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The Blood of the Ancients Chapter 1 (Blood of the Three Brothers)
🕑 Added 2025-02-11 22:53:20 +0000 UTC"Little boy." The words echoed in Harry's mind as he stormed out of the small chamber, his school robes billowing behind him. His hands were clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. The French champion's dismissive tone still rang in his ears, along with Karkaroff's accusations and Snape's sneering face.
Harry's footsteps echoed through the empty corridor leading away from the chamber. The stone walls seemed to close in around him, the torch flames casting dancing shadows that matched his turbulent mood. His breath came in short, angry bursts, creating small clouds in the cool evening air.
"I didn't put my name in," he muttered to himself, adjusting his glasses which had slipped down his nose. "I didn't want any of this."
The Great Hall lay ahead, now empty save for the Goblet of Fire. Harry's pace slowed as he approached the Goblet.
Suddenly, the Goblet's flames roared upward, startling Harry from his thoughts. The blue fire shot toward the enchanted ceiling, illuminating the entire hall in an otherworldly light. Harry took an instinctive step backward, his hand reaching for his wand.
Come closer.
The voice whispered through his mind like wind through autumn leaves. Harry froze, his green eyes darting around the empty hall. "Who's there?" His voice echoed off the ancient stones, but no one answered. For a moment, he was reminded of Basilisk's voice two years ago, but this one didn't seem to want to kill someone.
The Goblet's flames danced hypnotically, and Harry found himself taking a step forward. The rational part of his mind screamed at him to stop – hadn't he just been chosen for a potentially deadly tournament? Hadn't enough strange things happened to him already?
Touch the flame, child of Death. Heir of Peverell. Claim your birthright.
Harry's feet moved of their own accord. His right hand extended toward the dancing flames, fingers trembling slightly in the blue light.
"This is mad," he whispered to himself, but he couldn't stop. Something deep within his magic resonated with the Goblet's call, like a song he'd forgotten he knew.
His fingertips brushed the edge of the flame.
The world exploded in sensation. Warmth rushed up his arm and spread through his entire body, not burning but awakening. It felt like he'd been asleep his entire life and was only now truly opening his eyes. Magic coursed through his veins like liquid lightning.
Harry gasped, stumbling backward. The Goblet's flames returned to their normal height as if nothing had happened before blowing away. He stared at his hand, but there was no mark, no sign of what had just occurred. Only the lingering sensation of power humming beneath his skin remained.
"I must be more tired than I thought," he muttered, running his fingers through his perpetually messy black hair. His whole body felt strange – lighter somehow, more alive. But after the day he'd had, who wouldn't feel odd? Being chosen as an unexpected fourth champion, everyone thinking he'd cheated somehow, Fleur's dismissal...
Harry shook his head, trying to clear it. He needed sleep. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with everything else.
As he turned to leave the Great Hall, Harry didn't notice how the torches flickered in his wake, or how the shadows seemed to lean toward him ever so slightly.
What he did notice was how much clearer everything seemed.
Harry's footsteps echoed through the corridors as he made his way toward Gryffindor Tower.
The Fat Lady barely had time to swing open before the wave of noise hit Harry. The Gryffindor common room was packed, every crimson armchair and sofa occupied, with more students sitting on tables or leaning against the stone walls. The usual warm, cozy atmosphere had been replaced by an electric tension that made the hair on the back of Harry's neck stand up.
All conversation died the moment he stepped through the portrait hole. Dozens of eyes fixed on him, some curious, others accusatory. The crackling of the fireplace suddenly seemed deafening in the silence.
Harry's newfound sensitivity to magic made the atmosphere even more oppressive. The very air felt thick with expectation, pressing against his skin like an invisible weight. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as he faced his housemates.
"Harry!" Lee Jordan's voice broke the silence. "How'd you do it, mate? How'd you get past Dumbledore's Age Line?"
Before Harry could answer, the questions started flying from all directions.
"Did you use an aging potion like Fred and George?"
"Was it dark magic?"
"Did an older student help you?"
The voices blended together, each more demanding than the last. Harry's temples began to throb, the pressure building behind his eyes. "I didn't put my name in," he said, his voice carrying clearly despite the chaos. "I don't know who did."
Seamus Finnigan snorted from his perch on a nearby table. "Right. And I'm Merlin himself." Several students laughed, and Harry felt heat rising in his chest.
"I'm telling the truth," Harry insisted, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The nearest candles flickered wildly, though no one seemed to notice. "Why would I want more attention? Why would I want to risk my life in another—"
"Oh, come off it, Potter," Cormac McLaggen interrupted, pushing off from the wall he'd been leaning against. The fifth-year towered over Harry, his muscular frame emphasized by his too-tight uniform shirt. "Everyone knows you love the spotlight. Always have to be the hero, don't you?"
Something snapped inside Harry. The magical pressure that had been building since his encounter with the Goblet surged through him like lightning. The windows rattled in their frames, and several empty goblets on nearby tables began to vibrate.
"You don't know anything about me," Harry growled, and for a moment, his voice carried an otherworldly resonance that made McLaggen take an unconscious step backward. "None of you do. You think I want this? You think I enjoy having a target on my back every single year?"
The fire in the hearth flared dramatically, casting wild shadows across the common room. A few first-years squeaked in surprise, huddling closer together on their sofa. Harry barely noticed, too consumed by the storm of emotions raging inside him.
"My parents are dead," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the room. "Voldemort—" collective gasps and flinches rippled through the crowd "—has tried to kill me two times. And now someone's entered me in a tournament where people have died before. But sure, let's all pretend I'm doing this for attention."
The magic pulsing through him felt different now – darker, more potent. Books trembled on their shelves, and the portraits on the walls began whispering among themselves. A few students backed away, looking uncertain.
Angelina Johnson, who had been watching silently from her armchair, stood up slowly. "Harry," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "we're just trying to understand. You have to admit it looks suspicious."
"I don't have to admit anything," Harry snapped, though some of the rage began to ebb at her more reasonable tone. "I've told you the truth. Believe it or don't – I'm done trying to convince people who've already made up their minds."
He turned toward the boys' staircase, his robes swishing behind him. As he moved, students unconsciously cleared a path, whether from respect or fear, he couldn't tell.
Harry pushed open the dormitory door to find Ron sitting on his four-poster bed, still fully dressed in his school uniform, his tie loosened and hanging askew. The redhead's face was as stormy as Harry had ever seen it, his freckles standing out against his flushed skin. Dean and Neville took one look at the tension between their roommates and quietly slipped out, closing the door behind them.
The silence stretched between the two friends like a rubber band about to snap.
"So," Ron finally spoke, his voice carefully controlled but brittle, "going to tell me how you did it?"
Harry's jaw clenched. "I didn't do anything, Ron."
"Right." Ron stood up, his height advantage more pronounced than usual as he drew himself up. "Just like you didn't tell me you were entering. Just like you didn't think to share whatever brilliant method you used with your supposed best mate."
"I didn't enter!" Harry's voice rose, and a few books on his bedside table trembled. "Why won't you believe me?"
"Because it's bloody obvious, isn't it?" Ron's face grew redder. "The famous Harry Potter, always having to be the center of attention. Couldn't let Cedric have the spotlight for once, could you?"
The words hit Harry like physical blows. The strange energy inside him surged, making the window panes rattle. "You think I want this? You actually think I want to risk my life in this tournament?"
"Oh, please." Ron's laugh was ugly, bitter. "Risk your life? You love it. The Boy Who Lived, getting another chance to show off. Bet you can't wait to get your picture in the Prophet again."
Harry's trunk suddenly slammed shut on its own, making Ron jump. "You're supposed to be my best friend," Harry said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You know me better than anyone. Or I thought you did."
"Yeah, well, maybe I don't know you at all," Ron shot back. "The Harry I thought I knew wouldn't lie to my face."
"I'm not lying!" Harry shouted, and this time the glass of water on Seamus's dresser shattered. Neither boy seemed to notice. "I didn't put my name in, I didn't ask anyone else to, I didn't want any of this!"
"Sure, mate. Just like you didn't want the money, or the fame, or everyone talking about you all the time." Ron's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Must be awful, being Harry Potter. Always getting special treatment, always being the exception to every rule."
Something dark and ancient stirred in Harry's chest. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to deepen, and the candlelight flickered erratically. "Special treatment?" he hissed. "You mean my parents being dead? Like living in a cupboard for eleven years? Like having a dark wizard try to kill me every bloody year?"
"Oh, here we go again." Ron threw up his hands. "Poor orphan Harry, always playing that card when it's convenient. At least you got to be somebody! At least people know your name!"
The moment the words left Ron's mouth, he seemed to realize he'd gone too far. But it was too late. Harry's magic exploded outward in a wave of raw power. The curtains on Ron's bed tore themselves from their hangings, the windows rattled so hard they nearly cracked, and every loose object in the room began to hover several inches off the ground.
"Is that what this is about?" Harry's voice had taken on that strange resonance again, deeper than it should be. "You're jealous? Because people know my name for surviving the night my parents were murdered?"
Ron took a step back, real fear flashing across his face for the first time. "I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did." Harry cut him off, his green eyes seeming to glow in the dimming light. "You meant every word. Well, congratulations, Ron. You've finally shown me exactly who you are."
The floating objects crashed back to the ground, making Ron flinch. Harry turned toward his own bed, his back rigid. "I would have shared the glory with you, you know," he said quietly, the hurt in his voice raw and bleeding. "If I had actually entered. That's what best friends do. But I guess we're not that anymore, are we?"
"Harry—"
"Save it." Harry yanked his curtains closed with such force that the rings screamed against the rod. "Go tell everyone how mental I've gone. Go share all the jokes about attention-seeking Potter with Malfoy. I'm sure you'll have loads to talk about."
The silence that followed was deafening. Harry heard Ron's footsteps, hesitant at first, moving toward the door. There was a pause, as if Ron might say something else, but then the door opened and closed with a quiet click.
Only when he was sure he was alone did Harry let out a shuddering breath. The magical energy that had been coursing through him began to ebb, leaving him feeling drained but somehow more aware than ever of the power sleeping in his veins. He stared at his hands in the dim light filtering through his bed curtains, remembering the strange sensation when he'd touched the Goblet.
Something had changed within him, that much was clear. But as he lay back on his bed, still fully clothed, Harry couldn't bring himself to care about the mysterious power or the strange incidents it had caused. All he could think about was the look on Ron's face, the jealousy and betrayal that had shattered four years of friendship in a single night.
Sleep was a long time coming, and when it did, his dreams were filled with blue flames and whispering shadows.
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Dawn painted the common room in shades of gold when Harry descended the boys' staircase. He hadn't slept much, spending most of the night staring at his bed's canopy. The dormitory still bore signs of his confrontation with Ron – spiderweb cracks in the windows, books scattered across the floor.
He'd expected the common room to be empty at this hour, but a familiar figure sat curled in an armchair near the dying fire. Hermione looked up from her book as he approached, her brown eyes warm with concern. She wore a thick purple jumper over her uniform, her wild hair tied back in a messy bun that was already threatening to escape its confines.
"You're up early," Harry said softly, dropping into the chair opposite her. The magic within him, which had been restless all night, seemed to settle slightly in her presence.
"Couldn't sleep." Hermione marked her place in the book and set it aside. "I heard about what happened last night. Both in here and... upstairs." She hesitated, then added, "Ron was rather vocal about it in the common room after he came down."
Harry's jaw clenched, and he felt the magic stir again, making the nearest candlestick wobble. "I suppose he told everyone how Harry Potter's finally shown his true colors? How the fame-seeking orphan—"
"Stop." Hermione leaned forward, her hand finding his on the armrest. Her touch was warm, grounding. "I don't care what Ron or anyone else says. I know you, Harry James Potter. I know you didn't put your name in that goblet."
The simple declaration made something tight in Harry's chest loosen. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because I've seen your face every time something dangerous happens to you. Because I know how much you hate being singled out." Her fingers squeezed his gently. "And because you're my best friend. I trust you."
Harry looked down at their joined hands, throat suddenly tight. The morning light caught Hermione's hair, creating a sort of halo effect that made her look almost ethereal. Had her eyes always been that shade of warm honey-brown?
"Thank you," he managed finally. "You don't know what that means to me."
Hermione's cheeks colored slightly, but she didn't pull her hand away. "You'd do the same for me." She paused, then added more hesitantly, "I noticed something else last night, during your argument with Ron."
Harry tensed. "The magic?"
She nodded, looking both concerned and fascinated. "It was like nothing I've ever read about. The way objects moved, the energy in the air..." Her free hand gestured expressively. "Harry, that kind of wandless magic isn't normal, even for accidental outbursts."
"I know." Harry took a deep breath, deciding to trust her with everything. "Something happened last night, after the champion selection. The Goblet... it called to me. And when I touched it—"
"You did what?" Hermione's eyes widened, but there was no accusation in her voice, only worry and curiosity.
Harry described the strange encounter – the voice, the sensation of power flowing into him, the heightened awareness of magic that followed. As he spoke, he realized how reckless it had been, touching an ancient magical artifact that had just been involved in selecting him for a deadly tournament.
But Hermione didn't scold him. Instead, her eyes took on the intense look they got when faced with a particularly fascinating puzzle. "This could explain the increase in your magical output. The Goblet of Fire is an incredibly powerful magical object. If it somehow recognized something in you..."
She trailed off, clearly already planning research strategies. Harry felt a rush of affection for her. Of course Hermione's first instinct would be to help him understand what was happening, not fear or reject it.
"I can help you learn to control it," she offered suddenly, her face brightening. "There must be books on managing magical surges, and we'll need to practice anyway, for the tournament."
"You'd do that?" Harry asked, though he didn't know why he was surprised. Hermione had always been there for him, steadfast and loyal.
"Of course I would." She squeezed his hand again, and this time Harry noticed a slight flutter in his stomach at the contact. "You're not alone in this, Harry. You never will be, as long as I'm around."
The morning sun had risen higher, streaming through the windows and catching the gold threads in Hermione's hair. Her eyes shone with determination and something else, something that made Harry's newly awakened magic hum pleasantly.
"I don't deserve you," he said softly.
Hermione's blush deepened, but she met his gaze steadily. "Don't be ridiculous, Harry. You deserve far more than you think you do." She stood, reluctantly letting go of his hand. "Now, shall we get some breakfast? We can start planning your training afterward."
As Harry followed her toward the portrait hole, he felt lighter than he had since his name came out of the Goblet. The magic within him had settled into a contented warmth, as if it too approved of Hermione's presence in his life.
He watched her walk ahead of him, her movements graceful despite the heavy bag of books she always carried, and wondered why he'd never noticed before how beautiful she was when she was determined to solve a problem. Then again, a lot of things seemed clearer since last night's transformation.
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The library had become their sanctuary over the past week. Hidden behind towering shelves in the furthest corner, Harry and Hermione had created their own private study space. Books were stacked in organized piles around them – defensive magic, magical theory, and tournament history.
Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open texts, his school tie loosened and sleeves rolled up. A week ago, the sight of so many books would have made him groan. Now, he found himself eagerly devouring every page, his mind absorbing magical theory.
"This is fascinating," he murmured, tracing a diagram in 'Advanced Magical Theory' with his finger. "The way spells interact with our magical core..."
Hermione looked up from her own research, her eyes bright with pleased surprise. She'd shed her outer robes in the warm library air, her white blouse sleeves pushed up as she took notes. "I never thought I'd hear you say that about magical theory."
"Everything's different now," Harry admitted, closing the book. "It's like... like I was reading in a dim room before, and someone's finally opened the curtains. Magic makes sense in a way it never did."
Hermione set down her quill, giving him her full attention. "Your practical work has improved dramatically too. Professor Flitwick actually gasped when you performed that fourth-year Banishing Charm perfectly on your first try yesterday."
Harry smiled, remembering. The spell had felt natural, like breathing. "It's not just easier – it's stronger. Watch."
He drew his wand and pointed it at a nearby paperweight. "Wingardium Leviosa." The brass weight rose smoothly into the air, but instead of the usual slight wobble, it moved with perfect precision. Harry guided it through a complex series of loops and spirals, handling it as easily as if it were an extension of his own hand.
"Harry..." Hermione breathed, her eyes wide. "That level of fine control... that's beyond N.E.W.T. level."
He set the paperweight down gently, not even winded. A week ago, such precise levitation would have left him magically exhausted. Now it felt like a warm-up exercise.
"There's something else," he said, reaching into his bag. "I found this yesterday, in a section of the library I've never noticed before." He pulled out an ancient-looking tome bound in dark leather, its cover unmarked except for a strange symbol that seemed to shift when viewed directly.
Hermione leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. "I've never seen that symbol before. Where exactly did you find it?"
"That's the strange part." Harry ran his fingers over the symbol, feeling his magic respond to it. "I was looking for more books on magical cores, and it was like... like the shelves moved. There was a whole section I swear wasn't there before, and this book practically jumped into my hands."
He opened it carefully, revealing pages covered in elegant script and complex magical diagrams. "It's full of spells I've never heard of. Advanced magic that somehow feels... familiar."
Hermione moved closer, her shoulder pressing against his as she peered at the pages. Her proximity made Harry's magic hum pleasantly, something that had been happening more frequently lately. "These aren't standard spells," she said, her finger tracing a particularly intricate diagram. "This looks like old magic. Really old."
"Look at this one." Harry turned to a page he'd marked. The spell described was called 'Umbra Vincula' – Shadow Bonds. The diagram showed tendrils of darkness wrapping around a target. "It's meant for combat, but it's not like any dueling spell we've learned."
"Harry..." Hermione bit her lip, looking concerned. "Some of these spells... they're bordering on dark magic."
"Is it dark magic to want to survive?" Harry asked quietly. "To want to be strong enough to face whatever's coming?" He closed the book, meeting her eyes. "Something's changing in me, Hermione. This power, these abilities – they're not just random. They feel right, like they were always meant to be mine."
Hermione studied his face for a long moment. "You're different," she said finally. "Not just your magic. You're more... confident. Focused." A slight blush colored her cheeks. "It suits you."
Harry felt his own face warm at the compliment. "Help me master this?" he asked, holding up the book. "I trust your judgment. If you think a spell is too dark, we won't use it. But I need to be stronger, and somehow I know these spells are the key."
She took the book from him, her fingers brushing his. "We'll learn together," she said firmly. "But let's find an empty classroom. Madam Pince might have opinions about us practicing combat magic near her precious books."
Harry grinned, gathering their study materials. As they packed up, he caught Hermione watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read – something between worry and admiration, with perhaps a hint of something else.
The magic within him stirred eagerly.
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The abandoned classroom on the fourth floor had become their training ground. Practice dummies they'd transfigured from old desks stood at one end of the room, bearing scorch marks from previous attempts at the new spells.
"Umbra Vincula!" Harry called out again, his wand movement precise. Dark energy flickered at the tip of his wand but dissipated before forming the shadow bonds the spell was supposed to create. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his school shirt clinging to his back despite having discarded his robes hours ago.
"The visualization is critical," Hermione said from where she sat cross-legged on a desk, the ancient spellbook open in her lap. Her tie was loose, curls escaping from her once-neat bun. "You need to feel the shadows responding to your will."
"I'm trying," Harry growled, running a hand through his messy hair in frustration. The magic inside him was there, stronger than ever, but this spell required more than raw power. "It's like... like I can feel it wanting to work, but something's blocking it."
Hermione closed the book and slid off the desk, moving to stand beside him. "Maybe you're thinking about it wrong. This isn't like regular spells – it's older." She touched his arm gently. "Stop trying to force it. You're not asking for permission anymore, Harry. You're claiming what's yours."
Harry turned to look at her, struck by her words. "What do you mean?"
"I've been watching you this past week," she said, her brown eyes intense in the fading light. "You're so much stronger now, but you're still holding back. Still trying to be what everyone expects Harry Potter to be – the modest hero who apologizes for his power."
The magic under his skin stirred at her words, resonating with their truth.
"Look at how they've treated you," Hermione continued, passion coloring her voice. "Ron is no longer talking to us, everyone is calling you a cheater, they are wearing those ugly batches made by Malfoy as if they were a medal of honor. They either want you weak and controllable, or they want to tear you down. Stop letting them."
Harry's pulse quickened, his magic responding to her words. She stepped closer, and he caught the scent of parchment and vanilla that he'd come to associate with her.
"You're not just the Boy Who Lived anymore," she said softly. "You're becoming something more, something powerful. Don't apologize for it. Don't let anyone make you feel ashamed of your strength." Her eyes blazed. "Show them who you really are."
Harry closed his eyes, letting her words sink in. The magic within him surged, no longer constrained by his own hesitation. When he opened his eyes again, they flickered with purple fire.
"Umbra Vincula!"
This time, shadows leapt from every corner of the room, coalescing into solid tendrils that whipped through the air. They wrapped around the practice dummy with devastating precision, constricting until the transfigured wood creaked under the pressure.
"Yes!" Hermione exclaimed. "That was perfect!"
The rush of success, combined with the intoxicating feel of the magic flowing through him, made Harry laugh out loud. Without thinking, he turned and swept Hermione into a tight hug, lifting her off her feet in his excitement. She squealed in surprise but hugged him back just as fiercely, her body warm against his.
"I couldn't have done it without you," Harry said as he set her down, keeping his arms around her. "Not just the spell – any of this. You've been the only one who's truly believed in me, who's helped me understand what's happening instead of fearing it."
Hermione's hands rested on his chest, her face tilted up to his. "I'll always believe in you, Harry," she whispered. "I'll always be here."
Hermione's eyes dropped to his lips for just a moment before meeting his gaze again. The magic within Harry sang, urging him forward, but before he could move, Hermione leaned forward.
Her lips pressed against his, soft and sweet and perfect. Harry's magic flared in response, shadows dancing around them like celebratory fireworks, but he barely noticed. His world had narrowed to the feel of Hermione in his arms, the taste of her lips, and the small sound she made when his hand slid into her hair.
When they finally broke apart, both were slightly breathless. Hermione's eyes were bright; her lips curved in a smile that made his heart race.
"That was..." Harry started, then realized he had no words to describe what had just happened – the kiss, the magic.
"Perfect," Hermione finished for him and kissed him again.
Comments
oWell
I'm glad you liked it.
Rogue
Hm. Interesting concept. I’m looking forward to where you take this.
oWell
I'm happy to hear that.
KeterMalkuth
I Love it already
