Harry did not return to Gryffindor Tower after he had left the chamber. His body craved sleep, but his mind was a storm that refused to quiet. He wandered until he wound up at the Astronomy Tower, the place where everything he knew about loyalty, betrayal, and blurry lines had changed.
The cold wind cut across his face. Above Hogwarts, the sky churned with low clouds that spread slowly, like bruises.
He leaned against the stone railing. His hands still tingled from the Tower's magic. His thoughts were crowded with runes and warnings and glimpses of timelines which were not his.
Someone cleared their throat behind him.
Harry didn't startle. He knew the voice before the sound fully formed.
"You look like hell," Ron said.
Harry turned. Ron stood a few feet away with his hands shoved into his pockets. His ginger hair was wind-tossed and he looked like he hadn't slept properly in a week.
Ron looked at him that old way, the way from the tent in the woods during the Horcrux hunt not just as a friend, but as someone who could see when Harry was slipping.
"Fancy meeting you out here," Harry said. "Still scared of heights?"
Ron's jaw clenched. "Still dodging my questions?"
Harry let out a soft sigh. Of all the things he'd expected tonight, confronting Ron wasn't one of them.
Ron came closer. "Spit it out. What's going on? Hermione won't tell me anything. McGonagall treats me like I'm some first-year kid who lost his wand. Kingsley looks like someone slapped him with a prophecy. And you-" Ron gestured vaguely at him. "You look like you're about to jump into another war."
Harry stared up into the sky for a moment.
"You're not wrong," Harry said quietly. "A war's… starting. But not like last time."
Ron leaned against the railing beside him. "Are we talking prophecy bad? Voldemort bad? Or… worse?"
Harry replied, "Yes, but- " He didn't say anything right away. The clouds were rolling overhead like something was moving under them.
"Worse," Harry said finally.
Ron's breath hitched. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
Harry let out a tired laugh.
Ron turned and nudged him slightly. "Look. I get if you don't want to dump everything on me. But don't shut me out entirely. I can't help if I don't know what kind of mess you've found."
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "It's not the kind of mess that I can fix with either a sword or a wand. It's… older. Bigger. And complicated."
"Complicated like ancient magic?"
Harry blinked. "Hermione told you."
"She told me you're dealing with something dangerous and she's terrified you'll make a stupid decision because you're Harry." Ron shrugged. "Which is fair. You do that.
Harry snorted. "I'm trying not to."
"Well, you're bad at that too."
A long pause stretched between them, and the wind howled through the top of the tower.
Harry finally said, "Ron. There's something under the castle. Something old. Waking up. And it's connected to me in ways I don't fully understand."
Ron's eyebrows rose. "Is it evil?"
"I don't know."
"Does it want something?"
"Yes."
"Does it have a name?"
Harry's throat closed up. "I won't say it."
Ron stared. "Okay, now you're actually scaring me."
Harry stepped back from the railing, breathing a bit too fast.
"I can't drag you into this," said Harry. "Not until I understand it better."
Ron straightened. "Harry. We fought a war together. You think I'm going to run now?"
"This isn't like Voldemort."
"Doesn't matter," Ron said. "When you go dark places, you don't get to go alone."
Harry had no answer to that. He didn't know how. All he knew was that the Tower had said he broke differently and that difference felt like a warning.
"I'll tell you when I can," he said quietly.
Ron didn't like it. Harry saw that. But Ron nodded anyway, looking upset but loyal in that Ron Weasley way.
"Fine," Ron said. "But if you get possessed by ancient magic or whatever the hell this is, I'm dragging you to St Mungo's. Or knocking you out. Both are on the table."
Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Fair enough."
Ron gave him a worried half-smile. Then he left him alone with the wind.
Harry stayed there awhile. Long enough for the moon to peek through clouds, long enough for the shaking of his hands to cease.
As he finally turned to leave, the stones of the castle shifted under his feet, the movement minute yet perceptible, like the walls adjusting, listening.
"You're not subtle," Harry muttered.
He started down the stairs.
Halfway down, the temperature suddenly dropped. A chill wave swept past him, as if someone exhaled frost along the staircase.
Harry stopped.
He knew that feeling.
A ripple in time.
A break.
The torches flickered. Light stretched, warped, froze. A moment hung in the air like a bubble made of glass.
"No," Harry whispered. "Not here. Not now."
Reality stuttered.
For a fraction of a second, Harry saw two staircases, superimposed on each other, brickwork from different centuries, torches burning alternately, shadows dancing in opposite directions from people who weren't there.
Then, something stepped out of the frozen moment.
A figure, man-shaped but composed of shimmering distortion, like the glitch of a projection that cannot quite lock between frames. Its outline blurred and fractured, stabilizing and destabilizing in cycles.
Harry's wand was in his hand before he realized he'd drawn it.
The figure twitched; fragments of voices overlapped, whispering no words.
Harry took a slow breath. "Who sent you?"
The figure jerkily cocked its head to one side, an unnatural movement.
Then Harry heard it.
A whisper, without artifice, with echoes:
"Anchor."
Harry's heart stopped.
The Word of the Tower
The figure shuddered and glitched. Strings of light stretched from its limbs-strands of time fraying.
Another whisper:
"Return."
Harry swallowed hard. "Return what?"
The figure reached toward him.
Not hostile.
Seeking.
Harry stepped back. "No."
It took another step.
"Return."
The staircase quivered under Harry's feet.
"Return the king."
Harry's blood had turned to ice.
The king.
Azelar.
This thing wasn't alive.
It wasn't dead.
It was a remnant-a shard of a timeline that had been torn asunder in the fall of the Tower.
It was here because of him.
He pointed his wand. "You need to go back."
The figure flickered violently.
"Return."
"I can't," Harry whispered.
And then, the figure lunged-forwards, not to attack, but to merge.
Harry's instincts screamed. His magic flared of its own accord.
"Repulso!"
The spell struck the figure like a tidal wave; it shattered into white fragments, scattering through the staircase like breaking glass.
The temperature snapped back.
Time restarted.
Harry's breath came ragged. His wand shook in his grip.
For one minute, he didn't move a muscle.
Then he whispered to himself:
"They're leaking through."
The Tower had warned him.
Convergence.
The Circle wanted to trigger it.
And fragments of broken timelines - ghosts of forgotten worlds - were already seeping into his mind.
He needed Hermione.
He required Draco. He needed answers. Harry clattered down the stairs. Because something old wasn't just awake. It was bound to happen. And it wanted its king back.