A Familiar Bond: Chapter 39 (Patreon)

The gargoyle was already stepping aside by the time they reached it, which told Harry everything he needed to know about how seriously Dumbledore was taking this. Nobody had sent word ahead. Dumbledore just knew, the way he always seemed to know things before anyone told him that whatever they wanted to talk about was something serious.

Dinner had barely settled in Harry’s stomach when they’d left the Great Hall, and the corridors were quieter now, most students already tucked away in their common rooms with tomorrow’s task hanging over the castle like a held breath. Harry climbed the spiral staircase with Fleur by his shoulder, Daphne and Valerie right behind, none of them saying much. There wasn’t much left to say that they hadn’t already said to each other a dozen times since Sicily. They might’ve distracted themselves so far but it was time to face the music.

The office looked the same as always. Portraits of former headmasters snoozed in their frames, though a few cracked an eye open as the four of them filed in. Fawkes trilled a soft greeting from his perch, and the silver instruments on the shelves whirred and clicked in their usual restless rhythm. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, and whatever he’d been doing before they arrived, he set it aside without a word.

“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the chairs already arranged in front of his desk. “I understand you have something important to discuss, and given the timing, I suspect it cannot wait.”

Harry took the seat closest to the desk while Daphne and Fleur flanked Valerie on either side, close enough that their knees brushed hers. She looked grateful for it, even if she didn’t say so.

“It’s about a dream I had a few nights back,” Valerie started, then stopped, clearly annoyed with how small that sounded out loud. “Except it wasn’t really a dream. It felt like something got inside my head and showed me things. Things I don’t think I imagined.”

Dumbledore’s expression sharpened slightly, though his tone stayed gentle. “Tell me what you remember.”

She walked him through it as best she could, the black chamber, the throne carved from bone, the voice that called her Bellatrix like it owned her, the mark burning on skin that had no mark at all. Hogwarts on fire. Harry dying under her own wand while she stood over him with a smile she didn’t recognize. By the time she finished, her hands had curled into fists in her lap, and Harry reached over and pried one loose so he could hold it.

Dumbledore listened without interrupting once, his blue eyes fixed on her the whole time. When she finally trailed off, he leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, same as he always did when something was chewing at him.

“That is a great deal to carry alone,” he said at last. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”

“We need to know what it means,” Harry said, his jaw tight. “Was it just a nightmare, or something worse?”

“I cannot say with certainty from words alone,” Dumbledore admitted. “Dreams are slippery things, and even the most vivid can lose something crucial in the retelling. If Miss Swann is willing, I would ask permission to view it directly.”

Valerie’s stomach dropped. “You mean Legilimency.”

“I do. I would have suggested viewing it in the Pensieve but I fear the memory might come out fragmented. It would take only a moment, and I give you my word I would go no further than the memory you choose to show me. Nothing else.” His eyes softened behind the half-moon glasses. “The choice is yours entirely. If you would rather not, we will find another way.”

She glanced at Harry, then Daphne, then Fleur, and found steady support waiting in all three faces. Her heart was still hammering, but she made herself nod anyway.

“Do it,” she said. “I want to know too.”

Dumbledore rose and came around the desk, crouching slightly so he was closer to her eye level. “Just let the memory rise to the surface and try not to fight it.”

“Legilimens,” he murmured, his wand tip barely grazing her temple.

The sensation was soft, almost apologetic, a presence slipping in and finding exactly what it wanted without disturbing anything else. Valerie felt the memory surface and play out again, and this time she wasn’t alone in it. Dumbledore was there beside her somehow, watching alongside her instead of through her.

It lasted a handful of seconds. Then the pressure withdrew as gently as it had come, and Dumbledore straightened with a soft exhale.

He didn’t say anything right away. He walked back around his desk, lowered himself into his chair, and sat there for a long moment stroking his beard, staring at a spot on the wood grain that only he seemed to see. The quiet dragged on long enough that Daphne shifted in her seat and Fleur’s hand found Valerie’s free one.

“Sir?” Harry prompted eventually.

Dumbledore looked up, and for maybe the first time since Harry had known him, he looked genuinely rattled underneath the calm.

“I need you to be straight with us,” Harry said, his voice low and steady even though he could feel his own pulse hammering through the bond. “Do we actually have something to fear here? No dodging, no comforting half answers. Just tell us the truth.”

For a long moment Dumbledore studied each of them in turn, like he was weighing exactly how much their shoulders could take. Then he let out a slow breath that seemed to age him ten years right in front of them.

“There would be little purpose in hiding the truth now, and I suspect you would see through any attempt regardless.” He met Valerie’s eyes directly. “I believe, based on what I witnessed, that Lord Voldemort is aware of your true identity.”

The words landed like a punch. Nobody spoke for several seconds. The only sound was one of the instruments ticking softly on the shelf behind Dumbledore’s head.

“That’s not possible,” Daphne said finally, her voice sharper than usual. “How could he possibly know? We’ve been careful. We’ve been so careful.”

“I understand this is difficult to accept.”

“Difficult doesn’t cover it,” Valerie said, her voice cracking on the last word. “We thought he was weak. Barely holding himself together. We knew he’s a shadow of what he used to be.”

“A common and dangerous assumption,” Dumbledore said, and something in his tone made all four of them sit up straighter. “Lord Voldemort’s body may be diminished, but do not mistake that for a weakened mind or a weakened will. He remains, even now, one of the most gifted and most dangerous wizards this century has produced. To underestimate him in his current state would be a mistake of catastrophic proportions, and I have watched others make that very mistake before, always to their great regret.”

Harry’s jaw worked. “So how does he know?”

“That is the question I have been turning over since I withdrew from the memory,” Dumbledore admitted. “My belief, and I stress it remains a belief rather than a certainty, is that whoever manipulated Mr. Davies and his companions into attacking you is a follower of Voldemort’s, one who has successfully infiltrated Hogwarts itself.”

The words sat heavy in the air.

“An infiltrator,” Fleur repeated slowly. “Here? Inside the castle?”

“I am inclined to believe this person has been present at Hogwarts for some time, quite possibly since this school year began,” Dumbledore continued. “Long enough to observe, to grow suspicious, and eventually to act on it. I no longer believe the attack on the three of you was born from petty rivalry or house tension as we first assumed. It was engineered. A test, of sorts, to confirm something this person already suspected about Miss Swann.”

Valerie felt sick. “You’re saying that whole thing, Davies losing his mind, all of it, that was just to get to me?”

“I believe so, yes.”

She wanted to argue, to insist it couldn’t be true, but some cold certainty was already settling into her bones, the kind that told her Dumbledore wasn’t wrong.

“Think carefully,” Dumbledore said, leaning forward. “During that attack, or in the moments right after, was there anything unusual? Anything at all, no matter how small it seemed at the time, that might have given away who you truly are?”

Valerie shook her head immediately. “No. I made sure of that. I varied everything, my spellwork, how I moved, even the way I held my wand. I’ve spent months making sure nothing about how I fight resembles who I used to be.”

But even as she said it, something tugged at the back of her mind, faint and nagging, like an itch she couldn’t quite place. She frowned, replaying the corridor, the ambush, the chaos of curses flying every which way.

Her eyes went wide.

“No,” she whispered.

“Val?” Harry’s hand tightened around hers.

“There was a cut,” she said slowly, like the words belonged to someone else. “One of them, I don’t even remember which, got a curse past my guard. Just grazed my arm. It wasn’t serious, barely more than a scratch, so I didn’t think twice about it. Healed it right there in the corridor and kept fighting. Didn’t tell anyone because it genuinely didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

The room went very quiet.

“Blood,” Daphne said, her voice tight. “You’re talking about blood.”

“It can’t have been more than a few drops,” Valerie said, though the reassurance sounded hollow even to her own ears. “I healed it in seconds. There’s no way anyone could’ve collected enough to do anything with it.”

“What if that’s exactly what they were counting on?” Fleur asked quietly. “A small cut. Something you’d dismiss without a second thought. Something you’d heal fast, never suspecting it was the entire point.”

Dumbledore’s expression had gone grim in a way that made Valerie’s stomach twist.

“If this individual already harbored suspicions about your identity,” he said, “then even the smallest sample of your blood would prove more than sufficient. Blood magic can reveal a great many truths that no amount of altered appearance or careful behavior can hide. It does not lie, and it cannot be fooled by illusion, however skillfully applied.”

Nobody said anything for a moment. Valerie stared at her own forearm, unmarked and ordinary, and felt an overwhelming urge to scrub the skin raw even though there was nothing there to remove.

“So he knows,” Harry said finally, flat and hard. “Not suspects. Knows. That Valerie is Bellatrix.”

“I believe so, yes.”

The silence that followed felt heavier, settling over the room like a physical weight. Valerie could feel it pressing down on all four of them through the bond, a shared understanding of just how much had shifted in one conversation.

“He’s not going to let that go,” Daphne said eventually, her sharp mind already working through the angles even though her voice betrayed how shaken she was. “Bellatrix Lestrange was one of his most loyal servants. His most devoted, from what I understand. He’s not going to chalk her up as a casualty and move on.”

“No,” Dumbledore agreed quietly. “I do not believe he will. Voldemort places enormous value on loyalty, particularly the fierce, absolute sort Bellatrix once offered him. I would expect him to make every effort within his considerably diminished but still substantial power to reach you, Miss Swann. To reclaim you, if he believes it possible. To convert you back into what you once were.”

“That’s not happening,” Valerie said immediately, fury bleeding into her voice. “I don’t care what he tries. I am never, ever becoming that mad bitch again. Not for him, not for anyone. I’d rather die.”

“Val,” Harry started, alarmed.

“I mean it,” she said, looking at each of them in turn, needing them to understand. “Whatever she was, whatever I was, that’s dead. I buried it myself. I’m not going back, no matter what he does or says or tries. I’d rather burn than be his creature again.”

Fleur’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close. “You will not have to. We will not let it happen.”

“None of us will,” Daphne added firmly, though her eyes were suspiciously bright.

Harry didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. She could feel everything he wasn’t saying through the bond anyway, fierce and protective, and it settled something in her chest even with the fear still churning underneath.

“For what it is worth,” Dumbledore said gently, “I have known you for some months now, Miss Swann, and I have watched you closely since you arrived. I see very little of the woman described in old case files and Ministry reports. I see someone who built herself anew, consciously and with great effort, into something entirely her own. That kind of transformation does not happen by accident, and it does not unravel simply because someone else wishes it to.”

Valerie wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, a bit embarrassed by how much that landed. “Thanks, Professor.”

Harry cleared his throat, dragging himself back to practical matters. “Do you have any idea who this infiltrator might be?”

Dumbledore sighed, and the sound carried a weariness that seemed to settle over his whole frame. “I wish I could hand you a name, Harry, truly I do. But Hogwarts houses hundreds of witches and wizards in any given year, students, staff, visiting dignitaries, and this year we have a great many more thanks to the Tournament. Narrowing down a single individual among so many, particularly one skilled enough to remain undetected this long, presents a formidable challenge.”

Daphne had gone quiet, her eyes distant in the way they always got when she was chewing on a problem. Valerie recognized the look immediately.

“Wait,” Daphne said slowly. “Think about it. If someone got suspicious enough of Val to arrange a whole attack just to confirm it, that means they already knew what Bellatrix looked like. Not the Bellatrix from the papers or the trial records, the mad one everyone remembers from the war. They’d have had to know her before that. Before Voldemort, before Azkaban, before Rodolphus Lestrange. Someone who knew Bellatrix Black.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose slightly, something like approval flickering across his features. “An astute observation, Miss Greengrass, and one I confess I had already begun to consider myself. You are quite correct. Recognition of that sort, subtle enough to build suspicion but not proof, would require intimate familiarity with the woman as she was before her transformation. Superficial resemblance alone would not likely be enough.”

“So it has to be someone who knew her back then,” Daphne pressed. “Are there any candidates? People who fit and are still around?”

Dumbledore was quiet a moment, his gaze drifting to the window. “Most of those who knew Bellatrix Black in her youth have long since passed on, I am afraid. Time has claimed the majority of them. Of those who remain, the overwhelming majority are either deceased or currently residing in Azkaban.”

“They were in Azkaban,” Harry pointed out, a hard edge in his voice. “Until they weren’t. There was a breakout.”

“A fair point,” Dumbledore conceded, inclining his head. “However, the breakout occurred comparatively recently. Whoever has infiltrated Hogwarts appears to have been present far longer than that timeline would allow. This suggests either a different individual entirely, or someone whose connection to the escaped prisoners runs deeper than mere coincidence.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” Valerie muttered.

“No,” Dumbledore agreed, “it is not. I would also caution you that whoever this person is, they appear to be working toward some larger design, one that requires patience and discretion above all else. They have not acted rashly. They have kept themselves hidden, gathering information rather than striking openly. That suggests reckless or outlandish action is unlikely in the immediate future. Nonetheless, prudence would serve all four of you well in the days ahead.”

Harry leaned forward. “What about tomorrow? The second task. Should we expect anything?”

“I do not believe so,” Dumbledore said, and some of the tension eased slightly from his shoulders for the first time since the conversation began. “The Black Lake falls under the domain of the merpeople, and attempting anything untoward beneath its surface would carry significant risk of exposure. I do not believe our infiltrator, whoever they may be, would willingly jeopardize their larger mission for the sake of an opportunity so fraught with danger.”

“And the other Death Eaters?” Harry pressed. “The ones who escaped during the breakout. The Lestranges, the Carrows, Dolohov, all of them. What about them?”

“The Aurors have been pursuing that investigation with considerable diligence,” Dumbledore said, “though I regret to say without meaningful success thus far. They have proven remarkably adept at evading capture. However, I do not believe any of them are currently in a position to mount an attack against you, or against Hogwarts itself. Doing so would expose them to enormous risk for what would likely prove a limited reward, and even weakened Death Eaters tend toward calculated patience over reckless bravado, particularly when operating without their master’s direct guidance.”

“I hope you’re right,” Harry said quietly.

“As do I,” Dumbledore said, and something about the plain honesty of that was somehow more reassuring than false confidence would have been.

The conversation wound down after that, the weight of everything discussed settling heavily over the room. As they rose to leave, Dumbledore’s voice stopped them at the door.

“Miss Swann. Miss Greengrass. I would ask that the two of you stop by my office again in the morning, before the task begins, if you would be so kind.”

Valerie exchanged a glance with Daphne, both of them already suspecting the answer before she’d even asked the question. “Why?”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, just faintly, the first real warmth he’d shown all evening. “I suspect you already know, but I shall confirm it regardless. The two of you will be serving as the treasures Mr. Potter and Miss Delacour must retrieve from the depths of the Black Lake.”

Neither of them looked particularly surprised.

XXXXX

Deep beneath the Ministry of Magic, in an office cluttered with case files and half-finished paperwork, Antonin Dolohov sat behind a desk that had never truly belonged to him, waiting for a meeting he already suspected he wouldn’t enjoy.

Barty Crouch arrived precisely on time, as he always did, his stern face set in the same clipped, humorless expression Dolohov had come to associate with the man’s every public appearance. Behind that borrowed face, of course, sat Barty Crouch Junior, though nobody outside a very small circle would ever have guessed it.

“Auror Blackthorn,” Crouch said, settling into the chair across the desk with formality, in case anyone happened to glance through the glass partition. “There has been a change regarding your team’s assignment for the Triwizard Tournament.”

Dolohov kept his expression carefully neutral, the same mild professional attentiveness Blackthorn himself would have worn. “A change, sir?”

“Your team will be providing security for the second task tomorrow rather than the third.”

That got a genuine flicker of surprise past his mask, quickly smoothed over. “I was under the impression we’d been assigned to the maze. The final task.”

“Circumstances have shifted,” Crouch said smoothly, giving nothing away to anyone listening in. “The team originally slated for the second task has found themselves otherwise occupied, and it fell to my department to reassign coverage. Yours was the natural choice, given your existing familiarity with the Tournament’s security protocols.”

Dolohov studied him for a long moment, reading between the carefully bland words to the meaning underneath. Otherwise occupied. He had a fairly good idea what that phrase was doing a great deal of work to disguise, though he knew better than to ask for details in an office with thin walls and thinner loyalties milling about outside.

“Understood, sir,” he said instead. “We’ll be ready.”

“See that you are.” Crouch leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough that it wouldn’t carry past the desk. “There is also a smaller matter that requires your attention while you’re down there. Something that needs doing, quietly, at a moment when the hostages are left unattended. No one is to be near them when it happens.”

Dolohov’s eyes sharpened despite himself. “What exactly is to be done?”

“You’ll receive instructions closer to the hour, along with whoever is needed to carry them out. For now, know only that it must happen, and it must happen clean. No witnesses. No questions from your team beyond what they need to perform their part.” Crouch’s mouth curved, something cold and satisfied flickering behind Barty Crouch Senior’s stern features. “I trust that will not be a problem.”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” Crouch rose smoothly and straightened his robes. “I’ll expect a full briefing report once the assignment concludes.” He paused at the door, glancing back with the faintest suggestion of a smile that looked entirely wrong on the old man’s austere face. “Good hunting, Captain.”

Then he was gone, footsteps fading down the corridor toward the lifts, leaving Dolohov alone with a rising unease he didn’t much care for.

He gave it a full minute before crossing to the small meeting room adjoining his office, the one Blackthorn had apparently used for team briefings and conversations he didn’t want overheard. He gathered the others with a few murmured words and a meaningful look, and once the door clicked shut behind the last of them, he dropped the pleasant mask he’d worn for Crouch’s benefit.

“Listen carefully,” he said, his voice low and hard, all trace of Blackthorn’s genial warmth stripped away. “Our assignment has changed. We’re covering the second task tomorrow.”

Rudolphus, wearing Crane’s stocky frame like it chafed him, scowled immediately. “Why? We have been spending all our time preparing for the maze.”

“I don’t know the full details, and I’m not fool enough to ask,” Dolohov said flatly. “What I do know is this changes nothing about how we conduct ourselves. We do our jobs. We follow procedure exactly as any competent Auror team would. Nobody so much as looks at us twice.”

“The lake’s crawling with merpeople,” Amycus muttered from behind Holloway’s youthful face, more complaint than concern.

“Then you’ll behave yourself around them too,” Dolohov said sharply, fixing him with a look that made the younger man’s mouth snap shut. “There’s also a separate task tomorrow, one requiring privacy with the hostages at some point during the morning. I don’t have details yet. When I do, only those needed will be told, and the rest of you will keep everyone else well clear until it’s finished. No exceptions.”

A round of grudging nods answered him, though Rabastan’s came slower than the rest, his jaw tight and his eyes burning with something that hadn’t quite cooled since the incident with the pink haired Auror weeks earlier.

“Good,” Dolohov said. “Dismissed.”

They filed out one by one, and Dolohov watched them go with a tired sort of frustration gnawing at the edges of his patience. When the last of them had gone, leaving only Rabastan lingering near the door for reasons Dolohov didn’t particularly care to examine, he turned his back and returned to his desk without another word.

Behind him, Rabastan’s lip curled into a sneer the moment he was certain Dolohov’s attention had moved elsewhere. He muttered something low and venomous under his breath, a curse aimed less at any specific target than at the whole miserable arrangement of playing lapdog to people he’d have gladly tortured a decade ago, before he shoved the door open and stalked out without a backward glance.

XXXXX

The morning of the second task dawned bright and cold, sunlight glinting off the surface of the Black Lake. A stand had been erected along the shore, packed with students and spectators bundled against the chill, their breath fogging in the crisp air as excited chatter rippled through the crowd.

Harry stood near the water’s edge with Fleur beside him, both of them already dressed for what lay ahead, their robes shed in favor of simpler clothing suited to swimming. Krum stood a short distance away, silent and focused in the way he always seemed to be before a task, his dark eyes fixed on the water like he could will its secrets into revealing themselves early.

Scanning the crowd out of habit more than anything, Harry’s gaze caught on Dumbledore near the judges’ platform, deep in conversation with a tall, broad shouldered man Harry didn’t recognize. The stranger had salt and pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard, and he carried himself with the kind of quiet, settled authority that made people listen when he spoke.

“Every ward is in place, Headmaster,” the man was saying, his voice carrying just far enough for Harry to catch the words. “Wouldn’t recommend anyone tries anything funny today. Not with the eyes I’ve got stationed round that lake.”

Dumbledore nodded, though something in his posture suggested he was listening for more than just the words themselves. “I appreciate your thoroughness, Auror Blackthorn. I trust your team is fully briefed?”

“Down to the last detail, sir,” Blackthorn assured him.

Harry watched the exchange for a moment longer, filing the stranger’s face away out of some instinct he couldn’t quite name, then let it go as the crowd’s noise swelled and the announcements began. Ludo Bagman’s magically amplified voice rolled out across the water, cheerful and booming as he ran through the rules for the benefit of the audience, though Harry barely registered half of it.

Fleur turned to him as the noise settled into a low murmur of anticipation, her silvery hair catching the morning light, her blue eyes steady despite the nerves he could feel humming through the bond.

“Ready?” she asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” he said. “Val and Daph are down there somewhere, and I intend to have them both back up here in one piece well before the hour’s up.”

“As do I,” Fleur said, a fierce edge creeping into her voice. “Whatever waits beneath that water, we are more than equal to it.”

“Damn right we are.”

She smiled at that, some of the tension easing from around her eyes, and closed the distance between them without hesitation. Her hand found the back of his neck, and his arms wrapped around her waist. Their lips met in a slow and certain kiss, utterly unbothered by the hundreds of people watching from the stands.

A chorus of hoots and whistles erupted from the crowd, along with a few good natured catcalls Harry couldn’t quite place over the sound of blood rushing in his own ears. Somewhere behind them, he was fairly certain he heard someone shout something that sounded suspiciously like encouragement, though he couldn’t be sure.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were grinning, breathless and a little giddy despite the gravity of what waited ahead.

“For luck,” Fleur said.

“I’ll take it.”

Before Harry could say anything else, the cannon fired, a full beat earlier than it should have, sending a plume of smoke curling into the cold morning air. Dumbledore’s head whipped toward the sound, and even from this distance Harry could make out the exasperated look he leveled at Filch, who stood near the cannon with an expression of profound sheepishness, shrugging his shoulders like the whole thing had happened entirely without his input.

But early or not, the task had officially begun, and there was no time left for grinning or catcalls. Harry exchanged one last look with Fleur, popped the gillyweed into his mouth, and felt the strange, twisting sensation of his body reshaping itself as he dove headfirst into the freezing black water.

The cold hit him first, a shock that would have stolen the breath from his lungs if he’d still been breathing air. Then the transformation finished settling in, gills flaring along his neck, his hands and feet webbed and powerful, and the cold simply ceased to matter anymore. He kicked hard, propelling himself downward into the murky green darkness, the surface light fading fast above him.

Fleur swam beside him, her own transformation complete, moving through the water with a grace that made the whole ordeal look almost effortless. Whatever discomfort the gillyweed’s effects might have caused, she showed none of it, slicing through the current like she’d been born to it.

The lake revealed itself slowly as they descended, strange plants swaying in the current, schools of fish darting away from their approach, the water growing darker and colder the deeper they went. Twice they spotted the pale, twisted shapes of grindylows lurking near clusters of weed, but both times Harry and Fleur altered course before the creatures noticed them, unwilling to waste time or energy on a fight that wasn’t necessary.

They found the merpeople village roughly twenty minutes in, a sprawling collection of rough stone dwellings decorated with crude but unmistakable artwork, kelp gardens swaying gently in the current, and merpeople themselves watching from doorways and rooftops with sharp, curious eyes. Harry felt distinctly like an intruder, though none of the merfolk made any move to stop them.

Ahead, three stone statues came into view, each one bound with thick strands of rope, and behind them floated three figures suspended in the strange, dreamless sleep of the enchantment. Hermione Granger for Krum, apparently, though Harry didn’t linger on that thought. And there, side by side, Daphne and Valerie, their expressions peaceful, utterly unaware of the underwater world around them.

Harry made straight for Daphne while Fleur angled toward Valerie, both of them working quickly at the ropes with spells that fizzled uselessly against the enchantment before they resorted to brute force, sawing through the thick strands with conjured blades. Harry’s went first, and he pulled Daphne free, cradling her limp form against his side as he checked her over for any sign of distress. Nothing. She was fine, peaceful, and entirely unharmed.

Beside him, Fleur was working through the last of the rope binding Valerie, her movements quick and efficient despite the biting cold. The final strand gave way, and Fleur pulled Valerie free from the stone, drawing her close.

That was when it happened.

A faint light flickered beneath Valerie’s sleeve, subtle at first, easy to dismiss as a trick of the murky water. But it grew, spreading up her forearm in thin, dark lines that traced a shape Fleur recognized with a jolt of horror even through the layers of cold water between them. A skull. A serpent curling from its mouth.

The Mark, non-existent on Valerie’s skin every day of her waking life since she’d bonded with Harry, was showing itself.

Fleur’s grip tightened instinctively, and she felt the water around them shift, growing colder still, a pulse of something ancient and wrong radiating outward from the mark like ripples on a pond. The nearby grindylows, previously content to lurk at a distance, suddenly turned as one, their pale eyes fixing on the disturbance with hungry, predatory interest.

Harry felt it too, the bond flaring with alarm even through Valerie’s unconscious state, some deep and terrible recognition rippling through the connection that bound all four of them together. He spun, Daphne still cradled against him, just in time to see the first grindylow lunge toward Fleur and her unconscious burden.

Fleur reacted before conscious thought could catch up, her wand hand already moving, and a blast of concussive force sent the creature tumbling backward through the water in a spray of bubbles. Two more darted in from the shadows, drawn by whatever strange energy still pulsed faintly from the mark on Valerie’s arm, and Fleur met them without hesitation, one spell after another lighting up the murky water in flashes of blue and gold.

Harry surged toward her, positioning himself at her back, Daphne still held secure against his side with one arm while his other hand worked his wand in short, brutal arcs. A spell caught a grindylow mid lunge, sending it drifting limp toward the lake floor. Another came at Fleur from the side, and Harry’s cutting curse sliced clean through the water to intercept it before it ever got close.

“The Mark,” Fleur managed between spells, her voice tight with effort even through the strange, muffled quality water lent to speech.

“I see it,” Harry called back, watching the faint dark lines still tracing themselves across Valerie’s skin, flickering like something trying and failing to fully wake. “Just get her out of here. We’ll figure out what it means later.”

More grindylows were converging now, drawn by the disturbance in ways that felt distinctly unnatural, more purposeful than the creatures’ usual territorial aggression. Fleur kicked hard for the surface, angling away from the merpeople village and the growing swarm behind them, Valerie held tight against her chest. Harry followed close behind, Daphne secure in his grip, throwing a few final spells over his shoulder to discourage pursuit.

A trio of merpeople appeared from the shadows of their village, watching the retreat with sharp, assessing eyes, though none of them moved to intervene either for or against the fleeing champions. Whatever was happening, it seemed the merfolk had no interest in involving themselves, content simply to observe.

The ascent felt endless, cold water rushing past as Harry kicked, Daphne’s weight secure against his side, his gills working perfectly. Beside him, Fleur cut through the water with the same fierce determination, refusing to slow.

Sunlight finally broke through the murk above them, and moments later they burst through the surface together in twin explosions of spray, gasping in air that felt shockingly warm after the lake’s frigid depths. The crowd’s roar hit them immediately, a wall of sound that had been building since they first vanished beneath the surface.

A pair of hands reached down toward Harry the instant he got close enough to the platform, hauling him up out of the water. He looked up to thank whoever it was and found himself staring at the same salt and pepper beard and steady grey eyes he’d noticed earlier, standing beside Dumbledore before the task began.

“Nice work down there,” the Auror said, still gripping his forearm as he helped him find his footing on the slick wood. “Didn’t expect you back up quite this quick.”

“Wasn’t about to take my time,” Harry managed, still catching his breath, Daphne cradled carefully against him.

The man gave a short nod, and Harry returned it on instinct before turning away to check on Daphne properly. Behind him, the Auror was already moving on, his attention shifting toward the water where Fleur was still fighting her way up with Valerie in tow.

Harry hauled Daphne the rest of the way onto the platform where waiting hands reached to help, and beside him Fleur did the same with Valerie, both girls still deeply unconscious, blissfully unaware of everything that had just transpired around them.

Madam Pomfrey was there instantly, her wand already moving in careful diagnostic sweeps over both girls, her face creased with focus. Harry stood dripping and shivering despite the warming charms someone had already cast over him, his eyes fixed on Valerie’s still form.

“They’re fine,” Pomfrey announced after a tense handful of seconds, and Harry felt the breath he’d been holding rush out of him all at once. “Both perfectly unharmed. The enchantment will wear off shortly.”

Dumbledore had appeared at the edge of the platform, his expression carefully neutral for the benefit of the watching crowd, though Harry caught the sharp, assessing look he leveled at Valerie’s exposed forearm, still faintly, impossibly warm to the touch even though the mark itself had already faded back into invisibility.

“Headmaster,” Harry said quietly, pulling him aside as much as the crowded platform allowed. “Something happened down there. The mark, somehow it appeared again for a little while. Grindylows went after her like they could smell it.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flickered toward Valerie’s still unconscious form, something grim and calculating settling behind the familiar twinkle. “I see,” he said softly, understanding exactly how much they’d just confirmed, and exactly how little of it was good news.

Behind them, on the judges’ platform, Ludo Bagman was already beginning to tally scores, his voice booming out across the water with enthusiasm, utterly oblivious to the quiet, tense conversation happening just feet away.

Higher up in the stands, well away from the commotion on the platform, Barty Crouch watched the whole scene unfold with his hands folded neatly in his lap, his weathered face arranged into its usual stern, unreadable mask. Nobody paid him any particular attention, one more official among the dozens gathered to observe the task, and that suited him fine.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched Harry Potter fuss over the girl in his arms, a smile so small and so quickly gone that not a single person around him noticed it happen. His tongue darted out once, quick and reptilian, wetting his lips in a habit he’d never quite managed to shake, before he caught himself and smoothed the stern mask back into place.

Fleur appeared at Harry’s side, wrapped in a thick towel someone had thrown over her shoulders, her eyes finding his with the same unspoken question hanging between them.

“We need to talk,” she said quietly. “All of us. Tonight.”

Harry nodded, glancing once more at Valerie’s peaceful, sleeping face, the mark hidden now but no less real. Whatever had just happened in the depths of that lake, one thing felt suddenly, chillingly certain.

The connection Voldemort claimed still bound them together hadn’t been severed entirely after all. The bond had done something, but it seemed like it had simply been waiting, patient and dormant, for the right moment to stir.

To be continued...