Chapter 24: Chapter 24
The familiar creak of the orphanage's front door greeted Harry as he stepped inside, the warmth of the home a stark contrast to the chill that lingered in the air outside. There weren't noises coming from the inside, already too late for the kids to be awake with school looming tomorrow. He made his way toward the kitchen, drawn by the faint glow of the lamplight spilling into the hallway.
Mary Anne sat at the worn kitchen table, a small stack of papers in front of her and an open ledger at her side. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she scribbled notes in the margins, her pen poised mid-air as she seemed to consider something with great care. The weight of her expression was undeniable, the quiet determination in her gaze the same one Harry had come to admire.
"You're still awake?" he asked softly, leaning against the doorway.
Mary Anne looked up, startled for a moment before offering him a tired smile. "Just trying to make sense of these numbers. It's always a bit of a puzzle."
Harry stepped closer, glancing at the columns of figures. "Anything I can help with?"
She shook her head. "You've already done more than enough. Enough about me though, how did it go?"
Harry shrugged, his coat slipping from his shoulders as he moved further into the room. "Same old, same old. What about you? Why going over the books this late?"
Mary Anne sighed, setting her pen down with a soft clatter. "Someone has to," she said, her tone light but edged with weariness. "There's always something that needs fixing or paying for, and the numbers don't always line up as neatly as I'd like."
Harry glanced at the open ledger, noticing the neatly written columns of expenses and income. It didn't take a genius to see that the latter was consistently outweighed by the former.
He wanted to insist that there had to be something he could do to ease her burden, but the exhaustion in her eyes stopped him. Instead, he simply nodded. "All right. Good night, Mary Anne."
"Good night, Harry," she said, her smile faint but genuine.
Harry nodded, though as he lay on the thin mattress in his small room, staring at the cracked ceiling, his mind churned with everything that had happened over the past few days. Tom's calculated offer, Sirius's bright laughter, and the ever-present weight of the orphanage's struggles all competed for space in his thoughts.
He turned onto his side, staring out the small window where the moon cast a faint glow across the room. He wasn't going to sleep anytime soon, and he knew it.
With a soft sigh, Harry sat up, crossing his legs and settling into a meditative position on the bed. He hadn't attempted this in a long time, not since before the Battle of Hogwarts, when he'd first discovered his connection with Voldemort and the fragment of a soul that he housed.
Back then, it had been a lifeless, dull presence, a remnant of darkness tethered to him but devoid of meaning or will. However, he wanted to see if something had changed. He could feel it in the back of his mind, a faint stirring that hadn't been there before. Whether it was his proximity to Tom or something else entirely, Harry needed to understand what was happening.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, letting the rhythm of his breathing guide him into focus. His hands rested loosely on his knees, and he allowed his mind to drift inward, past the noise of the world outside and the ever-present hum of magic within him.
He searched for it—the fragment of Voldemort's soul.
At first, there was nothing. Just the quiet void of his own consciousness. But then, faint and flickering like a dying ember, he found it.
The shard wasn't as dull as he remembered. Where once it had been a lifeless smear of darkness, it now pulsed faintly, like a weak heartbeat struggling to find its rhythm. The edges of its presence felt softer, less jagged, though it still carried that familiar, cold weight.
Harry frowned, leaning into the connection, trying to make sense of what he was seeing—or feeling. The shard wasn't trying to lash out or resist him, as it had when he'd first become aware of its existence. Instead, it seemed… quiet. Not at peace, but no longer writhing with the same restless malice he'd once sensed.
"Why?" Harry murmured aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.
The fragment didn't answer, of course. It wasn't sentient—not in a way that could speak to him. But there was something different about it now, something almost… receptive.
His thoughts turned to Tom. The resonance he'd felt when they'd first met had been unmistakable, a faint hum that had grown stronger with every interaction. Could it be that Tom's presence was influencing the shard? Or was the shard reacting to something within Harry himself?
He couldn't be sure, but one thing was certain: the shard was changing.
Harry opened his eyes, the faint glow of moonlight grounding him as he returned to the present. His heart was steady, but his mind buzzed with questions he couldn't yet answer.
The fragment wasn't lifeless anymore. That was a fact.
What it meant—or what it could become—was a question Harry wasn't sure he wanted to face. But he didn't have the luxury of ignoring it. If he was going to find a way to heal the fragment, to redeem what was left of Voldemort's soul, he'd have to tread carefully.
For now, though, he allowed himself a moment of quiet, staring out at the moonlit sky as he tried to reconcile the strange, tentative hope blooming within him.
.
Harry threw himself into work the following days, determined to ease some of the strain on Mary Anne and the orphanage. He patched holes in the roof, fixed a leaky pipe in the bathroom, and even replaced a broken window in one of the bedrooms. His magic helped with the trickier repairs, though he kept his wand hidden and his spells subtle, ensuring no one saw what he was doing.
The children were delighted by his efforts, running around excitedly as they pointed out things that needed fixing. Eli in particular seemed to enjoy helping, even if his contributions mostly involved holding tools or fetching supplies.
Despite the progress, Harry couldn't ignore the monotony of the meals served at the orphanage. Breakfast was usually porridge, lunch a simple vegetable soup, and dinner rarely deviated from beans and rice. Meat was a rarity, reserved only for special occasions or when someone donated it.
He watched as the children scraped their plates clean, their enthusiasm masking the lack of variety. It wasn't just about taste—Harry knew they needed better nutrition, especially Andre and Samantha, who were still recovering.
By the third day, the sight of the same meal for lunch made his chest tighten with frustration. The kids deserved more. They deserved better.
So he did his best to be better. He shared stories with the children before their bedtime, Peter particulary liking the ones about the pranks the twins did. He even enchanted the ceiling of his room for Victor to see the stars without the telescope he wanted to spend all his money in renting. He tried to help Eli and Jones with his homework. He took care of Andre and Samantha and even managed to get Rose to be less shy around him. He got Diana to bossy him around while Clara laughed behind them.
It was not perfect, but it was better.