Strange Potter

The moment the ceremony ended and Harry got he got back to school, Harry barely had time to process what had happened before he was surrounded. Students whispered as he walked by, some openly staring. A few older girls—who had never spoken to him before—suddenly found reasons to congratulate him, ask about his fight with Karl, or suggest they study together sometime.

One particularly bold Ravenclaw twirled a strand of hair around her finger and smiled at him. “So, Harry, what’s it like being the youngest Order of Merlin recipient in history?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but before he could get a word out, someone grabbed his wrist and pulled him away.

“Sorry, he’s busy,” Hermione said quickly, dragging him down the corridor before he could argue.

Harry stumbled slightly before catching up to her pace. “Blimey, Hermione, if you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked,” he joked, grinning at her.

Hermione shot him a look. “You looked uncomfortable.”

“I was handling it just fine,” he said, though he didn’t exactly mind her stepping in.

She huffed, but there was a slight pink tint to her cheeks.

Harry bumped her shoulder lightly. “You know you don’t have to worry, right?”

“I’m not worried,” she said, a little too fast.

He smirked. “Hermione, I’m yours.”

Her face went even redder, and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up, Potter.” But he caught the small, pleased smile she tried to hide.

"You're blushing." He grinned.

Hermione scoffed, turning her head away. "No, I’m not."

Harry leaned in slightly, grinning. "You so are."

She huffed and crossed her arms. "It’s just warm in here."

Harry chuckled. "Uh-huh. Sure."

Hermione shot him a glare, but the corners of her lips twitched. "You’re impossible."

"And you like me anyway," he said smugly.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, she grabbed his hand again, squeezing it lightly. "Come on, before more people try to ambush you."

Harry let her pull him along, still grinning. "As long as you’re the one rescuing me, I won’t complain."

Ollivander worked late into the night, his fingers deftly moving over the basilisk's horn as he prepared to create two wands. The horn itself was unusually heavy, dense with the kind of magic that only a creature like the basilisk could possess. Each slice of the horn felt like carving into something alive, its power humbling in a way that only the most ancient and dangerous magical creatures could evoke.

The basilisk’s horn was said to hold immense magical potential—sharp, precise, and often associated with death, destruction, and mastery over serpentine forces. It had taken him hours to prepare the horn, carefully shaving down sections to reveal the smooth, polished surface that would encase the core of the wand.

After much preparation, Ollivander carefully placed the first horn into the hollow of the wand. The horn seemed to hum with power as he worked it into place, the magic of the basilisk making his fingers tingle as though the wand itself was alive, waiting for its purpose. The horn’s magic seemed to resist his will at first, testing his strength. But Ollivander knew that such resistance was normal—only the strongest wands would choose their own masters, and these were going to be unlike any wand he had made before.

The second wand came together with similar care. He had used a smaller section of the horn, slightly more refined, but still powerful. The finished product was a sleek wand that shimmered with a subtle, dangerous gleam. The horn’s magic had bled into the wand in a way that Ollivander had never experienced before. It felt almost as though the wand had a mind of its own, its energy pulsing in rhythm with the wizard who would eventually wield it.

As the last of the polish was applied, Ollivander held the two wands up, admiring the finished products. The first was longer, more substantial, with a dark, rich sheen that would appeal to someone with control and dominance over their magic. The second was sleeker, more compact, but still carried the same dangerous power that the basilisk’s horn contained.

When he tested them, Ollivander felt the magic course through his veins, the power in the wands surging like a tidal wave ready to break free. They were dangerous, undoubtedly, but also beautiful in their own way. He could sense that these wands would choose powerful wizards—those who sought strength, those who were willing to walk the line between order and chaos.

“These are wands of true power,” Ollivander murmured, his eyes glinting with a quiet excitement. “May they find their rightful owners soon.”

As the first light of dawn crept through the windows of his shop, he carefully placed the two wands in velvet-lined boxes, the basilisk horn’s aura lingering in the air around them. He didn’t know who would come for them, but he had no doubt that when they did, they would wield a magic unlike anything the wizarding world had ever seen before.

Harry sat stiffly in the chair across from Dumbledore, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest. The Headmaster's office was as cluttered as ever, filled with the quiet whirring of enchanted objects and the occasional squawk from Fawkes.

Dumbledore folded his hands together, his blue eyes twinkling with something unreadable. “Harry, my boy, you have had quite the eventful few days.”

Harry forced a polite nod. “Guess you could say that.”

Dumbledore smiled faintly but didn’t let the silence linger. “I must say, your actions in Hogsmeade were most impressive. Your Order of Merlin is well-earned.”

“Thanks,” Harry said simply.

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, how did it feel? Facing magic like Karl’s? You were at the center of it all.”

Harry knew this game. Dumbledore was fishing, trying to piece together things Harry wasn’t ready to share. He kept his expression neutral. “It was a battle. Like any other.”

“Few your age could withstand such dark magic.”

Harry clenched his jaw but kept his tone even. “I wasn’t alone."

Dumbledore studied him, his gaze sharp despite the kindly exterior. “Yes, Doctor Strange played a vital role. I find myself wondering what he might have taught you.”

Harry met his eyes without flinching. “Strange teaches me plenty, Professor. But I fought the way I always do—with what I’ve learned, with what I know. That’s all.”

Dumbledore was silent for a beat, his fingers steepled. “And your reward… how do you feel about it?”

Harry shrugged. “I didn’t do any of it for an award."

“A noble mindset,” Dumbledore said, though he still looked as though he were trying to see past the walls Harry had carefully put up.

The Headmaster asked a few more questions, each one skirting closer to Harry’s magic, but Harry kept his answers vague and controlled. He could feel the tension creeping under his skin, but he wouldn’t let it show.

Finally, Dumbledore gave a small sigh, as if realizing he wouldn’t get much more out of him. “Very well, Harry. Thank you for your time.”

Harry stood, giving a polite nod. “Anytime, Professor.”

As he stepped out of the office, he exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He had been civil, but inside, irritation simmered. Dumbledore was always watching, always questioning. Harry would have to be even more careful from now on.

It was the next day when Luna drifted toward Harry with her usual serene expression. Her bright eyes flickered over him, lingering on his hand.

"Your magic is different there," she said dreamily, tilting her head. "It swirls in a way that reminds me of the ripples between worlds. Why is that, Harry?"

Harry stiffened, instinctively curling his fingers. He had been so careful—using his magic to mask the blackened state of his hand, keeping it hidden from everyone. But Luna… Luna was different.

"I don't know what you mean," he said carefully, forcing a casual smile.

Luna's eyes stayed on his hand, her usual dreamy expression replaced with something more focused. "It's not just different, Harry. It's hurting you."

Harry inhaled sharply. Of course, Luna would see through him. She always had a way of noticing things others didn’t.

“It’s nothing,” he said, forcing a grin. “Just a side effect of too much excitement lately.”

Luna didn't look convinced. She reached out but stopped just short of touching his hand. "Magic leaves traces, especially magic that wasn’t meant to be yours." Her voice was soft, thoughtful. "You saved me once, you know. In the Chamber. I remember the feeling of your magic—it was warm, like a shield. This magic… it isn’t the same."

Harry’s chest tightened. He hadn’t realized how much Luna remembered from that night. He had dived into the Chamber of Secrets, not for some grand heroic reason, but because she was his friend—practically his little sister.

"It’s not important, Luna," he said gently, ruffling her hair in a way that made her huff. "I can handle it."

She studied him for a long moment before finally nodding. “You always say that. But if your magic ever ripples too far, I’ll see it.”

Harry chuckled. "Of course, you will."

Luna gave him one last knowing smile before drifting away, leaving him unsettled. If she had seen through his illusion, it was only a matter of time before someone else did too.

Hermione stood before Professor McGonagall’s desk, carefully placing the delicate Time-Turner onto the polished wood. The tiny hourglass gleamed under the candlelight, its magic still potent but now unneeded.

McGonagall picked it up with a critical eye, then looked at Hermione over the rim of her glasses. “Miss Granger, I trust you used this responsibly?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, Professor. I kept up with my studies, but… I’ve realized that taking so many classes was too much. I’d like to drop Divination and Muggle Studies next year. I’d rather focus on subjects that truly interest me.”

McGonagall’s lips twitched slightly, almost a smile. “A wise decision. Many students would stubbornly hold on for the sake of pride.” She placed the Time-Turner in a small box and folded her hands on her desk. “You handled this challenge admirably, Miss Granger. It’s not easy, juggling time itself. Few could have managed as well as you.”

Hermione felt warmth at the praise. “Thank you, Professor. I just want to make sure I’m learning, not just… surviving.”

McGonagall gave her a firm nod. “Then you are already ahead of most. I’ll make the necessary adjustments to your schedule. Now, I suggest you enjoy the rest of your term without running yourself ragged.”

Hermione grinned. “I think I’ll do just that.”

Ollivander carefully examined the lock of hair in his hand. It had been a peculiar acquisition—collected during the chaotic Dementor attack in Knockturn Alley. The owner of the hair had been mysterious, a figure of intense power, but one who had slipped through his grasp before he could identify him fully. All Ollivander knew was that the hair radiated a strange and unfamiliar power, unlike anything he had encountered before.

He had stored the hair away, unsure of its origin, but the longer he thought about it, the more fascinated he became by its magical essence. It was cold, almost unnaturally so, and seemed to hum with an energy that felt different from anything he had worked with in his decades of wand-making. It was as if this hair had been touched by forces from beyond the usual boundaries of magic.

With steady hands, Ollivander cut the hair into an appropriate length for a wand core, sensing that this material was something unique. He had seen hair used in wand-making before, but never like this. The magic embedded in it seemed to resist normal wand-making processes, and yet, Ollivander was determined to see what he could create.

He carefully chose a piece of dark wood for the handle—a rare and sturdy timber known for its resilience. As he began to work, a chill filled the air, almost as if the room itself had grown colder. Ollivander paused, briefly marveling at the ice-cold sensation that now seemed to permeate the space.

The hair, despite its coldness, seemed to bond with the wood quickly, intertwining with the fibers as though it had always belonged there. Ollivander continued to shape the wand, working the materials with skill and patience. The hair glistened, casting faint shimmering reflections as it coiled into place.

When the wand was nearly complete, Ollivander couldn't help but notice the distinct chill emanating from the finished product. He reached out to hold it, and as his fingers made contact, he immediately felt the coldness seep into his skin, a sensation that sent an uncomfortable shiver up his spine. He could feel a power—a quiet, potent force—running through the wand, pulsing with a kind of icy intensity that was unlike any wand he had ever created before.

The wand itself was magnificent, with a deep, dark wood and a smooth, polished finish. It felt powerful, even dangerous in a way that Ollivander couldn't quite explain. The coldness lingered in his hand, an unsettling reminder of the wand's strange origin.

He muttered to himself, pondering the mystery of its creation. "A wand like no other. It must be from someone... unique. Someone with a deep connection to this kind of power."

Ollivander held the wand in his hand, weighing it carefully, a sense of unease beginning to grow inside him. He didn't know who the hair belonged to, but he had a feeling that whoever wielded this wand would have the ability to change the course of things—someone with deep, ancient power, capable of wielding forces that were not fully understood.

The wand was finished, and though he couldn't shake the feeling of dread, Ollivander couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship. It was, indeed, a truly extraordinary piece.

"I wonder who will come for this," he murmured, his thoughts swirling with the possibilities.

The warm summer breeze filtered in through the open windows of Dumbledore’s office as Remus Lupin sat across from the Headmaster, hands folded on his lap. The school year had come to an end, and the castle was already quieter with most students having departed.

Dumbledore, his twinkling blue eyes filled with their usual knowing glint, steepled his fingers and regarded Remus with satisfaction. "I must say, Remus, your return to Hogwarts has been most beneficial to our students. Your teachings in Defense Against the Dark Arts have been exemplary."

Remus smiled slightly. "That means a lot, Headmaster. I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure how things would go this year, but I’ve enjoyed teaching. The students have grown, and so have I."

Dumbledore gave an approving nod. "Then, I take it you will be returning next year?"

Remus took a breath before answering. "Yes. I’d like to stay on."

Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "Excellent. It is rare that a Defense professor remains for more than a year. In fact…" His expression soured just slightly, "It seems that particular issue has been… resolved."

Remus raised a curious brow. "You mean the curse on the position I took?"

Dumbledore’s smile thinned. "Indeed. A rather stubborn and persistent bit of magic from Voldemort himself. One I have spent years trying to unravel, with no success. And yet," he sighed, adjusting his half-moon spectacles, "Doctor Strange manages to remove it in under a year."

There was a distinct note of irritation in his voice, though it was layered beneath his usual calm demeanor.

Remus smirked. "You sound almost… annoyed."

Dumbledore exhaled, looking vaguely toward the ceiling. "Perhaps just a touch. I have spent decades searching for a way to undo what Voldemort wrought upon this position, and then along comes our dear Sorcerer Supreme, who waves his hands, utters some incantation, and—poof—the curse is broken."

Remus chuckled. "I doubt it was that simple. Strange doesn't exactly 'wave his hands' and fix things on a whim. He likely saw something we missed."

Dumbledore sighed, shaking his head with a wry smile. "Yes he explained it to me. I was so busy digging I missed the obvious. In fact, I should be pleased. And yet, there is something humbling about realizing that after all these years, my own efforts bore no fruit while another magic wielder from a completely different discipline succeeded in mere months."

Remus leaned back in his chair. "At least now we don’t have to worry about a new professor being cursed each year. And that means I can stay as long as you'll have me."

Dumbledore's expression softened. "And that is something I am truly grateful for, my boy. Hogwarts is stronger with you here."

Remus dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Then I’ll see you in September."

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled once more. "Indeed, you shall."

At the bustling train station, the air was filled with the sounds of excited chatter, the steam of the Hogwarts Express billowing around them as students reunited with their families.

Harry stood with Hermione, Luna, Susan, and Blaise, waiting for their respective families. Hermione fidgeted with the strap of her bag, sighing. “I am not looking forward to telling my parents about the battle.”

Susan offered a sympathetic smile. “At least they don’t read the Prophet. My aunt already sent me a letter asking why I didn’t tell her I was nearly mauled by a cursed wolf. I'm not looking forward to the talk when I get home."

Blaise smirked. “I just told my mum I stuck with Potter. She assumed I was safe.”

Harry snorted. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

Before Blaise could respond, a voice called out. “Harry!”

The Weasley family approached, led by Arthur and Molly. Ron was among them, though he stayed slightly back, looking sheepish. The twins, Fred and George, beamed as they spotted Wanda.

Molly pulled Harry into a quick, tight hug. “Oh, Harry, dear, thank you. We heard what happened. We can’t begin to express how grateful we are.”

Arthur nodded. “Truly. What you all did… well, it’s beyond words.”

Harry shifted awkwardly. “I didn’t do it alone.”

“That’s what makes you a proper hero,” Fred said with a grin. “And speaking of heroes—”

George clapped his hands together. “You must be Wanda Maximoff!”

Wanda, who had been standing nearby with Natasha and Sirius, arched a brow. “Lupin but yes and you must be the Weasley twins.”

Fred dramatically placed a hand over his heart. “She knows us, George. Our reputation precedes us.”

George nodded sagely. “As it should.” Then he grinned at Wanda. “We’ve heard a lot about you. Chaos magic sounds right up our alley.”

Wanda chuckled. “Oh? And what exactly do you two get up to?”

Fred and George exchanged mischievous glances before pulling out a small box. “May we introduce you to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?”

Harry groaned. “Oh no.”

Wanda, intrigued, took the box, peering inside. “What am I looking at?”

“Pure brilliance,” George said. “Fainting Fancies, Nosebleed Nougat, Skiving Snackboxes.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Are you two training to be spies or pranksters?”

“Why not both?” Fred said cheekily.

Wanda smiled, clearly amused. “I like them.”

“See, George? We’re officially Maximoff-approved,” Fred declared.

George grinned. “High praise indeed.”

As the Weasleys continued thanking Strange, Natasha, and Sirius, Hermione sighed. “This break is going to be exhausting.”

Harry grinned. “At least you don’t have to deal with Fred and George adopting Wanda into their chaos club.”

Hermione laughed. “That does make me feel better.”

 reminding them they weren’t facing it alone.

As the Weasley family continued their conversation, Fred and George were still marveling at meeting Wanda.

"You know, we’ve read all about you in the Prophet," George said. "Chaos magic, proper mysterious stuff."

"Absolute legend," Fred added with a grin.

"Are they always this much?" Lyall asked, tilting his head as he looked between the twins.

"Yes," Harry, Ron, and Hermione said in unison.

Pietro studied the twins curiously. "But they are fun."

Lyall nodded. "Yeah. We like them."

Fred and George gasped in exaggerated delight. "We’ve been approved by the next generation of chaos!"

George ruffled Lyall’s hair. "We’re honored, truly."

Fred looked at Pietro. "You’ve got that mischievous look about you."

Pietro smirked but didn’t say anything, hands stuffed in his pockets. Lyall also remained quiet, though there was a hint of amusement in his golden eyes.

"So," George continued, rubbing his hands together, "if you ever need help with pranks—"

"Or general mayhem," Fred added.

"—we’ll be your guys."

Lyall and Pietro exchanged a glance before Pietro shrugged. "We’ll think about it."

Fred and George looked delighted.

Remus sighed again. "Wanda, I fear we’ve made a mistake introducing them."

Wanda just smiled. "Oh, I think it’ll be fine."

Harry, standing next to Hermione, muttered, "That’s what she says now."

Hermione just shook her head, knowing full well this was only the beginning of something very, very chaotic.

Loki, still wearing the guise of Cornelius Fudge, sat at his grand desk, twirling his bowler hat idly in his hands. Across from him, Amelia Bones stood with a stack of reports, her sharp eyes scanning over the latest updates.

“The latest evaluations of Ministry efficiency have improved,” Amelia said, placing the reports in front of him. “Since you implemented the new case review system, the backlog of trials has been cut in half.”

Loki hummed, pretending to be only mildly interested. “Ah, yes, quite… remarkable. Who knew that actually processing paperwork in a timely manner would have such an effect?” He chuckled in an exaggeratedly bumbling manner, waving a hand. “Of course, I had no doubt my little tweaks would help, but really, I must say, it’s all due to the hard work of diligent Ministry employees such as yourself.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you’ve also approved funding for a second Fountain of Magical Brethren in the Atrium.”

Loki-as-Fudge clapped his hands together. “Ah, yes! A magnificent addition, don’t you think? The people love a good statue—makes them feel safe! Besides, what’s a little gold when it brightens up the place?” He grinned, playing the role of an out-of-touch politician perfectly.

Amelia frowned. “It seems unnecessary.”

“That’s exactly why it’s necessary, dear Madam Bones,” Loki countered smoothly, leaning forward conspiratorially. “If we appear too competent, people will expect us to be competent all the time. But sprinkle in a bit of extravagance, a bit of… distraction, and no one will question the gears quietly turning in the background.” He leaned back, adjusting his hat. “Balance, my dear. That’s what leadership is.”

Amelia didn’t look convinced but sighed, shaking her head. “Well, for now, things are running smoother than they ever did under your previous policies.”

Loki beamed. “How wonderful to hear! Then I shall continue to be… exactly as I have been. Steady leadership and all that.”

As Amelia left the office, Loki leaned back in his chair with a smirk. He had to be careful. Too much competence, and suspicion would rise. Too much incompetence, and chaos would follow before he was ready.

For now, he would keep playing the fool, all while making the Ministry stronger under his rule.

Pietro and Lyall sat at the kitchen table, eyes darting between the plates of food spread out before them. Wanda, Remus, and Harry sat nearby, watching in mild amusement as the twins debated their choices.

"So," Pietro said, drumming his fingers on the table. "We got all these memories, right? But they don't cover everything."

Lyall nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Like, I know how to fight and talk and do magic, but I don’t know what my favorite food is!"

Harry smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Guess there’s only one way to find out."

Lyall and Pietro exchanged glances before nodding. "Taste test!" they declared in unison.

Wanda chuckled, conjuring a plate of different foods. "Alright, try whatever looks interesting."

Pietro grabbed a slice of pizza first, inspecting it. "Okay, this looks good." He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then beamed. "Oh, yeah. This is it. Favorite food found. Pizza wins."

Lyall snorted. "That was fast."

Harry slid a plate of fish and chips toward Lyall. "Try this. It’s a classic."

Lyall took a cautious bite of the fried fish, his expression shifting from curiosity to delight. "Whoa. This is so good!" He quickly grabbed a handful of chips and shoved them in his mouth.

Wanda smirked. "Slow down, wolf boy. You have plenty of time to eat."

Lyall just grinned, his cheeks stuffed. "This is my new favorite."

Pietro, still munching on pizza, reached for a piece of chocolate cake. "Dessert test!" He took a bite and his eyes widened. "Okay. I might love this more than pizza."

Lyall took a spoonful of ice cream and instantly shivered. "What is this? It’s cold!"

Harry laughed. "It’s ice cream."

Lyall squinted at it suspiciously before taking another bite. "...I think I like it. But it's weird."

Remus chuckled. "You’ll get used to it."

Pietro tapped his chin. "Alright, so far: I love pizza, I really love chocolate cake, and I like ice cream."

Lyall pointed at his plate. "Fish and chips are my favorite. Ice cream is cool—literally—and…" He grabbed a roasted chicken leg, took a bite, and nodded. "Yeah. This too."

Harry shook his head, amused. "You two are like food critics."

Lyall grinned. "Hey, we missed years of eating! We gotta make up for it."

Wanda smiled, watching them explore something so simple yet important. "Then let’s make sure you try everything." With a flick of her wrist, she conjured even more dishes.

Pietro and Lyall's eyes lit up. "Best. Day. Ever."

Remus sat on the balcony, watching the sky darken as he absentmindedly rubbed his hands together. Lyall sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the wooden boards. He wasn’t fidgeting like he usually did when he was bored—Remus could tell he was thinking.

Taking a breath, Remus finally spoke. “Lyall, there’s something I need to say.”

Lyall looked up, his wolf-like golden eyes curious. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Lyall blinked. “For what?”

Remus sighed, looking down at his hands. “For what you are. For what I passed on to you.” He hesitated, then forced himself to keep going. “I was bitten when I was a kid, and even though you’re not a werewolf, I know my condition did something to you. And I hate that you have to deal with it.” His gaze flickered to Lyall’s hands, where the bone claws had appeared in battle. “You shouldn’t have to carry that burden.”

Lyall frowned, clearly confused. “Why?”

Remus sighed. “Because it’s not normal, Lyall. It’s not something a child should have to live with.”

Lyall’s frown deepened. “Dad… nothing about our family is normal.” He held up his fingers and wiggled them. “Mom does crazy magic, Pietro does magic, Uncle Harry does weird magic too, and you use to turn into a wolf. Compared to that, I’m pretty normal.”

Remus let out a small, tired laugh. “You really think so?”

Lyall grinned. “Yeah! And my claws are awesome. I mean, did you see how I took down that bad guy?” He puffed out his chest. “I did way more than you.”

“Oh, really?” Remus raised an eyebrow.

“Yup!” Lyall nodded confidently.

Remus shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re something else.”

Lyall smirked. “It runs in the family.”

There was a pause before Remus nodded. “Alright. No more apologies.”

“Good,” Lyall said, then suddenly grinned. “But… if you really feel bad, you could buy me ice cream.”

Remus chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his son’s hair. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Lyall beamed. “So that’s a yes?”

Wanda sat on the couch, her fingers lightly tracing patterns on the fabric as she stared at Pietro, now ten years old but filled with the memories of someone much older. He stood nearby, sensing her emotions before she even spoke.

“I missed so much,” Wanda whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Your first steps, your first words… all the little moments I should have been there for.”

"You know," Pietro started, tapping his foot nervously, "I did it because I wanted you to have those memories. But… I get it. It’s not the same as actually being there."

Wanda looked down, a small sigh escaping her lips. "I know, Pietro. I do appreciate it. But sometimes, when I think about all the things I missed, it’s hard. I wish I could have been there for the little things—the things I only see in the memories now."

Pietro scrunched up his face, trying to think of something comforting to say. "But, um, now you can be here! You didn’t miss everything."

Wanda smiled a little, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I wasn’t there for their first steps. Or their first words. I wasn’t there when they needed me. That’s what hurts."

Pietro bit his lip, clearly trying to come up with something that would make her feel better. He finally gave a shrug. "But… you’re here now! So we can make all kinds of new memories. Like… um, like… let’s do something fun! We can do it together, and it’ll be real memories, you know?"

Wanda looked at him, her expression softening. "You're right. We have the future. We can make new memories. I guess I just needed to hear that."

Pietro gave her a goofy grin, nudging her with his shoulder. "See? Told you I’m good at this stuff."

Wanda chuckled and wrapped an arm around him. "You’re definitely good at it, Pietro."

He grinned even wider, leaning his head against hers. "We’ll make more memories, and they’ll be the best ones yet. Promise!"

"The best." She smiled back.

Pietro smiled up at her, his bright eyes reflecting the sincerity in his words. "We were there when you needed us, and we still are. No matter what. You’re not alone."

Wanda's heart softened at his words, and she looked down at him, her expression filled with love. "Thank you, Pietro. That means more to me than you know."

Wanda's chest tightened with emotion as she pulled him into a tight hug. "I don’t deserve you two," she whispered.

Pietro giggled a little, his voice muffled as he leaned into her. "You’re our mom. Of course you do."

She held him close for a moment, feeling the weight of everything that had happened slowly lift as her son’s words settled in. "I love you, Pietro," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too, mom," he replied softly. "We’ve got this, together."

Wanda closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of that simple truth. They would make more memories.

The room was eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of magic that seemed to pulse from the Darkhold on the shelf. Harry stood before it, a faint, almost imperceptible pull tugging at him as he stared at the dark tome. Strange had found him here, again, just as he always did when Harry ventured too close to it.

“Harry,” Strange's voice was calm but tinged with an edge of concern. "You know better than this."

Harry didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. Strange knew what he was about to do, and so did Harry. But the temptation—the darkness calling to him—was too great.

“I’m fine,” Harry muttered under his breath, his hand inching closer to the book.

But as his fingers stretched toward it, the memory of his blackened hand flooded back, and his movement faltered. It was a constant reminder of what the book had already cost him—the chaos, the magic, and the price that was now being demanded.

“I saw you use it, you know,” Strange said quietly, his voice sharp with the weight of his unspoken worry. “During the fight. When you faced Karl.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the mention of that moment. The battle had been chaotic, with so many forces at play, and yet Harry had instinctively reached for the power of the Darkhold. He could still feel the dark magic coursing through his veins, wrapping around him, giving him the strength to hold off Karl—if only for a moment.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it," Strange continued, stepping closer. "I saw the magic ripple through the air. You used it to fight back. And now… look at your hand.”

Harry turned, his eyes meeting Strange’s with an almost defiant look. He’d known the risks when he used it, but it had felt like his only option at the time. And in that moment, the cost hadn’t seemed so great.

But now, standing here, facing the consequences, Harry couldn’t deny the truth that Strange was pointing out.

“I thought I could control it,” Harry muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. He lifted his hand, showing Strange the blackened veins that were creeping further up his wrist. “I thought maybe I could… keep it in check.”

Strange let out a deep breath, his gaze never leaving Harry. “The Darkhold doesn’t work that way. It’s not a tool you can wield. It manipulates the user. It gives you power, yes, but it always takes something more. The more you use it, the more it takes from you.” His voice softened, but the concern was still there. “It’ll corrupt you, Harry. I’ve seen it before.”

Harry looked down at his hand again, his fingers clenched into a fist. It was a constant, painful reminder of what he’d sacrificed—and what he could still lose. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I thought if I could use it just once… I could fix it.”

“Fix it?” Strange repeated, his tone growing more serious. “Harry, you can’t fix anything with that magic. It doesn’t heal. It warps. It corrupts. The more you use it, the less you’ll recognize yourself. I won’t let you go down that path.”

The room felt suffocating, the weight of Strange’s words hanging heavily in the air. Harry’s gaze flicked back to the Darkhold. For a moment, he felt the tug of the magic again, urging him closer. He could almost hear its whispers—promises of power, of answers to all his problems.

But then he looked at his hand again, the black veins snaking up his wrist, and the pull was gone.

“I can’t… keep doing this,” Harry whispered, his voice thick with the weight of his own realization. He took a step back from the book. “I can’t let it take me. Not like this.”

Strange gave a small nod, his expression softening as he approached Harry. “The only way out, Harry, is to stop using it. You have to make that choice. The Darkhold will always be here, but you don’t have to be its slave.”

Harry swallowed hard, his throat tight as he fought the urge to reach for the book once more. The temptation was still there, lurking beneath the surface, but for the first time, Harry felt a flicker of something else—resolve. He couldn’t let it control him. He wouldn’t.

“I won’t use it again,” Harry said, the words coming more easily than he expected. “I promise.”

Strange placed a hand on his shoulder, his eyes filled with understanding. “It’s not going to be easy. But you’re not alone in this. I’m here to help you.”

With one final, lingering glance at the Darkhold, Harry took a deep breath and nodded. The magic might have a hold on him now, but he wouldn’t let it define him. Not anymore.

But as he looked back at the book the pull was still strong.

The Darkhold sat on its shelf, its presence looming like a shadow that refused to fade. The whispers were still there, curling around Harry’s mind like a serpent, tempting him with power.

He had promised Strange he wouldn’t use it again.

But that wasn’t enough. It would always be here, waiting, calling. If he didn’t destroy it, one day, he might not be strong enough to resist.

Taking a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes and reached deep into his magic, deeper than ever before. His Chaos Magic flared, crackling like red lightning around his hands. But this time, he didn’t stop there. He reached further, beyond what he’d known, into something that had always been a part of him—his legacy, his courage.

A bright silver light burst into existence in his grip, coalescing into the familiar hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor. But this was no ordinary blade anymore. As Harry infused it with his magic, the sword pulsed with a crimson glow, Chaos Magic merging with its ancient power.

Strange’s eyes widened. “Harry—”

Before he could stop him, Harry swung.

The blade met the Darkhold, and for a split second, the room was deathly silent. Then—

CRACK!

A shockwave erupted from the book as the sword cleaved through it. The Darkhold screamed, a high-pitched wail that rattled the very foundations of the sanctuary. Dark tendrils of magic lashed out in desperation, trying to escape destruction, but Harry poured every ounce of his will into the blade.

Red and silver light flared as the book’s form cracked, splintered—and then shattered into nothing.

The echoes of its destruction faded, and the room fell still. The weight that had pressed down on Harry since the moment he first touched the Darkhold was gone.

He staggered back, his breathing heavy. The Sword of Gryffindor faded from his grasp.

Strange was staring at the empty space where the Darkhold had been, his expression unreadable. Then he turned to Harry, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Well,” Strange finally said, rubbing his temples. “That’s one way to deal with a problem.”

Harry gave a tired smirk. “I figured it was better than leaving it lying around.”

Strange let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You realize you just destroyed the most dangerous book in existence?”

“Good,” Harry said simply. “Now it can’t hurt anyone else.”

Strange studied him for a long moment before nodding. “You did the right thing.” Then, with a wry smile, he added, “Though next time, maybe give me a little warning before you obliterate an ancient artifact?”

Harry grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

For the first time in a long while, the weight on Harry’s shoulders felt lighter. The Darkhold was gone. The whispers had finally stopped.

Harry felt a pain shoot through him.His hand burned—badly. He bit back a cry as the blackness surged for a moment, pulsing up his arm. But then—slowly—it began to recede.

The corruption crawled backward, as if being siphoned away. His wrist returned to normal, then his palm, then part of his fingers—until finally, only three remained blackened, the dark scars permanently etched into his skin.

Harry flexed his fingers, breathing heavily. The pain had lessened. The spread had stopped.

Harry let out a breathless laugh, still staring at his hand. "It worked."

Strange gave him a knowing look. "Yeah. But now you get the fun of telling Wanda."

Harry groaned. "Brilliant."

I knew I had no reason to doubt you Harry. Strange smiled to himself.

Amelia Bones stood in front of the Minister’s desk, arms crossed, frustration evident in her sharp gaze. “Still no sign of Umbridge,” she reported. “It’s as if she’s been wiped off the face of the earth.”

Loki, disguised as Fudge, leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful hum. “Troubling indeed. A dedicated servant of the Ministry—gone without a trace. We must do everything in our power to locate her.”

Amelia nodded. “Strange has his own people looking, but the Ministry needs to maintain control over this investigation. We can’t have an outsider taking over.”

Loki tapped his fingers on the desk. “Of course, of course. We wouldn’t want the Ministry appearing… incapable.” He gave her a knowing look. “Dr. Strange needs to be shown we are not as incapable as he seems to believe."

Amelia frowned. “Strange has the right to question her, but it would reflect well on us to bring her in without his assistance."

Loki schooled his expression into one of concern. “Then we must redouble our efforts. And what of the search for Loki?”

“Still at large,” Amelia said, her voice tight. “No confirmed sightings, but Strange suspects he’s hiding in plain sight.”

Loki suppressed a smirk. “Clever man, that Strange. Perhaps we should, ah, increase the size of his wanted posters? Make sure the whole world knows he has nowhere to hide.”

Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Minister—”

“Ah, I insist,” Loki interrupted smoothly. “The people must feel safe, and nothing inspires confidence like a larger-than-life display of justice.”

She studied him for a moment before sighing. “I’ll see to it.”

As she turned to leave, Loki’s smirk returned the moment her back was turned. Let Strange keep searching—he’d never expect the enemy to be right under his nose.

Harry sat alone in his room at Potter Manor, the vial of Flamel’s new healing potion resting in his palm. The liquid shimmered with a faint golden hue, almost promising to fix what the Darkhold had done to his left hand.

He exhaled sharply and uncorked it, tilting it back in one quick gulp. The warmth spread through his body instantly, like liquid sunlight, and for a brief moment, he dared to hope.

Then—nothing.

His fingers remained stiff, still blackened with the dark stain of the cursed magic. He flexed them, waiting, willing them to heal, but the dull ache didn’t fade. If anything, the disappointment made it worse.

Harry let out a slow, frustrated breath. He wanted this to work. Wanted a way to fix it without telling his parents, without them worrying more than they already did.

But it wasn’t going to be that easy.

With a scowl, he shoved the empty vial onto his desk and ran his good hand through his hair. He’d have to tell them eventually.

He just wasn’t ready for the looks they’d give him when he did. But first he had to tell Wanda.

Harry sat on the couch in Wanda and Remus house, his foot tapping anxiously against the floor. Wanda stood across from him, arms crossed, an unreadable expression on her face.

Slowly, he lifted his hand, showing her the three fingers still blackened from the Darkhold’s corruption. He watched as her sharp eyes took them in, her jaw tightening.

"I knew you used the book," Wanda finally said, voice controlled but laced with disappointment. "Since the fight with Karl. But you hid something. Again."

Harry winced. He expected this reaction, but that didn’t make it any easier. "I know," he admitted. "I just… I thought if I handled it on my own, no one would have to worry."

Wanda let out a slow breath, shaking her head. "We had a long talk about this your first year. After the Stone. You promised me, Harry. No more hiding."

His stomach twisted. He remembered that talk. How she’d pulled him aside, told him he didn’t have to carry everything alone. And now here they were again.

"I messed up," he said honestly. "I wasn’t trying to keep secrets, I just—"

"Didn’t want anyone to worry," Wanda finished for him, raising an eyebrow. "That’s still an excuse."

Harry sighed, running his good hand through his hair. "I get it."

For a moment, Wanda just looked at him. Then, without warning, she stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Harry stiffened in surprise before relaxing into it, feeling the warmth of her embrace.

"Stop being so stubborn," she muttered against his shoulder.

He let out a small laugh. "I get it from both my moms. Mostly Natasha."

Wanda pulled back, rolling her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile there too. "You’re impossible."

"Yeah," Harry grinned. "But you love me anyway."

Wanda sighed, giving Harry a pointed look. “You know what comes next, right?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “…Saying ‘I’ll never do it again’ and hoping you let it slide?”

Wanda’s expression didn’t change. “No. You have to tell your parents.”

Harry groaned, leaning his head back against the couch. “Wanda—”

“No ‘Wanda,’” she cut him off, arms crossing again. “You are telling them. Sirius and Natasha deserve to know. They already knew you used the book, but hiding your hand? Lying about it? That’s not okay, Harry.”

He sighed heavily. “I know. They’re gonna be so mad.”

Wanda gave him a look. “They’re going to be worried. Just like I was.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “…And a little mad.”

“Well, yeah,” Wanda admitted. “But mostly worried.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, her tone softening. “You’re not alone in this, Harry. You never were. Stop acting like you have to be.”

Harry looked down at his hand, the remaining blackened fingers a reminder of his choices. With a deep breath, he nodded. “Alright. I’ll tell them.”

“Good,” Wanda said, squeezing his shoulder before standing up. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

Loki, still wearing Fudge’s face, leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on his desk as he reviewed the list of potential replacements for Dolores Umbridge. He had to be careful—he couldn’t just put another mindless puppet in place, but he also couldn’t have someone too clever who might start questioning things.

Across from him, Amelia Bones sat with her usual no-nonsense expression. “We need someone competent, Minister. Someone who won’t make a mess of things like she tried to do.”

Loki hummed thoughtfully, rolling his quill between his fingers. “Competence is such a pesky requirement, isn’t it? But I suppose a little of it wouldn’t hurt.”

Amelia gave him a sharp look, clearly unimpressed. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

Loki made a show of scanning the list before sighing dramatically. “Well, we could always go with someone ambitious and eager or we go with someone like." He tapped his chin, as if considering it just then, “—Arthur Weasley.”

Amelia blinked. “Arthur? He’s been in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office for years.”

“Yes, yes,” Loki waved a hand, “but think about it. He’s dedicated, likes rules, and the public sees him as an honest man. We could use that.”

“He’s also fiercely against corruption,” Amelia pointed out.

“Exactly,” Loki said smoothly. “And wouldn’t it be nice to have a figurehead people trust for once? Imagine it—Arthur Weasley, hardworking family man, stepping up to serve the Ministry. It would look very good.”

Amelia considered this, tapping her fingers against her arm. “You’re suggesting him because he’s easy to control, aren’t you?”

Loki placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “Madam Bones, you wound me. I only have the best interests of the Ministry at heart.”

She didn’t look convinced.

Loki leaned forward slightly, letting his voice drop just enough to sound conspiratorial. “Arthur Weasley is an honest man. The public will love him, and the Ministry will look better. Meanwhile, we still run things. A perfect arrangement, don’t you think?”

Amelia exhaled sharply but nodded. “It’s… not the worst idea.”

Loki grinned. “High praise indeed.”

Now all he had to do was make sure Arthur accepted the position.

Harry sat across from Sirius and Natasha, shifting uncomfortably under their gazes. He had faced trolls, Voldemort, dark magic, and the Avengers’ training sessions—but nothing compared to the sheer weight of disappointment in his parents’ eyes.

“So let me get this straight,” Sirius said, rubbing his temples. “You used the Darkhold. You knew it was dangerous. You knew what it did to Mordo. And instead of telling us what happened to your hand, you decided to hide it for weeks?”

Harry winced. “When you put it like that—”

“There’s no other way to put it, Harry.” Natasha’s voice was sharp, her arms crossed tight over her chest. “You lied to us. Again.”

“I didn’t—” Harry started, then sighed. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Natasha snapped. “We’re your parents. We deserve to know when something is wrong.”

Sirius exhaled, staring at Harry’s fingers, his expression a mix of anger and concern. “Is it still spreading?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “Not anymore. I—I destroyed the Darkhold.”

Both Sirius and Natasha froze.

“You what?” Natasha’s voice dropped into something dangerously low.

“With the Sword of Gryffindor,” Harry clarified quickly. “I used my magic, and it worked. The spread stopped.” He lifted his hand, showing the damage limited to a few blackened fingers.

Before either parent could respond, the door swung open, and Regulus came bounding in.

“Hey, what’s going—” His words died as he spotted Harry’s hand. His eyes widened. “Woo! What happened to your fingers?!”

Harry sighed, already regretting everything about today.

“Oh,” Regulus suddenly squinted, putting two and two together. “Did you hide that from Hermione too?”

Sirius groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Natasha muttered something in Russian. Harry just buried his face in his hands.

"Shes going to eat you alive." Sirius sighed. 

"I really like her." Natasha grinned.