Albus Dumbledore sat behind his vast oak desk, the warm glow of the candles casting soft shadows across the office. Fawkes, his faithful phoenix, occasionally let out a soft trill that brought a measure of comfort to the old wizard's heart.
Before him lay a stack of parchment—reports from the professors who had taught Harry Potter these past weeks. Dumbledore had asked for them personally, eager to understand how the boy was faring.
He adjusted his half-moon spectacles and began to read:
Professor Flitwick's neat, flowing script was full of praise.
"Harry is a natural at Charms. His enthusiasm and creativity remind me very much of his mother."
Professor McGonagall's precise, slightly stern handwriting carried a note of cautious pride.
"Potter's progress in Transfiguration is remarkable. He relies on intuition and imagination rather than strict calculations—a different approach, but one that has yielded excellent results."
Professor Lupin's warm, steady hand was evident.
"Harry is exceptionally skilled in Defense Against the Dark Arts, always asking questions and showing a keen interest in the finer details."
Even Severus Snape's reluctant scrawl contained a grudging admission:
"Potter is… adequate in Potions. Surprisingly, he shows restraint with delicate ingredients, though his discipline requires improvement."
Dumbledore set the parchments aside, a thoughtful look crossing his face. Every one of his professors—even Severus—had noted the same thing: Harry was thriving.
That gave Dumbledore some comfort, though it did not erase the guilt he carried. He had thought of Harry so often these past fifteen years, alone in that house on Privet Drive. He had thought, too, of Lily's sacrifice—the protection that had demanded Harry remain with blood relatives, even ones so ill-suited to raise him.
Albus's jaw tightened. He had hated leaving Harry there. Hated it with every fiber of his being. But duty had demanded it, and the safety it provided could not be replicated by any charm or shield he could devise. Still, it was a bitter decision, one that had never sat easily on his conscience.
He knew the burden Harry carried, even if the boy himself did not fully understand it. That lightning bolt-shaped scar had always been more than a wound; it was a mark, a brand, and perhaps a tether. Yet these days, Dumbledore had noticed something curious: the scar seemed…faded.
Albus had spent countless nights pondering the implications of that change. Could it be that Harry's growing mastery of his magic—and especially his growing knowledge of Occlumency—was dampening the link? Or was it something else entirely?
Dumbledore knew he could not afford to be complacent. The world had grown darker in subtle ways, and Harry's safety was more important now than ever.
He leaned back, fingers placed beneath his chin, eyes distant. He had long suspected that Harry's scar might be more than a simple mark. He had researched Horcruxes in secret, searching for a way—any way—to sever that link, if it existed.
No child should bear the burden of another's soul, especially one as vile as that of Tom's.
Dumbledore sighed, heavy with the weight of choices made and yet to be made. Harry was no longer the small boy left on that doorstep, but a young wizard with a great future ahead of him. It was Dumbledore's duty—no, his deepest hope—to guide that future toward light, even as shadows gathered on the horizon.
Hermione's POV
Hermione Granger sat in a quiet corner of the library, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, eyes red from lack of sleep. Her fingers trembled as they turned the pages of Advanced Transfiguration, though she found herself reading the same paragraph over and over.
She couldn't deny it any longer—Harry had changed. In just a few weeks, he'd begun to excel in classes she had always considered her domain. Charms, Defense Against the Darks Arts, even Transfiguration—he was improving at a rate that left her scrambling to keep up.
It wasn't that she begrudged him his progress. He was her friend, after all. But seeing him so confident, so… different—it shook her in ways she hadn't expected. She'd always known Harry had been special, but now it felt like he was slipping beyond her reach, stepping into a world she could never truly follow.
She bit her lip. The Time-Turner's effects were beginning to show. The headaches, the moments of confusion when days blurred together—sometimes she forgot which lesson she'd just attended. The magic that allowed her to be in two places at once was slowly wearing her down. But she couldn't stop, not now. Not when she felt Harry's shadow growing longer.
She sighed and rubbed her temples, willing the ache away. She knew she shouldn't compare herself to Harry—he had enough to deal with, and she wanted to be his friend, not his rival. But every time she watched him cast a spell with effortless grace or listened to him discuss some obscure magical concept, a part of her felt… left behind.
Ron had started trying harder in class too, though with his usual half-hearted dedication. Harry's success had lit a fire under him, though she doubted it would last. At least Harry and Ron still seemed close; that was a comfort, even if it meant Hermione sometimes felt like an outsider.
She closed the book and sighed again. She'd chosen to take on the Time-Turner, to learn as much as she could, to be the best she could be. But now, she wondered if it was worth it. Her eyes were sore, her hands trembled, and her mind felt stretched thin.
But she couldn't stop. She wouldn't. Harry might be changing, but so was she. And if there was one thing she'd learned since coming to Hogwarts, it was that magic could change everything—even a friendship.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione resolved to push on. She would keep working, and keep learning. Because one day, she might be the only one who could help Harry when he needed it most. And she would not let him down.