CHAPTER 63 : TENDRILS OF CONTROL

Sirius, as expected, had an amusing story to tell about his recent confrontation with Snape. He had waited until the perfect moment—when Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were all gathered together in the common room later that evening—to launch into his tale. Leaning back in his chair, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips, Sirius described how he had found Snape lurking in the dungeons like "an overgrown bat." His voice dropped to a dramatic, gravelly whisper as he mimicked Snape's tone, exaggerating the encounter for effect.

"And then I told him," Sirius continued, his voice deepening, "'Leave Harry alone, or I'll hex that greasy hair right off your head.' Of course, old Snivellus turned pale—well, paler than usual, if you can believe that—and scurried off before I could really give him a piece of my mind."

The others laughed, though Harry noticed that Hermione's smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and even Ron seemed unsure whether to join in. Something about Sirius's recounting struck them as off. The story, amusing as it was, felt... incomplete. Harry chuckled along with the rest, but he couldn't shake the gnawing suspicion that Sirius was leaving out key details, possibly downplaying the intensity of the encounter. Knowing Sirius's long-standing hatred for Snape, Harry highly doubted their meeting had been the lighthearted exchange his godfather made it out to be.

"Really, Sirius?" Harry asked, leaning forward. "That's all that happened? No shouting match? No wands drawn?"

Sirius waved a hand dismissively, though the gleam in his eyes dimmed ever so slightly. "You know how Snape is, Harry. He wouldn't dare try anything—not with me there. Besides, it wasn't about causing a scene. I just wanted to make sure he knew to keep his slimy nose out of your business."

Hermione, ever the sharp observer, folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Sirius, I don't mean to doubt you, but we all know your history with Snape. Are you sure there wasn't... more to it?"

For a moment, Sirius's confident facade wavered. He cast a quick glance at Harry, perhaps measuring how much to reveal. "Look," he said finally, his tone more subdued, "it wasn't exactly a tea party, all right? But I wasn't going to duel him in the middle of Hogwarts. I gave him a warning, and that's all there is to it."

That answer did little to ease Harry's curiosity, but he let it drop, deciding that Sirius had done what he could. Still, Harry couldn't help but wonder about the actual nature of the exchange. What venomous words had been thrown between the two enemies behind closed doors? What old grudges had resurfaced? He could only imagine the insults, threats, and likely under-the-breath curses that had filled the air during their encounter.

Yet, whatever had happened, it seemed to have had some effect. By Thursday's potions class, Snape's behavior toward Harry had changed—not drastically, but noticeably. The stinging jabs and sneering comments that had characterized Monday's class were notably absent. Snape still criticized him, of course, but there was a marked difference in his tone. Where once there had been open hostility, now there was only a cold indifference, as if Snape had resigned himself to simply tolerate Harry's presence. Harry wasn't sure what had caused the change. Maybe Sirius's warning had done something, or maybe Snape had simply vented his frustrations early in the week and now felt no need to pursue the matter.

Hermione noticed the shift as well. After class, as they made their way back to the Gryffindor common room, she mused aloud, "Did you notice how Snape barely even looked at you today, Harry? I mean, he was still his usual self with the others, but with you, it was like he was... holding back."

"Maybe he's scared of Sirius," Ron suggested with a grin, though there was a trace of doubt in his voice. "Who knows what kind of threats he made?"

Harry shook his head. "I doubt that. Snape's too stubborn to be scared off that easily. But yeah, something's changed. It's like he's ignoring me on purpose."

"Well, it's an improvement," Ginny pointed out. "Better to be ignored than humiliated in front of everyone, right?"

Harry couldn't disagree. Whatever the cause of Snape's sudden shift, he wasn't about to complain. If the potions master wanted to pretend he didn't exist, Harry was perfectly happy to let him do so. By the time Monday's class rolled around, Snape had become even more distant—his gaze never once lingering on Harry, his words devoid of their usual malice. Harry found the change almost unsettling. For years, he had grown accustomed to Snape's sneering insults and cutting remarks. Now, the absence of that venomous attention left a strange void in its place.

"I think he's finally cracked," Ron muttered as they left the dungeons that afternoon. "The git's gone off the deep end."

"Or maybe he's just gotten bored of tormenting me," Harry replied, though he wasn't entirely convinced. There was something else going on with Snape, something that Harry couldn't quite put his finger on. But whatever it was, he wasn't going to waste time worrying about it. If Snape wanted to play this new game of silent treatment, Harry was more than happy to oblige.

The rest of the week passed in relative peace. Apart from the curious development with Snape, things seemed to settle into a comfortable rhythm. Harry spent his free time focusing on Occlumency, diligently practicing the mental exercises that Fleur had taught him. Each night, before going to bed, he sat cross-legged on his bed, his eyes closed, breathing deeply as he worked to clear his mind. The process was slow, frustrating even, but Harry could feel the progress.

At times, flashes of memories would surface—moments from his childhood, from his time at Hogwarts—memories he had thought long forgotten. Other times, he found that his concentration during classes had improved, as if his mind were sharper, more focused than before. Whether this was a true sign of success or just his imagination, Harry couldn't be sure. But as he had learned from Dumbledore, sometimes the belief in success was as important as success itself.

"How's the mind-clearing going?" Ron asked one night, glancing over at Harry from his own bed. "Any luck keeping You-Know-Who out?"

Harry shrugged. "It's hard to tell. I haven't had any more visions, so that's a good sign, I guess. But I still feel like I'm just... scratching the surface."

"Well, it sounds like you're doing better than I ever would," Ron said, yawning. "If I tried that Occlumency stuff, I'd probably end up dreaming about food or something."

Harry smiled but didn't respond. As he lay back in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming, something big. The calm that had settled over the past few days was only temporary. He could feel it in his bones.

And when it came, Harry knew he would need every ounce of strength—mental and otherwise—to face it.

Unfortunately, that resolve would be tested sooner than expected. Tuesday night, during the second week of school, saw an event that underscored the urgency of mastering Occlumency and denying Voldemort any purchase in his mind.

The evening had begun like any other. After dinner, Harry, Hermione, and Fleur had settled into their borrowed classroom for the weekly Occlumency session. The quiet, focused atmosphere was broken only by the occasional murmur as they worked through their respective exercises. Though the training was still in its infancy, and the mental discipline required could be tedious, Harry found these sessions strangely comforting. They provided an unexpected closeness—not just with his betrothed, Fleur, but also with Hermione, his loyal and brilliant friend. The shared struggle to protect their minds created an intimacy that transcended words, a mutual understanding of the invisible threat that loomed over them.

It had gotten late by the time they finished, the three of them tired but satisfied with their progress. They packed up their books and parchment, quietly talking about the day's lessons and upcoming assignments. Harry glanced at the clock, noting they had only a few minutes before curfew. As prefects, he and Hermione could technically stay out a little longer, but there was no sense in tempting fate. With Malfoy likely on patrol tonight, Harry didn't want to give him any excuse to pull rank and cause trouble.

"Let's head back to the common room," Hermione suggested, stifling a yawn. "I've still got an essay to finish, and I don't fancy a run-in with Malfoy."

"Good idea," Harry agreed, his voice equally fatigued.

They were just about to step out into the hallway when it happened—without warning, Harry's scar erupted in a sharp, searing pain. It wasn't the usual burning sensation he had grown accustomed to over the years. No, this was different. The connection between him and Voldemort flared to life, not with anger or hatred, but with something far more unsettling: elation. It washed over him like a tidal wave, fierce and overwhelming. The Dark Lord's triumph battered against Harry's consciousness with such force that, for a moment, he was completely lost to it, drowning in Voldemort's emotions.

Harry stumbled, clutching his forehead as the world tilted around him. Distantly, he could hear the worried voices of Hermione and Fleur calling his name, but they felt distant, muffled, like they were coming from underwater. The elation radiating from Voldemort was suffocating, his mind flooded with waves of satisfaction and smug superiority, as if he had achieved something monumental.

"Harry! Harry, can you hear me?" Hermione's voice finally broke through the haze, her hand gripping his arm tightly. Fleur was kneeling in front of him, her face pale with concern, her eyes wide and searching.

"Harry," Fleur's voice came, soft yet urgent, pulling him back to the present. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Harry gasped, finally managing to find his voice. "Voldemort," he rasped, blinking through the pain. "I'm not sure what he did, but he's... happy. Really happy about something."

The three of them exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of Harry's words sinking in. Voldemort's happiness was rarely a good omen.

"What could he possibly be so pleased about?" Hermione wondered aloud, her brow furrowed in thought. "Something must have happened, but we don't know what..."

"It doesn't matter right now," Fleur interrupted, her tone calm but firm. She knelt beside Harry, her hands resting gently on his shoulders. "What matters is that we use this moment to practice. This is the perfect opportunity for you to push him out."

Harry looked at her, confused. "Push him out? How?"

Fleur smiled softly, her expression full of determination. "Remember what I told you about how to force someone out of your mind if they get past your mental defenses? It's time to put it into practice."

Harry nodded, though he still felt disoriented. The emotions rolling off Voldemort were so strong, so potent, it felt like trying to think while standing in the middle of a storm. But Fleur's voice was soothing, grounding him.

"Come here," she said, guiding him to sit in a chair. She took a seat in front of him, her eyes never leaving his. "Take my hands." She held his hands firmly in her own, her touch warm and steady. "Now, close your eyes. Focus on what you're feeling inside your mind. The presence of Voldemort—his emotions—they're not just thoughts. Imagine them as something physical, something you can touch."

Harry closed his eyes, trying to follow her instructions. The rush of elation and smug superiority from Voldemort still lingered, clouding his mind. He could feel the Dark Lord's triumph, like a dark, heavy cloud pressing down on him, suffocating him. But at Fleur's encouragement, he tried to visualize it as something tangible, something he could grasp and push away.

"That's it," Fleur whispered. "Now, think of your mind like a space. The emotions aren't yours. They don't belong here. Picture them as foreign objects—something you can reach out and push away. You have control."

Harry took a deep breath, focusing. Slowly, he began to form an image in his mind. The elation from Voldemort, the overwhelming satisfaction, took shape as dark tendrils of smoke curling through the edges of his consciousness. He imagined his hands reaching out, grasping the tendrils, and pulling them away, pushing them out of his mind. It was difficult—the tendrils seemed to cling, resisting his attempts to remove them—but with each passing second, the feelings began to loosen, slipping away bit by bit.

"You're doing great, Harry," Fleur said softly. Her voice was like a lifeline, keeping him anchored in the present. "Keep pushing them out. They don't belong in your mind."

Harry gritted his teeth, focusing harder. The tendrils of elation and smugness began to dissipate, slowly but surely retreating from his mind. The pressure lifted, the storm quieting. After what felt like an eternity, the last of Voldemort's presence slipped away, leaving Harry's mind clear once more.

He opened his eyes, breathing heavily. Fleur smiled at him, her face glowing with pride. "You did it."

Harry blinked, surprised. "I... I actually did it."

Hermione, who had been watching the entire time with bated breath, let out a sigh of relief. "That was amazing, Harry. Are you okay now?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded, still a little dazed but feeling lighter than before. "I think so. It's gone."

"Good," Fleur said, squeezing his hands one last time before letting go. "Now, you just have to keep practicing. The more you do this, the easier it will become."

Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude for Fleur. Her guidance had not only helped him push Voldemort out but had given him the confidence to believe that he could truly master this skill.

"Thanks, Fleur," he said, giving her a small smile. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Fleur returned the smile, though there was a hint of worry still lingering in her eyes. "Just be careful, Harry. This is only the beginning. Voldemort will try again. You need to be ready."

Harry nodded, his resolve hardening. He knew she was right—this was only the beginning. The path ahead was treacherous, and he would need every ounce of mental strength to face the challenges that awaited him.

Lulled by Fleur's soft voice and calming presence, Harry closed his eyes and focused. He could still feel the tendrils of Voldemort's emotions clinging to the edges of his mind, like dark, swirling smoke trying to invade his thoughts. But Harry summoned his will, picturing himself standing firm, pushing back against the mass of foreign feelings that surged through the link he shared with the Dark Lord.

At first, nothing happened. The oppressive emotions seemed to press harder, weighing down on him like a heavy blanket of malice and glee. Doubts flickered in his mind—what if he couldn't do it? What if Voldemort's presence was too strong to be expelled? But Fleur's voice remained a steady anchor, and Harry refused to give in.

With a deep breath, he pushed harder, mentally reaching out and shoving at the intruding emotions. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he felt a shift. The mass of dark emotions seemed to recoil, as if recognizing Harry's resistance. It was slow, laborious work, but as Harry continued to press, the momentum built. The overwhelming elation and satisfaction Voldemort had felt began to lessen, retreating like a tide pulling away from the shore.

And then, in a sudden release, the emotions exited his mind entirely—like a cork springing free from a bottle. Harry let out a shuddering breath, the sharp pain in his scar fading to a dull, distant ache. Voldemort's presence wasn't completely gone, but it was significantly weaker now, reduced to little more than an unpleasant aftertaste in the back of Harry's mind.

He opened his eyes, slumping back in his chair, completely drained. His limbs felt heavy, his head spinning with exhaustion. He glanced up at Fleur, who was watching him with a mix of pride and concern.

"Remember when I said that pushing someone out of your mind was draining?" Fleur asked, her voice gentle but knowing.

"I remember," Harry grumbled, running a trembling hand over his forehead. "I just didn't think it would knock me on my arse like this!"

Fleur chuckled softly, though her eyes remained warm with sympathy. "It's your first time ejecting someone, Harry. It was bound to be difficult, especially with someone as powerful as Voldemort."

Harry let out a groan, leaning his head back against the chair. "Difficult is an understatement. I feel like I've run a marathon."

"You'll get stronger with practice," Fleur assured him, her hand resting on his shoulder. "For now, though, you need to rest and recharge."

Without missing a beat, she called out, "Dobby!"

With a soft pop, the excitable little house-elf appeared in the room, his large eyes widening in alarm the moment he saw Harry's state.

"Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby cried, rushing forward, wringing his hands in distress. "What is happenings to Harry Potter? Dobby is worried!"

"Harry is fine, Dobby," Fleur said soothingly, offering the elf a reassuring smile. "But he's very tired from some difficult magic. Could you bring us a Pepper-Up Potion, please?"

"Dobby be's doings it, Harry Potter's betrothed!" the little elf exclaimed with fervor. "Dobby be's right back, very quickly!"

With another pop, Dobby disappeared, only to return a few moments later, holding a small vial of Pepper-Up Potion in his trembling hands. Harry took it gratefully, uncorking the bottle and downing the contents in one gulp. Almost immediately, the familiar warmth of the potion spread through his body, banishing the lingering exhaustion and restoring his energy.

"Thanks, Dobby," Harry said, smiling at the house-elf, who was practically bouncing with enthusiasm.

"Dobby is always happy to helps the Great Harry Potter, sir!" the elf exclaimed, his voice filled with boundless devotion. "Harry Potter must be callings Dobby for anything he needs! Anything at all!"

Before Harry could respond, Dobby gave a final enthusiastic nod and disappeared with another pop, leaving the three friends exchanging bemused smiles.

"Well, that was... energetic," Hermione said with a small laugh, shaking her head at Dobby's boundless enthusiasm.

"Yeah, he's always like that," Harry said with a fond chuckle. "But I appreciate it. Dobby's a good friend."

Fleur, however, had a more serious expression on her face. She turned to Hermione, who had been watching the whole exchange in silent contemplation.

"Fleur," Hermione began, her brow furrowed in concern, "won't Voldemort feel Harry forcing him out of his mind? Won't that make him suspicious?"

Fleur shook her head thoughtfully. "I don't think so, Hermione. Voldemort wasn't actively trying to invade Harry's mind just now. If he had been using Legilimency directly, he might have noticed Harry pushing back, but this connection—it's more like a passive link, not something he's concentrating on. He may not even realize the connection exists in the way Harry does."

"So... you think we're safe for now?" Harry asked, still worried about the implications of what had just happened.

"For now, yes," Fleur replied, her voice reassuring but cautious. "But we can't take any chances. We need to stay vigilant, and we need to keep practicing your Occlumency so you can block him out completely when necessary."

She paused, her expression hardening with determination. "And Dumbledore needs to know about this. He should be aware of any changes in your connection to Voldemort."

Harry groaned inwardly at the thought of another serious conversation with Dumbledore, but he knew Fleur was right. The headmaster needed to know what had happened tonight, especially if Voldemort's emotions were bleeding into Harry's mind without either of them fully realizing it.

"You're right," he said, getting to his feet, though his legs still felt a bit shaky. "We should go to him now and tell him everything."

Fleur stood as well, offering him a supportive smile. "We'll all go. You don't have to face this alone, Harry."

Hermione nodded in agreement, her expression resolute. "We're in this together."

As the three teenagers absorbed Dumbledore's words, a heavy silence settled over the room. The gravity of the situation hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Harry felt a surge of frustration rise within him—once again, he was being told to focus on training while the rest of the world seemed to spiral out of control.

Azkaban. A prison break. Death Eaters on the loose.

Harry could hardly wrap his mind around it. The thought of Voldemort's followers, those dark and dangerous wizards, now roaming free made his skin crawl. His fists clenched by his sides, but before he could voice his thoughts, Fleur gently touched his arm, grounding him.

"I understand your frustration, Harry," Dumbledore said softly, his tired eyes still sharp with understanding. "But I cannot stress enough that you must focus on what you can control. Voldemort's return to power is inevitable. The war has begun, and the best way you can contribute is by preparing yourself for what is to come. You are no longer just a student—you are a key figure in this fight, whether you like it or not."

Harry grimaced but nodded. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders. He wanted to do more—he needed to do more—but deep down, he knew Dumbledore was right. He wasn't ready yet, not for a direct confrontation with Voldemort. His training was crucial, no matter how slow or frustrating it felt.

Dumbledore glanced at Fleur and Hermione, his expression softening slightly. "You both are a tremendous help to Harry. Continue supporting each other. That bond will be more valuable than you realize in the days ahead."

Fleur gave a small nod, her hand still resting on Harry's arm. Hermione, though clearly anxious, squared her shoulders and gave a determined nod of her own.

"Professor," Hermione began cautiously, "about the breakout... is there any indication of what Voldemort's next move might be? I know you said Harry should focus on his training, but—"

Dumbledore sighed, his expression grave. "I wish I could give you a clearer answer, Miss Granger. Voldemort is unpredictable at the best of times. But I suspect he will try to consolidate his forces now that his followers are free. He will strike where we are weakest. We must be prepared for anything."

Harry's thoughts raced. It was like the calm before the storm, and he could feel the tension building, like a wire stretched too tightly. He remembered the sense of elation that had surged through his connection with Voldemort earlier—the unmistakable satisfaction. Whatever Voldemort was planning, it was already in motion.

He needed to be ready. They all did.

"Professor," Harry said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him, "I'll keep working on my Occlumency, and we'll continue training the others in the D.A. But we need to be prepared for more than just self-defense. We need to be ready to fight."

Dumbledore's gaze sharpened at Harry's words. "You are correct, Harry. And I believe the time is coming when we will need every able witch and wizard to stand up against Voldemort. But for now, focus on your training. I will see to it that your club continues to have the necessary resources and space to grow."

Harry felt a flicker of hope at Dumbledore's words. The D.A. had started as a secret defense group, but maybe it was time to take it to the next level. The thought of preparing his friends—no, his fellow fighters—filled him with a renewed sense of purpose.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said. "We won't let you down."

Dumbledore smiled, a tired but genuine expression. "I know you won't, Harry. And remember, you are not alone in this. You have your friends, and you have the Order. We will stand together."

With that, the Headmaster rose from his chair, signaling that the conversation was coming to an end. "Now, I must attend to some matters, as I said earlier. The Minister will undoubtedly have many questions, and I plan to remind him that ignoring the truth does not make it any less real."

Harry, Hermione, and Fleur stood as well. As they made their way toward the door, Harry paused and turned back to Dumbledore.

"Professor," he said hesitantly, "about the connection between Voldemort and me... do you think it can ever be fully severed?"

Dumbledore's expression turned serious, and he regarded Harry with an intense, searching look. "That is something we must work towards, Harry. There is no simple answer to that question. But I believe that in time, with the right guidance and effort, it is possible."

Harry nodded, though he didn't entirely believe it. The connection between him and Voldemort felt like an unbreakable chain—one that had been forged long ago, before he had any say in the matter. But he would keep fighting. He had no other choice.

As they left the office and descended the spiral staircase, the gravity of the situation hung over them like a dark cloud. But despite the uncertainty and fear, there was a sense of solidarity between the three of them. They were in this together, and they would face whatever came next—together.

As they walked through the quiet corridors of Hogwarts, heading back to the dormitories, Harry felt the familiar warmth of Fleur's hand slip into his. He squeezed her hand gently, grateful for her presence. Hermione walked beside them, her mind undoubtedly racing with plans and strategies.

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