the first sign
Harry Potter had learned to ignore pain.
At twenty-six, he'd built a life that felt almost normal—head Auror at the Ministry, husband to Ginny, godfather to little Teddy Lupin, and a home at Grimmauld Place that finally felt like his own. The war had been over for eight years. His scar hadn't so much as tingled in all that time.
Which was why, when the first stab of pain shot through the lightning bolt on his forehead during a routine meeting at the Ministry, Harry merely winced, pressed his fingers to it briefly, and continued his report on recent Dark artifact seizures. He'd grown accustomed to compartmentalizing discomfort, filing it away as unimportant.
"And the cursed music boxes from Liverpool have been contained," he concluded, shuffling his papers as he addressed the small council of senior Aurors. "Any questions?"
Robards nodded his approval, but Auror Thornfield raised her hand. "Did you manage to trace their origin, Potter?"
Harry opened his mouth to answer when another lance of pain—sharper this time—cut through his head. He blinked rapidly, his vision blurring for just a moment.
"Potter?" Robards prompted, frowning.
"Sorry," Harry said, recovering quickly. "We traced them to a small workshop in eastern Europe. We're coordinating with their magical authorities now."
The meeting concluded, and Harry retreated to his office, loosening his collar as sweat beaded on his forehead. The pain had subsided to a dull throb, but something felt off. Different from the pain he'd experienced during Voldemort's return. This was... internal somehow. Like something beneath his skin was vibrating at the wrong frequency.
He shook his head and reached for the stack of reports waiting on his desk. Probably just stress. Or maybe he was coming down with something.
By evening, the pain had intensified enough that Harry found himself standing in front of the bathroom mirror at home, staring at his reflection. The scar looked exactly as it always had—a faded lightning bolt, slightly raised against his skin. He traced it with his fingertip, wincing at the tenderness.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice called from downstairs. "Dinner's ready!"
"Coming!" he replied, splashing cold water on his face before heading down.
Ginny had made shepherd's pie, and the smell that normally would have made his mouth water now turned his stomach slightly. He sat at the table, forcing a smile.
"How was your day?" she asked, her eyes bright as she served him a generous portion.
"Fine," Harry replied automatically. "Just busy." He picked at his food, trying to ignore the way his head throbbed with each heartbeat.
Ginny paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "Are you feeling alright? You've barely touched your food."
"Just tired," Harry said, making himself take a large bite despite his churning stomach. "This is delicious."
His wife studied him for a moment, her keen eyes taking in the slight pallor of his skin. "You're working too hard again."
"It's nothing," Harry insisted, swallowing with effort. "Tell me about your practice today. How's the team looking for the match against Puddlemere?"
The distraction worked. Ginny launched into an animated description of the Holyhead Harpies' latest training sessions, and Harry managed to eat half his plate before the nausea became too intense to ignore.
Later that night, as Ginny slept peacefully beside him, Harry lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The pain had spread from his scar to encompass his entire head in a vicious, pounding ache. Each pulse felt like something inside was trying to claw its way out. His skin felt simultaneously too hot and too cold, and his sheets were damp with sweat.
This wasn't normal. Even during the worst migraines he'd experienced after the war, it had never felt like this—like some foreign presence was stirring beneath his skin.
It's not him, Harry reminded himself firmly. Voldemort is gone. This is just... something else.
But as he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, dark dreams plagued him—fragments of memories mixed with new horrors. In his dreams, the piece of Voldemort's soul that had once resided in him had left something behind, something that was now awakening, spreading through his blood like poison.