Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Horcrux’s Fate ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

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The summer sun cast a warm, golden hue over the grounds of Hogwarts, illuminating the castle that had been a sanctuary for so many. The Black Lake shimmered under the bright blue sky, its surface like a mirror reflecting the beauty of nature surrounding it. It was a serene backdrop, a dramatic contrast to the chaos and despair that had engulfed this place for far too long. But that tranquillity felt somehow estranged to Harry Potter, who stood there, gazing out at the lake, lost in thought.

He breathed in deeply, the scent of wildflowers and fresh air invigorating him. Yet, beneath all the beauty, a nagging sensation rested in his chest. For a fleeting moment, pain tightened its grip around his heart, a reminder that not everything was as peaceful as it appeared. The feeling vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only a lingering discomfort that he couldn’t shake off. It had happened twice that day, but he pushed it aside, wrapping himself in the veil of denial that had become so familiar.

“Harry!” A familiar voice pierced through his thoughts, and he turned to see Ginny Weasley, her hair shimmering like copper in the sun, walking across the grass towards him. She wore a bright smile, one that often lit up the darkest corners of his world. Yet today, that smile seemed to falter as she drew closer and caught sight of his troubled expression.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, concern etching its way onto her features.

“Nothing,” he replied hastily, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just taking in the view, you know?”

Ginny narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. She had known him far too long to be fooled by a smile that masked worry. “You’ve been ‘taking in the view’ for quite a while. It’s not like you to stand alone like this. You should be enjoying the summer with everyone else.”

“Everyone else…” His voice trailed off as he scanned the grounds, where students and friends were gathered, laughing and sharing stories of their newfound freedom. But here he was, once again caught in a swirling tempest of thoughts. “They’ve won a war, Gin. Can’t they just enjoy that?”

Ginny took a step closer, her expression softening in concern. “You deserve to enjoy it too, Harry. Let it go, just for today.”

But it wasn’t easy. Harry felt a weight settling over him, compounding his worry. Why did he keep experiencing that strange pain in his chest? Why did the air seem heavier now, even amid joyous laughter? The idea of seeking help twisted in his mind; both Hermione and Madame Pomfrey had already endured so much during the war with Voldemort. He couldn’t bear adding to their burdens.

Fear tightened around his heart as he considered visiting the library to scour through medical texts. But there was still debris scattered throughout the once-grand structure. The last thing he wanted to do was rehash old wounds.

Ginny stepped into the space beside him, her presence comforting yet insistent. “I saw you jump at dinner yesterday, Harry. You’re not yourself. Is there something you didn’t tell me? Something that’s weighing on you? You can talk to me. I’m here…” Her voice trailed off, a quiet understanding lingering in the air.

Harry let out a breath, the heaviness in his chest pleading to be let out. Yet the thought of worrying Ginny and pulling her back into the pain they had just escaped from stole his voice. Instead, he fought to push the words down deeper, anchored by that tenacious sliver of hope that maybe it would just go away. But he had to at least say something to her.

“Nothing’s really wrong,” he repeated, firming his resolve. “I’m okay. I just...” He hesitated, fighting the urge to confide. “I feel like everyone’s just moving on, and I’m stuck here.”

“Stuck in what?” Ginny pressed, her determination shining through her concern.

He glanced at her, biting his lip. She was unwavering, her gaze steady, and that small flicker of hope rekindled in his chest, momentarily overshadowing the confusion. “In the past?” he suggested weakly, unsure how to articulate his feelings.

“Harry,” she sighed softly, reaching for his hand.

Before he could pull away, her fingers brushed against his, grounding him in the moment. “You’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to face this by yourself. Talk to me. Please.”

Something in Ginny’s plea struck him. It was more than mere words; it was a tether reminding him of love, friendship, and the bonds that had emerged from the ashes of despair. His heart ached again, a flash of pain that blinked in and out like a dying lantern. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on the dulcet sounds of the waves brushing against the shore, but silence swallowed them. He wanted to scream, to shout, to release everything bottled up inside him, but instead, he clenched his jaw tight to stifle the storm brewing within.

“Harry?” Ginny’s voice washed over him like a soothing wave. “I’m here.”

He turned to face her, seeing the kindness radiating from her eyes. They darkened in concern, yet there was a flicker of understanding there too. Perhaps she sensed the battle raging within him. Unable to hold back any longer, he let out a small sigh—his chest rose and fell like a tide retreating from the shore.

“I just…” For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, letting the summer breeze carry away uncertainty. “It hurts sometimes, Ginny. Like I lost something, or someone, even though we’ve won. I just thought… everything would feel different now. I thought I’d be fine.”

Her eyes softened, reflecting empathy that felt like solace. “You fought bravely for so long. You lost friends, Harry. It’s okay to feel that pain, to miss them. Healing isn’t easy, especially after everything. You’re allowed to have your doubts and fears. This is a new world we’re stepping into, and it’s okay if everything doesn’t feel perfect right away.”

He opened his eyes to meet hers, feeling the ache inside him swell. With every word she spoke, the walls he built began to crumble. “I think... I think I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Of not being okay. Of this pain meaning something more serious,” he admitted, vulnerability lacing his voice. “Of burdening you… or Ron and Hermione… or anyone. What if it never gets better? What if I have to deal with this forever?”

“Harry, we’re family. You’ve shared your burdens with us before, and we’ll carry them together. That’s what love is—sharing both joys and sorrows.”

That struck deep. Love was indeed a shared weight; a journey that bound them together through light and darkness. In that moment, he felt a flicker of relief.

As if sensing the shift, Ginny stepped closer, cupping his face gently in her hands. “Just let go, alright? Feel it all.”

In that moment, under the glistening sun and amidst the gentle rustling of summer leaves, she leaned in and pressed her lips softly against his. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but something simple and real. For a fleeting second, the weight on his chest lightened like the burden of a storm cloud dissipating into the clear sky. The kiss served as a reminder that no matter the shadows that remained, light still existed—especially in moments like these.

As they pulled apart, the world felt a little brighter, and Harry found himself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time that day. “Thanks, Ginny.”

“Anytime,” she replied, returning a smile that started small before blooming into something far brighter. “But remember—don’t try to do this all alone.”

He nodded, the last vestiges of pain ebbing away as they turned their gaze back to the shimmering surface of the Black Lake.

The day was far too beautiful to waste in worry, and as they walked hand in hand along the shore, the summer sun grew even warmer—intensifying the colours around them and perhaps, just perhaps, igniting a little healing in the deepest corners of Harry’s heart.

Harry lay awake in bed that night, while the others in Gryffindor had already drifted off to sleep. The unusual throbbing feeling in his chest prevented him from finding any rest. This sensation had occurred twice that day, leaving him restless and anxious. Despite it being temporary, he couldn’t shake the urge to investigate further. Quietly, he slipped out of bed and tiptoed into the common room. The dying embers of the fireplace cast a dim glow as he pondered his next move. With a sense of determination, Harry made his way through the portrait hole, careful not to disturb the sleeping school staff. The late hour added to his sense of urgency, as he couldn’t delay his need to address his suspicions any longer. Hogwarts was his home, but he needed to seek answers beyond its walls.

Harry proceeded through the cold and dark dungeons, his breath visible in the frigid air, until he finally arrived at the doorway he had been searching for. He rapped on the door, his heart racing with anticipation, hoping that his professor would be awake. Despite his worries that the professor might be sound asleep, Harry’s knock was promptly met with a response.

A haggard, bald old man with a large silver, walrus-like moustache opened the door. He appeared to have just awoken from a deep sleep, but when he saw Harry, his eyes lit up, and he smiled, erasing any signs of exhaustion.

“Harry! What an unexpected surprise to see you here.”

“Professor Slughorn,” Harry replied softly. “I’m sorry if I have disturbed you at this late hour.”

“No need to apologise, my boy. I am always happy to see a friendly face,” replied Professor Slughorn warmly. “Please come in.” He graciously moved to the side, inviting Harry to enter his cosy living quarter. The room was filled with the comforting aroma of well-loved books and fragrant tea.

Upon entering the room, Harry was enveloped in the cosy heat emanating from the crackling fire. Memories flooded back to him as he recalled the time he had accompanied Ron to the professor’s office and witnessed him mistakenly drinking poisoned oak-matured mead, leading to a frightening ordeal. This particular event served as a crucial lesson for Harry, instilling in him the importance of exercising caution when offered drinks by others.

Professor Slughorn closed the door firmly as he entered his cosy cupboard to fetch some drinks. “Please, take a seat, Harry,” he said pleasantly. “I have some freshly brewed butterbeer that I think you’ll enjoy.”

Harry cautiously took a seat near the warm, crackling fire, observing as Professor Slughorn carefully poured out two glasses of a rich, amber-coloured liquid. With a friendly smile, the professor passed one of the glasses to Harry, who settled into the plush chair across from him. Although he felt some apprehension, Harry reassured himself that the drink posed no harm.

“Now, my dear boy, how may I assist you?” Professor Slughorn asked.

Harry hesitated for a moment, then decided to take a small sip of butterbeer before carefully returning the cup to the table and deciding where to start. He was at a loss for words, unsure how to answer Professor Slughorn’s question. He was torn between seeking help and trying to figure it out on his own.

“Professor,” he said tentatively, recalling their previous serious discussion about Horcruxes. Despite the consequences, his desperate need for answers compelled him to bring up the forbidden subject again. “I was hoping that you’d be open to discussing Horcruxes with me once more,” he said eagerly, his heart racing as he waited for the professor’s response.

After Harry posed his question, Professor Slughorn was taken aback and had a sudden coughing fit as he tried to swallow his drink.

Harry glanced cautiously at him, feeling a sense of apprehension as he anticipated the forthcoming criticism.

The professor maintained a poker face, betraying no emotions as he contemplated the question. After a prolonged silence, he broke his stoicism and gently asked, “I am curious to know the reason behind your inquiry.”

Harry was taken aback when Professor Slughorn gazed at him with a look of concern rather than immediately dismissing him. This unexpected reaction sparked a tiny ray of hope in Harry’s mind, a flicker of optimism that perhaps the situation wasn’t as dire as he had initially thought.

“I was simply curious, Professor,” Harry replied, trying to gauge his reaction.

Professor Slughorn’s gaze turned sharp, showing a slight sense of doubt. “It’s rather peculiar that you would ponder such a question, Harry,” he commented with seriousness. “Are you absolutely certain there’s no ulterior motive behind your curiosity?”

Harry was seated in silence, his mind filled with an array of thoughts that seemed to be moving at a rapid pace. Understanding the gravity of the situation, he realised the importance of carefully selecting his next words.

Professor Slughorn shifted in his chair, leaning closer to Harry with a look of genuine interest on his face. “What are you curious about?” He asked.

Harry’s hands trembled nervously in his pockets as he mustered up the courage to address the professor. “Professor, you mentioned that Horcruxes hold a piece of someone’s soul, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” he replied. “But that is very dark magic, Harry.”

“What happens to a person’s soul when a Horcrux inhabits their body, and how is their soul affected if the Horcrux is later destroyed? Can you explain how that process works?”

Professor Slughorn had a look of concern on his face as he pondered the question presented to him. It was evident that the topic made him uneasy; however, after some hesitation, he decided to respond to Harry’s inquiry.

“I must admit, I have never come across such a peculiar concept,” Professor Slughorn replied. “Typically, a Horcrux is concealed within an inanimate object by its creator. However, implanting it in a living being would almost certainly shorten its lifespan. The risk is far too great.”

Harry squirmed uncomfortably, his worried expression growing more noticeable. “What if it wasn’t deliberate?” Curiosity filled his voice as he asked, his gaze fixed on his professor, and he felt a palpable sense of dread. “What if it was simply an unintended consequence of him creating a Horcrux that accidentally attached itself to another soul? Will destroying it still affect that person’s soul?”

His professor stared back at him, a mix of shock and concern evident in his expression. “Regardless of intent, the moment a Horcrux infiltrates a soul, it becomes corrupted,” Professor Slughorn boldly declared. “The damage is irreversible.”

“So, if the Horcrux is destroyed, the person’s soul would die as well?”

“Indeed,” the professor said with firm assurance. “It is a fate worse than death.”

The constant stream of bad news engulfed Harry in a sea of hopelessness. “Professor, is there any way to cleanse the corrupted soul?”

The professor looked at Harry with sympathy and replied, “There is no easy answer to that question.” He shifted uneasily in his seat. Despite engaging in multiple conversations with Albus Dumbledore regarding the matter, he still harboured doubts due to the lack of evidence to back up the theory. It was evident that Albus possessed a wealth of knowledge on the subject that surpassed his own understanding.

“I’m afraid I can’t give an answer,” he replied to Harry’s question. “Crafting a Horcrux is a sinister deed that involves keeping the method a closely guarded secret. This secrecy suggests that the idea of repairing a soul that has been torn apart may not even be a consideration in such dark practices. To my knowledge, there has been no documented case of anyone successfully reversing the irreversible harm caused by creating a Horcrux. Thus, the prospect of restoring a fractured soul by eliminating Horcruxes continues to be shrouded in uncertainty.”

Sweat beads formed on Harry’s forehead. “How much will a tainted soul shorten someone’s life? You mentioned that it would have a significant impact.”

The professor reclined comfortably in his chair before responding thoughtfully, “Determining an exact timeframe is challenging, but one can reasonably assume that the deterioration would be gradual and painful, making a quick death a more desirable outcome as time progresses.”

The professor’s sombre and stern facial expression conveyed the gravity of the circumstances, causing Harry to be filled with an overwhelming sense of fear that sent his heart racing and made him feel lightheaded in an instant. Suddenly, the thought of his own demise being prolonged and agonising had never crossed his mind before.

“Are you alright, my dear boy?” Professor Slughorn asked, observing the distress evident on Harry’s face.

Harry flashed a feeble smile and gave a nod in response, making an effort to suppress the overwhelming fear creeping up inside him. “Yes,” he replied softly, looking up. “Thank you, Professor. I must leave.” However, the words seemed to stumble out, his breathing becoming laboured and his throat dry.

“Harry?” Professor Slughorn spoke with great concern in his voice. “Are you alright?”

Feeling a sense of unease, Harry got up from his seat with quick movements and rushed out of the room without giving Professor Slughorn a chance to speak further.

As soon as Harry stepped outside, he hurriedly made his way to the closest bathroom, his body wracked by intense vomiting and violent shivers with each retching. Clinging desperately to the walls of the stall, he tried to gather his strength to stand up from the cold tiled floor. Despite the dizziness and blurred vision overwhelming him, Harry was acutely aware of the need to compose himself before being discovered by anyone.

Harry made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, his emotions swirling in a tumultuous whirlwind of despair and exhaustion. Collapsing onto his bed, he found himself unable to hold back the tears that flowed freely down his cheeks, the weight of his troubled heart threatening to crush him entirely. The darkness that had enveloped his soul left him feeling utterly lost and adrift, unsure of how to navigate the murky waters of his inner turmoil. The fear of what lay ahead loomed over him like a shadow, casting a sense of dread over his every thought. Despite his dreams of a simple, peaceful existence post-Horcrux destruction, the harsh truth of reality had shattered his illusions. The battle had left an indelible mark on Harry, leaving him feeling transformed and uncertain of ever finding true solace again.

As the last day at Hogwarts unfolded, the morning sun streamed through the arched windows of the Gryffindor dormitory, illuminating the scarlet and gold decorations. The air was thick with a mix of nostalgia and the scent of old parchment. Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the small pile of clothes he had hastily thrown together the night before. The weight of the world felt even heavier now as he tried to shake off the remnants of his thoughts from Professor Slughorn’s ominous warnings about the future.

Harry sighed, staring at the empty bed beside him where Ron usually sprawled, lost in slumber. Just then, a loud crash interrupted his thoughts—Ron had entered the room with a thud, wearing a goofy grin that ironically lightened the weight on Harry’s heart.

“Harry!” Ron boomed, as if the simple word could dispel the doubts swirling in his friend’s mind.

With a slow blink, Harry turned to face him, his vision still blurry from sleep. Ron waved a hand before his face, beckoning Harry to take the forgotten glasses resting by his bedside. “You’re looking a bit worse for wear, mate,” Ron laughed, his voice laced with camaraderie as he handed Harry the spectacles.

Once the glasses settled on Harry’s face, the room sprang to life, every corner bathed in sunlight and the echoes of their shared laughter. “As if you look any better,” Harry shot back playfully, but the smile that crept across his face was genuine.

“It’s time for you to rise and shine, sleepyhead,” Ron prodded, nudging Harry’s shoulder with exaggerated force. “You definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed! Honestly, you look like a house-elf that’s been given a sock too early!”

Harry chuckled and, in the spirit of their long-standing friendship, tossed his pillow at Ron—who, like a professional Quidditch player, dodged it effortlessly.

But as Harry stood up quickly, a rush of dizziness swept through him. He lurched forward and braced himself against the wall, his breath hitching as the world tilted precariously. A wave of nausea followed, sending him tumbling to the floor with a thud.

“Woah… Are you okay?” Ron’s playful tone shifted to one of concern, rushing to his side with a protective instinct.

“Just got up too quickly,” Harry lied, both from embarrassment and the intense fatigue overshadowing him. “I need a moment.”

Ron kneeled beside him, brows furrowed in worry. “You sure? You’ve looked particularly crummy since the battle, you know. It isn’t just me, is it?” His voice was teasing, yet the hint of earnestness was evident.

“I’ll be fine. Just tired, I guess. All this talk about the future is making my head spin,” Harry replied, pushing himself into a sitting position, trying to force away the tendrils of unease gnawing at him.

As Ron helped him to his feet, the reality of their situation hit—while they had chosen to forgo their last year to fight, they seemed to have forgotten about the weight of what they had all been through. The memories of loss mingled with the anticipation of a joyful reunion, creating a cacophony of emotions that left Harry feeling unsettled.

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with activity as they made their way downstairs, the laughter of their peers reverberating throughout the ancient walls. Harry’s apprehension temporarily faded, swept away by the familiar warmth of friendship. He knew this last day at Hogwarts was more than just an end; it held the promise of new beginnings and renewed bonds. They would stand together, just as they always had.

“I wonder what it’ll be like, you know, being at the Burrow for good,” Harry mused aloud, glancing sideways at Ron.

“Better than the dreary dungeon, that’s for sure,” Ron quipped, a grin lighting up his features, masking their shared awareness of the changes ahead.

Harry smiled, allowing hope to bloom within him once again. Hogwarts would always be his home, but he grasped now, as they charged into the well-worn familiarity of the common room, that family awaited him beyond the castle’s gates—a family he could finally call his own.

Harry’s footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor as he slipped through the Great Hall’s heavy wooden doors, the sounds of laughter and cheerful chatter falling away behind him. Even in the aftermath of war, the Hogwarts dining hall pulsed with a warmth that felt foreign against his heart, aching with unprocessed grief. Each joyful smile of his friends and the mere comfort of food brought him further from the realm of what should have been a celebratory breakfast.

He had fought the urge to stay curled up in bed that morning, battling an illness that stole his appetite and solace alike. Hunger gnawed at him, and he knew he needed to eat to regain some semblance of strength, yet the thought of gruelling bites of toast and eggs made his stomach twist painfully. As his eyes scanned the nearly empty hall, the sight of Ginny instantly settled a bittersweet weight in his chest.

“Hi,” she said softly as he slid onto the bench across from her, concern pooling in her brow. Harry offered a weak smile in return but found his gaze drifting to the pile of untouched food pyramids in front of him.

“Are you not going to eat?” Ginny asked with motherly authority, her fingers wrapping around his hand with a gentle squeeze that sparked a flicker of warmth within him.

“I’m just not very hungry,” he confessed, pulling away from her touch but not from the solace it provided. He could see Ron and Hermione sharing a look, one imbued with silent worry. He appreciated their concern but felt like a fraud for accepting it; the world had lost so much, including part of him.

“C’mon, mate,” Ron’s voice broke the silence, the jovial lilt not quite masking the tension. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. We’ll be heading to the Burrow soon, right?”

“Yes,” Harry murmured absently, trying to convince himself that eating would somehow align with the joy of reuniting with their families. But even the thought left a bitterness on his tongue. He didn’t want to be a burden; he didn’t want to let his friends see just how deep his sorrow ran.

Taking a breath, Harry picked up a toast, forcing himself to move it toward his lips. He could feel Ginny’s gaze burning into him, and it motivated him, fleetingly, to chew on a piece of toast. The dry texture scraped against his throat, and he set it down, his appetite still proudly defiant.

“I’ll eat more once we’re back at the Burrow,” he promised, hoping they would take this as assurance enough to ease Mrs. Weasley’s relentless obsession with feeding her children. They nodded, relief washing over their faces.

Yet, as he placed his hands on the cool wood of the table, Harry felt the weight of sorrow slowly sliding back down. It wrapped around him like an anchor. Knowing he needed to escape the crushing concern, he stood too quickly, excusing himself under the pretence of needing the restroom.

Instead, he took a detour, disappearing into a corridor that led him away from his friends and their piercing concern. He walked methodically, fists balled in his pockets. The library beckoned like a sanctuary where he could immerse himself in words and thoughts that echoed far less harshly than reality.

Harry pushed the door open, the familiar creak of the ancient wood echoing in the stillness. Madam Pince, perched at her desk, was a vision of concentration, her fingers tracing the margins of an old tome, her hair pinned back in a strict bun.

Harry had always felt a mix of apprehension and admiration for the librarian. Her strict demeanour had often kept him at bay—an ever-watchful guardian of knowledge who preferred her collection pristine and orderly. It was a rare sight—her bending over the text, as if to pressure ideas from the parchment. The chaos of the war had left its mark everywhere else, yet here, the shelves stood tall and true, having been painstakingly restored. In this moment of order, however, a certain despair lingered in Madam Pince’s gaze. He could see the frustration etched deep into her wrinkled face—the loss of the few volumes that had suffered irreparable damage seemed to weigh heavily on her heart.

For a brief moment, Harry hesitated at the door. His thoughts flickered back to the end of the battle—to the mourning, the aftermath, and the choices that lay ahead. Now, in the library’s sanctuary, he felt a sense of purpose creeping back into his bones. Even with such urgent plans pulling at him, he needed knowledge about souls, about the things that lingered beyond death. Perhaps there was a secret hidden in a book that could help him navigate this uneasy territory.

“Mr. Potter,” Madam Pince’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp like the crack of a whip. She had caught his lingering gaze and was now watching him with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

“Uh, hello, Madam Pince,” he stammered, summoning his courage. “I was wondering if you could help me find some books on souls.”

Her eyes narrowed, flickering with a blend of surprise and concern. “Souls? There are numerous volumes on that matter,” she replied, her tone cautious. “But I must advise you that many of them are for staff only. I will not hesitate to enforce the restrictions.”

“Of course,” he interjected quickly, sensing the urgency he felt undercutting the librarian’s protective instincts. “I’m only interested in what I can borrow—what I can take home for a bit of light reading this summer.”

“Light reading,” she echoed, her voice growing colder, punctuated by a sigh. “And what makes you believe that you need to read about souls at all?”

Harry paused. He felt the weight of her scrutiny. The truth was a gaping maw he was not ready to fall into—not now, not today. “Just to pass the time,” he offered, trying to keep his tone casual. “I’d rather not be bored at home.”

Raising an eyebrow, Madam Pince examined him with her sharp intellect and unwavering authority. “Mr. Potter, I find your desire for an enjoyable summer a little difficult to accept. You’re not a frequent visitor to my library. How am I to believe you are genuinely interested in the volumes that await?”

“I… I may not have spent much time here, but I—” He faltered as her gaze bore into him, challenging him to reveal more. “I appreciate stories,” he said finally, grasping at fragments of his usual feigned interest as if hoping they would suffice.

An unspoken truth lingered between them as he took in her expression of doubt. She reflected on his words, perhaps reconsidering the weight of his request. “At the very least, your stubbornness does warrant some consideration. But be quick about it; your train departs soon.”

“Thank you!” he exclaimed, relief washing over him like a cooling breeze. He rushed toward the shelves she indicated, half-dreading the ticking clock that accompanied his every movement. Rows of spines glimmered in the dim light, beckoning him to choose them like a game of chance.

He frantically scanned the titles: The Nature of the Soul, Echoes of the Forgotten, Transcendence and Memory. Heart racing, he pulled a few tomes free, feeling their weight in his hands—a lifeline he desperately needed. With each book he selected, the urgency of his inquiry deepened. It wasn’t just idle reading; it was a quest for understanding, for closure.

The Hogwarts Express chugged rhythmically through the countryside, the vibrant greens of the English landscape smearing together in a blur through the window. Inside the compartment, a heavy silence hung in the air, laden with unspoken fears. Ginny Weasley sat close to Harry Potter, her fingers delicately clasped around his. He had always been the hero, the brave Gryffindor who faced darkness with courage, yet today, he seemed fragile—a flickering candle in a relentless wind.

His eyes fluttered against the bright light filtering through the window, exhaustion written all over his features. Ginny, sensing his turmoil, gently adjusted her position, encouraging his head to rest in her lap. Her heart ached at the sight of him, and she ran her fingers through his unkempt hair, hoping to offer him some sort of comfort.

“Harry,” she whispered softly, brushing her fingers through his hair. He sighed but didn’t stir. On the other side of the compartment, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger exchanged glances, their brows knitted together. The atmosphere crackled with worry, and for Ron, it felt utterly suffocating.

“I’ve never seen him so downcast,” Ron said in a hushed tone, breaking the silence that settled like a heavy blanket. His voice was thick with sorrow, a deep-rooted concern for his best friend.

“Ron, how can you be so insensitive?” Hermione shot back, a sharp edge to her voice. “We’re all in mourning, not just you. We need to support each other now more than ever.”

“I’m also grieving! But this feels different. There’s something really wrong with Harry,” Ron countered defensively, looking from Hermione to Harry, still curled up and distant. “We need to figure out what’s going on before it’s too late.”

“Maybe we should just ask him,” Hermione suggested, her tone softening slightly.

“Ask him what?” Ron frowned. “You really think he’s going to just tell us when he’s pretending everything’s fine?”

“Maybe it would help if we talked about it instead of brooding in silence,” Hermione pressed, her expression serious, her eyes darting back to Harry, who lay still, trapped in the shadow of a troubled dream.

As minutes dripped slowly by, Ron and Hermione sat in silence, their gazes locked on Harry, whose features twisted in an expression of pain as if he fought against something unseen. The tension in the compartment thickened, gnawing at them from the inside.

“Do you think he’s having a bad dream?” Ron murmured, concern etched into his brow.

“Strange,” Hermione whispered, her thoughtful frown echoing the worry she felt.

“He confessed that he was scared,” Ginny said suddenly, her voice slicing through the stillness. “The fear in his eyes was unmistakable.” She glanced at Ron and Hermione, gauging their reactions.

“Scared?” Hermione repeated, bewildered. “By what?”

“Why’s that?” Ron’s voice trembled slightly, uncertainty creeping in.

“He—he said that he thought he could move on, but feels like he was stuck in the past,” Ginny explained, her voice tinged with anxiety. “It’s serious,” she added, eyes wide and frantic.

Hermione leaned closer, her brow furrowing. “When did he tell you this?”

“Last night,” Ginny replied, her heart racing. The memory of Harry’s voice haunted her—a desperate plea wrapped in secrecy.

Ron’s expression darkened as reality crashed down upon him. “No wonder he looked so bad this morning.”

With a heavy heart, Ginny echoed the dread that enveloped them. “Is he sick?” She felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She had seen him at breakfast, but even then, the tension on his face had gnawed at her.

Ron merely shrugged, the worry mirroring Ginny’s own. “Not sure. He appeared dizzy when he stood up. Said he was just too quick to rise, but I think there’s more to it.”

The compartment seemed to shrink around them. Each passing second intensified their fears, pooling into an unshakeable sense of foreboding. Hermione leaned closer to Harry, her eyes scanning the tranquillity his face often wore, now replaced with shadows of turmoil.

“What do we do?” she finally asked, her voice a whisper, afraid of the answer.

Ginny’s hand continued to stroke Harry’s hair, her heart echoing her words, “We stand by him. Whatever it is, we face it together.”

“Together,” Ron confirmed, though his voice was laced with worry. The promise hung in the air, a thread binding them in their shared resolve.

Harry’s friends, who were worried about his well being, allowed him to rest peacefully during the remainder of the train journey. They engaged in quiet conversations and admired the scenery passing by outside the window as the train neared its destination.

When the train finally began to slow, a shrill whistle pierced through Harry’s dreams, jolting him awake as if he were awakening from a deep well rather than a train compartment. He blinked sleep from his eyes, momentarily disoriented, and rubbed the back of his neck. He noticed Ron and Hermione busy packing their things, while Ginny maintained a gentle hand on his. Her eyes were wide with concern, casting a warm glow around her.

“How are you holding up?” she asked softly.

Harry managed a smile, though fatigue still clung to him. “I’m feeling alright. I didn’t plan on dozing off for the entire journey.”

Ron chuckled as he stuffed an oversized sweater into his bag. “You were practically out cold the minute we left Hogwarts. It seems you were in desperate need of rest.”

When they arrived at the platform, Ron’s parents welcomed them eagerly, enveloping everyone in warm hugs. Meanwhile, Hermione quietly slipped away to reunite with her own parents, preferring a more subdued reunion. In contrast, Harry crossed over to the other side of the platform, his eyes scanning the area keenly as he anticipated the arrival of a particular person.

“C’mon, Harry!” Mr. Weasley shouted excitedly, urging him to catch up with the rest of the group.

Yet despite the bustling activity around him, Harry appeared lost in contemplation, and he remained silent.

Worried about Harry, Ron walked over to him. “What’s going on, mate?” He asked. “Are you ready to leave now?”

“I’m waiting for my uncle to come and pick me up.” Harry replied.

Ron laughed in amusement at Harry’s comment. “That’s a good joke, Harry, but we should really get going before we end up lagging behind. It’s a long summer ahead, and who wants to get stuck waiting here?” he responded.

“I’m serious! My uncle is coming for me,” Harry insisted, a rising sense of panic punctuating his voice.

Ron’s smile gradually disappeared from his face as he struggled to understand what was being said. “What are you talking about, Harry? You’re now living with us at the Burrow.”

A heavy silence fell as Harry searched Ron’s face for any sign of jest, but there was none. “But… What do you mean?” He stumbled over his words, feeling the grip of disbelief tighten around his heart. “I was supposed to go back to the Dursleys.” However, despite this initial shock, a feeling of relief started to creep in as he considered the idea of living with the Weasleys instead.

“We discussed this!” Ron exclaimed, confused. “Everyone agreed you’d stay with us after the Dursleys went into hiding. You know that.” Just as the situation became heavier, Mrs. Weasley slipped through the crowd, concern spilling from her expression like ink on parchment.

“Harry, dear, are you alright?” she asked, her hand reaching out to cup his cheek.

Mr. Weasley came closer, his expression reflecting compassion and understanding. “Can you remember the events of your seventeenth birthday from the previous year?” He gently asked Harry.

After pausing to contemplate, Harry ultimately decided to reject the idea, and a feeling of unease began to wash over him. The sense of doubt only intensified as he reflected on the situation, his thoughts becoming muddled and confused. Not a single recollection surfaced in his mind regarding the events of that particular day.

The people surrounding him were left in shock—Ron’s mouth hung open in disbelief, Ginny wore a baffled expression, and Mrs. Weasley gasped, clutching her chest in astonishment. A heavy silence surrounded them as they gazed at Harry, anticipation written on their faces as they awaited his clarification.

Mr. Weasley gently placed a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper, as he reminded him of the events that had led to this moment. “Harry, you talked with us after your birthday last year. You said goodbye to the Dursleys because they went into hiding for their safety. You agreed to stay with us.”

Harry’s thoughts whirled around in his mind as he struggled to remember what Mr. Weasley was talking about. Feeling overwhelmed, he took a step back from Mr. Weasley and sought reassurance from the group, but their perplexed looks only heightened his bewilderment. He brought a trembling hand to his forehead in an effort to remember, but all he could grasp was a chaotic jumble of memories that only served to give him a headache.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley,” Harry finally managed to say, his voice trembling with uncertainty as he struggled to recollect his thoughts. “Why don’t I remember?” He couldn’t understand why certain memories seemed to be missing, causing a deep sense of apprehension and dread to take hold within him. The fear of losing crucial parts of his past weighed heavily on his mind.

“You’ve been through a lot, dear,” Mrs. Weasley comforted, her voice warm and motherly. “You may simply still be in shock from the events that unfolded. Just give it some time, and your memories will come back.”

But panic twisted in Harry’s gut as he thought of fragmented recollections slipping away into obscurity. Why was everything fading? What if more than just memories were lost? The fear tightened its grip, and he silently fought the rising tide of anxiety. He lowered his gaze in resignation, unable to grasp the memories that seemed just out of reach despite his best attempts. It was as though his mind had been wiped clean while he was asleep, leaving him with only fragmented recollections that served to further confuse him. As he struggled to make sense of the scattered images flashing before him, a sense of dread crept over him, realising that there was only one unsettling conclusion to draw from this troubling situation.