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Harry Potter: Forging the Flame Ch. 25
🕑 Added 2025-04-19 20:29:29 +0000 UTCHi. Quick question. I am delving a little bit into aspects of psychology in this chapter. I do consider Harry Potter to be really badly damaged child because of his growing up with Dursleys. I wanna know if you like that kind of stuff or maybe i shouldnt focus on that very much. Thank you for your support. Andromeda in general will play crucial role later anyway, but her lesson can be influenced. For now i focus on "Harry" as a persona. What i mean by that is "ego" "beliefs" everything really that makes you "you". If you dont like that kind of stuff, let me know.
Chapter 25.
Harry opened his eyes to the gray light of Sunday morning and reached for his wand without thinking. “Tempus.” The numbers hovered in the air, neat and blue. 9:37. That left him just over an hour before he needed to be in McGonagall’s office. The meeting with Andromeda was at eleven sharp. He sat up, rubbed at his eyes, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The showers were blessedly empty. He let the water run hot as he brushed his teeth, half-listening to the tap and trying to guess what Andromeda would throw at him today. Last time had been all history. Names and bloodlines and family trees. This time might be worse. He pictured himself learning how to walk across a ballroom or hold a wine glass without looking like he was twelve. Maybe she’d make him bow. He sighed, dried off, and got dressed.
The Great Hall was already buzzing when he got there. A few owls flapped overhead, and the smell of eggs and baked tomatoes hung in the air. The two guest tables were packed. Students from both schools were already halfway through breakfast, chatting between bites and swapping curious glances around the hall. A few looked confused by black pudding, one girl from Beauxbatons was trying to figure out what to do with a crumpet, and someone at the Durmstrang table had clearly decided they loved marmalade. Whatever nerves they’d walked in with last night, most of them seemed to be settling in just fine.
Harry slid into his usual seat at the Gryffindor table and reached for toast and immediately burst into laughter.
Ron was staring. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, completely zoned out in the direction of the Beauxbatons table. More specifically, in the direction of one very pretty blonde girl with silver-blonde hair and an unbothered, graceful air. She was just sitting there, eating her breakfast, minding her own business. And Ron looked like he was seeing the face of a goddess.
Hermione was halfway through her tea and already fuming. “Honestly,” she muttered under her breath.
Ron didn’t blink. His ears were turning pink.
Harry tried not to laugh but failed completely. The noise startled Ron enough to snap him out of it. He looked down at his plate.
“What?” he said weakly.
Harry just grinned and piled eggs onto his plate, then sausages. Hermione didn’t say anything at first, just watched the way he skipped past the pastries and went straight for protein. When he reached for the butter, she finally spoke.
“Since when do you eat like that?”
Harry looked up, shrugged. “Sirius. Over the summer he kept going on about how I needed to eat properly if I didn’t want to get knocked flat by a stiff breeze. Said I needed to bulk up if I was gonna keep running headfirst into cursed corridors.”
Ron mumbled something beside him, mouth stuffed with toast and bacon. It came out as a mix of grunt and food.
Hermione blinked. “What?”
Harry didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I agree, mate. Spot on.”
Hermione turned, eyebrows lifted. “Wait, you understood that?”
Harry grinned, smug. “Ron’s my mate. Of course I did.”
She just stared for a second, then pulled out her book with a huff and started reading again, muttering something about boys and evolutionary backslides.
Harry waited until her eyes were on the page before shooting Ron a confused look. Ron, who’d finally swallowed, just grinned and said, “Just make sure you don’t end up looking like Crabbe.”
Harry gave him a nod, flexed his arm in an exaggerated pose, and made a ridiculous monkey noise. Ron snorted into his pumpkin juice and nearly choked.
Harry polished off the last bite of sausage and reached for his juice. He checked the time again with a quiet Tempus. 10:42.
He wiped his hands on a napkin and stood, grabbing his bag. Ron looked up mid-chew and gave him a questioning eyebrow.
“Got that meeting,” Harry said.
Ron nodded through a mouthful of eggs. Hermione glanced up from her book just long enough to mutter something about posture and first impressions, but Harry was already turning toward the doors.
McGonagall’s office was two floors up, past a row of suits of armor that always seemed to whisper just as he walked by. He adjusted his robes, ran a hand through his hair, and tried not to think too hard about what Andromeda might be waiting with this time.
He reached the door at 10:49. Right on time.
~~~~~~~~
Room Three at the Three Broomsticks hadn’t changed. Same clean walls, same round table, same slightly stiff chairs. Andromeda was already there, seated like she’d been waiting for hours, though Harry doubted he was even a second late. Her robe today was dark gray, crisp and sharp, and she was writing something on a piece of parchment with a quill that looked way too expensive for just notes. She didn’t look up when he stepped in. Just finished her line, set the quill down with care, and finally met his eyes.
“Sit,” she said. “We’ve got work to do.”
Harry slid into the chair without speaking. Andromeda didn’t start with greetings or small talk. She watched him for a few seconds. Like she was studying the way he sat, the way his hands moved, the way his eyes avoided hers for just a second too long. Then she folded her hands on the table and asked plainly, “If you had to describe yourself in five words, what would they be?”
Harry didn’t answer right away. His fingers moved along the edge of the table, tracing nothing. He looked down, then off to the side, then back to his hands. Andromeda waited.
“Stubborn,” he said finally. “Loyal. Angry. Curious. Tired.”
He glanced up for half a second, then looked back down like he was already regretting being honest. She just nodded once and wrote something down.
“Let’s start with angry,” she said. “Why that word?”
Harry didn’t look up. His fingers were still moving along the edge of the table, slower now.
“Because it’s always there,” he said. “Even when I’m not showing it. Even when things are good.”
“What does it feel like?”
He shrugged. “Like something buzzing in my chest. Not all the time. Just… close. Like if I stop paying attention, it’ll get louder.”
Andromeda’s eyes didn’t leave his face. “When did it start?”
“I don’t know,” he said, frowning a little. “Maybe when I was a kid. I think it was just… always there. At the Dursleys. I didn’t know it was anger then. I just thought that was how people felt when everything was unfair.”
Andromeda didn’t speak right away. She picked up her quill again and scribbled something quick on the parchment.
“You didn’t know it was anger,” she repeated. “Because there was no one there to help you name it. No one who said, ‘This isn’t normal. You shouldn’t feel like this all the time.’ So you just lived with it.”
Harry didn’t respond, but this time he was looking straight at her.
“I want to ask you something,” she said, her tone even. “When you felt that buzzing, back then, did you ever act on it? Did you yell? Break things? Did you let anyone see it?”
His fingers twitched against the table. “No,” he said after a moment. “Not really. I just… held it. Sometimes I’d get mad and slam a cupboard, or snap at Dudley. But I never really let it out.”
Andromeda nodded slowly.
“Because you didn’t feel safe to,” she said. “Because even your feelings had to stay small enough not to make trouble.”
Her quill hovered for a second, then dipped to the parchment again.
“Do you think that anger belongs to you, Harry?” she asked. “Or is it something you were given?”
Harry felt confused. He looked into Andromeda’s dark eyes and found no judgment there, just quiet interest, like she was actually trying to understand him. And yet, everything she said, all those questions she didn’t even ask out loud, made a weird kind of sense in his head. It was like she’d seen through the mess and named something he didn’t even realize had a name.
He shifted in his chair. “I don’t really think about it. I just get on with things, you know? But maybe it’s always been there because no one ever said it wasn’t supposed to be.”
Andromeda didn’t write anything this time. She just looked at him and said, “That buzzing you feel? That’s stress, Harry. It’s your body thinking something bad might happen, even when things are okay. You lived like that for years at the Dursleys. Always waiting for the next bad thing. So your brain started thinking that was normal. That kind of stress gets stuck if you don’t talk about it or let it out. It just stays there, under everything.” She leaned forward slightly. “And when you grow up without anyone really seeing you, or asking how you feel, you start filling in the blanks yourself. You think the silence means something’s wrong with you. That you’re the reason things were bad. That’s what happens with kids who get ignored. They don’t stop needing love. They just stop expecting it.”
Harry didn’t say anything at first. He stared at a spot on the table like it might give him the right words. His chest felt weird, tight but not painful. Just full. He thought about the cupboard, about teachers who barely noticed when he didn’t have lunch.
“I used to think if I was just better,” he muttered, “they’d stop hating me. Or maybe pretend they didn’t.” He gave a dry laugh, not really a laugh at all. “Never worked, though.”
He looked up at her again, more tired than angry this time. “So what am I supposed to do with all that?”
Andromeda didn’t look away. “Harry, you said something back there. About thinking if you were better, they might have stopped hating you.” Her voice was even, but firm. “That wasn’t your fault. None of it was. You weren’t the reason they were cruel. They made a choice to treat a child like a problem. That says everything about them and nothing about your worth.” She let that sit for a second. “Do you still think you have to earn being treated right? That you have to prove you deserve care?”
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t find the right words. It wasn’t something he’d ever said out loud before, but the feeling was always there. Like if he took up too much space, or needed too much, someone would get tired of him. He picked at a mark on the table with his thumbnail. “Yeah,” he said finally, quietly. “I don’t mean to. But yeah. I feel like… I don’t know. Like I’m too much. Or not enough. Or both.” He shook his head. “It’s stupid.”
Andromeda didn’t correct him. She just leaned forward, resting her hands lightly on the table. When she spoke, it was slow. A voice meant for children in pain. “Harry,” she said, “you don’t have to earn love. Not by being useful. Not by being good. Not by being brave. You already deserve it. Just for existing.”
He didn’t move. Just stared at her like she’d spoken a language he’d never heard before.
“You are James and Lily’s son,” she said gently. “That’s not a title you have to live up to. That’s just who you are. And that’s enough. You’re enough. You always were.”
Something cracked. Like a wall finally giving way. Harry ducked his head and covered his face with his hands. It was silent at first, almost like he didn’t know how to cry. But the shaking gave him away. He just sat there, trembling, while years of something unnamed bled out quietly into his palms.
Andromeda stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside his chair. She didn’t say anything. Just placed her arms around him and held on.
Harry froze for a second, then leaned into her without thinking. His hands gripped her robes and his face pressed into her shoulder. The tears came harder now.
She didn’t let go. Didn’t speak. Just stayed there, holding him steady while he cried.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The door closed behind her with a soft click. Andromeda stepped out of her boots, hung her cloak, and moved straight to the kitchen. She didn’t need to think. The kettle filled, clicked on. Two mugs out. Honey for hers, plain for his.
She didn’t speak as she brought them into the living room. Ted was already there, sitting on the far end of the couch, one leg folded over the other, book closed on his knee. He didn’t say anything, just watched her with that quiet look he always wore when he knew she’d seen something hard.
Andromeda handed him the tea, then sank down beside him. She held her mug with both hands.
“Four sessions,” she said finally. “That’s how long I thought it would take to break through. Maybe more.”
Ted didn’t answer. He just waited.
She looked down at the tea. “Today was session one.”
Ted took a slow sip from his mug, then glanced sideways at her.
“How’s the boy?”
Andromeda didn’t answer right away. She pressed her lips together, staring at the steam curling from her tea.
“He’s smart,” she said at last. “Really smart. Takes things in. You can see it behind his eyes.”
Ted didn’t interrupt.
She turned the mug in her hands. “But he’s… God, Ted. He’s so damaged. Sirius wasn’t exaggerating. Not even a little.”
He frowned. “You mean the Dursleys?”
“I mean emotional abuse, start to finish,” she said. “Neglect. Isolation. No affection, no care, no safety. He learned to survive by being invisible. And now he can’t tell the difference between love and obligation.”
Ted sat back, silent for a beat.
Andromeda added, “When Sirius said it was like Azkaban, I thought he was being dramatic. But he wasn’t. He really wasn’t.” She paused. “At least in Azkaban, you knew you were being punished. Harry just thought it was normal.”
Ted didn’t answer right away. He set his mug down, tilted his head slightly, and said, “Neglect doesn’t just deprive a child of comfort. It rewires the brain. Chronic emotional isolation during development interferes with the formation of secure attachment and self-worth. You know what happens, Andie? The brain starts adapting to survival mode. The amygdala stays lit like a bloody torch. The prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for regulation, empathy, reasoning, never gets proper scaffolding. What you’re left with is a kid who doesn’t know how to feel safe, doesn’t trust calm, and reads love as suspicion.” He paused, eyes fixed on nothing. “And then they grow up thinking it’s them. Their fault. Their defect. That’s the real damage.”
Andromeda stared into her mug. “How do I help him?” she asked. “It feels too big. Like I’m standing at the edge of something and I can’t see the bottom.”
Ted didn’t hesitate. “You don’t fix it. You give it space to heal. Safe ground. Patience. You show up, even when it’s hard. Especially then.”
She glanced at him, quiet. “And if I mess it up?”
“Then you come back,” he said simply. “And you keep coming back until he believes you mean it.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The potion was already turning a deep rust red by the time Harry dropped the last pinch of powdered ironroot into the Magnus Crucible. The cauldron shimmered faintly, the runes along its rim adjusting the internal balance without him having to stir. It self-regulated heat, sensed volatility, and reacted in real time. It didn’t bubble, didn’t hiss. It just pulsed, like a quiet heartbeat, keeping everything stable while the mixture shifted. It was the only reason they could even attempt something this risky.
Daphne stood across the workbench, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows and her wand rested on the table beside a sealed vial of dragon’s blood. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched Harry as he leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the brew. His shoulders were stiff. He hadn’t cracked a joke. Barely said more than a word since they’d started. That wasn’t normal. Not for him.
She picked up the vial. “Are you sure about the ratio?” she asked, just to see if he was paying attention.
Harry blinked, then nodded, a half-second too late. “Yeah,” he said. “Two drops. No more.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Harry, what’s going on with you?”
“Bad day,” he said. “Don’t want to talk about it.”
He stepped back from the cauldron, grabbed the tea they brought earlier, took a slow drink, then another. He looked at her.
“I’m focused now,” he said. “Let’s continue.”
She nodded once and slid the vial toward him. “Two drops. No more.”
Harry picked it up, uncorked it, and moved back to the cauldron.
Harry held the vial just over the surface. The dragon’s blood inside shimmered faintly, thick and dark, with a strange sheen like oil over water. He tilted the vial with careful control, one drop at a time. The first drop hit the potion and disappeared without a sound. The second followed. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the rust-red brew shifted, deepened. The surface rippled once, then settled again, the runes on the crucible adjusting in response. A faint hum passed through the air. No smoke. No heat spike. No reaction surge. Just the soft change of color, now a dark copper, and a low warmth rising from the metal.
Daphne leaned in. “Stabilized.”
Harry nodded. “So dragon’s blood is viable.”
“Barely,” she said, watching the shimmer move through the brew. “It’s holding, but only because the cauldron’s compensating. Any other setup, we’d be scraping it off the ceiling.”
Harry made a note in the logbook. “Still. It’s proof of concept.”
The brew began to cool as the internal hum faded. Daphne cast a low stasis charm over the crucible, locking the mixture in place for later analysis. She wiped her hands on a clean cloth, eyes scanning the logbook Harry had pushed toward her.
“Same time next week?”
Harry nodded, but his brow furrowed. “Quick question though… Are we still good on time?”
Daphne paused, flipping to their original schedule. “We started in early September. It’s nearly November now. Two months left on the official deadline.”
Harry exhaled. “So we’re halfway.”
“More or less. But we’re ahead of where most groups probably are,” she said, tapping the logbook. “We have a stabilized test run and the base outline mapped. Next phase is the real challenge.”
Harry glanced at the covered cauldron. “Toxic base next week.”
She nodded once. “If that holds, we build from there.”
He slung his bag over one shoulder, flexing his stiff fingers. “Alright. See you next week.”
Daphne watched him head for the door. “Don’t forget to rest, Potter.”
Comments
Trix
I personally enjoyed the bit where you focused on Harry’s thoughts and emotions. Great chapter btw
