Hermione POV
The library was quiet. It was not unusual for a Thursday evening, but somehow, this quiet felt heavier.
Hermione Granger sat at her usual corner table, Arithmancy charts spread neatly before her, a self-inking quill poised and waiting beside her untouched parchment. But the numbers blurred at the edges, and the formulas she normally ran through without effort were slipping out of her grasp like water through her fingers.
She let out a breath. Not loud enough to draw Madam Pince's attention, but just enough to remind herself she was still here.
Her eyes drifted, not for the first time, toward the far side of the library where Harry had been sitting earlier that day. He wasn't there now—he rarely lingered—but the memory of his presence still lingered.
It had been subtle at first. Maybe that was why no one else seemed to notice. The way he held himself now. Straighter. Shoulders back, chin lifted just slightly. Not in an arrogant way—Harry had never been that—but there was something almost… regal about it. Assured. Like he was no longer just reacting to the world, but standing apart from it. Watching. Measuring.
Hermione chewed on the end of her quill—not something she normally did, but her thoughts were noisy and hard to untangle.
She should've been happy. Harry had always been brave, always had a spark to him, but this was something else entirely. He'd become sharper. Quieter, too. More thoughtful. He spoke with a kind of weight now, like every word was measured before it ever touched his tongue.
And… he was outperforming her.
She didn't like thinking it, let alone admitting it, but it was true. In Charms last week, Professor Flitwick had actually beamed at Harry's non-verbal work. And in Runes, he'd made a connection she had completely missed, even after rereading the chapter twice. She had told herself it didn't matter—that she should be proud of him—but the truth was harder than that.
Hermione Granger had spent years being "the clever one." It wasn't just about pride—it was identity. The part of herself that made her feel like she belonged. If she didn't have that… what did she have?
She set the quill down gently and closed the Arithmancy book with more care than necessary.
But jealousy, even quiet and buried, wasn't the only thing bothering her.
Harry had changed, yes. But it wasn't just in academics. He was… pulling away. Vanishing after lessons with vague excuses, skipping breakfast more often, giving guarded half-smiles when she asked where he'd been.
It reminded her of second year, when he hadn't told anyone about hearing voices in the walls until it was too late. But this time, it wasn't fear behind the silence. It was deliberate.
And that frightened her more.
He wasn't reckless anymore, as he had been for the last two years. He was planning something. Something big. Something he hadn't told her—or Ron—because he didn't think they were ready for it. Or worse, because he thought they'd try to stop him.
She'd even started taking mental notes. Just little things—odd patterns she couldn't ignore anymore like how he always seemed to know when someone was watching him, turning away just before she could catch his eye. Or how he disappeared for hours under the pretense of "catching up on homework," yet never seemed behind on anything.
She hadn't brought it up. Not yet. But she was watching. Waiting. Trying to understand what he was preparing for—and why he thought he had to do it alone.
Hermione rubbed her temple, then glanced across the table at Ron.
He was hunched over his Transfiguration homework, muttering under his breath, brow furrowed in that way it did when he was really trying. His quill had a smudge of ink near the nib, and his ears had gone slightly pink, which always happened when he was nervous or focused.
Her mouth curled slightly before she could help it.
It had been happening more often lately—these moments. Noticing the little things. The way Ron sometimes glanced her way before cracking a joke, like he wanted her to laugh first. The way he always seemed to sit beside her without making a big deal out of it. The way his eyes had gone wide and worried when she'd taken that Bludger to the ribs last week.
She didn't know what it meant. Not really. But it sat in her chest, warm and a little confusing.
Hermione leaned back in her chair, staring up at the high, dusty beams above them.
MC POV
Harry made his way toward Professor Flitwick's office, curious about the change in venue from their usual practice space—the Dueling Room.
As he reached the door, it swung open on its own.
"Come in, Harry," came Professor Flitwick's voice from inside.
Harry stepped in and found the professor seated behind his desk. In front of him, resting atop the table, was a shallow stone basin—etched with runes and faintly shimmering. A Pensieve.
"Good evening, Professor," Harry greeted politely, his eyes drawn to the swirling contents of the basin.
"You must be wondering why we're conducting our session here today," Flitwick said with a small smile, gesturing toward the Pensieve. "Look here. Do you know what this is?"
"A Pensieve, Professor. I've heard they're quite rare," Harry replied.
"Correct, you are, Harry! A marvelous alchemical invention. It allows a person to revisit memories and examine them with objectivity—often revealing things they missed the first time. Very useful for study and reflection."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes twinkling. "As for their rarity, they can only be made by master alchemists—and there are precious few of those left in the world."
Flitwick paused, then added with a touch of pride, "Care to guess which master lent me this one?"
"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry guessed.
"Correct again." Flitwick's smile widened. "He's been quite generous in letting me borrow it for your training."
He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled. "Today, we're going to view the memory of someone who once stood against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It's not a duel you'll find in books, and I must warn you—it can get rather graphic."
He studied Harry carefully for a beat, his voice softening just a touch. "Are you certain you're ready for that?"
Harry didn't hesitate. "I can handle it, Professor."
Flitwick gave a small, approving nod. "Very well, then. Watch closely. Observe everything. Technique, reaction, control. Even in chaos, there's something to learn."
He rose from his chair and moved to the Pensieve. With a practiced motion, he tapped the surface with his wand. The silvery memory began to swirl faster, thickening, until the surface rippled like water under moonlight.
"Whenever you're ready, Harry," Flitwick said, stepping aside.
Harry took a breath, leaned forward—and plunged in.
Harry's feet hit solid ground with a soft crunch of leaves.
It was night.
Cool wind whispered through the branches of what looked like an abandoned estate—its stone walls crumbling, ivy tangled like veins over the structure's face. Seven figures moved cautiously through the shadows, cloaks drawn close, their wands casting faint blue light.
He recognized one of them—Mad-Eye Moody, younger but still unmistakably him, spinning slowly as he scanned the treeline.
"No sign yet," a witch muttered, glancing toward the broken gates. Her voice was low, clipped. Tense.
"We're close," Moody grunted. "Spread out. Stay sharp. He's here. I can feel it."
Then it happened.
A sickening green flash tore through the air, striking one of the wizards square in the chest. He crumpled without a sound, body folding in on itself like a marionette with its strings cut.
The others spun around, spells already half-formed on their lips, eyes wide with shock.
"Down!" Moody barked, dragging the nearest witch behind a toppled statue as red and blue jets of light lit up the night.
And then—
The smoke came.
Thick, swirling, blacker than the shadows around them. It poured from the broken doorway like a living thing, slithering across the ground and rising slowly—so slowly—into something humanoid.
Harry felt his breath catch.
It was him.
Lord Voldemort.
Not the barely-human wraith Harry had seen, nor the grotesque mockery from Quirrell's head. No, this version was terrifying in its poise—tall, robed in flowing black that rippled like smoke, skin pale but whole, and his features sharpened into cruel beauty.
His eyes glowed faintly red in the dark.
There was elegance in his movement—inhuman, fluid, like a predator who already knew the outcome of the hunt. Every flick of his wrist, every step forward, was rehearsed perfection. Not a wasted gesture. Not a twitch out of place.
The air thickened around him.
"Poor thing," Voldemort said softly, looking at the fallen wizard. "Did he think he would get away?"
His voice was smooth and cold, almost gentle—but the kind of gentle one used just before a blade slipped in.
One of the witches tried to cast something—perhaps a shield charm—but Voldemort didn't even raise his wand. He merely turned, and she flew backward, crashing against a tree with a bone-snapping thud.
Another Auror shouted, firing a blasting curse—
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort unraveled the spell mid-air like thread pulled from cloth.
"No finesse," he murmured.
Another spell came from an auror—"Reducto!"—but it crumbled in the air, twisted into a scattering of dead moths that fluttered away with a simple way of his wand.
Another Auror summoned ropes; Voldemort turned his head a fraction, and the ropes writhed mid-air and turned to serpents, striking their caster's throat with needle-sharp fangs. She screamed and collapsed, choking.
Flames shot toward him from the left.
He waved his wand again in a sweeping motion.
The flames curled into a basilisk mid-flight—
Then inverted, imploding into ice that spread in reverse, freezing the attacking Auror solid, wand and all. The statue cracked, then shattered like glass.
"Don't look him in the eyes!" Moody roared, but it was too late.
A young wizard locked eyes with Voldemort. Just for a second.
He screamed.
Not from pain—but from memory.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his head, sobbing like a child. "Make it stop, please—stop—"
No one could see what he saw. Only Voldemort knew.
The young man's wand trembled in his hand—then stilled. With one broken breath, Tobin turned it on himself. A flash of light, sharp and merciful, ended the scream.
Voldemort didn't even look his way.
"Weak minds always unravel first."
Only two were left now — Moody and another wizard—a younger man, terrified but still standing.
"Run!" Moody roared.
But the younger one didn't make it. He tried to shield Moody—too slow. A curse, oily black and serpentine, hit him in the chest.
He screamed.
It wasn't a death curse—it was worse.
His mouth stretched open, skin paling rapidly as his body convulsed. His magic was being sucked out—thread by thread—his veins glowing as if lit from within.
"An experiment," Voldemort mused aloud, watching dispassionately. "I'm perfecting it."
Moody, horror in his mismatched eyes, didn't hesitate. He slammed a gnarled hand into the inside of his coat—and touched the emergency Portkey.
There was a flash of blue—
Voldemort's wand snapped toward him.
A jagged bolt of black lightning tore through the air.
It hit.
Moody screamed as the spell ripped through his leg, severing it just below the knee, the Portkey pulling him away an instant later in a wrench of space and time.
The last thing Harry saw in the memory wasn't the bodies, or even the ruins stained with smoke and magic.
It was Voldemort's eyes.
Those glowing, crimson eyes turned—not toward the fallen, but straight at him. As if the memory itself had become aware. As if Voldemort somehow knew he was being watched.
And then the memory ripped away, the cold stone of Professor Flitwick's office rushing back around him as he staggered slightly, boots thudding softly on the floor beside the Pensieve.
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[A/N] - Hey everyone! I'm back again—sorry for the long delay. My university semester started, and I've been busy preparing for placements.Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think—I'd love to hear your thoughts!