On Hollow Ground

Chapter 1

A/N: This story contains graphic depictions of violence, torture, and extremist content that some readers may find disturbing. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Let the reading begin!

Hogwarts had never felt this cold.

The castle, once alive with warmth and laughter, now stood in eerie, suffocating silence. The wind moaned low across the ramparts, rattling windows and sweeping through the corridors like a ghost that had finally claimed the place. Thick clouds hung overhead, blotting out the moon and stars and casting the grounds in choking shadow. Not even the torches dared to flicker anymore.

Everything felt... wrong, like a nightmare come to life.

I sat on the stone steps outside the castle, knees drawn to my chest, the cold biting straight through my robes. This was the same spot where I'd once laughed with Ron, stolen glances with Ginny, and argued about spells with Hermione. But now, every inch of the grounds felt haunted—by memory, by pain, by something heavier than death.

Each breath came shallow, stiff with dread. The stone beneath me leached the warmth from my skin like it was feeding on what little life I had left. The weight of the night pressed down on me, a thousand invisible hands holding me still. But it was the silence that hurt most—not the quiet of peace, but the aching, unnatural void that comes when something irreplaceable is torn from the world.

When someone was gone.

Ron's voice trembled in the stillness. "He can't be gone... he just can't be." It was barely more than a whisper, but it struck like thunder. I didn't look at him. I couldn't.

Dumbledore's body still lay where it had fallen.

The image was burnt into me. His robes—once so regal—crumpled like discarded parchment. His arms splayed in a pose too unnatural for rest. And his face—still. Empty. Not peaceful, not angry, just... wrong. I'd seen death before, but not like this. Not him.

Just hours ago, we'd been side by side. Another Horcrux. Another gamble. Another near-impossible mission. His hand had blackened and withered, yet his eyes had stayed sharp, determined. He'd told me we were close—that we were doing what had to be done.

And now he was gone. I was alone.

Just like that.

I gripped my wand so tightly it felt like it might splinter in my hand. It was the only thing tethering me to this moment, the last anchor in a world unravelling around me.

First Sirius. Now Dumbledore.

The grief from before hadn't even faded. I hadn't learnt how to carry it. Now it had doubled. Tripled. It crushed me, pressing down until I could barely breathe. I felt like I was drowning in sorrow.

Around me, others wept—students, professors, people who had revered him as much as I had. But I couldn't join them. I couldn't cry. The tears burnt behind my eyes, but they refused to fall. Instead, I stared down at the cracked stone beneath my boots, willing it to distract me from the truth.

From the silence where Dumbledore's voice should have been.

My hands trembled. I stared at them—muddy, scraped, alien. My body didn't feel like my own. Nothing did. I felt like a ghost inside my skin.

"Harry..." a soft voice broke through the fog. Familiar. Gentle. Caring.

I flinched.

Hands touched my shoulders—light, grounding—but I jerked away like I'd been burnt. My pulse spiked. My breath hitched. I pressed my palms to my temples, trying to squeeze the pressure out, but it only sharpened the edges of the pain.