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Shadows in St Mungo's: Chapter 08
🕑 Added 2025-03-27 12:53:20 +0000 UTCSt. Mungus had never seemed so... ordinary.
Harry crossed the hospital entrance expecting to find chaos. Expecting to see nurses running, healers in panic, security guards blocking hallways. But everything was normal. Patients sat in the reception chairs, flipping through copies of the Daily Prophet. Healers came and went through the bright corridors, discussing cases and holding clipboards. There was even an elderly wizard arguing with a receptionist because he thought he had been turned into a kettle.
Harry felt a chill crawl up his neck. Something wasn’t right.
He spotted Altman at the reception desk and headed straight for him. The healer looked as exhausted as always, but... calm. No tension in his shoulders. No trace of panic.
Harry stopped in front of him, eyes fixed.
“What happened?”
Altman blinked, confused.
“Pardon?”
Harry felt his stomach sink.
“You sent me a Patronus. Rosier woke up. You said it took five security wizards to hold him down. Mulciber locked down the floor.”
Altman frowned.
“Potter… I didn’t send any Patronus.”
Harry’s world seemed to spin for a moment.
“Don’t joke with me, Altman. I heard your voice. You sounded desperate.”
The healer kept looking at him as if trying to understand what he was talking about.
“Harry… I’ve been here all night. And it was a perfectly normal night.”
The silence became crushing.
Harry stared at Altman, trying to find any sign of a lie in his expression. But he seemed… sincere. And that made everything even worse. The Patronus had been real. Or… at least, it seemed to be. A shiver ran down Harry’s spine.
If Altman didn’t remember…
Harry felt his heart pounding heavily against his ribs. Whatever was happening here, it wasn’t normal. If Altman didn’t remember the Patronus, if the night had been "perfectly normal"... then something, or someone, was playing with reality’s perception. But that didn’t matter now.
He still had a goal.
Adrian Rosier.
If he had really woken up, then he was a crucial piece of this puzzle. Harry wouldn’t waste time.
Without another word, he turned and walked decisively through the hospital corridors. Altman called his name behind him, but Harry ignored him.
His footsteps echoed in the hallways as he approached the psychiatric ward. With each step, his instincts screamed. This was a trap. But he had no other choice.
Then he reached the corridor of the Psychiatric Ward. And stopped.
Two tall, imposing figures blocked the entrance. Two St. Mungo’s security guards. Large, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark robes, wands at the ready.
They were there for a reason. Harry approached slowly, keeping a casual tone in his voice.
“I need to see Adrian Rosier.”
The two men didn’t even flinch.
“No one gets in without authorization,” one of them said, his voice deep and indifferent.
Harry held his gaze firm.
“I’m an Auror. I’m investigating a series of murders, and Rosier may have essential information.”
The second guard crossed his arms.
“That’s not our problem.”
Harry felt his irritation grow.
“Listen, I got a call saying Rosier woke up.”
The two exchanged a quick glance. Too quick. Harry noticed. They knew something.
“There was no call,” the first guard said.
“The ward is closed under higher orders.”
Harry clenched his teeth. Higher orders. Mulciber. Of course. This had his fingerprints all over it.
The air around him felt heavier. What the hell was going on here? Had Rosier really woken up? Or was this just another game? And if he was inside... and needed help?
Harry felt his fingers itch to grab his wand. But he knew that if he tried to force his way in, he’d have bigger problems to deal with. He had to play this differently.
He let out a long sigh and stepped back.
“Alright,” he said, forcing a nonchalant tone. “If that’s how it is... I’ll come back later.”
The guards didn’t respond. They just remained still, watching him like living statues.
Harry turned and started walking back down the hallway. But his blood was boiling. He wasn’t going to give up.
Harry had barely taken two steps before acting. His heart pounded against his ribs, his mind racing with all the possibilities. If he left now, he’d lose any chance of finding out what the hell was going on. He couldn’t afford to wait.
Without hesitation, he spun on his heel. His wand was already in his hand before the guards even noticed.
“Stupefy.”
The first guard collapsed to the floor before he even understood what was happening. The second’s eyes widened as he reached for his wand with quick reflexes. But Harry was already one step ahead.
“Expelliarmus.”
The guard’s wand flew from his grip, clattering against the wall. Before he could shout an alert, Harry flicked his wand again.
“Petrificus Totalus.”
The man’s body went rigid like stone before he fell heavily to the floor. Silence.
Harry took a deep breath. No sound in the corridor. No witnesses. He couldn’t waste time. Rosier was here. And if he was really awake, this was the only chance to uncover the truth.
With quick steps, he slid toward the psychiatric ward door. He grabbed the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked. Obviously. But Harry had more than conventional methods for opening doors.
He pointed his wand at the lock and murmured:
“Alohomora.”
The spell slid over the wood, the internal gears clicking. Nothing. Locking spells. He clenched his jaw.
“Bombarda.”
The explosion was controlled but enough to shatter the lock.
Harry pushed the door open.
The air inside the ward felt heavier. The narrow corridor was engulfed in an eerie gloom, only a few torches casting elongated shadows along the walls. The smell of bitter potions and disinfectant was almost suffocating.
He moved forward.
His goal was clear.
Room 417.
Adrian Rosier.
The corridor of the psychiatric ward was engulfed in an oppressive silence. There were no nurses. No sound of patients stirring. Not even the distant echo of a healer’s footsteps on another floor.
Harry felt a shiver crawl down his spine. The hospital was always in motion, even in the dead of night or early morning. But here... it was as if St. Mungo’s itself had stopped in time.
The torches on the walls crackled weakly, casting elongated shadows across the stone floor. Every locked door he passed seemed to hide something behind it. But he couldn’t let himself get distracted.
He knew where he needed to go. Room 417. The place where Adrian Rosier had been unconscious for five years. Or at least... that’s what they said.
Harry stopped in front of the door. The air was dense. He placed his hand on the doorknob. It was cold as ice. He took a deep breath. Turned the handle. The door opened with a low creak.
Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The room looked... exactly the same as before. No signs of a struggle. No indication that anyone had left the bed. And there he was.
Adrian Rosier.
Exactly as he had always been. Lying in bed, covered by white sheets. Dark hair falling over his forehead. Eyes closed. Breathing steady. Serene. As if he had never woken up.
Harry frowned. This didn’t make sense.
He stepped forward, his footsteps silent against the cold floor. If Rosier had really woken up... then why did it look like nothing had happened?
Altman’s Patronus, the urgency in the call for help... everything pointed to a moment of chaos. But the hospital was calm.
The psychiatric ward was deserted. And Rosier was simply there, motionless, as if he had never left this state.
Harry felt a crushing weight in his chest. This wasn’t possible. Unless...
He turned abruptly to look at the corridor behind him. But everything remained empty. No movement. No explanation. The feeling that something was wrong only grew stronger.
Harry couldn’t take his eyes off Rosier. Every detail seemed too normal. The neatly arranged sheets. The steady breathing. The slow rise and fall of his chest, as if time hadn’t passed. He didn’t look like someone who had woken up, fought off security, and caused panic. He looked like a man who had never opened his eyes.
Harry moved closer.
His gaze swept over every detail of the bed, from Rosier’s pale skin to the faint beat of his pulse. No scratches. No marks. Nothing indicated that he had moved even a centimeter.
So why had Altman sent that Patronus?
Or worse... who had?
Harry clenched his jaw. This was a trap. He knew that now. But it was too late.
“Are you satisfied, Potter?”
The voice came from behind.
Harry spun on his heels, wand drawn.
Mulciber was there. Standing, leaning against the door, as if he had been waiting for the right moment to announce himself. His gaze was sharp, his face marked by a dangerous patience. He was alone. No guards. No nurses. And that only made it worse.
Harry didn’t lower his wand.
“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Mulciber didn’t react. He simply took a step forward, closing the door behind him. The room felt smaller. The air heavier.
“You have a terrible habit of sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Mulciber said, his tone almost casual.
Harry didn’t blink.
“And you have a terrible habit of hiding things.”
Mulciber arched an eyebrow, as if genuinely amused.
“Oh, Potter...” He shook his head, sighing. “Always so eager to find monsters under the bed.”
He gestured lightly toward Rosier.
“What do you see here?”
Harry narrowed his eyes.
“I see a man who supposedly woke up. But who is now back in a coma, as if nothing ever happened.”
Mulciber smirked.
“Exactly.”
He took another step toward Harry.
“So tell me, Potter…” His eyes gleamed under the flickering light. “If he really woke up, where is the proof?”
Harry felt his stomach sink. Because the truth was unsettling. There was no proof. No official report. No nurse confirming it. No trace that Adrian Rosier had even opened his eyes. Just the word of a Patronus that might never have existed.
Harry tightened his grip around his wand.
“If you have nothing to hide, then why did you block access to the ward?”
Mulciber smiled, a smile devoid of warmth.
“Because you are a problem.”
Harry’s eyes burned with intensity.
“And you’re afraid of what I might find.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. It was a game of patience. Each waiting for the other to make a mistake. Then, Mulciber tilted his head slightly.
“You can keep chasing shadows, Potter. But I wonder… when was the last time you trusted what you really saw?”
Harry didn’t answer. Because that question unsettled him more than it should have.
He didn’t look away. Mulciber’s mind games didn’t shake him as much as the weight of the evidence itself.
He took a deep breath, fingers still gripping his wand.
“You know, Mulciber… I always thought healers had a duty to save lives. But it seems you’ve been spending more time burying people than saving them.”
Mulciber didn’t react immediately. He was a difficult man to read.
He simply arched an eyebrow slightly, as if assessing the accusation.
“Oh, Potter… always so dramatic.”
He smirked, a smirk full of disdain.
“Believe me, if I wanted to kill someone, do you really think there would be any traces left?”
Harry didn’t blink.
“Selwyn. Burkes. Goshawk. Vaisey. They all had something in common.”
Mulciber sighed, feigning boredom.
“Yes, yes. I know where this is going. And frankly, Potter, I expected more creativity from you.”
Harry stepped closer.
“They were all in the hospital at the wrong time. And somehow, they all crossed your path.”
Mulciber’s eyes gleamed, as if he were amused.
“And if I said that proves nothing?”
“Then I’d ask why you’re so calm in the face of these accusations.”
The chief healer chuckled softly.
"Because you have nothing against me. Just your paranoia."
And it was in that instant that Harry felt the frustration overflow. The accumulated anger, the unsolved deaths, the condescending looks from the Ministry... And now, Mulciber treating him as if he were just another fool chasing ghosts.
Harry’s hand moved before he realized it. Quick draw. The wand now aimed directly at Mulciber's chest.
The healer's smile widened. Pure amusement.
"See, Potter?" Mulciber murmured, taking a slow step forward. "That's your problem. Always so impulsive."
The flickering light from the torches cast sharp shadows on Mulciber's face, highlighting the gleam in his cunning eyes.
Harry didn’t move. His fingers tightened around the wand’s handle. But Mulciber was not intimidated in the slightest.
He tilted his head, analyzing Harry like a predator watching its prey about to make a fatal mistake.
"What are you going to do, Potter?" he taunted. "Attack me? Risk losing your precious position?"
The silence between them became suffocating. Mulciber was playing with him. And the worst part? It was working.
Harry knew that if he did anything now, it would give exactly the excuse the healer wanted. He would be accused of assault. And Mulciber would walk away as the victim.
He gritted his teeth.
"Do you know what the difference is between us, Mulciber?" Harry murmured. "I have nothing to hide."
Mulciber's eyes gleamed, but his expression tightened slightly. Harry saw it. That was a hit.
"Oh, Potter..." Mulciber laughed softly, but there was a slight annoyance in his voice now. "You’re so busy looking for answers that you don’t realize..."
He leaned in just enough for his voice to drop low, laden with venom.
"You’re already condemned."
The anger rose like a flame inside Harry. But before he could respond or act, a noise in the corridor broke the tension.
Footsteps. Voices.
Someone was coming.
Mulciber smirked.
"Well... it seems our conversation has come to an end."
Harry stared at him for a few more seconds, then slowly lowered his wand. Mulciber didn’t turn immediately.
He watched him as if savoring the moment.
"If I were you, Potter..." he said softly. "I’d start questioning who the real hunter is here."
He calmly stepped away, walking toward the footsteps. Harry felt the blood pulse in his temples. Because for the first time... he realized that Mulciber wasn’t just playing with him. He was winning.
The footsteps in the corridor echoed across the cold floor. Harry still felt his body tense, his muscles rigid from the suppressed anger. Mulciber was still smiling. But something had changed. His eyes shifted for a moment, and his expression took on an almost... satisfied gleam.
That's when Harry saw it.
Daphne appeared at the entrance of the corridor. She didn’t seem to be there of her own will. Her face was pale, her eyes unfocused. Her hair was messy, falling over her shoulders as if she had just come out of a nightmare.
She walked with slow, stiff steps, as if being guided by invisible threads.
Harry immediately realized that something was wrong. Very wrong.
"Daphne?" he called, his voice heavy with caution.
She didn’t respond. She didn’t blink. Her eyes were fixed on some point beyond him, as if she didn’t even know where she was.
Mulciber smiled. And then, Harry understood. He was showing something. Proving a point.
The chief healer slowly turned to Daphne and raised one of his hands. His long fingers slid gently down her arm. A slow, deliberate touch. Harry felt something rise in his chest – a mix of anger and pure disgust. But Daphne… didn’t react. She remained still, her shoulders rigid, her breathing shallow.
Mulciber leaned close to her face, whispering something too quiet for Harry to hear. His fingers traveled up to her chin, holding it with a touch almost tender.
Daphne trembled slightly. But she didn’t fight. She didn’t pull his hand away. As if she had no choice. Harry knew in that instant. Mulciber had some control over her.
"What are you doing?" Harry growled, his fingers tightening around his wand.
Mulciber didn’t look at him.
"Do you see, Potter?" he whispered, still watching Daphne. "How easy it is when you know where to touch?"
He slid his fingers down her neck, and Harry took a step forward, his wand raised.
"Take your hands off her."
This time, Mulciber looked at him. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes. He removed his hand, but only because he wanted to. Daphne stood there, motionless, expressionless. Like a puppet with no strings.
Mulciber sighed theatrically.
"Poor Greengrass… always so confused. So... easy to manipulate."
Harry felt his stomach sink. This was it. Mulciber wasn’t just playing with her. He was proving he could. That he had been doing it for a long time. And Harry didn’t know how far this went.
"Daphne." He tried calling her again, now softer, firmer.
Her eyes finally blinked. But the emptiness was still there. She seemed... broken. Mulciber smiled, satisfied.
"It’s a funny feeling, isn’t it?" he said softly, turning back to face Harry. "Powerlessness."
Harry gripped his wand tighter. The anger pulsed like something alive inside him. But Mulciber knew that. He was counting on it. And Harry couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
Mulciber took a step back and let out a satisfied sigh.
“But don’t worry, Potter,” he said, adjusting the cuffs of his robes. “I still need her.”
For now. He then casually turned, as if nothing had happened, and walked down the corridor without looking back. Daphne remained still for a few seconds. Then, her shoulders trembled. Her eyes glowed with something undefined. And, without saying a word, she fell to her knees.
The chief healer stood there, still watching, as if his little display of power hadn’t been enough.
He leaned in again toward Daphne, his mouth too close to her ear. And then, he whispered something. Low. Intimate. Daphne trembled violently. Harry saw her eyes widen, the wet gleam of tears gathering, but she didn’t pull away.
She couldn’t.
Mulciber continued murmuring. Words Harry couldn’t hear. Words that ripped at something inside her. Then, in a sudden movement, Daphne’s eyes flashed with a spark of pure instinct.
She drew her wand. And aimed it directly at Harry.
The room fell silent.
Harry didn’t move.
The shock ran down his spine, but his mind was already trying to make sense of what was happening. Daphne didn’t blink. Her eyes were dilated, frantic. The wand trembled in her hand. But still… she was pointing it at him.
“Daphne.” Harry’s voice came out low, controlled. “Put the wand down.”
She didn’t respond. Mulciber smiled.
And he knew he had won this moment.
“Interesting, isn’t it, Potter?” he said casually, his hands clasped behind his back. “How the right words can make everything crumble?”
Harry didn’t look away from Daphne.
Her face was tense, the muscles of her jaw locked, as if she were fighting with herself.
“You’ve cursed her,” Harry said firmly.
Mulciber chuckled softly.
“Oh, no, no. Nothing so simple.” He tilted his head. “I just… awakened something that was already there.”
Daphne’s hands trembled, but the wand remained in the same place.
“Daphne.” Harry tried again. “I know you’re listening.”
She gasped slightly, as if trying to take a deep breath and failing.
Mulciber smiled even more.
“Did you know, Potter?” He murmured, his voice soft, almost as if he were telling a secret. “Astoria wasn’t the only one.”
Harry didn’t blink. Mulciber noticed and savored the pause.
“Many families brought their loved ones to us. Broken people, sick... fragile.”
His eyes gleamed with perverse pleasure.
"And we... fixed it."
Daphne gasped again, this time as if she were about to cry.
"But not everything that is fixed returns as it was, does it?" Mulciber murmured.
The wand in Daphne’s hand trembled even more.
"Enough." Harry said, his voice sharper now.
"Why?" Mulciber raised an eyebrow. "Are you bothered by the truth?"
Harry saw the way Daphne clenched her teeth. She was fighting. Against him. Against something inside her. And then, in a burst, Harry realized.
She didn’t want to do this.
"This isn’t you." Harry said to her, softly. "You know that."
Daphne squeezed her eyes shut tightly. And then, in a single moment of instability, she let out a muffled scream and threw the wand away. Her body collapsed forward.
Harry rushed forward and caught her before she hit the ground. Daphne was trembling violently, her face buried in Harry's chest, her breath short, uncontrolled.
Mulciber merely watched. Unhurried. Unafraid. Unmoved.
"Curious." He murmured. "It seems she still needs a bit more work."
Harry lifted his face to look at him, and this time, there was no hesitation.
"Touch her again... and I swear I’ll end you."
Mulciber didn’t seem affected. But his eyes... For a brief moment, Harry thought he saw something there. Something dangerous.
Mulciber stepped back slightly, just enough to show he didn’t care. He clenched his fists, adjusted the collar of his robe, and smiled.
"I think our little meeting is over for today."
Then, he turned and began to walk away.
Harry watched Mulciber walk down the corridor and stop again, throwing an ironic smile. Daphne pulled away from him, moving toward one of the walls. The sharp flash of a Stupefy shot past Harry’s face.
He ducked instinctively, the spell shattering the wall behind him with a deafening impact.
"Daphne!" he snarled, his voice filled with frustration and desperation.
She didn’t respond. She just attacked again. Another spell. Stronger. Faster. Harry rolled to the side, narrowly dodging.
He didn’t want to duel with her. But there was no choice.
Daphne was advancing. Her eyes empty, her expression as rigid as stone. As if he were nobody. As if she was no longer Daphne.
Harry felt his chest tighten. This was Mulciber.
"Daphne, fight!" he shouted, blocking the next attack with a protective spell.
She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just kept going. She was fast. Faster than he remembered. But her movements... They weren’t hers. There was something mechanical, cold about them. As if she were being guided. And then he understood.
Mulciber wasn’t just manipulating. He was testing something. He wanted to see how far she could go.
Anger grew inside Harry.
“You’re not this!” he insisted, dodging another attack. “You’re strong enough to resist!”
His first mistake was thinking words would be enough. The second was letting his guard down. A cutting spell tore through the air, and Harry threw himself back at the last second. But Daphne didn’t stop.
She disapparated at the last moment, appearing just a few feet from him, her wand pointed directly at his chest. Harry didn’t have time to react.
“Expelliarmus!”
The force of the spell threw him against the wall.
His wand flew from his hand, skidding across the polished floor. He tried to get up. But it was too late.
Mulciber was already there.
“You know, Potter… you never learn.” The head healer’s voice came low, almost gentle.
Harry tried to move, but his head spun. And then, the spell came. Direct. Precise. The darkness swallowed him. And Harry fell.
He opened his eyes. But it wasn’t the hospital. It wasn’t real. It was... Hogwarts. The Great Hall. But there were no tables. There was no one. Just him. And a body. His own body.
Dead.
And someone laughed. A low, familiar sound. And then... the voice.
A voice he should never hear again.
“Harry Potter... you never escaped, did you?”
Harry’s heart froze. Because he knew. He knew who was behind him. And as he turned... the scarlet eyes glowed in the darkness.
Time seemed suspended. The air was too cold. Every detail, every shadow, every ripple in the black robes was exact. It was him. Voldemort. Exactly as Harry remembered.
The skin pale as bones, the red eyes glowing in the dark, the twisted serpentine features contorted into an expression that wasn’t quite a smile, but rather the promise of a nightmare.
“Harry Potter.”
The sound of that voice made something primal writhe within him. No. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
Harry clenched his fists. The ground beneath his feet was solid. The torchlight flickered against the stone walls of the Great Hall. But there was no one else there.
Just him. And Voldemort.
“What is this?” Harry growled, feeling the bitter taste of bile rise in his throat. “A trick? A memory?”
Voldemort tilted his head slightly, his eyes slithering over him with a cruel interest.
“You still don’t understand, do you?”
The voice was low, controlled, but there was something in it... something that seemed to penetrate his skin like invisible poison.
Harry straightened, feeling the adrenaline pulse.
“This is an illusion.”
“Oh, an illusion?” Voldemort murmured, almost amused. “Tell me, Harry Potter... how many times have you been trapped inside your own mind?”
Harry didn’t answer. Because he knew the answer. He knew how many times that face had appeared in his nightmares. He knew how many times he had woken up in a cold sweat, hearing echoes of a laugh that shouldn’t exist anymore.
Voldemort took a step forward.
“And yet, here I am.”
Harry clenched his fists, feeling the anger and fear mix together.
“You’re dead.”
Voldemort smiled.
“Yes... and no.”
Harry didn’t blink. This was a game. This wasn’t real. But it felt like it was.
Voldemort stepped to the side, observing Harry with something that almost seemed like curiosity.
“I wonder, Harry Potter... what do you fear the most?”
The air grew denser. The room seemed to shrink around him. And the memories came. Screams. Blood. The lifeless face of Cedric Diggory. The cold of the chamber when Sirius fell through the Veil. Dumbledore’s empty eyes, his body falling from the tower. Fred’s lifeless body, the Weasley’s groans of pain. The suffocating silence of the Forbidden Forest when Harry faced death for the first time.
“You still feel it, don’t you?” Voldemort whispered.
Harry gritted his teeth. He wanted this to end. But he didn’t know how to get out of there. Not yet.
“None of this is real.” Harry murmured, trying to anchor himself in the truth.
But Voldemort just smiled.
“If it’s not real... why does it hurt so much?”
The ground trembled. The room began to distort around him. And Harry realized... that maybe, this time, there was no way out.
The world trembled. The Great Hall disappeared like ink dissolving in water. The darkness merged with something new. Something cold. Something cruelly familiar. The sound came first. The rain. Thick, cutting through the sky like sharp blades. Then, the wind howling like a wild beast. And the pale glow of the moon illuminating a modest house, surrounded by trees shaking in the storm.
Harry’s heart stopped.
Godric’s Hollow. His parents' house. He knew what was about to happen. And yet, he couldn’t move.
His feet were rooted to the ground. The front door was ajar. The wood creaked with the biting wind. And then...
A laugh. Low. Cruel.
Harry felt his stomach twist. He struggled to breathe. This isn’t real. He knew it. But his bones felt frozen.
He couldn’t look away. And then, it happened.
His mother’s voice screamed through the air.
“Lily, he’s here! Grab Harry and run!”
Harry turned. He saw his father appear at the top of the stairs. James Potter looked so young. Younger than Harry had ever seen him. His glasses slightly crooked on his face. His wand firm in his hand. But he had no chance.
The shadow was already at the door.
“Lily, take Harry!” James shouted, stepping down a stair.
Harry tried to move. Tried to scream. Nothing. His body wouldn’t respond. Voldemort’s figure appeared in the doorway. The black robes floated like a specter. The pale face twisted in a satisfied smile.
James raised his wand. But it was too late.
“Avada Kedavra.”
The green light exploded through the house. James fell without a sound. Harry felt something inside him snap.
“NO!” he tried to scream, but his voice didn’t come out.
He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t interfere. Lily appeared at the top of the stairs, holding a baby against her chest.
Harry saw his own face. He saw himself as a child. Small. Fragile. Innocent. His mother was crying. But she didn’t give up.
“Please...” her voice was trembling, pleading. “Not him... take me instead!”
Voldemort stepped forward slowly.
“Get out of the way.”
The baby was crying. His own cry echoed in the room.
“No.” his mother whispered, holding him tighter.
Voldemort smiled.
“Very well.”
The wand rose. Harry tried to run. Tried to stop it. Nothing.
“AVADA KEDAVRA!”
The green beam tore through the air. His mother’s scream cut through the world. And everything exploded in light.
Light. A light so white, so vast, that it seemed to stretch into infinity.
For a moment, Harry felt suspended, floating in something that wasn’t air, nor magic. Just a space without time, without weight. The weight of memory vanished. His mother’s screams, the echoes of Voldemort’s laughter, the sharp fear that froze his blood... all disappeared.
He opened his eyes. And immediately, he knew where he was.
The station.
The white marble floor stretched in every direction. The space was too vast, too silent, filled with that spectral feeling of a dream that borders on reality. There was a train stopped on tracks that appeared from nowhere and disappeared into the misty horizon.
And sitting on a bench by the platform… There he was.
Albus Dumbledore. His face as serene as Harry remembered.
The silver-white hair and beard, the gentle and enigmatic expression, the blue eyes sparkling behind the half-moon glasses.
Harry felt his throat tighten. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
“Dumbledore.”
The old headmaster slowly lifted his eyes. A soft smile appeared on his lips.
“Harry.”
The voice was exactly as before. Warm. Peaceful. A wave of emotion surged in Harry’s chest.
He hadn’t expected to see him again. Even if it was an illusion. He looked around, feeling trapped at the edge of something larger than his mind could comprehend. He placed his hand on his forehead, where the scar should have been.
Nothing. No pain. No weight.
“Am I dead?” he asked.
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly.
“That is a fascinating question.”
Harry snorted.
“Answer me.”
The headmaster chuckled softly.
“You’re alive, my boy. But your mind… is trapped.”
Harry felt a chill. Trapped? Dumbledore stood up from the bench, his robes fluttering gently.
“Have you ever wondered, Harry, why it was so easy for him to bring you down?”
Harry frowned, feeling a twinge of irritation.
“I was caught by surprise.”
“Were you really?”
Dumbledore tilted his head to the side, his eyes gentle but sharp.
“Or were you already trapped long ago, without realizing it?”
Silence hung between them. Harry’s heart beat heavily. Dumbledore took a step forward, his eyes full of something Harry didn’t want to face.
“You’re running, Harry.”
Harry gritted his teeth.
“Running from what?”
Dumbledore sighed.
“From everything. From life.”
Harry felt his chest tighten. He wanted to deny it. But he couldn’t.
Images flashed in his mind, unbidden. Ron and Hermione, always trying to pull him back, but he distancing himself. Ginny, the only one who insisted, until she grew tired. The nights of drunkenness, the faceless women who never meant anything. The cigarettes, the alcohol, work becoming the only thing that kept him from sinking.
Dumbledore watched him with a gentle but sorrowful look.
“I saw a boy, years ago, willing to sacrifice himself for those he loved. Someone who, despite everything, chose love over pain.”
Harry closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t want to hear this. But deep down, he knew it was true.
“I tried.” His voice came out low, almost a whisper.
Dumbledore nodded.
“But you didn’t let it be enough.”
Silence hung again. And then, suddenly… A name appeared in Harry’s mind. It wasn’t Ron. It wasn’t Hermione. It wasn’t Ginny. It was Daphne.
Her face appeared like a lightning bolt. Her gray-blue eyes, intense, always analyzing everything around her. The way she seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. The way she looked at him that night, soaked in rain, hurt, scared.
She needed him. And he wasn’t there. But he still could be.
Harry’s breath faltered.
Dumbledore smiled.
“Now you understand.”
Harry swallowed hard. The illusion was breaking. The world began to vibrate. The light became unstable, pulsing as if it were alive. The distant train let out a soft whistle.
Dumbledore took a step back.
“It’s time, Harry.”
Harry lifted his eyes. This time, there was no fear.
“Yes.”
The station dissolved. The real world called him back.
Air.
The first thing that hit Harry when he returned to the real world was the suffocating sensation of air filling his lungs, as if he had been ripped from a deep abyss.
He couldn’t see properly. The sounds around him seemed distant, muffled, as if he were still trapped between two realities. His muscles felt like lead. But he was back.
He blinked frantically, forcing his eyes to focus on what was in front of him. The cold floor under his face. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The room was still there.
Daphne was curled up in a corner, her face pale and her eyes wide, her lips parted as if she had just escaped a nightmare. Harry felt hatred pulse.
Mulciber was on top of Rosier. The young man’s lifeless body trembled slightly, a dark and almost invisible mist hovered around him. And then Rosier opened his eyes.
Harry didn’t have time to process. He moved purely on instinct.
“Expelliarmus!”
The spell cut through the air but missed by a hair. Mulciber’s wand remained firm in his hand. The man’s gaze slowly turned toward him, amusement sparkling in his eyes like a cruel spark.
“Welcome back, Potter.”
Mulciber waved his wand with an elegant flourish. Harry barely had time to raise his own.
“Crucio!”
The spell passed close to his shoulder, exploding against the wall beside him, cracking the stones.
Harry didn’t think. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He shot to the side, rolling on the ground and raising his wand.
“Depulso!”
A blast of air exploded against Mulciber, pushing him back for a second. It was enough. Harry jumped up, his muscles responding to the heat of adrenaline, and cast another spell.
“Petrificus Totalus!”
But Mulciber was already ready.
“Protego.”
The magical shield absorbed the attack, dissipating it into the air.
“Is that all, Potter?” Mulciber mocked, taking a step forward. “Do you really think you can beat me?”
Harry grunted, feeling the sweat trickle down his neck. Mulciber wasn't just strong. He was fast. Precise. Every movement he made was calculated, methodical, without wasting any energy. But Harry didn’t need to be elegant.
He just needed to bring him down.
“Confringo!”
The curse exploded against the ceiling, sending debris falling into the middle of the room.
Mulciber leaped back, his eyes burning with something close to irritation. Harry seized the opening. He advanced.
Mulciber raised his wand, but Harry was already in motion. With a swift kick, he knocked the man’s leg out from under him, causing him to lose his balance for a moment.
Then, he spun his wand and attacked without hesitation.
“Stupefy!”
The spell hit Mulciber in the chest, throwing him against the wall. He groaned, grinding his teeth, but didn’t fall.
Fury gleamed in his eyes.
“You’re annoying, Potter.”
Mulciber raised his wand again, and Harry felt the air shift. He was preparing something worse. Something final. But before he could finish, a low, trembling sound filled the room.
Harry turned. Rosier. He was moving.
His body writhed against the mattress, his wide eyes staring at the ceiling, his mouth opening as if trying to scream, but no sound coming out.
What the hell was happening? Mulciber saw the same thing Harry did. And he smiled.
A sick smile.
“It seems our special guest is finally waking up.”
Harry felt a chill run down his spine. Something was terribly wrong. And he needed to act fast.
Harry didn’t think. His body moved before his mind could process.
With a quick movement of his wand, he cut through the air with a spell he should have never learned.
“Sectumsempra!”
The invisible jet sliced the space between them. Mulciber tried to react, but it was too late. The magical blade struck his chest.
For a moment, time seemed to slow down. Mulciber's eyes widened. Then, the blood came. Pouring from the deep cut that opened on his skin, staining his dark robes with crimson red.
He grunted, staggering backward, his hand trembling as he pressed the wound. But he was laughing.
Laughing.
“Ah... Potter…” his voice came trembling, but full of amusement. “That... that was unexpected.”
Harry didn’t care. Because in the next instant, Rosier gasped on the bed. His body trembled violently, his eyes rolling in their sockets. His arms shot up, stiff, his fingers curling like invisible claws.
“Damn it.” Harry advanced, but Mulciber extended his arm in front of him.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
The smile on his face was still there, even as blood trickled from his mouth.
“If you interrupt, you could kill him.”
Harry gritted his teeth. The room filled with a strange buzzing. A dark, invisible energy vibrated in the air. Rosier twisted even more, his mouth opening as if trying to scream, but no sound came out.
“He’s waking up.” Mulciber murmured, almost in delight.
Harry pointed his wand at him again.
“What did you do to him?”
“Me?” Mulciber blinked slowly, as if exhausted but still entertained. “Oh, Potter… do you really think I’m responsible for this?”
Harry’s anger grew.
“Then who?”
Mulciber smiled, his teeth stained with blood.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
Rosier trembled violently one last time… And then, he stopped. The silence that followed was suffocating.
Harry didn’t take his wand off Mulciber, but he could feel Rosier’s gaze on him now. Slow. Static. Watching him as if he didn’t know where he was. Or who he was.
Harry felt a chill crawl down his spine.
“Rosier?”
The young man’s pale eyes blinked once. And then he spoke.
“Who… am I?”
Mulciber’s quiet laugh was the last thing Harry heard before his stomach twisted. Something very, very wrong had happened. And he didn’t know if he could undo it. The silence was deafening.
Rosier remained still for a moment, his eyes wandering to the ceiling as if trying to understand where he was. Harry watched him, his muscles still tense, his wand aimed at Mulciber. Then, Rosier blinked a few times. His body trembled slightly... and he fainted.
Harry advanced reflexively, but stopped. Mulciber didn’t move.
The man stayed there, leaning against the wall, still pressing the wound on his chest, his smile now tired.
“That… was unexpected.”
Harry felt his breathing grow heavy. Something was wrong. Very wrong. And then, he felt it. The pain. A burning, slicing pain that radiated from his side and spread throughout his entire body like a cold wave.
He lowered his gaze. And saw the blood. Spreading slowly across the fabric of his shirt.
The adrenaline had disappeared, and now all that was left was the cruel reality of his body being overcome by the damage.
“Shit.”
The pain became unbearable. It burned like liquid fire spreading through his body, consuming every part of him. Harry felt Daphne’s fingers pressing on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but the weight on his chest only grew heavier.
His vision began to darken. The sounds around him became distant, as if he were submerged in water. Mulciber was still there, watching everything with that damn smile.
“Potter.” His voice seemed like a whisper, though it resonated like thunder inside his mind. “You never knew when to stop.”
Harry tried to raise his wand, tried to at least say something. But he couldn’t. His knees buckled. His body collapsed.
The last thing he saw was Daphne’s pale face, her wide eyes, her mouth moving as she screamed his name.
After that… Only darkness. And silence.
