I lay back on the hospital bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. The faint hum of magic in the walls buzzed in the background, an annoyance I couldn't tune out. My fingers twitched at my sides, itching to tear something apart, to destroy, to feel something other than the crawling emptiness spreading through me. But I didn't move.

They were still there. I could feel their eyes on me, heavy and expectant, like they were waiting for me to break down or lash out. Like I owed them anything. I didn't even bother to glance their way. I'd already given them enough.

They think they've won. That they've smoothed it over. That I'll swallow their lies like I've swallowed everything else.

The thought twisted in my mind, sharp and acidic. I turned it over, examining it, letting it feed the coldness in my chest. They wanted my forgiveness, my compliance. They thought I was a child who could be soothed with kind words and hollow promises.

They don't know what I've become. They don't realize I'm not theirs anymore. I never was.

The faint shuffle of movement broke through my thoughts. Dumbledore, always Dumbledore, with his soft steps and softer eyes. I didn't have to look to know he was still standing there, looming over me like a shadow that refused to leave. He probably thought his presence was comforting, that his silence was giving me space to process. It wasn't.

He's just another liar in the long line of them. Another hypocrite pretending to care while holding the knife to your throat.

I let my gaze drift lazily to the window, the shattered glass glittering on the floor like ice. It was easier to look at than their faces. I could still feel the phantom weight of Snape's stare, the cold indifference that he thought made him untouchable. Fudge, with his nervous energy, shifting on his feet as if he could outrun his own cowardice. Bones, rigid and silent, her judgment written in every line of her face. And Dumbledore, the worst of them all, with his grandfatherly concern and his endless platitudes.

They're all the same. They think they hold the power because they've hidden behind their titles and robes for so long. They don't realize how fragile it all is. How fragile they are.

The silence stretched, suffocating and thick. None of them spoke, probably afraid of what might come next. Good. Let them be afraid. Let them feel a fraction of what I'd felt—powerless, insignificant, waiting for the hammer to fall.

I should speak. Say something sharp, something brutal, something that cuts them down where they stand. I should make them regret every decision they've ever made. But why bother? They're not worth it. They're not worth anything.

The corners of my mouth twitched, almost a smile, but there was no humor in it. Only cold satisfaction at the way they squirmed under the weight of my silence.

"You can leave," I said finally, my voice flat, emotionless. I didn't bother looking at them as I spoke, my gaze still fixed on the shards of glass scattered across the floor. "Unless you have something worth saying, which I doubt."

"Harry," Dumbledore began, his voice soft, coaxing. I cut him off without turning my head.

"Don't." The word came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't care. "I don't want to hear it. Not from you."

The room was silent again. I could imagine the way Fudge was probably fidgeting, Bones' tight-lipped disapproval, Snape's sneer. Dumbledore, though, would still be standing there, calm and composed, his gaze heavy with that insufferable pity. Always pity.

They're all so predictable. So small. They think their words matter, but they're nothing. Just noise in the background. Static.

I shifted slightly on the bed, the motion deliberate and dismissive. My body ached, my muscles weak and strained, but I wouldn't show it. Let them see the calm, the control. Let them think I was untouchable.

"I'm done talking," I said, my voice quieter now but no less cutting. "So unless you're here to grovel—which, frankly, would amuse me—you can all leave."

No one moved at first, and for a moment, I thought Dumbledore might try again, might press forward with one of his speeches about forgiveness or understanding. But then, slowly, they began to file out. Fudge was first, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to escape. Bones followed, her gaze lingering on me for a moment before she turned away. Snape was last, his dark eyes flicking over me with an unreadable expression before he swept out, his robes billowing behind him.

Dumbledore stayed the longest, his hand brushing the edge of my bed as if he wanted to say something, to reach out. But I didn't give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Eventually, he sighed, his steps retreating until the door clicked softly shut.

The room was empty again, quiet except for the faint hum of magic in the walls. I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing even as my body ached with exhaustion.


The next morning was clear but cold, the kind of biting chill that didn't ask for permission. It just invaded—seeping into stone walls, ancient cracks, and marrow. The air tasted of damp stone and something faintly metallic, and the sounds around me felt sharp, jagged—snatches of Madam Pomfrey's clipped tones stabbing at the edges of my awareness like splinters.

"Now, Mr. Potter," she snapped, her wand darting to smooth a corner of the blanket I wasn't sitting under, "if you feel faint, dizzy, or experience any unusual pain, you are to come to me immediately. Do not ignore it, do you understand?"

Of course, of course, of course. Do we pretend like this still matters? Like your concerns ever mattered? I nodded. My lips curved into a calm, careful smile. "Yes, Madam Pomfrey," I murmured, steady. Polished. Polite. A stranger's voice in a stranger's mouth.

Her gaze was sharp, piercing. Suspicious. As if my restraint were offensive somehow. "You've been through quite the ordeal," she continued, "and I won't have you pushing yourself too hard. Rest, eat properly, and avoid unnecessary exertion."

Rest. Rest in what? This skin that doesn't fit anymore? This life I was shoved into like garbage packed into a box?

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey." I gave her the same placid, unyielding tone, the words delivered with the grace of someone wielding a knife in polite company. She huffed, her frown deepening as though she might push further—but then she didn't. Instead, with a flick of her hand, she turned away, muttering under her breath about "stubborn boys." I gathered my things in silence, the weight of my bag an anchor, pulling my body forward into a motion that didn't feel like mine.


The castle stirred around me as I walked—murmurs, footsteps, the clang of distant plates—all noise, yet distant, like watching something through a pane of dirty glass. The morning light, harsh and cold, slanted through the windows, streaking the stones in pale gold. My feet moved of their own accord, precise and mechanical, as I descended the stairs. One step, then the next, then another.

The binding was the only gift they gave me. Not their neglect, not their empty promises. Not their experiments, their shackles, their lies. Snape, Dumbledore, Fudge. Puppeteers with rusted strings, dripping blood in the space they claimed was for salvation. Saints in their minds. Monsters in their bones.

I reached the massive oak doors of the Great Hall and paused. My fingers brushed the cool grain of the wood, rough and uneven beneath my touch. Beyond the door, the murmur of hundreds of voices hummed like a swarm of flies. No doubt they were already feasting, laughing, staring. They always stared.

Open it. Step through. Don't think about the way they'll crane their necks. Don't think about the pity in their eyes. Don't think about how none of it will matter.

The doors creaked as I pushed them open, the sound like a groan of protest in the sudden quiet that fell over the hall. Voices faltered, conversations broke. The quiet wasn't complete, but it was enough. Enough to press against me like a tide. Enough to cut me open.

"Potter's back."

"Did you hear? About the—?"

"—He's not the same, though. Look at him."

Eyes followed as I stepped inside, the weight of them pressing into my shoulders, my back. My feet moved slowly, deliberately, my steps a rhythm of defiance. One, two, three. Not broken. Not yours. You don't deserve a single answer.

The whispers grew, an ebb and flow of speculation that I didn't need to hear to know. My robes shifted around me as I walked, brushing lightly against my legs, a sensation sharp enough to make me hyper-aware of every nerve. The room smelled of roasted meat, buttered toast, the faint tang of pumpkin juice—and the stench of attention. It clung like smoke.

I reached the far end of the Slytherin table, my usual seat. My hands moved with practiced ease as I filled my plate—eggs, sausages, toast—each movement deliberate, as though performing a ritual. The wood of the table was smooth under my fingertips, the polished surface cool against my palm. A goblet of pumpkin juice appeared in my hand before I could register the motion.

They don't deserve the space you give them in your mind. Not their names, not their faces, not their pity. They're watching because they don't understand what they left behind. What they made.

My eyes remained fixed on my plate as I ate, each bite mechanical, tasteless. Around me, the hall buzzed with the kind of tension that stretched, taut and brittle, until it snapped.

The knife slid cleanly through the egg, the yolk bleeding across the plate in slow, viscous streaks. The scrape of the fork against porcelain was precise, rhythmic, a steady contrast to the cacophony around me. The Great Hall buzzed—laughter, conversation, the clatter of cutlery—but it was just background noise, static. None of it mattered. None of them mattered.

Snape. Dumbledore. The names burned in my thoughts, sharp and jagged, like glass slicing through skin. The lies, the manipulation, the orphanage. You left me to rot, to be broken, and now you think I'll play your game. Watch. Just watch.

The bench across from me shifted. I didn't need to look up to know who it was. Daphne Greengrass. She moved like a cat—deliberate, poised, her presence filling the space without effort. She always announced herself this way, without words. She sat, her plate untouched, her gaze heavy on me. Waiting. Watching.

I didn't acknowledge her. My knife moved again, carving another neat slice from the toast. The tension between us stretched, but I let it.

Snape thought he could make sense of me too, once. Thought he could sneer and condescend his way into control. Thought I was small, a child, something he could press under his boot and forget. Dumbledore thought the same. That his twinkling eyes and half-truths could bury the wreckage he made of my life. They'll learn. Soon enough.

Finally, I raised my head, my movements slow, deliberate. Her blue eyes met mine, sharp and calculating, but the moment she saw them—truly saw them—something flickered in her expression. Fear. It was subtle, the kind of fear she was too well-trained to show outright, but I saw it. Her lips parted slightly, her posture stiffened, and for a fraction of a second, her carefully constructed mask cracked.

She looked away first. Smart girl.

The hum of the Hall faded further into irrelevance. She reached for her goblet, her movements steady, almost defiant, but her gaze remained fixed on something—anything—that wasn't me. The silence between us thickened, heavy and oppressive, a weight she couldn't seem to shift.

Her voice broke through at last, brittle and clipped. "Potter."

It grated against my thoughts, the sound invasive, unwanted. I stared at her, unblinking, watching as her composure faltered under the weight of my gaze. She was good at hiding it, but not good enough.

You don't understand. You can't. But you feel it, don't you? The edge, the darkness, the thing they left behind when they thought they'd broken me. You're afraid because you don't know what it means. What I've become. Neither do they. Not yet.

"Those eyes…" she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

I said nothing, letting the silence stretch. Let her drown in it.

She tried again, her voice sharper now, forced into a brittle kind of normalcy. "Interesting look. Very dramatic. I heard you tried to duel a ghost and it cursed you. Or was it a demon this time? The stories keep changing."

Her sarcasm was a weapon, polished and sharp, but it slid off me like rain against stone. I didn't flinch, didn't blink. The knife in my hand moved again, cutting another precise piece of egg. The yolk smeared across the plate, bright and vivid against the stark white.

They thought I'd be weak. That I'd stay small, desperate, clinging to their scraps of approval. They don't see what they've made. The weapon they forged in the dark. But they will. Snape. Dumbledore. Their time will come.

The hum of the Hall receded further, drowned out by the steady drumbeat of vengeance in my thoughts. Daphne shifted slightly, the faint rustle of her robes cutting through the silence. She was still watching, still trying to understand.

"You know, silence isn't as clever as you think it is," she said, her tone colder now, edged with frustration. "It just makes you look… pathetic."

The words barely registered. They were nothing. Meaningless static. My knife scraped the plate again, the sound precise, deliberate. Another bite. Another motion. Another moment closer to the end of the game.

Let her think what she wants. Let her fill the silence with her barbs, her clever little quips. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. All that matters is them. Snape. Dumbledore. They think they've won. That they've played their hands perfectly. But they don't see the knife in their backs. Not yet.

I didn't look up again. Didn't speak. Daphne's words hung in the air, unanswered, until she finally stood. The bench creaked faintly as she rose, her movements stiff, her expression unreadable.

"Suit yourself, Potter," she said, her tone flat, detached. "But don't think for a second that I'll stop watching. Whatever it is you're hiding… I'll figure it out."

"Fascinating," I said flatly, the word a razor slicing through the air. "Is that all?"

Her eyes narrowed as she leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "No one just disappears for over a week and comes back with eyes like that, Potter. What did you do?"

I let her look, let her see the bottomless void swirling in my gaze. My voice was ice. "Nothing that concerns you."

"Yet."

The corner of my mouth twisted into something like a smile, but it wasn't. It was a predator baring its teeth. She shivered, couldn't hide it. Smart girl. She knew what I was now. She could smell it—death, ruin, something that had torn itself out of the grave and dragged its soul behind like a broken chain. She knew I wasn't coming back. I didn't want to.

"Tell me what this is," I said, my voice cutting clean through the space between us.

Daphne picked it up, her polished nails trembling ever so slightly as she broke the Malfoy seal. She swallowed once before pulling out the thick parchment, her eyes scanning the elegant script. For a moment, she said nothing.

"Potter," she began cautiously, "this is..." Her voice faltered as she took in the words. "You haven't even read it?"

I fixed her with a look that felt more like a blade pressed against her throat. "Would I be asking you if I had? Don't waste my time."

Her fingers tightened on the parchment, crinkling its pristine edges as her eyes darted over the text. "It's an invitation to the Malfoy Winter Gala," she said at last. "But..." She trailed off, her expression growing more uneasy as she re-read the lines. "It's very... specific. A formal thank-you for saving Draco's life."

I waited, silent. I didn't need to speak. The weight of my presence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. Her discomfort was a symphony I let play out, each note sweeter than the last.

"It's the most exclusive event in wizarding Britain," she went on, her voice almost reverent. "Ministers, department heads, the heads of the old families—they'll all be there. The alliances forged at that gala shape the very fabric of our world."

"Get to the point," I said, my tone a lash that made her flinch. She hurried on, the words tumbling from her lips.

"They can't ignore what you did for Draco—refusing to acknowledge it would make them look weak. But this..." She held the invitation between two fingers, as if it might bite. "This isn't an alliance. Not yet. They're watching, waiting to see what you'll become. They want to look grateful without risking anything."

A laugh bubbled up in me, low and humorless, bitter as poison. It spilled into the room, and she shrank back. "How very calculating."

"This is how our world works, Potter," she said, her voice tight. "Every gesture, every word carries weight. It's all politics." She placed the invitation back on the table, careful now. "The question is—what are you going to do with it?"

I stared at the parchment, the expensive paper, the weighty Malfoy crest embossed in gold. The book's power thrummed beneath my skin, dark and insistent, feeding on the absurdity of their games. They thought they were kings and queens, playing at power. I was so far beyond them now it was almost laughable.

"Burn it," I said softly, my voice curling in the air like smoke.

"What?" Daphne's head snapped up, her eyes wide. "Potter, you can't just—"

"I said burn. It." Each word slammed into her like a curse. Her breath caught, and for a second, she looked at me like she'd never seen me before.

"This is madness," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The Malfoys aren't people you snub. Not like this. They'll—"

"Exactly." I cut her off, my tone soft, dangerous. "Their carefully worded gratitude. Their calculated invitation. Burn it all."

Her hands shook as she set the invitation down, like it might detonate.

Daphne leaned forward, her voice low but edged with something sharper—fear, curiosity, maybe both. "What happened to you, Harry?" she asked, her eyes searching mine as if she could peel back the layers of darkness and find something human still buried there. "What happened to you for eight days?"

I leaned forward too, slow and deliberate, my hands folding on the table like I had all the time in the world to savor the moment. I met her gaze and let her feel the weight of it—the vast, crushing silence that had replaced the boy she thought she knew.

"Snape and Dumbledore," I said, my voice a whisper that hit like a blade drawn across her skin. "They will pay."

Her breath hitched. She didn't move, didn't dare to.

"Everything they did to me," I continued, each word like the toll of a funeral bell, "every lie, every betrayal, every drop of blood they spilled—they'll pay with theirs."

Daphne opened her mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to beg me to stop, but the words died as the room shifted. The enchanted ceiling above us, bright with a painted sky, darkened in an instant. Clouds churned, black and roiling, and a sharp crack of thunder split the air.

The temperature plummeted, a biting cold sinking into the stones of the castle itself. The flickering torches lining the walls guttered, dimmed, leaving the room drenched in shadow. My magic spilled out like a living thing, coiling and writhing, a predator testing its cage. It wanted out. I wanted it out.

"Harry..." Daphne's voice was barely a whisper now, trembling on the edge of panic. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the table.

I didn't care.

"Anyone who gets in my way," I said, leaning closer still, so close I could see the tears gathering in her eyes. My breath fogged in the icy air between us. "Anyone who stands between me and them—" I let the sentence hang there, the promise of violence speaking louder than words ever could.

Her eyes flicked to the shadows creeping along the edges of the room, the way the darkness seemed alive now, pulsing in time with the thunder. She was smart enough not to ask the question again. She already knew the answer. She knew exactly what had happened to me.

And still, she couldn't stop herself. "This isn't... This isn't you," she said, her voice cracking, desperate and small.

I barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. The sound echoed like shattering glass. "Isn't it? Maybe you never knew me, Daphne. Maybe no one ever did."

The table between us groaned under the pressure of my magic, the wood splintering faintly as I let the force of it roll out unchecked. My hands flexed, my nails biting into my palms, and the urge to let it consume her—consume everything—buzzed in my skull like a swarm of wasps.

But I pulled back, just a little. Not for her. For me. The chaos would come, but not yet.

I leaned back in my chair, slow and deliberate, and the room seemed to take a breath with me. The shadows receded a fraction, the thunder above settling into a distant rumble. But the cold stayed. The cold always stayed now.

"You asked what happened to me," I said finally, my voice low and even, the storm in my chest barely held at bay. "I saw the truth. And the truth is this: they created me. Every scar, every wound, every stolen moment of peace—it's theirs. And I'll make sure they remember it with their last breath."

Daphne didn't respond. She couldn't. She just stared at me, her face pale, her hands trembling against the table. I watched her crumble under the weight of it, the realization sinking in that whatever she thought Harry Potter was, whoever she thought he could be, was gone.

Daphne leaned in close, her voice a hushed blade slicing through the air between us. "I know what you did, Harry," she said, her breath trembling on the edge of the words. "The book. The binding spell. I know."

I stared at her, unblinking. My face didn't shift, not even a flicker of reaction. Nothing. Just a cold, endless void staring back at her. I let the silence stretch, let it press down on her until she started to fidget, her hands gripping the edge of the table like it might save her from drowning in the weight of it.

Daphne exhaled slowly, steadying herself, though her hands were still trembling. I didn't care. The cold between us deepened, sinking into her bones, into mine. She pushed her chair back slightly, as if the inch of distance would save her. It wouldn't.

"Granger," she started again, her voice low but tight, "figured out that it's a binding spell. Not just any binding spell, either—a… modified version. You didn't just tether yourself to something, did you? You twisted it. Changed it. You made the magic do something it wasn't supposed to."

I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And?"

"And it's tearing you apart," she said, the words coming out faster now, almost tripping over each other. "She thinks it's why—why you're like this. Tracey helped dig into some of the darker family texts. The magic—it's unstable, Potter. Unpredictable. You've rewired it in ways that aren't natural. It's dangerous. To you. To everyone."

I leaned back, deliberately slow, letting her panic fill the silence. My expression didn't change. I could feel her words sliding off me like rain on stone. They meant nothing. Less than nothing.

"Interesting theory," I said, my tone flat, dismissive. "And what do you think you're going to do with it, Greengrass? Stop me? Fix me?" I scoffed, the sound bitter and sharp. "Go ahead. Enlighten me. What's your plan?"

Her jaw tightened, and I caught the faint tremble in her lips as she pressed them into a thin line. She looked at me like she was trying to figure out if I was even real anymore, if the person she thought she was talking to existed at all.

"I—" She faltered, then squared her shoulders, forcing her voice steady. "I don't know. Maybe—maybe I can talk to someone—"

I let out a bark of laughter, cutting her off. It wasn't warm or amused. It was cold, cruel, the kind of laugh that sucked the air out of the room. She flinched. Good.

"Talk to someone?" I repeated, mocking. "Go ahead. Run to Snape. Run to anyone you like. Like I give a damn what you or your little club think you've figured out. Newsflash, Greengrass—your concern doesn't matter. Neither do you. Not to me. Not to this."

Her face paled, but she didn't back down. Brave. Stupid, but brave. "It should matter, Harry. Whatever you've done to yourself—"

"And?" My voice was flat, as empty as my gaze. The single syllable hung in the air, brutal in its indifference.

Her courage faltered for a moment, but she steadied herself, leaning even closer. Too close. "You think no one notices? No one sees what you've become? The ministry might not care yet, but—"

"But what, Daphne?" I interrupted, my tone cutting and precise, leaving no room for her to maneuver. "You don't see them coming to drag me off to Azkaban, do you?"

Her mouth opened, but I didn't let her speak. I leaned forward, closing the distance, my voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. "Because no one cares, Greengrass. That's the truth of it. If you say the right things, if you play the right games, if you do what they want to see—" I paused, letting my lips curl into something that might've been a smile, except it wasn't. "You're untouchable."

She shrank back, just slightly, but I didn't stop. I let the words flow, sharp and unrelenting, a storm she couldn't escape.

"I'm just a boy, right?" I continued, my tone mocking, laced with venom. "The great Harry Potter. Eleven years old. Raised in an voice hardened, the edge of something darker slipping through. "That's the story, isn't it? That's what they want to believe."

She stared at me, wide-eyed, caught between disbelief and fear. I pressed forward, my magic thrumming beneath my skin, feeding off the tension in the air.

"They don't see what I've done," I said, my voice soft now, almost conversational, but every word dripped with venom. "They don't want to see. Because I'm useful, Daphne. I'm a tool, a weapon, a convenient little icon for their precious world. As long as I keep pointing at the right targets, they'll never care what I am underneath."

She swallowed hard, her composure cracking. "And what are you underneath, Harry?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

I let the silence stretch again, let it suffocate her. Finally, I leaned back in my chair, slow and deliberate, my gaze still locked on hers.

"You don't want the answer to that," I said, my tone soft, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of a threat she couldn't ignore. "Trust me."

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she looked like she might bolt, but she didn't. Brave, I had to admit. Stupid, but brave.

"Now," I said, my tone shifting, dismissive, like I was already bored of her. "Unless you've got something worth my time, I suggest you keep whatever theories you and Granger cooked up to yourselves. Because if you don't..." I let the threat hang there, unspoken but undeniable.

Her hands trembled as she pushed back from the table, her eyes never leaving mine. I could see the gears turning in her head, weighing her options, trying to decide if this was a fight she could win. It wasn't. She knew that.

I waited until she stood, until she was half-turned toward the door, before I spoke again, my voice low and sharp, the final nail in the coffin of whatever courage she had left.

"And Daphne," I said, my gaze boring into her back. She froze, her shoulders stiff. "If you or Granger get in my way—if you think for one second you can stop me—you won't live long enough to regret it."

She didn't answer. She couldn't. She just walked away, her footsteps echoing in the cold, empty space of the room. I watched her go, my expression unchanged, my magic simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment it would be unleashed.


I sat in the dim dungeon classroom, watching Snape prowl between the rows of desks. His black robes billowed with each step, a pathetic display of imagined authority. The cauldron bubbled softly before me, but I barely noticed it. My thoughts were elsewhere, sharper, colder.

How easy it would be, I mused, my fingers brushing the edge of my wand. A simple twist of magic, and his precious control would shatter. The binding showed me spells that could break a mind piece by piece, leaving just enough awareness to feel every moment of agony.

Snape paused near Longbottom's cauldron, his lip curling in familiar disdain. I watched him berate the trembling boy, noting how he savored each flinch, each stammered apology. His cruelty was amateur, pedestrian. He had no concept of true power.

The orphanage taught me better methods, I thought, measuring ingredients with mechanical precision. Ten years in that hell, and he never checked. Never bothered to see what they were doing to me. Perhaps he should experience it firsthand.

The knowledge from the binding unfurled in my mind like a venomous flower. There were rituals, ancient and terrible, that could trap a consciousness in an endless loop of its worst memories. Spells that could make every shadow feel like hands reaching for throat, every silence filled with screams.

Start small, I decided, watching him sweep past my desk. Let him think he's going mad slowly. A whisper here, a glimpse there. Make him doubt everything - his senses, his sanity, his precious control. Then, when he's at his weakest...

The potion before me turned the perfect shade of green, but I barely noticed. I was already planning the first step. The binding had shown me how to weave curses into everyday objects, turning them into anchors for darker magic. Snape's office would be a good place to start.

After all, I thought, my lips curving into a cold smile, he taught me all about the subtle art of potions. Time to show him what a dedicated student I've become.

Draco's voice grated on my concentration, like nails dragged across glass. "Did you see my father when you were in the hospital wing? He said—"

"Your father," I interrupted, the words precise, sharp. Each syllable sliced like broken glass. "Means nothing to me."

Draco flinched, his polished mask of superiority cracking. "But after everything he's done for—"

I turned toward him, letting my eyes meet his, unblinking and empty of pretense. His words died in his throat as my gaze pinned him, silent and oppressive. "After everything?" I let the question linger, the cold amusement curling into my voice. "Tell me, Draco, what exactly has he done? Other than parade his wealth like a badge and think it buys him the right to breathe in my presence?"

His mouth opened, then shut, his pale skin flushing an angry red. "You don't understand—"

"I understand more than you think." My voice dropped, low and deliberate, each word a precise cut. "I understand he's a relic, a creature of old rules and empty gestures. Tell me, Draco—when he stands in front of the mirror, practicing that sneer of his, does he think it will protect him when it matters? Does he believe it will matter to me?"

Draco's hand curled into a fist at his side, trembling slightly as fear warred with fury. "You're out of line, Potter," he said, but the words came weak, hollow.

I took a step closer, enough for him to feel the space between us disappear, the weight of my disdain pressing down on him. "Out of line?" I repeated, a soft chuckle escaping, devoid of humor. "There are no lines. Not anymore. Your father, his name, his games—they're dust. I could erase it all with a flick of my wand, Draco. Bloodlines don't make you powerful. They make you predictable."

"You think you're untouchable," Draco spat, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. "You think you're better than us—"

"I am better," I said simply. "And deep down, you know it."

The silence stretched, the tension heavy in the air. His hand shook as he reached for some retort, some desperate thread to cling to. But I didn't give him the chance. "The weak," I said, my tone final, "should learn their place before they're forced into it."

His face turned ashen, his defiance crumbling beneath the weight of the truth he couldn't ignore. He took a shaky step back, his body rigid as he tried to mask the fear radiating from him. It didn't matter. I had already seen it, smelt it in the acrid sweat clinging to the air between us.

"Are we done?" I asked, turning away from him, dismissing him like a servant who had outlived their use. The conversation had ended the moment I decided it had.

"Potter, Malfoy," Snape's voice sliced through the air, dripping with disdain. "I do hope you're not letting social pleasantries interfere with your work. Though given your... recent behaviors, Potter, perhaps basic instruction is beyond your current capabilities."

I didn't look up from my cauldron, my hands steady as I added the crushed beetles. Each one fell with precise timing, the liquid bubbling exactly as it should. Snape's presence loomed over us, his shadow cutting across the workspace like a blade.

"Tell me, Potter," he continued, his voice low and venomous. "Has your stint in the hospital wing addled what little sense you possessed? Or is this merely another display of your inherent... inadequacy?"

Your words mean nothing, I thought, watching the potion turn the perfect shade of green. Soon enough, you'll understand what real power feels like. What real fear tastes like.

"Nothing to say?" Snape pressed, leaning closer. His breath carried the faint scent of bitter herbs. "How disappointing. And here I thought the famous Harry Potter would have some clever retort. Some display of the... remarkable talents I've heard whispered about."

The binding's knowledge pulsed through me, showing me exactly where to strike, how to shred his mind until nothing remained but screaming darkness. But I kept my movements measured, my expression blank. Let him think his words carried weight. Let him believe he had control.

"Perhaps," Snape drawled, straightening with exaggerated slowness, "you require remedial lessons. Private instruction, to address these... concerning gaps in your education."

Beside me, Draco shifted uncomfortably, no doubt hoping to avoid being caught in whatever punishment Snape was building toward. His fear was a tangible thing, filling the air between us. Weak, I thought. Like father, like son.

"See me after class, Potter," Snape commanded, his tone final. "We'll discuss your... future studies."

I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak.

I stood before Snape's desk, my expression blank as stone. The dungeon had emptied, leaving only the faint bubbling of distant cauldrons and his measured breathing. He paced behind his desk, each step deliberate, theatrical.

"Your behavior lately has been..." Snape paused, his lip curling, "concerning. Even for you, Potter."

Three steps to his left, I noted coldly. Always the same pattern. Such predictable movements for a man who pretends to understand power.

"This silence," he continued, his voice sharp with irritation, "this act of yours - do you think it impresses anyone? Do you imagine it makes you seem mysterious? Powerful?"

The blackthorn wand hummed against my palm, the binding's knowledge showing me exactly where to strike. One spell - that's all it would take. His shields were strong, but there were older magics, darker ways to break a mind.

Snape stopped suddenly, his expression shifting into something that might have been concern. "Potter," he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. "I had no say in your upbringing. The decision was made by others. If I had known..."

Lies, I thought, watching him try to bridge the gulf between us. Pretty words to hide ugly truths. You knew. You all knew.

"The orphanage," he continued, taking a step closer, "was never meant to be your fate. But you must understand - there were... complications. Politics. Things beyond my control."

I met his gaze then, letting him see the void behind my eyes. He faltered for just a moment, that mask of concern cracking to reveal something closer to fear.

"Say something, Potter," he demanded, his frustration bleeding through. "This sullen silence benefits no one."

But it does, I thought, memorizing every detail of his face, every weakness in his stance. It shows me exactly where you're vulnerable. Where you'll break first.

The binding whispered promises of retribution, of screams that would echo through these dungeons for years to come. But not yet. Not until everything was perfectly aligned.

"Get out," Snape finally snapped, his patience exhausted.


The corridor outside the Transfiguration classroom buzzed with low voices, hushed and secretive. People whispered, heads close, their eyes darting toward me like moths circling a flame they didn't dare touch. Their curiosity was palpable, hanging thick in the air, but none of them had the nerve to do more than steal a glance. They didn't know. Not what I'd done. Not what I was. That ignorance was their shield. It wouldn't last.

Flint moved differently. No hesitation. His heavy steps crushed the murmurs around him, the crowd parting as he approached. His gaze locked on me, cold and measuring. He stopped too close, his posture wide, deliberate, blocking the space as if that alone gave him power.

"Potter," he said, his voice rough, low enough to stay between us. "Snape sent me."

I leaned against the wall, letting the cold stone press against my shoulder blades. I didn't answer. My gaze flicked over him, deliberate and slow. His face was flushed, the scar on his chin twisted into a pale line against his skin. He smelled like sweat and cheap cologne, the sharp tang of it catching in the back of my throat.

Flint's eyes narrowed, his scowl deepening. "I'm talking to you," he said, stepping closer, his bulk blocking out the dim torchlight. "Don't play dumb, Potter. I've got an offer for you."

"Quidditch. Bet you think you're fast, clever. Maybe you are. Could be useful."

"Useful," I repeated, my voice flat. I pushed off the wall, closing the space between us. "To who? You? That group of bumbling idiots you drag onto the pitch to flail around and hope for miracles?"

Flint's grin turned sharp, feral. "Careful, Potter," he growled, his voice hardening. "You don't know who you're talking to."

I tilted my head slightly, watching the way his fists curled, the faint twitch in his jaw. "I know exactly who I'm talking to. A thug with just enough brains to tie his own shoes. Barely."

Flint's hand twitched at his side, his knuckles white. "You think you're funny, don't you? Think you're better than me? Let me tell you something, you little shit. I've broken blokes twice your size without breaking a sweat. You're nothing."

"Then why are you here?" I asked, my voice soft, even, as I stepped closer. "Why are you offering me scraps, Flint? What, you can't find anyone else desperate enough to prop up your crumbling ego?"

The grin dropped from his face, replaced by something darker. His breath hitched, shallow, but he held his ground. "You're playing with fire," he said, his voice low, a growl rippling beneath it. "You think I can't handle you? You think I won't put you in your place?"

I smiled, slow and razor-sharp, the kind of smile that made people back away. "You won't," I said, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Because you already know your place, Flint. You're nothing more than a glorified club bouncer, pretending you're king of the castle. You'll stand there, you'll talk big, but in the end, you'll do nothing. Because you are nothing"

Flint flinched, his jaw tightening. "You're mouthy for a scrawny little nothing. You think you're untouchable, huh? You think I can't put you in your place?"

I leaned closer, until he had to tilt his head slightly to keep my eyes in view. "Try it," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper, cold and steady.

His grin faltered, just a flicker, before he stepped closer, his chest brushing against mine. He was pushing it, testing me. I could feel the weight of his presence, his fists twitching at his sides. He wanted me to react. He wanted me to snap.

"You want to prove something, Potter?" he sneered, his voice low and venomous. "Go ahead. Try. I'll make you wish you'd stayed the broken little rat everyone says you are."

I moved then, fast and sharp, my wand sliding into my hand before he could blink. The blackthorn wood was steady, cool against my palm, as I pressed the tip against his chest. Flint froze, his eyes widening for the briefest moment before the rage set in.

"You want me to prove something?" I asked, my voice still soft, still calm, but every word was a blade. "Fine."

The spell was silent, my intent sharper than any incantation. Flint's knees buckled, his legs giving out beneath him as if gravity itself had turned on him. He hit the stone floor hard, his hands slapping against the ground to catch himself. The sound echoed, loud and sharp, cutting through the silence of the corridor.

The crowd stilled, their collective breaths held as they watched Flint on his knees, his face twisted in shock and fury. He tried to rise, his muscles straining, but the weight pressing down on him was absolute. I stepped closer, my wand steady, my expression unchanged.

"This is what you are, Flint," I said, my tone quiet but razor-sharp. "A dog kneeling where it belongs. You thought you could stand over me? You thought you had power? You're nothing. Less than nothing."

His hands clenched into fists against the stone, his teeth grinding audibly. "You think this proves anything?" he spat, his voice trembling with anger. "You're dead, Potter. You're—"

"Say another word," I interrupted, my wand lowering until it pointed directly at his face. "Go on. Beg me to make it worse."

He shut his mouth, his lips trembling as his jaw worked uselessly. His eyes burned with hatred, but he didn't move. He couldn't. The weight of my magic pressed down on him like a vice, crushing his arrogance, his bravado, everything he thought made him strong.

A second-year Hufflepuff stifled a giggle behind her hand, and a Ravenclaw nearby whispered something to her friend that made both of them smirk. Flint's head snapped toward them, his eyes wild, his lip curling back in a snarl. "Shut it!" he roared, his voice cracking, loud enough to echo down the hall. "You lot want to be next?"

The laughter didn't stop—it only got quieter, more pointed. His rage fed it, made it sharper, more humiliating. He whirled back to me, his fists clenched, his teeth bared like some cornered animal.

"You think this is funny?" he spat, his voice trembling with fury. "You think you've won?"

I tilted my head, letting my gaze drift lazily down to where his fists shook at his sides. "Won?" I said, my voice cold and detached. "You never even put up a fight."

The words hit like a slap. Flint's face twisted, his body vibrating with barely-contained rage. I let the spell go, Flint struggled to his feet, his movements jerky and clumsy, like a puppet with its strings half-cut. His face was flushed an ugly red, a vein throbbing in his temple as he fought to regain what little dignity he had left. But the damage was done. The corridor had seen him on his knees, and the soft snickers breaking out among the crowd twisted the knife deeper.

He took a step toward me, his bulk looming again, his hands twitching toward his wand. "You've got no idea who you're messing with, Potter. I'll—"

"Enough." Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the tension like a whip, sharp and commanding. She strode down the corridor with the kind of authority that silenced even Flint mid-sentence. Her eyes were like steel, and they locked onto me first, assessing, calculating. Then they shifted to Flint, narrowing as her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Mr. Flint," she said sharply, her tone brooking no argument, "you will control yourself, or I will have you in detention for a week. Do I make myself clear?"

Flint's chest heaved, his fists still clenched, but he muttered, "Yes, Professor," through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with frustration.

McGonagall's gaze flicked back to me. "And you, Mr. Potter," she said, her tone even colder now. "Explain. Now."

I met her gaze, unflinching, the faintest ghost of a smirk curling at the corner of my mouth. "Explain what, Professor?" I said, my voice smooth, calm, unbothered. "I didn't touch him."

Her eyes narrowed, the faintest twitch in her jaw betraying her irritation. "I have neither the time nor the patience for games, Potter. You will tell me what happened."

I shrugged, my movements deliberate, slow. "I think Flint here was just showing everyone what happens when you overestimate yourself. Isn't that right, Marcus?"

Flint let out a growl, his fists shaking, but McGonagall stepped between us before he could do anything stupid. "That is enough, both of you," she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut stone. "Mr. Flint, go to your next class. Now."

Flint hesitated, his eyes darting between McGonagall and me. I didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't so much as blink. His nostrils flared, and I could see the war raging inside him. But he wasn't stupid enough to push McGonagall, not here, not now. He muttered something under his breath and stormed off, his heavy boots slamming against the floor as he shoved through the crowd.

McGonagall turned back to me, her expression carved from ice. "And you, Mr. Potter, will come with me. Now."

I followed her without a word, my hands slipping into my pockets, my steps unhurried. The students parted as we passed, their eyes wide, their whispers rising in my wake. I didn't care.

McGonagall didn't speak again until we reached her office. She rounded on me the moment the door closed, her gaze hard and searching. "What is going on with you?" she demanded, her voice tight with restrained anger. "This behavior is unacceptable, even for you."

I leaned against the edge of her desk, my posture loose, casual. "I didn't do anything," I said, my tone flat, emotionless. "Flint picked the fight. I just let him lose."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing further. "Don't play coy with me, Potter. You're smarter than that. Whatever happened out there—whatever you did—ends now. Do you understand me?"

I met her gaze, unblinking, my voice steady. "I understand perfectly, Professor." She stood behind her desk, her eyes sharp and unyielding, but there was something softer beneath it. Concern. Pity. I hated it.

"You've been through a lot," she said finally, her voice quieter now, measured. "The accident, The hospital wing, the rumors, the… whispers about what happened. But that doesn't excuse—"

"Don't," I said, cutting her off sharply. My voice was low, cold. "Don't make excuses for me. Or for them."

She blinked, her composure flickering for just a moment. "I'm not making excuses," she said, her tone firm. "But provoking Marcus Flint, making a spectacle of yourself in the corridor—"

"Did you know?" I asked, my voice sharper now, cutting through her words like a knife.

Her brow furrowed, her lips parting slightly as she hesitated. "Did I know… what?"

I stepped closer, my movements slow, deliberate. The air in the room seemed to shift, grow heavier, pressing down on both of us. "That they knew," I said, my voice soft but laced with venom. "Fudge. Snape. Dumbledore. That they all knew."

"Knew what?" she asked, her voice faltering. Her face paled slightly, her hands tightening on the back of her chair.

"That I was in the orphanage," I said, the words falling like lead, cold and unrelenting. "That they left me there. That they let it happen."

She froze, her eyes widening. The color drained from her face completely, her knuckles white against the dark wood of her desk. "What are you talking about?" she asked, but there was something in her tone—a faint tremor, a crack in her control. She knew. Or she suspected. And that was enough.

"They left me," I said, my voice flat, emotionless. "Not just with the Dursleys. Not just for a few weeks. They left me in that place for years. They knew what it was like. What it did to me. And they let it happen."

Her breath hitched, her eyes searching mine for something—truth, explanation, denial. I gave her nothing but the cold, unflinching stare that I'd perfected in that place. She looked away first, her gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of my words was too much.

"That can't be true," she said, but her voice was weak, uncertain. "Dumbledore wouldn't—he couldn't—"

"He did," I said, cutting her off again. "They all did. And you stood by, didn't you? You let it happen because you trusted them. Because you believed in their plans, their games. But you didn't ask questions, did you? You didn't look too closely."

Her head snapped up, her expression a mix of anger and something else. Guilt, maybe. Or shame. "That's enough, Harry," she said sharply, but there was no real authority behind it. Her voice cracked, her mask slipping. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying," I said, stepping even closer. The edge of her desk pressed against my thighs, but I didn't care. I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. "You think I'm some damaged little boy acting out? Fine. Let's pretend you're right. But tell me, Professor—what does that make you? The one who looked away. The one who let it happen."

Her face twisted, anger flickering in her eyes, but she didn't respond. She couldn't. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. The ticking of the clock on her desk was the only sound, each second dragging out like a lifetime.

Finally, she exhaled, her shoulders sagging as she looked away. "I didn't know," she said softly, almost to herself. "Not about the orphanage. Not… that."

"But you knew enough," I said, my voice cold, emotionless. "Enough to suspect. Enough to question. And you didn't."

She looked back at me then, her eyes hard, glistening with something unshed. "What do you want from me, Harry?" she asked, her voice trembling with barely-contained fury. "An apology? For something I didn't even know? For mistakes that weren't mine?"

"I don't want anything from you," I said, my voice flat. "Not pity. Not excuses. Not apologies. I want you to remember this conversation the next time Dumbledore spins some grand tale about the Greater Good. The next time he asks you to look the other way."

Her lips tightened, her eyes narrowing as she straightened, reclaiming a shred of her composure. Before either of us could speak again, the door creaked open behind me, and the low murmur of students entering broke the charged silence. Their footsteps shuffled awkwardly as they moved to their desks, the usual chatter absent. They could feel it too—the tension, the air so thick it was suffocating.

"Take a seat, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said, her voice tight, controlled. But I heard the crack beneath it, the fracture in her composure.

I turned slowly, my movements deliberate, and walked toward an empty desk near the back of the room. The students' eyes followed me, their whispers swelling just enough to reach my ears.

"What happened?" one murmured.

"Did you see Flint?" another hissed. "His face—"

"Quiet," McGonagall snapped, her tone sharper now, slicing through their questions. The students fell silent, their heads ducking as they hurried to their seats.

I sat, leaning back in the chair, my arms folded across my chest. The wooden desk felt cold under my fingers, the edges rough and worn. My gaze drifted lazily over the room, catching on the nervous glances my classmates shot my way. None of them held my eyes for more than a second. None of them dared.

McGonagall stepped to the front of the room, her movements precise, every line of her body screaming restraint. Her voice, when she spoke, was clipped, her words cutting through the room like shards of ice.

"Today's lesson," she began, her tone forcibly neutral, "is on advanced transfiguration theory. Open your books to page 128."

The rustle of parchment and the scraping of chairs filled the air as the students obeyed, their movements rushed and disjointed. I didn't move. My book stayed closed on the desk, my hands resting lightly on either side of it.

She noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes flicked to me, narrowing just slightly, but she didn't call me out. Not yet. She launched into the lesson instead, her voice steady but devoid of the usual energy she carried into her teaching. It was mechanical, deliberate, every word more for her benefit than ours. She was keeping herself busy, trying to push past what had just happened.

I watched her, my gaze unblinking, cold. Her hands moved with precision, her wand tracing diagrams in the air, the shimmering figures hovering briefly before fading into nothingness. I didn't hear a word she said. I was too focused on her face, the faint tightness around her mouth, the way her eyes avoided mine even when they swept across the room.

Minutes stretched on, the tension simmering beneath the surface of every word, every glance. The students stayed silent, their focus forced, their movements hesitant. The lesson dragged, and so did the weight of what hung unsaid between McGonagall and me.

"Harry. Harry." Hermione's voice was a mosquito in my ear, droning on and on, a persistent hum that refused to die. Her whisper barely cut through the background noise of the classroom—quills scratching against parchment, the occasional cough, McGonagall's steady drone as she scribbled diagrams into the air with her wand. But it was there, nagging, irritating, endless.

"Harry, are you even listening?"

I didn't move. Didn't blink. My eyes stayed fixed on McGonagall, burning into her as she lectured. Her voice flowed over the class like a river over rocks—smooth, sure of itself, unbothered. But I knew better. The way her fingers gripped her wand too tightly, the faint crease at the corner of her mouth when she glanced in my direction. She was aware of me. She felt me. That was enough.

Another name for the list. Another one to mark down, file away.

How long did she know? Probably years. She's not stupid. They all knew. And they let it happen. Let them all keep their secrets, their lies. They think they've buried it so deep I won't find it. But I will. I'll dig it up. Drag it into the light and make them choke on it.

"Harry," Hermione whispered again, sharper this time, the edge of annoyance breaking through her forced patience. "Stop glaring at her. You're going to get yourself into even more trouble."

Trouble. The word made me want to laugh. What did Hermione know about trouble? What did any of them know? Her version of trouble was a missed essay deadline or a misplaced library book. She didn't know what it was like to live with trouble. To breathe it. To feel it crawling under your skin every second of every day until it became part of you.

She's on the list too. Not at the top, but she's there. Too curious. Too righteous. Always sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. Maybe I should cut her out early. Clean break. Let her see how little her friendship actually means.

I clenched my jaw, my nails digging into the wood of the desk. The sound of McGonagall's chalk scraping against the board was like nails on a coffin lid. Her voice continued, smooth and steady, completely detached from the simmering storm at the back of the room.

She thinks she's in control. They all do.

Let them think that. It'll make it easier when the time comes. When they least expect it. She'll look at me the same way she looked at Flint—like she's disappointed. Like it's my fault. But when it's her turn to kneel, she'll understand. She'll know what it feels like to be powerless.

"Harry, look at me," Hermione hissed, her voice trembling with frustration now. Her hand brushed my arm, a light touch that was supposed to snap me out of it. I didn't flinch, didn't turn. My gaze stayed locked on McGonagall, the fire in my chest burning hotter with every passing second.

Another one to add to the list. Another liar. Another coward.

How far could I push her? Not yet. She's useful for now. But when she stops being useful? When she gets in the way? A whispered word, a quick flick of the wand, and she's gone. Would anyone even notice?

McGonagall paused mid-sentence, her wand hovering in the air. The shimmering transfiguration diagram faltered, flickering as her gaze darted to me. It was quick, barely a second, but I caught it. The tightness in her jaw. The way her shoulders stiffened. She was rattled.

Good. Let her be.

I let my lips curl into the faintest smirk, just enough for her to see. Her eyes lingered for a moment too long before she looked away, her words resuming, but her rhythm was off now. Her movements too rigid, her voice too precise.

"Harry," Hermione's voice cut through again, desperate now, louder. "Please. Just… stop. Whatever you're thinking, just stop."

I turned my head then, finally, the motion smooth and unhurried. My eyes locked onto hers, and I saw her flinch, just slightly, when she met them.

"Leave. Me. Alone." The words came out soft, almost gentle, but they landed like stones, heavy and final. My voice didn't rise, didn't waver. It didn't need to.

She blinked, her breath catching, her lips parting like she wanted to say something else. But she didn't. She just stared, her eyes wide, her hand still frozen where it had brushed against my sleeve. I leaned closer, just slightly, my voice dropping even lower.

"I didn't ask for your help, Hermione. I didn't ask for you."

The hurt that flickered across her face was quick, barely there before she straightened, her expression hardening. She pulled her hand back like she'd been burned, her shoulders stiff, her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, I thought she might say something. Fight back. But she didn't. She just looked away, her fingers curling tight around the edge of her desk.

McGonagall paused mid-sentence, her wand hanging in the air as her gaze flicked toward the back of the room. She didn't look at me directly, not yet, but I saw the way her jaw tightened, the way her eyes lingered too long before snapping back to the front.

She knows. She knows she's on borrowed time.

The thought settled in my chest, cold and heavy. My fingers stilled against the desk, the quiet thud of my heartbeat filling the silence in my head. I could see it now—her face when it finally came to her turn. The crack in her voice, the falter in her step when she realized she wasn't untouchable.

I blinked slowly, the haze of my thoughts momentarily disrupted. My fingers uncurled from the desk, leaving faint crescents in the worn wood. I turned my head just enough to glance at her, her wide, worried eyes, her lips pressed into a tight line.

The bell tolled, sharp and clear, cutting through the suffocating air in the classroom. Chairs scraped against the stone floor, and the shuffle of books and parchment filled the silence McGonagall had been holding onto like a lifeline. Students whispered among themselves, their voices hushed, nervous. None of it mattered. None of it reached me.

I was already standing, my movements deliberate, controlled. My bag hung loosely over one shoulder as I stepped toward the door. My steps were steady, unhurried, but every muscle in my body felt coiled, ready to snap. I didn't look back. I didn't need to.

"Mr. Potter." McGonagall's voice called after me, firm but not loud, as if she were trying to sound authoritative without drawing too much attention. "Stay behind for a moment."

I didn't stop. Didn't falter. My hand was already on the cold iron of the door handle, the weight of it grounding me for a fleeting second. I turned the handle slowly, the faint creak of the hinges stretching out like a warning.

"Harry," Hermione's voice came from behind me, soft but desperate. I didn't turn. I didn't care.

I stepped into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind me with a finality that echoed in my ears. The noise of the students behind me faded into the background, a low hum of chatter and footsteps swallowed by the stone walls. The space stretched out before me, empty, cold, endless. I walked, each step striking the floor harder than the last.

She knew.

The words repeated in my mind, louder and louder, pounding against my skull. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The air felt too heavy, too hot, suffocating me with every breath. My magic hummed beneath my skin, sharp and restless, burning where my heart used to be. Rising, coiling, desperate to be unleashed.

She knew.

Her face flashed in my mind, the faint tremor in her voice when she called my name, the way her gaze lingered, avoiding the truth she couldn't admit. McGonagall. She knew. How long? How much? Enough. She knew enough.

Rage surged through me, sharp and white-hot, curling around my ribs and spreading like fire. I wanted to turn back. To throw open that door and drag the truth out of her, make her say it out loud, make her admit what she'd done—what she'd allowed.

But I didn't. Not yet.

The corridor twisted in front of me, the flickering torchlight casting shadows that danced and warped against the walls. My hands shook at my sides, the burning in my chest spreading to my fingertips. My breaths came faster, harsher, but I didn't stop walking. I couldn't.

This is how they play their game. The thought clawed its way to the surface, bitter and sharp. They lie. They manipulate. They watch from their towers while the rest of us burn.

McGonagall was just another piece of the puzzle. Another coward, another liar. She thought her rules, her detentions, her lectures could contain me. That she could keep me in line with the rest of them. She was wrong. They were all wrong.

My magic pulsed, a steady thrum beneath my skin, demanding release. The torches lining the corridor flickered, the flames trembling as I passed. I forced my hands to unclench, but the heat didn't subside. It built, higher and higher, pressing against my ribs like a dam ready to break.

The rage wasn't just mine. It was something deeper, something darker. It had taken root where my heart used to be, filling the empty space with fire and shadows. It wasn't going away. It couldn't. And I didn't want it to.

The path to the Black Lake felt longer than usual, the chill in the air sharper against my skin. The faint crunch of gravel under my boots was the only sound as I passed the greenhouses. Their glass walls gleamed in the fading light, but I didn't stop to look inside. I couldn't. The weight inside me, the fire twisting through my chest, was too much. It needed space. Air. Something to contain it before it burned its way out.

The lake came into view, dark and still, its surface rippling faintly under the breeze. I stopped at the edge, my feet inches from where the ground gave way to water. The cold bit into me, but I didn't feel it. Not really. My mind was too loud, too full.

The Cruciatus Curse requires intent. Focus. Not just on the spell itself, but on the suffering it creates. You can't cast it half-heartedly, or it won't work. It needs precision.

The thought hit like a knife to the temple, sharp and sudden. It wasn't mine, not really. It was from the knowledge I'd taken, the raw, jagged edges of it burning hotter with every step I'd taken from McGonagall's classroom. It was too much. Too fast. Images, words, incantations. They blurred together, colliding in my mind like shards of broken glass.

"Pain isn't the point," the book had said. "It's the tool. Fear is the result. Control is the reward."

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms until the skin broke, the sharp sting grounding me for a moment. The cool air from the lake carried the faint scent of wet stone and algae, clinging to the back of my throat. My breathing came faster, the world around me shifting, blurring as the fire inside me roared higher.

Could I use it? Would I? On her? On him? Dumbledore would feel it first. He'd see it in my eyes and know. He'd know I'd found the truth. And then he'd try to talk. He always talks. But talking doesn't matter when your throat's raw from screaming.

I blinked, my gaze snapping to the water. It rippled faintly, the reflection of the moon breaking apart in shards of light. My hand twitched at my side, my wand a comforting weight in my pocket. I could feel it there, waiting, humming faintly as if it knew what I was thinking.

Could I cast it? Right now? Would the lake feel it? Would the creatures beneath it understand?

The knowledge burned hotter, crawling up my spine, pressing against the inside of my skull. Words, curses, theories. They surged, twisting together, fracturing apart, reforming into something worse.

"Avada Kedavra is the simplest spell in principle," the voice whispered, one of a thousand thoughts clawing for space. "But simplicity doesn't mean easy. It takes everything. Leaves nothing."

Nothing. That word echoed, louder than the rest. Nothing left. No hesitation. No regret. Just the raw, unfiltered drive to take, to destroy, to obliterate.

"Harry."

The sound of my own name pulled me out of the spiral, my head jerking to the side. There was no one there, just the empty expanse of the path behind me, the shadows stretching out across the grass. It wasn't a voice, not really. It was the sound of doubt, buried somewhere deep, scratching against the edges of the fire.

Did McGonagall know? Did she really know? Or was she too much of a coward to look?

I could see her face again, pale and tight, the way her eyes flickered when I'd spoken to her. She'd been rattled. Afraid. And she should be. They all should be. But not yet. No, not yet. There was still time.

Time to learn. Time to perfect. Time to burn it all to the ground.

The fire inside me surged, drowning out everything else. My magic pulsed, an uncontrollable thrum beneath my skin, spreading outward like a storm ready to break. The surface of the lake rippled violently, though there was no wind. Just me. Only me.

The curses, the knowledge, the power—they weren't just tools. They were alive, alive inside me, clawing at the cage I'd barely managed to keep them in. They wanted out. They wanted to see the world burn as much as I did.

I took a step closer to the water, my boots sinking slightly into the damp soil. The cold lapped at me, the scent of the lake filling my lungs.

The water pulled at me as I stood knee-deep in the Black Lake. The cold soaked through my robes, creeping up my legs, but it didn't register. The chill wasn't real. Not compared to what burned inside me. The fire was alive, searing through my chest, coiling tighter, pressing against the edges of my mind. The knowledge I'd taken, the power that wasn't mine but had become mine, twisted and churned, overwhelming, endless.

Then the voice came. Low, even, devoid of any inflection. It didn't ask permission. It simply existed, cutting through the noise in my head with stark clarity.

"You are not using it."

The ripples on the water stilled, the world around me growing sharper, colder. My head turned slightly, my eyes narrowing against the emptiness stretching across the lake. My lips parted, the faint mist of my breath hanging in the frozen air.

"Using what?" I asked, my voice flat, steady.

The voice answered without hesitation, like it had been waiting. "What you have taken. You carry it like a blade still in its sheath. It is there. But you do not use it."

I clenched my fists, the faint tremor in my fingers betraying the heat rising beneath my skin. "I know how to use it."

The water lapped against my knees, calm and deliberate. The voice spoke again, its tone unchanging, clinical. "You do not. You hesitate. You wait. There is no waiting. There is no hesitation. There is action, or there is nothing."

I didn't respond immediately. My breathing slowed, my gaze fixed on the surface of the lake, the moon's reflection rippling faintly, as though it too waited for something. The fire inside me surged, pushing against the calm, demanding release.

"What are you suggesting?" My voice was quieter now, sharper, every syllable deliberate. The words weren't for me. They were for it.

"Suggestion implies choice. There is none. You took what you did because you understood. Power exists to be used. Delay is weakness. Weakness is death."

I exhaled slowly, my breath mingling with the icy air, dissipating as quickly as it came. "What's the point of using it without a reason?"

The water stirred slightly, the ripples spreading outward, faint and unremarkable, as if in response. "Reason is irrelevant. There is only the act. The moment. You use it, or you do not. The rest is noise."

I felt the weight of the words, not as an emotion but as a pressure, like a hand pressing against the back of my neck, forcing me to consider. My magic pulsed faintly, a hum beneath my skin, rising in time with the cadence of the voice. The knowledge burned brighter, louder, filling the spaces in my mind with a clarity that was almost painful.

It wasn't wrong.

It wasn't right, either. It simply was.

My gaze dropped to the water, the dark surface reflecting nothing now, only depth, endless and unyielding. The fire inside me pulsed, matching the rhythm of the voice, the faint thrum of my magic spreading through my fingertips.

"I'll use it," I said finally, my voice low, resolute. "When I choose to."

The voice didn't argue. It didn't need to. "When is an illusion. Choice is an illusion. There is only the act. Or there is nothing."

The water stilled completely, the ripples vanishing, the surface flat and black as glass. The weight in my chest grew heavier, the fire burning brighter, and for a moment, I thought the voice would say more. But it didn't.

It was gone.

"Harry!"

I turned fast, wand in hand before I even registered the movement. My magic surged, filling the space around me with something heavy, suffocating. Three figures stood on the shore, frozen like deer in torchlight. Hermione, Daphne, Tracey. The usual suspects. The unwanted ones. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide, but they didn't run. They should have.

"Harry," Hermione said again, softer this time, stepping forward cautiously, like I might snap. Maybe I would. "It's just us. It's just… we wanted to make sure you're okay."

"Wanted to make sure," I echoed, my voice low, deliberate. I tilted my head, the motion slow, the weight of my gaze locking onto hers. "And why's that? Got a job now, have you? Checking in on the broken things?"

Hermione flinched, her lips parting, but no words came out. Good. Let her swallow them.

Daphne shifted beside her, her arms crossed, her posture stiff but indifferent. She wasn't scared, not really. Not yet. Her eyes flicked to my wand, then back to my face. "We didn't come to babysit you, Potter," she said, her voice clipped. "Granger dragged us here."

"Did I?" Hermione shot back, her tone sharp, but there was a crack in it. "You came, didn't you? You could've stayed in the castle, but you didn't."

"Yeah, well," Daphne said, her tone icy, "I'm starting to think that was a mistake."

Tracey stood slightly behind them, her hands shoved into her pockets, her gaze darting between me and the others. She didn't say anything, didn't move, but I could see the nervous energy in the way her shoulders tensed. She was trying to disappear. She always was.

"Why are you here?" I asked, cutting through their bickering. My wand stayed at my side, loose but ready. "What do you think you're going to do? Fix me?"

"No," Hermione said quickly, her voice trembling but steady enough. "I just—I wanted to talk. You've been acting… off, Harry. Worse than usual."

"Off," I repeated, the word curling in my mouth like poison. "And you think you're the one to put me back on? You think you know me?"

"I know enough," she said, but her voice wavered. "Enough to know you're not okay."

I laughed then, low and humorless, the sound slicing through the cold air. "You know nothing, Granger. None of you do."

Daphne rolled her eyes, her patience fraying. "Oh, here we go," she muttered. "Potter's got another speech about how no one understands him. Spare us, will you?"

My gaze snapped to her, sharp and unblinking. "You're right," I said, my voice cold, cutting. "You don't understand me. And that's the only reason you're still standing there."

Daphne stiffened, her jaw tightening, but she didn't respond. She was smarter than I gave her credit for.

Tracey shifted uneasily, her voice barely above a whisper. "Harry… we're not here to fight. We just—"

"Don't," I said, my voice slicing through hers like a blade. "Don't finish that sentence. Don't insult me with your concern.."

"Harry, I care. I—"

"Stop." My voice was low, flat, final. The ripples on the lake surged faintly, matching the pulse of my magic. The tension in the air thickened, pressing down on all of us. "You care? About what? About me? You don't even know what that means."

Hermione faltered, her breath catching, but she didn't step back. Not yet. "It's not a lie," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It's not."

"It is," I said, my tone calm, unyielding. "And when it breaks, when you realize what it's hiding, you'll wish you'd walked away when you had the chance."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. The only sound was the faint lapping of the water against my knees. I could see it in their faces—the confusion, the fear, the desperate need to understand something they couldn't grasp.

The cold of the lake pressed against my legs as I stood there, unmoving, watching them. Hermione's hand fluttered uselessly at her side, like she was reaching for words that wouldn't come. Tracey lingered a few steps back, her head tilted like she was trying to gauge how quickly she could leave without drawing attention to herself. Cowards, all of them.

Then Daphne moved.

She stepped forward, her posture sharp, precise. Her wand was already in her hand, steady as stone, the tip glinting faintly in the moonlight. She wasn't like Hermione—there was no hesitation, no fear. Just cold calculation.

"Come on, Potter," she said, her voice low and biting, each word a spark against the powder keg inside me. "Do it. Jinx me. Curse me. Whatever you're planning to do in that twisted little head of yours—just get on with it."

I turned my head, my gaze snapping to her, unblinking. My magic pulsed again, searing beneath my skin, demanding release. "You don't want that," I said, my voice flat, emotionless. But there was a warning in it, a weight she should've felt.

She took another step closer, her wand never wavering. "Maybe I do," she said, her lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smirk. "Maybe I want to see what you've got, Potter. All that fire, all that rage. Show me."

"Daphne," Hermione hissed, her voice rising with panic. "Stop it! You don't know what you're doing—"

"Yes, I do," Daphne cut her off sharply, her eyes never leaving mine. "He thinks he's invincible. That we're all beneath him. Let's see it, then. Let's see what you've got."

The fire in my chest surged, and I felt my wand slide into my hand without thinking. "You're making a mistake," I said, my voice quiet but laced with steel. "I don't fight fair."

"Good," she said, her voice cold, almost amused. "Neither do I."

The cold water sloshed around my legs, the lake biting into my skin as I stood there, unmoving. Daphne's eyes locked onto mine, hard and sharp. Her wand didn't waver. The air crackled between us, thick with tension.

"Go on, Potter," she said, her voice cold and clear. "You want to show me what you've got? Let's see it."

I didn't respond. Words were wasted on someone like her. My grip on the wand tightened, the magic beneath my skin begging to be unleashed. I let it build, pressing against the edge of control, ready to flood out and overwhelm her.

Hermione's voice wavered behind me. "Harry, please. Don't—"

"Be quiet," I snapped, my eyes still on Daphne. "This isn't about you."

Daphne smirked faintly, her gaze never leaving mine. "Bold words. But all I see is a boy too afraid to act."

That was it. The magic surged, a coiled spring snapping free. My wand cut through the air, my voice a harsh bark. "Deprimo!"

The spell roared toward her, but Daphne was already moving. Her shield charm snapped into place, the force of my spell slamming into it and ricocheting harmlessly into the lake. The water surged, spraying upward in a glittering arc, but she didn't flinch.

"Is that all you've got?" she taunted, her tone sharp, mocking. "Pathetic."

My next spell shot from my wand like a red streak of lightning. She ducked, rolling to the side with a fluid grace that made my chest tighten with frustration. Her wand flicked, her counterattack slicing through the air faster than I expected.

"Petrificus Totalus!" she called, her voice calm, controlled.

I twisted to dodge, but the spell grazed my shoulder, the force of it enough to send me staggering back a step. My foot slipped on the slick mud beneath the water, and I nearly went down. The cold bit deeper as I recovered, my breath coming harder now.

"You're sloppy," Daphne said, her voice cutting like a blade. "All that power, and you can't even aim."

I ignored her words, focusing on the magic bubbling inside me, letting it rise, letting it consume me. "Expulso!" The ground between us erupted, a jagged wall of earth and water shooting up toward her. She was ready. Her wand slashed downward, and the wall dissolved into harmless mist before it could touch her.

"You think you're the only one with tricks?" she said, stepping forward. Her wand moved again, faster than I could react. "Incarcerous!"

The ropes shot from her wand like vipers, coiling around me before I could even raise my own. They locked tight, binding my arms to my sides, forcing me to drop my wand into the water. The cold shock of it was nothing compared to the rage boiling inside me.

I struggled, twisting against the ropes, but they only tightened. The magic in them burned faintly, a sharp reminder of her precision. My knees hit the muddy bottom of the lake, and I snarled, the sound low and guttural.

Daphne approached slowly, her wand still raised, her expression calm but fierce. "You really thought you could take me, didn't you?" she said, her voice soft but heavy with contempt. "You thought all your rage, all your bluster, would be enough to scare me off. But here you are, Potter. On your knees."

"Let me go," I hissed, my voice raw with fury.

She crouched in front of me, her wand hovering just inches from my face. "Why? So you can try again? No, I think you need to stay right where you are. Maybe this will teach you some humility."

I glared at her, my teeth bared, but she didn't flinch. If anything, she seemed to enjoy it, the way her eyes glinted with quiet satisfaction.

"You're used to winning, aren't you?" she said, her tone almost conversational. "Used to everyone stepping aside because you're Harry bloody Potter. But not me."

I didn't answer. Words felt small, meaningless against the tide of my anger. The ropes bit into my skin as I struggled again, but they didn't budge. The cold water lapped at my knees, a sharp contrast to the heat burning through my chest.

"Daphne!" Hermione's voice rang out, sharp with panic. "That's enough. Let him go."

Daphne didn't look away from me. Her smirk softened into something colder, something more dangerous. "I'll let him go," she said slowly, her wand still steady. "But only because I've already won."

She flicked her wand, and the ropes dissolved, dropping me unceremoniously into the freezing water.

The water clung to my skin, the chill sinking into my bones. I stayed there, sitting in the muck, staring at the ripples spreading from my knees. My wand was somewhere in the lakebed, lost, and my hands felt useless without it.

Footsteps splashed closer. Slow, deliberate. I didn't look up, not until her shadow fell over me.

Daphne stood there, her wand still in her hand, though she held it loosely now. Her hair framed her face, damp from the spray of spells, but her expression was carved from stone. Cold. Unrelenting. Victorious.

"Pathetic," she said softly, her words slicing through the silence like a blade. "Look at you, Potter. You sit there, dripping and useless, like a drowned rat."

I forced myself to meet her gaze. Her lips curled into a faint smirk, the kind that made my chest burn.

"You're nothing," she continued, her voice sharper now. "All that power you like to parade around? All those threats? It's a facade. Your ego. Your convoluted idea that you're better than everyone else. It's a joke, Potter. And so are you."

The words landed like blows. I didn't flinch. My movements were deliberate, precise, as I pushed myself to my feet. Water dripped from my arms, pooling at my feet. My breathing was measured. My soaked clothes clung to me like a second skin, but I didn't let the discomfort distract me. I stepped toward Daphne, calculated, each step designed to unsettle her until I stood just inside her reach.

"You think this is a victory," I said, my voice low, cutting. "That trying to break me gives you some sort of leverage."

Her smirk twitched, faltered for the briefest moment. Good.

"Understand this," I continued, each word like a blade sliding into place. "Every wound, every failure, every humiliation—it's not a defeat. It's data. Every time someone thinks they've won, they teach me something: how they fight, what they value, where they're weak." My head tilted slightly, my eyes narrowing. "So keep going, Greengrass. All you're doing is handing me the tools to destroy you."

Her lips parted as if to respond, but I wasn't finished.

"They left me," I said, quieter now, almost conversational. "Dumbledore. The Ministry. Snape. All of them. They dropped me into the gutter, abandoned me in the filth. They thought it wouldn't matter."

I leaned in slightly, letting my voice drop lower, softer. "All it did was sharpen the blade."

Her smirk was gone now, replaced by something harder to place. Unease? Caution? She didn't step back, but her shoulders stiffened. Her hand shifted slightly on her wand. Noted.

Then it came. The voice. The whisper.

This isn't working.

It coiled through my thoughts, sharp and familiar. Not unwelcome.

You lack refinement, Harry. You thrash and burn when you should dissect. Hate and anger are tools, yes, but you wield them like a hammer. Some problems require a scalpel.

The voice was right, of course. It always was. Rage wasn't the answer to every scenario, no matter how it sang through my veins.

"Don't mistake me for someone who wallows in pain," I said, pulling back slightly, just enough to give her space to think she'd gained something. "I don't break under pressure. I analyze it. Catalog it. Use it. The only question is this: how far are you willing to go to beat me? How much are you willing to lose? Because I promise you, Greengrass, it'll cost you everything."

The voice hummed again, almost amused.

Better. Precision, Harry. Let them think they have the upper hand. Their confidence is a leash, one they'll tighten around their own throats.

Daphne's grip tightened on her wand, but she didn't raise it. She wasn't sure anymore. She was smart enough to see the danger, but not enough to avoid it entirely. That hesitation would be useful later.

"What's your goal here?" I asked, my tone clipped, disinterested. I straightened, stepping back, letting the tension between us stretch like a wire. "Is this supposed to be a lesson? A warning? Or are you just hoping to feel superior for a moment?"

Her jaw tightened, and her lips parted as if to respond. I didn't give her the chance. A faint, humorless smile flickered at the edge of my mouth.

"Doesn't matter," I said, turning sharply. My back to her now, I let the silence speak for me. "You've already told me everything I needed to know."

Each step I took away was deliberate. My clothes were heavy, the cold biting at my skin, but I barely noticed. The empty halls stretched before me, my footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. Behind me, Daphne stayed silent, her presence fading as I left her behind.

The voice returned, soft, insidious.

Sympathy is a weakness, Harry. They'll try to offer it. Let them. Let them think you're something to fix. Let them think they're helping you. Every ounce of pity they give is a piece of themselves you can break.

A faint smirk pulled at my lips..

They didn't matter. Their pity didn't matter. What mattered was time—time to sharpen my edge. And every moment they underestimated me was a step closer to proving I didn't need their help.

You'll make them regret thinking you ever did.

"They knew," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. Not trembling, not strained—just a fact laid bare. My knees sank into the mud, deliberate. The cold wetness seeped through the fabric, and my hands pressed into the earth, nails biting into it. A posture of defeat. But I wasn't defeated.

Hermione's voice broke the stillness, soft and careful. "Who knew?"

"Dumbledore. Snape. Fudge," I replied, each name pronounced with precision. My tone was even, the words measured. Let her hear exactly what I wanted her to hear. Let her imagination fill in the gaps.

Daphne shifted slightly, her arms crossed, her gaze steady. Calculating. "Knew what, Potter?"

"He told me," I said, lifting my head just enough to meet her eyes. "Fudge spilled everything in the hospital wing."

Hermione stepped closer, hesitant. Predictable. "What did he say, Harry?"

I let out a short laugh—cold, sharp, mechanical. It echoed in the damp air like a crack of glass. "Everything. He told me everything. About Dumbledore. About Snape. About how they knew exactly where I was. At the orphanage. At that place."

Daphne's expression flickered, just slightly. Sympathy? Curiosity? It didn't matter. Either could be exploited.

"They didn't want me," I continued, my words directed at the silence more than at them. "Not until I became useful. I was a contingency, a tool to be deployed when convenient. They knew what that place was like, and they left me there."

Hermione knelt down, her hand twitching toward me but stopping short, as though she thought touching me would shatter the moment. "Harry... they wouldn't have—"

"They would," I said, cutting her off. My voice was low, firm. Controlled. "They had reasons. Excuses. Dumbledore was busy. Snape is Snape. And Fudge? He was too cowardly to challenge them. It was all politics and 'greater goods.' They prioritized what mattered, and it wasn't me."

This isn't enough, Harry. The voice slid through my mind, a symphony of tones speaking as one. Your anger is loud, unfocused. They'll see it and think they've won. Hate is a tool, but only when wielded with precision.

I glanced at Hermione, my expression carefully neutral. "Fudge thought he was helping, telling me all this. Like honesty could justify what they did. He thought I'd forgive them, maybe even thank him for his candor."

Hermione's face twisted in anguish, tears pooling in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking.

I tilted my head, studying her. "Why are you sorry, Hermione? You didn't do it. You couldn't have stopped it. Just like they couldn't stop it. That's what Fudge said. He wanted to help but couldn't. Said he felt bad about it." I let the bitterness drip from my words. "As if guilt is worth anything."

They think guilt binds you. They think it will sway you. The voice murmured, cool and certain. Let them. Show them only what you want them to see.

The silence stretched, thick and stifling. I let it hang, watching Hermione shift uncomfortably. Her emotions were written across her face like a poorly guarded secret. Daphne, by contrast, stayed still, her gaze steady and sharp. She was trying to solve the puzzle, to figure out what game I was playing.

Good.

I pushed myself to my feet slowly, deliberately, wiping the mud from my hands with careful precision. "You know what the best part is?" I said, turning my attention to Daphne now. "They think I care. They think they can use their pity, their guilt, to control me. To make me fall in line."

Daphne arched an eyebrow, her voice calm, probing. "And you don't?"

A faint smile curved my lips, cold and calculated. "Of course I care. Just not the way they expect. Sympathy is a tool, Greengrass. One they handed me the moment they showed me their cards."

Hermione's face crumpled further. She didn't understand. She never would. But Daphne... she nodded, just slightly. Recognition.

She'll be useful. Sympathy is a chain, one you can wrap around her neck when the time comes.

I felt their gazes—Hermione's heavy with concern, Daphne's sharp with interest.

Every look, every word—they're giving you pieces of themselves. Take them, Harry. They don't realize they've already lost.

Hermione moved first. Her hand brushed against mine, tentative but persistent. My instincts flared, screaming at me to pull away—touch was a vulnerability. A threat. But I didn't move. Her fingers tightened, trembling but firm, as though she believed her touch could ground me, tether me to some moment of shared understanding.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice soft, steady, and unmistakably Gryffindor. "You're not alone. Not anymore."

The absurdity of her words made me want to laugh. Not alone? The concept was almost insulting. But laughter would betray too much. Instead, I let my gaze fall to her hand, her pale fingers gripping mine. I didn't pull away. Vulnerability, whether real or feigned, had its uses.

"You don't have to shoulder this on your own," Daphne said, stepping closer. Her voice was sharper, less indulgent, but there was an undertone of calculation. Her blue eyes scanned my face, dissecting my every flicker of expression. "Not anymore."

I blinked up at her, letting my voice come out rough, broken. "Why do you care?" The words sounded jagged, raw—crafted just enough to appear genuine, though I already knew the answer. People like her always sought control, leverage. Fine. Let her think she was getting it.

Daphne crouched in front of me, her gaze level, unrelenting. "Because I know what happens when you let it consume you. You think you're the only one who's been abandoned? The only one who's had to fight just to survive? You're not. And I'm not going to let you drown."

Her words were a test, a carefully placed probe. I studied her face, searching for the cracks. Sympathy? No. It wasn't pity. She wanted something more. Something I could use.

Tracey moved closer, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "You act like you're so different, but you're not. You've been through hell, sure. So have we. Maybe not the same kind, but enough to know what it feels like to be left behind."

Their words weren't about me. They were about them. They needed to feel connected, to see a reflection of their own pain. This wasn't compassion—it was an opening. A weakness begging to be exploited.

You're fumbling, the voice said suddenly, cutting through my thoughts like a knife. Its tone was calm, incisive, a thousand voices blended into one. You've given them enough to think they've reached you, but you haven't turned the tide. Vulnerability isn't the same as surrender, Harry. Use this moment to shift the balance. They want to help? Let them. But set the terms.

"I don't need your pity," I muttered, keeping my tone hoarse and worn, calculated to sound as though I was barely holding it together.

Daphne's eyes narrowed, her expression sharpening. "It's not pity, Potter. It's reality. You're a mess. And if you don't let someone in, it's going to destroy you."

Hermione's grip on my hand tightened. "She's right," she said, her voice softer but firmer now. "You don't have to do this alone. Let us help you."

Good, the voice murmured, its tone cool and precise. Now, accept their offer. Make them believe it's their choice, their victory. People who think they've saved you will fight to keep you from falling again. Their loyalty becomes a chain that binds them to your cause.

"I don't know how," I said finally, forcing the words to carry a roughness, just enough truth to make the lie stick. "I don't know how to let anyone help."

Hermione leaned closer, her other hand brushing against my arm as though she could physically will me to believe her sincerity. "It's okay," she said softly. "You don't have to know how. Just let us be here."

Daphne stood, her hand outstretched. Her expression was firm, commanding. "Get up, Potter," she said. "We'll figure it out together."

I stared at her hand for a moment, my expression carefully unreadable. Slowly, deliberately, I reached out and let my hand meet hers. Her grip was steady, grounding, as she pulled me to my feet. I swayed slightly, but I didn't let myself stumble. Weakness needed to be seen, but never too much.

Now seal it, the voice instructed, its tone sharper. Acknowledge their effort. They need to believe they're making progress. But leave just enough distance to remind them you're not entirely theirs.

"Thank you," I said, my voice low and controlled, yet touched with the faintest edge of hesitation. Enough to make it seem hard-won.

Hermione smiled through the faint glint of tears, and Daphne's lips curved slightly, satisfied. They thought they'd achieved something. Perfect.

This is the first step, Harry, the voice continued, cool and unwavering. Leverage their loyalty, but never let them hold the reins. They are tools, not equals. And tools only have value so long as they serve your purpose.

I hesitated, just for a moment. Who are you? I asked silently, the thought directed inward. Why now? Why speak now, after all this time?

The voice laughed, a thousand echoes rolled into one. You already know who I am, Harry. I am the knowledge you bound to your soul. I am your edge, your arsenal.

We began walking back toward the castle. Hermione and Daphne stayed close, their footsteps deliberate, hovering as though afraid I might collapse. Tracey trailed behind, watching with an unease that flickered across her face. They thought they had me, tethered by their concern. I let them believe it.

You've pulled them in, but the illusion isn't complete, the voice murmured, a thousand tones blending into one cold, measured thought. They see your cracks, but not the full break. If you want their loyalty to bind, you must show them something more convincing.

"How?" I asked silently, my steps measured, my gaze fixed ahead. How do I act weak enough that they believe it without giving them control? How do I make it real for them?

Weakness is not surrender, the voice replied, its tone as calm and sharp as a scalpel. It's a mask. You wear it to gain their trust, their protection. They'll defend what they think is fragile. They'll fight for what they think they can save. But you must be precise. Too much weakness, and they'll pity you. Too little, and they'll doubt the performance.

Daphne glanced at me as we walked, her expression both calculating and concerned. I tilted my head slightly, catching her gaze but letting mine waver, just for a moment, before I looked away.

Like that? I asked.

Better, the voice said. Vulnerability is in the subtleties. A falter in your step. A hesitation in your voice. Let them see you struggle, but never break entirely. They'll interpret the effort as strength—and they'll admire you for it.

I stumbled slightly, my foot catching on uneven ground. Daphne's hand shot out, steadying me before I could fall. Her grip was firm, almost grounding.

"Careful," she said, her tone sharp, but not unkind. "You're not invincible."

I let out a faint, bitter laugh. "Feels like I'm far from it."

Hermione shot me a worried glance. "You don't have to be invincible, Harry. That's the point."

I didn't reply immediately, instead letting my shoulders sag just slightly. My steps slowed, deliberate, as though I was dragging myself forward. Let them interpret the silence how they wanted.

Good, the voice encouraged, a faint hint of satisfaction threading through its tone. They think they're pulling you back from the edge. Now, guide them. Let them believe they're steering, but keep control of the direction.

"So what now?" I asked aloud, my voice low, deliberately uncertain. It was a question aimed at the group, but it carried enough weight to sound rhetorical. Enough for them to think I was looking for guidance, not asserting control.

Hermione was the first to respond, predictably. "We take it one step at a time," she said softly. "You've been through so much, but we'll figure it out together. You're not alone anymore."

Daphne nodded. "You need to stop trying to do everything yourself, Potter. Learn to lean on someone once in a while."

They're offering their strength freely, the voice noted, its tone colder now. Accept it, but never rely on it. Let them feel indispensable. Gratitude is the leash. Tie it tightly, but never let them feel your true strength.

"I don't know if I can," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I slowed further, forcing them to adjust their pace to mine. "But... I'll try."

Hermione's expression softened, and Daphne gave a small nod, as though they believed they'd made progress. As though I'd given them something meaningful.

Perfect, the voice murmured. Now, keep them close. Let them feel they're making a difference. But don't lose sight of the endgame. Sympathy is a leash, but power is the hand that holds it. Remember that.

We reached the castle steps, and Hermione turned to me, her hand brushing lightly against my arm again. "You don't have to figure it all out tonight, Harry. Just take it one day at a time."

"Right," I said quietly, my tone carefully subdued. I glanced down, letting my shoulders slump again. A practiced gesture, precise enough to appear natural.

As we climbed the steps, the voice spoke again, its tone quieter but no less commanding. Your next move is to reinforce their loyalty. A word of thanks here, a moment of trust there. Keep them invested. The deeper their ties to you, the harder it will be for them to sever them when the time comes.

And after that? I asked silently. What happens when they're too entangled to pull away?

Then, the voice said, a faint edge of amusement in its tone, you'll remind them why they tied themselves to you in the first place. And they'll never think to question it again.

A faint smile tugged at my lips as I followed them inside. They didn't see it. They wouldn't have understood it if they had.

The castle halls were quiet, our footsteps echoing faintly against the cold stone. Hermione walked just ahead, Daphne at my side, her gaze flicking toward me every so often, as if checking to see if I'd collapse. I let her see the weariness in my steps, my deliberate slowness, just enough to appear fragile. Not broken—never broken—but fractured in a way they thought they could mend.

You're doing well, the voice said suddenly, its tone smooth and sharp, weaving seamlessly into my thoughts. Each step binds them closer. Each word solidifies their loyalty. They believe they're leading, but it's you who holds the reins.

I exhaled softly, disguising it as fatigue. Why now? I asked silently, my steps never faltering. Why speak to me now, after everything? I could have used you in the hospital wing, when Fudge and Bones cornered me. When Dumbledore stood there, pretending to care. Where were you then?

The voice laughed faintly, a low, knowing sound that echoed in a thousand subtle tones. You weren't ready, it said. Your mind was... resilient. Your defenses were strong, even against yourself. I've always been here, Harry, buried within the knowledge you bound to your soul. Watching. Waiting. But you didn't need me yet.

I didn't need you? I thought back to the hospital wing, to Fudge's clumsy questions, Bones' sharp gaze, Dumbledore's insufferable pity. My fists tightened at my sides. I needed you then. I could have turned their games against them, exposed their hypocrisy, twisted their guilt into leverage.

No, the voice said firmly, with the precision of a master correcting a novice. You did everything right in the hospital wing. Your silence was your weapon, your calmness their undoing. They left uncertain, rattled. But it wasn't enough to draw me out. Not yet.

My brow furrowed slightly, but I kept my expression neutral as Hermione glanced back at me. She smiled faintly, reassuringly, as though trying to offer comfort. I returned a weak approximation of a smile and lowered my gaze.

So why now? I pressed the voice. What changed?

Lucius Malfoy. The voice's tone darkened, its sharpness tinged with contempt. He saw you. Truly saw you. And for the first time, your defenses cracked. The way he provoked you, the way his words slid past your armor—it opened a door. Small, but enough.

I thought back to Malfoy, his sneering face, the smug superiority in every calculated word. My jaw tightened. So he weakened me?

No, the voice corrected, calm and assured. He strengthened me. You. The crack allowed me to surface. You've always been strong, Harry, but even the strongest blade dulls without refinement. That's what I am. Refinement. Focus. Guidance.

I tilted my head slightly, as though adjusting to the weight of the conversation within my mind. And now you guide me? Now you decide I need you?

Yes, the voice said simply. Because now, the stakes are higher. Your enemies see you not as a child, but as a threat. They'll test you in ways they haven't before. And if you falter, even once, they'll destroy you. That's why I've come forward. Not because you're weak, but because you're ready.

Hermione slowed, her voice cutting into my thoughts. "Harry, are you all right? You're so quiet."

I glanced at her, my expression carefully crafted—a faint flicker of weariness, just enough to match the tone she wanted to see. "Just tired," I said softly, letting my voice carry a hint of hesitation. "It's... a lot."

Her face softened immediately. "It's okay," she said, her voice soothing. "We're here."

See how easily they fall into the trap, the voice murmured, its tone approving. They believe their concern is helping. It binds them to you, Harry. Play the role, but never let them forget who holds the true power.

I nodded at Hermione, slow and deliberate. "Thanks," I said, my tone quiet, but sincere enough to appear genuine.

Daphne glanced at me, her sharp gaze lingering. She wasn't as easily convinced as Hermione, but that didn't matter. She'd still stay close, watching, waiting, trying to figure me out.

Now, I said to the voice. Explain. What did Lucius Malfoy do that you think matters so much?

The voice responded immediately, its tone sharp and deliberate, the precision of a surgeon's blade. Lucius didn't just see you, Harry. He tested you. The way he spoke, the way he framed his questions—it wasn't idle arrogance. It was calculated.

He was trying to provoke me, I thought, piecing it together. To get me to react.

Exactly, the voice confirmed. He wanted to see the edges of your control. He knew the story, the surface-level narrative everyone else sees: the boy who survived, the supposed savior of the wizarding world. But Lucius wasn't interested in the facade. He wanted to see if there was something deeper beneath it. Something dangerous.

He found it, didn't he?

Yes, the voice said, its tone calm but unrelenting. The moment you challenged him, the moment your anger slipped through—he saw it. He saw the fire you try to hide. And he realized you weren't just a boy clinging to survival. You were something more.

So, what? I demanded. He saw me get angry. Plenty of people have. Why does that matter?

The voice paused, its tone shifting slightly, carrying an edge of warning now. Because Lucius is not like the others. He's not Dumbledore, weighed down by morality. He's not Fudge, blinded by cowardice. Lucius is cunning, Harry. He's ruthless. He understands power. And now, he sees you as a potential threat.

I frowned, the weight of the realization settling over me. So that's why you came forward? Because of Lucius?

Partly, the voice admitted. He cracked the surface. He saw what you are capable of, and he'll be watching you closely from now on. But it's not just about him. It's about what you've become. You've reached a point where you can no longer afford to stumble. One misstep, one moment of hesitation, and someone like Lucius will destroy you.

So, what do I do?

You adapt, the voice replied, cold and certain. Lucius respects power, but he fears unpredictability. You must give him both. Let him see strength, but never let him find the pattern in your actions. Make him question what you'll do next, and he'll hesitate. Hesitation is a weakness you can exploit.

And if he pushes further?

Then you push back harder. Subtly, at first. A move he can't openly challenge but will understand as a warning. If he presses beyond that, you remove him. Permanently.

I smirked faintly, the edges of my mouth curving upward. Kill Lucius Malfoy? That would draw too much attention.

Not kill, the voice clarified, its tone almost amused. Remove. There are many ways to dismantle a man, Harry. His reputation, his alliances, his family. Find what he values most, and take it from him. Slowly. Quietly. By the time he realizes what's happening, it'll be too late.

I defied him, I thought, addressing the voice. I made a scene. Threw his precious invitation in his face. How do I come back from that?

The voice answered immediately, its tone calm, calculated. You don't come back, Harry. You step forward. What's done is done, but defiance doesn't have to mean defeat. What you did wasn't a mistake—it was a declaration. Own it.

Own it? I frowned slightly, replaying the scene in my mind. He wanted me to come to that gala. Wanted to pull me into his games, show me off as some token of control. I spat on the opportunity. Won't that make him double down?

Yes, the voice admitted, its tone unfaltering. But that is to your advantage. Lucius expects you to backtrack, to grovel, or at least attempt to smooth things over. Instead, you'll do the opposite. You'll make him believe your defiance was deliberate, calculated. He'll respect boldness far more than capitulation.

I mulled that over, glancing toward the archway leading to the Great Hall. Hermione's voice drifted faintly from within, Daphne's sharper tone following soon after. They were waiting for me, but I lingered in the corridor, my thoughts turning.

So what do I do? Ignore him? Pretend it never happened?

The voice chuckled faintly, a dark, knowing sound. No. Ignoring him would make you seem like a petulant child, not a force to be reckoned with. Instead, you escalate subtly. Send a message that reinforces your control without directly antagonizing him. A move that he cannot respond to without appearing weak.

What kind of move? I asked, my mind running through possibilities.

Rejecting the gala was the first step, the voice explained. Now you show him you don't need his approval or his world. Position yourself as an equal, not a subordinate. You'll need allies—connections he respects but cannot easily manipulate. The Parkinsons, the Notts, perhaps even the Greengrass family. Slowly, you surround yourself with influence he cannot touch. That will irritate him far more than words or gestures.

I smirked faintly. Make him see I'm building something without him.

Precisely, the voice replied. But be careful. Lucius is no fool. He'll test your alliances, look for cracks. Ensure that those you align with are tied to you as tightly as possible. Show them a side of you that makes them believe you're worth following.

And the gala? What happens when the night comes, and I'm not there? Won't that leave a void he can fill with his narrative?

Perhaps, the voice acknowledged. But you can counter it easily enough. Let them whisper about your absence. Make sure your name is spoken at that event, even if you're not there. A carefully placed rumor, a subtle show of power elsewhere that overshadows his evening—it will make them wonder why you didn't attend and fear what you're planning instead.

And if he challenges me directly? I asked. Calls me out for defying him?

Then you meet his challenge head-on, the voice said, its tone hardening. But remember: never let him dictate the terms. If he presses, respond with cold logic. Let him see that your defiance wasn't impulsive, but calculated. A move designed to remind him that you're not someone he can control.

Fine. Let's see how he likes that.

Good, the voice murmured approvingly. Now go. Reinforce your alliances. Lay the groundwork for what's to come. The gala is just one battle, Harry. The war is yours to shape.

Draco, I thought, directing my words to the voice. I was doing so well with him. He was starting to trust me, to see me as something other than an enemy. But I threw it away with my anger today. Didn't I?

No, the voice said, calm and measured as always. You didn't throw it away. You created a fracture. And fractures can be mended—or exploited.

Exploited? I frowned slightly, tracing my finger along the edge of my plate. How? He idolizes his father. Lucius will spin what happened, turn Draco against me completely.

Not completely, the voice corrected. Draco may admire Lucius, but he's not blind to his father's flaws. He's seen the coldness, the manipulation. He won't admit it openly, but part of him resents being a pawn in his father's games. That's where your opportunity lies.

So what do I do? I asked, my thoughts flickering between doubt and calculation. I can't exactly apologize. That would make me look weak.

Apologizing would be a mistake, the voice agreed, sharp and certain. Instead, reframe the narrative. Make Draco question why you acted the way you did. Let him see it not as a loss of control, but as defiance. Position yourself as someone willing to stand up to Lucius in a way he cannot. That will intrigue him.

And how do I do that? Draco isn't exactly the introspective type.

Draco is ruled by pride and curiosity, the voice said, its tone faintly amused. Appeal to both. Start small. A carefully placed comment, a subtle display of strength. Make him doubt the narrative Lucius spins. And when the time comes, offer him something his father cannot: independence.

Independence? I arched a brow, the concept almost laughable. Draco Malfoy, the prince of Slytherin, wants independence?

Not yet, the voice admitted. But he will. The more Lucius tightens his grip, the more Draco will crave it. Your goal is to plant the seeds now. Show him that power doesn't always come from obedience. That there are other ways to rise.