CHAPTER 23: A LINGERING CURSE

Present…..

Harry sat in the darkness of his dormitory, the faint glow from his wand casting long shadows across the walls. The parchment in his hands seemed to weigh more than it ever had before. His eyes lingered on the seventh name on the list—himself. It was impossible, yet it was undeniable. A part of Voldemort had lived inside him for as long as he could remember, and it had never truly left.

He could still hear the whispers, feel the connection—a link he had tried to sever so many times, only to realize it had always been there, hidden in the recesses of his mind. That night in the graveyard, the burning pain in his scar, the words that haunted his dreams, they weren't just a product of his connection to Voldemort; they were a reality he had been running from, and now, it seemed, it was catching up with him again.

The scar burned, as if in warning. Harry pressed his hand to his forehead, the sensation of fire coursing through him, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd ever truly be free of it. The link between him and Voldemort was something he had thought he understood, something he had learned to live with. But this—this was different. The visions weren't just memories. They weren't just some twisted trick of the mind. They were proof of something far worse, something he didn't want to accept.

He looked down at the parchment again, focusing on the names. Riddle's mansion, the caretaker, Crouch Junior. The green light. The death. Each name was a piece of a puzzle that, when put together, showed a chilling truth. And the seventh piece—Harry himself—was the final, painful revelation.

A part of Voldemort still lived inside him. That fact, which had never fully settled in his mind, now felt like a curse.

He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, but the anger, the confusion, and the helplessness flooded him. He had already faced death once, fought for his life, for the world. But this… this was something different. How could he rid himself of Voldemort once and for all if part of him still existed in Harry? How could he truly defeat him if he couldn't even escape the shadow that lived in his own body?

The burning in his scar flared up again, sharper this time, as if to remind him that the battle wasn't over. It was just beginning. Harry had always believed that if he destroyed the last Horcrux, if he ended Voldemort's reign of terror, he could finally be free. But what if that wasn't true? What if the part of Voldemort inside him was the one piece that couldn't be destroyed?

He ran a trembling hand through his hair, pulling the bangs away from his scar. His fingers grazed the mark again, and the pain flared up, sharp and unforgiving. He had done it before, hadn't he? He had faced this pain, faced the darkness inside him, and he had won. But now it felt different. It felt deeper. It felt like it was a part of him that couldn't be erased so easily.

The question that haunted him was simple: Could he do it again? Could he rid himself of the darkness that had been lingering inside him for so long?

"Harry?"

A voice from the darkness made him jump. He turned quickly, his wand still raised, and found Hermione standing in the doorway of the dormitory. Her face was filled with concern, her brow furrowed as she looked at him.

"I heard you moving around," she said softly, her voice quiet but firm. "Is everything okay?"

Harry lowered his wand, running a hand over his face. He didn't want to worry her, didn't want to drag her into his mess. He had always been good at keeping things hidden, but now… now it felt impossible.

"It's nothing," he lied, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just another dream, I guess."

Hermione didn't look convinced. She stepped further into the room, her eyes never leaving his. "Harry," she said gently, "you know you can talk to me, right? If something's bothering you, I'm here."

Harry hesitated, his heart heavy. He wanted to tell her everything—the visions, the connection, the burning scar. But he couldn't. Not now. Not when the burden of it all was so fresh in his mind. He had to figure it out on his own first.

"I'm fine, Hermione," he said again, this time with more force. "I just… need some time to think."

She studied him for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but then she nodded slowly. "Alright," she said softly. "But don't shut us out, okay? You don't have to face this alone."

Harry watched as she turned to leave, the soft click of the door closing behind her echoing in the silence of the room. He knew she was right. He couldn't do this alone. But for now, he had to. He had to face the darkness that was growing inside him.

Taking a deep breath, he turned his gaze back to the parchment. His eyes scanned the list again, the words blurring as the weight of his thoughts pressed down on him. He had to destroy the Horcruxes. He had to find the truth. And somehow, he had to rid himself of the part of Voldemort that still lived within him.

The question still burned in his mind, though—could he really do it again? Could he destroy the last piece of Voldemort, the piece that was trapped inside him, without losing himself in the process? Only time would tell.

Harry lay back in his bed, his mind whirling with the plan that had started to take shape. It was different this time—he was different. The overwhelming sense of duty and the willingness to die for the greater good no longer consumed him. No longer was he driven by the haunting belief that his life had to be sacrificed for the others to have a chance. Now, it wasn't just about survival—it was about living, about ensuring that everyone who had been taken from him was still alive and well.

Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Remus, Tonks, George, and Colin—they were all still here, and he couldn't afford to let that slip away. Not again. Not after everything he had already sacrificed.

The plan formed steadily, methodically, as he reviewed the horcruxes again in his mind. The first had been destroyed—the diary, a piece of Voldemort's soul torn apart by Ginny's actions, or rather, the actions of the diary itself. That was one down. As for the rest, he could do this. He had to do this.

The Gaunt ring. That was within reach. He knew the history, knew the location, and he could move quickly enough to get it before Voldemort figured out what was going on. The Slytherin's locket might still be in Grimmauld Place, so that was another one he wouldn't have to chase across dangerous lands or cliffsides. The Ravenclaw diadem, though—it would be in the Room of Requirement, a place of endless possibility, but the Room was tricky. You never knew what it would provide, or when it would allow you to find exactly what you were searching for.

The Hufflepuff cup. That was going to be a problem. Gringotts—no, Bellatrix's vault. He didn't know how to get in. But Harry had no doubt that something would present itself in due time. He always figured things out, even when the odds seemed impossible. Gringotts, though? It was a fortress. He couldn't risk going in there half-prepared.

And then, Nagini. Voldemort's snake. He was sure he could track her down, but how would he destroy her? There was a twisted solution brewing in his mind—a blood sacrifice, though it seemed almost barbaric. But if that's what it took to rid Voldemort's soul from the world, Harry would find a way.

The last piece of the puzzle, though—the piece inside him. The very thing that connected him to the Dark Lord, the bit of Voldemort's soul that refused to let go, no matter how many times Harry had tried to sever that connection. This time, though, Harry had an idea. He couldn't just fight it out with his mind or his magic. There had to be a way to use the blood sacrifice, a way to destroy that last lingering fragment of Voldemort from within him.

His eyes grew heavy, the weight of the plan pressing down on him as he thought it all through. The horcruxes, the people he loved, the lives he was determined to save—everything was on his shoulders. The task was enormous, but Harry could feel something stirring inside of him. He wasn't the naive boy who had walked into Hogwarts all those years ago. He was someone who knew the stakes. And this time, he wasn't going to make the same mistakes.

He glanced at the glowing numbers of the clock on the bedside table. It was nearly 3:30 in the morning. The dormitory was still quiet, save for the rhythmic snoring of Ron, which had started again after his brief interruption. Harry smiled wryly to himself. Ron always seemed to sleep through everything.

As Harry drifted back into an uneasy sleep, his mind replayed all the faces of the people he had lost, the people he was determined to protect. He had made a promise to them all, and this time, he would keep it. He had come back for a reason, and he would finish what he had started.

No more running. No more dying for others.

He would win.

And this time, he would survive.

The next morning, Harry woke with a clearer sense of purpose. The plan was set in motion now. He was no longer just the boy who survived; he was the one who was going to make sure Voldemort didn't.

But there was still so much to do. Gringotts, the snake, the blood sacrifice.

And perhaps… just maybe, he could start looking for a way to stop it all before it even got to that point. The clock was ticking, and he wasn't sure how much time he had before everything would spiral out of control again.

But he would figure it out. He had to.

Harry groggily opened his eyes, groaning as he heard Ron's voice piercing through the veil of his dream. His mind, still tangled in the remnants of the dream with Fleur, took a few moments to shake off the confusion. Fleur, the beautiful meadow, the soft breeze—everything was still fresh in his mind. He quickly blinked, trying to focus on the present.

"Ugh, Ron, give me a break!" Harry muttered as he rubbed his eyes and sat up, pushing the lingering image of Fleur out of his head.

Ron was standing by his bed, a wide grin on his face as he pulled back the curtains. "You were snoring like a hippogriff with a cold. Come on, mate, we're going to be late for Defense Against the Dark Arts!"

Harry looked at the clock on the bedside table. Sure enough, the hands were inching toward the last possible minute for him to make it to class. With a groan, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed for his glasses. "Bloody hell, Ron, you don't have to shout."

"Could've fooled me, considering how loud you were snoring." Ron shot back, clearly amused.

Harry shot him a glare as he pulled on his robe and grabbed his bag. He shoved the dream back to the back of his mind, focusing on the task at hand. The plan, his thoughts about allies, and the mess he had to untangle—it all had to wait. First, he had a class to attend. And Snape. That bloody man would probably try to make his life even harder, if that were even possible.

As they made their way down the corridor, Ron was still talking animatedly about the new broomstick he'd seen on display in Zonko's earlier that week. Harry nodded along, his mind half on the conversation, half on what was still to come. It wasn't until they reached the door to the classroom that Harry fully came back to the present. His stomach dropped as he realized what was coming next.

Snape.

He walked in with a deep, resigned breath. The room was filled with the usual air of tension and discomfort that always seemed to settle when Snape was around. The Potions Master was standing at the front, already staring down the class, his eyes sweeping over them with that icy, critical look.

"Ah, Potter," Snape's voice cut through the air like a knife. "So pleased to see you've decided to join us." The sneer on Snape's face made Harry's blood boil, but he forced himself to keep his composure.

"I'd have preferred to be anywhere else, Professor," Harry muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Ron to hear, but Snape, of course, caught it instantly.

Snape's lips twisted into a mocking smile. "Careful, Potter. Your wit may one day be your downfall."

Harry just rolled his eyes and took a seat next to Ron, whose face showed the same mix of annoyance and dread. Snape wasted no time in giving them their assignment—a concoction that would require the utmost precision, or else they'd risk creating something explosively volatile. As usual, Snape managed to make every task feel like a life-or-death situation.

"Now, we'll see just how good your skills really are, Potter," Snape sneered as he walked past their table. "Let's hope you manage to avoid making a fool of yourself today. I would hate to disappoint our esteemed Headmaster by having to expel another of his so-called 'heroes.'"

Harry bit back the urge to retort. The last thing he needed right now was to draw any more attention to himself. Especially not in front of Snape, who seemed determined to make his life as difficult as possible, even if it meant embarrassing him in front of the entire class.

Ron nudged Harry. "Don't let him get to you, mate."

"I'm not," Harry muttered under his breath, but he could feel the heat rising to his face.

The rest of the class passed by in a blur, Harry focusing on the task at hand, trying to ignore Snape's constant criticisms. By the end of the lesson, Harry's potion was only marginally acceptable—much to Snape's disapproval. But Harry didn't care. The plan in his mind, the horcruxes, the people he had to protect—it all felt like it was more important than Snape's petty taunts.

As they left the class, Ron fell into step beside him. "You think we'll ever get rid of him, Harry?" Ron asked with a hint of frustration.

"Not anytime soon," Harry replied with a small smile. "But we'll figure it out."

Ron seemed to buy that, nodding as they made their way toward the Great Hall for breakfast. Harry, however, couldn't stop his mind from returning to what he needed to do. His allies. Sirius, Dumbledore, Ron, Hermione—if they even believed him. He wasn't sure, but he had to try. This time, he couldn't afford to fail.

The weight of it all settled on him again. He had to make sure everything was set in motion, that he was one step ahead. He had to fix the mistakes of the past, protect everyone he cared about, and make sure that this time, they all survived.

It was a lot to carry. But Harry had done it before. He could do it again.

He had no choice.

As Harry and Ron entered the Great Hall, the familiar warmth of the room and the hum of chatter from the students should have been comforting, but Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. His mind kept racing back to the horcruxes and the fact that he had yet to decide how to even begin gathering allies. Dumbledore, Sirius, Ron, Hermione... they would be crucial. But how could he convince them to trust him again, especially when he couldn't explain everything without sounding insane?

"Oi, mate, you okay?" Ron asked, his voice low as he followed Harry to their usual spot at the Gryffindor table.

Harry gave him a forced smile. "Yeah, just thinking."

"About the plan?" Ron raised an eyebrow as he sat down, already helping himself to a pile of bacon.

"Yeah." Harry sat down beside him, glancing over at Hermione, who was already sitting with Ginny and Neville. "Just... trying to figure out who I can trust, who will actually believe me."

Ron followed Harry's gaze, noticing that Hermione was absorbed in a conversation with Ginny. "You've got to talk to her soon, mate. I'm sure she'll believe you, but it's up to you to show her why this is all so important."

Harry sighed. He knew Ron was right. Hermione was always the logical one. She would need proof. He would need to show her that he wasn't just some lunatic coming up with half-baked theories about time travel and horcruxes. But how?

"I know. I just—" Harry trailed off, running a hand through his hair, looking down at the untouched food in front of him. "I can't let her get hurt again. I can't let anyone get hurt again."

Ron's voice softened. "You don't have to do this alone, Harry. You've got us. You always have."

Harry looked over at his friend. For a moment, Ron's face was serious, uncharacteristically somber, and Harry felt a brief flicker of hope. But the weight of the task ahead still hung heavy on him. He couldn't ask Ron to fight this battle for him, not again.

"I'll talk to her. After class," Harry finally said, forcing himself to meet Ron's gaze.

"Good," Ron replied, and there was a sense of finality in his voice. "And you'll let me know what you need, right?"

Harry nodded. "I will."

They ate in silence for a few moments, the usual banter between them temporarily halted by the gravity of what lay ahead. But Harry knew Ron would stand by him. He always had.

As the day progressed, Harry found himself dreading Defense Against the Dark Arts. The thought of confronting Snape again made his skin crawl. But he knew it wasn't just Snape he had to worry about. It was the weight of the prophecy—the burden of being the only one who could stop Voldemort.

Walking into the classroom, Harry braced himself for the inevitable tension that always came with Snape's presence. As soon as Snape saw him, the sneer returned, but there was something else in his eyes this time. Something darker.

"Potter," Snape said, his voice as cold as ever. "You are here. How... delightful."

Harry narrowed his eyes but didn't reply. He wasn't about to rise to Snape's bait. He was focused. On the horcruxes. On Dumbledore.

The lesson began, and Harry did his best to pay attention, though his mind kept drifting. Every time Snape spoke, Harry couldn't help but feel a gnawing suspicion. Snape knew more than he let on. Much more. It had always seemed that way, especially with his cryptic comments and veiled hints in the past. But this time, Harry wondered how much Snape actually knew about Voldemort's plans, about the horcruxes, about everything.

It wasn't until the end of the lesson, when Snape dismissed the class with an unnecessarily sharp comment about Harry's potion work, that Harry realized he was being watched. By Snape. And something in the man's eyes seemed to speak volumes. Harry could almost swear Snape knew something... something that could change everything.

After class, Harry, Ron, and Hermione headed to the library to catch up on their studies. The place was quiet, the large windows letting in streams of light that made the rows of bookshelves feel even more oppressive. Harry had a hard time concentrating. Every time he glanced at Hermione, he knew he had to tell her—he couldn't delay it any longer.

"Hermione," Harry began, interrupting her focused scribbling in her notebook. "Can we talk?"

She looked up, her brow furrowing slightly. "Of course, Harry. What's on your mind?"

"I... I need to tell you something. About everything," Harry said, his voice low.

Ron, sensing the seriousness of the moment, stood up and nodded toward the door. "I'll give you two some space."

As Ron left, Hermione gave Harry a curious look. "What's going on, Harry? You've been acting weird for days."

Harry took a deep breath, trying to gather the words he needed. "I'm not just here to finish school, Hermione. I'm not just here to fight Voldemort in the future. I've... been through this before. I've already done it. I've already fought him, and I—"

Hermione's face went pale. "What do you mean you've already done it? Harry, what are you talking about?"

"It's a long story," Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I need you to believe me. I came back—back in time—to stop him again. To fix things, to make sure we all survive. To make sure we don't lose everyone. Again."

Hermione looked at him in silence for a long time, her eyes searching his face for any sign of joking, for anything that might tell her this was a prank. But she didn't find anything. And then, slowly, she reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

"Harry..." she whispered, "I don't know what to say. But... I believe you."

The words were like a weight lifting off Harry's chest, though the heaviness of the truth still weighed on him. It was just the beginning, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he wasn't facing the war alone.

"Thank you," Harry whispered, a breath of relief escaping him.

"Now," Hermione continued, a small smile forming on her lips, "we'd better figure out a plan before Ron gets back and talks our ears off about Quidditch."

Harry chuckled, his heart lightening just a little. "Yeah. We've got a lot to do."

And with that, for the first time in days, Harry felt a spark of hope—small, but enough to keep moving forward.

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