The Hollow Echo of a Name
Darkness.
It stretched endlessly, neither cold nor warm, neither silent nor deafening. It simply was. A space between spaces. A place where time lost its grip, where thoughts faded as quickly as they formed. Somewhere, far away, a voice called his name.
"Harry."
He had heard it before, hadn't he? That voice, soft and desperate, wading through the emptiness. It felt familiar, like an echo from a life he couldn’t quite remember. He tried to respond, but his lips wouldn’t move. His body—if he had one—was unresponsive, weightless, trapped in something vast and unknown.
Then, a flicker of light.
Not the comforting glow of a Hogwarts lantern or the warm, golden hue of the Great Hall. No, this was pale and cold, like moonlight bleeding through a window, illuminating the figure standing before him. A shadowed man, his cloak rippling though there was no wind. His face was half-hidden, but the eyes—red, glowing, burning—pierced through the darkness.
"You cannot stay here forever, Harry."
The words slithered through the void, sinking into him like icy fingers curling around his soul. He knew that voice too. A name hovered at the edge of his mind, just beyond his grasp.
"Voldemort," he whispered.
The name felt strange on his tongue, like a foreign word spoken in a forgotten language. The man in the cloak tilted his head, amused.
"Is that what you call me?" he asked. "A child's name for something ancient. Something inevitable."
A shiver ran through Harry, though there was no cold.
"Come, Harry," the figure beckoned, extending a long, pale hand. "You do not belong here."
The void trembled. For the first time, Harry felt something shift—a pull, a tether buried deep within his chest. A memory stirred.
His mother’s voice, whispering lullabies. His father’s laughter, warm and full. Hands clutching his own, desperate and pleading. A hospital room. The rhythmic beeping of a machine.
He gasped.
The darkness cracked. A blinding light tore through the void, and suddenly, Harry was falling.