confirmed. "The Pensieve will translate context, not just language. Fascinating craftsmanship."
"Hermione," Harry said gently. "Focus."
"Right. Sorry." She straightened up, but her eyes kept drifting back to the runes. "How do you want to do this?"
Harry looked at Fleur, who held up her own vial. "I suggest we view yours first," Fleur said. "Zen mine. Ze clues may connect."
"Agreed," Hermione nodded. "But Harry, the memory is yours. It was extracted from your construct, your corpse. It's personal to your experience in the task. I think you should view it alone first."
Harry frowned. "Why alone?"
"Because we don't know what's in there," Hermione said carefully. "The tournament's magic chose this memory specifically for you. It might contain something private, something meant only for your eyes. You should see it first, and then decide what to share with us."
He looked at Fleur, who nodded her agreement.
"We will be right 'ere," Fleur said. "If you need us."
Harry took a breath. Then another. He uncorked the vial.
The silver thread didn't pour so much as flow, drifting from the glass like smoke caught in a gentle current. It settled into the Pensieve's basin with a soft hiss, spreading across the stone surface until the entire basin shimmered with silver-gold light. Shapes moved beneath the surface, indistinct and shifting, like watching shadows through frosted glass.
Harry gripped the edges of the Pensieve. The stone was warm under his fingers, almost alive, humming with a faint vibration that he could feel in his bones.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered.
He leaned forward and let himself fall.
Harry fell through darkness. Couldn't feel ground beneath his feet. For a terrifying moment, he thought the memory was empty, that there was nothing here, that the whole thing had been some cruel trick.
Then light exploded around him, and Harry was somewhere else entirely.
He stood in an underground chamber.
The first thing he noticed was the size of it. The chamber was enormous, carved from dark stone that glistened with moisture, the walls stretching up into shadows so deep that the ceiling was invisible. Torches lined the perimeter, but their flames burned an unnatural deep amber.
The walls were covered in runes. Some were deep enough that Harry could have fit his finger inside the grooves. Others were shallow scratches, barely visible. They covered every surface, floor to ceiling, overlapping and intersecting.
He didn't recognize a single one.
No. That wasn't entirely true. As his eyes adjusted to the amber torchlight, he caught fragments that sparked something in his memory. A curved symbol that resembled the golden triangle that had appeared on his chest during Venefecia's vision. A series of interlocking circles that reminded him of diagrams in his father's Holy Magic books.
The air was thick and warm, a familiar taste. It took him a moment to place it.
Blood. The air smelled of blood.
A sound drew his attention to the center of the chamber. Harry turned, and his breath caught.
A woman stood before a stone basin, roughly hewn from the same dark rock as the walls. The basin was large, maybe four feet across, and it was filled nearly to the brim with liquid so deeply red that it was almost black. The surface of the liquid was perfectly still, reflecting the amber torchlight like a dark mirror.
The woman was extraordinary.
She was tall, nearly Harry's height, with dark hair that fell in wild tangles past her shoulders, streaked with premature grey despite a face that couldn't have been older than thirty. Her eyes were the most striking feature, large and dark, almost black in the torchlight, but when she turned her head, Harry caught flashes of deep violet, like lightning glimpsed through storm clouds.
She wore robes that belonged to no era Harry could place. They were layered and complex, dark fabric overlaid with leather armor pieces that bore the same wild runes as the walls. The robes were torn in multiple places, slashed across the left shoulder, ripped along the right thigh, a jagged tear across the abdomen. Through each tear, Harry could see wounds. Not old scars, these were fresh, still bleeding, dark red seeping through makeshift bandages that were already soaked.
She was injured. Badly.
In her right hand, she held a wand, longer and darker than any Harry had seen, made from what looked like black wood with silver veins running through it. In her left hand, something glowed. A warm, pulsing golden light that emanated from her palm, casting her fingers in silhouette.
Harry's heart stuttered.
He knew that light. He'd seen it in his own hands, felt it burning in his blood when he cast Holy Magic. The golden glow of concentrated life force, of power that transcended ordinary magic.
The woman was a Holy Magic user.
She began to move, her hands weaving intricate patterns over the stone basin. The golden light from her left hand pulsed in rhythm with her movements, each pulse sending ripples across the dark red surface of the liquid. Her lips moved, forming words that the Pensieve's translation enchantments rendered into English, but they came through strangely, overlaid, as if Harry was hearing multiple languages at once.
"Blood calls to blood," the woman intoned, her voice resonant and clear despite her injuries. "The river flows, and the hungry ones follow. By my hand, by my will, by the power that lives in my veins..."
She pressed her glowing palm flat against the surface of the liquid.
The dark red liquid erupted upward, rising in thick, controlled columns that twisted and writhed like living things. The columns began to take shape, limbs forming from the liquid, torsos solidifying, heads emerging from the crimson mass.
Creatures. They were becoming creatures.
Harry watched, frozen, as the first one fully formed and stepped out of the basin. It was humanoid in the loosest sense of the word, bipedal, roughly human-shaped, with two arms, two legs, and a head.
The skin was too pale, almost translucent, stretched tight over a frame that was too thin, too angular. Harry could see dark veins pulsing beneath the surface, a network of black lines that covered the creature's entire body like a grotesque map. The eyes were the worst, enormous, taking up nearly a third of the face, and they were red.
The mouth was too wide, stretching almost to the ears, filled with teeth that were uniformly sharp and needle-thin, row upon row of them, like looking into a mouth full of broken glass.
It started tasting the air.
A second creature emerged from the basin. Then a third. A fourth. They rose from the blood like nightmares given form, each one slightly different, some taller, some broader, but all sharing those terrible red eyes, that translucent skin, those mouths filled with glass-shard teeth.
Seven in total.
They surrounded the woman in a loose semicircle, their red eyes fixed on her. They didn't attack immediately. They seemed to be... waiting.
Then Harry noticed what they were really looking at.
Not her. Her wounds.
Every creature's gaze was locked on the places where she bled. The slash on her shoulder, the tear on her thigh, the gash across her abdomen. Dark red blood seeped through her bandages, and with each drop that fell, the creatures shuddered. Their mouths opened wider, revealing more of those needle teeth. Their bodies swayed, drawn toward the scent, the sight, the promise of flowing blood.
They were hungry. And she was bleeding.
The woman knew it. She raised her wand, and the first spell was a burst of violet light that hit the nearest creature square in the chest. It staggered back two steps.
Then it straightened. The wound where the spell had hit was already closing as if it had never been damaged. The creature tilted its head, almost curious, and took a step forward.
She switched tactics, the golden glow in her left hand flaring brighter as she thrust it forward. A wave of Holy Magic washed over the creature, and this time it reacted, hissing, a wet, rattling sound that raised every hair on Harry's body. It scrambled backward, its skin smoking where the golden light had touched it.
But the other six surged forward, using their companion's retreat as an opening. They moved and the woman was forced to spin, casting with both hands now, wand spitting curses while her left palm unleashed bursts of golden fire.
She was good. Better than good. She transfigured chunks of the stone floor into barriers, animated the torches to create walls of fire, used the wild runes on the walls as focal points to amplify her power.
But she was fighting seven of them. And she was still bleeding.
Every time the woman cast a spell, every time she moved, her wounds opened wider. The bandages were soaked through now, and drops of blood fell freely, hitting the stone floor with sounds that seemed impossibly loud. Each drop drove the creatures into greater frenzy. Their movements became more aggressive, more reckless, more focused.
They weren't trying to kill her, Harry realized. They were trying to reach her blood.
One of them got close. It lunged past her defenses, its needle-teeth clamping down on her left forearm, exactly where the blood was thickest. The woman screamed and blasted it away with a point-blank burst of Holy Magic that sent it flying across the chamber. A new wound, fresh blood, and the remaining creatures went berserk.
For a moment, Harry thought she was going to die. She was surrounded, bleeding from a dozen places now, her magic flickering as exhaustion took its toll.
Then something changed.
She pressed her glowing left hand against her own chest.
Golden light erupted from the point of contact, spreading outward across her body like cracks in a shell. It raced along her skin, following the paths of her wounds, sealing them. The slash on her shoulder closed with a hiss of golden light. The tear on her thigh knitted together as if it had never been. The gash across her abdomen sealed itself, the blood vanishing, absorbed back into her body.
One by one, every wound closed. Every source of blood sealed shut.
The effect on the creatures was instantaneous.
They stopped mid-lunge, their red eyes dimming. Their movements became sluggish, confused, like predators who'd lost the scent. They milled about aimlessly, bumping into each other, their mouths opening and closing on nothing.
The woman watched them for a long moment, her breathing heavy, her sealed wounds still glowing faintly gold. Then she raised both hands, wand and palm together, and spoke a single word.
Harry couldn't hear it. The Pensieve seemed to swallow the sound, leaving only silence and golden light. A wave of purification magic rolled outward from the woman, a wall of golden fire that consumed everything in its path. The creatures didn't even have time to scream. They dissolved, their translucent bodies breaking apart like fog in sunlight, their red eyes the last things to vanish, glowing briefly in the golden inferno before winking out.
The chamber went still. The woman stood alone, surrounded by scorch marks and the fading glow of Holy Magic, her chest heaving, her dark violet eyes blazing with exhaustion and triumph.
"Do not bleed."
The memory dissolved.
Harry gasped as reality slammed back into him. His hands were still gripping the Pensieve's rim, white-knuckled, his arms trembling. His heart hammered against his ribs.
The Room of Requirement materialized around him, the fire, the bookshelves, the warm light. Hermione and Fleur were exactly where he'd left them, both on their feet now, both watching him with identical expressions of concern.
"Harry?" Hermione stepped forward, her hand reaching for his arm. "Harry, you're shaking. What happened? What did you see?"
Harry released the Pensieve and straightened up. His legs were wobbly, and the taste of blood was still on his mouth.
"It wasn't from my life," Harry said. His voice sounded rough, like he'd been screaming. Had he been screaming? "The memory. It's not personal. It's not something that happened to me."
Fleur exchanged a glance with Hermione. "Zen what was it?"
Harry then told everything he saw, and with each word, Fleur's face went white with concern. Of course, he made sure not to bring up the fact the witch was using Holy Magic.
"'Arry, ze creatures you described... I know what zey are. I 'ave read about zem in Beauxbatons texts, in ze restricted section of our library." She said right after he was done explaining what happened. "Zey are called Sanguinari."
"Sanguinari," Hermione repeated. "Blood-feeders."
"Oui. Zey are, or were, among ze most dangerous creatures in ze magical world. Zey were classified as XXXXX by ze International Confederation of Wizards before zey were declared extinct nearly two centuries ago...Clearly, ze declaration was premature."
"What do the texts say about them?" Harry asked.
"Zey are creatures of pure predation," Fleur said concerned. "Zey 'ave no society, no language, no motivation beyond feeding. Zey are drawn to blood, any blood, magical or Muggle, 'uman or creature. But magical blood is more... potent to zem. More attractive. It calls to zem over greater distances, drives zem into greater frenzy."
"Wonderful," Harry muttered. "So four magical teenagers are basically a buffet."
"It is worse zan zat," Fleur continued. "Ze texts say zat ze more powerful ze wizard, ze more irresistible ze blood. Zey can sense magical strength through ze blood itself. A powerful witch or wizard bleeding near Sanguinari is like...Like ringing a dinner bell in a room full of starving wolves."
"Then the second task is clear," Hermione said. "You two will be placed in an environment with Sanguinari. There will be some objective you two need to complete. And the primary challenge isn't fighting the creatures; it's completing the objective without bleeding."
"Which means avoiding injury entirely," Harry added. "Or healing instantly if injured."
"Blood-sealing charms," Hermione said immediately, already reaching for her bag. She pulled out a notebook and quill, scribbling notes with furious speed. "There are several. Vulnera Sanentur is the standard healing incantation for major wounds, but it's slow, too slow if you're surrounded by creatures drawn to the blood. You two need something faster. Something preventive."
"What can we do to protect our blood? Besides not getting injuried?"
"Blood-Replenishing Potion," Fleur suggested.
"That replaces lost blood. We need something that prevents blood loss in the first place." Hermione tapped her quill against her chin. "There might be something in the restricted section. Or in Madam Pomfrey's stores."
"I will write to my grandmuzzer," Fleur said decisively. "She is a full Veela, and Veela 'ave zeir own magical traditions regarding blood. Zere may be Veela magic zat can protect against ze Sanguinari's attraction."
"We have time," Harry said. "The second task isn't for weeks. We prepare. We train. We figure out every possible defense against these things." He met their eyes, first Hermione's warm brown, then Fleur's sharp blue.
Hermione closed her notebook. "Right. So we have a plan. Research blood-sealing magic, practice healing charms, enchant protective clothing, contact Fleur's grandmother." She looked up, and Harry saw the fear beneath her composed exterior. "And we need to research on the spell she used to close all her wounds..."
"I know," Harry said softly. "I will."
He looked at the Pensieve, where the last traces of his memory were fading from the basin, silver-gold light dimming to nothing.
Do not bleed.
Harry intended to take that advice very seriously.