Memories of the Heart || Harry Potter x Reader

Y7 ~ The Locket

The Barn

The shrieking wind outside is deafening, nearly a roar, as the quartet stumbles into the barn, each of them gasping for breath. Harry is the last to enter, and with a desperate shove, he slams the heavy wooden doors shut behind him. The resounding thud echoes through the space, momentarily silencing the chaos outside.

Inside, the barn is suffocatingly still. Dust floats in thick, slow-moving clouds, disturbed by their entrance, and the air is stale, tinged with the earthy scent of hay long since rotted. The structure leans slightly, exhausted from years of neglect, its warped wooden beams groaning under the strain of time. Above them, the skeletal remains of a hayloft jut out like broken ribs, casting jagged shadows in the dim light.

Then—light. Harsh, fractured beams slice through the slats of the rotting timber, illuminating their faces in stark flashes. Through the gaps, figures dart across the sky—dark silhouettes against the sharp blue. Death Eaters. Their forms blur and streak past, like vultures circling, searching. The air hums with residual magic, an unsettling vibration that stirs the barn's other inhabitants. High above, bats shift in restless unease, their wings fluttering in frantic waves before they take flight, adding to the cacophony with their shrill cries.

Gradually, the sounds of pursuit recede into the distance. The wind howls beyond the barn, rattling its fragile walls, but inside, the world seems to still. The bats settle again, their restless energy fading, leaving only the sharp, uneven breaths of the four figures pressed against the wooden interior.

Y/N is the first to sink to the ground, her legs giving out beneath her. She collapses onto the dirt-streaked floor, her back pressed against the rough, splintered wood. Her breathing is ragged, her chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as she struggles to steady herself. Beside her, Ron slumps down, his face pale beneath layers of grime, his injured arm clutched protectively to his chest. Across from them, Harry and Hermione remain standing for a moment longer, exchanging a silent glance before lowering themselves to the floor as well. Hermione leans into Harry, her fingers brushing against his sleeve in a small, unconscious gesture of comfort.

Y/N notices.

Her gaze lingers on the touch for too long, her fingers curling involuntarily into the fabric of her cloak. But the moment passes, and she forces herself to look away, down at the object that has become both her burden and her secret.

The locket rests against her chest, its weight unnatural, its metal impossibly cold. Even after hours of wearing it, it never warms. It never belongs to her body, always something other, something wrong. But worse than the physical weight is the sound—the relentless, rhythmic ticking. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. A heartbeat. A pulse that does not belong to her, but one that drowns out everything else.

The others don't notice how her fingers tighten around the pendant, how she strokes it absentmindedly, as if soothing a restless beast. They don't see the way her shoulders stiffen, the way her jaw clenches ever so slightly when Harry shifts closer to Hermione. They believe she is fine—believe she is the best choice to bear the locket's burden.

Harry's notes confirm it.

He had carefully compared the documented effects of the locket on each of them, analyzing their behavior while under its influence. The notes were clear: Ron lashed out, his temper flaring at the slightest provocation. Hermione grew withdrawn, her frustration surfacing in sharp, clipped words. Harry himself became restless, plagued by doubt and simmering fury.

But Y/N? Y/N remains the same.

Her words don't sharpen. Her actions don't change. She does not lash out, does not break. Compared to the others, she is steady. She is the ideal choice. Or so they believe.