Memories of the Heart || Harry Potter x Reader

Y7 ~ Midnight Packing

The room is dim, the ceiling swallowed in darkness, save for the moonlight that trickles through a narrow window, casting a pale glow over the chaos within. Shadows stretch and coil around the clutter—robes draped over chairs, old textbooks stacked precariously, a collection of Chudley Cannons posters peeling at the edges. The space hums with familiarity, carrying the remnants of whispered conversations and laughter from years before. It smells faintly of parchment, broom polish, and something distinctly Ron.

Ron, Harry, and Y/N are tucked away in the small bedroom, the night stretching long and restless. Y/N had chosen to stay here rather than share Ginny's room with Hermione—there was too much distance already, too many moments lost to separation. Being near Harry, feeling his warmth, was something she couldn't bear to give up, not when everything else felt so uncertain.

They lay tangled on the narrow bed, Y/N's arms wrapped tightly around Harry's torso as though anchoring him to her. Harry's own grip is firm yet gentle, an unconscious need to protect, even in sleep. Across the room, Ron sprawls across his bed, snoring thunderously, utterly unaware of the quiet turmoil unraveling just feet away.

Harry stirs first. His breath hitches, his brow twitching as his dreams twist into something darker. Shadows flicker across his face, the creases of tension deepening as his nightmare takes hold. Y/N, pressed against him, shifts uneasily, her fingers twitching against his side. Then—sharp pain.

Both their lightning bolt scars ignite at once. A searing, electric jolt courses through them, drawing simultaneous grimaces. Y/N inhales sharply, fingers clutching at Harry's shirt. Harry clenches his jaw, his body rigid.

And elsewhere, miles away, in a damp and rotting cellar, a nightmare unfolds in real-time.

At the base of a splintered staircase, the Malfoy Manor dungeon festers in decay. The air is thick with damp, carrying the scent of mold and despair. The stone walls are slick with moisture, a single torch flickering weakly in its bracket. Among the filth and forgotten bones, Ollivander slumps against the cold wall, his breath coming in rattling gasps. His once-keen eyes are sunken, clouded with exhaustion, his frail hands trembling as he clutches his chest.

Wormtail, hunched and quivering, props him up, his rat-like features twisted with unease. Above them, at the top of the staircase, stands a silhouette bathed in flickering torchlight—a monstrous figure cloaked in shadow.

"You lied to me, Ollivander," Voldemort hisses, his voice slithering through the cellar like a blade against stone.

The old wandmaker flinches, his fingers curling against his threadbare robes. "No! No! I—I only believed—believed that another wand could work! I was wrong, my Lord, but I did not mean to deceive you!" His voice trembles, thin and reedy, like old parchment crumbling at the edges.

Voldemort descends a step, the click of his footfall echoing in the suffocating silence. He lifts his long, skeletal fingers, and in them, Lucius Malfoy's shattered wand gleams in the firelight. The broken pieces dangle between his fingers like the remains of a slaughtered creature.

"Then explain this." His tone is deceptively soft, yet laced with venom.

Ollivander stares at the ruined wand, his breath hitching. "It—it makes no sense..." he whispers, voice barely audible. Panic flashes in his sunken eyes.

Voldemort tilts his head, his lips curving into something resembling amusement—but there is nothing warm in the gesture. "Perhaps our dear wandmaker is not as loyal as he claims," he muses, turning his head slightly toward Wormtail, who visibly shrinks.

"No!" Ollivander gasps, scrambling forward, his brittle bones creaking with the effort. "There must be a way! I—I will think of something else! I just need time!"