Tell me, why does your heart cry baby?

As Harry sat by the lake, waves of frustration and sadness crashing over him, he felt the weight of his burdens pressing down harder than ever before. The peaceful serenity of the water seemed to mock him, contrasting sharply with the turmoil in his mind.

He clenched his fists, his thoughts swirling in a tempest of anguish. Why did it always have to be him? Why was he the one chosen to face constant peril, to endure loss after loss? The memory of his parents, forever out of reach, pierced his heart with a pain that never dulled.

And then there was Voldemort, the specter haunting his every move. Why did everyone doubt him? Couldn't they see the truth he was desperately trying to convey? Cedric's death weighed heavily on his conscience, a grim reminder of the dangers lurking in the shadows.

The longing for a normal life, free from the shackles of fame and fear, burned within him. How he yearned to be "Just Harry" again, to blend into the crowd without the burden of destiny upon his shoulders.

As Harry pondered his circumstances, a nagging question persisted in his mind: Why him? He couldn't help but feel inadequate compared to his friends. Hermione's brilliance and unwavering loyalty, Ron's steadfast friendship—they were qualities he admired but often felt he lacked.

In moments of doubt, Harry couldn't shake the unsettling thought that perhaps he wasn't destined to be the hero everyone believed him to be. Despite his best efforts to uphold the values of the light side, there lurked a darker side within him—a side he feared acknowledging.

Deep down, Harry knew he possessed a latent talent for the dark arts. It was a secret he guarded closely, afraid of what it might reveal about his true nature. The allure of power, the temptation to embrace the shadows—it whispered to him in his darkest moments, threatening to consume him if he ever lost control.

Despite his reservations, Harry couldn't deny the truth: there were wizards far more skilled and virtuous than him. So why was he the chosen one? Why was the weight of the wizarding world's fate thrust upon his shoulders?

The answer eluded him, shrouded in the mysteries of destiny and prophecy. Suddenly, Harry's consciousness faded into darkness, the otherworldly voice echoed in his mind, The voice seemed to be everywhere, and it felt like three different voices squished together in unison.

Harry Potter... Do not grieve child. Things your brain will be unable to comprehend are at play here. This is your destiny Harry Potter, why?, you ask. Well we'll show you child.. We'll show you.

And without a warning Harry almost crashed face first into the floor of the great hall. He absent mindedly straightened his robes, and looked around. He did not recognize a single face here. What is going on? Where was he? He also was transparent, like a ghost, but he wasn't seen by anyone.

As Harry stood invisible among the bustling corridors of Hogwarts, the voices of the Ravenclaw girls drifted to his ears like whispers carried on the wind.

"Psst, did you hear?" one girl murmured, leaning in conspiratorially to her friends.

"Hear what?" another girl replied, her curiosity piqued.

"Riddle has eyes for Nyx," the first girl whispered, her tone tinged with excitement.

"Riddle?" the second girl exclaimed, a hint of disbelief coloring her voice. "Why is it always the hottest guys around? Do they all have to like Nyx?"

The third girl chimed in with a sigh, "Oh Circe, tell me about it. It's like she's got some kind of enchantment on them or something."

Giggles erupted among the group as they continued down the corridor, unaware of the invisible presence lingering among them.