The shelves shook as more clouds were dragged from the sky, compressing into volumes that thudded gently into place. But the magic wasn't only outside—Harry staggered back, clutching his head as the books weren't just forming, they were unfolding inside him. Images slammed into him—not broken shards, not half-remembered flashes, but whole and living moments.
The first was impossibly small, impossibly warm. His tiny, chubby fingers curled for the first time, closing around a larger hand. His mother's hand—soft, warm, calloused in the way of someone who worked with wands and cauldrons but never lost her gentleness. Then another hand, broader, rougher—his father's. Laughter spilled around them. Sirius, loud and unrestrained, barking his joy. Remus, softer, with that sheepish grin that crinkled his eyes. Even Peter, still one of them then, smiling faintly as he hovered near the crib.
The scene shifted. James and Sirius were in the garden, zooming about on toy brooms they had clearly stolen from some poor neighbor's kid. Lily was shouting, furious, "HE'S FOUR MONTHS OLD, YOU BLOODY IDIOTS! THE BOX SAYS FOUR YEARS AND UP!" But James only shot higher, Sirius cackled, and little Harry squealed with the pure delight of the air rushing past, tiny fists reaching for the sky.
Then came the softer things. His mother's lullabies in the dim firelight. Warm blankets tucking him in, safety pressing against the edges of sleep. Godric's Hollow glowed like home.
And then—it broke.
The scream tore through the memory. The flash of green light. The sudden drop into cold and silence. His mother's voice, the last tether, echoing even as the killing curse rushed in.
Privet Drive rose from the ashes. The cupboard. The scraping of spiders on walls. His stomach cramping with hunger, the ache of loneliness that never seemed to end.
But Hogwarts followed. Light after darkness. Ron's grin in the train carriage, Hermione's nervous brilliance. A troll in the dungeon, panic and fear turned into the first true friendship he'd ever had. The Mirror of Erised showing him what he'd never touched. A basilisk's death rattle, Fawkes's tears burning into his wounds. Buckbeak's wings carrying him above the lake. Sirius's voice promising family. The parchment flying from the Goblet, his name branded into fate. The dragon's roar, fire in his lungs.
Harry's knees almost gave out. He had lived all of this once—but now it poured through him as if he were living it again.
And then—new memories. Memories not his own.
Jack Smith's life surged into him like a tide of grit and smoke. His knuckles split open on another man's jaw, the copper taste of blood on his tongue. Adrenaline roaring in his veins as he slammed someone against a wall, knee driving into ribs until they cracked. The recoil of a pistol in his hand, ears ringing from the shot, eyes locked on the body dropping before him. The flash of a knife fight, a blade sliding through skin, the grunt of pain, the satisfaction of survival.
Then the nights. Dim rooms, sweat on skin, tangled sheets. A woman's lips at his throat, her laugh muffled by hunger and wine. Rough encounters, sometimes desperate, sometimes tender—but all of it brimming with a raw, physical confidence Harry had never known.
And just as suddenly, they vanished—replaced by another voice, colder, sharper. Voldemort.
The world tilted, and Harry found himself in a musty room, shadows thick, candles guttering low. Severus Snape stood there, pale and sweating, his voice shaking as he repeated the prophecy he had overheard: "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…" Voldemort's mind wrapped around the words like a serpent tasting prey, calculating, obsessive.
The image shifted—Peter Pettigrew scurrying before him, bowing so low his nose nearly scraped the floor, offering trembling loyalty. Rage and contempt twisted inside Voldemort, but also satisfaction. Even a rat had its uses.
Then came the march to Godric's Hollow. Cold wind in the night. The small cottage appearing before him, and certainty blooming inside: here lay the prophecy's answer.
James Potter fell first, wand raised but outmatched in seconds. A flash of red, a body hitting the floorboards. Lily's scream echoed down the hall. She stood in the nursery, defiant, refusing to move aside. Begging, pleading, but refusing all the same. Voldemort raised his wand, his intent as sharp and final as a guillotine.
Green light filled the room. Lily fell.
And then he turned his wand on the crib. On Harry.
"Avada Kedavra."
The killing curse leapt forward, and with it came the memory of his own destruction—the backfiring of magic, the shattering of soul, the scream that ripped across eternity.
Harry gasped, dropping to his knees, sweat stinging his skin. He wasn't just remembering anymore. He was reliving three lives at once, every moment searing itself into him.
But the changes didn't stop there. Even as Harry struggled for breath on his knees, the storm overhead kept folding in on itself. The last clouds trembled, cracked, and bled into books, and with each one that solidified, the empty void shifted again.
Shelves grew out of nothing, rising like pillars of light, silver frames knitting together with a hum of power. They lined themselves in neat rows, taller than the eye could follow, stretching endlessly into the horizon of his mind.
The air thrummed as the last of the shelves solidified, glowing labels hanging above them like banners of fire. But the storm wasn't done—because now, the books themselves began to move.
One by one, volumes lifted from the drifting void, pulled as if by invisible hands. They whirled upward, spines gleaming, fluttering like birds with nowhere to land until the shelves called them home. Harry stumbled back, eyes wide, as the air filled with the rush of flying tomes.
Golden books streaked toward the aisle marked Memories. His own shot into place first, slotting neatly onto the section labeled Harry Potter. Scenes of the cupboard, the basilisk, Buckbeak, the Triwizard dragon—all the moments that had just burned through him—now thudded into order on gleaming shelves. He could almost hear the laughter of his parents in one, the hiss of a snake in another.
Thicker, darker tomes followed, Jack Smith's life sorting themselves into their section. They smelled faintly of sweat, smoke, and steel. He caught glimpses as they passed: the crack of a fist, the snap of a trigger, a lover's moan muffled in the dark. They landed solidly, their weight vibrating the shelf.
Then came the smallest, most poisonous cluster of all—Voldemort's. Black-bound, slim, and twitching as though alive, they hissed faintly as they were dragged into the slot marked Tom Riddle. Each slammed down hard, rattling chains, their whispers muffled but not silenced.
Harry flinched, but the storm pressed on.
Silver-bound volumes darted toward the aisle marked Skills. Slender tomes of Language fluttered into place like quills scratching across parchment. Heavier, bloodstained books thudded into Combat, echoing with the crunch of bone and the sting of fists. Gunmetal-gray volumes clattered into Firearms, the echo of gunfire ringing faintly as they locked into place. Driving manuals smudged with grease slid smoothly into Driving, while slim, stylish journals slotted into Fashion. A handful of sultry, glowing books spiraled dramatically into Sex Knowledge, making Harry's ears burn even as Zarina cackled overhead. And then came the sharpest of all—the Combat skill books. They flew faster, slamming onto their shelf with sparks, each one humming with intent to strike, to defend, to kill.
Finally, the deep-blue aisle called its children home. Knowledge. Small, dusty volumes drifted almost reluctantly into the Muggle Subjects section—maths, science, and history—Harry's childhood scraps of education binding themselves into the thinnest shelf of all. Beyond them, the shelves of magic roared to life. Bright tomes flickered into Transfiguration, sparking into Charms, smoking into Potions. Scarred, half-burned books rattled into Defense Against the Dark Arts, cursed edges scraping against one another. Softer-colored volumes drifted into Herbology, Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures—gentle, almost comforting as they slotted in neatly.
And then, one final book remained. It was black and swollen with poison, bound in chains that scraped and shrieked as it resisted. It pulsed like a heartbeat, whispering in a language Harry's scar recognized but didn't want to. The Horcrux tome.
The shelves groaned as it was dragged down, screaming against its binding until Zarina's scythe snapped a command through the air. Silver chains coiled tighter, yanking the book into its place, sealing it within the farthest corner of the Magical Knowledge aisle. Its whispers quieted, but the hunger in its pages never fully faded.
Then silence.
The storm had ended. The shelves stood full, sorted, and alive, the entire library humming with the weight of three lives and a thousand moments, each book glowing faintly as if breathing.
Zarina floated down slowly, smug beyond measure, arms crossed over her chest. "THERE," she declared, wings buzzing in satisfaction. "MASTER'S MIND IS NO LONGER A SWAMP OF CONFUSED CLOUDS. IT IS NOW THE GREATEST LIBRARY THIS REALM HAS EVER SEEN!"
Harry turned in a slow circle, staring at the aisles. "Bloody hell," he whispered. "It's all… organized."
"YES!" Zarina shouted, twirling midair in triumph. "AND ZARINA DID IT ALL! MASTER SHOULD BE WEEPING TEARS OF GRATITUDE!"
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "I think I'm too busy trying not to collapse."