Chapter V
The dungeon halls were deathly silent, but Harry felt the tension like the hum of taut wires vibrating just beyond hearing. The shadows here had weight, the kind that pressed against the skin and whispered of unseen dangers. He had sensed the shifting attitudes of the older Slytherins for weeks now, their disdain simmering beneath thin layers of civility. They regarded him as an anomaly, an interloper who had wandered into their den unbidden, upsetting the delicate hierarchy they clung to like frightened children.
Children. That was what they were. They fancied themselves predators, playing at power, mimicking the authority they saw in their parents’ cloaks and whispered conversations. But Harry had seen real power—touched it, wielded it. He had played these games long before they were born, and unlike them, he understood the stakes.
For weeks now, he had felt it building, a theory coiling in his mind like a snake in the underbrush. He welcomed their contempt, their spite, their slow descent into confrontation. It would give him what he needed—a chance to test just how malleable this world’s magic truly was.
Forcing magic to bow to foreign laws was no small feat, but Harry had never shied away from rewriting the rules when necessary. He’d wielded power in realms where magic demanded blood sacrifices, where forgotten gods whispered through torn veils, and where empires crumbled for daring to stand against him. This worlds magic, for all its grandeur, was crude in comparison. Potent, yes, but simple—like iron waiting to be forged into something far sharper.
The opportunity to test his theory came sooner than he’d expected.
Harry was returning to the Slytherin common room late one evening, his bag heavy with stolen pages from a book he’d liberated from the Restricted Section. The air in the dungeons was damp and cold, the torches sputtering weakly, casting jagged shadows that stretched and shifted as he walked. He kept his footsteps quiet, his mind preoccupied with the diagrams and incantations etched on the stolen parchment. It was dangerous, yes, but danger was relative.
They struck with precision, their spells cutting through the silence like blades.
The first curse slammed into Harry’s back, a burst of raw force that sent him sprawling onto the stone floor. Pain flared across his ribs as his bag spilled open, its contents scattering like autumn leaves caught in the wind. He rolled instinctively, wand already in hand, and came to his feet just as three figures emerged from the shadows.
“Potter,” Gemma Farley sneered, her voice low and dripping with venom. Her blonde hair caught the dim light, glowing like a halo of tarnished gold. Behind her, Adrian Pucey and Miles Bletchley flanked her, their wands raised and their smirks sharp enough to draw blood.
Harry’s emerald eyes swept over them, cold and calculating. He straightened slowly, ignoring the ache in his back. “If this is about territory,” he said evenly, “you’ve made a mistake.”
Gemma’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “You’ve been stepping out of line, Potter. Slytherin has rules, and you’ve been skipping to the front of the line.”
Adrian’s smirk widened, his wand flicking idly in his hand. “We’re here to remind you that power always has a cost.”
Harry didn’t flinch as they spread out, boxing him in like wolves closing in on prey. His grip on his wand tightened, his mind racing through possibilities. He could fight them on their terms—trading jinxes and hexes in a dance of finesse. But Harry had no intention of fighting fair.
“Power always has a cost,” he said softly, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. “The trick is making sure someone else pays it.”
Gemma’s eyes narrowed. Her wand flicked. “Expelli—”
Harry moved first.
The incantation that left his lips was not one this world recognized, guttural and sharp, like the crack of splintering bone. His wand carved through the air with ruthless precision, and the magic surged forth in a dark, seething wave. It wasn’t this worlds magic—not really. It was heavier, crueler, and it carried with it the weight of places where shadows whispered promises in forgotten tongues. The air in the corridor turned suffocating, thick with the acrid scent of something burning.
The spell struck Adrian first. His scream tore through the dungeon as his wand exploded in his hand, the shards embedding themselves deep into his palm. Dark tendrils erupted from the stone floor, coiling around his legs like living chains. They dragged him down with relentless force, his cries growing desperate as the tendrils squeezed tighter, the sound of cracking bones echoing in the confined space.
Miles lunged forward, but Harry was already moving. His wand flicked, and a blade of pure energy materialized in his hand, its edges shimmering with an unnatural light. Miles’ curse went wide as Harry sidestepped it, driving the blade into the older boy’s chest with unerring precision. The magic pulsed, and Miles crumpled to the ground, gasping as shadows crawled across his skin, leaving blistered, smoking trails in their wake.
Gemma hesitated, her confidence faltering as the realization of what she was facing set in.
“What… what are you?” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage and fear.
Harry’s eyes glinted with cold amusement. “Something this world isn’t ready for.”
He raised his wand again, the next incantation dripping with malice. The dungeon’s torches flickered violently as the air around Gemma distorted, warping like heat rising from a flame. She tried to cast a shield charm, but the magic shattered the moment it met the force of Harry’s spell.
The shadows struck her with the precision of a predator. They coiled around her limbs, dragging her off the ground as she screamed. The sound echoed hollowly, bouncing off the stone walls. Tendrils of darkness burrowed under her skin, leaving blackened veins in their wake. Her wand slipped from her fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor.
Harry stepped closer, his wand steady and his expression calm but unyielding. “This world’s magic is too forgiving,” he said, his voice low and cutting. “Where I come from, mercy is a weakness. I suggest you remember that.”
With a sharp gesture, he released the spell. Gemma crumpled to the floor, trembling violently, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. The shadows receded, leaving faint scorch marks etched into the stone where they had struck.
Adrian lay unconscious, his body twisted unnaturally. Miles groaned weakly, the smoking wound in his chest still glowing faintly. Gemma struggled to push herself up, but her arms buckled under her weight. She collapsed again, trembling.
Harry knelt beside her, his voice soft but devoid of warmth. “You won’t tell anyone about this,” he murmured, each word deliberate. “Not your friends. Not the professors. And certainly not Dumbledore.”
Gemma’s bloodied lips parted, but no sound emerged.
“Because if I’m called to Dumbledore’s office,” Harry continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “he won’t find you broken in a corridor. He’ll find your bodies in pieces. And while that might amuse me, I doubt it would amuse you.”
Her silence was answer enough.
Harry stood, brushing dust from his robes. “This is your only warning. Cross me again, and you won’t get the chance to regret it.”
The common room was quiet when Harry entered, the green glow of the fireplace casting eerie shadows on the walls. Blaise Zabini sat in his usual spot, a book open on his lap. He looked up as Harry approached, his sharp eyes narrowing.
“You’re bleeding,” Blaise observed, his voice calm but curious.
Harry wiped the blood from his temple with the back of his hand. “It’s handled.”
Blaise arched an eyebrow but said nothing further. “You’ll want to clean up. The Prefects will start asking questions.”
Harry only nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
As he climbed the stairs to his dormitory, his mind remained sharp, already calculating his next move. The older Slytherins had underestimated him, and now they understood the price of challenging him.
This was a world of magic, but Harry had brought something far darker, something sharper. He would bend this world to his will, just as he had done so many times before.
And if Hogwarts wanted to test him further, he would remind it why even the strongest empires learned to kneel.
The Great Hall buzzed with uneasy energy the next morning, the low murmur of whispers weaving through the clatter of silverware and the occasional hoot of an owl delivering the day’s post. The enchanted ceiling above mirrored the cold gray of the early December sky, a fitting backdrop to the tension brewing among the Slytherins.
Harry sat at the Slytherin table, casually buttering a piece of toast as though the air wasn’t thick with speculation. He kept his posture relaxed, his focus on his plate, but his senses were finely attuned to the room around him.
At the far end of the table, Gemma Farley sat stiffly, her usual poise replaced by something brittle and fragile. Her skin was pale, almost sickly, and her hands trembled faintly as she reached for her goblet of pumpkin juice. The sharp confidence that usually radiated from her was gone, replaced by a haunted look in her eyes as she stared vacantly at her untouched plate.
Whispers drifted through the air.
“Did you hear about Adrian and Miles?”
“Unconscious in the hospital wing. They say their injuries were… unusual.”
“Unusual how?”
“Bones crushed. Burns. Madame Pomfrey said the magic that hit them… she’s never seen anything like it.”
“Do you think it was a duel? Or maybe a prank gone wrong?”
“Prank? That kind of damage doesn’t happen by accident.”
Harry took a sip of his pumpkin juice, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t need to look up to know the eyes of the Slytherin table were constantly shifting between Gemma and him, drawing silent connections.
At his side, Blaise Zabini leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes roving the table. His gaze lingered on Gemma for a long moment, then shifted to Harry. Blaise said nothing, but his expression was thoughtful, calculating. He raised an eyebrow slightly, a silent question lingering between them.
Harry responded by spreading jam on his toast, completely unbothered. He took a slow bite, meeting Blaise’s gaze briefly before returning his attention to his plate.
The silence between them was charged, but Harry knew Blaise wouldn’t push—not here, not now. Blaise was too smart for that.
Across the table, Daphne Greengrass leaned in to whisper something to Pansy Parkinson, her eyes darting nervously toward Gemma. Pansy, for her part, looked skeptical, her gaze flicking between the other girl and Harry. Whatever Daphne had said, it was enough to make her pale slightly.
Harry finished his toast and reached for a cup of tea, his movements deliberate, controlled. The rumors were spreading faster than he’d expected, but that wasn’t a bad thing. Fear had a way of spiraling, amplifying itself until it became something monstrous. And fear was a useful tool.
Gemma shifted in her seat, her hand brushing against the sleeve of her robes as though she was trying to hide the faint blackened veins that still marred her wrist. Harry’s eyes flicked toward her for the briefest of moments. She caught the movement and froze, her breath hitching as their gazes met.
It was only for a heartbeat, but it was enough. Harry’s emerald eyes were calm, steady, and utterly unyielding. Gemma looked away quickly, her shoulders hunching slightly as if the weight of that brief glance had been too much to bear.
Blaise set down his cup with a quiet clink, drawing Harry’s attention once more. His lips curved into the faintest of smiles—polite, curious, and entirely unreadable.
“Interesting morning,” Blaise remarked, his voice low and smooth.
Harry didn’t bother looking up. “Is it?”
Blaise’s smile widened slightly. “Very.”
A few seats down, Theo Nott snorted softly, muttering something to Draco Malfoy, who frowned but said nothing. The dynamics of the table were shifting subtly, the usual undercurrents of competition and alliances now laced with a new tension. Harry could feel it, the way the other Slytherins were watching him more closely now, their glances sharper, their whispers quieter.
The rest of breakfast passed uneventfully—or rather, as uneventfully as it could in the wake of the chaos that had unfolded the night before. By the time the plates cleared, the whispers had spread to the other tables, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs exchanging hushed theories while the Gryffindors cast suspicious glances toward the Slytherin table.
Harry rose from his seat with unhurried ease, slinging his bag over one shoulder as though the weight of the morning’s tension didn’t touch him in the slightest. Blaise stood as well, falling into step beside him as they exited the hall.
As they passed through the arched doorway into the corridor, Blaise finally spoke, his voice a quiet murmur.
“You’re not going to deny it, are you?”
Harry glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Deny what?”
Blaise chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re an enigma, Potter. Dangerous, but fascinating. I wonder which one will catch up to you first.”
Harry didn’t respond, his gaze fixed ahead as they walked. Blaise didn’t press, but Harry could feel the weight of his companion’s curiosity, sharp and probing.
The whispers would continue to grow, the fear spreading like wildfire through the cracks of Hogwarts’ fragile peace. Let them. Harry had already sent his message.
And if anyone else doubted it, they’d learn soon enough that some lessons were written in blood and shadow.