Secrets Unveiled
Harry stumbled into the garden of the Burrow; his arrival marked by the violent shattering of the protective barrier. He didn't notice the broken shards of magic that dissipated into the night like falling stars; his attention was consumed by the image etched into his mind.
Aiden Lestrange.
The very name sent a shiver down Harry's spine, and in that moment, he couldn't differentiate between the man who lay stunned in the Forbidden Forest and the most feared Dark wizard in history. The resemblance was uncanny, a stark reminder of the horrors he had faced.
Aurors, summoned by the disturbance, rushed to the scene. Their wands were drawn, their faces etched with concern, but as their spells fizzled out into nothingness upon Harry's arrival, their fear grew tangible. They had seen Harry's power, his ability to stand against the darkest forces, but now they sensed a different kind of power – one that felt volatile and unpredictable.
"What happened here?" one of the Aurors demanded, his voice tinged with both authority and dread.
Harry remained oblivious to their questions, his emerald eyes still locked on the shattered magical barrier. He felt a chilling breeze sweep through the garden, carrying with it a sense of foreboding. It whispered the name "Voldemort" like an ominous refrain.
The commotion, as expected, had roused the Weasley family and Hermione from their slumber. They hurried outside in their nightclothes, their faces a mix of worry and confusion.
Molly Weasley was the first to reach Harry. Her maternal instincts kicked in as she wrapped her arms around him, her voice trembling with concern.
"Harry, dear, what's happened? You're not hurt, are you?"
But Harry's attention remained fixed on the remnants of the barrier. His scar, once a constant reminder of Voldemort's presence, now throbbed with a new kind of agony. It wasn't the physical pain that overwhelmed him, but the sudden realization that the past and the present were entwined in a way he could never have imagined.
Ron and Hermione exchanged concerned glances, but it was Ginny who stepped forward. She took Harry's hand, her voice filled with reassurance.
"Harry, you're scaring us. What's going on?”
“Did something happen with Aiden?" questioned Hermione.
Finally, the Aurors found their voices again, pressing Harry for answers.
"Mr. Potter, please, we need to understand what transpired here. Who is Aiden?"
Still, Harry remained unresponsive. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, each more tumultuous than the last. He couldn't find the words to explain the surreal encounter he had just experienced, the shock of seeing Aiden's face morph into Tom Riddle’s in his mind's eye.
The minutes stretched on, heavy and laden with uncertainty. Harry's refusal to speak only fueled the growing unease among the assembled group.
It was Hermione who finally broke the silence, her voice gentle yet firm.
"Harry, we can't help you if you don't tell us what happened. Whatever it is, you don't have to face it alone."
But Harry didn't respond to her either. He felt detached from reality, as if the world around him had blurred into insignificance. He knew he had to come to terms with what he had witnessed, but the enormity of it all weighed him down.
Molly exchanged a worried glance with Arthur, her anxiety palpable.
"Perhaps we should let him rest for now," she suggested, her motherly concern winning over her curiosity.
The Aurors, though clearly bewildered by the situation, reluctantly agreed to withdraw. They could sense that something extraordinary had occurred, something that involved powers far beyond their comprehension.
As the others reluctantly retreated into the Burrow, Harry remained outside, his gaze still fixed on the broken barrier. He felt a chilling breeze whispering dark secrets in his ear, and for the first time in a long while, he couldn't shake the feeling that Voldemort's presence lingered, not just in the world, but within the very fibers of his being.
Inside the Burrow, the others gathered in the living room, their worry etched across their faces. They knew that whatever Harry had experienced, it was far from ordinary, and it had shaken him to his core.
Ron turned to Hermione, his voice low. "What do you think happened out there?"
Hermione's brow furrowed as she considered the possibilities.
"I'm not sure, Ron, but I have a feeling it's connected to Aiden and his connection to the Dark Arts. We need to talk to Harry; he can't keep this to himself."
“We'll give him some time, but we can't let this go unaddressed. It could be a matter of life and death."
The group fell into a heavy silence, the gravity of the situation weighing on them. They had faced unimaginable challenges together, but this new revelation, whatever it entailed, had added a layer of uncertainty and danger that left them all uneasy.
The Burrow stood silent in the deep of the night, its cozy, crooked charm under a starlit sky. Harry, his steps heavy with the burden of revelations, returned to the place that felt like home. Ignoring the worried murmurs and concerned glances that followed him, he made his way to his room.
The throbbing pain in his scar seemed to pulse in time with the weight of his thoughts. He lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, hoping that sleep would offer respite from the unsettling reality he had just uncovered. His eyes drifted closed, and he was pulled into the depths of a haunting nightmare.
In the dream, he found himself standing once more in the echoing chamber of the Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix Lestrange, the deranged Death Eater who had taken Sirius from him, stood before him. Her cruel laughter echoed in his ears, and her manic eyes bore into his. But then something changed. Bellatrix's face began to shift and warp, her features contorting into a grotesque mask.
The transformation was chilling, and Harry's heart pounded as he watched Bellatrix's likeness dissolve into Aiden's face. The sight was horrifying, and Aiden's voice, dripping with malice, echoed Bellatrix's taunts.
"Harry, my dear," Aiden sneered in the dream, "you should have known better than to cross paths with the Lestranges."
The nightmarish scene shifted abruptly, and Harry found himself transported to the graveyard where Voldemort had risen to power once more. The cold, lifeless ground was littered with graves, but instead of Cedric Diggory's body, the bodies of his closest friends lay motionless, bathed in an eerie moonlight.
Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and others—each lay inanimate, their eyes closed in a cruel parody of sleep. The graveyard was no longer a place of the dead but a realm of nightmarish possibilities. Aiden stood at the center; his hands outstretched as if conducting a malevolent symphony.
"Harry, dear Harry," Aiden intoned with madness in his eyes, "welcome to the final act."
The dream shifted once more, plunging Harry into a bewildering and intimate moment. He found himself kissing Draco Malfoy, a sensation both disorienting and inexplicable. It was a union of vulnerability and connection, one that felt wrong and yet undeniably real.
Before he could make sense of the surreal tableau, the dream darkened further. A blinding flash of green light filled his vision, and Harry watched helplessly as Draco's lifeless form crumpled to the ground. Standing over the fallen body was Aiden, his face contorted into a crazed likeness of his mother, Bellatrix. Laughter, filled with a twisted euphoria, echoed in the chamber.
Harry awoke with a start, his heart racing, his sheets drenched in cold sweat. Disoriented and overwhelmed, he gasped for breath, struggling to distinguish between the dream and reality.
Beside him, Ron and Hermione were already there, their hands gripping his tightly. Hermione's voice was gentle but urgent.
"Harry, it was just a dream. You're safe now."
As Ron and Hermione exchanged concerned glances, Harry's bedroom door creaked open, revealing the imposing figures of Lupin and Mad-Eye Moody standing in the dimly lit corridor. Their presence injected a sense of urgency into the room, and Harry could feel his heart rate quicken as he wondered what could be so important that it had dragged them away from their duties as Order members.
Lupin's tired eyes, etched with worry, immediately sought out Harry's gaze.
"Harry, we need you to get dressed. We have something important to discuss."
Without waiting for a response, Harry nodded, his mind racing with questions. He swung his legs out of the bed, his feet landing on the cold wooden floor. Ron and Hermione watched him with a mixture of concern and curiosity, but Harry couldn't provide them with any answers yet.
Moody's magical eye, spinning and whirring, remained fixed on the room's entrance, vigilant for any signs of danger. His wooden leg thudded ominously against the floor, creating an eerie rhythm that underscored the gravity of the situation.
Harry quickly dressed and followed Lupin and Moody out of his room, leaving Ron and Hermione behind, their questions still hanging in the air.
In the cozy sitting room downstairs, bathed in the warm, flickering light of oil lamps, Harry joined Lupin and Moody, who were already seated and waiting.
Moody's gruff voice broke the silence.
"Harry, we need to know everything you can tell us about this Aiden Lestrange."
Harry's heart constricted at the mention of Aiden's name, and he hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much he should reveal.
"Aiden is... complicated. He's not what you might expect."
Lupin leaned forward, his expression earnest.
"Tell us what you know, Harry."
Taking a deep breath, Harry decided to share a part of Aiden's past.
"Aiden is the son of Bellatrix Lestrange. His father was abusive, but he was also a Death Eater. Aiden's had a difficult life."
Moody's magical eye fixated on Harry, scrutinizing his every move.
"Harry, we need answers. How did you manage to leave The Burrow, and why?"
Harry hesitated, his mind racing. He knew he couldn't reveal the truth about Aiden's presence or their venture into the Forbidden Forest.
"It's my scar," Harry finally replied, his voice strained. "It's been bothering me, and I thought... I thought I sensed something."
Lupin's eyes bore into Harry's, searching for any hint of deception.
"Harry," Lupin said in a low, even voice, "we need to know the truth. Leaving The Burrow without notice and sensing something with your scar – it's all too reminiscent of what happened during the Triwizard Tournament."
Moody's gruff voice cut in, "We're not your enemies here, boy. But whatever you're keeping from us, it could be a threat. And we don't take threats lightly."
Harry's jaw clenched, torn between his loyalty to Aiden and the growing concern that he was endangering those he cared about by keeping silent. The battle within him was palpable, and he couldn't shake the sense that something significant was at stake.
Before Harry could respond, Mrs. Weasley, ever the caring matriarch, intervened. She entered the room, her presence a welcome respite from the relentless questioning. Her stern yet loving expression spoke volumes, and the room seemed to deflate in her wake.
"That's enough, you two," she scolded Moody and Lupin. "Harry's been through more than any young man should. Give him some space."
Lupin sighed, his gaze never leaving Harry's. "Molly, we can't afford to ignore this. If there's a threat—"
"And we won't find the answers by pushing him. Let's give Harry some time to collect his thoughts," Mrs. Weasley cut him off, her voice unwavering.
Moody grunted in frustration but reluctantly acquiesced, his magical eye whirring one last time before returning to its normal, unsettling stillness. Lupin's gaze lingered for a moment longer, filled with unspoken concern, before he too withdrew.
As the door closed behind them, Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Mrs. Weasley's presence was a soothing balm, and he knew he was fortunate to have someone looking out for him. Yet, the weight of his secrets remained, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was on the precipice of something both extraordinary and perilous.
Mrs. Weasley turned to Harry, her eyes filled with motherly worry.
"You must be hungry, dear. Let's get you something to eat."
Harry nodded, grateful for her support. As they made their way to the kitchen, the mysteries of the Forbidden Forest and the enigmatic Aiden Lestrange continued to haunt his thoughts, and he couldn't help but wonder what the future held for them all.
Surprisingly, no one seemed inclined to question Harry that day, not even Ron and Hermione. It was as though an unspoken agreement to maintain a heavy silence hung in the air.
Amidst one of Fleur's frequent monologues, Mrs. Weasley's voice broke through the chatter like a sharp knife. "Ah, Harry!" she exclaimed, a mixture of relief and worry in her tone. "I wanted to discuss the security arrangements for our journey to Hogwarts tomorrow. The Ministry will provide cars as usual, and Aurors will be stationed at the station."
"Will Tonks be there?" asked Harry.
Mrs. Weasley's expression clouded with concern.
"No, I don't believe so. Arthur mentioned she's been assigned elsewhere."
Fleur, engrossed in her own reflection in a teaspoon, offered an unsolicited opinion.
"Zat Tonks, she 'as certainly let herself go. A grave error, if you ask me—"
Mrs. Weasley, her patience wearing thin, cut Fleur off with a curt, "Thank you. Harry, you should get going. I'd like the trunks packed tonight, if possible, to avoid the usual last-minute rush."
Their preparations for departure went surprisingly smoothly the next morning. The Ministry cars arrived promptly at The Burrow, finding them all ready and waiting. Trunks were neatly packed, Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, rested comfortably in his travel basket, and cages held Hedwig, Ron's owl Pigwidgeon, and Ginny's new purple Pygmy Puff, Arnold.
Fleur gave Harry a throaty, affectionate goodbye kiss, momentarily leaving him flustered. Ron, eager for a heartfelt farewell, stepped forward, his eyes filled with hope. However, Ginny playfully extended her foot, causing Ron to stumble and fall into the dust. He boarded the car, red-faced and furious, without uttering a word.
Upon their arrival at King's Cross Station, the jovial Hagrid, who usually greeted them, was conspicuously absent. Instead, two stern-faced Aurors, clad in dark Muggle attire, stepped forward as the cars came to a halt. Without a word, they flanked the group and directed them into the station.
Mrs. Weasley, taken aback by this unanticipated efficiency, urged them forward with an anxious tone.
"Hurry, hurry, through the barrier," she instructed, clearly out of her comfort zone. "Harry, you should go first, accompanied by—"
She glanced at one of the Aurors, who nodded curtly. The Auror gripped Harry's upper arm, attempting to steer him toward the barrier separating platforms nine and ten.
"I can manage on my own, thank you," Harry replied irritably, retracting his arm from the Auror's grasp. With determination, he pushed his trolley directly into the solid barrier, dismissing his silent companion. In an instant, he found himself on platform nine and three-quarters, where the scarlet Hogwarts Express awaited, billowing steam amid the bustling crowd.
Within moments, Hermione and the Weasleys joined him. Ignoring the presence of the stoic Auror, Harry signaled to Ron and Hermione, urging them to follow him as they embarked on their search for an unoccupied compartment.
Hermione, her expression apologetic, interrupted their progress. "I'm sorry, Harry, but we can't. Ron and I need to visit the prefect carriage first, and we're also assigned corridor patrol duty."
Harry, his memory jogged, responded, "Right, I forgot about that."
Mrs. Weasley, checking her watch, encouraged them to board quickly. "You should get on the train now. There are only a few minutes left. Have a wonderful term, Ron..."
The platform bustled with activity as Harry, a storm of questions and doubts swirling within him, approached Mr. Weasley. The urgency of his suspicion weighed heavily on his shoulders, compelling him to confide in someone he trusted before departing for Hogwarts.
"Mr. Weasley," Harry began, his voice tinged with apprehension, "there's something I need to tell you."
He gestured for Mr. Weasley to follow him; the gravity of the matter etched on his face as they moved away from the others. Harry had pondered this moment carefully, knowing that Mr. Weasley was the right person to approach. Firstly, Mr. Weasley's position at the Ministry made him the ideal candidate to launch a thorough investigation. Secondly, Harry believed that Mr. Weasley wouldn't react with unbridled anger, providing a safe space to share his concerns.
As they distanced themselves from the group, Harry couldn't help but notice the suspicious glances cast their way by Mrs. Weasley and the stern Auror. It only added to the tension building within him.
"When we were in Diagon Alley," Harry began again, but Mr. Weasley halted him with a knowing grimace.
"Am I about to learn where you disappeared to while you were supposed to be at the apothecary with Ron and Hermione?" Mr. Weasley's voice held a mix of resignation and understanding.
Harry hesitated briefly before confirming, "Yes, but I promise there's a good reason." His thoughts drifted momentarily to Aiden Lestrange.
Mr. Weasley's response was a simple nod.
"Very well, then, let's hear it."
Harry braced himself, the intensity of his words growing with every passing moment.
"I followed Draco Malfoy. I used my Invisibility Cloak."
Mr. Weasley's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he inquired, "Did you have a specific reason for doing so, or was it a mere whim?"
Harry's resolve remained unshaken.
"Because I thought Malfoy was up to something. He managed to give his mother the slip, and he seemed to be in a hurry, so I wanted to know why."
Mr. Weasley listened intently, his expression a mixture of patience and understanding.
"Go on. Did you discover anything?"
Harry recounted, the tension in his voice palpable, "I followed Malfoy into Borgin and Burkes. He was pressuring Borgin, the shopkeeper, to assist him in fixing something. He also asked Borgin to store something else for him. It sounded like they were related, like a pair."
Taking a deep breath, Harry revealed the most troubling part of their encounter.
"And there's something else. We saw Malfoy jump out of his skin when Madam Malkin tried to touch his left arm. I believe he's been marked with the Dark Mark. I suspect he has taken his father's place as a Death Eater."
Mr. Weasley's initial surprise transformed into contemplation.
"Harry, it's hard to believe that You-Know-Who would allow a sixteen-year-old—"
Harry's anger flared, unable to conceal his frustration any longer.
"Does anyone really know what You-Know-Who is capable of, Mr. Weasley? I'm sorry, but don't you think it's worth investigating? If Malfoy wants something 'fixed' and is resorting to threatening Borgin to do it, it must be something Dark or dangerous, don't you agree?"
Mr. Weasley hesitated, his response measured.
"I have my doubts, Harry. You see, when we arrested Lucius Malfoy, we thoroughly searched their home and confiscated everything that could be deemed dangerous."
Harry refused to relent, determined to make his point.
"I believe something was missed. If it was a thorough investigation, then you would have known about Aiden Lestrange."
Mr. Weasley, now slightly annoyed, conceded, "Well, maybe."
Their conversation was abruptly cut short by the shrill whistle of the Hogwarts Express. Passengers had nearly filled the train, and the doors were closing.
"Harry, you should hurry," Mr. Weasley urged.
As Mrs. Weasley called out, "Harry, quickly!" they helped him load his trunk onto the train.
"Remember, dear," Mrs. Weasley called through the window, "you're coming to spend Christmas with us. Dumbledore has already arranged it. So, we'll see you soon."
As the train gathered speed, Mrs. Weasley's voice faded away, and Harry stood there, the weight of his concerns still heavy on his shoulders. He eventually turned to find his friends. Ron and Hermione were most likely in the prefect carriage, but Ginny was further down the corridor, engaged in conversation with some friends. Harry made his way toward her, dragging his trunk.
People unabashedly stared at him as he walked by. Some even pressed their faces against the compartment windows, eager to catch a glimpse. Harry had anticipated the heightened curiosity this term, fueled by the "Chosen One" rumors in the Daily Prophet, but he couldn't deny that being in such a bright spotlight made him uncomfortable. The sensation of standing in that very bright spotlight left him uneasy, like a captured prey under the scrutiny of predators.
The train's rhythmic clatter filled the air as Harry made his way down the corridor, his eyes scanning for a familiar flash of red hair. He was eager to join Ginny in a cozy compartment, where they could catch up and relish the journey back to Hogwarts. But as he turned a corner, his path was unexpectedly blocked.
There stood Aiden Lestrange.
Aiden's presence was puzzling, like a specter that had materialized in Harry's path. But it was not the mere presence of Aiden that gave Harry pause; it was the profound sadness etched into his features. The stormy gray of his eyes seemed to hold a hidden plea, one that begged for understanding or perhaps redemption.
It was as if Aiden expected Harry to say something, to bridge the gap between them and offer a lifeline in the sea of uncertainty that surrounded him.
Harry was tempted.
The silence between them hung heavily, charged with unspoken words and emotions. His mouth opened, as if guided by an invisible force, ready to break the silence and delve into the mysteries that surrounded their encounter in the forbidden forest.
But then, the weight of his responsibilities, the fear of endangering his friends, and the mysteries surrounding Aiden's own past pressed down upon him like an invisible cloak. The decision was swift and unyielding. Harry brushed past Aiden without a word, his gaze fixed ahead.
The corridor stretched out before him, a path leading to his friends and the comfort of familiar faces. The pull of Aiden's presence remained in his periphery, a haunting aura that refused to fade.
Harry found an empty compartment and entered, greeted by the warmth of camaraderie and the anticipation of the journey ahead. Luna and Neville were already inside, Luna cradling a magazine to her chest, while Neville struggled with his round-faced toad, Trevor.
"Hi, Harry!" Neville greeted him with a relieved smile, finally reaching their compartment.
Harry returned the greeting. "Neville! Good to see you."
Luna, with her long hair and misty eyes, echoed the sentiment.
"Hello, Harry."
Harry's heart felt lighter in their presence. These were friends who had stood with him through thick and thin, who had shared the burdens of their world. Luna's mention of The Quibbler brought a fond smile to his face, a reminder of their quirky but endearing friend.
"The Quibbler still going strong, then?" Harry inquired, his voice filled with warmth.
Luna's response was as dreamy as ever. "Oh yes, circulation's well up."
They quickly settled into their seats, a respite from the curious gazes that had followed Harry through the train. Neville mentioned the attention they garnered due to their involvement at the Ministry, prompting Harry to recall their recent adventure and the media frenzy that followed.
But it was Luna's mention of the DA, the Dumbledore's Army, that stirred memories of camaraderie and shared purpose. It was a reminder of their bonds forged in the crucible of resistance.
"Are we still doing DA meetings this year, Harry?" Luna inquired, her gaze fixed on a pair of psychedelic spectacles she had just detached from the magazine.
Harry leaned back in his seat, considering her question. "No point now we've got rid of Umbridge, is there?"
Neville, who had been busy showing off his new wand, seemed disappointed by Harry's response.
"I liked the DA! I learned loads with you."
Luna's serene voice added another layer to the conversation. "I enjoyed the meetings, too. It was like having friends."
As the train hurtled through the countryside, the trio fell into a comfortable silence, each lost in their thoughts. Luna's magazine lay open, its pages filled with peculiar articles and fantastical creatures. Neville fussed over Trevor, who seemed determined to explore every nook and cranny of the compartment.
Yet, amidst the camaraderie and the memories of the DA, Harry couldn't help but wonder about Aiden’s mood when he had encountered moments ago. Aiden Lestrange's presence on the train remained a mystery to Luna and Neville, a puzzle they were unaware of.
Luna, her misty eyes focused on the peculiar contents of The Quibbler, broke the comfortable silence.
"You know, I've heard some interesting things about a new student at Hogwarts this year."
Harry, careful not to reveal his own secrets, arched an eyebrow in curiosity. "Oh, really? Do tell, Luna."
Luna's voice was as dreamy as ever as she unfolded the magazine to reveal a headline that read, "Mysteries of the Mysterious: Who is Aiden Lestrange?" She pointed to the bold letters with an air of fascination.
Neville, who had been quietly petting Trevor, looked up with curiosity. "Aiden Lestrange? That name..."
Luna continued, her voice laced with intrigue. "It's said that he's a sixth-year student, and nobody really knows much about him. Some even say he's related to Bellatrix Lestrange."
The mention of Bellatrix sent a shiver down Neville's spine, and his expression darkened. His parents had suffered greatly at the hands of that notorious Death Eater.
Harry, his mind racing with the knowledge he couldn't share, decided to tread carefully.
"Interesting. But you know how rumors can be, Luna. People love a good mystery."
Luna's response was serene, as if she were contemplating a fascinating puzzle.
"Oh, I don't believe everything I read. But there's a certain aura of mystique around him, don't you think?"
Neville nodded, his voice filled with a mixture of curiosity and unease.
"Yeah, I've heard some students whispering about him too. Nobody really knows where he came from or why he's here."
As if on cue, a disturbance outside their compartment door provided the perfect diversion. A group of fourth-year girls had gathered in hushed excitement, their whispers, and giggles conspiratorial as they debated amongst themselves.
"You ask him!"
"No, you!"
"I'll do it!"
Finally, a bold-looking girl with large, dark eyes, a prominent chin, and long black hair stepped forward. Confidence radiated from her as she introduced herself to Harry.
"Hi, Harry, I'm Romilda, Romilda Vane," she declared, her voice surprisingly loud and unwavering. Her eyes sparkled with an air of boldness.
"Why don't you join us in our compartment? You don't have to sit with them."
She gestured discreetly toward Neville's bottom, which was protruding from under the seat as he fumbled around for his pet toad, Trevor, and Luna, who wore her free Spectrespecs, giving her the appearance of a demented, multicolored owl.
Harry felt a pang of offense at Romilda's veiled insult towards his friends. He believed in loyalty above all else, especially when it came to those who had stood by him through thick and thin. He couldn't let her words slide without a response.
"People expect you to have cooler friends than us," Luna chimed in, her voice as dreamy as ever, undisturbed by the situation.
Harry's retort was swift and protective.
"You are cool," he stated shortly, his gaze unwavering. "None of them were at the Ministry. They didn't fight with me. I value our friendship, and you should know that you are amazing."
Romilda, chastened by Harry's words, appeared taken aback by his unwavering loyalty to his friends. She withdrew, sliding the compartment door closed behind her.
Meanwhile, Neville emerged from under the seat, his hair covered in fluff and dust, and a resigned-looking Trevor held in his hand. He picked up on the tension in the compartment and attempted to alleviate it with a light-hearted comment.
"We didn't face him, though," Neville began, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You did. You should hear my gran talk about you. 'That Harry Potter's got more backbone than the whole Ministry of Magic put together!' She'd give anything to have you as a grandson."
Harry chuckled, albeit uncomfortably, as he acknowledged Neville's compliment. He wasn't one to revel in his fame, and he felt the weight of the expectations placed upon him.
Changing the subject as swiftly as he could, Harry veered the conversation onto a random tangent. His mind drifted, partly to escape the pressures that weighed on him and partly to allow his thoughts to wander where they often did – to the mysteries of the past and the profound sacrifices that had shaped his destiny.
Neville, ever the herbology enthusiast, embarked on a tangent about magical plants, the details of which Harry absorbed without truly listening. His thoughts were preoccupied with a different kind of ancient magic – the ancient magic that had spared his life on that fateful night when Voldemort had tried to snuff it out.
He couldn't help but wonder about Neville's destiny. Their childhoods had been marred by the malevolent presence of Voldemort, but what if the prophecy had been different? Voldemort, for his own inscrutable reasons, had chosen to believe that Harry was the Chosen One, the one meant to bring him down.
Maybe, Harry mused, Voldemort had sensed the ancient magic within him, the same ancient magic that Aiden Lestrange seemed to obsess over. Had Voldemort chosen Neville instead, it would be Neville sitting opposite Harry, bearing the lightning-shaped scar and the burden of the prophecy. Or would it? Would Neville's mother have sacrificed herself to save him, just as Lily Potter had done for Harry?
The idea that Neville's mother, Alice Longbottom, would have sacrificed herself to save her son seemed like an undeniable truth. The fierce love of a parent for their child was a powerful force, transcending any magical boundaries. Just as Lily Potter had defied Voldemort to protect Harry, Alice Longbottom would have done the same for Neville. It was a notion that resonated with Harry's belief in the unwavering bond between parent and child.
However, Harry couldn't help but consider the flip side of the coin. Lily's sacrifice had been a pivotal moment in his life, her love acting as an ancient magic that had protected him from Voldemort's killing curse. Her willingness to stand between her son and the Dark Lord had, in the end, saved Harry's life.
But what if Alice Longbottom had not possessed the same ability or the same connection to that ancient magic? What if her sacrifice had not been enough to thwart Voldemort's lethal intentions? Would the outcome have been different?
Lost in thought, he had been dwelling on the hypothetical scenarios involving Neville and himself, wondering about the intricate tapestry of fate and destiny that had led them to this moment.
However, Harry's reverie was abruptly interrupted by Neville, who, with a look of concern on his face, leaned closer to him and asked, "You all right, Harry? You look funny."
Harry started, as if emerging from a trance. He blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden shift in focus.
"Sorry – I –"
Luna, sitting across from them with her oversized Spectrespecs, chimed in with her usual whimsical perspective.
"Wrackspurt got you?" she asked sympathetically, her misty eyes peering at Harry through the colorful lenses.
Harry furrowed his brow in puzzlement. "A Wrackspurt … they're invisible, they float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy," Luna explained, her hands flapping at thin air as though shooing away large, invisible moths. "I thought I felt one zooming around in here."
The absurdity of Luna's description pulled Harry out of his contemplative mood, and he couldn't help but chuckle.
"No, Luna, no Wrackspurts here. Just lost in thought, that's all."
Before either of them could delve further into the whimsical world of Luna's beliefs, the door to their compartment glided open. Ron and Hermione entered, their arrival marking a shift in the atmosphere.
Ron, his stomach audibly protesting, slumped into the seat beside Harry.
"Wish the lunch trolley would hurry up, I'm starving," he groaned.
"Hi, Neville, hi, Luna. Guess what?" Ron added, turning to Harry, his expression a mix of curiosity and excitement.
Despite his previous introspection, Harry couldn't help but be drawn into the conversation. "What is it, Ron?"
Ron leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret. "Malfoy's not doing prefect duty. He's just sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins when we passed by."
Harry's brow furrowed at the revelation. Malfoy not performing his prefect duties was rather peculiar, especially given the fervor with which he had abused his power in the previous year. The situation seemed unlike Malfoy.
As Ron continued to speak, sharing his observations, Harry's thoughts wandered back to Diagon Alley, where he had encountered Malfoy. He remembered the tense exchange between Narcissa and Draco, the confession that Malfoy had a crush on him, and the cryptic warning that Voldemort wanted him dead. In that moment, Harry's mind briefly revisited the dream he had had about Malfoy—kissing him, an act that had been both unsettling and strangely alluring.
"Didn't this look as though Malfoy had more important things on his mind than bullying younger students?" Harry mused aloud, his thoughts momentarily drifting back to that enigmatic encounter.
Hermione chimed in, effectively breaking Harry away from his contemplation.
"Maybe he preferred the Inquisitorial Squad," she suggested, her expression pensive. "Maybe being a prefect seems a bit tame after that."
"I don't think so," Harry replied, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone. "I think he's –"
Before Harry could articulate his suspicion further, the compartment door opened once again. This time, a nervous and breathless third-year girl stood at the threshold, clutching letters in her trembling hands.
"I'm supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom and Harry P-Potter," she stammered, her cheeks flushing crimson as her eyes met Harry's.
With curiosity piqued, Harry and Neville accepted the scrolls of parchment tied with violet ribbon, each addressed to them individually. The girl, seemingly relieved to have completed her task, stumbled back out of the compartment, leaving the four friends to ponder the contents of the letters.
Ron, unable to contain his curiosity, leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "What is it?"
Harry unrolled his letter first, his eyes scanning the elegant script.
"An invitation," he announced, his tone filled with a hint of intrigue.
Neville, equally perplexed, examined his own invitation with furrowed brows. "Who's Professor Slughorn?" he inquired, looking to Harry for an explanation.
Harry considered the question for a moment.
"New teacher," he replied simply. "Well, I suppose we'll have to go, won't we?"
The notion of attending Professor Slughorn's invitation was met with mixed reactions—Neville seemed nervous, as though expecting detention, while Ron appeared curious. Harry, on the other hand, couldn't help but feel a growing sense of curiosity and anticipation, even though he had a hunch about what this invitation might entail.
Harry and Neville made their way to Compartment C as the Hogwarts Express continued its journey. As they reached their destination, they couldn't help but notice that they weren't Professor Slughorn's only invitees. The compartment was already occupied by a mix of students, and from the warmth of Slughorn's welcome, it was evident that Harry was the most highly anticipated guest.
"Harry, m'boy!" exclaimed Slughorn, his rotund form practically overflowing the available space in the compartment. His bald head and silver mustache gleamed in the sunlight, matching the golden buttons on his waistcoat.
"Good to see you, good to see you! And you must be Mr. Longbottom!"
Among them, Harry recognized a Slytherin from their year, a beautiful Black young man with high cheekbones and slanting eyes, exuding an air of elegance. There were also two seventh-year boys whom Harry didn't know. However, what captured his attention the most was the presence of Aiden Lestrange, sitting in the corner as if he were unsure of how he had ended up there.
Slughorn continued with introductions, addressing Harry and Neville. "Now, do you know everyone? Blaise Zabini is in your year, of course—"
There was no acknowledgment or greeting exchanged between Zabini and the Gryffindor students. The tension between Gryffindor and Slytherin students had always been conspicuous. Slughorn then introduced Cormac McLaggen and Marcus Belby.
During these introductions, Harry and Aiden found themselves locked in a silent, intense gaze. Slughorn's obliviousness to their unspoken connection suggested that he had no idea who Aiden truly was, likely infatuated by the famous Lestrange name.
Slughorn, seemingly entranced by the name "Lestrange," continued his introductions without suspecting the true identity of Aiden. His networking skills and propensity for creating connections extended to their fellow attendees.
Zabini, interrogated after McLaggen, reluctantly revealed an intriguing tidbit about his family. His mother, a famously beautiful witch, had been married seven times, with each of her husbands meeting mysterious ends that conveniently left her considerable wealth.
Then came Neville's turn. This part of the gathering took a noticeably uncomfortable turn. Neville's parents, well-known Aurors, had suffered the unimaginable fate of being tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of Death Eater associates.
The mere mention of Bellatrix's name sent a ripple of unease through the compartment. Aiden's reaction was particularly striking—Neville couldn't help but notice the resemblance between Aiden and Bellatrix. The unspoken question hung heavy in Neville's mind: could the rumors suggesting that Bellatrix was Aiden's mother be true? As Neville's interview ended, Harry sensed that Slughorn was reserving judgment, waiting to see if Neville possessed any of his parents' exceptional talents.
Finally, Slughorn's attention turned to Harry, who had been quietly observing the interactions and revelations around him. Slughorn's eyes bore into Harry, assessing him with the intensity of a seasoned showman introducing a star performer.
"And now," Slughorn declared with a flourish, his massive frame shifting in his seat, "Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely scratched the surface when we met over the summer."
Slughorn's contemplative gaze bore into Harry, as though sizing him up like a particularly rare and succulent piece of pheasant. His words were delivered with a theatrical flair, branding Harry with the title that had come to define him: "The 'Chosen One.'"
Harry's response was a measured silence, his mind racing as he felt the collective scrutiny of Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini, their eyes fixed on him with various shades of skepticism.
Slughorn leaned forward, his gaze fixated on Harry, and he began to speak with a measured, almost conspiratorial tone.
"You know, Harry," he said, his voice a hushed reverie, "there have been rumors for years, ever since that fateful night when Lily and James met their tragic end, and yet, you survived. The whispers and speculations that followed painted a portrait of you possessing powers far beyond the ordinary."
Harry's heart raced at Slughorn's words. It was as though the professor had glimpsed something within him, something that set him apart. Could Slughorn somehow know about Harry's ability to wield ancient magic? The very thought sent a surge of adrenaline through him.
Zabini, seated nearby, gave a tiny, disdainful cough that was clearly meant to convey his amused skepticism regarding Harry's supposed powers. The audacity of such a gesture drew a curious glance from Harry.
"Yeah, Zabini, because you’re so talented..." snapped Aiden, his words laden with a protective fervor that left Harry blushing.
All eyes were locked onto Blaise Zabini and Aiden Lestrange. The compartment seemed to hum with anticipation as the atmosphere grew increasingly intense. Slughorn, who had been jovial just moments before, now appeared as if he had seen a ghost. He stared at Aiden Lestrange with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment, his round eyes widening behind his polished spectacles.
Blaise Zabini, typically unflappable, was taken aback by Aiden's outburst. He cleared his throat nervously, trying to regain his composure, but his usual air of cool detachment had been disrupted. His elegant facade cracked, revealing a hint of discomfort beneath his aristocratic demeanor.
Meanwhile, Harry felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, a deep crimson hue spreading across his face. He was not accustomed to being defended in such a bold and unexpected manner. Normally, he would brush off such comments, but there was something about Aiden's defense that felt different, something that stirred emotions he couldn't quite explain.
The silence that followed was profound, a thick tension hanging in the air as if waiting for someone to shatter it. Slughorn, still caught in the throes of his own curiosity, finally broke the stillness.
"Well, well," he mused, his voice betraying a hint of amusement, "this certainly promises to be an eventful year.
He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence, but Harry had the distinct impression that Slughorn had not finished with him. As the jovial professor regaled the compartment with tales of his past students and their remarkable achievements, Harry couldn't help but feel like he was the main course of a feast for Slughorn's ego.
While Slughorn's stories were undeniably fascinating, they also had an ulterior motive. The professor had a knack for identifying and nurturing talent, and Harry's name had been on his radar for quite some time. Slughorn was known for surrounding himself with students he believed were destined for greatness, and he seemed determined to add Harry to that illustrious list.
While Slughorn was weaving his tale with the flourish of a master storyteller, Aiden Lestrange seized the opportunity to maneuver discreetly through the compartment, making his way closer to Harry Potter. His movements were fluid, betraying a grace and finesse that belied his young age.
As he settled into a seat beside Harry, Aiden's gaze was both intense and calculating. He leaned in slightly, his voice a soft undercurrent amidst Slughorn's oratory theater.
"Looks like you've caught the professor's eye, Harry. I guess the rumors about you being the 'Chosen One' have made their way into even the most exclusive circles."
The mere mention of the term 'Chosen One' sent a surge of emotions coursing through Harry's veins. It was a title he had reluctantly embraced, a destiny he had struggled to comprehend. But the memory of another, one that had shaken him to his core, resurfaced like a relentless tide.
Bellatrix Lestrange, the unhinged Death Eater, had called baby Aiden the Chosen One in the memory. It was an infuriating, confounding revelation that Harry couldn't dismiss. Aiden was now irrevocably tied to his destiny.
The anger welled up within Harry, a volatile mixture of resentment and frustration. The mere mention of Aiden being chosen, whether by fate or Voldemort, ignited a fire in his chest. He could not help but question Aiden's intentions.
In a whisper laced with bitterness, Harry muttered, his words a chilling reminder of the looming darkness.
"According to your mother, you are Voldemort's chosen one. Has he given you a mission to win me over?"
Aiden's reaction was imperceptible to the casual observer, but beneath his composed exterior, turmoil raged. Harry's question had struck a nerve, unearthing the memories of his father's sinister instructions. The words of Voldemort reverberated in his mind with a malevolent intent.
"You shall not be the one to kill Albus Dumbledore," Voldemort had declared, surprising Aiden with the unexpected twist of fate. "That task has been assigned to Draco Malfoy, and we shall ensure his success. Your sole mission, Aiden, is Harry Potter.”
Aiden couldn't deny the gravity of those words, and the implication of his mission weighed heavily upon him. The dark path he had been set upon, the role of a spy, felt like an inescapable fate. Voldemort's commands were etched into his very being, and now, in the presence of Harry, the intricacies of their shared destinies had come to the forefront.
"Harry-" Aiden began, but the words died on his lips as Slughorn's voice filled the compartment, his portly form waddling into view. His affable demeanor had returned, though an undercurrent of curiosity flickered in his eyes.
"Good gracious, it's getting dark already! I didn't notice that they'd lit the lamps! You'd better go and change into your robes, all of you."
As the students began to rise and gather their belongings, Aiden cast a fleeting, frustrated glance at Harry. The urgency of their conversation had been abruptly halted by the whims of their surroundings.
As they started to exit the compartment, Slughorn stopped Aiden with a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Aiden, my boy, would you mind staying behind for a moment? I'd like to have a word."
For Harry, however, Slughorn's request offered a perfect opportunity, a fortuitous moment to disappear into the shadows. Aiden was compelled to stay behind with the professor, and Harry saw this as his chance to venture into the Slytherin compartment undetected. The corridors had emptied considerably, students retreating to their carriages to change into their school robes and pack their possessions.
Harry moved swiftly, guided by a mix of determination and curiosity. The Cloak of Invisibility draped around him like a shroud, its silken folds concealing his presence. He was on the precipice of stealthily infiltrating the Slytherin compartment to observe Draco Malfoy, who had been a source of perpetual suspicion.
In the dimly lit corridor, Harry stood close to Blaise Zabini, ready to slip into the compartment when the door opened. However, his timing was far from perfect. As Zabini yanked the door open, Harry's foot became ensnared in the door's path, an unforeseen obstacle.
Zabini, his patience thin, began to forcefully slam the sliding door into Harry's foot in a fit of anger. With determination and a hint of desperation, Harry seized the door, halting its relentless progress, but not without drawing attention to himself.
In the commotion that ensued, Zabini's grip on the door slipped, causing him to tumble sideways into Gregory Goyle's lap. Harry seized the opportunity and, with remarkable agility, darted into the compartment. He landed soundlessly on Zabini's temporarily vacated seat before hoisting himself up into the luggage rack, concealed beneath his Invisibility Cloak.
Harry felt a surge of relief as the Slytherins inside remained oblivious to his presence. Crabbe and Goyle were engrossed in their comic book, Pansy Parkinson stroked Malfoy's sleek blond hair, and Malfoy himself lay sprawled across two seats, his head nestled in Pansy's lap. The flickering lanterns overhead cast a stark light on the scene below.
Beneath the Cloak, Harry observed every detail. He could read every word in Crabbe's comic book, and he strained to hear every whispered word from the Slytherins' conversation.
"So, Zabini," Malfoy began, "what did Slughorn want?"
Zabini, still visibly irritated by the earlier incident, replied with indifference, "Just trying to make up to well-connected people. Not that he managed to find many."
The information didn't sit well with Malfoy, whose ambitions were grander than mere popularity.
"Who else had he invited?" Malfoy inquired.
Zabini continued his list, "McLaggen from Gryffindor."
"Yeah, his uncle's big in the Ministry," Malfoy acknowledged.
But then, a name dropped that piqued Harry's interest, and he leaned in closer, eager to hear more. "Someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw."
Pansy, never one to mince words, expressed her opinion, "Not him, he's a prat!"
Zabini finally dropped the bombshell that Harry had been anticipating, "And Longbottom, Potter, and that weirdo Aiden. He's a Harry Potter fanboy."
The moment those words left Zabini's lips, Malfoy sat up abruptly, knocking Pansy's hand aside. The abruptness of his movements, and the ensuing silence in the compartment, revealed the gravity of the situation.
"Never say anything about Aiden."
Zabini, surprised by Malfoy's intensity, stammered, "But, Draco, he's—"
Malfoy interrupted sharply, reiterating his point, "I said he's off-limits."
He then went on to reveal a secret that left the Slytherins in disbelief, "He's my cousin, the son of Bellatrix. Aiden is off-limits."
The news sent shockwaves through the compartment, and questions began to bubble up from the Slytherins. However, Malfoy's icy tone silenced them as he inquired, "He invited Longbottom?"
Zabini, indifferent to the politics and drama, answered, "Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there."
As the train hurtled forward, the air inside the Slytherin compartment grew thick with tension. Draco Malfoy's voice dripped with disdain, a sardonic twist in his smile as he mocked, "Ah, Potter, the illustrious Chosen One. Clearly, Slughorn was hoping for a glimpse."
His words hung in the air, the train's rhythmic clatter emphasizing the gravity of the moment. Malfoy continued, his voice cutting through the silence, "One has to wonder if Slughorn's lost his senses. My father used to be his favorite, a respected wizard in his prime. It's quite possible he hasn't even realized I'm on this train or—"
Blaise Zabini chimed in, his tone laced with cynicism, "I wouldn't place any bets on receiving an invitation. When I arrived, Slughorn inquired about Nott's father. They were once close, it seems. But when he learned of Nott's Ministry debacle, his expression darkened. Nott never did receive an invitation. I doubt Slughorn has much interest in Death Eaters. I can only imagine the uproar when he learns of Aiden's lineage."
Malfoy, his anger simmering beneath a thin veneer of composure, forced out a mirthless laugh.
"Why should we care about his interests, anyway? When you think about it, what is he but a feeble teacher?" He yawned ostentatiously, a declaration of his indifference. "As for me, I might not even grace Hogwarts with my presence next year. What does it matter if some washed-up old man likes me or not?"
Pansy Parkinson, her voice trembling with uncertainty, stopped mid-stroke in Malfoy's hair. She asked with a quaver in her voice, "What do you mean you might not be at Hogwarts next year?"
Malfoy, his smirk holding secrets, responded cryptically, "Well, one never knows. I might be destined for grander horizons."
The compartment's atmosphere became charged with uncertainty and curiosity. Crabbe and Goyle, often slow on the uptake, gawked at Malfoy, bewildered by the sudden revelation. Even Zabini, renowned for his cool demeanor, betrayed a hint of intrigue in his haughty features.
Pansy, her voice laden with apprehension, resumed stroking Malfoy's hair, her eyes reflecting the profound implications of his words.
"You mean... Him?" she ventured cautiously.
Malfoy merely shrugged, his expression revealing nothing.
"Mother insists I complete my education," he stated calmly, his confidence sending shivers down their spines.
"But personally, I find it rather inconsequential these days. Consider this: when the Dark Lord seizes power, will he care about O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s? No, it will be about the service rendered and the unwavering loyalty displayed."
Zabini, still skeptical of Malfoy's audacious plans, challenged him with a cutting tone, "And you believe you can serve him? You're just sixteen, barely qualified."
With a quiet resolve, Malfoy responded, "As I've said, qualifications may be irrelevant to him. The task he envisions might not require conventional credentials."
Crabbe and Goyle, usually slow on the uptake, sat with mouths agape like stone gargoyles. Pansy gazed down at Malfoy as though witnessing something profoundly awe-inspiring.
Amidst the charged atmosphere, Malfoy savored the impact he had created. Pointing out of the blackened window, he noted, "I can see Hogwarts," his voice oozing with smugness. "We'd better get our robes on."
Unbeknownst to the Slytherins, Harry, concealed beneath his Invisibility Cloak, was so engrossed in observing Malfoy that he failed to notice Goyle reaching for his trunk. It swung down with swift momentum, striking Harry on the side of his head. He emitted an involuntary gasp of pain, and Malfoy, ever vigilant, raised an inquisitive eyebrow and glanced towards the luggage rack. Hidden beneath his cloak, Harry held his breath, his wand clenched tightly, fearing the consequences of being discovered by unfriendly Slytherins.
After a moment of contemplation, Malfoy seemingly dismissed the noise as a mere product of his imagination. He continued with his preparations, donning his robes, his lithe figure draped in the fabric. Harry, still concealed beneath the cloak, couldn't help but steal glances at Malfoy's smooth skin and well-defined physique. As the train slowed to a jerky crawl, Malfoy locked his trunk securely and fastened a thick, new traveling cloak around his neck.
Finally, with one last jolt, the train came to a complete halt. Goyle, impatient as ever, flung the door open and plowed his way out into the crowd of second-years, causing them to scatter in his wake. Crabbe and Zabini followed suit.
Pansy stood there, her hand reaching out for Malfoy's, an air of expectancy hung heavy in the compartment. It was as if the entire world had momentarily held its breath, awaiting Malfoy's next move.
With deliberate calmness, Malfoy waved her away, his eyes cold and distant.
"You go on," he muttered, his voice low and eerily detached. "I just want to check something."
Reluctantly, Pansy departed, leaving behind an atmosphere charged with unspoken tension. Now, in the confined space of the compartment, Harry and Malfoy were alone. Outside, the platform awaited, shrouded in darkness, and students bustled about, their footsteps echoing as they disembarked from the train.
Malfoy moved swiftly, like a shadow over the compartment. He reached for the blinds and pulled them down, obscuring the view from the corridor. Whatever he was about to reveal or conceal, it was meant for his eyes only.
Bending over his trunk, Malfoy opened it once more. Harry, perched atop the luggage rack, peered down with bated breath, his heart racing. What was Malfoy trying to hide from Pansy? Could this be the moment when Harry finally caught a glimpse of the elusive, broken object that held such significance?
In an instant, the silence was shattered. Without warning, Malfoy pointed his wand directly at Harry, the pale glow illuminating the compartment. Harry's instincts kicked in, and he barely managed to summon a shield to protect himself. The spell rebounded with a furious force, striking the floor below.
Harry, his heart pounding, wasted no time. He sprang to his feet, pointing his wand at Malfoy's face, his eyes locked onto the Slytherin's.
Malfoy, his eyes locked onto Harry's, his expression an intricate tapestry of irritation and unease, finally broke the silence. "I heard Goyle's trunk hit you," he began, his voice laced with a hint of accusation. "And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back…" His gaze lingered briefly on Harry's trainers, a subtle detail that had not gone unnoticed.
"That was you blocking the door when Zabini came back in, I suppose?" Malfoy inquired.
Harry, unwavering and bold, seized the moment. He decided to cut off Malfoy before he could delve further into the conversation. His voice was resolute, a declaration that held a weighty revelation.
"I know your secret."
For a fleeting moment, confusion clouded Malfoy's features. He misconstrued Harry's intentions, believing the secret in question was far more personal, a vulnerability he had guarded zealously. A flicker of vulnerability crossed his face, caught between his hidden desires and the revelation he feared.
Malfoy's mask of calm slipped, replaced by a maelstrom of emotions. In an uncharacteristic and shocking move, he erupted. A punch, unrefined and muggle-like, connected with Harry's face.
Stunned and unable to react in time, Harry staggered backward, pain radiating from his broken nose. Blood streamed down his face, staining the compartment floor. Malfoy, seizing the opportunity, fled from the scene, his footsteps echoing in the corridor as he vanished into the inky darkness.
Harry, still reeling from the unexpected blow, stood there in stunned silence.