Hunger Consumed

Harry had avoided Dumbledore’s eyes, knowing full well what would happen if he made eye contact. The headmaster could read him like an open book—his every thought, every feeling laid bare. Harry wasn’t ready for that.

He had left the office swiftly, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridors, and as he passed familiar portraits and scattered students, a strange sense of displacement had filled him. The halls had felt the same, but Harry wasn’t the same. He couldn’t be.

As he reached the Gryffindor common room, the warmth of the fire and the chatter of students felt strangely comforting, like a blanket he could never quite wrap around himself. The noise swelled as he stepped inside, and before he could register his surroundings, he saw them—Ron and Hermione, sitting near the fire, talking animatedly. Harry’s heart clenched.

Hermione looked up first, her eyes wide, and in an instant, she was on her feet, arms around him in a tight embrace. The familiar scent of her perfume and the warmth of her hug soothed him for a fleeting moment, and for a moment, Harry let himself relax, despite everything swirling in his chest.

“I missed you,” she murmured, pulling back with a teary smile. There was a softness in her eyes that made Harry feel both comforted and guilty, knowing he had been lying to her for so long.

Ron followed, clapping him hard on the back. “Glad to have you back, mate!”

Harry managed a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. “It’s good to be back.”

Hermione studied him closely, her brow furrowing slightly. “Are you okay? You look… different.” Her eyes flicked to his face, her worry evident. “Oh, Harry, have you been skipping meals again?”

He quickly glanced away, not wanting her to see how unsettled he was. “I’m fine,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Just… a bit tired.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ron said skeptically, sinking back into his seat. “Tired, that’s all.” He raised an eyebrow, but Harry could feel the weight of his friend’s scrutiny.

Hermione’s concern was quick to shift focus. “What about the nightmares, Harry?” Her voice softened. “Have you found out anything about them? Have you thought about what I wrote you?”

Harry felt a cold lump settle in his stomach. Hermione’s and Dumbledore’s suspicions turned out to be the same. A curse, resulting from a dark and powerful ritual, making a spirit lurch onto him, like a parasite.

Harry wouldn’t tell them the truth, that it was him who had performed the ritual and cursed himself.

“I… I haven’t figured it out,” Harry said, hoping the words would sound more convincing than he felt. “But they’ve stopped, Hermione. Really.” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he pushed through it, not wanting to drag them into the dark truth of his accidental curse.

Hermione didn’t look entirely convinced, but she didn’t press him. “That’s good to hear, Harry,” she said, though her gaze lingered, searching for cracks in his facade.

Ron, seemingly unaware of the tension, jumped in eagerly. “Yeah, good to hear. So, no more sleepwalking or whatever it was, then? No creepy dark spirits haunting your dreams anymore?”

“Right,” Harry said quickly, flashing a smile that was half-forced. “It’s all sorted.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, but instead of questioning him further, she pulled out a small piece of parchment. “Well, on the bright side, you’ve got loads of homework to catch up on. I’ve got your schedule right here,” she said, handing it over with a grin.

Harry took it from her, glancing down at the list of subjects, and felt a sense of dread wash over him. That’s just what I need right now… The weight of his nightmares still loomed large, but at least this was something he could distract himself with. Maybe the schoolwork would offer him a reprieve, a temporary escape from everything else.

“Thanks,” he said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt.

Harry let himself sink further into the sofa, exhaling as he closed his eyes for just a moment. His body ached—not from anything physical, but from the sheer weight of keeping everything inside.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was soft but concerned.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, keeping his eyes shut. It was a lie, of course, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything else.

Ron scoffed. “Yeah, you look it.”

Harry sighed and sat up properly, running a hand through his hair. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t write to you both the past few days. I meant to, but… things got complicated.”

Hermione’s expression softened. “We figured. You had a lot going on.”

“We were worried, mate,” Ron added. “You barely answered Cedric’s letters either.”

Harry tensed. He should’ve expected that—of course Cedric had been keeping them informed. Ron and Hermione weren’t the type to just sit around and wait.

“So, how are things with you two, anyway?” Harry asked quickly, hoping to shift the conversation. “Anything new?”

Ron complained about Quidditch practice, about how Seamus kept stealing his socks, and how the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had a weird habit of tapping his wand against his teeth while thinking. Hermione launched into a discussion about her classes, her prefect duties, and—much to Ron’s chagrin—her fascination with Thomas Marvolo Gaunt.

“Did you hear about this new guy at the Ministry? Thomas Marvolo Gaunt, the one who’s pushing for more muggle integration?” She lowered her voice to a near whisper, “He’s got such an… interesting perspective. So intelligent, and really open-minded about muggle studies. It’s such a breath of fresh air.”

Ron groaned dramatically. “Here we go,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been fawning over him ever since he first appeared in the papers. Is he your new crush, or are you just hoping he’ll agree with everything you’ve been saying about Muggle-born rights?”

Hermione shot him a sharp look, but there was a playful twinkle in her eyes. “Oh, come on, Ron. You can’t deny it’s good that someone in the Ministry is trying to bring a bit of sense into things.”

Ron snorted. “Sure, but it’s not like he’s that perfect. Don’t tell me you’ve been reading his speeches in your spare time, Hermione. We all know how you get with these ‘enlightened’ types.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at the teasing, the familiar back-and-forth between his best friends. It made his chest ache a little, but he shook it off. It was normal. Familiar. But Harry still felt distant from it all, as if he were watching his own life from behind glass.

“Alright, alright, enough about Gaunt,” Ron said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You’ve been fawning over him for weeks now. Are we ever going to hear about something else?”

Hermione smirked at Ron, not backing down. “Well, when you stop complaining, I might let you talk about something else.”

Then, inevitably, Ron brought the conversation back to him. “So, how are things with Cedric?” he asked, not even trying to be subtle. “He told us he saw you the other night.”

Hermione sighed. “Honestly, Ron—”

“What?” Ron said defensively. “I’m just asking.”

Hermione huffed but looked at Harry expectantly. She wanted to know, too.

Harry hesitated, forcing a small shrug. “We’re… good.”

Ron smirked. “Yeah? Good how?”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed, elbowing him.

Harry managed a small laugh, shaking his head. “I mean it. I like him.” And he did. Cedric was kind, steady, warm. Being with him made sense, it always did.

And yet…

A cold shiver ran down Harry’s spine at the memory of the voice in his dreams, the way it—Voldemort, Voldemort whispered his name, the way it made him feel wanted. He pushed the thought away quickly, but guilt settled heavy in his stomach. How could he be with Cedric, really be with him, when part of him—some dark, secret part—felt good in his dreams?

But he couldn’t tell them that.

So instead, he smiled, pretending nothing was wrong. “Yeah. Things are good.”

Hermione looked relieved. Ron still looked skeptical. But neither of them pressed him further, and for that, Harry was grateful.

At that moment, Dean and Neville appeared, greeting him warmly as they approached. There were more hugs, more chatter, and soon Harry felt like he was drowning in the comfort of it all. Everyone was so normal. Everything was so familiar.

After the warm reunion with his friends, the day passed by in a blur of classes, chatter, and the occasional brush of unfamiliar faces in the hallways. It was a strange sort of normality—comfortable in its routine, yet laced with an undercurrent of unease that Harry couldn’t shake. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Hermione or Ron what he’d learned—or rather, what he hadn’t.

It was during one of the rare free periods that Harry saw Cedric again, though they hadn’t had much time to talk lately. The Hufflepuff was deep into his final year and had a mountain of work to juggle. Still, seeing Cedric’s face, warm and familiar, made Harry feel like things might just be okay, even for a moment.

They met outside the library, near the tall windows that let in the afternoon light, casting everything in a soft, golden hue. Cedric was hunched over his books, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he looked up, Harry caught the faintest flicker of something in his eyes—a shadow of worry that quickly vanished.

“Hey, stranger,” Cedric greeted, his smile warm but tired. “How’s it going?”

“Good. Just… a bit of a mess with all the homework,” Harry said, running a hand through his hair. He could tell Cedric hadn’t had much sleep lately either. The way his eyes drooped, the lines of stress around his mouth—they were familiar to Harry.

They sat together for a few minutes, chatting lightly, but as the conversation drifted, Harry noticed Cedric was more distracted than usual. He kept glancing down at his watch, his fingers fidgeting with his quill.

The distant murmur of students filling the gaps in their silence. It was rare—these moments of stillness in a place where life constantly moved forward. Harry found himself watching Cedric, studying the way the afternoon light traced the sharp angles of his face, making the shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced.

“You alright?” Harry asked before he could think better of it.

Cedric blinked, then smiled—small, careful. “I should be the one asking that.”

Harry knew that look. He’d worn it himself too many times to count.

“Cedric, seriously, you’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

There was a pause, something unreadable passing through Cedric’s expression. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“Of course.”

But Harry wasn’t sure he believed him. He folded his arms, fingers pressing into the fabric of his sleeves as he shifted his weight. He hadn’t meant for it to come out like this, hadn’t wanted to be angry—but the frustration had been simmering under his skin since he found out.

“You told Ron and Hermione, then,” he said, voice low but sharp.

Cedric’s brows furrowed. “Harry—”

“You told them about what happened that night you slept over.”

Cedric exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I—yeah. I did.”

Harry scoffed, shaking his head. “And you didn’t think to ask me first?”

“I was worried about you,” Cedric said, tone steady but laced with something tight—something unsure. “I was the only person you saw—other than James and Lily— after months of being isolated from everyone and everything you love. Those months you’ve been barely sleeping, barely talking about anything real, and then you had a nightmare so bad you wouldn’t even look at me the next morning.” His voice softened, but there was an edge of helplessness beneath it. “What was I supposed to do, Harry? Pretend it wasn’t happening?”

Harry clenched his jaw, looking away. “I didn’t need you to fix it.”

“No,” Cedric said. “But you don’t let anyone help you, either.”

The words hit harder than Harry wanted them to. His stomach twisted, but the anger—the betrayal—was still there. “So you just decided to go behind my back?”

“I told them because they care about you,” Cedric said, watching him closely. “Because I care about you.”

Harry felt his chest tighten, a familiar war between wanting to push Cedric away and wanting to pull him closer. Their relationship had always been tangled—somewhere between friendship and something more, something unspoken. Cedric had been there for as long as Harry could remember, steady and golden, always looking out for him in ways that felt too much and never enough all at once.

Cedric sighed, softer this time. “I don’t know how to help you, Harry. And it scares me.”

The vulnerability in his voice made Harry’s anger waver. He forced himself to meet Cedric’s gaze, and what he saw there—worry, frustration, something deeper and more complicated—made it impossible to hold onto his resentment.

A long silence stretched between them before Harry finally spoke. “It doesn’t matter now, I guess.”

Cedric searched his face, then nodded. “Okay.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it was something.

The silence between them stretched, thin and uneasy. Harry was still gripping his arms too tightly, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. He could tell Cedric wanted to say something else—he had that look, the one he got when he was holding something back.

Harry exhaled sharply. “What?”

Cedric hesitated. That alone made Harry’s stomach twist. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to like it.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” Cedric said finally. His voice was careful, measured, but it did nothing to soften the blow.

Harry blinked. “Oh.”

It was such a stupid response, but his brain felt like it had short-circuited. He should’ve expected it, shouldn’t he? Cedric was handsome, kind, smart—of course someone would want him. And of course Cedric, who was always so steady, so sure, would move forward, figure things out for himself in ways Harry never quite could.

But something about hearing it—about knowing it—sent a sharp, sinking feeling through him.

Cedric shifted, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I—I wanted to tell you sooner. I just… I don’t know.”

He felt guilty. Harry could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he wasn’t quite meeting his eyes. That only made it worse.

Harry forced a nod, his heart hammering. “Right. Yeah. That’s—” He stopped, swallowing down whatever mess of feelings was threatening to spill out.

He was disappointed. Angry, even. But he had no right to be, did he? They weren’t—whatever they were, whatever they had been, had never been defined. Cedric had never owed him anything. And yet, the betrayal sat bitter in the back of his throat.

“Who?” he asked, hating himself for it.

Cedric hesitated again. “It’s not serious,” he said, like that was supposed to help.

Harry let out a hollow laugh. “That wasn’t an answer.”

Cedric sighed. “Cho.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He clenched his jaw, nodding slowly, staring at the floor. Of course. It made sense. They were both popular, both Quidditch stars, both— so normal, ridden of spirit weighted dreams, of instability.

He felt sick.

“That’s great,” he said, and it sounded so wrong, so forced, but he didn’t know what else to say.

Cedric frowned. “Harry—”

“I should go,” Harry cut in, stepping back. He needed to move, to get away from this conversation before his emotions betrayed him. “I’ll see you later.”

He turned before Cedric could say anything else, before he could see whatever pity or regret or guilt was in his expression.

And as he walked away, he felt it settle deep in his chest—that awful, aching feeling of losing something that was never really his to begin with.

Later that afternoon, Harry found himself in the library, buried under a pile of books. The reality of his situation hit him harder than he expected. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d fallen behind on his studies, and with the constant worry eating at him, it was hard to concentrate on anything for too long. His mind kept drifting back to the nightmares, to the feeling of something pressing into his soul, whispering his name.

He glanced over at Ron and Hermione, who were deep in conversation, their heads bent close together as they worked on an essay for Professor McGonagall. Harry wasn’t ready to talk about it again, not yet.

“I’ll catch up,” he muttered to himself, pushing his textbook aside. “Just need a bit of time. I’ll catch up.”

The library began to empty as the late afternoon turned to evening. The soft hum of the students’ voices dwindled, leaving Harry to his thoughts in the vast, silent space. As the minutes ticked by, he felt his resolve building, but it wasn’t toward his homework. It was toward something darker, something he hadn’t fully faced.

He’d been trying to ignore it, burying his fear beneath his schoolwork and his friendships. But the nightmares were still there, lingering beneath the surface, and so was the whispering, the feeling that something—or someone—was waiting.

Suddenly, the librarian, Madam Pince, began her rounds, slowly pushing her cart of books past Harry’s table. He glanced at the clock—just moments before she would close for the night. His heart hammered in his chest.

”You guys go ahead. I’ll clean up and be right behind you in a minute.” He told them. Hermione’s had looked unsure, whilst Ron had shrugged his shoulders. Either way, they listened and made their way out of the library without complaining.

There was one place he hadn’t dared go yet. The restricted section.

Harry glanced at the backs of his friends, then at the door to the library, and made up his mind. He slipped his invisibility cloak from his bag and draped it over himself, the fabric cool against his skin. He moved silently, his steps barely a whisper against the stone floor.

He knew he couldn’t ignore it any longer. The name Voldemort had appeared in his dreams, a shadow of a memory that he couldn’t fully grasp. And there was one place where he might find the answers he was looking for. The restricted section of the library held dark, forbidden books—books that contained things even the bravest students wouldn’t dare to read. But Harry wasn’t looking for bravery; he was looking for answers.

He crept through the aisles, avoiding the watchful gaze of Madam Pince, and slipped into the dimly lit back corner of the library, where the restricted books were kept behind a heavy wooden door. His heart pounded as he reached for the handle.

It turned without a sound.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of old paper. The shelves were stacked with forbidden tomes, their titles faded and worn. Harry looked at the ginormous shelves filled with books. This could take weeks to complete.

Trusting his gut, he pulled a heavy tome that caught his attention the most from the shelf, the dust falling away with the force of his grip. The book was old—its leather cover cracked and worn with time. The title on the spine was barely legible: The Forbidden Arts: Rituals, Curses, and Summonings of the Darkest Power. The title itself sent a shiver down his spine.

He opened the book carefully, the yellowed pages creaking under his fingers as they fluttered open. The first few pages detailed various types of dark magic—powerful curses, forbidden hexes, and spells that had been outlawed by the Ministry centuries ago. Harry skimmed through them quickly, his mind racing, searching for anything that might explain what he had done, what he had unknowingly invoked that night in the forest.

It didn’t take long before his eyes fell on a section about spirit summons and rituals performed during a period tied to both dark magic and ancient rites of power. Harry’s breath caught as he read the heading:

‘Rituals of Beltane: Summoning the Forgotten Ones.’

His fingers hovered over the words, heart thumping in his chest. He had seen that word before. Beltane. It was the night he had performed the ritual, the night he had unknowingly completed the steps to summon something beyond his understanding. The book spoke of powerful magic, rituals steeped in darkness, tied to fire, sacrifice, and blood. He scanned the text with mounting dread.

‘Beltane, the night of flame and renewal, offers an opening in the veil between the living and the dead. Practitioners of dark magic have long used this night to summon spirits and forces from beyond the grave, forging bonds with those who linger in the shadows. The most dangerous of these rituals is the one known as The Binding of the Forsaken—a summoning that calls forth entities who thirst for power, control, and the souls of the living. These entities, often bound by the forces of the ancient dark, feed on the essence of those they touch, binding themselves to their souls. Such a ritual performed in secrecy allows these spirits to merge with the one who summons them, creating a bond that is impossible to break.’

 

Harry’s hands trembled as he read, each word sinking deeper into his bones. He hadn’t understood what he had done that night. He had been desperate for attention, for someone to listen, to see him for what he truly was—something different, something vulnerable. But he never thought he would summon something like this. The words were clear now: The Binding of the Forsaken. That was what had happened.

He read on, the pages blurred with fear as his mind spun.

‘Once the spirit is summoned, it latches onto the soul of the caster, feeding off their lust. The spirit can manipulate the caster’s mind, whispering promises of power, comfort, and pleasure. However, these spirits never give freely—they demand in return, taking from their vessel everything they desire. The bond becomes one of complete dependence. The more the caster resists, the stronger the spirit grows. It is said that the spirit may eventually claim the soul of its summoner, consuming them entirely.’

Harry’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. The bond, the possession—it was all starting to make sense. 

He flipped the page, desperate to understand more, to find something, anything, that could explain what he was dealing with. The next section contained references to specific spirits, their names, and their histories. He scanned them quickly, until a name stopped him dead in his tracks.

Voldemort.

The name was written in dark ink, almost as if it had been etched into the page by an invisible hand. Harry swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. It couldn’t be—could it?

He kept reading.

‘Voldemort—born from the darkest of sorceries—was once known by another name, but over time, he became known as the Dark Lord. His spirit, twisted and consumed by hatred, was never truly bound to the mortal realm. After his death, it is said that his essence lingers, bound to the souls of those who unknowingly call him, those who invoke his presence through forbidden rites. The name Voldemort has power, for it is tied to both the living and the dead. It is said that those who summon him in their weakness may feel an overwhelming sense of temptation, of pleasure, as the spirit of Voldemort seeks to break them down, to claim their souls as his own.’

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat thundering in his ears. His nightmares—the whispers, the presence, the feeling of being suffocated—had all been tied to this. And it was clear now. Harry had called him that night. He had unknowingly summoned MOY just any spirit, but Voldemort. He had invited him into his life, his very soul.

His hands gripped the book tightly, his knuckles white with tension as the words blurred before his eyes. There was more—there was always more. But Harry didn’t want to read any further. He didn’t want to know what else Voldemort might do to him.

His mind was spinning. The nightmares, the sensations, the haunting whispers—it was all connected. He truly was cursed, damned Dumbledore was right, but it was his own fault. He had brought this darkness upon himself. Voldemort’s name was written in his destiny now. And there was no way to undo it.

The room felt colder, the shadows creeping in closer as he sat there, alone in the dim light of the library’s restricted section. His breath was shallow, and his chest ached with the weight of what he had learned.

He had to do something. He had to find a way to break the connection, to rid himself of this curse. But the question lingered in the air like a whisper: How?

Before he could open the book once more to search for the answer to his very own question, he felt a sudden presence near him. Outside, the wind singed, the wooden floor creaked. Could it be the librarian?

But no, he had been careful. He wore his invisibility cloak and made sure not to bring attention to himself.

Suddenly, everything went darker and Harry had no time to react, for he had lost consciousness.