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Chapter Text

CHAPTER1

The damp grass of the graveyard tangled around his fingers, and he felt disgusted.
Cedric’s eyes looked at him without seeing him, lying before him, one arm outstretched in his direction and the other resting on the ground. Hazel eyes—once bright and full of kindness—now held not a trace of anything at all. In his nightmares, he could never quite recreate those eyes. That made it more unsettling. More horrible.

He felt guilty.

He felt judged.

He felt so wrong for dreaming of Cedric.

And yet, he hadn’t been able to stop—not for a single night lately. It had become his personal torment.He had expected something from Dumbledore. Or perhaps from his two best friends. He’d hoped that someone —anyone— would distract him from what had happened in the graveyard. Yet there he was, in the Dursleys’ house, waiting for his aunt to wake up so he could go outside.
He wanted someone to remember that he existed.It was Wednesday, so Aunt Petunia would have him trim and tidy the garden. Afterwards, she’d go out to buy those horrid tablecloths embroidered with pink thread, or some other nonsense to pretend her life was so rosy and perfect, that there wasn’t a single trace of anything abnormal. Uncle Vernon had been away on a business trip for two days; he couldn’t quite remember why, but honestly, he couldn’t care less.
He looked outside, where the white curtains let through the faint blue of dawn, slowly turning into a pale yellow. It must have been around six or seven. Then he decided to try and get a bit more sleep.
His skin clung to his pyjamas with cold sweat. The mattress was stiff. The thin, hole-ridden blanket was of little use. His skin prickled, and his bony body couldn’t get warm at all. He tried curling up into a ball to hold on to what little warmth he could.
Then, as if his body somehow knew he wanted to forget his misery, he began to feel hungry.At first, it had been easy enough to ignore. But as the minutes passed, the feeling became unbearable.
The anger from not hearing from anyone since the holidays had begun, the lack of sleep from the nightmares, and the horrid place he was stuck in… it was all becoming too much.Still curled up, he hugged himself, digging his nails into his arms. He bit the inside of his cheeks. He found that the sting of his own skin offered a distraction from the hunger.
A couple of hours passed like that, lying there, biting himself, until his aunt opened the door and looked him over from head to toe.

--Make breakfast first,-- she ordered. --I’m going out, and my little Dudley wants to come along.--

The sickly sweet tone she used when speaking about her son was grotesque. Harry couldn’t tell whether she was truly that ridiculous or simply wanted to emphasise, as always, that he didn’t have a mother.
Either way, disobeying meant he wouldn’t be eating leftovers today, either.His stomach growled, twisting with cramps. He obeyed. He made breakfast and left. Aunt Petunia didn’t like seeing him eat —or, in truth, seeing him at all.
He heard the door close behind her, half an hour later and slipped into the kitchen. He found half a slice of bread with jam and a bit of orange juice. He took nothing else. If his aunt noticed, she’d tell Uncle Vernon, and they’d lock him back in the cupboard… or worse.

He finished cleaning and went back up to his room.The hunger wasn’t so bad anymore, but knowing he’d have to repeat the same routine was driving him mad.That had been his life for years: pretending not to exist and obeying.

It was nearly night when his aunt and cousin returned. She locked the bolts on his door from the outside.

Then he closed his eyes again.
And, as every night, the graveyard returned.

Cedric lay in the same place.
But this time, his eyes did look at him. Fixed. Accusing.
“Why didn’t you bring me with you?” whispered a voice soft and brittle as dry leaves.
The scream he tried to give didn’t come out. Only a silent gasp.
He woke with a start, drenched in sweat.
But something was different this time.
He wasn’t alone.A dull noise downstairs made him sit up violently. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t the Dursleys.
Then came a silence so thick he could feel his heartbeat in his teeth.Hollow footsteps, others heavier, the wood creaking beneath them, and muffled voices.
He crawled to the door and pressed his ear against it.

“Are you sure it’s here?” —a woman’s voice, firm, almost amused.
“Of course it is! My sense of direction isn’t as bad as a broken Portkey,” —grumbled another voice, rough and husky.
The lock turned on its own.
Harry recoiled, confused. The door opened slowly.
In the doorway stood two dark figures. One with a magical eye spinning frantically. The other, with pink hair gleaming like ink beneath the moonlight.
“Harry Potter?” said the girl, tilting her head with a tired smile. “Nice prison you’ve got here.”
“We’re here to get you out,” said the other, in a deep voice. “No time for explanations. Grab your things.”
“Who…?”
“We’re part of the Order of the Phoenix. Move, boy. Staying here isn’t as simple as it looks, and we need to reach headquarters. We’ll be travelling by broom.”
He looked for his belongings.
They were where they always had been: in the cupboard under the stairs —his oldest and most enduring bedroom.
No one asked questions. No one said anything, or perhaps no one cared to ask.They handed him his broom and, as he rose into the air, for a moment he felt free. The cold wind on his face, the rush of vertigo, the sheer speed.
They flew high and fast from Surrey to London, soaring over the Thames until they reached a street lined with old buildings. Some looked on the verge of collapse; others seemed just as ancient as the rest, with the faint difference that someone still appeared to live there.
Moody struck the ground with his staff. The houses slowly drew apart, as if waking from a long sleep.
They handed him a crumpled piece of paper. On it, written in tight handwriting, were the words:

Number 12, Grimmauld Place – Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

The house emerged before him, frozen in time. Tall, dark, built of blackened brick and timber.As he crossed the threshold, a narrow, dusty corridor stretched out before him. Unlit lamps, grimy chandeliers, dark blue and ochre wallpaper, and hundreds of portraits to his right. All of them followed him with their eyes, hopping from frame to frame so as not to lose sight of him.

At the far end stood a foyer crowned by a beautiful yet peculiar chandelier, its black and ochre mouldings glinting faintly. Crystals of many colours hung from it—he rather hoped the stones decorating it weren’t real.A crash distracted him. The pink-haired girl had knocked over a coat stand. Moody and she vanished through the doors of what seemed to be the drawing room.

From inside, he could hear the voices of the Weasleys and Remus Lupin arguing.
Seeing them together—talking, debating—he realised they had probably been here all along.
While he had been starving.
Alone.
Anger burned through him like acid, rising from his stomach to sear his throat shut. He wanted to shout, but couldn’t.
Mrs Weasley came out of the room and pulled him into a hug.
—“Harry, dear, how have you been? How were your holidays? Have you been eating properly?”—

The questions made him uncomfortable—they’d ignored him for nearly three weeks.
And now they smothered him as if they’d ever cared.
But he didn’t want to be rude. So he just smiled, unsure of what else to do.

—“Oh, dear, well, never mind. Go on upstairs. First room on the left. Ron and Hermione are there.”—

And that only drove the final nail into the coffin.
Hermione hadn’t written either.
She was fine here too.
Without him.

He desperately wanted to be wrong—he didn’t want confirmation that he wasn’t really needed in anyone’s life, or at least not in the way he wished to be. He didn’t want to be the Golden Boy of Gryffindor; he just wanted to be himself, to matter simply for being who he was—no more, no less. He didn’t want to think about what they might be doing while he was stuck in Surrey, so he forced himself not to.

As he climbed the stairs as slowly as possible, he stopped at the landing and looked around. Unlike the corridor’s wallpaper, the lower half of the walls here was wood-panelled up to his waist, continuing above in a bluish-grey that verged on green. It looked worn, yet no less elegant for it. The stair railing was made of the same dark wood as everything else he’d seen, carved in such a way that it almost looked like human hands gripped the joints between the sections. Strange, to say the least.

Still, it reminded him of the vampire films Dudley liked—films his aunt never punished him for watching, even though they were odd. Sometimes Harry wondered why his relatives had taken him in at all if they were going to hate him so fiercely. Then he remembered he hadn’t really had another choice. He was an orphan, and without any other blood ties.He kept climbing from the landing to the next flight of stairs. Along the wall hung the severed heads of house-elves, displayed beside glass lamps where coloured flames danced without any candles inside. When he reached the upstairs corridor, he heard an angry muttering—it was an elf, the mad one Sirius always complained about.

—The house of my mistress, she would be furious—oh, my poor Mistress Black, she wasn’t spared the shame of her unworthy heir!” —The elf seemed to be speaking to someone as he dragged an empty wooden box across the floor. He paused to glance at Harry, then went on with his rambling. “Filthy half-breeds, dirty bloods, full of foulness! What a disgrace—if the mistress could see what her home has become, she’d be heartbroken!”
That elf seemed strange to him—but at this point, every elf he’d ever met had been rather strange.
He stopped to look at the furniture lining the corridor. He knew this was, without a doubt, the most desperate attempt of his life to avoid facing a situation. To hell with it—if he was going to avoid something, he might as well do it properly.

Then he looked to his right. Better to explore than to deal with whatever it was he was supposed to be doing.
He followed the corridor in the opposite direction. To his right stretched four doors and a window; it was almost a mirror image of the left corridor, except that on the left side there were a couple more doors.
The house was enormous—it seemed at least twice as large as it looked from the outside. Still, it made no sense for something so vast and so carefully planned to look so monotonous. He opened the first door, trying to be as silent as possible, and found himself staring into a beautiful room. He had no idea who it might have belonged to, but they had good taste.

The bed was made of silvery metal—perhaps even real silver—with a rather lovely canopy and sheer white curtains. The rest of the room was a deep green; whoever had owned it had undoubtedly been a Slytherin. He wanted to look around more, but his curiosity about the rest of the house got the better of him.

He turned to open the door opposite. Another bedroom, quite different this time: greyish-violet lace sheets—or perhaps it was just age—dark wood, and many crystals. They looked like crystals etched with runes. It must have been a truly beautiful room once. When the wardrobe inside began to shake, he realised it was time to leave.

He shut the door quickly and moved on to the next one opposite, but couldn’t open any others besides those two. Perhaps someone from the Order had sealed them, maybe not. Realising he could put things off no longer, he turned towards where he should have gone in the first place. His heart quickened with every step until, as he turned the handle, a mass of bushy brown hair collided straight into his face.

He fought the contradictory impulses to hug her back—or to push her away.
—“Harry, I’m sorry, really, I—”
He truly didn’t want to hear her. That much was certain. He tried not to seem too rude, but deep down he knew—he was furious. It was unfair, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise.
He lowered his arms slowly and sat down on what was supposed to be his bed; there were only two in the room. It made sense—there was hardly any need to share in this house. He knew that, even though he’d been there no more than fifteen minutes.

—I don’t have the energy for this today, Mione. I just want to sleep.—

She looked at him, waiting for him to change his mind—but he didn’t, and she must have known he wouldn’t. Hermione seemed to realise he wouldn’t be speaking to anyone for a while, so even though she kept looking at him as if he’d betrayed her or done something wrong, after a moment she simply closed the door behind her.
He curled up on the bed that would be his, at least for now, ignoring Ron, who had been staring at him for quite some time. He turned towards the wall, making it perfectly clear that, at least for that night, he didn’t want to know anything.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2:

He woke to the hooting of Hedwig at the window—he hadn’t noticed her before falling asleep. That window looked out over a small back garden where a dead tree stood, its wood grey and lifeless. When he opened the window, Hedwig flew in and circled the room once before landing on his head, ruffling his hair as if his messy strands were her own feathers.

—“Hey, girl. I’m sorry I ignored you yesterday, forgive me. You know what? I’ll give you bacon for the rest of the holidays as an apology.”—

He spent a moment stroking Hedwig’s feathers as she still perched on his head, until he heard a couple of knocks at the door. He hadn’t even noticed anyone coming up the stairs.

—“Harry, it’s me… Sirius. May I come in?”—

He really wasn’t ready for this—at least, not now. Still, a reply slipped from his lips before he could stop it.
He was facing away from the door, so when he turned, his heart gave a small jolt at the sight of Sirius holding a wooden box decorated with tiny stars and runes. The box was rather curious; it looked as though a child had decorated it, with a few sky-blue ribbons tied along the sides. The longer he looked at it, the more peculiar it seemed.

—Hey pup, I wanted to apologise to you. Look, it’s hard, you know. I understand that you want to be part of all this, but I think Lily wouldn’t want me letting her son throw himself head-first into something she truly wanted to end.—

Those words did only two things: they made him feel utterly miserable, and at the same time as furious as humanly possible. They had dragged him into all of this year after year, and now they expected him to step aside, as if they hadn’t been preparing him all along to fight Voldemort eventually.

Yet beneath the anger was a hollow ache in his chest. Was he really a disappointment to his parents? Or would he have been, had they still been alive?

—Sirius, that’s not fair and you know it. I’ve fought Voldemort more times than anyone. I don’t want anyone else I love ending up like Cedric…— He wished he hadn’t sounded as pathetic as he knew he did.

—That’s exactly why it isn’t fair that you should be the one to carry that burden,— Sirius replied quietly. —But I also know it’s impossible to keep you out of danger, pup... This was your mother’s. Don’t ask me why I’ve got it. It’s… complicated,— he said, running a hand down his face. —When we split up one year later after our final year, Lily left me a few things “just in case”. I never wanted to open the box. I didn’t feel I had the right.—

—And now you do?—
Sirius looked at him, eyes narrowed — not in anger, only sadness.
—Now there’s no one left to give it to you but me. And I… I know I’ve not been what you expected. I know you want answers, and I’ve done a bloody awful job protecting you from all this mess.—

Part of him still wanted to cling to the anger, but that wouldn’t change the decisions the Order — or rather Dumbledore — kept making for him. Whether for his protection or because they expected him to end the war, it was the same thing.

Sirius rose from the edge of the bed, pacing the worn carpet. Harry found himself oddly distracted by the way his godfather’s boots left shallow creases in the fabric. Sirius turned on the spot once, twice, before stopping again.

—Your mother wanted to see the library in this house,— he said at last. —When I told her there were books from the fourteenth century hidden there, she was desperate to come. Your father never understood her taste for old manuscripts, you know… Your mother and my brother would have got on rather well if he hadn’t been such a complete arse.—

Harry listened as Sirius rambled, his voice shifting from story to story without clear direction. It felt like listening to a bedtime tale — a strange one, yes, but still a story. He knew he ought to feel more, but all he could sense was a peculiar emptiness somewhere between his stomach and chest. He had never known them; he missed something he had no memory of ever possessing. He thought of his parents often, but they were little more than an echo without a voice. Still, he wondered what he might share with them beyond mere appearance.

—One time,— Sirius went on with a faint smile, —your father woke me up by transfiguring a duck on my face. He was brilliant at Transfiguration. Your mother and your grandfather — Monty — were both mad for Potions.—

He yanked open a random drawer in the old dresser, pulling things out without any real order — old scarves, unopened letters, a slashed portrait of a man Harry didn’t recognise.
—This place is a bloody disaster,— his godfather muttered. —I left so much hidden here before I ran away. But your mum once told me that old houses keep what one needs to find — when one’s ready to see it.—

And as though that remark itself had been a key, Sirius bent down and tugged out a dark wooden box with bronze fittings from behind the dresser, wedged between warped floorboards. Inside were bundles wrapped in paper and cloth: a letter, a medallion of pressed flowers, a small notebook with a hand-tooled gold “L” on the cover. Sirius froze. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, almost reverently, he lifted the notebook.
—This… this was Lily’s.—

Harry swallowed hard and took it without asking, his hands trembling. The pages smelt faintly of mould, dried ink and something floral.
—What is it?— he asked, his voice unsteady.
—Her diary, I think. And this…— Sirius drew out a thicker volume, bound in black leather. —This isn’t hers. It’s one of the books she nicked from Snivellus — ancient magic. Ritual. Dangerous, but… fascinating, I’ll admit. I’m not sure why she had it. It was one of the last things she gave me before she went into hiding, but I wasn’t the one who put it here.—

Harry ran his fingers over the cover of the dark book. A chill crept up his spine. He didn’t know why, but some part of him couldn’t let go of it.
—Why are you giving me this now?— he asked.
Sirius met his eyes, a seriousness in them he hadn’t shown in weeks.
—Because if you’re going to face the world, Harry, you need to know more about it. More about them. It isn’t fair to keep you in the dark.

And just as the silence between them grew too heavy, the voice of Mrs Weasley cut through the air from downstairs, sharp and exasperated:
—Harry! Sirius! Breakfast’s getting cold!—

Then he decided not to think — at least not until after breakfast. He wanted control over his own head, something he seemed to be lacking these days. He wanted someone to apologise to him.

The dining room was filled with the scent of toast, scrambled eggs and freshly brewed tea, but he barely noticed it. He sat at the far end of the table without saying a word, his mother’s notebook and the dark book weighing on his thoughts, though he’d hidden them safely in his rucksack. His eyes wandered across the table without focusing on anything; his body was there, but his mind was still trapped between pages of dried ink and Sirius’s voice saying, “You need to know more about them.”

The conversations around him were nothing more than background noise. Arthur Weasley was speaking to Lupin about a thwarted Death Eater escape; Tonks was complaining about the watery coffee. Molly placed plates as though the world depended on it, and yet, everything felt false.

It was as if they were all pretending that things were normal when clearly they weren’t.

—You need to eat something, Harry,— said Hermione, sitting beside him, her tone firm and frankly irritated.

He didn’t reply. He tore off a piece of bread and stared at it as though it were a riddle. How long had he felt like this? I'll at ease in his own skin, as though what was inside him didn’t quite match what everyone else expected to see.

—Honestly, you need to keep up your strength,— Hermione insisted. —You can’t just… ignore your health because you’re upset.—

—I’m not upset,— muttered Harry, not meeting her gaze. He knew he was. He knew she knew it too. But he hated the way she said it, as if she had an instruction manual for him tucked away somewhere.

—Well, you’re acting like you are,— she shot back, crossing her arms. Ron, on the opposite side of the table, lowered his eyes to his plate as if it had suddenly become fascinating.

—Hermione…— Ron began, clearly unsure how to continue.

—It’s not just about you, Harry. We’re all worried. We’re all in this together. You can’t keep behaving like you’re the only one who has to bear it all,— she went on, completely unaware that her tone was making things worse.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to say something cruel. No one understood. None of them had seen that box. None of them had felt their chest tighten at the touch of his mother’s diary, as if some forgotten part of himself had stirred — seen, only when someone needed something from him.

—And how am I supposed to behave then?— he asked at last, his voice low and sharp.

An awkward silence fell over the table. Sirius stopped fiddling with his mug. Lupin raised an eyebrow. Molly pretended not to have heard.

—I just… want to help,— Hermione whispered, and for the first time, she sounded truly unsure.

Harry glanced sideways at her but said nothing. His head throbbed. The air felt heavy, as though the walls of Grimmauld Place absorbed every emotion only to echo it back, louder.

—Has anyone seen my purple scarf?— interrupted Tonks, her voice far too cheery for the tension in the room. No one answered. The clatter of cutlery became unbearable.

He stood up abruptly. The chair screeched against the wooden floor.
—I’m going to… I need to… find something upstairs,— he muttered, not waiting for a response.

—But you haven’t finished your breakfast,— said Molly, turning with a spatula in hand.
—I’m not hungry.—

And before anyone could stop him, he was already in the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time, desperate to breathe somewhere away from all of them. He needed a place to be alone — to think, to understand why he couldn’t shake the image of his mother’s handwriting, or the strange tingling the dark book had left in his fingers. Because the pain of not knowing her had turned into something else. An insatiable curiosity. A different kind of hunger.

And for the first time, he wanted to let that hunger consume him.

The sound of the dining room faded behind him as he climbed, though he barely noticed. Not because he didn’t care, but because everything seemed to move through a thick fog. His legs moved, yes — step after step. The wood creaked beneath his feet, and he could feel the weight of his wand and the diary pressing against his side inside the rucksack. But it was as if all this were happening to someone else — an echo of himself, repeating mechanical movements.

The air grew colder on the upper floors. Dust clung to the walls, and the house felt even larger. He stopped before a random door. He didn’t know which one it was, nor did he care. He opened it without thinking and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit by a window veiled with cobwebs. It smelt of old clothes and damp wood. There was nothing remarkable about the place — which made it perfect. He shut the door and dropped his rucksack on the bed, its coarse sheet puffing dust into the air.

The leather cover of the notebook felt smooth, as if it had been stroked countless times. He opened it.

21st September, 1975.
Ancient Runes was more interesting than I’d expected. I didn’t think I’d like the subject so much, but there’s something about how words can become power… real power… that fascinates me. I’m certain even Professor Babbling hides sweets in her drawer with concealment runes — she’s always nibbling something during class.

Harry frowned. The handwriting was fluid and elegant. There were crossings-out, tiny drawings in the margins — stars, eyes, feathers. A flower. Sometimes words with no clear context.

He turned the page.

Saw Snape again today. Marlene says he’s strange, but she doesn’t get it — talking to him is easy. Though sometimes frustrating. He doesn’t always listen; he can be so bloody dense. But there’s something sad in his eyes… is it odd to want to help him and yet want to walk away at the same time?

He had no idea that Snape and his mother had actually been close — or anything like that.

Another page:
The Hogwarts library has a section that’s not listed in the catalogue. I know because last night I followed a seventh-year girl whispering in Latin and one of the shelves moved on its own. I wonder if I should tell someone. Perhaps not. I’d like to go back, but I don’t know how to open it. I didn’t quite catch what she said.

Something twisted in his stomach. He couldn’t tell if it was anxiety, hunger, or a void that nothing could fill. His mother had had an entire world he’d never known. He realised that his instinct to keep them at a distance had always been to avoid that emptiness — that overwhelming truth that everyone around him knew more about them than he did, that the only memory he truly had of his mother was of her death. The truth was simple: he felt alone.

He turned more pages. Many entries were ordinary: rows about quarrels with Petunia, favourite foods, how much she loved writing in the rain or reading about astrology — not the subject itself, but how it was taught. How she hated people touching her things without asking. His favourites, though, were her complaints about his father’s ridiculous attempts at courting her.

A creak made him look up.

Kreacher was watching from the half-open door, his bulbous eyes gleaming with distrust. He held a tray in his hands but didn’t move.

—What do you want?— Harry asked, unsure why he’d spoken aloud.

Kreacher sniffed.
—Kreacher wants nothing from the son of the filthy blood traitor,— he spat in his high, venomous voice.

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t even feel angry. It was as if that emotion couldn’t quite reach him now. Instead, he looked back down at the diary.

—Do you know anything about this house?— he asked absently.

Kreacher blinked, his face contorting even more.
—Kreacher knows more about this house than anyone. More than the master, more than the filthy traitors. This house is noble. This house was pure. Until the filthy werewolves came. And the teenagers. And all the blood-traitors.—

Harry didn’t look away from the elf.
—Then tell me. What you know. Everything you know.—

Kreacher glared at him, his lips twitching as though he might spit, but he didn’t. Instead, he set the tray down on the floor with a sharp clunk, turned on his heel, and vanished.

Harry looked back at the diary.

A single word was underlined several times across different entries.
“The Veil.”

He closed the notebook carefully. He hadn’t read more than ten pages, but skimming through, he could see his mother had written from September 1972 up until just before July 1981.

He stood up, feeling a twinge of guilt. He knew he was being rude, wandering through someone else’s old room, but that had never stopped him before. There were no portraits here — only a large window of blue-stained glass. A slanting beam of light cut through it, tinting the floating dust a cold sapphire hue.

He stared at the window first, then at the desk. Slowly, he walked over and pulled open a drawer.

Old papers. A dried quill. An empty bottle of ink. In another drawer, a rusted prefect’s badge with almost-faded initials. In the corner of the desk, carved by hand, were three letters: R.A.B.

They meant nothing to him.

He sat back on the bed once more. This time, he opened the diary again.

The pages seemed to watch him.

"Today in Divination we had to read tea leaves. Mary laughed so hard she nearly choked on hers. Mine looked like a crow. The professor said it was an omen of change. Or death. She didn’t sound convinced. Neither was I. But it was nice, thinking the world leaves you signs even when you can’t read them."

He turned another page.

"Mum made me write to Petunia again. I don’t think she’ll reply. She hasn’t since I told her I’m a witch. I suppose it’s hard. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever talk like we used to."

He kept reading. The further he went, the harder it became to ignore the tangled mess of feelings tightening in his chest. It was infuriating. He wished he’d known them. Refocusing, he found an entry dated a year later. His mom was a messy writer.

"James asked me to explain the difference between a rune and a doodle. I told him if he didn’t know, there was no hope for him. Then he offered to steal pudding from the Great Hall if I helped him with his homework. I said yes."

He flipped ahead and read another.

"I think I like how he smells. How ridiculous to write that here. Merlin, I’m an idiot. Also, Regulus asked if we could talk later — not sure what he wants."

"Today Potter asked if I wanted to go to Hogsmeade with him. He said he promised not to say a single offensive word about Severus all day. He said it with the most solemn face, like he was signing a peace treaty. He’s ridiculous."

Another one.

"It was raining. James conjured an umbrella, but the wind was so strong it bounced right off the corners of the castle. We ended up soaked, eating soggy biscuits at Zonko’s. My face hurts from laughing so much."

He closed the diary again, this time more firmly. Held it to his chest for a moment. The room was silent, save for the faint creak of the old house. The beam of light had shifted; it now fell across the bed, scattering blue dust into the air.

He stood, driven by an invisible discomfort. He didn’t want to go back to Ron. Didn’t want to answer questions. Didn’t want to see anyone.

As he walked, his steps moved by impulse — down creaking stairs, through narrow halls lined with dusty carpets and corridors so tight he had to turn sideways to avoid brushing the walls.

He entered a room filled with display cases, each crowded with opaque jars and objects he couldn’t quite identify: a stone that seemed to pulse faintly, a pair of enchanted gloves twitching clumsily as though waiting for invisible hands. Upon the mantelpiece, a row of miniature portraits watched him, their faces shifting ever so slightly with suspicion. He could have sworn one of them mouthed something, though he couldn’t make out the words.

He kept moving. Through a hall covered in mirrors — all draped in sheets — and into a double-height library, though he doubted it was the main one. Perhaps an ancestor’s private collection. The spiral staircase groaned beneath his weight. The air here was drier. Leather-bound books, many untitled, filled the shelves. A desk was cluttered with papers, ink splattered, edges torn. There were no windows.

He didn’t stop. He climbed another staircase.

Each room seemed more forgotten than the last. In one, he found a collection of ancient chains, arranged by size and colour. In another, enchanted maps — some writhing faintly, as if trying to crawl out of their frames. He opened a door at random and shut it immediately: a dozen portraits stared back, startled, as if he’d just woken them. Perhaps Sirius, sick of being watched, had locked them in there himself.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3

He spent the entire day doing the same thing: reading his mother’s words, wandering through the five upper floors of Grimmauld Place, and slipping into as many unlocked rooms as he could find. In one, he’d stumbled across a boggart — the thing had frightened him far more than he’d like to admit; that blasted creature, along with the ghost lurking behind another door, had left his pulse racing and a clammy unease crawling down his back.

At some point, while making his way down from the garret at the top of the tower to the fourth floor, he saw Kreacher again. The elf wasn’t doing anything — he simply stood there, in the shadow of the landing, as though he were either watching or waiting for him, and Harry couldn’t decide which of the two ideas was more unsettling.

He still had several rooms left to explore. He couldn’t say how many were still unlocked, but if his count wasn’t off, there were at least forty rooms spread across the five floors. It was madness. From the outside, the house didn’t look nearly that vast, but Grimmauld Place didn’t follow Muggle logic. It gave the distinct impression of shifting its layout, and every now and then he caught himself remembering just how astonishing the magical world could be.

But, as with all good things, it had to come to an end. While he was heading down towards the second floor — intending to reach the first, where most of them slept — he came face to face on the staircase with Sirius, Hermione, and Mrs Weasley.
Brilliant.

His godfather followed behind them, a cigarette half-hidden up his sleeve.

—Harry! —exclaimed Hermione, rushing towards him with a mixture of relief and mild reproach—. Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.

—Exploring,— he replied simply, not quite stopping as he spoke.
—Exploring? This house is full of Dark magic, you can’t just go wandering about as if it were nothing! —burst out Mrs Weasley, hands on her hips.— It’s far too dangerous, Harry, that’s just common sense.

—I didn’t find anything I couldn’t handle,— he replied with a trace of irritation. He didn’t look directly at anyone, least of all Hermione, who was now frowning at him.

—And what if you had found something? What if a room had trapped you, or an object had cursed you? —Molly pressed.
—What if, what if, what if… —muttered Harry, more to himself than to her, but loudly enough to be heard. He crossed his arms, leaning against the banister.— I’m not playing around, Mrs Weasley. I know what I’m doing.

—It’s not about whether you’re playing or not, it’s about being sensible! —Hermione cut in now, stepping closer to him.— You’ve been acting as though this entire place belongs to you.
Harry turned towards her slowly, that word burning in his chest: belong.

No, of course he didn’t belong.

Not anywhere.

Not here, not at Privet Drive, not even at Hogwarts lately.

—As if it belonged to me? I didn’t even know you were all here!—his eyes began to sting at the corners, and he truly hated the lump that was forming in his throat.

Hermione blanched slightly but stood her ground.
—We’re just worried about you, that’s all.—

—No,— Sirius cut in, his tone a bit more relaxed, though not entirely comfortable.— What’s really going on is that everyone’s hovering over him as if he were a little kid. If the boy wants to explore the house, let him. Technically, it’s his house too.—

—Sirius!— Mrs Weasley shot him a sharp look.— We can’t have Harry wandering around on his own between family curses and secret passageways! You don’t even know everything that’s in this place yourself!
—Maybe not, but if we keep watching him like a prisoner, he’ll never find out anything for himself. And I wouldn’t mind if he wrecked the place a bit, either,— Sirius huffed.— I was locked in a cage once too, remember? I’m not doing that to him.

—This isn’t a cage, Sirius, it’s protection,— said Hermione, her voice gentler this time.— Harry… we just want to help you.
And there it was. That phrase. We just want to help you.
As if it were something simple. As if merely wanting to help were enough to make it work.

He drew a deep breath, clenching his jaw.
—Helping me isn’t telling me what to do every time I take three steps,— he said coldly.— If you actually cared how I’m doing, you’d listen a bit more — or maybe you’d have cared sometime during the past month.
Silence. Sirius lowered his gaze, an odd smile tugging at his lips — something caught between guilt and pride at Harry’s defiance. Mrs Weasley pressed her lips together. Hermione stared at the floor.

Harry straightened up.
—I’ll have dinner upstairs. Let me know if you want to keep deciding things for me.— And without waiting for an answer, he climbed back up the last few steps, leaving behind the faint murmur of held breaths.
As he made his way once more towards the upper floors, he saw him again.
Kreacher was standing in a corridor on the third floor, his back turned, ears drooping beneath the hood of a frayed robe. He didn’t seem to be cleaning, though he held a rag in one hand. He didn’t look at Harry as he passed — but neither did he move.

The elf gave a low grunt, without fully turning around.

—Kreacher tends to what must be tended. Cleans what others dirty. Watches those who don’t know their place.—

—Whose room was this?— Harry asked, glancing at the half-open door beside him.
Kreacher turned his head slightly. His round, shadowed eyes narrowed.
—This was Master Regulus’s second room. No one enters without permission. No one touched it while he lived. He used it as a study—.
He stood in the doorway, looking inside. He hadn’t been in there yet, though he’d seen it in passing. The room was dark, but not entirely abandoned. It was austere — a black wooden desk, a bookshelf crammed with volumes, jars holding odd artefacts that might well have been cursed, and a mirror draped with a cloth. There was a sense of order here, unlike the other rooms that had been locked up tight or left to gather dust. It seemed Kreacher had truly cared for his former master.

—Regulus was…?— he began.

He remembered that name from one of his mother’s diary entries, but something didn’t add up; no one had ever mentioned that they might have even known each other.

—Brother of the traitor master, Sirius. The younger one. The true heir,— Kreacher spat, with a note of pride that took Harry by surprise.

He said nothing, merely pushed the door gently and stepped inside. There were no sparks, no screams, no hidden portraits springing to life — only silence. Kreacher followed after a few seconds.

—May I stay here for a while?— Harry asked.
Kreacher looked at him as though the question were an insult, but said nothing. He didn’t refuse either, so Harry took it as a yes.

It suddenly struck him that after his outburst, he hadn’t taken anything from the room he shared with Ron. He’d left it all — blankets, belongings — everything except the rucksack with his mother’s diary, the book, and the things Sirius had given him. He hadn’t even eaten dinner. He’d look like a complete idiot if he went back down now.

He glanced at Kreacher, who stood by the desk beside the bookshelf.

—Kreacher, I left everything in the room downstairs, could you… fetch it?— he asked, not really expecting an answer.
—Filthy half-blood ordering Kreacher about,— the elf muttered darkly, but vanished with a barely audible pop.
He sighed. He hadn’t expected Kreacher to return — but he did.

The elf reappeared with the rucksack slung over his shoulder, the blue box that had belonged to his mother, a stack of blankets floating behind him, and a tray of food that, surprisingly, looked rather decent.

Harry was lost for words.
—Thanks. I mean it… really.—

There was no reply, but Kreacher seemed to accept the gesture with a stiffness that felt a little less hostile than before.

—You cannot sleep here. This is Master Regulus’s room,— he said brusquely, as though each word cost him effort.

Harry nodded without arguing. He slipped out of the room with the rucksack on his back, crossed into the adjoining chamber — also empty, plainer, but quiet — and let himself fall onto a long silver-framed sofa. It had no backrest, but it was comfortable enough.

He rested his head against one armrest, stretched his legs along the other, and pulled one of the blankets Kreacher had brought over himself. With his mother’s diary resting on his chest, he opened it to the last page he’d read.

“Today Slughorn gave me points for answering something Potter had already said. I felt a bit bad about it… only a bit. But why does he have to say everything with that stupid smile? It doesn’t bother me that he’s clever. What bothers me is that he doesn’t use that cleverness properly.”

15th October, Fifth Year
“Marlene and Dorcas fought. Sometimes I wish I could just switch off from all the noise, but then I feel guilty when I pull away. Mary got her heart broken and stayed silent through the whole lunch. James said something odd to me today — something about me looking ‘luminous’. Sirius laughed. I suppose that’s their dynamic. I don’t know how they manage to laugh so much. I think it’s because they’re idiots.”

31st October, Fifth Year
“Sirius and James threw a surprise party in the Common Room. McGonagall nearly killed them, but it was rather fun. Slughorn took an entire pumpkin cake with him and said it was the best he’d ever tasted.
Sometimes I wonder if there are things we ought to remember and things we ought to let go. Today, Severus looked at me in Potions. He didn’t say a word. I don’t know why that hurt more than if he’d insulted me.
It hurt more than anything.”

He hadn’t realised how close his mother and Snape had been. She’d mentioned him before, of course — more than once — but this, this was unmistakably confirmation that they’d been very close, or at least once had been. The thought made his skin crawl.
So he decided to read more — with no particular order. The diary was enormous. Old, yes, but she had written so much. There were notes, drawings, scribbles — more than one entry per page, sometimes four or more — and that filled him with an odd sort of joy.

21st September, Fourth Year
“Sev discovered a new mixture for burns. He said it was old alchemy and that the professors here are a bunch of arses for not teaching it. His face lights up when he talks about Potions, and that excitement rubs off on me. I told him he looked like a mad scientist, and he laughed — a real laugh, not the one he fakes.
Today James threw ink on his neck when he wasn’t looking. It stained everything. No one said a word.
I’d had enough. I shouted at them. Sirius called me ‘the nosy prefect’, and James said I’d probably brew a potion to heal his ego.
They don’t get it. No one gets what’s in him when he’s being kind and thoughtful.”

Part of him wanted to laugh — sure, the dungeon bat, kind and thoughtful.

12th November, Fourth Year
“Sometimes Sev and I sit in silence in the library for hours. It’s as if words aren’t needed. He reads the strangest things: ancient invocations, alchemy, theoretical Dark Magic (though he says he’d never use it). His eyes shine when he explains it to me.
Today he gave me a piece of amethyst. Said it was for ‘mental clarity’ and that it would help me in Charms. I’ve no idea if that actually works, but I kept it.
I like him when he’s himself.
Not when he goes off with those people at the end of the corridor — the ones I don’t like at all.”

30th January, Fifth Year
“Sev is drifting away. Or I am. I don’t know. Some days he looks at me as though we’re no longer on the same side of the lake.
James followed me around all day, as if that would fix anything. Sirius made a comment about ‘childhood sweethearts’, and Sev heard it. His face changed.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair that the world is split into Gryffindor versus Slytherin as if that explains everything. It’s absolute rubbish.
I just want someone to understand him.”

20th February, Fifth Year
“Today in Potions, Slughorn praised Sev and said he had a natural gift. I nodded. He does. But when we left the corridor, James started imitating his voice, saying he probably slept hugging his cauldron. I laughed.
I don’t know why I did it — I just pictured it, I didn’t want to laugh.
Sev looked at me and said nothing, but that was worse. I felt like a traitor.
Maybe I was.”

7th March, Fifth Year
“I don’t know if I should keep writing about him. But today, I don’t want to forget.
After class, he took me to an empty room near the east wing and taught me how to brew tea with leaves that smell of clove.
He said, ‘Not everything I know is dark.’
And I believed him. I don’t want to lose my first friend.”

His mother had felt like him too — lonely, conflicted. He would never truly know what she would have done, what she would have told him, what advice she might have given — and that hurt more than he could bear. He hadn’t realised he was crying so hard until his tears wet his face. He wiped them away roughly. Merlin, how he hated crying.
But reading did comfort him. It was like being with her.And it was unbearably sad to know this was all he would ever have of her.

4th October, Fourth Year
“Today Severus taught me a charm I’d never seen before. He whispered it so softly I almost didn’t catch it. ‘So they don’t hear,’ he said, nodding towards the Marauders with a lift of his brow. Sometimes I think Severus lives on the defensive, but when we’re alone, he’s different. I laugh more with him than with anyone. He understands me. And he knows how to listen.
Mental note: look into the ancient magic he mentioned — it sounds… different.”

Some entries had no dates at all. His mother’s handwriting was more hurried and cramped in those; at times he couldn’t quite tell what she had meant to say.
“Sev gave me a small box with a bottle of ink that changes colour depending on one’s mood. ‘For your Charms essays,’ he said.
Then he explained how he’d enchanted the bottle himself.
I asked why he spent so much time with people like Mulciber and Avery. He lowered his gaze.
‘Because they don’t let me be around you all the time — besides, you spend time with other people too,’ he replied.
I didn’t know what to say.”

It was strange, reading about the teenage versions of the adults he knew — well, with the slight exception of his parents and a few Death Eaters. He realised it was well past midnight when the house had gone completely silent; perhaps there were silencing charms in place.

He decided to keep reading — or perhaps he hadn’t decided at all, simply drifted off mid-sentence. That night, he dreamt only of his mother’s face, not Cedric’s.

When he woke, he realised he’d found a good place to hide. Maybe it was the collective fear of the house, which, in his opinion, was a bit exaggerated — nothing bad had happened to him despite all his exploring. Either no one had come looking for him, or they simply hadn’t found him yet.

He wondered where he might shower, since he hadn’t yet opened the doors to any bathrooms or cupboards, not since the boggart incident. So he crept quietly down the stairs, his mother’s diary tucked under his shirt as though it were a shield. The nearest bathroom on the second floor had a rusty tap and a mirror clouded with dust and age. The water was freezing, but clean. The chill ran down his back as he looked into the cracked glass. He barely recognised himself — a few half-healed bruises from his time with the Dursleys still mottled his skin. He hated how awful he always ended up looking after staying with them. Disliking the reflection that stared back, he turned to leave.

Not wanting to see anyone yet, he went back up to the room where he’d slept. On some unexplainable impulse, he decided that if he was going to stay there for a while, he might as well make the place a bit more liveable. The room was rather plain and empty save for the elegant, expensive furniture. Wearing an old shirt — one Dudley had thrown out years ago — and using a bottle of peppermint essential oil left over from Potions class, he began cleaning the furniture.

He lost track of time. First the sofa he’d been sleeping on, then the table in front of it. Lacking a broom to sweep the floor, he had to let the dust settle where it would — though by then, he suspected he might be making it worse.

At some point, he realised he’d cleaned nearly every wooden and silver surface in the room with something close to enthusiasm. He’d even sneaked downstairs — carefully, silently — to the bathrooms on the first floor to fetch water and a bucket for rinsing the shirt he was using as a rag. He kept at it for a while longer until, in his clumsiness, he tripped over the rug. He caught himself on a dresser with an enormous mirror — but hadn’t anticipated that the old, loosened fittings would send the mirror itself crashing forward.

Acting on instinct, he drew his wand and shouted, “Leviosa!”
Then froze, waiting.

Nothing. No Ministry owls, no alarms, no howlers. Nothing at all.

They could use magic — and apparently, Ron and Hermione either didn’t know that or hadn’t bothered to try. The realisation filled him with a flicker of joy he hadn’t felt in weeks. For the first time in ages, he felt whole.

That was when the idea struck him. He pulled out his wand, hesitated a moment, and then said:
“Scourgify.”

The dust flew up as if a gust of wind had swept through the corner. He smiled faintly. Perhaps he could find a book in this house about magical housekeeping — that might keep him occupied.

He spent a while longer like that, cleaning with basic spells, a few drops of potion oil, and Aguamenti. With a “Bauléo”, he organised some trunks he’d found without prying into their contents.

— “What is the young master doing, sullying his hands as if he were… as if he were a house-elf?”

Kreacher was standing in the doorway, his frown deeper than usual, hands clasped, expression half disapproval, half confusion.

— “But it is not the work of a wizard to clean with his hands… Although…” — His gaze swept across the now spotless room — “...I must admit, it is a… worthy effort. Albeit inefficient.”

Harry let out a dry laugh.

— “And how do you clean, then? Do you use magic?”

Kreacher lifted his chin, almost offended.

— “Elf magic is not like wizard magic. It is older. And for the record, there is water running through the whole house. An elf does not need a wand to make things work.”

Harry didn’t press further. He watched as Kreacher snapped his fingers, and what little mess remained vanished instantly. Before leaving, the elf turned once more, leaving behind a tray of food.

Harry smiled to himself. Perhaps Kreacher wasn’t as mad — or as hateful — as Sirius claimed.
His time at Grimmauld Place had been… odd, to say the least. Obviously, he hadn’t expected any of what had been happening. It had been nearly four days since he’d arrived, and he’d spent that time doing rather peculiar things. Something about the dark book and Regulus’s room had begun to gnaw at his curiosity. The book, which now rested inside his rucksack, seemed almost comfortable — familiar — whenever he was near it. And the study across the hall had lodged itself somewhere in the back of his mind since the previous night, while he’d been reading his mother’s diary.

Now, as he settled once again on the same sofa he’d slept on, he considered opening Snape’s book.
After all, it couldn’t possibly be that bad.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4

The sofa creaked under his weight. Harry shifted slightly, setting Snape’s book aside. He looked at it for a moment, then lifted his gaze towards the ceiling. The silence of the house wrapped around him like a thick blanket. For the first time since he’d arrived, it didn’t feel heavy — just… calm.

—Kreacher —he called aloud.

It took only a few seconds before the elf appeared with a small pop, as though he’d been waiting for the summons.

—Does the young master desire something else? More food? More rags to scrub like a Muggle?
Harry let out a short, amused huff; he didn’t take offence at the elf’s comments — on the contrary, they kept him company.

—No, I just… want to ask you something. A few things, actually.

Kreacher narrowed his eyes, though he didn’t vanish. He folded his arms across his chest.

—What things?
Q
—About the Blacks’ past… and about Regulus.

The air seemed to grow thicker. Kreacher stared at him in silence, his face an old mask lined with cracks of pain and pride.

Harry went on:

—My mother… she mentions your master in her diary. So far she only said that maybe she spoke to him… Do you know if he and my mother were friends? Did you ever hear if what she said mattered? —Harry knew that questioning the elf about his dead master was perhaps rude, but he was genuinely curious about his mother, about how her belongings had ended up here.

—The master… —Kreacher’s ears drooped as he spoke— there are many things my dear master kept to himself… and his company with that filthy Mudblood, too—

Harry hated when anyone called his mother that, yet something inside him endured it, driven by the need to know more, because if anyone knew anything remotely useful, it would be the old elf before him.

Kreacher regarded him carefully. Something in his expression shifted; it softened.

—Regulus was a good master. He read, he learnt from Kreacher, he drew symbols on the walls of his study until he fell asleep. Kreacher brought him tea. Sometimes… he spoke to himself. He’d say things like, “Blood matters less than choices.” Nonsense, according to the Mistress, but Kreacher listened. Kreacher… remembers.

Harry watched him closely. Kreacher moved nearer without being asked and sat cross-legged on the floor before the sofa, as though about to tell a story. In a way, that’s exactly what it was.

—Do you know what those runes meant? —Harry asked quietly now, as if afraid to break the moment.

—Some of them. Master Regulus learnt from old books. From a very dark one, given to him by a friend —the Serpent wizard. But he also learnt from a secret box he found here, in the library. It’s behind the portrait of his great-grandfather Cygnus. Only the Blacks can touch it without having their fingers burnt. Perhaps you…

Harry leaned forward.

—Do you think I could open it?

Kreacher regarded him as though weighing him up.

—Perhaps. You have Black blood, though watered-down. And you have… the traitor master’s leave —or you would, if he knew.

Kreacher gave a small nod and rose to his feet.

—But not now. Now the young master is tired. And the book beside him seems… important.
As the elf vanished with a softer pop than before, Harry looked back at the book. He opened it slowly, as though it were something alive. Inside, on the very first page, there was a note—one he hadn’t noticed before:

"For the one who saw beyond the insults and the mistakes. Whatever you learn, let it be of use. I hope this finds you well and mends something of what I’ve done."

—S

It wasn’t the elegant, razor-sharp handwriting of the Snape he’d known at Hogwarts. It was different—thicker, rougher, more human somehow. Magic, it seemed, didn’t always need a wand.
He turned over on the sofa; the temperature had dropped, and it sounded as though it was raining outside. The blanket suddenly felt far too thin for such weather. He felt rather foolish for not having thought to cast a Warming Charm on himself.

Perhaps, he thought, he was only making excuses to delay his own curiosity.

With nothing else to distract him, he turned to the next pages. At first glance, they seemed to be mostly about blood rituals.

דם שמגן
The blood that composes the ritual—
The sacrifice of the ritualist — Ab anima ad planum existentiae — Innaturalis Anima — transmittere oare — vasculum vitae — Inefita sanguine — Necrare animata — Sanguine id protegum.

He wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d understand the book at first glance, or even begin to grasp what on earth was written there. For one thing, the title—or whatever those opening lines were—wasn’t in English, nor in anything remotely close to a language he remembered seeing before.

The second part was Latin, and some fragments had been half-translated into English. That was all he could make out…
He was utterly doomed; he hadn’t the faintest idea of Latin. Asking Hermione was out of the question, and so was asking anyone else still staying in the house. That left the library he’d seen earlier as his best option—perhaps there’d be some sort of explanation in English, or maybe even a dictionary. Other people managed to learn another language somehow… didn’t they?

Harry didn’t think himself stupid, but at that moment, he was beginning to reconsider. After all, he’d been wandering around that little library on the fifth floor for what felt like hours without finding a single useful thing. Then, as if his brain had finally decided the effort was worth it, he remembered Kreacher—and called for him.

A few seconds passed. He was just about to try again when a sharp pop! echoed through the room, followed by a faint crack, and there he was, standing right in front of him, face full of bitterness and one eyebrow arched.

—I heard you perfectly well the first time, but burning food is unforgivable,—the elf muttered, glancing around, perhaps recalling fragments of those who had once lived there.—Well then, what does the half-blood master desire?
Uncomfortable with the term, yet unwilling to risk the elf vanishing before he could ask anything else, he chose to ignore it for the moment.

—Erm… the book’s written in loads of languages, and I’ve no idea what to do.

—Ah, of course, the half-blood master didn’t receive a proper education… —the elf replied, his tone dripping with disdain— This library belonged to several masters, but it isn’t the main one. What you seek isn’t here; it’s on the second floor, in the Black Library—not up here…

Kreacher clicked his tongue and vanished again, leaving Harry exactly where he was. Judging by the elf’s expression before disappearing, he still seemed to be debating whether Harry was worth the effort of answering at all.

Deciding he wouldn’t be learning any more of that sort of magic for the day, Harry pushed himself up from where he’d been sprawled on the carpet. He finally let his mind process how many books there actually were in that “small” library. Tilting his head back, he followed the spiral staircase with his eyes—of course he could learn more, if he tried.

He wandered towards one of the shelves at the far end. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Most of the books had hard black covers, some that looked like leather. He noticed how much dust had gathered on the carpet, kicking up little clouds of it with each step and watching them swirl lazily in the dim light.

When he turned, his shoulder bumped the shelf beside him, and a book with a deep violet cover slid forward and dropped neatly into his hands. It looked… beautiful.

He reached out to touch it—and the moment his fingers brushed the cover, the book felt cold, unnervingly so. It reminded him of the sensation he’d had around Dementors back in third year. Once he’d pulled it free of the shelf, he realised how odd it looked—slightly worn, yet somehow translucent at the edges, as if it refused to reflect the light at all.
This book did seem to be translated into English — strangely enough, considering it looked far older than the other one. Without giving it too much thought, he began to read. Half of it appeared to be purely theoretical.

—Magi essentia magicis iungitur, vita magica et mors essentialibus alitur— was the title of the first chapter: “The wizard is, in essence, magic; his life feeds on magic, and death feeds on essence.” Harry wasn’t sure whether to take it metaphorically, so he kept on reading. It described how the magic that nourishes beings of flesh eventually returns to the cosmic realm of spiritual essence.

—Velum mortis est in mundo— The second chapter was far more complex, speaking of how the veil separating the corporeal from the magical essence containing the soul was scattered throughout the spiritual cosmos.

—Corpus separatum ab essentia— The separation of essence, in order to bring the body of a wizard closer to the cosmic veil, involved something called Segmentatio grisea — the greying of the soul to tear open both entrance and exit of the veil, for the essence that no longer belonged to a body turned violet, filtered by the existence of the veil itself.

—Segmentatio carnalis— To achieve Segmentatio grisea, it was necessary to divide the body and bind it to the earthly plane; that way, the essence could not transcend and become the violet tone of the Immaculata essentia.

—Immaculata essentia— A magical essence without cosmic rupture, moulded by the cosmos and mouldable for immaculate magic alone.

By the time he reached the end of the fifth chapter, Harry’s brain felt utterly exhausted. Spirit, essence, and magic. He’d never imagined that books — or even theories — existed that studied the magic and essence of a wizard so deeply, or that there were supposed to be such distinctions between them.

What exactly was required to perform Segmentatio?
With those questions still circling in his head, he rolled over again, sprawled across the carpet — farther from the door now. He must have looked ridiculous, but it hardly mattered; no one was watching anyway.

He opened the book once more, this time at chapter six.

—Segmentata memoria— occurs when one fails segmentatio carnalis, and the memories of essence and flesh separate, giving rise to an unnatural aberration — a Separate horrorem, which corrupts and defiles the very essence itself.

To repair essence requires immaculata — the purest form of essence, untainted by ulterior motive. Segmentatio carnalis must be followed by the words of intention:

“Essentia in separato te hororem iunge viam tuam in immaculata mea, ut salutem meam offeram ad salvandum horrorem tuum.”

Something within him urged him to speak the words aloud, as though his soul were drunk on the sound of them. Before he could stop himself, the incantation spilled from his mouth.

He realised how grave a mistake it was only when his body grew so cold that he began to tremble uncontrollably. His insides felt rigid, nauseated — his skin no longer seemed to shield him from the chill, as though every part of him belonged to someone else. He started coughing, praying no one would see him like this — that no one would think they’d been right, that he needed to be watched instead of understood. And so, trembling and sick to his stomach, he lost consciousness.

His mind carried him to a grey wasteland, ruined by war. Streets of London, though they seemed to belong to another decade. His thoughts were muddled, scattered — he dreamt of a Malfoy with hair even longer than before, fleeting blurs of memory and nausea weaving between faint spells of lucidity. Then, amid it all, only a pair of grey eyes and black curls remained.

He felt cold water and the sting of wind against his skin. His head spun — he couldn’t tell if it was still a dream or something else. He knew it was a dream when he felt sand beneath his feet and the sea breeze tugging at his jumper.
When he looked out at the water, he let his fear and confusion slip away for a moment. Dream or hallucination or death — it didn’t matter. It was the first time he’d ever seen the sea, and he wanted to remember it properly.

The water before him was dark, swallowing every doubt, beckoning him to sink beneath its surface — and he obeyed. That day, it seemed neither his mind nor his body truly belonged to him. When his chest was submerged, he heard the laughter of children running towards him — children he’d never seen before, dressed in old-fashioned clothes and overalls. He wanted to smile at them, but instead felt an inexplicable surge of anger, as though they’d wronged him somehow. As that anger swelled, the water reached his nose.

He began to drown. In a desperate attempt to breathe, he opened his mouth — and what rushed in was the stale, dusty air of the room where he’d fainted. Everything he’d just lived through felt not only unreal, but fleeting; barely an hour could have passed, the sun still high outside.

He pushed himself upright as best he could, the book still lying close by. He tried to steady his breathing, to warm his body. He knew that what he’d just done — his idiotic lapse — would have consequences.

He didn’t yet know what kind, but one thing was certain: if he meant to keep delving into the Black family’s books, he’d have to be far more careful.
With a long groan that came out more like a sigh, he realised that isolation was beginning to do strange things to him — namely, make him think that Hermione, with her obsession for books, might actually have had a point.

The fact that the library was several floors above where everyone else stayed made it easy not only to explore Grimmauld Place freely but also to practise whatever he happened to come across. That worn, violet book lying before him had given him an awful fright, but he couldn’t stop thinking that he ought to keep reading it. The feeling in his stomach was almost like hunger — or the craving for something oddly specific. His mouth watered.

Blinking in confusion, he glanced down at his lap where his hands rested. They felt faintly cold, as though the water from that strange vision still clung to him. Yet inevitably, his gaze drifted back to the book. He felt compelled — driven — to keep reading, to have it, to know what it held. He couldn’t bear to leave it unfinished.

It was a hunger he couldn’t ignore. And somehow, the strangest part was that his mind found it perfectly reasonable to feel that way.
As he touched the book and opened it for the third time — back at that same spell — the sharp, addictive hunger that had consumed him only moments before seemed to fade away. Perhaps it was his magic settling, feeling somehow at home. He could feel his body warming at the contact with the ancient tome.

Then his throat tightened — for a second, maybe longer — and, half-numb with nervousness, his voice began to repeat, over and over, the same incantation:

“Essentia in separato te hororem iunge viam tuam in immaculata mea, ut salutem meam offeram ad salvandum horrorem tuum.”

Again and again.

Until his voice turned hoarse, his body heavy with exhaustion.

Each time he spoke the words, a pair of grey-blue eyes seemed to gaze back at him — from somewhere between his mind and the cosmos. He didn’t know how he knew they were there; he simply did, even if it made no sense. His voice faltered gradually, fading into the thick silence.

In feverish dreams, he remembered Kreacher watching him — with something that looked very much like horror.

— “I shall keep the corrupted secret of the half-blood master,” he thought he heard.

A secret? Harry didn’t understand. He let his consciousness slip away once more, swallowed by the dark.
Then he was there again — in that grey, smoke-choked London. The stench was unbearable: something foul, putrid, sweet and burnt all at once. It clung to his tongue, coating his mouth as though he’d swallowed it. He walked, though he didn’t know how — whether he was moving of his own will or something else was moving him.

He staggered in a crooked line, stepping over broken slabs of pavement, skirting the shattered corners of fallen buildings. Was this really London? He somehow knew it was. Deep down, he could feel it — as though someone else held the answers he wasn’t ready to hear.

He kept going until the cracked street opened onto a gaping drain, the iron grate twisted and blackened. The sight of it made his stomach lurch before he even understood why.

He doubled over and vomited.
He kept retching without knowing why — it had to be that taste: sickly sweet, bitter and sour all at once, something that rose up his throat with every breath. Then, without quite understanding who was moving his head — him or someone else — he turned and saw it.

Right where he’d nearly stepped down, there were burnt bodies. Charred black and folded in on themselves like wax figures left too close to a fire. As his gaze focused, he realised they’d been there for some time — the skin flaking away, maggots threading through the cracks beneath his shoes. Maybe it was him who wanted to be sick again.

He didn’t know how long he stared. The air tasted of iron and rotten sugar; each breath he drew felt like punishment.
He — or whoever the memory belonged to — pushed himself up with a sudden, jerky motion of his right leg. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he looked furious. In truth, it felt like an uncontrollable rage was boiling up through his gut, raw and corrosive. Without knowing why, Harry kept watching through those borrowed eyes.

The ruins around him were still burning — other buildings, half-collapsed and spitting orange light into the smoke. And then he heard it — everything at once. The metallic screech of something twisting, the chorus of distant screams, and a name being shouted — once, twice, three times. The voice tore through the air.

He — or the memory — looked down. He was wearing nothing but shorts, his bare legs streaked with blood, socks torn, shoes blackened with ash.

He was cold again. Freezing. But maybe — just maybe — he was waking up. Was he?
He did wake — limbs numb, his right arm clutching the book as cold as it had been in the dream. His back ached fiercely, his throat felt like sandpaper, and his head throbbed, foggy and tender.

Whatever he’d done had no name he knew, but it felt… right. Comfortable. Like sinking into a warm bed after utter exhaustion — even if rest itself was tiring. He decided he’d return to the library tomorrow.

This time, the light filtering through the window was dimmer, the sort of dusky grey that told him the day was already dying. He left the book where he’d found it, tucking it behind a couple of volumes that looked far more innocent. Then, without a sound, he slipped out of the library.

He descended to the fourth floor — one he hadn’t explored much — then down another to the third, where he’d been staying. He was halfway to the second when the low murmur of voices drifted up from below. By the time he reached the landing, he could make out the faint echo of conversation from the first floor… and the ground level.

—I told you, Molly, if I could tear this house down to the foundations I would— Sirius’s voice sounded weary.—the family library doesn’t answer to me and frankly that’s fine by me, let all that dark knowledge go to hell!

Sirius definitely didn’t want to deal with any more family history.

—You know, folks, it’s better to avoid the whole house above the second floor,— Mrs Weasley said, annoyed but with an authoritative tone that allowed for no argument.

—But… Harry…— Hermione looked as if she wanted to object.

—We’ll wait until someone more sensible speaks to him,— Molly replied. Hearing her say it like that made him almost as angry as the memories he’d experienced—someone he would actually listen to, dear.

—Mrs Weasley, I don’t want Harry to get hurt. I have to go and speak with him,— Hermione’s worried tone almost made him feel bad; yet as her words turned over in Harry’s head, he realised it only made him angrier still.

Unintentionally, he tried to go back upstairs, but the creak of the stair betrayed him. He could’ve sworn the sound of hurried footsteps was louder—someone was running towards him. Panic flooded his chest.

The look on Hermione’s face was odd—a mix of anger, worry, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

—For Merlin’s sake, Harry! You’ve had us worried sick.— She tried to move closer, but he stepped back, avoiding her gaze.

—Herms, oi, we’ve already talked about this— Ron’s voice came from behind her, sounding as though he wanted to stop her from pushing further.
—No, Ron! We don’t even know what he’s been up to—look at him, he’s pale and sweating! Harry, come down right now!

Harry didn’t know what to do. He felt guilty—for worrying her, for being a nuisance—but the anger, that festering anger, had been eating away at him ever since he’d torn himself from that book.

What did it matter anymore? They’d left him on his own, expected him to obey, to stay put, to do as he was told. He had no freedom anywhere. Year after year, it was the same suffocating cycle—crowded, hunted, weary. Last year he’d felt as though he were drowning, burning from the inside out—and no one had wanted to be there for him.

—Hermione, stop.— His voice came out sharper, drier than he’d meant it to.— Stop following me. Stop trying to order me about. Just—stop. I’ve had enough of the lot of you.
—Stop trying to boss me about. Honestly—just stop. I’m sick of everyone.

She tried to grab his wrist, but he pulled his hand back sharply, anger flaring hotter still. That fury that had been gnawing at him for days surged all at once—until he couldn’t contain it anymore.

The light above them, hanging from an old chandelier, burst.

Shards rained down.

Accidental magic.

His magic.

Shards of glass rained down over the three of them; he caught the look of shock in their eyes—and in Mrs Weasley’s too. He knew Sirius was there somewhere behind them, yet he didn’t wait to see his expression.

Taking advantage of the confusion, he turned on his heel in a blaze of fury and stormed off, back to the room he’d been sleeping in. He grabbed the few things he’d left there and, without another thought, climbed even higher—to the fifth floor, back to that library.
He opened and shut the door swiftly, as quietly as he could, desperate not to be followed—desperate to be left alone. He wanted to avoid them, had every right to, and he would—though a small part of him wasn’t entirely sure he was in the right.

He climbed the narrow spiral stairs that led to the first and second levels of the library, but not before reaching for that same violet book that had consumed his fascination.

He opened it where his obsession lingered—near the end of chapter six.

—Immaculata essentia separato horrore maculata tempus habet in se, si non est filius mortis—
The essence offered to heal the separated horror bears time within itself, unless it be the child of he who governs the black veil; thus the wizard loses the immaculate essence, becoming the separated, unheeded horror.

He really was struggling with the Latin. It was a subject taught at Hogwarts—either in Ancient Runes or Arithmancy, perhaps even History of Magic—but none of those had ever been his strengths.

He’d always been absent in class.

So he began searching for some sense of order in the library—and, as it turned out, there was one.

The place must have been enchanted, much like the Weasleys’ tent, for the ground floor stretched left from the entrance into three wide aisles. The volumes there were mostly about ancient magic—much of which he couldn’t understand. Some were translated, like his violet book; others were laced with cobwebs, but that hardly mattered.

The books in the second aisle of the lower floor were medical—or at least dealt with treatments involving animals, blood, entrails, and plants.

The third aisle on the ground floor seemed filled with journals or something of the sort; each bore a person’s name, many of them Blacks, though not all.

He climbed to the first upper level, where the books resembled the ones he’d seen in portraits of the late Headmaster Dippet. These must have been at least two centuries old—bound in various kinds of leather. He came across one that caught his eye: white, almost iridescent, with hard covers and pearls set into each corner.

In English, the title read:
“A Compendium of the Traditions of the Sea Folk.”

That left Harry utterly dumbstruck. What sort of things were in this library?
He put the book back in its place, noticing that several nearby volumes described customs and traditions from different cultures and creatures.

Until he came across one that made his blood run cold:
“Customs and History of the Necromancers” — Iolanthe Potter.

Necromancy was undoubtedly Dark Magic—banned, forbidden—but seeing his own surname printed there, staring back at him… imagining who—who had Iolanthe Potter been? A close relative, perhaps? Or someone so distant that there wasn’t even a resemblance left to trace?

There it was again—that sharp sting reminding him that he truly had no family, that he didn’t belong anywhere. And then, against his better judgement, he reached for it. It felt almost natural to do so. Perhaps it was. Books, the memories of others—people he had never met or couldn’t remember—were the only real pieces of family he had.

He tucked it beside the other book he carried and continued exploring the library. Halfway down the first-floor corridor, between the shelves he’d already searched and the ones he meant to, he found a wooden settee upholstered in soft fabric. It looked comfortable. He left the books there, intending to settle later.

On the remaining shelves were books detailing how magic varied from culture to culture—how magical practices could merge and evolve. That piqued his interest.

He climbed to the second level of the library, where at last he found volumes on etiquette, language, and the traditions of magical learning.

He also realised that the books weren’t arranged alphabetically, but rather by purpose.

Descending once more from the second floor to the settee below, he noticed how elegant it looked—old, but full of character. And then that small, lonely voice inside him whispered: Would anyone in my family have liked the same things I do? Do I have anything in common with them at all?

For a fleeting moment, he wished someone would tell him about his parents—about his family—beyond the simple truth that he had his mother’s eyes.

He sighed.

Then opened Iolanthe Potter’s book.

The letters, though written in English, felt… strange—as if ever so slightly out of place, shifting like the words in his violet book.

My dearest Hardwin,

I first heard your voice near the valley of Godric, when my eyes had yet to grow accustomed to the mortality of light — far from the Veil that had so long watched me grow. My grandfather, one of the first necromancers, warned me before his passing to seek one worthy of the blood that runs through my veins. My beloved Hardwin, I fell in love with your voice — the one that guided my eyes through a world that, without the Veil, would have blinded them. You noticed, didn’t you? That my eyes saw straight into the soul.

Dear Hardwin,

You’ve succeeded in convincing me, as always. Our eldest son, Everett Potter, has inherited the Invisibility Cloak from his grandfather, Ignotus Peverell. With any luck, it will help him elude the one who watches over our family from beyond the Veil.

The doubt vanished—his cloak.

That cloak was a family relic—the living proof that he had once belonged to something, to someone.

I must write to your future self, Everett. The cloak will aid you, but you cannot possess a fragment of the Veil and expect its keeper not to seek the tear that binds it. You will, therefore, learn the art of the Black Veil—Necromancy—to keep yourself alive.

Essentia regenda est.

That will mark your life. My teachings shall be written here.

With love, your mother. Hoping that, when you come to read this, you will be old enough to understand.

Essentia regenda est.

It sounded so far removed from the Toujours Pur of the Black family.
Missing his own mother — not Everett’s — he opened his mother’s diary once more.

“—23rd of March, Fifth Year

—Potter is an utter idiot. I was paired with Sev in Potions and that moron couldn’t resist tossing something extra into the cauldron. Sev covered me with his cloak; he knew the cauldron was going to explode. I only burned my forearm, but Sev’s back is in awful shape.”

That unsettled him. No one had ever told him his father could be that cruel…

Not wanting to feel anything else, Harry’s gaze fell again upon the purple book — the one that seemed to soothe every emotion tearing through him.

He reached out for it and kept reading every incantation in his mind.

The cold in the room was even worse up on the fifth floor. He pulled a sweatshirt and the blanket he’d been carrying from his rucksack and settled back down. As he read further, things began to make sense.
Magic is the very essence of every magical being, and that magic transmutes within the Veil, becoming the raw energy that leaves it once the essence takes on flesh. To mutilate the flesh is to anchor the essence to the plane — yet to do so, the essence must already be tainted, and the plane itself is a place that only a few may ever reach.

He still wondered whether magic truly bore descendants, as several of the texts had already implied, or if it was merely a myth from the age in which they had been written.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5

He did not know when his body finally gave in to exhaustion, yet he dreamt of a pair of greyish-blue eyes — ones he was certain he had seen at some point in his life. He could feel the water of that shore brushing against his arms, and he longed to wade deeper.

The warmth spreading from his chest to the tips of his fingers was bewildering; the sordid thought of belonging to the depths themselves made the skin between his thighs prickle. The water seemed to seek him, to graze his skin, as though someone were whispering words in what sounded like French. The heat travelled from his chest to his belly, and just as he thought he could make out a name, his muscles tensed.

He woke up ashamed and disoriented, convinced that whatever dream he had just had made no sense and held no meaning beyond mere stress.
Sitting in the darkness, he turned towards the window, where the moonlight slipped through the lace curtains — a deep shade of violet he hadn’t noticed before. A faint, foolish smile curved his lips.

It was the very same shade of purple.

Inside, a chill ran through him, raising the hairs on his skin like a current of electricity — only to be followed by warmth spreading across his flesh.

It was the same feeling as with the book.
That foolish smile kept spreading across his face, wide and unrestrained, as the tingling sensation numbed him. He realised that whenever he moved, it grew stronger.

He stepped down from the settee, drawn to where that delicious feeling deepened — first when his fingers brushed against the books on the first and second floors, and then, when he wandered closer to the adjoining room — the one filled with mirrors.

Each step, each brush of his skin against the air, made him feel weightless — a sweetness blooming on his tongue as his breath quickened. There was a need building inside him, one that made his mind sluggish, stripped of all coherent thought.

He kept going, and going, until he somehow found himself before Regulus’s study on the third floor.

Heat throbbed beneath his skin, cold sweat trailing down his back. He felt tortured — yet aching for more of that feeling, that sweetness that lingered on his tongue. It wasn’t like the dream, not like the grey, bitter London in his vision. This sweetness was addictive, almost divine.

He barely noticed his own ragged breathing. His left hand pressed against his stomach, while the right hovered mere inches from the doorknob — so close to breaking Kreacher’s trust, and that of his long-dead master.
But something deep within him knew — the house was guiding him. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he simply wanted to believe that, to convince himself that whatever choice he made wouldn’t be entirely his fault. He could blame Kreacher, for trusting him with too much. He could blame the magic in the house. He could blame them all, for being so unfair.

But in the end, it didn’t matter who was to blame.

No — it truly didn’t.

He reached out, and as his fingers curled around the cold metal of the knob, he decided that whatever waited beyond the door had to be worth it.

The greatest clue was that knot in his stomach — that addictive pull that had followed him all the way down from the upper floors.

When he opened the door, the scent of the room met him: perfume gone rancid with age.
Once, it must have been beautiful.

The sweetness of that hunger rose again through his chest, spilling into the air, devouring everything in the room.

Consuming it.

The impulse drew him to the desk. The drawer was warded — weak, yet stubborn.

“Alohomora,” he whispered.

Nothing.

“Diffindo.” Again and again, until the wood gave in.

He broke it. He mended it.

And in that fleeting heartbeat he knew he should leave.
He felt once more like that eight-year-old boy stealing food from his aunt and uncle at Privet Drive — not the Chosen One, not Harry Potter, not last year’s champion, but just a small thief who’d gotten away with it.

As quietly as he could, he returned to the fifth floor. His strange hunger felt sated now, full of whatever it was he had been craving.

Harry smiled — and then smiled wider still, filled with a lightness and calm so rare that he almost wished he could keep it forever.

He felt weightless, at ease, refreshed — as though every problem had simply vanished.

Back in the library, he climbed onto the little sofa once more, and by the light of the moon, he looked at the object he held in his hands.

Hexagonal, golden, with a long chain — it seemed to hold something inside: a sheet of paper stained with soot, now unreadable, a lock of hair, and on the lid of the locket, a serpent. It was beautiful, yet carried something irresistibly alluring.

He slipped it over his head, wanting it close, unwilling to share it with anyone. He hid it beneath his clothes, pressing it as close to his skin as he could.

Settling down, he tried to sleep again, but something urged him to repeat what he’d read in Chapter Six of his book — and he obeyed, eager to please whatever coiled and stirred within him.

The cold returned to his skin, the frost creeping into his bones — yet it felt so blissful he didn’t care in the slightest. He smiled, and as he slipped once more into someone else’s dream, he held himself tighter.

—He opened his eyes, or closed his body’s, to open another’s. The window before him was shattered; he sat there, spitting blood, while someone prayed behind him. When he turned his head, the room shifted — now a forest of pines and damp wood. He was running, fast, trying to reach something...

He dreamt of grey eyes and a feline smile — one carved from shape and deceit, yet so utterly charming, all gleaming white teeth and quiet mockery.

—He dreamt of an alleyway, a shabby grey counter— it looked like the one he’d landed beside during his very first trip through Floo powder.

The warmth of morning woke him. His mind was muddled, strange; he couldn’t recall much, only that something felt wrong. The rush of adrenaline, the heat in his stomach, the sweat, the stairs— it all spun through his head.

Of course— he’d gone into the study, stolen something, and dreamt of… something he couldn’t quite remember. None of it made sense. Nothing had order or reason. He was losing his mind, that had to be it.

He looked towards the window, flooded with soft golden light, his chest sinking under the weight of anxiety. He felt weak, though in a strange way — as if he’d run a marathon. There, in the hollow of his ribs, he could feel the burden of the night before — how he’d chosen selfishness, how he’d betrayed Kreacher’s trust.

But it couldn’t be that bad, could it? Perhaps the locket was just like everything else in this forsaken house — left behind, abandoned to rot.
Besides, that pleasant, warm weight resting against his chest couldn’t possibly be a mistake — nor something he could, or would ever want to, regret.

With that resolution, a quiet satisfaction settled over him.

Speaking of feeling full, he realised it was the second day in which he’d barely eaten a thing. Not that it was unusual — he’d grown used to hunger, to going without.

What did unsettle him, however, was the thought of facing Kreacher — of imagining the elf knowing, somehow, that he’d stolen from his late master. His only option, then, was to swallow his pride, go downstairs, and eat with the others.

Dragging out the time, he tried to stall by exploring more rooms on the same floor. Opposite the library there was a bedroom, and beside the stairs, a bathroom. When he stepped inside and caught sight of his reflection, he couldn’t help but stare straight into his own eyes.

There was something off.

His eyes.

Green — but in his right one, a streak of violet cut through the iris, the very same hue as his book, as the magic that had given him those visions.

Panic settled low in his gut, and he held his breath, trying to contain it. It didn’t work; it climbed up his skin like static, impossible to shake off.

He knew some kinds of magic could leave physical traces, but this — this was absurd. His eyes— Merlin, how on earth was he supposed to go downstairs like this?

Yet he couldn’t skip another meal. He couldn’t call Kreacher either — not when there was a chance the elf might ask for the locket back. He wouldn’t risk it. He didn’t want to lose that warmth — that quiet, pulsing comfort in his chest.

He’d simply have to ignore whatever accusations or questions came his way. Avoid eye contact, keep his head down, and pray to Merlin it worked.

Merlin, it was the stupidest plan he’d ever had.

He took each flight of stairs with increasingly scattered thoughts, paranoia rising with every step he descended through the house.
There it was again — that gnawing anxiety that seemed to follow him everywhere lately. Merlin, God—ah, bloody hell, what was he even going to say? Swearing and begging divine help clearly weren’t working — they never did, if he was honest.

He was standing right outside the dining room, and even through the heavy wooden doors he could hear the voices of those already having breakfast.

With no more excuses left to stall, he pushed the door open; it groaned as it moved.

The smell of toasted bread and hot tea hit him like a blow — a warm, ordinary reminder that the world, somehow, kept on turning.
Several ginger heads turned in his direction; the twins froze mid-bite, forks hovering comically in the air. Ginny stared hard at the table, as did Ron, whose back was to him. Hermione and Mrs Weasley fixed him with identical looks — the sort that said they were both bursting to speak.

So much for his brilliant plan of not being seen and not looking at anyone. He silently begged that no one would ask anything.

“ Well, Harrykins! ” Fred crowed. “It’s been ages, mate!”

“ Quite right, Feorge! ” George chimed in, trying — and failing — to sound cheery. “We haven’t seen our guardian angel in yonks.”

He smiled at them. He didn’t want to talk, nor even to be downstairs, but that wasn’t the twins’ fault.
He tried to ignore everyone around him — the clatter of knives and forks, the scrape of metal against china, someone taking a noisy sip of coffee. Everything felt oddly artificial, as if he were surrounded by bubbles of plastic — or perhaps more like that moment during the Tournament, when the sounds of the world above were muffled by the weight of the Black Lake.

The atmosphere was almost too calm, like Hogwarts in its most stifling moments — every year the same, every year those stares.

The greed of those who wanted him.
The fear of those who thought he was something else.
The selfishness of everyone who fancied they owned a piece of his story.

All those assumptions. All those expectations.

Only to end up excluded, unseen — yet wanted so desperately it hurt.

Now, being treated like something fragile left a bitter taste in his mouth.
—Harry...—his name. He’d heard his name in a woman’s voice—no, two voices, actually. Someone kept calling him.

—Harry! You can’t just ignore us!—he looked up slightly to see Hermione’s face; she looked annoyed, her hair frizzier than usual. He still didn’t know what to do or say.

—I just... wasn’t paying attention, ’Mione.

He tried to deflect, to keep the irritation out of his tone. He didn’t want any more questions, didn’t want any more attention. Only then did he notice the plate in front of him—pumpkin bread, eggs, mashed potatoes.

His stomach tightened. He heard the twins snicker softly.

No one said anything, but he still felt those looks—a mix of suspicion and barely contained concern.

—We only want what’s best for you, Harry. You need to understand that many things aren’t safe, which is why—

Sirius’s chair scraped against the floor, the sound sharp enough to cut her words short.

—Which is why keeping Harry out of Order business is bloody ridiculous,—Sirius barked, his voice almost matching the growl of his Animagus form—furious, protective, and raw enough to jolt Harry out of his thoughts. He didn’t quite understand what they were talking about.

—...The Order?

—Yes,—Sirius replied before anyone else could—every adult here was once part of the original Order of the Phoenix… alongside your parents. We fought to defeat “You-Know-Who.”

Harry’s thoughts began to race. So that’s what they meant, he realised—when they’d dragged him from the Dursleys’ house nearly a week ago. How much have I missed while I’ve been sulking? Was that what Hermione had tried to talk to him about that first day?

He felt anger twist with guilt. A few seconds lost in thought was all it took for Sirius to notice—his godfather’s gaze fixed on him, steady, expectant.

Harry nodded. He wanted to know more. To understand why everyone treated him like fragile glass.

—You see, Harry,—Sirius began, still facing the direction where he knew Mrs Weasley stood—in the first war against You-Know-Who, we lost many people. Some did the unthinkable. Others tried to run. But you know how that ended. Dumbledore’s gathering what’s left of the old Order. We know there’ll be another war.

Sirius looked so tired, so grey, in that moment.

—Sirius! He’s just a boy!—Mrs Weasley’s voice cut sharply through the air, but it didn’t sound like it could stop him.
—And it isn’t fair that he’s kept in the dark when the prophecy names him, Molly!—the word prophecy dropped like a stone.

At that, Professor Lupin was quick to silence Sirius, and Mrs Weasley’s sharp voice followed, ordering them all out.

—I want in. It’s my right,—Harry’s words burst out before he’d even thought them through, his voice raw, harsh—sounding every bit as drained as he felt. While his mouth moved, his mind raced—trying, and failing, to make sense of everything that had happened during his week at Grimmauld Place. As chaos unfolded around him, his thoughts drifted back to those restless nights in the fifth-floor library, the insomnia, the eerie quiet—and the strange realisation that no one had bothered to check on him. How had they even allowed that?

Now, looking up, he saw all of them staring—anger, disappointment, disapproval painted across their faces in varying shades.

Hermione, already near the door, turned to speak, her expression stricken.

—Harry, you’ve got to understand—Dumbledore knows what he’s doing. He said it’d be safer if you didn’t know anything until he got here.

Hermione always clung so tightly to what the professors said. He understood, in a way, but it still hurt that she never seemed to try to understand him—how utterly alone he’d felt. Ever since Cedric’s death, everything had felt heavier, darker.

—We shouldn’t even be thinking about war,—she added softly.

And yet, Harry’s chest burned with fury. Of course it did. He hated fighting, hated being sent back to the Dursleys, hated not having parents—hated watching everyone else go home to warm families while he was left feeling hollow and forgotten. But yes, apparently they all knew what was best for him.

Ron stood by the door, giving him a look that was half-apology, half-defeat, before tugging Hermione gently towards the hallway.

And something in Harry snapped.

He turned to Sirius, his godfather’s expression a storm of conflict.

—Pup... I think I’ve put my foot in it,—Sirius muttered, glancing at Remus rather than at Harry. Maybe it’s best we wait. I shouldn’t have said too much. But whatever you decide, I’ll be here.

The words barely registered.

—To hell with it,—Harry spat, his voice trembling with the force of it—I don’t want to hear from anyone. Not unless someone gives me an actual explanation for why you all ignored me for so long!

And in that fury—in that sharp, blinding moment of release—it didn’t matter how he’d said it.
It felt good.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX

POV: Sirius

He had been trapped inside the old house of his nightmares ever since he’d been deemed a “free man.” Staying there—for the sake of the Order—was nothing short of torture.

It had all started around the middle of last year, when everything descended into chaos with that blasted tournament. Dumbledore had come to him, grave as ever, saying Voldemort was back, that a boy had been murdered in cold blood. And here he was again, haunted by the same deranged elf that had once served his mother—circling, muttering, spitting the same venomous insults she used to.

Then Dumbledore had asked a favour: to use the old Black residence as headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. At first, it had felt like a victory. To hell with her, he’d thought. Let her precious house be turned into a base for everything she despised.

Maybe—just maybe—he’d get to spend the whole summer with Harry.
But of course, that hadn’t happened.

Dumbledore had decided the boy would be safer with those wretched Muggles for the first month. Sirius had nearly torn the bloody portrait of his mother off the wall when he heard that.

The ghosts of his best mate and his mate’s wife had never really left him since that day. They wandered through his thoughts every morning, every sleepless night. He remembered the war—how young they’d been, fresh out of Hogwarts, all fire and ideals—and wondered, briefly, what their lives might’ve looked like if things had gone differently.

Useless thoughts.

He remembered sneaking off to Hogsmeade, back when Lily still couldn’t stand him. James and Remus were always game for trouble; those days had felt infinite. And Peter… Merlin, Peter. Always lurking at the back of every memory, that nervous smile glued to his ratty face. What a bloody farce it all was.

Sirius sat now on one of the old settees in the drawing room downstairs, a glass of whisky cradled loosely in his hand. The liquor in this cursed house had aged well—like everything else preserved by its dark enchantments. Dusty, yes, but enduring. Just like the damned memories of every Black who’d lived and rotted here before him.

The bitterness, the hatred, the regret—they’d all seeped into the very walls.
And every sip of whisky only reminded him that, despite the fine silk and the gilded decay around him, he was still a prisoner.

A prisoner dressed in old gold.

He still remembered James being so very himself — so cheerful, so sweet, so hopelessly in love with Lils and so bloody brave. He remembered his joking voice, softened by affection, when he’d asked him whether he wanted to be Harry’s godfather. Lily, to the surprise of them both, had wanted to do it in the middle of a war — a ritual — a magical one. Looking back, she was always like that, so clever and so devoted to magic that, of course, she’d insist on doing it the old way.

Lily, with that stubborn streak that made her her, had insisted on doing it the ancient way. A ritual of old magic, sealed with promises and blood. She said it was to protect Harry, but Sirius had always thought it was also to bind them together, all of them.

The happiness he felt when forming a new family with the help of his friends and his pup was a kind of happiness he didn’t believe he would ever experience again. He felt so lost and such a failure, but that didn’t matter — they were at war again, and if they weren’t yet, they would be soon.

He poured more whisky and, looking into the amber in his glass, remembered even more.

As his drunkenness deepened, his memories grew more bitter, and staring at the curtains in the drawing room brought back the night he ran away from home, how James had been there for him, and, with sadness, he recalled the pleading looks of his brother Reg. Surely he had suffered too.

Reg… always so proper, so quiet.
He hadn’t chosen to stay; Sirius had left him there.
He always left everything behind.

Everyone had, by now — the war against Voldemort had gone on so long that losing someone to it was no longer remarkable.

Walburga, his mother. The bitter memories always led back to her, to his days as a child being trained to become heir to a prestigious line. What would his mother say if she knew that the future master, lord, and heir of that house was his godson — a half-blood?

The house undoubtedly hated him — and everyone he had brought into it. The missing objects were proof enough — though it could just as well have been Kreacher — but if the house truly wanted to drive him mad, it wouldn’t have to try very hard. The doors and floors refused to be explored, and the undeniable evidence of it all was that the library remained locked, no matter what he tried.

He didn’t really mind. It was almost comical, seeing the old family home in such a state. The building’s magic seemed as damaged as he was. The rune matrix in the house’s wards looked solid yet utterly indecipherable; it was as clear as daylight that the ancient place did not recognise him as Lord Black.

Weeks went by until one morning he was told that Kingsley, Moody, Tonks and another member of the Order would be fetching Harry. As always, he wanted to be the one to go. He couldn’t.

When Harry finally arrived, things were tense — and no one in the Order made it easier, himself included. His clumsy attempts at reaching out to Harry only pushed him further away, and when the boy managed to wander through the mansion without so much as a fright, a curse, or a slammed door, Sirius realised that Grimmauld Place would never obey him. The house seemed more attuned to Harry and his curiosity. Perhaps Black blood was thicker than he’d thought — the idea made him smile, faintly.

Euphemia Black — that was Harry’s grandmother’s name. She had been such a kind woman, and Sirius owed her more than he could ever repay. In truth, his debt to Harry and his family was immense. If the house and all its treasures could somehow start to settle that debt, it would be a relief. No one had ever cared for him the way the Potters had.

Since Harry’s arrival, many things had happened — most of them unpleasant. His godson had every right to be angry; after all, he would have been too, if he’d been left to rot with those bloody Muggles. It had stung to hear, in passing, from Hermione that the boy who’d died had been someone dear to Harry.

That night, under the burn of firewhisky, the rage returned. He’d failed Harry again.
The boy had taken to sleeping on the upper floors — those the house refused to let anyone else reach. Literally. Doors slammed or stayed locked at will; wards stopped anyone from passing; climbing the staircase caused searing pain; some even fainted trying to break through the barriers.

In short — the house didn’t want to be explored by anyone but its future master.
That had frustrated the other adult witches and wizards staying there temporarily. From the moment they’d arrived, they’d suggested throwing out every Dark artefact in sight — but Kreacher and the house had opposed them with venomous fury. And so, that unspoken war had begun.

Sirius was proud of the boy. And, like the fool he was, he forgot that rebellion is always born from pain.

So when dinners and lunches with Harry became battlegrounds — moments that should’ve brought them closer only driving them further apart — he felt utterly lost, desolate even. It was as if he were back to being alone again, but worse this time; the weight of failing Harry settled deep in his bones.

And that morning, when everything boiled over — Harry’s desperate need for answers, Molly and Hermione’s smothering kind of love — it was all simply too much.

There he was again, in the sitting room, on that same old settee, two bottles of whisky on the side table next to him — both nearly empty.

Firewhisky had become his best friend now that the real one had gone long ago.

Remus stepped into the room, his footsteps muffled by the drink in Sirius’s head and the thick, expensive carpets on the floor — those navy and emerald rugs his mother had so loved to boast about at dinner parties.

“You know it’s not your fault, don’t you, Pads?” Remus tried to approach him, lowering the glass from his lips.

“I think it’s everyone’s fault, not just mine.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out like that — slurred by whisky, rough and low, sounding more like his dog self than a man. But the anger still seeped through.

He’d give anything to be that stupid, carefree teenager again.

He sighed.

And as if his body knew he needed something to anchor him, he leaned his head against Remus’s stomach, the man still standing in front of him.

“You know, Moony… I think I would’ve been terrible at raising Harry. I’d have spoiled him rotten… it would’ve been brilliant.”

He lamented for a while longer, while Remus stroked his hair and assured him that things would get better. He truly wished it were true.

He couldn’t give Harry any more explanations — not yet. But when he could, when Dumbledore said it was safe, he’d make sure Harry had no more doubts about anything. Maybe then he could get close to him again, without it all blowing up in his face.

“Thanks, Moony. You always know how to make anyone feel better.” And it was true — ever since they were boys, Moony had been magic in every sense. That some of that light had dimmed with the years… well, that was his fault too.

////

The sunlight in the common room was unbearable. It was mid-summer, and the Gryffindor tower caught every inch of the morning sun. Moony, Prongs, and he were barefoot; Peter still hadn’t come down. Moony had tried, in vain, to wake him, but it was always the same story.

“Oi, Jaymie — if we add selkie saliva to a Polyjuice Potion, d’you reckon it’ll do anything?”

“…Sometimes your idiocy worries me,” Remus muttered from the other side of the table after seeing James actually consider it.

The sound of laughter behind them and quick footsteps on the stairs made them turn. It was Lily, having overheard their conversation.

“Seriously? Selkies? It’s bloody hot,” she said, laughing as she looked at their bare feet.

“Come on, Lils, race me to the lake. If you win, you can ask me for anything,” James said, his tone as sweet and confident as ever.

Lily grinned and, before they knew it, she, Remus, James, and Alice were sprinting barefoot towards the lake, the girls tossing shoes and socks at them in a hopeless attempt to stop them.

James won, with Remus close behind.
///
How he missed his best friend.

Even after thirteen years spent mourning his loss, nothing had ever changed. The pain had never faded or lessened; the more failures he added to his list, the more he wished he could go back and undo it all.

But there was no point in grieving… even if he spent the rest of his life drowning in regret, nothing would ever bring back what he’d lost.

He understood that now.

Remus must have felt his body, weary and worn, tense with the weight of that realisation — of everything he had lost.

Of everything he had failed to do.

And he didn’t let go. Remus never let go — not back then, not now — even when Sirius had been wrong, even when he’d nearly ruined everything.

Remus held him, just as he had so many times before, back when James was there. Only now it felt different — as though they were partners in the same loneliness. And in a way, they were. Both had lost the family they’d chosen.

They ended up sitting together on that settee, heads resting one against the other, whisky for supper — after all, the days when anyone could give them detention were long gone.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7

He stormed upstairs — full of that raw, bitter anger that only the lonely ever feel, the kind that curdles in your stomach until you’re sick with it, until every pulse of your heart seems to throb through your whole body.

The locket against his chest felt warm — almost alive — its heat rising in rhythm with his fury, growing hotter each time he let himself drown in the bile bubbling up from his gut.

He wanted to vomit.

To swallow it all back down and bury it somewhere deep inside himself.
His skin itched; every step towards the library made his breathing quicken, stirring everything inside him into chaos.

He clutched at his chest with his right hand, while the left gripped the banister, forcing himself upward — to reach the only place where he’d felt any trace of happiness lately.

When he finally reached what he’d been yearning for since the floors below, his body gave out. He collapsed onto the floor.

And there, bathed in the lingering warmth of the air, he stayed — doing nothing but feeling that strange lullaby pulsing softly in his chest.

He could feel it — someone’s hand gliding over his chest, as if it belonged there. Something buzzed beneath his skin, like a swarm of flies, and yet — Merlin help him — it felt good.
Every hair on his body stood on end.

Still sprawled on the floor, breath ragged and uneven, he felt his skin grow cold while every organ within him throbbed with a feverish heat. He wanted it to stop — wanted release from the tight knot twisting between his stomach and his lower belly — and in his desperation, his nails tore at his own skin.

With fury, the same burning anger that had carried him up the stairs, he clawed at himself. The locket against his chest seemed to purr, a low hum vibrating through his ribs — until the overwhelming sensations became unbearable.

So he surrendered to whatever was happening — and when his magic finally quietened, as submissive as his thoughts, everything became softer, less painful, less confusing. In some strange and inexplicable way, it felt like bowing one’s head to be bitten at the nape.

And it felt good.
He could have sworn he still heard that laughter — saw those grey-blue eyes from the memory staring back at him.

He yielded completely, pressed flat against the floor, exhausted as though he’d just finished Quidditch training — sweat-slick, panting, still hazy from the mingled rush of pleasure and despair.
He let himself slip into unconsciousness.

He dreamt he was someone else — the same pale, long hands, though this time they weren’t caked in earth or blood. He stood behind a counter; he recognised it. It was the same counter from the shop in Knockturn Alley — the one he’d stumbled into on his first trip through the Floo Network.

Only now it looked different. Less abandoned, still intimidating and dark, but… different.

The person he was within the dream felt familiar, like someone close — and yet he had no idea who they were. Cold grey eyes, strikingly beautiful, tall beyond doubt.

It was strange — moving, seeing the world through someone else’s eyes, living a life that wasn’t his own.
He was arranging papers behind the counter, his gaze flicking between the shop windows and the stack he was sorting through.

He decided it might not be so bad, seeing someone else’s life — perhaps it would even be entertaining.

His left hand — though it wasn’t truly his — brushed a strand of hair back into place. Looking more closely, it was quite beautiful: long, tied back with some sort of ribbon, black and slightly curled.

He muttered something he couldn’t quite catch, then stepped out from behind the counter to look over the shop’s wares. He wondered if the life he was seeing belonged to the shop’s owner — that old man he remembered — or perhaps just one of the workers.
It could just as well be a trick of his imagination — or so he thought.

He arranged the books with the ease of someone who had done it hundreds of times, pulling out a volume that — in the strange way sensations carry over between bodies — felt uncannily similar to his own purple book.
But this one wasn’t the same. Its cover was a dull, ashen brown.

Something about it was off. If it was so similar, then why couldn’t he read it? It was odd — and then he realised it wasn’t him who couldn’t read it, but the person whose memories he was inside.

A voice came from behind him. He felt anger flare — apparently, whoever he was now didn’t take kindly to being startled.

“It’s a Necromancer’s book,” said the voice. “Those veil sorcerers have a language of their own — words no sane man should ever utter. Takes years, boy — years — to make sense of even one of those bloody things.”

It was the old man he’d met years ago, only… younger.

His voice sounded distorted, layered — as if he were hearing it twice, his own voice mingling with that of another, overlapping and out of sync.

“Ah… so that’s what it was…” —the overlapping voice murmured, almost pleased, a calm so measured it sounded rehearsed, as if speaking were a formality rather than a necessity.— “And who, then, buys those grimoires?”

“Ah… usually wealthy pure-bloods, the sort who fancy hoarding power along with their gold,” came the reply.

He felt the body stiffen; the teeth ground together beneath the tightness of a clenched jaw — anger, sharp and controlled.
Still, he didn’t move much. Whoever this person was, he clearly despised the idea of showing emotion.

“How curious,” he said, with a half-smile that never reached his eyes. “There’s always someone willing to buy what they don’t understand, isn’t there?”

A soft, amused sigh slipped from—not his lips exactly—but from somewhere within the act of speaking itself; the sound was an imitation of laughter, nothing more.

“You see, boy,” the older man replied, “a fellow like me isn’t picky—unless, of course, you’re short on Galleons.”

The man Harry knew in his older years simply shrugged, turned, and began climbing the stairs he’d descended from. His voice drifted back down as his boots creaked on each step:

“And when you’re done, lad, lock up proper. I’ve no wish to be robbed.”
When he’d finished tidying, he realised—quite suddenly—that he could read what the man was thinking.
It was a bizarre experience, knowing things without knowing how, yet it was fascinating all the same.

His body—or rather, the one he was borrowing—grew tense again. Whoever this person was, they seemed perpetually irritated, as if anger was their natural state.

He knew he ought to be more careful, to mind how far he let himself sink into this… whatever it was.
But he couldn’t help wondering if, perhaps, he might dream of other people’s lives too.

In any case, the man whose life he was intruding upon moved with that same measured elegance as before, every motion deliberate, until he reached the door—where he cast a charm before stepping out into the street.
He then looked upon the alley as his real, younger self never could—never would, especially not now that Voldemort had returned.

Knockturn Alley was even stranger than Diagon Alley. The shops here were taller—two storeys, some even more—and a few seemed to have been built so that their entrances descended into the earth, rather than stood upon it.

The man he was—his not-self—turned as though searching for something, or someone who might have followed him. Perhaps it was only habit, or caution, in a place like this. It was night, he realised; the moon hung high above, casting a pale, lovely light over the cobblestones.

He found himself enjoying these memories—those of a person he might never meet.

The robes of the witches and wizards passing by looked older, their style long fallen out of fashion. He couldn’t tell how far in the past this memory lay, but the difference between Muggle and wizarding fashions was striking even then.

Perhaps Knockturn Alley had once been different—less decrepit, less hollowed-out by time—for in this person’s recollection, it seemed... almost grand.

He walked for nearly ten minutes, from one end of the alley to the other, until he reached a place called The Ill-Fortuned Apartments.

The building was in shambles: the timbered walls damp and dark with age, the curtains—once beautiful—now threadbare and grey. The chandelier in the lobby had been stripped of all its gems, leaving only empty sockets, like missing teeth.

This person despised the place entirely; he could swear that he—his not-self—felt the same urge to vomit again, just as he had in that other memory. Thinking on it, he realised that perhaps this self—this other consciousness whose life he was trespassing upon—had been Muggle-born or half-blood, like him.

It made sense. After seeing such strange and dreadful places, it would explain the constant anger that always seemed to burn, forced down but never gone.

He filled out the registration form and paid for what seemed to be another month’s stay in that miserable building. As he climbed the wooden staircase—bare now, the carpet long gone but its outline still visible in the darker shade of the boards—he noticed how large the place was despite its decay.

It reeked of dust, of smoke—something like the magical version of tobacco—and of damp.

His legs were long, and he realised just how tall this man must be, for his hair brushed against the top of the doorway as he entered the room. Hanging his cloak upon a hook, he raised his hand slightly and, without a wand, cast a spell that brought the light to life.
Harry was desperate to see the face of the person whose body he was inhabiting, but he couldn’t—or perhaps this man never looked at his own reflection. Maybe Harry’s imagination simply wasn’t capable of inventing an entirely new face.

Even so, he didn’t truly believe it was just a dream.

The man—or rather, the him of the dream—lay down, and it was as though someone had flipped a switch. As that other self drifted into sleep, the real Harry began to wake. He knew it by the dull ache blooming behind his temples, by the creeping chill returning to his arms and chest.

He realised, with a kind of wistful clarity, just how soothing it had been to belong to another time for a little while.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8

As he sat up, he realised Kreacher was standing before him, his face wrinkled with rage, his eyes so wide they looked like burning embers.

—Stealing from the master? spat the elf, a mixture of horror and fury twisting his voice. —Stealing from Master Regulus! The disgrace of this house feeds on thieves!.

Harry felt the locket on his chest throb — hot, alive — as if it were reacting to the elf’s tone. He swallowed hard, the words sticking to his throat.

—No… I just—

—Lies! —interrupted Kreacher, trembling—. Kreacher felt it, heard it. Master Regulus entrusted him with his secrets, and now you… you toy with things you do not understand.

Harry wanted to disappear.

He didn’t want to.

He wasn’t going to hand over the locket.

It had made him feel so good; he could forget everything if he kept it — Cedric’s death, the nightmares that no longer came now that he dreamt through someone else’s memories — he simply couldn’t give it up.

He clutched it with both hands against his chest, hoping it would vanish, to merge with him.

Harry noticed something in the elf’s eyes — a spark of fear. Not just anger. Fear.

—What… what’s in that locket, Kreacher? —he asked, his voice lower than he meant it to be.

The elf stepped back, trembling. His voice cracked as he spoke.

—The thief is a necromancer —whispered Kreacher, his voice shaking yet firm—. He plays with souls that do not yet belong to him. And the thief… must stop wanting them.

—Thief?... Who?...

Was Kreacher… talking about him?

—What are you on about? —he stammered, barely able to breathe—. Me? No… you’re wrong, I… I don’t know anything about that. In the dream… he said necromancers spoke another language, but I… I only know English.

Kreacher was watching him with a mixture of horror and pity that didn’t quite fit his wrinkled face.

—Don’t lie to the locket, boy —muttered Kreacher, taking a step back—. It hears you. It’s feeding on you, and you on it.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but the air grew heavy. The metal against his chest throbbed with a rhythm of its own, almost like laughter.

—I didn’t… —the words caught in his throat as a murmur —a tongue that was neither English nor anything human— slipped past his lips without permission, and for the first time, he realised he sounded different.
Kreacher shouted something —a plea or a curse— and vanished with a crack.

And then the panic grew. Nothing about this summer had been as it was before; everything was confusing, everything hurt.

He didn’t understand anything, and he was terrified.

Why was Kreacher so afraid?

He didn’t even know if being a necromancer was truly that bad —or what it actually meant.

Did he even know one?

What was he supposed to do now—could he tell anyone?

Hermione had mentioned last year that necromancy —and anything even close to it— was illegal. Very illegal.

He didn’t want to end up in Azkaban, and from what he’d just realised, he couldn’t even control it.
So he cast a Silencing Charm around the room—he didn’t want anyone hearing a thing.

He was afraid.

What if they sent him to Azkaban?

— Kreacher, come back… please, Kreacher, I’m scared, I don’t know what to do, I don’t even know what this is…

He hoped that sounding pitiful and small might make it all less frightening—that the elf would come back.

He prayed that someone, anyone, or something would help him.

And, as always lately, the locket beneath his sweatshirt made him feel warm and heavy, like being offered a cup of tea in winter.

His face was wet—he was crying, properly crying now—and he could barely see through the blur of it.

He forced himself to focus on the warmth in his chest.

A soft, glowing pressure built in his head too, gentle at first, almost soothing. He told himself it was just exhaustion—then curled up on the floor once more, letting the quiet swallow him whole.

Something in his tired, hazy mind—lulled by the warmth the object gave off—made him repeat that incantation from the sixth chapter of his purple book, softly, like a lullaby rather than a spell.

And just like that, he calmed down.

Before drifting off, he managed one last thought, sharp with guilt:

Please, don’t let Kreacher tell anyone. Please.

///
Once again,he was in the room of his not-self—that tall, pale man from Knockturn Alley. In the blink of an eye, he was back on the street, heading towards the shop where his not-self worked. Now, he could see the sign clearly: Borgin & Burke’s Antiques.

The man—the one Harry was inhabiting without permission—lit an oil lamp, its glow barely reaching across the counter. Upon it lay objects that seemed to murmur amongst themselves: a cracked mirror, a jar with something floating inside, and several vials of potion.
—Another night in this vulture’s nest,—murmured a voice in his head that wasn’t his own, yet felt like a thought they both shared.

The oil lamps hissed and spat, casting golden reflections across jars filled with murky liquids and objects that seemed to breathe in the dimness.

Harry—or whoever he was in that borrowed body—stacked a neat pile of books. The hands moved with a grace that wasn’t his: long, pale, precise fingers, where his own would have been clumsy and impatient. This other him was meticulous, deliberate.

—They say it holds the sighs of the dying,—rasped the customer’s voice.

The not-Harry arched a single eyebrow.

—Sighs are a poor trade,—he replied in a measured, polite tone, almost courteous.—Unless it’s blood of something rare, or a substance worth its weight, I can’t say we’d be much interested…

After turning the man away—another fraud, clearly—his not-himself returned to his work, quill poised over the ledger spread across the counter.

The faint scratch of the quill against parchment halted.
His hand—not his, but obedient—lifted from the page.
His chest ached, that same familiar pressure, some strange blend of pride and hunger.

He had no idea why it felt that way.

The body he inhabited drew in a deep breath, as though existing itself were too heavy a task.

There was something in the damp Knockturn Alley air — the taste of both defeat and ambition tangled together.
And he — or the other within him — thought something that Harry felt before he even understood it:

"All that I am worth, no one will ever see."

The thought wasn’t his, yet it hurt as if it had been.
The same knot he’d felt beneath the stairs at Privet Drive, the same hollow ache that had followed Cedric’s grave.
And then something new happened.
A tired smile —his, yet not his, the smile of his “not-self”— formed on the lips he moved.
And the voice that spoke was a soft whisper, heavy with weariness and, though he didn’t recognise it at first, triumph.

"You know the hunger too."

The heart —his, or the other’s— thudded hard, and somewhere far away, between the dream and his body, the locket answered with a warm pulse.

Then, everything went dark.

///

And upon waking once more, he realised that this other “not-self” and he were, in truth, quite alike — though, to be fair, growing up in the midst of war must’ve been a right nightmare. He must’ve been poor, probably an orphan, for in every memory Harry had seen of this person, he was always alone — always sharp-tongued, cautious, and angry.

Wasn’t that just untreated sadness?

That person… what had his life at Hogwarts been like?

The thought lingered, chasing him as he tried to sit up.
The library was cold — colder than usual — as though the house itself were watching him.

He brushed his fingers over the medallion beneath the fabric, afraid to let it go, and for the first time he found himself wanting to know more about that boy — the one from his dreams, the one with the grey eyes.

Who had hurt him like that?

Who had taught him to hide pain behind such elegance?

The purple book lay open on the floor, a new page exposed — one he didn’t remember ever reaching.
The letters seemed to move, the same incantation from chapter six gleaming as though lit from within:

Memoria

Iuro ad memoriam accedere ad essentiam salvandam

Harry swallowed hard.
Perhaps if he tried again, he could see him once more.

And without thinking — without fear, without reason — he placed his hand upon the book, repeating the same words that had doomed him before, and added a few more.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 9

However, this time, no matter how hard he tried, it didn’t work, and each time he tried again he felt more and more exhausted, so perhaps he simply no longer had the magic or the energy needed to cast such a spell. He gave up and went to look for those books that were slowly becoming an essential part of his holidays. Soon, he also admitted that, of course, he wouldn’t leave them in Grimmauld Place — no, they definitely belonged to him.

Right?

He ran his hand over the purple cover as if afraid it might vanish. He almost expected it to beat beneath his fingers, just like the locket.

After all, they had practically come to him — they had comforted him and never left his side. One of them had belonged to one of his ancestors; he couldn’t just leave it here. Besides, Sirius didn’t care about the house.

Surely, he wouldn’t mind if Harry took a few more things.

It was funny, he thought. He had come to his godfather’s house looking for company, and only the dead seemed willing to speak to him.

And the not-him from the locket, the one in his dreams, was someone who seemed to understand him — every time he’d felt lonely or angry, he’d been there, offering parts of his story as comfort.

Unlike everyone else who had run from him, ignored him, and, to make matters worse, wanted to decide what he should know and do.

Besides, the books — Iolanthe’s and the purple one — belonged to a Necromancer, and he had no idea what to do or how being a Necromancer actually worked. Asking for help was off the table; the most logical thing was to keep them.

And really, it wasn’t wrong. No one wanted them, no one knew how to read them — there was no harm in reading a bit more. In the end, it would help him keep the whole Necromancer thing properly hidden.
Without him knowing why, the locket warmed softly once again — inside it, swirling with dark magic, magic of essentia, something felt satisfied.

Victory.

And Harry enjoyed that warmth, for even though it was summer, the enormous house was always cold; being so tall, the heat never quite managed to stay.
Sitting on that settee in the library that had now become his room, he began rummaging through the things that were now his: his mother’s blue box, still unopened; his mother’s diary; that purple book; Iolanthe’s grimoire; Snape’s book; the locket on his chest.

He arranged them in a way that only he could understand; however, it never once crossed his mind to take that medallion off.

And come to think of it…
Why not look through the library and see what else might be useful?

But that would come later. For now, he needed to know exactly what it meant to be a Necromancer, what they did — and why on earth Kreacher had been so terrified.

Merlin… oh, sod Merlin!

It was stressful. No doubt about it.

He shifted on the settee until he found a comfortable position, and then opened Iolanthe’s book, determined to understand what no one else could explain to him.

///

Dear Everett, this shall be your grimoire. Your father, ever so persuasive; and I, as your mother, ever so easily convinced.

Necromancy:

It is the most complex of the arts, granted to certain bloodlines that preserve a specific kind of balance. Even amongst us, some master one branch of the art more than another. Some are born with such a developed gift that mere spells — or even intent — are enough to make things happen. Necromancers are very powerful kinds of wizards; we are chosen by the one who guards the Veil, without ever realising it. That entity knows, long before our birth, what we are and why it makes us so.
—The sort of words she used were strange, from a time when speaking was without a doubt more poetic, yet it was fascinating — apparently, being a Necromancer was almost like being a Metamorphmagus.— he continued.

You must keep in mind that every Necromancer has a speciality, though some possess more than one.

There are Necromancers born bathed in essentia — wizards who do not know of the Veil call it the soul. For us, my dear Everett, this is our speciality: to connect with the essentia beyond the Veil, to shape it, to bond with it, to see through it.
There have been others who speak with it by allowing themselves to be possessed; they serve as a vessel through which essentia coexists in the earthly plane.

There are those who use corpus rather than essentia — mere remnants of the essentia that lingers within bodies — granting their will to that remnant and moving it like puppeteers.

There are those born with their magic and essentia bound to another’s — Necromancers whose strength comes from their ancestors, able to use their knowledge and power as though it were their own.
There are those capable of bringing essentia from beyond the Veil, though it is far easier to do so during Samhain.

One of your great-uncles was a very particular sort of Necromancer — Antioch was a duellist, a Necromancer who innovated in curses and lasting protections, though he also possessed the rare gift of being a Sanguinem wizard. It has never been classified as part of Necromancy — though, if you ask for my opinion, it certainly ought to be.
Something greatly coveted in Necromancy is the whisper of the dead; only those capable of understanding our language can hear them. They whisper secrets of the Veil — of the future — their essentia still strong, their will reaching beyond the one who guards the threshold.

A loose page slipped from the book, and Harry couldn’t tell from which part it had fallen. It looked like a letter — and from what he could see, all the pages shared the same heading.

"Grimoire of Essentia: To my son, Everett Potter"

My dear Everett,

Do not fear what you hear in the night.

They are not voices that seek to drag you away, but those that seek to remember.
Every Necromancer is born with one ear in this world and the other in the Veil.

At times, with eyes fixed upon the Veil, blinded by the natural light of the living world.

We are the strings that vibrate between both sides — the thread that binds what once was to what is yet to be.
They call us sorcerers, usurpers, thieves of souls.
But we do not steal — we fulfil a purpose.
Essentia, that which the ignorant call the “soul”, is the melody that upholds the world.

When the body dies, the melody does not cease; it merely changes its tune.
We hear it. We learn it.

But listen to this, my son, and listen well:

— Never gaze too long upon the other side.
— Never speak with a voice that is not your own.
— Never answer if the Veil calls you by your name.
Because there is always a price.
For the Custody never forgets those who listen to it.

And if one day you should find another like yourself — one who walks amidst whispers and shadows — do not fear him: we are the children of the Veil.
Feel him as a brother.

For Necromancers are always born alone, yet never truly alone.

— Lólanthe Potter, Watcher of the Boundary, year 1379.

He set the page down in his hand. Lólanthe — what would it be like to meet someone so well-versed in the hidden art of Necromancy?
Would there have been magical laws in Lólanthe’s time?
If there were, she had surely broken every single one of them… and now he had to read them as though they were homework for History of Magic.

He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at it hard.

Oh Merlin, there was so much to read and learn!

And everything would be easier without his bloody Potter luck — which was, quite literally, the fault of being a Potter, because it was in his blood… oh Merlin, someone help him. He knew that what he was feeling was pure panic, and a lot of it.

He needed to think about something else, something easier. Nothing magical.

And it would all be easier if he could just talk to someone — someone alive, at least…
Now that he thought about it, he’d been neglecting himself far too much as well, so, as a logical act of self-care, he decided to take a bath. Kreacher had already said the plumbing in the house worked perfectly fine, so he went to the bathroom on that same fifth floor.

Once there, he realised he hadn’t changed clothes in a couple of days either.

Ah… he actually had the chance to look better than he ever did with the Dursleys — and he was wasting it.
He felt frustrated with himself, with his own carelessness.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
His hair was a mess — not filthy yet, but definitely untidy. That faint violet line under his eye worried him, though no one had said anything, so perhaps it wasn’t all that important for the moment.

In an effort to distract himself, he looked around the bathroom. It was surprisingly clean, a little dusty, and there was a huge bathtub right in front of him. The tiles gleamed, as if something bright were trapped inside them, shining faintly.

And he wondered if everything in the wizarding world was like that — ancient and gleaming.

He knew it wasn’t.

He moved closer to the bathtub and waited for the water to fill it. It was warm, but he didn’t need it hot — he just wanted to feel clean.

As he sank into the water, he remembered Cedric and the second task of the tournament, and while rubbing his body with the bottles of soap and perfume he found — hoping they weren’t spoiled — he began to sob. He knew he looked pathetic, but everything was changing in ways he didn’t want, and crying only made him angry, as if everything were spinning out of control.

And knowing he couldn’t stop it, he went under — even his head — beneath the water.

And screamed.

He screamed until his voice broke, and as he did, water flooded his throat; his emotions were drowned out by the water and the desperate need for air.

He didn’t realise that his magic, responding to his emotions, shattered the mirror.
In the blink of an eye, it shattered into pieces.

He pulled his head out of the water, panic prickling over his skin at the thought of someone hearing him, of someone finding him like this… but no one did — and that, in a way, upset him more. He knew no one cared about him. Not even Sirius.

He’d almost finished bathing, but decided to stay there until the water went cold, the broken mirror lying on the floor, shards of glass scattered near his things.

And he’d failed to pull himself away from it all. He was still sinking into whatever this was — and that terrified him.
As he stepped out, his feet met the damp, dusty rug — now muddied. He’d left his wand nearby and cast a cleaning charm.

While drying his hair, he went over what he’d been doing with his life. Everything was a mess. If he hadn’t been so curious, perhaps he wouldn’t be half a misstep away from Azkaban.

Come to think of it, he wondered whether, outside the protection of Grimmauld Place’s wards, the Ministry could trace Dark Magic — or if the fact that he wasn’t using his wand’s trace helped at all.

And in a stupid moment of carelessness, when he stepped back, he ended up cutting himself on the shards of the mirror. Instinctively jerking from the pain, he stumbled and fell flat onto the floor, almost covered in glass.

The crunch beneath him was sharp.

He caught the familiar scent of blood — metallic, earthy.

He gritted his teeth.

His palms burned, and the cuts on his legs throbbed like needles. A pool of water, now tinted red, spread beneath him.

And the locket— the one he hadn’t dared remove, not even while bathing — grew hot.

Without thinking, his hands closed around it.

And that was a grave mistake.

The locket drank his blood; the words he had repeated so many times from that sixth chapter echoed through his mind — and spilled from his mouth.

Unbidden, like vomit.

A whirl of purple magic surged around him, radiating from the medallion. The shards of glass on the floor trembled and lifted, and the bathwater rippled in soft waves.

It exploded — not like fire, but as a wave bursting out from him. The tiles that had glimmered cracked open, and now the floor looked as though it were made of a million mirrors.

His last thought, before slipping into unconsciousness yet again, was to grab a towel to cover himself.

He fell into darkness, the scent of iron thick in his nose, and one single thought echoing in his mind: what an idiot...

He expected to be with his “not-me” again — but no. He was in a white place… empty of everything. As he looked around, he realised he was naked; a thin shimmer clung to his body, like the thread of a spider’s web — and nothing more.

And this time, it was him.

His own hands, his olive skin marked with scars, and not so tall — it was him.

In a white space, vast and endless, so immense that he could see no edge. Even the sound of his footsteps made no sound.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 10

Pov: T.M.R

Darkness had embraced him since his creation.
Solitude was his sustenance, his time, his everything.

No light.

No voices.

Only the infinite nothingness — so dense that even thought could not escape it.

It was a bubble suspended in eternity, where sound and time dissolved.

Only he remained.

And the greatness of his mind.

Nothing touched him.

Nothing distracted him.

Only the magic: dark, heavy, and thick as tar.
Without temperature.

Without beginning or end.

Sometimes — when consciousness returned to him — he wondered how long it had been since his creation.

Had his other self triumphed?

And every time, he gave himself the same answer:
What an innocent question.

Of course he had triumphed.
How could he not?

His greatness was inevitable.

His magic, absolute.

He had tamed everything a wizard could possibly master...
Everything — except one thing.

Necromancy.

That gift he had not been born with — without the understanding of that language that sounded inhuman, like the screech of a beast, hollow, like crows cawing all at once mixed with radio static, all together, so deeply unsettling.

He knew his throat would never be able to produce anything like it.

Just as no one who wasn’t a Parselmouth could ever sound like him.

He knew he had triumphed.

It was undeniable — as undeniable as his own immortality.

And he would remain so, for as long as he existed in that place.

Cold and alone.

Until, at some point in time, he felt it — a fracture.
Something of magic that was not his own — and it was dark. Very dark.
So it called to him, invited whoever was foolish enough to work such magic nearby to use it.

And they did — someone foolish enough to reach for the first enchanted jewel that beckoned to them.

He wondered, then, what kind of influence he might hold over those destined to grant him a body — to serve as nourishment for him.
He knew that his counterparts had each retained particular traits. When he had first split from the part that carried the largest fragment of his soul, he realised he had forgotten how to be charming — or at least, it no longer came naturally to him.

It took him longer to analyse the emotions of others.

At first, he hadn’t thought it much of a loss.

But he managed to learn it again; it was, without a doubt, something curious. When he parted with the second fragment of his soul, in that ring, he realised he could no longer remain unmoved.

Something that infuriated him was that with each Horcrux he created, he lost something he then had to relearn — as though he were any ordinary wizard, as though he were like the rest: mundane, fallible, and lacking control.

But without question, the loss that had proved most aggravating was that of his control over his emotions. In the final days before he was separated from his body, he had found himself enraged most of the time.

More impulsive.

More human — so detestably human that he had made every effort to distance himself from that feeling.
So he had decided to study further before creating another Horcrux — perhaps he could limit himself to only three. Three was, after all, a powerful magical number according to Arithmancy.

But foolishly, he had chosen to make a fourth — himself. He only had a few months to realise what it had cost him: the soul he had left within the cup.

And what it took were fragments of his youth. Though the diary had already diluted them, they had still been there — but after the cup, the first ten years of his life were nothing but a blur.
An utterly strange thing, considering he’d always had an impeccable memory — he had never forgotten anything before.

Alone in such a vast space full of nothingness, he’d had far too much time to think.

He thought about himself, and how he hoped his plans had gone on as intended.

Still, creating a fourth Horcrux hadn’t been his brightest decision, for losing memories — no matter how insignificant — was a grave failure, a sign of erosion.

From the moment he began losing fragments of memory, he tried to research more about the soul, yet always came to an impasse. He’d found the word essentia — and little else.

Bloody Necromancers. Not only did they have their own language, they hid their secrets as well.

Something that began to worry him, at some point, was that Horcruxes were in fact an incorrect version of another, far more complex ritual mentioned in an ancient book.
He searched for a good part of his years at Borgin & Burke’s; yet he never found anything. The book in question had been a Latin text, several centuries old, so he assumed it must have been a translation error.

And truly — he searched that dusty shop for years.

If he thought about it carefully, it was impossible that the ritual he had performed could be imperfect.
Since time was a concept without meaning —something entirely devoid of sense in that empty place where he existed— he never bothered to ask himself when he was.

That crack, and the one who bore it, nourished him for a while.
The exact measure of time did not matter: the magic of the one who used it was akin to his own, rhythmic and comfortable.

In time —if time truly existed there— he understood that the one who carried him was a boy.
A lad of fifteen, young and naïve. Alone.
But what stirred the curiosity of his brilliant mind was the fact that the boy could interact with him.

He knew it the moment his memories became a stage, a form of entertainment for that child.

That child from whom he fed so comfortably.

That child who, without knowing it, would allow him to exist once more —to see what had become of his future self.

Yet he wondered how selfish he himself was —not only to share his glory, but also to share his very existence.
He was, and had always been, a selfish being —with so much power, anyone would be. Selfish.

With full knowledge of his own superiority.

But for that very reason, he could not give up his curiosity.

He would see how to triumph in the future —after all, he always had.

In the midst of that darkness, his mind drifted through every memory he possessed.
His Hogwarts years were still present, shrouded in a faint mist, but nothing like when he had lost his first ten years of life.

Of course, he knew how his life had been —the orphanage and the matron— yet he could not recall what face he had back then, nor which Muggles had shared that place with him.

The boy who now nourished him stirred his curiosity, though he could not yet determine in what way.
As time was a sort of blurred tunnel, he only caught glimpses of what that boy was prying into. It filled him with rage. Yes —yet he could not lose his composure; he had to make the most of the boy’s magic while he could.

He knew that the child had seen him at work, had watched him in that dusty shop where he laboured from his twenties to his thirties. The boy had seen his flat —or that old lodging house where he had stayed for so long— had been free to wander through his memories, and it made him wonder why the boy’s magic wound itself around him like creeping vines.

For no ordinary kind of magic should have been there at all —not in that plane where they both existed. In truth, it would only make sense if it were one of his counterparts —the diary.
But he knew he would never have left two Horcruxes together.

So he dismissed the idea. The ring had a curse —it was poetic, how each Horcrux was born through the tearing of his soul, only to tear it once again if each of them ever fulfilled its purpose.

He wished he could have studied the cup more. Perhaps even himself.

With that thing called time drifting back and forth into nothingness, he confused years with months and years with seconds, and thus he had no notion of how much of it had passed when foreign magic seeped into his plane, accompanied by the metallic scent of blood.

And he understood —with the clarity only the void could offer— that the boy was still there.
The bond had not been broken by the surge of magic; it had deepened.
It disturbed him —and fascinated him— that such a young kind of magic could sustain his existence, that it could touch the space between souls and remain there.
That was neither common nor possible.

But if that boy was so interesting, then he would be very useful indeed.

Amid that burst of magic, he could feel himself close to another plane, one that was not his own, and for an instant, he felt something dreadful.

His soul —what was left of it— felt a body, and he realised that whoever possessed the body now was anything but the greatness he had once imagined.

Horrified at the thought of securing his own survival, he realised the largest piece was missing —and what made him feel most frenzied, like an animal in a cage, was that there was another part of himself right beside him.

The boy was far too special. He could not kill him.

He could not.
And then, how could he allow himself to know he was failing?
He could not leave himself like this —with one thread hanging in this world and the other in the Veil, with part of his soul lost and a boy holding the other. He was going to make the boy choose him.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 11

In that white nothingness, he turned around, still shaken by the absence of cold or heat, nothing that felt familiar —no sound. It was genuinely unsettling.

So utterly strange.

So, like the good Gryffindor he was, he screamed.

He screamed again and again into that vast, white emptiness until he simply stopped.

And it was curious —his throat didn’t hurt, which meant it wasn’t really him. How strange everything had become. There had been times when he’d felt through someone else, but it was far stranger to realise that now, though he was himself, he couldn’t feel anything.

He screamed once more; he saw no reason not to.

And after a long while like that, panic began to set in.
And that was his life lately —confusion and panic.

What a brilliant recipe —he thought with irony— give panic to the teenager.

He kept walking and shouting into that endless, spotless nothingness. At some point, he saw a black figure in the distance, made partly of smoke and partly of thick, dark silk. Fearing it might be a Dementor, he tried to move away —or at least he tried.

He couldn’t move.

Inside his head, or perhaps echoing through the whole space, he heard a voice. Something strange. It seemed to reverberate everywhere.

“—Consider it a gift. Once I let something in, I don’t always allow it to leave, though fate is a curious thing.”

He wondered what it meant. He didn’t know if Dementors could talk; it wasn’t logical or even possible according to his Defence books, or anything he’d experienced in third year —so what was it?

But something inside him whispered that wasn’t the question he should be asking.

“—Certainly not. However, you have already done everything that ritual required, and I can do nothing for you now. You have a promise to fulfil.”

He wasn’t on the physical plane — he had guessed that some time ago — but if he had been, he would have certainly vomited.

“— but my mercy knows no bounds, so you have two years to fulfil this bargain; if not, I shall be forced to rend your soul.”

A bargain? Two years? What was it talking about?

He didn’t know what was happening or what it referred to; of course he remembered the bath, the mirror, the blood — yet he didn’t know which ritual it meant.

“— however you will know soon enough, but remember: you only have until your coming-of-age ceremony.”

Without waiting for him to process anything, that figure vanished, leaving him once more in the void.

But if it had nothing else to tell him, why was it still there?
Until his answer stood before him — a woman of ethereal appearance, with skin pale as wax, smooth and gleaming, hair black and long down to her thighs. She was wrapped, like him, in that strange translucent fabric.
He avoided looking at her too closely, for they were both in that state of nakedness.

Though perhaps that didn’t matter now.

She hugged him.

“— I know we haven’t met. I am your ancestor. My name is Lólanthe.”
He stayed still — uneasy, yet motionless. He had never met any of his ancestors before, and he doubted this was a common circumstance. Not at all.

“— I know this must be very strange for you, but everything will be fine —” the woman, in an attempt to comfort him, caressed his cheek. He didn’t feel her touch exactly, but he did feel the hollow ache in his chest. “— I’m only allowed to give you three warnings, though you, my dear boy, could certainly use more.”

He didn’t quite know how to take that, so for the moment, he simply decided to ignore it.

“— You look so much like my dear Everett; the Potters have always favoured that side of the family, no matter how many centuries pass… —”

Lolanthe sighed, purely out of human habit; he knew there was no air here, no need to breathe either.

“— I must hurry, it’s nearly time for you to go. First, study the grimoires — you need to understand what you’ve done… it’s in chapter six.”

Harry remembered the hunger those books stirred in him — the almost animal need, the thrill, the tingling. Before Lolanthe gave him time to think, she continued.

“— If our Lady were to tear your soul apart, you would not be able to fulfil your destiny. It is of the utmost importance that you do, for the lives of many depend on it. Oh, Merlin… dear child, I am so sorry I cannot help you more.”

Harry wanted to ask a thousand questions. He had longed to see her face to face — he never got to stay with his family, living or dead — and that thought saddened him deeply.

“— You must gather the hollows of our Lady. You will find them in the tales of a bard. If you learn enough, you will never be alone. Your family stands a step beyond the Veil, always watching you grow.”

That did not only confuse him — it moved him.

“— This is not a warning, so my Lady will have no quarrel with it… trust yourself more. You need to learn what you are, and all that it means.”

That ethereal woman stroked his face, and though his body felt nothing, he was deeply moved. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to believe she was his mother.

He closed his eyes, and when he tried to open them again, every sensation he had been deprived of in that place came rushing back at once.

The first sound he heard was his own breathing — uneven, damp, almost foreign.
The air tasted of dust and copper, and when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the broken reflection of the ceiling in the shards of the mirror. Everything was the same, yet different — as if the air itself had thickened, reminding him of those cobwebs he had worn only moments before.

He tried to move, but his body didn’t respond at first. Every muscle ached, as though he’d spent days asleep beneath the water.

He was cold.

He was afraid.

The locket lay upon his chest, warm, stained with dried blood. It throbbed — not steadily, but in time with his breathing, as though somehow they were one and the same.

He didn’t know where that thought had come from.

And he preferred not to.

He pushed himself up clumsily; the floor scraped against his palms, and only then did he realise he was shaking. Not entirely from the cold.
The blood from when he’d fallen was sticky — not dry, yet no longer fresh — and, to his surprise, there was quite a lot of it.

He cast a cleansing charm on himself, then another over the bathroom. He didn’t know how to mend the tiles, but after a few tries, he managed to repair the mirror.
He let himself fall back onto the floor, now without the danger of getting dirty or bleeding again. The fear he felt couldn’t be measured; the locket on his chest was still steady, warm — as if it were trying to soothe him.

However, he remembered the white space, the figure — by Morgana! Lolanthe.
Harry realised all at once that part of the problem was that precious locket.

He tried to tear it from his body, only to be met with the greatest horror imaginable…

He couldn’t remove it. It didn’t move an inch.
He screamed and tried harder, only to realise that with every attempt to pull it off, it seemed to want to fuse with his flesh.

His mind scrambled to recall that dream — he knew that if he didn’t write it down, he’d forget everything.

He ran to the library, where the beginning of his disaster had taken place.

He rummaged through parchment and ink, and wrote down everything he could remember.

1. Read — you need to know what it means. Chapter six; investigate Necromancy.
2. If I don’t fulfil what I promised, people will die.
3. Gather relics of a lady; the clue is the book of tales, a bard. If I learn enough, I’m not alone?

He didn’t know what the hell half of that meant, but he knew it meant homework and that something was screaming at him that he couldn’t tell anyone.

He wanted to cry and that annoyed him.

He was furious and wanted to send everything to hell, to wait and see how it all rotted from that moment to two years’ time.

However, he hid that list in his mother’s diary; he knew no one would touch it.

He hated everything and everyone fiercely. He hated himself.

He didn’t want to leave the locket, not after feeling accompanied, but now he recognised that something was profoundly wrong.

Right there, in the middle of it all, he regretted pushing everyone away.