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The Wizarding World’s Seer

The Weight of Whispered Prophecies

The transition from their third year to their fourth felt less like a change of seasons and more like the tightening of a noose. The Quidditch World Cup had been a symphony of screams and green light, a physical manifestation of the darkness Herc had been seeing in his peripheral vision for months. Now, back at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament, the air was thick with a competitive tension that Herc found physically nauseating.

He sat in the library, tucked away in a corner where the scent of old parchment usually acted as a balm for his nerves. Today, however, the scratching of quills sounded like insects burrowing into his skull.

"You’re chewing your lip again, Herc. You'll draw blood if you aren't careful."

Herc looked up to see Cedric Diggory standing over him. The Hufflepuff seeker had a kind face, the sort that seemed to radiate a natural, golden warmth. He held a stack of books on advanced Transfiguration, but his grey eyes were fixed solely on Herc’s trembling hands.

"Oh, sorry, Cedric," Herc murmured, forcing his hands beneath the table. "I didn't realize I was doing it."

Cedric pulled out the chair opposite him, sitting down with a grace that Herc envied. "It’s the tournament, isn't it? Everyone’s so keyed up. I can only imagine what it’s like for you, with... well, everything you see."

Herc felt a flicker of surprise. Most people outside of Gryffindor treated his "episodes" as a curiosity or a freak show. Cedric spoke of it as if it were a heavy coat Herc was forced to wear in July. "It’s louder than usual. Like a radio station that won't quite tune in. Just static and low voices."

"If it gets too much," Cedric said, reaching out to give Herc’s shoulder a brief, supportive squeeze, "you can always come down to the kitchens. The house-elves are great listeners, and the cocoa is the best in the castle. Sometimes a bit of quiet is the only thing that helps."

"Thanks, Cedric. That means a lot."

As Cedric walked away, Herc felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest. For a fleeting second, he didn't see the handsome sixth-year student; he saw a pale ghost, his eyes wide and vacant, lying amidst overgrown grass. Herc gasped, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle a cry.

"Easy, Pixie. Breathe. Just breathe."

Fred and George appeared as if summoned by his distress, flanking him instantly. George took the seat Cedric had vacated, while Fred stood behind Herc, his hands resting firmly on Herc’s shoulders, his thumbs rubbing small circles into the tense muscle.

"We saw the Pretty Boy talking to you," Fred said, his voice light but his eyes sharp. "Did he say something to upset you?"

"No," Herc choked out, the golden hue beginning to bleed into his irises. "He was being kind. It’s just... the Sight. It’s showing me things I don't want to see. Things about him."

George leaned forward, taking Herc’s face in both hands. "Look at me, Herc. Eyes on me. Don't look at the future right now. Look at the present. It’s Tuesday. It’s raining outside. And we just managed to sneak a batch of Canary Creams into the Slytherin common room."

Herc tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. "I saw him, George. I saw Cedric. He was... he was gone."

The twins went still. They didn't dismiss his words. They had learned the hard way that Herc’s visions were never just imagination.

"We’ll keep an eye on him," Fred promised, his voice dropping an octave. "But right now, we need to get you out of here. You’re starting to vibrate, and Pince is giving us the 'evil eye' from behind the Restricted Section."

They led him out of the library, but as they crossed the marble staircase, they ran into Ron and Harry. Harry looked frazzled, his hair even more chaotic than usual, while Ron was grumbling about the weight of his Divination homework.

"Herc! Just the person I wanted to see," Ron said, oblivious to the fact that Herc looked like he was about to shatter. "Trelawney wants a three-foot essay on dream interpretation. Can't you just, you know, give me a few pointers? Tell me what I’m going to dream about tonight?"

"Ron, leave him alone," Harry snapped, glancing at Herc with a look of deep sympathy. "Can't you see he’s not feeling well?"

"I’m fine, Harry," Herc lied, though his voice was thin. "Ron, just tell her you dreamed of a giant puffskein eating your shoes. She loves metaphors about being 'grounded' by the mundane."

"Brilliant," Ron grinned, scribbling it down.

Harry stepped closer to Herc, lowering his voice so the twins wouldn't hear. "Is it getting worse, Herc? The visions? I’ve been having... dreams. About a house. And a snake."

Herc felt a cold shiver race down his spine. "The shadows are moving, Harry. He’s getting closer. I can feel him at the edges of my mind, like a splinter I can't pull out."

Before Harry could respond, Hermione marched up the stairs, her arms full of parchment. "Hercule! I’ve been looking for you. Professor Flitwick said you missed your last three charms practices. You can't let your studies slide just because you’re feeling anxious. Structure is good for the mind!"

Herc flinched at the volume of her voice. The twins immediately bristled.

"Back off, Hermione," George said, his tone uncharacteristically cold. "He’s had a vision. A bad one. He doesn't need a lecture on 'structure' right now."

"I’m his sister, George! I know what’s best for him," Hermione fired back, her face flushing. "He needs to learn to control it, not hide in corners with you two!"

"He’s not hiding," Fred snarled, stepping toward her. "He’s surviving. There’s a difference."

Herc felt the familiar pressure building in his skull—the static, the heat, the overwhelming sense of *too much*. The voices of his sister and his boyfriends blurred into a cacophony of noise. He backed away, his heels catching on the edge of a step.

"Stop it," Herc whispered. "Please, stop."

But the world was already dissolving.

The stone walls of the staircase melted into a dark, suffocating mist. The air turned freezing, smelling of damp earth and ancient, rotted wood. Herc wasn't standing on a staircase anymore; he was lying on his back in a graveyard, the grass beneath him slick with something warm and metallic.

He tried to scream, but his voice was gone. His body felt heavy, broken, as if every bone had been shattered and knit back together incorrectly. He looked down and saw his own hands—they were pale, stained with dark crimson.

A shadow loomed over him.

It was Voldemort, but he looked different than before—more substantial, more terrifying. His red eyes glowed with a predatory delight as he stood over Herc’s broken form. The Dark Lord reached out with a foot, nudging Herc’s side with the toe of a black boot, like a child inspecting a dead bird.

"Still so fragile," the high, cold voice hissed.

Herc gasped for air, his lungs feeling as though they were filled with broken glass. "Why... why are you showing me this?"

Voldemort knelt down, his face a nightmare of pale, snake-like skin. He leaned in close, his breath smelling of nothing—a void of scent that was more terrifying than decay. He reached out a long, white finger and traced the line of the lightning-bolt scar on someone else's forehead, but then his hand moved, gripping Herc’s chin with agonizing strength.

"Because you are the witness, little Seer," Voldemort whispered into his ear. The words felt like oily snakes sliding into Herc’s brain. "The Boy Who Lived is the prize, but you... you are the audience. I want you to see his hope die. I want you to feel the moment his soul leaves his body."

Voldemort’s grip tightened, his sharp nails digging into Herc’s skin. "Look at yourself, Hercule. Broken. Bleeding. Forgotten. While they celebrate their 'champions' in the castle, you are here with me. In the dark. Where you belong."

The Dark Lord leaned even closer, his lips brushing Herc’s ear in a grotesque mockery of a caress. "I can hear your heart, little mirror. It beats so fast. Like a trapped bird. Would you like me to make it stop? Would you like the silence?"

"No," Herc whimpered, tears streaming down his face.

"You lie," Voldemort chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering over a tombstone. "You crave the silence. Your mind is a storm of fire and gold. I am the only one who can bring the frost. Join me, Hercule. Give me your eyes, and I will give you peace."

The Dark Lord’s hand moved from Herc’s chin to his chest, pressing down directly over his heart. The cold was unbearable, a freezing weight that threatened to stop his pulse entirely.

"I am the end of all things," Voldemort whispered. "And you... you are the one who will tell them I have come."

"HERC! HERC, LOOK AT ME!"

The graveyard vanished in a flash of blinding light. Herc let out a piercing, animalistic shriek as he collapsed onto the stone floor of the corridor. He was hyperventilating, his chest heaving in shallow, desperate hitches.

"Get back! Give him room!" George’s voice was a roar.

Herc felt hands on him—warm, familiar hands. He lashed out blindly, his fingernails catching someone’s cheek.

"It’s us, Jewel! It’s Fred and George! You’re safe!"

Herc’s eyes snapped open. The molten gold was so bright it seemed to illuminate the dim hallway. He saw Fred and George kneeling over him, their faces masks of pure, unadulterated terror. Behind them, Hermione was white as a sheet, her hands pressed to her mouth, while Harry and Ron stood frozen in shock.

"He touched me again," Herc sobbed, his voice a broken wreck. "He was in a graveyard. There was blood... so much blood. He told me I belonged in the dark."

George grabbed Herc, hauling him into a crushing embrace. He didn't care who was watching. He rocked Herc back and forth, his face buried in Herc’s hair. "You don't belong to him. You hear me? You belong to us. You’re a Weasley in every way that matters, and we don't let go of our own."

Fred moved to Herc’s other side, taking one of Herc’s shaking hands and pressing it against his own heart. "Feel that, Pixie? That’s real. He’s just a shadow. A nasty, overgrown garden snake. We’re the ones who are real."

Herc leaned into them, his breath slowly beginning to level out as the gold in his eyes faded back to a traumatized brown. He looked over George’s shoulder and saw Harry. Harry was staring at him with a look of dawning horror, his hand subconsciously rising to touch his own scar.

"He’s coming, isn't he?" Harry whispered, the question meant only for Herc.

Herc couldn't speak. He only nodded, a single, jerky movement.

Hermione stepped forward, her eyes brimming with tears. "Herc... I didn't know. I didn't realize it was that... that vivid."

"It’s not just vivid, 'Mione," Herc croaked, pulling away from George just enough to look at her. "It’s a memory of a future that hasn't happened yet. And it’s hungry."

The corridor was silent, the weight of the revelation hanging over them like a shroud. The usual schoolboy rivalries and academic stresses seemed trivial now, eclipsed by the cold reality of the vision.

"Right," Fred said, standing up and pulling Herc with him. George stayed glued to Herc’s side, his arm firmly around Herc’s waist. "We’re going to the hospital wing. And then, we’re going to find a way to lock those visions out. If we have to spend every night in the library researching Occlumency, we will."

"We’ll help," Harry said firmly, stepping forward. Ron nodded, looking more serious than Herc had ever seen him.

"I’ll check the Restricted Section," Hermione added, her voice regaining its strength. "There must be something on Seer-specific mental shielding."

Herc looked at his friends—his sister, his fellow Gryffindors, and the two boys who had become his entire world. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, and the memory of Voldemort’s touch still made his skin crawl. But as Fred reached over to wipe a tear from Herc’s cheek and George squeezed his waist, the darkness felt a little less absolute.

"I’m tired," Herc whispered.

"We know, Jewel," George murmured, kissing his temple. "We’ve got you. Just close your eyes. We’re the walls."

As they walked toward the infirmary, Herc did close his eyes. He didn't see a graveyard this time. He saw the common room fire, the smell of gunpowder and oranges, and the steady, unwavering light of the people who refused to let him face the end alone. The future was a terrifying, bloody mess, but the present—the present was warm. And for a boy who saw too much, that was the only prophecy that mattered.