Chapter Text
The chaos that came after he screamed was almost worse than the situation that prompted it in the first place. Well, no, but it was certainly more confusing. Looking around at the 20 or so powerful men and the literal dragon that had appeared out of nowhere, Harry felt he could be forgiven for being overwhelmed. It felt like his mind wasn’t actually processing the situation and Harry couldn’t help doubting his eyes. Maybe this was all an elaborate hallucination. After all, less than an hour ago, he had been dead!
Returning to his body after being hit with the killing curse hurt. As he concentrated on remaining completely limp, Harry assumed that the underlying soreness was the trade-off for surviving the unforgivable. Again. Unfortunately, the pain that started as a dull ache quickly intensified. He felt it build as Narcissa declared him dead. As Hagrid carried his body back to the castle. As Neville stood tall, showcasing the courage Harry had always known he had. His bones felt like they were throbbing deep beneath layers of skin and muscle, and his skin itched. Thankfully, years of experience left Harry practiced at ignoring pain and he was able to grit his teeth and shove it to the back of his mind as he darted out of Hagrid’s arms to find a wand and rejoin the fight.
It was messy. The chaos of the battle almost seemed more intense than before the ceasefire, now that it was fuelled by the grief and desperation of losing loved ones. Harry quickly found himself facing one enemy after another, taking down masked Death Eaters, half-shifted werewolves, and even a troll. Things moved too quickly for any planning or strategy, and Harry found himself using whatever spell came to the top of his mind. He was relieved when they came easily despite his stolen wand and had a fleeting thought of thanks for Hermione’s help in expanding his spell repertoire during their months on the run.
The pain in Harry’s body continued to wreak havoc on his central nervous system as the two sides clashed. The itching skin had evolved into a burning sensation and if he didn’t know better Harry would have sworn his bones were splintering. His breathing was becoming increasingly laboured and a sudden stabbing in his stomach had him doubling over, a vicious looking orange spell boiling the air where his head had been only moments before. The curse he sent back was more powerful than Harry expected, but he couldn’t summon even a flicker of guilt when he saw he had torn the man’s wand arm clean off. Not even when the agonized scream throbbed in his aching ears. Not when he could still hear little Dennis Creevey sobbing over his fallen brother in his mind too.
Harry was just turning from the dying man towards the lake, where he could see the grotesque, decaying bodies of dozens of inferi climbing the banks, when his vision went blurry. His temperature seemed to spike, fire racing through his veins.
Dizzy, overwhelmed by agony, Harry darted into a shadowed nook created by the rubble of a collapsed castle wall to breathe. He felt like his skin was being flayed and seared off while knives were being jabbed into the tips of his fingers and toes. His head throbbed—eyes, ears, jaw, and gums all screaming—as if scraped with rusty needles. It was unbearable and Harry didn’t understand what was happening to him. Was this a side effect of dying and coming back? His back pulsated and burned, and Harry couldn’t help but imagine giant hooks digging beneath his shoulder blades, slowly prying them from his skeleton.
He tried not to choke on his fear and exhaustion as the sound of the battle faded around him in the face of this new horror. Finally, a scream ripped from his throat as a set of large leathery wings tore free from the skin on his back with a spray of gore. Wings. He had wings?! What was happening to him? The concept had barely registered before another wave of agony stole his breath.
Distantly, Harry thought this had to be the worst pain he had experienced in his short life. Worse than Voldemort’s cruciatus, worse than a dementor trying to suck out his soul, worse than being possessed, worse than dying. The small part of his mind that was still able to form thought was shocked that he was still conscious.
Unfortunately, the rubble shielding Harry during this moment of vulnerability hadn’t been enough to hide the pain-filled scream from those hunting him. As he came back to himself, vulnerable from the torture, wings raw and twitching behind him, skin rippling with scales, Harry looked up to find malicious red eyes glaring down at him.
He was cornered, body weak and trembling as Voldemort, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Antonin Dolohov moved to surround him. A quick spell from Dolohov sent wicked barbed spears tearing through his sensitive new wings, pinning him to the ground and prompting another screech of pain.
“Well, well, well,” the Dark Lord sneered, voice deceptively soft. “I admit myself perplexed, perhaps even unsettled, when you revealed yourself alive, Harry Potter. Lord Voldemort does not make mistakes and yet you have proven yourself to be a most irritating anomaly. I am pleased to discover that your unusual failure to die was not a result of any great power or omen of prophecy. To think that Harry Potter had a hidden Dragel inheritance. Now, it makes sense how you were able to defy me, the great Lord Voldemort, for so long.” His hissing voice slipped past the agony to pierce through Harry’s mind, sending shudders down his spine.
Harry must have disassociated or missed some silent cue as he struggled to understand Voldemort’s words, because the next thing he knew, Bellatrix had him writhing under a Cruciatus. His screams and twitches pulled at his vulnerable wings, jerking them painfully against the barbed spears. Fear and desperation took root deep in Harry’s gut.
The curse ended, and Harry lay limp, gasping for breath. He could hear the ongoing battle in the background, spell fire flying, giants roaring, and wixen screaming as they struggled against dark creatures and their own kind alike. This was not what he expected when he chose to return, and he refused to die pinned to the ground like the helpless butterflies Dudley had collected when they were children.
Voldemort and his lieutenants cackled over him as Harry struggled to breathe. He lifted his gaze to glare at the vile man, only to have it catch on a figure slowly approaching the hidden corner where he lay, pinned down by the enemy. As his blurry vision cleared, he could make out red hair and dusty, battle-torn purple robes. George Weasley was slowly creeping up behind the three evil wizards as their focus remained fixed on Harry.
Harry’s eyes widened in fear. What was George doing?! He didn’t have anyone else to back him up, and Harry was useless; his stolen wand broken under Bellatrix’s heel, pinned by his wings, and still shaking with the aftershocks of pain. George didn’t hesitate in his motions though, eyes wild with grief and rage as he moved forward determinedly. Harry felt a sharp surge of grief crack through him as the image of Fred’s limp body laid out in the Great Hall burned itself across his mind. Harry swallowed the misery and forced himself to look away, heart hammering. If Voldemort saw—if any of them saw him—George would be dead too.
Voldemort hadn’t noticed Harry’s momentary distraction as he gloated, Elder wand twirling between bone-like fingers. Harry’s body continued to jerk and shudder as Dolohov flicked small spells at him, smiling sadistically as he opened stinging cuts and left painful welts everywhere he hit.
“Are you wondering what it means that you are a dragel, Harry Potter?” The dark Lord mocked, red eyes gleaming and vicious. “Don’t think yourself special, boy. I, too, had a Dragel inheritance once, before your precious Dumbledore stole it from me.”
“The old fool thought himself so clever, so righteous. As if he alone were worthy of playing God.” He sneered. “He knew that I was born for greatness, that I possessed power beyond his comprehension, and he feared me.” Voldemort loomed over Harry’s splayed form, thin lips curled in spite.
“Truly, the old man was a coward above all else. He sought to tame me, to seal away my inheritance and strip me of the power that was rightfully mine! He thought that by sealing it away, he could control me, could steer me towards his ideals and turn me into one of his brainwashed soldiers.” The man sneered down at Harry in disgust. “But I saw through his feeble tricks. I found ancient and dark magics far greater than a mere dragel inheritance. Magics that aren’t bound by blood or the instincts of creatures,” he spat.
“Yes, Lord Voldemort turned Dumbledore’s pathetic attempts at control into strength! I sacrificed the bound creature inside me to evolve into something greater than this world has ever seen. Now I am the God!”
The dark, malevolent laugh rattled through Harry’s bones as he listened in disbelief, struggling to focus, torn between pain and his desperate desire to find a way to get George away and safe.
“I told you once, Harry Potter, that there was only power and those too weak to seek it. Perhaps now you understand.” Voldemort leaned in, his voice sharp and cold. “Dumbledore clipped your wings before you even knew they existed. He wanted you to be small, to be his. The perfect little soldier to puppet in his war against me. Well, where is Dumbledore now, Harry? He’s dead at the hands of his trusted spy, and his wand now answers to me! I have risen above it all, and you? You are little more than a failed experiment, a pathetic, broken creature. And now that I understand how you lived, I will finally wipe your pathetic existence from this world.”
The Dark Lord raised his wand with intention and Harry had a moment to realize that this might truly be the end. His eyes darted back to ensure George would be safe and his breath froze in terror as he realized that his friend was only a few arms lengths away.
Before the panic could spiral, Harry caught a glimpse of silver in George’s hand. A heartbeat later, the item soared into the air, and darkness swallowed them whole as the Peruvian Instant Darkness powder activated. Everything after that blurred together, like one of Aunt Petunia’s old cassettes skipping in the broken player.
Flashes of green and red spell fire shooting in every direction, as aiming became impossible.
Twisting to pull the spear from his wing but being unable to reach it without tearing the other wing.
Someone stomping down on his knee, pulling out another screech of pain.
Voldemort ending the darkness with a sharp jab of his wand, his foot still crushing Harry’s leg.
George punching a dagger straight through Dolohov’s throat.
Dolohov choking on blood and metal before falling to the ground, where George finished him with a triumphant Diffindo.
Harry had a moment to appreciate the sight of George’s vicious, blood-splattered grin as he stood over Dolohov’s body before a commotion to the left drew everyone's attention.
Molly Weasley was slowly being backed towards the section of grounds they were in by the two Lestrange brothers. She was keeping them at bay with surprisingly strong curses and powerful fire spells that took both brothers to counter. Unfortunately, the Lestranges were accomplished duellers, and they were slowly overwhelming her. George’s attention was quickly redirected, and Harry saw him hesitate between rushing to help his pinned friend or going to his mother’s aid.
Harry opened his mouth to shout at him to GO when a neon green curse shot from the edge of his vision. Shocked amber eyes reflected the light of the spell in a sick mimicry of Harry’s green, as George’s eyes met Harry’s. George’s body swayed with the impact of the curse that had hit him full in the chest, and Harry’s intended shout twisted into a scream of raw rage and denial.
Bellatrix Lestrange started cackling from the side where both Harry and George had forgotten about her, but Harry couldn’t look away from the form of his friend frozen in front of him. The fire that always sparked with mischief seemed to slowly drain from George’s eyes, and his body went limp, falling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Harry’s chest ripped open, his heart shredding in his ribs as his throat tore under the force of his grief.
“You BITCH!” Molly Weasley echoed Harry’s scream, magic sparking across her skin and hair smoking, as her presence swelled with her grief and rage. The matron turned to attack the insane witch with a deadly focus, but was blocked by Rabastan sending a violet curse her way. Harry didn’t get the chance to see if it hit, though, as Voldemort decided he’d had enough of delaying his goal.
“Don’t worry, Harry,” Voldemort said, voice like ice. “You’ll be joining your precious Weasleys soon.”
The elder wand was an icy void as the Dark Lord shot an overpowered severing curse directly at Harry’s throat. Harry’s body reacted instinctively, and he threw himself to the side to avoid the curse. He managed to dodge it by millimeters, however the motion tore the delicate membrane of his right wing, still pinned to the ground, and sent waves of searing pain straight to his spine. His scream, barely faded from seeing George fall, was impossibly loud as the agony speared through him.
It was all too much. He couldn’t take it any more. Harry felt like he’d crossed some sort of point-of-no-return. He couldn’t stop screaming; the sound ripped from deep in his gut, spilling from his mouth in a river of sound. He felt like he should be choking on it, thick and heavy as the scream was. As Voldemort readied his wand to send a follow-up curse, Harry knew that he was experiencing his last moments, that he was alone and helpless in the face of this overwhelming evil and destruction.
The scream rose in pitch, drowning out the sounds of combat and the cries of the dying. It became the entire focus of Harry’s world, seeming to radiate from him, to shake the air and resonate with the very magic of Hogwarts. Magic surged through him like molten gold, and everything that Harry was became the scream. His very soul felt like it was tearing free to push the sound that much further, reaching for something invaluable, something that Harry had never known. Voldemort’s eyes widened as the bloodied ground lit up with glowing, golden circles. Then, all Harry saw was black.
The bout of unconsciousness didn’t last long, and Harry awoke to the sight of a strong man in green and gold armour removing Voldemort’s head from his body. Harry’s jaw dropped as he took in the chaos and saw nearly a dozen other powerful men ripping their way through the death eaters and dark creatures in a shower of blood and competence. Even more shocking was that a dragon seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and had bitten clean through Rodolphus Lestrange’s torso. The remains fell to the ground where the blood joined Voldemort’s, soaking the earth and leaving mud to be churned into a frothy maroon mess beneath large, scaled feet. Harry barely had time to take in Molly Weasley screaming bloody murder over George’s body and setting Bellatrix Lestrange on fire before he was shielded by a pair of large wings.
Harry panicked as his vision was cut off, his green eyes darting to the strangers around him. He saw a tall man with pointed ears and long blonde hair using glowing, silver wreathed hands to toss one masked Death Eater into another with enough force to crack bones. Charlie Weasley had somehow appeared on his other side, wrangling several acromantula who had likely been drawn by the scent of spilled blood. Harry’s insides grated like broken glass as he was vividly reminded of George, lying only a few feet away but hidden by the large wings. Harry wanted to crawl to his body or to get up and release the crushing feelings on the death eaters, but he couldn’t.
He was vulnerable where he was, still pinned to the ground and being slowly isolated by strange, scaled wings. Yet something deep inside Harry was crooning that he was safe now, that he could succumb to the comforting blackness pulling at the edges of his mind. Maybe he had finally cracked the way the Prophet used to claim. Surely that would make more sense than whatever was currently happening—both within his body and out. Harry barely even registered the man with turquoise-blue skin standing over him protectively, salty-sharp magic turning the air humid, before even that sight was blocked as the wings continued to encircle him.
Harry looked up to find the owner of the wings crouching down before him so that the large appendages could form a complete cocoon. Harry tried to demand answers from the man but was only able to let out an alarmed screech, quickly followed by panicked chirps as he discovered his inability to speak.
“It’s okay sweetheart, try to breathe. We're here to help. You called for us, we would never hurt you.” A deep voice soothed, golden eyes kind and gentle.
Harry’s next whine of distress was met by a reassuring croon that resonated in his chest and felt like a balm to his raw nerves. Harry didn’t have the energy to question it, so he darted a glance to the rich brown wings surrounding them instead. The man seemed to read the questions in his eyes as he responded. “It’s okay. My wings will deflect most spell fire a wixen might send at us, and the other pareya are protecting my back and intercepting anything more dangerous.”
Pareya? Was that a magical term he hadn’t learned yet or something Dragel? Harry’s head spun, and he began to question whether he had really survived Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra after all. He felt his mind was swimming, thoughts fighting through molasses, as he tried to process the vastly shifted circumstances. He was overwhelmed, overstimulated, and fighting competing instincts that said he needed to make sure his people were okay but also that he was safe now and didn’t need to do it alone. Harry barely even registered the confused keening coming from low in his throat until the stranger spoke again.
“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, little one, but I can see you are injured, and we must get your wings looked at right away. Can I let our healer in?”
The question drew Harry’s attention back to the pain he was in, and he bit down on his lip to keep from vocalizing further. Of course, this only served to distract him with the fact that he had fangs! And now his lip is bleeding. What in the name of Merlin was happening to him?! At least Harry understood the concept of a “healer”, and as he would like to rejoin the fight as soon as possible, he gave a quick nod of agreement.
The man—dragel?—in front of him croons in approval, causing a flush to rise in Harry’s cheeks even as the bewilderment persists. The wings part enough for another man to duck into the safe space and immediately fall to his knees beside Harry. This man is light to the others dark, his pale skin and blonde hair seeming to glow against the backdrop of the rich brown wings, as grey eyes began to assess Harry’s injuries.
“Hello, darling, my name is Luca. What’s yours?”
Harry released a chirp of frustration and the first Dragel spoke up for him. “He seems to be nonverbal at the moment,” he said, with an apologetic tilt of his chin in Harry’s direction.
Luca nodded in understanding before beginning to briskly narrate what he was doing for Harry. “Okay, that’s normal given the circumstances. You’re lucky that I’m here so quickly after the injury. My specialty is trauma wounds and emergency care. I’m going to remove the spears from your wings and then immediately set to work. Do I have your permission to heal you? You can nod or shake your head.” Harry hesitated for a moment before deciding to trust his instincts. He nodded in agreement and the Healer gave him a passing smile. “Thank you for your trust. Now, this is going to hurt, so I need you to take a deep breath, okay?”
Harry nodded again in understanding, more than used to pain and the necessity of it when it came to healing certain injuries. He took a breath as Luca leaned over his left wing and extended a hand to the spear. The pain spiked as he exhaled, sending his vision fracturing, and for the third time in as many hours, Harry fell into comforting blackness.