Harry gasped, his body jerking upright in his four-poster bed as if he had been physically thrown back into reality. His chest heaved, sweat trickling down his temple, but his hands were still reaching out into the empty air, grasping for a hand that was no longer there.
"Sharmel!" he choked out, the name tearing from his throat.
The Gryffindor dormitory was silent, save for the soft snoring of Seamus and Dean. The mountains of flowers and the warm breeze were gone, replaced by the heavy, suffocating darkness of the castle. Harry looked at his palms. He could still feel the phantom warmth of her tears and the desperate grip of her hands.
"Harry?" A groggy voice came from the next bed. Ron rubbed his eyes, sitting up. "Mate, are you alright? You were shouting."
Harry dropped his hands, clenching them into fists on his duvet. The message echoed in his mind, louder than his own heartbeat. The answer lies within me. Don’t hesitate. A cold dread settled in his stomach—a heaviness that felt permanent.
"I saw her, Ron," Harry whispered, his voice trembling not with fear, but with a terrifying resolve. "I know where she is... or rather, I know what I have to do. But she said..." He stopped, swallowing the lump in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to say the part about hurting her. "She said she’s running out of time."
Miles away, in a place stripped of all warmth and light, Sharmel’s eyes snapped open.
There were no flowers here. Only the damp, freezing stone of a cellar floor and the smell of mold and old magic. The warmth of Harry’s hug lingered on her skin for a fleeting second before the agonizing burning of the curse returned, searing through her veins like liquid fire.
She tried to hold onto the image of Harry’s face—his determined green eyes, his promise—but it was like trying to hold onto smoke in a hurricane.
The heavy iron door creaked open, spilling harsh, artificial light into the room. A tall, pale figure stepped inside, followed by the soft rustle of robes. Voldemort looked down at her, not with anger, but with a chilling satisfaction.
"You were dreaming, child," Voldemort said, his voice a high, cold whisper. "I could feel your resistance wavering. The final wall is crumbling."
Sharmel tried to glare at him, to spit out a defiance, but her body betrayed her. Her limbs felt heavy, foreign, as if they were being rewired by invisible strings. The "self" she had promised Harry would remain was being pushed into a tiny corner of her mind.
"I... I won't..." she rasped, but her voice sounded mechanical, devoid of the emotion she had just shared with her chosen brother.
"You will," Voldemort corrected smoothly. He raised his wand, the tip glowing with a sickly green light. "The vessel is almost ready. You said your goodbyes?"
A single tear escaped Sharmel’s eye—the last remnant of her true self. She remembered her own words to Harry: The answer lies within me. She closed her eyes, forcing the memory of that secret deep down into her core, burying it beneath layers of mental shields where even Voldemort couldn't find it easily. It was a trap, a fail-safe she had planted for Harry to find.
"Yes," Sharmel whispered, but as she opened her eyes again, the warmth was gone. Her expression went blank, her posture stiffening. The fear vanished, replaced by a cold, empty obedience.
"Good," Voldemort smiled, a terrifying, slit-like expression. "Then let us begin. Harry Potter will come for you... and he will find exactly what I want him to find."
