Hermione Granger was worried.
No, she was more than worried, actually. She was spiraling into full academic-level overthinking, the kind that only came when Harry Potter was involved, the kind that led to late-night research and frantic cross-referencing that she had done over the past few years. Her mind was a whirlwind of theories and anxieties, each one more unsettling than the last.
Something had changed in him since summer. It wasn't just a subtle shift.
At first, she'd told herself it was just the fallout from what happened, Cedric's death, Voldemort's horrifying return, the Order going quiet and secretive, the world feeling like it was fracturing. She'd thought it was natural—Harry was angry, distant, hurt, angry at them for their perceived inaction or complicity. She had rationalized it as a coping mechanism for trauma.
But the more time passed, the less that explanation made sense.
Harry wasn't just different, he was practically someone new. His posture, once slightly hunched, was now straight, confident. His confidence radiated from him like a tangible aura.
For some reason, when he walks now you just had the urge to turn and look.
Hermione had always been the better one at theory between the two of them. Harry was exceptional at practical magic, sure, a natural talent, but books? Deep spell logic? Obscure magical principles? No, that had always been her domain, her passion, her intellectual strength.
Now… she caught him reading books that were incredibly advanced, even obscure, texts she hadn't even heard of until her N.E.W.T. preparation. Magical theory texts she hadn't touched until midway through third year, complex ancient runes, and even some texts that she knew she had never seen in the library, he read them like they were light reading, They had studied together a few times in the library, and she'd casually asked him questions she knew would trip up most fifth years, complex theoretical problems or obscure magical laws.
Harry had answered them all. Effortlessly.
It wasn't that he had simply become smarter, that wasn't it. Something wasn't right. But she had waited, because pushing Harry never ended well, it usually resulted in him retreating further. She had told herself she'd give him space, that he would come to them when he was ready.
But it had been three days since his dramatic reappearance, three days since he promised to explain everything to them, and still nothing. And she was getting tired of pretending not to notice him wincing when he thought no one was looking, a faint tremor of pain crossing his face. How he'd rub at his forehead and go quiet, like someone tuning out a room full of noise no one else could hear, a phantom ache.
She had seen that look before. The scar. Voldemort. The connection.
She couldn't let it go this time. The stakes were too high, his pain too evident.
She caught him after Defense Against the Dark Arts. Ron had already made a beeline for the Great Hall, his stomach had a way of guiding his priorities, especially after a particularly dull class, but she had stayed behind, eyes locked on Harry, determined.
Umbridge had been especially venomous today, her sickly sweet smile stretched thin, glaring holes into the back of Harry's head during the entire class, her voice dripping with condescension when she addressed him.
Her latest rant that Harry should be expelled had become an almost daily routine, a public performance of her impotent rage, and everyone knew it was because she couldn't prove he had ever left the castle. His mysterious reappearances had driven her to distraction, especially since he had been serving detention with Professor McGonagall, effectively avoiding Umbridge's own punitive measures, and she was making it everyone's problem.
She had even gone to the board and gotten permission to inspect Hogwarts, to scrutinize the teachers while they taught their classes, convinced there was a conspiracy in Hogwarts and the ministry had allowed it.
Harry, for his part, had been all too happy to smirk through her impotent rage, occasionally offering a bland, infuriatingly polite answer that only served to fuel her fury.
But Hermione wasn't laughing. Her concern overshadowed any amusement.
"Harry, wait," she said, catching up to him before he could disappear into the throng of students again, her hand gently touching his arm.
He turned, raising an eyebrow, a hint of surprise in his eyes at her persistence. "Yeah?"
She hesitated, then said softly, her voice filled with genuine concern, "I know your scar's bothering you, Harry. I've seen you. Is it hurting like before? Like… like when Voldemort is near?"
His expression froze for a second, a flicker of guardedness, before melting into his usual unreadable mask, a practiced nonchalance. "It's nothing, Hermione," he said, brushing it off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just a bit of a headache."
"It's not nothing," she said firmly, stepping closer, her voice unwavering, refusing to be put off. "I've seen you wince—at meals, in the common room, even during Charms yesterday. You think no one notices, but I do, Harry. I always do. Please, tell me."
Harry looked away, his lips thinning, a clear sign of his discomfort. He rubbed his forehead, a subtle gesture of pain he thought he was hiding.
She stepped closer, her voice gentling, pleading. "Please, Harry. I'm your friend. I hate seeing you in pain, especially when you try to hide it from me."
There was a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance? Gratitude? Resignation? She wasn't sure, but it was something.
"I think you should talk to Dumbledore about it," she suggested, her voice hesitant, knowing his current animosity towards the Headmaster.
The change was immediate. His posture stiffened, his shoulders squaring. His eyes darkened, a cold, hard glint appearing in their emerald depths.
She pushed forward anyway, determined to break through his walls. "Please, Harry. I know you're angry with him. I know… we were wrong too, for not supporting you more, for believing him blindly. But he knows about your scar. He's the most experienced person we have. He can help you, he can explain things. So please, just talk to him."
"That's the problem, Hermione," Harry cut in, his voice low, a dangerous edge to it, devoid of his usual lightheartedness. "He knows everything. And says nothing. Ever. He keeps secrets, he manipulates, and he expects everyone to just follow his grand plan blindly, without explanation." His face was etched with a deep, weary resentment.
Hermione flinched, recognizing the truth in his words, a truth she had only recently begun to acknowledge in the deep recesses of her own mind. Yes, the Headmaster seemed to not always be there when he was needed, and then came with cryptic messages and vague instructions. She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "I understand, Harry. I truly do. But please, you're in pain, and I don't like that. You don't have to go through this alone. Let me go with you," she offered, her voice earnest. "We can talk to him together. Demand answers. No secrets between us, and no secrets from him. Please?"
For a moment, he didn't answer. He just stared at her—really stared—and Hermione felt like he was weighing something inside her.
Then, finally, he sighed, a long, drawn-out sound, and rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of concession. "Alright," he said, his voice quiet, resigned. "Fine. We'll go. But I hate this, Hermione. I hate dealing with him."
A small, relieved smile broke over her face, radiant with gratitude. "Thank you, Harry. Thank you so much."
"I'll wait here," he said, gesturing to the empty corridor. "Grab your stuff. Meet me back here in five minutes."
She nodded, her eyes bright with purpose, and turned, practically jogging down the corridor, eager to prepare for the confrontation.
As soon as she was gone, her footsteps fading, Harry let the mask fall completely.
He smiled.
Satisfaction.
"I didn't think it would take three days," he muttered to himself, his voice a low, self-congratulatory whisper.
Truthfully, he hadn't been sure how long it would take. He had been subtly, almost imperceptibly, exacerbating the phantom pains from his scar, making sure one of his friends notice, making sure Hermione noticed, knowing her protective instincts would eventually kick in. He had been waiting for this precise moment.
Did he feel bad for using her concern for him? Yes. But it was necessary.
He wanted to destroy Dumbledore, everything he stood for, and his reputation, but he honestly didn't know how to do that directly. So he just decided that he'd do what he could, however he could, using his own methods, and just let it all play out, allowing Dumbledore to dig his own grave.
Elsewhere – Voldemort's Hideout
The Dark Lord, Voldemort, sat at the head of a long, obsidian table, its polished surface reflecting the flickering green light from the torches that illuminated the cavernous chamber. His fingers, long and skeletal, were steepled beneath his chin as his crimson eyes, slitted like a snake's, flicked between the kneeling figures before him. His Death Eaters.
Three days ago, some of his death eaters had reported something to him.
Avery. Macnair. Goyle. The three Death Eaters who had returned from London, had faces pale with a mixture of fear and barely concealed excitement.
They had delivered their report—the overheard conversation in the restaurant, the names mentioned, the vague phrases whispered about a secret in the Ministry, about Dumbledore's plans, about Snape's supposed ignorance.
A trap, clearly. Voldemort's mind immediately considered that Dumbledore would never consider something like this, he thought. But they spoke of something real. The details, though vague, resonated with his own suspicions and his knowledge of Dumbledore's secretive nature.
'The prophecy. '
Voldemort had torn into their memories himself, ripping through their minds with brutal efficiency, just to be certain. He had seen the memory.
So… Dumbledore wanted to draw his attention. He wanted Harry to fetch it while his eyes were elsewhere, distracted by a false lead.
Fool. Voldemort's lip curled in a silent sneer. He would not be played, not by Dumbledore, not by Harry Potter. He was the Dark Lord.
It really could be a trap. But.....
But the danger of missing something truly valuable was greater than the risk of falling into a mere trap. The prophecy… the one in the Department of Mysteries… whatever Dumbledore wanted kept hidden, it was too important to ignore. His paranoia, a constant companion, screamed at him to act.
It was time to speed things up.
"I tire of delay," Voldemort said finally, his voice like death wrapped in silk, cold and utterly devoid of mercy, yet resonating with absolute power, filling the chamber. "We move for Azkaban within the week. My loyal servants have languished there for too long. It is time they returned to my side."
The Death Eaters looked up in barely concealed excitement, a thrill of anticipation running through them. Azkaban.
"I will not wait any longer for what is mine," he continued, his voice rising, echoing through the chamber, filled with a terrible, unholy glee. "Gather our forces. My loyal followers must be returned to me, their strength added to our ranks."
He stood, black robes whispering against the floor like hungry shadows, his serpentine face twisted into a cruel smile.
"And when they are… when my true army is assembled… we will burn away the lies Dumbledore hides behind. We will take what is rightfully ours." His crimson eyes glowed with murderous intent, already envisioning the coming slaughter.
————————————————————
If you want to read ahead and access 5 advanced chapters, check the patreon
Link:patreon/Phantomking785