Plans

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Dementors weren't living beings; they were manifestations of despair, born from the darkest emotions. They fed on happiness, draining the very soul of their victims. Harry knew they were Amortal—beings that had never lived and thus could never truly die. Like Poltergeists, who thrived on chaos, Dementors were sustained by the very essence of despair. This made them nearly impossible to destroy.

Harry watched the Dementor shriek and writhe, its form shrinking under the pressure of the Patronuses surrounding it. He couldn't help but find it ironic. "You can feel hunger, pain, and fear. You are not a living being. Isn't that something?" he muttered, his voice was both curiosity and disdain.

Harry was tempted to study the creature further, to explore if there was a way to destroy it completely, but time wasn't on his side. The arrival of Snape and Dumbledore was imminent, and he knew he couldn't risk exposing his thoughts. With a sharp motion, he dismissed the stag and snake Patronuses, leaving only the doe to chase the Dementor away from the castle. The silvery creature moved with grace, driving the Dementor back into the shadows just as Snape and Dumbledore appeared.

Snape reached Harry first, his eyes scanning for any sign of injury. "Why were you here, Potter?" he asked, his tone neutral but with a hint of concern that only someone like Harry could detect.

Harry shrugged, brushing off the encounter as if it were nothing. "Neville and I were talking when it decided to drop in for a snack."

Snape smirked, a rare expression that showed his appreciation for Harry's quick thinking. "Seems like the food wasn't to its taste."

Harry chuckled lightly. "It kicked back."

Dumbledore, who had been observing the exchange, stepped forward, his usual calm demeanor in place. "I'm glad you dealt with it, Harry. Let me handle the rest."

Harry nodded, biting back the retort that rose in his throat. He wanted to remind Dumbledore that this wasn't the first time a Dementor had breached the castle, despite promises of safety. But there was no need to be petty. He simply nodded again to Snape and began making his way back to the Slytherin common room.

As he walked, he felt a subtle tug, pulling him from his thoughts. Reaching into his robes, he pulled out the metal card and saw a message from Neville: Are you okay?

Harry's thoughts materialized on the card's surface as he wrote, "I'm fine. I took care of it before Snape and Dumbledore even showed up." He then willed the message to be delivered to Neville, watching as the letters faded from the card.

Continuing his walk back to his room, Harry's mind began to whirl with the promise he had made to Neville. Finding Bellatrix was no small task, and he knew he wasn't equipped to do it right now. The connections he had in the darker corners of the wizarding world were virtually non-existent. While he had a few contacts in the gray areas — enough to bridge him to the dark side to get whispers of information but not enough to lead him directly to someone like her. That lack of knowledge wasn't by accident; Harry had intentionally avoided delving too deep into that side of the world, fearing what he might do with such power.

But now, it seemed there was no avoiding it. He had given his word to Neville, and he wasn't one to break a promise. As he settled onto his bed, his thoughts turned darker. "I let you slip away once, Peter. But just like I instructed Hedwig and Crookshanks, the hunt for rats is back on."

The decision to go after Bellatrix, along with the other Death Eaters, wasn't just about keeping his promise to Neville. It was about finally closing a chapter that had haunted him for too long. The time had come to stop holding back.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he considered the steps he would need to take. He would have to build new alliances, push his existing connections, and perhaps even create a few distractions to keep certain people from noticing his activities. He couldn't let on what he was planning—not until it was too late for anyone to stop him.

Harry sighed as he stared at the ceiling of his bed. "It's a bit early, but it looks like I'll have to adjust my plans. Creating my own force is necessary, but with the timing and my age, I'll need to hide behind a mask. My fame complicates things, and my plans need to stay under wraps." He paused, considering the implications. "Thankfully, I've already mastered the Astral Soul. Without that, pulling this off would be impossible."

He didn't need Polyjuice for his plan; he had a different approach in mind. Metamorphmagus—the ability to change one's appearance at will—was one of the most coveted gifts in the magical world. Common belief held that it was something one had to be born with, an unteachable skill. But Harry knew better. Like many things in the magical world, the impossibility of learning it was more about difficulty than truth. Every Astral Master could alter the shape of their astral soul to some extent, but that was far from simple. Free shaping, as they called it, was a skill that required immense practice and focus.

Even for Harry, who had mastered more than one form of Patronus, it wasn't easy. His three Patronus forms—the snake, the stag, and the doe—were tied to deep connections in his life. The stag and doe, most likely his parents, and the snake, a remnant of Voldemort's presence in his life, all formed naturally. But they didn't change on a whim. Shaping his Astral Soul into those forms required a profound connection to each, something that couldn't be forced or rushed.

There were rumors that Dumbledore himself could manifest myriad forms of Patronus, a skill that took decades of dedication to master. And Animagi transformations? Those were even more complex. Astral Masters didn't need rituals to achieve their Animagus form, but that didn't mean they could just pick any animal. Most could only access one form, maybe two if they were extraordinarily gifted. Harry had yet to unlock his Animagus form, let alone attempt any free alterations. And becoming a Metamorphmagus was on another level entirely. Those born with the ability had flexible astral souls, much like having naturally flexible bones. It was a genetic lottery—either a gift or a flaw, depending on how one looked at it.

But Harry had one advantage most didn't: he had been hosting a wraith inside his soul since he was two years old. Voldemort's piece of soul had been forced into Harry's body, and over time, it had altered Harry's own astral signature.

The crudest analogy would be that it was like Voldemort headbutting Harry and leaving a piece of his face behind. Due to hosting Voldemort's Astral Soul for more than a decade, Harry could tap into some aspects of Voldemort's astral face, although not fully. Instead of a full Metamorphmagus ability, Harry found that he could morph into Tom Riddle's appearance. It was a subtle but distinct change, and Harry realized the irony of it. Voldemort had always despised his mortal form, yet it was that very form that would now help Harry further his own plans.

Harry could only smirk at the thought. The idea of using Voldemort's own identity as a disguise was almost poetic. No one would suspect Harry Potter to be hiding behind the face of Tom Riddle. It was the perfect cover for maneuvering in the darker parts of the wizarding world without drawing attention to himself.

The transformation wasn't something Harry took lightly, though. He knew that adopting Riddle's appearance would have its risks. People who knew the truth about Voldemort might recognize the similarities, and if they did, it could lead to questions Harry wasn't ready to answer. But the benefits far outweighed the risks. In the end, it was a tool—one more advantage in the complex game he was playing.

And Harry was all about advantages.

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