In the Room of Requirement, Henry sat in one of the plush armchairs near the fire, his gaze locked onto the flickering flames, expression unreadable. Theodore Nott lounged beside him, while Violetta paced behind them, her robes swirling like a storm brewing in the dimly lit room.

"I can't believe that little brat had the audacity to show up," Violetta seethed, her voice edged with venom. "After everything? After years of forgetting you even existed, he thinks he can just waltz back in?"

Daphne, perched on the arm of a nearby couch, scoffed. "And then he brought up Susan Bones, of all people? As if her pity changes anything. The nerve."

Henry leaned back, unfazed, his eyes still on the fire. "It doesn't matter."

Violetta whirled on him, fists clenched. "It does matter! They abandoned you, Henry. They let you rot in the shadows while they played happy family. And now, what? They expect you to welcome them back? No. They don't deserve your forgiveness—or even your attention."

Blaise, stretching out on the couch across from them, exhaled. "You're giving this way too much weight, Lestrange. It's pathetic, but predictable. Let it go."

Tracy, balanced on the armrest of Theo's chair, nodded. "Exactly. He's just a kid trying to make sense of things. Annoying, yes. Worth our time? No."

Theo, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "I agree." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Charlie is still a kid. Leave him, we've done enough. That's punishment enough."

Violetta's expression twisted with frustration. "So that's it? We ignore it?" She turned to Henry. "You're just going to let him walk away thinking he's done enough?"

Henry finally looked up, green eyes burning like cursed emeralds. "I did do something," he said coolly. "I told him the truth. And I walked away. That's all they deserve."

Hufflepuff Common Room – A Candle in the Dark

Charlie entered the Hufflepuff common room with heavy steps, the warmth of the space doing little to soothe the weight in his chest. The soft golden glow of the fire danced over the cozy furniture and smiling portraits, but his mind was elsewhere—still replaying the sharp words and cold stares from Henry and his friends.

Neville Longbottom waved him over from a small cluster of chairs near the fireplace. Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott were already seated, their faces clouded with concern. Charlie hesitated for a moment, then crossed the room and sank into a chair opposite them.

Neville leaned forward, his round face earnest. "How did it go?"

Charlie shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not good. Not good at all."

Susan exchanged a worried glance with Hannah. "What happened?" she asked, her tone soft but laced with guilt.

Charlie took a deep breath, his fingers gripping the edge of his chair. "He... he doesn't want anything to do with me. He said Rosaline was his only family. He called me a brat and told me to get lost."

Neville frowned. "That doesn't sound like someone who doesn't care. If he really didn't, he wouldn't have said anything at all."

"He's angry," Hannah said gently. "And he has every right to be. After what happened..."

Susan sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I told you this wasn't going to be easy, Charlie. Henry's been through so much, and it's not something you can just fix by showing up and saying you're sorry."

"I know that," Charlie snapped, then immediately looked guilty. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell. It's just... I didn't know. None of us knew. And now I do, and I can't just ignore it."

Hannah reached out and placed a comforting hand on his arm. "No one's saying you should. But maybe you need to give him some space. Let him come to terms with it on his own."

Neville shook his head. "Henry doesn't seem like the kind of person who'll come to terms with anything unless someone forces him to. If you wait for him to reach out, you'll be waiting forever."

Charlie looked at Susan, his eyes pleading. "You know him better than I do. What should I do?"

Susan hesitated, guilt and frustration flickering across her face. "I don't know, Charlie. Henry... he's not the same person I knew before. He's colder now. Angrier. And his friends... they'll do everything they can to keep you away from him."

"His friends hate me," Charlie muttered. "Violetta called me a traitor, and Daphne said I was just pretending to care. They think I'm like Mum and Dad—that I abandoned him. But I didn't even know he existed until you told me!"

Susan flinched at the mention of Violetta and Daphne. "They're protective of Henry in a way that's almost... scary. And they've always hated Hufflepuffs. You're not going to change their minds."

"I don't care about them," Charlie said firmly. "I care about Henry. And I'm not giving up on him, no matter what they say."

Neville smiled faintly. "That's the Hufflepuff in you."

"But how do I reach him?" Charlie asked, his voice breaking slightly. "How do I make him see that I'm not like them?"

Susan leaned back, her expression troubled. "The truth is... I don't know if you can. Henry's built walls around himself so high, it's like he doesn't want anyone to climb them. Not even you."

"Then I'll keep climbing," Charlie said, determination hardening his voice. "Even if it takes the rest of my life."

The group fell silent, the crackling fire the only sound. Charlie's resolve filled the room, a quiet but unyielding flame.

Ravenclaw Tower – Henry's Study Nook

The secluded corner of the Ravenclaw common room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering glow of an enchanted lantern. Shadows danced across the aged wooden desk, where Henry Potter sat, his quill moving in sharp, deliberate strokes against parchment. The steady scratch of ink filled the silence, a rhythmic defiance against the thoughts pressing at the edges of his mind.

Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini stepped into the quiet space, their presence as familiar as the air Henry breathed. Theo wordlessly pulled out a chair across from him, while Blaise, ever composed, perched on the desk's edge with an easy grace.

"You're still brooding," Blaise observed, voice light yet knowing.

Henry didn't look up. "I'm working."

Theo's brow lifted slightly. "On ignoring the obvious? Because that seems to be your preferred subject tonight."

Henry's quill paused mid-stroke, his grip tightening. "If you're here to waste my time, leave."

Blaise huffed a quiet chuckle. "Oh, come on. You know we'd never waste your time. We're here because we actually care." His tone softened, but the amusement never fully left his voice. "And because, frankly, something about all this is bothering us."

Henry finally glanced up, emerald eyes sharp as cut glass. "What's your point?"

Theo leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. His voice was calm, careful. "It doesn't add up, Henry. Even if your parents were as blind as you believe, even if they got swept up in the whole 'Boy Who Lived' nonsense, how do they forget you entirely? But not Rosaline?"

Henry's expression didn't change, but the quill in his hand snapped between his fingers. He set the pieces down with deliberate precision, his movements controlled despite the crack in his composure. "I stopped living with them after I was five. That's all you need to know."

Blaise tilted his head slightly, studying him. "That's vague. And vague doesn't suit you, Henry."

Henry's gaze darkened. "a few months after my grandparents died, i left them. It's all you're getting, i don't want to remember those days again."

Theo and Blaise exchanged a glance. There was no frustration in their expressions, only quiet determination.

Theo spoke again, his tone thoughtful. "Look, we're not trying to pry for the sake of it. But something about this doesn't make sense. Even if they wanted to forget, forgetting isn't that simple. Parents don't just misplace their children, no matter how neglectful they are."

Blaise's voice was softer now, more measured. "It's not about dredging up the past, Henry. It's about understanding it. If you really don't care about them anymore, fine. But don't you want to know why? Why they remember Rosaline, but not you? Why their memories seem… off?"

Henry's jaw tightened. "If you're suggesting memory charms—"

"We're suggesting something happened to you or because of you ," Theo cut in, unwavering. "Something that shouldn't have."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding.

Blaise stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robes, his usual smirk absent. "We're not asking you to forgive them. We're not even asking you to care. But if there's a reason behind all this, don't you want to know who's really responsible?"

Henry didn't respond. His expression was unreadable, but Theo and Blaise knew him well enough to recognize the shift beneath the surface.

Theo stood as well, his hand briefly resting on Henry's shoulder before he turned away. "Think about it, Henry. You don't have to face this alone."

The door closed softly behind them, leaving Henry alone in the flickering light. He turned back to his parchment, but the ink remained untouched. The silence deepened, their words settling over him like a shadow—one he couldn't quite ignore.
_._

Whispers in the Dark

The Hufflepuff first-year dormitory was warm, the enchanted ceiling reflecting the peaceful night beyond, stars twinkling softly above. The soft breathing of sleeping students filled the room, blankets rustling as they shifted in their dreams.

But Charlie Potter wasn't dreaming.

He was trapped in a nightmare.

His small body trembled beneath the covers, beads of sweat gathering at his forehead. His breath hitched as a monstrous shape loomed before him, its spotted hide blending into the darkness, its glowing green eyes burning like cursed emeralds. A Nundu. A beast of death. It moved, its massive body fluid like shadow, and then—before his very eyes—it morphed.

The creature shrank, twisted, reshaped itself until what stood in its place was not a beast, but a man.

A man in hood with those same green eyes.

Charlie gasped, his heart hammering as the figure turned to look at him.

A cruel smile played at the man's lips.

"Run, squirt."

Charlie shot up in bed with a strangled gasp, his chest heaving.

For a moment, he didn't know where he was. His heart pounded against his ribs, his ears still ringing with the phantom echoes of that voice. The warm glow of the Hufflepuff dormitory slowly settled around him, grounding him. His breath slowed. He was here. Safe.

"Just a dream."

But then—

"You really scare easy, squirt."

Charlie froze.

His breath caught, his body stiffening. The voice—it had come from inside his mind.

Slowly, cautiously, he glanced around the room. His dorm mates were still asleep, soft snores filling the air. No one was awake.

He swallowed hard. His hands clenched the covers.

He was still dreaming. He had to be.

"You always were a little jumpy, weren't you?"

Charlie's pulse spiked. The voice was warm, teasing, but there was an undeniable familiarity to it—a familiarity that sent chills through him.

Because for a single, aching moment, he thought—**no, he knew—**that was how Henry would have sounded.

If Henry had ever been his brother.

If Henry hadn't been forgotten.

Charlie's fingers tightened around the sheets, his mind racing. This was some kind of trick. A lingering effect of the nightmare. A hallucination.

"What… Who are you?" Charlie thought hesitantly, testing the connection in his mind.

The voice chuckled softly. Brotherly. Amused.

"I should be asking you that, squirt. You're the one who doesn't seem to know who he is."

Charlie's lips parted slightly, shock rendering him mute. His instincts screamed at him to be wary—to not trust this—but there was something about the voice… something comforting, something safe.

"You don't trust me." The voice wasn't accusing, just knowing.

Charlie's jaw clenched. He shouldn't. He couldn't.

"I don't even know you."

A sigh.

"That's not your fault, is it?"

Charlie flinched at the words, a lump forming in his throat. Because it wasn't. None of it was.

Not Henry's absence. Not his parents' neglect. Not the way his family had forgotten their eldest son like he had never existed.

None of it was Charlie's fault.

But he still felt guilty.

He wanted to believe this voice was real. That it was Henry—that somehow, someway, Henry was speaking to him. But reality wasn't that kind.

"Go back to sleep, squirt," the voice said, softer this time. "I'll be here when you're ready to listen. and I'll prepare you. I'll help you to achieve everything you deserve. you have my WORD!"

And just like that—the presence vanished.

Charlie remained frozen under his covers, heart still racing. The dormitory was as quiet as it had been before. No shadows moved. No whispers filled the air.

But even as he lay back down, turning onto his side, he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't as alone as he had been before.

_._

The Dream of a Forgotten Son

The world was dim, shifting like a mirage, blurred at the edges. A strange silence hung in the air, pressing against him like a living thing.

Then, a sound shattered the stillness.

A woman's scream.

The dimly lit room of St. Mungo's flickered into focus, as if reality were peeling itself open before him. The air was thick with the scent of potions and sterilizing charms, the soft hum of magic woven through the very walls. Shadows stretched unnaturally, twisting and curling like smoke.

Henry stood there, watching.

Unseen. Unnoticed.

A woman lay on the hospital bed, her body wracked with pain, auburn hair clinging to damp skin. Her emerald eyes—his emerald eyes—were clouded with exhaustion, her breaths sharp and uneven.

Lily Evans.

Beside her, gripping her hand so tightly his knuckles had turned white, was James Potter. His father.

The man's voice was gentle, filled with raw love and endless devotion.

"Just one more push, Lily," came the calm, authoritative voice of the healer.

Henry turned his head, his breath hitching.

Dorea Potter.

She stood in the healer's robes, her dark hair streaked with silver, her wand moving with careful precision as she oversaw the birth. Her face was calm, but her eyes—those sharp, Black family eyes—shone with something deeper.

Pride.

Henry watched, frozen, as Lily let out one last, desperate cry.

And then—

The cry of a newborn split the air.

Henry flinched.

The sound rang in his skull, reverberating through his very bones, too loud, too real. He stared, breath shallow, as the healer moved with practiced ease, cleaning the child before wrapping him in soft, enchanted fabric.

Dorea turned, her lips curling into a warm smile.

"There he is, my dear. A healthy, strong baby boy," she said. "A perfect addition to the Potter legacy."

The words sliced through Henry like a blade.

Lily sobbed, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. James let out a shaky laugh, pure joy radiating from him. The healer placed the child into Lily's waiting arms, and Henry felt something inside him break.

This was supposed to be his moment.

His birth.

His family.

But they didn't see him. They never did.

"What name will you bestow upon him?"

James hesitated, turning toward the doorway.

Henry followed his gaze, his stomach twisting into knots as Charlus Potter stepped into the room.

His grandfather.

The Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter.

The man's presence filled the space, commanding respect without effort. Yet his smile—so wide, so uncharacteristically unguarded—was meant only for the child in Lily's arms.

James's voice trembled. "The honor should be yours father."

Henry's hands clenched into fists.

"No."

Charlus stepped forward, and Henry knew what was coming.

"May I?" Charlus asked.

With a nod from Lily, he took the newborn into his arms, his movements reverent. Charlus studied the boy intently, his lips quirking into a thoughtful smile.

"He has the spirit of my grandfather," Charlus said after a moment, his voice deep and resonant. "I name him Henry. Henry Potter III, in honor of his great-great-grandfather, Henry Potter II the Butcher of the Marnian Clan."

He tried to move, to shout—to do something, anything—but he was nothing more than a specter in the dark.

Henry's world stopped.

The room around him blurred, twisted, darkened—

A nightmare within a nightmare.

"Henry James Potter," Lily whispered.

Henry staggered back, breath shallow. It wasn't him.

It was never him.

The baby—this Henry—let out a small, bright laugh, a sound that filled the room with warmth.

A warmth that had never been his.

Dorea's eyes widened. "That laugh… His magic," she murmured, pressing a hand to her chest. "It's already manifesting."

Henry felt sick.

Then—the wolves.

Emerald flames flickered into existence, swirling around the newborn, pulsing with life. Slowly, they took shape—twisting and shifting until a dire wolf emerged, its ethereal body glowing in the dim light.

Henry knew that magic.

He had seen it before.

It was his.

"No."

A second shimmer filled the air. Golden light pulsed through the room, wrapping around Charlus's body. Another dire wolf materialized beside the first—this one larger, regal, its golden form radiating with authority.

"It is the mark of our family's greatest secret," Charlus said, his voice heavy with meaning. "The spirit of the wild dire wolf chooses only a few, bonding with those destined for extraordinary things. My grandfather had it. I have it. And now, Henry does as well."

Henry wanted to scream.

This was his birthright.

His magic.

Yet it had been stolen.

Charlus Potter smiled.

And just like that—

"He will carry our name with honor," his grandfather proclaimed, lifting the baby aloft, sealing his fate in words that were never meant for him. "Henry James Potter the third of his name, is the next Lord to the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter. lord to Potterville"

Lily gasped softly. James stood frozen, speechless.

Henry couldn't breathe.

He was nothing.

A bastard. A child born out of wedlock. A disgrace.

Henry could feel it now, the weight of the stares—the looks of contempt, of dismissal, of pity.

"looks from a Black, not a Potter how could he yield the long-claw."

"Unworthy of ancient blood line."

"Better forgotten."

"lower than a mudblood"

His body trembled.

Dorea smiled. "He looks more like a Black than a Potter," she said lightly. "But there is no mistaking his heritage. This child will be extraordinary."

Lily and James exchanged a glance, radiant with pride.

James whispered, "Our son… He's already amazing."

Charlus lowered the baby back into Lily's arms, his expression softening.

"He will carry our name with honor."

Henry wanted to wake up.

The family shared a moment of silence, broken only by Henry's soft coos. Dorea and Charlus took their leave, sensing the new parents needed time alone.

All of a sudden, Lily called out to the man, "James..."

"Hmm..." James Potter wasn't really paying attention to the woman, too distracted holding one of his son's tiny hands.

"You asked me a question last night and my answer is yes." That snatched the man's attention.

"Really? Are you serious? You're not kidding, are you? If this is one of Sirius's pranks, I swear I'm going to get him back. But you're not joking, are you? If you going to have a severe heart attack. Luckily we're in St. Mungo's right now."

Lily chortled at his anxiousness, shaking her head tiredly. Little by little, a large grin swiped across James's mouth. He had never felt so happy in his life. Not only had he just become a father, but the very same night the woman he loves, agreed to marry him. He couldn't help but to dance happily.

The sound of someone yawning captured the attention of both adults. James swiftly rushed to Lily's side. They watched expectantly as their son gradually fluttered his eyes open and caught his first sight of his parents. What they saw that instant made them breathless as a pair of bright beautiful emerald eyes gazed back at them.

"Lily, he has your eyes!" James joyfully proclaimed. "Look, he has your eyes!"

"Yes, but his are much more alluring than mine... He's so beautiful, James..." Lily kissed the baby's forehead, hugging him lovingly.

"My son is going to be a ladies' man when he grows up. Sirius will be so proud!"

"James! I'm not going to let you or his godfather influencing him into something like that!" Although her body was drained of energy, she was still capable of u on her soon-to-be-husband. The man cowered under her glare.

"Come on, Lil. It's just a thought... Nothing wrong with that..." he chuckled nervously. The sound of cute laughter caused both adults to look down in surprise. They were astounded to find the baby was giggling at them, holding his tiny hands in melted at the sound of the baby's musical laughter and both parents smiled at their son's antics. James offered his finger to his son, who grabbed his finger in familiarizing himself with his father's rough skin.

"You know something, Lily? I think he's going to be a great man someday. I've never heard of a baby who laughed on the day he was born. I've got this feeling he's going do great things in the future..." James wiggled his finger in the baby's hands, eliciting another giggle from the fragile soul.

"Yes, he will," Lily agreed. "Someday he will, James..."

He needed to wake up.

The dream twisted.

The light of St. Mungo's faded, the warm glow replaced by something cold.

Something watching.

Henry's head snapped up.

From the ceiling's corner, an eerie glow pulsed.

Shadows.

Hollow eyes—void of pupils, void of life—stared down at him.

Not at the child.

At him.

Their mouths twisted into unnatural smiles, stretching too wide, their teeth sharp and gleaming.

A whisper, curling through the air, ancient and final.

"You do not belong."

Cold hands wrapped around Henry's shoulders.

Yanking him down, down, down—

Henry woke up gasping.

His chest ached, his skin cold with sweat.

The echoes of laughter still rang in his ears.

His laughter.

But it had never been his.

The dormitory remained still, the heavy silence pressing against the walls. The enchanted lantern flickered slightly, casting a pale blue glow over Henry's face. His emerald eyes—burning, alive with that ethereal fire—stared unblinking at the inked beast on his hand.

A monster clutching a sword. it's jagged claws gripping the blade with an iron hold. The tattoo gleamed faintly, the dark ink etched into his skin like a scar, a silent testament to his past.

His fingers brushed over the lines, tracing the beast's curled talons, the sharp edge of the sword it refused to relinquish. A monster that would never let go.

Never letting go.

It felt fitting.

Rosaline Potter.

The name cut through the solitude of his mind like a blade through parchment. His sister. His only true family. The only person who had ever looked at him and seen Henry—not a forgotten son, not an inconvenient mistake, or a bastard son. but him. She was the only piece of his past untainted by bitterness, the only one who had never forgotten. While James and Lily had let him slip into the abyss of their negligence, and while Charlie had basked in the warmth of their love, Rosaline, a small five year old child had held onto him.

Family. The word felt as empty as the space between him and the people who once claimed it meant something.

James Potter. Lily Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin. Charlie Potter.

The names sat heavy in his thoughts, each one a reminder of betrayal, of years spent as a shadow in the home that was supposed to be his. They had cast him aside, and now—now, they thought they could reach for him again? That he would care?

Henry exhaled slowly, forcing the tension in his body to unwind, but it was a losing battle. His limbs remained taut, his mind still drenched in the remnants of that nightmare—no, not a nightmare. A memory. A past long buried, now clawing its way to the surface with vicious intent.

Bastard. Born out of wedlock.

Henry James Potter the Third.

Named after a murderer, a butcher, a man whose name carried the weight of blood and war.

His grandfather had named him because of the magic—the proof that Henry was a Potter, despite the stain of illegitimacy. He made henry his heir.

And yet, his family forgotten him.

Left him in the shadows.

Erased him.

Henry's lips curled into something too sharp to be a smirk.

Charlus Potter had named him after Henry the Butcher.

How fitting, indeed.

His gaze flickered to the window. Through the frost-lined glass, he could see the vast, endless night, the sky a deep abyss stretching beyond what the eye could perceive. The stars flickered—distant, cold, uncaring.

Much like the world had been to him.

Henry leaned back against the headboard, fingers idly drumming against his knee. Sleep would not come again tonight. He knew this feeling well—the weight that settled in his chest, the lingering cold crawling over his skin like phantom hands.

It was rage.

But not the loud, reckless kind.

It was the silent kind. The kind that grew, sharpened, refined itself into something deadly.

A storm, waiting to be unleashed.

His eyes darkened.

"I'm not giving up on you."

Charlie's voice lingered in the back of his mind, refusing to fade.

Henry let out a slow breath, his expression turning unreadable.

Foolish brat, foolish little brother.

Charlie still clung to the idea that there was something left to save.

That the boy they had abandoned, neglected, erased—was still there.

But Henry knew the truth.

There was nothing left.

Nothing worth saving.

His gaze dropped back to the tattoo, his fingers tracing the inked monster's jagged claws.

It would never let go.

Neither would he.

"Let him try."

The words left his lips like a promise.

Cold. Final.

"It won't change a thing."

Author's Note:

Henry Potter was indeed a son born out of wedlock to James Potter and Lily Evans after their final year at Hogwarts. At the time, James pursued a career as an Auror, while Lily became a Potions Mistress. It was only after Charlie was born that Lily transitioned into her current role as an Unspeakable.

Charlus Potter, recognizing the weight of Henry's birth status and the way society would view him, took it upon himself to name Henry as his heir, ensuring that his grandson would have both power and respect, regardless of the circumstances of his birth. It was not an act of erasing the past, but rather a declaration: Henry Potter would not be forgotten.

And yet, that was precisely what happened.

James and Lily, whether by fate, circumstance, or something far more insidious, forgot him. There was no deliberate cruelty, no grand betrayal—only absence. A silence so deep that it swallowed Henry's very existence. Even Rosaline, his innocent little sister, would ask about her elder brother, only to be met with fading expressions, empty words—as if Henry had never existed at all.

But the truth cannot remain buried forever. Every small detail, every hidden truth will be revealed in its time. Patience is key.

And as for my thoughts—this is not a story of easy forgiveness or simple resolutions. This is Henry's story. His rise, his choices, his vengeance, his triumph. He is neither hero nor villain—only a force that will not be denied.

Thank you