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HP425- Power Beyond
🕑 Added 2025-05-10 23:52:40 +0000 UTC“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.”
The cup in Harry’s hand snapped in two, hot tea spilling across his palm and coat. He dropped the pieces onto the table with a sharp clink.
“To stop others?” he asked, voice low but sharp.
Perenelle was already up, wand flicking quickly to dry the spill and clear the shards from the table. Her other hand hovered over his sleeve, checking for burns. Nicolas looked like he regretted opening his mouth but didn’t take it back.
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, watching Harry closely. “But… it concerns you. So I will.”
Harry leaned in slightly. “What?”
Nicolas looked toward Perenelle. She gave a nod—silent go-ahead.
He looked back to Harry. “The reason Voldemort came after you in the first place was a prophecy.”
Harry raised a brow. “What prophecy?”
He already knew about it, obviously. Nigel had dropped it on him back in first year like it was casual trivia. But he’d never heard the full thing. Just that Voldemort believed Harry was dangerous. Nothing more.
Nicolas leaned back, fingers tapping once against the side of his cup. “I don’t know the full wording. Dumbledore said he overheard a seer. It was a true prophecy, apparently.”
Harry raised a brow. “Overheard?”
“He was at the interview,” Nicolas said. “She slipped into a trance and gave the prophecy.”
Harry leaned forward slightly. “And it just so happened to be about Voldemort.”
Nicolas nodded. “According to Dumbledore, the prophecy said that the Dark Lord would mark his equal… and only the one marked could defeat him.”
Harry frowned, rubbing the scar with his thumb. “That doesn’t make any sense. If I’m the one who has to finish him, why would Dumbledore fly across the globe just to protect him?”
“Because he doesn’t believe in killing unless there’s no other option,” Nicolas said, tone flat. “He wants redemption first. Every time.”
Harry sat back in his chair. “For Voldemort?”
“He thinks everyone can be saved. Even someone like Riddle.”
“That’s mad,” Harry said. “You don’t ‘save’ someone like that. You stop them.”
Petunia cut in, folding her arms. “So what, he’d rather let more people die than kill a man who’s already beyond saving?”
Perenelle’s voice was quieter now. “Albus thinks that every death is a failure.”
“Then maybe he should count the ones who’ve already died because he hesitated,” Harry muttered.
Nicholas watched him for a beat, then nodded once. “That’s always been his weakness.”
Harry lay on his bed, one arm over his eyes. His other hand rested on his chest, fingers tapping lightly. He wasn’t furious, but he was annoyed. The kind of irritation that came when you learned people kept leaving things out—and called it protection.
“Nigel,” he said, not moving, “do you know the prophecy?”
There was a pause, then Nigel replied with that same apologetic tone he always used when things got awkward. “I do, Harry. But I cannot reveal it.”
Harry let out a short breath through his nose. “Another one of those details you’re conveniently not allowed to say?”
“I’m sorry,” Nigel said, quiet again. “It is tied to powers beyond me.”
Harry pulled his arm away from his face and looked at the ceiling. “Seems like a lot’s beyond you lately.”
Nigel didn’t answer.
He woke the next morning to three enchanted paper cards bouncing near his ear like manic fairies. All three flashing WAKE UP in different styles—Tracey’s had confetti, Astoria’s came with a trumpet sound, and Daphne’s just said, You’re late in aggressive block letters.
He blinked, batted them aside, and sat up.
Today was Christmas Eve. Harry had planned the Paris trip with Petunia, but after what he heard at the last night, he hesitated. “No,” Harry muttered, shaking his head. “Not letting that bastard ruin my holiday.”
He had a nice breakfast with the Flamels—toast, eggs, and warm crumpets that were too good for how early it was. As always, the crumpets were perfect, but they still left that weird bitterness at the back of his mouth.
“Right, I’m done playing polite guest. Thanks for the food,” Harry said.
Perenelle waved a hand as she banished the dishes mid-air. “Don’t forget your coat.”
Petunia rolled her eyes, already halfway to the door. “I swear, he’d leave without it if no one reminded him.”
“I have magic. I don’t need a coat.”
“You still sneeze,” she replied without missing a beat.
Harry grinned. “I fake those for sympathy.”
“Try again,” Petunia said, tugging open the door and stepping into the crisp morning air.
“You still mad I didn’t write every day?”
Petunia gave him a flat look. “You’re lucky I didn’t show up at the castle. I was one floo powder away.”
“Would’ve been a riot,” he said, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets.
They walked the streets, ducking through Muggle crowds with coats zipped up and scarves knotted tight. Petunia clung to Harry’s arm. Shops were already buzzing. Christmas lights blinked lazily in window displays, children jumping in the streets. Harry picked up a bag of roasted chestnuts from a vendor’s cart, handed some to Petunia, She took one, then another, then tried to pretend she wasn’t sneaking a third.
They ducked into a bookstore next, mostly to get out of the wind. Petunia browsed the cookery section while Harry wandered past the latest Muggle fiction. Most of it was junk. Some war thriller with too many explosions on the cover, something about a vampire in love with a librarian—he passed on both.
Eventually, they slipped through the hidden side alley that led to the magical entrance. The air shifted the moment they passed the ward—a little warmer, a little sharper. Magic buzzed underfoot like static. They stepped into the cobbled lanes of the magical district and cut left toward the café where they’d planned to meet Fleur.
Fleur stood just outside the café entrance, scarf wrapped neatly, arms crossed as she leaned against the railing with the ease of someone who knew exactly how good she looked and had no interest in hiding it. Her eyes lit up when she spotted them.
Next to her, Neville looked like he hadn’t noticed a single person in Paris besides Fleur since they’d arrived. Their hands were locked together like someone had spelled them that way, and judging by the faint smudge of lip gloss on his cheek, they hadn’t exactly been subtle about their time together.
Petunia glanced at them and muttered, “Well, at least they’re not snogging on the table.”
“Yet,” Harry replied.
Neville spotted them and raised a hand. “Over here!”
Fleur gave Harry a smile. “You are late.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to.”
Fleur rolled her eyes but smiled all the same. “Spoken like someone who had to sprint the last three streets.”
Neville shook his head, grinning as he pulled Fleur closer by the waist. “He just didn’t want to admit he was lost.”
“I wasn’t,” Harry replied. “Aunt Petunia was in charge of directions.”
“He tried to shortcut through a bakery,” Petunia said flatly.
Fleur stepped aside and nodded toward the café. “Well, you’re here now. Come in before the good seats are gone.”
They followed her in, pushing through the enchanted glass doors that kept the December chill out. The place was packed, mostly local wizards and a few tourists. A waitress waved them toward a table tucked near the fireplace. The place smelled of spiced cocoa, buttered pastries, and charmed wreaths that gave off hints of pine.
Neville claimed the seat next to Fleur, obviously. Harry dropped into the one across from him, Petunia settling beside him.
Fleur ordered hot chocolate straightaway. “With the hazelnut shot,” she added, giving the server a look that said she’d hex someone if it came out wrong.
Neville followed with a grin. “Same.”
Petunia went for mulled cider. Harry ordered a pot of black tea and some lemon biscuits. The table settled into the usual low buzz of chatter and clinking cups.
