"Have you been practicing?" asked Snape icily the moment Harry stepped inside his office.

Testily, Harry closed the door. Without answering, he crossed the room to stand opposite Snape. He had half a mind to leave already—more so before he had even knocked. Flashbacks of past encounters with Snape flooded his mind. It felt like yesterday that he had been forced to stand here for Occlumency lessons, lessons that had ended rather horribly when he had glimpsed Snape's most humiliating memory.

But that wasn't the only thing that had unsettled him. It had been the first time Harry truly questioned the image he had of his father. Seeing James Potter act so cruelly, so arrogantly—it had been impossible to brush aside, even when Sirius tried to explain it away. A sharp pang twisted in Harry's stomach at the thought of Sirius. Don't think about him now.

His gaze flickered around the room. The spots where Snape had hurled potion jars at him were now clean, as if nothing had ever happened. Snape himself gave no indication of recalling it either. Instead, he arched a single, expectant eyebrow.

"I'm here, like you demanded, aren't I?" said Harry stiffly. "What do you want?"

"I would think that is rather obvious," Snape replied coldly. "Did I not instruct you to learn to control your emotions? To close your mind? Did I not make its importance abundantly clear?"

Harry scowled. "I've been a bit preoccupied."

"We all have our problems," said Snape silkily. "I know your self-absorbed mind finds it hard to grasp, but you are not the only one who faces difficulties, Potter."

Harry's fingers curled into fists. "From where I'm standing, it looks like you're quite enjoying yourself," he spat.

Snape's expression darkened. Harry saw the flicker of movement—his professor's hand tightening around his wand. For a brief moment, he wondered if Snape might actually curse him. There was a flicker of satisfaction in getting under Snape's skin, but he knew he'd regret it. Snape's cold, dark eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I can assure you," Snape whispered, his voice like ice, "that there is no pleasure in watching an incompetent mind like yours squirm at simple tasks. You are unable to perform the bare minimum—failing to comprehend even the most basic necessity of what is at stake."

Snape stepped closer, his voice low and venomous.

"I know you fancy yourself a misunderstood, tragic little hero, but have you, perhaps, considered the danger others are putting themselves in for your sake? Including myself?"

Harry's anger flared. "Then why don't you just explain what you mean?" he snapped. "You said something about helping me. Well, you've done a lousy job so far."

"I fully intend to." Snape's voice was eerily calm. He took another deliberate step forward, his black eyes boring into Harry's. "But unless you learn to defend your mind—to control your emotions—I will not risk myself any further on your behalf."

Harry wanted to argue, but Snape had already turned away.

"I've said all I need to on this subject. Tonight, you have an appointment with the Dark Lord. You will soon learn just how essential Occlumency is."

A cold weight settled in Harry's chest.

"That's it?"

"I don't have endless leisure time to waste on your incompetence, Potter," Snape sneered. "I suggest you start practicing on your own. When the Dark Lord inevitably looks inside your mind, I would rather you not reveal that we have had this conversation." Snape's voice was sharp, unwavering.

Harry held back a retort. What was the point in asking Snape why he wasn't going to help? It was better this way. He didn't need Snape looking inside his mind again, or weaken his defences even further, like last time… Especially not for what was waiting for him later today… The insides of Harry clenched painfully.

Snape paid no attention to Harry anymore, he busied himself with paperwork behind his desk. Taking this as a sign he could leave, Harry walked towards the door.

"I did not believe I said you could exit my office," Snape said, in his most waspish voice.

Harry turned around. "What else do you need me for? You think I can practice with your presence in the room?"

"You think I want to explain to the Dark Lord that I left you to wander on your own?" asked Snape, narrowing his eyes.

"I don't care what you want," replied Harry, grasping at the doorknob. Before Snape could summon him back, or even call after him, Harry darted through the door and into the hallway. He didn't stop until the large double doors of the Great Hall came into view.

Now what, Harry thought, slowing down a little. He was in trouble, and he knew it. Death Eaters could come around the corner — ready to curse him — and Harry did not have anything to defend himself with. He still did not have his wand. He would also probably have to face Snape later, or maybe Voldemort himself would make him pay. Harry supressed a shudder.

He was not going back. Harry didn't care what the repercussions were going to be. He was done. Done being pushed around by Snape or Voldemort, done with being kept in the dark, and done with getting hurt all the time.

Harry peered around the corner. The hallway was empty.

The massive doors of the entrance hall stood closed, but he tried them anyway. To his surprise, they opened without resistance. A rush of fresh air filled his lungs as he slipped outside, keeping low beneath the windows. His heart pounded, but he didn't stop. Crouching behind a line of trees, he glanced up at the castle's windows. Where were Ron and Hermione right now? Were they alright? And where was he—Harry—to go now?

He would go to Hagrid's, Harry decided. He should have waited for Ron and Hermione, he knew that. But it had been too long since he'd seen Hagrid, and he didn't even know if he was alright. He'd go again later with them. If they survived the day.

That thought made his chest tighten. His fingers curled into fists. Anger flared inside him, raw and unchecked—a feeling he hadn't let himself fully embrace in a long time. He had felt the weight of injustice before, but it had always been laced with fear, with dread. This was different. This was fury.

Everything was unfair.

His vision blurred as he stormed forward, his mind racing. He barely noticed the uneven ground beneath him until his foot caught on a cluster of stones. With a startled grunt, he tripped, crashing face-first into the damp grass.

For a moment, he just lay there, breathing hard, the scent of earth and rain filling his nose. Then, with a growl, he pounded his fists into the ground. Nice one.

He exhaled sharply and pushed himself up. There was no time for this. He had to move.

But before he could take a few steps, he heard a distant crunch of boots on gravel. Harry almost froze.
He ducked lower behind the bramble-covered slope, barely daring to breathe. A moment later, the sound sharpened—measured steps, confident, purposeful.

A group of five robed wizards turned the corner of the castle, emerging from the shadows of the trees like wraiths. Their hoods were drawn low, the silver glint of badges catching the sunlight as they fanned out across the lawn. Wands out.

"Spread out," one of them barked. "Check under the trees. They like to hide there."

His heart skipping a beat. He dropped flat into the grass, pressing himself into the earth. The cool air prickled his skin as he crawled toward a thick patch of underbrush near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. His fingers dug into the dirt, pulling himself inch by inch behind a gnarled root, just as the rim of a black cloak swept over the spot he'd just been.

"Anything?" another voice called.

"Not yet," came the reply, slow and suspicious. "But someone's been out here."

Harry held his breath, counting the seconds in his head. His scar gave a faint twinge, as if reminding him that this was no ordinary game of hide-and-seek.

He stayed still, hidden by shurbs, as the patrol drifted further down the path—still searching. Only when their footsteps finally faded into the distance did he begin to relax. He was just starting to rise when a large hand shot out from the shadows and grabbed his shoulder.

Harry nearly cried out in shock.

"Easy now—s'alright, it's me!" came a low, familiar whisper.

Hagrid.

Harry blinked up at the looming figure half-concealed between the trees. "Come on, quickly," Hagrid murmured. Without waiting for a reply, he gestured for Harry to follow. Still rattled, Harry swallowed his gasp and ducked low, trailing behind the half-giant. Hagrid moved with surprising quiet for someone his size—like he'd been sneaking through the woods his whole life.

Hagrid reached the door, glanced quickly around, then eased it open just enough for them to slip inside. He shut it gently behind them. The room was warm and dim, filled with the scent of smoke, hay, and something roasting. The curtains were drawn, the fire flickered low in the hearth, and Fang lifted his head from the rug, tail thumping once before flopping back down.

"Are yeh alrigh', Harry?" Hagrid said, this time in a normal voice. He kept one hand on the door for a moment longer, eyes scanning it as if ensuring it wouldn't burst open. Then he turned to Harry.

"Yes," said Harry, looking up at Hagrid's battered face, his shaggy mane a mess, and the crinkled smile around his black beetle eyes gone. He looked like he aged 10 years. "How are you?"

Hagrid let out a sob. "Hey, hey!" Harry said aghast. "Hagrid?"

'Bin wonderin'," Hagrid sobbed, as he pulled Harry in a much too tight hug which made his ribs crack. "I though' yeh were done for."

He let go of Harry and looked him up and down. "Yeh don't look so good."

Harry dropped onto the familiar wooden bench, adjusting his robes. Surrounded by the familiar clutter of Hagrid's home, a little warmth returned to his chest.

"Cheers," Harry said, grinning slightly. "How are you doing? Are you all healed up?"

"Yeah, yeah. It takes more ter get ter me," Hagrid said, busying himself with the enormous copper kettle. "How 've yeh bin?"

Harry swallowed a lump in his dry throat. He looked away, at the golden shadows casting across the mismatched furniture. He watched the lights dance on the walls. Hagrid sat down opposite of him and Harry felt him stare. Looking at the ground, his lips parted and closed again.

"So... they've really given the school over ter them, then," Hagrid said at last, his voice heavy.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Death Eaters are teaching curses. Snape's headmaster. They've got patrols everywhere. Ron and Hermione—they're still inside. I had to get out, just for a bit."

Hagrid growled. "It's madness. Hogwarts was suppos'ter be safe. Dumbledore – " he trailed off. Handing Harry a chipped mug with tea, he turned around again and put his infamous rock cakes on a plate, though his movements were slower than usual. His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. Harry stared into his mug like it held answers he wasn't sure he wanted. Hagrid slid the plate across to him. Despite knowing they'd break his teeth, Harry took one – it had been ages since he had last eaten anything.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the crackling fire. Hagrid poured two mugs again and dropped into the chair opposite Harry with a sigh that made the floorboards creak.

"I miss Dumbledore," Harry said quietly, after a moment. "He'd know what to do."

Hagrid's eyes softened. "He believed in yeh, Harry. Still does, wherever he is now."

"I wish that was enough," Harry muttered. "Everything's falling apart, and I'm supposed to—" He cut himself off, gripping the spoon tighter. "It's not fair."

"No, it ain't," Hagrid said gruffly. "But yeh've got people who care about yeh. You ain't alone, no matter what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named thinks."

There was comfort in that, even if it didn't fix anything. Harry gave a faint smile. "Thanks, Hagrid."

They drank in silence after that, letting the tea warm them from the inside out. For a brief, golden moment, it almost felt like old times. Like nothing outside those thick wooden walls could reach them.

But then—

A sharp knock. Three raps. Loud. Heavy.

Harry froze, his cup halfway to his mouth.

Hagrid stood so fast his chair nearly toppled. "Stay here," he whispered, already moving toward the door.

Harry slid silently off the bench, ducking low behind the table.

Another knock. Then a voice—drawling, slick.

"We know you're in there, half-breed. Open the door. Now."

Hagrid hesitated only a second, then swung the door open. Two Death Eaters stood outside, robes gleaming in the weak afternoon light, without hoods, wands drawn.

"What're you doin' here?" said Hagrid furiously. "Get outta my house!"

"We've reason to believe you're hiding someone," one of them said.

"Don't know what you're talkin' about," Hagrid rumbled.

"Step aside."

"I said, I don't know what—"

A wand jabbed into his chest. "We're not asking."

Harry barely had time to stand up when the second Death Eater flicked his, sending Hagrid flying backward into the table with a crash. Dishes shattered. Fang howled.

"Hagrid – !"

"Found him," the first Death Eater snarled, spotting Harry crouched beside Hagrid in the wreckage.

Hagrid groaned from the floor. "Don't—hurt—'im," he wheezed.

"Quiet, beast," the taller Death Eater hissed, before turning back to Harry, his wand still on Hagrid. "You are coming with us."

Harry heard Hagrid wheezing again, muttering insults under his breath. Harry didn't need to think twice, he needed to get out of here to keep Hagrid save.

"Leave him alone," Harry snarled, summoning the most defiant look he could muster. The tall Death Eater laughed and raised his wand higher.

"Quit playing around, Jugson," the other Death Eater said lazily, twirling his wand, leaning against the door post. "Just grab the boy, and let's go."

Harry glimpsed a flicker of cruel delight at the tall Death Eaters face. He grabbed the front of Harry's robes, and dragged him from the wreckage. Harry looked back at Hagrid and briefly locked eyes. Then he was forced around and shoved outside, where the sky was turning orange with the start of setting sun.

The trek back to the castle was slow and heavy. His fists clenched at his sides. The Death Eaters flanked him like vultures, their wands pointed lazily but precisely at his back. He didn't resist— Hagrid's safety hung on his cooperation. That, and something told him he'd need his strength later.

The castle loomed ahead, its windows dim in the waning light. As they reached the stone steps, Harry hesitated for half a second. With a shove between his shoulder blades, he was forced inside.

They passed through the main hall, and Harry's heart stumbled. There—through a narrow opening in a doorway—he saw them. Ron and Hermione.

They stood with a few others— Harry spotted Luna, and Ginny, all grouped together, guarded closely. Hermione's hand was clenched around Ron's sleeve, and Ron's eyes were scanning the hallway like a caged animal. Then they locked eyes with him.

Hermione gasped, her mouth parting just slightly. Ron took a step forward—but a Death Eater raised a wand, and Harry gave the smallest shake of his head.

I'm okay, he tried to say with his eyes. Don't.

His chest ached.

"Move," snarled the Death Eater behind him, and Harry was wrenched from the moment, pulled away down into the dark stairwell that led to the dungeons.

The room was empty again. There was no sign of Snape, and fortunately, no sign of Voldemort either. Harry was pushed inside. The Death Eaters didn't stay. Harry heard them look the door behind him. Glad to be rid of them, Harry walked towards the desk near the fire. The quill he had seen this morning was writing again, in the same language Harry didn't know. He averted his gaze.

He slipped around the desk and tried the drawer. It didn't open. The one below didn't either. Harry tried the cabinet to the wall next.

"Looking for something?" A high, cold voice rang out from behind him.

Harry froze. He hadn't noticed the doors opening. Turning slowly, he looked back at Voldemort's amused expression, his red eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"Here we are again, Harry."

Harry remained silent. He eyed Voldemort's movement apprehensively, the knot of in his stomach tightening. Voldemort placed a little bundle on the desk next to the fire, turning his back on Harry.

He waved a hand, and the quill stopped its feverish writing and dropped limp on the desk. Voldemort read through the parchment, then with another wave, made it vanish.

Harry slowly backed away from the desk, slipping along the wall to put more distance between them. As he moved, Voldemort's outline began to blur. His scar was starting to burn again.

Voldemort paid him no mind. He was absorbed in a book, written in the same strange language, apparently learning something new.

Harry flinched when a sharp pain shot through his scar. He refrained from clutching his head. This time, Voldemort looked up, with an eager expression his face. His eyes narrowed, and Harry felt another stabbing pain. His vision blurred. Harry blinked, but felt no tears.

Across from him, Voldemort observed him with cold amusement. His pale, skeletal fingers traced the length of his wand, tapping it idly, as though contemplating how best to begin.

"You look uncomfortable, Harry." Voldemort's voice slithered through the chamber like an icy whisper.

Harry didn't answer. He was too busy fighting against an invisible pressure pushing down on him—Voldemort's presence alone was suffocating.

Voldemort took a slow step closer, and Harry stiffened. The lipless mouth curled into a smile.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the armchair. The command in his tone made refusal impossible. Harry obeyed, never taking his eyes off him.

Voldemort sat opposite, folding his hands.

"Surely you must have wondered about this yourself… The connection we share is no accident," he said softly, tilting his head. "It was forged the night I marked you... and it has been growing stronger ever since. You have felt it, haven't you? The pull?"

Harry clenched his jaw. Of course, he had felt it. The strange moments when his emotions weren't entirely his own. The dreams—visions—the glimpses into Voldemort's mind. He would have given anything to learn about this more a few months ago. But right now, he wanted it to be over.

Voldemort smiled knowingly. "I've felt it too," he whispered. "But there is still one question left unanswered… How deep does this connection run? How much of me lingers within you, Potter?"

The air grew heavy. The flames dimmed.

Pain lanced through Harry's scar, sharp and immediate. Voldemort was pulling at the connection—testing it like a string tied between them.

"What do you mean, how much of you is inside of me," Harry croaked. His stomach turned.

Voldemort ignored him, his red eyes gleaming with fascination. "I wonder… if it can be reclaimed."

Before Harry could react, Voldemort raised his wand.

The world shattered.

Harry was ripped from his body, or at least it felt that way. His mind was suddenly not his own—it was being pried open, stretched, invaded by something so dark and invasive it made him scream.

Harry gasped, trying to push back, but Voldemort's presence coiled around his mind like a serpent. He could feel something digging deeper into his scar, something trying to unravel him from the inside out. His body convulsed. Pain unlike anything he had ever felt before erupted through his skull, burning, splitting, as if something was clawing at the edges of his very being, trying to break free.

A laugh—low, triumphant. Voldemort's voice was inside his head now. Inside him.

Harry thrashed against the magical binds. His scar wasn't just burning—it was pulling. He felt like something was trying to tear itself from his skull.

A choked sound escaped him as he realized—Voldemort wasn't just invading his mind. He was extracting something.

"Fascinating," Voldemort mused, watching Harry writhe. "You resist… but you are not strong enough, are you?"

Harry could barely hear him over the blood roaring in his ears. His entire body was shaking violently, his vision swimming between reality and darkness. A soundless scream tore from Harry's throat as his scar split. Blood dripped down his forehead, hot against his chilled skin.

Voldemort's expression flickered. He raised his wand, making a sharp, twisting motion. Harry felt himself slipping, like his very self was unraveling—

And then, as if realizing something—Voldemort snarled.

"No."

With a violent lash of his wand, he severed the connection.

Harry collapsed to the floor, gasping, his body convulsing as the magic recoiled through him. His scar still burned, but the unbearable pressure—the feeling of being split in two—was gone.

Voldemort was watching him with narrowed eyes. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

Harry forced himself onto his elbows, shaking. Voldemort stared at him. After a long, thoughtful pause, he muttered, almost to himself, "Not yet complete, but close."

With another wave of his wand, the binds returned– full force. Harry barely had time to brace himself before a piercing force crashed into his mind. This time, he did scream. He crumpled to the floor. His scar split anew, flaring white-hot. Memories tore from his mind—Sirius laughing in the fire, Hermione gripping his arm in the Department of Mysteries, Voldemort advancing with a red vapor whip from his wand, the cold, slimy walls of Azkaban —

He lost track of where he was. Of time. Of self. Harry wasn't sure how much longer he could resist. After what felt like an eternity, the pain dulled—but didn't fade

Harry lay panting on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, the scar on his forehead throbbing horribly, his body shivering feverishly.

This was worse than anything Voldemort had done to him so far. Whatever it was, whatever experiment Voldemort was inflicting now, it went on and on until Harry had screamed his throat hoarse, and his body almost didn't feel anything anymore.

Harry had no idea how long it had been—hours, days, maybe longer. Time had lost all meaning.

He was dimly aware of lying on a sofa near the fire, though he couldn't remember when Voldemort had stopped. Slipping in and out of consciousness, he occasionally registered Voldemort's presence moving about the room, but it all blurred together.

As the numbness began to fade, the pain crept back in—slowly at first, a dull throbbing radiating through every limb. His head felt as though it had been split open. A sticky, warm sensation clung to his cheek where it pressed against the fabric of the sofa.

But his mind remained blank. No thoughts, no feelings—just emptiness. Darkness surrounded him, inside and out. And when he could no longer resist it, Harry let the darkness swallow him whole.

When he opened his eyes again, the fire was gone. He was still in the same position. His head pounded, as though his brain was trying to leave through his skull. Harry moaned.

"Back again?" he heard a high, cold voice, somewhere from the room.

Swallowing, Harry tried lifting his head. The wave of nauseous almost made him pass out again.

"Perhaps not ready for another round, then," the voice continued.

When Harry opened his eyes again, the fire was suddenly back. His hair was getting pushed out of his face. Someone was prying his mouth open, and Harry felt a burning liquid forced inside the back of his throat. He bit back a scream when his scar gave a fresh shot of pain.

The room came into focus. It remained difficult to make out more than a silhouette, but the large, hooked form of Snapes nose was unmistakable. Harry averted his gaze, he was already nauseous.

"Let go of me," Harry murmured. He blinked against the firelight, every inch of his body aching still.

"Awake at last," rang Voldemort's high, clear voice from behind Snape. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't recover."

Harry tried to lift his head, but even that small motion sent sharp pain lancing through his skull. He groaned. From somewhere behind him, slow footsteps echoed across the stone floor. Vaguely, he watched as Voldemort turned toward the door.

"Severus," he said, almost absently. "I want the boy coherent, awake enough to experience what is coming next."

"My Lord?"

He finally glanced back at Harry, something disturbingly close to amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. "It seems Hogwarts is no longer a fit place for him to be. So, we will leave before nightfall."

Snape hesitated, just barely. "Where are you taking him?"

Voldemort smiled without warmth. "Azkaban."