Harry POV*
King's Cross bustled with noise: suitcases clattering, families calling out last minute reminders.
I walked between Sirius and Remus, Hedwig's cage balanced easily in my hand.
What a good girl she is.
Sirius, of course, was already muttering loud enough for three passersby to stare.
"Why does it always smell like burnt toast in here?" he grumbled. "Muggles and their bloody trains. You'd think with all their genius contraptions they'd have invented proper ventilation."
Remus gave him a weary look. "It's a train station, Padfoot, not a dragon keep."
"Same difference," Sirius shot back, tugging at his jacket. "Loud, smelly, and guaranteed to give you a headache."
I smirked. "You're adapting well to Muggle life, Sirius. Next week we'll get you a mobile phone."
Sirius choked. "A what?"
"Don't encourage him," Remus said dryly.
They reached the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten, a steady stream of red and gold clad families slipping through without issue.
But when I and Sirius leaned casually toward the bricks, nothing happened.
They bumped solid stone.
Sirius frowned, knocked the wall with his knuckles, then hissed when it didn't yield. "Well, that's new."
Remus's eyes sharpened instantly. "A ward. Subtle, but recent." He glanced around, his instincts prickling.
I stepped back, scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes.
No one seemed to notice, but I knew better. I could feel it: a deliberate interference.
My lips pressed thin. Dobby.
"Block on the barrier," I said quietly. "Not random. Someone doesn't want me on the train."
"Someone who's about to regret it," Sirius growled, already reaching for his wand.
But I held up a hand. "No. Don't cause a scene. We'll do this properly." I whistled softly, I open the cage and Hedwig ruffled her wings in her cage, amber eyes sharp. "Letter to Dumbledore. Now."
Within minutes, parchment was scrawled and tied to Hedwig's leg. The snowy owl nibbed my finger and took flight, vanishing into the sky above the station.
Sirius tapped his foot impatiently. "If he doesn't answer in five minutes, I'm hexing this wall until it cries."
Remus sighed, though his wand was already discreetly in his hand.
The answer came faster than expected. Hedwig swooped back, a crisp reply tied to her leg.
I untied it and read aloud:
"'Proceed to the Leaky Cauldron. Floo to Hogsmeade. Permission granted. Albus Dumbledore.'"
Sirius grinned wolfishly. "Now that's how you travel. Beats running at brick walls, doesn't it?"
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Green flames spat them out into the Hogsmeade fireplace one by one, Sirius brushing soot off his coat, Remus steadying himself with quiet dignity.
I landed lightly, my trunk thumping behind him.
The air here was crisp, filled with the smell of butterbeer and woodsmoke.
Beyond the quaint shops and cobblestones, the outline of Hogwarts rose in the distance, proud and ancient.
I exhaled slowly. The hum of magic in my veins, the new storm within me, resonated faintly with the castle, like two instruments tuning to the same key.
Sirius clapped Harry on the shoulder, Remus gave a quieter squeeze of his arm.
"Write to us every week," Sirius said, trying for lightness but failing to mask the worry in his eyes.
"I'll owl you," I promised.
Remus bent slightly, studying him. "Take care of yourself Harry. And keep enjoying."
I managed a small smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
After a round of reluctant goodbyes, they left through the Floo back to Grimmauld.
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Then, with a swirl of emerald fire, they were gone, and I turned toward the waiting figure at the gates.
Professor McGonagall stood tall and composed, tartan robes crisp, spectacles glinting in the sunlight.
"Mr. Potter," she said by way of greeting. Her tone was clipped, but her eyes softened a fraction. "The Headmaster asked me to meet you. This way."
I only nodded and fell into step beside her, the silence heavy with the weight of what I carried under my arm.
Professor McGonagall left me at the base of the gargoyle staircase with a crisp nod, muttering something about "the Headmaster will see you now." She didn't accompany me further, which was exactly how I wanted it.
The staircase wound me up into Dumbledore's office, its shelves heavy with curios and its walls dotted with portraits pretending not to eavesdrop.
I stopped just inside the door.
The door swung open before I even raised a hand to knock. Dumbledore stood waiting behind his desk, twinkle muted but polite.
"Harry. You've had a rather unusual morning, I hear."
"That's one way to put it." I stepped inside, shut the door, and flicked a glance at the portraits. All were pretending to nap, but I'd read enough minds to know the truth. "Privacy, sir?"
Dumbledore's brows rose, but he inclined his head. A sweep of his wand, and the frames went blank, portraits gone, silence settling.
"Very well," he said softly. "What weighs so heavily on you?"
I nodded, pulling a small black book from my robe pocket and placing it on his desk. "I believe this belongs in your hands, Professor. It isn't just any cursed object, it's a Horcrux. I found it yesterday when Lucius Malfoy slipped it into Ginny's cauldron. I… intervened."
The twinkle in his eyes faltered, just a fraction.
He leaned forward, studying the diary as though it might sprout fangs and bite him. "Horcrux…" he whispered, almost to himself. "You should not know that word."
"The Black Library has more than fairy tales," I said evenly.
The headmaster went still. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint tick of an enchanted silver contraption behind him.
"And how," he said at last, voice soft but tight, "did you come to that conclusion?"
"Because it matches everything I've read. Because of the… feeling it gives off. And because—" I touched my forehead lightly "—I've suspected for a while. That I've been carrying something like it myself."
The air seemed to crystallize. For the first time, Albus Dumbledore looked shaken.
"You believe your scar is a—"
"Not believe," I cut in. "Know. I died once, in the Dursleys' care. And I came back. That doesn't happen without something anchoring it. I'm a Horcrux, Headmaster. Or at least I was."
His blue eyes were wide, ancient and unbearably sad.
Dumbledore POV*
I sat back in my chair, staring at the diary Harry had placed on my desk. The air was heavy, as if the castle itself were holding its breath.
"You… you truly believe you have been a Horcrux?" I whispered, voice shaking slightly. Not with fear, but with the ache of old sorrow.
Harry nodded, calm but firm.
For a long moment, I simply looked at him. My mind turned over memories of the boy, of James and Lily, of the moment I had assumed he will survive being with Dursleys.
And now… here he was dead, alive.
The truth pressed upon me in waves, a guilt I could not shake.
I did not protect you. I did not see the danger clearly enough.
And yet, you returned.
I swallowed hard. "Harry… I am so sorry. Truly, from the depths of my heart. That you should have suffered so, that you should have… gone through that alone… and I—"
I cut myself off, clearing my throat. My hands gripped the edge of my desk.
The apology lingered in the room like a palpable thing.
"You have returned," I finally said, voice steadier, "and I will not let what happened again harm you. Not now. Not ever. And for what it is worth… your courage humbles me."
I studied him, taking in his calm, the way he had carried this knowledge, the weight he bore without complaint.
And yet I saw the boy beneath, the boy who had been lost once, and had come back.
"I will begin your tutoring next week," I said softly, almost as a vow. "And we will address… everything, in time. But for now, know this: you are alive, and that is no small miracle. I am sorry for the part I played in your suffering."
Harry gave a small nod, but he didn't comment. I could see he understood, but he had survived, and somehow, he bore it all with a steadiness I envied.
The diary sat between us, a dangerous weight, but at least it was in safe hands. I exhaled, trying to ease the tightness in my chest.
I had failed him once. I would not fail him again.
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The door shut softly behind Harry. The silence that followed was deafening. Dumbledore remained seated, staring at the drawer where the diary now lay under layer upon layer of wards. His fingers drummed once against the wood, then stilled.
The lightning-bolt scar. He had always wondered. It was too neat, too singular to be only a mark of failed murder. A vessel, perhaps? He had feared it… but without proof, it was only speculation.
Now Harry himself had spoken the truth. The boy had borne a fragment of Voldemort's soul. A Horcrux, hidden in plain sight.
And yet—he lived. He had survived the separation. By rights, the child should have been left shattered, hollow, perhaps even dead.
Instead, the Harry who stood before him was more alive than ever: witty, fierce, startlingly insightful.
Compassionate, too, Dumbledore thought, a pang tightening his chest. He had seen it in the way Harry spoke of his friends, of those he protected.
That spark of selflessness was James and Lily both.
No impostor could have conjured it. This was their son. Entirely.
Dumbledore rose slowly and crossed to the window. The grounds spread before him, bathed in late summer sun.
Soon, the carriages would roll in with their laughing cargo, unaware of the shadows stalking their world.
Harry was at the center of it all. Harry, who had died and returned. Harry, who carried more weight on his shoulders than most grown wizards could imagine.
Dumbledore pressed his palm flat against the cold glass. If the boy has already endured this… then he deserves truth. And guidance. Not half-measures.
Fawkes trilled from his perch, a note of sorrow and resolve.
"Yes," Dumbledore murmured. "He is more than a survivor. He is possibility itself. And I will not fail him."
The Headmaster turned back to his desk, drawing the wards tighter around the drawer where the Horcrux rested.
His eyes, however, were distant, fixed on the image of a green-eyed boy who had just upended his every assumption.
The boy who lived, indeed. And perhaps… the boy who will decide how we all live, or perish.
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Harry POV*
I left the Headmaster's office with his mind still buzzing.
The conversation had been heavy, too heavy for the day to simply continue as though nothing had changed.
'He apologized, Dumbledore said sorry' I thought relived. He didn't know, he didn't know how much wrong was my treatment in Dursleys.
He wandered the corridors, the castle strangely quiet without students.
Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, painting dust motes gold in the air.
'Lets forget that for now lets go for the cheat code of this castle.' I thought smirking.
My feet carried him up the familiar staircases until he stood before the blank wall on the seventh floor.
I paced, deliberate and focused, recalling exactly what he wanted.
A place to study, to practice, and to understand magic.
On the third pass, the door appeared.
Heavy oak, faintly glowing, as though aware of the intent behind it. I pressed it open and entered.
The chamber that greeted him wasn't a library, nor a classroom. It was both and neither.
Wide and spacious, with shelves along the walls stacked with magical theory, but also open floor space like a dojo, its polished wood reflecting candlelight.
In the center, a low platform for meditation. The air was charged, alive, vibrating as though waiting for my thoughts to shape it further.
I sat cross-legged on the platform, breathing slow, steady.
Nirvana Shatkam, I need to experiment what I gained in black library.
For that I had to experience it again.
I closed his eyes. In Hogwarts, magic was taught as a tool. A charm, a hex, a wand-motion. But this philosophy reminded him: I was not the body, not the fleeting self.
If that was true, then what was magic but another illusion of form?
["I am neither the mind, nor the intellect, nor the ego, nor the reflections of inner self… I am not the five senses. I am beyond that."]
My breath evened. I pictured himself dissolving flesh, bone, blood peeling away into nothing.
What remained was awareness, infinite and unbounded.
The formless self.
And in that space, magic came. Not summoned. Not commanded. It was there.
I opened his eyes slowly. His skin prickled. The air shimmered faintly around his hands, threads of raw magic crackling like heat haze.
I flexed his fingers and the shimmer followed, like the world itself was listening to my intent.
I stood and experimented. A thought: brighter. The candles flared without wand or word.
A twist of will: lighter. His body rose half a foot into the air before settling back down.
I stared at my own hands, a thrill running through me.
"This isn't spellwork," he murmured. "This is… alignment."
The realization struck deep.
My body no longer felt like just a vessel. It felt… tuned, as if it had become a natural focus, drawing and shaping ambient magic the way a wand did.
I couldn't name it, couldn't yet measure it, but I knew something irreversible had shifted.
I spent the next hour pushing small boundaries, letting my skin hum with energy, strengthening my limbs without incantations, sharpening my vision until I could read the etchings on the farthest bookshelf.
Each attempt carried no strain, only exhilaration, as though the castle itself fueled me.
When at last I stopped, sweat clung to my forehead though I didn't feel exhausted.
Quite the opposite: MY body felt alive, vibrant, like every cell carried magic in its marrow.
I sat back down, heart racing. "If the self is formless… then magic isn't outside me. It is me."
The thought lingered as I gathered my things and left the Room.
The Feast and the Sorting still waited, but a seed had been planted.
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I figured the last chapter felt like he got a powerbuff for simple words, no.
he dicovered and understand something which 99% humans fails to.
if you have any questions write it in the comments!!
see ya!!
-Nine11P2