𝕯𝖎𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖉 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘

ACT I: Crown of Embers

Chapter 3: The Voice Unseen

Previously on Chapter 2:

Neville agreed, and the two of them stood up. As they made their way out of the Great Hall, Harry couldn't help but glance over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Ron charging toward them, red-faced and ready to blow up at Harry for not waking him up. But the hall remained as it was, with students finishing their breakfasts and chatting, and the weight of a new day pressing on Harry's chest.

Harry stepped out of the Charms classroom, the faint click of the door closing behind him echoing down the empty corridor. His bag hung loosely from one shoulder, but it wasn't the weight of his books that felt heavy. It was everything else. The room had been filled with the eager chatter of his classmates, their voices light and full of expectation, but Harry hadn't heard a word. He'd nodded at the appropriate moments, pretended to follow Professor Flitwick's demonstration, but inside, everything had felt distant.

The levitation charm was a child's game to him now—swish, flick, watch the feather rise. He'd done it all before, mastered it with little more than a thought. And yet, even in that simple movement, he felt no thrill, no joy in the magic he once found fascinating. It had all become... rote. Another thing to tick off, like breathing or walking.

He turned a corner, intending to head back to the Gryffindor common room, when hurried footsteps echoed behind him. He recognized the pattern immediately—a familiar, uneven rhythm born of someone in a rush and too angry to care about subtlety. Harry's stomach sank as he turned to see Ron storming toward him, his face flushed a blotchy red.

"Oi, Harry!" Ron's voice boomed, slicing through the empty corridor like a spell gone awry. "What the bloody hell is your problem?"

Harry blinked, taken aback by the sheer heat in Ron's tone. "What are you talking about?" he asked, though he had a sinking suspicion he already knew.

Ron reached him in a few quick strides, standing close enough now that Harry could see the glint of frustration in his eyes. "You didn't wake me up! You just left without me, like I'm some bloody afterthought!"

Harry's chest tightened. He had braced himself for this confrontation, but the intensity of Ron's anger still caught him off guard. "I tried waking you," Harry said evenly, keeping his voice calm despite the irritation bubbling beneath. "You didn't get up. I wasn't going to wait around all morning."

Ron's jaw clenched. "You could've tried harder, though. You always do this! You don't care if I'm late, do you?"

Harry opened his mouth to argue but closed it again, biting back his initial response. He took a steadying breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. "It's just breakfast, Ron. Not the end of the world."

"It's not just about breakfast!" Ron's voice rose, loud enough now to draw curious glances from a group of Hufflepuffs passing at the far end of the hall. "First you let that bloody Malfoy talk smack about my mother! And then you don't even wake me up for breakfast! What Saint Potter is too good for his friends now?"

The words hit harder than Harry expected. For a moment, he couldn't tell if it was anger or guilt tightening his chest. His jaw worked soundlessly as he tried to find the right words to defuse the situation, but none came.

Before he could respond, Hermione's voice cut through the tension like a soothing charm. "Ron, that's enough," she said, stepping into the fray with her usual air of exasperated authority. "Harry's not trying to leave you behind."

Ron shot her a scathing look. "Stay out of it, Hermione. This is between me and Harry."

"Exactly," she countered, crossing her arms. "And yelling at him in the middle of the hallway isn't going to solve anything."

Harry glanced at Hermione, grateful for her intervention but uneasy all the same. This wasn't the first time she'd stepped in to mediate between him and Ron, and he hated the dynamic it created—her caught in the middle, Ron playing the victim, and Harry left feeling like the villain in a story he didn't even want to be part of.

"I'm not the bad guy here, Hermione," Ron said, his tone defensive now but no less heated. He turned back to Harry, his gaze sharp and accusing. "You're the one who—"

"Ron, stop." Harry's voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the noise of the argument. He met Ron's glare head-on, his green eyes steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within him. "I'm not doing this right now."

For a moment, Ron faltered, his expression flickering with uncertainty. But just as quickly, the anger returned, and Harry knew this wasn't over—not by a long shot.

Harry leaned back against the cool stone wall of the corridor, letting Ron's words echo faintly in his mind as the heated argument seemed to fade into white noise. His gaze dropped to the floor, where the morning's events unfurled in his thoughts like a reel of tape.

They'd been late. Again.

Harry had arrived early to Charms with Neville, taking a seat near the window, where the sunlight spilled across the polished wooden desks. The room had been relatively quiet then, save for the occasional whisper of pages turning or the rhythmic tap of Flitwick's wand as he prepared for the lesson.

But when the door opened moments after the lesson began, and Ron and Hermione hurried in, red-faced and breathless, Flitwick's expression shifted. The ever-kind professor gave them a tight smile, his usual buoyant cheer replaced by a flicker of disappointment.

And ask any student at Hogwarts, Flitwick's disappointed look was the worst thing to be on the end of. Worse than Snape's venomous bullying and cruel insults that could make you wish for a time-turner to undo your very existence. Worse than McGonagall's stern punishments and disciplinary orders that felt like she was stamping your soul out, one punishment at a time. Worse than being sent into the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid, where every rustle of the trees seemed like the last thing you'd ever hear. Flitwick's disappointment cut deeper than all of it.

Ron muttered an apology, but the professor only sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Punctuality is as much a part of charm work as technique, Mr. Weasley. Please try to manage your time better."

Harry had caught Hermione's glance, a fleeting moment of guilt and frustration that she tried to mask. Ron, however, had merely plopped into his seat, looking utterly unbothered, his quill scratching lazily at a sheet of parchment as Flitwick resumed his lecture.

The rest of the class had passed in a haze for Harry. While others practiced their wand movements with varying degrees of success, his mind wandered.

It wasn't just the tardiness. It wasn't just the way Ron laughed off Flitwick's disappointment, as if the professor's opinion didn't matter. It was the pattern. The sense of growing distance.

A soft tap on his shoulder pulled Harry sharply back to the present. He blinked, startled, to find Neville standing beside him, his quiet presence somehow managing to cut through the tension in a way no one else had.

"Hey," Neville said softly, his tone almost hesitant but filled with an unmistakable warmth. "You okay?"

Harry nodded, though the weight in his chest hadn't eased. "Yeah. Just… tired, I guess."

Neville didn't push, didn't probe for details. He simply stood there, his quiet strength a comfort that Harry hadn't realized he needed.

Behind them, Ron and Hermione's argument continued, their voices a stark contrast to Neville's calm.

"Always taking his side, aren't you?" Ron's voice was sharp, dripping with sarcasm.

Hermione, standing her ground with her arms crossed, shot back without hesitation. "I'm not taking sides, Ron. I'm trying to stop you from making a fool of yourself."

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is ridiculous."

Neville glanced at him, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe," he said quietly, "but it's not about the argument, is it? Not really."

Harry looked at Neville, surprised by the insight.

"Sometimes people fight because it's easier than admitting they're scared," Neville added, his gaze shifting briefly to Ron.

The observation hit Harry like a well-aimed hex, and for a moment, he found himself wondering if Neville was right. But as he watched Ron, his mind drifted further, tugged down paths he usually avoided.

Why was he still friends with Ron?

The question settled in his mind like a stone thrown into still water, rippling outward. At first, he tried to brush it aside—tried to focus on the noise of the corridor, on Neville standing beside him, on anything but the slow unraveling of memories that followed.

Ron had been his first friend. That had always been the justification, hadn't it? The boy with the red hair and smudged nose who had asked for a seat in his carriage. 'Excuse me. Do you mind? Everywhere else is full?' The one who'd introduced him to chocolate frogs and wizard chess. The one who'd stood beside him against a mountain troll.

But as Harry sifted through those memories, the edges felt sharper than he remembered.

For every moment of camaraderie, there was a shadow: the way Ron's jealousy burned hot and quick, flaring up whenever Harry received attention or recognition. The careless insults he'd thrown, barely disguised as jokes. The way he'd sulked and withdrawn when things didn't go his way, forcing Hermione or Harry to tiptoe around him.

He's your friend, a part of Harry's mind whispered, desperate to hold onto that comforting truth.

But another voice—his own, harsher, and colder—shot back: Is he?

What kind of friend dismissed your struggles as if they didn't matter? Who laughed off your pain, belittled your fears, and still demanded your loyalty? Ron had known about the Dursleys. He'd seen the bars on Harry's windows that summer before second year, heard the stories about being locked in a cupboard. And yet, it had never felt like Ron truly understood.

No, Harry realized with a jolt, Ron had always been... childish. Self-centered. A boy who lashed out when he didn't get what he wanted.

And yet, Harry had kept forgiving him. Again and again. Because Ron was his friend. Because he was supposed to.

Or was he?

The thought hung heavy in the air between them, unspoken and yet deafening. Harry's chest tightened, the weight of realization pressing down harder than any spell.

And then, like a thread pulling him away from the brink of that thought, it came again—the whisper.

Trust him.

It was louder now, no longer a distant echo but a presence brushing against the edges of his mind. It wasn't his own voice. It wasn't Neville's or Ron's or Hermione's. It wasn't even one he recognized. But it was there, curling around his thoughts like smoke.

Harry stiffened, his heartbeat quickening. His instincts screamed to shove the voice away, to block it out, but it was persistent. Gentle, even.

Trust him, it urged again, a soft command that seeped into his thoughts, coaxing them back toward Ron.

Images flickered through his mind unbidden—Ron standing beside him during the chess match in first year, his expression determined as he sacrificed himself for the greater good. Ron supporting him as his Paresltongue ability got revealed. The two of them confronting Lockhart and going to save Ginny from the basilisk.

And just as quickly, other memories followed. How Ron still belittled Hermione every chance he got. How every time Harry was praised or given something, the flash of jealousy and annoyance that crossed his face. How he was pissed that while Harry got a special reward for saving the school, he was given nothing even though he had been down there.

'But he didn't have to face the Basilisk, did he? Or face and kill a man possessed by a shade of Voldemort before even turning into a teen? He was never there at the final moment. It had always been Harry, alone'

Trust him, the voice repeated, insistently this time.

Harry's breath hitched. It wasn't a suggestion anymore—it was a command, weaving itself into the very fabric of his thoughts. He pressed a hand to his temple, willing it to stop, but the voice lingered, its presence like a phantom.

"Harry?"

Neville's voice broke through the haze, grounding him. Harry blinked, realizing he'd been standing there, unmoving, for far too long. Neville's concern was evident, his eyes searching Harry's face for answers.

"I'm fine," Harry said quickly, though his voice wavered. He wasn't fine. He wasn't even close.

The whisper was gone now, but its echoes remained, curling around his thoughts like the aftermath of a haunting.

Neville didn't press, his quiet understanding once again a balm against the storm raging in Harry's mind.

As Ron's argument with Hermione carried on in the background, Harry stole another glance at his oldest friend. The whisper had tried to guide him, to plant something deep within him.

But was it right? Could he truly trust Ron? Or was the voice just another piece of the puzzle—a question with no clear answer?

Harry turned away, his thoughts heavy and tangled as he walked down the corridor with Neville. But even as the argument faded into the distance, the whisper's touch remained, an insidious reminder that nothing—not friendship, not trust—was ever as simple as it seemed.

He wasn't sure what to believe anymore.

AN: A small chapter, we know; but we now start delving into magic and politics combined. The political scenario in the Potterverse has just seemed too close to the non magical world. After all, they have the power of magic and have been separated from the real world for centuries. How would the governments be so similar? How can their politics be so similar? Hold on as we take you through our interpretation of the Government and Politics of Magical Britain!

We are also figuring out a good update schedule for this story, as we have written up a bit ahead, but we don't want to come under the situation of having to write a chapter just before uploading it! That seems messy and did knock us off our game during our first two stories.

Speaking about them, The Chosen Ones and Triumvirate are currently on a hiatus. Risa is being currently worked upon, and hopefully, Disillusioned Hearts is here to stay!

Dragonstaff and Technomage