The dreams had grown more persistent. Night after night, Harry found himself standing in darkness so complete it felt tangible, like velvet against his skin. And always, the voice—neither male nor female, neither young nor old—calling his name from somewhere he couldn't reach.

"Harry Potter..."

He would turn, searching for the source, but the darkness had no dimensions, no direction. Only the voice, growing clearer with each passing night.

"Harry Potter... come find me..."

Harry woke with a strangled gasp, his sheets twisted around his legs and damp with sweat. Dawn light filtered weakly through the heavy curtains of his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. For a moment, he lay still, waiting for his racing heart to calm, trying to hold onto the fragments of the dream already slipping away like water through his fingers. All that remained was the hollow echo of his name and a lingering sense of urgency.

With a frustrated sigh, he disentangled himself from the bedclothes and padded to the bathroom. The face that greeted him in the mirror looked haggard—shadows beneath green eyes, stubble darkening his jaw, and hair even more unruly than usual. Three days had passed since the Rosier trial, and he hadn't slept properly since.

Downstairs, the kitchen was cold and empty. Harry mechanically went through the motions of making tea, his thoughts circling back to Rosier's cryptic warning. The void hungers, and the crow has already spread its wings. What did it mean? And why had his magic responded so viscerally to the man's presence?

As the kettle whistled, Harry felt it again—that strange surge within him, like electricity beneath his skin. The teacup on the counter beside him shattered without warning, scattering porcelain across the worn wooden floor.

"Damn it," he muttered, reaching for his wand to repair the damage. But as his fingers closed around the holly wood, another pulse of energy shot through him. The cupboard doors flew open with a bang, plates and glasses tumbling out to join the broken cup on the floor.

Harry dropped his wand as if burned, backing away from the wreckage. This wasn't the first incident. Small disturbances had plagued him since his return to Grimmauld Place after the war—lightbulbs exploding when he entered rooms, doors opening or slamming shut of their own accord, windows rattling in their frames when he was upset. He'd attributed it to the house's temperamental magic, to his own exhaustion and frayed nerves.

But this was different. This was him.

The doorbell rang, its harsh peal cutting through the silence. Harry hesitated, reluctant to face anyone in his current state. The bell rang again, more insistently, followed by heavy knocking.

"Harry? I know you're in there!"

Ron's voice. Harry sighed, casting one last glance at the mess in the kitchen before making his way to the front door.

Ron stood on the doorstep, dressed in casual Muggle clothes—jeans and a faded Chudley Cannons t-shirt beneath an open jacket. His red hair was windswept, and his expression hardened as he took in Harry's disheveled appearance.

"Bloody hell, mate. You look terrible."

Harry stepped aside to let him in. "Thanks. Just what I needed to hear."

Ron followed him into the sitting room, where Harry collapsed into an armchair. The room was dim, the curtains still drawn against the morning light. Books were scattered across every surface, many open to pages on obscure magical theory and ancient artifacts.

"What's all this?" Ron asked, picking up a heavy tome on magical resonance.

"Research," Harry said shortly. "What brings you here?"

Ron set the book down and fixed Harry with an unusually serious stare. "You've been avoiding us."

"I've been busy."

"With what? Becoming a hermit?" Ron gestured at the darkened room, the unwashed teacups on the side tables, the general air of neglect. "Hermione and I have sent you three owls this week. You haven't responded to any of them."

Harry rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. "I've had a lot on my mind."

"So have we all," Ron countered, his voice rising slightly. "But we don't shut out the people who care about us."

The accusation stung, partly because Harry knew it was justified. After the trial, he'd withdrawn again, diving into research about magical artifacts and ancient curses, looking for any mention of a black feather. He'd found nothing concrete, only vague references in obscure texts that led to more questions than answers.

"I'm sorry," Harry said finally, meaning it. "I didn't mean to worry you and Hermione."

Ron's expression softened slightly. "We get it, you know. After everything that happened..." He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. "But you can't keep doing this, Harry. Locking yourself away, shutting everyone out. It's not healthy."

"I know," Harry admitted. He stood abruptly, needing to move. "How's the training going?"

Ron allowed the change of subject, some of his familiar enthusiasm returning. "It's intense. They're not kidding around with this Hit Wizard program. Combat training, tracking spells, concealment techniques—my head's spinning half the time." His face lit up. "But it feels good, you know? Like I'm doing something that matters."

Harry nodded, trying to ignore the twinge of envy. Ron had found his purpose, was moving forward with his life. So was Hermione, deep in her work at the Ministry, making real changes to wizarding law. And here he was, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, hiding in his godfather's gloomy house, jumping at shadows.

"And how's Hermione?" he asked, hating the forced casualness in his voice.

"Brilliant, as always." Ron's expression softened in a way that made Harry's chest ache with both happiness for his friends and a loneliness he couldn't quite name. "She's revolutionizing the Department for Regulation of Magical Creatures single-handedly. Kingsley's thinking of creating a special division just for her research."

"That's great," Harry said, and meant it, despite the hollow feeling spreading inside him. "You two are... good together."

Ron's ears reddened slightly. "Yeah, well. It's still new, you know? But..." He trailed off, then met Harry's eyes directly. "I love her, Harry. I think I always have."

The simple honesty in Ron's voice made Harry's throat tighten. His two best friends had found each other, were building something lasting from the ruins of war. He should feel nothing but joy for them. Instead, he felt increasingly like a third wheel, a broken remnant of their shared past that had no place in their future.

"She's worried about you," Ron continued, oblivious to Harry's inner turmoil. "We both are."

Before Harry could respond, a glass vase on the mantelpiece shattered, sending shards flying across the room. Ron jumped, hand instinctively going to his wand.

"What the—"

"It's nothing," Harry said quickly, too quickly. "This house... it's temperamental."

Ron looked skeptical. "That didn't feel like house magic." He studied Harry more closely. "What's going on, mate?"

Harry hesitated, considering deflection. But this was Ron—Ron who had stood beside him through it all, despite their occasional fallings-out. If he couldn't trust Ron with this, who could he trust?

"My magic's been... off," he admitted. "Since the battle. Since Voldemort died."

Ron's expression grew serious. "Off how?"

"Unpredictable. Stronger, sometimes, but I can't control it. Things break when I'm upset or stressed." Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by his inability to articulate the strange sensations coursing through him. "And sometimes it feels like... like it's reaching out, searching for something."

"Like at the trial?" Ron asked shrewdly. "Hermione mentioned you felt something with Rosier."

Harry nodded. "It's like my magic recognizes certain things, certain people. It reacts before I consciously understand why."

Ron was quiet for a moment, considering. "Have you told anyone else about this?"

"Who would I tell?" Harry asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "Most of the people I'd trust with this are gone."

The unspoken names hung between them: Dumbledore, Sirius, Lupin, Snape. The mentors and father figures who might have guided him through whatever this was.

Ron's expression softened. "McGonagall's still at Hogwarts. And Dumbledore's portrait—"

"A shadow of the man," Harry interrupted. "A magical imprint, not the real thing."

"Still might know more than we do," Ron pointed out reasonably. He hesitated, then added, "And Snape's portrait is there too now."

Harry stilled. He hadn't known that. After Snape's posthumous Order of Merlin, First Class, it made sense that his portrait would join the other headmasters in the circular office. But the thought of facing Snape again, even in portrait form, sent a complicated mixture of emotions churning through him.

"You should go to Hogwarts," Ron urged. "Talk to them. If anyone might understand what's happening to your magic, it's Dumbledore."

Harry's reluctance must have shown on his face, because Ron's expression hardened.

"This isn't just about you being stubborn, is it? You're afraid."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," Ron insisted. "You're afraid of what they might tell you. Afraid there might be something wrong with you."

The accusation hung in the air between them. Harry wanted to deny it, but the words stuck in his throat because Ron was right. He was afraid. Afraid that his magic had been fundamentally changed by Voldemort's final curse, by his own brush with death in the forest. Afraid that he might never be normal—whatever that meant.

"Fine," Harry said finally. "I'll go to Hogwarts."

Relief washed over Ron's face. "Good. That's... good."

An awkward silence fell between them. Harry felt suddenly exhausted, the weight of his isolation pressing down on him.

"Ron," he began hesitantly, "I'm sorry I've been... distant. It's not about you and Hermione. I'm happy for you both, truly."

Ron's expression softened. "We know that, mate." He paused. "But you don't have to face everything alone. That was always your problem, you know. Thinking you had to carry the weight by yourself."

Harry managed a small smile. "Old habits."

"Bad habits," Ron corrected, but without heat. He glanced at his watch. "I should go. Got training in an hour." He stood, looking uncertain. "Will you come to dinner at the Burrow on Sunday? Mum's been asking about you. Everyone has."

The thought of facing the entire Weasley family, of seeing the empty space where Fred should be, made Harry's stomach clench. But he nodded. "I'll be there."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

After Ron left, Harry moved through the house with newfound purpose, gathering what he would need for a trip to Hogwarts. As he packed a small bag, he felt another surge of that strange energy, like a wave cresting inside him. A nearby picture frame cracked, the glass splintering in a spiderweb pattern.

Harry stared at it, a cold certainty settling over him. Whatever was happening to his magic was getting worse.

Hogwarts in late summer was a different place entirely from the school Harry had known. The grounds stretched green and peaceful under a bright August sky, with none of the usual bustle of students. As Harry walked up the path from the gates, memories washed over him—some joyful, others painful. This place had been his first real home, but it had also been the site of his greatest losses. The last time he'd stood here, the castle had been in ruins, the grounds littered with the dead and wounded.

Now, reconstruction was well underway. The damaged towers had been rebuilt, the gaping holes in the walls repaired. Only subtle differences in the stonework revealed where the new met the old. Hogwarts was healing, just as the rest of the wizarding world was attempting to heal.

Professor McGonagall met him at the entrance, her tall figure as straight-backed as ever, though he noticed more silver in her hair than he remembered.

"Mr. Potter," she greeted him, her Scottish brogue warm. "It's good to see you."

"You too, Professor." Harry found himself genuinely glad to see her familiar face.

"Minerva, please," she corrected gently. "You're no longer my student."

They walked together through the quiet halls, their footsteps echoing on the stone floors. McGonagall updated him on the reconstruction efforts, on plans for the coming term, on the memorial that would be erected in the courtyard to honor those who fell during the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry listened, asking occasional questions, but his mind was elsewhere—focused on the reason for his visit.

As they approached the stone gargoyle that guarded the Headmistress's office, McGonagall gave him a searching look. "Your letter mentioned concerns about your magic."

Harry nodded. "It's been... different. Since everything that happened."

"Different how?" she asked sharply.

"Unpredictable. Stronger, sometimes, but I can't always control it." He hesitated. "And it seems to react to certain people, certain objects."

McGonagall's expression grew thoughtful. "The password is 'Brave Hearts,'" she told the gargoyle, which leapt aside to reveal the spiral staircase.

The headmistress's office had changed subtly since Harry had last seen it. Gone were Dumbledore's silver instruments, replaced by tartan touches and a more orderly arrangement of books and scrolls. But the portraits remained, covering the walls from floor to ceiling—generations of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses, most dozing in their frames or pretending to.

Harry's eyes were immediately drawn to the largest portrait behind the desk. Albus Dumbledore appeared to be sleeping, his half-moon spectacles perched on his crooked nose, his long white beard tucked into his belt. And beside him, in a smaller but still prominent frame, Severus Snape sat rigid and watchful, his dark eyes already fixed on Harry.

"Look who's graced us with his presence," Snape's portrait drawled. "The famous Harry Potter, deigning to visit his old school."

"Severus," McGonagall admonished sharply.

Dumbledore's painted eyes opened, twinkling with the same brightness Harry remembered from life. "Harry, my dear boy. How wonderful to see you."

Despite knowing it was only an echo of the man he'd known, Harry felt a lump form in his throat. "Professor."

"I'll leave you to consult with them," McGonagall said. "Take as long as you need. The password will allow you back in should you leave and return." With a supportive nod, she departed, closing the door behind her.

Alone with the portraits, Harry found himself unsure where to begin.

"Well?" Snape prompted impatiently. "I assume you didn't come here to stare at us in maudlin silence."

"My magic," Harry began, trying to gather his thoughts. "It's changed. Since Voldemort... since I died in the forest."

Dumbledore leaned forward in his frame, suddenly alert. "Changed how, precisely?"

Harry described the incidents at Grimmauld Place, the way objects would break or move when his emotions ran high. He told them about the strange sensation during the Rosier trial, the feeling of his magic reaching out, recognizing something in the convicted man.

"It's like my magic has a mind of its own sometimes," he finished. "Like it's... fractured."

Dumbledore and Snape exchanged a significant look.

"What?" Harry demanded. "What do you know?"

"It's not what we know," Dumbledore said carefully. "It's what we suspect." He paused, seeming to choose his words with care. "Harry, for seventeen years, your magic coexisted with a fragment of Voldemort's soul. That fragment may have acted as a kind of... dampener for your natural magical abilities."

Harry stared at him, trying to process this. "A dampener?"

"Think of it as a dam," Dumbledore explained. "Restricting the natural flow of a river. With the Horcrux gone, that dam has been removed. Your magic is now flowing freely for the first time in your life."

"But why can't I control it?" Harry asked, frustration edging his voice. "Why does it feel so... wild?"

"Because you've never had to control this much power before," Snape said bluntly. "Your magical core is adjusting to its full capacity."

"There's more to it than that, I think," Dumbledore added thoughtfully. "The experience of death and return—it changes a wizard, Harry. Few have ever crossed that threshold and come back. Your magic may have been... transformed by the experience."

Harry felt cold despite the summer warmth. "Transformed how?"

"That remains to be seen," Dumbledore said. "But I believe what you're experiencing—this ability of your magic to recognize certain magical signatures, to react to them before your conscious mind does—may be a new sensitivity acquired through your unique experience."

"Like a magical sixth sense?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Something like that," Dumbledore agreed. "Your magic is attempting to protect you, perhaps. Warning you of potential dangers."

Harry thought of Rosier, of the chill that had passed through him when their eyes met. "And the black feather Rosier mentioned? Could my magic be reacting to that?"

Snape's portrait stirred. "The black feather is more than a mere artifact," he said, his voice low. "Rosier was not collecting these items out of academic interest, regardless of what he claimed at his trial."

"You knew him?" Harry asked.

"I knew his father," Snape corrected. "Evan Rosier was a Death Eater in the First War, killed by Aurors. But before his death, he was tasked by the Dark Lord with researching ancient magical objects—items of power that predated modern wandlore."

"Why?"

Snape's painted lips curled in what might have been a smile on another face. "Why does any dark wizard seek ancient artifacts? Power, Potter. The kind of power that doesn't require the complicated magic of a Horcrux to achieve immortality."

"The black feather is mentioned in several ancient texts," Dumbledore interjected. "Always in connection with the Veil between worlds, the boundary between life and death."

A chill ran down Harry's spine. "The Veil in the Department of Mysteries? The archway Sirius fell through?"

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "The same. The texts suggest the feather once belonged to a creature that could travel freely between the worlds of the living and the dead. In the wrong hands, such an artifact could be used to... disturb the natural order."

"To bring back the dead?" Harry asked, thinking of the Resurrection Stone.

"Or to reach across the Veil for other purposes," Dumbledore said carefully. "The ancient texts are unclear, deliberately so. Some knowledge was deemed too dangerous to record explicitly."

Harry's mind raced. If Rosier had found this feather, if he had somehow used it or given it to someone else before his capture...

"How do I control this?" he asked abruptly, returning to his immediate concern. "My magic—how do I stop it from lashing out?"

"The same way you learned to control it initially," Snape said with characteristic impatience. "Practice. Discipline. Occlumency would not go amiss."

Harry bit back a retort about Snape's teaching methods. "Is there a way to test it? To see what's really happening?"

Dumbledore considered this. "There is a chamber in the castle—beneath the Astronomy Tower—designed for just such a purpose. It was used in ancient times to measure the magical potential of exceptional students."

"The Resonance Chamber," Snape added. "It hasn't been used in centuries."

"Minerva can show you its location," Dumbledore continued. "The chamber is lined with crystals that respond to magical energy. They should provide a visual representation of what's occurring with your magic."

Harry nodded, a plan forming. "And what about this... sensitivity? This ability to sense magical signatures? How do I develop that?"

"Carefully," Dumbledore warned. "Such abilities can be overwhelming if not properly channeled." He paused. "There are meditation techniques that might help you focus your awareness. I can have Minerva provide you with the relevant texts."

"And regarding Rosier," Snape added, his dark eyes intent, "do not underestimate the danger. The son may seem less fanatical than the father, but appearances can be deceiving. If he has indeed found this feather, or knows of its location..."

"I understand," Harry said, surprised to find himself taking Snape's warning seriously. After learning the truth about the man's loyalties, his perspective on his former professor had shifted dramatically.

As if reading his thoughts, Snape's portrait gave him a searching look. "The Dark Lord's followers are not all accounted for, Potter. Some escaped in the chaos after the battle. Others were never publicly known."

"The Hit Wizards are tracking them down," Harry said, thinking of Ron's new position.

"And doing an adequate job, no doubt," Snape said with faint disdain. "But there are subtler threats at work now. Rosier's cryptic warnings should not be dismissed."

Harry nodded, absorbing this. "Thank you," he said, directing it at both portraits. "For your help."

Dumbledore's painted face softened. "You carry burdens few could comprehend, Harry. But remember—your greatest strength has always been your heart." He smiled gently. "And perhaps now, your magic is finally catching up to it."

Harry returned the smile, though it felt strained. As he turned to leave, Snape's voice stopped him.

"Potter."

Harry looked back. Snape's portrait regarded him with an unreadable expression.

"Your mother's magic was similarly... intuitive. It recognized threats before they fully manifested." A pause. "It saved her life more than once during the First War."

The unexpected mention of his mother, delivered without Snape's usual bitterness when speaking of Harry's parents, left him momentarily speechless. "I... thank you for telling me that."

Snape inclined his head slightly, then turned away, effectively ending the conversation.

As Harry descended the spiral staircase, his mind whirled with all he had learned. The idea that his magic had been dampened by Voldemort's soul fragment all these years, that what he was experiencing now was his true potential finally unleashed—it was both exhilarating and terrifying.

McGonagall was waiting for him in the corridor, her expression questioning.

"I need to visit the Resonance Chamber," Harry told her. "Dumbledore said you could show me where it is."

Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Of course. Follow me, Potter."

They descended through the castle, past the ground floor and into the lower levels. Instead of turning toward the dungeons, however, McGonagall led him along a narrow corridor he couldn't recall ever noticing before. At its end stood a simple wooden door with no handle or keyhole.

"The chamber recognizes magic," McGonagall explained. "Place your hand on the door and it will open for you."

Harry hesitated. "Will you come in with me?"

McGonagall shook her head. "The chamber is designed for individual use. It responds to a single magical signature at a time." Her expression softened slightly. "I'll wait for you here. Take as long as you need."

Harry nodded, grateful for her steady presence. He placed his palm flat against the wooden surface. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a warm sensation spread through his hand, and the door swung silently inward.

The chamber beyond was circular and surprisingly vast, its domed ceiling lost in shadow. The walls glittered with embedded crystals of various sizes and colors, catching the light from a single flame burning in a shallow basin at the center of the room. The floor was smooth stone, etched with concentric circles radiating outward from the central basin.

The door closed behind him as Harry stepped inside, sealing with a soft click. Immediately, he felt it—a response from the crystals, a subtle vibration in the air around him. His magic stirred within him, as if recognizing a kindred force.

Following instinct, Harry moved to the center of the chamber and stood beside the basin of fire. The flames burned a natural orange-gold, casting flickering shadows across the crystal-studded walls.

"What now?" he murmured to himself.

As if in answer, the flame in the basin flared higher, responding to his voice or perhaps his proximity. Harry felt his magic surge in response, a wave of energy rippling outward from his core. The crystals in the walls began to glow, softly at first, then with increasing brightness. Colors shifted and swirled across their faceted surfaces—blues and greens predominantly, with occasional flashes of gold and, more disturbing, threads of deep crimson.

Harry closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of his magic moving through him. It felt different here, more accessible somehow, as if the chamber itself was helping him perceive its flow and ebb. He could feel the fractures now—places where the current of his magic split and reformed, creating eddies and turbulence.

Concentrating harder, Harry attempted to direct the flow, to smooth out the turbulent areas. The effort was exhausting, like trying to redirect a river with his bare hands, but gradually he felt a shift. The magic became more responsive, more cohesive.

When he opened his eyes again, the pattern of lights on the crystals had changed. The colors were more harmonious now, the flashes of crimson less frequent. But as he watched, a new phenomenon began—sections of the crystal wall dimmed completely, creating patches of darkness that seemed to absorb rather than reflect light.

Instinctively, Harry knew this wasn't right. These void-like areas represented something missing, something damaged in his magical core. The realization should have been devastating, but instead, Harry felt a strange calm. Understanding the problem was the first step toward solving it.

He lost track of time as he stood in the center of the chamber, alternately watching the play of light and darkness across the crystal walls and closing his eyes to feel the flow of his magic. Gradually, he began to sense a pattern to the disturbances, a rhythm to the fractures. And with that understanding came the first inkling of how he might begin to heal them.

By the time Harry finally left the chamber, he was exhausted but clear-headed. McGonagall, true to her word, was waiting in the corridor, a book tucked under her arm.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Potter," she observed, studying his face with concern.

"Not a ghost," Harry said quietly. "Just... myself, I think. Parts I didn't know were there."

McGonagall nodded as if this made perfect sense. "The chamber has that effect." She handed him the book she'd been holding. "Professor Dumbledore's portrait suggested you might find this useful. It contains meditation techniques specifically designed for witches and wizards with... unusual magical sensitivities."

Harry accepted the slender volume, noting its age-worn leather cover. "Thank you."

"Will you be staying at Hogwarts tonight?" McGonagall asked. "We could prepare a room for you."

The offer was tempting. Hogwarts, despite everything that had happened here, still felt like home in many ways. But Harry shook his head. "I should get back to London. There are things I need to look into."

McGonagall's lips thinned slightly, but she nodded. "Very well. But remember, Potter, Hogwarts is always open to you. Should you need the chamber again, or wish to consult the portraits..."

"I know," Harry said, managing a small smile. "Thank you, Professor—Minerva."

As Harry made his way back through the castle grounds toward the gates, where he could Apparate back to London, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawns. His mind was clearer than it had been in months, the path ahead more defined, if not easier.

The fractures in his magic were real, not imagined. But they weren't necessarily a weakness. They were openings, perhaps—channels through which new abilities might flow. If he could learn to control them, to direct them...

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a strange sensation—a prickling awareness at the edge of his consciousness, similar to what he'd felt with Rosier but less intense. He stopped walking, reaching instinctively for his wand as he scanned his surroundings.

Nothing seemed out of place. The grounds were peaceful, golden in the slanting sunlight. Yet the feeling persisted—a subtle wrongness, a disturbance in the magical field around him.

Concentrating, Harry tried to focus on the sensation, to trace it to its source. For a moment, he thought he glimpsed a shadow moving near the edge of the Forbidden Forest—a flicker of movement too swift to be human. But when he looked directly at the spot, nothing was there.

The feeling faded as quickly as it had come, leaving Harry uncertain whether he'd actually sensed something or merely imagined it. Either way, it reinforced what Dumbledore and Snape had told him—his magic was trying to warn him, to protect him. He needed to learn to listen to it, to understand what it was telling him.

With renewed determination, Harry continued toward the gates. Tonight, he would begin working with the meditation techniques in the book McGonagall had given him. Tomorrow, he would keep his promise to visit the Burrow. And after that, he would return to his research on the black feather with fresh eyes and a clearer purpose.

As the gates of Hogwarts closed behind him, Harry felt a strange mixture of apprehension and anticipation. Something was coming—something connected to Rosier, to the black feather, to the fractures in his own magic. He could feel it approaching like distant thunder on the horizon.

But for the first time since the war ended, he didn't feel like he was facing it alone.

That night, the dream changed.

Harry still stood in darkness, but now he could sense dimensions to the void, could feel space extending around him. And the voice, when it came, seemed closer, more distinct.

"Harry Potter..."

He turned, searching, and this time caught a glimpse of something—a flicker of movement, a darker shape against the blackness.

"You're beginning to understand..." the voice whispered, neither pleased nor displeased, merely observing.

"Who are you?" Harry called into the darkness. "What do you want from me?"

"I am what waits between worlds," came the reply, maddeningly cryptic. "And what I want... is what you want, Harry Potter."

"And what's that?" Harry demanded, frustration building.

The darkness shifted, as if the void itself was laughing. "To be whole again."

With those words, the darkness surged toward him like a wave, and Harry jolted awake, heart pounding, the echo of that strange voice still ringing in his ears.

To be whole again.

Harry lay in the pre-dawn stillness, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom at Grimmauld Place, turning those words over in his mind. Whether the dream was simply his subconscious processing what he'd learned at Hogwarts or something more significant, he couldn't say. But the words resonated with what he'd seen in the Resonance Chamber—the fractures in his magic, the missing pieces represented by those dark voids in the crystal lights.

To be whole again. As if he had been whole once, and might be again.

Outside his window, the first gray light of dawn was breaking over London. Harry rose and crossed to the window, looking out at the city slowly coming to life. Somewhere out there, the answers he sought were waiting. The black feather, Rosier's cryptic warning, the strange changes in his magic—they were all connected, pieces of a puzzle he was only beginning to understand.

As the sun broke over the horizon, Harry felt his magic stir within him, calmer now after his session in the Resonance Chamber, but still powerful, still seeking. And for the first time in months, he welcomed the sensation, embraced it as part of himself rather than something to fear or suppress.

Whatever was coming, he would face it. Not alone, as he had so often tried to do, but with the strength of his friends, his mentors—and his magic, fractured but perhaps finally becoming what it was always meant to be.