Son of Magic

Chapter 11

29th November, 1941

Hospital Wing, Hogwarts

While the students and Professors at Hogwarts began to stir from their fitful slumber, Harry was still lying unconscious in the Hospital Wing, trapped in the clutches of Morpheus and Phobetor, the latter of which was absolutely delighted to finally have unobstructed access to Harry's worst memories.

It wasn't every day that the slippery immortal was left vulnerable enough for them to mess with. They had no option but to make the most of this rare opportunity they've been given.

.

.

.

Harry was having tea with Hermoine, and that would usually have been an enjoyable afternoon spent with his best friend. But as was often the case recently, their relaxing afternoon was rapidly turning sour.

"Harry," Hermoine sighed exasperatedly, blowing away a loose curl that had come undone from her otherwise perfectly styled bun. "I know that you've repeatedly said that you didn't want me looking into it for now, but don't you think you're being careless? Don't you find it at all odd that you haven't aged a day past seventeen?" she pressed, her lips pursed into a frown and her brows crinkled disapprovingly.

Harry groaned and looked away from Hermoine, feeling an irrational spike of anger coursing through his veins, which made his volatile magic react in kind, seeking to strike down the source of his ire.

He began clenching and unclenching his fist, trying to get a hold of his emotions and erratic magic, the latter of which he felt worryingly rippling along his taut skin, scorching him from the inside out.

It took all his self-control to keep his magic from lashing out, from jumping out of his skin—something which was, unfortunately, becoming a common occurrence of late—but somehow he managed not to rip his best friend to shreds.

It took a while, but after taking a few deep breaths he felt calm enough to let go of the tight grip he had on his magic, although his body didn't relax; his muscles were still coiled and his stance ready for a strike.

This, all this, was messed up.

His behaviour was irrational and much too aggressive. He knew that but knowing and understanding didn't stop him from conjuring a small thunderstorm storm whenever his mood began to take a nosedive.

He'd always had a short temper, which, laughably enough, he'd hoped would be cured with the removal of Voldemort's Horcrux. But as was rather typical for him, the exact opposite happened. Instead of calming, his temper had gotten immeasurably worse, even more so over the past few months.

He was a terror to be around. He knew that, and by Merlin, he'd tried so hard to fix himself. He'd tried talking to mind healers, had tried Occlumency and meditation, tried venting his rage and exhausting himself to sleep. He'd tried so many different potions that he's lost track of all their names. He'd even tried some muggle therapy and medication.

Nothing worked. His personality was as prickly as ever.

He couldn't really put what he was feeling into words, but the best explanation he had to offer was that he felt a change building within himself, felt it biding and building up to something, something dark and powerful, to something he'd rather not ponder for too long.

Whatever it was that he was building too was too significant for words, and he felt afraid, so afraid that he'll be ensnared by its intoxicating feeling and then never be able to escape from its clutches.