HP424- To Save

The water was hot, steam curling off the surface, held steady by charmwork. Harry slid in, leaning back until only his head stayed above water. His muscles eased, heat seeping in. No aches, no cold, no shouting. Just silence and warmth.

Nigel’s voice cut in. “What’s the plan? No big evil hanging around school this year.”

Harry didn’t open his eyes. “You didn’t have to jinx it.”

“I’m simply observing. First time since you set foot in Hogwarts, you’re not dodging curses every week.”

“That’s why I’m enjoying it.” He sank deeper, water creeping to his chin. “No plots. No homicidal professors. No one dragging me into dungeons. I’m having a normal term for once.”

Nigel made a vague hum. “So... building your harem, are you?”

Harry cracked an eye open. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Well,” Nigel said, dryly, “You’ve got at least six girls rotating guard duty during meals. That’s coordination.”

Harry let the eye shut again. “That’s friendship. I’m just social.”

Nigel huffed, “Social, he says. That little imp Astoria is easing the idea in. Talks about the ‘Potter Harem’ every other sentence like she’s running a soft campaign. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were puppeteering her.”

Harry leaned back in the bath, eyes still half-closed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Nigel. Just because I’ve done a few... ungentlemanly things to impress girls doesn’t mean I’m some manipulative villain.”

There was a short pause.

“Well,” Nigel said, not even pretending to sound innocent, “aside from toppling Miss Bones off her broom in first year so you could swoop in like a hero, you’ve behaved. Mostly.”

Harry shrugged. “She should’ve worn better gloves.”

“Mmm,” Nigel replied, not sounding convinced. Harry ignored him.

Drying off with a towel, Harry stepped out of the bath, tossed it toward the hamper, and made for the bed without bothering to dress. The sheets were freshly changed and he threw himself onto them with a tired exhale. The moment his head hit the pillow, he was out.

Next morning, he dressed fast, snatched a roll from the tray Bellatrix had left, and made his way to the entry. She waited by the door.

Harry slung his coat over one arm. “Don’t burn the place down.”

She bowed her head. “I’ll only sharpen the wards, Master.”

He tapped her on the shoulder once, then pulled out the ring Flamel had given him. One flick, and he vanished.

The portkey landed him just outside Château Flamel. Petunia stood just inside the courtyard, arms crossed like she’d been waiting all morning. The second she saw him, she strode forward and pulled him into a tight hug without preamble.

Harry tolerated it for three seconds before muttering, “You’re wrinkling the coat.”

Petunia let go, smacked his shoulder lightly. “You didn’t write for three days.”

He kissed her cheek. “Missed you too, Aunty.”

Petunia smiled, brushing invisible lint off his coat like she hadn’t just clung to him five seconds ago. “Come in. Nicholas and Perenelle are waiting.”

Harry stepped inside, ignoring the last bit. The air inside was warm and smelled faintly of roasted something and whatever herbs Perenelle had been drying again—sage or marjoram, probably both.

Perenelle was already in the kitchen when they arrived, wand moving through the air as dishes floated onto the dining table. She turned when she saw Harry and gave him a quick hug, then went back to charming the spoons to stir themselves.

“Sit,” she said. “You look like you’ve been running a Quidditch team.”

“Close enough,” Harry muttered, pulling out a chair.

Nicholas stepped in from the side room, closing a large book as he joined them. “Harry,” he greeted “Good timing. Breakfast is nearly done.”

Petunia joined them at the table while Perenelle levitated the hard-boiled eggs.

“Anything unexpected this year?” Nicholas asked as he took his seat, serving himself some of the stew.

Harry gave a shrug. “Shockingly, Hogwarts is quiet. No attacks, no tournaments, no cursed professors. Just training and OWLs."

Nicholas hummed, chewing a piece of bread. “So, no danger this year, and yet Dumbledore leaves the castle.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, digging into the stew. “Didn’t even announce it. Just gone one morning. Rumors say he’s in East Asia.”

Nicholas leaned back, wiping his mouth. “It’s not natural, what’s happening there.”

Petunia paused with her fork halfway up. “You mean the disappearances?”

“More than that,” Nicholas said. “Old places are waking up. Sites we thought were dead or buried—wards failing, old seals cracking. And whatever’s behind it isn’t just using dark magic. It’s old dark magic.

Harry looked at him. “Do you know anything?”

Nicolas nodded, casually spreading butter over toast like they were just discussing Quidditch standings. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

Harry waited, not pressing.

“From what I’ve gathered,” Nicolas went on, “whoever’s behind it—this mess in the east—might be cultivating Dementors.”

Harry blinked. “Cultivating Dementors? As in cloning?”

Nicolas shook his head. “You know Dementors are Amortal beings. They don’t die. Don’t breed. They form from negative emotion—misery, despair, fear. Not something you mix in a cauldron.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming once on the table. “So whoever’s out there is deliberately creating misery? Using it like a breeding ground?”

“Yes,” Nicolas said. “And I shouldn’t have to tell you how.”

Harry let that sit for a second. “Torture. Mass fear. Killings. Chaos. They’re turning people into fuel.”

Perenelle gave a slight nod. “It wouldn’t take much. Entire villages erased—families vanishing. The aftermath is enough to wake a dozen Dementors.”

“And if they’re doing it consistently…” Nicolas added, “they’re likely collecting the results. Herding them.”

Harry frowned. “What would you even do with a Dementor army? They’re barely trainable. They’re not loyal, they feed on everything.”

“Unless you have something older to control them,” Nicolas said.

Harry gave him a look. “Like what?”

“There are artifacts. Spells lost to time. Not British, not even Western. The Eastern magical systems have things we’ve only read about—song-based control, soul chains, ambient bindings… That kind of power is rare, but not impossible. Especially in a lawless area.”

Perenelle added, “But that is not all. Dementors are sentient. You can speak with them. Many Dark Lords bargained for their help during war—offering despair in exchange for service. They don’t age, don’t tire, and they don’t stop unless you make them.”

Harry tapped his spoon once against the side of his bowl. “So basically, pay them in terror and misery, and you’ve got yourself an undead strike squad.”

“Correct,” Nicolas said, reaching for his tea. “And if someone’s out there gathering them —especially in those numbers—then they’re not just using chaos. They’re preparing for a long-term strategy.”

Petunia raised an eyebrow. “And no one reacts at all?”

Nicolas gave a dry snort. “Of course not. Too far, too foreign. As long as it doesn’t reach their borders, they’ll pretend it’s a regional anomaly.”

Harry frowned. “So Dumbledore went because he suspects it’s Voldemort behind this?”

Nicolas didn’t even blink. “He knows it’s Voldemort. Your little stunt did more damage than you thought. He’s weak. Exposed. He needs numbers.”

“North Korea’s a bold choice for numbers,” Harry said.

Nicolas nodded. “Because it’s not a pick. It’s a last resort. He can’t touch Russia, China, or even the smaller enclaves. Anywhere with a real magical government would retaliate. But that area is isolated. No real presence. No one claims it. He thinks that makes it free real estate.”

Petunia leaned forward slightly. “Isn’t it?”

Perenelle gave a short laugh as she finished pouring more tea into Petunia’s cup. “Not quite, dear. Just because a land’s lawless doesn’t mean it’s unprotected. There are Light-aligned Lords scattered across the world. Same as Dark ones. Some of them live in exile, some operate in secret. But they exist. And while they don’t involve themselves with day-to-day wizarding politics, they don’t ignore true threats either.”

Nicholas nodded. “The only reason Voldemort hasn’t been hit yet by international forces is politics. British Ministry wouldn’t want foreign powers stepping in. Makes them look weak.”

“Especially when they had Dumbledore,” Perenelle added. “His presence was half the reason Voldemort kept it local back in the day. If someone like Dumbledore’s already on the board, outside forces hold off. Prestige, pride—it all matters more than common sense.”

Harry leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “So Voldemort never left Britain because he was afraid?”

“Afraid of what he couldn’t control,” Nicholas replied. “Grindelwald tried expanding globally, got stopped. Voldemort stuck with what he knew—Britain, the bloodlines, the internal rot. Safe ground.”

“But now he’s in no-man’s land,” Harry said. “No magical government. No political lines to cross.”

“Which means he’s up for grabs,” Nicholas said simply. “Anyone with enough bite could step in and take him out. No paperwork in the way. That’s the danger.”

Petunia frowned slightly. “So what’s Dumbledore doing? Talking? Fighting?”

Both, I suspect,” Nicolas said with a heavy breath. “He’s too soft. And I fear he didn’t go to stop Voldemort—he went to stop others from killing him.”