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The first page of Secretum Animae: A Treatise on Soul Magic made Harry's stomach turn.
The soul, in its natural state, exists as a unified whole. To deliberately fracture this unity is to commit an act of violence against the very essence of one's being. The process, known colloquially as a Horcrux, requires first the commission of murder—the supreme act of evil, which tears the soul asunder.
Harry turned the page. The words seemed to writhe on the parchment like living things.
Once the soul is torn, the severed fragment may be bound to a physical object through ritual means (details of which this author refuses to document, for such knowledge serves only the damned). This anchored fragment acts as a tether, preventing true death. Should the body perish, the soul remains bound to the mortal plane, unable to move on.
"That's how he survived." Harry's voice sounded too loud in the silent library. "Halloween night, when the curse rebounded. His body was destroyed, but the soul fragment in the locket kept him alive. Kept him from actually dying."
His scar prickled with dull heat, as if the mention of Voldemort's survival had summoned some distant attention. Harry rubbed at it absently, continuing to read.
The next book, bound in what looked disturbingly like reptilian skin, offered more detail. The Fragmenting of Souls was written in cramped Latin script.
A Horcrux renders its creator neither alive nor dead, but suspended between states. The fragment within the object acts as an anchor, pulling the dispersed soul back toward corporeal existence. However, this protection comes at a cost the foolish rarely anticipate.
The soul, once whole and harmonious, becomes discordant. The torn edges do not heal. The wizard or witch who creates such an abomination will find themselves forever changed—their capacity for love diminished, their humanity eroded, their very essence corrupted beyond redemption.
Harry thought of Voldemort's face. The flat, snake-like features. The red eyes that held no warmth, no recognition of other people as anything more than obstacles or tools. Had he always looked like that, or had the Horcrux twisted him into something less than human?
The third text, De Immortalitate Obscura, was the most explicit about the consequences.
Know this, foolish seeker of eternal life: the price of a Horcrux extends far beyond the initial act of murder. Each day you draw breath with a fractured soul is a day spent in spiritual agony. You will feel the wrongness of your existence like a wound that never heals. Your magic will work, yes, but it will taste of ash. Food will lose its flavor. Joy will become a memory of a memory. You will persist, but you will not live.
And should your body be destroyed while the Horcrux endures, your fate becomes worse still. You will exist as a shade, less than ghost, less than the meanest spirit. You will watch the living world but never touch it. You will hunger for corporeal form but lack the power to reclaim it. You will endure, and endure, and endure, until the Horcrux is destroyed or you find some vessel to rebuild yourself.
"Fourteen years," Harry whispered. "He spent fourteen years like that. As something less than a ghost. And he did it to himself on purpose."
Harry's scar burned again, sharper this time. He hissed through his teeth and pressed his palm against his forehead. The pain faded after a moment, leaving only a dull ache.
Was Voldemort aware someone was reading about Horcruxes? Could he sense it somehow through their connection? The books offered no answers about that particular question.
He flipped back to Secretum Animae, searching for information about destroying Horcruxes. The relevant passage was frustratingly brief.
Note well: destroying a Horcrux will not kill its creator. It merely removes one tether to life. Should the wizard or witch have created only a single Horcrux, upon destroying it, they become mortal once more—capable of true death. Should they have created multiple...
The sentence ended there, unfinished, as if the author couldn't bear to continue the thought.
Harry sat back in his chair. Destroying the locket would make Voldemort mortal again. That's what Regulus's note had meant. "When you meet your match, you will be mortal once more." One Horcrux destroyed, one tether severed, making Voldemort vulnerable to actual death.
But the unfinished sentence nagged at him. Should they have created multiple...
Could someone make more than one Horcrux? Was that even possible? The books treated the creation of a single one as an act of ultimate evil, something that damned the soul forever. What would making multiple do?
Harry looked up at Malysic's portrait. The painted man had been watching him read for hours, expression growing progressively more disturbed.
"You've figured it out, then," Malysic said quietly. "What the Dark Lord did to himself."
"I need to talk to you about it." Harry closed the books carefully, as if they might bite. "What do you know about the Horcuxes?"
Malysic's painted hand moved to his chest, fingers spread as if warding off an attack. "That's not a question I expected from someone your age. That's not a question I wanted to hear at all."
"But you know what they are."
"I know enough to stay away from them." Malysic's voice had gone tight. "I've studied dark magic my entire life, boy. Practiced it. Perfected it. Built the Black family's reputation on knowing curses that would make Ministry officials weep. But Horcruxes?" He shook his head sharply. "Even I'm not that foolish."
Harry leaned forward in his chair. "Why? You've got shelves full of texts on blood curses and soul manipulation. What makes Horcruxes different?"
"Because there are lines, Potter. Lines that separate the ambitious from the damned." Malysic's painted eyes were hard. "Dark magic is about control. Power over others, over circumstances, over death itself in some cases. But a Horcrux isn't control. It's surrender. You're not conquering death. You're running from it like a coward, and you pay for that cowardice with everything that makes you human."
"Tom Riddle made one," Harry said flatly. "He split his soul and anchored a piece of it to a locket. The same locket Kreacher tried to destroy for years. The same locket that's currently sitting at the Ministry."
Malysic stared at him for a long moment. "And you're sitting here talking to me about it? Why aren't you retrieving it? If the Dark Lord has a Horcrux loose in the Ministry..."
"It's with a toad woman," Harry said. "I have to wait."
Malysic's painted brow furrowed in confusion. "Toad?"
"Dolores Umbridge. She bought it from Mundungus Fletcher for five hundred Galleons, thinking it was just a pure-blood heirloom. It's in her office right now." Harry's jaw tightened. "The Minister wants to meet with me soon. I'll get it back then. But I need to understand what I'm dealing with first. Do you know how to destroy a Horcrux?"
"No." The answer came immediately. "I never studied them that closely. Never wanted to. The texts I did read mentioned it required something capable of damaging the soul itself, not just the object. Fiendfyre, perhaps. Magic that goes beyond mere physical destruction."
"The books said the same thing." Harry rubbed his scar, which had started aching again. "But they weren't specific."
"Because the kind of wizards who write about Horcruxes aren't the kind who care about destroying them," Malysic said. "They're interested in creation, not elimination. You'll need to find different sources. Older sources, probably. Pre-Ministry texts from when such knowledge was more openly discussed."
Harry nodded slowly, filing that away. Then he asked the question that had been burning in his mind since reading the unfinished sentence. "Can someone make more than one?"
Malysic's face in the portrait went absolutely white. Not pale. White, as if all the paint had drained away. "Sweet Merlin. You think he..."
"Can it be done?"
"Yes." The word came out as barely more than a whisper. "Creating one Horcrux is beyond foul, Potter. It's an abomination. But making more than one? Making multiple?" Malysic's painted hand trembled. "Their soul is doomed for eternity. Damned in ways that make hell look merciful."
"But it's possible."
"Possible, yes. But catastrophically stupid." Malysic seemed to be recovering from his shock, voice gaining strength. "Splitting your soul once does tremendous damage. Your magic becomes tainted. Your emotions warp. But splitting it again? And again? Each fracture compounds the damage exponentially. You stop being a wizard. You stop being human. You become something else entirely. Something broken and hollow and mad."
Harry thought of Voldemort's red eyes. His snake-like face. The complete absence of anything resembling normal human emotion. "How many times could someone split their soul before..."
"Before what? Before they die? Before they go completely insane?" Malysic laughed bitterly. "There's no limit except the wizard's own endurance. But Tom Riddle, or Voldemort, whatever he calls himself now, must be very foolish and very naive to attempt even one Horcrux, let alone consider multiple."
"The books didn't explain why they're considered the darkest form of magic," Harry said. "Just that they are. They didn't include instructions for creating one, either."
Malysic's eyes narrowed. "Are you planning to make one yourself? To give yourself an edge against the Dark Lord?"
Harry's hands clenched on the arms of his chair. "I would never make one," he said, and his voice came out hot with fury. "Never. I will always be Harry. I will always remain whole. I'm not interested in living forever if it means losing everything that makes me who I am."
The portrait studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. I had to ask. Some wizards hear about immortality and lose all sense of reason." Malysic settled back in his painted chair. "You want to know why they're called the darkest magic? I'll tell you, though the knowledge won't bring you any comfort."
"I'm listening."
"The word Horcrux comes from a very old phrase. Ancient magic, older than Latin, older than most recorded wizard history. It translates roughly as 'Shaking Hands with the Devil.' Because that's what you're doing when you create one. You're making a bargain with forces that should never be touched."
Harry's scar throbbed. "What kind of bargain?"
"Upon making a Horcrux, the wizard or witch experiences extreme pain. Not just physical pain, though there's plenty of that. Soul pain. The agony of your very essence being torn apart." Malysic's voice had gone soft, almost reverent in its horror. "But that's a small price compared to what comes after. They call it being Born Again."
"What does that mean?"
"I won't explain the details. I don't know all of them, and what I do know would give you nightmares for years." Malysic's painted face looked older suddenly, worn. "But I'll say this. Tom Riddle must truly fear death, must be absolutely terrified of it, to be willing to undergo such a process. Because being Born Again isn't about resurrection. It's about remaking yourself into something that was never meant to exist."
Harry absorbed this, piecing it together with what he'd read. "And if he made multiple Horcruxes..."
"Then whatever body he's created for himself now is in constant pain," Malysic finished. "Every moment of every day. The fragmented soul tears at itself, trying to reunite but unable to because the pieces are scattered across different vessels. All the Dulling Pain potions in the world cannot make that pain go away. It's soul-deep. Permanent. The price of his precious immortality."
A cold satisfaction settled in Harry's chest. "Good. I'm glad he's suffering."
"That's a dark thought for a sixteen-year-old boy."
"He murdered my parents. He killed Sirius. He's killed countless others and will kill countless more if he's not stopped." Harry met Malysic's painted gaze steadily. "If he's in constant agony because of what he did to himself, then that's justice. Poetic justice, even. He chose this. He chose to tear himself apart rather than face death like every other wizard in history."
"True enough," Malysic agreed. "Though I notice you're not celebrating."
"There's a difference between being glad someone's suffering and taking pleasure in it," Harry said quietly. "I'm not going to torture him when I finally face him. I'm not going to make his death slow and painful just because I can. But knowing that he's already suffering? That his own fear and foolishness created a prison for himself? Yes, I'm satisfied with that."
Malysic nodded slowly. "You're walking a dangerous line, Potter. Embracing dark knowledge, using harsh methods, finding satisfaction in your enemy's pain. But you're still asking the right questions. Still drawing the right boundaries. As long as you remember those boundaries exist, you might survive this war with your soul intact."
"Unlike Voldemort."
"Unlike Voldemort," Malysic agreed. "Who has no soul left to speak of. Just fragments scattered across objects, keeping a monster alive long past his natural span."
Harry stood, pacing to the window. "I need that locket. Need to destroy it. Need to make him mortal again so that when I finally face him, I can actually kill him."
"And if he made more than one? If there are other Horcruxes out there?"
"Then I'll find them." The mirror in the library for a moment reflected Harry, and beside him stood his parents, and Sirius, but they were gone within a blink. "And I'll destroy every single one. However long it takes. Whatever it costs. Because this ends with Voldemort dead, not just defeated. Actually, permanently, finally dead."
"That's a heavy burden for one wizard."
"I know." Harry turned back to face the portrait. "But someone has to do it. Might as well be me."
Harry heard the wards shiver before he heard the voices. He was halfway down the stairs when Tonks's bright laughter echoed through the entrance hall, followed by a familiar voice that made him stop short.
"I still think you should have warned him I was coming."
"And ruin the surprise? Where's the fun in that?"
Harry reached the ground floor to find Tonks holding the door open for Hermione, who was stepping through.
"Harry!" Hermione's face lit up when she saw him, and she rushed forward to wrap him in a tight hug.
Harry returned it with love, feeling her bushy hair against his face, and he had to admit, he had missed her smell. "Hermione. What are you doing here?"
"I missed you," she said simply, pulling back to look at him. Her eyes looking at his face strangely, mainly at his eyes, but Harry noticed her eyes looking at his lips for a moment. "You look different. Have you been eating properly?"
"Kreacher's been feeding me." Harry glanced toward the kitchen doorway where the house-elf had appeared, drawn by the sound of visitors. Kreacher's expression when he saw Hermione was one of disgust, his mouth opening to say something undoubtedly vile.
Harry gave him a look. Just a look, but it was enough. Kreacher's mouth snapped shut with an audible click, and he shuffled away without a word, disappearing back into the kitchen.
"He seems... better," Hermione said weakly.
"He's complicated." Harry moved toward the sitting room, gesturing for them to follow. "You didn't answer my question. Why are you here?"
"I heard you were living here alone. I wanted to see you." Hermione's voice gained an edge of concern. "Harry, why are you staying here? In this place? It's so dark and isolated and... and it's where Sirius..."
"It's my house now," Harry said, settling into one of the ancient armchairs. "And I didn't want to stay with the Dursleys anymore."
"You could have gone to the Burrow," Hermione said immediately. "Mrs. Weasley would have been happy to have you. You'd have Ron and Ginny there, and it's so much more... alive than this place."
"The Burrow doesn't have the books I need." Harry said. "And the Weasleys would report everything I did to Dumbledore. Every spell I practiced, every book I read, every word I said. I need to train without someone watching over my shoulder and deciding what knowledge is appropriate for me."
Hermione's expression shifted, recognizing the anger beneath his calm tone. "You're still furious with him."
"Yes."
"Harry..."
"Are you here to convince me to go to the Burrow?" Harry asked, meeting her eyes directly. "Because if you are, you can save your breath. I'm not going."
Hermione was quiet for a moment, then shook her head. "No. I mean, I think the Burrow would be better for you, safer and less lonely, but I'm not going to try to change your mind. You're sixteen, not six. You can make your own choices about where you live."
Harry was glad to hear that. "Thank you."
"I heard you captured Mundungus yesterday," Hermione said, changing the subject. "Nymphadora mentioned it when I asked if she could bring me here. It took quite a bit of convincing, actually."
"My name is Tonks," the Auror interjected from where she'd been leaning against the doorframe. "Not Nymphadora. How many times do I have to tell people that?"
"Sorry," Hermione said, not sounding particularly sorry. "Tonks. She said you had him restrained in the entrance hall overnight."
"He was stealing from the house," Harry said. "From Sirius. I caught him and held him until Tonks could take him into custody."
"She also said you used chains that tightened when he struggled and burned when he lied."
Harry's face didn't change. "Yes."
Hermione studied him for a long moment but didn't comment on the methods. "What did he steal?"
"Silver, jewelry, books. Sold most of it to Borgin and Burkes or private collectors." Harry stood abruptly. "Come on. I'll show you the library. That's probably what you're really interested in anyway."
Hermione's face lit up like a firecracker. "You have access to the Black family library? Harry, do you have any idea how rare those collections are? Most old pure-blood families destroyed their libraries during the first war to avoid Ministry seizure of dark texts."
"This family kept everything," Harry said, leading them up the stairs. "Including things that probably should have been destroyed."
The library door recognized him and swung open smoothly. Hermione stepped through and stopped dead, her eyes going wide as she took in the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
"Oh my god," she breathed. "Harry, this is incredible."
"It's dangerous," Harry corrected. "Half these books could kill you if you read them wrong. Some of them are actively malicious."
"But the knowledge..." Hermione was already moving toward the nearest shelf, fingers hovering over the spines without quite touching. "This is centuries of magical research. Techniques the Ministry banned or forgot. Historical accounts from before the Statute of Secrecy. Harry, do you realize what you have here?"
"I'm starting to." Harry watched her with something like amusement. This was pure Hermione, getting excited about books even in a house full of dark magic and bad memories.
"Well, well." Malysic's voice drew their attention to the portrait. The painted man was studying Hermione with open surprise. "A Muggleborn in the House of Black. I never thought I'd see the day."
Hermione turned to face him, her expression guarded. "You're Malysic Black. I saw your portrait listed in 'Noble Houses of Britain.' You were known for your work in curse-breaking and dark enchantments."
"Impressive memory," Malysic said. "You are a talented witch."
"Witch?" Hermione said slowly.
"That's what you are, is it not?"
Hermione looked surprised and gave Harry a look before looking back at the portrait. She had not expected this. "I thought you would be insulted to see me here. The family motto is 'Toujours Pur,' after all. Always Pure."
"A motto I always found rather stupid," Malysic said with a dismissive wave. "You have magic. That's all that matters to me. Whether your parents were wizards or accountants or fishmongers makes no difference to the power in your blood."
Hermione blinked. "That's... not what I expected to hear."
"There will always be people who hate those who are different," Malysic acknowledged. "It's human nature, or wizard nature, to fear what we don't understand and attack what we fear. But tell me something, Miss...?"
"Granger. Hermione Granger."
"Tell me, Miss Granger, do you know your magical history?" Malysic leaned forward in his frame. "Six centuries ago, there were nine pure-blood families who shared the same obsession with blood purity that you see in families like the Malfoys today. The Ravenbloods, the Thornhills, the Ashcrofts, and six others whose names barely survive in the oldest records."
Hermione shook her head. "I've never heard of them."
"Of course you haven't. They decided they were too pure, too superior, to live among wizards who'd sullied themselves by breeding with Muggles. So they packed up their entire families and moved to an isolated valley in Scotland. Built their own community. Raised their own wards. Refused to allow Muggleborns or half-bloods anywhere near them." Malysic's painted eyes glinted. "They were going to preserve pure magical bloodlines forever. Show the rest of the wizarding world how proper pure-bloods should live."
"What happened to them?" Hermione asked, though Harry could see she was already working out the answer.
"Do you know what's left of those nine families now, Miss Granger?" Malysic's voice went soft, almost sad. "Disfigured bones. Ruined houses. Wards still protecting empty estates that will never be filled with joy ever again. The Ministry sent investigators when the last magical signature from that valley flickered out about three centuries ago. They found children born with twisted spines and minds that never developed past infancy. Found evidence of madness, of families turning on each other as the inbreeding drove them insane. The last survivors were so magically weak they could barely light their wands."
Hermione had gone pale. "They all died?"
"Every single one. Wiped themselves out of existence because they were too proud and too stupid to accept that magical blood needs fresh genetics to survive." Malysic leaned back in his frame. "Now, what happens when a population occasionally receives an influx of new blood? Fresh magical genetics from outside the breeding pool?"
"The population stabilizes. Genetic diversity increases. The risk of inherited defects decreases." Hermione's eyes widened as she put it together. "Muggleborns."
"Muggleborns saved the wizarding world," Malysic said simply. "Oh, pure-bloods like to pretend otherwise. Like to claim that Muggleborns dilute magical power or corrupt pure bloodlines. But the truth is that without wizards breeding with Muggles over the centuries, without that constant influx of new magical genetics, the wizarding population would have collapsed into inbred madness centuries ago. We'd all be disfigured bones in ruined houses, just like those nine families."
"Then why do so many pure-bloods hate Muggleborns?" Hermione asked.
"Because they want to feel better about their own miserable lives," Malysic said bluntly. "It's easier to claim superiority based on an accident of birth than to actually achieve something worth being proud of. Easier to blame Muggleborns for their problems than to admit their own families are dying out because they're too stupid to adapt."
Hermione stared at the portrait, then turned to Harry. "He's not what I expected."
"Neither is this house," Harry said. "It's full of dark magic and darker history, but it's also full of knowledge. Real knowledge, not the sanitized version they teach at Hogwarts. That's why I'm here. That's why I need to stay."
Tonks, who'd been quiet during the exchange, finally spoke up from the doorway. "As touching as this is, we should probably discuss why I actually brought Hermione here. It wasn't just for a social call."
Harry turned to face her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. But the Minister wants to meet with you. Soon. Possibly today." Tonks crossed her arms. "I figured you'd want some time to prepare, and Hermione's better at helping you organize your thoughts than I am."
"The Minister wants to see me about the locket?" Harry asked.
"Partly. But there's more to it." Tonks's expression was serious. "You're expected to attend a Wizengamot gathering. They want your testimony."
Hermione looked between them, confused. "Testimony about what?"
"About the Death Eaters captured at the Ministry," Harry said slowly, understanding dawning. "The ones I said deserved execution."
"Wait, what?" Hermione's voice went sharp. "Harry, you didn't actually..."
"I told Scrimgeour that putting them in Azkaban was pointless. That they'd either escape or be freed when Voldemort attacks the prison. I said they deserved the penalty of death for what they'd done." Harry met her gaze steadily. "And now the Minister wants me to say it in front of the Wizengamot. To testify in favor of executing nine Death Eaters."
Hermione's face had gone pale. "Harry, that's... you're talking about killing people."
"I'm talking about executing murderers and terrorists," Harry corrected. "People who tortured and killed for pleasure. People who would do it again the moment they were free. Yes, Hermione. I'm talking about killing them."
The library was silent except for the distant ticking of a clock somewhere in the house. Hermione looked like she wanted to argue but couldn't find the words. Malysic watched the exchange with obvious interest. Tonks just looked tired.
"When?" Harry asked finally, turning back to Tonks.
"Probably within a few hours." Tonks pushed off from the doorframe. "Scrimgeour wants to move fast before public opinion shifts or Dumbledore starts lobbying against it. He sees this as an opportunity to show strength against Death Eaters, and he wants you there as his symbol."
"His weapon, you mean."
"That too." Tonks didn't sugarcoat it. "You're the Boy Who Lived. The one who fought them in the Department of Mysteries. Your testimony carries weight that no one else's does. If you stand up in front of the Wizengamot and say these Death Eaters deserve to die, a lot of undecided members will follow your lead."
Harry thought about Bellatrix Lestrange, laughing as she tortured people. About the Death Eater who'd tried to use the Cruciatus Curse on him. About Lucius Malfoy and his casual cruelty. "Good. Because they do deserve it."
"Harry," Hermione said quietly. "Can we talk about this? Please?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"There's everything to talk about!" Her voice rose slightly. "You're sixteen years old and you're about to influence the Wizengamot to execute nine people. That's not something you should decide without thinking it through carefully."
"I have thought it through," Harry said. "I've thought about nothing else since Sirius died. Since I watched Voldemort possess me and tried to make me kill Dumbledore. These people are soldiers in a war, Hermione. They've chosen their side, and their side involves murdering anyone who disagrees with them."
"But execution..."
"Is what they'd do to us without hesitation," Harry finished. "I'm not interested in being noble if it means more innocent people die. I'm interested in winning. In surviving. In making sure that when this war is over, the people I care about are still alive."
"And you think this is the right choice?"
"I think it's the necessary choice." Harry said. "I'll attend the Wizengamot session. I'll give my testimony. And if they decide to execute those Death Eaters, I'll sleep fine knowing I helped make that decision."
"I'll give you two some privacy. Harry, I'll send word via the mirror when I know more about timing. Be ready to move quickly." Tonks said with a clear of her throat.
She left, footsteps fading down the stairs. Harry and Hermione stood in silence for a long moment.
"I'm worried about you," Hermione said finally.
"I know."
"Not about the Death Eaters. They deserve what's coming to them." She looked down at her hands. "But living alone in this dark house, isolating yourself from everyone who cares about you... Harry, you don't have to do this by yourself."
"I'm not doing it by myself. You're here. Tonks is helping me." Harry moved closer to where she stood by the bookshelves. "I'm not alone, Hermione. I'm just... focused."
"Focused on dark magic and political deals and revenge." Hermione looked up at him. Harry was surprised to see her eyes were foggy and her cheeks were red like blood. "I understand why you're angry. I understand wanting to make them pay for what they did to Sirius. But I don't want you to lose yourself in this. I don't want the war to take away everything that makes you... you."
Harry stepped closer to her. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I care about you." Hermione's cheeks flushed slightly. "More than I probably should. And I'm saying that if you need someone to help carry this burden, I'm here. You don't have to shut everyone out just because Dumbledore failed you."
Hermione had always been there. Always supported him, even when she disagreed with his methods. And now she was offering something more than just friendship.
"I'm not shutting you out," he said quietly. "You're here, aren't you?"
"I'm here because I convinced Tonks to bring me. Not because you asked me to come." Hermione took a small step closer. "Promise me something, Harry. Promise me that you'll let me help you. That you won't disappear into this house and forget that there are people who want you to survive this war for reasons beyond prophecies and politics."
Harry looked at her hand, still resting on his arm, then at her worried face.
"I promise," he said. "I'll try not to lose myself. And I'll... I'll let you help me. If you really want to."
"I do." Hermione's smile was small but genuine. "Now show me these books you're studying. If you're going to dive into dark magic, at least let me make sure you're doing it safely. And maybe I can help with your research. Two minds are better than one."
Harry smiled. That was the Hermione he loved so much.
"All right," he said. "But you're not going to like what I've been reading about."
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