A Horcrux's Fate

Chapter 26

Something warm nudged his shoulder.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," came his mother's voice—soft, soothing, like sunlight filtering through curtains. "You can nap once we're home."

Harry groaned. His eyelids felt glued shut, heavy as stone. He forced them open, expecting the dim, firelit cosiness of the Leaky Cauldron—murmured voices, the clink of cutlery, the lingering taste of lemon squash.

But what hit him instead was a flood of sharp sunlight.

It slapped his face like a shock spell—bright, merciless, real.

He squinted, blinking rapidly as the world reassembled itself in front of him. The pub was gone. So was the table, the laughter, the strange conversation with his parents. No trace of James's ridiculous enchanted menu or the echo of Draco's unreadable stare.

Instead, there was the front of Flourish and Blotts. Familiar yet distant. The old bookshop stood proud and weatherworn, its bricks glowing gold in the sun, its green awnings fluttering like sleepy flags. The display window was crammed with teetering stacks of books, as though they were trying to climb out. A parchment sign squeaked and flapped faintly in the morning breeze: Closed Until 10AM.

Harry sat bolt upright, heart thumping hard against his chest like it was trying to escape. He looked around in confusion. They were on a bench now—how had they gotten here? Had he fallen asleep mid-meal?

"Mum?" he rasped, his voice rough with confusion. "How... how did we get here? What happened to the Leaky Cauldron?"

Lily looked up from rummaging through her seemingly bottomless handbag. She blinked at him, her brow creasing slightly. "The Leaky Cauldron? Sweetheart, we haven't been there yet."

Harry's mouth went dry.

"What?" he said. "We were just... you were talking to the Malfoys, and Dad was eating that weird—"

"We're here to buy your schoolbooks," she said calmly, offering a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Are you sure you're feeling all right?"

Schoolbooks?

No. That wasn't right. They'd already done that. He remembered the books—gold-edged, stacked like treasure. He remembered James laughing about Lockhart's ridiculous face on every cover.

"But... you already bought them," he said slowly, trying to grasp something solid. "I remember. The books were shiny. Dad was making jokes, and—"

"Don't be silly," she interrupted gently, brushing some hair from his forehead like he was five years old again. "We haven't bought a single one yet. Those Lockhart books are outrageous this year. He's got a new one every term. I swear he's trying to drain every Galleon from Diagon Alley."

Lockhart.

Harry's stomach clenched. That name. Again. It kept showing up like a cracked note in a song that was supposed to be familiar. "But... what about Professor Quirrell?" he asked carefully, searching her face.

Lily tilted her head, confused. "Quirrell? Who's that?"

Harry stared. "He... he wore a turban. Taught Defence last year."

His mother gave a soft laugh—one that tried to sound casual but landed wrong. "Darling, Lockhart has always been your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Since first year. Don't you remember?"

Harry didn't answer.

He couldn't.

A cold shiver slid down his spine like water running beneath his skin. This wasn't just confusion anymore. It was wrongness—deep, creeping wrongness.