The pain was everywhere.
Harry Potter's body had been torn apart by the rebounding curse, his magic scattered like ashes in the wind. As consciousness faded, he felt the pull of death, the cold embrace of the void calling him home.
But something else was there too. Something ancient and powerful, pushing back against the darkness.
A voice. Not his own. Deeper, older, filled with a lifetime of experiences that didn't belong to him.
Wake up.
Dean's eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he couldn't remember who he was. The memories came in a flood: his previous life, his death, the sensation of being pulled into a body that wasn't his. He gasped for breath, his lungs burning, his heart racing. Every nerve ending screamed in agony.
He was lying in the grass near the Triwizard Cup, his body covered in blood. Above him, the night sky was dark and endless. In the distance, he could hear screams and the sound of spellfire.
Dean pushed himself up on his elbows, his vision swimming. His hand moved to his forehead, feeling the familiar scar. But something was different. The scar was warm, almost hot, and beneath it, he could feel something alive. Something that pulsed with dark power.
A Horcrux. He knew it without being told. The knowledge was there in his mind, layered over Harry's memories like a second set of experiences. Harry Potter had been killed, and his body had been given to Dean as a vessel. Or perhaps he'd been pulled here by the Horcrux itself, drawn to the fractured soul that had been split across multiple objects.
The memories of his previous life were still sharp. He'd been a loner, someone who'd refused to accept limitations, who'd always found unconventional solutions to impossible problems. And now, in this new world of magic and wizards, he faced his greatest challenge yet.
He had to survive.
A figure ran toward him, and Dean recognized the face from Harry's memories: Hermione Granger, Harry's best friend. Her wand was raised, her expression torn between hope and horror.
"Harry! Oh my God, you're alive!" She fell to her knees beside him, her hands shaking. "We thought you were dead. Dumbledore said the curse killed you, and then you just... appeared again."
Dean forced himself to sit up, playing the part of a confused survivor. "What happened?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "I don't... I can't remember."
"The curse rebounded," Hermione said, tears streaming down her face. "Just like when you were a baby. Voldemort tried to kill you, and his own magic turned against him. He's gone, Harry. He's finally gone."
Dean let her embrace him, his mind already working. Voldemort wasn't gone. He could feel the dark presence in his mind, the fractured consciousness that had been split into multiple Horcruxes. And somehow, he'd absorbed one of them. The Horcrux in his scar.
This changed everything.
Over the next few hours, as Dumbledore fussed over him and the Ministry officials questioned him, Dean maintained the facade of traumatized Harry Potter. He let them believe he'd survived through some miraculous magic, some echo of his mother's protection. He let them believe he was the same boy who'd entered the Triwizard Cup.
But he wasn't. And he had no intention of letting anyone control him.
That night, in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, Dean finally allowed himself to examine the Horcrux within his mind. It was like a second consciousness, a voice that whispered dark thoughts and violent impulses. But Dean had spent his previous life learning to master his own mind, to refuse to be controlled by external forces.
He began to build walls.
Using techniques that seemed to come from nowhere, drawing on knowledge that wasn't Harry's, Dean compartmentalized the Horcrux's influence. He didn't destroy it. He contained it. He created a mental vault where the dark consciousness could exist without controlling him.
By morning, Dean had achieved something that should have been impossible: he'd mastered Occlumency on his first night, creating a mental fortress that would keep Dumbledore's Legilimency at bay.
The old man would be watching him now. Dean could see it in Dumbledore's eyes when the headmaster visited him in the hospital wing. There was suspicion there, a careful examination as if he were trying to see something hidden beneath the surface.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "I'm so glad you're alive. You gave us quite a fright."
"I don't remember much," Dean said, which was technically true. Harry's memories of the rebounding curse were fragmented, confused. "Everything's kind of blurry."
"That's understandable," Dumbledore said. "You've been through a tremendous ordeal. Rest, and we'll discuss what happened when you're stronger."
But as the headmaster left, Dean caught the flash of concern in his expression. Dumbledore suspected something was wrong. And Dean knew that suspicion would only grow as he began to change.
The question was: would he have enough time to become strong enough before Dumbledore decided he was a threat?