Privet Drive never slept easy, but this summer was particularly dreadful.
Harry Potter lay awake, staring restlessly at the cracked ceiling. The thin, worn curtains did little to block the moonlight, and it spilled softly across his bedroom floor, illuminating a carpet littered with letters he hadn't bothered to open.
None were from Ron or Hermione. None from Sirius. Certainly nothing from Dumbledore.
Not a single scrap of real news.
He felt his jaw tighten, an all-too-familiar bitterness swelling in his chest. Once again, they'd locked him out of the wizarding world completely, abandoning him at Number Four with nothing but his nightmares and the accusing silence of the Dursleys.
His scar prickled, an almost comforting reminder of what everyone seemed determined to ignore. Voldemort was back, alive, resurrected in the graveyard that haunted every dream he dared to have.
Cedric's empty, staring eyes flashed unbidden in his mind, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the memory.
"Kill the spare."
He exhaled raggedly, opening his eyes again. The injustice, the helplessness, burned under his skin like poison.
Yet the world went on, oblivious or uncaring. He imagined Ron and Hermione, perhaps enjoying their summers, while he rotted here, counting the days until Hogwarts and the familiar whispers that would greet him there.
Harry's fingers brushed the wand hidden beneath his pillow, his muscles tensing instinctively. The urge to cast a spell.. any spell.. to shatter the oppressive silence surged through him, but he forced himself to stay still. He remembered all too well the official warning from the Ministry after Dobby's Hover Charm incident before his second year. One more breach of underage magic, and he'd face expulsion from Hogwarts. He couldn't afford that. Not now. Not after everything.
The silence tonight felt even more unnatural than usual. The familiar, droning snores of Uncle Vernon and Dudley were missing. Dudley's heavy breathing typically rattled through the thin walls, a sound like the wheezing of a dying hippogriff. But tonight, there was nothing.
No crickets chirped outside his window.
Not even the whisper of leaves stirred in the breeze.
Harry sat up sharply, heartbeat suddenly racing. Instinct prickled at the back of his neck, a warning ringing through his veins.
The shadows in the corner of his room shifted unnaturally like water sliding down a pane of glass. Harry's breath caught in his throat.
"Wha—" he gasped, fumbling instinctively for his wand, Ministry warnings momentarily forgotten.
Figures stepped smoothly from the darkness itself, faceless, hooded, silent. Their robes swallowed the moonlight, leaving silhouettes darker than shadow. Before Harry could even raise his wand or shout, an invisible force pinned him back against his bed, arms frozen, wand hand immobilized.
Panic surged, primal and fierce. His pulse thundered in his ears as he struggled fruitlessly, fighting to move, fighting to breathe.
"Who are you?" Harry gasped, hating the raw fear that leaked into his voice. "What... what do you want?"
No one answered.
A cold hand pressed an icy, metal disk against his neck. He recognized the sickening jerk immediately, a Portkey. His stomach twisted violently as his bedroom dissolved around him, the world splitting at the seams.
His strangled cry was lost in the void.
He slammed onto a cold marble floor, knocking the air painfully from his lungs. Harry choked on a breath, throat burning, his body trembling uncontrollably. The room around him swam into view slowly, utterly unfamiliar.
It was vast, domed, filled with immense ticking gears and floating hourglasses larger than any he'd ever seen, their sand spiraling impossibly through glass chambers. Streams of molten gold flowed upwards and sideways in defiance of gravity.
A heavy, unnatural silence filled the air, broken only by the endless, synchronized ticking echoing through the chamber.
His bones ached with a sense of something profoundly wrong.
Slowly, painfully, Harry forced himself upright. He reached instinctively for his wand but it wasn't there.
His heart skipped painfully. Panic bubbled in his chest.
Surrounding him, from shadowed alcoves and dark recesses of the chamber, figures emerged, silent and unhurried, forming a precise circle around him. Each wore a blank, featureless mask, robes darker than ink, utterly unreadable.
One figure stepped forward, lowering his hood with deliberate care.
Harry's heart hammered painfully. The man's face was pale, gaunt, lined deeply as though etched in stone. Cold eyes, flat and grey, regarded Harry with detached, clinical interest.
Harry had never met him before, and yet something about him radiated quiet menace. The man's identity was entirely unknown, but Harry could sense authority in the way he moved, the subtle respect from the other Unspeakables as they shifted around him.
The man spoke softly, his voice dry and utterly devoid of warmth.
"My name is Croaker, Mr. Potter. Welcome to the Department of Mysteries."
Harry swallowed hard, glaring defiantly despite his fear.
"Harry Potter," Croaker said softly, calmly, as though reading from a clinical file. "Subject Number 3673."
Harry, furious and terrified, glared at him. "Who are you? Where am I?"
Croaker regarded him without expression. "You're under the jurisdiction of the Department of Mysteries now. By authority of Prophecy Class-A, you will cooperate fully."
Harry shook his head, forcing bravado he didn't fully feel. "And if I don't?"
Croaker's expression remained cold and clinical. "Compliance is not optional."
Another Unspeakable waved a wand, conjuring an elaborate Pensieve filled with shimmering silver memories, Harry's memories. He stumbled backward, feeling violated.
Croaker stepped forward, eyes glittering sharply behind his spectacles. "We require answers, Mr. Potter. And we shall have them."
Harry's pulse thundered in his ears, his limbs still shaky from the violent Portkey journey. The circle of masked figures stared impassively at him, their black robes so dark they seemed to drain the warmth from the air. Only Croaker's face remained unmasked, illuminated faintly by the eerie, silver glow of Harry's stolen memories swirling in the Pensieve.
"Answers," Croaker repeated softly, as though explaining something very simple to a difficult child. "We need the truth about what occurred in that graveyard, Potter."
Harry's mouth went dry. "If you lot bothered to read Dumbledore's statements, you'd know exactly what happened."
"We have," Croaker replied calmly. "But we require your memories directly. Untainted. Without Dumbledore's…interpretations."
Harry's breath quickened. The image of Cedric's body, lifeless eyes staring blankly into the night, surfaced vividly, painfully.
"Go to hell," Harry hissed through gritted teeth.
Croaker's expression didn't flicker. He merely inclined his head slightly, a faint sigh escaping his lips. "I hoped you'd cooperate willingly."
With a quiet nod, Croaker signaled another Unspeakable, who raised a wand, murmuring softly. Harry felt an odd pressure inside his skull, as though ghostly fingers were sifting through his mind. He clenched his fists, fighting desperately to resist, but the magic was cold, clinical, and impossible to fend off.
His memories unspooled in the air around him like strands of spun silver, flooding the Pensieve in a torrent of vivid, merciless detail:
The graveyard. Wormtail's frightened, quivering voice, recited the incantation beside the enormous stone cauldron. Voldemort's thin, skeletal figure emerged slowly from the potion, reborn from the bone of the father, the flesh of the servant, and Harry's own unwillingly given blood. And Cedric's lifeless body lying sprawled and motionless on the ground nearby, his open eyes staring blankly at nothing.
Harry felt bile rise in his throat, tears of anger and humiliation pricking his eyes.
"Stop it!" he choked, shuddering violently. "Get out of my head!"
At Croaker's silent gesture, the intrusion ceased abruptly. Harry sagged, gasping, eyes burning with fury. He glared venomously at Croaker, hatred blossoming in his chest like venom.
Croaker stepped closer, studying the swirling memories clinically. "Remarkable," he murmured quietly, ignoring Harry's shaking breaths. "The Dark Lord truly is restored. We thought it impossible. And yet…"
Harry snarled bitterly. "If you know Voldemort's back, why isn't the Ministry doing anything? Why lock me up at Privet Drive all summer?"
Croaker's gaze flickered briefly to Harry, impassive but almost pitying. "The Ministry is…complex, Potter. Official policy demands certain…discretion."
Harry laughed harshly, bitterness coating every word. "Yeah, discretion. That's what you call leaving me trapped at the Dursleys, pretending Voldemort's a lie, calling me mad?"
"You misunderstand," Croaker replied coolly. "We never considered you insane. Rather, we believe you are uniquely suited to our purposes."
Harry's heart skipped. "What purposes?"
Croaker's thin lips pressed briefly together, thoughtful. "A prophecy was made many years ago, Potter. A prophecy concerning you and the Dark Lord."
Harry's blood ran cold. "A prophecy? What prophecy?"
Croaker gestured slightly, and another Unspeakable conjured a small, softly glowing globe filled with swirling silver mist. Harry stared at it, a deep, unsettling dread rising within him.
Croaker recited softly, tonelessly:
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."
He paused, allowing the words to settle heavily in the silence.
Harry's breathing was ragged, his mind spinning. "I don't—I don't understand. What's that supposed to mean? Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you need to understand precisely why you're here." Croaker's voice dropped lower, gentle yet infinitely chilling. "You are bound to the Dark Lord by fate itself, Potter. Your existence is irrevocably intertwined with his."
Harry shook his head, panic and anger warring inside him. "That's impossible—I don't—I don't believe it. What do you want from me?"
Harry stared numbly at Croaker, the words of the prophecy echoing cruelly in his mind.
Neither can live while the other survives.
His pulse roared in his ears, a hot rush of anger and disbelief rising within him. His parents are dead because of these words. Everything he'd suffered, every lonely, miserable year at the Dursleys', every terrifying encounter with Voldemort, traced back to this prophecy he hadn't even known existed.
Harry's voice shook, though he fought to keep it steady. "This... this prophecy... that's why my parents are dead, isn't it? Because of this."
Croaker inclined his head solemnly, his expression neutral but knowing. "Yes. The Dark Lord sought to destroy the threat it foretold. He marked you that night, binding your fates permanently."
Harry felt sick. "So it's my fault they died."
Croaker's eyes narrowed slightly. "Fault is irrelevant, Potter. Destiny cares nothing for fairness. But the prophecy's truth remains absolute. You and the Dark Lord share a bond stronger than life or death."
Harry looked away sharply, fists clenched tightly. He felt trapped, and manipulated, just as he always did. Yet the reality of the prophecy, spoken aloud and clear, made his chest ache as if he'd been struck.
"Why didn't Dumbledore tell me?" Harry whispered bitterly, almost to himself.
Croaker stepped closer, his voice softening deceptively. "Albus Dumbledore has his methods. He prefers secrets and silence, guiding from afar. But where has that led you? Alone. Uninformed. Unprotected. And soon, inevitably, targeted again."
Harry flinched, glaring back at Croaker defiantly. "You don't know anything about it."
Croaker raised an eyebrow, calm but calculating. "Oh, but we do. Think Potter Think. Your parents were merely the first to fall. Voldemort will not rest until all those you love are destroyed. Your friends, your godfather, everyone close to you. Do you wish to repeat the helplessness of that night in the graveyard? To watch them all suffer as you stand powerless?"
Harry felt as though he'd been punched, dread pooling coldly in his stomach. Images flashed through his mind Ron, Hermione, and Sirius, all lying lifeless like Cedric had, because of him. Because of Voldemort. Because of this damned prophecy.
"No," Harry rasped, barely able to force the word past his tightening throat.
Croaker nodded slightly, satisfied. "Then listen carefully. Unlike Dumbledore, we do not believe in leaving you helpless. The Department of Mysteries offers you the means to fight back. A chance to uncover power the Dark Lord knows nothing about."
He gestured behind him, and the Unspeakables silently parted to reveal a massive structure of twisted bronze and iron. Its surface gleamed darkly, etched with runes that pulsed ominously. Harry stared at the machine, dread surging through him instinctively.
"What is that?" Harry asked hoarsely, unable to tear his eyes from the unsettling glow.
"This," Croaker explained softly, reverently, "is the Chrono-Anchor. It represents the pinnacle of experimental magic, a device capable of accessing and exploiting unstable fractures within time."
Harry swallowed painfully, confusion twisting in his chest. "You mean…like a Time-Turner?"
Croaker shook his head slowly, almost dismissively. "No. Nothing so primitive or limited. The Chrono-Anchor breaches the very fabric of time itself, allowing passage to distant eras, times when magic existed in rawer, more potent forms. Yet such power is inherently unstable. Attempting this journey would typically destroy any wizard who tried."
Harry felt his heart stutter in panic. "Then... then why me?"
Croaker regarded him coldly, his tone clinical. "Your prophecy is unique. It anchors your existence irrevocably to that of the Dark Lord. While he lives, you cannot truly perish—not by ordinary means. You are uniquely suited to survive the Chrono-Anchor's effects."
Harry's mouth was dry, his limbs trembling. "You're…sending me into the past?"
Croaker inclined his head fractionally. "Specifically, to the 1890s, a turbulent period marked by Ranrok's Rebellion, goblin uprisings, and potent magics forgotten by modern wizardkind. We believe the power spoken of in your prophecy, the power the Dark Lord knows not, lies hidden in that time. You will find it. You will bring it back."
Harry glared fiercely, anger surging through him. "And if I refuse?"
Croaker's expression hardened, though his voice remained calm, detached. "Refusal is irrelevant, Mr. Potter. We will send you anyway. You may cooperate willingly and benefit from our resources, or resist pointlessly and suffer greatly. But understand clearly: you have no choice."
Harry clenched his jaw, the bitterness nearly choking him. It felt as though the world conspired again to use him, just another pawn forced into a corner. But beneath his fury and resentment, a spark flickered to life. Croaker was right, in one terrible way. Dumbledore had kept him blind and helpless. At least here, as twisted as the Unspeakables' methods were, they offered him knowledge. Opportunity.
Power.
He swallowed his rage, steadying himself. He would play along if only to seize this chance and claim the strength he desperately needed. But he wouldn't be their puppet forever. They had underestimated him, just as Voldemort had. Just as Dumbledore had.
Harry lifted his head slowly, eyes burning with quiet defiance. "Fine," he said bitterly, forcing control into his shaking voice. "I'll do it."
Croaker's lips twitched into a faint, cold smile. "A wise decision, Mr. Potter."
They moved quickly, binding his wrists with silver restraints engraved with unfamiliar, ancient symbols. As they guided him toward the towering machine, its terrible energy crackling and roaring around him, Harry glanced back at Croaker one last time, voice low and lethal.
"You'll regret sending me there."
Croaker's expression didn't falter, though his eyes glinted strangely in the shadows. "We already do."
The Chrono-Anchor erupted in brilliant, blinding light. Time itself fractured around Harry, swallowing him whole.
As he fell through the shattered streams of history, a single, burning thought filled his mind.
This time, he would not be powerless.
…
Harry hit the ground hard.
The breath was knocked from his lungs, his ribs protesting as cold, damp earth swallowed him whole. For a moment, all he could do was lie there, stunned, his body refusing to move, his mind scrambling to process the violent upheaval he'd just endured.
The smell hit him first. Rich, old earth. Moss. A faint sweetness of night-blooming flowers. The air carried a pulse, heavy and alive with magic that prickled against his skin—thicker, older, more potent than any magic he'd ever felt. Even the Forbidden Forest had never felt like this.
But this was the Forbidden Forest.
And yet... not.
Harry pushed himself up onto shaky elbows, grit clinging to his robes, his breathing ragged. His fingers dug into the dirt as if grounding himself would make the truth any less horrifying.
They'd done it.
Croaker. The Unspeakables. The Ministry.
They'd ripped him from everything he knew—again.
His hands clenched into fists. The frustration burned hot in his chest, tangled with fear and bitterness. This wasn't the Ministry's sleek, polished corridors. This was no calculated experiment. They'd dumped him here like rubbish, discarded him into the past.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the panic down.
You survived worse, Potter.
When the tightness in his throat eased enough to swallow, he slowly pushed to his knees. Thank Merlin, his wand was still in his pocket. The familiar weight of holly and phoenix feathers anchored him more than the dirt beneath his fingers.
"Still breathing," he whispered to himself, the words hollow in the oppressive stillness.
But even as the adrenaline ebbed, Harry realized something else.
He wasn't just out of place.
He was wrong.
The forest towered around him, the trees impossibly ancient, their gnarled roots twisting like serpents through the undergrowth. The magic in the air buzzed beneath his skin, raw and untamed. It set his nerves on edge and made his scar twinge faintly, even though Voldemort shouldn't exist here.
His grip tightened on his wand.
They'd sent him to die.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, spitting dirt as he staggered to his feet. His body ached, his head spun, but he forced himself to keep moving. The last thing he could afford was to sit still and wait for death to find him.
The forest hummed in an unsettling silence, with no familiar cries of centaurs or rustling of spiders.
He wasn't sure how long he walked before the voices came.
They drifted to him through the trees, cautious and low, but close enough that his war-honed instincts snapped him into readiness. Harry flattened himself behind a tree, wand at his side, heart pounding.
"I swear, Natty, I saw something," a girl's voice hissed, tense and urgent.
"I feel it too," another replied, her tone steadier but laced with curiosity. "It's powerful. Different."
Harry winced.
Of course, he stood out. This was a world untouched by the scars of Voldemort, unpolluted by Horcruxes and fractured magic. His very presence must have felt like a tear in the fabric of this era.
Running would make him prey.
He stepped out, wand visible but pointed downward, schooling his expression into something neutral.
Two girls turned sharply toward him, wands raised.
The taller one had striking, intense eyes, her wand steady, and her posture unflinching. The other was smaller, with softer features and a spark of concern flickering behind her cautious gaze.
"I don't want trouble," Harry said evenly, letting a note of practiced irritation slip into his tone. "I'm... lost."
The taller girl narrowed her eyes. "Lost? In the Forbidden Forest? You expect us to believe that?"
"It's been that kind of day," Harry muttered.
They didn't lower their wands.
"Who are you?" the taller girl pressed.
He hesitated.
He was tired of half-truths, but survival demanded them.
"Harrison Evans," he said finally, the name foreign on his tongue, but safe.
"Transfer student," he added quickly. "From Durmstrang."
They exchanged skeptical glances.
"A transfer? From Durmstrang? Now?" The tall girl's skepticism was palpable.
"It wasn't planned," Harry replied coolly, channeling the same bored bravado he'd seen Malfoy use to disarm authority. "Family complications."
The smaller girl lowered her wand a fraction, offering a cautious smile. "Poppy Sweeting," she introduced gently. "And this is Natsai Onai."
Harry dipped his head politely. "Pleasure."
Natty still looked ready to hex him.
"We'll see what Professor Weasley thinks of your story," she said firmly.
"Lead the way," Harry replied, letting them think they had the upper hand.
They walked in silence through the towering trees. Harry masked the tremor in his limbs, the exhaustion clawing at him from the inside. Every step reminded him how out of place he was here. But he wouldn't show weakness.
Harry followed them through the darkness, his feet moving on instinct alone.
The girls walked ahead in tense silence: Natsai Onai and Poppy Sweeting. Their steps were practiced, wary, as though they half-expected him to hex them in the back. Not that he blamed them. Even he wasn't sure he could trust himself right now.
The night air felt colder here, sharper, every breath tinged with something Harry couldn't quite name. The magic. It clung to everything. Thicker, older, as though the earth itself remembered spells long forgotten.
It made his skin crawl.
He kept his hands stuffed in the pockets of his borrowed cloak, his wand brushing against his fingers like a lifeline. Every muscle in his body screamed to be on edge. He didn't know this world. Didn't know its rules.
But survival? That he understood.
They crossed the grounds in silence, the castle rising ahead of them, its towers scraping at the star-scattered sky.
Hogwarts.
Only... not.
Harry stumbled in his step, breath catching painfully in his throat.
It was beautiful.
The walls stood unblemished, smooth, and regal. The turrets gleamed in the moonlight, their glass windows casting soft amber glows across the grass. There were no scorch marks from battles fought in the shadows, no crumbling stones where curses had struck home.
It looked like something out of one of Hermione's history books.
A fairy tale.
And he hated it.
He hated how perfect it looked. How untouched.
This wasn't his Hogwarts.
It never would be.
"You're staring," Poppy murmured beside him, voice gentle in the heavy silence.
Harry forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just... different from what I expected."
A lie.
But easier than the truth.
They crossed the courtyard, and Harry kept his steps steady even as something twisted inside him. He caught himself scanning the sky for the Thestrals, for the flicker of Hedwig's snowy wings.
But there was nothing.
Just silence.
And it stretched too long, too wide until Harry felt like he might choke on it.
They stepped through the towering doors, and the Entrance Hall swallowed him whole.
The marble floors gleamed too perfectly under harsh torchlight, the suits of armor standing silent and polished, more museum pieces than guardians. Even the paintings stared down at him, silent, cold, judging, none of the chatter or cheek he knew.
Harry clenched his jaw.
The students passed by in hushed, ordered clusters, their robes heavy, house colors stitched at the cuffs like they were afraid of standing out. Their smiles were thin, their conversations clipped.
It reminded him too much of the Ministry.
Of the courtroom.
Of the suffocating world that pretended order kept monsters at bay while letting Voldemort rise again.
They didn't know.
They couldn't.
They lived in their bubble of rules and politeness, safe behind empty traditions. But Harry had stood in a graveyard and watched safety die with Cedric.
Safety was a lie.
He scanned the hall, filing faces and voices away la ike reflex, his instincts sharper than his fear.
They thought they had built a world without shadows.
But the cracks were still there.
They always were.
Only the castles changed.
…
They led him deeper into the castle, down unfamiliar corridors where the torches burned too bright and the stonework gleamed like it had never known battle scars. The Hogwarts Harry remembered had always been alive, with cracks in the floor, talking portraits, and ghosts floating through walls. This place? It felt... staged. Preserved. A memory frozen in time.
They brought him to an office he didn't recognize, elegant, sterile, lined with scrolls and heavy books, the windows shut tight against the night air.
Deputy Headmistress Matilda Weasley sat behind the desk, posture ramrod straight, her robes crisp, spectacles perched precisely at the end of her nose. She gave off the same kind of rigid, over-polished authority Harry had come to despise at the Ministry.
"You must be the wanderer found in the Forbidden Forest," she said coolly.
Harry crossed his arms, his face set into the same scowl he wore facing Fudge or Umbridge. "Seems that way."
Her gaze narrowed behind her lenses. "Your name?"
"Harrison Evans."
The name tasted bitter on his tongue. A lie. But a necessary one.
"And your origin?"
"Durmstrang." Harry kept his tone flat, letting the lie hang.
Professor Fig, who had remained silent until now, studied him from the corner of the room, his expression more curious than hostile. But Harry had learned not to mistake politeness for kindness.
Weasley leaned back, folding her hands neatly on the desk. "You arrive without transfer papers. You claim no House affiliation. You appear out of nowhere on restricted grounds after curfew. Can you see how this raises concerns, Mr. Evans?"
Harry didn't flinch. "Family trouble. I didn't exactly have time to fill out the forms."
A muscle twitched in Weasley's jaw. She wasn't used to being spoken to like this, Harry could tell. Good. Let them think he was difficult. It was safer than the truth.
"Your story will be verified," she said crisply. "In the meantime, you will be treated as a probationary student. Any infraction will result in expulsion. Is that clear?"
"Crystal," Harry bit out.
Off to the side stood Professor Eleazar Fig, watching the exchange with a far subtler gaze. There was no open hostility in him, but Harry didn't trust the curiosity in those eyes either. Fig studied him not as a boy, but as a puzzle, a dangerous one at that. Harry didn't miss the flicker of something in Fig's expression when his magic sparked in the air between them.
A flicker of Ancient Magic, uncontrolled, volatile.
They both noticed it. Neither commented.
He was led through gleaming corridors, the walls pristine and lifeless, portraits whispering behind frames, eyeing him with suspicion instead of wonder. Everything felt... off. Sanitized. Like a stage set for visitors from the Ministry, not a place where children were meant to live, laugh, or rebel.
Finally, they stopped outside a narrow wooden door at the far end of the Ravenclaw Tower. They called it an "isolated dormitory." Harry called it what it was: a gilded cell.
"You will take your meals here. You will not wander after curfew. You will report to Professor Fig for supervised studies," Weasley instructed, tossing a bundle of robes at him, plain and regulation-issue, with no House insignia. Not that he'd want one.
She paused at the threshold, studying him like one might study a stray kneazle too wild to domesticate. "You may think yourself clever, Mr. Evans. But know this, we are watching you."
Harry met her gaze, dead-eyed and unblinking.
"I wouldn't dream of disappointing you, Deputy Headmistress."
She left him then, slamming the door behind her with the finality of a cell block.
He stood in the center of the sterile little room, breathing in the staleness. A single bed, a desk, a barred window that let in the moonlight but none of the warmth. The shadows pooled around him like old ghosts.
...
The next morning came far too bright, far too soon.
Harry rose from the stiff mattress, dragging on the plain robes they'd given him. No House crest. No color. Just the bland, regulation uniform of a boy who didn't belong. The fabric itched at his skin like a reminder—he was a tolerated guest at best, an intruder at worst.
The escort waiting outside his door was no warmer than the castle itself. A prefect, faceless and tight-lipped, led him through the corridors as though he were some dangerous animal on display.
The halls of Hogwarts were quiet at this hour, the few students they passed casting sidelong glances his way, whispering behind their hands. News spread fast, even in this sanitized version of Hogwarts. The boy from nowhere. The Durmstrang stray.
Harry walked with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his gaze flicking over the portraits, the tapestries, the enchanted chandeliers—everything polished to a gleam, everything staged to perfection.
But perfection was a lie. He saw the cracks beneath the marble.
The students here walked in orderly lines, speaking in hushed tones, their postures unnaturally straight. There was no laughter echoing through the corridors, no chaotic swarm of first-years getting lost, no pranks or explosions from a misfired charm. Hogwarts felt more like a Ministry exhibit than a living, breathing school.
Even the House tables in the Great Hall were a study in rigid formality—students sat according to rank within their Houses, not friendship. Pureblood families clustered at the head of the tables, their insignias gleaming on pristine robes. Muggleborns were rare. Very rare. Harry had counted three during breakfast. They sat at the ends, quiet, almost invisible.
It made his stomach twist.
He'd lived through the war. He'd seen what unchecked power did when left to fester behind velvet curtains and golden smiles.
This Hogwarts was worse. It didn't crush the rebellion with force; it smothered it in silk gloves and perfect smiles, snuffing it out before it had the chance to spark.
In classes, he kept to himself, observing more than speaking. Transfiguration, Charms, Potions. Each taught with the same sterile precision, with no room for improvisation or personal flair. Students raised their hands like soldiers at roll call. Mistakes weren't met with guidance; they were punished with cold lectures and public humiliation.
Harry bit his tongue through it all, letting the simmering frustration settle like acid in his gut.
He knew how to play the part. He smiled when expected, and answered when called upon, blending into the background like a shadow. But inside, the fire raged.
They thought him just another stray boy to tame.
Let them.
At night, lying in the suffocating quiet of his dorm, he thought of the Hogwarts he had lost. The Hogwarts of enchanted ceilings and unruly staircases. Of friends, laughter, and secrets whispered in candlelight.
This place wasn't that.
This place was a cage dressed in gold.
And the more they tried to polish the bars, the more Harry saw the rot creeping beneath.
He watched the prefects enforce curfews with military precision. Watched the teachers speak of duty and decorum while ignoring the undercurrent of fear that kept the student body in line. Watched the smiling pureblood heirs make sport of those they deemed beneath them, and saw how the staff turned a blind eye.
He saw it all.
And the longer he watched, the deeper the bitterness carved into his bones.
This wasn't a school.
It was a factory. Churning out perfect little witches and wizards to fit into a world built on old blood and older lies.
Harry clenched his fists beneath the desk as Professor Sharp droned on about potion etiquette. His knuckles turned white from the strain.
He would play their game. For now.
But when the cracks finally split open, Harry swore he'd be there.
Not as a student.
As a reckoning.
Defense Against the Dark Arts wasn't what Harry remembered.
In this Hogwarts, the classroom resembled more a military training hall than a place to explore the dark and mysterious. Rows of students drilled spells like soldiers rehearsing maneuvers. Everything was rigid, controlled, and orderly.
Harry despised it.
He stood at the back of the class, arms folded, hooded gaze flicking from the gleaming suits of armor to the instructor—a young, sharp-eyed Professor Hecat, her voice clipped, her patience thinner than parchment.
"Defense is not a matter of if, but when," she barked. "Hesitation is death. Doubt is defeat. You must react, not think."
Harry rolled his eyes. The same Ministry-fed fear doctrine. Control, obedience, aggression. It was the kind of lesson Voldemort would have approved of.
"Today," Hecat continued, "you will duel in pairs. Controlled environment. No deviations. Standard counters only."
The students obediently lined up, but Harry hung back, disinterested. That only made him stand out more.
"You," Hecat snapped, pointing. "Evans. You'll face Sallow."
The boy who stepped forward carried himself with cocky ease. Sebastian Sallow. His reputation preceded him even in this suffocating castle. Bold, brash, a troublemaker with charm to spare and a streak of ruthlessness bubbling just under the surface.
Harry knew the type. He'd grown up with them. Sebastian reminded him of a Slytherin version of Sirius, only without the self-awareness.
They circled each other, wands drawn. The other students stepped back, watching with thinly veiled curiosity.
Sebastian smirked. "Durmstrang, eh? Heard you lot like your spells dirty."
Harry gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. "You talk too much."
Hecat gave the signal.
Sebastian struck first, fast and aggressive—Expelliarmus, Confringo, Stupefy, in quick succession, as if testing how fast he could overwhelm him. The boy didn't hesitate; he played to win.
Harry dodged the spells with smooth, minimal movements, never wasting more energy than necessary. He let Sebastian come to him, and waited for the openings, striking with precision instead of force.
A silent Protego, followed by a sharply placed Levioso sent Sebastian skidding back.
The class murmured. Sebastian's smirk twisted, more intrigued than insulted.
"Not bad, Durmstrang," Sebastian said, rolling his wand between his fingers. "But you'll need more than parlor tricks if you want to keep up."
Harry didn't answer. He let his spells do the talking.
He moved in, fast, disrupting Sebastian's rhythm with controlled counters, never going for the flashy disarms, just keeping the boy off balance, probing for weaknesses.
It was a style that rattled Sebastian.
Sebastian wanted spectacle, domination, and loud spells that filled the room. Harry gave him none of it. Just cold, efficient dismantling.
By the time Hecat ended the duel, the tension in the room had shifted.
Sebastian stood panting, frustration brewing beneath the cracks of his confident mask. Harry stood calm, barely winded, his gaze as unreadable as a drawn curtain.
They locked eyes.
Respect.
And something sharper.
A rivalry was born in that look, as inevitable as gravity.
"Well," Sebastian said, smoothing his robes as if the duel hadn't shaken him. "Maybe Durmstrang has its uses after all."
Harry gave him nothing but silence as he turned away.
Let him wonder.
Let them all.
The whispers followed him through the halls that day. The new boy who fought like a predator. The Durmstrang stray who didn't care for House politics or polished manners.
Harry didn't care.
He wasn't here to make friends.
But still… as he caught sight of Sebastian later in the hallway, the boy leaning casually against a column, tossing a coin between his fingers, watching him with a glint of challenge in his eyes… Harry knew this wouldn't be the last clash.
And for the first time since arriving, something in him stirred. A spark.
He wouldn't admit it.
But maybe, just maybe, he needed the fight.
Even if it was only to remind himself that he was still alive.
Magical Beasts class should have been a relief.
Out in the open, away from the suffocating stone walls and the whispered judgments of corridors. But even the wide paddocks beyond the castle grounds carried that same heavy-handed control.
Beasts weren't taught as creatures deserving respect, but as things to be cataloged, mastered, and contained.
Harry hated it.
The students gathered at the edge of the pen, where a trembling Mooncalf blinked its enormous, terrified eyes under the harsh gaze of the instructor—a stiff-backed Ministry-appointed Mmagizoologistwhose idea of compassion was scribbling notes while the creature whimpered from a shallow injury.
"Observe the Mooncalf's docile posture," the man droned, gesturing to the cowering creature. "Any aggression is strictly to be punished with corrective charms."
Harry's jaw clenched.
He noticed her then. Poppy Sweeting.
The only student who looked like she might throttle the professor instead of the beast. She hovered near the pen, fists clenched, biting her lip until it nearly bled. But she didn't speak up. Not yet.
Harry recognized the look in her eyes.
He'd seen it in Hermione. In Luna. That fury that boiled beneath quiet exteriors, the kind that wasn't for show but for the voiceless.
The professor turned away to consult his clipboard. That's when the Mooncalf stumbled, whimpering in pain.
Poppy couldn't hold back anymore.
"Sir, you can't just—"
"Sweeting, stand back," the man snapped without looking up. "Let the handlers do their work."
But Poppy stepped forward anyway, drawing her wand, and muttering a soothing charm under her breath.
Harry moved before he even thought about it.
He crossed the pen in a few strides, coming up beside her. Close enough that the class stared.
"Careful, Evans," someone snickered from the back. "Don't want to ruin your probation record."
He ignored them.
"Back off, Evans," the professor barked, now furious at the breach of protocol. "Both of you. Immediate detention."
Harry didn't flinch.
Instead, he crouched low, lowering his wand to the Mooncalf's level, murmuring under his breath, not in textbook spells, but in soft, broken whispers. The same kind Hagrid had once taught him when soothing an injured Thestral.
The Mooncalf's frantic eyes locked onto him, its breathing slowing.
Poppy blinked, caught off guard. She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.
The professor blustered, demanding they step away, but Harry cut him off with a glare sharp enough to slice stone.
"It's frightening. It needs care, not chains," Harry said coldly, his voice carrying more command than he intended. "If you don't like that, take it up with the Headmistress."
For once, silence reigned.
Poppy knelt beside him, hands gentle as they worked together to bandage the Mooncalf's injured leg with conjured wrappings. The creature nuzzled her hand, trembling less now.
When the professor finally stormed off, sputtering about 'unauthorized methods,' the rest of the class stared like they'd seen ghosts.
Poppy sat back on her heels, breathless.
"You didn't have to do that," she said quietly.
Harry shrugged, avoiding her eyes.
"Didn't do it for you."
But she smiled anyway. A small, genuine thing that made his walls crack just a little.
"I know. But thanks anyway."
Harry started to stand, brushing the dirt from his robes.
"You're not like the others, are you, Harrison Evans?" she asked softly.
He almost told her not to call him that. Almost.
Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and gave her his usual scowl.
"No. And neither are you."
Poppy blinked, surprised.
For once, the silence between them wasn't suffocating. It settled like a fragile truce.
Maybe… not everyone here was a puppet.
But Harry kept that thought buried deep.
Hope was a dangerous thing.
…
Natty Onai watched people.
She always had. It was how she survived both the rigid halls of Hogwarts and the suffocating politics outside of it. Watching, reading between the lines, and seeing what others refused to see.
And Harrison Evans was interesting.
Too interesting for his good.
She'd been watching him since the duel with Sebastian. The boy from nowhere who fought like someone with nothing left to lose. Who spoke little but whose eyes said more than any words.
She saw it again during Magical Beasts. How he stood up to the professor without hesitation, how he stepped into danger not out of pride, but because no one else would.
That... intrigued her.
So, when she found him lingering by the courtyard after dinner, scowling at the prefects enforcing curfew, she took the chance.
"You make a lot of enemies for someone new," she said casually, stepping up beside him.
Harry didn't turn to her.
"Maybe I like it that way."
Natty studied his profile, the tight line of his jaw, the way his gaze never stopped moving. Always measuring. Always expecting betrayal.
"You're not from Durmstrang," she said softly.
Harry tensed, just for a second.
"What makes you think that?"
"You don't carry yourself like them. You don't speak like them. And they don't teach the kind of magic you use."
Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Guess I'm not very good at pretending."
Natty crossed her arms, smiling faintly.
"I think you are better at pretending than you let on. But your anger... it shows."
He snorted.
"Yeah? What do you see then, Miss Onai? Another angry boy who thinks the world owes him something?"
"No," she answered quietly. "I see someone who's angry because the world keeps taking and never gives back."
For a moment, just a breath, the mask slipped.
Harry looked at her, truly looked, and in that glance, Natty saw the exhaustion, the bitterness, the stubborn refusal to break. It wasn't anger for the sake of it. It was grief in armor.
He looked away first.
"You watch people too much," he muttered.
Natty's smile widened. "That's how I survived."
Harry huffed a humorless laugh.
"Guess we've both got our tricks."
They stood in silence, watching the prefects herd students back inside like sheep.
"You don't like this place either," Harry said at last, not as a question, but a fact.
Natty's gaze hardened.
"I hate it. This isn't Hogwarts. It's a prison with prettier walls."
Harry's lips quirked, something close to approval.
"You're all right, Onai."
"And you, Evans, are more Gryffindor than you pretend to be."
He rolled his eyes.
"Don't insult me."
They shared a grin, small, tired, but real.
It didn't make them friends. Not yet.
But it was something.
A crack in the armor.
Natty nodded toward the castle.
"Come on, rebel boy. Before they decide to throw you in the dungeons."
Harry hesitated.
And followed.
…
Herbology was supposed to be the one class where Harry could breathe.
He was wrong.
Even here, amidst the sprawling greenhouses and the scent of damp earth, the walls felt too close. The plants weren't wild and free like the ones in the Forbidden Forest. They were trimmed, categorized, and penned behind glass and iron.
Just like the students.
Harry kept to himself, working through the assigned repotting of Shrivelfigs with mechanical efficiency, ignoring the forced smiles of classmates who pretended to enjoy the chore.
It was during a routine demonstration on invasive vines that the change happened.
Venustus Ivy.
An ancient, temperamental species. Rare, venomous, and rumored to be sensitive to the emotional state of the handler.
Professor Mirabel Garlick, soft-spoken, with a warmth that didn't quite reach her tired eyes, stood at the front of the greenhouse, explaining the plant's delicate handling.
But as Harry approached the pot, the Ivy reacted.
It slithered toward him, curling not in defense but almost… yearning.
The room went still.
Even Garlick paused, brow furrowing beneath her sun hat. She adjusted her gloves, stepping closer, voice gentle but wary.
"Careful, Mr. Evans. Venustus Ivy is known for—"
"I know," Harry interrupted, his voice flat, eyes locked on the tendrils.
He crouched, reaching out, not with his wand, but with his hand, fingers brushing the vine's glossy leaves.
The Ivy shivered under his touch, not recoiling, but leaning into it.
The other students stared, whispering.
Garlick watched him intently now. There was no fear in her gaze, only curiosity. Something about the way he moved, the way the Ivy responded… it wasn't normal.
"Where did you learn to handle it like that?" she asked softly, almost as if afraid to break the moment.
Harry didn't look up.
"Didn't."
He wasn't lying. He hadn't been taught. It was instinct. The same instinct that let him calm Thestrals, the same gut-deep connection he couldn't explain.
Garlick knelt beside him, close enough that he caught the subtle scent of herbs clinging to her robes. She examined the Ivy, then him.
"Fascinating," she murmured. "Most students… even experienced herbologists… they struggle to keep it from lashing."
Harry tensed, feeling the weight of her gaze.
He didn't like being studied.
"Maybe I'm just lucky," he muttered, pulling his hand away sharply.
The Ivy hissed in protest, curling back into itself, its leaves trembling.
Garlick didn't push. But Harry could tell she'd seen more than he wanted her to.
"Perhaps," she said gently, standing. "Or perhaps… you understand more than you let on, Mr. Evans."
Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets, scowling at the floor.
She let him retreat, but he could feel her eyes lingering.
Watching.
After class, as the students filed out, Harry stayed behind, needing the quiet. But when he turned to leave, he found her still there, tending to a patch of Flutterby Bushes, her posture relaxed but her eyes never quite off him.
"You don't like it here," she said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Harry froze.
"Neither do I."
He looked at her then, surprised.
Garlick smiled faintly, sad and knowing.
"Sometimes the most beautiful cages are the hardest to see. Until you've lived outside them."
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
But something tightened in his chest, something dangerous.
For the first time since he arrived, someone had seen past the mask.
He didn't know if he liked it.
Or if he hated it.
He left without another word.
But he felt her watching long after he disappeared into the corridors.
…
The castle felt smaller at night.
Harry prowled the corridors past curfew, ignoring the prefect patrols, and the portraits' disapproving whispers. He preferred the dark when the polished walls stopped pretending to be something they weren't.
"Out late, Mr. Evans?"
The voice came soft but sharp.
He turned. Garlick.
Arms crossed, expression tight, standing in the shadow of the greenhouse archway.
Harry didn't flinch.
"Can't sleep."
She eyed him, not with the scorn of the other staff, but with something closer to exhaustion.
"This isn't Durmstrang. There are rules."
He smirked.
"Yeah. You lot do love your cages."
Garlick exhaled slowly like she'd expected the attitude.
"You want to wander? Fine. Report to Greenhouse Three tomorrow night. You'll work for your freedom."
Harry cocked his head, studying her.
"Detention?"
"Detention," she confirmed, already turning away. "Don't be late."
For once, he said nothing clever.
And for a moment, neither of them moved.
Then she disappeared into the shadows.
Harry watched her go, the bitter taste of the encounter lingering on his tongue.
…
The greenhouse door clicked shut behind Harry with a quiet finality, muffling the familiar echoes of the castle's cold stone corridors.
Here, the air was different.
Thicker. Oppressive.
It clung to his skin like steam, wrapping around him with invisible fingers that refused to let go. The scent of damp earth mixed with something sweeter, heavier, almost sickly. It coiled in his lungs, sticky and cloying.
Harry rolled his shoulders, adjusting his collar, muttering curses under his breath.
Detention.
He wasn't surprised. His recent behavior had given Garlick little choice. He'd expected dull labor, such as scrubbing pots or trimming mundane shrubs, but the moment he stepped inside, he knew this would be something else entirely.
The glasshouse pulsed with life.
Shadows stretched long beneath the moonlight, filtered through fogged glass streaked with condensation. Lanterns flickered, casting the rows of plants in a soft, drowsy glow. Towering stalks leaned inward, vines twitched like sleepers caught mid-dream. The air hummed faintly with their quiet, alien hunger.
Harry took a slow breath.
And regretted it instantly.
The air was sweet. Too sweet. It slid down his throat like overripe fruit, thick and intoxicating, leaving a faint burn in its wake. His head swam, just slightly off-kilter. Was it always this hot?
He brushed damp strands of hair from his forehead, frowning.
"Good evening, Mr. Evans."
Garlick's voice cut through the haze like a blade of cold steel. She stood by the central table, arms folded, posture rigid. But something in her tone trembled, just beneath the surface.
"You're late," she added, unnecessarily. But her eyes lingered on him too long, too sharp.
Harry fought the instinct to smirk.
"Sorry, Professor. Lost track of time."
Her gaze didn't soften.
The heat pressed closer now, suffocating, clinging to him like the Ivy's tendrils.
"You'll find the Venustus Ivy has started releasing early spores tonight," Garlick informed him, her tone clipped, but thinner than usual. She motioned toward the trellis at the far end of the chamber. "Part of your detention will be tending to its needs. Carefully."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
He approached the trellis, eyeing the sinuous violet leaves and delicate, glassy blossoms. Harmless, at first glance.
Garlick stepped in close behind him.
Too close.
The scent hit him harder now, curling through his lungs, warm, tingling. His heartbeat quickened, he told himself it was the heat.
Garlick's proximity didn't help.
She was flushed, a faint sheen of sweat glistening at the hollow of her throat. Her breaths were uneven, hands trembling slightly as she picked up a pruning blade, knuckles white around the handle. She was trying to hide it.
"What's wrong with it?" Harry asked, his voice raspier than intended.
Garlick swallowed, the sound audible in the thick, humid air.
"The Ivy releases spores when disturbed. They… lower inhibitions. It's an aphrodisiac." Her voice cracked, the professional mask slipping. "Which is why it's kept locked at all times."
Harry blinked.
That explained the haze clouding his thoughts, the warmth pooling low in his gut. This wasn't just heat.
"You knew that…" he drawled, leaning back against the workbench, "and brought me in here anyway?"
Her shoulders stiffened, but her cheeks flushed deeper.
"You're here to learn discipline, Mr. Evans. Not to question my methods."
But even she heard how thin her authority sounded now.
The Ivy's mist crept into every breath, every glance. Harry saw it in the way her pupils dilated, the way she shifted on her feet as if the floor beneath her had tilted.
"You should… leave," she whispered, but it was too soft, almost pleading.
Harry tilted his head, gaze narrowing.
"Do you want me to, Professor?"
Her lips parted, perhaps to say yes. But no words came.
The Ivy shuddered overhead, releasing another wave of its invisible perfume.
Garlick pressed her back to the workbench, hands bracing behind her, her chest heaving. She shook her head weakly, but when Harry's hand brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek, she didn't pull away.
"It's just the Ivy…" she whispered, eyes fluttering shut.
Harry smiled softly now, not cruel, not mocking. Just… indulgent. "Maybe," he whispered against her lips, "but it feels good, doesn't it?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
When he kissed her, it was gentle. Careful. Testing. She stiffened for a moment before melting into it, her lips parting under his, her hands clutching the fabric of his robes with desperate urgency.
The dam had cracked.
Her protest turned into a moan when his tongue slid into her mouth, when his hands found the curve of her waist, tugging her flush against him.
Their bodies pressed together, grinding slowly, lost in the dizzying fog of heat, pheromones, and desire.
Her gloves fell to the floor.
Her nails scraped down his back.
"I can't… we can't…" she gasped between kisses, but her body betrayed her, arching into him, chasing the friction.
"You don't want to stop," Harry whispered against her neck, licking the salt of her skin, savoring the quiver in her thighs.
Garlick whimpered, her hands fisting his shirt as if to push him away, but instead she pulled him closer.
"It's the Ivy…" she repeated weakly.
"Then blame the Ivy tomorrow," he whispered, kissing the hollow of her throat, savoring the sound of her surrender.
She let out a shuddering breath, her last defense crumbling.
And Harry… Harry was more than happy to catch her.
Their mouths crashed together, all spit and teeth, frantic and clumsy as they devoured each other. The air around them steamed, thick with the scent of sex, the Ivy curling tighter, slipping under their skin, erasing thought, leaving only need.
Garlick clawed at him, tearing at his robes, gasping into his mouth, every sound guttural, aching.
"Harry... fuck... please..."
Her words slurred into moans as she arched into him, her body flushed, shaking, and drenched in sweat. Her hands scrabbled under his robes, dragging them up over his head, her touch desperate, nails raking his chest, tracing every hard line, the heat of his skin branding her palms.
He groaned into her mouth, shuddering when she ground against him, her soaked panties sticking to his cock, smearing her slick over him with every needy roll of her hips.
"Take it off," she hissed, yanking at her blouse, exposing flushed, heaving breasts. "Suck me. Now."
He obeyed without thinking, mouth latching onto a swollen nipple, tongue flicking, sucking, teeth grazing, making her cry out as her back arched, offering herself to him, feeding him her breast like she wanted him to devour her whole.
"Harder," she gasped, shoving his head closer, her other hand clutching his cock through his trousers, squeezing, feeling how hard, how hot, how desperately he pulsed for her.
Their movements were clumsy, feverish, wet. Every inch of skin they touched smeared sweat and slick between them. When she dragged him to the workbench, scrambling up, legs spreading wide, he fumbled with his trousers, his cock slapping against her dripping slit, smearing pre-cum over her folds.
"Inside," she sobbed, nails digging into his back, dragging him closer. "Put it in. Fill me."
He thrust forward, the head-splitting her open, her pussy sucking him in greedily, the obscene stretch making them both cry out, bodies jerking as he bottomed out inside her in one trembling push.
"Gods... you're so fucking tight," Harry groaned, trembling, his cock buried to the hilt, twitching, leaking inside her.
Her cunt clamped down hard, rippling around him, milking him already, her body slick, messy, gushing wetness down her thighs, soaking his balls.
"Move," she gasped, breath catching on every word, her voice raw, wrecked. "Harry... fuck me. Hard. I want to feel you... everywhere... gods, deeper."
He snapped his hips forward, the wet slap of flesh against flesh ringing through the greenhouse, their bodies colliding hard, messy, the sounds lewd, endless.
Her pussy sucked him in deeper, greedier, her juices flooding around him, soaking the table beneath them, every thrust forcing more slick, more filth to spill from her stretched, needy cunt.
"Yes... yes... Harry... gods, you're... you're fucking me so deep..." she cried, her nails clawing his back, her body jerking under the force of every brutal, desperate thrust.
He groaned, lost in the way she milked him, every squeeze of her walls sending him closer, making his cock throb, leak, pulse.
"I'm... fuck, I'm gonna... I'm gonna fill you," he gasped, his thrusts becoming erratic, sloppy, desperate.
"Yes... inside... fill me... fuck me full," she sobbed, her legs locking around him, pulling him deeper as if she could drag him inside her womb.
He came with a strangled cry, his cock throbbing violently, pumping thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside her, the overflow gushing out around him, dripping in fat, creamy streams down her thighs, pooling beneath them.
She sobbed, shaking, overwhelmed, her cunt spasming around him, milking every last drop from his twitching cock.
"More," she whispered hoarsely, tears slipping from her lashes, her hips still grinding on him, feeling the mess leak out of her, feeling her womb heavy, aching, stuffed.
Harry pulled back with a wet squelch, the mess spilling from her in thick, glistening streams, smearing her thighs, and the table, his cock still flushed, smeared in their mingled release.
He grabbed her, flipped her over, her ass high, her hole gaping, leaking, dripping his cum down her legs.
He thrust back inside, groaning at how she sucked him in, her pussy fluttering, desperate for more.
"You're so messy," he grunted, his hips slapping against her soaked ass, the sound obscene, wet, raw. "So fucking full."
"Yes... yes... gods... Harry... fuck me... ruin me... fill me again... don't stop..." she sobbed, grinding back against him, the filthy mess of their bodies too much, unbearable, addictive.
He pounded into her, relentlessly, each thrust forcing more of his cum to gush out, more of her juices to coat his thighs, his cock, the table, and the floor beneath them a dripping, soaked mess.
Her cries echoed, hoarse, broken, her body convulsing as another violent orgasm wracked her, her cunt spasming, squirting, soaking him, the mess cascading down her legs, mixing with his cum.
Still, she begged for more.
Still, he stayed hard.
Still, they fucked, bodies stuck together by sweat and slick, the greenhouse a suffocating cocoon of sex, heat, and Ivy's cruel hunger.
Harry worshipped her with awkward desperation, tongue frantic, sloppy, and overwhelmed by the taste of her. Garlick sobbed his name, her thighs locked around his head, grinding, suffocating him in her dripping, swollen cunt as she came hard, gushing over his mouth, the taste of her flooding his senses, drenching him.
But she didn't push him away.
Her hand grabbed his wrist, dragging his slick-coated fingers to her throbbing entrance, her voice wrecked.
"Inside me. Use your fingers. Curl them, Harry. There, yes, fuck—like that."
He shoved two fingers inside, the heat of her sucking them in greedily, her walls spasming as he stroked the spot she guided him to, watching her fall apart again, her pussy squirting around his fingers as she thrashed on the workbench, tears streaking her flushed face, her body trembling violently from overstimulation.
"That's it," Harry rasped, dizzy, his cock leaking, aching, watching her gush all over his hand. "Fall apart for me."
Her moans soaked into him, fueling the blaze in his belly, the Ivy twisting their need higher, suffocating, unbearable.
Her hands clawed at his trousers, fumbling, breath hot on his lips.
"Let me taste you," she panted, drooling, eyes glassy, glazed with hunger.
Harry hesitated only a heartbeat before yanking himself free, his cock flushed, leaking pre-cum thick and sticky over her tongue as she sucked him greedily, gagging, her lips stretched wide, spit and drool soaking his shaft.
Her eyes flooded with tears, but she didn't stop, didn't pull away, choking on him, moaning around his length, drool streaming down her chin, his cock twitching as she tried to swallow him deeper.
"Harry—slow—let me," she gasped when she pulled off, coughing, licking her lips, the taste of him smeared across her face.
Harry whimpered, lost, fucking into her mouth in short, messy thrusts, his balls slapping her chin.
"Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"
"Cum. Do it," she croaked, drooling, sucking harder, sloppy and feral.
With a strangled grunt, he came, pouring thick, hot ropes of cum into her mouth, her lips stretched wide as she swallowed, gagging, some spilling from her lips, dripping down her chin, down her tits, messy, obscene.
Before Harry could catch his breath, she dragged him up, pulling him between her soaked thighs.
"Inside. Now."
Their bodies fumbled, messy, wet, trembling, as he shoved inside her again, both of them sobbing at the stretch, the slick mess making him slide into the hilt, her cunt sucking him in greedily, milking him.
"Fuck... you're still so tight. So wet. Gods, you're dripping," Harry groaned, watching the creamy mess already leaking around his cock as he bottomed out.
"More. Fill me again. Ruin me. Deeper. Fuck me, Harry," she sobbed, grinding against him, her body clenching, fluttering, pulling him deeper, her pussy drowning them both in her mess.
Their thrusts turned messy, desperate, their bodies stuck together by sweat, spit, and cum, the greenhouse filled with the wet, filthy slap of their fucking.
She screamed his name, her pussy spasming, milking him as he came again, spilling inside her, her cunt overflowing, gushing, dripping down her thighs, down his balls, the floor slick with the mess.
And still, she begged.
"More... more... fuck, fill me again..."
He flipped her over, her ass red, soaked, her cunt leaking obscene amounts of their cum, and slammed back inside, groaning as her walls sucked him back in, squeezing him, milking him, forcing the mess out around his cock with every brutal thrust.
Their cries turned animalistic, raw, feral, bodies colliding, the slap of flesh against soaked flesh endless, loud, wet, lewd.
She squirted again, her body convulsing, pussy gaping, overflowing, and still, she ground back, sobbing.
"Fill me, Harry. Stretch me. Cum inside. Don't stop."
His cum flooded her again, pouring out of her in thick, creamy gushes, splattering the table, and their thighs, pooling under them in obscene puddles.
They collapsed into each other, both ruined, trembling, her cunt still clenching, spasming, overflowing with his seed.
She whimpered, her voice barely more than a hoarse sob.
"Still not enough..."
Harry groaned, his cock twitching back to life, the mess of them slick and dripping, their bodies stuck together by layers of sweat, cum, and desperation.
They weren't done.
Not even close.
…
They collapsed together, gasping, their bodies drenched in sweat, skin sticky, flushed, smeared in the filth of their release. Harry remained buried inside her, his cock twitching inside her overstretched, wrecked cunt, the obscene fullness making them both shudder, lost in the drowning heat of it.
He couldn't pull away. Couldn't stop.
The feel of her, soft and hot, clenching greedily around him, sucking him in deeper, tighter, as if her body refused to let him go, kept him trapped in that wet, messy bliss. His breath rasped against her ear, his voice rough, broken.
"You're still squeezing me, Garlick. Still dripping... gods, you're dripping everywhere."
Her sob choked against his throat, her body trembling, helpless under him. The ache between her legs throbbed violently, her insides clenching around the fullness of him, slick, raw, bruised, her womb stuffed beyond capacity, gushing his seed with every desperate grind of her hips.
"Harry... I'm... I'm leaking... it's so much... I can feel it... dripping... gods, I can't stop it..." she whimpered, her voice hoarse, delirious from the relentless overstimulation.
He shifted inside her, the thick, sticky squelch filling the humid greenhouse, forcing another gush of their mingled cum to spill from her stretched, ruined hole, splattering onto the floor between her trembling legs.
Her cunt fluttered weakly, milking him, refusing to loosen its grip, hungry, greedy, clenching as if to draw more from him, even when she was already overflowing.
Harry groaned, watching the mess ooze out of her in fat, obscene streams, painting her thighs, his balls, and the soaked workbench under them.
His cock swelled again, his body betraying him, hardening inside the suffocating warmth of her pulsing walls, Ivy's haze still clawing at them, refusing to let them come down.
"Fuck... you're still so tight... still sucking me in... like your pussy doesn't want to let me go..." he rasped, hips moving in lazy, messy thrusts, each one forcing more of his cum to spill from her, coating them both in their filth.
Garlick sobbed, helpless, her body spasming as she came again, her cunt squeezing, fluttering, her juices squirting around him, mixing with the thick, creamy mess, drenching them both.
Her voice was a broken cry, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Please... more... fill me again... I can't... gods, Harry... I need more..."
Harry groaned, losing himself in the raw, animalistic need between them, dragging her onto his lap, her legs spread wide, her abused, gaping pussy drooling his cum onto his belly, down their thighs, the mess dripping shamelessly onto the floor as he thrust back inside her, groaning as her walls clamped around him, hungry, pulsing, milking him all over again.
Their bodies moved in desperate, overstimulated jerks, her hips grinding, squelching sounds filling the air as she sobbed against his neck, her cunt leaking with every shuddering bounce, every thrust forcing more of the filthy mess to pour from her.
She broke again, crying his name, her womb aching, stretched, her cunt spasming around him, forcing him to cum again, thick, hot ropes flooding her already stuffed cunt, the overflow gushing out in an endless, sticky flood.
They clung to each other, sobbing, trembling, wrecked, the greenhouse thick with the suffocating stench of sex and sweat, their bodies drenched, their thighs slick, their holes leaking.
Her pussy didn't stop twitching, clenching weakly, drooling his cum with every breath.
"I can feel it... all of it... dripping out... gods, it's everywhere..." she sobbed into his throat, her voice thin, wrecked, her body still grinding weakly against him, chasing the mess, the ache, the unbearable fullness.
Harry groaned, lost in the sight of her, her pussy gaping, leaking, ruined, her legs trembling violently, her womb aching, stretched beyond its limits, yet still clenching, still begging.
They stayed tangled like that, drenched, dripping, their bodies heavy, Ivy's haze pulsing weakly around them, but the worst had passed.
Now only the filth, the stickiness, the ache remained.
Neither of them could speak. They simply held each other, trembling, the squelch of their mess the only sound in the greenhouse, the air suffocating them with the lingering perfume of sex, sweat, and the cruel, sweet poison of the Ivy.
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Thanks for reading. This fic will run for six chapters, straight through the Hogwarts Legacy AU to the end of Voldemort. Expect angst. Expect smut. Chapter 2 (Harry x Natty) is already up on P*treon. Every chapter will hit 10k words, minimum. No fluff, no filler.
If you want early access, alternate scenes, or the uncensored stuff, you can support the story here:p*treon.c*m/OmniNymph
Commissions and prompts are open. You can reach me on Discord — profile name: omni_nymph
Got feedback? A kink you want to see? Something I missed or messed up? Drop a comment or DM. I read everything. I don't shy from detail, so tell me exactly what you want more of.