ACT5CH5 - THE SHAPE OF FEAR PART 3

The heat was unbearable.

Malloran barely stood, knees locking, his wand slipping from his sweat-slick grip. Lin coughed wetly beside him, blood leaking down her side, eyes wide and unfocused. Narex, trembling, muttered something half-prayer, half-spell under his breath, but even Malloran knew it wouldn’t matter.

The beast towered above them — the monstrous runespoor, all three heads glowing with molten, seething power. The center head flared its hood wide, jaws gaping, flame crackling between its fangs like the promise of annihilation.

Malloran’s mind went blank.

He couldn’t feel his legs. Couldn’t hear his heartbeat. Only the hissing roar, the light, the breathless, tightening collapse of the world around him. 

This was it. 

This was where they would die.

Lin reached blindly, fumbling for his arm. He took her hand.

And they waited.

The jaws opened.

The world flared.

Malloran closed his eyes.

And then a word engulfed him in shadow. 

“MORS EXESA!”

Then came the collision.

The sound from the explosion alone, as the two sources of power met, was enough to drive a strong mind mad. Malloran wasn't sure what it even sounded like, for it was too loud a noise for that. But what he could tell was that he too had started screaming in reflexive protest against that sound, and that his voice had gotten lost in the din. All he could see was a human-shaped silhouette standing between them and the blast, and that almost wafery, a greyish shield doming over them. Fire and that grey light frothed around, as a cyclone of pure wrath sent the ocean in turmoil.

Just for a moment, his vision improved, and Malloran could actually see the pale energy shielding them. It didn’t shimmer with light or gleam with runic reinforcement — it simply was. A vast, suffocating stillness, swallowing the world whole, suffocating the flame before it was even born.

A stillness they had all known and studied.

A stillness that was made of the same fabric as the Monochrome barrier.

Death.

The realization hit him, as to who or what was standing between them and certain Death.

Clenching his teeth, Malloran could only force the Protego Totalum around him to hold still. The sheer power in the air pushed him back, but he held it up with all his might, not at all willing to lose his only shelter against this vicious magical storm. He could feel the power behind the hate behind the serpent's attack. It was pure and undiluted, beyond any mortal emotion. It was as old as the world itself, as hard and sharp and cold as steel, and as hot as the flames of hell. A hate so vital and vitriolic, that it surpassed the mortal mind.

And against that withering light and fury, that shadow stood, a being of distilled power and emptiness, an outline that was just as dark and terrible, standing against the unmoving tide.

In that one moment, she saw with her own eyes why Harry Potter was the Gatekeeper.

The serpent recoiled with a shriek, all three heads lashing back in furious confusion, hissing wildly as the front of its attack collapsed, eaten by the greyish-edged shield.

"You’ve done enough. Stand down."

Malloran looked up — slowly, carefully, disbelieving.

And there, standing on the water, was Harry Potter.

His cloak rippled with every heartbeat of the dying storm. His eyes — not green, not human — but burning, putrid yellow, locked onto the serpentine beast before them. Death clung to him like a second skin, wrapping every breath, every step, every word.

“You just came right on time,” Lin exclaimed. “That bloody monster would’ve surely killed us.”

One of the heads hissed furiously at her, and came lunging, only to reel back as Potter raised one hand, like he was about to school a child.

“Don’t be mad,” he said again. “She doesn’t know any better.”

The serpent hissed again, furious, confused — and Malloran realized, in a flash of raw, piercing clarity —  that Potter wasn’t speaking to them.

He was speaking to the runespoor.

That he slowly walked ahead and began softly caressing the runespoor’s scaled form confirmed that surreality. “That’s… a lot of damage you’ve taken. Don’t worry, I’ll get you fixed in a jiffy.”

Malloran just sat there, crouched, bracing himself as Harry Potter just raised a finger, and felt just a tiny bit silly as nothing happened. Then something flickered. It danced, a flame so tiny that he had to strain his eyes to see it. A spark, smaller than a single grain of rice, floating at the tip of his finger. Even the magic held in it was so insignificant that it was all but undetectable, lost in the ambient magic all around them.

Then it doubled.

And doubled.

And doubled.

Like a balloon held under a faucet, the mote of light expanded, swelling as it doubled with each passing beat of a heart, until a spinning ball of fiery energy the size of a fist floated above his finger. 

Alarm bells rang in Malloran’s head as the scanning device attached to his eyes told him of the level of magic held in that tiny sphere, and realized just how much power it contained. Enough that he had no faith in his body’s ability to be able to produce it in a day, a week, or even a month.

Potter pressed it on the runespoor’s body and said, “Heal.”

The eruption that followed immediately afterwards made him feel like he was standing in the heart of the sun. Everything around him disappeared in a sea of golden light, and Malloran could swear he heard the sounds of animals grunting, birds chirping and the drizzle of afternoon showers. Or, maybe he had just addled his mind and this was his brain’s way of telling it.

When his vision returned, Harry Potter was still standing there, patting the runespoor, who was acting the part of a chastised sibling, or dare he say it, a child. 

And then, Potter, no, the Gatekeeper, turned to gaze at Malloran and the rest.

He smiled. A perfect, faultless smile.

“I’ll give you one opportunity to explain yourselves. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

Malloran stayed silent. Unspeakable missions came with their own oaths of secrecy, and he knew for certain that he wouldn’t be able to reveal anything beyond the obvious, and that is if he even wanted to.

Still, Potter had just saved their bloody lives, and he’d have to swallow his pride just this once.

“We’re the Lochness squad, members of the Department of Mysteries Maritime Unit. We were tasked with inspection, analysis and identification of potential bypass points inside the Monochrome barrier.”

“Monochr— ah, the Death dome,” said Potter idly, before he frowned. “But why? I myself am affiliated with the Department. It’s sponsoring my workshop. Saul Croaker himself was present at the ICW and supported me. So… why all this?”

“We’re just doing what we were told to do.”

“Croaker asked you to attack Hecate?”

“It attacked us,” Lin exclaimed. “We were just —”

“Trying to infiltrate Azkaban,” said Potter, exhaling. Malloran could see the frustration oozing from his features. “It’s like everyone wants a piece of it. Hecate is the island’s guardian. It sensed your infiltration and attacked you like any guardian would.”

Said guardian — Hecate — hissed petulantly.

“Ah, it even tried to send you away gently.”

“It smashed its tail against our vessel,” Narex all but yelled.

“But left you and your ship in one piece, didn’t she? Trust me, that was gentle.”

Malloran didn’t want to oppose that sentiment. After seeing what the runespoor was capable of, he was willing to accept whatever crap came out of Potter’s mouth. 

“What I cannot fathom is why did you come here? Why this day? Why go through all the way to dilate the temporal flow, and trap me in that session? Why not make a direct request for once?”

Malloran exchanged a tense glance with Narex, who looked down. 

“We — uh— are not allowed to talk about that. Confidentiality oaths.”

“But you know of it, yes?”

“...Yes,” said Malloran softly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Croaker about it.”

“Don’t worry,” said Potter. “I might have a way to expedite the situation.”

And then he looked at Narex, who gasped and staggered, falling on all fours.

“We — were — given orders — you could be hostile — we had to act — ugh!”

“And who was it?” Potter’s demand came out like a hiss. “Who told you to act?”

Malloran could only stare with growing dread, as Narex continued to speak in a ragged voice that sounded like it was being dragged out through his teeth.

“Min — Mins— Minister Bones!”

Narex fell back, putting a hand on his neck as he gasped and coughed madly.

“Minister… Bones  asked… Croaker to do this? To trap me using the pretext of the session, so that you could infiltrate Azkaban? All because they thought I’d be hostile?”

Malloran nodded urgently, unnerved by seeing Harry Potter shift from the compassion and protectiveness he was showing to his snake, while being utterly rational with all of them, to this… ruthless efficacy with which he had made Narex speak.

Suddenly, he was struck with the idea that perhaps in their desire to act preemptively, they were actually birthing the biggest threat to their existence. Not for the first time, Malloran hoped he would not leave this place dead and spliced in a thousand pieces.

The air cracked — faint, almost delicate — like thin ice fracturing underfoot.

Harry Potter’s fists curled tight, knuckles pale. His chest rose, sharp and ragged, his breath no longer steady but hissing through clenched teeth. For a heartbeat, his yellow, inhuman eyes flickered — not just glowing, but flaring, thin lines of putrid gold radiating outward like cracks webbing through his skin.

“She asked Croaker…” He whispered, voice trembling, sounding more and more like a caged, furious predator with every passing second. “She — I trusted her and thought — and still…” His words broke, a harsh laugh scraping out of his throat. “No — no, of course — of course she would.”

Malloran staggered back a step, involuntarily. The magical pressure rising from Potter was like being pressed beneath deep water, the kind that didn’t just crush your body, but reached inside, coiling through your ribs, your spine, your thoughts.

Around them, the air shimmered faintly, warping at the edges of Potter’s silhouette. Malloran could see the sea itself recoiling, the dark waves pulling ever so slightly away from the point where Harry stood, as if the world itself was flinching.

“I thought…” Potter’s voice broke into a snarl, his hand twitching at his side — and for a moment, Malloran swore the threads of magic around the Gatekeeper were lashing outward, burning through the air like whip cracks. “I thought there was a way to make this clean — to hold the line — to —”

His magic surged — raw, cold, something more ancient than anger. But then, abruptly, Potter clenched his fists tighter, forcing the power back in with a ragged, shuddering breath.

His head bowed, a bitter, hollow smile twisting his lips.

“No more trust,” Potter whispered, voice dark, almost tender. “They do not deserve it. They do not want it. They will not get it.”

The air pulsed like the heartbeat of a dying god. The sea around them churned and hissed, white foam breaking against shattered magic. Somewhere distant, Narex was coughing blood; Lin was on her knees, head bowed, whispering a hoarse prayer. And above them stood Harry Potter — cloaked in shadow, framed in a storm of Death and raw magic.

Malloran had seen incredible things in his career. He had walked the Veil’s edge. He had touched Time. He had survived the collapse of three impossible experiments.

But this — This was something else.

Potter raised his wand. 

The runespoor coiled behind him, massive, towering, monstrous — and yet when Harry lifted a hand, it stilled. All three heads bowed low, the central one trembling slightly as if waiting.

Runes flared to life.

Algiz. The rune of protection.

Laguz, the rune of flow.

Gebo, the token of exchange.

Othala, the rune of inheritance, of granting, of offering onto others.

Raido, the herald of Paths.

Isa, the sign of stillness.

Sowilo, the promise that power would be available in time of need.

With a casual wave of his hands, the runes multiplied, forming sets with a precision that turned Malloran green with envy. A single layer of seven runes forming a set, and then another set, and then another, until there were seven sets of seven, interspersing and locking into a fractal.

That was the first layer.

Tiny, intricate spirals appeared next, the Ouroboros looped across the Laguz lines, the Seal of Mercury flickered at the center of Gebo. Ancient notations coiled through the outer rings, and Hermetic wheels spun, projecting a glowing cascade of shifting magical equations through the air.

It was wrong — Malloran’s brain reeled trying to parse the structure, like watching a four-dimensional object folding through a two-dimensional space. His magical senses screamed, recoiling, because the moment he tried to understand, the understanding slipped away, as if it had never been there.

Malloran realized, dimly, that the Unspeakables behind him were panicking, shouting — some trying to record it, others trying to shield their eyes, others dropping to their knees as the sheer wrongness of it rattled through their minds.

The Gatekeeper stepped forward.

“The Secret is Sealed," Potter proclaimed, one hand pressing to the serpent’s colossal snout. 

For a fraction of a second, Malloran thought he heard something, only for that thought to dislodge from his ears in a violent way. The next thing he saw was the serpent’s immense, golden eyes flickering, the massive heads drawing inward, the surrounding runes locking into a lattice —

—and then he didn’t.

Malloran staggered.

He felt his own thoughts shredding at the edges. A second ago, he knew where he was. He had known what he was looking at.

Now — Now the shapes blurred. The memory unraveled. The thought slipped sideways.

He clutched at his wand. What — what was he holding it for?

He looked up. There was nothing there. No — wait, what was it he was staring at again?

He tried to remember what they were fighting — but there was nothing there.

He tried to remember what was here  — but there was no here.

He tried to speak, but his tongue stilled.

He tried to remember, but no thought came.

He tried to want to remember, but the desire itself evaporated, as if the concept had never existed.

Across the wrecked sea, Malloran collapsed to his knees, gasping, a choked, shuddering sound tearing from his throat as he struggled against a blankness he could neither name nor fight.

A sensation shared by all his teammates.

And then Harry Potter spoke.

“The wounds were your punishment,” he said. “And this, your judgement.”

And then, Harry Potter turned — and for one breath, one heartbeat, his yellow eyes locked on Malloran. 

No words. 

No explanations.

Only judgment.

And then — he was gone.

The sea churned gently. The stars overhead blinked quietly. And Malloran, shaking, clutching his head, looked around at his battered, bloodied team  —and realized that for the life of him, he could not remember what they had been fighting.

....

....

Amelia Bones rubbed her temple, sharp fingers pressing into the ache pulsing at her brow.

She didn’t show it, of course. Serving as the top dog in the Ministry bureaucracy had long taught her how to hold a composed mask, even at the brink of the apocalypse, or certain death. Her eyes stayed sharp beneath the square-framed monocle. But inside? 

Inside, she was furious.

Not at Harry Potter — though Merlin help her, his cavalier storming-out had been a slap across the face of every tradition the Wizengamot held dear. 

Not at Dumbledore, either, even though his measured calm had done little to restrain the boy.

No. She was furious at Saul bloody Croaker.

Amelia had no way of truly knowing it, but it was his damned fault. She’d been explicit — they were to assess, not provoke. Assess. Not test. Not provoke.

At least not until Harry Potter gave them a bloody reason to.

He was NOT supposed to send in the full LOCHNESS unit to probe the Monochrome barrier at Azkaban. 

And now — something had gone wrong. His fraying tempers aside, that sudden decision to leave the session could not be on a whim. That Potter even waited long enough to claim he had ‘duties to fulfil’ only showed that the boy was capable of prudence and restraint.

That he did not give others the chance to hold him back told her that he was just as much devoted to his aforementioned duties.

And unless the Universe was hell bent on punishing her, Harry had left for Azkaban because of Croaker’s actions, and not some unknown third parties.

Hence, Croaker’s damn fault.

Of course, that didn’t stop the Wizengamot from being surly and licking their egos instead of actually bothering to figure out what the hell might have caused Potter to react like that. Really, it was situations like this that made her slowly lose all hope and wonder if Potter indeed had the right idea, and if she should’ve just swallowed her personal respect for the established law and sided with him.

“I hardly need remind this body,” came Lord Nott’s smooth, unctuous voice, “that Lord Potter’s… casual disdain for these proceedings hardly befits a member of this Council. Pointless political backstabbing — was that not the phrase?”

…Like she said. Ever so slightly losing her hope in the Wizengamot. 

“And let us not forget,” Nott continued, hands folding gracefully atop his cane, “that the same Lord Potter, whose contributions we have so generously entertained, has seen fit to abandon this Council in the middle of an emergency session.”

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the gold-and-purple robed benches.

Amelia’s jaw tightened. She hated Nott — always had. Too slippery. Too sharp. Too good at twisting moments like these into leverage.

She flicked her eyes to Daphne Greengrass, who rose smoothly, her pale blonde hair gleaming like spun silk under the magical lights.

“With all due respect, Lord Nott,” Daphne said, her voice crystalline and cool, “Lord Potter did not abandon anything. He was forced into action because certain — shall we say, overreaching — factions decided to stir trouble where none existed.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because he is Harry Potter!”

“Lady Greengrass,” Nott began. “I understand you are set to marry him in the near future and are likely besotted —”

“Let me ask you a question, Lord Nott,” Daphne interjected before he had a chance to finish his sentence. “Who is Harry Potter?” 

“What a pointless—”

“It’s not pointless,” said Daphne, holding her ground. “I know it, but I doubt you do. So let me remind you. He’s the Boy-Who-Lived. A symbol of faith in the belief that Evil, no matter how great, shall eventually find its end in the hands of Good. Tom Riddle, one of the darkest wizards in history, found his end in the hands of a baby barely a year old. Even to this day, Godric’s Hollow celebrates Harry Potter day on Halloween every year, lighting up the remains of the Potter cottage beautifully, performing eulogies about the Potters, thanking and wishing Harry good health. And before the recent catastrophe, the Azkaban Guard used to celebrate Harry’s birthday with more aplomb than Yule and Halloween.”

Nobody interrupted her this time.

“Harry Potter grew up an orphan because he lost his parents to the Dark Lord. He grew up secluded, away from Magic, because dark wizards wanted him dead. Ever since he’s come to Hogwarts, he has faced and defeated the Dark  Lord not once, not twice, but three times, in his first, second and fourth years. And from what the Minister claimed, he played a pivotal role in ensuring His defeat yet again, while simultaneously dealing with Ekrizdis. He’s the one that has ensured the resurgence of ancient history, defaced several myths and twisted interpretations of Salazar Slytherin’s character. He’s the one that has survived and won the Triwizard Tournament and dominated over a hundred dementors. He’s the one ensured that Hogwarts was free of the insidious curse hampering the Defence Against The Dark Arts education for the last several decades. And despite the Ministry’s incompetency and pointless antagonism, he's the one that saved the trapped from St. Mungo’s and ensured that the world was not destroyed by the unleashed Anima that Ekrizdis sought to impress upon us all. I ask you, I ask all of you, doesn’t the fact that you all are here, alive, testament to my fiance’s efforts and sacrifices? From the way I look at it, the Wizarding world owes him a life debt several times over, and yet you have the gall to stand and accuse him of hoarding power? Don’t make me laugh!”

A few seats away, Tiberius Ogden closed his eyes.

“Well said,” said Adrian MacMillan, standing up. “Harry Potter is the answer to our prayers for a saviour during the dark days of the last war. And when that saviour actually arrives, we want him to play by our rules? We’ve to understand that the Azkaban event was a paradigm shift, and we need to think of this beyond politics.”

“Why?” demanded Jugson. “In our world, every act is a political act.”

“I think Miss Greengrass wants us to just disperse the Wizengamot, kneel before Harry Potter, and let him shape the future for us,” said Avery.

“Oh I don’t know,” said Daphne, a cruel smile playing on her face. “Why don’t you lift up your left sleeve and repeat that statement again?”

“You filthy little—” 

“SILENCE!” Albus Dumbledore’s voice hushed the entire hall. “Silence. Such bickering will not be tolerated. Lady Greengrass, Lords Nott, Jugson, Avery, MacMillan — all of you are penalised with a hundred galleon fine. Anyone else that speaks out of turn shall invoke this punishment as well.”

That silenced the court.

Amelia exhaled.

“Now,” said Dumbledore slowly. “Lord Potter’s sudden departure from the Wizengamot session without any prior information should give us all pause, but unless Lord Potter returns, we cannot know of his version of the events. The law has to be upheld, yes, and for that, Lord Potter should be penalised, but taking what could essentially be an urgent situation out of context to smear his character is not what this body is supposed to be. Yes, Lord Smith?”

Archibald Smith rose up slowly. “Thank you, Chief Warlock, for your words. And I understand that you hold Lord Potter in high regards. But, let us not be swept away by hero worship. Mr. Potter may be the Boy-Who-Lived, but he is no longer a boy. He has slain monsters. He has rewritten laws. He has sealed a rift in reality. But power, my friends, does not excuse exclusion. It demands regulation.”

“Seconded!” said Nott.

“Thirded!” said Avery.

This time, Amelia decided to take a stance. 

“The court recognizes Minister of Magic Amelia Bones,” stated the Reporter.

“Human beings have a horrible track of following people in great power down paths that have led to huge human atrocities,” said Amelia. “We have always created icons in our own image, and project ourselves onto the person we follow. The fact is, maybe Harry Potter isn’t some sort of Merlin-reborn or destined savior; and maybe, he isn’t another Lord Voldemort or Ekrizdis either. Maybe he’s just a young man trying to do the right thing. I just have a single thing to ask, are you, as a member of the Wizengamot, willing to say to a grieving parent when the next catastrophe hits — Harry Potter could have helped save your child, but on principle, we did not want him to act?”

“Nobody is saying he shouldn’t act,” said Cassius Fawley. “But rather, he shouldn’t act unilaterally. And fortunately or unfortunately, his role as Gatekeeper on Azkaban is just that.”

“What are we saying then?” asked Minister Bones. “Must there be a Gatekeeper?” 

Fawley shrugged and exhaled. “There is.”

“I believe we have heard enough,” Tiberius Ogden declared, his old voice firm and resonant. “I propose that all this talk about the misuse of power and accusations against Harry Potter be dropped. Let us schedule a formal vote on the terms of cooperative oversight and research access, pending Mr. Potter’s formal testimony and agreement.”

“Seconded,” came Burke’s curt reply.

“I agree,” added Macmillan.

Fawley gave a nod. “Agreed.”

A ripple of murmurs swept the chamber, the tight, hungry kind — the kind that always circled around power when the winds began to shift.

Amelia exhaled, feeling the tiniest flicker of relief in her chest.

And then —

— it happened.

Burke blinked, his mouth parting slightly. “I — uh, remind me, what was the object of the oversight?”

Macmillan frowned, his hand halfway raised as if to respond, then slowly lowered it. “We were… discussing Potter’s role, yes, but the specifics —”

Fawley’s brows furrowed. “Wasn’t it related to — to the thing, the — the project or anomaly that Ekrizdis crafted and Potter destroyed —? But…. where was it again?”

A quiet ripple of confusion spread through the rows.

Lord Nott scowled deeply, rising partway from his seat. “Chief Warlock, perhaps you can clarify for the record — what precisely are we voting to oversee?”

Dumbledore’s pale blue eyes lifted slowly. His knuckles were white against the gavel.

Amelia’s heart gave a hard, jarring thump.

Because she felt it.

The absence.

The shape of something that had been there a heartbeat ago — something vast, critical, undeniable — and was now simply… not.

She didn’t know what was gone.

But her Occlumency-honed senses, her war-honed instincts, told her — something had been removed.

Like a line sliced out of a parchment, a concept torn cleanly from collective memory.

Across the floor, Daphne Greengrass’s hand flew to her mouth, her face pale, exchanging a look with Andromeda Tonks. 

"He did it," she whispered hoarsely.

Jugson’s voice rang out sharp and strained, echoing through the chamber. "What the hell are you whispering about?! What’s hidden?! What are you talking about?!"

Amelia stood very, very still.

She could feel the gaping absence — a strange, hollow void in the flow of recent events, like something fundamental had been scooped clean out of the world’s shape.

The air grew thick with murmurs, confusion sharpening into panic.

“What… were we even debating?” Macmillan said aloud, his face tight.

“I don’t know,” Burke murmured. “Something to do with what Potter did with Ekrizdis — the Anima’s unleashing, I think.”

Amelia Bones clenched her fists at her sides, forcing her breath to steady. She remembered telling Croaker to monitor… something. But for what? Why? Something to do with Harry Potter. But exactly —

Thoughts vanished before she could think of them, leaving behind an absence. The only thing she knew for certain was that Harry Potter had cast a judgment.

And whatever it was, it was already done.

....

....

Somewhere far away, on an island no one could name, find or even remember, housing a Gate no one could recall, stood Harry Potter, his hands resting lightly on the crown of a massive serpent, his yellow eyes half-lidded, his voice soft.

“Don’t worry. So long as I’m alive, they won’t find you again. So long as you stay here, Hecate.”

“THE AZKABAN GATE, THE BOUNDARY THAT HOLDS THE ANIMA BACK, HOME TO THE RUNESPOOR HECATE, IS LOCATED ON THE ISLE OF AZKABAN, IN THE NORTH SEA.”

It really was a sad thing that one couldn’t be the Keeper of one’s own secret. Things would have been so much simpler otherwise.