The Subtle Darkness
Chapter 1: The Markets of Constantinople

Harry’s escape tasted of copper and forlorn hope.

He ran through narrow streets he didn’t know, past shuttered houses with dark windows and locked doors. The cobblestones were slick and uneven under his feet, and the light from the lanterns threw long, jumping shadows across the walls.

Behind him in the manor, a Death Eater lay unconscious or worse; Harry hadn’t stayed to check. He could hear the others behind him; shouting, laughing—the bastards were laughing—and they were close.

His chest burned, and each breath felt like swallowing glass. The street was climbing now, cobblestones giving way to bare rock underfoot, and he could hear footsteps echoing off the walls; more of them, coming from somewhere to his left. Harry slipped into a twisting alleyway, so narrow it could barely fit two people side by side, and pressed his body against a notch in the wall.

The footsteps grew louder.

“He must be around here somewhere. Split up, comb all the exits. He cannot have got far. Merlin’s beard, he doesn’t even have a wand!”

Harry’s hand flew to where his wand ought to have been.

Dawn was touching the rooftops as he forced himself to keep moving; just a little further, somewhere to hide, somewhere to think. He turned the corner and stopped dead.

A wall of stone, twice his height, rose in front of him.

“Potter, where are you?”

“Come on out, Potter,” another taunted, closer. “You can’t hide forever.”

His heart hammered against his ribs. He looked around wildly, back the way he’d come, up at the wall, anywhere—

Then he saw her. A woman in a dark cloak, standing still in the shadow of the wall, watching him.

“Help me,” whispered Harry.

She didn’t move.

“Please.”

“Not here!” someone shouted from the next street over. “Flagrate!”

Orange light flared. A burning X appeared on a wall, bright enough that Harry could see it from where he stood. The woman’s head turned toward it. Then she took a step backward, and Harry’s hope went with her.

Harry’s pulse was pounding in his throat. He tried to lunge past her—but her hand shot out and seized the back of his robes. Before he could wrench free, she had yanked him against the wall and pinned him to the stone.

“Let me—” But no sound came out; she had silenced him!

“Oi, I heard something!”

The woman’s wand traced something against the wall, her hooded face inches from his, and the solid stone behind him melted away. He tumbled backward with a silent yelp, landing hard on cold flagstones.

Her hood had fallen back. She was younger than he’d expected, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with dark skin and eyes that looked black in the half-light. Her wand moved again, and the wall went solid behind them, cutting off the shouting to something muffled and distant.

She held up one finger to her lips.

Through the stone, he could just make out voices.

“—must have Disapparated—”

“—search the next street—”

The voices faded.

The woman looked at him for a long moment. “Come,” she said softly, in a heavy accent he couldn’t place. As she turned away from him, Harry caught a glint on her finger—a tiny sapphire, shaped like a crescent moon.

He followed her, and the Death Eaters’ shouts faded behind them to nothing.


The passageway opened onto a city that stole Harry’s breath away. It stretched before him in the dawn light, ancient and enormous, buildings clambering over one another as far as he could see. Some leaned at angles that should have been impossible; others stood solid and square as though they had been there since the world began. Streets wound between them like rivers, narrow and crooked, already bright with the colour of market stalls and the movement of early-morning crowds.

Warmth caressed his face. Sunshine? In January? Impossible.

“Where am I?” The words escaped before he could stop them.

The woman’s hood had slipped further back. In the daylight, Harry could see strange markings on her skin—not scars, but symbols, like silver writing burned into her neck and jaw.

“You do not know you in Constantinople?”

“Turkey?!” gasped Harry. “I’m in Istanbul?”

“Turkey?” she scoffed. “Istanbul? They for Muggles. We in Ottoman Empire.”

Constantinople. The Ottoman Empire. He was not even in Britain any more, and for one wild, lurching moment he could not work out how that could possibly be true. He knew almost nothing about the Ottoman Empire beyond what Binns had droned on about—something about a major magical power, one of the reasons the Statute of Secrecy had been established. But that was centuries ago, and he was here now, and Voldemort had wanted him here, and he could not work out why.

Hermione would know. She always knew these things. But Hermione—

The Burrow; her scream as she fell from the sky.

He could not think about that now.

She led him through an archway and into the market, and for a few seconds he forgot everything else.

He had thought Diagon Alley was crowded. He had been wrong, obviously. The marketplace was packed shoulder to shoulder with witches and wizards and things that were not quite either, shouting over one another in half a dozen languages Harry could not untangle. A carpet slid past at waist height carrying a stack of parcels tied in silk cord, and Harry stumbled sideways to avoid it; behind him, a vendor was grinding something bright orange in a brass mortar whose pestle moved by itself, humming a low droning note.

“You devshirme, yes?”

Harry had to quicken his pace to keep up with her. “What?”

Her face twisted in concentration. “Ishi. No word in English.” She tried again slowly. “Children… collected. For Sultan.”

“Collected?”

“Janissaries find Muggleborns,” she said flatly. “Young ones. Give to families. Learn our ways. Grow up Ottoman.”

“And the parents? What happens to them?”

She did not answer at once. They passed a stall where tiny cups of coffee poured themselves, the dark liquid rising from a long-handled pot into cups no bigger than thimbles; the grounds in each cup rearranged into shapes that the customers bent close to read, murmuring and pointing.

“Parents forget,” she said quietly. “Better they forget.”

Something cold spread through Harry’s stomach. “They Obliviate them?”

“Yes.”

For a moment Harry could not speak. He thought of Mr and Mrs Granger—of Mrs Granger pulling Hermione close before she stepped onto the train to Hogwarts. The idea of someone taking one of her children and then making her forget they had ever existed was so monstrous that his mind kept repeating it.

“That’s…” He could not find the right word. There probably was not one.

“Muggles fear magic,” she said. “Many children hurt. Killed. Sultan offers protection.”

“By stealing them?”

“By keeping them alive.”

He pulled his left arm closer to his chest, his stomach twisting; he knew what it was like, being taken from where you belonged and told it was for your own good.

They walked in silence for several paces. Glass beads in blue and white hung above the next row of stalls, each painted with a single staring eye. They followed him as he passed; Harry could have sworn they blinked.

“Strongest go to Enderûn,” she said. “Greatest school in Empire. Go to become Janissary or to govern.”

“Govern?” said Harry, glancing at her. “Muggleborns?”

She looked at him sideways. “In Britain, blood is everything, yes? Here, what you do is more. Sultan Mehmed say magic chooses who is worthy—not families. Many viziers, many generals—Muggleborn. Rise by skill, ishi, not by name. Some of greatest Ottoman wizards, devshirme.”

It was a strange thought: Muggleborns running things. Actually in charge, instead of being told they were not good enough and ought to be grateful for whatever the Ministry threw them.

“Even boy from your country come here,” she said. “Give up everything. British papers, wand. Swear oath to Sultan. He say better to serve here than sweep floors in your Ministry.”

“A British wizard chose this?”

“Some choose.” Her hand moved to her wrist, her fingers brushing the silver marks there before she caught herself and pulled away. “Others…”

She did not finish.

Harry said nothing. He knew that gesture; he did the same thing with his scar sometimes, reaching for it without meaning to, the way you press a bruise to check whether it still hurts.

“Did these Janissaries take you from your family?”

A golden bead glinted in her hair as she shook her head. “Like you. Given to Sultan from far away.”

“Is this why you helped me?”

“Come,” she said, and led him on.

Harry kept his head down and stayed close as they pushed deeper into the crowd, glancing over his shoulder. If anyone was following, they were lost in the rush.

She led him past hags shouting over carts of runic stones and jars of things he did not want to examine too closely, past a carpet seller whose wares hovered at different heights above the ground—one of them straining at its tether like a dog that wanted walking. At the next stall, a witch split open a pomegranate and a tiny bird burst from the seeds, circled her head twice, and dissolved. Further along, an old wizard was trying to force something smoky back into a brass lamp while a small crowd watched and offered what was clearly unhelpful advice.

The voices around him ran together in a river of languages he could not begin to separate; what might have been Greek, and what might have been Arabic, and half a dozen others he had no hope of identifying. The people wore nothing like the robes in Diagon Alley; the men in long embroidered coats that fell past their knees, the women in layered silks and shimmering veils, many with tall headdresses wound in gems and gold thread. Some of them Harry barely saw at all—there was only a ripple in the air and an odd, sudden need to look the other way as they passed.

It was, Harry thought, the sort of place Hermione would have loved.

He looked away.

“Where are we going?” Harry quickened his step to match hers.

“Concordatorium. British Emisscus help you.”

The word Concordatorium meant nothing to him, but Emisscus he knew—the British Ministry’s representative abroad—and his heart sank; he wanted nothing to do with the Ministry. But in this strange city, with Voldemort and Death Eaters after him, what choice remained? Even this stranger had shown more kindness than he’d expected.

“Thank you,” said Harry. “Really. I don’t know what would have happened if—”

“Teşekkür ederim,” she said.

“What?”

“How you say thank you. Teşekkür ederim.” She pronounced it slowly, each syllable distinct.

“Tesh… teşekkür ederim.”

Her mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile he had seen from her. “Better.”

They walked through streets that seemed to have no logic to them; stone steps led upward through archways that opened onto entirely different streets, and a fountain flowed upward instead of down, the water climbing into the air before vanishing in a spray of bright mist.

Once, at a corner, she drew her hood forward and went still; two Janissaries were coming the other way in long green robes, the gold embroidery across their shoulders rearranging itself as they walked. The crowd parted for them without being asked. She did not move again until they had passed.

They emerged onto a wide avenue lined with cypress trees, and at its end, grand and unmistakable against the brightening sky, stood a building unlike anything Harry had ever seen. Its minarets spiralled upward, surfaces covered in tiles of deep green, blue, and white. Across the facade, golden mosaics showed scenes Harry could not make sense of—wizards and witches from countries he did not recognise, creatures he had never seen in any textbook, and symbols that seemed to rearrange themselves the moment he blinked.

“This is it,” his companion said softly. “Good fortune find you.”

He turned to thank her, or at least ask her name, but she had vanished.


Harry faced the Concordatorium again. Somewhere inside was the British Emisscus, which meant explanations, questions, and probably a great deal of trouble. But what was he going to do, turn back? He didn’t have a wand, didn’t speak the language, and appeared to have escaped to the wrong side of the continent.

He took a breath, pushed open the doors, and went in.

The entrance hall made Gringotts look modest; the ceiling soared so high it disappeared into shadow, and stained glass windows lined every wall, each one showing scenes Harry didn’t recognise—wizards and witches in unfamiliar dress, creatures he’d never seen in any textbook, and symbols that seemed to shift if he looked at them too long. At the centre of it all, a massive fountain sent water flowing upward instead of down, the droplets hanging suspended in midair before vanishing in bursts of coloured light.

Harry stared. He’d thought magic couldn’t surprise him anymore. He’d been wrong, obviously.

Witches and wizards moved through the space with purpose, their robes marking them as coming from a dozen different countries; the languages washed over Harry in an incomprehensible blur.

Near the entrance, he noticed others stopping at a wall lined with small alcoves. Each alcove held a seashell, and above each was carved a word in a different script. Harry moved closer, scanning the labels until he found one he recognised: English.

He glanced around. A wizard in purple robes took a shell from a neighbouring alcove and held it to his ear like a telephone, Harry thought, only older, and stranger, and probably not invented by a Muggle.

Harry reached into the English alcove and withdrew the shell; it was smooth and cool in his palm, and surprisingly heavy. He hesitated, feeling foolish, then lifted it to his ear.

The roar of the sea filled his head; waves crashing against distant shores, gulls crying in the wind. Then, gradually, the foreign conversations around him began to resolve into words he could understand.

“—expedited clearance for the Bulgarian delegation—”

“—haven’t received confirmation from Alexandria—”

“—absolutely unacceptable, the Shah’s representative should have—”

He would have dropped the seashell in surprise had it not curled around his ear.

It was a strange sensation; from his left ear he heard the local languages still rolling past, while in his right there was only the faint sound of the sea and several people speaking in accented English.

It didn’t catch everything; some languages remained stubbornly untranslated, but it was better than nothing, and Harry felt some of the tightness in his chest ease for the first time since he’d woken in the manor.

Harry made his way toward the circular desk at the hall’s centre. Behind it sat a Djinn, a wizard in an absurd top hat, and a veiled witch who looked as though she had not moved for several centuries.

Harry had never seen a Djinn before, but there was no mistaking it; its form shifted constantly between smoke and something more solid, bronze skin one moment, wisps of darkness the next, and golden rings floated on its fingers, each set with a different coloured stone that spun lazily in the air.

Harry approached, and before he could speak, the carpet beneath his feet glowed with symbols that looked like the runes on his rescuer’s skin; they pulsed once, then faded. He looked down sharply, but whatever they’d been doing, it seemed to be finished.

The Djinn looked up. Its eyes were solid gold, without pupils or whites. “Name and purpose.”

Harry swallowed. “I’m Harry Potter. I need to speak with the British Emisscus.”

The golden eyes flared brighter. To the Djinn’s right, the wizard whose top hat appeared to have swallowed two smaller top hats and was considering a third, looked up from his parchment and let out a bark of laughter.

“Harry Potter?” His accent was distinctly Egyptian. “The Boy-Who-Lived, wandering about alone and wandless? My dear boy, if you’re going to lie, at least make it believable.”

“Peace, Malik,” said a witch on the Djinn’s other side. Her face was hidden behind an elaborate veil, but her quiet voice carried weight.

The Djinn leaned forward. The rings on his fingers stopped spinning. “You dare invoke that name falsely? Give me your true name, boy, or I will have you removed.”

Harry’s patience snapped. After everything he’d been through—the Death Eaters, the strange city, a month of captivity—he was not going to stand here and be called a liar by a wizard in a stupid hat and a pile of smoke with jewellery.

“I’m not lying.” He shoved his fringe back from his forehead. “I am Harry Potter.”

The Egyptian wizard’s quill clattered to the floor while the veiled witch went very still. Malik’s golden rings stopped dead in the air.

“Impossible,” said the witch quietly.

The Djinn’s form solidified fully for the first time since Harry had approached, bronze skin, sharp features, eyes that made Dumbledore’s seem young. When it spoke again, the mockery was gone. “If he speaks the truth, this matter exceeds our authority. There are those who must be informed.” It turned those ancient gold eyes on Harry. “Wait here.”

The Djinn dissolved into the air, and Harry was left standing alone in the middle of the vast entrance hall, feeling very small and very far from anything he knew. Witches and wizards swept past without glancing at him. The fountain sent its water climbing silently upward. He waited.


Finally, the Djinn returned with a young witch in silver robes and bid him follow. She led him deeper into the Concordatorium without a word. As they walked, the corridors changed around them: Ottoman arches gave way to Gothic vaults and wood panelling that might have been lifted straight from Hogwarts. Even the smell was right, heather and rain-soaked stone. For a second, absurdly, he expected to hear Peeves drop a water balloon from somewhere overhead.

They stopped at a pair of doors carved with a lion and a unicorn.

“Please wait inside,” said the witch. “The Emisscus will join you shortly.”

The chamber beyond looked as though someone had taken a Hogwarts common room and an Ottoman palace, shoved them into the same space, and hoped they would not start fighting. Leather-bound books sat beside rolled scrolls tied with gold cord. Tapestries showing battles and strange crowned figures hung between dark wooden shelves, while a perfectly proper teapot waited on a carved table beneath them, its porcelain painted with long-bodied dragons twisting through clouds. A brass astrolabe the size of a bicycle wheel hung slowly turning from the ceiling.

Harry fell into a chair that creaked in protest. A tea service sat on the table; proper English china, the sort Aunt Petunia only brought out when she wanted the neighbours to think well of her. His hands trembled as he poured tea, cream first, as Aunt Petunia demanded, then sugar to chase away the chill. He took a sip. It was good, strong English tea, and for one foolish second, he could almost pretend he was safe.

The door opened again, and a witch strode in, wearing dark blue robes that marked her as a diplomat. Harry knew at once that he had seen her before, though for the moment he could not think where. But it was her companion who drew Harry’s eye and held it—a djinn with copper skin and golden eyes that held the weight of decades. It regarded Harry with detached fascination, the way a cat might watch an interesting mouse.

“Mr Potter—thank Merlin. Sit down, please. You look exhausted. There’s tea—do have some tea. It’s Allison Perks. I treated Arthur Weasley last month, when Sally-Anne heard you’d been—”

Then Harry remembered where he’d seen her. “You’re the potions mistress. The one who helped Mr Weasley.”

“Yes, well.” Allison cleared her throat and gestured stiffly towards her companion. “May I present Aynah al-Masri, First Among the Sultan’s Djinn, Keeper of the Seven Seals, and Voice of the Eternal Flame.”

“Such tedious formalities,” drawled Aynah. Her voice was deep and smoky, every word unhurried, as though she had all the time in the world and rather enjoyed making everyone else wait. “Though I suppose appearances must be maintained, even for schoolboys who stumble into international incidents.”

Her golden eyes settled on Harry.

“Tell me, Mr. Potter—did you intend to cause such chaos, or does trouble simply follow you like a lost puppy?”

Aynah flicked her fingers lazily.

Newspapers came streaming through the air at once. The Daily Prophet, the Warlock Abroad, half a dozen others Harry had never seen before, and landed in a neat pile on the table before him.

For the first time in twenty-five days, Harry saw what the world thought had happened to him.



SIRIUS BLACK LATEST ATTACK!

HARRY POTTER WITHDRAWS FROM HOGWARTS!

MYSTERIOUS ATTACKS
THE BOY-WHO-LIVED MISSING
HAS YOU-KNOW-WHO RETURNED?


MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN
MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS ‘RALLYING POINT’
FOR OLD DEATH EATERS.

Harry read the headlines once, then again.

Relief hit him so hard that he had to lower the paper before his shaking hands tore it in half. They did not know. Of course they did not; Dumbledore had seen to that. The Daily Prophet had a tidy little story about an attack on the Burrow and Dumbledore whisking him away to safety, and not a single line of it was true, and Harry could not remember ever being so grateful for a lie.

“How fascinating,” said Aynah, “your little island nation tears itself apart over a Dark Lord who couldn’t even properly die the first time. Rather embarrassing, really.” She traced a pattern in the air, and one newspaper burst into harmless flames. “I’ve watched Dark Lords rise and fall like seasons, Mr. Potter. Most had the decency to be interesting about it, at least.”

Harry’s grip on the paper crinkled it. Sirius was being blamed for everything—the Burrow, Azkaban, all of it—and the Ministry still did not believe that Voldemort had come back. Dumbledore had told the world he was keeping Harry somewhere safe but had refused to say where. Had declared Hogwarts no longer fit for the Boy-Who-Lived and had whisked him away to safety. The Boy-Who-Lived was safe—that, apparently, was all anyone needed to know.

“My Lady, please,” said Allison quietly. “He’s been through enough.”

“Through what, Emisscus Perks? A difficult night? How terribly inconvenient.”

Her fingers drummed against the arm of her chair, leaving tiny scorch marks in the polished wood.

“The Boy-Who-Lived has turned up wandless in my Concordatorium while Albus Dumbledore insists he is perfectly safe. I have rather a lot of questions, Emisscus, and the boy’s comfort is not among them.” She settled her golden eyes on Harry. “Now then, Mr Potter. Let us not waste time on pleasantries. Tell us what happened at the Burrow. Such an interesting choice of timing, attacking on Boxing Day.”

The words caught in Harry’s throat like thorns. “We’d just arrived that morning,” he said. “Mr Weasley wanted to go home—kept saying it, after his accident, that he wanted to go home.” His eyes went to Allison without meaning to. Allison had become very busy with her sleeve.

“They came at lunchtime.” Harry’s hands had tightened on his knees under the table. “The enchantments just failed.” He could still see it: the enchantments shattering, crumbling from earth to sky as if something had torn them open from below.

We need to get to the house! Hermione’s voice still came back to him in the small hours.

“Then the Death Eaters were everywhere.”

He could see them between the twisted apple trees and the ancient pears, the same trees he had picked clean every summer. They came through the trees together, too fast and too neatly for it to be chance.

“We tried to fight back,” he said, faster now, “Ron and Hermione were meant to fly for help, and we were covering them, but they—they hit Hermione with something, some sort of silver curse... and she just fell. One second she was shouting at Ron to go, and the next—”

Allison made a small sound. Aynah had not moved at all.

“I’ll never forget her scream,” whispered Harry. “The way she fell from the sky. Everything went after that. One by one. Fred standing over George. Ginny bound on the ground with Ron beside her, his legs—and Hermione—” he stopped. “There was a lot of blood.”

The silence went on a long time.

“Blood,” said Aynah at last, “has a way of changing everything it touches.” She did not smile. “He was there, was he not? Your Dark Lord.”

Harry nodded. It cost him more than he wanted Aynah to see.

“And then?”

“He had Hermione. He had her in his arms—he was holding her, like she was—like she was—”

The memory burned bright as cursed fire: her skin pale beneath the blood, eyes closed as if in sleep. Voldemort had held her like a doll, her blood soaking his robes, dripping down her chest. His laughter still echoed in Harry’s nightmares.

“I see we meet again, Harry Potter.”

“He told me to drop my wand or watch all of us die,” said Harry. His nails were digging into his palms, and he kept them there because the pain was the only thing keeping him in the chair. “I tried to resist, tried to call for help, but they started on Mrs Weasley.”

He couldn’t stop the memories—Mrs Weasley being dragged across the grass by her hair, her children’s screams, the way her fingertips had brushed Ginny’s robes before they wrenched her away, and the whipping that followed, each strike painting her back in ribbons of red, and how she never cried out, not until they turned their wands on Ginny.

“Not Ginny, please no, take me, hurt me instead—”

“I did what he told me,” whispered Harry. “Then they tortured me anyway.”

Allison had gone ghost-pale, her knuckles white around her teacup. Aynah had not moved at all, but the gleam had gone out of her eyes, and her mouth had gone tight.

The rest of it stayed behind Harry’s mouth. Surely if he could only get home, Dumbledore would know what to do. There was a reason for the lies; there had to be. Dumbledore would know what to do about what came next, and what came after that.

“When I woke up, I was here. In the Ottoman Empire.”

“Just like that?” said Aynah. “Dark Lords rarely relocate their prisoners across continents without purpose, Mr Potter. They are rather predictable in their grandiose plotting. Your Voldemort is no exception.”

“I don’t know why—” began Harry, but Aynah’s raised hand cut through his words like a scythe through summer wheat.

“And yet,” she continued, “we are left with the question: how did Voldemort know where to find you? How did your Dark Lord divine your exact location at such a precise moment?”

The question struck Harry like a physical blow. It was the same question that had been with him for twenty-five days. Was there a traitor inside the Order? Or was it the thing he had overheard Mad-Eye Moody muttering through the Extendable Ears only weeks before—The boy has a connection with You-Know-Who’s snake. Perhaps even with You-Know-Who himself. What if You-Know-Who can see out of Potter’s eyes?

Was he the reason they had been attacked?

“I don’t know,” said Harry.

“Let us start at the beginning.” Aynah’s fingers wove patterns in the air. “The papers spin such a fascinating tale—Arthur Weasley, attacked by a mysterious snake, found by young Podmore in the dead of night. And then salvation arrives in the form of a certain potion mistress who, by remarkable coincidence, had been experimenting with rare snake-bite cures.” She turned her eyes on Allison. “Is that not how you earned this post, Emisscus?”

“That is hardly relevant—”

“Indeed,” said Aynah, “it is quite fortunate that your new potion worked so quickly, Emisscus Perks. One rarely develops an antidote for such an attack so quickly.”

Allison’s smile did not quite reach her eyes. “We were fortunate the antidote worked so well, my Lady. One potion was enough, and Mr. Weasley was on his feet in days. Happen it could have been a great deal worse. An Ashwinder or a Runespoor would have needed far more work.”

“One potion?” said Harry.

The room went very quiet.

“There were two,” he said slowly. “Tonks asked what the second one was for, and you said—” He frowned, trying to recall the exact words. “You said it was to help with the healing process.”

Aynah’s smile grew predatory, her golden eyes gleaming like a cat who’d cornered interesting prey. “Oh? Do tell us more about this second potion.”

Harry’s mind had already gone back to the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Mr Weasley snapping at Fred and George at Christmas dinner when they had teased him about wanting to go home, Mr Weasley going on about the Burrow at breakfast and at lunch, and it had been Mr Weasley who had convinced Mrs Weasley, on the morning of Boxing Day, that they would be safer at the Burrow than at Grimmauld Place.

“He wasn’t himself,” whispered Harry, “after the treatment. Mr. Weasley wasn’t himself.”

The first potion had been the antidote. But the second one had been something else—something to make Mr Weasley want to go home, something to make sure they would all be at the Burrow on the day the Death Eaters came.

“What was the second potion?” he asked.

Allison put the teapot down. Her hands were shaking. “Harry—Mr Potter, please—”

“Why would anyone have an antidote ready for a snake that hasn’t been seen in Britain for decades?” The words came faster than Harry could think them. “Mr Weasley never argues with Mrs Weasley. He always follows Dumbledore’s security to the letter. But suddenly he had to go home, and he made Mrs Weasley take us all to the Burrow that morning.”

“Well,” purred the Djinn, “is this not becoming interesting?”

“It was you.” Harry’s chair scraped back as he stood. “The attack on Mr. Weasley, the suggestion potion, getting us to the Burrow—”

“Harry—”

“You sent us there!”

“We never meant— Harry, please. No one was meant to be hurt. They said it would only be—” She put her hand on the teapot and took it off again. “Only a show… only a show of…”

“A show?” Harry shouted. “TELL THEM THAT! TELL MRS WEASLEY!”

“You do not understand what I had to—”

“Oh, spare us,” said Aynah, “the justification is always so tediously similar.”

Harry backed toward the door. He had to get out. Had to run. Had to…

He yanked the door open.

Two men in elaborate robes stood in the doorway, their wands already trained on him. Their faces did not move. Janissaries—the Sultan’s elite Muggle-born guard.

“I truly am sorry, Harry,” said Aynah, as the guards seized his arms. Her voice was gentle, almost kind, which somehow made it worse. “As much as I despise it, Voldemort is not our enemy.” She looked at him with what might have been pity. “At least not today.”


Chapter 2: Mark of Loyalty

Harry reached into his pocket and clasped the small bronze Snitch charm as Aynah and Allison argued before the fireplace. The metal was warm from being clutched so often, worn smooth from years of restless thumbs—first Regulus’s, then Sirius’s, and now his own. “For luck,” Sirius had said that morning at Grimmauld Place, pressing it into Harry’s palm with a grin. “Nicked it off my dear brother’s charm bracelet years ago. Regulus never noticed, thought it had just fallen off somewhere.”

That morning it had been nothing but a casual gift on an ordinary Saturday. Now it was all he had left. He had made his choice that night, and the charm was the only proof that his old life had been real at all.

The Janissaries stood like stone sentinels on either side of him, close enough that he could feel the heat coming off of them. Their wands hadn’t moved since they’d taken hold of his arms. No one deserved this fate, Harry thought, his throat too dry to swallow.

“I’ll handle the transfer myself,” said Allison, turning to the fireplace. She still would not meet Harry’s eyes.

“Yes, yes,” said Aynah, with a wave of her claw. “Do hurry, Emisscus. The Sultan will want my report, and I detest being kept waiting.”

Harry’s fingers tightened on the charm. He wished, with a ferocity that startled him, that he had died in the graveyard. That would have been clean, at least: a green light and nothing. Not this.

The Janissaries took his arms and marched him forward.

Allison’s hands trembled as she reached for the Floo powder. The green flames lit her face from below, hollowing her cheeks, turning her skin sickly. Her lips moved, but Harry could not hear the words over the pounding of his own heart. Green fire swallowed him, and the world spun into emerald chaos.


Harry stumbled out of the Floo into a courtyard. Two figures waited in the gathering dusk, dark against the pale stone. Behind him, Allison emerged from the flames, nearly tripping as she tried to straighten her robes with trembling hands.

“He’s here,” she said quickly, “I should return to report—”

“Of course.” The taller figure pushed back her hood, and Narcissa Malfoy’s pale hair caught the last of the light. She looked at Allison as one might regard something unpleasant tracked across a clean floor. “The Dark Lord prefers direct channels. We shall manage what remains.”

Relief flooded Allison’s face so nakedly that Harry felt his stomach turn. She retreated to the fireplace as though pursued, fumbling through the familiar motions of escape. “The Sultan will understand about our Lord’s return,” she promised the empty air, and then she was gone in a flash of green.

A cackle broke across the courtyard. The second figure threw back her hood with a theatrical flourish, revealing a face that Azkaban had hollowed into a gaunt mask. Bellatrix Lestrange’s heavy-lidded eyes found Harry, and her thin mouth stretched into a grin.

“My, my…” she said softly, “breaking free so soon? I did not think you would be such a quick little thing.”

The Snitch charm felt like lead in Harry’s pocket. “You wanted me to escape?”

“Oh, listen to him, Cissy!” laughed Bellatrix, her heavy-lidded eyes half-closed with pleasure.”He believes he outwitted us! The Dark Lord’s eyes reach everywhere, precious Potter. Did you imagine yourself so clever? Did you think those pretty little books were left there by accident, ickle Potter?”

“Bella, please,” said Narcissa, “must you toy with him?”

“Sister, where is your sense of sport?” Bellatrix prowled around Harry, her robes whispering against the stone floor. “Tell me, which trail did you follow? The counter-curses? All those lovely little spells for undoing nasty hexes?” She leaned in closer. “Or perhaps the blood magic?”

The Power of Blood flashed through Harry’s mind. It had been tucked between two Ottoman histories, its pages marked as though someone had been studying it only recently. He had thought it was chance—a stroke of luck, an opportunity—

“I win!” crowed Bellatrix, spinning to face her sister. “Didn’t I say he’d go for the blood magic? Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yes, Bella,” said Narcissa, “as you have mentioned. Repeatedly.”

The playfulness vanished from Bellatrix’s face like a snuffed candle. She lunged forward, snatched Harry’s arm, and her fingers dug in hard enough to bruise. “Brave little Potter,” she hissed. “Thought you could outsmart us, did you? Thought you were so clever?”

“I escaped Voldemort three times already,” said Harry. “I reckon I’ll just have to make it a fourth.”

Her smile showed too many teeth. “Shall I tell you what revolts me more than Mudblood filth, Potter?”

She closed in.

“Traitors.”

She seized his wrist with both hands. Her breathing had gone quick and shallow. “You knelt before our Lord and pledged yourself to him.” Her voice had dropped to something soft and reverent—the way someone might speak in a church.

“I didn’t—”

Bellatrix yanked up his sleeve.

There on his left forearm was the Dark Mark: the skull, the serpent tongue, vivid as the night it had been burned into him. Harry had tried to cut it out that first night, carving into his own flesh with a shard of broken glass. By morning the wound had healed. The mark remained—permanent, undeniable.

“The Dark Mark doesn’t lie,” crooned Bellatrix. She traced the skull with one finger, almost lovingly. “It knows what you are, Little Potter.”

She pressed her finger hard against the centre of the mark.

Pain exploded through Harry’s scar—white-hot, blinding, as though someone had driven a poker straight through his skull. The Dark Mark on his arm turned jet black, writhing beneath his skin like something alive trying to burrow deeper. It burned.

“I will never be loyal to him.” The words burst out of Harry before he could stop them; they rang across the courtyard, and Bellatrix’s laughter died. “I did what I had to do to protect my friends.”

“I did what I had to do to protect my friends,” mimicked Bellatrix in a singsong voice. She released his arm so suddenly that Harry stumbled backwards. “Tell me, precious Potter—how exactly are you protecting them now?”

“I—” Hermione’s face swam before his eyes. Mrs Weasley’s screams echoed in his head. The courtyard tilted beneath his feet.

“Did our Lord not promise them protection, Cissy?”

“Indeed,” drawled Narcissa, studying her nails.

“Protected on the condition that you behave and prove yourself worthy of such mercy.” She tapped one finger against her lips, tilting her head. “Perhaps we should pay them a little visit. Make certain they are being properly looked after.” She paused. “Unless …”

“Unless what?” asked Harry.

Bellatrix spun towards him and threw her arms wide, like a performer taking a bow. “Unless you can prove you’re worthy of protecting them yourself!” She was grinning now, and Harry’s stomach clenched. “Fight me, little Potter. Win, and you shall have your freedom—and all your little friends stay safe.”

“You cannot,” said Narcissa.

“Can’t I?” Bellatrix tilted her head. “I can be merciful when the mood strikes.”

“Bella.” Narcissa’s fingers caught her sister’s arm. “You must ask the Dark Lord.”

“Fine!” Bellatrix wrenched her arm free, her voice rising to a petulant near-shriek. “We shall ask him!”


His scar throbbed with every step as they dragged him across the courtyard, past orange trees heavy with fruit and ornamental ponds where the water glinted stupidly in the sunlight. Statues lined the path, marble wizards and bronze djinn, all of them watching their progress with unseeing eyes, as Bellatrix yanked him forward.

“Hurry along, precious Potter,” said Bellatrix, her nails digging into his arm. “Our Lord awaits.”

The garden opened onto an extravagant marble gazebo, its domed roof held up by arched pillars carved with runes. A ridiculous chandelier hung from the centre, its silver and red branches holding not flames but globes like miniature suns, and beneath it a low table hovered above silk cushions. Only a few people sat there—an older wizard with silver hair, two younger men who could only be brothers, and at the far end, a figure that made Harry’s scar sear so sharply his vision blurred.

“And we are certain this will work?” the silver-haired wizard asked.

“The Sultan receives word as we speak.” The voice was high, cold, and horribly familiar. “Aynah will not fail.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. He knew that voice.

Lord Voldemort rose from his cushion, and Harry saw him properly for the first time since the Burrow; the white, snakelike face, the scarlet eyes that caught the chandelier’s light, the lipless mouth curving upward in what might have been meant as a smile.

“Ah, Narcissa! Bellatrix!” said Voldemort. “And our young wayward charge. Welcome!”

“My Lord,” murmured Narcissa, inclining her head.

“Forward,” hissed Bellatrix, shoving him through the curtain. Heat hit Harry’s face from the braziers as Bellatrix shoved him down onto the cushion beside Voldemort.

“I trust you enjoyed your excursion into the city,” said Voldemort. “Magnificent, is it not?”

“My Lord!”Bellatrix threw herself forward. “This ungrateful boy spurns your protection! He thinks himself strong enough to protect his worthless friends alone. Let me prove his weakness, my Lord. Allow me to duel him—for his freedom, if it pleases you!”

Silence fell over the gazebo.

“His freedom?” Voldemort’s voice was very soft.

The Death Eaters shifted on their cushions; only Bellatrix remained still, bent low before her master, her dark eyes fixed on Voldemort as though he were the source of all light in the room.

“Please, my Lord. Let me prove his unworthiness.”

Voldemort’s fingers traced the rim of his goblet. He studied Harry with his head tilted, like a cat deciding whether to play with a mouse or simply eat it.

“Perhaps there is merit in Bellatrix’s suggestion,” he said slowly. “What better way to test our young friend’s… determination? His resolve?”

Harry’s eyes snapped up from the marble floor and met that crimson gaze. Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved—something that was not quite a smile—and dark amusement flickered in his inhuman eyes.

“You have exceeded my expectations, Harry. Your escape was... most impressive. Do not forget that Lord Voldemort rewards those who are faithful to him.”

Faithful. Harry wanted to snarl, but the sound died in his throat. Voldemort had drawn Harry’s wand from his robes.

“Draw Bellatrix’s blood,” said Voldemort simply.“A single drop, Harry, and you may walk free. She will not raise a wand to stop you.”

“Master, I— “ Bellatrix’s protest withered under his gaze.

Voldemort extended the wand. The holly wood gleamed in the chandelier’s glow. “Make her bleed, Harry, and walk free.”

Harry’s chest heaved, his eyes fixed on his wand. One spell. One drop of blood. Freedom.

He stood.


“You cannot win,” whispered Narcissa. “It is foolish to try.”

Harry snatched the wand from Voldemort’s outstretched fingers, gripping it so tightly his knuckles went white. The moment his hand closed around the holly wand, warmth flooded through him—the familiar hum of his own magic, alive and answering after weeks of nothing. Red and gold sparks shot from the tip without him meaning to.

Bellatrix tilted her head, her smile sharp and hungry. “Oh, he will try, won’t he? Such a brave, foolish boy.” She stepped closer, her wand twirling lazily between her fingers. “He’ll fight. Just like his parents did.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

“And he will fail.” Bellatrix’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Just. Like. Them.”

Bellatrix’s laughter rose, a sound both childlike and cruel. “Oh, I’ve dreamed of this, you know. You, at my feet, begging for mercy. Now bow, little Potter. Show me you remember your manners.”

Harry forced himself to bow, a stiff, furious jerk of his body, and straightened with his wand already moving.

“Diffindo!”

The Severing Charm shot across the courtyard, but Bellatrix was already moving, fluid as water; her shield shimmered to life, and the curse skittered off it harmlessly.

“A schoolboy’s spell,” said Bellatrix. “How quaint.”

Harry stepped sideways, firing again; another Severing Charm, then a Blasting Curse that cracked the air between them, but Bellatrix deflected both without breaking stride, her shield arm moving with the lazy precision of someone swatting flies.

“Is that all Hogwarts taught you?” She circled him slowly. “The Boy-Who-Lived should be formidable. But no, you are just a child with a stick. A storybook hero who doesn’t know how his tale ends.”

“Confringo!”

The Blasting Curse hit a column, and the impact blew dust and stone fragments across the courtyard, but Bellatrix’s shield absorbed it without a flicker; she didn’t even flinch.

Harry’s breath came in ragged bursts. He could feel Voldemort’s eyes on him.

Bellatrix sidestepped his next curse without looking. “Oh, do keep trying, boy. It is so very entertaining.”

Harry fired another spell, a jet of red light that hit Bellatrix’s shield and broke apart like sparks off an anvil.

He stopped thinking about individual spells. He just fired—curse after curse after curse, red and white and gold, and the courtyard came apart around them; tiles cracked and flew, a column buckled sideways in a shower of dust; fire licked across the marble where a spell hit wide. But Bellatrix danced through it all, laughing, deflecting everything he threw without breaking stride, and Harry felt his chest tighten with something worse than exhaustion: despair.

“Is this the best the Chosen One can do?”

“I won’t fail!”

“You won’t?” Her laughter cut across the courtyard. “Oh, but you will. You’ll fail, you’ll fall, and then you’ll crawl.”

Bellatrix flicked her wand, and the ground beneath Harry’s feet blew apart; he dove sideways, hit the flagstones hard on his shoulder, and scrambled up again with his wand arm shaking but his grip steady.

His eyes swept the courtyard; columns, crates, the dark gaps between archways. There had to be something he could use—

“Expulso!”

The ground erupted where Bellatrix had been standing and tiles shattered into fragments that whirled through the air like shrapnel; for half a second Harry thought he’d got her—

She stepped out of the dust cloud as though she had done nothing more strenuous than open a door. Her hair was not even mussed.

“Desperation,” she purred, “looks remarkably good on you.”

He didn’t think about what happened next. The fury was in him like a living thing, white-hot and bottomless, and his wand was moving before he knew what he meant to do.

“Diffindo!”

Her shield absorbed it, but Harry was already circling, already casting again; a Blasting Curse that scorched the pillar behind her, then a Severing Charm aimed not at her but at the ground beneath her feet, forcing her to move where he wanted her.

“Confringo!”

The curse tore a jagged line across the courtyard, and Bellatrix stepped back. Her smile tightened, just slightly.

“Is that frustration?” she said, but her eyes were watchful. “Are you giving up yet, little baby Potter?”

Harry went beyond anger, and suddenly everything seemed bright and sharp and clear. It was like passing through fire to reach ice. This is what hate feels like, he thought.

His wand moved in a complex pattern, and words spilled from his lips before he fully understood what he was casting. All his pain, all his rage, poured into a single spell. A curse to make Bellatrix live through every bit of pain she’d ever caused others.

“Arderus Memoriam!”

“Enough!”

The word was barely above a whisper, but a wave of force hit Harry in the chest and threw him backward; his wand spun from his grip as he crashed into stone, pain exploding through his ribs, and when he tried to look up, he saw Bellatrix standing over him with triumph written across her face.

“First taste of the Dark Arts, Potter?” said Bellatrix. She wasn’t laughing anymore. “Promising but pathetically weak.”

Harry lunged for his fallen wand. A slash of red light from Voldemort caught him across the chest and slammed him backward into stone, and for one terrible moment, his lungs forgot how to breathe. He tried to push himself up, but something invisible was pressing down on him, a weight across his whole body, and through blurred vision he could see Voldemort standing over him with his wand levelled at Harry’s chest.

“Listen carefully, Harry. Let no misunderstanding cloud what I offer,” said Voldemort softly. “Your friends have no sanctuary, no safety, beyond what your loyalty purchases. Purge all other thoughts; do not let sentiment sway your decision. Your friends’ sole hope lies with you… in your cooperation.”

The weight of inevitability pressed harder than any spell. Harry’s fingers loosened, his wand clattering against stone. Voldemort’s long fingers claimed it with casual grace.

A negligent flick of his wand, and the crushing weight vanished. Another gesture and the fires in the courtyard died; the cracked tiles sealed themselves; the rubble dissolved. Within moments the courtyard looked as though nothing had happened at all.

Only the taste of defeat in Harry’s mouth, bitter as ash, proved otherwise.


“Not so special now, are you, boy?” she whispered, leaning closer. “Pathetic.”

“Enough, Bellatrix.”

Voldemort’s voice was soft, but Bellatrix froze. She straightened immediately, though she shot Harry one last filthy look before stepping back. Harry straightened as best he could, ignoring the trembling in his muscles.

Voldemort’s eyes flicked toward the gazebo. “Come. We have much to discuss.”

Harry did not move. The thought of sitting at that table, surrounded by Death Eaters, made his stomach turn.

“Sit.”

The word was barely a whisper. With deliberate slowness, he stepped into the gazebo and lowered himself onto a cushion.

The chandelier above cast grotesque shadows across Voldemort’s serpentine features as he studied Harry with amusement.

“Why are you doing this?” The words burst out before Harry could stop them. “You threaten me, drag me across the globe, imprison me—yet you helped plan my escape. Why am I here?”

Bellatrix leaned forward. “I must know as well, my Lord. This boy—this half-blood—who dares defy you—”

“Did you not defy me once, Bella?” Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. “I remember your exact words quite clearly. What was it? Ah yes— ‘stick it where Merlin can’t find it.’ ”

Colour flooded Bellatrix’s cheeks; she ducked her head. “I was young, my Lord. Foolish. I had not yet seen how the disease of Muggle-loving had infected our world. But when I witnessed your power, when you showed me the truth…”

She raised her eyes to Voldemort’s face with such naked adoration that Harry looked away.

Narcissa reached across and touched her sister’s hand. For a moment, neither of them looked like Death Eaters.

“And what an honour that was,” said Voldemort. Bellatrix straightened as though he’d pinned a medal on her.

“You know what you have done for me, my Lord. I can never repay what you have given me.”

“You have.” Voldemort’s voice was soft—softer than Harry had ever heard it. “You and your husband endured Azkaban for fourteen years. Your loyalty knows no bounds.”

Bellatrix pressed trembling fingers to her lips. Tears gathered in her eyes.

Harry fought the urge to gag.

“Augustus had not wanted to join me in the beginning as well, at the… Fontaine trial wasn’t it? You told me you were content to study spells and influence the Ministry’s view on magic from within. It took you seven years.”

“Seven years,” Rookwood agreed quietly, turning his coffee cup between both hands. “Even after Fontaine showed me the Ministry’s corruption, I resisted. We spent countless nights debating philosophy while I played the cautious academic.”

“And now you see, Bella…” said Voldemort softly, “why young Harry interests me. Loyalty can be earned. But talent—raw, untamed talent—even you, my dear Bellatrix, have admitted he possesses it.”

“I will never be like her,” hissed Harry.

Bellatrix’s hand flew to her wand. “You dare—”

Voldemort raised one pale hand. “Peace.”

Bellatrix subsided, though her eyes promised violence.

“So you say…” Voldemort’s smile grew wider. “And yet here you sit, exactly where I wished you to be.”

“Why?” Harry’s fingers dug into his knees beneath the table. “After all these years of trying to kill me—why the sudden change?”

“You.”

Harry’s scar prickled.

Voldemort leaned forward slightly, and the chandelier light fell across his face, turning the thin white skin almost translucent.

“A boy who thwarted me three times, and I found myself, for the first time in a great many years… intrigued.”

Harry’s heart was beating very fast.

“How did a mere boy best me? I wanted answers.” Voldemort’s fingers drummed against the table. “Imagine my surprise when Lucius told me about a twelve-year-old who descended into the Chamber of Secrets and faced my basilisk with nothing but a sword and that phoenix.”

The drumming stopped.

“You destroyed something precious that day. Yet I could not help but admire the feat. Year after year, Harry—Dementors, the Triwizard Tournament—and yet you survive. Against all odds, you prosper.”

Harry did not shrink back, though Voldemort leaned closer.

“You are a survivor, Harry—and I do not use that word lightly. Spells can be taught, and knowledge gathered, but the will to endure… the refusal to die when lesser men would have surrendered… that cannot be learned, and it is what sets wizards like us apart.”

Like us. Harry’s stomach turned over.

“And this year…” Voldemort studied him, like a scientist contemplating an animal he was about to dissect. “This year proved most illuminating. I felt you in my mind, through Nagini. Your untrained consciousness touching mine.”

A cold knot formed in Harry’s stomach.

“I, Lord Voldemort, the greatest Legilimens alive, and yet you slipped through my defences like water through stone. You speak Parseltongue without Slytherin’s blood. And our wands...”

His gaze dropped to Harry’s holly wand, and his expression became hungry.

“They sing to each other, do they not, like long-lost brothers finding their way home… most curious, when one considers that I have done nothing to earn its allegiance.”

Harry’s mouth had gone completely dry.

“It seems,” said Voldemort, and now his voice was little more than a whisper, “that on the night I gave you that scar, I gave you far more than a wound.”

The lipless mouth curved.

“I created you, Harry Potter. Everything you are, everything you will become—it all began with me.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath Harry’s feet.

His vision blurred. The chandelier above melted into streaks of gold and red light. He became aware of his own breathing, ragged and uneven, and of the fact that he could no longer feel his hands.

“Have you never wondered at our similarities?” said Voldemort. “Both half-bloods, both orphans. The only Parselmouths Hogwarts has seen in a century, wielding brother wands. Minds that reach for each other across impossible distances. Even our appearances were not entirely dissimilar once.”

Harry was drowning in the truth he’d always feared, always denied.

“No,” he whispered, but even to his own ears, it sounded desperate. “You’re wrong.”

Voldemort’s mouth curved wider. The scarlet eyes were very bright.

“You went to Dumbledore with these fears, did you not? And he told you what he always tells his favourites. That it is our choices that define us. That our actions matter more than our similarities?”

Voldemort gave a low chuckle.

“Of course he did. Yet, he told you only a fraction of the truth. I have shaped every year of your life, Harry Potter. Your parents died because of me. Your actions at Hogwarts are because of me. The Stone, the Chamber, the Graveyard… every path leads back to me. We are bound together, you and I, alike in ways Albus would rather you never understand.”

His eyes burned.

“I made you.”

Harry’s world narrowed to the pounding of blood in his ears. Each breath felt like drowning. Voldemort’s words echoed in his mind—I made you. I made you. I made you—a hammer blow against everything he believed about himself.

Nobody moved. Harry could feel them all watching—the Death Eaters around the table, their faces pale and sharp in the chandelier light. Bellatrix was smiling, of course she was.

“I see you need time…” said Voldemort at last. He settled back into his cushion, looking, Harry thought with a surge of hatred, almost pleased. “We have time, Harry Potter… All the time in the world to explore what you truly are.”

Harry wanted to scream. He wanted to deny everything. He wanted to throw himself across the table and do something—anything. But the fight had gone out of him, leaving only a hollow emptiness.

“You are dismissed for the night. Augustus, please escort our newest member back to his chambers.”

Rookwood rose, gesturing for Harry to follow. Harry got to his feet. He did not look back at Voldemort as he walked out.

They walked in silence through silver doors and down corridors Harry didn’t bother to memorise. Rookwood repaired the damage from Harry’s earlier escape with a series of quiet wand-taps; the splintered door frame knitting itself back together, the scattered glass vanishing from the floor.

“Get some rest, Mr Potter,” said Rookwood quietly, pausing at the door. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but thought better of it. “You’ll need it.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Harry stood in the middle of his gilded prison. Everything was exactly as it had been when he’d first arrived, as though nothing had happened at all. But so much had happened and Voldemort’s voice was still ringing in his ears, I created you, and Harry could not make it stop.

He pressed his forehead against the cool windowpane. Outside, a nightingale was singing; its mournful song carrying across the sleeping gardens like a lament on everything Harry had lost.

He lay down on the bed without undressing and stared at the ceiling until the darkness swallowed everything.


Chapter 3: Freedom's Price

His eyes snapped open.
The ceiling stared back at him, dragons and faeries carved in dark wood, their wings forever poised mid-battle. He hated them. Yesterday he had sprinted down unfamiliar corridors with the taste of freedom sharp in his mouth, and the carved dragons had been nothing but a memory; now they loomed above him again, indifferent to his failed escape.

The room pressed in, too fancy and too suffocating; the Moroccan vase in the corner with its smug blue glaze, the painting with its pyramid-eyed symbol that seemed to follow him about, the tiles beneath his bare feet cool and perfect as they had been every morning.

In twenty-five days he had learnt the sounds of the place: the floorboards that creaked at dawn, the stupid bronze brazier, the endless dripping in the privy.

Harry dragged himself upright, his ribs complaining, and reached for the robes some djinn had laid over the chair while he slept. He pulled on the emerald velvet robes—Slytherin green, of course—with stiff, jerky movements. He looked like a bloody Malfoy.

“Brilliant plan, Potter,” he muttered, tugging at the collar. “Really outsmarted them.”

Through the archway lay the sitting room. Two divans drowning in pillows, a floating silver table, and a massive desk that reminded him of the one McGonagall had once conjured in Dumbledore’s office.

Harry wandered to the desk. The Magic in Our Blood lay open where he’d left it, his dried blood still staining the page where he’d pricked his finger three days ago, and beside it sat the ancient journal, its corners dog-eared from use.

“I write with the giddy excitement of my success. She entered, believing me a simple merchant with opals to sell - until she saw my scarred face. Oh, how sweet her recognition! Before she could draw breath, my wand rose, and I whispered the words I’d dreamed of speaking.
“Nothing happened at first. But then, her scream pierced the air like music. She crumpled, clawing at her burning flesh. I watched her skin blacken, heard bones splinter, savoured her pleas. Hours passed as she experienced every curse, every wound, every emotional agony I’d endured. She begged for unconsciousness, for death, but my perfected curse denied her both. At last... she understood the suffering she’d caused.”

He’d tried it on Bellatrix yesterday, and she’d laughed in his face.

“Pathetic,” he spat, slamming the journal shut.

The door clicked.

Harry’s head snapped up, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs. There was no wand to reach for, nothing but his fists and the wandless magic that barely worked when he needed it.

Narcissa Malfoy stepped inside as though she owned the place, which, he supposed, she might. She wore robes of pale grey silk that shifted to silver as she moved, her hair drawn back so tightly it might have been painted on, and a face that did not look as though it had smiled in years.

“I trust you have rested well, Mr. Potter?”

Harry said nothing, hands balling into fists.

“You have had time enough to think about yesterday’s adventure.” Her pale eyes swept over him, taking in the velvet robes, the blood-stained book, his jaw clenched. “The door is no longer locked.”

“What’s the catch?”

“There is always a catch, Mr Potter. One cannot have guests wandering the grounds unaccompanied now, can we?”

Harry glanced at the open door behind her. He could go now, shove past her and run for the gardens, and find nothing at the end of it but another wall and another set of hands to drag him back.

“Come along.” She had already turned towards the corridor. “You ought to eat something proper today,” she added, almost as an afterthought, in a tone that reminded Harry, of all people, of Madam Pomfrey.


The corridor stretched ahead, morning light slanting through arched windows and hitting blue and ivory tiles. Carved panels ran along the ceiling, covered in writing Harry couldn’t read—Arabic, maybe, or something older.

“This is the Haremlik,” said Narcissa. “Reserved, by tradition, for family. The private quarters are through here, the parlour, the baths.”

Harry said nothing, but he memorised everything: the way the corridor curved to the left after twelve paces, the faded frescoes of winged figures dancing through flame and cloud, the fountain where the water ran from the mouth of a carved snake.

A woman sat beside it. Except that she was not a woman; her skin was grey as old stone, and when she lifted her head her pupils were slits. She nodded to them as they passed. Harry’s shoulders tensed.

“Al-Razi,” said Narcissa, voice flat, “one of the Dark Lord’s acquisitions. An ancient djinn. They speak rarely—a blessing, truly.”

The creature’s ageless eyes followed Harry, measuring him like an insect pinned to glass.

Great. Being watched by magical beings. Just what he needed.

The walls changed from warm stone to cold marble as they entered another section.

“The selamlik.” Narcissa gestured ahead. “Where the business of the house is done. You would do well to keep clear of it unless you are sent for.”

A door creaked. Harry’s breath caught.

Two men came out of it, laughing at something, and stopped when they saw him. The taller was skeletal, his stringy hair hanging past his shoulders; the other was hollow-cheeked and gaunt and still looked half dead. Azkaban did that to people.

Antonin Dolohov and Rabastan Lestrange. Both wore fancy robes, but Harry could practically smell Azkaban on them.

“Potter,” said Dolohov, his voice a rasp of mock civility. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

Harry glared and said nothing.

“Gentlemen.” Narcissa’s tone could have frozen flame, and she placed herself between Harry and the men. “If you’ll excuse us.”

They walked on. Narcissa’s shoulders stayed rigid until they came out into an open courtyard where an old olive tree had heaved its roots up through the stone. The gazebo they had dragged him to yesterday stood empty in the corner. Above it, on a balcony, another djinn sat watching them with eyes flecked gold like coins, and Harry understood, with a sinking feeling, that the djinn were everywhere.

The tour went on. There was a dining hall, its ceiling painted into a night sky where the stars actually glinted; there were baths of marble and brass, all steam and echo, that put him uncomfortably in mind of the prefects’ bathroom; there was an armoury, locked tight, though through a crack in the door he could see racks of spears humming what sounded like a Turkish tune.

They stopped before a pair of enormous doors flanked by wooden lions with black eyes. One of them yawned as they approached, showing dark fangs.

“The library,” said Narcissa. She reached out and stroked its mane, and it leaned into her hand the way Crookshanks did for Hermione.

Harry stared. Light poured through stained glass onto shelves that climbed up and up until he lost them in shadow; old globes stood on brass stands, turning slowly, showing maps of places that had probably stopped existing centuries ago. The air smelled of parchment and dust, and for the first time in weeks he caught himself wanting to stay in a room.

“Food first,” said Narcissa. “The books will wait.”


The dining hall was quiet, a long table set for only two; one place at the head, one beside it, and the dark wood chairs had green cushions that looked as though they had never been sat on by anyone who was enjoying themselves.

Narcissa was already seated at the head of the table, her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. “Sit.”

Harry hesitated.

“If we wanted to poison you, Mr Potter, we’d have done it already.”

“That’s comforting,” muttered Harry, but sat anyway.

A djinn appeared from nowhere, pouring coffee. Plates of food materialised; pastries dripping with honey, flatbread with herbs, fresh fruit. Harry’s stomach growled traitorously.

Narcissa studied him over her cup. “You’ve grown thin.”

Harry stabbed a piece of melon. “Funny how being locked up ruins your appetite.”

“Such dramatics,” she said coldly, though her eyes lingered on the bruises at his throat. “You’re not imprisoned. You’re our guest.”

“Right. The kind that gets locked up and followed everywhere.”

“You’re alive, Potter. That is more than many can say.” She broke off a piece of bread, and after a moment added quietly, “Eat. Please.”

The ‘please’ caught him off-guard. He went to take a bite when the door opened. Harry looked up sharply.

A girl his age stepped into the dining hall dressed in mismatched clothes that might have been fashionable last season, her light brown hair braided down her back, and she carried herself with a practised composure that did not quite mask how nervous she was.

The girl looked familiar, though he couldn't place her.

The girl dipped into a curtsy. “Lady Malfoy! I’m so sorry, I hope I’m not late—I tried to leave early but then I couldn’t find my good shoes, and then the house-elf said they were getting polished, which I didn’t even ask for, and—” The words died in her throat as she spotted Harry.

Narcissa’s face softened. “Sally-Anne, dear. Perfect timing.”

The girl stared at Harry, her mouth forming a small ‘o’ of surprise. She took a step back, one hand flying to the end of her braid. “I didn’t know we were having... what’s he doing here?”

“Indeed,” said Narcissa, her fingers barely moving in a gesture of introduction. “Harry, this is Sally-Anne Perks. You two were at Hogwarts together, I believe.”

Sally-Anne’s eyes narrowed.

Harry felt a jolt of recognition. Sally-Anne Perks, a Hufflepuff who’d vanished after second year without explanation, with that distinctive high-pitched voice that used to carry across the Great Hall. He stiffened. Allison Perks’ daughter...

“But—I thought you were gone!” said Sally-Anne. “Dumbledore pulled you out of Hogwarts, everyone was talking about it! Susan Bones owled me you’d gone to Drumstrang, but Dean Thomas heard you were training with the Aurors, and then there was this rumour that you’d—” She stopped, glancing around the room. “And now you’re just sitting here? Having breakfast with the Malfoys?”

“Dumbledore lies,” said Narcissa. Her tone was light, but her fingers tightened around her teacup. “He has decided that Harry will join us now. Isn’t that wonderful?”

The mention of Dumbledore made Harry’s stomach clench. The man he’d trusted, who’d failed him when he needed him most.

Narcissa gestured for Sally-Anne to sit. The girl slid into a chair opposite Harry and immediately began folding her napkin into precise triangles.

“How are your studies progressing?” asked Narcissa. “Will you be ready for Enderûn soon?”

Sally-Anne’s face brightened. “Oh, yes! My tutors say I’m doing brilliantly in Charms, and I’ve nearly mastered the Aguamenti variations, though the temperature control is still tricky, and Potions is going well except for that one time I accidentally turned the Shrinking Solution purple, which apparently means I added the daisy roots too early, but Professor Blackwood said it was a common mistake and—” Her hands animated her words, then fell still. “Sometimes the lessons remind me of Hogwarts. Especially the greenhouses.”

Narcissa reached across to pat Sally-Anne’s hand. “It’s terribly unfair what happened to your family. Lucius has been fighting the Board of Governors about these inequities. The current system is outdated.”

Harry frowned. “What inequities?”

Sally-Anne stared at him. “My family couldn’t afford to keep me at Hogwarts after second year.”

“Afford?” Harry’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Hogwarts is free.”

Sally-Anne laughed. “You’re kidding me, right? You honestly think the top magical school in Britain is free?”

“Yes?” said Harry, heat creeping up his neck.

“Of course you do!” She slapped her palm on the table, making the silverware jump. “You’re the bloody Boy-Who-Lived! Hogwarts is elite, Potter. Alumni pay the Ministry a special tax just for the chance to get their children in. My family sold heirlooms just to cover my first year.”

“That can’t be true. If only alumni’s children are accepted, my mum wouldn’t have gone. Hermione wouldn’t have—”

Narcissa set down her teacup with a delicate clink. “Muggleborns have always received full scholarships to Hogwarts. A tradition dating back to the Founders’ time. The rest of us, however, pay quite handsomely for the privilege.”

Harry looked between them. “Why would Muggleborns get free education when others have to pay?”

“Precisely the question,” said Narcissa quietly, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

“Is that why you are here?” demanded Harry, turning to Sally-Anne. “Because you don’t believe Muggleborns deserve equal rights?”

“Why is it they get to go while I can’t?” Sally-Anne’s voice rose. “My family has lost everything because of Muggles! My father had to shut down his business because cheap Muggle products flooded the market. Do you know how hard that was? Didn’t you ever notice there aren’t many half-bloods at Hogwarts?”

“So this is about blood purity after all.”

Sally-Anne shrank back. “You don’t understand, Potter.” Her voice had lost its fire. “We had to sell our house. Our furniture, my grandmother’s wand, everything. We were doing alright when I was little, but then everything changed so fast. Muggle items became cheaper—shipping and plas—”

“Plastic,” Harry corrected.

“Right! That!” she nodded, fingers drumming against the table edge. “Muggleborns started buying loads of Muggle products, modifying them with magic, and selling them for nothing. Why buy hand-spelled furniture when you could spend a few knuts on a modified Muggle version?” Her voice cracked. “After my second year, we couldn’t afford the fees. I got sent to this tiny local school that’s dreadful. Some weeks you don’t even get to cast a spell because there’s no infirmary and they’re too scared someone will hurt themselves.”

She paused, tracing the rim of her water glass.

“Things got better a few months ago, though. Mum finally got the recognition she deserved.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Right. Curing Mr Weasley.”

“You heard about it too? Isn’t it exciting!” Sally-Anne clasped her hands together, voice rising with genuine pride. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw her name in the Prophet, and then the promotion! An Emisscus to the Ottomans! Me, getting to attend Enderun!”

Harry’s laugh was cold. “Emisscus? Is that what they’re calling it?”

Sally-Anne’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

Harry leaned forward. “You want to know why I’m here? Ask your mum what she really did for Mr Weasley at St. Mungo’s.”

“My mother healed him! Saved his life, discovered the breakthrough that—”

“SHE DRUGGED HIM!” Harry’s fist slammed the table. “She’s the reason we ended up at the Burrow when Voldemort attacked! The reason Mrs Weasley was stripped and whipped in front of her children, the reason Hermione nearly died, the reason I’M HERE—”

Sally-Anne’s hands flew to her mouth, her braid slipping from her fingers.

“I HAD TO WATCH!” He was on his feet. “I WATCHED THEM TORTURE GINNY IN FRONT OF HER MOTHER! MRS WEASLEY BEGGING—PLEASE, NOT GINNY, TAKE ME INSTEAD, NOT MY BABIES—”

“Harry, I—”

“— AND I COULDN’T DO ANYTHING BECAUSE HERMIONE WAS DYING, GINNY WAS DYING AND THERE WAS NOTHING, NOTHING I COULD—”

“You’re lying.” Sally-Anne was crying, tears streaming down her face, but her voice was fierce. “My mum would never—she’s a potions mistress, she helps people, you’re lying—”

Harry looked at her. The rage had burned down to something worse. “Your tutors,” he said quietly, “your placement at Enderûn. Where d’you think it all came from, Perks?”

“ENOUGH!”

Narcissa rose to her feet in one fluid motion, her napkin falling forgotten to the floor.

“Mr Potter, go to the library immediately.”

Harry opened his mouth.

Narcissa raised one elegant hand. “I understand your anger, but I will not see a child punished for the sins of her parents.” Her gaze flickered to Sally-Anne, who stood frozen with tears streaming down her face. “Any children.”

Harry glared at Sally-Anne, his chest heaving, and the sight of her tears should have made him feel something—guilt, maybe—but all he felt was the hollow ache of betrayal.

He stood. His chair scraped across marble with a sound like a scream.

Nobody spoke as he walked down the hall, and neither did he.



The door to the library creaked faintly as he pushed it open again, and the cool, dry air washed over him like a balm; no one stopped him, no one followed, though he could feel the weight of unseen eyes somewhere behind him.

He sank into the maze of shelves, fingers brushing cracked spines and brittle scrolls, and studied maps first: old ones, with borders drawn and redrawn in fading ink, territories lost to wars and treaties signed in desperation. At first, he was not sure what he was looking for, but as the hours slipped by, marked only by the shifting sunlight on the polished floors, he found himself drawn deeper into the history of the Ottoman Empire. Journals spoke of battles where magic had been the empire’s foundation. He read about the devşirme, Muggleborn children taken for their magic, turned into soldiers, spies, and weapons.

By the time the library’s shadows grew long, his eyes burned with fatigue, but he pressed on. The next morning he skipped breakfast as he didn’t want to see Sally-Anne again.

He pushed deeper, purpose sharpening his hunt. Ledgers revealed magical artefacts traded along shadowy routes, their descriptions shifting beneath his gaze: enchanted armour that turned curses aside like rain, blades that drank magic as eagerly as blood. The Ottomans had wielded their magic openly, carving an empire with sword and spell, and it was nothing like anything Binns had ever bothered to mention.

The Statute of Secrecy had come after the Battle of Vienna in 1683. Harry found accounts of Ottoman wizards in the muggle armies, so close to conquering Europe that the German and Russian magical communities had broken centuries of precedent to help their muggle counterparts in a last desperate stand. Without it, all of Europe might have fallen. It was the same in Asia during the 17th century, with the previously nomadic Mughal and Qing kingdoms conquering old and powerful empires with armies made of wizards and muggles.

Harry turned pages, studied dates, and traced the connections between what had happened then and why Voldemort would bring him here now. What did this place offer that Britain couldn’t?

“Ah. The kul oğlanları registries.”

Harry’s head snapped up. Rookwood stood at the end of the nearest row of shelves, a carafe of coffee in one hand and a cup already poured in the other. He wore thick, dark robes over a three-piece suit of heavy wool, a gold watch chain glinting across the waistcoat, and a pair of half-moon spectacles pushed up on his forehead as though he had forgotten they were there.

“You’ll find the 1595 entry particularly illuminating,” said Rookwood, “if you can get past the calligraphy. Thirty Muggleborn conscripts levitating Hungarian cannons mid-volley. Spectacularly messy business.”

“What do you want?”

“A chair and a cup of coffee, and, if fortune smiled upon me, a book no one has seen since the seventeenth century.” He took a sip. “At my age, that qualifies as ambition.”

“It’s a big library,” said Harry. “Pick a different table.”

“I would, but you appear to be sitting on the only comfortable chair within reach of the coffee.”

“Tough.”

“Quite.”

Rookwood lowered himself into the chair opposite with a faint sigh, one hand pressed briefly against his knee. “My knees are considerably older than the rest of me these days. Azkaban took many things, but I confess I rather resent that particular theft.”

“Maybe don’t join Dark Lords if you want working knees,” said Harry.

“An entirely fair point.” Rookwood wrapped both hands around the cup, as though the warmth were the point rather than the drinking. “Though, in my defence, the knees were already going. Hereditary, I’m afraid. The Dementors simply accelerated what nature had in mind.”

His gaze moved across the pile of books and scrolls Harry had amassed, and the eyebrows rose very slightly.

“You’ve been reading about the Celestial Caravan.”

“Didn’t realise reading needed approval.”

“Far be it from me,” said Rookwood mildly. “I spent thirty-five years watching the Ministry tell people what they ought not to read. It did not, in my observation, improve anyone’s understanding of a single thing… but it makes me curious. A boy locked in a manor full of Death Eaters, and instead of plotting his next escape, he’s reading Ottoman trade history. Either you’ve developed a sudden passion for enchanted commerce, or you’re trying to work something out.”

“Maybe I just ran out of Quidditch memoirs.”

“I doubt that very much, Mr Potter.” Rookwood set down his cup. “There is only one reason a young man in your position reads about the Celestial Caravan. You are not interested in trade routes or in Suleiman’s infrastructure. You want to know why the Dark Lord is here, why the Sultan tolerates his presence, and why an empire that has outlasted every power in Europe would open its doors to a foreign Dark Lord.”

Harry said nothing, which was confirmation enough, and after a moment Rookwood snapped his fingers. A leather-bound volume soared from the highest shelf, landing with a thump. The Celestial Caravan and Its Discontents shimmered on the cover.

“What do you know about the Caravan already?”

“It’s some sort of shipping route,” said Harry. “Floating platforms that follow starlit pathways across the empire, moving goods, people, ingredients. The routes were laid during Suleiman’s reign. Then there was some sort of German Confederation plot against it.”

Rookwood opened the book to an illustration of floating stone platforms drifting through aurora-lit skies, laden with spices, silks, and glowing orbs labelled Aşıq Işığı—”Lovers’ Light,” a euphemism for contraband magic.

“The Caravan isn’t merely a shipping route, Mr Potter. That’s rather like describing the Department of Mysteries as a set of locked doors. It binds the empire together. Goods travel upon it, certainly, but so do messages, officials, healers, scholars, diplomats and, on one memorable occasion, three elephants belonging to a very irate Pasha from Damascus.”

Harry stared at him. “You’re making that up.”

“I assure you I am not. Old Whitfield spent years trying to discover how they managed the landing. He was a fellow at the Department who spent thirty years on the Ottoman desk. Frightfully thorough man. Couldn’t organise his own socks, but he could reconstruct a trade network from half a ledger and a receipt. We used to joke that if the Empire vanished overnight, Whitfield could probably put it back together from customs records.”

“What happened to it?”

“In 1963, several critical caravan junctions failed,” said Rookwood. “Entire routes vanished overnight, and trade halted. For a few weeks there were serious concerns that parts of the empire might simply cease speaking to one another.”

“And the Germans caused it.”

“A consortium of Hanoverian alchemists. Officially, they sought to ‘liberate’ Caravan magic from Ottoman ‘hoarding.’ “ Rookwood’s voice was dry. “A charming phrase. One always becomes suspicious when people talk about liberation immediately before stealing something.”

“What were they after?”

“Ağlayan çiçek. Weeping flowers.” He flipped the page to an illustration of a drooping stem bowed under the weight of its own bloom, its petals pale and almost translucent, threaded with faint veins of gold. Fine pollen dripped from its centre in a slow, shimmering stream, and even on the page the droplets seemed to glow as they fell. “Their pollen can rewrite memories more precisely than any Obliviation the Ministry has ever managed. The Sultanate banned its export after the Cypriot Massacres.”

He coughed once into a handkerchief and continued.

“The Hanoverians wanted exclusive access and were unwilling to accept no for an answer. They sabotaged key caravan junctions, intending to create a crisis and then offer the solution. For a price, naturally.”

“Break someone’s legs and sell them a walking stick,” said Harry.

“Precisely.” The illustration in the book shifted, showing platforms crumbling into starlight as shadowy figures planted cursed anchors shaped like iron thorns. “The Dark Lord was conducting unrelated research here. He noticed discrepancies in the trade records and followed them because they annoyed him. He found that several very respectable Hanoverian businessmen were engaged in behaviour they would have preferred to remain private. The sort of thing most people overlook, because accounting is boring.”

Harry frowned. “He just handed it over? What, gift-wrapped?”

“A young woman at court named Emine arranged the audience,” said Rookwood. “An adopted daughter of a minor vizier, if memory serves. Nobody particularly important, but very bright and very ambitious. The sort of person who could enter a room full of powerful men and leave with all of them believing they had won the conversation.” He was quiet for a moment. “She and the Dark Lord understood one another almost immediately.”

“What happened to her?”

“She became the Valide Sultan. The mother of the current ruler. I would not describe that as a coincidence.”

“And the Sultan? Hüseyin?”

“A very different sort of man from his son. Not nearly so charmed by foreign reputation as diplomats liked to believe. I met him twice, although the second occasion involved a banquet at which I spent most of the evening pretending to understand Ottoman court poetry.”

Harry stared at him.

“I did not,” said Rookwood. “Not a word. Delightful desserts, though.”

Harry looked away before whatever was happening to his face could finish happening.

“So Voldemort gave him the evidence,” he said, “and the Sultan was grateful.”

“He gave Hüseyin a problem and its solution simultaneously,” said Rookwood quietly. “Hüseyin exiled the conspirators, seized their assets, and gifted this manor to the Dark Lord as thanks. A foothold beyond Dumbledore’s reach.”

“He made himself useful.”

“He made himself indispensable.” Rookwood met Harry’s eyes. “A foreigner advising Ottoman affairs might raise eyebrows, but a foreigner who saved their empire? That’s a guest worth indulging.”

Before Harry could reply, the lamps flickered. The flames shuddered, casting wild shadows across the ancient tomes, and a strange pressure filled the air like the moment before a thunderstorm.

Rookwood straightened, his attention drawn to the darkening windows. “We should step outside,” he said quietly. “You will not want to miss this.”

Harry followed him into the courtyard, where servants stood frozen, their faces turned skyward. Even the birds had gone silent.

“Ah,” said Rookwood, with a small smile. “Right on schedule. Aynah al-Masri always had a flair for dramatic entrances.”

Above them, the sky was unfolding.


A great cloud descended upon the courtyard and began to turn, slowly at first and then with gathering speed, until it was no longer a cloud but a whirlwind of fire and smoke that seemed to contain a thousand things at once—smoky hands reaching against the stone buildings of the Selamlik, fiery eyes blinking down at the mortals below, glittering legs stretching and folding and stretching again as the thing crackled with energy and breathed thunder.

It seemed to stretch for hours; an eternity of unfolding limbs and coalescing power, before it finally shrank and hardened, smoke melting into copper flesh, fire solidifying into golden eyes, until what stood in the garden was a woman.

“To he who calls himself Lord Voldemort,” said Aynah al-Masri, her hand raised. “Show yourself.”

The air above her palm shimmered. Harry thought at first it was the heat, the way air bent above a cauldron, but it was darkening and something inside it was moving.

“And by the grace of God, and all who witness,” she said, and the shimmer had darkened into something like cloth, and Harry could see shapes pressing against it from the inside, “if he who claims to be the Great Lord Voldemort does not appear—”

Insects of fire poured from the cloth, clicking and buzzing as they swirled above her like an unholy halo, and Harry’s stomach clenched because the sound they made reminded him horribly of swarming mosquitoes.

“— I will tear this place apart and find the one who lies.”

“Aynah,” came a smooth, unhurried voice, “no need for your dramatics.”

Voldemort stepped forward. His robes did not billow, nor did he Apparate or emerge from shadows. He walked out of the manor entrance, hands clasped behind his back, as though greeting a guest whose arrival he had been expecting.

“As you very well see, I, Lord Voldemort, have indeed returned.”

“It seems the rumour of your return was not exaggerated,” said Aynah. “What a pity.”

“And I see the rumours of your freedom were,” said Voldemort. “I see you are still wearing those shackles. How long has it been now? Five centuries? Or is it six? I confess I have lost count, which is unlike me.”

“How frustrating it must be to see me unchanged after all these years, while you keep finding inventive new ways to fall apart. Remind me—how was it you died again? A mere babe?”

Aynah’s laugh was silvery and cold, the sound that made the hair on Harry’s arms stand up. Voldemort did not so much as blink.

“A miscalculation, as I loathe to admit,” said Voldemort politely. “But one I admit freely, Aynah, because the admission costs me nothing and gains me the honesty you claim to value. My sacrifices, as you called them, allowed me to conquer death. I have gone further than any wizard living on the path to immortality, and I have done so while retaining my freedom, which is more than a certain Djinn we need not name can say.”

“And yet, for all your conquests,” she said, gliding closer, her fiery insects dissipating into the air, “you are here, so far from your little island, and making a spectacle of yourself.”

“A necessary spectacle.”

“Was it? The Sultan’s ministers dismissed your return as rumour. A dead wizard and a kidnapped schoolboy—hardly worth interrupting the evening prayers.” Her golden eyes narrowed. “It was not until the Concordatorium confirmed the disturbance that anyone troubled the Sultan with it. You had to force them to look, didn’t you?”

“As I intended,” said Voldemort, lowering himself into a chair as tea materialised beside him. “Like all wizards, they needed to see to believe.”

“Why did you do it?” asked Aynah. “Did your pride finally overtake your common sense? Could you not handle that the boy who caused your downfall was free of you?”

“You admit I have common sense now?”

“If you did, it’s long gone. Kidnapping the Boy-Who-Lived and bringing him here of all places. Why are you here, Voldemort? Why did you bring him?”

Voldemort took a sip of tea. “That is between the Sultan and me, not a jumped-up lamp relic.”

If Harry hadn’t been watching closely, he would have missed the way Aynah’s fingers curled. For just a heartbeat, they weren’t fingers at all; they were talons. A potted plant near her feet began to smoke, its leaves curling inward.

“I have met wizards like you, Voldemort,” she said quietly. “Thousands of them. Men who believed themselves singular. Exceptional. Who thought they alone could outmanoeuvre fate. Not one of them ever did.”

Harry glanced at Voldemort. To his annoyance, he didn’t look remotely offended.

“Like I didn’t win against death?” said Voldemort. “It seems our conversation has come full circle.” He lowered himself further into his chair and sipped his tea. “Shall we proceed to the Sultan’s invitation we both know you must present?”

Aynah did not sigh, roll her eyes, or betray the slightest sign of irritation. She simply extended a single hand, and in it, two ivory envelopes with golden trim appeared. The wax seal broke on its own, and the letters unfolded themselves in their hands.


Dear Mr Harry Potter,

The Grand Vizier is commanded by the Sultan to invite Mr Harry Potter to appear at the Palace on Thursday, the 25th of January 1996 at 19:00.


Harry read the letter twice, hope surging within him. He barely had time to fathom it before Aynah’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“You are expected at the palace in two days’ time. A portkey will appear here fifteen minutes prior. Be respectful, if you have the ability, for the Sultan will determine your fate.” She glanced at Voldemort. “Do not forget the power he holds.”

“How shall I ever forget,” said Voldemort smoothly, “when he sends you as his emissary? I know the legends, Aynah.”

Her golden eyes did not waver. “See that you remember them.”

At that, she crackled, bound herself into the form of a hawk, and took to the sky. “The Djinn do like their little performances,” said Voldemort as he turned to Harry. “I believe it is time for us to have a conversation about your future.”


The doors closed behind them with a soft click. Voldemort’s study was smaller than Harry had expected and crammed with more books and scrolls than he had ever seen outside a library, piled on every surface and stacked against the walls beside instruments that whirred and clicked and shifted shape when he wasn’t looking directly at them. A brass astrolabe on the nearest shelf folded itself into a compass as Harry watched, then unfurled into something with too many moving parts. Ottoman tapestries hung above them, their embroidered stars glowing faintly in the dying light, and behind an ornate mahogany desk that was drowning in books and scattered notes covered in spidery handwriting, Voldemort sat waiting.

“Sit.”

Harry sat in the high-backed chair, the invitation already softening from the sweat of his palm.

“The Djinn have always possessed a certain dramatic flair,” said Voldemort, his lips curving. “I suppose when you’ve served the Ottoman throne for centuries, you earn the right to dramatic exits.”

He leaned back, his fingers tracing the lid of a silver box on the desk between them. “It is the backbone of the Sultan’s power. Generations of binding these creatures of sun and sand to their will. A remarkable achievement, wouldn’t you agree?”

Harry said nothing. His eyes had caught on the box, on the slow way Voldemort’s fingers caressed its lid.

The silence stretched, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of Voldemort’s fingers. Through the window behind him, the setting sun threw amber and crimson across the room, catching the edges of the strange instruments on the shelves.

“I must admit,” said Voldemort at last, “when I arranged your removal from Britain, I hadn’t expected how perfectly events would align. The timing is exquisite.”

Harry’s hands clenched in his lap. He’d learned enough about Voldemort to know that when he was pleased about something, it usually meant trouble for everyone else.

“Your presence here has created a unique political opportunity… a way to secure my influence in this country and weaken Albus Dumbledore. Tell me, Harry, what do you know of the current political climate here?”

“I’ve been locked in a bedroom for a month. What do you think?”

“Then allow me to educate you. Last year, Sultan Hüseyin II died. By all rights, the throne should have passed to his eldest son, Bayezid. Instead, the younger son, Selim seized power. Albus Dumbledore, as Supreme Mugwump, was rather vocal in his accusations of treachery—called it a coup and a betrayal of sacred law. The International Confederation of Wizards has all but declared Selim’s reign illegitimate…

“The Ottoman Empire does not take kindly to foreign interference. They remember how European powers tried to carve up their territory, how Western wizards dismissed their magical traditions… and now Albus Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation, presumes to dictate their succession? Your presence here changes everything.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?”

“Think, Harry. Dumbledore has told the British press that you were withdrawn from Hogwarts because of an assassination attempt—my doing, naturally. He proclaimed my return, demanded action, and positioned himself as your protector. What happens if the world sees you thriving under Selim’s protection?”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “He’ll have to acknowledge Selim’s legitimacy.”

“Precisely,” said Voldemort. “Your dear headmaster has painted himself into quite a corner. He cannot speak against the man he has entrusted his beloved Harry Potter to, now can he? If Dumbledore claims responsibility for your placement here, he’s forced to acknowledge Selim’s legitimacy. If he protests...” he spread his hands. “Well, what sort of leader endangers a child by opposing his protector?”

Harry stared at the desk. The trap was perfect. There was no angle Dumbledore could play that did not make things worse.

“Your enrolment at Enderun is more than education, Harry. It’s a declaration. Every lesson you attend, the very spells you learn… every day you remain cements Selim’s legitimacy in the eyes of the magical world. After all, would Dumbledore allow his precious chosen one to be taught by usurpers and traitors?”

“You planned this,” said Harry.

“I merely recognised an opportunity,” said Voldemort, reaching for the silver box. “Enderûn-i Sihrî Mektebi could offer you more than Hogwarts ever could. Magic without restriction, power beyond Dumbledore’s rigid limitations. But first, we must discuss the terms of your expanded freedom.”

Voldemort opened the silver box with deliberate slowness. Inside lay Harry’s wand, its holly wood gleaming. Harry’s fingers twitched at the sight of it.

“It could be returned to you,” said Voldemort softly. “But not without conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“Trust must be earned.” From another compartment, he withdrew a ring—a heavy, blackened ring with a dark stone that seemed to swallow the light.

“This,” he said, lifting it delicately between his fingers with something like reverence, “is an heirloom of the House of Gaunt. One of my last ties to my noble lineage… I am offering it to you, Harry.”

Harry stared at the ring. “What did you do to it?”

“Nothing, unless you betray me,” said Voldemort quietly. “Attempt to leave Constantinople, and the ring will dose you with a rather special poison. Incurable, I might add.”

Harry’s lips parted in disbelief. “Why would I ever put that on?”

Voldemort lifted the wand from the box, turning it so the holly caught the light.

“Wear it, and this is yours again, along with the freedom of the city beyond these walls. A generous arrangement, Harry,” he said softly, and his gaze drifted to the shelf beneath the window. “Considerably more generous than what awaits otherwise.”

Harry followed it. There, in a small crystal case, sat three dried flowers with pale, almost translucent petals, their golden veins dulled and dark.

His stomach turned over.

Outside, the call to prayer drifted from distant minarets. Inside, only the ticking of magical instruments and the thud of Harry’s own heart.

Slowly, he took the ring.

It felt heavy in his palm and cold against his skin. His heart hammered against his ribs as he slid it onto his finger. The metal constricted immediately, shrinking to fit as his scar flared white-hot. For a moment he could almost feel the poison inside the stone, pulsing like a second heartbeat, and a shiver ran through him.

Voldemort’s smile widened. “A wise decision, Harry.”

He extended the wand.

Harry snatched it back. The familiar warmth rushed up his arm, magic recognising magic, but it felt hollow, tainted by the ring’s cold weight.

“One day,” said Harry, his voice low, “you’ll regret giving this back.”

Voldemort grinned, the torchlight casting strange shadows across his features. “I look forward to you testing that theory. But do remember the price of defiance, Harry. I would hate for our arrangement to end prematurely.”

Harry stood. The ring sat heavy on his finger. He turned toward the door, and Voldemort’s voice followed him.

“Three days until we dine with the Sultan. I trust you’ll use this time to adjust to your new circumstances.”

Harry didn’t respond. He pushed through the doors, wand clutched to his chest, and didn’t stop walking until he reached his room.

From his window, he watched as night fell and thousands of lights flickered to life across the city. On the tallest hill, the palace sat like a crown, its minarets piercing the darkening sky. Somewhere out there, war was brewing between brothers. Somewhere, Dumbledore was making moves in a game Harry was only beginning to understand.

He lifted his hand, watching the moonlight glint off the ugly black stone. It pulsed against his skin—a heartbeat of poison and something distant yet familiar. In his other hand, he gripped his wand tighter.

He needed to figure out how to play this game. Not be a piece on someone else’s board. He would find a way out. He had to.

The ring on his finger whispered otherwise.

[To be continued]