The Gryffindor dormitory was quiet that night. Shadows danced on the walls as the last embers in the hearth flickered weakly, but Harry Potter couldn't sleep. He lay on his bed, thoughts heavy, unable to escape the weight of betrayal and confusion that had settled over him since his name came out of the Goblet of Fire.
The sense of isolation gnawed at him. The angry stares, the whispered accusations, and Ron's cold indifference had left a hollowness in his chest that even exhaustion couldn't fill. He shifted restlessly beneath the covers, staring up at the worn canopy above.
Without warning, a sharp pain lanced through his skull.
Harry gasped, clutching his head as fire seemed to sear through his scar and behind his eyes. His body twitched and writhed under the covers, but thankfully he didn't fall off his bed.
The pain worsened, like claws raking at the inside of his mind.
And then—complete darkness.
---
The next thing he knew or felt was weightlessness and silence.
When his eyes opened, the world was white. Not foggy or glowing—just pure, perfect white. There was no floor beneath his feet, yet he stood. No light source above him, yet everything was illuminated.
Harry turned in place, heart thudding. The emptiness was disorienting. It felt too vast, too still.
Where is he..?
He tried to reach for his wand, but his pocket was empty.
Brilliant.
A sound echoed—a footstep? No, a presence.
From the whiteness, a figure emerged. Tall, lean, human... a man, mid-thirties perhaps, with eyes like shards of obsidian and the stance of someone trained to kill.
The man didn't speak and didn't even give Harry a chance to speak. He just moved—and attacked.
Harry barely ducked as a fist swung toward his face. He stumbled back, arms instinctively raised. Another blow came—a knee to the stomach, a kick to the ribs.
The man was a whirlwind of martial precision, and Harry had no training. But what he lacked in skill, he made up for in raw power. On instinct, Harry lunged and tackled the man to the ground, slamming a fist into his attacker's face. Again. And again. And again.
Stop!
But it was too late. The man's neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his body going limp.
Harry scrambled back, chest heaving. "I—I didn't mean—" His voice cracked. "I didn't mean to kill him..."
The body dissolved into specks of gold and silver light.
And those lights flowed straight into Harry.
He cried out as they struck him—piercing his chest, flooding into his soul. His vision blurred. His head screamed in agony. And just when it felt unbearable—the pain vanished and was replaced by comfort. He almost groaned at the soothing, pleasurable sensation.
Along with it came memories. Memories of a muggle named Jack Smith.
But before Harry could process all of it, a new presence came.
This one was not human.
It slithered into the white space like smoke and shadow, forming into a floating, humanoid wraith. Its face was snake-like, twisted in agony. Its eyes gleamed with venomous red. Its form—the same as the thing that had burst from Quirrell's body in his first year.
It shrieked, then lunged, diving straight into him.
Harry fell to his knees, clutching his head as his mind felt like it was being torn in two. The wraith clawed at his thoughts, slithered into memories, whispered in the voices of Tom Riddle and Voldemort and every dark thing he'd ever feared.
But it had made a mistake.
The wraith didn't realize that the man—or more precisely, the soul-essence of the man—Harry had just killed had been forcibly absorbed into his own spiritual core, reinforcing his soul structure and enhancing his mental fortitude. That unintentional soul assimilation had given Harry a surge in soul density, elevating him far beyond the average wizard.
Combined with the sacrificial protection woven into his being through Lily Potter's ancient blood magic, the protective magic of Hogwarts itself—a sentient stronghold steeped in layered enchantments and wards—and his weight as the 'Chosen One' of the prophecy—
Harry was, for once again, impossibly lucky.
Without these overlapping protections and the sudden boost in soul strength, he wouldn't have been able to survive, let alone suppress the invading soul shard. Though it was merely a fragment, it had originated from a being far more powerful than Harry.
---
A golden warmth surged in his chest. Not light, not spellwork—love. The old, ancient magic Dumbledore spoke of. The kind that had shielded him from Voldemort as a baby. The warmth and the love of a mother.
With a roar, Harry grabbed hold of the wraith—inside his own mind—and ripped it out of himself.
It shrieked, writhed, unraveling. Then it too shattered into shards of dark energy—and vanished into nothingness.
---
Somewhere, in the real world, Harry's body twitched in his bed.
His lightning-bolt scar burst open, black sludge oozing out, sizzling as it hit the air. A moment later, thick crimson blood followed, dripping onto the pillow beneath his head.
Back in the white space, Harry collapsed, gasping.
A few minutes later, Harry opened his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
Had someone accidentally forwarded his home address to all the world's problems? Because clearly, they all knew exactly where to find him.
First, his horrible aunt and uncle's family—people who somehow made child neglect look like a competitive sport. Then came the wizarding world, with its suffocating expectations, as though being "The Boy Who Lived" meant he had signed up for a lifetime of circus tricks and hero stunts.
And then—of course—Hogwarts.
His first year? Oh, just the usual school experience: nearly flattened by a full-grown mountain troll, stalked by a professor who turned out to be a literal parasite host for Voldemort, and finally forced into a showdown with said Dark Lord's face… glued to the back of someone's head. Perfectly normal eleven-year-old curriculum.
Second year? He got the deluxe horror package: a giant basilisk slithering unseen through the castle pipes, students turning into statues, and whispers branding him as the Heir of Slytherin. Because apparently speaking Parseltongue and being an orphan automatically made him a prime candidate for "future Dark Lord" in everyone's eyes.
Third year? That one read like a nightmare checklist. Dementors circling the school like vultures, draining the very warmth from the air. Time travel, because life wasn't confusing enough. An escaped convict everyone believed was hunting him down—who turned out to be his godfather, and not the villain after all. And, as the cherry on top, Harry got the truth about betrayal, about Wormtail, and about how the Marauders' brotherhood had been torn apart.
And now?
Now he was in his fourth year, where things had graduated from bizarre to utterly cursed.
The Goblet of Fire had spat out his name.
He hadn't touched it. He hadn't even looked at it for more than a few seconds. And yet—like some cruel joke—he'd been forced into a tournament designed for seasoned adult wizards, with life-threatening tasks, dragons, and Merlin only knew what else waiting down the line.
Worst of all? Ron. Ron Weasley, the boy who was supposed to be his best mate, the one who'd been there through trolls and spiders and dementors—looked at him like he was nothing but a liar. No hesitation. No moment of trust. Not even a quiet "Harry, is this really true?" Just cold looks, cutting words, and betrayal that stung sharper than dragon fire.
Then came the rest of Hogwarts, treating him like a cheater, a glory-hound desperate for fame, when all Harry wanted—all he had ever wanted—was a quiet year without monsters, dark lords, or death hanging over his head.
And as if to prove the universe had a sense of humor, his very first task had been facing a Hungarian Horntail. A dragon. A bloody dragon. He had barely escaped with his life, lungs burning, skin singed, and heart pounding like it wanted to tear itself free from his chest.
And now, an unknown soul had tried to take over his body. That man had been a trained fighter—but unfortunately for him, he was a Muggle. It was a well-known fact that magicals possessed greater physical resilience and superior raw strength, even untrained.
So, from Harry's panicked punches, the man's neck had twisted unnaturally. He had killed him. Accidentally, but still. And he was still freaking out about that.
And as a consequence, the man's memories had merged with his. Now, he had two and one fourth sets of memories.
One set belonged to Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the so-called hero of the magical society. A wizard and student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The other set belonged to someone named Jack Smith—a Muggle, a gangster, and a complete bastard. The guy had died after sleeping with his boss's illegitimate daughter.
Of course, the problems didn't end there. Voldemort came to join the fun too. That one-quarter set of memories belonged to him.
How the fuck did that guy even enter his mind? Wait a fucking minute— he had Voldemort's soul inside him??
Harry felt disgusted just thinking about it. But he forcefully suppressed the urge to jump into the Black Lake and scrub his skin red, raw and clean.
After he somehow managed to kill that fragment of Voldemort's soul as well—and in doing so, absorbed its memories too—
The memories answered his questions—questions about why Voldemort had attacked his family.
A prophecy, a fucking prophecy.
One that had been delivered to Voldemort... by SNAPE.
He is going to rip that bastard apart.
Harry took several shaky breaths, forcing himself to stay calm, even as fury trembled through his veins like wildfire beneath his skin.
Snape had only ever told Voldemort part of what he heard. Half a prophecy. Half the story. And that had been enough to get his parents murdered.
Now Harry had access to Voldemort's memories—not whole life memories, just a few months before the fateful attack.
And for the first time, he heard the prophecy, the whispers that had sent the Dark Lord hunting infants like a madman—and he got a very crucial piece of information about why Voldemort was alive—Horcruxes.
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Hello Readers, I am here with a new fic.
Starting from Chapter 8 – To The Kitchen, the later chapters are already uploaded ahead on my Patreon.
Chapters available early on Patreon include:
Chapter 12 – Zarina's Mischiefs
Chapter 13 – Little Exposure
Chapter 14 – Harry vs. His Own Mouth
Chapter 15 – To London
Chapter 16 – Lord Potter
Chapter 17 – The Lord's Ring
Chapter 18 – Bond Street
Chapter 19 – Flustered Hermione
(And more beyond these!)
If you want to read ahead or support the story, they're already waiting for you there.
Webnovel will keep getting regular updates as usual!