Harry Potter: Forging the Flame

When Harry's eyes fluttered open, the sterile white ceiling of St. Mungo's greeted him. The quiet hum of magical wards and faint murmurs of voices reminded him he wasn't at the Burrow anymore. His body felt heavy, a dull ache radiating from his ribs and side, though he was sure it was far better than before.

"You're awake," came a calm voice to his left. Harry turned his head slightly to see a witch in pale green robes standing beside his bed. Her kind but professional expression reminded him of Madam Pomfrey, though this Healer seemed younger and less prone to scolding.

"How long—" Harry croaked, his throat dry.

"About twenty-four hours," the Healer said, handing him a glass of water. "You were brought in last night. You've suffered blood loss and exhaustion, along with a few spell wounds, but nothing we couldn't handle. You'll need to take some Blood-Replenishing Potions over the next few days, but we're keeping you for observation until tomorrow, just to be certain."

Harry nodded faintly, sipping the water. He tried to piece together the events from the night before. Selwyn. The forest. The girl. He shuddered.

"You'll be fine, Mr. Potter," the Healer said, misinterpreting his reaction as worry for his health. "Just rest. If you need anything, press the enchanted button beside your bed. Your friends should be arriving shortly."

With that, she left, her robes swishing behind her. Harry exhaled deeply, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn't long before the sound of voices drifted through the hall. A knock came at the door, and Hermione, Ron, and Ginny filed in, each wearing expressions of relief and worry.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, rushing to his bedside. "Are you all right? You look awful."

"Thanks," Harry said dryly, managing a small smile.

"I'm serious," she pressed, though her tone softened. "We heard what happened. Dad told us when he got back to the Burrow. He said it was chaotic, but—Harry, you're okay, right? Really?"

"I'm fine," Harry said quickly. "Just… sore."

Ron stepped closer, his face pale but determined. "Dad said you went off into the forest on your own. What happened? He didn't tell us much—just that you ran into some Death Eaters."

Harry hesitated. The memories were still raw, and the thought of recounting them made his chest tighten. But he knew Ron, Hermione, and Ginny wouldn't let it go.

Harry took a deep breath, his hands fidgeting with the blanket. His friends waited in silence, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity.

"There was a girl," Harry began "She was on the ground, screaming… they were torturing her. I couldn't just stand there, so I went in."

Ginny's hand flew to her mouth, and Hermione's eyes widened in shock.

"I disarmed the first Death Eater," Harry continued "He went down fast. But then… then the other Death Eater showed up. His name is Adrian Selwyn"

"Selwyn?" Hermione said, her brow furrowing. "Wait… there's a boy in Ravenclaw—Caleb Selwyn. He's in our year, isn't he? Quiet, keeps to himself. Do you think he could be related to… the Death Eater?"

"Maybe," Harry said, shrugging slightly. "I don't really know him." His tone made it clear he wasn't interested in discussing Caleb. He quickly continued "Selwyn was different. He wasn't just attacking me. He was toying with me. I threw everything I could at him—Expelliarmus, Petrificus Totalus—but he was too fast, too strong. His spells…" Harry's jaw tightened. "I didn't even recognize half of them. I felt useless, like I didn't stand a chance."

"You didn't know what spells he was casting?" Hermione asked, alarmed.

"No," Harry admitted, frustration creeping into his tone. "I was just trying to stay alive. He hit me with something—something I couldn't block. I barely got out of the way most of the time."

"What about the girl?" Ginny asked gently.

"I don't know," Harry admitted, his voice heavy. "I didn't recognize her—it all happened too fast. By the time Selwyn escaped…" He paused, struggling to find the right words. "I blacked out before I could do anything else. I don't even know if she's okay."

"What happened then?" Ron asked.

Harry hesitated, the scene playing over and over in his mind. "He outmatched me," he admitted. "Every curse I threw at him, he blocked or dodged like it was nothing. I was barely keeping up, Ron. I didn't even know half the spells he used. If I survived, it wasn't because of skill—it was luck."

He paused. "I cast Diffindo out of desperation. I wasn't even sure it would hit, but… it did. That's the only reason I'm still here."

"You… you used Diffindo on him?" Hermione's voice was barely audible.

Harry nodded, his expression clouded. "It was the only thing that worked. I cut off his wand arm."

A stunned silence fell over the room. Ron looked somewhere between horrified and impressed, while Ginny's eyes widened in shock. Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"I didn't have a choice," Harry said firmly, "He was going to kill me. He said as much—told me he was going to deliver me to Voldemort like some kind of trophy. What was I supposed to do? Let him?"

"No," Ron said quickly, his tone resolute.

Hermione frowned but didn't speak immediately. Ginny leaned forward. "You're alive, Harry. That's what matters."

"I'm alive," Harry repeated, the words heavy on his tongue. "But it doesn't feel like enough. I could've done more. I could've stopped him from escaping."

"You did more than most would," Ron said fiercely. "You fought a Death Eater and won."

Harry let out a humorless laugh. "Won? He got away. He's probably already back with his buddies, bragging about what he did, planning the next attack." A faint, bitter smirk flickered on his lips. "Though I suppose he'll have a harder time clapping for Voldemort now." The smirk vanished just as quickly. "If I'd been stronger, smarter, maybe I could've stopped him for good."

"That's not fair to yourself," Hermione said gently. "You're fourteen, Harry. You're not supposed to know how to handle situations like this."

"But I have to," Harry said sharply, his eyes meeting hers. "Don't you see? They're not going to stop coming after me. I can't wait for someone else to deal with it. If I don't fight back—if I don't do everything I can—then what's the point?"

Ron looked thoughtful, and Ginny reached out to place a comforting hand on Harry's arm. Hermione opened her mouth again, but whatever she was about to say died on her lips.

Harry leaned back against the pillows, his exhaustion evident. "I'm just… tired of feeling powerless. If that means being ready to fight, then so be it."

The quiet that followed Harry's words was heavy, like a storm gathering on the horizon. It was broken by the soft creak of the door opening. Harry's eyes snapped toward the sound.

Dumbledore stepped inside, his expression as unreadable as ever, though there was a flicker of something behind his half-moon glasses—concern, perhaps, or disappointment. Behind him walked a stern-looking man with sharp features and a black Auror's robe, the silver insignia of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement gleaming on his chest.

"Good evening, Harry," Dumbledore said.

"Professor," Harry replied, sitting up straighter in the bed. His gaze flicked to the Auror, whose piercing blue eyes seemed to take in every detail of the room.

"This is Auror Darius Thorn," Dumbledore introduced, gesturing to the man. "He's here to discuss the events of the World Cup attack."

Thorn stepped forward, his tone brisk and no-nonsense. "Mr. Potter, I'll be brief. The Ministry is conducting a thorough investigation into the attack, and your testimony could provide valuable insight. I understand you encountered at least two Death Eaters directly."

Harry nodded, his jaw tightening. "Yes."

Thorn conjured a small notebook and quill with a flick of his wand. The quill hovered expectantly in mid-air. "I'll need you to recount everything you remember, from the moment you entered the forest to the end of your encounter."

Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who gave him a small nod of encouragement. He took a deep breath, then began.

"I heard a scream," he started "A girl's scream. I went into the forest to see what was happening. When I got there, I saw a Death Eater torturing her."

The quill scribbled furiously as Thorn listened, his expression impassive.

"I… I disarmed him," Harry continued. "He hit a tree and didn't get back up. Then another one appeared. He was—he was different. More experienced, I think." Harry hesitated, the memory of Selwyn's sneer flashing in his mind. "He recognized me."

Thorn's gaze sharpened. "He said your name?"

Harry nodded. "He said his name was Adrian Selwyn. He mentioned Voldemort." He felt a faint flicker of satisfaction at seeing Thorn flinch ever so slightly at the name.

"What happened next?" Thorn asked.

"He attacked me," Harry said bluntly. "I tried to fight back, but his spells… they were too advanced. I could barely keep up. I think he wanted to toy with me before finishing me off."

"And yet, you survived," Thorn said, his tone neutral but probing.

Harry swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the blanket. "I used Diffindo. It—it severed his arm."

The room fell silent for a moment, the only sound the scratching of the quill. Dumbledore's eyes remained fixed on Harry, but his expression had grown heavier. Thorn, however, merely raised an eyebrow.

"A Severing Charm," Thorn said slowly, as if weighing the implications. "Effective, if unconventional in combat. And after that?"

Harry hesitated, the memory of Selwyn's howl of pain and fury still vivid. "He disapparated. Mr. Weasley found me and brought me back here."

Thorn made a final note before the quill disappeared with a flick of his wand. He regarded Harry for a long moment before speaking. "You showed remarkable composure for someone your age, Mr. Potter. But engaging Death Eaters is extremely dangerous. You were fortunate to come out of that alive."

Harry bristled slightly at the comment but said nothing.

Thorn turned to Dumbledore. "I'll file my report. The Ministry will likely want to follow up with Mr. Potter in due course."

"Thank you, Auror Thorn," Dumbledore said, his tone polite but distant. Thorn gave a curt nod and left the room without another word.

As the door closed behind him, Dumbledore's focus shifted entirely to Harry. The room felt smaller under the weight of his presence.

"Harry," Dumbledore began softly, his voice carrying a note of sorrow. "I understand why you acted as you did. But I must caution you against using spells of such… severity."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "I didn't have a choice."

"There is always a choice," Dumbledore said. "Violence, even in self-defense, should not come easily to us."

"Easily? He was trying to kill me! What was I supposed to do? Let him?" Harry raised his voice slightly.

Dumbledore's gaze turned somber, a deep furrow forming between his brows. When he spoke again, his voice carried an almost weary wisdom. "Harry, true strength is not simply about power or the ability to defeat those who stand against us. True strength lies in upholding the values we cherish—justice, compassion, mercy—even in the face of unimaginable adversity. It is these values that form the bedrock of the society we strive to protect."

Harry's expression hardened, his green eyes glinting with defiance. "And where were those values when Selwyn was torturing that girl? When he was laughing while she screamed? He wasn't just breaking the rules, Professor—he was tearing them apart. Mercy doesn't rebuild what people like him destroy. Stopping him does."

Hermione gasped softly, her hands clasping together. "Harry…" she began, but her voice faltered as she saw the raw fire in his eyes. Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze darting between Harry and Dumbledore.

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his silver hair catching the light. "Mercy is not for Selwyn, Harry. It is for ourselves—to ensure we do not become what we fight against. To take a life, even in defense, is to carry a burden far heavier than you realize."

Harry sat up straighter. "A burden? You think I don't know what it feels like to carry a burden? You weren't there. You didn't see her. And you don't seem to understand that people like Selwyn aren't just breaking the rules—they're mocking everything we're supposed to stand for. If we're not willing to stop them, what good are those values you keep talking about?"

Hermione looked horrified, her eyes wide as she shook her head slightly. "Harry, you're not talking about stopping him—you're talking about… about something else. You didn't—"

Ginny interrupted, her voice firm but quiet. "Hermione, stop. You weren't there either. I trust Harry."

Ron nodded mutely, his ears pink as he avoided looking directly at Dumbledore. "Harry's right. You can't just let people like Selwyn run around doing… that." He swallowed hard, his freckles standing out against his pale skin.

Dumbledore sighed softly, the weight of countless years etched into his features. "It is not about unwillingness, Harry. It is about choosing the harder path—the path of restraint, of measured action. The temptation to wield power unchecked, to let anger and fear dictate our actions, is one of the most dangerous traps of all."

Harry leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the bed. "No, Professor. The real danger is letting people like Selwyn run free because you're too scared to do what needs to be done. You talk about strength as if it's about control, but control without action is just weakness wearing a mask."

Dumbledore's blue eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "And do you truly believe that strength comes from violence alone? That by striking down those who oppose us, we uphold the very ideals we claim to defend?"

Harry's answered, his voice rising with suppressed anger. "No, I think real strength is about having the power to defend what matters—our rules, our morals, our society—and not being afraid to use it. Mercy isn't strength. It's weakness when it lets monsters like Selwyn thrive. You're not protecting society by sparing him—you're letting it drown under people like him."

Ron muttered under his breath, "He's got a point." Hermione turned sharply to glare at him, but Ron avoided her eyes. "Well, he does!" he added defensively.

Dumbledore regarded Harry for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. "And what happens when you begin to see threats everywhere? When everyone who disagrees with you becomes an obstacle to your justice? There was another boy, long ago, who spoke of strength as you do now. He, too, believed that the strong must rule to protect the weak, and that those who did not conform were dangerous. His name was Tom Riddle."

The room fell deathly silent. Ron's jaw dropped, and Hermione gasped audibly, her hand flying to her mouth.

Harry froze.

Slowly, his gaze turned icy, and his voice dropped to a chilling calm. "Don't. Don't you dare compare me to him. I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work. Selwyn wasn't some kid in school who needed guidance. He was a killer. And don't think for a second I'll let you insult my intelligence—or my parents—by putting me in the same breath as him."

Ginny's voice broke through the thick tension. "He's nothing like Tom Riddle. How dare you even say that."

Ron nodded quickly, his face flushed. "Exactly. That's a low blow, Professor. Harry saved someone—you know that, right? Saved her."

Dumbledore's expression softened slightly, but there was no victory in his gaze—only sadness. "I do not mean to insult you, Harry," he said quietly. "Nor do I mean to diminish the pain you've endured. But I urge you to remember: it is not the easy decisions that define us, but the ones that challenge us to be better than our anger. Better than our fear."

Harry's reply was immediate.. "Better doesn't mean weaker. And if you can't see that, maybe you're the one who's lost your way."

"I have not lost my way, Harry. But I fear you are at risk of losing yours." Dumbledore said

Harry shot back, "Losing my way? You think I'm the one lost? You talk about mercy while people like Selwyn laugh as they torture others. What does mercy do for that girl? How does it stop him from doing it again?"

Dumbledore met Harry's gaze steadily. "Mercy may not stop a man like Selwyn, Harry, but neither does unbridled fury. Fire does not only destroy what is evil—it destroys everything in its path. The innocent, the guilty, the foundations of the very world we fight to protect."

Harry's jaw tightened. "So what, I just let them get away with it? Let them keep doing whatever they want, just so I can feel like I didn't burn the wrong thing? How's that any better?"

"Fire can consume or forge," Dumbledore said. "But it must be tempered. You must decide whether to wield it as a tool or allow it to wield you."

The silence swelled, an ocean between them, deep and boundless. Harry turned toward the window, where the dying light of the day bled into the horizon, shadows long and restless. His face was carved from something ancient, a mask of thought born not from his years but from burdens far older.

He stared beyond the glass, his gaze piercing the twilight as if seeking the answer in the distance. He was not defeated, not resigned; he was a forge in waiting, heat gathering, shape forming.

When he spoke, his voice did not rise, but it carried a gravity that drew the air tighter. Each word seemed to echo, not only in the room but in the currents of something greater, a truth being pulled from the depths.

"I've carried more in three years than most will in a lifetime," he said. "Loss. Fear. Anger. But also love—enough to keep me standing when everything else tried to break me. And I've learned something about fire, Professor. It can destroy, yes, but it can also forge. It burns away what is weak, what cannot withstand it, and leaves behind something stronger. That's what I'll become—something stronger."

His gaze swept to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, their faces illuminated by the slanting light. "I won't let it twist me into someone I'm not. I know who I am. I know what I fight for. And that's the difference between me and someone like Tom Riddle. He let his fire consume him because he couldn't see past himself. But me? I see the people who stand with me. I feel the weight of their belief, their hope. That's what shapes me."

"Do you want to know what keeps me grounded? It's not strength or power. It's love. My parents' love—the love that made them stand in front of Voldemort to save me. That love defines me, not my rage or my fear. And that's why I will never become him."

"You say I'm at risk of losing my way, but maybe I've already found it. Because every time I face death, every time I stand against people like Selwyn, I understand more clearly what matters. It's not about control—it's about courage. Not the absence of fear, but the will to act in spite of it. And I'll act, Professor. I'll fight. Because if I don't, who will?"

"I've stopped asking for a childhood," he continued, "Stopped waiting for someone else to make this right. Your generation, for all its power and wisdom, let the world fall to pieces. Now it's on mine to fix it. So don't tell me I'm too young, or that I'm lost. I'm exactly where I need to be. And I'll do what needs to be done, even if it breaks me. Because that's what it means to care about something bigger than yourself."

"You said mercy is for ourselves. Maybe you're right. But what I need isn't mercy—it's purpose. It's the strength to protect what I love and the will to see it through. I'll forge my fire, Professor. I'll make sure it burns clean, controlled. Because unlike you, I don't have the luxury of living in regret. I'll act now, so no one else has to carry what I've carried. So maybe my fire isn't the kind you'd choose. But it's mine, and it will light the way."

The finality in his words left no room for argument, their meaning searing into the silence.

Dumbledore remained silent. For a moment, his blue eyes—so often a source of calm and wisdom—betrayed a flicker of something more raw. But then, unexpectedly, his lips curved into the faintest smile.

"I see," he said after a beat, his voice measured, though tinged with something Harry couldn't quite place. "You have given me much to think about, Harry."

He straightened, his hands clasped lightly before him. "I will be on my way. But before I go, I would like you to know that the girl you saved—Tracey Davis—is alive. She is here at St. Mungo's, receiving treatment for the effects of the Cruciatus Curse."

The room tensed at the news, and Dumbledore continued, his tone gentle. "She has not yet regained consciousness, but she is alive. Thanks to you."

Dumbledore glanced around the room, offering a quiet nod to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. "I will take my leave now. Rest, Harry. And remember, you do not carry this alone."

With that, he turned and made his way to the door. For a moment, he paused in the doorway, as though he might say more, but then he stepped out into the hall, his robes swishing softly behind him.

The silence stretched, tense and thick, until Ron finally blurted out, "Tracey Davis? That hot blonde from Slytherin?! She's a half-blood! Why would they attack a half-blood?"

Hermione let out an exasperated groan and smacked Ron's arm, hard enough to make him flinch. "Ron! Could you be any more tactless?"

"What?!" Ron protested, rubbing his arm with an indignant look. "It's a valid question! They're all about blood purity, aren't they?"

Ginny, leaning back in her chair, smirked. "Oh, sure, Ron. That's definitely the most important takeaway here—Harry's adding hot Slytherins to his damsel-in-distress roster." She swirled a finger in the air dramatically, her grin widening. "First me in the Chamber of Secrets, now Tracey. What's next, Harry? Are you going to rescue the entire Weird Sisters fan club?"

Harry's ears turned pink as he opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out.

Ron, despite himself, chuckled. "You've got a point, Gin. He's got a type, doesn't he? Damsels in mortal peril."

"Oh, absolutely," Ginny said, twirling her hair mockingly. "Better watch out, Hermione. You might be next."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a reluctant smile. "Oh, please. Harry's hero complex is bad enough without you lot inflating it even more."

"Hey!" Harry finally managed to say, crossing his arms. "I didn't choose to save anyone. I just… happened to be there!"

Ginny raised an eyebrow, her voice full of teasing. "Sure, you didn't, Harry. Next time, maybe try rescuing someone less conventionally attractive. You know, for variety."

Even Harry couldn't help but crack a small, reluctant grin as the tension in the room melted into laughter.

Hours had passed since his friends had left. The soft chime of the clock in the hallway marked the end of visitation hours; St. Mungo's had fallen silent. Harry lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Rest was what he needed, but it refused to come.

The storm inside his mind raged on, louder than the quiet around him. The phials of potions sat untouched on the nightstand—Blood-Replenishing, Skele-Gro, Dreamless Sleep—but none of them could mend the thoughts tearing through him.

He replayed the fight with Selwyn over and over, dissecting every moment. Each time, the shame cut deeper. He hadn't been prepared. He didn't have the right spells, the right counters, or even the instincts to keep up. Selwyn hadn't just fought him—he'd toyed with him, like a hawk circling a mouse.

Harry turned onto his side, the ache in his ribs barely registering. He was fourteen—too young, too untrained. But there wouldn't be another chance to plead youth the next time a Death Eater raised their wand.

His fists clenched against the blanket. He needed to be better—stronger, smarter. The thought of standing helpless in the face of someone like Selwyn again was unbearable.

Shielding charms. Counter-curses. Offensive spells. His mental list grew, each addition sharper than the last. He could picture himself hurling useless Expelliarmus spells at Selwyn, like a child throwing rocks at a dragon. The shame settled deeper, dragging him down like a weight.

The room was dark now, the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the high window. He hadn't noticed the hours slipping by, lost in his thoughts. His body was healing, but his mind burned with frustration and exhaustion.

Harry barely stirred when the door creaked open. The faint sound of footsteps reached his ears. A shadow moved into the room, and then a chair scraped softly against the floor.

He felt it before he saw it—the presence of someone watching.

"You're brooding," came the familiar voice, low and rough-edged with concern.

Harry blinked and turned his head, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Sirius was sitting in the chair by his bed, his arms crossed. For a moment, neither spoke. Sirius's grey eyes studied Harry, their usual mischief replaced with something more solemn.

"You're not supposed to be here," Harry said at last.

Sirius didn't reply right away. He unfolded his arms, stood, and walked the short distance to Harry's bed. Harry watched him, his throat tightening as Sirius sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward. Without a word, Sirius pulled Harry into a hug.

Harry stiffened at first, the unexpected warmth and weight of Sirius's arms around him breaking through the walls he'd built in his mind. Sirius held him firmly, his hand resting on the back of Harry's head, his other arm wrapped securely around his back.

And then, something broke.

Harry's breath hitched, and he buried his face against Sirius's shoulder. The tears came slowly at first, hot and stinging, but they quickly turned into sobs that wracked his body. Sirius didn't speak, didn't move. He just held Harry, letting him release everything he'd been carrying.

"I was just useless," Harry choked out between sobs. "I—I hate it. I hate feeling this way."

Sirius's hand moved gently, stroking Harry's hair as he whispered, "You're not useless, Harry. Not even close."

"I couldn't do anything," Harry continued, his voice muffled. "He—he made me feel like I was nothing. I just—I hate it."

"You're not nothing," Sirius said quietly,. "What you did—what you survived—most grown wizards couldn't have done. You stood your ground, Harry. That's not nothing. That's everything."

The sobs began to ease, leaving Harry trembling in the aftermath. He stayed in Sirius's embrace for a while longer, the solid presence anchoring him, until finally, he pulled back. His face was red and tear-streaked, but his breathing had evened out.

Harry wiped his face with the back of his hand and looked down at the blanket. "Thanks," he said softly.

Sirius ruffled Harry's hair lightly, his touch gentle. "Listen," he said, his tone quiet but purposeful. "There's something you need to know. Tomorrow, Arthur Weasley will come by. He's bringing a Portkey for you. It'll take you to Grimmauld Place—your new home."

Harry blinked, his brow furrowing. "My… new home?"

Sirius gave him a small smile, though his eyes carried a depth of emotion that words couldn't quite reach. "It's all arranged. Dumbledore and I have sorted everything. You won't be going back to Privet Drive, Harry. Not ever."

Harry stared at Sirius, the words sinking in slowly.

"It's not perfect," Sirius continued, "but it's yours. Ours. A place where you'll be safe. And I'll be there, Harry. Always."

Harry nodded, his throat tight again, but this time not from sorrow. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Sirius stood and gave Harry's shoulder a firm squeeze. "Now, do me a favor. Drink those potions and get some sleep. You've had enough excitement for one lifetime, let alone one day."

Harry managed a faint smile as Sirius made his way to the door. And then he was gone, leaving Harry in the quiet, moonlit room.