Hunger Consumed

Darkness curled at the edges of Harry’s vision, thick and slow, like ink spilling into water. He had been here before.

The air was damp, heavy with the scent of earth and something faintly sweet. Lilacs. A ghost of a fragrance, lingering though the flowers were out of season. It was always the same—the dream guiding him back, forcing him to relive that night.

Beltane.

A night when the veil between worlds was thin, when magic was at its most potent, when spirits could cross.

At thirteen, he hadn’t known.

At thirteen, he had only known loneliness.

The memory unfolded around him, pulling him under its tide. He was back in his younger body—smaller, softer, his skin unmarked, clean. His heart ached differently then. He had friends. He shouldn’t have felt alone.

But he did.

So Harry had left. Had walked into the Forbidden Forest because he hadn’t wanted to go back to the castle, hadn’t wanted to sit in the common room pretending he wasn’t burning from the inside out.

He had wanted—needed—someone.

His dream-self moved forward, guided by instinct, by fate. He stepped into the clearing, where the moonlight pooled in liquid silver, illuminating the soft grass, the tangled branches above. The air was thick, humming with something unseen. Magic.

He had performed the ritual without knowing. It had been so simple. So thoughtless.

He had stepped into the center of the clearing, completing the circle.

He had torn a twig from a tree in frustration, his fingers breaking the bark and bleeding from the harsh, broken piece—an offering.

He had traced shapes into the dirt, idle, distracted—runes, ancient and unspoken.

He had exhaled his pain into the night, whispering, “I don’t want to be alone”

And that had been enough.

The wind had stilled.

And something had answered.

A shift, a pulse through the air, like the forest itself was exhaling. The shadows at the edge of the clearing thickened, deepened, moving in ways they shouldn’t.

Harry’s younger self froze. He had felt it then—the presence. Warm, watching, waiting.

Not human.

Not entirely other, either.

A voice, soft as silk, curled around his ear, the words threading through him like smoke.

“You don’t have to be.”

The breath left Harry’s body in a shudder. In the dream, he turned slowly, but there was nothing there. Only the sensation of being seen.

He had thought, for a moment, that it was the forest itself speaking. That it was some forgotten magic, something ancient answering his call.

Then—a touch.

Not physical. Not yet. But it curled around his skin, brushed over the curve of his throat, the dip of his spine. A presence, pressing close without form, without a body, and yet there.

“You called to me.”

Harry swallowed. His past self had shivered then, but he had not run. He had stayed, because something inside him wanted this—wanted to be wanted.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” the voice murmured, amused, indulgent, “little one.”

A warmth spread through him, not external, but deep inside, curling low in his stomach. Harry’s dream-self gasped, his lips parting, his body reacting to something not there. The presence slid over him like silk, like breath, tracing his skin, his pulse, his thoughts.

Harry shook his head. “I—I didn’t—”

“Oh, but you did.”

The shadows thickened, curling, shifting, pressing in. Not just around him, but through him. A hand—not a hand—ghosted over his chest, down his stomach, hovering just above his navel. His younger self arched, breath hitching, the sensation neither painful nor gentle, but possessive.

“You gave me your name, Harry.”

His heart pounded. Had he? He didn’t remember. Had he whispered it in the dark, unaware that names had power?

“And I have given you mine.”

A whisper, curling through his bones, settling inside him like an unshakable truth.

“Voldemort.”

The name echoed in his skull, carving itself into the marrow of his being.

Harry’s younger self trembled, his body humming, overwhelmed. Heat coursed through him, the presence tightening around his ribs, his thighs, his throat. A pressure—not quite suffocating, but enough to make his breath come faster, enough to make his vision blur.

“I could take you apart,” the voice mused, almost lazily. “Make you beg.”

A low moan slipped from his lips, unwilling, helpless.

“But not yet.”

The pressure relented, just slightly, teasing, promising.

“For the night is young.”

A phantom kiss brushed the curve of his jaw—no lips, only the sensation of heat, of intent. Then the warmth pulled away, retreating, but not leaving. Never leaving.

Hunger. Needy.

And Harry—his past self—was left gasping in the empty clearing, trembling, a mark invisible but felt-burned into his very soul.

The dream shattered.

Harry woke with a sharp inhale, his chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. The weight of the dream—of the memory—still clung to him.

His hands trembled as he pressed them to his face.

Voldemort.

The name wasn’t just a title. It wasn’t just a legacy.

It was a binding. A claim.

And all this time—through every nightmare, through every whisper in the dark—he had thought it was fear that haunted him.

But it wasn’t.

It was desire.

The days that followed were too normal.

Harry went through the motions of life in Godric’s Hollow, the dream pressing at the edges of his mind, unshakable. It stayed with him like an afterimage, a shadow clinging just behind his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t talk about it. What would he even say? That Voldemort—the spirit, the thing—had touched him in a way no one ever had? That even now, waking, he could still feel it, something like a mark beneath his skin?

No.

So instead, he focused on what was in front of him.

Hogwarts.

He should have been more excited. The start of the term had always brought with it a sense of homecoming, a return to something solid, structured. But now, packing his trunk at the last possible moment, it all just felt… hollow.

The room was a mess—clothes half-folded, books stacked haphazardly, a pile of parchment slipping from his desk to the floor. His broomstick leaned against the bedpost, waiting to be stuffed into his trunk last-minute.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair.

He stared blankly at the cluttered desk, heart drumming in his chest. It felt like there was something inhim, something lodged in his ribs, some dark, gnawing feeling from the dream that wouldn’t let him go. He couldn’t shake the memory of the presence—the cold breath, the whispered promises of pleasure, the possessiveness. That thing that had touched him. His breath hitched as his mind flickered back to the spirit’s voice—Make you beg.

Then, just as he was about to drown in the weight of the thought, a soft flutter broke the tension.

A familiar hoot echoed through the open window, and Hedwig appeared, landing lightly on the windowsill.

Harry exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and walked over to her, opening the window wider to let her in. “Hey, girl,” he whispered softly, reaching out to stroke her feathers.

She hooted again, her large eyes searching his face, tilting her head slightly as if studying him. There was something about the way she looked at him—too knowing—that made him pause. Her presence was always a comfort, but now, it felt like she could sense the heaviness in his heart, the shadow lingering around him.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” Harry said to her, though he didn’t quite believe it himself.

Hedwig’s hoot was soft, almost skeptical, as she nipped lightly at his finger. Harry’s chest tightened. He could almost feel her concern, a quiet, perceptive empathy. How was she able to know?

But before he could think about it further, the quiet was broken by a voice from the doorway.

“Harry?”

His father stood there, framed by the door. James looked older these days, more weary, but his smile still had the same warmth that had once made Harry feel invincible.

“What’s up?” James asked, stepping inside and glancing at the mess in the room.

Harry hesitated, still standing by the window, fingers lightly brushing Hedwig’s feathers. He didn’t quite know how to say what had been building in him all morning. The weight of the nightmare, the sense of being haunted by something that wasn’t just a dream—it felt too much.

“I need to talk to you,” Harry said finally, the words coming out sharper than he’d intended.

James nodded, crossing the room to sit on the bed next to Harry. “What’s going on?”

Harry was quiet for a long moment, staring at the floor. The idea of telling his father about the dream, about the spirit, about Voldemort—it felt impossible. But it wasn’t the spirit he was angry about; it was the lie James had told him.

“You lied,” Harry said, eyes flashing up to meet his father’s. The words were bitter, laced with frustration. “You told me our family had dreams like this. That it was normal, that it was just a thing that happens to us. But it’s not. It’s a curse.”

James sighed, leaning back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s… more complicated than that.”

“Try me.”

James hesitated. Then—

“Seers run in our family.”

Harry blinked. “…What?”

“Potters have always had a connection to the Veil. We’ve had seers, people who could see beyond what others could. And it makes us… vulnerable.”

Harry’s pulse quickened. “Vulnerable how?”

James exhaled slowly. “You feel things more deeply than most. You always have. Empathy, insight—those are gifts, but they also leave you open to… things.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

He thought of the spirit’s whisper. I see you, Harry.

James met his gaze, something raw in his eyes. “We don’t know why you were cursed. But maybe—maybe—it’s because of what you are. Because of the way you see the world. And maybe… that’s why it found you.”

The words sat heavy between them.

Harry swallowed.

He wanted to tell him the truth.

Wanted to tell him that he had done this, that he had called it, that he had made himself vulnerable.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he only nodded. “Maybe.” 

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Lily was waiting in the living room, her smile as warm as ever, though Harry could tell it didn’t reach her eyes today. She was seated in one of the armchairs, her hand lightly resting on a cup of tea, her eyes following them both as they entered.

“Everything settled?” she asked softly, looking between them.

Harry didn’t answer right away. He was still too shaken by his father’s words, his own mind circling with the truth about his family’s history—the seers, the vulnerability to spirits. But then he met her gaze, and somehow, that calm, loving look in her eyes made him feel… worse. She had no idea about the things he was struggling with, the burden that seemed to grow heavier with each passing day.

“Yeah, Mum,” Harry said, trying to sound normal. “Just, you know… last-minute packing.”

Lily’s lips quirked. “I had hoped you wouldn’t inherit your father’s ability to dramatically procrastinate.” She gave him a knowing look. “Though, I did see your trunk was almost packed, so I guess you didn’t take that from him.”

Harry snorted, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at him. “Not sure if I’ve got the dramatic part, but the procrastination? Definitely. It’s a gift, really.”

“Hmm,” she said, giving him a mock-serious look. “You Potter boys certainly know how to leave everything till the last minute.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve started planning for the next twenty years too.”

“Planning?” she asked, her voice light. “I’m just wondering if you’ll get to the castle on time without a disaster.” She winked at him before standing up. “Alright, come here, you.” She opened her arms for an affectionate hug.

Harry stiffened for a moment, still not quite used to the way they’d all been acting around him lately—like they knew there was something wrong but didn’t know how to fix it. How could they? He barely understood it himself.

“I’ll miss you, Harry,” she whispered, squeezing him tight. “Just take care of yourself, alright? If you don’t feel ready yet, you could always come back home.”

Harry pulled away, forcing a smile. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Lily hesitated, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she nodded, her tone almost mischievous, “And Harry… don’t forget to say hi to Severus for me. And try not to cause him too much trouble in class this year, alright?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll try, Mum. But I can’t make any promises.”

Lily chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Just… try, alright? The poor man’s patience only goes so far.”

Harry laughed quietly, feeling a bit of the weight lifting off his shoulders. “I’ll do my best,” he promised, even though he knew full well what he was like when it came to Snape.

James, who had been quietly watching the exchange from where he stood near the fireplace, cleared his throat and gave Harry a pointed look. “Well, I guess that’s it, then. All set?”

Harry nodded and turned to his father. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

James smiled, though his eyes were a little less certain. “Take care, son. And don’t forget to write. Not that I’m sure how much of your life you’ll have time to write about while getting into trouble at Hogwarts.”

Harry couldn’t help but grin. “Oh, I’ll find time. Don’t worry about me.”

He turned toward the fireplace, and James flicked his wand to start the fire. “Right. Off you go, then. Unless you have forgotten something?”

“Nope, pretty sure I’ve got everything,” Harry shot back with a mischievous grin, stepping into the flames.

James rolled his eyes.

With a deep breath, Harry stepped into the fireplace and shouted clearly, “Dumbledore’s office!”

The fire flared around him, and the familiar sensation of spinning through the Floo Network filled his body. He shut his eyes against the whirl of colors, hoping to land somewhere solid.

When his feet finally hit the ground, he opened his eyes to find himself in the familiar stone room of Dumbledore’s office. The old wizard was seated behind his desk, looking as calm as ever, his glasses perched low on his nose as he looked up from a piece of parchment.

“Ah, Harry,” Dumbledore greeted with a warm smile. “I’m glad you could join me.” His tone was casual, but Harry could hear the subtle note of concern that was always present when Dumbledore addressed him since the last time they spoke, three days ago.

Harry just nodded, stepping away from the Floo and brushing soot from his robes. “Hi, Professor.”