"Alright, Mr. Weasley. Please demonstrate the spell."
Ron swallowed, gripping his wand a little tighter as he raised it, pointing directly at the suit of armor standing against the far wall. This was way bigger than anything he'd attempted back at Grimmauld Place. The largest thing he'd animated so far had been an old, dusty teddy bear—one he'd made dance around the room for fun. But in theory (according to Hermione, of course), what really mattered was how well he knew the spell.
The size of the object was secondary. If he understood the mechanics of making something move, he could adjust the magic accordingly. In theory, anyway.
He took a steadying breath and flicked his wand.
"Piertotum Locomotor!"
A flash of deep blue light washed over the empty knight's armor, sinking into the enchanted steel. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sharp, metallic creak, the suit of armor lifted its head. A flicker of satisfaction ran through Ron's chest, but he didn't let himself get distracted. Walk, he commanded mentally.
The magic obeyed.
With heavy clangs of metal against stone, the armor took a single step forward. Then another.
Ron exhaled in relief. Alright, that worked…
Piertotum Locomotor wasn't like the simple animation charms he'd learned from Flitwick. This wasn't just making a teacup skitter across a table or a quill write a sentence on its own. This was McGonagall's most powerful enchantment—because it didn't just move objects. It taught them. The longer he practiced, the more the armor, or any object that he enchanted repeatedly, would "learn," developing an almost human-like ability to follow complex instructions. Given enough time and mastery, enchanted objects could guard, fight, and even think independently to a certain degree.
But there was a catch.
To control something, he had to understand how it moved first. How to take a single step forward and then back. How to balance weight with momentum. It had taken him a full week to make his tiny wooden mannequin walk like a person. The trick? He had paced around the room himself, commanding the mannequin to copy him step-for-step. Even with Hermione coaching him, it had been frustratingly difficult.
But now?
The suit of armor marched smoothly across the room, its polished sabatons clicking against the stone. A grin tugged at Ron's lips. He even made it wave at Professor McGonagall as it passed.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow but didn't suppress the faintest hint of amusement in her sharp gaze.
"Well," she said, crossing her arms. "It seems you did read through the books."
Ron flushed slightly, but she wasn't finished.
"And," she continued, nodding in approval, "you've made significant progress over the break. Well done, Mr. Weasley."
His chest swelled with pride. "Thank you, Professor."
"How long can you maintain the spell?" she inquired.
Ron blinked. "Um... well, I haven't really done anything bigger than a teddy bear before now, but I kept a doll going for about an hour."
"Hmph." McGonagall tapped her wand against her palm, considering. "Let's set a benchmark—fifteen minutes. Keep him moving. Try different motions. Have him clench a fist, turn his head, adjust his gait. If you're feeling particularly ambitious, you might even try making him skip."
Ron grimaced. "Skip?"
"Complex movements require practice, Mr. Weasley," she said briskly. "Better to struggle now than fumble in the middle of a battle."
Giving a grunt of acknowledgment, he refocused. The suit of armor continued its steady pace around the room, moving a little more fluidly with each minute. He even managed to make it clench a fist and rotate its head side to side.
But the skipping?
That was a disaster.
The moment he tried, the knight stumbled mid-air and nearly crashed into McGonagall's desk.
"Whoops," Ron muttered.
McGonagall sighed but didn't comment. They were back in her office—though tonight, she'd moved everything against the walls, creating an open practice space. She'd sent him a note over the holidays, curtly stating that she 'expected significant progress' when he returned.
Ron had taken that seriously.
He wouldn't admit it, but… he wanted to impress her. He didn't want McGonagall to think that he was wasting her time on him. So every night over break, after everyone had gone to bed, he had stayed up, practicing. Hours of trial and error. The books she'd given him had actually been interesting—which was a bit of a shock, considering he'd never enjoyed reading much before. But this wasn't just theory.
It was practical magic.
They covered everything: how to summon mannequins, how to change their material (starting with wood, then iron, then steel), how weight and mass affected coordination. There were even notes about battle tactics scribbled in the margins, notes he felt were a younger McGonagall's . Maybe that was why Ron had stuck with it so easily—because for the first time, studying didn't feel like a chore.
It felt like planning for the biggest chess match of his life.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
At the thirteen-minute mark, McGonagall finally broke the silence.
"How far do you intend to go with this, Mr. Weasley?"
"Huh?" Ron blinked, distracted.
She gestured to the knight, which was now jogging around the room in smooth, rhythmic strides.
"What I mean is: where do you want to take this?" she clarified. "Do you only wish to recreate the chessboard and its soldiers?" She studied him for a moment before adding, "Because while the chessboard was powerful, it had one major weakness."
"Which was?"
"It was a trap," McGonagall clarified. "We had time to plan it. Time to think through every move and counter-move. Time to set it up, set up the wards, place discreet charms on every piece. In a battlefield scenario, you won't have that luxury. Of course, there's many preparations you can do beforehand, but that just cuts the time down to about thirty minutes to an hour left of prep on the field. The chessboard is a foundation—but not a solution. So, I ask again: how far do you want to go?"
Ron... didn't know how to answer that.
Until now, he'd figured that once he remade the chessboard, he'd just… use it. Like flipping a switch, he could just deploy it anywhere he liked. But now that he thought about it, McGonagall had probably spent months designing that trap. He couldn't just summon up a battlefield full of warriors at a moment's notice, and he definitely couldn't just remake all of the wards and enchantments on the board at the drop of a hat either.
"...I think I want to go as far as I can with it," he said after a beat. "But I don't really know what the limits are. I mean, I know my mum uses transfiguration and animation charms all the time for cooking and cleaning, but aside from that—and turning beetles into buttons—I don't really know what's possible."
A wicked grin spread across McGonagall's face.
Ron suddenly had the distinct feeling he'd just given her the exact answer she'd wanted.
"Well then," she said, stepping forward and rolling back the sleeves of her emerald robes. Her wand twitched in her hand, her sharp gaze locking onto Ron. "Let's find out, shall we?"
With a casual flick, she pointed at the middle section of the stone floor.
"If your knight were to be destroyed, what would you do?"
Ron blinked at her, caught off guard by the sudden question. "Uh… conjure another one?"
McGonagall inclined her head slightly. "Yes, I suppose you could conjure one. A fresh, newly made knight—one susceptible to the very same spell that just destroyed it."
Ron frowned. That was a good point.
"Or," she continued, her voice as smooth as silk, "you could do something like this."
The ground trembled beneath their feet, a low, rumbling grrooooaannn echoing through the office like the growl of some great beast stirring beneath the earth. Ron stumbled back instinctively, eyes going wide as the stone floor split apart.
A hand—massive, rough, and jagged—erupted from the cracks, fingers flexing as if clawing its way from the depths. The rest of the figure followed in a slow, steady rise. A knight of solid cobblestone dragged itself free, stepping forward with earth-shaking force. It was enormous—at least eight feet tall—its head nearly brushing the ceiling of her office.
Ron's jaw dropped.
"And, of course," McGonagall said, completely unfazed, "if I am not satisfied with the starting materials… I can change them."
She barely moved her wand.
The dull, gray cobblestone darkened, its color shifting, hardening. The air filled with the high-pitched hum of transfiguration at work. In a matter of seconds, what had once been rough stone gleamed like polished silver. Steel.
A proper knight now stood before them, its shining armor catching the flickering candlelight, looking as though it had been forged by the very best craftsmen in the world.
Ron gawked, the gears in his head turning rapidly.
"Now," McGonagall said, pacing slowly around the construct, "if I want it to be more imposing, there are ways to accomplish that as well."
A deep, grating screech echoed through the room as the knight's very form shifted. Spikes—wicked, jagged protrusions of gleaming metal—burst from its shoulders, its knuckles, and its back, transforming what was once a noble figure into something more suited for war.
Ron gulped, unable to look away.
"And, naturally," McGonagall continued, "psychological warfare is well within our domain."
The knight moved.
It didn't just shift—it fell, collapsing onto all fours with a thud so powerful that the entire office trembled. The thing that now crouched before them looked nothing like the knight it had once been. Its fingers had warped into razor-edged talons, its steel-plated body had taken on a more sinister, reptilian quality, and the helmet—where a visor should have been—split open.
A deep, unsettling crack echoed as the steel parted, revealing a monstrous, gaping maw.
Rows of silver, serrated teeth gleamed like knives. A thick, pink tongue—covered in tiny, metallic barbs—flicked outward, tasting the air. The sheer unnaturalness of the creature sent an instinctive chill racing down Ron's spine.
He was frozen in place, his breath caught in his throat, his pulse hammering wildly.
Then, just when he thought it couldn't get worse, the knight-turned-beast snapped its jaws shut with a clang, the sound reverberating through the room like a war drum, a strange clicking noise emanating from its throat.
McGonagall finally turned back to him, a knowing smile playing at her lips.
"When it comes to Transfiguration, Mr. Weasley," she said, her voice measured, deliberate, thrilled, "the question isn't how far we can go."
Her wand twitched, and with a single whoosh of energy, the monstrous form collapsed back into a pile of harmless cobblestone.
"The question is—where do we stop?"
For a moment, all Ron could do was stare. His heart was pounding against his ribs, his head still reeling from what he'd just seen. But as the initial shock faded, something else bubbled up in his chest.
Excitement.
A massive grin spread across his face, his entire body thrumming with adrenaline, his mind alive with possibilities.
In his mind, he could see a vision of the future: an army of stone or steel warriors, each type using specific tactics; Pawns, abusing the fact that they were expendable, constantly throwing themselves at enemies to tire them out. Knights, indestructible and powerful, moving in zigzag dashes, using forking maneuvers to make sure they could hit you at multiple angles. Bishops who could dash forward at blinding speed, erasing an entire line of foes. Rooks, giants with shields that were impenetrable, a wall of shield holders who protected him from danger.
And a Queen, strong and powerful, chaotic and unstoppable, something that could see a move and adapt to it.
"Now this," he breathed, barely containing his awe, "is bloody wicked."
McGonagall's smile widened ever so slightly.
And just like that, his mind was made up.
He wasn't just going to learn this.
He was taking it to the very top.
It was finally time.
After an abysmal summer and an even worse school year, Harry was finally going to get some damn answers.
The Welcome Back Feast had only ended a short while ago when a Hufflepuff Prefect approached him in the halls, passing along a simple message: "Professor Dumbledore wants to see you."
First day back, Harry thought, just like Hermione said.
He wasn't sure if he felt relieved or nervous. Probably both.
A part of him hated leaving Sirius alone in that big, empty house with just Kreacher for company, but according to Sirius, he wasn't staying there much anymore. He had taken to Muggle London, hiding under layers of enchantments and disguises, hopping between clubs, high-end hotels, and expensive restaurants, doing his best to make up for the thirteen years Azkaban had stolen from him.
"Good food, good wine, and good women," Sirius had said, flashing him a wicked grin. "That's enough to put a bloke's head on straight, kiddo."
Harry had no idea how much of that was true. He wanted to believe that Sirius was actually getting better—that he wasn't just pretending, that he was finally free in some way, even if it was just limited to the Muggle World. If nothing else, it made it a little easier to leave, knowing the man was in a better headspace.
But even with all that on his mind, one thought eclipsed everything else:
He was finally going to talk to Dumbledore.
The entire Knight Bus ride back, he'd been replaying what Hermione told him about this meeting—about how Dumbledore would finally explain what happened in his dream, about him being Nagini and attacking Mr. Weasley. Hermione had already confirmed that he wasn't possessed, but hearing it from Dumbledore himself would bring real peace of mind.
He stopped outside the familiar wooden door and raised his hand.
Knock. Knock.
A pause.
Then, a soft, almost weary voice from within: "Come in."
Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The office was exactly as he remembered—grand yet cluttered, warm but imposing.
It was an odd sort of place, both familiar and alien, filled with countless mysteries that he knew he would never fully understand.
Tall, gothic windows lined the circular walls, letting in the soft glow of torches from the castle grounds. Shadows stretched long and thin across the floor, flickering as if the room itself was alive. There was a faint scent in the air—parchment, old wood, something faintly sweet, like firewood mixed with lemon drops.
Above him, dozens of portraits of former Headmasters and Headmistresses stared down, their eyes sharp with curiosity. Some pretended to be asleep—though Harry knew better—while others whispered among themselves in hushed, indistinct voices.
And directly behind the massive, claw-footed desk, the most prominent portrait loomed: Phineas Nigellus Black. His aristocratic sneer and dark, scrutinizing eyes made it clear he wasn't pleased with Harry's presence.
Harry turned his attention to the desk itself.
It was elegant but well-worn, its polished wooden surface hidden beneath piles of parchment, scattered quills, and an array of odd trinkets.
At the edge of the desk, perched on a golden stand, sat Fawkes, his crimson and gold feathers gleaming faintly in the dim light. The phoenix shifted slightly, ruffling his wings as if acknowledging Harry's presence—but he made no sound, no song.
Throughout the room, spindly tables held delicate, silver instruments, each one clicking, whirring, and puffing out tiny spirals of white smoke. They pulsed with an unseen magic—tools of divination that only Dumbledore truly understood.
And beyond them, towering bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, packed with ancient tomes bound in leather, gold leaf, and runic inscriptions. Unlike the Hogwarts library, these weren't meticulously organized. Some books teetered dangerously, others had scraps of parchment sticking out, and a few even glowed softly, their enchantments seeping into the air.
And then there was the Sorting Hat.
It rested on a rickety wooden stool, looking as worn and unimpressive as ever, its patched fabric and frayed edges hiding its true nature. Yet Harry could feel it watching him, waiting.
And behind all of this—behind this room filled with secrets, magic, and history—sat Albus Dumbledore.
Sometimes, the relationship he had with his Headmaster frustrated him.
For someone who had been so deeply involved in his life—who had been making decisions for him since the night he was left on the Dursleys' doorstep—Dumbledore was still a stranger.
Harry had only met with him a handful of times since coming to Hogwarts. And yet, in those rare meetings, Dumbledore had changed the course of his life.
He had placed him with the Dursleys.
He had helped him save Sirius.
He had defended him against Fudge.
He had probably saved his life more times than Harry even knew.
But when he really thought about it, had he ever actually spent more than an hour with Dumbledore?
Had he ever just… talked with him?
Not about Voldemort.
Not about his scar.
Not about life-or-death battles.
Just… talked?
He realized, with a sinking feeling, that he knew almost nothing about the man himself.
What did Dumbledore do when he wasn't Headmaster?
Did he have family?
Friends?
Did he even have hobbies outside of collecting weird silver instruments and making life-changing decisions for teenagers?
For someone so central to his life, Dumbledore wasn't a man.
He was an idea. A caricature.
A wise, untouchable figure with twinkling eyes and lemon drops.
That thought left a bitter taste in Harry's mouth.
But for now, he pushed it aside.
Because none of that mattered.
Not tonight.
Not when this was the night he finally got answers.
Taking a breath, Harry looked at his Headmaster.
He was relieved that he felt none of that alien, besital anger as he looked upon the man. Hermione must've been right, he thought to himself happily. Everything was just fine
And then Dumbledore raised his head—his piercing blue eyes meeting Harry's.
Pain.
Blinding. Searing. All-consuming.
It started in his scar, burning like molten fire, then spilled through his veins like poison, searing every nerve, every inch of his body. His vision swam, his balance wavered, and before he could stop himself, his knees buckled. He crashed onto the stone floor with a dull, aching thud, barely registering the impact. A sharp grunt escaped his lips as he clenched his jaw, trying desperately to suppress the overwhelming agony.
And then—the voice.
High and cold, slithering into his mind like a snake, curling around his thoughts, drowning them out.
A voice that hissed, shrieked, and laughed all at once.
"Kill him!" it snarled, venomous and commanding. "Bite him, curse him, break him, make him bleed! Worthless old man! How dare he stand here, in my face?! Hurt him! Now! I command you!"
Voldemort.
The realization slammed into him like a hammer. Oh, God.
Voldemort was inside his head.
Not possession—no, he was still in control of his body and his actions, but something dangerously close.
His fingers dug into the cold stone, his nails scraping against it as he fought against the sheer force of the presence pressing down on his mind. It was suffocating. It was rage and hatred and fury in its purest, most visceral form. It made him want to lash out—to strike—to hurt.
Then, he felt it.
A firm, warm hand pressed against his back.
"No—"
Dumbledore.
"Harry, can you hear me?" Dumbledore's voice was urgent but calm, like an anchor in the storm.
"Stay…away," Harry gasped, his breath ragged, his fingers curling into fists. Tears burned down his cheeks, his body shaking with the force of the pain.
And Voldemort laughed.
"Yes! That's right! Push him away!" the voice shrieked. "Weak old fool, useless relic! Waste of magic and blood and bone!"
The pain flared, sharp and brutal, as if something was tearing through him from the inside out.
"Your mother's sacrifice was in vain, do you hear? Fifteen years, she may have bought you—but you'll never be rid of me, Potter. Never. Not when I know this!"
Harry choked on a breath. The words sank into him like jagged ice, twisting, slicing. Voldemort wasn't just trying to make him hurt—he was trying to break him.
Then Dumbledore's hand gripped his shoulder, strong and steady.
"Harry, I know you are in tremendous pain, but if you can hear me, you must perform the Patronus Charm."
What?
Through the haze of pain, Harry barely processed the words.
"...What?" he gasped, his voice weak and shaking.
Dumbledore didn't hesitate.
"**Every good thought you've ever had. Every happy occasion. Anything that made you laugh, smile, feel joy. Every moment of warmth with your friends, your family—**call them forward and cast the spell. Now."
His wand was suddenly in his hand—had Dumbledore put it there?—and the old man's gentle but firm grip closed around his, helping him steady it.
Good memories.
Good memories.
Harry had precious few of those.
But maybe that was why they were so easy to remember.
The day he and Ron met on the train.
His first time on a broomstick, soaring through the air, feeling free.
The moment he realized he, Hermione, and Ron weren't just friends—they were family.
Hagrid, grinning as he handed him his first birthday cake. "Yer a wizard, Harry."
The reflection of his parents in the Mirror of Erised, standing beside him.
Meeting Sirius—for the first time, thinking he had someone who wanted him. Someone who loved him.
Him, Hermione, Ron, and even Malfoy, just talking during Care of Magical Creatures, for once not fighting, just existing, a new friend that Harry could trust to have his back.
Sirius, now healthier, happier, the shadows of Azkaban slowly fading from his face.
Hermione, pulling him into one of her crushing hugs, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright and full of relief.
Harry gasped, voice raw.
"Expecto... Patronum!"
Prongs erupted from his wand in a blinding flash of silver-white, thundering into existence like a storm given form.
The great stag charged forward, antlers lowered, circling Harry in a protective arc.
And just like that—
The pain vanished.
The shrieking voice was silenced in an instant, strangled into nothingness.
A soothing coolness swept through him, flowing from his scar down to his chest, flooding through his limbs like water dousing a fire. It wasn't just relief—it was cleansing, like something dark and poisonous had been exorcised from his very soul.
He gasped in shock.
His knees were still sore from collapsing. His eyes were damp, his breath still heavy in his chest. But his body?
His body felt light.
It felt refreshed, renewed—like he had just woken up from the best sleep of his life.
Harry had cast a Patronus countless times before, but it had never felt like this.
He blinked, staring at Prongs, then at Dumbledore.
"What... just happened?"
Harry's voice came out hoarse, unsteady, still tinged with disbelief. His body was no longer in pain, but his mind was still catching up to everything that had just happened.
To his utter surprise, Dumbledore sat down beside him—not in his grand, regal way, but cross-legged on the stone floor like an old man who had just finished a long day of walking. It was strange, surreal even, seeing the most powerful wizard alive sit there so casually, clad in flowing night robes covered in tiny yellow rubber ducks.
Dumbledore exhaled, wiping an invisible bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Whoo. I must say, Harry, that was a rather exhilarating experiment. I actually wasn't entirely sure that would work. There were, oh, even odds that I was completely wrong."
Harry blinked. His brain stalled for a full second.
"What?!"
Dumbledore smiled sheepishly. "Yes, well, I didn't exactly have a solid contingency plan for what to do if it failed, but fortunately—it didn't! And for that, my dear boy, we must be grateful."
Harry stared. His jaw worked for a moment, but no words came out.
Had he just—?
Had Dumbledore—the greatest wizard of the age—just casually admitted he was winging it?
He felt his breath hitch, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to scream or laugh. Maybe both.
Instead, he just said, "…What?"
It was the only thing he could manage. He felt like he had been saying that word a lot lately.
Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes, I imagine you must have a great many questions. Allow me to clarify."
The Headmaster adjusted his glasses, settling himself more comfortably before continuing. His tone was light but carried that unmistakable weight of a man who was about to drop several life-altering revelations on him.
"First and foremost, Harry—you are not possessed by Voldemort," he said, meeting Harry's gaze seriously. "That was never the case."
Harry exhaled sharply. He had already suspected that—hoped that—but hearing it confirmed still sent an enormous wave of relief crashing over him.
"But," Dumbledore went on, raising a finger, "when he attempted to kill you all those years ago, he inadvertently forged a connection between the two of you. A connection that has persisted ever since."
"Right," Harry nodded, his mind flashing back to his second year. "You told me that before. It's why I can speak Parseltongue."
Dumbledore beamed. "Oh, you do remember! Good show, Harry! You see, patience is its own reward, for we are nearly at the good part."
Harry sighed, rubbing his temple. "Alright, go on."
"Now," Dumbledore continued, his expression turning more solemn, "for the longest time, I believed this connection was weak, fragile even. Until recently, it merely allowed you to sense his presence. But then came the incident at the Ministry, where you—for lack of a better term—experienced Voldemort's possession of Nagini as though you were her yourself."
Harry felt a shudder crawl up his spine at the memory. "Yeah."
"This, along with the visions you've had of him," Dumbledore continued, "suggested to me that this connection was not one-sided. It was not merely you receiving glimpses of his mind—it was an open bridge. One that allowed more than just images and sounds to pass through… but also emotions."
Harry stiffened. "Like… like that rage. That hatred."
"Exactly." Dumbledore nodded gravely. "He is capable of projecting his emotions into you, influencing your thoughts, your pain, your very instincts. That much, I am afraid, is unavoidable for now. He will be able to send them again."
Harry swallowed. That wasn't comforting.
Dumbledore clasped his hands together, leaning in slightly. "But then I had a thought. If Voldemort can send things to you… why couldn't you send things to him?"
Harry's brows furrowed. Slowly, understanding dawned.
"…You wanted me to send something back through the connection," he murmured.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Precisely. And therein lay my next question—what could you send him that would cause him harm?"
Harry's stomach twisted. He thought of all the things Voldemort had seen and done. He had murdered, tortured, and destroyed countless lives. Harry had never done anything like that to another person, and he didn't think Voldemort would care about his own traumatic memories. They'd probably just make him laugh
"What could possibly shake a man like that?" Dumbledore mused aloud. "He has seen horrors beyond imagining. He has committed horrors beyond imagining. There is no nightmare, no fear, no pain you could send him that would make him falter."
Harry's heart sank. He's right. What could Voldemort be afraid of?
But then, Dumbledore smiled, the kind of mischievous grin Harry associated more with Fred and George than his Headmaster.
"…Until I remembered something very important," he said. "Something that had been staring me in the face all along."
Harry frowned. "What?"
Dumbledore's voice softened.
"How you burned Professor Quirrell."
Harry froze.
The memory rushed back with vivid clarity—the acrid smell of burning flesh, Quirrell screaming in agony, his hands disintegrating beneath Harry's grip—
"…But I only did that because of my mum's protection," Harry said, shaking his head. "I lost it when Voldemort used my blood to come back."
Dumbledore's smile widened. "Oh, no, Harry. You did not lose it." He leaned in conspiratorially, as though sharing a grand secret. "What he did… was gain it."
Harry blinked.
"…What?"
"Tell me, Harry, how much do you know about the scientific properties of blood?"
Harry's frown deepened. "Er—not much?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "Think of your mother's protection like white blood cells—they protect you from disease, harm, and in this specific case—Voldemort himself. When Tom used your blood in his resurrection, he absorbed those protections into his own body."
Harry's stomach twisted into knots. "So… he tricked it into thinking he's me?" His voice was hoarse, disbelief laced through every syllable.
Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Precisely, my boy. The protection now recognizes Voldemort as part of you, as if you are merely existing in two places at once—an echo, an extension." His expression darkened. "This allowed him to manipulate the connection between you, to send pain through that bridge he unwittingly created when he marked you."
Harry swallowed hard. His scar still throbbed in memory of the agony that had overtaken him just minutes ago.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, not with amusement, but with the sharp gleam of discovery. "But, Harry, do you want to hear something truly fascinating?"
Harry hesitated. Something about the way he said it, with such quiet reverence, sent a chill down his spine. But he nodded. "Um… yes?"
Dumbledore leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Lily's magic," he said softly, "remembers its attacker."
Harry's breath hitched.
"That night in Godric's Hollow, Voldemort was marked, just as you were," Dumbledore continued, his tone gentle yet unyielding. "When he struck your mother down, her protection imprinted itself upon him—not just on you. He became the enemy of that magic, the very reason for its existence. But when he used your blood in his resurrection, he deceived it. He tricked it into dormancy, lulled it into inaction."
Harry felt a weight settle in his chest as realization dawned on him.
"But it was always there, waiting for him to return."
A single, shuddering breath left him. "So when I used my Patronus," he murmured, thinking back to the moment his stag had burst forth in brilliant silver, "I sent all of it— my love, joy, warmth, and hope—straight back through our connection."
Dumbledore beamed, his smile brimming with pride. "Exactly, my dear boy! And just like a sentry alerted to an intruder in their midst, Lily's magic awoke. It was informed that while one part of her son was radiating love, peace, and happiness, the other was seething with hate—vicious, burning, murderous hate. A hate that it recognized on sight." His blue eyes gleamed as he leaned in closer. "Oh, Tom may have fooled it once, but Lily's protection knows his soul."
Harry's heart pounded in his chest.
"And what do you think that magic is going to do now that it realizes the very man who tried to murder you is attempting to invade your mind? That he is pretending to be you? Acting as a grotesque mockery of her beloved son?"
Harry's breath caught.
His mother had died for him. She had poured everything she had into that protection. And now, that magic wasn't just passively shielding him—it had become aware.
Voldemort didn't know love. Didn't understand it. Couldn't comprehend it.
And now—now that the magic was awake again…
Voldemort was going to learn.
The hard way.
Fire.
He was being drowned in fire.
A red-haired demon, her Avada-Kedavra-green eyes blazing, glared at him, her mouth open in a silent scream, her long, gnarled hands twisting around his neck, choking him even as he burned.
He had been in Potter's mind—merely exploring, for lack of a better term. The connection had become a corridor, a dark cavern stretching between their minds, and at the end of it, Potter sat unaware.
Voldemort could slip through. Could see what Potter saw. Not for long—only in fleeting moments, flickering like candlelight—but enough to watch, enough to observe.
He had seen Sirius Black, laughing in that wretched hovel.
He had seen the interior of the Knight Bus, the streets of London flashing past.
Then darkness, before the grand feasts of Hogwarts filled his vision.
And then—Dumbledore.
His rage had surged. The old fool was within reach, so he had acted. He had pushed forward, forcing his presence into Potter's mind.
The pain had come instantly—delicious, raw agony—and he had laughed. The boy would suffer, would recoil, would fear the power that invaded his body. Dumbledore would grow wary, keep him isolated for his own protection. A wedge driven deep, prying the boy from his allies.
And then, when Potter was alone, weak, unraveling under the weight of emotions that were not his own… Voldemort would strike.
But something had gone wrong.
Dumbledore had said something, had pressed Potter's wand into his hand.
Voldemort had waited for the counterattack—a pathetic attempt at Occlumency, a Legilimency assault that he would tear through with ease. He was the greatest master of the Mind Arts in a century. No mere boy—no wizard—could challenge him.
And then—
Light.
It engulfed him, raw, unyielding, horrifying.
He felt it flowing into him, infecting his body, his soul, his very essence.
Love. Hope. Warmth.
It burned through the connection, pushing him out of Potter's mind.
And then—the fire began.
One moment, he was back in his chamber, and the next, he was falling— plummeting into a churning, searing lake of flames.
The demon loomed over him, its features twisted into the shape of a woman.
Her mouth moved, shaping words he could not hear—but he knew them.
He knew what she was saying.
She said it again. And again.
Each time, her lips shaped the same, unrelenting words:
"Stay… away… from… my… son."
And Voldemort burned.
It was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He had endured the agony of resurrection, the unmaking and remaking of his body. He had felt the searing torment of curses, the slow, creeping pain of starvation, even the slight sting of betrayal.
But this?
This was a fire that did not consume flesh.
It consumed him.
He sank, deeper and deeper, his body unmade and remade in an endless cycle of torment.
And he screamed.
Voldemort woke hours later, drenched in sweat, his breath ragged. His fingers trembled as he pressed them to his skin.
He ached. His entire body throbbed with phantom pain.
But it was not just the pain that unnerved him.
It was the fact that he could still feel it.
A smoldering, simmering burn, low and constant, gnawing at him from the inside.
It did not fade.
It did not leave.
And something in him—something primal, something he had not felt since he was a child afraid of the dark—whispered that it never would.
Potter's mother's protection had reawakened. It had learned.
And now?
Now it knew.
Now it understood the truth.
Harry Potter was her son.
He was the imposter.
And Lily Potter's magic would not be fooled again.