Chapter 8 :
Lily's Perspective
Lily didn't sleep that night.
Sleep was a luxury her mind no longer allowed. Every time she closed her eyes, her thoughts raced—unrelenting and loud.
Zean, curled in misery, his voice raw with fear.
The Arezma, thrumming beneath her skin, its whispers a little bolder now.
The future, uncertain and fractured.
What if it's the same as Harry's?
What if we already know the ending… and it still doesn't matter?
She found herself imagining what he must've felt—Harry, when he carried a piece of Voldemort within him. Did he hear voices too? Feel the burn in his chest? Did his skin crawl when evil was near? Or had he just grown numb to it?
Will I grow numb too?
The Library – Early Morning
By the time the castle began to stir, Lily was already up, washed, dressed, and slipping through the quiet corridors. She barely touched her breakfast—just a sip of pumpkin juice—and disappeared into the library before the first wave of students hit the hallways.
The quiet rows of ancient shelves and the scent of old parchment calmed her more than anything else could. Here, she didn't have to pretend. Here, she wasn't Lily Everligh, or Lily James, or the girl with the curse. Here, she was just a seeker of knowledge.
She dragged out every volume she could find on dark soul fragments, possessed magic, and magical consciousness. Titles like Essence Severance: Understanding Tethered Souls and Of Shadows and Wills: When Magic Breathes littered her table.
But nothing spoke of the Arezma.
Nothing dared to name it.
First Period – Defense Against the Dark Arts
The moment she stepped into Quirrell's classroom, the pressure began.
It was faint at first—a mild discomfort in her chest, a warmth in her blood. Annoying, but bearable.
But as Quirrell spoke, his voice tremulous and drawling, a chill raced down her spine.
No. Not chill. Fire.
Burning.
By the time he turned his back to write on the board, her blood was boiling under her skin, as though something ancient and buried was clawing to rise.
Her vision blurred. The words on the board twisted into swirling glyphs. Her heart hammered in her ears. The air in the room thickened like smoke.
It wasn't the usual reaction. This was worse. Something was different today.
She gripped her quill, trying to steady her hand.
Stella, who sat beside her, leaned over. "You okay, Lily? You look pale."
"I don't know," Lily whispered. "I'm just feeling… dizzy."
But that was a lie. It wasn't just dizziness.
There were voices now—low at first, like muttering through water.
Then clearer.
Hissing.
Crackling laughter.
Her laughter.
That unmistakable shriek of glee—the sound of a woman cloaked in madness and green light. A flash of red lips, dark curls, a wand raised— but who – She couldn't clearly remember.
Lily clutched her head, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Her fingernails dug into her scalp as the Arezma pulsed like a living flame behind her eyes.
"Stop—stop—STOP—!"
The pain exploded in her skull. Like a blade slicing her consciousness.
She shrieked.
A raw, involuntary sound tore from her throat as she bolted upright, knocking over her inkwell and sending her books scattering across the desk. Her head pounded like war drums.
"Ms. James!" Quirrell stammered, rushing toward her. "Ms. James, what—what's the matter?!"
He reached out and patted her cheek, more flustered than helpful.
Lily barely registered him. Her vision was swimming. The world felt miles away. There was only heat, sound, laughter, screaming.
Something inside her was unraveling.
She shoved her chair back, nearly stumbling as she forced herself to stand.
"I— I need to—" she gasped.
And before anyone could stop her, she fled the classroom, one arm wrapped around her chest, the other gripping the wall to steady herself.
She didn't stop when she heard her name.
Didn't look back at Quirrell's worried call.
She just ran—blinded by pain, haunted by shadows—until the halls swallowed her whole.
The castle was blurring around her.
Walls breathed, windows pulsed, and torches flickered like dying stars in a collapsing world.
She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't think.
Every corridor twisted like a serpent beneath her feet. There was green light behind her eyes, pressure in her skull, voices—so many voices—scraping through her head like nails down a stone wall.
Somewhere, distantly, a bell rang for class change.
But she didn't hear it.
All she could hear was laughter.
Unhinged, cruel laughter.
And screams.
The Arezma pulsed violently inside her chest—like a second heart, one made of fire and fury—and for a moment she felt like it would rip her open from the inside.
She turned a corner, stumbling, trying to find anywhere, anyone—
And collided hard into someone.
"Ms. James!" came a voice, startled.
Snape.
His dark eyes widened with visible alarm as he caught her elbow.
She barely recognized him.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her skin was burning—literally burning—and her fingertips were glowing with unstable magic. Her hands trembled like wires pulled too tight.
"I—" she tried, but the word caught in her throat.
Snape looked at her like he wasn't sure what he was seeing. Then, quickly, he reached into his robes and cast a glowing silver patronus—a sleek, darting doe—before gently guiding her toward the wall to steady her.
"You're burning up. What—?"
More shrieks erupted inside her head. The laughter twisted. It became words.
"You cannot suppress me."
"I know you."
"I know your past."
''I know you more than you know yourself.''
The Arezma spoke.
She clutched her skull as her knees threatened to collapse.
From down the hall, another voice called out—"Snape!"
Quirrell.
She wasn't in control anymore.
The darkness flared behind her eyes—magic without mercy, without logic, without limit.
"I'll kill him!" the voice inside her hissed. "You'll kill him."
"No!" she screamed out loud.
Snape stepped closer, wand raised—but before he could act—
She shoved them all back.
A wave of power exploded out of her body, knocking Snape into the stone wall and sending Quirrell flying. Students nearby screamed and ducked for cover.
And then—
Dumbledore appeared.
Not walking. Not running. Apparating directly into the hall, eyes blazing with power and alarm.
"Lily—"
But she didn't see him.
She didn't see anything.
She ran.
From corridor to corridor. Her heart thundered like war drums.
She didn't know where she was going—only that she had to get away.
Away from them.
Away from herself.
She reached the Grand Staircase.
It shifted under her feet, leading nowhere.
It was keeping her trapped.
The Arezma wanted her here.
Then—she turned another corridor.
And froze.
Lestrange.
He stood alone in the hall, arms at his sides, eyes widening as she stumbled toward him.
"Get away!" she shouted, voice distorted by magic. "GET AWAY!"
But he didn't move.
And the Arezma screamed.
"KILL. KILL. KILL."
Her wand moved.
She didn't command it.
A flash of green shot from her hand—the Killing Curse.
Zean flinched,A sheild erupted sheilding him with a burst of raw instinct magic. The shield shimmered and cracked under the weight of her attack.
But the spells didn't stop.
Crucio.
Expulso.
Reducto.
Another flash of green.
She couldn't stop it.
Until—
"LILY, GET OVER IT!"
The voice.
It ripped through the chaos like a lightning bolt.
Harry.
He stood between her and Zean now, shielding her spells with furious deflections, his wand moving faster than thought.
"It's not you!" he shouted.
"This isn't who you are!"
She saw his face.
His eyes.
And in one horrifying instant—she almost didn't recognize him.
He was just a boy.
A boy fighting her.
And that was enough.
She turned her wand.
Pointed it at her own chest.
"Stupefy!" she gasped.
A blast of red light exploded from her wand.
And everything went black.
….
She floated.
Weightless. Unanchored. The world was distant—like a dream she wasn't sure she wanted to wake from. There was warmth beneath her, soft fabric around her limbs, and a dull ache pulsing in her chest.
Her fingers twitched. Her breath caught. And then—
She woke.
The Hospital Wing's ceiling loomed above her, the enchanted lanterns casting a golden haze across the whitewashed stone. It was quiet.
Still.
She blinked once. Twice.
The scent of potions, antiseptic, and lavender filled her nose. The sound of a quill scratching nearby broke the silence. For a moment, she didn't move.
Her body felt like it had been lit on fire and put out with ice.
Everything hurt.
Her wand sat on the nightstand beside her, bound in silver magical restraints—pulsing gently like a reminder.
She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in her head made her hiss.
Immediately, soft footsteps approached.
"Don't strain yourself," said a voice.
Madam Pomfrey.
The matron's face appeared above her, kind but stern. She gently pressed a hand to Lily's forehead and nodded slightly, as if relieved.
"You're lucky," Pomfrey said softly. "You hit yourself with a strong Stunning Spell. Too strong. Another second and it might have ruptured your core magic."
Lily's voice came out dry and cracked. "I had to."
Pomfrey didn't ask why.
She simply poured a small vial into a spoon and held it to Lily's lips.
Lily drank it—bitter and cool—and sank back into the pillows.
"Dumbledore told me not to question you," Pomfrey muttered. "But Merlin help me, you children are going to kill yourselves before the Dark Lord even tries."
She walked away.
Lily stared at the ceiling.
The memories came slowly, dragging themselves into focus like broken glass rising from water.
The corridor.
Snape.
Quirrell.
Dumbledore.
Zean.
Harry.
The Killing Curse.
Her chest tightened. She had almost killed someone. No—not someone. Zean. A boy who said, "Not everyone's life is easy like yours."
Her throat burned.
And Harry.
He had shielded her.
From her own magic. He had shouted her name and pulled her back from the edge—and she'd aimed spells at him too. She turned her face into the pillow, unable to hold it in anymore.
Tears spilled silently onto the cotton sheets.
Not from pain.
Not even from fear.
But from the unbearable weight of what she was becoming.
Or what she might already be.
She didn't know how long she lay there.
At some point, the lanterns dimmed to match the falling afternoon light.
And then—
A chair scraped gently beside her.
She turned her head.
Harry.
His face was bruised. There was a thin cut on his was just a kid. Just eleven. But much older in real life. He sat quietly, arms folded over his chest, gaze unreadable.
She opened her mouth to speak—but he beat her to it.
"You nearly killed him."
Lily flinched.
"I know," she whispered.
"You nearly killed me."
"I know," she said again. Her voice cracked. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," he said gently.
She blinked.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"You scared me," he said, not accusingly, but honestly.
"I scared myself." Her voice broke completely. "I couldn't stop it, Harry. It—she—was screaming. I couldn't hear anything else."
He didn't move.
Then he said, "But you stopped it. You stunned yourself. You chose to end it."
She looked at him, broken and hollow. "And if next time, I don't?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then, softly: "Then I'll stop you."
She looked away. "You shouldn't have to."
"I know."
Silence.
Then—
"You're not alone," he added. "Even when it feels like it. Even when the magic is tearing you apart. We're going to fix this."
Lily nodded faintly, staring at the wand still restrained beside her.
The Arezma was still inside her.
Still waiting.
But for now—she had survived.
And maybe that was enough.
….
Zean's Perspective:
He couldn't sleep.
Not because of the chaos outside.
But because of the silence inside him.
The dorms were quiet, the lake casting faint green ripples of light across the stone walls, but Zean lay stiff in his bed, staring up at the canopy. His mind refused to stop spinning.
She had nearly killed him.
He had been seconds away from death. He had felt it—her wand pointed straight at him, her eyes wild and unfocused, like she wasn't even there.
And yet, all he could remember was the way her hands had trembled.
Not from rage.
From fear.
Something was wrong with her.
Something deep and dark and terrifying. And he didn't understand it.
He didn't even know what to call it.
He told himself it wasn't his problem.
That she wasn't his friend. That she was just another powerful, dangerous student with secrets and anger issues.
But the truth gnawed at him anyway.
She'd asked him about Lucius.
She'd defended him.
She had listened.
And then she had nearly—
Stop.
He sat up and dragged a hand down his face.
The worst part?
A piece of him wasn't angry.
A piece of him understood what it meant to break under pressure.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
Slytherin Common Room – Late Morning
Zean sat alone in the corner, staring into the green-tinged flames. He hadn't said a word to anyone all morning. And most Slytherins hadn't dared approach him. Not after what happened.
He could feel their stares. Whispers.
"That's the boy Potter protected."
"Lestrange almost got killed."
"She snapped—lost it on him."
He wanted to hex them all.
And then—of course—Draco Malfoy appeared, gliding into the common room like a king returning to his court.
Zean braced himself.
"Still breathing, I see," Draco said, pausing in front of him, voice dry and polished.
"Disappointed?" Zean muttered.
Draco's lips twitched. "A little. You being hexed into ashes would've made Potions more interesting."
Zean didn't rise to the bait.
Draco leaned against the mantle. "You should stay away from her."
Zean raised an eyebrow. "I didn't exactly throw myself in front of her wand."
"No, you just stood there like a halfwit while she went nuclear," Draco said coolly. "She's dangerous."
Zean looked at him, really looked, trying to peel back the words and find the meaning beneath.
Draco didn't fidget. But he didn't meet his eyes either.
"So you're giving me advice now?" Zean asked. "How thoughtful."
"I'm giving you survival," Draco snapped. "Don't mistake it for kindness."
Zean stared at the fire. "Noted."
Draco turned to leave, but paused. His voice was quieter when he added, "I mean it, Zean. Something's wrong with her. And whatever it is… it's not finished."
Then he was gone.
…