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Chapter Text

Harry Potter awoke with a start, his scar prickling like it hadn't in years. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains of his small flat in London. It was a modest place, nothing like the grandeur of Hogwarts or even the Burrow’s cozy chaos—just a one-bedroom hideaway he’d rented after the war, away from the prying eyes of the wizarding world. He was twenty-three now, an Auror with the Ministry, but the title felt more like a chain than a badge of honor.

He rubbed his forehead, the familiar lightning bolt scar cool to the touch despite the phantom pain. “Just a dream,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. But it hadn’t felt like just a dream. There had been red eyes glowing in the mist, a voice hissing not with hatred, but... something else. Regret? Pity? It didn’t make sense. Voldemort was dead. Harry had seen the body crumble, felt the final Horcrux shatter in his own mind during that last, fateful duel.

Shaking off the unease, Harry padded to the kitchen, flicking his wand to brew a pot of tea. The Daily Prophet lay on the counter, its headline screaming about “Post-War Prosperity: Ministry Unveils New Hogwarts Wing.” He skimmed it absentmindedly, his thoughts drifting to his friends. Ron was engaged to Hermione—no, wait, that had fallen apart last year. Ron was with Lavender now, of all people, and Hermione... well, she was buried in her work at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, fighting for creature rights and Muggle-born equality. They still saw each other, but things had been awkward since Harry had turned down her subtle advances at Ron’s birthday party.

A knock at the door jolted him. Who would visit at this hour? Wand in hand, he approached cautiously. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Harry. Hermione.”

He opened the door to find her standing there, windswept hair and a stack of parchments under her arm. She looked tired, but her brown eyes sparkled with that familiar determination. “Sorry it’s late. I was at the office and thought... well, I needed to talk to someone.”

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside. As she brushed past, he caught a whiff of her vanilla-scented shampoo, stirring memories of late-night study sessions in the Gryffindor common room. “Tea?”

“Please.” She set her parchments on the table and sank into a chair. “I’ve been reviewing old case files from the war. There’s something odd about Voldemort’s final moments. Reports of anomalous magic residue at the site where he fell.”

Harry poured her a cup, his scar twinging again. “Hermione, we’ve been over this. He’s gone. The Elder Wand confirmed it.”

“But what if parts of him lingered? Soul fragments don’t just vanish; they could attach to something—or someone.” Her gaze flicked to his scar, and Harry felt a chill.

“Don’t start that again. I’m fine.” But was he? The dream replayed in his mind: Voldemort’s voice, not mocking, but murmuring, You and I, Potter... so alike in our suffering.

They talked for hours, Hermione venting about Ministry bureaucracy, Harry sharing Auror frustrations. As dawn crept in, she hesitated at the door. “Harry, about us... I know things are complicated, but I still—”

A sudden vision hit him like a Bludger: an orphanage, cold and gray, a young boy with dark hair staring out a window, longing for a family that never came. It wasn’t his memory. It was Tom’s.

Harry gasped, clutching his head. Hermione grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Headache. Go home, get some rest.” He practically pushed her out, slamming the door behind her. Alone, he whispered, “What the hell was that?”

Miles away, in the ethereal void where remnants of souls drifted, Lord Voldemort—or what was left of him—stirred. His essence, fractured and weak, had latched onto the one connection that remained: the boy who lived. He had intended to erode Harry’s mind, to rise again through possession. But as he delved into Harry’s subconscious, sifting through memories of neglect at Privet Drive, the loss of Sirius, the betrayal of Dumbledore’s secrets... something shifted.

Pitiful child, Voldemort thought, his spectral form coiling like smoke. Abandoned, just as I was. The prophecy bound us, but perhaps... there is more.

He pushed another memory through the link: his own arrival at Hogwarts, the wonder mixed with isolation. See what we share, Potter. See why I must end you... or save you?

Harry spent the day in a fog, patrolling Diagon Alley with his Auror partner, Kingsley Shacklebolt. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, lad,” Kingsley boomed, his deep voice cutting through the chatter of shoppers.

“Something like that,” Harry replied, forcing a smile. They were investigating reports of dark artifacts surfacing in Knockturn Alley—remnants from Death Eater hideouts. As they entered Borgin and Burkes, the musty air thick with forbidden magic, Harry’s scar burned hotter.

In the back room, amid cursed necklaces and vanishing cabinets, he found a peculiar locket. Not Slytherin’s—that was destroyed—but similar, pulsing with faint energy. Touching it, another vision flooded him: Voldemort as a teenager, charming yet cruel, experimenting with his first Horcrux.

“Potter!” Kingsley’s shout snapped him back. A shadowy figure had Apparated in, hurling a curse. Harry dodged, firing back with “Stupefy!” The assailant fled, but not before dropping a note: The Dark Lord watches. Sympathy is weakness.

That night, Harry met Luna Lovegood at the Leaky Cauldron. They’d reconnected recently; Dive into my Patreon Canoncrafter, where you can unlock advanced chapters before anyone else! Join now patreon.com/Canoncrafter , she was traveling the world for the Quibbler, hunting mythical creatures, but back in London for a story on Wrackspurts infesting the Ministry. Her radish earrings dangled as she sipped Butterbeer, her wide eyes dreamy.

“You seem troubled, Harry,” she said airily. “Is it the Nargles again? Or something darker?”

He chuckled, the tension easing. Luna had that effect—her eccentricity was a balm against the world’s weight. “Just work. And... dreams.”

“Dreams are portals,” she replied, leaning closer. Her hand brushed his, sending an unexpected spark. “Sometimes they show us truths we’d rather ignore.”

As they talked, Harry felt drawn to her free spirit, so different from Hermione’s logic. Was this attraction? Or just escapism? Walking her home through the misty streets, he paused under a lamppost. “Luna, thanks for listening. I—”

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Don’t thank me. Just promise to chase the light, not the shadows.”

Back in his flat, Harry collapsed into bed, but sleep brought no peace. The dream returned: Voldemort’s voice, clearer now. I hated you, boy. The one who stole my immortality. But your pain... it mirrors mine. The Dursleys, like my Muggle father. The loneliness, like my orphanage. Perhaps I was wrong to seek your death.

Harry bolted upright, sweating. “Get out of my head!” he shouted to the empty room.

In the void, Voldemort recoiled. Sympathy? For the enemy? It was blasphemy. Yet, as he probed deeper, seeing Harry’s love for his friends, his unspoken feelings for Hermione and now Luna, a forgotten emotion stirred: envy, then understanding. Love triangle, eh? How human. How weak. But perhaps... I can use this.

The next morning, Harry fire-called Ron at the Burrow. “Mate, I think I’m losing it. Visions of Voldemort, memories that aren’t mine.”

Ron, bleary-eyed from a late night with Lavender, frowned. “Blimey, Harry. You sure it’s not PTSD or something? Hermione mentioned you looked off last night.”

“She was here?” Harry asked, a pang of guilt hitting him.

“Yeah, worried sick. Said you had a fit or something.” Ron paused. “Look, come over for dinner. Mum’s making treacle tart. And bring Hermione if you want—Lavender’s cool with it.”

Harry agreed, but his mind raced. At work, he confided in Kingsley, who suggested seeing a Mind Healer. “The war left scars on all of us, Potter. Don’t ignore them.”

But Harry couldn’t shake the feeling it was real. That evening, at the Burrow, the Weasley warmth enveloped him. Molly fussed over him, Arthur asked about Muggle gadgets, and Ginny—now a Quidditch star—teased him about his bachelor life. Hermione arrived late, avoiding his gaze at first.

After dinner, they wandered the garden. “About last night,” she started. “I didn’t mean to push.”

“It’s not you,” Harry said, taking her hand. “There’s something happening. Visions. Voldemort’s memories.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s what I suspected! We need to research—”

A rustle in the bushes interrupted. Luna emerged, holding a jar of glowing insects. “Sorry to intrude. I was collecting Dirigible Plums nearby and sensed distress.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Luna? What are you doing here?”

“I invited her,” Harry lied quickly, not wanting to explain their pub meetup. Hermione’s hand tightened in his, a flicker of jealousy in her eyes.

As the group chatted, Harry felt the pull of both women: Hermione’s steady intellect, Luna’s ethereal charm. And lurking in his mind, Voldemort’s voice whispered, Choose wisely, Potter. Love makes you vulnerable... as it did me, once.

The chapter ended with Harry alone in the guest room, staring at the ceiling. Another vision came: Voldemort’s first kill, not out of joy, but desperation. I was shaped by pain, just as you. Perhaps we can reshape each other.

Harry whispered, “Who are you really?” Unbeknownst to him, the bond was strengthening, setting the stage for a sympathy that could save—or doom—the wizarding world.

Chapter Text

The Ministry of Magic buzzed with its usual chaos, a labyrinth of memos fluttering like paper birds and witches and wizards scurrying through the Atrium’s polished marble. Harry Potter, clad in the deep navy robes of an Auror, felt the weight of the day pressing against his temples. His scar hadn’t stopped prickling since the night before, and the vision of young Tom Riddle’s lonely orphanage window lingered like a ghost. He’d barely slept after leaving the Burrow, the memory of Hermione’s concerned eyes and Luna’s fleeting kiss warring in his mind. And that voice—Voldemort’s voice—whispering about shared pain. It was impossible, yet undeniable.

Harry navigated the Ministry’s corridors to the Auror Office, a dimly lit warren of cubicles cluttered with case files and enchanted maps tracking dark magic activity. His desk was a mess of parchment, a half-eaten sandwich, and a photo of him, Ron, and Hermione laughing at Hogwarts. He stared at it, a pang of nostalgia hitting him. Life was simpler then, even with a war looming.

“Potter, you look like you’ve been hit by a Confundus Charm,” came a gruff voice. Kingsley Shacklebolt loomed over him, his bald head gleaming under the office’s floating lanterns. “Late night?”

“Something like that,” Harry muttered, rubbing his scar absentmindedly. “Any leads on that Knockturn Alley attacker?”

Kingsley dropped a file onto the desk, the thud scattering a few memos. “The note you found—‘The Dark Lord watches. Sympathy is weakness.’—it’s got the Unspeakables in a tizzy. They think it’s linked to residual Death Eater activity, but there’s no signature magic trace. Whoever they are, they’re clever. And they know you’re involved.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. The note felt personal, tied to the visions. He opened the file, scanning reports of similar attacks: shadowy figures targeting Aurors, leaving cryptic messages about loyalty and betrayal. “Think it’s a new group? Or just stragglers?”

“Could be either,” Kingsley said, his voice low. “The war’s over, but its ghosts linger. We’re stretched thin as it is—rebuilding Hogwarts, securing Azkaban, and now this. You’re our best, Harry, but you need to stay sharp. No distractions.”

Harry nodded, but his mind was already drifting. Distractions? Hermione’s hesitant confession, Luna’s airy warmth, and Voldemort’s impossible voice were more than distractions—they were a storm brewing in his head. He pushed the file aside. “Got a new assignment?”

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed, assessing him. “Yeah. Hogsmeade. Reports of a dark artifact in the Hog’s Head. Aberforth’s been cagey, which means it’s serious. You’re going with Neville. He’s waiting in the Atrium. Don’t let him do anything reckless—he’s got a hero complex worse than yours.”

Harry managed a weak grin. Neville Longbottom, now a senior Auror, had grown into a formidable wizard, his courage forged in the war’s crucible. They’d been on countless missions together, and Neville’s knack for herbology had saved them from cursed plants more than once. “I’ll keep him in line.”

As Harry grabbed his cloak, a memo zoomed in, unfolding into Hermione’s neat handwriting: Meet me at Flourish and Blotts after work. Found something about soul fragments. Don’t tell anyone yet. His heart skipped. She was already digging into his visions, her relentless curiosity both a comfort and a complication.

The Atrium was a whirlwind of activity, but Neville stood out, his broad shoulders and easy smile cutting through the crowd. He wore his Auror robes with a Gryffindor badge pinned proudly to the chest. “Harry! Ready to tackle Aberforth’s mess?”

“Always,” Harry replied, forcing enthusiasm. “What’s the deal?”

Neville lowered his voice as they headed for the Floo Network. “Aberforth says it’s a mirror, old and dodgy. Gives people visions—bad ones. He wants it gone before it causes trouble. Sounds like something you’d handle better than me.”

Harry’s scar twinged at the word “visions.” He didn’t mention it, but as they stepped into the green flames of the Floo, shouting “Hog’s Head!”, he braced himself. The journey was a blur of heat and ash, and they stumbled out into the dingy pub, its air thick with the scent of stale ale and goat.

Aberforth Dumbledore, grizzled and squinting, was wiping down the bar. “Took you long enough,” he grunted, tossing the rag aside. “Mirror’s upstairs. Don’t break it unless you want seven years of curses, not bad luck.”

The upstairs room was cramped, dust motes dancing in the light filtering through a cracked window. The mirror stood in the corner, tall and ornate, its surface rippling like liquid silver. Harry approached cautiously, his reflection distorted, showing not his face but a younger Tom Riddle, smirking. “Potter,” the reflection hissed, “you can’t escape me.”

Harry staggered back, heart pounding. Neville grabbed his arm. “You okay? What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Harry lied, his voice hoarse. “Let’s check it for curses.”

They cast detection spells, wands glowing as they traced the mirror’s frame. Neville frowned. “It’s got dark magic, alright. Soul-based, like a Horcrux but weaker. Could be a conduit for... something.”

Harry’s mind raced. A conduit. Like his scar. He touched it instinctively, and the mirror pulsed, another vision flooding in: Tom Riddle at Hogwarts, alone in the Slytherin common room, reading about Horcruxes with a mix of fear and ambition. I will never be powerless again, the young Tom thought, but beneath it was a flicker of doubt, a longing for connection.

“Harry!” Neville’s shout broke the vision. The mirror was glowing red, tendrils of magic snaking toward them. Harry fired a “Protego!” just as the tendrils lashed out, shattering a nearby chair. Neville countered with “Reducto!”, but the mirror absorbed the spell, its surface rippling faster.

Aberforth stormed in. “I told you not to break it! Get out, now!”

They retreated, the mirror’s glow fading as they stumbled downstairs. Aberforth sealed the room with a ward, muttering about reckless Aurors. Outside, in Hogsmeade’s chilly air, Neville clapped Harry’s shoulder. “That was close. You sure you’re alright? You went pale as a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said, but his scar burned, and Voldemort’s voice whispered, You felt it, didn’t you? My fear, my hunger. We are not so different.

Back at the Ministry, Harry filed a report, downplaying the vision. He couldn’t admit the truth—not yet. As he left for Flourish and Blotts, the weight of the day clung to him like damp robes. The bookstore was quiet, Dive into my Patreon Canoncrafter, where you can unlock advanced chapters before anyone else! Join now patreon.com/Canoncrafter ,its shelves towering with dusty tomes. Hermione was in the back, surrounded by books on soul magic and dark artifacts.

“You’re late,” she said, not looking up from a leather-bound volume. “I found references to soul echoes—fragments that linger after a Horcrux is destroyed. They can’t fully resurrect, but they can influence the living. Sound familiar?”

Harry’s throat tightened. “Too familiar. I saw... him again. Today, in a mirror at the Hog’s Head.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “Harry, this is serious. If Voldemort’s essence is tied to you, we need to break the connection before it strengthens. I’ve got a theory—”

She stopped as the shop door jingled. Luna Lovegood drifted in, her blonde hair catching the lamplight, a copy of The Quibbler tucked under her arm. “Oh, hello, Harry. Hermione. I was looking for books on spectral Nargles, but this is a lovely surprise.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. “Luna, we’re in the middle of something.”

“I know,” Luna said dreamily, unfazed. “I sensed Harry’s distress from across Diagon Alley. It’s the same aura as last night. The shadows are clinging to you, Harry.”

Harry felt caught between them—Hermione’s fierce logic, Luna’s intuitive calm. “It’s just Auror stuff,” he said, trying to defuse the tension. “Dangerous mirror, dark magic. Nothing new.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “It’s not ‘nothing.’ Tell her, Harry. She deserves to know if she’s... involved.”

Luna tilted her head. “Involved? Oh, you mean the light I see in Harry’s eyes when we talk. It’s different from the one he shares with you, Hermione. Both are beautiful.”

Harry’s face burned. “Can we not do this here?”

Hermione’s voice softened, but her eyes were sharp. “Fine. But we’re researching this tonight. My place. No distractions.” She glanced at Luna, who smiled serenely.

“I’ll bring my Spectrespecs,” Luna said. “They might help with the shadows.”

As they left the shop, Harry felt the pull of both women, each offering something he craved: Hermione’s grounding intellect, Luna’s freeing whimsy. But the vision from the mirror haunted him. Voldemort’s voice echoed again, softer now: They love you, Potter. But love is a chain. I learned that too late.

That night, at Hermione’s flat, they pored over books, Luna sketching symbols in the margins while Hermione cross-referenced texts. The air was thick with unspoken tension, Hermione’s glances sharp whenever Luna leaned too close to Harry. He tried to focus, but another vision struck: Tom Riddle, rejected by a girl at Hogwarts, his heart hardening. Love betrays, the young Tom thought, and Harry felt a pang of sympathy—for Voldemort, of all people.

He gasped, dropping a book. Hermione rushed to his side. “Another vision?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice shaky. “It’s him. Tom. He’s... sad.”

Luna looked up, her eyes piercing. “Sadness is a bridge, Harry. Be careful crossing it.”

In the void, Voldemort’s essence churned. He hadn’t meant to share so much, but Harry’s mind was an open wound, drawing him in. Sympathy is weakness, he told himself, echoing the note from Knockturn Alley. Yet he couldn’t stop the memories flowing: his own lost chances, his descent into darkness. What if I had chosen differently?

Harry left Hermione’s flat late, Luna walking with him to the Apparition point. The London streets were quiet, the moon casting long shadows. “You’re carrying too much,” Luna said softly. “Let me help.”

She touched his hand, and for a moment, he wanted to pull her close, to lose himself in her light. But Hermione’s face flashed in his mind, and he stepped back. “I can’t... not now.”

Luna nodded, unoffended. “The shadows will wait, Harry. But not forever.”

Alone, Harry Apparated home, collapsing onto his bed. The final vision came unbidden: Voldemort, older now, standing over a fallen foe, his red eyes glistening not with triumph, but regret. I could have been more, the voice whispered. So could you, Potter.

Harry clutched his scar, whispering, “What do you want from me?”

The answer came, faint but clear: To understand. To change. Together.

Chapter Text

The late summer air hung heavy with the scent of blooming honeysuckle as Harry Potter stepped out of the Ministry’s Apparition point, his Auror robes slightly crumpled from a long day. His scar had been a constant low thrum since the Hog’s Head incident, like a distant drumbeat warning of something he couldn’t yet name. The mirror’s visions—Tom Riddle’s lonely youth, his tentative steps into darkness—clung to him, each one more vivid than the last. And then there was the note from Knockturn Alley: The Dark Lord watches. Sympathy is weakness. It sat in his pocket, a crumpled reminder that the past wasn’t as buried as he’d hoped.

He was due at Hermione Granger’s flat in Diagon Alley, a follow-up to their tense meeting at Flourish and Blotts the previous evening. Her note had been urgent: We need to talk. Alone. The word “alone” had stuck with him, tinged with a mix of anticipation and dread. Hermione’s intensity, her unyielding need to solve problems, was both a comfort and a challenge, especially now, with Luna Lovegood’s dreamy presence complicating his thoughts. The memory of Luna’s cheek-kiss under the lamppost lingered, soft and fleeting, contrasting with Hermione’s steady, grounding touch in the Burrow’s garden. He shook his head, trying to focus. This wasn’t the time for romantic tangles—not with Voldemort’s voice whispering in his mind.

Hermione’s flat was above a quaint apothecary, its windows glowing warmly against the twilight. Harry knocked, and the door swung open almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting. “You’re late again,” Hermione said, her tone sharp but her eyes soft with worry. She wore a simple sweater and jeans, her bushy hair tied back, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Piles of books and scrolls covered her living room table, an organized chaos that screamed Hermione.

“Sorry,” Harry said, stepping inside. “Ministry paperwork. Kingsley’s got me writing reports on that Hogsmeade mirror.”

She gestured to a cozy sofa, a teapot already steaming on a tray. “Tea? Or something stronger? You look like you need it.”

“Tea’s fine,” he said, sinking into the cushions. The room smelled of parchment and lavender, a stark contrast to the musty Hog’s Head. “So, what’s this about? Your note sounded... intense.”

Hermione poured two cups, her hands steady but her lips pressed tight. “It’s about your visions, Harry. And us.” She paused, setting the teapot down with a clink. “But mostly the visions. I’ve been researching soul echoes all day. There’s precedent—wizards whose souls fractured without Horcruxes, leaving imprints that could influence others. If Voldemort’s essence is tied to you, it’s not just a memory. It’s active.”

Harry’s scar twinged, as if on cue. He sipped his tea, the warmth doing little to ease the chill her words brought. “Active how? You think he’s... controlling me?”

“Not control,” she said quickly, sitting beside him. “Influence. Like a Pensieve, but involuntary. Your scar was a Horcrux once; it’s possible the connection never fully broke. And that mirror in Hogsmeade—it’s amplifying something. I cross-referenced Ministry archives, and there’s a record of a similar artifact from the 1800s, tied to a dark wizard who used it to project his will posthumously.”

Harry’s mind flashed to the mirror’s rippling surface, Tom Riddle’s smirking face. “It showed me him. Young, at Hogwarts. He was... scared, Hermione. Scared and alone.”

Her eyes widened, and she leaned closer, her hand brushing his knee. “That’s new. The emotions are getting stronger. Harry, this is dangerous. If he’s sharing feelings, not just memories, it could blur the lines between you two.”

He pulled away slightly, the contact sparking conflicting emotions. “Blur how? I’m not him. I’ll never be him.”

“I know,” she said softly, her voice catching. “But you’re carrying his pain. And yours. It’s too much for one person.” She hesitated, then plunged forward. “Which brings me to... us. I need to say this before I lose my nerve.”

Harry’s heart thudded. He knew this was coming—her almost-confession at his flat, cut off by the vision, had been a prelude. “Hermione, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” She stood, pacing, her hands twisting together. “I’ve been in love with you for years, Harry. Not just as a friend. It started at Hogwarts, maybe even during the Triwizard Tournament, watching you face that dragon. I pushed it down because of Ron, the war, everything. But now, with Ron and Lavender, and you... you’re pulling away. From me, from everyone. And then there’s Luna.”

Her voice cracked on Luna’s name, and Harry felt a stab of guilt. “Luna’s just a friend,” he said, but the words felt hollow. Was she? The spark he felt with her wasn’t the same as with Hermione, but it was real.

Hermione stopped pacing, facing him. “Is she? I saw how you looked at her last night, Harry. And how she looks at you. I’m not blind. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this. I love you, and it’s killing me to watch you slip away, especially with... whatever’s happening in your head.”

The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with her confession. Harry’s throat tightened. He cared for Hermione—deeply. She’d been his rock through the war, her brilliance saving him countless times. But love? The kind she meant? He wasn’t sure what he felt, not with Luna’s whimsy tugging at him, not with Voldemort’s voice muddying his thoughts.

“Hermione, I...” He stood, running a hand through his messy hair. “I don’t know what to say. You’re amazing, but my head’s a mess right now. The visions, the job, everything. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Her eyes glistened, but she nodded, swallowing hard. “I know. I just needed you to hear it. But we can’t ignore the visions either. Promise me you’ll let me help.”

“Always,” he said, and meant it. He took her hand, squeezing gently, and for a moment, they stood there, the unspoken weight of her words hanging between them.

A knock at the door broke the silence. Hermione frowned, wiping her eyes quickly. “Who’s that?”

She opened the door to reveal Luna Lovegood, her radish earrings glinting in the lamplight, a basket of peculiar fruits in her hands. “Hello! I brought Dirigible Plums. They help with clarity, especially when shadows are near.” Her dreamy gaze flicked to Harry, then Hermione, sensing the tension. “Am I interrupting?”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she forced a smile. “No, Luna. Come in. We were just... researching.”

Luna drifted inside, setting the basket on the table. “Researching Harry’s shadows? I thought so. I had a dream last night about a snake with red eyes, crying. It felt important.”

Harry’s scar burned, and he gripped the sofa’s armrest. “Crying? That’s... new.” Dive into my Patreon Canoncrafter, where you can unlock advanced chapters before anyone else! Join now patreon.com/Canoncrafter .Another vision flickered: Tom Riddle, now a young man, standing in a dark alley, his wand trembling as he cast his first Unforgivable Curse—not with glee, but with tears streaming down his face. I had no choice, the memory whispered. They left me no choice.

He staggered, Hermione catching him. “Harry, what is it?”

“Another vision,” he gasped. “Him. Killing someone. But he was crying.”

Luna tilted her head, her voice soft. “He’s trying to tell you something, Harry. The snake wants to be heard.”

Hermione scoffed, her patience fraying. “It’s not a snake, Luna. It’s Voldemort, or what’s left of him. We need facts, not metaphors.”

“Facts and metaphors are cousins,” Luna replied, unperturbed. “Both lead to truth.”

Harry rubbed his temples, the women’s voices blending into a haze. “Enough. I need air.” He grabbed his cloak, ignoring their protests, and stepped into the cool night. Diagon Alley was quiet, shop lights dimming as owners closed up. He wandered toward the Leaky Cauldron, needing a moment to think.

But the visions followed. As he passed a darkened shop window, his reflection morphed into Tom Riddle’s, older now, gazing at a locket—Slytherin’s locket—before hiding it in a cave. I thought it would protect me, the voice said, tinged with regret. But it only chained me.

Harry pressed his forehead against the glass, whispering, “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

In the void, Voldemort’s essence coiled tighter, his plan unraveling. He’d meant to manipulate Harry, to erode his will, but the boy’s pain was a mirror to his own. Sympathy is weakness, he repeated, but the words felt hollow. He pushed another memory: his meeting with Dumbledore, the offer of redemption he’d rejected. I could have chosen differently. So can you, Potter.

Harry stumbled back, heart racing. He needed answers, not more questions. Returning to Hermione’s flat, he found her and Luna poring over a book, an uneasy truce in their postures. “I’m back,” he said, voice rough. “Let’s figure this out.”

Hermione handed him a tome titled Soul Shards and Their Echoes. “This mentions a ritual to sever soul connections, but it’s risky. It requires a conduit—like that mirror—and a sacrifice. Not a life,” she added quickly, seeing his expression. “Something personal, tied to the soul’s anchor.”

“Like a memory?” Luna suggested, her eyes bright. “Or a feeling. Love, maybe.”

Hermione bristled. “Love isn’t a commodity to be sacrificed, Luna.”

“Maybe not,” Luna said, “but it’s powerful. Harry’s heart is what’s pulling the shadows in.”

Harry felt exposed, their words cutting too close. “Stop analyzing me. Let’s focus on the ritual. What do we need?”

Hermione outlined the steps: locating the mirror, cleansing it with a rare potion (involving phoenix tears, which were near impossible to obtain), and performing the ritual under a full moon. “We have two weeks until the next one,” she said. “I’ll start on the potion. Harry, you and Neville need to secure that mirror.”

“And me?” Luna asked, her voice hopeful.

Hermione hesitated, then sighed. “You can help with the research. Your... intuition might spot something I miss.”

Luna beamed, and Harry felt a flicker of relief. They were a team, however strained. But as they worked late into the night, another vision crept in: Tom Riddle, now Lord Voldemort, standing alone in a ruined manor, his followers gone, his heart heavy with the cost of his choices. I wanted power, the voice said. But I lost myself.

Harry hid the vision, not ready to share its weight. As he left Hermione’s flat, Luna followed him to the door. “You’re not alone, Harry,” she whispered, her hand brushing his. “Even when the shadows feel heavy.”

He nodded, unable to speak, and Apparated home. In his flat, he stared at the ceiling, the visions replaying. Voldemort’s voice was softer now, almost pleading: We are bound, Potter. But perhaps we can unbind each other.

Sleep came fitfully, and when it did, it brought a dream—not a vision, but a memory of his own: dancing with Hermione at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, her laughter bright, and later, stargazing with Luna on the Hogwarts grounds, her voice weaving stories of mythical creatures. Both moments felt like anchors, yet they pulled him in opposite directions.

The next morning, Harry fire-called Neville. “We need to get that mirror from Aberforth. It’s tied to... everything.”

Neville’s face flickered in the flames, serious but eager. “Got it. I’ll meet you at Hogsmeade. But Harry, be careful. That thing’s dangerous.”

As he prepared to leave, a letter arrived by owl, its wax seal unmarked. Inside, a single line in spidery script: The bond grows. Choose your allies wisely. No signature, but Harry’s scar burned hotter than ever.

In the void, Voldemort’s essence wavered, torn between manipulation and something new—hope. If I can feel your pain, Potter, perhaps you can feel my redemption. The thought was heretical, yet it anchored him, a lifeline in the darkness.

Harry tucked the letter into his pocket, next to the Knockturn Alley note. The game was changing, and he wasn’t sure who—or what—he was playing against.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low over the rolling hills of Ottery St Catchpole, its silver light casting long shadows across the fields. Luna Lovegood stood barefoot in a meadow near her father’s ramshackle home, the Rookery, her toes curling into the cool grass. She held a jar of glowing Mooncalf dung, its faint luminescence pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. The night was alive with whispers—crickets, wind, and something else, something older, that tugged at her senses like a half-remembered dream. Her radish earrings swayed as she tilted her head, listening. She’d always felt the world differently, seeing threads others missed, and tonight, those threads were tangled around Harry Potter.

Luna had left Hermione’s flat hours ago, after their tense research session. Harry’s distress had been palpable, his green eyes clouded with visions he wouldn’t fully share. She’d felt the weight of his shadows, the same ones she’d sensed at the Leaky Cauldron and again in Diagon Alley. Hermione’s sharp words and protective glances hadn’t escaped her either. Luna didn’t mind—jealousy was just another kind of light, flickering and human. But Harry’s heart was a puzzle, and she wanted to help him solve it, not add to its pieces.

She closed her eyes, letting the moonlight bathe her. “Show me,” she whispered, not to the stars, but to the unseen. Her mother, Pandora, had taught her to trust intuition, to seek truths in the spaces between. Since Harry’s visions had started, Luna had been dreaming of a snake with red eyes, its hisses forming words she couldn’t quite grasp. Tonight, she’d come to the meadow to clear her mind, hoping the Mooncalves—gentle creatures drawn to lunar magic—might guide her.

A rustle broke her reverie. She opened her eyes to see a faint shimmer in the air, like heat rising from a summer road. It coalesced into a figure, translucent and wavering: a young man, dark-haired, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that burned red in the moonlight. Tom Riddle. Not the monstrous Voldemort of the war, but the boy from Harry’s visions, caught in a moment of vulnerability.

“You’re not real,” Luna said calmly, her wand in hand but lowered. “You’re an echo, aren’t you?”

The figure tilted its head, mimicking her. “Perceptive, Lovegood,” it said, its voice a soft hiss, like wind through dry leaves. “You see more than most. But I am real enough to speak. To feel.”

Luna’s heart quickened, but she kept her voice steady. “You’re in Harry’s head. Why are you here, with me?”

The echo of Tom Riddle stepped closer, his form flickering. “Because you see him clearly. The boy who lived, yet carries death in his soul. I am bound to him, through the scar, through the prophecy. But you... you could sever that bond.”

Luna tilted her head, her blonde hair catching the moonlight. “Sever it? Or strengthen it? You’re not just an echo, are you? You want something.”

The figure’s lips curled, a mix of charm and menace. “I want to be free. But freedom comes at a cost. Harry’s pain mirrors mine—abandonment, loss, the weight of destiny. I meant to destroy him, but now... I see another path.”

Luna’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Voldemort. You don’t get to choose paths. You made your choices long ago.”

“Choices can be unmade,” the echo said, its voice softer now, almost pleading. “I was a boy once, like him. Alone. Unloved. You understand, don’t you? The girl who walks apart, who sees what others mock?”

Luna’s breath caught. She’d always been the odd one, the Ravenclaw with Wrackspurt theories and a heart too open for cruelty. But she wasn’t swayed. “You’re trying to trick me. Harry’s not like you. He loves, even when it hurts.”

The echo’s form wavered, as if struggling to hold itself together. “Love,” it murmured. “His love for the Granger girl, for you—it’s a weakness I could exploit. Yet it fascinates me. Tell me, Lovegood, why do you care for him?”

Luna smiled, serene but firm. “Because he’s Harry. He fights for light, even when shadows cling to him. And I don’t think you’re here to destroy him. Not anymore.”

The echo stared at her, its red eyes dimming to a softer hue, almost human. “You’re dangerous, in your own way. Be careful, Lovegood. The shadows are growing.”

Before she could respond, the figure dissolved, leaving only a faint chill in the air. Luna clutched her jar tighter, her mind racing. This wasn’t just a vision—it was a visitation, a piece of Voldemort’s essence reaching beyond Harry. She needed to tell him, but how? Hermione would demand facts, and Harry was already overwhelmed. She decided to seek answers first, alone.

Back at the Rookery, Luna climbed to her attic room, its walls plastered with Quibbler sketches and glowing charms. She pulled out a notebook, scribbling what she’d seen: Tom Riddle, young, regretful. Wants freedom. Knows about Harry’s heart. She added a doodle of a snake with sad eyes, then paused. Her Spectrespecs, tucked on a shelf, hummed faintly, as if reacting to the encounter. She slipped them on, the world shifting into a kaleidoscope of auras. A faint red thread lingered in the air, leading toward London—toward Harry.

The next morning, Luna Flooed to Diagon Alley, determined to find Harry before his next Auror mission. She found him outside the Ministry, his face drawn, his scar hidden under messy black hair. He was talking to Neville Longbottom, who was gesturing animatedly about the Hogsmeade mirror.

“Harry!” Luna called, her voice cutting through the morning bustle. He turned, his expression softening at the sight of her.

“Luna? What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping away from Neville, who gave a friendly wave before heading inside.

“I had an encounter,” she said, her eyes wide but steady. “With him. Tom. In the meadow last night.”

Harry’s face paled, his hand instinctively touching his scar. “You saw him? How?”

“He appeared, like a ghost but not. He talked about you, about being bound to you. He said... he said he’s changing.” Luna hesitated, then added, “He knows about me and Hermione. About how we feel.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed, and he glanced around, ensuring no one overheard. “Luna, this is bad. If he’s reaching you, it’s not just in my head anymore. We need to tell Hermione.”

Luna nodded, but her heart sank slightly. Hermione’s logic was vital, but it often drowned out Luna’s intuition. Dive into my Patreon Canoncrafter, where you can unlock advanced chapters before anyone else! Join now patreon.com/Canoncrafter .Still, she followed Harry to the Ministry’s Floo Network, where they traveled to Hermione’s office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The room was a fortress of order: files neatly stacked, a quill scribbling notes on its own, and Hermione herself poring over a scroll about phoenix tears.

“Harry, Luna,” Hermione said, looking up with a mix of surprise and wariness. “What’s wrong?”

Harry explained Luna’s encounter, his voice tight with worry. Hermione’s brow furrowed, her quill pausing mid-air. “This is worse than I thought. If Voldemort’s essence can manifest outside your mind, Harry, it’s not just a soul echo. It’s... sentient. We need that mirror, and we need it now.”

Luna tilted her head. “The mirror’s only part of it. Tom said he wants freedom, but he’s drawn to Harry’s pain. And ours.” She glanced at Hermione, who stiffened.

“Ours?” Hermione asked, her tone sharp. “What did he say about us?”

Luna’s voice was gentle but direct. “He knows we both care for Harry. He called it a weakness, but I think it’s confusing him. He’s not used to feeling... anything.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked to Harry, then back to Luna. “This is exactly why we need to focus. No distractions.” Her words were pointed, and Luna felt the sting but didn’t flinch.

Harry rubbed his temples, his scar throbbing. “Enough. We’re not fighting each other. Luna, you’re sure it was him?”

“As sure as I am of Nargles,” she said, earning a small smile from Harry despite the tension.

Hermione stood, grabbing her wand. “I’m coming with you to Hogsmeade. We’re getting that mirror before it causes more trouble. Aberforth’s not going to like it, but we don’t have a choice.”

The trio Flooed to the Hog’s Head, where Aberforth was polishing glasses with a scowl. “Back already?” he grunted. “That mirror’s nothing but trouble. Take it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Upstairs, the mirror loomed, its surface still rippling like liquid silver. Harry approached cautiously, his wand raised. The reflection shifted, showing not Tom Riddle this time, but Harry himself, younger, crying in the cupboard under the stairs. A voice—Voldemort’s—whispered, We were both unwanted, Potter. But you found love. I did not.

Harry staggered back, his scar burning. Luna caught his arm, her touch cool and steady. “He’s trying to connect with you,” she said softly. “Don’t let him in too far.”

Hermione cast a series of diagnostic spells, her wand glowing. “It’s definitely a conduit. There’s a trace of soul magic, like a Horcrux but unstable. We can’t destroy it yet—it might be our only way to sever the bond.”

Aberforth snorted from the doorway. “Sever it? Good luck. That thing’s been here since my great-grandfather’s time. It’s cursed, and it likes its prey.”

They wrapped the mirror in a charmed cloth, shrinking it for transport, and returned to the Ministry. In Hermione’s office, they set it up under heavy wards, its presence ominous even when covered. As they discussed the ritual, Luna’s Spectrespecs hummed again, revealing a faint red aura linking the mirror to Harry’s scar.

“It’s alive,” Luna said, her voice awed. “Not the mirror, but the bond. It’s growing.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. “Then we work faster. I’ve got a lead on phoenix tears—Fawkes might still be in the Forbidden Forest. Harry, you and Neville track him down. Luna, you’re with me on potion research.”

Harry nodded, grateful for the plan but uneasy about leaving them together. The tension between Hermione’s logic and Luna’s whimsy was palpable, each pulling at him in ways he couldn’t untangle. As he left, another vision hit: Tom Riddle, now older, standing in a graveyard, his heart heavy with the first Horcrux’s creation. I thought it would free me, the voice said. It only bound me tighter.

That night, Harry lay awake, the visions blending with his own memories: Hermione’s confession, her tearful eyes; Luna’s moonlit encounter, her fearless calm. He cared for them both, but the choice felt like a betrayal either way. And Voldemort’s voice, ever-present, whispered, Love is a chain, Potter. But it’s also a key. Choose wisely.

In the void, Voldemort’s essence churned, his plan shifting. He’d meant to manipulate, to destroy, but Harry’s heart—and Luna’s insight—were changing him. Perhaps redemption is not weakness, he thought, the idea both terrifying and exhilarating.

Chapter Text

The Forbidden Forest loomed under a cloudy afternoon sky, its trees casting jagged shadows across the mossy ground. Harry Potter adjusted his Auror cloak, the navy fabric blending into the forest’s gloom as he trudged alongside Neville Longbottom. Their boots crunched on fallen leaves, the air thick with the scent of pine and something wilder, like magic itself. They were on a mission to find Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, rumored to be hiding in the forest’s depths. Hermione’s research had pinpointed phoenix tears as a key ingredient for the potion to sever Harry’s mysterious connection to Voldemort’s essence—a connection that grew stronger with each vision, each whisper of Tom Riddle’s past.

Harry’s scar hadn’t burned since last night, but the echoes of Voldemort’s voice lingered: We were both unwanted, Potter. But you found love. The words felt like a riddle, one Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task. The mirror from the Hog’s Head, now secured in Hermione’s office, was their best hope to break the bond, but without the tears, the ritual was impossible. And time was running out—the full moon was just twelve days away.

“Reckon Fawkes will show himself?” Neville asked, his wand glowing faintly to light their path. His Gryffindor badge glinted, a reminder of their Hogwarts days. “Phoenixes are tricky. They don’t come when you call, unless they want to.”

Harry grinned, grateful for Neville’s steady presence. “If anyone can charm a magical creature, it’s you. Remember that Venomous Tentacula you tamed in sixth year?”

Neville chuckled, his cheeks reddening. “Yeah, well, plants are easier than phoenixes. But I’ve got a hunch. Hagrid said he saw flashes of red and gold near the centaur trails last week. Could be Fawkes.”

The mention of Hagrid warmed Harry’s heart. He hadn’t seen his old friend in months, not since Hagrid took up studying rare creatures in the forest full-time. “Let’s hope he’s right. We need those tears.”

As they ventured deeper, the forest grew denser, the air cooler. Harry’s thoughts drifted to Hermione and Luna. Hermione’s confession two nights ago had left him reeling—her words, I’ve been in love with you for years, echoed in his mind, tangled with Luna’s gentle touch and cryptic warnings about shadows. He cared for them both, but the idea of choosing felt like stepping into a trap. For now, he pushed it aside. The forest demanded focus.

A rustle in the underbrush made them pause. Neville raised his wand, whispering, “Lumos Maxima.” A bright light flared, revealing a pair of glowing eyes—only a Bowtruckle, clinging to a tree. It chittered and scampered off, leaving Harry to exhale in relief.

“Getting jumpy, mate?” Neville teased, lowering his wand.

“Can you blame me?” Harry said, managing a smile. “This place gives me the creeps. Always has.”

They pressed on, following a narrow trail marked by hoofprints—centaur territory. Harry’s scar gave a faint twinge, and a memory flickered, not his own: a young Tom Riddle wandering a forest, not this one, but similar, seeking a hidden cave where he’d later hide a Horcrux. I was alone, always alone, the voice whispered, tinged with a sadness that made Harry’s chest ache.

“Harry, you okay?” Neville asked, noticing his friend’s sudden stillness.

“Yeah, just... thinking,” Harry lied, shaking off the vision. He couldn’t tell Neville about the whispers—not yet. It was too strange, too personal. “Let’s keep moving.”

The trail opened into a clearing, where a small stream bubbled over smooth stones. In the center stood a gnarled tree, its branches heavy with glowing mushrooms that pulsed like tiny stars. Neville knelt, examining the ground. “Phoenix tracks,” he said, pointing to faint scorch marks. “Fawkes has been here. Look—feathers.”

Harry picked up a single crimson feather, its warmth tingling against his palm. “This is a start. But we need him, not just his leftovers.”

A low hum filled the air, like a distant song. Harry’s scar prickled again, sharper this time. He turned, wand raised, as a golden light flared at the clearing’s edge. Fawkes swooped down, his scarlet wings trailing sparks, his eyes wise and piercing. The phoenix landed on the tree, tilting his head as if assessing them.

“Blimey,” Neville breathed. “There he is.”

Harry stepped forward, his voice soft. “Fawkes, it’s me. Harry. We need your help. Just a few tears, for a potion. It’s important.”

Fawkes trilled, a sound both mournful and hopeful. He fluttered closer, perching on Harry’s outstretched arm. The warmth of his feathers was like a hug, reminding Harry of Dumbledore’s office, of safety. But before Fawkes could cry, a shadow moved in the trees—a figure, cloaked and silent, watching.

“Neville,” Harry whispered, his wand snapping up. “We’re not alone.”

Neville spun, casting “Protego!” as a green spark shot from the shadows. The spell fizzled against the shield, harmless but startling. Fawkes screeched, taking flight, and the figure vanished with a crack of Apparition.

“Who was that?” Neville asked, scanning the trees.

“No idea,” Harry said, his heart racing. But his scar burned, and a vision hit: Tom Riddle, older now, in a dark cloak, watching a young Dumbledore from afar, his heart torn between admiration and hatred. Dive into my Patreon Canoncrafter, where you can unlock advanced chapters before anyone else! Join now patreon.com/Canoncrafter .He could have saved me, the voice said. But he chose judgment.

Harry shook it off, focusing on Fawkes, who circled above. “Come back, please!” he called. The phoenix hesitated, then swooped down, a single tear falling into the vial Harry held out. It shimmered, pure and silver, before Fawkes vanished in a burst of flame.

“One tear,” Neville said, grinning. “That’s a start. Hermione’ll be thrilled.”

Harry nodded, but the cloaked figure nagged at him. Was it the same attacker from Knockturn Alley? And why did his scar burn when they appeared? He tucked the vial into his cloak, the phoenix feather in his pocket glowing faintly.

Back at Hogwarts, they Flooed to Hagrid’s hut, hoping for more clues. Hagrid was outside, wrestling a crate of Blast-Ended Skrewts, his beard flecked with dirt. “Harry! Neville! What brings yeh here?”

“Fawkes,” Harry said, showing the vial. “And trouble. Someone’s following us.”

Hagrid’s eyes narrowed. “Forest’s been odd lately. Strange lights, whispers. Centaurs are spooked, sayin’ the stars are warnin’ of old magic stirrin’. Be careful, lads.”

As they talked, Harry’s thoughts drifted to Hermione and Luna. He’d promised to update them, but the idea of facing them both—Hermione’s intensity, Luna’s dreamy insight—made his stomach knot. He cared for them, more than he could say, but their feelings were like a puzzle he couldn’t solve without breaking something.

Back in London, Harry Flooed to Hermione’s flat, where she and Luna were sorting potion ingredients. The mirror from the Hog’s Head sat in a corner, still wrapped in its charmed cloth, its presence heavy. Hermione’s eyes lit up when she saw the vial. “Phoenix tears! Harry, this is huge. We’re halfway to the potion.”

Luna, stirring a cauldron of bubbling blue liquid, smiled softly. “You found Fawkes. He trusts you, Harry. That’s a good sign.”

Hermione glanced at Luna, her expression softening. “You’re right. It is. Thanks for helping with the potion, Luna.”

Luna nodded, her radish earrings swaying. “It’s nice to work together. The shadows don’t like harmony.”

Harry felt a rush of warmth for both of them. Hermione’s brilliance, Luna’s calm—they were different, but they balanced him. He pushed aside thoughts of choosing, focusing on the mission. “We had a run-in,” he said, describing the cloaked figure. “No face, no name, but it felt... connected.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Like the Knockturn Alley attacker? We need to cross-reference Ministry files. If someone’s targeting you, it’s tied to the mirror or the bond.”

Luna tilted her head, her eyes distant. “Or it’s the shadows. They’re watching, waiting for a crack to slip through.”

Harry’s scar twinged, and another vision flickered: Tom Riddle as a boy, hiding in an orphanage cupboard, his small hands trembling as he whispered a spell to keep bullies away. I was weak then, the voice said. But you, Potter—you turned weakness into strength.

He blinked, the vision fading. “I saw him again. Young, scared. He’s showing me things I don’t understand.”

Hermione reached for a book, but Luna touched Harry’s arm, her hand light but steady. “He’s reaching out because you’re listening. Be careful, Harry. Shadows can be kind, but they still hide things.”

Hermione paused, her quill hovering. “Luna’s right. We need to be cautious. But we’re close. With the tears, we can start the potion tomorrow. The ritual’s our best shot.”

They worked late, mixing ingredients under Luna’s soft hums and Hermione’s precise instructions. The tension from the love triangle eased, replaced by a shared purpose. Harry felt a flicker of hope—maybe they could face this together, without breaking apart.

As he left, Luna walked him to the Apparition point. The night was clear, stars twinkling above Diagon Alley. “You’re doing well, Harry,” she said, her voice like a melody. “The forest trusts you, and so do I.”

He smiled, her words a balm. “Thanks, Luna. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Hermione.”

She tilted her head, her eyes bright. “You’ll never have to find out. We’re your light, even when the shadows whisper.”

Back in his flat, Harry lay awake, the phoenix feather glowing on his nightstand. A final vision came, softer now: Tom Riddle, sitting by a lake, sketching a snake in the dirt, his face peaceful for once. I could have been this, the voice said. Help me find it again, Potter.

Harry whispered, “I’m trying,” unsure if he was speaking to Voldemort or himself. In the void, Voldemort’s essence stirred, a spark of hope flickering in the darkness. The bond was a chain, but maybe, just maybe, it could be a bridge.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun cast a dull glow over Privet Drive, its identical houses standing like sentinels of normalcy. Harry Potter stood at the corner of the street, his Auror cloak swapped for a plain jacket to blend in with the Muggle world. His scar prickled faintly, a nagging reminder of the visions that had plagued him for weeks—visions of Tom Riddle’s lonely childhood, his regrets, his whispered pleas for understanding. Today, though, Harry wasn’t here for Voldemort. He was here for himself, drawn back to Number 4 by a compulsion he couldn’t explain, as if the past held answers to the bond tightening around his mind.

The Dursleys had moved years ago, after the war, when Harry’s fame made their lives too conspicuous. The house was empty now, its windows dark, the garden overgrown. Yet standing here, Harry felt eleven again, small and unwanted, locked in the cupboard under the stairs. He hadn’t told Hermione or Luna about this trip—Hermione would insist on research, Luna on intuition, and he needed neither right now. He needed to face this alone.

His wand was tucked in his sleeve, a precaution after the cloaked figure’s attack in the Forbidden Forest. The vial of phoenix tears, secured in his pocket, felt warm, a tangible step toward the ritual to sever Voldemort’s influence. But the ritual was still days away, and the visions were growing stronger, more personal. Last night’s had been different: not Tom’s memory, but Harry’s own, of Vernon Dursley slamming the cupboard door, snarling, You’re nothing but trouble. And then, Voldemort’s voice: They hated you, as mine hated me. We are the same.

Harry shook his head, stepping onto the cracked pavement. “We’re not,” he muttered, but the words felt hollow. He approached the house, its peeling paint and sagging gutters a stark contrast to the pristine memories of his childhood prison. The front door was locked, but a whispered “Alohomora” clicked it open. Inside, the air was stale, dust motes dancing in the slanted light. The hallway was unchanged: same floral wallpaper, same creaky floorboards. His heart thudded as he reached the cupboard under the stairs, its door slightly ajar.

He knelt, peering inside. The space was smaller than he remembered, barely big enough for a child. A faded blanket lay crumpled in the corner, a relic of his years of neglect. His scar burned, and a vision surged: Tom Riddle in an orphanage dormitory, his bed a narrow cot, other children whispering insults as he clutched a stolen book. Freak, they’d called him. Just as the Dursleys had called Harry.

“We’re not the same,” Harry said again, louder, his voice echoing in the empty house. But the vision lingered, Tom’s young face twisting with anger and hurt, so like Harry’s own.

A creak from upstairs snapped him back. Wand raised, he moved silently to the staircase, his Auror training kicking in. The house was supposed to be empty, but the hairs on his neck stood up. Another creak, then a shadow flitted across the landing. “Lumos,” he whispered, light flooding the stairwell. “Who’s there?”

No answer, but a faint hum of magic prickled his senses. He climbed the stairs, heart pounding, and entered what had been Dudley’s second bedroom, now bare except for a broken chair. In the corner, a small object glinted—a silver ring, etched with a serpent. It pulsed faintly, like the locket from Knockturn Alley. Harry’s scar seared, and another vision hit: Tom Riddle, now a young man, slipping a similar ring onto his finger, his eyes gleaming with ambition. Power is safety, the voice said. But it isolates.

Harry grabbed the ring, wincing as it burned his palm. A figure materialized in the doorway—cloaked, faceless, the same as in the forest. “You shouldn’t be here, Potter,” it hissed, raising a wand.

Harry dodged as a red spell streaked past, singeing the wall. “Stupefy!” he shouted, but the figure blocked it with a flick, Apparating out with a crack. The ring pulsed again, and Harry stuffed it into his pocket, his scar throbbing. Whoever this was, they were tracking him, and the ring was no coincidence.

He Apparated back to Diagon Alley, heart still racing, and headed straight for Hermione’s flat. She needed to know about the ring, and he couldn’t keep avoiding her or Luna. The love triangle was a tangle he didn’t know how to unravel—Hermione’s raw confession, Luna’s gentle touch—but they were his anchors, and he needed them now.

Hermione answered the door, her hair frazzled, a quill tucked behind her ear. “Harry! You look awful. What happened?”

He stepped inside, the familiar scent of parchment and lavender calming him slightly. Luna was there too, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting potion ingredients with a dreamy hum. Her eyes lit up when she saw him, but she stayed quiet, sensing his tension.

“I went to Privet Drive,” Harry admitted, pulling out the ring and setting it on the table. It glowed faintly, drawing a gasp from Hermione. “Found this. And our cloaked friend showed up again.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, grabbing her wand to cast detection spells. “This is dark magic, Harry. Like the mirror, but stronger. It’s got soul traces—Voldemort’s, I’d bet. Where exactly was it?”

“Dudley’s old room,” he said, his voice tight. “And I had another vision. Tom, at the orphanage. He was... like me. Bullied. Alone.”

Luna tilted her head, her radish earrings swaying. “The shadows are showing you his heart, Harry. He’s trying to make you understand him.”

Hermione scoffed, but her tone was softer than before. “Or manipulate him. We can’t trust anything from Voldemort, even if it’s just an echo. This ring could be another conduit, like the mirror. We need to analyze it.”

Harry rubbed his scar, the pain subsiding but leaving a dull ache. “It’s not just manipulation. He’s... sad. Regretful. It’s messing with my head.”

Hermione’s hand brushed his, her touch hesitant but warm. “You’re not him, Harry. You’re stronger than he ever was. But you can’t keep running off alone. We’re in this together.”

Luna nodded, her voice soft. “She’s right. The shadows want you isolated, but you have us. We’re your light.”

Harry’s chest tightened, caught between their concern. Hermione’s touch grounded him, her fierce determination a reminder of their shared history. Luna’s words, airy but sincere, lifted him, like a breeze cutting through fog. Dive into my Patreon Canoncrafter, where you can unlock advanced chapters before anyone else! Join now patreon.com/Canoncrafter .He cared for them both, but the weight of their feelings—and his own confusion—pressed harder than the visions.

“I know,” he said, his voice rough. “I just... needed to see Privet Drive. To remember who I am.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, and she squeezed his hand. “You’re Harry Potter. The boy who lived, who fought for us all. Don’t let his past rewrite yours.”

Luna stood, moving closer, her presence calming. “And you’re not alone in your past. We all have shadows. Mine are different, but I carry them too.” She didn’t touch him, but her proximity was enough, her gaze steady and kind.

The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken feelings. Harry wanted to say something—to acknowledge Hermione’s love, Luna’s support—but the words stuck. Instead, he focused on the ring. “What do we do with this?”

Hermione pulled out a book, Artifacts of the Dark Arts, and flipped to a section on soul-bound objects. “If it’s like the mirror, it’s amplifying the bond. We can use it in the ritual, but we need to be careful. The potion’s almost ready—thanks to the phoenix tear—but we still need moonstone dust and a full moon.”

Luna picked up the ring, her fingers careful. “It’s warm, like it’s alive. I think it wants to tell us something.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “Fine. Let’s test it. Harry, hold it again, but be ready for a vision. We’ll be here.”

Harry hesitated, then took the ring. His scar flared, and the world dissolved into another memory: Tom Riddle, now Lord Voldemort, standing in a dark chamber, the ring on his finger as he carved a protective rune into a stone. This will keep me safe, he thought, but his face was drawn, haunted by the cost of his Horcruxes. I’ve lost more than I gained.

The vision faded, leaving Harry gasping. “He was protecting something. A chamber, with runes. He was... tired. Like he knew he’d gone too far.”

Hermione scribbled notes, her quill flying. “A chamber? That could be where he hid another artifact. We need to find it before our stalker does.”

Luna’s eyes were distant, as if seeing beyond the room. “The ring knows where. It’s like a map, but it only speaks to Harry.”

Harry pocketed the ring, his mind racing. The stalker, the ring, the mirror—all tied to Voldemort’s essence, which was growing more human with each vision. He felt a pang of sympathy for the boy Tom had been, but it scared him. Was he being manipulated, or was Voldemort truly changing?

That night, they worked late, Hermione analyzing the ring’s magic, Luna sketching runes from Harry’s vision. The tension between the women was softer now, their shared goal overriding personal feelings. But Harry felt their eyes on him—Hermione’s fierce, Luna’s gentle—and it stirred a mix of guilt and longing. He wanted to protect them both, but his heart was a battlefield, and he didn’t know where the lines were drawn.

As he left, Hermione followed him to the door. “Harry, don’t go back to Privet Drive alone. Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said, meeting her gaze. Her concern was a lifeline, but it pulled at him, demanding a clarity he didn’t have.

Luna joined them, her voice soft. “The shadows are loud tonight, Harry. But you’re louder. Don’t forget that.”

He nodded, unable to speak, and Apparated home. In his flat, he set the ring beside the phoenix feather, both glowing faintly. A final vision came as he drifted to sleep: Tom Riddle, alone in a grand manor, staring at a portrait of a woman who looked like his mother. I wanted to be enough, the voice said. So do you, Potter.

In the void, Voldemort’s essence churned, torn between old ambitions and new emotions. Sympathy is a chain, he thought, but for the first time, he wondered if it could also be a key. Harry’s pain, his love for Hermione and Luna, was reshaping him, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to resist.

Chapter Text

The Ministry of Magic hummed with its usual bustle, a maze of enchanted memos zipping through the air like colorful dragonflies. Harry Potter navigated the Atrium, his Auror boots clicking on the polished marble floor, his mind racing faster than the crowd around him. The silver ring from Privet Drive, tucked safely in his pocket beside the phoenix feather, felt heavier than it should, its faint warmth a constant reminder of the visions tying him to Tom Riddle’s past. His scar had been quiet since last night, but the memory of young Tom’s loneliness in the orphanage, mirrored by Harry’s own at the Dursleys, lingered like a stubborn fog.

Today’s mission was straightforward—or so Kingsley Shacklebolt had claimed. Reports of unauthorized magic in the Department of Mysteries had spiked, and with the cloaked stalker still at large, Harry and Neville were tasked with investigating. The timing felt suspicious, especially after the ring’s discovery and the note from Knockturn Alley: The Dark Lord watches. Sympathy is weakness. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the Ministry itself held clues to the bond growing between him and Voldemort’s essence.

Neville met him outside the Auror Office, his broad grin cutting through Harry’s unease. “Ready to play detective, mate?” he asked, adjusting his Gryffindor badge. “Kingsley says the Unspeakables are twitchy about this one. Something about a locked room nobody can open.”

Harry managed a smile, grateful for Neville’s easy camaraderie. “Sounds like our kind of trouble. Let’s go.”

They took the lift to the Department of Mysteries, its black-tiled corridors eerily silent compared to the Atrium’s chaos. The air was cool, tinged with the metallic scent of old magic. Harry’s scar gave a faint twinge, but no vision followed—a relief, but also a warning. Whatever was down here, it was connected to the ring, the mirror, and the stalker.

An Unspeakable, a wiry woman with a tight bun and no name badge, greeted them at the entrance. “Potter, Longbottom,” she said curtly, her voice clipped. “The anomaly’s in the Time Chamber. Follow me, and don’t touch anything.”

The Time Chamber was a cavernous room filled with ticking clocks and glowing hourglasses, their sands shimmering with faint magic. In the center stood a heavy iron door, its surface etched with runes that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Harry’s ring warmed in his pocket, and he resisted the urge to pull it out.

“This door’s been sealed for decades,” the Unspeakable explained, her wand tracing the runes without effect. “Yesterday, it started glowing, and we detected soul-based magic—similar to what you reported with that Hogsmeade mirror. No one’s been inside, but we’ve heard... whispers.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “Whispers? What kind?”

“Hard to say,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “Fragments of voices, like memories. We thought of you, Potter, given your... history.”

Neville glanced at Harry, his expression serious. “You think it’s tied to You-Know-Who?”

Harry nodded, keeping his voice low. “Maybe. Let’s check it out.”

They cast detection spells, their wands glowing as they scanned the door. The runes flared under Harry’s spell, and a faint image flickered in his mind—not a full vision, but a glimpse of Tom Riddle as a young Ministry worker, standing in this very chamber, studying the same runes with a mix of curiosity and ambition. Time can hold secrets, the voice whispered, soft and wistful. I wanted to master it.

Harry blinked, the image fading. “It’s definitely connected,” he said, his voice steady despite the chill running through him. “The runes are soul-bound, like the ring and mirror. We need to open this door.”

The Unspeakable shook her head. “We’ve tried every unlocking charm. It’s keyed to something specific—maybe a person, maybe an object.”

Harry’s hand drifted to his pocket, where the ring pulsed. “Let me try.” He pulled it out, holding it near the door. The runes glowed brighter, and a soft click echoed. The door creaked open, revealing a small, circular room lined with shelves of dusty artifacts: orbs, amulets, and a single, cracked hourglass that shimmered with a silvery light.

Neville whistled. “Blimey. That ring’s a key?”

“Looks like it,” Harry said, stepping inside cautiously. The air was thick with magic, and his scar prickled again. The hourglass drew his attention, its sands swirling without falling. He reached for it, but the Unspeakable grabbed his arm.

“Don’t,” she warned. “It’s unstable. Could be a trap.”

Harry nodded, but the hourglass hummed, and another memory flickered: Tom Riddle, now older, placing the hourglass on the shelf, his hands trembling. A piece of me, hidden here, the voice said. For when I return.

Harry stepped back, his heart racing. “It’s another conduit. Like the ring, the mirror. He hid pieces of himself, didn’t he?”

The Unspeakable’s eyes widened. “Voldemort? That’s... classified. But yes, it’s possible. We’ll secure this room. You two report to Shacklebolt.”

As they left the Department of Mysteries, Harry’s mind churned.Dive into my Patreon Canoncrafter, where you can unlock advanced chapters before anyone else! Join now patreon.com/Canoncrafter .The ring, the mirror, now the hourglass—Voldemort’s essence was scattered, each piece pulling him closer to Harry’s mind. But why the sadness, the regret? It didn’t feel like the Voldemort he’d fought.

Back in the Auror Office, Kingsley listened to their report, his face grim. “This is bigger than we thought. If Voldemort’s essence is active, we need to contain it before it spreads. Potter, you’re too close to this. I’m assigning extra Aurors to your team.”

Harry bristled. “I can handle it, Kingsley.”

“I know you can,” Kingsley said, his voice firm but kind. “But you’re not alone. Don’t carry this by yourself.”

The words echoed Hermione and Luna’s, and Harry felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t seen them since last night, too caught up in the Privet Drive trip and the ring’s discovery. He needed their help—Hermione’s logic, Luna’s insight—but he dreaded the emotional tangle waiting for him.

He Flooed to Hermione’s flat, finding her and Luna in the midst of potion preparations. The mirror sat in its corner, still wrapped, but the ring now rested on a charmed pedestal, glowing faintly. Hermione looked up, her face lighting up with relief. “Harry! You’re back. We’ve made progress on the potion—moonstone dust is tricky, but Luna found a supplier.”

Luna smiled, her radish earrings catching the light. “The dust sings when you grind it right. It’s happy to help.”

Harry chuckled, the tension easing. “Good work, both of you. I’ve got news.” He recounted the Time Chamber, the hourglass, and the ring’s role as a key. “It’s all connected—Voldemort’s hiding something, and the stalker’s after it.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, her quill scribbling notes. “The hourglass could be another anchor for his essence. If we use it in the ritual, with the mirror and ring, we might sever the bond completely.”

Luna tilted her head, her eyes distant. “Or it might make it stronger. The shadows want to be heard, Harry. They’re not all bad.”

Hermione sighed, but her tone was gentler than before. “Luna, we can’t trust Voldemort, even if he’s just an echo. But you’re right about listening. Harry, what did you see this time?”

He hesitated, then described the vision of young Tom in the Time Chamber, his ambition tinged with hope. “He wanted to control time, but it felt... desperate. Like he was running from something.”

Luna nodded. “His own heart, maybe. You’re giving him a chance to feel it again.”

Hermione set down her quill, her eyes soft. “You’re not responsible for his feelings, Harry. But we’ll figure this out together. The ritual’s in ten days. We’ll be ready.”

They spent the afternoon testing the potion, Luna humming as she measured ingredients, Hermione double-checking every step. Harry felt a warmth watching them work, their differences blending into something stronger. He cared for them deeply—Hermione’s fierce determination, Luna’s quiet wisdom—but he kept his feelings guarded, afraid to stir the delicate balance.

As evening fell, Harry walked with Luna to the Apparition point, the Diagon Alley streets quiet under a starry sky. “Thanks for helping,” he said, his voice soft. “You and Hermione—you’re keeping me grounded.”

Luna’s smile was radiant. “You’re like a Snorkack, Harry. Rare and wonderful, even when you’re lost. We’ll find the way together.”

He nodded, her words a comfort. Back at his flat, he placed the ring and phoenix feather on his nightstand, their glows merging in the dark. A gentle vision came as he drifted to sleep: Tom Riddle, a boy again, sitting by a window, dreaming of a world that would accept him. I wanted to belong, the voice whispered. So do you, Potter.

In the void, Voldemort’s essence flickered, caught between manipulation and a growing hope. If I can feel his light, perhaps I can find my own. The thought was fragile, but it held, a spark in the endless dark.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter stood in the dimly lit training room of the Ministry’s Auror Department, his wand raised, sweat beading on his forehead. The room was warded to contain spellfire, its walls shimmering with protective enchantments, but it felt claustrophobic tonight. His scar burned hotter than it had in days, a searing pulse that matched the rhythm of his heartbeat. The ring from Privet Drive, the hourglass from the Time Chamber, and the mirror from the Hog’s Head—all conduits of Voldemort’s lingering essence—were locked in Hermione’s office, but their influence seemed to follow him, whispering through his mind. The latest vision had been the clearest yet: Tom Riddle, no longer a boy but a young man, standing in a shadowy chamber, his wand trembling as he cast a spell to bind his soul to the ring. I will never be weak again, the voice had vowed, but beneath it was a tremor of doubt.

Harry shook off the memory, focusing on his sparring partner, Neville Longbottom. They were practicing dueling techniques, a routine to keep their skills sharp, but Harry’s heart wasn’t in it. The stalker’s attacks—Knockturn Alley, the Forbidden Forest, Privet Drive—felt too close, too personal, and the note’s words haunted him: The Dark Lord watches. Sympathy is weakness. Was it Voldemort’s essence orchestrating this, or something else?

“Expelliarmus!” Neville shouted, his wand flashing. Harry dodged, countering with a swift “Protego,” the shield spell shimmering between them.

“Nice one,” Harry called, forcing a grin. “But you’re telegraphing your moves. I saw that wand flick a mile away.”

Neville laughed, lowering his wand. “Yeah, well, you’re distracted, mate. What’s up? Still those visions?”

Harry hesitated, then nodded. “They’re getting worse. More... real. Like he’s trying to talk to me, not just show me things.”

Neville’s face grew serious, his Gryffindor badge glinting in the torchlight. “You told Hermione and Luna yet? They’re working round the clock on that potion.”

“Not yet,” Harry admitted, wiping his brow. “I don’t want to worry them more. Hermione’s already stressed, and Luna... she sees too much as it is.”

Neville clapped his shoulder. “You can’t carry this alone, Harry. Let’s wrap this up and get you to them. They’ll want to know.”

Before Harry could respond, his scar flared, a white-hot pain that dropped him to his knees. The room dissolved, replaced by a misty void, gray and endless. He was no longer in the Ministry but somewhere else—a dreamscape, a vision, but sharper, more vivid. His wand was still in his hand, but it felt heavier, as if drawn to the ground.

A figure emerged from the mist: Tom Riddle, not the boy of earlier visions, but the young man from Hogwarts, his dark hair swept back, his eyes a piercing red. He wore Slytherin robes, his wand raised, but his expression wasn’t cruel—it was curious, almost sorrowful.

“Potter,” Tom said, his voice smooth but edged with something raw. “You keep pulling me here. Why?”

Harry gripped his wand, his heart pounding. “You’re the one invading my head. What do you want?”

Tom tilted his head, circling slowly. “I wanted your destruction. To rise again through you. But your pain... it’s like mine. The cupboard, the orphanage. The loneliness. I can’t hate you anymore.”

Harry’s scar throbbed, but he held his ground. “You’re not real. You’re just an echo. Get out.”

“Am I?” Tom raised his wand, a silver spark flickering at its tip. “Let’s test that.”

Before Harry could react, Tom cast “Stupefy!” The red jet streaked toward him, and Harry instinctively countered with “Protego!” The shield held, but the force pushed him back, his boots sliding on the misty ground. This wasn’t a memory—it was a duel, inside his mind.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry shouted, aiming to disarm. Tom deflected it with a casual flick, his smile sharp but not mocking.

“You’re strong, Potter,” Tom said, casting a flurry of sparks that Harry blocked. “But you’re holding back. Afraid to hurt me? Or afraid to understand me?”

Harry’s anger flared, fueled by years of fighting Voldemort. “I’m not you!” He fired “Incarcerous,” ropes shooting from his wand, but Tom vanished, reappearing behind him.

“You could be,” Tom said, his voice softer now. “You love, yes—Granger, Lovegood. But love isolates as much as it binds. I learned that too late.”

Harry spun, casting “Stupefy!” again, but Tom countered with a shield, the spells clashing in a burst of light. The void shimmered, and for a moment, Harry saw flashes of Tom’s life: a young boy rejected by peers, a teenager spurned by a girl, a man alone in a manor, his heart hardening with each Horcrux. The sympathy hit Harry like a wave, unwanted but undeniable.

“Stop it!” Harry shouted, his wand trembling. “I don’t want your memories!”

Tom lowered his wand, his eyes dimming. “You need them. To break the bond, you must understand it. I’m not your enemy anymore, Potter. But something else is.”

The void shifted, and a cloaked figure appeared in the distance—the stalker, its face hidden. Dive into my Patreon Canoncrafter, where you can unlock advanced chapters before anyone else! Join now patreon.com/Canoncrafter .It raised a wand, and a dark pulse surged toward them. Tom moved faster, casting a shield that absorbed the blow, his form flickering. “Go, Potter. This is my fight now.”

Harry’s scar seared, and the vision collapsed, spitting him back into the training room. He was on his knees, Neville shaking his shoulders. “Harry! What happened? You zoned out, then started shouting spells at nothing!”

Harry gasped, his scar burning. “It was him—Tom. We dueled, in my head. And the stalker... it was there too.”

Neville’s eyes widened. “Blimey. We need Hermione and Luna. Now.”

They Flooed to Hermione’s flat, the urgency overriding Harry’s hesitation. The room was a whirlwind of potion bottles and parchment, the mirror and ring still on their pedestal, glowing faintly. Hermione looked up, her face pale with exhaustion but brightening at Harry’s arrival. Luna, stirring a cauldron, smiled softly, her radish earrings swaying.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Hermione asked, dropping her quill.

He explained the vision duel, his voice shaky as he described Tom’s words and the stalker’s attack. “It felt real, Hermione. Like he was protecting me.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, her hand brushing his arm—a brief, grounding touch that sent a flutter through him. “A duel in your mind? That’s new. The bond’s getting stronger, maybe because of the artifacts. We need to speed up the ritual.”

Luna tilted her head, her eyes distant. “Tom’s changing, Harry. He fought for you, not against you. That’s a good sign, even if it’s scary.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. “Maybe. But we can’t trust him. The stalker’s the real threat—it’s targeting you, and now it’s in your visions. We need to trace its magic.”

Harry felt caught between them—Hermione’s fierce logic, Luna’s quiet insight. Their concern warmed him, but it also stirred the tangle in his heart. He cared for them both, Hermione’s steady presence a rock, Luna’s gentle wisdom a breeze, but acknowledging it felt like stepping into a storm. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the mission.

“Any progress on the potion?” he asked, his voice steadier.

Hermione gestured to the cauldron, where a silvery liquid bubbled. “Almost done. The moonstone dust stabilized it, thanks to Luna’s supplier. We just need a binding agent—maybe willow sap, to channel the phoenix tears. The ritual’s in nine days, under the full moon.”

Luna picked up the ring, her fingers careful. “This helped you in the vision, didn’t it? It’s like a bridge, connecting you to Tom’s heart.”

Harry’s scar twinged, and he nodded. “Yeah. But it’s dangerous. He said I need to understand him to break the bond. What if he’s lying?”

Hermione’s hand lingered on his arm, her touch lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Then we’ll figure it out together. You’re not facing this alone.”

Luna’s smile was soft, her eyes meeting his. “The shadows are loud, but your light is louder, Harry. We see it.”

The moment hung, heavy with their unspoken feelings. Harry wanted to say something—to ease Hermione’s worry, to thank Luna’s faith—but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he helped them sort ingredients, their teamwork a quiet comfort against the storm in his mind.

Later, as they walked to the Apparition point, Hermione stayed close, her shoulder brushing his. “You scared me today, Harry. Don’t shut us out, okay?”

“I won’t,” he promised, her proximity stirring a warmth he didn’t dare name.

Luna walked on his other side, her voice airy. “The duel was a beginning, not an end. Tom’s learning from you, just as you’re learning from him.”

Harry nodded, his heart heavy but hopeful. Back in his flat, he set the ring beside the phoenix feather, their glows merging. A faint vision flickered as he closed his eyes: Tom Riddle, standing in a moonlit field, his wand lowered, his face peaceful for the first time. You fight for them, Potter, the voice said. I never had that. But I could.

In the void, Voldemort’s essence wavered, the duel’s aftermath leaving him shaken. I protected him, he thought, the act foreign but not unwelcome. Sympathy is a chain, but perhaps it’s also a path.

Harry slept fitfully, the vision duel replaying in his dreams, the stalker’s shadow looming. The ritual was coming, but so was something else, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for either.

Chapter Text

The Burrow was a riot of color and noise, its sprawling garden transformed into a wedding wonderland. Fairy lights bobbed in the air, casting golden glows over tables laden with treacle tarts, pumpkin pasties, and a towering cake topped with a miniature Ron and Lavender twirling magically. Harry Potter stood near the dance floor, his Auror senses on edge despite the festive chaos. His scar prickled faintly, a reminder of the vision duel with Tom Riddle’s essence two nights ago, where the young Voldemort had shielded him from a shadowy attacker. The ring, mirror, and hourglass—artifacts tying him to Voldemort’s lingering soul—were safe in Hermione’s office, but their influence lingered, whispering regrets and sympathies that weren’t his own.

Today was Ron Weasley’s wedding to Lavender Brown, a whirlwind romance that had surprised everyone, especially after Ron’s breakup with Hermione. Harry adjusted his dress robes, feeling out of place among the laughing guests. The Weasleys were in full force: Molly fussing over the buffet, Arthur enchanting a Muggle radio to play Celestina Warbeck, and Ginny zipping around on a broom, showing off for her Harpies teammates. Hermione stood near the cake, her navy dress catching the light, her eyes scanning the crowd. Luna, in a flowing gown adorned with shimmering moonstones, was chatting with a group of Quibbler enthusiasts, her radish earrings swaying as she gestured.

Harry’s heart tugged at the sight of them both. Hermione’s confession—I’ve been in love with you for years—still echoed, her fierce loyalty a constant anchor. Luna’s gentle support, her airy wisdom cutting through his fears, was a light he craved. But choosing either felt like betraying the other, and with Voldemort’s voice in his head, he could barely trust his own feelings. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the celebration. Ron deserved this day, free of shadows.

“Mate!” Ron’s voice boomed as he clapped Harry on the shoulder, his red hair mussed under a lopsided top hat. “You look like you’re at a funeral, not my wedding. Lighten up!”

Harry grinned, forcing cheer. “Just keeping an eye out. Auror habit. You look... happy, Ron.”

Ron’s freckled face softened, his eyes flicking to Lavender, who was twirling with Parvati Patil on the dance floor. “Yeah, I am. Didn’t see this coming, but she’s... she’s good for me. You okay, though? Hermione said you’ve been having weird dreams.”

Harry’s scar twinged, and he lowered his voice. “More than dreams. Visions. Him. It’s getting worse.”

Ron’s grin faded. “Blimey, Harry. You sure it’s not just stress? You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

Before Harry could reply, a scream cut through the music. The fairy lights flickered, and a cold wind swept through the garden, unnatural and sharp. Guests froze as a cloaked figure—the stalker—materialized near the cake, its wand raised. “Potter!” it hissed, its voice distorted. “The bond will break you!”

Harry drew his wand, shouting, “Protego!” as a green spark shot toward him. The shield held, but the spell’s force sent a table of pastries crashing, splattering cream across Lavender’s dress. She shrieked, more annoyed than scared, and hurled a goblet at the figure.

“Expelliarmus!” Hermione yelled, her wand flashing from across the garden. The stalker deflected it, but Neville joined in, casting “Stupefy!” The figure dodged, Apparating to the edge of the wards with a crack.

Harry sprinted after it, Hermione and Luna at his heels. The stalker paused, tossing a small object—a black stone etched with a serpent—before vanishing. The stone pulsed, and Harry’s scar seared, plunging him into a vision.

He was in a grand hall, its walls lined with portraits of stern wizards. Tom Riddle, young and charismatic, stood before a group of followers—early Death Eaters—his voice smooth as he spoke of power and destiny. But his eyes were hollow, his hands clenched. Dive into my Patreon Canoncrafter, where you can unlock advanced chapters before anyone else! Join now patreon.com/Canoncrafter .They follow me, but they don’t know me, the voice whispered. I’m alone, Potter. Like you were.

The vision shifted, showing Tom placing the black stone in a hidden vault, his face etched with regret. Another piece of me, hidden for safety. But it’s a cage. The vision faded, leaving Harry gasping, the stone warm in his hand.

Hermione grabbed his arm, her touch steadying him. “Harry, what did you see?”

“Tom,” he said, his voice hoarse. “He hid this stone. It’s like the ring, the hourglass. Another piece of him.”

Luna knelt beside the stone, her Spectrespecs glowing. “It’s singing, Harry. Sad and heavy, like a lost song. It wants to be found.”

Lavender stormed over, her dress smeared with frosting. “What is wrong with you people? This is my wedding!” Ron pulled her back, murmuring apologies, but his eyes were on Harry, worried.

“Sorry, Lav,” Harry said, pocketing the stone. “We’ll handle this.”

Molly bustled over, waving her wand to repair the table. “Honestly, Harry, can’t you have one day without trouble? Go, sort it out, but don’t ruin the cake!”

The trio retreated to the Burrow’s kitchen, away from the chaos. Hermione cast a Muffliato charm to keep their conversation private. “This stone’s another conduit,” she said, her voice tight. “Voldemort’s essence is scattered across these artifacts. The stalker knows it—they’re trying to stop us from using them in the ritual.”

Luna tilted her head, her moonstone gown shimmering. “Or they want the artifacts for themselves. The shadows are greedy, but they’re also afraid.”

Harry’s scar throbbed, and he rubbed it, frustrated. “Why’s Tom showing me this? He’s not fighting me anymore—he’s... helping. In the vision, he was lonely, like he’s trying to make me understand.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, her hand brushing his. “You’re not him, Harry. His loneliness doesn’t excuse what he did. But if he’s helping, we can use it. The ritual’s in eight days—we need to test this stone with the others.”

Luna nodded, her voice gentle. “He’s learning from you, Harry. Your heart’s teaching him what he forgot.”

Harry’s chest tightened, caught between their concern. Hermione’s touch was warm, her determination grounding him. Luna’s words, airy but profound, lifted him, like a promise of hope. He cared for them both, but the weight of their feelings—and his own confusion—pressed harder than the visions. He kept his response neutral, afraid to tip the delicate balance. “Let’s get back to the wedding. Ron’ll kill me if we miss the cake.”

They returned to the garden, where the music had resumed, guests laughing off the chaos as a “Weasley prank.” Ron pulled Harry aside, his face serious. “Mate, you sure you’re okay? Lavender’s fuming, but I’m worried about you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “Just... keep her happy today, yeah?”

Ron grinned, clapping his back. “Deal. But you owe me a dance for stealing the spotlight.”

As the evening wore on, Harry danced with Hermione, her hand in his, her eyes searching his face. “You scared me out there,” she said softly. “Don’t face that stalker alone, okay?”

“I won’t,” he promised, her closeness stirring a warmth he didn’t dare name. The dance ended, and Luna approached, offering a shy smile.

“Your turn, Harry?” she asked, her voice light. They swayed to a slow tune, her gown brushing his robes, her presence calming. “The shadows are loud tonight,” she whispered, “but you’re louder.”

He smiled, grateful for her faith. “Thanks, Luna. I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

The night ended with fireworks, the Weasleys’ signature flair lighting up the sky. Harry stood apart, watching Hermione and Luna laugh with Ginny, their differences softened by the celebration. His scar twinged, and a final vision flickered: Tom Riddle, alone in a dark room, holding the black stone, his face etched with longing. I wanted to be remembered, the voice said. You can still choose who you’ll be, Potter.

In his flat, Harry set the stone beside the ring and phoenix feather, their glows merging. In the void, Voldemort’s essence stirred, the wedding’s chaos a reminder of what he’d never had. Sympathy is a chain, he thought, but it’s pulling me toward light. The thought was fragile, but it held, a spark in his endless dark.