The stands had gone utterly silent.
Over two hours had passed and no one had moved.
The Hungarian Horntail at the far end of the arena lay curled near its nest, golden eyes fixed on the small wizard who had not once approached its eggs.
It watched with wary intelligence, conserving its strength.
For now, there was no threat.
No one in the audience cared about the dragon anymore.
They understood, with instinctive certainty, that what came next would shatter everything they thought they knew.
Memory-Harry held the smirk for several long seconds, gaze locked on the VIP box, before he spoke again.
“‘Everyone knows’ is a phrase I hear far too often,” he said, voice carrying clearly through the arena.
“Everyone knows what happened to the Potters in Godric’s Hollow on the thirty-first of October, 1981.
Everyone knows the Killing Curse rips the soul from the body and leaves no mark.
Everyone knows Sirius Black betrayed my parents, led Voldemort to their cottage, then murdered Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles a few days later.”
He gave a short, contemptuous snort.
“Everyone is wrong.”
A ripple of unease moved through the stands.
“I have already shown you that Peter Pettigrew was alive on the ninth of June this year.
I have shown you that Sirius Black is innocent of the crimes for which he was thrown into Azkaban without trial.
That alone proves a significant portion of what ‘everyone knows’ about that night — and the nights that followed — is a lie.”
He let the words settle, then continued.
“Now for the second thing ‘everyone knows’: that the Killing Curse tears the soul from the body.”
Memory-Harry’s smirk widened into something sharp and dangerous.
“News flash.
That is not true either.”
A collective gasp rose from the stands — hundreds of witches and wizards drawing breath at once.
“What the Killing Curse actually does,” he said, voice steady and clinical, “is strip the mind of every piece of knowledge.
It wipes the mind clean — including all autonomic functions.
The brain forgets how to tell the heart to beat, the lungs to breathe, the body to maintain consciousness.
Without those instructions, the body simply… stops.”
He paused.
“The Killing Curse is nothing more than an extremely powerful Obliviation charm.
That is why it leaves no physical mark on the body — exactly like the Obliviation charm.
And that is why I survived it.”
He turned the full force of his gaze on the VIP box.
“I am immune to any and all mind-controlling magic.
The Killing Curse.
The Confundus Charm.
Compulsion charms.
The Obliviation Charm.
All of them.”
The gasp this time was louder, edged with shock and disbelief.
Up in the VIP box Albus Dumbledore jerked as though struck.
The colour drained from his face so completely that even Amelia Bones’ wand tip pressing into the back of his neck barely registered.
His mind raced, cold dread flooding every thought.
Oh, Merlin… he’s going to destroy me with this.
He had finally understood the boy’s strategy.
It was ruthless.
It was brilliant.
And it was going to work.
Memory-Harry’s grin lingered for a moment longer before fading into something harder.
“You have now seen everything that was already public knowledge — if anyone had bothered to look.
What I am about to show you are the memories Dumbledore, your so-called Leader of the Light, has worked hardest to keep hidden.
He is not as light as he pretends.”
He straightened, voice turning formal.
“The first memory is from when I was approximately five years old.
I will introduce the players so there is no confusion.
The overweight middle-aged Muggle male is my uncle, Vernon Dursley.
The thin, horse-faced middle-aged Muggle female is my aunt, Petunia Dursley — older sister of my mother, Lily Potter née Evans.
The overweight Muggle child is my cousin, Dudley Dursley.”
His expression darkened.
“I give you fair warning.
This memory will be difficult to watch.
If you have a weak stomach, look away now.”
He gave them three heartbeats.
Then the memory began.
The lounge at Number Four, Privet Drive appeared.
Five-year-old Harry cowered on the carpet, small arms raised over his head.
Vernon Dursley towered above him, face purple with rage, a thick leather belt gripped in one meaty fist.
In the doorway to the dining room, Petunia Dursley stood with her arms folded, expression cold and disapproving.
Dudley watched from beside her, eyes bright with vicious excitement.
“I didn’t do it!” the small boy pleaded, voice high and terrified.
“It wasn’t me!
I swear!”
“You lying little freak!” Vernon roared.
“I’ll teach you to damage good, normal property!”
The first blow landed across Harry’s back with a crack that echoed through the arena.
The child cried out and tried to scramble away.
Vernon followed, swinging the belt again and again, putting his full weight behind every strike.
The leather cracked against thin arms, shoulders, and back until the small body stopped struggling and went limp.
Vernon did not stop.
He kicked the unconscious child hard enough to lift him off the floor and send him tumbling across the room.
Another kick.
Another.
The sound of small bones meeting polished shoe was sickeningly clear.
Only when Vernon was breathing hard did he seize the boy by the hair and drag him across the floor toward the cupboard under the stairs.
He wrenched the door open, hurled the limp body inside like rubbish, and slammed the door shut.
The latch failed to catch.
The door swung back open a few inches, revealing darkness and the crumpled shape of a five-year-old child curled on the floor, unmoving.
The memory held on that image for several long seconds before fading.
In the arena, Memory-Harry stood motionless, the smirk gone.
His voice, when it returned, was quiet but carried to every corner of the stands.
“That,” he said, “was a normal Tuesday in the life of Harry Potter.”
He looked up at the VIP box once more.
“And we are only just getting started.”