The Tenth Weasley - CH - 45

The sunlight filtered through the curtains of Harry's room in the Weasley Manor, casting a warm glow over the neatly organized shelves and his school trunk tucked in the corner. Harry stirred awake, stretching out on his comfortable bed, and sighed contentedly. Even though Hogwarts had become a second home, there was something about sleeping in his own room that he had missed.

He glanced at the clock on his bedside table and realized he'd slept in later than usual. A rare occurrence, but after everything that had happened at Hogwarts, he supposed he deserved the extra rest.

"Morning, Harry!" Molly's cheerful voice greeted him the moment he stepped into the kitchen. The smell of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon wafted through the air, and the kitchen was bustling with activity.

Arthur looked up from the table, smiling broadly. "There’s our hero! How are you feeling, son?" he asked, his tone overly gentle.

Harry blinked, confused. "I’m fine, Dad," he replied, taking a seat. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

Molly swooped down with a plate piled high with food and set it in front of him. "Eat up, dear. You need your strength," she said, brushing his hair affectionately. She lingered, patting his shoulder as if to reassure herself that he was really there.

As Harry ate, he couldn’t shake the odd feeling in the room. His parents were hovering—more so than usual. Molly kept refilling his plate, and Arthur was watching him like he was about to break at any moment. None of his siblings seemed to notice anything strange, though. Ron was chatting animatedly about the upcoming summer plans, Fred and George were plotting their next prank, and Ginny was reading a book in the corner.

It was just his parents. They were acting...off.

After breakfast, Harry decided to escape the strange atmosphere and headed outside. But as soon as he reached for the door, Molly was there.

"Where are you off to, Harry?" she asked, her voice a little too bright.

"Just outside," Harry said, raising an eyebrow. "Is that okay?"

Molly hesitated before nodding. "Of course, dear. But don’t go too far. And wear a jacket—it might get chilly."

Harry sighed, pulling on his jacket and stepping outside. The fresh air was a welcome relief from the stifling concern indoors. He wandered through the garden, his mind racing.

By lunchtime, the suffocation was impossible to ignore. Molly insisted on sitting next to him, constantly fussing over whether he had enough to eat. Arthur joined in, asking Harry about Hogwarts in a way that felt more probing than usual.

"Is everything okay?" Harry finally asked, unable to take it any longer. "You’re both acting...weird."

Molly’s hands froze mid-air, and she exchanged a quick glance with Arthur. "We’re just...happy to have you home," she said with a forced smile. "That’s all, dear."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Really? Because it feels like you’re waiting for me to break or something. Did something happen?"

Arthur cleared his throat, standing up and pacing the room. "Nothing happened, Harry," he said quickly. "We’re just...concerned about you. After everything at Hogwarts, we want to make sure you’re okay."

Harry leaned back, crossing his arms. "I’m fine. I promise. You don’t have to keep hovering."

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, but the tension remained. Harry could feel his parents’ eyes on him no matter where he went. It was suffocating, but he decided to let it slide—for now. Whatever they were planning, they clearly weren’t ready to talk about it yet.

The Weasley Manor was livelier than usual, but not in the way Harry liked. The Potters had begun visiting frequently, turning what used to be a peaceful home into a bustling hub of awkward tension. James, Lily, and Charlie seemed to make themselves at home, their presence lingering almost every day.

At first, Harry thought it was just a temporary thing—a casual effort to mend bridges after the housewarming party’s dramatic revelations. But as the days stretched on, he noticed something strange. Arthur and Molly, who were always welcoming but cautious around the Potters, now seemed almost conspiratorial with them. Their usual cheerful and relaxed demeanor had shifted into something more deliberate. They’d huddle together in whispers whenever they thought the children weren’t paying attention.

Harry couldn’t help but feel a gnawing unease. He leaned over the kitchen counter one morning as Ginny and Rose sat on either side of him, both vying for his attention.

“Harry,” Rose said sweetly, sliding a plate of toast toward him. “I was thinking we could spend some time outside by the orchard today. Maybe fly around a bit?”

Ginny, not to be outdone, quickly interjected. “He doesn’t want to fly in this heat, Rose. Harry, remember you said you wanted to see the new flowers in the garden with me?”

Harry blinked at both of them, caught off guard by their sudden competition. “Uh, I don’t remember saying that,” he mumbled, trying to avoid their expectant gazes.

Ginny narrowed her eyes at Rose. “Well, he’d enjoy it more than being dragged around on a broom in this weather.”

Before Rose could retort, Harry stood up abruptly. “I, uh, just remembered I left something in my room,” he lied, making a quick exit.

As he hurried down the hallway, Charlie appeared from around the corner.

“Harry! Hey, wait up!” Charlie called, jogging to catch up with him. “I thought we could go over some Quidditch strategies together. You know, get you ready for next season at Hogwarts.”

Harry sighed inwardly. “I’ll think about it, Charlie. Right now, I need to grab a book from my room.”

Charlie looked disappointed but nodded. “Sure, but let me know. I’m always around.”

Finally, Harry reached the sanctuary of his room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He flopped onto his bed, rubbing his temples. Everyone was acting strange. His parents were fussing over him constantly, Ginny and Rose were locked in a battle for his attention, and now Charlie had started shadowing him like a lost puppy. It was suffocating.

Later that day, he decided to retreat to the one place he knew he wouldn’t be followed—the Weasley caves. The network of tunnels he’d helped build over the years had become his personal refuge. In the cool, quiet chambers, he could focus on his studies and projects without the prying eyes of his family or the Potters.

As he entered his private chamber deep within the caves, Harry lit the enchanted lanterns along the walls with a flick of his wand. The soft glow illuminated his worktable, which was scattered with books, runic diagrams, and notes on advanced magical theory. He let out a sigh of relief as the silence wrapped around him.

“I don’t know what’s going on up there,” he muttered to himself, flipping open one of his books on warding. “But whatever it is, it’s exhausting.”

He spent the next few hours pouring over texts and experimenting with small spells, losing himself in the familiar rhythm of his studies. Yet, in the back of his mind, the nagging feeling persisted. Whatever his parents and the Potters were plotting, he was sure it involved him—and he didn’t like the sound of it.

Molly Weasley’s voice echoed through the Weasley Manor, trembling with both anger and sorrow. Harry had been sitting at the dining table, quietly working on some notes, when he heard her shriek.

“Harry James Weasley!” Molly’s voice thundered, and the sound of her hurried footsteps followed.

Harry’s stomach dropped. His middle name was only used when things were about to get serious. He turned just in time to see his mother storming into the room, clutching a pile of books he instantly recognized—Professor Quirrell’s books.

“I found these in your trunk!” Molly cried, slamming the books down on the table. “Do you have any idea what these are, young man?”

Arthur Weasley entered the room, his face a mix of confusion and worry. “What’s going on, Molly?” he asked, his eyes falling on the books. As he picked one up, his expression turned grim. “Dark arts…” he muttered, his voice heavy with disapproval.

Harry stood up, his heart pounding. “Mum, you went through my things?” he asked, trying to deflect the attention.

“Don’t you dare change the subject!” Molly shouted, her eyes red and watery. “Where did you get these? Why do you have dark arts books in this house?”

“I—” Harry hesitated. He couldn’t exactly tell them the truth. “They were…given to me.”

“Given to you? By whom?” Arthur asked, his voice sterner now.

Harry clenched his fists, unsure of what to say. “It doesn’t matter. They’re just books.”

“Just books?” Molly’s voice cracked. “These aren’t harmless little bedtime stories, Harry! These are dangerous! They teach spells—spells meant to harm, to corrupt! Do you have any idea what these could do to you?”

Arthur nodded grimly. “The dark arts are seductive, Harry. They promise power but at a great cost. You don’t understand the danger you’re playing with.”

“I’m not playing with anything!” Harry snapped, his temper flaring. “I’m not using them for anything bad. They’re just for knowledge.”

“Knowledge?” Molly looked aghast. “Do you hear yourself? The dark arts destroy people! They corrupt even the strongest wizards. You’re just a boy, Harry! You can’t possibly understand the consequences!”

Before Harry could respond, the fireplace flared, and out stepped James and Lily Potter, followed by Sirius Black.

“We came as soon as we got your call,” James said, looking around. His eyes fell on the books, and his face darkened. “What’s this about dark arts?”

“It seems Harry has been keeping some questionable reading material,” Arthur said, his tone clipped. “We thought it best to involve you, given the circumstances.”

Lily stepped forward, her face pale. “Harry, where did you get these books?” she asked, her voice quiet but trembling.

Harry looked at her, then at James, Sirius, and finally his parents. He felt cornered. “They’re just books,” he said again, his voice weaker this time.

“They’re not just books!” James snapped. “These are dangerous tools, Harry. They teach things that no one—especially a child—should be meddling with.”

“And after everything with Quirrell,” Sirius added, his tone laced with frustration, “how could you possibly think this was okay?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Because I’m not a child!” he shouted. “I’m not stupid, and I’m not reckless! I know what I’m doing, and I’m not going to turn into some dark wizard just because I’ve read a few books!”

Molly sobbed harder, and Arthur placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Harry,” he said, his voice calmer now but still firm, “we’re not accusing you of being a dark wizard. But these books…they have a way of twisting people’s minds. We’re only trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection!” Harry shouted, his frustration boiling over. “I’ve been protecting myself for years! You don’t understand what I’ve been through—what I’ve had to do to survive!”

The room fell silent, the weight of Harry’s words hanging heavily in the air. Molly wiped her tears, looking at her son with a mixture of hurt and worry.

“Harry,” Lily finally said, her voice soft but steady, “we’re not trying to hurt you. We’re trying to help you. But these books…they’re dangerous. Please, let us take them. Let us destroy them.”

Harry looked at her, his anger fading into exhaustion. “Fine,” he muttered, slumping back into his chair. “Take them. Destroy them. Do whatever you want.”

Arthur gathered the books, and James helped him. Sirius placed a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder, but Harry shrugged it off.

As the adults left the room, Harry sat alone, staring at the empty table. He felt drained, frustrated, and misunderstood. But deep down, he knew they were right—at least partially. The dark arts were dangerous. But they were also powerful, and power was something Harry couldn’t ignore.

The consequences of the discovery of the Dark Arts books hit Harry harder than he initially expected. After the heated confrontation, Arthur gathered all of Harry’s wands—not just his main one but any spares he had managed to acquire. As a precaution, Molly decided to collect the wands of all the Weasley children for the summer.

“It’s not fair!” Harry shouted, slamming his bedroom door behind him after Molly had taken his wand. “I wasn’t even using those books for anything bad!”

“You have to understand, Harry,” Molly called through the door, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s not just about you. This is about keeping everyone safe—including you!”

The door creaked open, and Ginny peeked inside. “They took mine too,” she said quietly. “Even though I barely know how to use it.”

Harry didn’t reply, his fists clenching. It wasn’t the same. For Ginny, it was an inconvenience. For him, it was a disaster. Magic was his lifeline, his escape, his power. Without it, he felt incomplete.

The next few days were unbearable. Harry sat in his room, surrounded by his books, but he couldn’t bring himself to read them. His hand twitched constantly, reaching for his wand on instinct only to remember it wasn’t there. Every itch to practice a spell felt like a reminder of what he’d lost.

He tried to distract himself by spending time with Fred and George, but even their pranks felt hollow now. When they joked about sneaking the wands back, Harry couldn’t muster a laugh. The twins could live without magic during the summer, but Harry felt like a piece of himself was missing.

Late one night, Harry sat in the Weasley cave system, staring at the runes he had etched into the walls during the previous summer. His fingers brushed over the carvings, itching to channel magic through them, but he couldn’t.

“Why does it feel like this?” he muttered to himself. “Why do I need it?”

He thought back to the lessons with Professor Quirrell. The rush of power he felt when casting dark spells. The thrill of mastering something so dangerous and forbidden. He didn’t want to admit it, but he realized now that the Dark Arts had a pull, an allure that he hadn’t fully understood before. They weren’t just spells; they were a promise of strength, of control. And he had grown too comfortable wielding them.

The next morning, Harry sat at the breakfast table in silence while the rest of the family chattered around him. Arthur noticed his mood and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Harry,” he said gently, “I know this is hard for you. But this isn’t forever. You’ll get your wand back when the summer ends.”

“It’s not just the wand,” Harry replied, his voice low. “It’s…everything.”

Arthur frowned. “The Dark Arts have a way of leaving their mark, even when you think you’ve walked away from them. That’s why we’re doing this—to help you remember who you are without them.”

“I know who I am,” Harry said sharply. “I’m a Weasley.”

Arthur’s face softened, but he didn’t say anything more.

Over the next few weeks, Harry struggled with the withdrawal. He threw himself into non-magical activities to keep his mind busy, but the craving for magic lingered. The family did their best to support him, giving him space when he needed it and distractions when the tension grew too much.

By the end of the summer, Harry had learned one harsh truth: the Dark Arts weren’t just dangerous because of the power they gave. They were dangerous because of the hold they had on those who used them. And now, Harry understood why so many wizards had fallen into their trap.