Hunger Consumed

A crisp breeze drifted in through the open window of Harry’s bedroom, rustling the loose parchment on his desk. The morning light spilled across his bed as he sat cross-legged atop the sheets, staring at the letter in his hands. The familiar, neat handwriting of Hermione filled the page, her words precise but tinged with concern.

Harry,

Cedric told us about your decision to come back to Hogwarts. Ron and I well, we just want to make sure you’re really ready. If you have even the slightest doubt, please reconsider. No one would think less of you for waiting a little longer. You’ve been through so much already, and rushing back won’t change that. Healing doesn’t have a deadline.

That said, I did some research on what you told us. About your dreams. About the voice.

I’m not sure what it means yet, but I think it might be connected to something bigger. Maybe rituals?

There are cases where wizards have experienced dreams like yourself, dreams that don’t feel like dreams at all. Some of the older records suggest that when magic lingers too long in a person, especially under extreme conditions, it can sometimes react in strange ways. Maybe that’s all this is. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

I need more time to figure it out, but please, Harry, I know you. Don’t just try to ignore what’s happening. If you have any more dreams, write to professor Dumbledore. I mean it.

Hermione

Harry exhaled slowly, lowering the letter onto his lap. His fingers gripped the parchment a little too tightly, the words burning into his mind.

Connected to something bigger.

Maybe rituals.

He swallowed hard, staring at the ink like it might change if he looked long enough.

Hermione didn’t jump to conclusions. She didn’t assume. If she was saying this, it was because she had read something that unsettled her enough not to dismiss it outright.

And if she was worried, then maybe he should be too.

The dreams had started months ago, but lately, they had changed. They weren’t just whispers in the dark anymore. It wasn’t just an uneasy feeling clawing at his chest when he woke up in cold sweats. It was real now, more tangible than before. The voice in his dreams spoke his name like a possession, like it knew him. And each time, it became harder to wake up.

A knock at his door startled him. He shoved the letter beneath his pillow just as his mother’s voice came through.

“Harry? Padfoot’s here.”

“Coming,” he called back, forcing his voice to sound normal.

As he stood, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room. He looked the same as ever; dark locks tousled, falling in soft waves around his face long enough to brush his eyebrows and the nape of his neck, green eyes deep and intense, slim frame.

His face is soft, with high cheekbones and a slightly rounded jaw, giving him an almost delicate appearance.

There’s something about Harry’s presence that draws people in, whether through the vulnerability he wears like a second skin or the quiet strength he embodies.

But something felt off. Something inside him had shifted, and now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t just dealing with dreams anymore.

He was dealing with something much bigger.

And he had no idea what to do about it.

The scent of bacon and toast drifted through the house as Harry made his way downstairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The letter from Hermione was still clutched in his hand, the words swimming in his mind no matter how hard he tried to ignore them.

Rituals. 

It had sent a shiver down his spine, but he hadn’t let himself dwell on it for too long. Not yet.

Stepping into the kitchen, he was met with the usual morning scene; his mother standing at the stove, his father nursing a cup of tea with the Daily Prophet spread out before him. But there was Sirius aswell, seated casually at the table, already halfway through his breakfast.

“Morning, Prongslet,” his godfather greeted, though his usual grin didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Harry nodded, slipping into the chair beside him. His parents greeted him warmly, but he noticed it almost immediately, the way their smiles didn’t quite hold, the way his mother’s stirring slowed just slightly as she glanced at him.

Something was off.

James folded the Prophet and set it aside. “You slept in,” he remarked, his tone light. “Late night?”

Harry shrugged. “Not really, no.”

He reached for the teapot, hoping that would be the end of it, but Sirius was watching him closely.

“You look tired,” his godfather said, voice quieter now.

Harry stiffened slightly. “Thanks?”

Lily turned, setting down a plate of eggs in front of him. “You haven’t had any more nightmares, have you?”

His grip tightened around the letter in his lap.

“No,” he lied.

He didn’t want to talk about it. The dreams, the voice, the feeling of something pressing into his very being—it made his skin crawl just thinking about it. He certainly didn’t want to discuss it, to see their faces twist in worry, to be reminded that something inside him felt wrong.

But Sirius didn’t look convinced. His eyes flickered to the letter in Harry’s hands. “That from Hermione?”

Harry hesitated. “Yeah,”

“She’s worried about you,” Sirius guessed.

Harry forced a small smile. “When isn’t she,”

Aren’t you all?

Sirius huffed a quiet laugh, but his expression remained unreadable. “She’s a smart witch. Maybe you should listen to her.”

James cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “Speaking of smart witches and wizards, Dumbledore will be here soon.”

Harry paused mid-bite. “What?”

Lily offered a tentative smile. “He wanted to talk to us about your condition. And your decision to return to Hogwarts.”

Something inside Harry twisted.

“My condition?”

“You collapsed last time you were at Hogwarts, Harry,” James said, his tone firmer now. “Forgive us for wanting to make sure you’re actually ready to go back.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “I am ready.”

Sirius leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “No one’s saying you aren’t, kid. But you’ve been—” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Harry exhaled sharply, pushing his eggs around on his plate. “I don’t need Dumbledore to evaluate me.”

His mother sighed. “That’s not what this is.”

Harry’s gaze flickered between his parents. There it was again—that shift. It was subtle, but he knew them well enough to recognize it. The way his father avoided looking directly at him, the way his mother busied herself unnecessarily with the dishes.

They were hiding something.

And for the first time since he’d stepped into the kitchen, the unease in his stomach had nothing to do with his dreams.

Harry barely had time to process their words before the sound of the floo echoed in the sitting room. His parents were already moving to greet Dumbledore. Sirius sighed, standing up from the table.

“C’mon,” he said, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “No point in delaying this.”

Harry followed him down the hall, his grip tightening around Hermione’s letter as though it could ground him. The unease in his stomach twisted tighter with every step.

When they reached the sitting room, Dumbledore was already there, standing near the fireplace. His deep blue robes shimmered slightly in the morning light, and his usual twinkle was dimmed behind half-moon glasses.

Lily and James stood beside him, their postures tense, like they were bracing for something.

“Harry,” Dumbledore greeted warmly. “It is good to see you.”

Harry nodded stiffly, dropping onto the couch. “You too, Professor.”

Dumbledore’s gaze swept over him, lingering for a moment too long. “I understand you wish to return to Hogwarts.”

Ah great, no small talk.

Harry glanced at his parents. Their expressions were carefully neutral, but he could feel the weight of their worry.

“Straight to the point then? Yes,” he said firmly.

Dumbledore hummed, stroking his beard. “A commendable decision. However, I must ask—do you feel ready?”

Harry frowned. “I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t.”

“Even after everything that has happened?” Dumbledore pressed gently.

Silence stretched in the room. Harry felt his skin prickle. They were all looking at him—his parents, Sirius, Dumbledore. Like they were expecting something. Harry clenched his jaw. “I just want to get back to normal.”

Dumbledore sighed, folding his hands together. “Normal is a difficult thing to reclaim once lost.”

Something about his tone sent a chill down Harry’s spine. He gripped the edge of the couch. “Are you saying I can’t go back?”

Lily shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that, sweetheart. We just… need to be sure.”

“Sure of what?” Harry snapped. “That I’m not losing it?”

“Harry—” James started, but Dumbledore held up a hand.

“There is more to this than you realize,” the headmaster said quietly.

Harry’s breath caught. He looked at his parents, then at Sirius. Their faces gave nothing away—but they weren’t arguing. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. “You’re hiding something.”

Lily’s hands tightened around the fabric of her sleeves. James looked away, Sirius exhaled sharply. Dumbledore didn’t deny it. And Harry felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him. His mind reeled back to Hermione’s letter.

Dark ones.

His pulse pounded against his skull. He could feel it in his fingertips, in his throat, in the silence stretching between him and the adults in the room.

They were hiding something. That much was obvious.

His mother’s hands trembled, just slightly, as she wrung them together. His father—always composed, always steady—had his gaze fixed on the floor, jaw clenched. Sirius, for all his usual bravado, looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight as though resisting the urge to pace.

And Dumbledore…

The headmaster watched him with something unreadable in his eyes. Not pity, not fear, but a terrible, quietunderstanding. Like he already knew what Harry was going to say before he said it.

Harry’s fingers curled into fists. “What,” he said, his voice low, “aren’t you telling me?”

No one spoke. It was worse than shouting. Worse than lies.

Harry let out a short, bitter laugh. “This is ridiculous.”

“Harry,” his mother started, but he shook his head sharply.

“No. You’re all looking at me like I’m going to break. Like I—” His throat tightened, anger and something worse clawing at his chest. “Like I’m not me anymore.”

Sirius shifted beside him. “No one’s saying that, kid.”

“Aren’t you?” His voice was sharper now. “Because that’s sure as hell what it feels like.”

The letter in his hand crumpled slightly under his grip.

Rituals.

The word curled in his mind, pressing into him like an echo of something he didn’t want to understand. The voice in his dreams, the way it knew him, the way it lingered—like a hand reaching through the dark, waiting for him to take it.

He swallowed hard. Hermione knew something. Or at least, she knew enough to be afraid.

And Dumbledore—

Harry’s gaze snapped to the headmaster. “You know,” he said quietly.

Dumbledore tilted his head. “I suspect.” The careful wording made Harry’s skin crawl.

“Suspect what?” His voice came out rough, uneven.

Dumbledore exhaled, a slow and deliberate thing. He folded his hands in his lap, robes shifting like liquid in the firelight. “Magic,” he said, “is not always kind to those who endure it.”

Harry frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The headmaster studied him. “What do you remember from that night?”

The room went still.

What night? Which night?

His mother’s breath hitched. Sirius looked away. His father’s fingers twitched against his knee. Harry felt something cold wrap around his ribs.

“That’s not an answer,” he said.

Dumbledore hummed, almost as if in agreement. “It is, perhaps, the only one I can offer.”

Harry’s nails dug into his palms. “You’re saying it has to do with what hypothetically happened some night.”

“I am saying,” Dumbledore said carefully, “that magic—especially under extreme circumstances—can leave… impressions on those who wield it.” His eyes flickered, sharp and knowing. “And sometimes, those impressions take root.”

The words settled in Harry’s chest like a weight.

Impressions.

A cold hand against his spine. A voice curling through his mind like smoke. Not whispers anymore. Something real.

Harry’s breathing felt too loud. “And what happens,” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, “when it takes root?”

Dumbledore didn’t answer. But he didn’t have to. Because the silence told Harry everything. Dumbledore —always composed. Always knowing. Like he knew. Like he saw straight through him.

Harry’s stomach churned. “What,” he said, his voice low, “are you hiding from me?”

Silence. The worst kind. The kind that confirmed what he already felt twisting in his gut.

“Harry—” His mother’s voice was soft, pleading.

He ignored it. He could feel it building inside him, hot and restless. The anger. The shame. It clawed at his ribs, raw and sickening. He didn’t want their concern. He didn’t want their pity. Because if they knew—if they even suspected—

Dumbledore was still watching him.

“You know,” Harry said suddenly. The words burned coming out.

Dumbledore inclined his head, slow, deliberate. 

Harry’s chest tightened. That careful phrasing. That measured tone. “You think it’s unsolvable,” he said. “That something’s… wrong with me.”

His mother flinched. His father’s hands curled into fists. Sirius muttered something under his breath.

Harry exhaled sharply. “Just say it.”

Dumbledore studied him. And then—

“Magic,” he said, “does not always wound in ways we can see.” His voice was even, unshaken. “Some wounds linger. And some…” He paused. “Some change us.”

Harry’s breath hitched.

Change.

The dreams—dark and heavy, pressing into him, claiming him. The voice, smooth and pleased, curling through his mind like smoke.

Mine.

It should have terrified him. It did. His stomach tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut. No. No, he would not think about that. Not here. Not in front of them.

Shame burned through him, hot and vicious. Because it wasn’t just fear that kept him up at night. It was the way he felt when he woke up. Like something had been taken from him. Like something had been left behind. And worst of all—

Like he missed it. A sick sort of hunger. A hollow ache. Harry swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe.

His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse. “You think I’m cursed.”

James flinched at the word. Sirius shifted uneasily.

Dumbledore only inclined his head. “Curses are crude things. What I suspect is far more… delicate.”

Harry forced himself to look at him. “Then what?”

Dumbledore exhaled.

“You were in a place of great magic,” he said. “A place where boundaries were… thin.” His blue eyes flickered, sharp. “Tell me, Harry—when you dream, does it feel like a dream at all?”

Harry’s breath caught. His fingers dug into his palms, nails pressing hard against his skin. He thought of warm breath against his neck. Fingers ghosting over his skin. The way his name was spoken like a promise, a possession.

The way he liked it.

A flush of disgust rolled through him.

No. No, he hated it.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Sirius was watching him now, concern written across his face.

“Harry?”

Harry forced himself to speak. “I—” He swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Dumbledore nodded slightly, as if the answer was expected. “Magic leaves echoes,” he said. “And sometimes, if the conditions are right… echoes answer.”

Something cold crawled up Harry’s spine.

Echoes.

The presence in his dreams. The voice. The way it lingered. The way it touched him— He sucked in a sharp breath, bile rising in his throat.

“Harry,” his mother murmured, but he couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t let her see.

His fingers curled into fists. The letter in his lap crumpled further under his grip. If you have even the slightest doubt, please reconsider. Hermione had known. Not everything. But enough. And Dumbledore—Harry’s eyes snapped back to him.

“You knew what this was, what it meant,” he said. His voice was raw. Accusing.

Dumbledore held his gaze. “I suspected.” The words ignited something sharp and ugly inside him.

Harry shot to his feet. The chair scraped violently against the floor. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Sirius moved toward him, hands up in a silent attempt to calm him, but Harry didn’t want to be calmed.

“You let me sit here—let me think I was going mad—when you knew something was wrong? That someone cursed me with a bloodyritual” His voice cracked, thick with something dangerously close to betrayal.

Dumbledore exhaled. “Would you have believed me?”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Harry’s chest heaved.

Would he?

If Dumbledore had told him months ago that magic had left something behind, that someone must’ve cursed him to feel…. to live..

Would he have believed it?

Would he have admitted—

A sharp pulse of disgust rolled through him.

No.

No, because then he would have had to admit what was really wrong. Not the dreams. Not the voice. But the way some part of him wanted them.

His breathing was unsteady. His hands trembled at his sides. Dumbledore was still watching.

Waiting.

Harry exhaled sharply. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “What do we do?”

Dumbledore nodded slightly, like he had been waiting for that question. “We begin,” he said, “by understanding exactly what it is that lingers.”

Harry clenched his jaw. He wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

Because deep down, some part of him already knew. And that was the worst part.