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

[ A - All Readers ]

The summer sun bathed the Hogwarts grounds in a warm, golden glow, illuminating the castle that had sheltered so many over the years. The Black Lake's shimmering surface mirrored the brilliant blue sky, reflecting the natural beauty surrounding it. This serene landscape stood in stark contrast to the chaos and despair that had long haunted this place. Yet, as Harry Potter gazed out at the tranquil scene, he felt a strange disconnect, his mind lost in a whirlwind of thoughts.

The crisp scent of wildflowers and fresh air invigorated him as he breathed deeply. Yet beneath the tranquil beauty, a nagging sensation stirred restlessly in his chest. For a fleeting instant, a sharp pang of pain gripped his heart, a jarring reminder that the serenity was not as complete as it seemed. As quickly as the discomfort had come, it vanished, leaving only a lingering unease he couldn't shake. This unsettling feeling had surfaced twice already that day, but he pushed it aside, wrapping himself in the familiar veil of denial.

“Harry!”

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice. He turned to see Ginny Weasley approaching, her vibrant red hair shimmering in the sunlight. A warm, radiant smile usually brightened even the gloomiest of his days, but today, that smile faltered as she drew nearer and noticed the troubled look on his face.

Worry crept across her face as she asked, "What's wrong?"

He forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing," he replied quickly. "I'm just admiring the view, that's all."

Ginny's brow furrowed as she eyed him sceptically. After all these years, she knew him too well to be deceived by the thin smile that betrayed his inner turmoil. "You've been standing here 'admiring the view' for quite some time now. That's not like you at all—you should be out there enjoying the summer with everyone else."

Harry's gaze swept across the grounds, where students and friends celebrated joyfully, their laughter and friendship a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within him. "Everyone else..." he began, his voice faltering as he struggled to find the words. The victory they had all fought for now seemed bittersweet, as he found himself once more trapped in the whirlwind of his own thoughts. "They've won a war, Ginny. Why can't they just enjoy that triumph?"

Ginny stepped closer, her expression softening with concern. "You deserve to enjoy this too, Harry. Just let it go for today."

But it wasn't easy. A heavy weight settled over Harry, compounding his worry. That strange pang in his chest persisted, even as joyous laughter filled the air. The thought 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.

A cold dread gripped his chest as he contemplated returning to the library, knowing he would have to pore over medical books in search of answers. Yet, the once-magnificent structure still lay in ruin, debris littering the floors. The thought of reopening painful memories filled him with a sense of weary resignation.

Ginny silently slid into the empty space beside Harry, her presence both comforting and insistent. With a gentle tone, she said, "I noticed you jumped at dinner yesterday, Harry. You seem troubled. Is there something you haven't told me? Is something weighing heavily on your mind? You can talk to me. I'm here for you." An air of quiet understanding hung between them.

Harry exhaled heavily, the weight in his chest begging to be released. But the fear of upsetting Ginny and drawing her back into the anguish they had just escaped silenced him. Clinging to a stubborn glimmer of hope that the ache might fade, he forced the words back down, determined to keep his troubles to himself. Still, he knew he needed to say something, anything, to her.

"Nothing's really wrong," he repeated, his voice wavering slightly as he tried to firm his resolve. "I'm okay. I just..." He hesitated, his brow furrowing as he fought the urge to confide in her. "I feel like everyone's just moving on, and I'm..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Ginny's eyes narrowed with concern, her determination shining through. "I’m what?" she pressed gently.

He glanced at her, biting his lip nervously. Her gaze was unwavering, steady, and reassuring, and that small flicker of hope rekindled in his chest, momentarily overshadowing the confusion swirling within him. "I’m stuck in the past?" he suggested weakly, his tone tinged with uncertainty as he struggled to put his feelings into words.

A deep sigh escaped her lips as she tenderly reached for Harry's hand. Her delicate fingers grazed his skin, anchoring him in the present moment. "Harry, you're not alone in this anymore. You don't have to shoulder this burden on your own. Talk to me, please." She pleaded, her voice laced with warmth and concern.

The raw emotion in Ginny's plea struck him deeply. It was more than just words—it was a tether that reconnected him to the love, friendship, and bonds forged from despair. A flash of aching pain pulsed through his heart, flickering like a dying lantern. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to focus on the soothing sounds of the waves lapping at the shore, but the silence swallowed them. Overwhelming urges to scream, to shout, to release the storm brewing within threatened to burst forth, but he clenched his jaw, stifling the outpouring of emotion.

“Harry?” Ginny's gentle voice washed over Harry like a soothing wave. "I'm here," she said, her eyes filled with kindness and concern.

As he turned to face her, he saw a flicker of understanding in her darkened gaze, as if she could sense the inner turmoil raging within him. Unable to hold back any longer, Harry let out a small, weary sigh, his chest rising and falling like the tide retreating from the shore.

“I just…” He paused, eyes fluttering shut as the gentle summer breeze caressed his face. For a fleeting moment, it carried away the uncertainty that lingered. When he opened his eyes again, a pained expression crossed his features. "It hurts sometimes, Ginny. Like I lost something, or someone, even though we've won. I thought everything would feel different now. I thought I'd be fine, but..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air.

Her gentle gaze radiated a soothing empathy. "You've been so courageous, fighting for so long. You've lost dear friends, Harry. It's natural to feel that profound pain and longing for them. Healing from such trials is never easy, especially after all you've endured. Allow yourself to have doubts and fears—that's part of the process. This is uncharted territory we're venturing into, and it's okay if it doesn't feel perfectly right just yet."

He opened his eyes, his gaze meeting hers. A deep ache swelled within him, a heaviness that seemed to weigh on his very soul. With each word she spoke, the sturdy walls he had built began to crumble, exposing the vulnerability that lay beneath.

"I think... I think I'm scared," he admitted, his voice laced with a fragility she had rarely heard from him.

"Scared of what?" she asked gently, her eyes filled with concern.

He took a shaky breath. "Of not being okay. Of this pain meaning something more serious. Of burdening you... or Ron and Hermione... or anyone. What if it never gets better? What if I have to deal with this forever?"

She reached out, taking his hand in hers. "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. You don't have to face this alone."

Her words were a balm to his weary soul, offering him the comfort and reassurance he so desperately needed in that moment.

Sensing his shift, Ginny moved closer and tenderly cradled his face in her hands. "It's okay, just let it all out," she soothed.

Under the sun's warm glow, the soft summer breeze caressed their skin as she tenderly pressed her lips to his. The simple, intimate gesture sent a wave of comfort through him, the heaviness in his chest dissipating like a storm cloud parting to reveal the clear sky. In that fleeting moment, all the shadows faded, replaced by a profound sense of peace and the reassurance that even in darkness, light would always endure.

As they broke apart, a sense of relief and warmth washed over Harry. He found himself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time that day. "Thanks, Ginny," he said, his voice soft and sincere.

"Anytime," she replied, her lips curving into a gentle smile that blossomed into something far brighter and more radiant. "But remember—don't try to face this all alone."

Harry nodded, the final traces of anguish and sorrow ebbing away as they turned their gaze back to the shimmering, serene surface of the Black Lake. In that moment, the world felt a little brighter, a little more hopeful.

 

 

Harry lay awake in his bed, unable to find rest as the others in Gryffindor Tower had already fallen asleep. An unusual, throbbing sensation in his chest prevented him from finding any peace. This strange feeling had occurred twice already that day, leaving him restless and anxious. Despite the temporary nature of the sensation, he couldn't shake the urge to investigate further.

Quietly, Harry slipped out of bed and crept into the common room. The dying embers of the fireplace cast a dim, flickering glow as he pondered his next move. With a growing sense of determination, he made his way through the portrait hole, careful not to disturb the sleeping school staff. The late hour added to his mounting sense of urgency—he could no longer delay addressing the suspicions that had taken hold of him.

Hogwarts was his home, but Harry knew he needed to seek answers beyond its familiar walls. Whatever was happening to him, he had to get to the bottom of it.

Harry trudged through the dungeons. Finally, he reached the doorway he had been desperately seeking. With a racing heart, he rapped firmly on the door, hoping his professor would be awake. To his relief, the knock was quickly answered.

The elderly man's weathered, bald head and thick, silver moustache gave him a gruff, walrus-like appearance as he slowly opened the door. Though he had just roused from a deep sleep, his weary eyes suddenly brightened, and his face broke into a warm, welcoming smile upon spotting Harry, the fatigue vanishing from his expression.

"Harry!" Professor Slughorn exclaimed, his face lighting up with surprise and delight. "What an unexpected pleasure to see you here at this late hour."

Harry spoke softly, a hint of apology in his voice. "Professor Slughorn, I'm sorry if I've disturbed you."

Professor Slughorn waved a hand dismissively, his warm, jolly demeanour putting Harry at ease. "No need to apologise, my boy. I'm always happy to see a friendly face." He stepped aside, gesturing for Harry to enter his cosy living quarters. The room exuded a comforting aroma of well-loved books and fragrant tea.

As Harry stepped into the room, he was immediately enveloped in the cosy warmth radiating from the crackling fireplace. Memories came rushing back, transporting him to the time he had accompanied Ron to the professor's office and witnessed his friend accidentally drinking poisoned oak-matured mead—a terrifying ordeal that had served as a crucial lesson. That experience had taught Harry the importance of exercising caution when accepting drinks from others.

Professor Slughorn closed the door behind him. He moved with purpose towards a small table, intent on fetching some drinks. "Please, take a seat, Harry," he said, his voice warm and inviting. "I've brewed up some delightful butterbeer that I think you'll quite enjoy."

Harry settled cautiously into a plush chair near the crackling fireplace, observing as Slughorn carefully poured the rich, amber liquid into two glasses. With a friendly smile, the professor extended one of the drinks to Harry, who accepted it gratefully. Though a twinge of apprehension lingered, Harry pushed it aside, reassuring himself that the familiar beverage posed no harm.

Professor Slughorn peered at Harry expectantly, his moustache twitching with anticipation. "Now, my dear boy, how may I assist you?" he asked.

Harry hesitated, his fingers drumming nervously against the smooth glass of his butterbeer. He took a small, contemplative sip, then carefully returned the cup to the table, buying himself a moment to gather his thoughts. The professor's question hung in the air, and Harry felt torn—should he seek Slughorn's help or try to figure this out on his own? Uncertainty flickered across his face as he struggled to find the right words.

Harry gazed at Professor Slughorn tentatively, his mind still reeling from their previous serious discussion about Horcruxes. Despite his trepidation over the grave consequences, Harry's desperate need for answers compelled him to broach the forbidden subject once more. "Professor," he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of hope and apprehension, "I was hoping you'd be open to discussing Horcruxes with me again." Harry's heart raced as he waited anxiously for the professor's response.

After Harry posed his question, Professor Slughorn was visibly taken aback. He suddenly broke into a coughing fit, struggling to swallow the drink in his hand. After a lengthy pause, his stony facade softened, and he gently enquired, "I'm curious to understand the reasoning behind your inquiry."

Surprise flickered across Harry's face as Professor Slughorn regarded him with an unexpected look of concern, rather than the dismissive response Harry had anticipated. This uncharacteristic reaction kindled a glimmer of hope within Harry—a tentative optimism that the situation might not be as bleak as he had feared.

"I was simply curious, Professor," Harry replied cautiously, watching closely for Slughorn's reaction.

Professor Slughorn's gaze sharpened, a hint of doubt flickering across his features. "It's rather peculiar that you would ponder such a question, Harry," he remarked solemnly. "Are you absolutely certain there's no ulterior motive behind your curiosity?"

Harry sat in silence, his mind racing with a whirlwind of thoughts. Recognising the gravity of the situation, he knew he must choose his next words with great care.

Professor Slughorn shifted in his chair, leaning closer to Harry with a look of genuine intrigue etched across his features. "What are you curious about?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of apprehension.

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?" he asked, his tone laced with a mix of trepidation and curiosity.

"Yes, I did," Slughorn replied, his brow furrowing with a grave expression. "But that is very dark magic, Harry. Deeply disturbing, in fact."

“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 say, I have never encountered such a peculiar concept before." He paused, considering the implications. "Typically, a Horcrux is concealed within an inanimate object by its creator. However, implanting it in a living being would almost certainly shorten that being's lifespan. The risk involved is far too great, in my opinion."

Harry's brow furrowed with worry, his expression growing increasingly anxious. "What if it wasn't deliberate?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity as he fixed his gaze intently on his professor. A palpable sense of dread filled him as he considered the possibility—"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?"

The professor's face was etched with a mixture of shock and profound concern as he stared back at Harry. "Regardless of intent, the moment a Horcrux infiltrates a soul, it becomes irreparably corrupted," Professor Slughorn declared solemnly. "The damage is irreversible."

"So, if the Horcrux is destroyed, the person's soul would die as well?"

Professor Slughorn nodded gravely. "Indeed," he said with unwavering certainty. "It is a fate worse than death itself."

Harry's heart sank as the relentless barrage of distressing news consumed him, leaving him utterly despondent. "Professor," he pleaded, "is there any way to cleanse the corrupted soul?”

The professor's brow furrowed with empathy as he regarded Harry. "There is no easy answer to that question," he replied solemnly. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his uncertainty palpable. Despite engaging in numerous discussions with Albus Dumbledore on the matter, he still harboured doubts due to the lack of evidence supporting the theory. It was clear that Albus commanded a far greater depth of knowledge on the subject, dwarfing the professor's own understanding.

“I'm afraid I cannot provide an answer," he said solemnly to Harry's question. “Crafting a Horcrux is a sinister act, one that demands the method be closely guarded. This secrecy implies that the notion of mending a torn soul may not even be considered in such dark practices. To my knowledge, there exists no documented case of anyone successfully reversing the irreversible harm of creating a Horcrux. Consequently, the prospect of restoring a fractured soul by eliminating Horcruxes remains shrouded in uncertainty.”

Droplets of sweat glistened on Harry's brow as he asked, his voice laced with concern, "How much will a tainted soul shorten someone's life? You mentioned it would have a significant impact."

The professor leaned back in his chair, a pensive look on his face, before responding in a sombre tone, "Pinpointing an exact timeline is difficult, but the deterioration would likely be slow and agonising. As time passes, a swift and merciful end would be the more preferable outcome."

The professor's tone and expression conveyed the seriousness of the situation, instantly filling Harry with an overwhelming sense of dread. His heart raced, and he felt lightheaded as the horrifying thought of a prolonged, agonising demise suddenly crossed his mind for the first time.

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

Harry tried to flash a feeble smile and give a nod in response, but his overwhelming fear was creeping up inside him. "Yes," he replied softly, looking up, though the words seemed to stumble out as his breathing became laboured and his throat grew dry.

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

Feeling a growing sense of unease, Harry abruptly rose from his seat and rushed out of the room, leaving Professor Slughorn no chance to speak further.

As soon as he stepped outside, Harry hurried to the nearest bathroom, his body wracked by violent shivers and intense vomiting. Clinging desperately to the stall walls, he struggled to gather the strength to stand on the cold, tiled floor, his vision blurred and head spinning. Despite his dizziness, Harry knew he had to compose himself before anyone discovered him in this vulnerable state.

Harry trudged back to Gryffindor Tower, his emotions in turmoil. Collapsing onto his bed, he couldn't hold back his tears. The weight of his troubled heart threatened to crush him. The darkness that had enveloped his soul left him feeling lost and adrift, unsure how to navigate his inner anxiety. The fear of what lay ahead loomed over him, casting a sense of dread. Despite his dreams of peace after destroying the Horcruxes, the harsh reality had shattered his illusions. The battle had left an indelible mark on Harry, transforming him and making him unsure of ever finding solace again.

 

 

As the final day at Hogwarts drew to a close, the morning sun streamed through the arched windows of the Gryffindor dormitory, casting a warm glow on the scarlet and gold decorations. The air was thick with a bittersweet blend of nostalgia and the comforting scent of old parchment. Harry sat on the edge of his bed, his gaze fixed on the small pile of hastily packed clothes, the weight of the world bearing down on him. A sense of unease lingered, the ominous warnings from Professor Slughorn about the future still echoing in his mind.

Harry gazed despondently at the empty bed beside him, normally occupied by Ron's sleeping form. Suddenly, a thunderous crash jolted him from his melancholy reverie as Ron burst into the room, tumbling in with a thud. Yet, the gangly redhead's lopsided, good-natured smile miraculously lifted the heaviness in Harry's heart.

"Harry!" Ron bellowed, his boisterous greeting seeming to chase away the swirling doubts clouding Harry’s mind.

Squinting, Harry turned towards the familiar voice as Ron waved a hand in front of his face, gently urging him to take the forgotten glasses resting on the bedside table.

"Blimey, you look a right mess this morning," Ron chuckled warmly, passing the spectacles to his groggy friend with a light-hearted grin.

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.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!" Ron exclaimed, shoving Harry's shoulder with an overly dramatic flourish. Harry groaned, his eyes still heavy with sleep. "You're clearly not a morning person today. Honestly, you look like a house-elf who's just been given their freedom!"

Ron's teasing jibe elicited a chuckle from Harry. In the spirit of their long-standing friendship, Harry retaliated by hurling his pillow at Ron, who effortlessly snatched it out of the air like a seasoned Quidditch player.

Abruptly rising, a sudden rush of dizziness swept over Harry, causing him to lurch forward and brace himself against the wall. His breath hitched as the world tilted perilously, followed by a wave of nausea that sent him tumbling to the floor with a thud.

Ron's once playful tone shifted to one of concern as he rushed to Harry's side with a protective instinct. "Woah... Are you okay?"

Flushed with embarrassment and overcome by intense fatigue, Harry lied, "Just got up too quickly. I need a moment."

Concern etched across Ron's furrowed brows as he knelt beside Harry. "You sure you're alright? You've looked downright miserable since the battle. It's not just me noticing, is it?" His tone was playful, but a genuine edge of worry tinged his words.

Harry pushed himself up to sit, forcing a weary smile. "I'll manage. I'm just exhausted, that's all. This talk of the future has my head spinning." He fought to push down the lingering unease gnawing at him.

As Ron gently pulled him upright, the gravity of their experiences came crashing down on Harry. Though they had willingly sacrificed their final year to fight, they had somehow overlooked the immense toll of their journey. Memories of profound loss collided with the elation of reunion, unleashing a tumultuous whirlwind of emotions that left Harry feeling deeply unsettled.

The Gryffindor common room hummed with vibrant energy as Harry and Ron made their way downstairs, the joyful laughter of their peers echoing through the ancient, time-worn walls. Harry's initial apprehension faded, replaced by comfort and familiarity. He knew this final day at Hogwarts marked not just an ending but the dawning of new beginnings and the renewal of cherished bonds.

Harry's gaze drifted sideways to Ron. “I wonder what it’ll be like, you know, being at the Burrow for good,” Harry mused aloud. A wistful smile played on his lips, hinting at the mix of excitement and trepidation he felt about the changes to come.

Ron's face lit up with a grin. “Better than the dreary dungeon, that’s for sure,” he quipped. Yet beneath his light-hearted tone, a flicker of shared understanding passed between the two friends, an acknowledgement of the unknown future that lay ahead.

A warm, hopeful smile blossomed across Harry's face as he stepped into the cosy, familiar Gryffindor common room. Though Hogwarts would forever hold a cherished place in his heart, he now understood that a loving family awaited him beyond the castle's walls—a family he could truly call his own.

Harry's footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor as he slipped through the Great Hall's heavy wooden doors. Even in the aftermath of war, the Hogwarts dining hall pulsed with a warmth he could not seem to feel. Each joyful smile of his friends and the mere comfort of food only served to distance him further from the realm of what should have been a celebratory breakfast.

He had reluctantly dragged himself from the comfort of his bed, his body wracked by a relentless illness that had robbed him of his hunger and peace of mind. A gnawing emptiness clawed at his insides, reminding him of the nourishment he desperately needed to rebuild his strength. Yet the mere idea of choking down another bland mouthful of toast and eggs filled him with a sickening dread. As his weary gaze swept across the sparsely occupied hall, the sudden appearance of Ginny's familiar form settled a heavy, melancholic weight deep within his chest.

With a gentle tone, she greeted him, "Hi," as he settled onto the bench across from her. Concern etched across her features, her brow furrowed. Harry responded with a faint, halfhearted smile, but his eyes drifted away, fixating on the untouched food before him.

Ginny's gaze fixed on him as she gently squeezed his hand, her tender touch igniting a comforting warmth within him. "Aren't you going to eat?" she asked, her voice laced with a soft, caring authority.

He gently pulled away from her comforting touch, though he craved the solace it offered. "I'm just not very hungry," he admitted, his voice tinged with reluctance. Glancing over, he saw Ron and Hermione exchange a look heavy with unspoken worry. Their concern touched him, but he felt like an imposter accepting it—after all, the world had lost so much, including a piece of his own soul.

Ron's voice broke the silence, his typically jovial lilt now tinged with a subtle tension. "C'mon, mate. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. We'll be heading to the Burrow soon, right?"

Harry murmured a soft "Yes," though his response sounded distant and distracted. Inwardly, he tried to convince himself that eating would somehow align with the joy of reuniting with their families. But even the mere thought left a bitterness lingering on his tongue. He didn't want to be a burden; he didn't want his friends to see just how deeply his sorrow ran.

Harry took a deep breath, then slowly lifted a slice of toast to his lips. He could feel Ginny's worried gaze fixed on him, the intensity of her concern momentarily spurring him to take a small bite. The dry, scratchy texture of the toast scraped against his sore throat, and he reluctantly set it back down, his appetite still stubbornly defiant.

"I'll eat more once we're back at the Burrow," he promised, hoping this would reassure Mrs. Weasley and ease her relentless efforts to make her children eat. His friends nodded, visible relief washing over their faces.

As Harry placed his hands on the cool, smooth wood of the table, he felt the heavy weight of sorrow slowly sliding back down, wrapping around him like a suffocating anchor. Desperate to escape the crushing concern of his friends, he abruptly stood, muttering an excuse about needing the restroom.

Instead, he took a detour, disappearing into a quiet corridor that led him away from their piercing gazes. Harry walked methodically, his fists clenched tightly in his pockets. The library beckoned like a sanctuary, a place where he could immerse himself in words and thoughts that echoed far less harshly than the painful reality he faced.

The ancient, wooden door creaked open as Harry pushed it, the familiar sound piercing the stillness. Madam Pince, seated at her desk, was the picture of intense focus, her fingers delicately tracing the margins of an aged tome, her hair pulled back into a severe bun.

Harry had always felt a complex mix of apprehension and admiration towards the strict, ever-vigilant librarian, Madam Pince. Her stern demeanour had often kept him at a distance, as she guarded her pristine and meticulously organised collection like a resolute protector of knowledge. Yet, on the rare occasions when she bent over the ancient texts, Harry could sense a palpable intensity, as if she were coaxing ideas from the parchment itself.

While the chaos of war had left its mark everywhere else, the library's towering shelves stood tall and true, having been painstakingly restored to their former glory. However, in this moment of order, a deep despair lingered in Madam Pince's weary gaze. The loss of the few irreparably damaged volumes seemed to weigh heavily on her weathered features, the frustration etched into the very lines of her face.

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 sliced through Harry's reverie, her words cutting like the crack of a whip. She had noticed his lingering gaze and now eyed him with a blend of suspicion and curiosity.

"Uh, hello, Madam Pince," he stammered, mustering his courage. "I was hoping you could help me find some books on souls."

Her eyes narrowed, flickering with a mix of surprise and concern. "Souls? We have numerous volumes on that topic," she replied cautiously. "But I must inform you that many are for staff use only. I won't hesitate to enforce the restrictions."

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

The librarian's voice grew colder, punctuated by a sigh. "'Light reading'? And what makes you believe you need to read about souls at all?"

Harry hesitated, his body going still as he felt the heavy, probing weight of her piercing stare. The raw, unspeakable truth yawned before him like a dark, ominous chasm that he was not yet prepared to face—not in this moment, not on this day. Forcing a casual tone, he replied, "Just looking to kill some time. I'd prefer not to be cooped up at home twiddling my thumbs."

Madam Pince's sharp, piercing gaze scrutinised Harry as she raised a sceptical eyebrow. With an air of cold, unyielding authority, she addressed him sternly, "Mr. Potter, I find your sudden interest in an 'enjoyable summer' rather difficult to accept. After all, you are not a frequent visitor to my library. So pray tell, how am I to believe you are genuinely interested in the volumes that await you?"

Shifting uncomfortably under her penetrating stare, he hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "I... I haven't been here often, but—" He trailed off, struggling to maintain his composure as her unwavering gaze demanded more. Finally, he mustered a response, his tone tinged with a hint of his typical affected interest. "I do enjoy reading," he said simply, grasping at the familiar fragments of his usual facade, hoping they would be enough to satisfy her.

The heavy silence between them was palpable as he studied her doubtful expression. She mulled over his words, her brow furrowed as she reconsidered the gravity of his plea. "Your obstinance does deserve some thought, I'll grant you that. But time is of the essence—your train leaves shortly."

Overwhelming relief flooded through him, a refreshing respite from the tension that had gripped him. "Thank you!" he cried gratefully, the words escaping in a rush. He hurried toward the shelves she had gestured to, a sense of dread mingling with his urgency as the relentless ticking of the clock tracked his every step. In the soft glow, the rows of book spines glimmered invitingly, beckoning him to make his selection as if it were a game of chance.

 

 

The Hogwarts Express chugged steadily through the picturesque English countryside, the vibrant greens of the landscape blurring together in a mesmerising dance outside the window. Inside the cramped compartment, a thick, ominous silence permeated the air, pregnant with unspoken dread and apprehension. Ginny sat huddled close to Harry, her fingers delicately intertwined with his hand.

Wincing against the harsh glare from the window, Harry's weary eyes blinked rapidly, his face etched with evident fatigue. Sensing his inner anguish, Ginny tenderly shifted closer, guiding his head to rest upon her lap. Her heart swelled with empathy at his distressed state, and she lovingly threaded her fingers through his dishevelled locks, yearning to provide him comfort. After a few minutes, Harry was already fast asleep.

Across the cramped train compartment, Ron and Hermione exchanged a tense, worried glance, their brows furrowed with concern. The air felt thick with unease, suffocating Ron as he sat helplessly by.

“I’ve never seen him look so utterly despondent,” Ron murmured, his voice tinged with grief. The heavy silence that enveloped them weighed on them all.

“Ron, how can you be so insensitive?” Hermione retorted, her tone sharpened with frustration. “We’re all in mourning, not just you. Now more than ever, we need to come together and support one another."

Ron looked back and forth between Hermione and the withdrawn, curled-up figure of Harry. "I'm grieving too, but this is different. There's something seriously wrong with Harry. We have to find out what's happening before it's too late," he said, his words laced with urgency and concern.

Hermione's expression softened slightly. "Maybe we should just ask him," she suggested gently.

Ron frowned, the worry etched on his face. "Ask him what? You really think he's going to open up and tell us the truth when he's pretending everything's fine?"

"Maybe it would help if we talked about it instead of brooding in silence," Hermione urged, her brow furrowed with concern as her eyes darted back to Harry. He lay still, his face twisted in an expression of anguish, trapped in the shadow of a troubled dream.

The minutes ticked by in tense silence as Ron and Hermione watched Harry, their gazes locked on his pained features. The tension in the compartment thickened, a weight pressing in on them from all sides as they sat helplessly, their hearts heavy with worry.

“Do you think he’s having a bad dream?” Ron murmured.

“Strange,” Hermione whispered; her thoughtful frown mirrored the worry etched across her features.

Ginny's voice suddenly pierced the stillness. "He confessed that he was scared. The fear in his eyes was unmistakable." She glanced at Ron and Hermione, gauging their reactions.

"Scared?" Hermione repeated, her tone laced with bewilderment. "By what?"

Ron's voice trembled slightly, uncertainty creeping in as he asked, "Why's that?"

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

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

“Last night,” Ginny replied, her heart racing. The memory of Harry's desperate, secretive plea haunted her.

Ron's expression darkened as the reality crashed down on him. "No wonder he looked so bad this morning," he muttered.

Ginny's heart sank as she echoed the dread that gripped them. "Is he sick?" she asked, her stomach tightening with worry. She had seen him at breakfast, but even then, the tension etched on his face had gnawed at her.

Ron's shrug mirrored Ginny's own concern. "Not sure. He seemed dizzy when he stood up. Said he was just too quick to rise, but I think there's more to it," he replied, his voice heavy with uncertainty.

The cramped compartment walls closed in, constricting their breathing. With each tick of the clock, their dread mounted, coalescing into a heavy, ominous sensation that refused to dissipate. Hermione inched nearer to Harry, her gaze scrutinising the placid expression that usually graced his features, now overtaken by a turbulent storm of emotions.

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

Ginny’s hand gently stroked Harry’s hair. “We stand by him. Whatever it is, we face it together.” Her tone was resolute, a quiet promise.

Ron's voice joined hers, though laced with worry. "Together." The single word hung in the air, a thread binding them in their shared resolve.

Concerned for Harry's well-being, his friends quietly let him sleep during the final stretch of the train ride. They passed the time in hushed discussion and gazed out the window, captivated by the picturesque countryside rolling by as the train approached its destination.

The shrill whistle suddenly pierced through Harry's dreams as the train began to slow, jolting him awake from his slumber. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he felt momentarily disoriented, rubbing the back of his neck. He noticed Ron and Hermione hurriedly packing their belongings, while Ginny gently placed a concerned hand on his arm. Her wide, warm eyes cast a comforting glow. "How are you holding up?" She asked softly.

Harry forced a weary smile, his exhaustion still evident. "I'm feeling alright, I suppose. I didn't intend to sleep the whole trip."

Ron chuckled as he shoved an oversized sweater into his bag. "You were out cold the second we left Hogwarts. Looks like you were desperate for some rest."

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley spotted them on the crowded platform. They rushed over, their faces alight with joy, and enveloped the group in warm, enthusiastic embraces. In contrast, Hermione slipped away quietly, her expression serene, to reunite with her own parents in a more subdued, private moment. Meanwhile, Harry stood apart from the reunions, his emerald eyes scanning the area intently as he eagerly awaited the arrival of a particular person.

"C'mon, Harry!" Mr. Weasley shouted eagerly, his voice brimming with excitement as he urged the boy to catch up with the rest of the group.

Yet despite the bustling commotion surrounding him, Harry remained lost in pensive contemplation, his expression distant and thoughtful as he stood silently.

Concern etched across his face, Ron approached his friend. "What's going on, mate?" he asked gently. "Are you ready to head off now?"

"I'm waiting for my uncle to come and pick me up," Harry replied, his tone subdued.

 

Ron chuckled heartily at Harry's remark, amused by his friend's quip. "Haha, good one, Harry," he replied, "but we really should get moving before we fall behind. It's going to be a long summer, and I sure don't want to be stuck waiting around here all day."

Harry's expression grew serious, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. "No, Ron, I'm being completely serious,” he insisted. “My uncle is on his way to pick me up."

Ron's bright smile slowly faded from his face as he struggled to comprehend the meaning behind Harry's words. "What are you talking about, Harry? You're now living with us at the Burrow."

A heavy, oppressive silence fell over the room as Harry anxiously searched Ron's expression for any sign of jest or humour but found none. "But... what do you mean?" he stammered, the grip of disbelief tightening around his heart. "I was supposed to go back to the Dursleys."

However, despite this initial shock, a feeling of relief and hope began to creep in as Harry considered the prospect of living with the warm, welcoming Weasley family instead.

 

Ron's brow furrowed with bewilderment. "We discussed this!” He cried. “Everyone agreed you'd stay with us after the Dursleys went into hiding. You know that!"

The tense atmosphere thickened, but then Mrs. Weasley hurried through the crowd, her face etched with worry that seemed to bleed from her features like ink on parchment. "Harry, dear, are you alright?" she asked gently, her hand tenderly cupping his cheek.

Mr. Weasley approached Harry, his expression radiating compassion and understanding. "Can you remember the events of your seventeenth birthday from the previous year?" he asked gently.

After a moment of contemplation, Harry reluctantly dismissed the idea, a growing sense of unease washing over him. As he reflected further on the situation, his thoughts grew increasingly muddled and confused. Try as he might, not a single recollection surfaced regarding the events of that particular day, leaving him deeply unsettled.

The people around him were utterly stunned. Ron's jaw dropped in disbelief, Ginny's face contorted in bewilderment, and Mrs. Weasley let out a shocked gasp, clutching her chest. A thick, tense silence hung in the air as they stared at Harry, their expressions etched with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, eagerly awaiting his explanation.

With a gentle, reassuring squeeze of Harry's shoulder, Mr. Weasley spoke in a hushed, soothing tone as he reminded the young man of the events that had brought them to this point. "Harry, you confided in us after your birthday last year. You bid farewell to the Dursleys as they went into hiding for their own protection. And you agreed to stay with our family."

Harry's mind raced, a swirling vortex of confusion, as he desperately tried to recall Mr. Weasley's words.Feeling overwhelmed, he took a step back from Mr. Weasley and sought reassurance from the group, but their bewildered expressions only amplified his own bewilderment. Raising a shaking hand to his brow, Harry grasped for the elusive memories, yet all he could discern was a chaotic tangle that only worsened his pounding headache.

Harry's voice trembled with uncertainty as he struggled to recollect his thoughts. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley," he finally managed to say, his brow furrowed in deep concern. "Why don't I remember?" The fear of losing crucial parts of his past weighed heavily on his mind, leaving him overwhelmed with apprehension and dread.

Mrs. Weasley's warm, motherly voice offered comfort. "You've been through a lot, dear. You may simply still be in shock from the events that unfolded. Just give it some time, and your memories will come back." Her gentle reassurance sought to ease Harry's troubled mind.

Panic twisted in Harry's gut as fragmented recollections slipped away into obscurity. Why was everything fading? What if more than just memories were lost? Fear tightened its grip, and he silently fought the rising tide of anxiety. Lowering his gaze in resignation, he couldn't grasp the memories just out of reach, as if his mind had been wiped clean while he slept, leaving only confusing fragments. Struggling to make sense of the scattered images, a sense of dread crept over him, leading to a single, unsettling conclusion.