A Cynical Voice (Rewritten) Chapter 1

Hi all, 

I’m still working on the Artisan’s Path chapter. In the meantime, here is the first rewritten chapter of A Cynical Voice. I won’t be actively working on this story until The Wind Mage’s Legacy is finished, but I wanted to get your opinion on the new direction. 

Chapter 1 - The True Nature of Horcruxes

20XX

Harry had completely lost track of time. He no longer knew the day, let alone the month or year. Darkness and hunger were his constant companions.

The iron shackles had worn grooves into Harry's wrists months ago. Now they simply ached with a dull persistence. It was minor compared to the other discomforts. The damp had seeped so thoroughly into his bones that he'd forgotten what warmth felt like. 

The footsteps began as a distant echo in the corridor. Harry's ears had grown sharp during his imprisonment. Light steps, moving closer until they stopped directly outside his cell. 

Harry waited. Whoever it was said nothing. Minutes crawled past. 

His curiosity gnawed at him. Hardly anyone visited him here—only the guards who shoved stale bread through the slot in his door and emptied his waste bucket. 

Finally, Harry cracked his eyes open.

A woman stood beyond the iron bars, draped in a dark cloak, her face hidden behind a mask. She held a wand that glowed at the tip, casting light around her.

Harry wet his lips. "Who are you?"

"Right now?” The woman spoke with a cultured voice. “Your best friend.”

"I don't have any friends. They're all in the ground or wished they were."

The woman laughed. “Harry Potter will always have friends. Despite everything that has happened, that will never change.”

"I'm drowning in sentiment here. What's the angle?"

“I have a proposition to make."

"Been a long time since I've been with a woman,” Harry said. "Equipment might be rusty."

"I see that your accommodation hasn't sharpened your wit any."

Harry laughed. “If it's not a conjugal visit, then what are you here for?”

"What if I told you that there is a way to go back to the past and change things for the better?"

"It sounds like I'm not the only one who's crazy."

"Don't you want to prevent the world from falling into ruins?"

Harry's laughter died. "The world can burn for all I care. I'm fresh out of white knights and noble causes."

"But you want to hold on to your small piece of it. And all the friends you lost along the way."

Harry fell silent as the temperature in the cell seemed to plummet. A ghostly head emerged from the wall beside him. She looked exactly as she had in life, her blonde hair floating around her face, her protuberant eyes wide and staring.

"You should listen to her, Harry," Luna said.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. 

But Luna’s voice persisted, soon joined by a chorus of many other ghosts. Dozens of them now, all the friends he'd failed, all the people who'd died because of his choices or his failures. Some pleaded with him to make things right. Others hurled recriminations that cut deeper than any blade. Their words became a cacophony that crashed over him in waves, each voice distinct yet part of a greater whole that threatened to drown his sanity.

"Make it stop," Harry gasped, yanking against his chains until the iron bit deep into his wrists. Blood trickled down his arms, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the assault on his mind. "Please, just make it stop."

The voices grew louder, more insistent, more desperate. They wanted him to act, to care, to be the hero they'd died believing he could be. But Harry had nothing left to give.

Cool hands gently held his face. "Are you alright?" 

Harry's eyes snapped open. The cell door was open, and the women stood in front of him. No ghosts were present.

“How did you get in here?” Harry asked.

“Through the door. Isn’t that what they’re designed for?”

Harry stepped forward, crowding her space. “Don't play cute with me, lady. There aren’t many who have access to this cell. Just who are you?”

"I'm not saying anything until you agree to my proposal," the woman said, standing her ground.

"Lay it on me," Harry growled. "Then take your business elsewhere."

The woman reached into her cloak and withdrew a leather-bound book. "This is the first edition of Magick Moste Evile. Unlike later editions, it is unedited and contains a large section dedicated to Horcruxes. Aren’t you curious?"

"Curious about what?"

The woman peeled off her mask, revealing a face that could stop traffic—if you could ignore the roadmap of scars crisscrossing her features like a jigsaw puzzle put together wrong. 

"About the true nature of Horcruxes."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

23rd August

Harry bolted upright in bed, a scream dying in his throat. The nightmare clung to him like cobwebs, refusing to fade.

His scar blazed with such intensity that for one terrifying moment, he was certain Voldemort himself stood in the darkened room.

He grabbed his glasses from the bedside table. As the familiar weight settled on his nose, his cramped bedroom at Number Four, Privet Drive swam into focus. The shadows in the corners remained just shadows, no matter how many times he checked them for lurking dark lords.

Harry pushed himself up and stumbled to the dresser mirror. His reflection startled him. His usually unruly hair lay flat against his skull, plastered by cold sweat. His face was pale, making the angry red lightning bolt on his forehead look like a fresh wound. 

His fingers reached up and traced the scar's familiar pattern. The skin burned beneath his touch, as if someone had pressed a hot coal to his forehead.

"What was that?" he muttered, trying to hold onto the rapidly fading details. "That nightmare felt too real..."

"You look like death warmed over, kid."

Harry whirled around, his heart leaping into his throat. "Who's there?"

Harry's eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the voice. His hand plunged into his pyjama pocket, finding nothing. His wand—he'd left it by the bed. He lunged for it, snatching it up and holding it up in front of him.

"If I had really been an intruder," the voice drawled, "you'd be in serious trouble right now. Here’s your first piece of advice. Never leave your wand out of reach. Get yourself a wand holster."

Harry gasped as something shot out of his scar and quickly took the shape of a person. The man leaned against the wall, studying him.

“Where—who are you?" Harry demanded. 

"Your older, considerably more weathered self. Think of me as a ghost of Christmas future, except the holiday's already been cancelled."

“Impossible. You must be an intruder.”

Though he had his doubts, the man looked like the version of himself he imagined twenty years from now, shaped by time and experience. He was tall and lean, dressed in plain black robes, with Harry's unruly black hair, though longer and tied back at the nape of his neck. His features were sharper and more defined. The lightning bolt scar on his forehead was still there but had faded to a thin white line, barely noticeable.

What disturbed Harry the most was that he could see the wall pattern through the man’s body, as if he were a ghost. Unlike the transparent Hogwarts ghosts, this apparition had colour and substance—Harry could make out the black of his robes, the tan of his skin, the green of his eyes—yet the floral wallpaper remained visible through him, as if he existed halfway between solid and spirit.

The man pushed off from the wall and walked toward Harry. "No intruder here. I'm something else.”

Harry stepped backwards. "I think I prefer an intruder. Am I going mad?"

"Not yet. Give it a few years. You'll get there eventually."

"I’ll ask again. Who are you?" 

"I told you who I am," the man replied. "An older version of you from the future."

Harry stared at him, mouth opening and closing without sound. His mind reeled, struggling to process those words. 

"You're. me? From the future?" Harry's knees buckled, and he sank onto his bed. “No, this is madness. Time travel doesn't work like that."

The stranger—his future self?—watched him with a patient expression that suggested he'd anticipated this exact reaction.

"I have so many questions,” Harry said. “So many bloody questions, I don't even know where to start."

"Fire away, kid. I may even answer a few." 

The man sat on the desk. Unlike a ghost, he didn't sink through it; instead, he perched there as if he had weight. He reached for a quill, but his fingers went right through it. “I can sit on furniture, but can't touch or move objects. I doubt I can phase through walls. Strange rules to this existence."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. Here he was, speaking with a ghost-like version of his future self as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He should be more concerned about his sanity, but after three years at Hogwarts, this barely cracked his top five list of bizarre situations.

His thoughts began to crystallise as the initial panic ebbed away. There was something oddly reassuring about the man, even with his sardonic edge—like finding a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. If he had meant harm, surely he would have struck while he was asleep, which meant Harry had time to think this through properly.

Harry paused. Just how much power did this apparition have? Was he merely a passenger in his life, or something more sinister—like the diary that had possessed Ginny? His fingers tightened around his wand. No, he couldn't let his imagination spiral him into another panic.

He straightened his shoulders and went over a mental checklist, focusing on certain questions to better understand his current situation.

"What should I call you?" Harry asked. "Calling you by my name will get confusing rather quickly."

"Call me James if you want to keep it in the family."

"That's too weird. He’s my dad."

"Our Dad," the man corrected him. "And technically, I'm old enough to be yours. Now there's a thought—fathering yourself. Even by magical standards, that would be properly mental."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Pick something else."

"Fine. Call me Kairos.”

"What does that mean?" 

“Figure it out for yourself.”

Harry frowned. "How did you travel back in time? Did you use a time-turner? It shouldn't even be possible."

His recent adventures with Hermione had taught him that. After Sirius had escaped on the back of Buckbeak, he had questioned Hermione extensively on the time-turner. He must have been loopy because, for a brief moment, he considered using the time turner to go further back, to the day of his parents' death, to save them from Voldemort. It had made perfect sense to him at the time. 

Unfortunately, Hermione had shot down the idea. Time-turners were extremely limited in their use and could only go back five hours into the past.

"Time-turners?" Kairos let out a harsh laugh. "No. This is the real deal—darker, messier, and with a hell of a lot more strings attached."

"Care to explain further?"

"Not particularly." Kairos' gaze drifted to the window.

"How did you end up like this?" 

"Now, there’s the million-dollar question. I’ve had some time to think of that answer while waiting for you to wake up.”

“And?”

"Still working the angles." Kairos sighed. "This whole setup would've gone smoother if I'd just moved into the driver's seat, if you catch my meaning."

Harry froze. "You were trying to take over my body? What would have happened to me?"

"Didn't let myself think too hard about the fine print.” 

"You absolute wanker," Harry muttered, standing now, fists clenched. "Whatever terrible future you came from, whatever reason you had for coming back in time, it gave you no bloody right to try and steal my life. You had your chance—"

"Trust me, kid,” Kairos interrupted. “I know exactly how badly I botched the job. But we're married to this mess now, for better or worse."

A soft flutter of wings interrupted Harry before he could respond. Hedwig soared through the open window, looking particularly pleased with herself. Two letters were attached to her leg.

"Good timing, girl," Harry murmured, untying the letters while offering her an owl treat. "I need a distraction."

He recognised Ron's messy scrawl on one envelope and Hermione's neat handwriting on the other.

He opened Ron's first:

Harry —

DAD GOT THE TICKETS — Ireland versus Bulgaria! Mum's writing to the Muggles to ask you to stay. They HAVE to say yes, Harry, you can't miss the World Cup! It's only the biggest Quidditch event in the world! Some of the best players — you've got to see Viktor Krum, he's BRILLIANT! 

Percy's started at the Ministry—don't ask about his work unless you want a three-hour lecture that will bore you to tears. He's been impossible, strutting around like he's Minister for Magic or something.

Fred and George are up to something in their room. Keep hearing explosions, but Mum's given up investigating.

Let me know if you can come! We'll pick you up tomorrow. Even if your relatives say no, we'll come and get you anyway.

— Ron

P.S. Hermione's coming too! Dad's arranging everything. And there's supposed to be something massive happening at Hogwarts this year. Dad keeps hinting about it but won't say what.

Harry grinned at Ron's obvious excitement, then opened Hermione's letter. Her neat handwriting filled the page:

Dear Harry,

I hope you're doing alright, and those awful relatives of yours aren't treating you too badly. I've been thinking about you constantly since the term ended. It feels strange not seeing you every day. The summer seems unbearably long when I think about how much I miss our talks...

The letter continued with her usual updates about summer homework and books she was reading, but there was something different in her tone.

Kairos had moved to read over Harry's shoulder, his expression softening. "It's already started." 

"What's started?" Harry asked, still staring at the letter. "She's never written quite like this before."

"I was incredibly dense once upon a time, too."

"Huh?"

Before Kairos could respond, the floorboards outside his door creaked. A sharp rap on the door, followed by his aunt’s shrill voice. "Up! Get up and start breakfast!"

Harry dragged himself downstairs to the kitchen, his mind still reeling from everything Kairos had told him. His future self followed, walking silently behind him down the stairs, studying the interior with a fond expression. When they reached the kitchen, Kairos observed the Dursleys while Harry cooked breakfast.

Harry noticed Uncle Vernon looking directly through Kairos without reacting. 

"They can't see you," he whispered.

"Talking to yourself, boy?" Uncle Vernon barked from behind his newspaper.

As the Dursleys ate, Aunt Petunia slapped a long list of chores onto the table beside Harry. He glanced at it, then decided to seize his chance.

"Er—Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon? My friend Ron has invited me to stay with his family."

Uncle Vernon's moustache twitched. "The family of redheads? The idiotic father who keeps asking me about electricity and his dumpy wife?"

Harry hid a wince. It was hypocritical to call Mrs Weasley dumpy when Uncle Vernon looked like a beached whale wearing a cheap suit. Still, he didn’t react to his Uncle’s words. Getting angry wouldn't help his chances of going to the World Cup.

"They've invited me to a sporting event," Harry said. "They'll pick me up tomorrow."

"And I suppose you think we'll just let you go gallivanting off with those freaks?"

"Well," Harry said, "I was thinking of writing to my godfather about it. You know, Sirius Black? He'd want to know why I couldn't go..."

The effect was instantaneous. Vernon's face drained of colour, and Petunia spilled her tea as she set down her cup.

"Fine," Vernon spat. "But they're not to come inside the house!"

Kairos laughed. "Slick work, kid.  That trick saved my bacon a few times."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry spent the next few hours pulling weeds in the garden. Kairos wandered the perimeter of the yard. He would sometimes walk to the edge of the garden, then stop abruptly as if hitting an invisible wall. After a moment of apparent resistance, he would turn and walk back toward Harry.

"I can't go more than ten metres from you," Kairos said. "Seems I'm tethered to you, like some kind of supernatural leash."

Harry stopped, wiping sweat from his brow. “Are you finally going to explain how you ended up here? I won’t have any more conversations with you until you do.”

Kairos scratched his cheek. "Guess I owe you the whole sordid tale. It all started with a proposition from a woman."

“Do I want to hear this?”

“Not that kind of proposition. Though later on, we did get pretty cosy between the sheets.”

“Do you mind?”

Kairos crouched down beside him. "When Voldemort tried to kill you that night, something went wrong with his curse. It rebounded, yes, but a piece of his soul—torn apart by his murders—latched onto the only living thing it could find. You. Your scar wasn't just a curse mark. It was a Horcrux."

"A what?"

"Dark magic. The darkest. He split his soul into pieces and hid them in objects to anchor himself to life. You were an accidental one." 

Harry's hand crept up to his scar, feeling nauseous. "I've had a piece of him inside me all this time? Does Dumbledore know?"

"Oh, he knows. Has known for a long time." The bitterness in Kairos's voice was unmistakable. "He's got his reasons for keeping it quiet, mind. Always has his reasons, our Dumbledore."

"How did you get rid of the scar?" Harry asked, glancing at Kairos's forehead.

"Took a Killing Curse to the chest and bought the farm. Temporarily." Kairos stated this like discussing last night's weather report.

"Does that mean I had to die?" Harry's throat tightened, making the words difficult to force out.

The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever.

"Yes," Kairos finally answered. "That was Dumbledore's grand plan. You were to be raised like a pig for slaughter, protected just long enough to die at the right moment. He believed you would have to let Voldemort kill you willingly, to destroy the Horcrux."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. "And he's known all this time?”

"That you had to die? Yes. He sold it to himself as the Greater Good—that's his favourite tune to whistle while he moves people around like chess pieces. Don't get me wrong, he cares about you in his way. But he cares about his grand design more."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry muttered, pressing his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.

"If it makes you sleep better, his scheme worked in my timeline. I survived through a series of convenient magical loopholes that Dumbledore had suspected might save me. But he couldn't be certain—and he never told you. Never gave you the choice."

Harry lowered his hands, anger beginning to replace the nausea. "So he was just going to let me walk to my death without knowing I might survive?"

"He believed—believes—that you wouldn't be able to walk to your death if you knew there was a chance of survival. That your sacrifice had to be pure." Kairos laughed. "The old goat has brains like a steel trap, but sometimes he can be dumber than a box of rocks."

Harry continued weeding while processing what Kairos had shared. How was he supposed to reconcile this new image of Dumbledore with the grandfatherly figure he had trusted so completely? The man who had rescued him from the Dursleys, who had seemed to genuinely care about his well-being, who had looked at him with such apparent fondness—had that all been an elaborate performance?

His mind kept circling back to specific moments, reexamining them through this harsh new lens. Dumbledore's careful words at the end of each term, his cryptic explanations, his habit of withholding crucial information until it was almost too late. Had those been the actions of someone protecting him, or someone carefully managing him towards a predetermined end?

The worst part wasn't even the manipulation itself—it was the realisation that he might never know which parts of Dumbledore's care had been genuine and which had been calculated moves in a game Harry hadn't even known he was playing. He tried to summon anger—surely that would be easier than this sick, hollow feeling.

"Telling you that you were a Horcrux wasn't the main point," Kairos interrupted his thoughts. "Are you ready to get your mind blown?"

"I'd rather keep my head, thanks."

"Good attitude. Remember how I told you that Horcruxes are objects that anchored Voldemort to life? Well, it turns out they don't work the way I always believed."

"How so?" Harry wiped dirt from his hands on his jeans, giving Kairos his full attention.

"The soul fragment becomes permanently housed within the chosen object, retaining the creator's identity and consciousness from the moment of creation. As long as any Horcrux survives, the creator cannot truly die—their soul remains anchored to the living world, even if their body is destroyed." Kairos recited this like he was reading from a textbook. "That's the brief explanation that the later editions of Magick Moste Evile give. And it's completely wrong."

"Alright. Let's hear it."

"A person cannot gain true immortality. Even if a soul is anchored to the world, everyone's body has a limit. People age, cells stop reproducing, organs fail, yada yada. Not even wizards can halt the inevitability of time, even if they can live for much longer than normies." Kairos began pacing the small patch of garden. "But what if Horcruxes didn't act as anchors for their souls? What if they were anchor points in time?"

"Are you serious?" 

Kairos nodded. "Horcruxes are anchor points that allow someone to journey back in time to the moment of their creation. It's immortality with a twist. Dangerous enough that the author scrubbed it from later editions."

"Are you telling me that you used the Horcrux in my head as an anchor point to travel back in time?"

"Correct. You get a gold star."

Harry adjusted his glasses. "My Horcrux was created when I was a baby. Why are you showing up now?" 

"That's a good question. I have been wracking my brains all morning, trying to find an answer." 

"Can these Horcruxes be used more than once?"

"Has to work that way. You still have the Horcrux in your head. Voldemort died that Halloween night, but he returned to the point in time when your Horcrux was created. I assume it was created a fraction of a second before his body was torn to pieces."

Harry felt sick again. The idea that Voldemort had essentially respawned using the piece of his soul lodged in Harry's skull was nauseating. "How does it work exactly? Does he just reappear, with his full body intact?"

"It's supposed to. But there were certain factors that Voldemort didn't take into consideration."

"Like what?"

“Horcruxes were built for storing souls in inanimate objects, not breathing, bleeding human beings.”

"Are you saying that is why he turned into a wraith instead of getting his body back?"

"That's one theory. The other part is our mother's sacrifice. It's old magic, and it works in ways that Voldemort couldn't have predicted. It may have interfered with the Horcrux's intended purpose. It may be a combination of the two. I don't think we'll ever know."

"Wait a minute." Harry frowned. "Why did he return that Halloween night?"

"Come again?"

"When was the first time he created a Horcrux?"

“When he was sixteen, he killed his family to create his first Horcrux. Spent the next fifty years building his collection."

"Then why didn't he return to an earlier point in time?" Harry's voice rose with excitement as the logical inconsistency struck him.

Kairos smiled, and for the first time, it looked genuinely pleased rather than sardonic. "Because he didn't have a choice. He overlooked another particular aspect about Horcruxes. You can only travel back in time to the last Horcrux that was made. The magic wasn't designed for multiple Horcruxes.”

"So, unless he kills me and destroys the Horcrux, he can’t travel back further in time? Did he figure that out in your timeline?"

"Smart money says yes. Might explain why he was so eager to punch my ticket when he got his body back."  Kairos grinned. “Maybe he wanted the option to return to an earlier time after all the shit I put him through."

“When is he coming back for real?”

"All in good time, kid. We've got bigger fish to fry right now."

Harry was about to insist when a horrifying realisation struck him. “Dumbledore’s grand plan was useless all along. If the Horcruxes didn’t work as you say, then he should have been doing his best to keep me alive. If I had died before the other Horcruxes were destroyed, Voldemort would have returned much further into the past.”

Kairos grimaced. “You hit the nail on the head, kid. Lucky for us, Dumbledore's fumbling didn't turn this whole situation into a complete disaster.”

The back door slammed open, and Dudley waddled out into the garden, clutching a massive ice cream cone that was already dripping vanilla down his pudgy fingers. He spotted Harry crouched among the weeds, and his piggy eyes lit up with malicious glee. Dudley made an exaggerated show of licking his ice cream, rolling his eyes back in theatrical pleasure while staring directly at Harry.

“Are you going to ignore that?” Kairos asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be on a diet?”

“Ignore him.” Harry thought of another question. "So how did you come back in time? Isn't the spell meant for the creator?"

"Technically, yes. I modified the spell. Probably why I showed up in this half-dead state at this particular moment. Should've left well enough alone."

Harry's stomach clenched. "Was one of those modifications to replace me?"

Kairos waved his hand. "Water under the bridge, kid. Cards fell differently than expected, but I can work with this hand. Beats the hell out of where I came from, and gives me a chance to work on my new project."

"And what is that?"

"You. I'm going to turn you into a badass wizard so nobody can mess with you. Oh, and make a few changes to the script along the way."

Harry rubbed his face with both hands, feeling overwhelmed by the flood of information. The casual way Kairos had admitted to trying to steal his body, combined with everything else he'd learned, made his head spin. "Can you return to my scar?"

"Yes. I can exist in both forms. Hiding in your scar and speaking directly into your mind, or existing as I am now."

“Great. I don’t want to hear or see you for a while. I need some time to think.”

"On my offer?"

"On whether I can trust you."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Kairos emerged from Harry’s scar the moment he entered his room later that evening.

"The first thing you need to do is to interfere with the trace from your wand,” Kairos said.

Harry sat on his bed. "What are you talking about?" 

"You need to be able to use your wand anywhere without the Ministry’s interference."

“I still haven’t decided if I’m going to work with you.”

"Still chewing on that bone?"  Kairos sighed. "We don't have the luxury of time here. The Quidditch World Cup's in two days."

Harry paused, something in Kairos's tone setting off alarm bells. "Does something happen?"

"Yes. Death Eaters attack the campsite. They torture the Muggles, cause panic, and set off the Dark Mark."

“The Dark Mark?”

"Voldemort's calling card—a skull with a snake for a tongue. Real subtle fellow, our Tom."

"Did you get through it alright?"

"I was fine. But there was a casualty I didn't know about until years later. Someone who didn't deserve what happened to them. I would like to make sure they don't suffer like they did last time."

"Hang on—we can't change time. Hermione told me all about it when we used the Time-Turner. Bad things happen to wizards who meddle with time."

"Who gives a toss?"

Harry stared at him, taken aback by the casual dismissal.

Kairos shrugged.  "When I took my little trip back, I created a brand new timeline. The future I came from is still chugging along—I didn't erase it from the books. Think of it like a river hitting a rock and splitting into two streams. Whatever we do here won't touch my timeline, but it'll write a completely different story for yours." 

Harry mulled over the explanation. “How do I interfere with the trace?"

"By carving some runes into your wand. Little invention of mine from the future. I can’t remove the trace without the Ministry noticing, but I can scramble the signal that tells them when you're casting spells." 

"I don't know anything about runes," Harry said. "I didn't take the class."

"Another thing we have to correct. You need to send an owl to Professor McGonagall and tell her you're dropping Divination and choosing Arithmancy and Ancient Runes instead, even if you have to enter the third-year class."

"Do you think you can dictate the classes I attend?"

"We should never have chosen Divination in the first place. Our entire time at Hogwarts, we coasted along doing the bare minimum, even though we knew Voldemort was out there sharpening his knives. Pretty bloody stupid when you think about it."

The words hit home. Harry remembered choosing his classes, taking the easy route because that's what Ron was doing. He'd told himself it was fine—he had enough to deal with, between Quidditch and the constant threat to his life. But now, facing the consequences of those choices, the excuses felt hollow. He should have pushed himself harder and learned more; he wouldn't be in this position—struggling to understand basic magical concepts that could save his life.

"Sorry for being mediocre," Harry snarked. "It doesn't help me with my present situation."

"Don't sweat it, kid. I'll walk you through it step by step." 

So, what do you think? The idea for the Horcruxes came to me a few weeks ago. I'm not sure if it has been used before.

Thanks for reading.