The conversation with the shaman lingered in my mind for a long time, making me question the choices I’d made.

“What do you mean? I don’t understand you,” I asked, bewildered. “What consequences?”

“Do you know what true wisdom is, Achehar?” he countered instead of answering. “It’s carrying the weight of your decisions alone. Accept it—and you’ll no longer have the right to blame others. Every life and death will rest on your hands and be your responsibility. Wichasha—your white-bearded sage—designed everything to save the many, but you aim to save the few. It’s not for me to judge which is right, for there is nothing dearer than one’s own skin and nothing closer than one’s own blood.”

“So, you think Dumbledore’s path is the right one?” I asked hesitantly. “That nothing should be changed?”

“Why would I think that?” the shaman replied with a hint of surprise. “There’s always more than one way to a goal. It all depends on the Guide. Wichasha knew from the start that the boy carried a piece of another Achek within him, but he could neither remove it himself nor dared to. What’s more, he saw it as a sign of the Prophecy, not realising it spoke of the spirit, not the body. The boy could never have—neither in soul nor in skill—killed the body of the Cursed One. His fate was always a battle of spirit against spirit. He fights the foreign Achek within him and wins. His mother’s sacrifice gave him protection; her blood stands between him and her killer, just as it shields Gëdji—the black raven. Only these two can resist the foreign Achek-kargo and keep it from taking them over.” The shaman paused to take a drag from his pipe, giving me time to think.

By “raven,” he clearly meant Snape. Amazing, really—despite all his dark magic and bloodstained hands, he was the only Death Eater who had a Patronus. Turns out the memory of Lily protected him as well, preventing the darkness from fully claiming him. Who’d have thought?

“Do you reckon Dumbledore avoids confronting the Dark Lord head-on because he lacks protection?” I asked, drifting slightly off-topic as the thought struck me.

“He believes in the Prophecy and knows his own weakness,” the shaman replied. “In his hands is the Elder Wand, thirsty for death, and buried in his heart is a long-suppressed desire for power and greatness. He’s fought that desire for years. Deep down, he wants the same things as Achek-kargo, and he knows his vulnerability to it. That’s why he won’t raise the wand to kill. All he can do is fight himself and remember the dead—those who’ve gone and those yet to die.”

“Well, that’s bleak,” Charlie muttered, finally breaking his silence after merely listening.

“Your sage allows the boy and the Cursed One to meet face-to-face, teaching him to resist, to fight back; showing him that loved ones are worth protecting. He prepares the boy to walk willingly to his death—and die,” the shaman continued as I glanced sharply at him.

“Die? But he came back to life, didn’t he?” I asked, confused.

“He was meant to die,” the shaman insisted firmly. “By then, his connection to the Cursed One was stronger than ever, thanks in no small part to Gëdji.”

“Are you saying Snape was teaching Harry not to shield his mind, but to open it?” I asked, disbelief creeping into my voice.

“Of course. Otherwise, how would the Cursed One destroy himself within Harry? It’s a living vessel, not an inanimate object; you can’t just sink your fangs into it. Your Avada severs the ties between consciousness, spirit, and body—that’s why it’s considered unforgivable. The Cursed One would have merely severed the connection, killing Harry but leaving his own Achek intact to take over the empty vessel.

Harry’s entire life has been a battle between his Achek and the foreign one. Each time, he prevailed, absorbing bits of the other’s spirit. Remember when the foreign spirit nearly took him over after the hearing? Even the sage avoided his gaze, suspecting as much. And later, when he injured another boy, it was the foreign spirit guiding him. The same happened when the Cursed One possessed him in the Ministry. Yet Harry overcame it each time, just as the Prophecy foretold. But the sage couldn’t risk even the smallest chance of the Cursed One’s revival within Harry, so his path ensured both the boy’s and the Cursed One’s deaths. He even allowed the boy to share his secret with friends, so they could finish his work if he perished, ensuring the Cursed One’s return would be impossible. Still, he hoped the spirits hadn’t merged entirely—that the Cursed One would destroy himself and Harry, protected by sacrifice, would survive.

He banked on the blood protection the Cursed One used for his resurrection. But the sage miscalculated. It was precisely because of that shared blood that the Cursed One couldn’t kill himself within Harry—they were both protected. And when Harry returned, he’d fully dissolved the foreign spirit, severing the bond and triumphing because he chose to sacrifice himself for everyone else, destroying all the darkness within him and surviving.”

“So, what happens if we destroy the Horcrux now?” I asked, still reeling from what I’d heard.

“The Cursed One won’t be able to influence the boy anymore—he won’t possess him or send him visions. But the boy will lose his protection, and the Achek-kargo could kill him with ease. On top of that, Harry will inherit certain traits of the foreign spirit—or rather, traits already similar to it will grow stronger, like his temper or distrust. Fighting a foreign foe within yourself is always easier than battling yourself. Still, he wouldn’t have to face the Cursed One or die by his hand. So, what’s your choice?”

“I don’t even know now,” I admitted truthfully.

“Then tell me, Achehar, what was your plan?”

“Well, I was planning to rope Snape in—swear him to secrecy and tell him Dumbledore’s set Harry up to die while making him think he’s saving his life. I doubt the Headmaster tells his spy everything; it’s not his style. I reckon Snape might agree—especially since Harry wouldn’t have the Horcrux anymore, so he wouldn’t have to die, and anyone could take out the Dark Lord.

“After that, once Black deals with the rat, Snape and I could handle the ring. He knows enough dark magic to deal with its protections. For the cup, I thought Bill might help—he works with goblins, so he might find a loophole, especially since he’ll be back at the British bank by then. If not, we could offer the goblins basilisk venom or the Resurrection Stone to drip venom on the cup—no theft involved.

“Worst case, we’d buy a hair from Bellatrix at Azkaban, Imperius a goblin, and do it like in the book. As for the Dark Lord, we could track him down in Albania and finish him while he’s weak. And if we can’t deal with the cup, we could put the Dark Lord’s remains in stasis or dose them with Draught of Living Death—job done. Without an heir for the Lestrange vault, the Horcrux could sit there for centuries undisturbed. Or we could get the Ministry to pressure the goblins. The main thing is avoiding war,” I finished with a sigh.

"Sounds reasonable," the shaman approved.

"Only if nothing goes wrong," my brother muttered, frowning.

"In any case, we need to ask Harry himself," I said firmly. "It's his choice. But regardless, I'll stick to my plan and won't let Dumbledore harm my family."

"You're going to tell Harry yourself?" Charlie shot me a wary glance, tinged with pity.

"Yeah, first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll need time to think it over," I replied. The shaman gave an impassive nod, approving my decision, and my brother and I headed back to our tent.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"Do you blame Dumbledore?" Charlie asked as we walked.

"No," I admitted honestly. "He doesn't have any other choice... If the Horcrux could be removed, he'd have done it already. Since it can't, there's always the risk of Voldemort coming back if Harry falters or gives in. So, yeah, the stakes are too high. It's just... in his plan, Harry’s the centerpiece, and I think it's wrong to just sit back and hope one kid can sort it all out just because he’s got a bit of Voldemort in his head. Honestly, I’ve been thinking a lot about Ginny lately... Do you reckon Voldemort could’ve been reborn in her if he hadn’t switched to Harry when he did? She didn’t have any protection, and he almost drained her completely."

"That’s a bloody horrifying thought," Charlie muttered. We fell silent after that, neither of us in the mood to continue the conversation. Without discussing it, we turned in for the night. Harry had been fast asleep for hours.

Morning came far too quickly. Harry, as usual, was buzzing with excitement—after breakfast, we were heading into the forest for a planned outing. The locals could summon any creature with magic, and they’d become so docile you could pet them and even play with them. Hermione was thrilled, and Harry seemed to love the idea too.

"Oi, Ron, why the long face?" Harry asked cheerfully, plopping onto the bench next to me with a bowl of porridge in hand. "Didn’t get enough sleep?"

"Eat up, Harry, don’t get distracted," I grunted, throwing a quick glance at Hermione and stirring my own bowl listlessly. "We’ll talk later."

"My Patronus almost took shape yesterday!" Hermione announced proudly.

"Brilliant! What is it?" Harry asked, his interest piqued.

"I’m not sure yet, but it’s something small," she said, frowning thoughtfully.

"Well, my Patronus is already a proper shield," Harry teased her, grinning. The two had been competing to see who could master the charm first.

"Alright, boys, I’m off. See you in half an hour," Hermione chirped, practically skipping off. We cleared our plates and moved over to a fallen tree nearby.

"So, it’s really that serious?" Harry asked anxiously, his tone tense as he watched me with wide eyes.

"Listen, Harry," I began cautiously, "there’s something I need to tell you."

"Someone’s died, haven’t they?" he blurted out, his face pale as he clung to the tree bark. "Who is it?"

"No one’s died; everyone’s fine," I snapped, irritated. "Now sit down and just listen."

He relaxed a little and stared at me, his gaze intent.

"Right," I said, deciding to rip off the bandage. "The shaman found part of Voldemort in you. When he came to your house and was destroyed, a piece of him ended up inside you."

Harry gaped at me, his jaw slack, and when I finished, his hand shot up to his scar.

"That’s not possible," he whispered, swallowing hard. "What does that mean for me?"

"Do you believe me?" I asked, surprised at his calmness.

"Of course. You’ve never lied to me," he said firmly. "Is there a way to get rid of it?"

"It can’t be removed, only dissolved," I said. "You have to decide—do you want to deal with it now, or let your own spirit absorb it over time?"

"I need to think about it," he muttered, bolting away from me.

Harry didn’t return until lunchtime, looking disheartened, his scar red and irritated as though he’d been rubbing at it all morning. When I shot him a questioning look, he gave me a terse nod, as if to say he was fine, and sat down silently. I’d already warned Hermione not to prod him with questions, so she filled the silence with a running commentary about the creatures she’d seen and stroked that morning. I was grateful for her chatter—it saved me from having to speak. My mood was grim at best.

After dinner, we walked Hermione back, then made our way wordlessly to the shaman.

"I’ve been expecting you," the old man said, settling by the fire and gesturing for us to sit. "So, what have you decided, Harry?"

"I want it gone," Harry said firmly. "I hate the idea of a piece of that monster inside me—the one who killed my parents. I can’t stop thinking about it. But... what happens if we remove it?"

"In one body, there should be only one soul," the shaman said thoughtfully. "Right now, you’re in control, but that piece can still influence you. It cannot feel anything good. Where you might be upset or angry, it will push you towards rage, hatred, even violence. But this struggle is what strengthens your spirit—overcoming it will make you more resilient against darkness. With time, you’ll dissolve that fragment completely, and it will lose all power over you. I can remove it now, but you’ll miss out on that growth. Without the strength gained from fighting it, your spirit will be vulnerable, and the emotions it releases will overwhelm you. You’ll feel its influence more keenly, and it will be harder to control yourself."

"Even so, I want it gone," Harry said decisively. "I’ll do my best to manage, sir."

“Alright,” the shaman sighed, rising to his feet. “Into the tent with you.”

“What, right now?” Harry blurted, looking a bit panicked as he nervously licked his lips.

“Why wait?” the shaman replied in his usual unbothered tone, setting his pipe aside. “Don’t worry, young man, it won’t hurt,” he added unexpectedly, a faint smile softening his face as he placed a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry managed a weak smile in return before trudging towards the tent, throwing me a guilty glance over his shoulder.

“You wait here,” the old man said, stopping me with a nod as I moved to follow Harry. “Your support, Achehar, will be needed later.”

“Why do you keep calling me Achahar?” I snapped irritably. “What does that even mean?”

“What else would you be,” he said, squinting at me slyly, “if not a spirit that’s travelled through time? Achehar fits, doesn’t it?” He chuckled softly and disappeared into the tent, leaving me utterly baffled. So, he’d known who I was all along—even before viewing my memories?

Harry was gone for a good three hours. By the time the shaman emerged, night had fallen. He looked tired but content.

“He managed,” the shaman said with a smile as I leapt to my feet and rushed toward him. “It all went well. The boy’s strong; he endured the pain.”

“Pain?” I shot back, aghast. “You said it wouldn’t hurt!”

“His spirit hurt, Achehar, not his body,” the shaman corrected calmly, his gaze steady. “The Horcrux tormented him with visions—his mother’s death, the indifference and cruelty of his adoptive family, anger towards you, jealousy of those more loved. It lied to him, twisted the truth, and fed those feelings to make them stronger. The boy went through hell.”

“But I thought you were just going to dissolve the Horcrux!” I protested, my voice rising. “Why did Harry have to go through all that?”

“I am merely a guide, not a god,” the shaman replied serenely, settling by the fire and lighting his pipe again. “It’s not my place to decide for someone else’s soul. I provided support—it’s always easier to fight when you know someone’s there. Now it’s your turn to be there for him, Achehar. That child’s deepest fear is being unwanted.”

I hesitated before sitting beside him, then asked, “Tell me, am I like Voldemort? A wandering spirit that’s taken over someone else’s body?”

“You foolish boy,” he said with a warm chuckle. “A spirit has no name or gender; it lives many lives, gaining experience. You simply remembered one of your other lives. In truth, when your spirit was thrown from Ron’s body by the shock, you had time to be born and live another life before your body here healed enough to pull you back. That’s why you don’t recall dying—it happened abruptly, and part of your consciousness returned, bringing those memories with it.”

“But I didn’t remember being Ron,” I argued.

“Well, you were born into a new body and lived far longer in that life than in your old one. You rejected Ron’s consciousness and suppressed it. But you’ve accepted yourself now, haven’t you?”

“I have,” I admitted with a firm nod, feeling a strange sense of relief. “But why doesn’t the spirit keep its past life’s memories when it’s reborn? Wouldn’t that make things easier—avoiding the same mistakes, knowing where you went wrong?”

“Because of fear,” he explained. “Fear holds us back. If you feared heights in a past life, you’d fear them again in this one. You’d cling to the same likes, dislikes, habits. If you were lazy, you’d stay that way; if you avoided people, you’d remain a recluse. Your life would stagnate, and where there’s no movement, there’s death. Without challenges and self-discovery, a spirit cannot grow. It thrives on experience, and the memories of its past body aren’t needed,” he added, standing up. “Now, let’s go. I’ll carry the boy. We all need some rest.”