Fleur, as it turned out, had missed the first duelling practice because of her father…
She explained that her father had made an unexpected visit to Beauxbatons to discuss the Prophet's article, which had also appeared in the French daily newspaper,La Gazette du Sorcier.
The French article had portrayed her father in a rather unfavourable light, more so than the British one.
Sebastian had been particularly concerned about how the articles might affect his position at the French Ministry. Needless to say, Fleur couldn't care less.
His actions only diminished their opinions of him further.
Fleur folded her arms, rolling her eyes in irritation. "Of course, 'e cares more about his reputation than anything else. It is exhausting, Harry."
Harry nodded, understanding all too well the frustration of dealing with self-serving adults. "Doesn't surprise me. If anything, I'm glad he's angry about it. He deserves it."
She let out a soft sigh and shook her head. "Enough about him. How was the practice?"
Harry scoffed. "Honestly? A waste of time."
Fleur arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Oh? You are too good for their lessons?"
"I wouldn't saytoo good," Harry said with a smirk, "but silent casting and all that choreography rubbish? I've been doing silent casting for months, and the spell choreography was just... theatrical nonsense. No offence, but aside from looking pretty, it was useless."
Fleur let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "I know, I know."
Harry's expression turned a bit more interested. "Though, they did announce something interesting—a Tri-School Duelling Tournament."
Fleur's eyes gleamed at that. "Ah, thatdoessound interesting. And I assume you are going to enter?"
Harry gave her a look. "Obviously. Not like I'd pass up a chance to humiliate a few arrogant sods who think they're better than me," he said and smirked. "And I can't miss the chance to show everyone who's on top in this relationship, can I? That is unless you opt to stay out of the tournament."
Fleur scoffed, tilting her head with a smirk. "Oh, mon cher, if you think I'd back down from a challenge, you don't know me at all."
He grinned at her competitive spirit, but his expression shifted when he noticed Fleur hesitating, shifting her weight slightly as though debating how to phrase what she wanted to say next.
"Actually, 'Arry… There is something I wanted to ask you."
Harry tilted his head slightly. "Go on."
She took a small breath before continuing, her voice softer than before. "Next week, there is a banquet in honour of the tournament's progress at my school. Visiting dignitaries, French Ministry officials, and, of course, the champion is required to attend."
Harry's nose wrinkled in mild distaste. "That sounds absolutely miserable."
Fleur let out a small, knowing laugh before meeting his gaze with something close to anticipation. "Yes, but… I am allowed to bring a guest. I want you to accompany me, Harry. As my plus-one."
For a moment, Harry was caught off guard.
He hadn't expected Fleur to invite him to something so formal, so public. As he looked at her, standing there with a slightly hopeful expression, he found himself nodding.
"Yeah, sure. I'll be there with you."
Fleur's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Good. I will make sure you 'ave something appropriate to wear."
Harry gave her a look. "I can dress myself, you know."
She smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Sure you do, mon cher."
Harry had a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to win that particular argument…
The next few days passed in a blur of classes and training.
Harry found himself actually looking forward to the banquet, though he'd never admit it out loud.
At least it would give him and Fleur another evening to dress up.
Not even the fact that they had to endure the company of stuffy politicians, managed to dampen his excitement.
During this time, Harry also found time for his long-awaited reunion with Sirius who was still residing at one of the Blachousesouse in Skye.
"Kreacher," Harry called out from inside his room in the Chamber of Secrets.
The old house-elf appeared with a soft crack, his large eyes immediately fixing on Harry with that mix of reverence and mild disapproval that had become oddly familiar.
"Dirty scary master called Kreacher," stated the elf with obvious confusion.
"Yes. I want you to bring me to Sirius."
Kreacher bowed low, his long nose nearly touching the floor. "As master wishes. Kreacher will take scary master to blood traitor."
Harry took a bracing breath, then clasped Kreacher's offered arm.
There was the familiar, unpleasant lurching sensation as they Apparated away from Hogwarts, his stomach flipping before his feet landed on solid ground once again.
He opened his eyes to find himself standing on a windswept cliffside overlooking the grey waters surrounding the Isle of Skye.
A fine mist hung in the air, veiling the rugged coastline.
The house before him was a tall, narrow structure of dark stone, its gothic silhouette accented by jagged spires and wrought-iron balconies.
'Damn, does the Black family have a penchant for the dramatic…'
The front door—a heavy, carved slab of dark wood decorated with silver inlay—creaked open as they approached. Kreacher shuffled forward, his bat-like ears trembling.
"This way, scary master," Kreacher muttered, glancing about as though expecting Harry to transform into a dragon at any moment and eat him.
An amused Harry found himself following the elf across the threshold, stepping into a surprisingly well-lit foyer.
'Damn are there a lot of dark objects in here,' he thought and dulled his magical senses.
Sirius's influence was immediately visible. He had half-expected the interior to be as gloomy as Grimmauld Place, but instead, the walls were painted a warm cream.
There was a battered leather jacket slung over a chair, a set of Muggle rock band posters half-tucked behind antique tapestries, and a black motorbike helmet perched on a marble bust near the stairs.
'… Is it shining?' Harry wondered, noticing how the helmet seemed to gleam with an unnatural lustre.
It was hard to tell if it was just well-polished or if Sirius had enchanted it somehow.
The floors were polished wood, broken up by thick rugs that looked newly purchased.
On the far side of the foyer, a large window allowed in a generous amount of the grey Scottish daylight, illuminating a broad corridor leading deeper into the house.
Kreacher let out a soft sniff of disapproval. "Nasty master has ruined the house with his dreadful taste," he said under his breath.
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, yes. Now, where is he?"
The elf sniffed again. "With the vases, no doubt."
"The vases?" Harry repeated, brow furrowing.
What could his godfather be doing with vases of all things?
But Kreacher didn't elaborate. Instead, he led Harry through a hallway punctuated by arched doorways and portraits—most of which had been draped with cloth.
Finally, Kreacher paused before a pair of wide double doors, gave one last withering sigh, and pushed them open.
Inside was a sunlit drawing room featuring tall windows overlooking the cliff and sea beyond.
Soft, mismatched sofas surrounded a low table cluttered with old newspapers, half-empty teacups, and at least one bottle of Firewhisky.
By the far wall stood Sirius Black himself, apparently reorganising an elegant display of porcelain vases on a mahogany shelf—a curious sight, given Sirius's usual disdain for anythingposh.
He turned at the sound of the doors opening, grey eyes lighting up at the sight of Harry. "Pup!" he called, grinning broadly. "Just the person I've been waiting for—assuming you're not here to tell me off for my questionable decorating choices."
Harry let out a short laugh. "Well, I was going to comment on the vases, but if you're proud of them…"
Sirius snorted. "Hardly proud. They're family heirlooms, apparently worth more than a decent broomstick, so I figured I'd not smash them just yet. Could come in handy if I ever need to pay for a new bike."
Kreacher muttered something inaudible, presumably along the lines offilthy blood traitor desecrating the house.
Sirius set down the vase he'd been holding, his face settling into a more serious expression. "It's good to see you, Harry. Been wanting to catch up—especially since the Prophet's been stirring up trouble again." Harry shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets. "You're telling me. Did you see the French paper as well?"
Sirius grimaced and shook his head.
"No, I never really read foreign papers and my French is rusty anyway," Sirius replied, moving to settle into one of the mismatched sofas. "But I heard Remus mentioning it, something about…"
Sirius continued speaking animatedly, but Harry's attention drifted elsewhere.
When he entered the house, he had toned down his senses because of the overwhelming inputs of malevolent magic present throughout the house.
Even with his dulled senses though, he could still feel one particular magical signature.
It was familiar and it almost felt like… a human presence.
"Sirius. Why do you have a horcrux in your house?"
Silence.
'Could Sirius have created it?' The thought flickered in Harry's mind, but he quickly dismissed it. 'That's absurd. Sirius would never.'
Despite his inner reassurance, Harry kept himself poised to draw his wand at a moment's notice if needed.
Meanwhile, Sirius' jaw hung open comically. He tried closing it a few times before finally succeeding, and if the man's suddenly solemn expression was anything to go by, he was now occluding his mind.
"How do you know about Horcruxes, Harry?" Sirius almost demanded, his tone all business.
Harry met Sirius' gaze unflinchingly. "That's a long story, and I'm sure it can wait," he replied, his eyes narrowing. "The better question is why you have one here."
He loved the man, but something about this situation felt off—and a Horcrux was never something to be taken lightly.
The fact that Sirius seemed to know exactly what he was talking about only made Harry more wary.
Sirius visibly relaxed at Harry's answer and sighed. "I'm sorry for snapping at you, pup. It's just that… you shouldn't know about Horcruxes. Hell, I shouldn't know about them, yet try telling that to Mother Dearest. She couldn't abide an uneducated heir," he continued with a grimace. "The Black family libraries are filled with books on the darkest of magics. Mother made sure I knew all about the serious stuff, even if I wanted nothing to do with it."
Harry frowned, his fingers twitching by his side, ready to summon his wand at the slightest provocation. "That doesn't explain why there's one here, Sirius."
Sirius must have sensed his tension because he raised his hands in a calming gesture. "All I can say is that if there's a Horcrux in this house, I didn't know about it. When I moved here, there was a trove of magical items already in place—and I brought over everything from Grimmauld Place as well. I don't know if anyone in my family was mad enough to create one, but given the Blacks' history… well, let's just say I wouldn't be shocked."
Harry nodded grimly, his hand hovering near his wand. "All right, but stay here. I can sense it somewhere in the house," he said, pausing a moment.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting his magic ripple out through the old house on the windswept cliffs of Skye.
The entire building bristled with enchantments—dark wards and relics of dubious origin. Yet amid all that swirling malignancy, one particular object throbbed with a heartbeat of darkness, beckoning him upstairs.
When he opened his eyes, Harry saw Sirius watching him warily from the other side of the drawing room. In the doorway, Kreacher hovered, his lips pulled down in a perpetual frown.
Harry inhaled slowly and inclined his head upwards, towards the second floor.
"It's there," he said softly. "Upstairs."
Sirius pursed his lips. "Lead on, then."
Harry sighed and didn't bother to stop his godfather from following him.
They climbed the creaking staircase, past shrouded paintings whose occupants whispered behind the dusty cloth. Harry sensed myriad cursed trinkets and dangerous objects scattered about, but none compared to the foul presence emanating from above.
They finally stopped before an old door with peeling paint, and a chill snaked down Harry's spine.
"This is it," he murmured.
Sirius moved beside him, grey eyes flicking to the door. "I can't say I'm surprised it's in here. This used to be my grandfather's old study—though he cleared off years before I was born. Nobody's touched it in decades."
Before Harry could respond, Kreacher let out a soft hiss from behind them, his ears trembling. The elf's entire posture seemed to droop in alarm, yet there was a fierce determination in his stance.
Harry ignored the elf for the moment and tested the doorknob. He detected only a simple ward, which he unravelled with a precise flick of his wand. Harry could have done so wandlessly but chose not to reveal that ability to Sirius just yet.
The door swung inwards on creaking hinges, revealing a cramped, dust-laden room. Rows of sagging shelves lined the walls, crammed with ancient tomes. Above a battered wooden desk hung a single crooked cupboard.
Harry's magical senses spiked sharply.
"There," he said, indicating the cupboard with his wand.
Sirius peered closer, wand drawn. "It looks innocent enough," he remarked grimly, "but there's something foul here."
Harry took a cautious step forward, stirring small clouds of dust. Then he stopped short as Kreacher scuttled past, planting himself between Harry and the cupboard, arms outstretched as though to shield the rickety furniture.
"You will not touch it!" Kreacher rasped, his voice trembling yet resolute. "Young Master Regulus commanded Kreacher to destroy the locket—Kreacher must obey!"
Harry blinked. "Regulus?" He exchanged a startled look with Sirius.
Sirius' features twisted with confusion and a trace of regret. "My brother," he said curtly, a distant look crossing his face. "He died during the first war. I never learned exactly how or why—he just… vanished."
The house-elf pressed both hands against the cupboard door, as though holding himself steady. "Young Master was kind… told Kreacher to destroy it!" There was raw anguish in his voice. "Kreacher does not want to hurt you, but Kreachermustobey!"
Harry was taken aback by the sudden development, but he took a measured step forward.
"Kreacher," he said softly, "this locket you speak of—it's dangerous. A magic darker than you know."
"No!" Kreacher wailed, tears brimming in his bulbous eyes. "Kreacher promised. Kreacherwilldestroy it!"
"Kreacher," Sirius chimed in, voice gentler than usual. "I know you loved Regulus. I did too… in my own way. We want to finish what he started. Let us do this. Please."
The elf trembled violently, torn by inner conflict. For a moment, he seemed ready to stand down—only to let out a despairing cry and yank the cupboard open.
Inside lay a tarnished silver locket on a fine chain. A dull crystal glinted at its centre.
With a quavering hiss, Kreacher snatched it up, clutching the chain so the pendant dangled. "Kreacher will—!"
The moment his fingertips brushed the crystal, a cold explosion of magic whipped through the room. Harry felt it smash against his senses, like a sudden gale of icy wind, while sinister whispers scratched at the edge of his mind.
Kreacher staggered backwards, still gripping the locket. His eyes rolled back, whites showing, as sparks of raw energy crackled around him.
"Kreacher!" Harry shouted, lunging forward.
He didn't get far. A pulse of dark power radiated outwards, knocking Harry and Sirius back a step. The temperature in the tiny study plummeted, and Harry's heart pounded as he sensed something else.
More than one presence, inside that thing?
He narrowed his eyes, extending his heightened perceptions. Within the roiling aura twisting around the locket, he heard two voices—both hissing in serpentine tones.
One was unmistakable:Voldemort.Harry recognised that rasping hiss, seeping under his skin, from countless nightmares and visions.
But the other… older, deeper, steeped in cunning and power.
'SAL!'
Harry's pulse hammered in his throat as comprehension struck.
Kreacher stood transfixed, the chain wrapped around his shaking fists. The swirling power thickened, making the air fizz with malice. Any moment now, the Horcrux—or whatever abomination it had become—would seize the elf's will.
"Bloody Merlin," Harry whispered. "Stupefy!"
A blast of red light streamed from Harry's wand, hitting Kreacher squarely. The elf collapsed in a heap, the locket tumbling from his grasp with a dull rattle.
Instantly, the dark magic around them shifted in tone, like a storm preparing to break. Harry felt it roil above them, seeking a new vessel.
Sirius staggered forward but Harry thrust out an arm to halt him. "Don't touch it!"
Sirius froze, horror dawning. "That thing… it just tried to take control of me!"
Harry didn't respond, his gaze locked on the locket. The crystal at its centre gleamed with a sickly luminescence, minute cracks branching across its surface, as if something within were trying to escape.
Voldemort's voice, a distant echo, curled through Harry's mind."You dare meddle… you dare…"
Overlapping it came a second snarl, low and arrogant."Fool. You put a piece of your soul in my locket?"
"Sal? Is that you?"Harry hissed in Parseltongue, voice barely audible.
The older presence sounded startled."Who are you?"it demanded.
"Never mind,"Harry murmured back sadly.
He forced himself to ignore both presences, though his wand hand shook faintly. He knew what had to be done, however much it pained him.
Snatching up a metal quill from the dusty desk, he knelt on the floorboards and started scratching a shape into the wood—a large triangle, bisected by a vertical line, enclosing a rough circle.
The Deathly Hallows.
Sirius stared, goggle-eyed, but said nothing.
Harry had no idea if this ritual would suffice forwhateverthe locket had become. It was the simplest soul-banishing rite he knew, and he clung to it as his best hope.
Sirius shifted uneasily behind him. "Harry… not to rush you, but please hurry."
Harry didn't look up. "Keep your wand at the ready. If that thing tries anything, shield me."
He worked quickly, carving the lines as accurately as he could manage with trembling hands. The air bristled with energy, making his hair stand on end.
At last, the makeshift symbol was complete. Harry flicked his wand, and to Sirius' disbelief, he sliced a shallow cut in his palm. A few drops of blood spattered onto the carving.
He circled it once, murmuring a soft incantation. Sirius hovered beside him with his wand trained on the locket, occasionally casting bemused glances in Harry's direction. The locket lay still, but its rancid aura stirred the dust into shifting, ghostly swirls.
Harry took a steadying breath and raised his wand, allowing his magic to surge through him unhindered. Sirius felt momentarily faint as raw power poured off the young wizard in rolling waves.
Then the words came, resonating with authority in the cramped room:
"Death… Sovereign of shadows, reaper of souls. I invoke thy presence as my lineage allows. Heed my call, oh timeless one, and claim thy due. What was borrowed must now be returned anew,"Harry chanted the same words, just as he had months ago in the Chamber of Secrets, and the two parselmouths went still.
A familiar iciness coursed down his spine, but this time he was ready.
The surrounding air went impossibly still and cold.
Reality itself seemed to warp, the corners of the room stretching into swirling gloom. The silence became a thing alive, throbbing in his ears with maddening intensity.
Then Harry felt it: a shudder in the fabric of existence as a presence—bleak, ancient, implacable—descended upon the spot where he knelt. The suffocating aura pressed against his senses, deeper and more horrifying than any Dementor's chill.
There was a dullthudbehind Harry—he would later realise that was Sirius fainting.
He forced himself to stand.
Out of the swirling shadows, a towering figure emerged—taller than any human, draped in a tattered cloak of black that devoured what faint light still lingered. A hood concealed its face in impenetrable darkness, and in one skeletal hand, it clutched a scythe so old and pitiless it seemed forged from the night itself.
The temperature plunged further. Every instinct screamed at Harry to flee, but he stayed rooted to the spot, fighting off a wave of primordial dread. The reek of decaying magic bled into the air, and the boards beneath him groaned as if they, too, felt Death's crushing weight.
At last, the entity's attention shifted to the locket lying between them. In the hush that followed, Harry felt his heart clatter in his chest—he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was Death in a way no mortal being could ever truly comprehend.
And It had arrived to claim its due…
Darkness pressed in from every side, folding itself around the cloaked figure like a shroud.
Harry stood, every nerve aflame, watching the scythe gleam with an inky sheen.
It felt like the entire house had sunk beneath a midnight ocean.
Silence ruled supreme—heavy, absolute.
He could sense the Horcrux's malignant aura, thrashing wildly as Death itself turned its gaze upon the silver locket. Harry's stomach churned at the sheer enormity of it all.
Then, in a voice that seemed to reverberate from the depths of a bottomless void, the figure spoke—Death actually spoke!
"Well done, Peverell." The words brushed across Harry's ears like a cold whisper. "You have once again returned what is mine, and for that, I am grateful."
Harry was too awestruck to reply; and even if he had found his tongue, some primal, self-preserving instinct warned him against conversing casually with Death. Instead, he slowly dipped his head in silent acknowledgement, heart thudding in his chest.
The dreadful cloak shifted in a motion that resembled a nod. "But summon me in your realm again," came the terrible voice, "and I will take more than what is offered."
In that instant, Harry felt something in the air change—like a tight thread snapping.
The reaper's presence receded, and the swirling gloom began to lose its crushing weight…
But Harry had no chance to feel relief. An icy jolt shot through his entire being, a stab of frigid magic that made him gasp. The next breath he took seemed to crackle in his lungs, leaving him shaking and hollow.
'Does my magic feel cold?' The thought flickered through his mind with a mix of dread and fascination.
There was no denying it—something inside him had changed.
Whatever the consequences of that might be, he didn't know and feared them.
Gradually, the shadows lifted, and the flickering remains of candlelight returned, leaving the tarnished locket lying still at the centre of the carved symbol.
Its crystal was fractured now and there was no trace of life behind its dull sheen.
Only then did Harry realise that Sirius lay sprawled behind him, unmoving. Instantly, he dropped to his knees at his godfather's side.
"Sirius… come on," Harry urged, pressing trembling fingers to Sirius' neck. He was breathing—shallow but steady.
"Enervate," Harry muttered, wand aimed at Sirius' chest.
A faint pulse of magic rippled into him.
After an agonising second, Sirius stirred, eyelids fluttering.
He groaned and slowly pushed himself upright, though his movements were shaky.
"That coldness…" he rasped, voice rough as though he'd been screaming. "It felt as if I was back in Azkaban—surrounded by a swarm of Dementors."
His eyes, hollow with lingering horror, stared at the floor. "It wasn't just that, though. It was… different. Potent. Raw. Whatever you did, Harry, it feltworsethan Dementors."
Harry winced at the haunted note in Sirius' voice.
Guilt flared in his chest.
He wanted to say something comforting—anything—but the words refused to come. Instead, he slid an arm under Sirius' shoulders to help him sit up properly.
Sirius shot the locket on the floor a quick, fearful glance before turning back to Harry.
He swallowed hard. "When did you learn aboutthesekinds of rituals?" he demanded, trying and failing to disguise the tremor in his tone.
His gaze dropped to the triangular carving on the floor. "And…bloody hell, you drew Grindelwald's symbol."
Harry almost laughed at how small and inadequate the battered shape in the floor looked now, scorched with a few drops of his own blood.
The Deathly Hallows.
A mark that carried centuries of legend—and dark infamy after Grindelwald's twisted adoption of it.
But it was no mundane symbol…
"It'snothis symbol," Harry murmured tiredly with a hoarse voice. "Let's say that it's… old magic and leave it at that. It's more complicated than I can explain right now." He rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the lingering chill that had sunk into his bones.
Slowly, Sirius dragged himself to his feet, leaning against the crooked cupboard.
Kreacher, still unconscious, lay in a small heap by the door, his scrawny chest rising and falling in shallow jerks.
Harry felt a brief pang of worry for the elf. "I didn't mean to hurt him," he muttered, stepping closer to check Kreacher's pulse.
Sirius nodded wearily. "I know. You probably saved his life." He eyed the broken Horcrux on the floor, shards of crystal shimmering in the dust. "You saved us both."
Something in Sirius' voice made Harry look up.
There was gratitude, certainly, but also fear.
Unsettled by that look, Harry gently picked up the locket with two fingers.
Its once-dark aura felt inert now, lifeless metal no more threatening than any other piece of old jewellery. Yet his newly slightly ice-laced magic churned at the contact, leaving an odd tingle in his fingertips.
Harry frowned.
'Were theretwosoul fragments inside it? It didn't feel like that… Was it something akin to a portrait's imprint?'
"Anyway, it's gone now."
He cleared his throat as he lowered the locket into a conjured box.
Sirius reached out, albeit hesitantly, and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Harry. Talk to me. What was that ritual? Where—when—how?"
Harry knew he owed Sirius an explanation, but after being in Death's presence, he felt close to collapse.
Still, he forced himself to answer, if only partially. "I learned a bit about all kinds of magic this year," he said, voice subdued.
At Sirius's impatient look, Harry continued with steel in his voice. "Look. My name came out of the damned goblet and I felt more alone than ever. Luckily for me, I found a great teacher who offered to help me survive the thing. I was desperate enough to try anything and even dabbled in magic that some would consider... questionable. And it was worth it—I survived, and learned more than I ever thought possible."
Sirius let out a long breath, raking a hand through his messy hair. He looked older than his years just then, the lines of past torments etched deeply across his face.
It was obvious to him that Harry wasn't ready to spill his secrets, and he knew that by pushing him, he'd only make the situation worse; that's what always happened with Walburga…
"Well," Sirius said at last, "I'm not an idiot and I can understand the need to learnquestionablemagic. What matters is that you are safe and sound." He paused, glancing at the carved Hallows symbol. "But for the future… try being considerate." He swallowed. "Please."
Harry allowed himself a tired smirk. "Sure, Padfoot."
"Kreacher," Sirius said softly, nudging the elf with his foot. Kreacher stirred, groaning in a low, pained voice. "He's waking. We should get him somewhere to rest."
Harry nodded, conjuring a soft blanket to drape over the elf. As he bent down, he cast a quick diagnostic charm.
Kreacher's vitals were stable, though he was badly shaken by the Horcrux's backlash.
'Probably because he was right next to it.'
Bracing himself, Harry rose. "We'll talk more. Just—give some time to process all this."
"Of course," Sirius said, swallowing visibly. "I'm sorry, pup. It's just… I've never felt anything like that in my life." H
e shuddered, drawing his robe tighter around himself, as though trying to block out a chilling wind that was no longer blowing. "Not even Azkaban wasthatbad."
Harry's heart twisted in sympathy.
Eventually, Harry turned on his heel, carefully stepping away from the triangle now scorched into the floorboards. "Let's get out of here. We'll settle Kreacher, then… figure out how to proceed."
They exchanged a bleak look, then, with Kreacher slumped gently in Harry's arms, they turned and left the study behind.
Before the door swung shut with a finalclick, Harry cast one last glance at the broken locket.
'You have once again returned what is mine… But summon me in your realm again…'
Drawing a breath, he left the old study in darkness.
The hallway's stale air felt like the sweetest breeze compared to the malevolent gloom they had endured.
And yet, there was no banishing the thought that hovered in Harry's mind.
Something fundamental had changed inside him, and he knew that he wouldn't return to Hogwarts the same.
.
.
.
[d=i=s=c=o=r=d=.=g=g/NJ3WV9RVgR]
[p=atreon=.=c=o=m/Mr_0ne] or do a Google search of 'p=atreon Fake Violinist'.
Chapter 33: The adorable and the arrogant
Chapter 34: The Duelling Competition
Chapter 35: Champions Showdown