He's Still A Part of Me

3) It's just... personal.

The Burrow was quieter than usual that summer. Harry, Hermione, and Ron had been staying with the Weasleys, a makeshift family that filled the gaps left by the war, but something was missing. Fred, recovering in St. Mungo's from his injuries, left a hollow space in the household where his usual humor would have been. The ache of all they had endured settled over the Burrow like a blanket, warm but heavy.

One sweltering afternoon, the trio sat around the kitchen table, idly picking at a bowl of cherries while Mrs. Weasley prepared lunch. Harry, for his part, had barely been able to focus on the simple things in front of him. Since the battle, a strange restlessness haunted him, mixed with something he hadn't spoken about—not even to Ron or Hermione. Ever since Voldemort's defeat, Harry had felt a strange, flickering energy inside him, like the faintest echo of someone else's magic. And, when he was alone, sometimes he swore he could still hear a whisper of that final moment with Voldemort. It left him both uneasy and afraid to speak about it. Could it be Voldemort's magic? But why had no one else noticed anything?

As he fidgeted with a cherry stem, their old owl, Errol, swooped into the room, dropping three letters on the table before he landed in a tired heap beside a stack of plates.

"Letters from Hogwarts!" Harry said, pulling himself out of his thoughts as he saw the familiar seal. He passed one to Hermione and one to Ron, barely able to suppress his curiosity. Why were they receiving letters now?

Hermione opened hers first, her face lighting up as she skimmed the contents. "Oh my—Harry, Ron, look!" She held out her letter, and Harry and Ron both leaned in to read. "They're inviting us back! We can go back to Hogwarts and redo our seventh year. For those who missed the year due to... you know, the war."

Ron snorted, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Redo seventh year? I thought I'd finally escaped it," he said, but Harry could sense a glimmer of relief in his friend's voice. He knew that, like him, Ron probably felt an odd emptiness, a kind of disorientation after everything they'd been through.

Harry picked up his own letter and read through it, feeling a mix of emotions well up. For weeks, he'd carried around the unresolved tension from that last moment with Voldemort. That final clash had left him physically exhausted, but it was the strange, lingering feeling that bothered him most. Sometimes, he woke up drenched in sweat, unsure if he was Harry or if he'd somehow absorbed a trace of Voldemort himself. But reading this letter felt like an invitation—a chance to escape that shadow, to step back into a world that made sense, if only for a little while.

Mrs. Weasley, catching the glint of Hogwarts' seal from across the room, beamed as she joined them. "Hogwarts! Oh, isn't that lovely? You'll all get a proper seventh year after all."

Harry nodded, though the familiar dread crept in again, mingling with his relief. "Yeah, it sounds good," he murmured, as if trying to convince himself. The war had ended, but he still felt that weight—that flickering, almost spectral presence—and he couldn't help but wonder if a return to Hogwarts might help him finally shake it.

Hermione, ever perceptive, glanced over at him, concern flashing in her eyes. "It'll be good for all of us," she said softly. "A chance to rebuild... to process everything." Her voice held that gentle firmness that always seemed to ground him, and he found himself nodding.

Ron folded up his letter with a grin. "I guess one more year of school isn't so bad. Maybe we'll even get a bit of peace and quiet this time." His grin turned to a chuckle, and it drew a smile from Harry, too. A year at Hogwarts without Voldemort or Horcruxes felt surreal and impossable.

As they sat there, letters in hand, each of them felt a tentative hope. Hogwarts might hold more than studies and exams—it might just hold the healing they all needed.

The day before they were to head back to Hogwarts, Harry and Ron were upstairs in Ron's room at the Burrow, sorting through their trunks and pulling out old robes and spellbooks. Sunlight filtered in through the window, casting warm, golden light over the floor, but Harry's mind was elsewhere. He kept running his fingers along the spine of his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook, feeling the strange pulse of that hidden energy within him.

Harry glanced over at Ron, watching as he tossed a worn set of Gryffindor robes into his trunk. For all the years they'd known each other, fought side by side, Harry knew that if there was one person he could tell this to, it was Ron. No matter how strange or unsettling the feeling was, he trusted Ron completely; his best friend had proven time and again that his loyalty was unwavering.

Harry took a deep breath. "Listen, Ron... there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

Ron looked up, curious. "What's up, mate?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, choosing his words carefully. "Ever since... well, since I killed Voldemort, I've been feeling something. It's hard to explain—like there's this... bit of magic that's not mine. Like there's something still there, you know?"

Ron's expression shifted to concern. "What do you mean? Like a leftover spell or...?"

"I don't know." Harry shrugged, feeling a bit helpless. "It's like this strange energy that doesn't go away. It feels like..." He hesitated, reluctant to say it out loud. "Like it's part of Voldemort."

Ron went pale, swallowing hard. "Voldemort's magic... inside you?"

"Yeah, maybe," Harry admitted quietly. "It's just this... presence I can't shake. And some nights, I think I hear things, almost like whispers."

Harry knew that anyone else might have been horrified, maybe even fearful of him after hearing something like that, but Ron didn't flinch. His eyes widened, yes, but Harry could see him processing it with his usual steady calm. It was moments like this that reminded Harry why he trusted Ron so deeply—his friend didn't judge or overreact, even when things seemed darkest.

Ron gave a reassuring nod. "That's... yeah, that's a bit mad, but you've been through a lot. It could just be—well, you know, aftereffects. War stuff. The things we saw..."

Harry nodded, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, you're probably right. But still, don't say anything to Hermione, okay?"

Ron frowned. "Why not? She'd probably have a million theories about what it could be, and maybe one of them would help."

"Exactly," Harry replied, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "And she'd end up telling everyone in the house, start researching, and suddenly the whole Order would know. I don't want that... not yet, anyway. It's just... personal."

Ron seemed to understand immediately. He nodded, his expression one of serious understanding. "Alright, mate. It's between us." He clapped Harry on the shoulder. "And if that... thing ever feels like it's getting stronger or worse, you'll let me know, yeah?"

Harry felt a surge of gratitude for his friend. Out of everyone, Ron knew him in a way that no one else did, understood his need to keep certain things quiet, even from Hermione. He trusted Ron with this strange burden because he knew Ron would carry it with him, silently, without question. "Yeah, I will. Thanks, Ron."

They resumed packing, the comfortable silence between them a reminder of all they'd been through together. As Harry closed his trunk, though, the flickering feeling in his chest reminded him that Voldemort's shadow hadn't completely faded.