Harry walked through Hogwarts as though the castle had shifted slightly out of alignment.
The stone corridors felt narrower. The ceiling arches too low. Even the familiar portraits seemed muted, their colours dulled, their chatter distant. His feet carried him forward automatically, body remembering routes his mind barely registered.
Pandora still clung to him.
Not like a dream fading at the edges, but like a life lived, another life, settled into his bones.
Fifteen years.
The number echoed hollowly inside his chest.
He reached the entrance to the Great Hall just as the doors swung open for breakfast. Warm light spilled out, along with the clatter of plates and the low roar of conversation. The scent of toast and porridge hit him, sharp and strangely overwhelming.
Harry paused.
For a brief, irrational moment, he expected to see woven hammocks instead of benches. Expected the glow of bioluminescent seeds drifting through the air rather than enchanted candles.
Ron noticed first.
"Harry?" Ron said, half-rising from his seat. "You look—"
Hermione was already on her feet, eyes scanning him with quick precision. "Did you sleep at all?"
Harry slid onto the bench between them, movements slow, controlled. He picked up his goblet, stared at the pumpkin juice as though unsure what it was for.
"I lived in Pandora again," he said quietly.
Ron froze.
Hermione's hand tightened around her fork.
"…Again?" Ron repeated.
Harry nodded. "Same night. Same pull. I went back to the Tree of Souls."
Hermione swallowed. "How long?"
Harry took a breath. The hall seemed too loud, too bright. He lowered his voice instinctively. "Fifteen years."
Ron's mouth opened. Closed. He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "Blimey."
Hermione did not speak immediately. She studied Harry's face, the set of his shoulders, the stillness behind his eyes, the way he held himself as though violence might erupt at any second.
"Was it… peaceful?" she asked carefully.
Harry's gaze drifted to the staff table, where Dumbledore sat in quiet conversation with Professor McGonagall.
"No," he said. "It was worse."
That was all he said.
They ate little. Around them, Hogwarts buzzed with speculation about the Second Task, about champions and merpeople and lake monsters. Laughter rose and fell, oblivious.
Ron leaned closer to Hermione. "We should tell him."
Hermione nodded once.
Together, they stood and approached the head table. Dumbledore looked up at once, blue eyes sharpening, not in alarm, but in attention. Whatever Hermione said was quiet, urgent. Dumbledore's expression shifted, the warmth dimming into something deeper.
He inclined his head.
Minutes later, his voice carried gently across the Hall. "Harry, my boy. Would you and your friends join me in my office after breakfast? And Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout, if you would be so kind."
The Great Hall went still.
Harry felt eyes on him as he rose. Whispers followed him out like trailing smoke.
Dumbledore's office welcomed them with its usual quiet oddity, silver instruments whirring softly, portraits pretending not to listen. Fawkes regarded them from his perch, eyes ancient and knowing.
Chairs arranged themselves into a loose circle.
Harry sat between Ron and Hermione, hands folded loosely in his lap. McGonagall stood rigid near the desk. Flitwick perched on a cushion, brows knit in concern. Professor Sprout hovered close to the window, arms folded protectively.
Snape leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Dumbledore remained standing.
"Harry," he said gently, "would you tell us what happened last night?"
Harry did not hesitate.
"I was called back," he said. "Not in sleep, through it. Eywa took me again."
A flicker of recognition crossed Flitwick's face. McGonagall stiffened.
"How long?" Dumbledore asked.
"Fifteen years," Harry replied. "From my perspective."
Silence fell.
"Another war?" Snape said at last, voice sharp. "Or have we finally exhausted your appetite for violence?"
Harry looked at him. Really looked.
"It was more brutal than the last," he said calmly. "Different enemies. Same cost."
Professor Sprout closed her eyes.
Ron shifted, clearly uncomfortable. Hermione stared at the floor, jaw tight.
Dumbledore lowered himself into his chair at last. "And you returned this morning?"
"Yes."
"And you remember all of it?"
Harry met his gaze. "Every name. Every grave."
No one spoke.
The silence stretched, not awkward, not uncertain. Heavy. Respectful. As though everyone in the room understood that something irreversible had been layered onto the boy sitting before them.
At last, Dumbledore rose.
He crossed to the cabinet behind his desk and withdrew a shallow stone basin, etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the candlelight.
He placed the Pensieve carefully upon the desk.
"I believe," he said softly, "that it is time we understand precisely what Harry Potter has lived through."
The silver surface stilled.
And waited.