Strange Potter

The Gryffindor common room was quieter than usual, though there was still an underlying hum of excited whispers about the Triwizard Tournament. Most of the students had already gone to bed, leaving only a few stragglers lingering by the fireplace.

Harry sat on the couch, staring into the flames, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his wand. Hermione sat beside him, her arms crossed as she studied his face, waiting for him to say something.

“So," she finally said, breaking the silence. "What’s your plan?”

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be fine, Hermione. I’ve got my ace in the hole.”

Hermione frowned. “Chaos magic?” She lowered her voice, casting a glance around the room to make sure no one was close enough to hear.

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the fire.

She bit her lip, clearly torn. “Harry… if you use it in front of everyone, there’s no going back. It’ll change everything.”

Harry finally turned to look at her, his green eyes calm but determined. “Things already changed the second my name came out of that goblet.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened on the fabric of her robes. “I know, but this is different. This isn’t just showing you're powerful. This is showing them something they’ve never seen before. Something they won’t understand.”

Harry exhaled sharply. “You think I don’t know that?” He leaned back against the couch. “I’ve spent years hiding it. Strange made sure of that. But this tournament isn’t normal. If I hold back, I could die. And I’m not dying for their entertainment.”

Hermione swallowed, nodding slowly. “I don’t want you to hold back, Harry. I just…” She sighed. “I want you to be ready for what comes next.”

Harry gave a small smirk. “I’ve never been ready for anything in my life, Hermione.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at her lips. “Then I guess I’ll just have to be ready for you.”

He nudged her shoulder lightly. “That’s why you’re my best friend and girlfriend."

She shook her head with a sigh but smiled all the same. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

Harry nodded, eyes flickering back to the fire. “Yeah. Together.”

In the wake of Harry's forced participation in the Triwizard Tournament, tensions in Hogwarts were at an all-time high. The Great Hall buzzed with students still reeling from the shocking revelation, and Dumbledore had been occupied with damage control, attempting to assure everyone that the situation was under review.

That evening, as the professors gathered in the staff room, Remus stood firm, his usual mild demeanor replaced with quiet steel.

"I'll be the one overseeing Harry through the tournament," he announced, his voice calm but unwavering. "He shouldn't have to go through this alone, and I won’t leave his training up to anyone else."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable. "Remus, I assure you—"

"If anyone has an issue," Remus cut in smoothly, "they can explain it to Wanda."

The room went silent. Even Snape, who had looked like he was ready to object, pressed his lips together and said nothing. Nobody wanted to bring Wanda into the argument. She had already made her presence at Hogwarts well-known, and after the World Cup attack, her reputation was one of someone who would not tolerate threats against her family.

Dumbledore exhaled slowly and gave a small nod. "Very well, Remus. I trust you will do what is best for Harry."

Remus inclined his head. "Always."

The Slytherin common room was alive with hushed murmurs and sharp whispers, all centered around the same topic: Harry Potter and the Triwizard Tournament. Some were skeptical, others intrigued, but none more furious than Draco Malfoy.

Blaise Zabini leaned casually against the cold stone wall, his dark eyes watching Draco pace furiously near the fireplace. "You need to let it go, Malfoy," he said smoothly, arms crossed. "Potter didn’t put his name in that Goblet. You think he actually wants to be a part of this?"

Draco whirled around, his face twisted with resentment. "I don’t give a damn if he did or not. Potter got my father thrown in Azkaban, and that filthy mudblood Granger—"

"Watch your mouth." Blaise’s voice was calm, but there was a dangerous edge to it. A few heads turned, sensing the tension crackling between the two boys.

Draco sneered. "What, you defending her now too? You always were too soft, Zabini."

Blaise sighed, shaking his head. "I’m not soft. I just know how to pick the winning side." His gaze was steady, unwavering. "And it’s not yours. You think clinging to your father’s mistakes is going to help you? The world is changing, Malfoy. We either evolve, or we die out."

Draco’s pale face twisted with rage. "I don’t care," he spat. "Potter will suffer. I’ll make sure of it. And Granger—"

Blaise stepped forward, his voice low but firm. "You really think you’re untouchable? That nothing can come back on you? Harry—" He stopped himself, forcing down what he wanted to say. He wouldn’t betray Harry’s trust, but he knew what Potter was capable of. Draco was playing with fire, and he didn’t even know it.

Draco scoffed. "What? Gonna tell Potter on me? You think I’m scared of him?" He stepped closer, trying to assert dominance, but Blaise didn’t budge.

"No," Blaise said, voice almost amused. "But maybe you should be."

For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty crossed Draco’s face. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a sneer. He shoved past Blaise, storming toward the dormitories. "This isn’t over," he muttered.

Blaise smirked slightly. "No," he murmured to himself. "It really isn’t. I'm surprised you can even say a certain word Malfoy." He smirked.

Draco glared back.

Flashback.

Malfoy Manor

The candlelight flickered against the pristine marble walls of Malfoy Manor, casting long shadows across the elegant sitting room. Narcissa stood poised, elegant as ever, though her usually calm expression was etched with thinly veiled worry. Across from her sat a rugged man with runes etched into the leather cuffs of his sleeves—a curse breaker from Gringotts, lean and weathered, a man who had seen magic twisted in every form.

Draco lay on a nearby chaise, pale and stiff, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Every time?" the curse breaker asked skeptically.

"Every time he says the word," Narcissa confirmed tightly. "The symptoms begin within minutes. And the pain—"

"I know the kind," the man muttered, already tracing sigils into the air. “Very old magic. Nasty, but specific. Which means—intentional.”

Draco let out a bitter huff, wincing as he adjusted. “Potter did this. I know it was him.”

“You can’t prove it,” Narcissa reminded him gently, though her voice held no real denial.

“No one else would’ve had the opportunity,” Draco growled. “It started after I called Granger a—”

The curse breaker's wand twitched toward him, warning. “Don’t finish that sentence, lad, unless you want another episode.”

Narcissa stood straighter. “Can it be removed?”

The man frowned, studying the traces of magic lingering around Draco’s abdomen. “It’s tangled deep, but yes. Cleverly tied to intent and speech. I’ll need a few hours and some wards up. Whoever placed this wanted him to learn a lesson every time he forgot his manners.”

Draco scowled. “He’s going to pay for this.”

Narcissa’s voice was colder than Draco had ever heard it. “No, darling. He won’t. Not today. We’re not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to you.”

She turned back to the curse breaker. “Do it. Spare no detail. I want this… removed completely.”

The man gave a curt nod and began his work, drawing ancient runes across the room and chanting low incantations.

As Draco watched, his anger simmered—but somewhere in the back of his mind, even he knew:

That was a very Potter kind of curse.

Painful.

Petty.

Perfectly justified.

That had cost but he was finally free of Potters curse. But Malfoy had learned to not say it around Potter.

"None of your concern." Draco snapped and walked away.

"Baby." Blaise smirked as he watched Draco walk away. He has no idea what storm he's risking.

 The Hogwarts Herald: Forced to Compete?

The morning after the Goblet of Fire’s shocking betrayal, the Hogwarts students woke to the sight of newspapers covering every available surface in the Great Hall. The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler, and even The Wizarding Times had dedicated front-page spreads to Harry’s predicament, each echoing the same sentiment:

"HARRY POTTER: FORCED INTO A LIFE-THREATENING TOURNAMENT!"

The Daily Prophet had a large, moving image of Harry looking utterly bewildered as his name floated from the Goblet. Accompanying it was a furious statement from Sirius Black:

"This is an outrage. My godson did not put his name in that Goblet, and if anyone thinks he’s competing willingly, they’ll be answering to me."

Natasha Romanoff’s brief but pointed statement had sent chills down many spines:

"If this tournament is so determined to kill a child, they’ll have to get through me first."

Even The Quibbler, which often ran bizarre theories, had taken a firm stance. Luna Lovegood had excitedly passed around copies with the headline:

"HARRY POTTER: TARGETED BY A CURSED CUP?"

While the press largely defended Harry, the school itself was divided.

Many students knew Harry as a skilled wizard, a brave duelist, and someone who, yes, enjoyed the spotlight—but he wasn’t a liar. He didn’t need to cheat to prove himself.

"He loves showing off, sure," Susan Bones was overheard saying in the Hufflepuff common room, "but he’s never been a cheater. He wouldn’t need to be!"

Neville had taken an even stronger stance. "Harry’s my best mate. If he says he didn’t do it, he didn’t do it. End of."

Others, however, weren’t as willing to give Harry the benefit of the doubt.

"Potter must have found a way to do it," one Slytherin muttered. "He always gets away with things."

And then, of course, there was Draco Malfoy.

The blonde Slytherin had been reveling in the chaos, loudly declaring at breakfast, "Oh, of course, Potter didn’t want the attention. Just like he didn’t want it in first year, second year, or third year—how tragic, the Boy Who Can’t Stay Out of the Spotlight."

Harry, still feeling the weight of everything, simply sighed. But before he could respond, Hermione nudged him. "Go on, then. Let’s see you shut him up."

Harry smirked and turned to Draco, standing so that all eyes were on him. "Malfoy," he said casually, loud enough for everyone to hear, "if you were half as obsessed with your studies as you are with me, you might actually pass your exams without Mommy having had to pay for tutors."

The Great Hall erupted into laughter. Fred and George doubled over, clutching their sides. Even some of the Slytherins smirked, including Blaise Zabini.

Draco’s face burned red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Harry, satisfied, sat back down and resumed his breakfast, ignoring the way Hermione rolled her eyes but hid a smile behind her book.

Dumbledore sat in his office, fingers steepled, deep in thought. The events surrounding Harry Potter had taken yet another unexpected turn, and he could no longer ignore the possibility that the boy wielded a form of magic beyond what should have been possible. Sorcerer Magic. The implications were staggering—dangerous, even. He needed confirmation.

He had been cautious in his observations, but the time for subtlety had passed. He needed to know what Harry’s closest friends knew. If the boy himself would not give him answers, then perhaps his friends would—unknowingly, of course. A gentle probe, nothing more.

That evening, he observed them in the Great Hall, watching as Harry sat with Hermione, Neville, and Luna. They laughed at something Regulus had said, while Pietro and Lyall chatted animatedly with the Weasley twins.

Legilimency was a delicate art, and few could resist it. Albus focused first on Hermione, expecting an orderly mind filled with logic and reasoning. Instead, he encountered a solid, immovable barrier—one he recognized. Strange. Of course. The girl had been shielded, likely under the Sorcerer Supreme’s protection. He dared not push harder, lest he alert Strange to his attempt.

He shifted his focus to Neville, a softer target, or so he assumed. Yet, to his surprise, there was resistance. Not an external shield, but something deeper—ancient, protective magic woven into the very core of the Longbottom heir’s mind. It was wild and unyielding, warning him away like an unseen guardian. Dumbledore withdrew immediately.

Frustrated but undeterred, he turned to Luna Lovegood. Her mind was open, but instead of finding answers, he found... chaos. Her thoughts danced and twisted, leading him down nonsensical paths—images of wrackspurts, colors that had no names, and laughter that felt like it came from the stars themselves. It was impossible to hold on to any coherent thought, as if her mind refused to be grasped.

Dumbledore pulled back, his disappointment hidden behind his usual composed expression. Whatever protections had been placed on Harry’s closest friends, they were beyond his reach.

He watched them again—Harry smiling, oblivious to his failed attempts. The boy was surrounded by people who would keep his secrets, whether knowingly or not.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. If Legilimency could not provide answers, he would have to find another way.

The tension in McGonagall’s office was palpable the following day. Sirius stood with his arms crossed, his expression dark with frustration. Harry, standing beside him, looked equally determined. Across from them, McGonagall and Dumbledore remained firm, though McGonagall’s lips were pressed into a thin line, a sure sign of her disapproval.

“The Goblet of Fire has selected him,” McGonagall stated crisply. “That means his focus must be on the tournament. Quidditch is a demanding commitment, and the Triwizard Tournament is dangerous enough without unnecessary distractions.”

Sirius scoffed. “Unnecessary distractions? Are you serious, Minerva? He’s a kid! You want to take away the one thing that lets him feel normal?”

Harry jumped in. “I’m Seeker for Gryffindor! I didn't put my name in so I didn't violate the rules. Why should I have to quit just because someone else put my name in that goblet?”

Dumbledore folded his hands together, his gaze thoughtful. “The matter is not about fairness, but about safety and responsibility. The tasks will be unpredictable, and—”

Sirius cut him off. “Then give me one reason why he can’t handle both. He’s faced trolls, Voldemort, and held his own against that sorcerer Mordo. You’re saying a few matches of Quidditch are too much?”

McGonagall sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Sirius, this isn’t about doubting Harry’s abilities. It’s about ensuring he has time to prepare. The Tournament will test him in ways even you cannot anticipate.”

Sirius bristled but before he could argue again, Harry spoke, his voice firm. “If you’re worried about me not preparing, I’ll train extra. But Quidditch is part of who I am. You told me yourself, Professor, that a good captain leads their team no matter what.” He met McGonagall’s gaze. “How can I do that if you force me to quit?”

McGonagall hesitated. It was clear she wasn’t unmoved by his words, but rules were rules. Before she could respond, Dumbledore spoke.

“Perhaps we can reach a compromise,” the headmaster mused. “Harry may remain on the team, but if at any point it is deemed unsafe or too taxing, he will step down without protest.”

Harry nodded immediately. “Agreed.”

Sirius gave McGonagall a triumphant look. She exhaled, clearly unhappy but relenting. “Fine. But if your grades drop or I see your focus slipping, Potter, you will step down. No arguments.”

Harry grinned. “Deal.”

As they left the office, Sirius threw an arm around Harry’s shoulders, smirking. “That’s my boy.”

The dimly lit chamber reeked of decay and dampness, a fitting throne room for a wraith-like creature clinging to existence. Voldemort sat in a crude, makeshift chair, his deformed body covered in a ragged cloak. His crimson eyes burned with fury as Peter Pettigrew carefully spooned a foul-smelling potion into his lipless mouth.

The liquid seared down his throat, bringing momentary relief to his cursed, half-life existence. But relief was fleeting—his mind was already storming ahead, seething with rage and hatred.

Strange. That meddlesome sorcerer had been a thorn in his side for far too long. The wizarding world had been his to conquer before Strange's intervention. The purge had nearly shattered what was left of his influence. Many of his Death Eaters were imprisoned, dead, or too cowardly to return to him. He had once commanded an army—now he had scraps.

And Potter. That insufferable boy. His blood was key. But that alone wasn’t enough. Potter had to suffer before he died. His name had emerged from the Goblet of Fire—Voldemort smirked at the thought. Crouch had done his bidding well. Now, the pieces were falling into place.

But Strange... Strange had to be dealt with. He was no ordinary wizard. Voldemort could sense it, even through the veil of distance. The magic Strange wielded was unnatural, foreign to the magic of the world Voldemort sought to control. It unsettled him.

Pettigrew winced as Voldemort's thin, claw-like fingers dug into his arm. "Master," he squeaked, "what—what do you command?"

Voldemort exhaled slowly, regaining his composure. "The boy will come to me. The tournament will see to that."

Peter nodded nervously, knowing better than to speak.

"But Strange... I will not be so foolish as to underestimate him again." Voldemort’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried an unmistakable promise of violence. "I need power beyond what I have used before. If magic like his exists, then there must be ways to counter it. I will find them."

His red eyes gleamed with cold determination. Strange had burned away his networks, but he was not without resources. There were dark corners of the world untouched even by the Sorcerer Supreme. There were ancient magics, forbidden rites, secrets hidden in shadow.

"Fetch Nott," Voldemort ordered. "It is time to make new alliances."

Pettigrew scrambled to obey, leaving Voldemort alone with his thoughts.

Potter. Strange. The Avengers.

One by one, they would fall.

The classroom was lit brighter than usual, the flickering glow of torches casting long shadows across the stone walls. Desks had been pushed aside to create an open training area, and in the center stood Harry, his wand gripped tightly in his hand as he faced off against a conjured creature—a massive, shadowy hound with gleaming red eyes.

Remus circled Harry, his sharp eyes analyzing every move. “Remember, Harry, controlled magic is stronger than reckless power. You’re not just reacting—you’re dictating the fight.”

Harry barely nodded before rolling to the side as the beast lunged. With a flick of his wrist, fiery chains erupted from his wand, wrapping around the creature’s neck. But the magic faltered, and the hound tore free with a deafening snarl.

“Too much force,” Wanda corrected from the other side of the room, her arms crossed as she observed. “You’re pouring raw chaos into your spell. You need to shape it. Control it.” With a simple gesture, red energy swirled from her fingertips, forming a delicate lattice in the air before dispersing. “Like that—precision, not just power.”

Harry exhaled sharply. He was used to throwing spells with raw intent, but Wanda was right. If he was going to survive the Triwizard Tournament, he needed more than brute strength.

Remus glanced at Wanda, sharing a knowing look before addressing Harry again. “Try again. Picture exactly how the magic should manifest before you cast it.”

Harry nodded and refocused. He steadied his breath and channeled his magic—not as a chaotic surge, but as something refined, something shaped by his will. This time, when the fiery chains shot out, they moved with purpose, wrapping around the hound and binding it completely. With a sharp tug, the construct dissolved into embers.

A slow clap filled the air. Wanda smirked. “Much better.”

Harry wiped sweat from his brow but allowed himself a small grin. “You two really make this feel like an actual class.”

Remus chuckled. “Well I am a teacher. And unlike most of your classes, this one might actually keep you alive.”

Harry sighed. “Encouraging.”

Wanda stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’re not just teaching you spells, Harry. We’re making sure you come out of this tournament in one piece.” Her gaze flickered darkly. “And if anyone tries to change that, they’ll have to deal with us.”

Harry met her eyes and nodded. He wasn’t alone in this fight. He had them—his family—to guide him. And with their help, he was going to be ready.

The Greathall had been abuzz with laughter and sneering delight for hours, and Draco Malfoy stood at the center of it all, smugly distributing his latest masterpiece—enchanted badges that flickered between "Support Cedric Diggory, The REAL Hogwarts Champion" and "Potter Stinks!"

By the time Harry, Hermione, and their friends made their way down the corridor, the badges had spread like wildfire.

"Ah, here comes the Champion himself!" Draco sneered, flashing his own badge proudly. "Tell me, Potter, do you think your doting mummy and daddy will break into the Great Hall again when you get yourself killed in the tournament?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "You know, Malfoy, for someone who obsesses over me this much, you'd think you'd come up with a better insult than 'Potter Stinks.' Honestly, I expected at least a little creativity from someone who spends half his life staring at my name in the newspaper."

The Gryffindors around them snickered, but Malfoy’s face twisted in fury. "Shut up, Potter!"

"And really, Draco," Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard, "you put all this effort into those badges just to admit Cedric is better than you? I mean, that’s embarrassing."

The Gryffindors roared with laughter, while Malfoy’s face went red. He drew his wand in an instant. "You think you're so clever—Furnunculus!"

Harry had been ready to dodge, but before he could move, Hermione gasped in pain beside him. The curse struck her squarely in the face, and she clutched her jaw, eyes wide with horror as her front teeth rapidly lengthened past her chin.

Neville turned on Malfoy in rage, but before anyone could retaliate, a cold, familiar voice cut through the hallway.

"What is the meaning of this?"Professor Snape loomed in the doorway, his black robes billowing as he stalked toward them.

"Draco cursed Hermione!" Neville glared at the blonde.

Snapes dark eyes flickered to Hermione, who was now desperately trying to cover her face. He stared for a moment before sneering. "I see no difference."

The laughter from the Slytherins was immediate and brutal. Hermione’s breath hitched, tears brimming in her eyes, but before she could react, the air around them crackled—

Harry stepped forward, his magic surging, his hands curling into fists. His vision dimmed with rage, his chaos magic itching beneath his skin, ready to lash out—

But before he could do anything, a voice rang out like a whipcrack:

"Severus."

The entire corridor fell into a stunned silence as Wanda emerged from the shadows, her red coat billowing slightly as if the very air around her responded to her fury. With a flick of her fingers, Snape let out a strangled noise.

His nose and mouth began to stretch, shifting grotesquely as his skin darkened, his features twisting—until his hooked nose lengthened, his ears sharpened, and his skin took on a leathery quality.

The Gryffindors gasped. Snape now had the unmistakable, uncanny appearance of a human-sized bat.

A horrified silence filled the corridor. Even Malfoy looked too stunned to speak.

Snape staggered back, touching his face with trembling hands. "What—have—you—done?" he rasped, his voice lower and hoarser than usual.

Wanda gave an elegant shrug, utterly unbothered. "Strange. I don’t see a difference."

The Gryffindors erupted into laughter as Snape’s face twisted in rage. He pulled out his wand, clearly intent on reversing the spell—but at the sight of Wanda's unimpressed expression, his hand faltered. His face burned with humiliation, but he knew better than to challenge her.

"Fix this," he spat.

Wanda simply turned to Hermione, ignoring him completely. With a gentle wave of her fingers, Hermione’s teeth shrank back to normal.

"Are you alright, darling?" Wanda asked softly.

Hermione, still reeling from everything, managed a nod. "Y-yes. Thank you."

Satisfied, Wanda finally glanced at Snape with a smirk. "Oh, don't worry, Severus. It'll wear off. Eventually."

With that, she turned on her heel, guiding Hermione down the hallway. Harry shot one last smirk at Malfoy before following, the Gryffindors trailing behind, still laughing.

Snape clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his wand. He was furious—humiliated—but more than that, beneath it all, a creeping fear settled in his stomach.

He had no doubt now. Wanda was a menace. And worse?

She was untouchable.

In the dim glow of Stark Tower’s laboratory, Tony Stark stood before a holographic projection of molecular structures, his fingers dancing over the interface as he muttered calculations under his breath. Pietro Maximoff and Lyall Lupin had just arrived via portal, Lyall looking more than a little dazed from the sudden transportation. Pietro, as always, was buzzing with energy.

"Alright, kiddos," Tony turned, giving them a smirk. "You ready for some science magic?"

Lyall flexed his knuckles, his claws sliding out with a sharp snikt. "I don’t see why we need this," he muttered. "They heal like the rest of me."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, you're the big bad wolf," Tony waved him off. "But let’s say, hypothetically, some psycho with a superheated blade or some magically enhanced weapon tries to hack off your claws—do they grow back? Or do you want something that makes them indestructible?"

Lyall hesitated, glancing at Pietro, who gave him a thumbs-up.

"Exactly," Tony continued. "Which is why I’ve been working on a little something—an alloy, stronger than vibranium, resistant to heat, magic, and, most importantly, supervillains."

Before Lyall could respond, Wanda Maximoff appeared at the door, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "No," she said simply.

"Wanda," Tony greeted, already knowing this was going to be a battle. "I knew you'd be thrilled about this."

"You want to coat my son’s claws in metal," Wanda stated. "Like he’s some kind of—"

"Super-enhanced, combat-ready, walking legend?" Tony finished. "Yes. Exactly. It’s a gift."

Wanda exhaled sharply, turning her gaze to Lyall. "Your claws are part of you, Lyall. You heal. Your body is meant to be this way."

Tony stepped forward. "And I’m not changing that. I’m improving it. This metal won’t interfere with his healing—it’ll bond to the claws themselves and stay out of the way when they retract. Think of it as a safety measure. If he’s in a fight, his claws won’t break, shatter, or be melted off. It’s an enhancement, not an alteration."

Lyall looked between them, then at his claws. The idea of them being stronger… indestructible… was tempting. But his mother’s concern made him hesitate.

Pietro, however, grinned. "Come on, Mom. You know Tony’s not going to stop. And if this means Lyall won’t have to hold back if things get dangerous…"

Wanda sighed, rubbing her temple. "I don’t like it," she admitted. "But… if it means he’s safer, and only his claws are affected, not the rest of him…"

Tony clapped his hands. "That’s what I’m talking about! Alright, wolf-boy, let’s get started."

Lyall hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, offering his hand. "Okay," he said. "Let’s do it."

Tony grinned. "This is going to be awesome."

Draco Malfoy stood in the dimly lit Undercroft, his wand clenched tightly in his hand. The air was thick with the scent of burnt parchment and melted wax from the candles flickering in the alcoves. Before him, crudely drawn targets were pinned against the cold stone walls—each one bearing a hastily sketched face.

Harry Potter. Hermione Granger.

Draco’s jaw clenched as he raised his wand. “Dolor Permanentis!” he hissed, and a sickly green light erupted from the tip, striking the target with Harry’s face. The parchment blackened at the edges, curling like a withering leaf as the spell embedded itself.

He felt the surge of satisfaction, the echo of power thrumming through his veins. Again. “Dolor Permanentis!” This time, the spell struck the image of Hermione, leaving a scorched mark over where her heart would be.

Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle shifted uncomfortably. Their bulky forms cast uneasy shadows against the stone walls, but neither dared to interrupt.

“Uh… Draco?” Goyle muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “Maybe you should—”

“Shut it,” Draco snapped, not even turning to look at them. His stormy gray eyes remained locked on the ruined targets before him. “I have to master this. If Potter wants to play the hero, then let’s see how heroic he is when he’s screaming on the ground.”

Crabbe swallowed hard, exchanging a wary glance with Goyle. “But, uh… that spell… it ain’t exactly—”

“Illegal?” Draco scoffed, twirling his wand between his fingers. “Yeah, so is half the magic Potter’s gotten away with.” His grip tightened as he glared at the parchment, his knuckles white. “And I refuse to lose to him again.”

He took a breath, steadying his stance, and raised his wand once more. The power in his veins demanded release, and he was more than willing to oblige.

“Dolor Permanentis.”

The spell cracked through the air, hitting the target with full force. The parchment split down the middle, the face of Harry Potter dissolving into cinders.

The atmosphere in the chamber was tense as the champions stood before the panel for the wand weighing ceremony. Fleur Delacour stood tall and poised, Viktor Krum remained his usual brooding self, and Cedric Diggory offered reassuring smiles to Harry, though he too was wary of the situation. Harry, however, had his focus split—half on the ceremony, half on the fact that Strange was watching from the corner, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Ollivander moved through the process smoothly, testing Fleur’s wand first. The delicate instrument emitted a shower of silver sparks, which the wandmaker examined with a knowing nod before passing it back to her. Krum’s wand was next—thicker, more rigid, and Ollivander murmured something about Durmstrang’s wandcraft before approving it. Cedric’s followed, producing a steady stream of golden light under Ollivander’s careful scrutiny.

Then came Harry’s turn.

Ollivander reached for Harry’s wand but hesitated. His normally steady hands trembled ever so slightly. "Ah," he murmured, adjusting his spectacles. "Yes, I remember this wand well. Eleven inches, rare wood, core of—"

Before he could finish, Strange took a deliberate step forward. "I wouldn't recommend touching that, Garrick," he warned, his voice calm but firm. "You remember the first time?"

Ollivander frowned but did not challenge him. Instead, he gestured for Harry to demonstrate. With a flick of his wand, Harry sent a controlled burst of crimson light into the air. The power hummed through the room, sending a crackle through the atmosphere. Several judges shifted uncomfortably.

Strange turned his head slightly toward the others.. "Thor’s hair in the core. It doesn’t take kindly to unworthy hands," he explained.

A reporters eyes widened. "Ah… Yes. That would certainly explain the static in the air." He bowed his head slightly.

Ollivander spoke. "No need for further testing. This wand is in excellent condition." He quickly moved on, clearly relieved.

Before Harry could step away, Rita Skeeter, quill poised, slithered forward. "Mr. Potter! A word? What’s it like, being the youngest champion? Do you think you'll survive the tournament?"

Harry barely had time to process before a wave of red light flared between them. Wanda stepped in, her glowing eyes locked onto Rita, her magic crackling. "Back off," Wanda said simply, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Rita scoffed but quickly retreated, sensing she was pushing her luck.

Harry exhaled, glancing at Wanda. "Thanks."

"Don’t mention it," she said, crossing her arms as she watched Rita skulk away. "You're under enough stress without that leech getting involved."

As the ceremony wrapped up, Strange gave Harry a nod before exiting first. Whatever came next, Harry knew his family had his back.

The hum of the lab was steady, filled with the soft whirring of machines and the occasional beep of diagnostics running in the background. Tony Stark leaned back against his workstation, arms crossed, watching as Lyall flexed his fingers experimentally. The boy's bone claws, once an organic extension of himself, now gleamed under the bright lights, coated in a sleek, indestructible metal.

Lyall turned his hand over, watching the claws retract and extend again. The process had been painful—excruciating, really—but thanks to his healing factor, the agony had faded almost instantly. Still, he remembered the initial burning sensation as the metal bonded to his bones, something even his rapid recovery couldn't completely erase.

"Well, kid," Tony finally said, rubbing his chin, "that was either the coolest or the craziest upgrade I've ever done. But hey, now you’re practically indestructible. Well your claws are. Im not doing it to the rest of your bones. Thats torturous."

Lyall grinned, his sharp teeth flashing as he swiped at the air. The claws sliced effortlessly, the air itself almost seeming to ripple around them.

Wanda stood nearby, arms crossed, watching her son with a critical eye. "Tony, I still don’t like that you did this," she said, her voice firm but lacking true anger. "He’s still a child."

"Hey, you signed off on it," Tony shot back, raising an eyebrow. "Besides, your kid heals faster than anyone I’ve ever met. The pain was gone in seconds, and now he’s got an edge that could save his life."

Pietro, sitting on the counter with his legs swinging, gave a low whistle. "Not gonna lie, bro—that is wicked," he said. "You’re like a real-life comic book character now."

Lyall smirked at his twin. "Like you aren’t already one?"

Pietro waved him off. "Different kind of cool."

Wanda let out a sigh, stepping forward and placing a hand on Lyall’s head. "Just promise me you won’t rely on them for everything," she said, her voice softer now. "You're more than just claws."

Lyall looked up at his mother, his green eyes—so much like Remus’s—sincere. "I know, Mom," he promised. "But I also know that if someone tries to hurt our family again… I won’t hold back."

Tony let out a low whistle. "That’s what I like to hear. Now, before we send you back to school with those, we should probably do some tests. Safety first."

Pietro snorted. "You just wanna see if he can cut through vibranium."

Tony grinned. "Kid, I always wanna see if something can cut through vibranium."

Lyall just flexed his claws again, feeling the weight of them, the strength, the promise of what they could do. He had no doubt—nothing would stand in his way now.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team gathered in their usual spot in the common room, the air buzzing with anticipation. Angelina Johnson stood at the center, arms crossed, her expression serious but not unkind. The new captain of the team, she was ready to ensure Gryffindor held onto their title this year—Triwizard Tournament or not.

“All right, team, listen up,” Angelina began, scanning the group before settling her gaze on Harry. “We need to get something straight. Potter, you’ve been thrown into this bloody tournament, but are you still with us or not?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily before flashing his usual confident smirk. “Oh, I’m still the Seeker. Best in the school, remember?”

The team groaned, though it was mostly out of amusement rather than annoyance. Alicia Spinnet rolled her eyes. “Modest as ever.”

“Why be modest when I’m right?” Harry shot back, grinning.

Angelina sighed, but a small smile played at her lips. “As much as I hate to feed that ego of yours, we do need you. No one can pull off the dives you do.”

“Exactly,” Harry said.

Fred Weasley leaned in, resting an elbow on Harry’s shoulder. “And here I thought getting tossed into a life-threatening tournament might humble you, Potter.”

George chuckled. “Guess we should’ve known better.”

Harry shrugged. “Can’t help it. I was born to fly and you know it Hells Carrots."

Angelina clapped her hands together, bringing the conversation back to focus. “Right, now that we know our Seeker isn’t ditching us for some ridiculous, near-impossible tournament—”

“Hey, I can multitask,” Harry interrupted.

“—we need to start training,” she continued, ignoring him. “I want practice schedules set, no slacking off. That includes you, Potter.”

“I’d never,” Harry said innocently, earning a chorus of disbelieving scoffs.

Angelina shook her head, but her expression was one of relief. Having Harry on the team, despite the chaos of the tournament, meant they had their strongest player. And if there was one thing they could all agree on, it was that when it came to Quidditch, Harry Potter was unstoppable.

Strange, Wong, and Dobby stepped into the Room of Requirement once more, the door clicking shut behind them. Day of going through all the items and Dobby believed he found it.

The space seemed almost unnaturally large, stretching out to reveal an old, dusty pedestal at the center, the glint of something golden on top of it.

"Is that it?" Wong asked, his voice low and steady as he looked at the object on the pedestal.

"It has to be," Strange muttered, eyes narrowing at the ornate, silver diadem. "Ravenclaw's lost Diadem."

Dobby, hovering near them, seemed unnerved. "Doctor Strange, this is dangerous magic. Must be careful."

Strange turned to Dobby, nodding in thanks. "You’ve done well. We couldn’t have found this without you."

Dobby’s large eyes glinted with a quiet pride, though there was a tinge of nervousness as he eyed the diadem. "Dobby is happy to help. Just don’t let it fall into dark hands again, sir."

"I won’t," Strange replied, his voice firm. He stepped forward, examining the diadem closely. The faint glow it emitted seemed to pulse, as if aware of the powerful presence in the room.

"Let’s not waste time," Wong said, drawing his attention to the task at hand. "We need to destroy it, before it becomes another complication."

"Agreed," Strange said. He extended his hand, reaching for the artifact. But as his fingers brushed against it, a cold, malevolent chill shot through him, and for a split second, he felt the weight of Voldemort's will.

"This is it," he said softly, looking at Wong. "The last one."

Wong gave a curt nod and moved to stand beside him. "Ready when you are."

Strange took a deep breath, focusing on the power within him, the spells he had practiced in silence over the years. His hand swirled in a deliberate motion, his fingers shaping the incantation as the air crackled with energy.

"Flamma ignis," he intoned.

A swirling, crimson flame erupted from his palm, the fire turning from a simple spark into a brilliant, hot blade. The flaming sword hovered, suspended in the air by his will, and he swung it forward in a smooth, decisive arc.

The sword cut through the air, the heat radiating like a furnace. The Ravenclaw diadem ignited instantly, crackling as the flames consumed it. The magical aura that had once radiated from the Horcrux flared brightly, but it couldn’t withstand the concentrated magic.

There was a flash of bright light—then silence.

When the glow faded, all that remained of the diadem was a pile of ash and smoldering fragments.

"It’s gone," Wong remarked, his voice relieved, but tinged with the solemnity of the moment. "One less piece of Voldemort to worry about."

Strange exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing. "One less thing."

Dobby, who had been anxiously hovering by the door, stepped forward, his large ears twitching. "Doctor Strange, did you... did you destroy it? Truly?"

Strange gave him a reassuring smile. "Yes, Dobby. It’s gone. And you’ve done a great service by helping us find it."

Dobby’s face brightened, and he gave a small, happy clap of his hands. "Dobby is glad to be of help!"

Wong and Strange exchanged a look. "We’ll take it to the Sanctum," Strange said. "All the ashes."

Wong nodded, stepping closer to the remains of the Horcrux. "Of course."

Dobby, with a last grateful glance at the pair, slowly began to fade away toward the door. "Dobby will leave you now Good luck."

As the room emptied out, Strange and Wong took the ashes of the Horcrux and made their way to the Sanctum, the weight of their task settling heavily between them.

"Let’s hope this is the last time we have to deal with something like this," Wong remarked quietly.

"Me too," Strange replied, his gaze steady. "But something tells me this fight is far from over."

 Harry sat in the Great Hall, absently stirring his porridge, a deep sense of unease gnawing at him. The task ahead loomed, and though he was determined to face it head-on, the reality of it was starting to sink in. But he always had his ace in the hole.

It was just before breakfast ended when Hagrid appeared in the doorway, looking a bit flustered, his large frame awkward in the bustling hall.

"Harry, c'mon," Hagrid called out, his voice carrying through the crowd. "Need to talk."

Harry stood up, grateful for the distraction. "Right now?"

"Aye," Hagrid said, his face lighting up with that usual spark of enthusiasm. "Its important."

Without waiting for an answer, Hagrid turned and headed back out, and Harry followed closely behind, his heart beating faster with each step. He could feel the weight of the entire tournament on his shoulders now—this task was going to be far from easy.

They reached the paddock in a few minutes, and Hagrid led Harry down a narrow, uneven path, pointing out a large, wooden gate at the far end of the field. As they got closer, Harry’s gaze was immediately drawn to the hulking shapes behind the gate.

The dragons were massive—larger than any magical creature Harry had ever seen. One dragon, with gleaming green scales, pawed at the ground with a sharp claw, sending small tremors through the earth.

Hagrid grinned, noticing Harry’s awe. "The Hungarian Horntail, that one. She’s the most dangerous of 'em all. But all four dragons are deadly in their own way. You’ve got to face one of them in the first task."

Harry’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of the fierce creatures. "I have to face one of them?"

"Yep," Hagrid said, looking far too pleased with himself. "Each of the champions is gonna face off with a dragon, and the idea is to get past it to grab the golden egg."

"A golden egg?" Harry repeated, still trying to process the whole situation.

Hagrid nodded, pointing toward a large wooden chest where a golden egg was clearly kept. "That's your clue for the second task. You’re gonna need that egg."

As Harry stared at the dragons, Hagrid added, "And, Harry, if you’re thinking of just running away from the dragon... well, these creatures are fast. So you’ll need to think about how you're gonna handle this task, yeah?"

Harry swallowed hard, trying to calm his nerves. "What do you mean by ‘handle it’?"

Hagrid chuckled a bit. "Think clever, lad. There’s always more than one way to get past a dragon. And you’ll need all your wits for this one."

The fire flickered in Remus’s quarters, casting gentle shadows on the walls of his modest office. Remus sat on the couch, a soft smile crossing his face as he watched Lyall, his son, fidgeting excitedly next to him. Wanda stood beside them, her arms crossed but her gaze fond, as she watched the two of them interact.

Lyall had been showing off his new claws for the past few minutes, clearly proud of the modifications Tony Stark had helped with. The metallic coating gleamed under the dim light, a perfect combination of sleek design and powerful practicality.

He extended his claws with a flourish. They shot out from his knuckles, extending nearly a foot in length. They were sharp, polished, and deadly.

"Look, Dad," Lyall said, eyes sparkling. "Now I don’t have to worry about breaking them in a fight. The bones are coated with this special metal. Tony said it’ll hold up much better."

Remus hesitated for a moment, a flicker of concern crossing his face. He'd never been entirely comfortable with the idea of metal inside his son, even if it was for practical reasons. But his son’s safety came first, and Wanda’s reassuring presence beside him helped ease his worries.

"Are you sure, Lyall?" Remus asked, his voice slightly strained. "What if it interferes with your... well, growth? I don’t want anything to harm you."

Wanda stepped forward, a reassuring hand on Remus's shoulder. She gave him a small, understanding smile. "I was uneasy at first, too," she admitted. "But, after seeing how it’s made and hearing Tony explain it, I understand it’s safe. It won’t harm him. Lyall’s abilities won’t be hindered."

Lyall gave his father a sheepish grin, his claws retracting into his hands. "I promise, Dad, I’m still me. I won’t break them, I swear."

Remus exhaled slowly, his tension easing a little, though he still couldn't shake the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach. The image of his son having metal claws was still unsettling, no matter how logical it seemed.

"Alright, if you say so," Remus said finally, giving Lyall an affectionate but firm look. "Just be careful with them, alright?"

Before Lyall could respond, Pietro, who had been quietly watching, chimed in with a teasing grin. "Hey, Dad, what if we coated all of Lyall's bones in metal? You know, like an entire skeleton, just in case he runs into trouble."

Wanda, Remus, and Lyall all looked at him with the same expression—a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

"No," they said in unison, their voices making it clear they weren't even considering the idea.

Pietro raised his hands in mock surrender, laughing. "Alright, alright, no need to get all serious on me. But imagine it—metal bones everywhere! Lyall would be unstoppable!"

Lyall smirked at his twin. "I think I’ll stick with my claws, thanks."

Wanda shook her head with a chuckle, giving Remus a quick, playful kiss on the cheek before turning her attention back to the boys. "You two are insufferable," she said, but her eyes sparkled with affection.

Remus leaned back, putting his arm around Wanda's shoulders. "As much as I love you both," he said, his voice warm, "let’s not give your mother any more ideas. I’m still trying to get used to the fact that my son has metal claws. Let’s keep it simple, shall we?"

Pietro threw his hands up again, feigning offense. "Oh, fine. No more metal bones. But Lyall’s got the coolest claws, and you can’t deny that.

Lyall grinned. "I know I do."

They all laughed, the tension of the conversation dissipating as they continued to joke around. Despite the unusual circumstances, there was an undeniable warmth in the room, one built on love, understanding, and the bond they all shared. Even if Remus would never quite get used to the idea of metal in his son's body, he knew Lyall was strong enough to handle it—just as his family had always been strong together.

The next day, Harry stood with the other champions in front of the roaring crowd in the Great Hall. The tables had been cleared, and the attention of the entire school had focused on the champions. The other three had been given their instructions in private, but Harry felt he should share the crucial information he’d learned from Hagrid.

Clearing his throat, Harry stepped forward. "I know the first task," he began, keeping his voice steady, despite the tension in the air. "It’s dragons. You’ll have to get past one of them to get to the golden egg."

There was a long silence as the other champions stared at him in surprise.

Cedric Diggory, ever the gentleman, was the first to speak up. "How do you know that?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, the temptation to reveal how he’d learned was strong, but he just couldn’t. "I have my ways," Harry said, smiling slightly. "But just know that they're big, dangerous, and not easy to get past."

Fleur Delacour, who was clearly unnerved by the idea of facing one of the dragons, frowned. "And you’re telling us this now because…?"

Harry shrugged, trying to keep his tone light. "Because it’s only fair you all know. We’re all in this together, right? And no one should go into this without knowing what they’ll face."

Viktor Krum didn’t seem particularly concerned. "We are all prepared," he said in his usual quiet manner. "But thank you for the information."

The mood in the room seemed to lighten somewhat. The champions exchanged looks of understanding, even if they still had to face the unknown of the task ahead.

As they turned to leave, Harry couldn’t help but feel a little better knowing that, despite the odds stacked against them, they were at least prepared—more so than he’d been when he first stepped into the tournament. The dragons would be tough, but he’d face them head-on, just like everything else.

"You still up for that match?" Krum asked turning back with a smirk.

"Bring it Krum." Harry grinned.

The Quidditch pitch was abuzz with excitement as students from all houses gathered in the stands. Word had spread fast—Victor Krum, the world-renowned Seeker, had challenged Harry Potter to a friendly one-on-one match. It wasn’t just about skill; it was a test, a measuring of talent between two Seekers with reputations that preceded them.

Harry adjusted his grip on his Firebolt, rolling his shoulders as he floated in the air opposite Krum, who sat atop his own broom with practiced ease. The older Seeker gave him a nod, his expression unreadable but respectful.

“You ready for this, Potter?” Krum asked, his accent thick but clear.

Harry smirked. “I was born ready.”

Madam Hooch, acting as referee, released the Snitch between them. It hovered for a brief second, its tiny wings buzzing, before zipping off into the sky.

And then they were off.

Krum was fast—his movements were precise, honed by years of professional play. But Harry had his own advantages. He was smaller, more agile, and had an instinct for seeking that couldn’t be taught.

They wove through the air, each maneuvering with practiced ease, testing each other. Krum tried to bait Harry into a false dive, but Harry didn’t fall for it. Instead, he pulled up at the last moment, making the crowd roar in approval.

“Come on, Harry!” Regulus shouted from the stands, bouncing with excitement.

Lyall and Pietro were watching intently, while Hermione had her arms crossed, torn between worry and fascination.

The Snitch darted to the left, and both Seekers saw it at the same time. They shot forward, neck and neck, their brooms nearly colliding as they reached out—

A blur of motion.

A triumphant yell.

Harry pulled up, arm raised, the golden Snitch clasped tightly in his fingers. The stadium erupted into cheers.

Krum slowed to a hover, observing Harry with a critical eye before giving a short nod. “You are good, Potter,” he admitted. “Very good.”

Harry, still catching his breath, grinned. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

Krum actually chuckled at that before clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Ve do this again sometime.”

“Absolutely.”

As the crowd continued cheering, Sirius ruffled Harry’s hair from where he stood near the stands. “That’s my boy.”

Natasha smirked beside him. “One of these days, we’re going to get used to him showing off.”

Sirius shook his head. “Never. Thanks for bringing us Wanda." He looked at her.

"You'd never forgive me if I didn’t." She grinned back.

The small group of friends stood gathered in the dimly lit potions room at Potter Manor, the air thick with anticipation. The room was well-stocked with ingredients, jars of rare herbs, powders, and vials filled with strange liquids. The only light came from a series of candles flickering on the shelves, their glow dancing off the glass jars.

Harry glanced at his friends—Hermione, Neville, and Regulus—all standing by the worktable, hands steady as they each held a small, delicate leaf between their lips.

"Ready?" Harry asked, his voice steady despite the nerves buzzing in his chest.

"Born ready," Regulus said, his voice as confident as always. He shot a quick grin at his brother, the two of them sharing a brief moment of silent camaraderie.

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “We’ve read the instructions a dozen times, Harry. Let’s just brew it.”

Neville, who had never been the most confident when it came to potions, nodded. His hands trembled slightly, but he gave Harry a determined look. "I know we'll get it right."

With a deep breath, Harry pulled the leaf from his mouth and placed it gently into the cauldron, a soft hiss filling the air as the liquid began to bubble. The others followed suit, each adding their own leaves to the potion as instructed. The mixture swirled and shimmered with an eerie green glow, the first step in a process they had been preparing for weeks.

The sound of footsteps approaching echoed from the hallway, and Harry turned to find his godfather, Sirius, and Remus entering the room. Both were wearing serious expressions but with a touch of pride in their eyes.

"Everything going as planned?" Remus asked, his voice calm but with a hint of excitement.

Sirius looked at the potion with a raised eyebrow. "I can't believe you're actually doing this. The boys who want to turn into animals..."

Harry gave him a look, already feeling the weight of the task ahead. "We’ve got to be able to control our Animagi by the end of the year. It's part of growing up."

Sirius chuckled and glanced at Regulus, who gave him a nod of acknowledgment. "Well, if anyone can do it, it's you lot. You’ve got more determination than most."

Hermione, always serious when it came to magic, adjusted her glasses. "It's not just about determination. It's about precision. We have to follow every single step perfectly, or we could end up with something disastrous."

Sirius gave her a playful smirk. "A little disaster never hurt anyone."

"Speak for yourself," Regulus muttered, carefully watching the potion as it simmered.

With a firm nod from Remus, the group began adding the necessary ingredients one by one, carefully following the steps laid out in the book. The air in the room thickened with the magic swirling in the potion, and each of them felt the weight of what they were attempting. Turning into an Animagus was no small feat—it was a difficult, advanced form of magic that required years of training, but they were determined to do it in one year.

As the potion began to thicken, Harry glanced at his friends, all focused on the task at hand. He felt a surge of determination. This was something they could do together. They had each other’s backs, no matter what.

"It's almost time for the last step," Hermione said, her voice steady. She looked to Harry for confirmation. He gave a silent nod, and they added the final ingredient—a small vial of phoenix feather extract.

The potion gave one final shimmer before settling into a deep, calm shade of gold. It was done.

Harry looked around at the others. "It’s ready. Now we just have to wait a few hours before we can try it out."

Sirius and Remus shared a look, clearly pleased. "We’ll stay with you," Remus said. "We don’t want anything going wrong, especially since this is your first attempt."

Sirius grinned. "Though, I can't say I'm not looking forward to seeing what animal you turn into, Harry."

Harry smirked. "Let’s just hope it’s something useful."

Hermione gave him a knowing look. "You’ve already got a reputation for making things interesting."

"Hey, someone has to keep life exciting," Harry replied with a wink.

As the group settled into waiting, the weight of their shared goal rested on their shoulders. Becoming Animagi wasn’t just about learning a new form of magic—it was about pushing their boundaries, stepping into the unknown, and proving to themselves that they could handle whatever came next.

And no matter what, they would face it together.