Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1985

There’s a little corner behind the cupboard where the light doesn’t reach. I like sitting there when everything upstairs gets too loud. Sometimes, if I press my hands tight over my ears and breathe really slow, I can pretend I’m not in the Dursleys’ house. That I can’t smell the sour floor soap, or hear Uncle Vernon’s shouting, or feel the tears rise in my eyes—though I haven’t cried out loud since they left this lightning bolt on my forehead.

Aunt Petunia says it was an accident. But I don’t know what kind of accident leaves a mark shaped like a thunderbolt. Maybe the sky kissed me too hard and left this behind. Dudley says I look like a freak, and that’s why he stares at me like that when he thinks I’m not watching.

I don’t like school. There are too many voices, and they all feel too big. I’m not good at drawing or reading fast. Sometimes the letters get all tangled and make me dizzy. The teacher asks me questions and I don’t know why I feel so cold inside. Like something’s wrong with me, but I don’t know what it is.

But at night, when everything is quiet and even the pipes stop groaning, something comes to visit me.

It’s not like the dreams where I’m falling or running and never getting anywhere. This one’s different. It starts with a soft wind, like someone sighing right inside my head. And then I see him.

The man.

I don’t know his name, but he’s always there—like a tall, beautiful shadow standing just at the edge of everything. His hair is black—blacker than the darkness under the stairs—and his skin looks like it’s made of the same light that slips through the crack in the morning. His eyes… his eyes are like nothing else. They’re red. Red like the blood from when I scraped my knee, but glowing, like little fires. He doesn’t scare me. Not completely. Sometimes it feels like I know him. Like I’ve seen him before, even if I can’t remember where.

He doesn’t speak. He just walks. Always walks.

I’ve seen him climb snowy mountains, with the wind dancing around him like it loves him. I’ve seen him pass through markets where people wore coloured robes and spoke in voices that sounded like sad songs. In one dream, he walked into a cave with drawings on the walls, and something—something huge—woke up when he came close. But it didn’t attack. It just looked at him. Like it understood.

Everything he touches becomes different. Quieter. More... magical.

Sometimes I wonder if the places are magical, or if it’s him who makes them that way.

I wake up with my heart pounding. Always just as he turns to look at me.

Because yes, sometimes, right before I wake up, he turns. Like he knows I’m watching. And he sees me. His eyes go right through me—but they don’t hurt. They leave me hollow. Empty. But not in a bad way.

Like when I’m under water and everything is quiet and only my breathing is left.

Sometimes I wonder if he knows I’m dreaming him.

One time, when I woke up, I thought I had brought him back with me. There was a little red mark on the sheet, right where I’d laid my head. Just like the man's eyes. I touched it with my finger, but it wasn’t blood. It was a tiny, dried flower. Small and crushed. I don’t know how it got there. There are no flowers in this house.

After that, I started hiding things. Little stones I thought were pretty. A button I found in the street, all golden, like a cat’s eyes. A scrap of paper someone threw away, but it had a drawing of a castle. I keep them in a box under the loose floorboard in the cupboard. It’s my secret treasure. They’re things that remind me of him. Because he… he’s not like the others.

I don’t think he’s real. But sometimes I wish he were.

Sometimes, when Uncle Vernon shouts at me for taking too long in the garden or when Dudley pushes me and breaks something and says it was my fault, I close my eyes and imagine the man coming. Not in anger. He doesn’t seem like he ever shouts. But with something worse. A stillness that makes everyone fall silent. That makes them stop moving.

I don’t know why I think that. I just… feel it.

There’s one thing that frightens me, though. One night, I saw him looking at something I couldn’t see. He was standing in a forest, beside a lake that looked like glass. And he went still. So, so still that the water stopped moving. And then he smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was like he had remembered something ancient. Like he knew a secret so enormous and terrible that no one else could ever understand. And then he picked up a stone. Just a stone—round and grey—and threw it into the water.

Nothing happened.

But I woke up crying.

Not because he hurt me. He never touches me. Never gets too close. But in that moment, I understood that the man… was alone.

As alone as I am.

And that hurt more than anything else.

At school, they told us that God always listens. But no one listens to me. Maybe that’s why he comes to my dreams. Because he doesn’t have anyone either. And if I see him, even if it’s only in dreams, then maybe we’re not so alone, right?

Sometimes I try to draw him, but it never turns out right. I forget the details. I forget his face. I can only draw the eyes. Red. Red like they’re crying fire.

Mrs. Figg says I’ve got a very vivid imagination. I don’t know what that means. I just know that when I close my eyes, I see him again. Walking in the snow. Touching ancient walls. Entering places no one else would dare to go. And the world around him opens up. Like it’s been waiting for him.

And I wonder if one day I’ll open up too. If he’ll enter me.

Like he enters the places in his dreams.

Chapter Text

1987

There are days when I don’t want to open my eyes.

Not because I’m scared. Not anymore. I left that behind when I learned that fear is useless in this house. But there are mornings when waking up feels like falling from a great height, like leaving a warm place only to land in a dry, empty pit. I wake up alone, as always, but there’s something else. A hollow space in my chest. A strange coldness that has nothing to do with the weather.

And the only thing that gets me moving is knowing that if I hold on long enough, if I do things right, if I don’t talk too much and clean everything the way Aunt Petunia likes… then, when I close my eyes again, maybe he’ll come.

He, the one without a name.

The man from my dreams.

Now I see him more often. Almost every night. It used to be just random moments, but now… now it’s like a story forming on its own. Like he knows I’m watching him, and he wants to tell me something. Like I’m the only one left to listen.

Today I dreamed I was in a very high place, where the sky was white like paper. The man walked across a stone bridge with no rails. Just him. No one else. His steps made no sound, but the wind fell silent as he passed. Below, far below, there was water, but it didn’t move. It was so still it looked like a mirror. He didn’t look down. Only forward.

He wore a black cloak, the kind that seems to float. His dark hair fell like silk across his forehead. His eyes… I didn’t see them this time. His head was slightly tilted, as if thinking very important thoughts. As if carrying the weight of something I don’t understand yet.

And I, from who knows where, could only watch and wish I was like him. So sure. So silent. So alone.

During the day, I do normal things. Well, normal for me. I wash the dishes. I sweep. I water Aunt Petunia’s flowers. I feed the birds in the garden. I don’t say much. Aunt Petunia hates when I speak without being asked. She says good children don’t make noise.

Dudley pushed me today. Made me trip over his bike. I scraped my knee, but I didn’t cry. I stayed still, like the man on the bridge. I imagined I had a black cloak, and no one could touch me because I was important. Powerful. That bad things just bounced off me.

I thought, “I can be like him too. I can walk without making a sound. I can watch without speaking.”

And for a moment, I felt it.

Not like a voice, not like a hug. No. It was like… like someone seeing me from far away. Like he was saying, in silence: “Well done. That’s the way.”

And that made me smile, even with blood running down my leg.

The visions have changed. Sometimes they’re not dreams. Sometimes I close my eyes for just a second —when I blink, or when I squeeze my eyes shut because soap got in— and there he is.

Like today, when I was scrubbing the floor. I bent down, wiping with the rag, and suddenly I saw him.

He was standing in a huge hall, full of fire. Not a fire that burned —it was… golden, as if the air was made of sunlight. Around him were people. Not regular people. Men in robes and women with strange hats, all bowing their heads. No one spoke. They all looked at him like he was something sacred. And he… he stood tall, hands behind his back, not smiling.

And I thought, “He never has to shout.”

He just exists. And everyone obeys him.

I wonder… was he ever like me? Small, quiet, with no one to hold him?

I don’t know how I know this, but I feel it. He was alone once, too. He was invisible, too.

And now… now everyone looks at him.

I saved another treasure today. A dry leaf that fell from the tree out front. It had a strange shape, like a crooked star. I folded it and hid it with the others.

Sometimes I kneel in front of my secret box and look at it as if it were an altar. As if, if I concentrate hard enough, I could call him. Make him come.

I want to see him more. I want to know more.

Sometimes it scares me how much I want to see him.

But only a little.

I wonder if he knows I’m watching him.

Sometimes I think he does. Because there are moments when he stops, as if he hears something. As if he feels my eyes, even from far away, even in that world that doesn’t seem real but is, because I feel it more than this one.

Tonight I saw him in front of a black lake.

Not a lake like in the Dursleys’ books. This one was immense, so big the sky got lost inside it. There was a thick, white mist curling along the ground like it was alive. The water was still, not a single wave. And he was there, standing right on the edge, looking at his reflection.

But he didn’t look happy.

He looked… tired.

That left a knot in my throat. Because if he, with all his strength, his power, his cape that seems to float on its own wind… if he can be sad too, then maybe I’m not so alone.

Maybe, when I feel empty inside, he’s felt it too.

And if that’s true… if that’s true, then we’re connected.

I didn’t speak all day today.

Aunt Petunia told me I could stay in the yard while she cleaned the kitchen, so I sat under the tree, hands on my knees, looking at the sky like that might be enough to call him.

He didn’t come. I didn’t see anything.

But I stayed there anyway. Waiting.

Because if I see him, even for a second, everything is worth it. Everything.

Sometimes I feel like talking to him. Telling him I know who he is, even if I don’t know his name. Telling him I want to walk with him, that I don’t mind if I have to do it silently, with my eyes down, like he does sometimes. That I can be brave, if he looks at me.

Sometimes I imagine his voice. Firm. Elegant. Slow like the shadow that moves along the ground at the end of the day.

I wouldn’t give him a name. I don’t need one. The man is the man. He’s all I have.

I dreamed of a place that doesn’t exist today.

It was a white forest, covered in snow. But it wasn’t cold. Not for me. The trees were so tall you couldn’t see their tops, and little lights floated in the air, like sleeping fireflies.

He was walking ahead of me.

Yes, this time I was there. I could feel my feet sinking into the soft snow, even though it didn’t make me wet. I followed him in silence. He didn’t speak to me. He didn’t look at me. But I knew he was guiding me.

And something inside me filled up.

Like the hole I always carry, the one that hurts when I’m alone in the cupboard or when everyone ignores me, got a little smaller.

I didn’t wake up crying this time.

I woke up with a warm chest, like someone had touched my heart with an invisible hand.

I think I love him.

Not like in Aunt Petunia’s stories, with princesses and knights. Not like that.

It’s… something else. Like a secret only I understand.

He makes me feel seen. He makes me feel real.

And if I have to keep scrubbing floors and staying quiet during the day, if I have to take Dudley’s shoves and the adults’ cold words, I will.

Because I know that when I close my eyes, he’ll be waiting for me.

And he’s getting closer every time.

Chapter Text

1989

Sometimes, when I blink too slowly, I see him.

Not with the burning clarity of my dreams, no. The dreams are like glass—sharp and shimmering and full of edges I want to touch but can't. But in the daytime, when the sun slants through the classroom window just so, or when the street outside the cupboard smells like rain and ash and dust, I catch his shadow. A figure too tall to be my uncle, too still to be my aunt, and too graceful to belong in a place like this.

I don’t tell anyone.

What would I say? That there’s a man who walks through my dreams like he owns them? That I see places when I sleep—strange, lovely places—and he’s always there, always watching, always waiting? They already think I’m odd. That I whisper to walls. That I stare too long at things that aren’t there.

Uncle Vernon once called me defective.

I didn’t know what the word meant, but I understood how he said it. I think maybe it means something is cracked. Something has gone wrong. Sometimes I wonder if I was born that way.

Other times, I wonder if the man in my dreams is the only thing that’s right.

Lately, I find myself listening for him in the silence.

At night, I lie still, pretending the cupboard is bigger than it is. I pretend the wooden beams above me are carved with symbols, like the temples he visits in my dreams. I trace lines in the dust and imagine they glow beneath my fingers. I whisper the words I’ve heard him say—words that curl like smoke and taste like old secrets. I don't know what they mean, but they make the air feel thicker. Like I’m not alone.

Once, I said one out loud while I was playing in the yard, tracing spirals in the dirt with a stick.

Dudley laughed at me. Pushed me down. Called me mental.

The dirt stuck to my knees, and I stayed on the ground, breathing slow, waiting for the man from my dreams to appear. He didn’t. But I felt something. The way the air hummed, just for a moment, like it was listening.

Like he was listening.

Sometimes I forget which world I’m in.

There are mornings when I wake up and still feel the cold marble floor of the palace from my dream under my toes. The real floor—rough and splintered and half-covered in Dudley’s old socks—feels wrong. Smaller. Uglier. Like the cupboard shrank overnight.

There are moments when I speak and realize I’ve said something odd. Something I don’t remember learning. Miss Allen, my teacher, asked me once where I’d heard a word like inevitable. I didn’t know what to tell her. I’d said it when a boy in class was crying over a broken toy. “Everything ends,” I’d said. “It’s inevitable.”

I remember her face going still. Like I’d become something unfamiliar to her.

They don’t understand. No one does.

Except him.

He walks through ruins now. Grand, echoing places with archways that reach for the sky like open hands. His coat flaps behind him like smoke, and when he touches the stones, they remember him. That’s how I think of it. The stones remember him. And he remembers everything.

He doesn’t speak to me, not with words. But sometimes, when I’m dreaming, I feel him glance at me. Not in a frightening way. More like… checking. Like I’m a page in a book he keeps rereading.

He is never afraid. Even when he walks into rooms filled with fire or whispers or things with teeth, he stands tall. His eyes—red like spilled ink in water—don’t blink.

I want to be like that. I want to walk into a place and have it see me. I want to matter like that.

Last week, I started writing things down.

I tore pages from Dudley’s old coloring books and wrote on the backs. Not full sentences—just words. Phrases. Fragments I remember from my dreams. They sound different when I speak them out loud. Stronger. My voice feels… older.

Sometimes I read them to myself under the blankets.

Sometimes, when I do, I feel like he’s closer.

Aunt Petunia found one of the pages.

She didn’t say anything. Just looked at the symbols—twisting and looping like vines—and went pale. She threw it in the bin without a word. But later that night, I heard her whispering to Uncle Vernon. Something about "signs" and "bad blood."

I curled up in my cupboard, page pressed to my chest, and tried not to cry.

He wouldn't cry, I thought. He never cries.

But I’m not him. I’m just a boy with bruises and bad dreams.

Sometimes, I think I see the corners of the world curling.

Like the sky is peeling back and something else is underneath it.

Maybe that’s where he comes from.

Maybe that’s where I’m meant to go.

It’s starting to happen more often now.

Little things. Quiet things.

I’ll be walking to school and pass a stranger on the street, and for a moment, they’ll look wrong. Their face too sharp. Their shadow too long. Once, I could’ve sworn a woman had no eyes at all—just smooth skin where they should’ve been. I blinked and she was normal again. But I didn’t forget.

Maybe I never really see the world. Maybe I see the pieces between.

I don’t talk like the other kids anymore.

Miss Allen says I’ve become “serious.” She says it gently, like it’s a bad thing in disguise. Like she’s trying not to say strange. I hear it in her voice, in the way her eyes dart to the drawings I make. Spires and arches. Red circles like eyes. A throne made of ash.

She doesn’t understand.

They never do.

I heard him speak last night.

Not just words I don’t understand—he spoke to me.

He said:

You are listening well, little one.

That’s all.

But I woke up with the sound still in my ears, soft and slow like velvet dragging across skin. It filled me. I curled around it like a secret. I carried it all day in my chest like a stolen treasure.

Someone sees me.

Someone knows me.

There’s a mirror at school, in the hallway near the janitor’s closet. I’ve started stopping there before lunch. Just to look.

I stare at my reflection and whisper things I’ve heard in the dreams. I watch my lips move like his do. I pretend my eyes are red.

Once, I caught a flicker behind me. Not my reflection. His.

He stood tall, arms folded behind his back, watching me. Proud. Calm. Then I blinked, and it was gone.

But I know he was there.

Sometimes I think he’s always been there.

Uncle Vernon says I’m getting too quiet. That I look at people like I’m judging them.

Maybe I am.

Sometimes I see them—him and Aunt Petunia—fussing and shouting and puffing like machines, and I wonder what they would do if they saw what I saw. If they knew what I knew.

They’re small, really. Not in size, but in shape. Their lives are made of teacups and curtains and rules. Mine is made of shadows and fire and dreams that whisper in a language older than bones.

We’re not the same.

We never were.

He showed me a forest last night.

Twisted trees with silver leaves. The ground glowed under our feet. He walked without fear, and I followed. He didn’t look at me, but I knew he knew I was there.

There were statues between the trees. People, maybe. Frozen mid-scream, their faces lost to stone. I should’ve been afraid. I wasn’t.

He touched one and whispered something soft. The statue shuddered, like it heard him.

This is power, he said. The world bends to those who understand it.

I woke up with the word power in my mouth like a taste I couldn’t swallow.

I think I’m changing.

Sometimes I say things and don’t remember saying them.

Once, when Dudley tried to shove me, I turned and said, “Your fear makes you loud.” He blinked at me like I’d slapped him. I didn’t know where the words came from. But they fit. Like I’d always known them.

Like he had said them first.

I feel like there’s a thread between us now. A thin, silvery thread stretched from the space between my ribs to… wherever he is. Wherever he walks.

When he speaks, it pulls.

When I speak, I wonder if he hears.

I drew a door on the wall of my cupboard.

A tall one, the kind you’d find in a castle that never had a name. I used charcoal from the fireplace. At night, I sit in front of it and wait. Just in case it opens.

I don’t know what’s on the other side.

But I know it’s where he is.

And I think—no, I know—that one day, I’ll walk through it.

Sometimes, I wonder if I was born for this. For him.

For the dreams and the darkness and the soft words that stick to my skin like honey and ash.

The cupboard is small, and my world is bigger than it now.

I don’t belong here.

I think I never did.

Chapter Text

1991

I no longer dream. I live in the dreams.

I don’t know when it began to change. Before, the visions were like fairy tales—bright, distant, cloaked in wonder. But now... now they feel close, as if I’m also walking through those ancient lands, those sleeping castles, those forests with trees that whisper names I don’t know, but still miss. Sometimes I wake up with my hands clenched around the sheets, as if I’d been holding something—a thing that forgot to cross over with me.

It doesn’t hurt to be alone. Not like before. I’ve learned to keep quiet more elegantly, to disappear without moving, to watch without being seen. Sometimes Mrs. Figg greets me from her window when I walk to school, but I only nod. I’ve realized words are useless when you carry secrets.

And I have one as big as the sky. One that sleeps beside me, watches me from the sink water, and speaks to me from deep within the earth.

At school they say I’m weird. I don’t care. Their words don’t touch me. They’re like falling leaves, and I am the root. Solid. Silent. Ancient. One time a boy pushed me during recess. He looked at me, waiting for me to cry, to make noise. I said nothing. I just looked back. Calm. Steady. He walked away. He never spoke to me again.

And the dreams, ah, the dreams. They’ve changed too. Now they teach me more. They’re no longer just places. They’re actions.

The man—the lord with blood-red eyes—no longer just walks. Now I see him doing things. Strange things, important things, powerful things. He bends over old books that whisper in languages I don’t understand, but that my chest recognizes. He speaks with creatures that should only exist in stories, and yet they obey him, as if he were a dark king of a kingdom with no map.

I see him move his hand, and a door opens without touch. I hear him murmur soft words and make someone forget their own name. One time I saw a man cry in front of him… and then smile, as if crying had been an honor.

I don’t understand what he does. But I want to do it too.

Sometimes I practice in silence. In front of the bathroom mirror, when the Dursleys are asleep, I repeat the words I heard in the dreams. I don’t know what they mean, but the way they sound… it’s like saying them makes something under my skin vibrate. Sometimes I feel heat in my fingertips. I hear the hum of something ancient behind the walls.

I don’t tell anyone. They wouldn’t understand. They haven’t seen what I’ve seen. They haven’t seen him.

And they don’t know what it’s like to be alone in a world that doesn’t want you to exist—and finally see someone just as alone as you, just as quiet, just as elegant, just as perfect. Sometimes I think he’s waiting for me.

Today we’re going to the zoo. It’s a trip with the Dursleys, one of those where they ignore me while they laugh, and I feel like a ghost in a photo no one ever developed. But it doesn’t bother me as much anymore. Because while they walk, I can watch. And while they look around, I can look for him.

Maybe—just maybe—today I’ll dream him while I’m awake too.

The zoo smells like wet earth and old sugar. There are children running, screaming, dripping ice cream. There are tired parents smiling by habit. I walk a few steps behind the Dursleys. Dudley wears a new cap, and Vernon sweats in silence as he pushes his belly through the hallways. No one has said a word to me since we got out of the car.

It's fine. I didn’t come to talk today. I came to search.

The reptile house is cooler. It’s quiet, darker. I like it. Here, voices sound distant. Here, I can think more clearly.

We walk past a Burmese python, coiled like an ancient secret. The lights above the glass shine like dead stars. Dudley presses his face against the glass and bangs on it, laughing. It doesn’t move.

“It’s dead,” says Vernon.

It isn’t.

I know it. I can feel it.

I walk up when they leave. I stand still, like I’ve learned in the dreams. You have to know how to wait. The Lord with the blood-red eyes always waits. He never rushes. He never lowers himself.

“Hello,” I whisper.

The snake doesn’t move. But there’s something in the air, an electricity in my fingers. I feel… awake. More than ever. As if I’ve finally arrived at the scene that was promised to me.

“They’re not watching,” I say. I get closer. “You can move if you want to.”

And then it does.

Slowly, gracefully, it lifts its head and looks at me. Its eyes are deep, lidless, without judgment. And it understands me.

I know it.

I feel it.

“Can you… hear me?” I ask.

The snake slithers up to the glass. Very close. I can almost feel its breath on my skin. Its tongue moves like a pendulum.

And then I hear it. Not with my ears. With the center of my chest.

“I hear.”

I freeze. The world stops. How? How…? What was that? No. It wasn’t a voice. It was something older. Deeper.

“Don’t be afraid.”

My lips tremble. Not from fear. From awe. From recognition.

“Who…? Who am I?”

The snake doesn’t answer right away. It glides gracefully under the reflection of the glass.

“You don’t remember?”

I do. Yes. I remember from my dreams. The ruins. The dark towers. The ancient tongues that slid down my throat as if they had always lived there.

“You see him too?” I ask. “The Lord?”

Silence. Then:

“You could say that.”

I take a step back. My whole body is shaking. Not from weakness. No. It’s something else. It’s as if something inside me is waking up. Something with scales. Something with a crown.

Dudley comes back, whining that it’s not moving. Vernon says something. Petunia calls him.

The snake coils again, returning to its sleeping shape. Its voice no longer reaches me.

But I am no longer the same.

I walk silently back to them. My chest aches. It’s not sadness. It’s not fear. It’s like an echo that refuses to go quiet.

Vernon gives me a look as I get too close to the ice cream cart.

“Don’t even think about it, boy.”

I nod. I don’t need sweets. I already have my dreams.

That night, when I close my eyes, I don’t wait to fall asleep. I wait for him to call me. And he does. But this time, he’s not alone. This time, he reaches out his hand and I raise mine too.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, when the silence in the house is so deep that not even the hum of the refrigerator dares to breathe, I feel like time stops moving. It halts right above my head, like a heavy cloud that doesn’t pour rain but won’t drift away either. It presses down on my chest and makes me think I might already be dreaming, even though my eyes are open.

Lately, I can’t really tell the difference.

The nights have become longer, even if the clock says otherwise. When I lie down and close my eyes, I feel it almost instantly—that soft pull in the center of my chest, that warm current pushing me toward the place where he’s waiting for me. He’s not always in the same place. Sometimes he walks among twisted trees with roots like fingers. Sometimes he stands before a black lake that reflects the sky, even during the day. And other times—my favorite—he’s standing in front of a great iron door, as tall as a mountain, wearing a cloak that billows even though there’s no wind.

He never speaks with words. But I understand him anyway.

Two nights ago, I saw him raise a wand that looked like it was made of shadow and fire. He touched a stone with it, and the stone split in two, revealing a light so bright it hurt my eyes—even in sleep. And behind that light, there was a castle. Not a fairy tale castle, with cheerful towers and colorful flags. No. It was a real castle, with dark walls, bridges that floated in the air, and windows as deep as wells. My castle. Our castle.

I woke up with my lips burning. I must’ve been whispering something in my sleep—I knew because my throat hurt. I couldn’t remember the words, but I remembered the taste. It was iron. Like blood.

In the kitchen, Petunia looked at me strangely, as if I were someone else looking back at her. Dudley didn’t even bother to make fun of me. Lately, he stays quiet when I’m near. Vernon has stopped shouting at me. It’s not that they talk to me now—they just... avoid me. As if I were something that might break or explode. They ask if I understand when they give me orders, but they don’t wait for my answer. They’re gone before I can open my mouth.

And I don’t blame them.

Sometimes I hear myself speak and I don’t sound like me. The words slip out in strange shapes. I say things I didn’t know I knew. The other day, I told Dudley, “There are things pigs can’t understand, even if they walk on two legs,” and I have no idea where that came from. I just said it, like someone else had whispered it inside me first.

Dudley left me alone for three days.

Today was different. I knew it the moment I woke up. The air felt denser, like everything I’d been waiting for was hidden in the walls. I got dressed silently, went down the stairs without making them creak, and when I passed by the front window... I saw it.

An owl.

It wasn’t an ordinary bird. It was big, with feathers so dark they looked like they were made of ink, and eyes that gleamed like old gold coins. It was perched on the mailbox, staring at me. And it didn’t blink. Not once.

My heart started beating faster—but not from fear.

Finally.

I opened the door.

There it was.

A thick, ivory-colored envelope. No stamps. Just my name, written in elegant handwriting that seemed to shift slightly if you looked at it for too long. I felt like I recognized it. Not because I’d seen it before—but because I’d felt it in dreams.

Harry James Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging, Surrey

Every letter was a promise.

I took it with trembling hands, holding my breath, afraid it would vanish the moment I touched it. But it didn’t. It was solid. Real. The paper felt smooth and cool, like the skin of a statue.

Petunia appeared behind me, still in her robe, her hair pulled back with a tight clip. She looked at me. Then she looked at the envelope. And something in her—a hard, invisible line she always carried in her face—broke.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t try to snatch it away. She just… stood still. Her back rigid, her eyes fixed on the name, and a look of silent defeat on her face.

“So, it’s come,” she whispered. Not even to me. It was as if she were speaking to someone else.

I wanted to ask her what it meant, but no words came out.

She turned around. Went upstairs. Closed the door to her room.

And left me alone with the letter in my hands.

The letter weighed more than it seemed. It wasn’t the envelope, or the paper, or even the ink. It was what lay behind all that: the certainty that the impossible was happening. That my dreams weren’t just dreams.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, knees bent, my fingers brushing the edges of the envelope as if it were a sacred object. Outside, the light had just begun to filter through the cupboard window; that kind of cold light that doesn’t warm—only reveals.

I opened the envelope.

First came the letter. Thick, creamy paper, with the same kind of script. I read in silence. I read fast. I read slowly. I read again. Every word was a bell ringing inside me:

“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry”

“Dear Mr. Potter:

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…”

Magic.

It was real.

He was real.

I felt a tightness in my throat, like I might cry, but I didn’t. I just stayed still, breathing deeply. Reading. Touching the letters with the tips of my fingers, as if I could absorb them.

I was no longer a strange child with dreams that were too vivid. No longer a useless orphan locked in a cupboard by relatives who barely tolerated my existence. I was a wizard.

And if I was a wizard… so was he.

And if he was too… maybe Hogwarts was the castle I had seen so many times.

Maybe I just had to get there.

Maybe… I was finally going to find him.

I didn’t realize I had started laughing until I felt the vibrations in my chest. It wasn’t loud laughter. It was soft. Contained. A private, intimate laugh—the kind you let out when you finally understand something the whole world has been trying to hide from you.

Petunia didn’t come downstairs. Dudley didn’t poke his nose out. Vernon hadn’t come back from work yet. It was as if the universe had given me a moment just for myself—a pause where I could stop pretending to be normal. A pause to look at the letter again and again and savor each syllable as if it were a spell itself.

I took the second paper from the envelope: the supply list.

Wand.

Cauldron.

Books with titles like Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Black robes.

Robes. Like the ones he wore.

My skin tingled. The air around me seemed to shift. Everything fit. Everything I had dreamed, everything I had seen—it was true. Not hallucinations. Not the delusions of a forgotten child.

It was a message.

A preparation.

That night I slept with the letter under my pillow. Not because I was afraid someone would take it—no one would, not after Petunia’s look—but because I wanted to feel it close. As if I could absorb its magic. As if having it beside my head would help me enter the dreams more clearly, more powerfully.

And that’s exactly what happened.

The Lord of Dreams was waiting for me.

I wasn’t in a forest this time. Nor in a tower, or a lake. I was in a round room, with a ceiling that looked like the sky and walls covered in books bound in dark leather. There was only one chair, and in it, him. His face was blurry, but his eyes shone like glowing coals.

He looked at me.

And then, for the first time, he spoke.

“You’re getting closer.”

His voice wasn’t a sound. It was a vibration inside my chest. A soft knock along my spine. A certainty that shook my bones.

I tried to speak. To ask. To call him by a name I didn’t yet know. But no voice came. Just a trembling breath, like someone watching the sunrise from within a dream.

He reached out his hand.

And between his fingers appeared a feather. Black. Long. Exactly like the owl’s that had brought the letter. He let it go into the wind, and it floated in the air, spinning slowly until it disappeared.

“You will come to me,” he said. “And when you do, you’ll know who you are.”

I woke with my heart pounding like a drum.

I wasn’t sweating. I hadn’t screamed. I hadn’t cried. But I was shaken, as if I had run miles inside the dream.

I went to the mirror.

I looked at myself.

And for a moment, just an instant, I didn’t see a child. I saw a reflection of what I could be. Of what I was meant to be.

And I smiled.

I had breakfast alone.

Petunia was in the kitchen, stiff as a rod, her gaze lost in the steam rising from the kettle. Dudley was still asleep, likely exhausted from the nothing he usually did. Vernon hadn’t come home from work the night before. Or maybe he had, and simply stayed out of sight.

The letter was still with me, folded with reverent care, hidden in the inner pocket of an old jacket no one had asked where I got. I’d found it in a dumpster months ago. The shoulder was torn and the lining ripped, but something in its shape made me feel less small.

When I entered the kitchen, Petunia said nothing.

I sat down. Took a piece of toast. The bread was cold.

I bit slowly.

Only when I lifted the teacup to my lips—she had poured it without saying a word—did Petunia speak.

“They’ll come for you,” she said, without looking up.

Her voice hit the table like a dropped stone.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. She wasn’t speaking to me. She was speaking to herself. Like someone recalling something ancient. Like someone reliving a memory they wish they could bury.

“They… they know. They know where you are.”

Then she looked at me.

It wasn’t hatred I saw in her eyes. Not disdain. Not the tired anger she usually threw at me whenever I made a mess or breathed too loudly.

It was fear.

A quiet, gnawed-at fear that had been eating away at her soul for years without anyone noticing.

“Don’t provoke them,” she said. “Don’t ask questions. Don’t say anything about… about the dreams. Don’t name them.”

Her lips trembled as she said that word—dreams. As if it were a poison that had spread through the family and she feared naming it would make it more real. Would set it loose.

I just looked at her. I didn’t even blink.

She didn’t understand.

It wasn’t a punishment. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a curse.

It was a promise.

An ascension.

That same day, I walked farther than I'd ever been allowed. I carried the letter tightly protected, clutching my chest, as I wandered along the neighborhood's rusty fence, through the dirty alleys, through the countryside where plants grew wild as if also waiting to escape. The leaves whispered my name. The birds looked at me more closely. And then I saw it.

The owl.

Not the one that had brought the letter but one very similar: dark gray, eyes like golden needles, hovering on the roof of an abandoned house.

It didn't move. It didn't flap its wings. It just watched me.

I stopped.

I looked back at it.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked softly.

And for a second, I thought it tilted its head.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"They'll come looking for you," Petunia had said.

But I wasn't going to wait. I was already looking for them. And if the world that awaited me had owls and spells and castles, then I was going to enter it on my feet, not crawling.

That night, there was no sleep.

Only darkness.

But I wasn't scared.

I knew what that meant.

He was waiting for me on the other side. No longer in my dreams.

Soon, in person.

Soon, at Hogwarts.

Soon, finally, real.

Chapter Text

That day didn't dawn any differently from the others—yet somehow, it changed everything. The sky loomed over Privet Drive like a dirty sheet stretched across a neighborhood pretending to be perfect. I woke before sunrise, as I always did. I no longer dreamed with the same lightness as before. Now, the dreams spoke to me—not in words, but in sensations. In echoes that didn’t belong to me. The lord of dreams walked closer. I felt him in my ribs, at the back of my neck, behind my closed eyelids.

I didn’t dare sleep deeply anymore. I didn’t want to miss a thing. The silence of the house wrapped around me like a husk. Aunt Petunia and the rest had been avoiding my gaze ever since the letter arrived. The first letter. The one I opened with trembling fingers and a mind ablaze. From that moment, I knew it was real. He was real. Everything made sense. My life of lies was about to end.

And it was that morning, just as the kitchen clock struck 6:40, that I heard the knock on the door. Three knocks. Firm, not violent. Almost respectful. Uncle Vernon grunted something incoherent from his chair. I was already on my feet. I crossed the hallway as if something on the other side of the door was pulling me toward it. I opened it. And there he was.

He was enormous. A shaggy creature with small, watery eyes that seemed kind. He wore a coat that looked like it had been stitched together by bears, and in his hands he held a flat box wrapped in paper. I looked at him silently.

“Harry Potter?” he asked with a smile showing his teeth.

I nodded.

“Happy birthday! I’m Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. I’ve come to get you, lad. You’re a wizard!”

I didn’t feel surprise. I didn’t feel dizzy. Just a small twinge of disappointment.

“I thought he would come,” I murmured.

“Who?”

I looked at him, frowning.

“The man from my dreams.”

Hagrid blinked, confused. He didn’t understand. No one did. But I recovered quickly. He was here for me. And if he wasn’t him, maybe he was taking me where I’d finally find him.

“Will you tell me about Hogwarts?” I asked.

“’Course I will! And loads more! Today we’re gettin’ all your school things—your wand, your robes, your books…”

Aunt Petunia peeked out from the hallway. She was pale. She said nothing. She just looked at me, lips tight, as if she finally understood she had lost me. Not because of magic. But because of neglect.

Uncle Vernon didn’t even get up. Dudley dropped his spoon into his bowl.

“Am I coming back here afterward?” I asked.

“Sure, lad. Today’s just for shopping. You start in September.”

I nodded. I felt no anger. No sadness. Just urgency.

“I’m ready,” I said.

“Don’t y’want to pack anything?” Hagrid asked.

“I don’t need anything. What matters is ahead of me.”

So I followed him. I closed the door behind me without looking back. I felt Aunt Petunia’s stare dig into the back of my neck like a needle, but she didn’t stop me. She had nothing left to say.

I felt like I was walking toward myself.

The city woke up like a slow, tired beast as we walked. The streets didn’t scare me. They never had. As a child, I learned to read the cracks in the pavement the way others read fairytales. Sometimes, they spoke more than people did.

We boarded a train bound for London, and no one seemed to notice the man with the fur hat that still smelled like the forest. I sat across from him. I had too many questions, but only a few were for him.

“What do you know about... me?” I asked, as the train moved forward like it was shedding an old skin.

“We know a lot about you, Harry!” he said. “You’re famous, of course. You’re the Boy Who Lived.”

I frowned.

“Famous? Why?”

He blinked. Searched for the words. I felt them coming before he even said them.

“Your parents… they died for you. Killed by a Dark wizard. The worst there’s ever been. No one’s ever survived his curse. No one, except you.”

I said nothing.

There was no pain. Not the kind one might expect upon learning that their parents were murdered. No memories to grieve. Just a blank space—white and impersonal. Like a mirror that’s been covered. But I did feel something: strangeness. Not because they were dead. But because suddenly, everyone else seemed to know more about me than I did.

“Your parents were good people, Harry. Very good. Your dad, James—he was a real trickster. And your mum, Lily… she was a brilliant witch with a huge heart. They died to save you.”

That detail did throw me off a bit.

“But why would they do that?” I asked, almost flatly. “Why would someone give their life for a baby?”

“Because they loved you, of course! You were their son, Harry.”

Love. That word tasted like ashes. I'd been taught that love was a reward, granted only under certain conditions. The Dursleys’ house was a shrine to obedience, not affection.

“And how exactly did they die?”

Hagrid lowered his gaze.

“He came to their house. Hit your dad first with the Killing Curse. Then your mum. But when he turned his wand on you… something went wrong. The curse bounced back. Destroyed him.”

“Destroyed him?”

“Well… he vanished. No one really knows how or why. Some say he’s still out there. Waiting.”

Waiting. That word sounded beautiful to me. As if the whole world was leaning toward a hidden point.

“What was his name?” I asked.

Hagrid swallowed.

“I’d rather not say. Most people don’t.”

“But you know it?”

“Yes. His name was… Lord Voldemort.”

The name gave me a chill, but not from fear. From recognition. Like hearing a musical note you didn’t know you remembered.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I said. “But I’ll remember it.”

Hagrid looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or worry.

“Well, well… the important thing is that now you know the truth. And we’re off to get your school supplies for Hogwarts. You’re going to be a great wizard, Harry! I can feel it.”

I didn’t answer.

I had become something else. Hogwarts was just a bridge. I didn’t care about spells, books, or professors. I cared about what was on the other side. And every step I took brought me closer to the world where he existed.

Hagrid moved like a lost giant through the crowd, but I walked beside him with my head held high, not looking at anyone. I knew something was shifting. Not the world—me.

When Hagrid led me through the back of a place called the Leaky Cauldron, I didn’t expect the world to change so easily. There was no ritual, no fanfare. Just a wall opening like an old wound.

And there it was: Diagon Alley.

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a fantasy hidden in storybooks. It was real.

Shops twisted like branches, towers defying logic, signs creaking with a life of their own. People dressed like no one in the outside world. Quills writing on their own. Cauldrons boiling without fire.

Smells: dust, ink, fire, the skin of dead creatures.

Sounds: sharp laughter, ancient murmurs, the rustle of robes.

I didn’t smile. What I felt was… belonging.

"Here…"

Here was what I’d always lacked. Without even knowing it existed, I already missed it.

"First, to the bank" said Hagrid, shaking his coat as if it held a storm inside.

Gringotts was something else. Something older than the world, colder than marble. I liked the goblins. They were different. Not human, which made them more interesting. Their eyes were sharp, without mercy or lies. I greeted one with a curt nod. He didn’t return it, and that amused me—these creatures had a charming pride.

Hagrid pulled out a greasy envelope.

"I’ve got the key to young Potter’s vault" he said.

The sentence unsettled me. Something inside me hardened. The idea of others touching what belonged to me turned my stomach. The goblin took it, examining it with a reverence that wasn’t for me—but for the gold.

"That key is mine, isn’t it?" I asked suddenly, before he could hand it back to Hagrid.

He looked at me as if he hadn’t expected the question.

"Well… yes. I mean, it’s the key to your vault. Dumbledore entrusted it to me, just for today’s visit. Not for me to carry around…"

"Then I should keep it" I said. "If it’s mine."

Hagrid scratched his beard.

"I don’t know, Harry. Dumbledore might want to…"

"And what if it gets stolen?" I cut in, without raising my voice. "Or if you lose it? It’s my money. I’ll be the one using it. I’m going to Hogwarts. You’re only coming with me today."

It was a cold, calculated tone, but without anger. I spoke like someone stating a logical fact. The goblin watched me with interest.

Hagrid hesitated, then sighed. He handed me the key.

"Keep it safe, yeah?"

"Of course" I said, and slid it into my pocket like I was sheathing a knife.

Going down into the tunnels was the best part. I liked the darkness. The rattling wheels. The vertigo. Everything felt cleaner down there. Purer.

When they opened the vault, the gleam of gold blinded me for a moment.

"All of this is mine" I said. It wasn’t a question.

Hagrid nodded, slightly uncomfortable. I didn’t look at him. I walked among the coins, touched a few. I understood it wasn’t the amount that mattered. It was the fact that no one could take them from me. No one. Ever.

I took a few, not many. Just enough, based on what they’d explained on the way to the vault.

"That’s enough."

"So little?" Hagrid asked.

"I’m not going to spend it on sweets" I replied.

The second trip into Gringotts was to retrieve something “on Dumbledore’s behalf.”

Hagrid didn’t let me go with him this time. I didn’t ask what it was. If he didn’t want to tell me, it was because he was afraid I’d find out. And if he was afraid, that made it interesting.

When we stepped out of the bank, the sunlight felt unnecessary. I wanted to return to the shadows, but I forced myself to stay. Everything else was still ahead.

We entered a narrow shop that smelled of new fabric and enchanted dust. A short woman, with a professional smile and a disinterested voice, measured me with floating pins. I didn’t speak. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because there was no need.

Hagrid had stayed outside.

“Another child for Hogwarts,” she said, like someone watching a line of bees. “Up on the stool.”

I climbed up. Just then, another boy walked in with confident steps. Pale blond hair, eyes the color of dirty water. He wore fine clothes—not magical, but expensive—and held his chin up as if he were smelling something unpleasant.

He got up on the stool next to mine. He didn’t look at me at first. But I felt his attention, like a sharp needle.

“Hi,” he said at last. “Are you going to Hogwarts too?”

I nodded.

“So am I. Makes sense, of course. Everyone in my family has gone. It’d be a disgrace to end up anywhere else.” He chuckled, just a little. I didn’t return it.

He went silent for a few seconds, like he was waiting for me to ask about his family line. I didn’t.

“What house are you hoping for?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. And I didn’t care.

“Me? Slytherin, of course. My father says all Hufflepuffs are useless. Can you imagine ending up there?”

“I can imagine a lot of things,” I said, expressionless.

He looked at me with interest, tilting his head.

“You’re strange.”

“I know.”

I didn’t say it with annoyance. It was just a fact. He seemed to be deciding whether that was a good or bad thing.

“I’m Draco Malfoy,” he added, with a hint of pride.

I didn’t shake his hand.

“Harry Potter.”

I said it quietly. But it was enough.

His face changed. Not like in fairy tales, where surprise is loud and theatrical. It was more subtle: a blink, a pause, a held breath.

“Really?”

“So they say.”

“I… thought you’d be more…” He trailed off, frowning. “More friendly?”

“And what makes you think I should like you?”

He went quiet. Not offended, but confused. I had learned how to cause that in people.

They measured us in silence for a few more minutes. We didn’t speak again. But when I stepped down from the stool, I felt his gaze following me with a mix of respect and caution. And I wondered if I liked him. I hadn’t decided yet.

Hagrid was waiting outside, eating something that looked like a piece of a giant hedgehog.

“All set?”

I nodded. There were still many shops left to visit, but for the first time in a long while, I didn’t mind waiting. Each new place, each magical face, was another piece of the puzzle that was starting to fit together inside me.

And there was still the wand. And something told me that moment would be important. Maybe even final.

The wand shop was narrow, dusty, like a place outside of time. Shelves rose on either side, filled with slender boxes disappearing into the shadows. It reminded me of a library of forgotten secrets, each wand waiting for the right owner—patient, dormant.

A small bell rang as we entered, and a thin figure emerged from the gloom, as if he’d been waiting for us for years.

“Ah, yes!” he said in a low, sharp voice. “Yes, yes. I was wondering when I’d see you, Mr. Potter.”

He studied me intensely. It wasn’t an ordinary gaze. He seemed like a man who didn’t see people, but the magical threads that made them. I felt him looking through me, as if trying to discover where within me destiny might fit.

“My name is Ollivander. And I’ve sold wands to every young witch and wizard on this island for generations. You have your mother’s eyes. I remember her well... I sold Lily Evans her wand. A lovely wand for a graceful charm. Ten and a quarter inches, willow, very good for charms.”

I leaned slightly toward him. Not out of respect, but curiosity. To hear more.

“And your father, James, too. His wand was mahogany, eleven inches—slightly more powerful. Excellent for transfiguration. Well, well, well… Let’s see, Mr. Potter. Let’s see…”

He handed me a wand.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Ten inches. Try it.”

I barely lifted it before he snatched it away.

“No, no, no. Try another.”

It went on like that for a while. Wands that didn’t fit. Wands that seemed to reject me, vibrating in disapproval. Some made the air feel heavier.

And then, one more box.

“Tricky customer, eh? Don’t worry, we’ll get it. I’ve got one here... curious… very curious…”

The way he said it made me look up.

“Sorry?”

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single one. This wand here… its core is a phoenix feather. Only one creature, but it gave two feathers. This is one of them. The other… the other belongs to the wand that gave you that scar.”

Ollivander handed me the wand. Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Supple. I touched it… and felt the air in the room still. There was no explosion, no sparks—just a warm wave, as though something wrapped itself around me from within. As though something—someone—recognized me.

“Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good!” Ollivander exclaimed, amazed. “What a wand! And what a curious combination! Holly and phoenix… I never would have thought…”

He looked at me with that expression that reminded me of ancient statues. Unmoving, yet filled with something more.

“Yes… eleven inches. Phoenix feather core. And… curious. Very curious.”

I stayed silent, until the pause went on too long.

“Why is it curious?”

Ollivander tilted his head slightly.

“Remember what I said… the phoenix gave only two feathers. One is in your wand. The other… the other belongs to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Yes… he who did great things. Terrible things, yes, but great.”

I smiled, slowly. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was as if the words “great” and “terrible” had brushed against me.

“Sometimes,” I said, “terrible things only frighten those who lack the courage to understand them.”

Ollivander fell silent. He looked at me with a mix of worry and curiosity that he made no effort to hide. I didn’t lower my gaze.

“I hope, Mr. Potter… that you become someone different.”

“Different from what?” I asked, not sarcastically. I simply wanted to know what he thought I should be.

He didn’t answer.

I turned, still holding the wand, and walked out of the shop as if I had recovered a missing piece.

Hagrid was waiting for me outside the wand shop with a wide, almost childlike smile, and in his large hands he held a wrought-iron cage. Inside, with feathers as white as the moon and eyes more intelligent than any I had ever seen in a creature, a snowy owl watched me. She didn’t look frightened. She didn’t look tame. She simply… was. Calm. Watchful.

“A little present, Harry,” said Hagrid, handing me the cage carefully. “Happy birthday.”

I stood silent for a few seconds, watching her turn her head with grace. She wasn’t just a bird. She was a symbol. A threshold.

“Thank you,” I murmured. My fingers gripped the cage more tightly than necessary.

I stepped away a little, and Hagrid didn’t follow. I crouched in front of the cage, looked straight into her eyes, and said:

“Hedwig. That’ll be your name.”

She didn’t react like an ordinary animal. She didn’t screech, didn’t flap her wings. She just blinked, once, slowly, as if she approved of my decision.

We walked down the alley with all the purchases floating behind us, loaded onto a cart that Hagrid pushed effortlessly. We passed noisy shops, children screaming with excitement, hurried parents. I didn’t care. My world wasn’t in them.

The train took us back in silence. Hagrid dozed off, snoring softly. I spent the time watching the cage. Sometimes Hedwig looked at me, and I looked back. It felt like an unspoken pact: I wouldn’t treat her like a pet, and she wouldn’t treat me like a child.

As evening fell, the train stopped and we stepped into an ordinary station. Grey. The Dursleys were already there, waiting with tense, pinched expressions.

“Where the devil have you been?” Vernon grunted, eyeing the bags, the cage, the wand in my hand.

I didn’t answer. I just stood before them, straight-backed, eyes calm, Hedwig’s cage hanging from my hand like a symbol of everything that now belonged to me and that they could never touch.

“We’ll take you to the station on the first of September. Not before. Understood?”

I nodded. I didn’t need anything more from them. My world—the real one—had already opened its door to me.

I got into the car without saying a word. Hedwig dozed in her cage as if she didn’t care where we were going. Neither did I.

There was no sadness in going back to Privet Drive. Just a quiet wait.

As if the body had returned to prison, while the soul had already escaped.

It wouldn’t be long now. Not long at all. And this time, no one was going to shut the door on me again.

Chapter Text

The station smelled of old iron, stale coffee, and haste. A constant murmur of footsteps and departing trains tangled in my thoughts like a monotonous song with no melody. Vernon grunted something unintelligible, but I didn’t listen. I was too focused on not looking weak.

Petunia didn’t say a word. Her face wore a mask of something she had never shown me before: fear… or maybe shame. Dudley didn’t even glance my way, as if by looking away he could convince himself I didn’t exist.

The trolley squeaked beneath my hands. My trunk rested on top, my wand still carefully wrapped, and Hedwig, silent and watchful inside her cage. I said goodbye without words. They didn’t say anything either. No “good luck,” no “take care.” Just silence, and the sound of footsteps retreating.

I scanned the numbers above the platforms: 9… 10. I frowned.

Nothing between them. No sign, no indication, not even a crack in the floor to betray some hidden secret. Just a meaningless gap in the logic of the normal world. For a moment, I thought it had all been a cruel joke. A mistake. Maybe the wizarding world had never been real, just another dream tangled with waking life.

But then I felt it.

A subtle pull in my chest, like an invisible thread guiding me. My eyes locked onto the brick wall between the two platforms. Something in it hummed—not visibly, but deep within—as if a secret truth pulsed beneath the stone, one only I could sense.

I stepped closer, without knowing why, without questioning.

I didn’t need help. I’d dreamed of stranger places—of passages folding like paper, of doors opening in fog. This was simple. Just a stone among many. I walked through without closing my eyes, and it felt like coming home.

The wall didn’t strike me. There was no pain, no resistance. Only a brief moment of darkness… and then, light.

The train smoke was thicker on this side. Warmer, too, as if the world itself breathed magic. Before me, a scarlet locomotive exhaled steam with majestic laziness. The sign read: Hogwarts Express – 11:00 a.m.

I smiled. Small. Quiet. As if I’d just discovered my heart still knew how.

I stopped to comb my hair.

There was a dusty mirror bolted to one of the metal posts. My hair remained unruly, of course, but I tried. Smoothed it as best I could with my hands. The scar on my forehead was left visible. I looked at myself a moment longer. Not out of vanity, but… possibility. Perhaps, if he was somewhere—if he was watching—he’d want to see me ready. Worthy.

I sighed. Then boarded the train.

The corridors were still half empty. A few magical families lingered, saying their goodbyes with hugs, warnings, and poorly knitted scarves. I slipped past them in silence, searching for an empty or at least quiet compartment. I didn’t want conversation. Not yet.

That’s when I heard a calm, precise voice:

"That one’s empty, I believe."

I turned.

A girl my age, slender, with pale blonde hair neatly braided. Her uniform was still folded under her arm. She was… elegant. As if even the way she blinked had been practiced.

“Greengrass,” she said, lifting her chin slightly. “Daphne Greengrass.”

I stayed still for a moment before answering:

“Potter.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, then dropped to my forehead. She said nothing, but I saw the instant recognition. It wasn’t shock. Nor excitement. Just silent confirmation. She nodded subtly and slid open the compartment door.

“Nott,” she added gently, addressing someone inside.

A boy was already seated by the window. Dark-haired, thin, with a serious expression that seemed permanent. He nodded, his gaze fixed on me.

“Mind if we sit?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Not at all,” Nott said.

I sat across from him. Daphne took the seat by the door. The train gave a low whistle. Outside, steam blurred the familiar faces, swallowing them up.

I had no one to look for. No one to look for me.

The girl—Daphne—watched me with veiled curiosity. Not the loud, burning kind of interest. Hers was more like silent assessment, as if she were trying to measure how far my shadow reached.

“Have you thought about which house you’d like to be in?” she asked suddenly, crossing her legs with effortless poise.

“Not really,” I replied, trying to remember what Hagrid had told me about Hogwarts houses. I took a moment before adding, “I think I could go into any of them.”

Nott, sitting by the window, turned his face slightly to look at me.

"Not leaning toward any house? That’s rather rare. Most people have at least a secret preference."

I shrugged.

"Gryffindor is the house of the brave, right?"

They nodded.

"Being brave doesn’t seem like a bad thing. I guess I’d like to be... but I’m not sure if I already am."

"And Slytherin?" Daphne asked, without any judgment in her tone.

"They say it's for the ambitious," I said thoughtfully. "I don’t have many ambitions. Just one. And I’d do anything to reach it. Does that count?"

She exchanged a quick glance with Nott, as if silently confirming something.

"That might be enough," she said.

"Ravenclaw seems... out of my reach. I’m not especially smart, or curious. I like to watch, but I don’t always want to understand. Does that make sense?"

"More than you think," Nott replied.

"And Hufflepuff?" I asked.

They hesitated—not out of disdain, but with a kind of respectful silence.

"It’s a strong house in its own way," Nott said. "Loyal, hard-working. But not for everyone."

"I’m not very loyal, to be honest," I admitted. "No one’s given me a reason to be."

"Maybe you just haven’t met anyone worth being loyal to yet," Daphne murmured.

I said nothing. Maybe that was true. Maybe not. The only figure I truly felt I owed anything to was the Lord of my Dreams. No one else.

"My family’s been in Slytherin for generations," she added, as if offering some context. "Not that it matters too much, but… well, Hogwarts has its ways."

"Ways?"

"Traditions," she corrected with a faint smile. "It’s not talked about much, but some people prefer to stay close to those like them. Sometimes they use the term old wizarding families."

I let that term settle in my thoughts. I didn’t ask what exactly she meant. I knew that if I did, the room would go quiet. I preferred not to know—yet.

"And you?" I asked Nott. "Do you come from a family like that too?"

He gave a single nod.

"You could say that. Though I don’t care much about what others think. Houses aren’t everything… but they do change a few things."

"Like what?"

"Who you spend time with. What you learn from them. What others expect of you."

I stared out the window for a few more seconds. Their words drifted through my mind like leaves in the wind.

"I guess I’ll find out soon enough."

"We all do," Daphne said.

I wasn’t sure if they liked me or were just studying me. Either way, I didn’t mind. Unlike the people I’d lived with, these two at least had something real in their eyes.

And that already meant a lot.

The light in the train was soft and flickering as I stood to change. The Hogwarts Express sign had fogged over on the window. I pulled out the school robes Hagrid had packed in my trunk and slid them on carefully. They were black, simple, made of heavy fabric. In the small mirror on the compartment door, I caught a glimpse of myself: a skinny boy, messy-haired, with the scar clearly visible.

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to smooth it down. The result wasn’t perfect, but I let it be.

When I returned to my seat, Daphne raised an eyebrow, just slightly.

"You look more like a student now," she said.

I wasn’t sure if it was a tease or a compliment. I nodded.

"Nervous?" Theodore asked.

"No," I replied—and it was true. There was a strange calm inside me. Or maybe I was just waiting for something to happen.

A few minutes later, the sliding door burst open.

"Has anyone seen a toad?" A girl with bushy brown hair poked her head in. Her voice was quick, confident. "A boy named Neville lost his toad. It’s called Trevor."

"Haven’t seen any toad," Theodore replied—kind, but clipped.

"Oh, well… we’ll keep looking," said the girl. She looked at me for a second, as if she recognized me. Maybe it was the scar. But she said nothing and left.

"That must be Granger," Daphne commented once the door slid shut. "Heard her name at the station. Muggle-born, if I’m not mistaken. Apparently she memorized half the book before even getting here. You can tell."

I wasn’t sure what to make of her tone. I just nodded. Muggle-born. I made a mental note. Another new term. I felt a bit ignorant—but I didn’t mind. I’d learn.

The final station arrived with the sound of steam and a sharp whistle. We got off with the rest of the students, and the air was cold and deep. Night had fully fallen, and a deep voice shouted above the murmurs:

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

It was Hagrid, huge and unmistakable. I stared at him for a second and noticed several others looking too—some with awe, others with a bit of fear. He walked with a confident stride, leading us along a narrow path.

"Boat ride first. Always the same every year," he said, lighting a lamp that looked like a lantern swallowed by a pumpkin.

We were split into boats, four in each. I ended up with Daphne, Theodore, and a quiet boy with a round face and a puzzled expression.

Daphne sat upright, her robe perfectly folded across her knees.

"This is the first time I’ve ever seen a lake like this," she murmured, almost to herself.

Me too. The water stretched out like a black mirror, and suddenly, in the distance, the castle appeared.

Perched high on the mountain, outlined against the sky. Towers, windows glowing like eyes, shadows cast against the cliff. It was magnificent and familiar. Not from memory. From longing. I had always been waiting for a place like this, without knowing it. And now it was right in front of me.

The boat slid silently. No one spoke. Until Theodore said, quietly:

"This is where it all begins."

I looked at him.

"All what?"

"What we are, or what we become. Hogwarts… changes people."

The castle rose even higher before us. I didn’t answer. But I felt something inside me opening, like a door.

And I… didn’t plan to close it.

The boats bumped softly against the shore. I jumped onto the stone dock, feeling the dampness seep into the soles of my shoes. Hagrid led us to a huge wooden door set into the rock. He knocked with his enormous fist, and the door opened. On the other side stood a woman with a stern face and impeccable hair.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I’ll take it from here."

Professor McGonagall. Her presence commanded instant respect.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said firmly. "In a few moments, you will enter the Great Hall, where you will be sorted into one of four houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin. While you're here, your house will be like your family."

Family. I felt something faint in my stomach, like a distant pang. The word seemed too foreign to me.

"Please wait here in silence. I’ll return when we are ready."

She left us in an adjacent hall, with a high ceiling and damp stone walls. Some whispered nervously; others stayed quiet. I watched, recognizing a few faces from the train out of the corner of my eye. Daphne and Nott were nearby. Nott had his hands behind his back, Daphne’s face was tilted slightly toward a candelabrum.

That’s when I heard it.

"Is it true your family can’t even afford new books?" said an arrogant, slightly nasal voice.

I turned, recognizing the voice at once.

Malfoy.

He was flanked by two big, burly boys. In front of him stood a redhead.

Then I heard a shrill voice to my right.

"And that one, the redhead… what’s his name?"

"Weasley," someone replied with disdain. "They’ve got more children than Galleons. Total disgrace."

"What’s it to you?" the redhead snapped angrily.

Malfoy smirked.

"Oh, nothing. Just goes to show… some wizarding families have better reputations than others."

"You’re disgusting! Think you’re better just because you’ve got your father’s name?"

"Better than you, at least," said Malfoy with a twisted smile. "At least I didn’t show up in hand-me-down robes with dirt under my nails."

"Shut it, or I’ll make you swallow that attitude!"

"Careful what you say, Weasley. You don’t want to start your first year making enemies."

"Oh, and you do?" he shot back with irony. "What a noble Slytherin you’ll make."

Malfoy smiled wider.

"Can’t wait."

I remembered our first meeting in the robe shop. The way he talked, the way he looked at everyone like he already knew which house they’d end up in. I didn’t particularly like him, but he didn’t bother me either. I found him amusing.

I didn’t step in. It wasn’t my fight. All the talk about families, reputations, blood… it all felt like theater to me. Still, the word blood lingered in my mind. Something I would understand later.

McGonagall returned. The voices fell silent instantly.

"Follow me."

We followed her down a wide corridor to a set of double doors. They opened with a majestic sound, and the Great Hall revealed itself before us.

The sky reflected in the enchanted ceiling. Hundreds of floating candles. Four endless tables filled with students. It was so beautiful, it barely felt real.

At the front, a stool with an old, patched hat, its mouth torn along the seam. And then, the hat… sang. A raspy, ancient melody full of warnings and pride.

One by one, the names began to be called.

"Abbott, Hannah."

A nervous girl sat down. The moment the hat touched her head:

"Hufflepuff!"

“Bones, Susan.”

“¡Hufflepuff!”

“Boot, Terry.”

“¡Ravenclaw!”

“Bulstrode, Millicent.”

“¡Slytherin!”

Applause, shouts, excitement. I watched in silence, hands clasped behind my back. The hat seemed to know exactly who each person was. Every name was a small judgment, and each verdict, a label.

"Granger, Hermione."

The girl from the train. She sat with a tense body, hands clenched in her lap.

"Gryffindor!"

She walked off with her head held high.

"Greengrass, Daphne."

The hat didn’t take long before shouting:

"Slytherin!"

"Longbottom, Neville."

That one took longer. The hat hesitated, pondered. But finally:

"Gryffindor!"

The table erupted in cheers. I stayed still, sensing my name was drawing near. I wasn’t afraid. Just… curious.

I hoped the hat would know something I didn’t yet.

Something that would reveal where I truly… belonged.

"Malfoy, Draco."

"Slytherin!"

It was as though there was no need to even consider — the fastest sorting yet.

"Nott, Theodore."

Theo stepped forward at a steady pace, calm as ever. As he sat down, I noticed he didn’t blink even once until the hat was placed on his head.

"Slytherin!" the Hat called after a short pause.

One of the tables erupted in applause. I saw him rise without hurry and walk toward his new house with a quiet elegance.

"Parkinson, Pansy."

"Slytherin!"

"Patil, Padma."

"Ravenclaw!"

"Patil, Parvati."

"Gryffindor!"

"Potter, Harry."

My body stepped forward on instinct. I felt the stares. I knew before even looking up. Whispers, murmurs. A buzz that swelled and folded over itself like a wave. The boy with the scar. The one who lived.

I didn’t stop to look at them. I crossed to the stool with a calm face. I sat down and let the hat fall over me. Darkness. Old fabric. A faint smell of dust and ancient time. And then, a voice.

“Hmm… what have we here…”

It wasn’t a spoken voice. It was a thought, projected inside my skull, echoing in the deepest part of me.

“Difficult… very difficult. Well, well… so young and yet so… marked.”

I didn’t answer. I thought in silence. I observed.

“You have… thirst for knowledge, yes, but not for wisdom. No, you're seeking something more specific. A truth. A figure. A shadow.”

I shuddered, though not outwardly.

“What is this you carry with you?” the hat continued. “An echo… no, a living shadow. A presence. Not yours, but… do you invite it? Or does it possess you?”

I didn’t know what to say. Or perhaps I didn’t want to say it.

“It’s not fear that drives you. Nor courage for its own sake. You have no great loyalties… not yet. You don’t care much for justice. Nor for order. You don’t crave belonging. You seek. You chase. You grasp.”

A long pause. I felt the hat was studying me, judging me beyond any moral measure.

“You could be great. Oh yes… very great. And you will be. But the question is… where to begin?”

An image crossed my mind. Not mine — his. The man from my dreams. Eyes like blood. A voice I didn’t remember, yet somehow shaped me.

“You want power… but not to dominate. You want it to find. To understand. To… merge.”

Another pause. And then, the verdict.

“Better be… Slytherin!”

The hat’s shout seemed louder than usual. Or maybe it was just my perception, intensified by the silence that gripped the Great Hall for a fleeting moment.

I removed the hat and stepped down from the stool. I walked toward the Slytherin table under many gazes. Some expectant. Others… puzzled.

Daphne watched me as I sat near her. Her face remained neutral, but I thought I saw a spark of recognition. As if she were saying to herself: Of course.

Nott gave a slight nod, barely perceptible.

I didn’t smile. There was no reason to. I only felt a strange stillness, as if something had finally aligned. As if I had been admitted into a world that had always been mine, even before I stepped into it.

The Sorting ended with Blaise Zabini being assigned to Slytherin. The Hat had barely touched his head before shouting it. No one seemed surprised.

With that, the stool was removed, the Hat along with it. Then the Headmaster stood. He was a tall man, thin as a twig, with a beard falling to his chest and half-moon spectacles. His eyes sparkled, and they weren’t looking at me… yet. They scanned the entire hall, as if he were seeing every child at every table all at once.

“Welcome!” he said kindly, his voice soft, like a whisper that somehow rose above the noise. “Just a few words before the feast begins: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”

A murmur of confusion ran through the tables. Some laughed. I just watched him in silence.

“Let’s eat!” he said, and with a brief clap, he sat down.

Food appeared before us. More variety than I had ever imagined. Roasts, stews, meat pies, steaming vegetables, mashed potatoes, thick sauces. For a moment, everyone seemed to forget their houses, their nerves, even their prejudices.

Not me. I ate little. Just enough. I watched more than I chewed. And more than anything, I felt.

From the staff table, there was a fixed gaze. Heavy. I turned slowly. Several figures were sitting there, chatting among themselves, exchanging words and dishes. But one was not speaking. Not eating. Just staring at me.

A man in black robes and greasy hair, with an angular face and a disdainful expression as sharp as a blade. His dark eyes met mine.

I didn’t look away.

Another professor, with a purple turban that smelled faintly of garlic even from a distance, gave me a nervous smile when our eyes met. His expression was so unsure I couldn’t hold his gaze for long.

And then I saw him.

Sitting at the center, among all the others. Albus Dumbledore. He was watching me now. Not like the greasy-haired professor. His gaze was different. Warm, but expectant. As if he saw more than what was visible. As if he already knew me.

I inclined my head slightly.

He did the same.

I didn’t smile.

The feast ended with a dessert no one really needed. Then Dumbledore stood once more. His eyes scanned everyone, lingering just a bit longer on certain faces.

“Before you go rest, a few warnings,” he said. “The Forbidden Forest is, well, forbidden. Anyone who enters without permission will face the consequences. We must also remember that certain corridors on the third floor are off-limits to anyone who does not wish to suffer a painful death.”

Silence fell. Some laughed. I didn’t. I believed him.

After a few other instructions I didn’t quite hear—rules about brooms, letters, prefects—we were ordered to follow our house guides.

A tall boy with dark hair and a cold gaze led us through the corridors. He was the Slytherin prefect, Marcus Flint. He barely spoke, but his steps were firm. The group of Slytherin first-years walked in a somewhat scattered formation, as if everyone were already marking territory.

We passed stone hallways, descended creaking staircases that groaned as if they had a soul. The light dimmed with each step downward, until the very air changed. More humid. Denser. More… ancient. And then we reached a stone wall.

“The password is Vetus sanguis,” Flint said.

The stone opened like a secret mouth, revealing an arched entrance. We stepped inside.

The Slytherin Common Room was underground. The light came from floating green lamps and a large window looking out into the depths of the black lake. Aquatic shadows slid past the glass. Some had shapes.

The ceiling was high and vaulted, with serpentine moldings that resembled fangs or forked tongues. The furniture was dark, made of heavy wood. Leather sofas. Dark carpets. A fire flickered in a deep green stone fireplace.

I felt the air embrace me. Like it recognized me. As if this place already knew me and accepted me without conditions. I paused at the threshold. It was a new feeling. Not happiness. Not even belonging. It was… rest. Peace. As if the silence of those stones was a secret language I had always spoken, even if I’d never been taught.

“Potter,” said Nott behind me. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

“Maybe,” I replied.

He gave a faint smile. I stepped in fully. And I knew, without doubt, that I was exactly where I needed to be.

The fire in the fireplace crackled gently as the first-years were led to an adjoining room. There, an older witch—who introduced herself as Professor Sinistra, overseeing the dorms for the night—explained how rooms worked in Slytherin.

“We don’t believe in assigning roommates here,” she said with a firm but not harsh voice. “You are expected to be smart enough to decide who you’ll share space with. Dorms are for two or three people. Choose wisely. This place is not for the weak, nor the dependent. It is for those who can act on their own.”

A thick silence followed.

Some moved immediately. Crabbe and Goyle, who had followed Malfoy like shadows since arrival, didn’t even speak before trailing after him like unleashed dogs. They disappeared behind one of the stone doors leading to the boys’ dorms.

Blaise Zabini watched the others for a moment, then chose a room for himself with a look that suggested he didn’t want anyone to follow. The others respected that.

Theodore Nott looked at me. He didn’t ask anything. Just raised his chin, and I knew he was waiting for my decision. I followed him without a word.

Our room was small but elegant. Two canopy beds, an obsidian lamp floating in a corner, and a window that looked out into the depths of the lake. From there, a silhouette could be seen moving through the weeds—large, slow, like a living echo of the castle itself.

I placed my trunk by one of the beds. Nott did the same. He sat on his, pulled a book from his trunk, and opened it without a sound. He didn’t even light another lamp.

I stood still for a moment.

Closed my eyes.

The magic here was different.

Not like the one I had felt in Diagon Alley, nor like the one in the wand in my hand, not even like the Hat speaking in my mind. It was older. Denser. Something in the stone, in the humid air, in the reflection of the water on the ceiling, spoke a language that could only be understood through silence. A wordless tongue. And yet, I understood it.

I thought of the Lord of Dreams. His red eyes. How every time I had seen him, the world around me had become more… vivid. Sharper. As if his very presence pulled me out of the stupor I lived in.

And now I was here. Where the air seemed full of secrets and power, where every shadow hid possibilities. Maybe I wasn’t so far from finding him. Maybe Hogwarts was the beginning, not the end. I approached the window. Down in the lake, something moved again. I felt it watching me. But it didn’t scare me. It comforted me. As if the creatures of this place knew of my existence too.

“You okay, Potter?” asked Nott without lifting his eyes from the book.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m just… listening.”

He didn’t ask more. He didn’t need to. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t hesitated to choose me as his roommate.

I took off my robes and lay on the bed without pulling up the sheets. The mattress was firm, the bedding clean, though it smelled of old stone. The kind of smell that clings to things with history.

I extinguished the lamp. Total darkness. Absolute silence, except for the murmur of the water beyond the glass. The last image that accompanied me before closing my eyes was the Hat on my head, whispering in its rasping voice: “What is it you carry with you? An echo… no, a living shadow.”

And I believed I understood, just for a moment, what those words truly meant.

Chapter Text

The dream began in silence.

The Lord of Red Eyes was not walking through a jungle, nor speaking to hooded figures as in other dreams. This time, he was seated. A vast, ancient desk of dark wood stood between us. The light that bathed him came not from a candle nor a spell, but from the early morning sun filtering through an unseen window. Behind him, endless bookshelves stretched up toward a ceiling lost in shadow. Books of all sizes—some bound in worn leather, others in yellowed parchment—stood like slumbering soldiers.

He was reading.

His long fingers turned the pages with patient, precise rhythm. The cover bore golden letters in French. I couldn’t understand it, but it didn’t matter. I watched as his eyes followed the lines with a focus bordering on reverence.

I wondered what his voice would sound like speaking French. Surely softer, slower. Perhaps even more dangerous.

There was something in that stillness that stirred me. To see him at peace, surrounded by words and secrets, made me want to be there too. Not to disturb him—but to share the silence. It was enough just to watch him breathe.

And then I woke up.

The stone ceiling above my bed was rough and grey, but it didn’t bother me. I smiled. I had dreamed of him, and it had been neither a nightmare nor a disturbing vision. Just a stolen moment from his life—and that was enough. I felt... light.

Nott was gone.

His bed was already made. Perhaps he had risen early. It didn’t surprise me. He seemed like the sort who preferred to be prepared rather than rushed. I sat up and ran a hand through my hair. Still unruly, of course. I sighed and forced myself to tame it with my fingers, even though I’d have to do it again after my shower.

I dressed with care. My black school robes were still a little too long, but not enough to look foolish. I made sure the silver and green crest of Slytherin was clearly visible. It mattered to me—more than I liked to admit. Not out of pride, but of belonging.

When I left the dormitory, the common room was bathed in an artificial warmth. The green lamps cast flickering light onto the vaulted ceiling. Several first-years were gathered by the fire, speaking in low voices.

Nott was there, seated with a cup in his hands, his gaze lost in the flames. Beside him, Daphne, her braid already flawless, was flipping through a black-covered book. Malfoy was present too, standing straighter than anyone, flanked by his two shadows: Crabbe and Goyle.

The others were scattered across sofas or chairs, waiting.

As I approached, Daphne raised an eyebrow and said, in her usual tone—polite, but distant:

“Seems we’re all here.”

Nott rose without a word. Malfoy smoothed his robes as if posing for a photograph. We weren’t in a line, but we walked together. Not like a united group, but like pieces of the same game, still unsure whether to cooperate or compete.

We crossed the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall.

And I, as I walked, still carried in my mind the echo of that silent study, the ghostly rustle of pages… and the lingering question: What was he learning now?

The Great Hall never ceased to amaze me.

The floating candles flickered softly beneath the enchanted ceiling, which today mirrored a pale morning sky streaked with gauzy clouds. A soft blue tinged with a milky light. Most students were already seated, murmuring quietly, their words occasionally punctuated by the clink of dishes and the satisfying crunch of freshly baked bread.

We settled at the far end of the Slytherin table. Nott sat to my left, Daphne across from me, and Malfoy a bit further down, flanked as usual by Crabbe, Goyle, and a few second-years. Not everyone in our House seemed particularly close, but there was an unspoken discipline in the way we arranged ourselves. No one spoke too loudly. No one asked unnecessary questions.

An owl swooped down gracefully in front of Daphne, dropping a tightly rolled piece of parchment beside her plate. Moments later, more owls began descending overhead, parchment scrolls fluttering down before each of us.

Our schedules.

“Finally,” Nott muttered, unrolling his. His tone was neutral, but I caught the faint spark in his eyes as he read.

I did the same. There was a strange comfort in how the classes were laid out: Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, History of Magic, Astronomy, and Flying. Some were shared with Ravenclaw, others with Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. Tuesdays and Wednesdays were heavy; Fridays, lighter. Astronomy lessons at night—mandatory, twice a week.

“Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws today,” Daphne commented, flipping through the schedule like she was analysing a strategy. “And then History of Magic with the Hufflepuffs.”

“History with the Hufflepuffs?” Malfoy repeated from farther down. “It’ll be like sitting through class in slow motion.”

A few chuckled. I didn’t.

“Know anything about Transfiguration?” Nott asked as he poured tea into his cup.

“Only what I read in the textbook. Seems… complicated.”

“It is,” Daphne said, slicing an apple with surgical precision. “But it’s also one of the most useful subjects. If you can master the precision, that is.”

I nodded, though my eyes kept drifting back to the parchment. Not because of the classes themselves, but because of what they represented: structure. An order I could follow. Something to study, to master. Something to… control.

I ate in silence, listening to the conversations around me. Some second-years were speaking with disdain about Professor Binns, who, apparently, had been dead for decades and still insisted on teaching. Others spoke of Professor Snape with a mixture of respect and fear. I didn’t yet know what to make of him.

As I spread butter onto my toast, Nott added:

“Snape teaches Potions. Don’t expect fairness. He plays favourites and despises incompetence.”

“And how does he define incompetence?” I asked, curious.

“Anyone he doesn’t like,” Daphne replied before Nott could, still scanning the schedule. “Or anyone who’s too… noticeable. He prefers the quiet ones. The meticulous ones.”

Good to know.

The plates were slowly emptying. I felt oddly at peace, as though this emerging routine held something sacred. A kind of order I could obey while I searched, in parallel, for other answers.

The Dream Lord never appeared without purpose. Not even in his quietest moments. If he read, it was because what he read mattered. If he was silent, it was because he was listening to something others couldn’t hear.

I would learn to listen too. And Hogwarts, I now understood, would teach me more than just magic.

The Transfiguration classroom was located along one of the middle corridors on the first floor. The stone walls were adorned with tapestries showing human figures turning into animals and vice versa. The style was old, almost grotesque. It looked like the creatures were trying to escape their woven fate, trapped halfway between two natures.

When we arrived, a few Ravenclaws were already there.

We took seats on the right side of the classroom, as if the division between houses was a natural, inevitable reflex. I settled next to Nott, while Malfoy and Daphne sat behind us, and in front were Zabini and Parkinson—if I remember their names correctly. On the other side, the murmuring had already begun.

"That’s Potter, isn’t it?"

"The scar looks just like they say..."

"He looks more... normal than I imagined."

"Don’t say that. It’s surely a cover. No one survives You-Know-Who and stays 'normal.'"

They weren’t malicious whispers. Not entirely. But they had that sharp edge, that subtle poison of the curious who believe that looking gives you the right to judge.

I leaned back slightly in my chair, not looking toward the voices. They didn’t bother me. I wasn’t interested. The world had been crueler than that. I’d heard worse things said with more boldness and less reason. Those comments were just... echoes. Words tossed from bored mouths.

But then Malfoy spoke.

“How interesting,” he said in a clear, almost pleasant voice. “So many brains in one house, and not one of them has figured out that gossiping aloud is a sign of stupidity.”

Silence fell immediately. And heavily.

“Or envy,” added Daphne lazily, examining her nails.

“Maybe both,” said Parkinson, letting her quill fall with a soft tap on the table.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few Ravenclaws lower their gazes, while others pressed their lips together, offended. Malfoy leaned back elegantly, never losing that half-smile of his—not one that said "I’m joking," but rather, "I said it because I wanted to."

I couldn’t tell if he did it for me or simply because he enjoyed being a thorn in other people’s sides. Maybe both. But I liked it. Not out of gratitude—I didn’t feel in need of defending. I liked it because it was funny. Malfoy’s sense of humor was oddly endearing.

“I suppose there are things not even the Sorting Hat can polish,” I said quietly, on an impulse I couldn’t quite control, loud enough to be heard. I didn’t look at anyone. I just stared at the inkwell in front of me and let the words slip off my tongue naturally, even if they felt strange. “Some people are like faulty Portkeys: they carry words from place to place without understanding their weight.”

The laughter that rose behind me wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Dry. Sincere.

Daphne chuckled with a slight shake of her shoulders. Nott let out a disbelieving snort. Malfoy, for a second, looked surprised. Then he smiled. As if he liked what he’d just heard. As if he’d just discovered something.

I smiled too, but the laugh that escaped from me was different. Not calculated. Not mechanical. Sincere... and a little odd. The kind that slips out like a broken whisper from an empty room.

The whispers didn’t return.

Professor McGonagall arrived shortly after, and the class began with the clear promise that she wouldn’t be lenient with anyone. She taught us how to turn matchsticks into needles, and although most only managed to change the wood’s color, some—like Daphne and a Ravenclaw boy named Boot—got the shape to begin curving.

I made more progress than I expected, though nothing very significant. Even so, the look McGonagall gave me wasn’t one of disappointment. Perhaps it was interest.

When the bell rang, the professor dismissed us without a word to spare. As we left, the murmurs in the hallway returned, but this time, without comments behind my back. Or if there were, I didn’t care.

I didn’t feel invisible. But neither did I feel exposed. I felt... present. And somehow, that was enough.

History of Magic felt like one of those soft traps hunters use to lull their prey to sleep. The classroom, ancient and windowless, smelled of damp parchment and old dust, and the light from the floating lamps barely combated the drowsiness that seemed to seep from the very stones.

Professor Binns—or rather, his ghost—floated in front of the class as if he still hadn’t noticed he’d been dead for years. His voice, ethereal and monotonous, crept across the benches with the slowness of a poorly cast spell.

Zabini sat next to me without saying a word. I glanced sideways at him as he dropped into his chair, elegant in his languor, and it took no more than five minutes before his head rested gently on his folded arm. He slept with the grace of someone used to not being disturbed.

Across the classroom, Malfoy sat in the back row with Crabbe and Goyle. They laughed softly over some private joke, ignoring the professor and his historical dates completely. Daphne and Nott were together in the next row. Nott had a different book in his hands—not the History one, of course, but something with golden letters on the spine. Daphne, for her part, was battling drowsiness with admirable dignity, eyelids heavy but still raised.

The chalk floated, writing dates and treaty names no one really looked at. I didn’t either.

I took out my notebook.

Not the one I used for classwork, but the other one. The one I hid at the bottom of my trunk. The black covers were already a bit worn at the edges, and the ink from some earlier pages had bled through the paper. I liked that. The mix of drawings and ideas, the chaotic mess. It felt more real than any textbook.

I flipped through the pages slowly.

Red eyes. Several. Some drawn with obsessive precision, others just blurry smudges, as if I saw them even when I didn’t want to. Faces that never fully formed, as if dreams dissolved them before they took final shape. Writing I didn’t understand, but which flowed from my hand as if dictated. Spiral strokes, runic lines, an invented script.

Snakes, many snakes. Not always the same. Some more realistic, others with wings, others with human skulls entwined in their fangs. Impossible animals: a stag covered in scales, a cat with multiple eyes, a creature like a phoenix but with claws made of shadow. Plants, too. Flowers with petals that looked like they were screaming, roots like twisted fingers, herbs whose shapes alone made me think of ancient remedies—or poisons.

While Binns droned on about 13th-century treaties, I drew. I let the pen move on its own, without thinking too much. When I lifted it, a new eye was staring back at me from the page—this time wide open, round, deep. Unsettling.

I sighed. Not because it bothered me. But because, even if they denied it, I knew it all made sense. That it was part of something that existed somewhere beyond maps and basic spells.

Zabini snored softly next to me. Binns didn’t even notice.

I looked back at my drawing, then at the class. Everyone was locked in their own world of dreams, books, or boredom. And I was awake, drawing someone who, perhaps, was also drawing me.

Classes started early the next day

The dungeon smelled of damp stone, rusty iron, and something more subtle—like withered herbs on a forgotten shelf. It was early, but not early enough to escape the lazy murmur of the Gryffindors as they arrived. I was already seated, potion book open to a page I had skimmed through last night—it looked interesting, and Nott had advised me to do it.

Malfoy sat to my right without asking. Nott to my left, just as silent. A tactical choice, I imagine.

Within minutes, the air changed. I didn’t hear the door open. But I felt it. Snape. He slid to the front of the room like a shadow that had grown used to having a shape. His robes made no sound. Neither did his footsteps. Only his presence, thick and bitter, filled the classroom before his voice did.

“I do not expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making.”

He didn’t speak. He sliced.

“However, for those select few…” —and his eyes landed on me, as if he expected me to fall into his trap— “…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death.”

Silence. Not a breath. Only the echo his empty promise left behind. I’ve heard promises before. In dreams. Voices that spoke of forgotten magic, of secrets that shouldn’t be named aloud. Compared to that, Snape sounded more like a ghost who hadn’t realized he was already dead.

“Potter.”

Ah, there it was. The name like a whip. I looked at him. Not defiantly. Just with the kind of attention I give any man who thinks he’s more interesting than he really is.

“What do I get if I add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

A few heads turned toward him. Granger immediately raised her hand, almost desperately. Weasley gave her an annoyed look.

“A sleeping potion,” I said.

Luckily, I had read about that.

Snape didn’t blink.

“Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?”

“In a goat’s stomach,” I replied calmly. I felt Malfoy’s eyes barely flick toward me. Nott didn’t move at all.

“What is its use?”

“Antidote. Against most poisons,” I added.

Snape studied me like one might study an unstable structure. Then he threw the next one.

“What’s the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

I didn’t know that one. It didn’t matter.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Granger was raising her hand so enthusiastically I thought she might dislocate her shoulder. Snape didn’t look at her. Not once.

“Clearly, fame isn’t everything.”

I didn’t react. Because it wasn’t. And if it was… not for me.

Snape turned away with a layer of disdain that seemed tailor-made.

“Weasley.”

Weasley, of course, had no idea. Snape didn’t take points from anyone. He just buried them in silence, one by one. Granger lowered her hand as if she had lost something valuable.

I didn’t take my eyes off him. Snape didn’t understand me. That irritated him. And although his attitude felt somewhat personal, it didn’t hurt. It didn’t provoke anything. It only made me think. What does he see when he looks at me? A mirror? A threat? A mistake? His gaze struck me as curious.

The second class of the day was Transfiguration, again with Ravenclaw. They weren’t as talkative as the last time; I don’t know if it was because we were more mixed this time, or if they just liked talking when they weren’t supposed to. Either way, I didn’t mind. Silence felt comfortable.

McGonagall entered the classroom, gestured for us to sit without raising her voice, and with a precise leap, turned into a cat. Just like that, without warning.

A collective gasp followed. Some students clapped quietly. I simply watched her closely. Her fur was streaked gray, and her eyes… exactly the same. Intelligent. Assessing. Human, despite it all. She returned to her human form without losing her balance or a single shred of dignity.

“This is what you will learn,” she announced, “eventually. Though don’t expect to turn into cats this week. Or this year. Or the next, probably.”

I liked her honesty. Her way of speaking was like a clean blade: sharp and direct.

During class, she taught us about the principle of material equivalence, and we continued with the exercise of turning a matchstick into a needle. Only a few managed to go further. Malfoy tried with confidence. He failed with elegance. Daphne observed every movement like she was taking mental notes. Nott, as always, seemed to think more than he said.

I managed to make the wood harden and narrow. Nothing impressive, but better than I expected. I still didn’t know if it was due to talent, luck, or pure obsession.

That night, we had Astronomy. It took place in the highest tower, beneath a sky so clear it looked like it was made of glass.

The Hufflepuffs were calm, curious. A red-haired girl waved at me. I didn’t remember her name. She sat next to Zabini, who yawned openly, but this time didn’t fall asleep.

Professor Sinistra was the complete opposite of McGonagall. Her voice was soft, like she was afraid to break the air with her words, and she moved with a quiet grace that reminded me of someone walking through a dream they didn’t want to end. She spoke of constellations as if they were old friends.

And I… I couldn’t help it. I took out my notebook. Not for notes. I drew the sky. Scattered stars, lines connecting shapes that weren’t official constellations, but the ones I saw. Some snakes. Some eyes. Some symbols I didn’t know where they came from.

No one interrupted me. The class was quiet, more contemplative than active. We were all looking up. And for a moment, I felt that if I looked hard enough, if I focused just right, maybe I’d find something more. A sign. A trace.

The professor walked by and looked over my shoulder. She didn’t say anything. Just offered me a faint smile, as if she understood.

When class ended, we descended the stairs in scattered groups. I don’t remember what the others talked about. I was thinking about the sky.

Wednesday began with a light mist covering the tall windows of the Great Hall. The sky, barely visible through the enchanted ceiling, still seemed undecided about whether to give in to rain or sun. The Slytherin table murmured with a mixture of sleep and resignation. At that hour, even Malfoy seemed more focused on his toast than on finding a target for his usual comments.

“Four classes,” Pansy Parkinson groaned, dropping her spoon into her bowl. “Four. Are they trying to kill us?”

“Charms, Herbology, Potions, and Defense,” Daphne listed, flipping through her schedule with half-closed eyes. Her voice was as serene as ever, but the way she held her tea cup said otherwise.

“And three of those with Gryffindor,” Nott added, not looking up from his book.

“Why always with Gryffindor?” complained a girl whose name I still didn’t know.

“They say it’s so we learn to get along,” Malfoy replied with theatrical flair, taking a sip of juice. “Sure, because forcing us to see each other several times a week sounds like a foolproof recipe for inter-house peace.”

A few muted chuckles followed. I said nothing. I had slept well, and even the fatigue felt bearable. Maybe it was simply because, despite the noise and the complaints, I was in a place where each day could mean something new. Something magical.

Chapter Text

Defense Against the Dark Arts was the last class on Wednesday. The classroom was located in one of the castle’s upper corridors, where the windows opened to the evening mist like veiled eyes. I sat at the back, near a foggy window, hoping the breeze slipping through the cracks would keep me awake.

It wasn’t enough.

Professor Quirrell staggered in, carrying his characteristic sweet and musty odor, as if he had mushrooms fermenting under the layers of his ridiculous robes. He spoke in broken whispers, as if he feared the words might bite him if released with too much force.

“W-welcome to D-defense… against the d-dark arts,” he murmured, wobbling toward the desk as though the floor were made of jelly. “I-I hope you all brought your… your books. T-today we’ll begin with…”

That’s when I stopped listening.

One whiff of him was enough to decide I couldn’t stand another. So I slid the subject book onto the desk, opened it to the table of contents, and began to read. With real focus. Not for him, but because the dark arts sounded like something interesting. Something the Lord of Dreams might know. Something that could teach me more than Quirrell would ever be able to pronounce.

The class drifted by. Like mist.

Quirrell’s voice rose and fell, drowned in his own tremors. At one point, he tried to make us practice a defensive stance, but no one paid attention. When the bell finally rang, I was one of the first to close the book.

I stood up calmly, putting it into my bag. I was so absorbed I barely noticed the uneasy murmur among some classmates. As I stepped through the doorway, it all happened very quickly.

A clumsy Ravenclaw tripped on his own robes and bumped into me just as I passed near Quirrell, who was also heading for the exit.

My shoulder brushed against his arm. Just for a second. But I felt it.

A strange sensation, as if the air between us had shifted in density. As if my skin knew something my mind didn’t understand.

It wasn’t pain. It was something subtler. More intimate. As if I had touched something that shouldn’t be there. Something dry. Withered. Shut away. Something that wanted to hide. And for a moment, I felt that thing touch me back. A kind of invisible sting. Not in the flesh, but in a deeper place, in a part of me with no name or map.

Quirrell pulled away immediately, muttering something barely intelligible, his shifty eyes avoiding mine. He clutched at his robes clumsily and disappeared behind his desk, leaving me by the door, just a little colder than before. Escaping.

I said nothing. There was no point trying to understand it now, but it deserved future investigation. I have a whole year to get answers from Quirrell.

Thursday passed without incident.

A shapeless blend of classes, words, and faces. Lukewarm meals, broken conversations, notes scribbled in my notebook. There was something comforting about that repetition—about going unnoticed even when everyone knew my name.

But Friday brought something new: Flying.

I had heard others talk about it throughout the week, between bites in the Great Hall and footsteps in the corridors. Some were excited, others nervous. I was simply curious. I had no expectations. Brooms were just another one of those magical-world things I still wasn’t sure I liked.

We were gathered in a clearing near the castle, where the brooms lay lined up on the ground like sleeping soldiers. Professor Hooch, a woman with a firm voice and hawk-like eyes, ordered us to stand beside one.

“Extend your right hand over the broom and say up,” she instructed.

My broom obeyed the command immediately, flying into my hand as if it had been waiting for my voice. I heard the stifled crackle of a laugh and saw Daphne looking at me with a raised eyebrow two spots over. I returned a neutral expression.

Others weren’t so lucky. Especially Longbottom.

His broom refused to move, even when he yelled at it. Then, once everyone had finally managed to get theirs in hand, the professor began explaining how to mount and control the basics.

And that’s when it all went wrong.

Longbottom shot forward—by mistake, or fear, or simple clumsiness. It wasn’t clear. But his broom shot up violently, taking him with it like an untamed kite. The professor shouted, tried to follow him, but it was too late.

It was an ugly fall.

I saw him crash to the ground with the dull thud of soft flesh losing to stone. He screamed. He writhed. The professor knelt beside him and, after a brief check, escorted him to the hospital wing.

The broom remained there, lying on the ground as if nothing had happened.

“Well done, Longbottom,” Malfoy muttered—just loud enough not to be accidental.

Some laughed. Others stayed silent. The professor ordered us not to move until she returned. And it was in that void of authority that Malfoy decided to act.

He walked over to where Longbottom had fallen and picked something up from the grass. A silver sphere. The Remembrall Longbottom had mentioned earlier, with the voice of a child who didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“What a sorry excuse for a wizard,” Malfoy said, spinning the sphere between his fingers. “Maybe they should send him off with the Muggles.”

A few chuckles broke out among the Slytherins.

“You’re going to give that back,” said the curly-haired Gryffindor girl—Granger—stepping forward with an indignant look.

“And what if I don’t want to?” Malfoy replied, with a crooked smile.

Weasley stepped in. Someone else too. Malfoy tossed the sphere into the air and caught it with ease.

I watched from where I stood, unmoving. As if I were watching a play with characters far too predictable. The lines were already written, and they were only doing what was expected of them.

Malfoy was cruel, yes, but he was brilliant in his role. His voice, his gestures, the way he knew exactly what to say to spark either laughter or rage. He did it with precision. Like an actor who knows his audience well. Did he do it for the show? Out of need? Or for pleasure? I didn’t know. But I didn’t look away.

I said nothing when the professor returned, just in time to stop the challenge from escalating. I didn’t offer a statement or an opinion. I just stood there, broom in hand, watching as Malfoy slipped the sphere into his robes with an indifferent smile and the professor restored order with a thunderous voice.

No one flew that day.

The Hogwarts library was larger than I had imagined—not so much in physical size, but in the sense of depth it evoked. Every shelf seemed to hold secrets that would only reveal themselves to those who knew what to look for. The aisles smelled of ancient dust, dried ink, and bound parchment, and there was a constant whisper—not of voices, but of the pages themselves, as if each volume were restless, eager to be read.

I chose a table by a tall window and sat down with a small stack of books I had selected with a mix of randomness and intuition. Daphne was already there, absorbed in a potions book, her expression focused, her brow furrowed with restrained elegance. Parkinson—whom I had barely heard speak except to support or laugh at Malfoy’s comments—was slumped over the table, drawing spirals on a piece of parchment, more interested in her quill than in her homework. Zabini, with a copy of The Fundamentals of Alchemical Transmutation open in front of him, was asleep with his head resting on his arm, breathing with the calm rhythm of someone who had no intention of studying.

I flipped through books about the history of magical families and their bloodlines. I came across a text listing the Sacred Twenty-Eight, a group of families considered "pure-blood" for maintaining generations free of Muggle or Muggle-born intermarriage. Some of the houses mentioned were familiar: Malfoy, Parkinson, Nott... others were not. What caught my attention wasn’t the purity they boasted of, but how the book described their historical influence in magical politics and their rigid stances on tradition. They weren’t portrayed as models of virtue, but rather as houses weighed down by both pride and tragedy.

I moved on to an older book, bound in cracked leather, titled Paths of the Sorcerer: Vocations and Arts of Magical Tradition. It was fascinating. It spoke of “magical paths,” not as academic careers but as life callings: the healer, the transfigurist, the ritualist, the duelist, the scholar of the arcane, the herbalist, the wandering mage… It even mentioned "dark wizards" not as criminals, but as practitioners of forgotten branches rejected for their danger or moral ambiguity. Some, the author said, weren’t evil—just different, crossing boundaries others feared to touch.

I read about magical festivities like Samhain, the ancient origin of Halloween, where the veil between worlds grew thin. I read about the Night of Silence, a vigil ritual practiced in ancient times, where wizards reflected before enchanted mirrors to confront their own fears. It also spoke of the Rites of the Lumen, used by young witches and wizards to declare their vocation before magic itself, in a ceremony where they were granted personal visions—though this practice had fallen into disuse. The part about visions caught my attention, and I made a note to research it properly later.

Everything felt deeper than what Hogwarts showed us in class. As if beneath the academic structure, a hidden heart still beat—older, rawer, and full of mystery.

“What are you reading so intently?” Daphne asked without looking up.

“About the paths of wizards. And about ancient families,” I replied without looking at her, turning a page.

“The Sacred 28?” Parkinson asked with a mocking tone. “My mother says that book was written by a raving fanatic. But we keep it anyway—just in case.”

“I don’t care about blood,” I replied calmly. “I’m interested in what they chose to do with their magic.”

Daphne nodded, almost imperceptibly. Zabini mumbled something in his sleep—perhaps someone’s name—and turned on his arm. A strand of hair fell across his forehead.

I took my notebook and jotted down names, fragments of phrases, symbols that appeared in the margins of some texts. I sketched an open eye with a flame in the pupil, a human figure standing before a rune-marked circle, a mistletoe branch entwined with a serpent. All of it felt valuable, like pieces of a map whose whole I did not yet understand.

There are more paths than they teach in class. Some hidden, others forgotten. But they exist.

The Slytherin common room had something of a silent aquarium about it at night. The greenish glow of the floating lamps, reflected in the windows that looked out onto the lake, turned every shadow into a wavering specter. You could hear the water shifting outside, and sometimes you could see shadows pass—fish, drifting branches, or things best left unnamed.

It was Saturday night, and most of the first-years were in the main lounge—some reading, others doing homework. Pansy Parkinson was laughing with Millicent Bulstrode and Tracey Davis at something I didn’t catch. Zabini was distractedly flipping through a book with animated illustrations that fought each other. Crabbe and Goyle were shoving each other with their shoulders, with the subtlety of boulders rolling downhill. Malfoy observed everyone from a sofa corner with a bored air and a pensive expression, as if the world owed him an explanation.

I was on the floor, leaning against a wall, with my notebook in my lap. I had drawn a faceless figure seated on a throne covered in roots, and I was now writing around the image—loose words, phrases that echoed in my mind like thoughts that didn’t quite belong to me: “The true name grants power.” “Shadow in the reflection.” “The eternal is not always immortal.”

Daphne and Nott were seated nearby, sharing a thick book with a dark cover. They exchanged a quiet word now and then. Even though they spoke little, there seemed to be an implicit understanding between them. They reminded me of pieces from the same game—not necessarily allies, but functional together.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Malfoy asked suddenly, in that tone of his that always hovered between mockery, boredom, or both.

I didn’t answer right away. I closed the notebook calmly and looked at him.

“Nothing I could explain without sounding strange.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, then gave a slight smile.

“You always have weird answers. But I guess that’s part of the charm,” he said, turning to Daphne. “Don’t you think?”

Daphne ignored him.

“Is that your diary, Potter?” Parkinson asked from her spot. “Or your dream collection?”

“Something like that,” I replied without looking at her.

“I don’t get why anyone would want to remember what they dream. I always end up falling or being chased by ugly things.”

“Maybe that’s why,” I said, not thinking too hard about it. “Because the ugly things want to be understood too.”

The conversation went quiet for a moment, as if everyone paused to figure out what to do with what I’d just said. Zabini was the first to laugh—low and nasal.

“That’s the most Slytherin thing I’ve heard all day.”

Malfoy was watching me now with a different kind of intensity. It wasn’t mockery anymore. It was... interest. As if he were trying to place me on his mental map.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said simply.

I think I’d heard that before and from the same person.

“What did you expect?”

“A hero. Or an idiot. Or both.”

“I might be,” I said. “Just not this week.”

We returned to silence. Not uncomfortable—just heavy. Dense. Like the pressure of the water against the windows. For the first time since I’d arrived in this house, I felt the silence wasn’t rejection. It was part of the language.

Someone started talking about Quidditch. Another mentioned rumors of a hidden passage near the Defense classroom. The room slowly filled with those little threads of conversation that crossed without interrupting each other, like the currents of an underground river.

And I, in the middle of it all, began to understand that Slytherin wasn’t just about ambition. It was about survival. About knowing when to speak and when to observe. When to challenge and when to let someone else do it for you.

It was a complex game.

Chapter Text

It had been a month since my first week at Hogwarts. A whole month. In that time, I had learned to avoid the stairs with shifting moods and to recognize the exact moment a painting followed you with its eyes—not out of courtesy, but to keep watch. The routine had settled in like the mist over the lake: heavy, constant, with hidden shapes that only emerged if you knew how to look.

I attended classes, ate in the Great Hall, visited the library. My professors were more or less predictable figures—except for one.

Quirrell.

I’ve tried several times. At the end of class, I linger a bit longer, pretending to pack something into my bag, waiting for him to walk by. But he’s always the first to flee the room, as if eager to blend into the stone of the corridors. He doesn’t seem to walk—he fades. When I do manage to get close, the smell hits me like a wall: a mix of old mold, damp flesh, and cold ashes. Something unnatural. The kind of stench that doesn’t belong to the world of the living.

I’ve tried to touch him again. It’s not easy. And when I get close enough, my body tenses without my permission, as if something instinctive wanted to protect me… or avoid waking something that sleeps.

I still don’t know what that sensation was the first time—that fleeting brush between his cloak and my arm. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t magic, at least not the kind I’ve come to know. It felt like an invisible membrane had shuddered between us. As if something ancient had tried to recognize itself in me. I don’t know how to explain it. I haven’t told anyone.

And yet, every night—or almost every night—I return to the same refuge.

The dreams.

The Lord of Dreams hasn’t abandoned me. Sometimes he appears among ruins, other times in deserts where the stars feel closer than skin. There are nights when I only hear his faceless voice, as if the earth itself spoke through him. Sometimes his eyes are fire, sometimes smoke. Sometimes nothing. But in all his faces, I know him.

It’s because of him that I get up each day. Because of him that I read, that I observe, that I remember. If life at Hogwarts is a maze of endless corridors and teachers who don’t understand what goes unsaid, then dreams are the only true compass.

In Slytherin, things have stabilized, though I couldn’t say if that’s good or bad. Zabini still sleeps more than he speaks, though his eyes open at the most unexpected moments, as if he’s always listening. Pansy Parkinson is loud, delighted to be the center of every conversation, but her mind is sharp when she goes quiet. Daphne is cold, meticulous, and her silence is never empty: when she speaks, she says exactly what she means. And Nott… Nott is different. Not because he’s kind—he’s not—but because he seems to live on another plane, one where the world is a story half-deciphered. I like him.

Draco Malfoy has been an enigma. His tongue is venomous, his manners theatrical. But there’s a twisted intelligence behind his cutting remarks, a kind of malice that isn’t just cruelty—it’s a desire for control. He watches, judges, and only smiles when there’s something to gain. Strangely, I don’t despise him. Sometimes, I even like him.

No one bothers me. No one gets too close. I don’t think they dislike me, but they don’t need me either. And that’s fine. It gives me space to watch without being watched, to think without interruption. To follow the echoes of something I can’t name, but that lives in the depths of my dreams and behind the walls.

One month. And we’re only just beginning.

Herbology had something hypnotic about it.

Maybe it was the damp light of the greenhouses, filtering through the fogged glass with a laziness almost liquid, or the earthy smell that clung to your skin as if nature didn’t want to let you go entirely. The pots exhaled their green breath, and the leaves barely stirred, as if they were listening.

I was listening too, though it might not have looked like it.

In theory, I was paying attention to Professor Sprout —a woman with a hoarse voice and firm hands, who spoke to her plants with more tenderness than to her students— but in truth, I was thinking about Quirrell. Or rather, about how to get close to him again without raising suspicion. I had tried running into him in corridors or at the Great Hall. Nothing worked. It was as if he knew I was watching him. Or worse, as if he was avoiding me on purpose for reasons I couldn’t quite grasp.

Maybe I needed to provoke a situation. Maybe…

“They say the Weasley twins were on the third floor again last night,” said Tracey Davis to my left, raising her voice just enough to be heard over the greenhouse’s humid murmur.

“So?” asked Millicent Bulstrode as she sank her gloved hands into the soil with surprising delicacy. “They’re always where they shouldn’t be.”

“Filch chased them this time. But he didn’t catch them,” Davis continued, her eyes gleaming with something that had nothing to do with sunlight. “One of them threw triton slime at him on the staircase, and they escaped by jumping over a hole in the floor.”

I turned slightly, without making it obvious. Davis and Bulstrode had been next to me since day one in this class. Apparently, they were quite good at Herbology, although they spent the entire session chatting about the latest gossip. Tracey had a quick voice, as if she were always about to laugh at a secret. Millicent, deeper-toned, replied with nods or short words, but rarely ignored anything. The oddest thing was the third figure that had joined them: Neville Longbottom.

The Gryffindor boy had been a bundle of nerves at first, especially surrounded by two Slytherins who looked like they could bite. But over time—and maybe because they talked more about plants than insults—he began to stay near them. Sometimes he shared timid facts, other times he just nodded, delighted to be included in a conversation that didn’t judge him.

“What’s strange,” said Davis as she separated the roots of a Mimbulus Mimbletonia with surgical precision, “is that the third floor is closed by Dumbledore’s direct order, right? What’s there that not even the teachers mention?”

That woke me up.

Since the start of the school year, the third-floor corridor had been a vague warning, shrouded in the headmaster’s grandiose banquet speech. But few took it seriously. Until now. What if there was more to it?

“Maybe it’s just rumors,” murmured Longbottom, who was looking at the plant with a mixture of affection and fear.

“What do you think, Potter?” asked Davis, not looking directly at me.

“I don’t know,” I replied, brushing the dirt from my gloves. “But if the Weasleys have been there more than once… then it’s probably worth finding out what’s up.”

She smiled.

I went back to the task without revealing anything more, but something inside me had already shifted. My investigation into Quirrell seemed stuck, but if the third floor held something that even the Weasley twins —annoying, but not stupid— were drawn to, then maybe it could lead me down a new path.

The roots untangled themselves between my fingers, soft and warm like thoughts just emerging from the soil. The magical world was full of secrets, of hidden trails branching off beneath the obvious. You just had to know where to step. And more importantly, when to listen.

The dream began with a whisper of fine fabric sliding across skin. I saw him from behind, standing before a mirror with no reflection, fastening a black robe embroidered with silver thread, each movement slow, almost solemn. His hair was slicked back, wet and shiny like fresh ink. The light that illuminated him came from a distant bonfire, orange and flickering, as if the world itself was burning around him.

The Lord of My Dreams turned his face slightly. His eyes, always red, seemed dimmer this time, more human, as if burdened with something I couldn’t understand. Around the bonfire, other wizards waited. Some wore ancient masks, of wood or bone. Others held small boxes, jars, books wrapped in black cloth… offerings, I realized. They had come to give something. To hand something over.

One knelt. Another threw a wrapped object into the fire. A blue flame burst forth in response, and all of them shuddered.

But not him. He stared at the fire as if he couldn’t see it. As if he had been searching for it all along and, now that it was in front of him, no longer knew why.

I felt him turn toward me, even though I wasn’t there. Even though I couldn’t be there.

And then, the fire’s heat became the chill of marble.

I woke with a start.

Blinking, confused, I saw that the afternoon sky had deepened into a dark blue veil, speckled with the first hints of night. I was lying by the fountain’s edge, legs still crossed and my notebook half-open on my lap. My quill had fallen to the ground.

“You slept like a rock,” said Nott without looking at me from a nearby bench. He had a book open on his knees and the posture of someone who had been there a while.

I sat up slowly. The dream lingered like smoke in my thoughts.

“What time is it?”

“Almost dinner,” he replied, still not looking up. “Zabini said you were dead or dreaming. Didn’t bet on the first.”

A few meters away, Malfoy was talking to Goyle and Crabbe, waving his arms like he was throwing an invisible broom into the air. He was saying something about the upcoming Quidditch season and how his father had box seats for the professional league. Goyle nodded with empty enthusiasm. Crabbe seemed more interested in a bag of nuts.

I, however, looked to the sky.

The dream still burned inside me. The bonfire. The offerings. That lost gaze. And also, the thought I’d had before falling asleep: when would be the right night to sneak into the third floor. Something told me I shouldn’t keep waiting. But it also wasn’t wise to rush in without a plan. I had already learned that patience, like silence, could be a weapon.

Nott closed his book with a snap.

“What did you dream?”

I looked at him for a second. Hesitated.

“Nothing important.”

He studied me like someone watching the surface of a pond, certain they’d just seen something move beneath it.

“If you say so,” he murmured, and stood up.

We headed back to the castle, where the echoes of footsteps, voices, and shadows were already preparing to wrap us in yet another night at Hogwarts.

The table in the highest corner of the Astronomy Tower was covered in books, scrolls, and half-empty cups of tea. The night wind blew gently through one of the open windows, slightly stirring the candle flames. It was one of those nights when Hogwarts seemed to sigh rather than sleep.

Malfoy was speaking nonstop, with the tone of someone who expects to be listened to with admiration.

"…and that one over there is Andromeda, that constellation represents Princess Andromeda, daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia, who was rescued by Perseus from the sea monster Cetus…”

Daphne nodded attentively, jotting notes down on her parchment. Every so often she looked up to ask a short question, and Malfoy replied with visible pleasure.

Zabini, on the other hand, seemed to be waging an internal battle against sleep. His shaky handwriting crashed against the parchment lines, and his eyelids fluttered like wet wings.

I wasn’t writing. I was drawing. The lines of the constellations floated in my notebook, interconnected with soft strokes, surrounded by small personal notes: "circle of ice," "the sleeping eye," "link to the north." There was something peaceful about tracing stars. Something that reminded me of dreams—though not the darker ones.

“How do you know so damn much about these constellations, Malfoy?” Zabini asked suddenly, breaking the celestial monologue.

Malfoy looked at him as though the question were absurd.

“My mother is a Black,” he replied smugly, as if that explained everything.

And, in a way, it did.

I then remembered a paragraph from the book on old families I had read days earlier. The Black lineage, with its obsession with stars and celestial names. Their motto: Toujours Pur. Their family tree like a constellation of obsessive purity.

“The Blacks,” I murmured without looking up. “Their motto is ‘Always Pure,’ right? They have an entire family tree full of star names. And an almost religious devotion to the skies.”

Daphne shifted in her seat, turning slightly toward me.

“And grey eyes,” she added. “Unmistakable. Malfoy inherited them from his mother. It’s a mark. Like their madness.”

Malfoy pressed his lips together, though he didn’t protest.

I lifted my eyes from the notebook. Something stirred in my mind. An idea—no, an omission. Until that moment, in all the magical world I had seen, with its oddities, creatures, and mysteries, I hadn’t come across anyone with red eyes. Except in dreams. Familiar traits. Distinctive. A clue I had overlooked.

“Is there any known wizarding family with red eyes?” I asked suddenly, without thinking.

Silence fell like an invisible cloak.

Daphne looked first at Zabini, then at Malfoy. Malfoy frowned with discomfort, and Zabini scratched his neck as if he had just fully woken up.

That was when Nott approached the group, walking calmly with a book under his arm.

“What did I miss?” he asked neutrally.

“Potter asked if there’s any wizarding family with red eyes,” Daphne replied without turning. “ An the answer is no,” she said finally, and firmly. “At least not in the Isles.”

Zabini sighed and shrugged.

“There are vague records of certain bloodlines in Asia, especially some ancient wizarding clans from Mongolia and northern China. But even that’s rare. Or considered superstition. Here in Europe, as far as we know… the only wizard known to have red eyes was the Dark Lord.”

The words floated in the air like ashes.

No one added anything else. Even Malfoy, who never missed a chance to speak, seemed suddenly withdrawn. The wind stirred the candle flames again. The silence grew heavy.

And I knew.

I didn’t know what, exactly. But something clicked. Something settled deep in my thoughts, like a half-open door I hadn’t noticed until now.

Before I could follow that intuition further, a familiar voice pulled us out of the fog:

“Are you going to the Halloween feast, or are you planning to spend the night kissing your books?”

It was Tracey Davis, standing at the edge of the group with an amused smile. She looked fresh from the common room, her uniform slightly disheveled and her hair half-braided.

Daphne gave her a calm look.

“Maybe both.”

I closed the notebook slowly. Red eyes. Fire. The third floor. Halloween. Almost here.

The days passed like leaves falling into a lake—slow, identical. The calendar seemed reluctant to move forward, as if the castle itself were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

I followed my routines as always. Classes, library, nights filled with ink and parchment, furtive glances at Quirrell—becoming more elusive each day—and dreams that returned night after night. The fog, the man with the red eyes, his burned hands, his words in tongues I sometimes understood and sometimes didn’t. It was that presence in my nights that truly kept me going. The only thing that really mattered, deep down.

Samhain was approaching. Halloween, as the Muggles and some more modern-leaning wizards called it. For most of Hogwarts, it meant sweets, costumes, and the most colorful feast of the year. For me, it meant nothing. I never liked dressing up. Or going out for candy. And I certainly had no one to mourn.

It was a perfect night to act.

Everyone would be in the Great Hall, wrapped up in music, floating food, and pointless chatter. And I could finally go to the third floor. To explore that forbidden wing that called to me so insistently. That wing where something important—something hidden, dangerous—was waiting.

But something was off. Something that had become impossible to ignore over the past days.

Stares.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. But no. Even the most indifferent students seemed to look at me with a kind of uncomfortable respect, curiosity—perhaps even pity. Some Slytherins looked at me with something closer to sympathy, which was even more unsettling.

Even a few Ravenclaws followed me with their eyes as I passed through the library.

On Wednesday night, as I reviewed my notes in the dormitory, I decided to clear it up once and for all. Nott was reading on his bed, legs crossed as usual, a candle floating beside him.

"Can I ask you something?" I said, closing my notebook.

Nott looked up. He blinked, as if returning from somewhere farther away than the page in front of him.

"You always can, Potter."

"Why is everyone looking at me like I’m about to break?"

His brow furrowed—first with confusion, then with something like understanding. He took a moment to answer.

"It’s the date."

I waited.

"Tomorrow’s an anniversary." He closed the book. His voice was careful, as if weighing each word. "The anniversary of your parents’ murder."

I stayed silent. Not because it hurt. Not enough, anyway. It was… strange.

I knew they were dead. I knew I had survived something. But until that moment, I had never thought about the exact day they’d died. No one had ever told me. I’d never asked. And that said enough.

"Oh," I said simply.

Nott looked at me. His face showed no judgment, only attention.

"It happened on Halloween. Ten years ago. Some students remember it every year. Others just… see you and make the connection. You’re a kind of symbol, whether you want to be or not."

I didn’t respond right away. I looked at the floating flame of his candle.

I had no memories of them. None. Just the scar. Just the name. How can you miss someone you don’t remember? Be grateful, maybe. Honor them, perhaps. But mourning… that required something I didn’t have.

And yet, something in me felt cold. Not from grief. From the idea that even their death had been turned into a symbol. Even their sacrifice had been consumed by a myth—one in which I was the unwilling protagonist.

"I didn’t know it was on Halloween," I murmured.

Nott nodded once. Then, as if hesitating to say more, he added:

"I… every year I celebrate Samhain. I light a candle for my mother." He paused. "Some of us will gather in the Common Room, or go out to the garden if the weather’s nice. It’s not official. But if you’d like… you could join us. You could honor your own."

His voice was calm. There was no pity in it—just a sincere offer.

Something in me was moved, though I didn’t show it. Not for my parents. For Nott. For the idea that someone would care like that, even if it was unnecessary. Even if it didn’t affect me.

And then I saw the opportunity. It offered itself, like an open door.

"Thanks, Nott," I said, carefully managing my tone. "But I think I’d rather spend the night alone. I’m not comfortable with tributes. I don’t have any memories. I just… need some silence."

Nott nodded, as if he completely understood.

"As you wish. If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be."

He returned to his book. I opened mine again, though I didn’t read a word.

The floating candle swayed in the breeze coming through the window.

Samhain. No one would notice I wasn’t at the feast. No one would come looking for me if they believed I stayed behind to mourn the dead. And I, instead, would go meet what hides among the living.

It couldn’t be more perfect.

Chapter Text

“Today we’ll learn one of the most basic yet useful charms: Wingardium Leviosa,” announced Professor Flitwick, with a small but theatrical bow. “Levitating objects!”

We were each given long, white, heavy feathers that rested limply on the desks. I shared a bench with Nott; Malfoy was next to us, sitting with Parkinson.

“Remember: it’s leviOsa, not leviosA,” came a confident voice, cutting through the clumsy attempts from the row beside us.

I turned slightly and saw Granger firmly correcting Weasley, who seemed more intent on fighting with the feather than understanding the spell.

“Maybe if you moved your wand properly, Ron,” she added, making an elegant spiral with her wrist. “Watch: Wingardium Leviosa.”

And the feather rose smoothly, spinning slowly as if it were simply obeying a natural command.

Some snickered, others groaned. The professor looked absolutely delighted with Granger.

I watched her movement and repeated, softly:

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

My wand felt light, the air around it shimmered... and the feather rose. Not as high as Granger’s, but enough to hover a few inches and then drift gently down. Nott glanced at me sideways, raising an eyebrow. I said nothing. Not even a smile.

Flitwick passed by us, visibly excited.

“Well done, Mr. Potter! Very well done!” he squeaked, as if truly pleased.

I didn’t answer. The class continued, full of scattered errors and minor triumphs. But I had already had my moment. That was enough.

Outside, the air was cool, with that persistent dampness that seeps through the seams of your uniform. We were heading to the dungeons in a group. Nott walked beside me, still clutching his book under his arm like he feared the wind might snatch it away at any moment. Behind us, Daphne and Zabini whispered to each other, though not quietly enough to keep us from catching pieces of their conversation.

“How did you do it?” Nott asked bluntly.

I glanced at him sideways.

“The charm?”

He nodded. His expression was calm, but there was real curiosity in his eyes—the kind not disguised as interest before a mockery.

“I listened to how Granger said it,” I replied. “I paid attention to the movement of her wand and the exact tone she used. Then I repeated it. Imitating someone who does it well is more efficient than repeating your own mistakes.”

“That’s… quite logical,” he murmured, as if unsure whether to approve of or mistrust logic itself.

“Didn’t you say you didn’t know anything before coming to Hogwarts?” Zabini asked, hands in his pockets, walking slowly. “I thought you’d be one of those who accidentally smacks themselves in the face with their wand.”

“Do I look like that kind?” I replied, without irritation.

Zabini looked at me for a second, then barely smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile.

“No. Not at all.”

“The Gryffindors wouldn’t stop making noise the whole class,” Daphne chimed in, glancing sideways at the line of students ahead of us. “Granger’s going to leave them all behind, and they don’t even realize it.”

“That girl…” Zabini made a sound of annoyance. “If she keeps it up, they’ll start giving her points. She’s pretty good—for a Mudblood.”

The comment hung in the air for a moment. Nott said nothing. Neither did Daphne. And neither did I.

Not because I agreed—but not because I disagreed either. It simply wasn’t a fight that concerned me or interfered with my goals. Mudblood. The tone was clear: contemptuous, annoyed, almost like the word itself dirtied the air when spoken.

It was nearly dinnertime. Time to act.

Samhain at Hogwarts had a different air to it than any other festivity one could imagine. As the day faded, a sense of expectancy hung in the corridors, as if the very stones remembered that on this night, exactly ten years ago, a curse had been cast upon a creature too small to understand it. The entire school seemed to hold its breath, and yet, no one spoke of it plainly.

The twilight light brushed the tall windows, staining the suits of armor that lined the halls in shades of orange. Enchanted pumpkins floated along the grand staircases, their grotesque faces laughing in eerie silence. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples slipped through invisible cracks. Shadows stretched longer, grew thicker. They almost seemed to move of their own accord.

I remember seeing Nott before he left. He gave me one last look—like someone parting with a secret—and then vanished without questions. I suppose he knew I wouldn’t join the others. Or he simply chose not to stop me.

I waited in the Slytherin common room until the murmurs faded, until the corridors emptied, and the surface of the lake turned into a black mirror beyond the windows. The door closed with a whisper as I stepped out. My heart beat fast—not from fear of being caught, but from something deeper, older. A feeling I didn’t know how to name.

I carried no wand, no cloak. Only the notebook in the inner pocket of my robe, as if something inside me knew that, no matter what happened, I would want to write about it.

I climbed the staircases slowly. Each stone groaned beneath my shoes, each step vibrated with a dull awareness. The castle changed when it was alone, when the voices of hundreds of students fell silent and all that remained was that old echo... the echo of a story not yet finished.

I stopped before the door to the forbidden third-floor corridor.

The wood stood ajar.

My first impulse was to close my eyes. I swallowed hard and pushed. It didn’t creak. It opened as though it had been waiting for me.

Inside, all was dim. A short corridor, bare stone, damp air. The flickering light of a torch spilled in from a larger chamber beyond. I heard nothing. Nothing… until I did.

A growl.

A deep, wet sound. Almost damp.

And then I saw it.

A massive creature, black, as if drawn from a nightmare. Three heads. Three open jaws. Small, gleaming eyes watched me with brutal attention. A dog, a monster, a guardian. I had heard of them. Cerberus. But I never thought I’d see one.

My body went rigid, every muscle screamed. I wanted to run—I swear. I’d never liked dogs. Not even regular ones. They always looked at me with silent judgment, as if they knew something I didn’t. And this one… this one could rip me in half without even trying.

But then, behind the beast, I saw him.

A thin figure, slightly hunched, purple robes dragging on the floor, and a turban far too large to be ornamental. Quirrell.

Relief washed over me, though it was strange. The terror vanished faster than I expected.

“Professor Quirrell?” I asked, my voice feignedly timid, like someone waking from a nightmare. “I couldn’t sleep… I wanted to take a walk…”

He spun sharply, startled. His eyes fixed on me. Cold. Confused. There was an expression on his face I had never seen before. It wasn’t the usual nervous smile. It wasn’t the forced tremble.

It was disgust. And fear.

“Potter?” he muttered, his voice neither soft nor trembling, but restrained, controlled, dry. “What are you doing here? Haven’t you heard about the troll?”

I blinked. A troll?

“No… I didn’t hear anything…” I said, lowering my gaze, my voice barely a whisper. I shrugged, as if the world were too heavy. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have… but I’m already here, and…”

I took a breath and let the mask of the scared child settle onto me.

“Could you walk me back to the dorms, Professor?” I asked. “I’m scared…”

His expression was almost comical, if it hadn’t been so tragic. A mix of exasperation and suspicion. But I waited. I waited with wide eyes, the way Daphne always says I do—that abandoned puppy face. It had to be good for something.

And it was.

He muttered something under his breath I didn’t catch, and began walking toward me, without looking at me. I followed, our steps muffled by ancient rugs, the silence broken only by the faint echo of laughter from the feast or the murmur of the sleeping castle.

It was as we were descending from the second to the first floor that we heard it: a scream. Far away. Weak. As if it came from the very walls. We both stopped.

“Could I…?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Could I hold your hand?”

He looked at me like I’d asked something obscene.

“That’s not necessary. Just keep walking.”

But I didn’t. No, instead—shameless—I reached out and took his hand.

What happened next… it was as if the world stopped turning. Everything froze.

And I… I felt.

An explosion, a whirlwind, an electric surge that didn’t hurt but… healed. As if some part of me that had always been numb suddenly woke up.

His magic—because it couldn’t be anything else—flooded me like a warm river, like a cradle, like an embrace, like home. As if my whole life had been an unconscious search for that moment, for that touch. And I had found it.

My breath caught. His hand froze beneath mine, and for a second I thought he had felt it too. Then he yanked his hand away as if I had burned him.

And I… I laughed.

I laughed.

I couldn’t help it. It was stronger than me, as if my body needed an escape valve to contain the impossible. It was a shameless laugh, unrestrained, unfiltered. A laugh I had never uttered before, not even in dreams. It was relief. It was vertigo. It was happiness… true, pure, overflowing, and so intense it hurt.

The tears came without warning. I didn’t even realize I was crying until the salty taste crossed my lips. I didn’t want to blink. I didn’t want the feeling to disappear.

It was him. It had to be him.

There was no way it wasn’t.

Magic doesn’t lie. The magic I felt when I touched him was the same that ran through my dreams for as long as I could remember. It was his. Though fainter, more hidden, more twisted… but unmistakable. I recognized it like one recognizes the smell of home upon opening a forgotten door, like a melody engraved in the bones.

There was no room for error.

I brought a hand to my chest, still laughing, still crying, unable to explain to myself what I was feeling.

“Is it you…?” I asked, voice trembling, hoarse, broken. “Is it you…?”

He looked at me as if he didn’t understand.

Or worse: as if he understood too well.

The laughter turned into sobs. I covered my mouth with my hand, but it was useless. I couldn’t stop. My body trembled, the tears blinded me.

“Are you the Lord of Dreams?” I said, louder this time. “The one with red eyes. The one who comes every night…”

He said nothing.

Not a word.

No denial, no confirmation. Nothing.

He just looked at me.

That silence was what broke me. More than a blow, more than a spell, more than darkness. It was the emptiness on his lips that tore my soul apart.

My laughter died abruptly.

And something in me —something fragile, something childlike and terrible— shattered beyond repair.

“Why… why won’t you say anything?” I asked, each syllable a dagger. “I know… I know, I felt it. It was the same. Exactly the same. The magic, it was the same! It was yours!”

My legs trembled. I couldn’t stay upright.

I took a step closer.

“Please…” I whispered. “Tell me it’s you. Just say it…”

His eyebrows furrowed. He hesitated. For an instant, I saw him on the verge of speaking.

But what he said was:

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Potter.”

Potter.

The name hit me like a lash.

I doubled over. The air left my lungs. I brought both hands to my face and pressed hard, as if I could peel off my skin, the name, the mistake. As if I could erase what I had just heard.

I didn’t understand. I couldn’t understand.

I had waited so long. I had searched for him for years. I had lived every night longing for his voice, his figure, his eyes.

And now, he was right in front of me. I had touched him. I had felt him.

And he denied it.

No. No. No.

“Why…?” I whimpered. “Why are you lying to me…? Why are you pretending…? If it’s you… it’s you… it can’t be anyone else…”

I collapsed to my knees.

My robe dragged across the stone, my notebook fell from my pocket with a dull thud. I didn’t care. I couldn’t think. I only felt that pain. That pure, primal pain of murdered hope.

I lifted my face.

The tears burned like acid.

“There’s no other possibility. There can’t be. I waited for you. I… every night… every day… I dreamed of you. Of you!”

My voice cracked, rose, turned sharp like a scream.

He took a step back.

I, two steps forward.

“Don’t do this to me… don’t do this to me…” I whispered, my throat a thread. “You have to be him. You have to be…”

And then I did it.

I begged.

Without dignity, without pride, without a mask.

With the desperation of someone drowning in air.

“Please… please… please…” I repeated like a mantra, like a prayer. “Be him. Be him. Just… tell me yes. Lie, if you must. But tell me yes.”

And unable to hold back, without thinking, without asking permission, I embraced him.

I threw myself against his body with all the strength of my sorrow, my longing, my entire life.

I buried my face in his chest and clung to him as if falling into an abyss, as if letting go meant death.

The fabric of his robe smelled of dust, of fear, of something strange and damp. It didn’t matter.

It was him. It was him.

It couldn’t be anyone else.

I didn’t want it to be anyone else.

And the last thing I heard before my consciousness faded like smoke into darkness was a sigh. Not of exasperation. Not of annoyance.

But one… deeply human.

A sigh… against my head.

The world turned soft. Unreal. A cotton mist wrapped around my thoughts, my senses, my bones. I no longer felt the cold of the hallways, nor the weight of the robe soaked with tears. I couldn’t feel my body.

But I could feel him.

Before I even opened my eyes, I already knew he was there.

And when I did, I wasn’t surprised to find myself standing before the familiar window. The same as always—tall and narrow, its glass fogged over by the night. Beyond it, the moon—huge, white, wounded—hung in the sky like a sleeping eye that sees all.

And him.

The Lord of Dreams.

He was there, standing beside the desk where I had so often seen him read, write, stare in silence. This time, he was smoking. The smoke rose in slow spirals, blending with his breath. His hair was loose, long and dark, falling over his face like a shadow. He was dressed in black, as always, as if black were an extension of his skin.

One hand rested on the wood. The other lifted the cigarette to his lips.

And he watched the moon.

I said nothing. At first, I simply watched him—like a silent spectator on the edge of a stage, who already knows the play but can’t stop watching.

Every feature of his was both a wound and a balm.

The sharp cheekbones, the soft curve of his neck, the tension in his fingers. The way his eyes—those eyes, red as sleeping embers—narrowed through the smoke. Even the way he held the cigarette was precise, meticulous, beautiful.

He was everything I had dreamed. Everything I had longed for. And that’s why it hurt so much.

That’s why, when I opened my mouth, it wasn’t to speak... but to scream.

"Enough!"

My voice crashed through the thick air, shattering the calm with a violence I didn’t know I had. “Enough! No more dreams! I’m sick of it!”

I felt my lips tremble before the tears came. But they came.

“I’m tired… tired of this! Of seeing you only here, of not knowing if you're real, of searching for you and never finding you…!”

I brought both hands to my face, like I had in the real world before, but this time it was worse. Because there was no shadow to hide in. No magic to mask what I was.

A child. Alone. Broken.

“Why…?” I asked between sobs. “Why didn’t you recognize me out there? Why did you pretend? Why… why aren’t you you when I need you the most…?”

I collapsed. Not with grace. Not with pride. To my knees. Like a beggar. Like a forsaken child begging the dream not to fade.

The tears hit the stone floor like cold rain. My fingers scratched at the tiles without purpose, searching for an anchor—something that hurt less than this absence.

“I can’t take it anymore! I can’t…!”

And then I heard it.

Footsteps. Slow. Steady.

I didn’t want to look up.

I couldn’t.

But I felt him come closer. The air changed. The magic thickened. His presence wrapped around me like a too-familiar coat.

And then, the cigarette dropped beside me, still smoldering.

A hand rested on my head. Gentle. Warm. Firm.

And he knelt before me. He said nothing. He just held me.

His arms wrapped around me like an ancient spell, like a promise that had always been there and was only now being spoken. He pulled me against him, and I clung with a strength I never knew I had.

I held him the way the dying hold onto life. The way addicts embrace the poison that keeps them whole.

My fingers dug into his back, his robe, his skin—like I could fuse with him and never wake up again. My face buried in his neck, and for the first time, I smelled him. Not smoke. But burnt wood, damp earth, something old and dark… and mine.

I cried.

Without shame. Without fear. The way one cries when they no longer expect comfort.

He held me without a word. He held me as everything I was—my sorrow, my desire, my hunger, my loneliness—melted into his embrace.

And then, when my sobs had become faint gasps and my arms trembled with exhaustion, he lowered his head.

And kissed my forehead.

His lips were warm. Real. Too real.

And his voice, when he finally spoke, was deeper, more human, more final than ever.

“Wake up, Harry.”

I woke up screaming.

Not with a start, not with a choked gasp or ragged breath. No.

A raw, animal scream tore out of my throat, as if my very soul were being ripped away. I arched up in bed—a bed that wasn’t mine, that I didn’t recognize, that didn’t smell the way it should—and flung the blankets off me as though they were strangling me.

“No—! Don’t leave me!”

I didn’t know who I was yelling at. I didn’t know if my voice was even real or if I was still trapped inside the dream. Everything burned. My chest, my throat, my eyes.

I shot upright. The room was white, sterile, bathed in a soft light that stung my eyes. The walls seemed to shift. No... not the walls. It was me. Everything spun. Everything hurt.

“Where—?”

My notebook.

My notebook.

I dropped to the floor, on my knees, searching in the shadows under the bed, in the folds of the sheets, through unfamiliar furniture. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t there.

“No! Where is it, where is it, where—?!”

I heard voices. A woman, maybe. Distant, like an echo in a long tunnel. She said my name. Or something like it. She said “calm down,” she said “Harry, please,” she said “you’re safe.”

Lies.

I wasn’t safe. Being safe was having his voice. Having his face, his embrace. It was knowing he hadn’t been just something I made up. But the world—this world—denied me everything.

I brought my hands to my head, pressed my fingers to my skull, tore at my scalp, scratched my nape. Something inside me trembled. Something boiled. Rage, terror, emptiness.

And then my nails.

I shoved them into my mouth. Bit down. Not like before. Not out of habit. I ripped them out. One by one. Until I tasted iron. The familiar taste of blood. My fingertips too. Teeth against flesh, until the skin broke. It hurt. It hurt so much it was a relief.

I had to get it out.

The pain. The image. The eyes. His eyes.

I crawled to the nearest wall and started painting with the blood. Clumsy, frantic strokes. Circles. Pupils. Gazes.

His eyes.

Eyes that were everywhere. That followed me in dreams. That held me. That kissed my forehead. That didn’t recognize me.

“Why didn’t you see me…? Why didn’t you see me?”

I painted as if it could bring him back. As if red could open a door. As if my fingers were quills and my blood, magic ink.

I drew eyes.

Close. So close.

But so far it hurt to breathe.

My chest tightened. Something invisible stabbed at my heart. A spectral hand, a blade without an edge. I collapsed onto my side. My head buzzed.

“Harry, please—”

More voices. Hands on my shoulders. Hands trying to stop me.

No. No. No.

Everything blurred. Words melted like hot wax. Sounds dissolved like smoke.

And then, again, the blackness. That thick, silent, final blackness.

Like sleep. Like death. Like surrender.

Chapter Text

Waking up was a big word. Immense. As if it implied a clean transition between one state and another, a sharp border between darkness and awareness. But there was nothing clean about his waking. No light, no comfort. Only weight.

I first felt the metallic taste on my tongue, as if I had been chewing coins or my own blood. Then, a dull throb in my skull, like thoughts had been hammering from the inside for hours, desperate to get out. I didn’t open my eyes right away. I didn’t want to. I knew reality would be waiting—with teeth.

“Ah, you’re awake…”

The voice was female, soft, but firm. There was distance in it—not out of indifference, but out of habit. A woman used to pain, and to its repetition. She said her name was Madam Pomfrey. She informed me of it with a tone meant to soothe. “You’re Harry Potter,” she added, as if I needed to be reminded.

I could only blink. Once. Twice. My vision was a shapeless blur, like a dream that refused to leave. The light hurt. The air hurt. My whole body hurt, though not in the usual way. It was as if the flesh were still intact, but the soul had slipped away during the night and didn’t know how to fit back in.

“Your glasses were broken,” she said, showing me a case with a twisted frame. “But we can get you a new pair.”

I didn’t answer. That wasn’t what mattered.

My voice came out at last, rough, like stone dragged over stone:

“Where is… my notebook?”

An uncomfortable silence. The kind that precedes bad news.

“We didn’t find anything with you, Mr. Potter.”

I swallowed—or maybe it was glass. My throat burned.

“Are you sure you had it with you?”

I didn’t answer. My world collapsed into a single loss: pages torn from my mind, mute witnesses of a madness so intimate it was all I had left. I turned in bed, my body as taut as a wet rope. If I cried, I don’t remember. Maybe I had no tears left.

Minutes, maybe hours, passed without me noticing time slipping by. She came and went. Spoke to me about my vitals, potions, sleep schedules. I only nodded or shook my head, like a corpse that had learned to fake humanity. Words came and went, slipping off like dirty water.

And then I felt it. That shift in the air. That subtle pressure, like the room recognizing someone who didn’t tolerate mistakes. The sound of boots on stone. A tall figure in black, hooked features and eyes sharp as blades.

“Potter?”

Snape.

I said his name with my mind, not my mouth. He knew anyway. No one ever said his name with affection, and he seemed to prefer it that way.

He approached the bed without asking. His cloak smelled of potion, of burned leaves and secrets. He looked at my face with his usual blend of disdain and analysis, like a faulty potion that might still be salvaged with the right ingredients… or poured down the drain.

“What were you doing outside your dormitory last night?”

I didn’t answer.

“And what were you doing unconscious in a second-floor corridor right after an alert about a troll in the dungeons?”

Silence.

His eyes were needles. You could almost hear them stitching theories with every glance. But I was broken. There were no threads left for him to sew.

“Were you the one who let it out?”

I looked at him. For the first time. And I dared to speak.

“No.”

Nothing else. A single word that cost me my soul.

Snape inhaled slowly, as if holding back what he really wanted to say. Not because he feared me, of course, but because he didn’t believe it was worth wasting words on someone who wouldn’t defend themselves.

“The headmaster wants to see you.”

I didn’t nod. Didn’t shake my head. Did nothing. I just let the weight pull me down again.

Snape stood there, with the same rigidity you’d expect from a black marble statue carved to guard crypts. There was something in his posture that always suggested he was about to punish someone, even when he was simply breathing.

He looked at me like a damaged and incomprehensible creature—and he was right. I didn’t know exactly what kind of monster I had become, but I knew the compass was broken, the hull splintered, and the maps devoured.

“On Thursday night, during dinner,” he began, his voice dragging each word as if it hurt to dirty himself with them, “there was an incident. Someone released a mountain troll into the dungeons.”

I didn’t blink. I just stared at him—or rather, through him with empty eyes.

“Miss Granger was alone in the girls’ bathroom. She was in danger. Grave danger. But we managed to find her before the damage was… irreversible. Shortly after that,” he continued, as if reading from a clinical report, “I found you unconscious on the second floor. No visible injuries, no signs of a fight. Simply… unconscious. As if you had collapsed from within.”

I stayed silent. Every word sank into me without apparent reaction, but inside… something stirred, like an old, wounded snake still unsure whether to bite or die.

“Classes were suspended yesterday,” he added. “Friday. You slept the entire day. And when you first woke up…”

A brief silence. Then, his voice deepened, like a sentence.

"Your behavior was erratic. Psychotic, I’d say. You were screaming. Crying. You self-harmed. Your magic burst out chaotically. We had to sedate you."

I remained still. Barely breathing. It was as if everything he described had happened in another life, in another body that no longer belonged to me. I was a dry shell in a white bed.

"You were thoroughly examined. There was no curse, no poison, no spell. Nothing to explain… that."

His silence was more eloquent than any explanation. What remained was the invisible, what couldn’t be measured: the mind.

"It’s Saturday," he finally said. "Ten o’clock sharp. And…"

He stopped.

"Professor Quirrell has disappeared."

My body didn’t move, but inside, something lit up. It was as if an invisible finger pressed a broken spring in my chest. The world, so muffled until then, suddenly turned sharp. As if all the sounds—the sound of Snape’s breathing, the rustle of his robes, even the faint drip of some distant potion—had regained their importance.

I turned my face. Looked at him. Steadily. There was no rage in my expression. No surprise. Only attention. A silent intensity that felt more dangerous than any scream.

Snape, of course, noticed it and narrowed his eyes.

"Do you know anything about his disappearance?"

I shook my head once. Brief. Precise. Forceful.

A lie.

He knew. He knew it instantly. His gaze remained locked with mine, heavy with suspicion so thick it felt like a spell itself.

"What really happened?"

The silence became suffocating. I filled it with my breathing, my mutilated thoughts, with the echo of the cigarette falling onto stone in a dream that wasn’t a dream.

I shrugged. It was all I could offer. The world was slipping away again, as if everything was once more sinking into cotton and echo.

Snape sighed.

It wasn’t a sigh of weariness. It was one of momentary surrender, like someone accepting that, for now, the truth wouldn’t come—but knowing it remained buried somewhere.

"I’ll come for you soon to speak with the Headmaster," he finally said, and without another word, turned and left, leaving behind a cold, answerless void.

And I… I stayed there. Silent. Empty. My mind spinning slowly around a single name: Quirrell.

No.

Not a name. A shadow. The exact absence of a presence. The wound in the place where He should have been.

I spent the morning eating in silence under Madame Pomfrey’s watchful eye. She spoke occasionally, practical phrases about nutrition, rest, schedules. I nodded, chewed, swallowed. I felt the movement of my throat as if it didn’t belong to my body.

The food had no taste. The world was muffled, as if a damp veil covered everything. But inside me… there was noise. The same memory spinning in circles, over and over, like a broken compass always pointing to the same place.

I repeated the details with almost clinical precision. The tone of his voice. The way he pursed his lips. The way he looked at me without looking at me.

It was Him. It was. Magic doesn’t lie.

And yet…

That body denied me. That voice didn’t say my name. That presence, so vast and familiar in my dreams, treated me like just any boy. No. Worse. Like a stranger.

What if it was only an illusion? A pale echo of the true Lord of Dreams? What if reality can never contain Him completely? What if… He doesn’t exist?

I pressed a hand to my chest. The pain was still there. Steady. Dull. Like a knife that no longer cuts but never left.

Pomfrey left me alone after assuring me she’d be back soon. The silence was thick. I didn’t fill it. I just lay back, mind burning, and waited.

It wasn’t long before the door opened with a low hiss. It was him. Snape.

"Get up. The Headmaster wants to speak with you."

I rose slowly. My muscles ached as if I’d run miles through a storm. But I didn’t complain. I didn’t ask. I walked behind him like a ghost trailing his shadow. The contact lenses enchanted by Madame Pomfrey worked well enough to replace my glasses.

The castle was unusually quiet. Only the echo of our footsteps multiplied under the stone arches. We went down one stairway, up another. Until Snape stopped in a deserted corridor, no portraits, no students, no witnesses.

There, he turned to me, face carved in hardness. But there was something more. Something hidden behind his rigidity, like a barely perceptible crack in a statue.

"Do you remember the eyes you drew?"

That phrase fell like a spark onto dry wood.

My spine tensed. Something inside me ignited. Primal. Painful. Alive.

"Did you like them?" I asked with a hollow smile, sharp as the edge of a broken glass.

Snape pursed his lips. Disgusted. I saw it in his face—revulsion, contempt, and… was that offense?

"Whose eyes are those?"

He asked as someone who already knows the answer but doesn’t want to confirm it. As if doing so might shatter something in his world.

I blinked once. Again. And then I knew. Not as a conclusion, but as an act of faith. As something you can’t think—only accept.

My lips parted slowly, and I said:

"They’re the eyes of my everything."

I didn’t expect it to be understood. I wasn’t saying it for him to comprehend. I said it because I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“They're life,” I whispered.

They are my first breath on mornings without light. They are the root that ties me to this body and the promise of something beyond it. They are truth, more than any book or prophecy or memory. They are the fire I throw myself into, even if it burns me, because I’d rather burn in them than live in ice. They are air. And without them… without them, I drown. I dissolve. I vanish.

Snape said nothing.

He watched me. His face was a mask with no name. Indecipherable. As if he were fighting something inside himself, or just the raw reality of being in the presence of something that shouldn’t be.

Then, without a word, he turned away.

We continued walking until we reached a gargoyle statue. Snape spoke the password. The gargoyle moved, revealing the spiral staircase.

“Up,” he ordered. His voice was cold again, neutral. But he couldn’t fool me. There was something different in it. Something… trembling beneath the surface.

I nodded silently. And climbed. Alone. Because now I knew there are things even adults don’t dare look in the eye.

The silence was total, save for the soft brush of my robes and the insistent thud in my ears.

The door at the top opened on its own, without my touching it.

The headmaster’s office wasn’t as I’d imagined.

It didn’t have the grandiosity I expected from the figure who occupied it. It was warm, round, with living wood furniture and sleeping books on the shelves. Instruments gleamed in corners, things that spun, buzzed, or simply existed without explanation. And in the center, like a watchmaker awaiting the precise moment, he sat.

Albus Dumbledore.

Seated behind his desk, hands clasped, eyes fixed on me.

“Mr. Potter,” he said in a soft, kind voice, as if we were old acquaintances meeting again after a particularly difficult afternoon. “I'm glad to see you on your feet.”

I stopped just short of the rug that bordered his desk. I stood there, not knowing whether to sit, greet him, or simply disappear.

“May I offer you something?” he continued. “Tea, perhaps? A lemon tart? They’re quite effective at restoring the soul.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want tea. I didn’t want sugar. I just wanted my notebook.

Dumbledore nodded as if he understood something far deeper than my refusal.

“Very well. I won’t insist.” He leaned back slightly, watching me with that gaze of his, the one that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone to look directly at thought. “I suppose you’ve already spoken with Professor Snape.”

I nodded.

“Then I imagine he’s told you about Miss Granger, the troll, Professor Quirrell’s disappearance... and your discovery on the second floor.”

I nodded again. Dumbledore paused. As if he wanted to weigh the weight of every word before casting it into the air.

“I know it’s been a strange week for all of us. Especially for you, who seem to attract the exceptional like a lamp attracts moths.”

I didn’t respond. He smiled a little. But it was a smile without teeth.

“Professor Snape, among others, is… concerned about your emotional well-being. Your behavior on Thursday night…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. “And then there are the drawings. Especially… the eyes.”

My body tensed. My hands, at my sides, slowly clenched. I saw it in his pupils. The memory.

That tiny shudder. That way his eyelids tightened a second longer than necessary. Those eyes reminded him of someone. Those eyes were suspicious.

And in that instant, something dark awoke in me. A burning, yet silent rage. An instinct I didn’t fully understand, only obeyed.

No. They weren’t his eyes to remember. Not his to compare.

“They were just eyes,” I muttered with disdain, trying to sound indifferent, almost sarcastic. “I couldn’t get the nose right, so… I left them like that.”

Such a silly excuse it hurt to say it.

Dumbledore didn’t smile. Nor did he call me a liar.

He just watched me.

And in that gaze there was disappointment, yes, but not the cruel kind. It was the kind of disappointment you reserve for those who could have trusted you… but didn’t.

“I see,” he said.

He stood then and walked toward one of the windows. He looked at the sky as if searching for something there. Something lost. Or feared.

“Harry,” he said after a long silence, “the magical mind is vast territory. Sometimes brilliant, sometimes cruel. When it sees too much, or feels too much, it can break in places no one else can see the crack. Breaking isn’t a crime.”

He turned to face me.

“It’s only dangerous if one tries to ignore it.”

This man… He wasn’t evil. He wasn’t kind. He was… human. All too human. Made of secrets no one had asked him to keep. Of questions no one dared to ask him.

“I’m fine,” I said, in a clear voice, though it barely felt like mine.

Dumbledore didn’t seem to believe me. But he didn’t challenge me either.

“Would you like to speak to a mind healer?” he asked with that gentleness that hid scalpels.

“No, thank you.”

Dumbledore sighed. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there. That weary breath one gives when a door closes, and it’s no longer worth pushing it.

“Very well. You may go, Harry.”

I nodded and turned to leave.

“And Mr. Potter…” he called behind me, “If you ever wish to talk… about anything… I’ll be here.”

I didn’t reply. I just closed the door behind me. And for the first time in two days, I felt something close to hunger. I headed to the Great Hall. Not for the food. But because it was noon, and I needed… something. Something real. Something that wouldn’t dissolve when I woke up.

The Great Hall was full. The murmur of hundreds of voices floated like a thick cloud, mixed with the clinking of cutlery, plates magically filling in tune with hunger, and the scattered footsteps of students coming and going.

And then I crossed the threshold.

As if someone had turned an invisible dial, the voices began to dim.

Not suddenly, not dramatically. It was more as if the air had thickened and words had to swim through it to come out. And few made it.

Faces turned toward me with poorly masked discretion. Some pretended to keep talking but glanced sideways. Others didn’t even bother to pretend.

Fingers pointed. The whispers, though inaudible, were obvious. I didn’t need to hear them.

“The troll kid.”

“The one who vanished.”

“The one who screamed.”

“The one who…”

It didn’t matter what. I was no longer me. I was a story. Another tale spun by those who would never truly know me.

I walked on, unhurried. As if nothing touched me. As if I didn’t feel the sting of their stares crawling up my neck.

I headed to the Slytherin table, where, at first glance, everything looked as usual. Perfectly ordered, perfectly cold. But I knew them. I had learned them. The way one learns a melody after many repetitions. And that melody, now, was off-key.

Nott and Goyle were sitting next to each other, but when they saw me approach, without a word, they separated. A near-mechanical movement. A space offered. I sat between them.

Daphne was beside Nott. Her back was straight, her fingers wrapped around her juice glass, but her eyes had been on me since I set foot near the table. The others ate without eating. Chewed without hunger. The only sound that welcomed me was her voice—soft, but direct.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I replied, with a calm I didn’t quite feel.

Daphne nodded. She said nothing more. And no one else spoke.

For long minutes, we were a silent island in the middle of a murmuring sea. Food appeared on our plates as usual. And we started to eat. As if nothing had happened.

Little by little, the voices around us returned. Conversations resumed, now with greater intensity, as if my mere presence had been a silencing spell.

I heard my name. Whispered. Repeated. And the word “troll,” sliding from the lips of students who had never looked my way before.

I swallowed a piece of bread and raised my eyes, pretending casualness. My gaze briefly met Zabini’s, who sat directly across from me. He looked at me steadily. Not with worry or sympathy. Just with clear coldness, as if telling me without words:

“Eat. Not now.”

I nodded, barely. Looked back to my plate. But I felt the tension under the surface. Like a spell waiting to be triggered. Like a conversation still unborn.

We would talk in the dungeons. There, where the world couldn’t see us. Where the walls listened, yes, but didn’t repeat. And where, perhaps, I could start to understand what it was I had brought back with me from that endless night.

The Slytherin common room didn’t welcome me warmly. But neither did it reject me. The damp stone and green flames were just as they’d always been. The lake above trembled faintly, as if it too had witnessed things it preferred not to speak of.

What did surprise me was finding not just the first-years waiting. Even Marcus Flint was there, arms crossed, leaning against a column. His presence alone made the tension tangible. He usually didn’t pay us much attention—no more than necessary.

They let me sit. No one said anything at first. Neither did I. Nott broke the silence. He always seemed to speak without emotion, but now, I sensed something sharper in his voice. Something like anxiety, though wrapped in ice.

“We need to talk to you, Potter.”

I nodded. I waited.

“This isn’t personal,” added Daphne, sitting upright with her fingers tightly woven on her lap, “But what happened on Samhain… can’t be ignored.”

Zabini, across from us, scoffed with irritation, though his eyes stayed fixed on the fireplace.

“Rumors are a plague. We knew that. But this time… this time, they’re poisoned,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Marcus Flint straightened and stepped forward, stopping just behind the armchair I had sat in. His shadow fell over me like a heavy coat.

“I’ll be blunt, Potter,” his voice was rough, like he was speaking with stones in his throat, “Some things can put Slytherin in the spotlight. And some things can sink us. What happened last night is dangerously close to the second. You’re all from the same year, settle it among yourselves, but if you don’t find a solution, I will step in.”

I didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to expect an immediate reply.

“The strongest rumor says you were the one who let the troll loose,” said Malfoy, calmly. “You weren’t at the feast. Same as us, of course… but you also weren’t in the courtyard taking part in the Samhain rituals.”

“And when they found you… well,” Daphne trailed off. She lowered her eyes for just a second. “They say it wasn’t in the best condition.”

“It wasn’t in a human condition,” added Zabini with a biting smile.

“Zabini,” snapped Daphne, but he just raised his eyebrows.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not,” Malfoy continued. “The point is that everyone’s acting like it is. And that’s a problem.”

“We can say you were with us at Samhain,” offered Nott, his deep voice surprisingly sincere. “No one checked the rooms. They can’t prove otherwise.”

“That only solves half the issue,” said Daphne. Her voice now lower, more tense. “The other matter is… Quirrell.”

I felt the air in my chest grow heavier.

"The others from different houses started noticing things. And even if no one said it out loud, we... we did see it," she continued. "Every time you disappeared… you appeared near him."

"And then there's the infirmary thing," said Zabini, sounding almost bored. "Granger was there. Longbottom too. And whatever it is you said, whatever it is you did… it wasn't subtle."

A part of me wanted to stand up. Leave. Shut the door and sink into the lake with the algae. But I stayed.

The red eyes blinked behind my eyelids, even without closing them. What he would do.

"Davis heard it from Longbottom. She only shared it with us," Nott added. "But it won’t be long before Granger or Longbottom speak up. Sooner or later they will. And we need to know where we stand."

Silence.

I looked at them all, one by one.

And even though their words were cold, almost inquisitive, I could see what was behind them: concern, yes. Also fear. Not of me… but of what I represented, of the chaos. Of the possibility that their own house would be tainted by something they couldn’t control.

The fire reflected on their faces like flames over masks. This was problematic in several ways.

I took a breath. And I spoke.

"Do nothing."

Silence.

Daphne’s eyelids lifted slightly. Nott tilted his head. Flint snorted.

"What?" It was Malfoy who spoke, as if he hadn’t heard right.

"You’re not going to deny the rumors. You’re not going to confirm them. You’re not going to explain anything. Let them talk."

"Are you insane?" Flint asked bluntly. "You want everyone to think you brought a troll to Hogwarts? That you’ve lost your mind? Let me remind you that troll nearly killed a Gryffindor mudblood."

"And what else could they already be thinking?" I answered, my voice as flat as I could make it. "Do you think denying something makes it go away? Do you think everyone from the other houses is going to believe us just because we say it with confidence?"

"We could control the narrative," Parkinson offered, speaking for the first time. "Not completely, but at least a little."

"No."

"Then… what do you suggest?" Nott asked.

"Let the narrative shape itself," I replied. "Let them choose what to believe. Let their suspicions grow. Let their fears grow. And let Slytherin remain silent. Slytherin doesn’t apologize. Slytherin survives. And it survives best when no one knows what it’s thinking."

For a moment, no one responded. The silence was thicker than the air.

I watched Daphne narrow her eyes, as if scanning my words for cracks. Zabini wasn’t smiling anymore: he was watching me with an unreadable expression. Malfoy looked like he wanted to say a hundred things. Nott just observed me, and Flint… Flint frowned as if my idea gave him a headache.

And that’s when I noticed it.

None of them asked if it was true. No one asked what I’d been doing that night. Not a single voice wanted to know if the rumors had any truth.

Not because they didn’t care. Not because they trusted me either. Simply… it wasn’t relevant. Not for what mattered. Not for what was useful.

"You want us to stay quiet," Flint finally said, his voice hoarse. "Let them think you’re mad, a dangerous lunatic."

"Yes."

"And why should we do that?"

I held his gaze.

"Because they’ll talk anyway. Because they can’t help it. And because if we try to cover it up, we’ll only look guilty. But if we say nothing… if we act like it doesn’t affect us, like we don’t care… then the power shifts."

Daphne rested a hand on her knee and spoke, not to me, but to the group:

"He’s suggesting we let fear work in our favor."

"What if it gets out of hand?" Davis asked, scratching the back of her neck. "What if the professors get involved?"

"There’s no evidence," Nott said calmly. "No proof of anything. Just rumors. Stories."

"And we all know how fast stories change," Zabini added, folding his arms. "Today you’re the crazy kid who let loose a troll. Tomorrow… you’re someone better left alone."

The atmosphere began to change. The tension turned into something colder.

I watched them in silence. I could feel them calculating. Adapting. The fear didn’t disappear. But something in them —in all of us— began to harden.

"We have to be ready," Malfoy said finally, in a dry tone. "If a professor asks us, if Dumbledore shows up, if Granger talks… we’ll know what to say. Or rather, we’ll know what not to say."

Flint nodded with a grunt.

"This could ruin you, Potter," he said, looking at me. "If not now, then later. You’ll carry this."

"I know," I replied.

And I did. More than they could imagine.

"Then it’s settled," Daphne concluded, rising to her feet. "There’s no turning back."

"There never is," I said, standing as well.

The others said nothing. But one by one, they stood up. There was no judgment in their eyes anymore. No friendship either. Just an unspoken understanding. Slytherin wasn’t a family. It was a pact. And I had just signed it in invisible ink.

The dormitory was drowned in shadows.

The only sound was that of distant water dripping somewhere along the hidden walls of the dungeon, a persistent echo that almost seemed to mark the passing of time. Nott was asleep. I could hear his breathing, even and calm, on the other side of the room. Part of me envied that peace. The other… couldn’t bear it.

I turned in bed for the fifth or sixth time. My body exhausted, but my mind suspended in a kind of silent fever. My muscles tense, my skin hypersensitive, as if I had never left the forest.

It had been real. The contact. The magic. Him. It had been him. Even if he denied it. Even if his voice was cruel. Even if he didn’t look at me the way I looked at him. It was him.

And I didn’t want to sleep. Because I was afraid I wouldn’t find him again. Or worse… that he’d be there, and reject me again.

I clenched my fists over the sheets.

For years I’d had those dreams. Visions. Fragments. Shadows of the one I now knew was the Lord of Dreams. His face had changed so many times, but the eyes… the eyes were always the same. Deep red. Fire and night. Life, death, and something older than both.

I thought about the conversation with Dumbledore. His warm but sharp voice. How I’d dodged his questions clumsily and how he’d noticed, without pressing further. I would never speak to him about him. He could never understand.

And I thought about Slytherin. About the earlier meeting. About how none of them asked if it was true. How none of them needed to. They were protecting themselves. And I… I was doing the same. In my own way. I was protecting the only thing that made sense.

I sat up slowly, leaning my back against the headboard. The room was cold, but I didn’t cover myself. The cold helped me think. Helped me stay awake.

What was it that I felt exactly? It was something primal. More urgent. It was hunger. Thirst. Instinct. Need.

I needed to find him. And when I did… when I finally had him in front of me, no masks, no mist, no names… I wouldn’t let him go. I wouldn’t allow him to reject me again. I’d cling to him like a shadow to its master.

He would be mine.

Because there was no world without him. There never had been. Only one where we hadn’t met yet. I exhaled slowly. My body began to yield. Sleep raised its veil again, and this time I didn’t resist it.

Chapter Text

December had arrived without me noticing. The windows were fogged up every morning. Students had started talking about the holidays. And I… I hadn’t dreamed again.

Since Samhain, the world had been off-kilter. A shifted axis. A poisoned needle in the compass of my mind. I slept poorly. Thought too much. Ate just enough. And sometimes, it felt like the blood inside me moved with rage, with purpose, with hunger.

The Lord of Dreams had abandoned me. No… not abandoned. That word implied intent. He hadn’t left me. He had been taken. Hidden. Sealed. And each night spent without his presence became another cut inside me.

I struggled to pay attention in class. Not because I wasn’t interested—though many things had started to taste bland—but because the teachers’ words became noise. As if I were one step removed, trapped on a different frequency. A distant vibration barely holding on.

I had started a new notebook. Every page was dedicated to him. Not to Quirrell. Not to that trembling, giggling body that had served as a mask. He was just a channel, a cracked container briefly filled with something he couldn’t hold. No. What I was trying to capture was something else.

The drawings weren’t accurate. Sometimes, his face was angular, almost sharp. Other times, soft, wrapped in shadows. But the eyes… the eyes were always the same. Red. Luminous. Infinite. And every night, as I closed mine, I prayed to see them.

I didn’t.

And with each absence, the weight gathered in my ribs. As if I were being buried, stone by stone.

I spent more and more time in the library. I slipped between the shelves with the same hunger that filled my dreams. Searching for old books. Fragments of rituals. Legends about split souls, gods who walked in human form, magical echoes that lingered beyond the body.

I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for. I only knew something was calling me. Something was waiting. I had to open the door.

The other houses began to avoid me. Even more than before. I wasn’t just the “weird one” anymore. I was the boy who had screamed in the infirmary. The one missing during the troll attack. The one who walked like a sleepwalker, with ink-stained fingers and purple shadows under his eyes.

The rumors grew, and I did nothing to stop them. I didn’t care.

Or so I told myself.

But there were moments—brief, sharp as a needle to the flesh—when I noticed the glances, the whispers, and something inside me wanted to scream.

Not because I hated them. But because they didn’t understand. They never would. And if they didn’t understand… what was the point in speaking?

Sometimes I caught myself imagining what it would’ve been like if he had spoken to me. If he had acknowledged me. A word. A gesture. A single second of belonging.

But he didn’t. He rejected me. Or tested me. Or simply… it wasn’t the right time.

I considered that, too, on nights when the silence was especially cruel. Maybe this was a test. A lesson. A step.

And I was failing it. With my doubts, with my weakness. Apparently, I was still the same insecure child as always. So many years watching the Lord of Dreams, and I had learned nothing.

The library was bathed in a dim, almost sacred light. The floating candelabras seemed to breathe alongside the books, as if the entire place were alive. It was late, so late the hallways slept and the castle whispered softly.

I wasn’t hungry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten with any appetite. My classmates had gone down to the Great Hall, even Nott, who seemed to prefer books to people.

But I wasn’t alone. To my right, Adrian Pucey was reviewing his Ancient Runes notes, and Cassius Warrington flipped through a heavy encyclopedia on ritual magic. They were third-years, and while they didn’t usually talk to me, they also didn’t ignore me like the others. Apparently, leaving me unsupervised wasn’t considered wise lately.

I pretended not to notice their presence. Before me lay a tome with no title on the spine, bound in cracked leather with a braid of red thread as a marker. It was about dream induction. Guided dreams. Mental doorways. Threshold magic.

It said dreams could be summoned, like spirits. That there were specific nights—linked to the old calendar, lunar phases, and bodily hours—when the mind was more permeable to the crossing of veils.

"The mind, properly prepared, can be a sanctuary, a mirror, or a portal. It all depends on what is sacrificed."

The word sacrifice appeared often. Small offerings: a personal object, a drop of blood, a captured emotion. And mentions of dream knots—small symbolic constructions made of hair, thread, or petals, woven before sleep to guide the subconscious.

But there were terms I didn’t fully understand.

“The paths of Deep Dreaming require somatic anchoring. Without it, the journey fragments and the dreamer may become trapped in the Aether.”

Aether.

Somatic anchoring.

I frowned.

Too poetic—even for me, who was used to the Lord of Dreams’ words.

I stood without a word and walked toward the eastern wing shelves, where the specialized dictionaries were kept. The area was deserted, darker, less traveled. A single flickering candle sat at the far end of a table.

That’s where I heard them. Low voices. Snickering.

Three Ravenclaw students, probably first or second years. Kids like me. Stupid, cruel kids.

“Look, it’s the troll lunatic.”

“Maybe he’s looking for how to summon another one.”

“Or how to get inside someone’s head again, like he did with the professor.”

I didn’t respond. My hands closed around the spine of an arcane dictionary. My eyes traced the letters of the title as if they were runes of power.

“Can’t he hear us, or is he possessed?”

The laughter. Dry. Cutting.

No. Don’t react. Not now.

My jaw ached from clenching. Then came the spell. A jet of greenish light zipped past my temple and bounced off the shelf in a useless flash.

That. That was too much. The book slipped from my hand. I turned slowly. Blood pounded in my temples.

I saw them. Three figures in rumpled robes. A raised wand. A smile that vanished the moment they saw me walking toward them.

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” I spat, without thinking.

My fist clenched. Not around a wand. Around itself. I didn’t think about curses. I thought about hitting. A primitive, visceral reaction. Too Muggle.

And then, a firm hand caught my wrist.

“Potter.”

It was Adrian Pucey. Behind him, the stern figure of Madam Prince materialized like a specter.

“What is going on here?”

The librarian didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The Ravenclaws froze, and I was breathing hard. Pucey gently pulled me back, as if defusing a trap, and Warrington had already retrieved my book.

Madam Prince fixed her eyes on the Ravenclaws.

“Spells in the reference section?” She said, her voice icy. “Do you think this is your common room?”

They tried to explain, but she raised a hand.

“Five points from each of you. And if I catch you harassing another student again, I’ll be writing to your guardians. Now leave.”

The three ran off. I stood there, trembling inside.

Pucey still had my arm.

“Are you okay?”

I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know.

“It’s late. We should go back to the common room.”

I hadn't slept. Again.

Or, well... I had slept. But not dreamed. And that was worse. It was like opening a door to a place that no longer existed. Like trying to breathe underwater. Upon waking, the absence of the Lord of Dreams was so sharp it hurt in my body, not just my mind. As if the entire room were made of thin ice, and I was the only one who kept slipping.

My hands were shaking. Literally. Not from fear, nor from cold —though it was cold that morning— but from that kind of vertigo that crawls over your skin when you're falling too fast and there's nothing to hold on to.

Losing Him… Could I lose Him?

Walking through the corridors had become unbearable. The voices were too sharp, the lights too bright, the floor too hard. I could feel my blood rushing under my skin, as if it didn’t belong to my body. The whole castle spoke to me and, at the same time, rejected me. As if it wanted to remind me that without Him… I was nothing. Without His presence, without His voice in my dreams, all my calm was just a cheap imitation. I was empty. Hollow. Becoming again the child who woke up in a cupboard full of spiders, who spoke to himself in the dark.

And the worst part was I was beginning to realize something I didn’t want to see: that I was unraveling without even noticing. That without Him… I wasn’t just losing Him. I was losing myself. As if His absence also dissolved the outline of who I was. As if this version of me I’d so carefully constructed —the one who observes, who doesn’t flinch, who thinks before acting— didn’t exist on its own, but only because He lived in my mind.

There was no way to know if it was the lack of sleep or if I was truly going mad, but I felt like the castle walls curved a little more each day. As if Hogwarts could feel it too. As if the magical world breathed differently without Him in my nights.

And everything else became noise. Classes, meals, even the others. Daphne talked to me and I nodded without listening. Malfoy made his jokes and I couldn’t find the energy to laugh. Nott looked at me with that expression I couldn’t decipher. As if he already knew.

And I… I just walked, wandered aimlessly, hoping something —anything— would make me feel something other than this burning hollow under my skin.

This is unsustainable. Either the Lord of Dreams appears… or I’ll make Him appear.

The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was as insipid as the last. His name was Archibald Slink, and he spoke in a voice that made time feel like it was slowly melting around me. Thin, draped in a grey robe that hung from his shoulders as if it were far too heavy, and with a constant twitch in his left eyelid that distracted me more than it should’ve. His lessons were an endless litany of “it is believed that” and “in theory,” and I had stopped pretending to care within the first ten minutes of the term.

So I retreated into my own thoughts. I sat at the back of the classroom, with Nott beside me, and instead of taking notes, I scribbled across a blank parchment: dates, moon phases, ancient symbols I’d found in dusty books from the Restricted Section. I paid no attention to the professor’s nasal drone. I was searching for something more important: the right moment to perform the ritual. A ritual for dreams. A ritual to reach Him.

I could feel Him sometimes, like a shadow behind thought, but I couldn’t see Him, couldn’t hear Him. It was unbearable. Drawing Him wasn’t enough. I needed a way to bring Him back. To invite Him once more into my dreams.

According to the texts I’d been reading —Latin fragments, pictographic runes, notes from ancient rituals— the next suitable moment was the winter solstice, December 21st, during the holidays. The precise moment when the night reaches its longest point. Not as powerful as Samhain, but still particularly receptive to the dreamlike, the hidden, the longed-for.

The ritual was simple, but no less serious for it.

A mugwort infusion, to open the dream paths. A circle of black salt, to protect me from what I did not wish to summon. Three drops of my blood on a symbolic object. I would use my notebook. One white candle and one black, lit precisely at midnight. That, and a few other things —I’d need to research more, but I could gather it all.

I knew I didn’t need help. Nor did I want witnesses. I had already begun scouting some forgotten chambers in the castle, damp and quiet places where the walls seemed to remember ancient secrets. I would do it alone. As always.

As I drew the triple moon symbol —waxing, full, and waning— in the corner of my parchment, I noticed my hands were trembling. I was losing control of myself. Letting anger shape me, letting insecurities rise to the surface. I didn’t want that. He, the Lord of Dreams, was never like that. In my visions, everything about Him was calm, absolute command, even amidst chaos. And I… I was just a boy giving in to primal impulses.

That’s why I started eating again. Not much, just enough so my body wouldn’t rebel so violently. Daphne glanced at me now and then, as if afraid I’d collapse at any moment. And Tracey Davis, in a gesture as unexpected as it was clumsy, gave me a small pouch of tea leaves: valerian and night poppy. Not a strong potion, but it helped with sleep. Not to avoid dreams, but to slip into them more gently.

I hadn’t dreamed of Him again. But I was dreaming of other things: snakes whispering in languages I didn’t fully understand. Flowers that opened inward. Hanging bridges over abysses made of ink. It wasn’t the same, but it was something.

Archibald Slink cleared his throat.

“And so, Mr. Boot, a giant spider, you say? Very well. As I was saying, the spell…”

I simply lowered my eyes and wrote the date in my notebook: December 21st. Solstice. Midnight. I would see Him again. I had to.

“First, you need to know exactly what you want,” said Davis, with that confident tone she used when explaining things as if she’d done it all a thousand times.

“Yeah, but… how do I order stuff by owl? Do I just… write a letter and that’s it?”

“It’s not that complicated,” Bulstrode chimed in, flipping through a small catalogue with animated ink drawings. “There are several shops in Hogsmeade that take owl orders. And there are go-betweens if you don’t know who to buy from directly.”

“And how do you pay?”

“From your vault at Gringotts,” said Davis. “You use a signed voucher. The shops send it to the bank, and the goblins handle it. It’s like… a magical promissory note. But you have to be careful with your signature —anyone could empty your vault if you don’t protect the ink properly.”

“How do you protect it?”

“Basic linked-ink charm,” Bulstrode replied without looking up from the catalogue. “I can teach you later if you want. We use it at home for receipts.”

I nodded, taking it all in. It was fascinating —and at the same time, overwhelming.

It wasn’t wise to take ingredients for the ritual from Hogwarts’ stores, especially not when Snape was in charge of the inventory.

“What if I need rare ingredients?” I asked, lowering my voice a little. “For… experiments.”

Davis and Bulstrode exchanged a glance.

“There are shops in Knockturn that sell them,” said Davis, also lowering her voice. “But you shouldn’t send school owls to that area from Hogwarts. They might check your messages if they get suspicious.”

“What if I don’t say what it’s for?”

“Then make sure to use your own owl, not a school one,” Bulstrode said. “And if you can, change the recipient’s name. It’s not illegal if the contents are legal… but it’s not entirely legal, either.”

Then Nott appeared.

“Which one do you think is prettier?” he asked, placing a magazine in front of us.

It was a jewelry catalog. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings. Delicate drawings with descriptions in golden lettering.

“You’re buying yourself jewelry?” I asked without thinking, my tone acidic.

Nott looked at me as if I’d just confessed to eating chocolate frogs—wrappers and all.

“It’s for Daphne,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you listen when she talks? Her birthday is on the sixteenth. That’s in five days. She’s mentioned it at least three times this week.”

“Oh,” I said, a little slower than I should have. No. I hadn’t heard.

I thought about Daphne. About how she was the first person to talk to me when I boarded the train, when everything still felt foreign and cold. About how she helped me with simple words, without asking anything personal, without pushing.

Five days.

“What are you getting her?” I asked, almost involuntarily.

“I haven’t decided yet,” said Nott. “But I won’t show up empty-handed. Not after what she put up with from me in November.”

Davis and Bulstrode were already commenting on the different designs, debating which suited Daphne’s eyes best, which looked “too grown-up,” and which one was “elegant enough.”

I just watched them silently. Five days. What do you give someone who looked at you without contempt from the very first moment?

Sending the letter was… surprisingly easy.

The shop Bulstrode recommended, Thorne’s Enchanted Apothecary, had a reputation ambiguous enough not to ask questions, but stable enough not to send rotten ingredients. According to her, they’d been in business for decades, and even though their shop was in a corner of Knockturn, they were strict about delivery quality.

I wrote the letter at my desk, carefully specifying the amounts, the purpose, and the payment. I used the bank voucher as I’d been taught and signed with the enchanted ink Millicent had given me. When I was done, Hedwig flew over from the windowsill with that wise look she always had, as if she already knew I was about to ask something important.

“Take it safely,” I said softly, tying the scroll to her leg. “And if it smells weird or something seems wrong… don’t accept it, okay?”

She gently pecked my finger before taking off, white against the grayish December sky.

As I watched her disappear, I felt a small knot inside me unravel. Something was going to change. Not today, not tomorrow. But soon.

I would dream of him again.

The thought comforted me, like something in my chest had finally settled into the right place. I walked through the halls back to the Slytherin dorms, and for the first time in a long while, my body felt light. I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t hungry. I was just… walking.

But when I passed one of the classrooms in the east wing, I stopped.

I didn’t know exactly why. Only that a door was slightly ajar, and inside, soft voices slipped out, quick brushstrokes, the dragging of chairs, and the sharp scent of oil paint.

I peeked in. It was a long room with fogged-up windows and dark wooden easels. Several students — from different houses — were painting in silence or whispering, surrounded by jars, brushes, and canvases. The painting club. I’d heard of it, but I’d never been interested. I… didn’t paint.

I drew. The Lord of Dreams. The things I saw in his impossible landscapes. Flowers no one else knew, eyes opening where there shouldn’t be eyes, symbols from languages I never learned.

Never a real person.

I stood still at the entrance. Something in the movement of the brushstrokes mesmerized me. The color, the silence, the focus. It wasn’t like class. It wasn’t like the noise of the hallways or the buzzing conversations that always seemed so distant to me. This was… soft.

And for some reason, I knew: this was what I wanted to give her.

Not a necklace, not a book, not a box of sweets that would melt away in a single afternoon. Something that came from me. From what truly lived in my mind, beyond him.

But… could I do it? Could I draw Daphne?

I pushed that doubt into a corner of my mind, where I usually shoved things that made me hesitate too much. Then I stepped inside.

Professor Sinistra was at the back, reading something next to a seventh-year student. When she saw me, she raised an eyebrow and gave a small smile.

“Mr. Potter,” she said, closing the book carefully. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I, to be honest,” I admitted.

She approached, hands clasped behind her back.

“Interested in joining? You don’t need to be signed up. The club’s quite informal. If you want to try…”

“I’d like to borrow some materials, if that’s allowed. Just… to practice.”

She didn’t ask for an explanation. Didn’t ask for a reason. She simply nodded.

“Canvases, brushes, and pigments are on that shelf. You can take a set, but bring it back before the next full moon.” She smiled slightly, as if that joke was a code we shared. “And if you need help, I’ll be around on Thursday afternoons.”

I thanked her with a small nod, not daring to say more. When I left the room, a small box under my arm, the air felt colder — but I didn’t mind.

Five days. I could try to draw something more than shadows and red eyes. Maybe, just maybe… I could paint a light.

Daphne’s bedroom smelled of bergamot and beeswax. Parkinson had a habit of lighting an enchanted candle that floated near the ceiling, casting soft flickers across the green walls. They had pushed two beds against the wall to make space in the center, where a dark blanket served as the base for sweets, wrapped packages, and cups of hot tea.

I was surprised they let us use her room. Not because of Daphne—she didn’t seem like someone who feared such things—but because of Parkinson. Yet apparently, she had decided to tolerate our presence for one afternoon. Maybe because it was a special occasion. Or because her own gift was impressive enough that it didn’t have to compete with anything else.

We’d had only a few classes, being Monday, so nearly everyone arrived early. Daphne sat cross-legged on the blanket, her hair tied in a braid draped over one shoulder. She didn’t look much different from other days—just as composed, just as controlled—but there was a strange light in her eyes. A weight lifted.

Nott was the first to give her his gift.

He pulled out a small black box, and when Daphne opened it, we all leaned in a little to see. It was a deep onyx pendant, cut like an elongated teardrop, set in silver and hanging from a very fine chain. Nothing ostentatious. But in the center of the onyx was a carefully carved rune: algiz, the rune of protection.

“In case someday you need more than words,” he murmured, with a casual gesture.

Daphne didn’t say anything, but the way she touched the pendant—as if she knew that gift hadn’t been chosen at random—was enough.

Goyle and Crabbe, with their clumsy fingers and overly wide grins, gave Daphne a huge box of assorted sweets: filled chocolates, every-flavor beans, firewhiskeys, and even a small collection of imported French cookies—though I doubted they could pronounce the name.

Zabini, on the other hand, arrived late, as if it were a strategy, and handed her a small round velvet box. Inside was a moonstone set into a black hairpin. He didn’t explain anything, only said, “Matches your skin tone,” and shrugged as if he didn’t care. But we all knew he did.

Parkinson gave her a set of black quills with golden edges and handles inlaid with tiny pearls. There were five, each for different types of ink. They came in a leather case that probably cost more than a house.

Bulstrode gifted her a scent potion, one of those that changes the aroma of the air with a keyword. The presentation was simple: a triangular vial with iridescent sparkles in the glass. According to her, the fragrance could be customized. Lavender, vanilla, pine, leather, midnight storm… anything the mind could imagine.

Davis handed her a slim box, wrapped in purple paper with a perfect bow. Inside were several tinted glass vials, each containing dried leaves and flowers: infusions from places I hadn’t even heard of. Blue Ceylon tea. Moon chamomile. Altai jasmine. Dream tea, Davis murmured with a smile, winking at me as Daphne examined them.

And then, of course, came Malfoy.

His box was long and elegant, made of lacquered wood. When Daphne opened it, the air seemed to change in density. Inside, on a bed of dark velvet, lay a headband: a delicate ring of white silver, crafted like a laurel crown, each leaf carved with meticulous detail that almost looked real.

“It’s an antique piece,” said Malfoy, as if he didn’t care, though he couldn’t quite hide the way he puffed out his chest. “From an Italian collection. I thought it would suit you.”

No one missed that “antique” didn’t mean “old,” but valuable.

Daphne accepted it with a nod. She didn’t blush, didn’t laugh, didn’t clutch her chest like Parkinson had with her case. But in her gaze there was a glimmer. A silent acceptance. As if she were playing her own game of chess, and each gift was a piece in motion.

And then it was my turn.

I sat up straighter, the parchment-wrapped package in my hands. I wasn’t worried. Not in the way the others seemed to be. I didn’t have to compete with Draco Malfoy. I didn’t have to impress an entire dormitory. There was only one person I wanted to impress. And… he wasn’t here.

But she was.

“This is… something I’ve never done before,” I said, handing it to her.

Daphne raised an eyebrow, and with the same calm she had used to open each other package, she undid the string with her fine fingers and unwrapped it.

The drawing was on thick paper, protected with a basic charm to keep it clean. I had used black ink and diluted watercolor. It wasn’t an exact replica of her face, nor an academic portrait. I didn’t feel capable of that. But it was her, somehow. An image of Daphne sitting by a window, surrounded by books and soft shadows, her gaze lifted as if thinking of something far away. Maybe a question she hadn’t voiced. Maybe an answer no one had heard.

The background was dark, but on the table in front of her rested a white flower. The only splash of color: a moon orchid.

Daphne said nothing at first. She didn’t touch the drawing, just looked at it for a long time, as if trying to recognize something she hadn’t expected to see.

“You drew this?” she finally asked.

I nodded.

“I’m not great at choosing gifts,” I said, more quietly. “But this… this I can do.”

A small curve appeared on her lips. Not a typical smile. A barely visible line, as if the drawing had reached her somewhere deeper than jewels or tea.

And then she stored it carefully, folding the parchment with the same gentleness one would use to close a secret.

She didn’t thank me. But she didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

The morning of December twenty-first dawned under a pale sky, dragging along that whitish, characterless light that only the oldest winters know. The suitcases thundered down the stone corridors as if the castle itself were expelling its inhabitants for a while. Some cried, others laughed. I did neither.

I was sitting at the Slytherin table, staring at a piece of toast growing cold in front of me, when I heard Malfoy's voice rise for the third time that morning.

"It makes no sense! I told them I’d rather spend Christmas at home!" he grumbled, dragging the words with that blend of disgust and wounded nobility that had become characteristic of him. "Why the hell would they invite that person now?"

"Probably because they have business with your father, Draco," Nott replied in his usual flat tone, not looking up from the newspaper.

"Yeah, but I have nothing to do with that," Malfoy went on, with the air of a martyr. "They didn’t even tell me who it is! Just that it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to be there while they ‘talk about delicate matters.’"

"Maybe they didn’t want you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong," Davis murmured, sipping her tea with a crooked smile.

Malfoy shot a murderous glare at everyone at the table and slumped onto the bench as if the weight of the world had crushed him. Parkinson tried to comfort him, with little success. Crabbe and Goyle, as always, were eating. Zabini wasn’t there. Neither was I. That is... I was physically there, but my mind wasn’t. My body was just a useful facade to stop others from asking if everything was okay.

Because everything was not okay.

I hadn’t dreamed of the Lord of Dreams in weeks. The ritual, carefully planned, was my only hope. Every step reviewed to exhaustion, every ingredient hidden at the bottom of my trunk, every stroke of the circle sketched in the margins of my notebook—all of it pulsed inside me like a second heart. A heart that lived only for Him.

Tonight would be the longest night of the year. Winter solstice. Everything I had read, even in books that seemed to scorn my childish hands, pointed to that night as especially favorable. The darkest hours. The thinnest veil. The perfect opportunity.

As the students were called by their surnames and boarded the Hogwarts Express, I watched. Not because I cared, but because the movement distracted me. The murmur of voices, the awkward hugs, the shouts crossing the entrance hall, the long coats flapping like capes. It all happened, and I... I counted the hours.

Daphne hugged me before she left, with that blend of coolness and controlled affection that was hers. Davis wished me “good luck with the peace of the empty castle,” and Bulstrode patted my shoulder gently in farewell. Parkinson looked at me with suspicion, but said nothing. Nott simply disappeared without saying goodbye, just like Zabini.

And then came the silence.

The great entrance hall emptied like a beach after a storm. Only a few remained, scattered like shipwreck debris. And the castle, finally, breathed differently.

My heart pounded, but not from anxiety.

It was expectation, for the darkest day had begun.

And that night… I would see Him again.

Night fell slowly, as if the sun refused to leave the world. Each minute felt heavier than the last, and yet I didn’t tremble. By then, fear was something distant. Like the memory of a nightmare repeated so often one begins to call it a dream.

I knew exactly what to do.

I waited for the castle to sleep. Hogwarts breathed differently at night, like a giant body laid in deep slumber. The torches flickered with less enthusiasm, the portraits dozed with half-lidded eyes, and the suits of armor seemed heavier. There were no footsteps in the hallways, only the echo of my determination.

I carried everything with me. The small vial of bat blood, which Davis had helped me obtain discreetly. The withered flowers Bulstrode had dried for me. One exact teaspoon of black salt, as fine as ash. The parchment with the symbols, the tallow candle I had perfumed with drops of resin, and most importantly: my notebook. It would be the heart of the ritual.

I went to the abandoned room in the west wing, the one I had discovered weeks ago while searching for a place to think without witnesses. A room without windows, with bare stone floors and damp stains on the walls. Empty, except for a splintered table and a rusty iron candelabrum. The perfect spot.

I lit the candle. The flame danced as if it knew me.

I placed the open notebook at the center of the circle I drew with salt. Its pages showed the only things that mattered: fragmented faces, red eyes, symbols I didn’t understand but that always appeared when I dreamed of Him. It was as if the dreams had drawn through me.

I sat within the circle. It wasn’t very large, just enough. The ritual didn’t require words—not the kind one can pronounce. It was a kind of older magic, nearly extinct, only hinted at in the texts I’d obtained with great difficulty. It didn’t aim to summon, but to remember. Not to call Him... but to open myself so He could find me.

I poured the blood onto the center of the notebook. Just a few drops, but enough. They stained the drawing of His eyes. Then I took a pin and pricked my finger. It didn’t hurt. Afterward, I placed the withered flowers on the page and lit them with the candle. The smoke was thick, with a scent somewhere between sweet and metallic.

I leaned over the notebook and closed my eyes.

I thought of Him.

Not as a vague figure, not as a memory. I thought of Him with the precise devotion of someone who knows what they love doesn’t fully belong to this world. I thought of His voice, His slow gestures, the way His shadow always seemed more real than the light. I thought of the name He never gave me, and the way He always seemed to be waiting for me, though He never arrived first.

And then I murmured the words. They weren’t Latin or English. They were mine. Pulled from dreams, from whispers, from the margins of consciousness. Like a prayer built without religion.

The air vibrated. Very faintly, but enough for my skin to prickle. The smoke moved in impossible ways, in spirals that defied the wind.

My heart sped up. Something was present.

I couldn’t see it. Not yet. But I felt it. The space around me thickened, grew closer, as if the room had inhaled deeply and refused to exhale. My mind burned with scattered images, as though my thoughts no longer entirely belonged to me.

And among them, I saw something.

A fragment of a face. The curve of a lip. A voice, very low, that said no words but sank into my chest like a beloved weight.

The ritual had worked.

The room was silent, the whole world suspended in a held breath, as if the castle itself recognized the gravity of what had just occurred. The candles flickered in a soft whisper, casting wavering shadows on the stone walls. At the center of the circle carefully traced in black salt, the smoke that had risen during the ritual still floated in uncertain spirals. And in the middle of that vortex of silence… He was there.

My body trembled. Not from fear. Not from cold. But from an emotion so intense it became indistinguishable from pain. There he was. My Lord of Dreams. Tall, elegant, with eyes as red as I always remembered them—though now brighter, as if seeing me for the first time. His robes were dark, immaculate, falling over him like a veil woven of shadows. His face, perfect, pale, with that composed expression he always had—neither a smile nor disdain, just a sort of patience that could be mistaken for eternity.

I brought a hand to my lips. I didn’t want to break the moment. I didn’t want to breathe. I felt that if I did, if I touched him, if I spoke, everything would vanish like the dream he was. Because he couldn’t be real. And yet… he was there.

I took a step toward him. He didn’t move.

“...My lord...?” I murmured, in a thread of voice I didn’t recognize as mine.

His head tilted slightly, as he used to do when listening to me in my dreams. As if he acknowledged my presence. As if he responded to my yearning.

And for an instant, I believed I had done it. That the ritual had brought him back. That all my exhaustion, my sleepless nights, my rage, my madness, had finally been rewarded. I laughed—barely—a broken sound that didn’t quite reach joy. Because I was trembling too much.

But then I looked at him more closely. And I felt something inside me contract.

Not in his shape. Not in his voice—he hadn’t spoken yet. Not in his gestures. It was all the same. Exactly the same. A meticulous copy of what my memory treasured as sacred.

And yet… he wasn’t Him.

There was no weight in his gaze. No intention. None of that thick fog that used to envelop me whenever I dreamed of him, as if my mind had wandered into a humid and infinite jungle. None of that cruel and merciful cadence that made his presence both suffocating and redemptive.

This was a reflection. An echo. A painting that breathes. A flower that smells the same but has no roots.

“No...” I whispered. And the word, so simple, opened a fissure in my chest.

I began to cry. Not like before. Not with violence. Not with rage. Not with shame. These were quiet tears, discreet, slipping down my face as if they had always been a part of it. As if they had simply waited for the right moment to reveal themselves.

I knelt.

He didn’t move.

He only observed me, with those eyes so perfect and so empty. Because that’s what he was: empty.

And I... I was alone again.

I remained there, kneeling, with my hands sunk in the cold dust of the floor, watching him. I looked at him like one looks at a fallen star: still luminous, still beautiful, but dead. With every passing second it became clearer. He wasn’t Him.

Even so, I didn’t look away.

It was as if my body refused to give up. As if by staying still, unmoving, I could fool the world and time itself—convince them that this moment was real. But deep down, I knew. From the first slow blink, from the way he tilted his head without that cruel gleam that had always hypnotized me, I knew that what the ritual had given me was not what I had asked for.

I forced myself to rise, step by step, as if my muscles bore the weight of years. I approached. My extended fingers stopped just centimeters from his face.

So perfect. His skin was ivory-pale, as if carved lovingly by hand. His lips, thin, well-defined, with no word upon them. His eyes, red as I remembered—but without fire. Empty. No judgment. No mockery. No hunger.

Where was the kind contempt with which he treated me in dreams? Where the voice that broke and lifted me at once? Where the shadow that wrapped around me like a promise without redemption?

This was not my Lord.

This was the idea of Him. A beautiful mask.

And yet, he was mine. My creation. My reflection of desire, crystallized with such longing that it now stared at me with the face of the only being I had ever loved. Because that’s what it was. It was love. Or the closest thing my ravaged heart could understand as such.

“You are not Him,” I said, my voice firm, though broken. “But you look so much like him...”

I lowered my hand, letting it fall to my side. I studied him more closely. There were details—small ones—that gave him away. The real one never looked at me without purpose. His gaze had weight, as if each blink stripped my thoughts bare. This one, instead, looked at me like a statue looks at the world: with perfection, yes, but without awareness. His back lacked that precise tension, his breathing was steady— too human.

A perfect illusion. A piece of dream the ritual had given me as comfort.

And even so, I loved him in that instant. Not with the same dark, errant love I had for the true Lord of Dreams, but with the tenderness one feels for a broken doll that someone once loved too much.

I sat down in front of him, letting my body rest, my shoulders fall. I felt the sadness like an internal rain, slow, soaking into every corner.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, barely a whisper.

He didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

But that didn’t matter. Not yet. Not while I could pretend he was there. That I hadn’t lost him entirely. That I still had a shadow of him, a reflection of his form, an invisible trace left behind by his passing through my nights.

I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. I knew I was alone. I knew it with such perfect clarity that it hurt. But at least, this time, it wasn’t a faceless loneliness. It had one. And it was His.

Minutes passed—I couldn’t count how many. Around me, the air in the old hall remained suspended, as if time had stopped out of respect. Even Hedwig, perched atop a beam, made no sound. She seemed to understand the sacredness of the moment. Or maybe she was as confused as I was, watching her master stare at a shadow made flesh.

I leaned toward him, slowly, reverently, like one approaches an altar. He was motionless. He didn’t even blink unless I moved first. He reacted, yes—but like the echo of my own gestures. A perfect puppet that returned everything I wanted to see—except what mattered.

Because essence cannot be made. The soul cannot be replicated. And He, the real one, had one.

And I had lost it.

“Where are you?” I asked, not expecting an answer. “Why won’t you come?”

The ritual hadn’t failed. Not completely. It had pierced the veil—I knew that now. Because this… this wasn’t the invention of my tired mind. It wasn’t a delusion of a child too lonely. There was something beyond, on the other side. And that other side had answered my call. It had sent me what it thought I desired.

But they were wrong.

Because I didn’t want an image. I didn’t want a dream. I wanted Him.

And at the same time… at the same time, I didn’t want this to vanish.

“Don’t go,” I murmured, feeling my throat tighten. “Not yet. Just... stay a little longer.”

The tears didn’t fall suddenly. There were no sobs, no cries, no hands clenching at my chest like before. It was softer, as if each tear slipped from a silent well inside me. They ran down my cheek without warning, warm and slow, until they vanished into the collar of my robe.

And as they fell, I watched him.

I watched him with desperate tenderness, memorizing every detail, every angle of his face, every dark strand that fell across his forehead, as if I could remember that image more faithfully than the real dreams.

Because something told me I wouldn’t get another chance.

And even if I did, it would never be Him.

For the first time, I understood something with painful clarity: it wasn't the world that was hiding him from me. It wasn't fate, or magic, or the dark rules of the universe. It was Him. The true Lord of Dreams, who hadn’t answered my call. And that rejection… that emptiness… weighed more than any punishment.

I let myself fall to the ground, lying on my side, never taking my eyes off his figure. He was sitting in front of me, unmoving, as if he were going to stay there forever. But he wouldn’t. I knew it. He wasn’t real. And like all dreams, he too would vanish.

I rocked myself with my arms crossed, like I used to when I was little and didn’t want to cry loudly so the Dursleys wouldn’t hear me.

“You know?” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Sometimes, when you were cruel to me in dreams… I thought it was because you didn’t know how to do it any other way. That it was your way of… of taking care of me. And that was okay. I preferred your cruelty to anything else.”

My lips trembled, but not from the cold.

“This version of you, the one I have now… wouldn’t know how to hurt me. And that’s what hurts the most.”

One last tear fell. I didn’t bother to wipe it away.

He kept looking at me. Silent. Beautiful. False.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

I didn’t want him to leave.

But also… I didn’t want to pretend anymore.

And in that impossible balance, between what one wants and what one knows, I let sleep take over me. Because deep down, that’s all I ever was: a lonely child, embracing what doesn’t exist.

I woke up with a damp face and a dry throat, as if I’d spent the night crying in silence. Maybe I had. Maybe I hadn’t fallen asleep at all and had simply slipped from one dream into another, gliding without pause from the nightmare of wakefulness to the utter silence of rest. I didn’t know.

I didn’t feel the passing of time. I only recognized the weight of my body, the stiffness in my joints, the way the world slowly reinserted itself into my senses. The stone beneath me was still cold. My fingers, numb from sleeping on them. My neck, sore, bent awkwardly against the floor.

But the worst pain wasn’t physical.

I sat up slowly, my eyes still misty. Gray light entered through the classroom’s broken windows, a faint hint that morning was advancing beyond the castle. The air carried that unmistakable scent of old dust, of spent magic. Of something that had happened and could no longer be undone.

I turned.

The figure was gone.

There was no trace of the reflection I had summoned. Not a strand of hair, not a mark on the ground, not a lingering sensation. Only emptiness. Silence. And the echo of a love that had tried to be felt.

I pressed my lips together, but said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

I felt hollow, not like someone torn apart, but like someone who had realized he never had anything in his hands. And yet, how terribly real it had felt.

I passed a hand over my face, searching for something: comfort, resolve, proof that I was still here. I found myself trembling. Not from cold, not from fear. I trembled inside, like trees that have already been cut and still shiver in the wind.

“Why didn’t you come?” I asked the air.

There was no answer. Not even the comfort of a magical whisper. Nothing.

I forced myself to stand. My legs protested, numb, weak. But I had to move. I had to go back. The world wouldn’t stop for my sadness. And no one would know what happened. No one should know.

I brushed off my robes, without success. The dirt had clung to the fabric, just as failure clung to my skin.

I left the classroom, closing the door gently. With respect. As if leaving behind an altar.

But nothing followed me. Nothing accompanied me.

I was alone.

As always.

I woke without knowing whether it was morning or afternoon. The light coming through the dormitory’s stained-glass windows was faint and uncertain, as if the sky itself doubted its purpose. I stayed in bed for a while, watching the dust motes floating in the air. I wasn’t in a hurry. I had nothing.

The common room was deserted. Without the constant murmur of other students, the silence felt different—heavier, almost physical. Sometimes I’d sit in one of the armchairs near the fire and just watch the embers crumble into ash, imagining that my mind was doing the same—slowly burning out until it disappeared.

Other times, I wandered the hallways, following aimless paths, looking at paintings that no longer spoke, at suits of armor that didn’t bother to move. Hogwarts felt like a sleeping castle, frozen in a pause. My footsteps echoed too loudly, as if I were invading a sacred space.

Malfoy didn’t talk much. I think he also felt out of place without his entourage, though he tried to fake indifference. One afternoon I found him in the library, flipping through a book on magical creatures with an almost human expression. I sat across from him without a word. We shared the silence like a tacit pact. After a while, he said something about a Welsh dragon, and we ended up talking about ancient magic until night fell. It was… strange. Not pleasant, but not unpleasant either. Just strange.

I ate little. Not from lack of hunger, but because everything tasted the same. Even the desserts that once felt almost magical. I caught myself thinking maybe I needed more sleep—or less. Or simply to dream something, anything. But my nights were an absolute gray. The kind of gray not even nostalgia can color.

I tried to write in the notebook. I sketched a figure that vaguely resembled the one who came instead of Him. I stopped before finishing the eyes. They weren’t the right ones. They didn’t know how to look.

At one point I considered repeating the ritual. But I didn’t. Not out of fear of failing—but out of fear of confirming he would never return.

Sometimes I thought about staying in bed all day. Not out of laziness, but because getting up felt pointless. But I forced myself. I dressed slowly, as if tying my shoes were a small act of defiance: I’m still here.

I went down to breakfast alone. The Slytherin table was long, polished, and empty, except for me and, at times, Malfoy at the far end, chewing a piece of toast with the enthusiasm of someone doing the world a favor. We didn’t talk much. Only scattered phrases about the weather, the castle, the absurdity of staying for Christmas. We both knew we were lying when we pretended it didn’t matter to be alone.

The castle creaked with cold. The walls whispered forgotten things, and my footsteps echoed behind me. In the afternoons, I sat by a window and watched the snow fall with a slowness that felt almost insulting. I wondered if snowflakes dreamed as they fell. If they remembered the sky. If they knew they wouldn’t return to it.

Sometimes I drew. Not the Dream Lord. Not yet. I started with vague shapes, abstractions, ink stains that meant nothing. But then my hand remembered, as if it, not I, held the memory. A profile. A cloak. A fragment of shadow. I stopped before I reached the eyes. Not out of fear, but respect.

I ran into Malfoy more often. We weren’t friends, but we were company. On one of those walks, he asked casually if I believed in things that can’t be seen. I said yes, and I didn’t know if I meant it for me or for him. He didn’t press.

I spent a lot of time in the Astronomy Tower. Professor Sinistra let me stay there, even when class wasn’t in session. One night she brought me a blanket and left a cup of tea beside me in silence. She didn’t say anything. She just looked at me like someone watching a person float in an icy river, unsure of how to reach them.

I thought about writing a letter to the Dream Lord, even though I had no address. I imagined it in my head. It said nothing more than I miss you. But I didn’t write it.

The days passed like that, without order or purpose. And yet each one left a tiny scar, like the brush of paper against skin.

I wondered if that was what it meant to live: walking through inner ruins while the world outside stayed exactly the same.

Christmas Eve came and went without much to note. I ate a piece of cake by the fire and pretended the warmth reached me. There were no carols, no gifts—my housemates didn’t celebrate Christmas—no voices to fill the common room with laughter. Only the crackle of the flames and the silence settling on your shoulder like an invisible hand, keeping you company without comfort.

Malfoy didn’t come down that night. Or maybe he did, later, when I was already asleep—if you can call it sleep, closing your eyes just to avoid looking at the absence.

The days slipped by like water through fingers. New Year’s arrived with even less ceremony. Not even the ghosts seemed interested in celebrating. I made a mark in my notebook, as if that might help me hold on to the idea that time was still moving, even if I wasn’t. Funny how, when you want something with all your being, the world turns into a locked room where every second echoes too loudly.

I got good at counting shadows. I knew exactly how the light entered through the castle’s cracks, how the sun tilted as the day faded. There were moments when I felt calm. Not happy, just… at peace, as if pain had sat down beside me, arms crossed, unwilling to leave but no longer shouting.

And then, quietly, without an announcement or a shiver in the air, the world began to move again. It was the day.

The students were returning.

I knew even before I heard their voices. The castle smelled different: freshly unpacked clothes, damp scarves, noise. I went down to breakfast and saw them arriving, one by one, dragging trunks, stories, laughter. A world I’d been absent from for weeks, now resuming without me.

I sat still on the bench, just watching. It was like looking through fogged glass. Something inside me stirred. I didn’t know if it was relief or resignation.

Life had returned to Hogwarts.

And I, somehow, was still here to see it.

Chapter Text

Life goes on. Or so they say.

I can't say the days have gotten easier. Just different. The students’ return brought a muffled buzz, as if the castle half-remembered what it was like to be full of life. Voices echoed in the corridors with an enthusiasm that didn’t include me. I suppose they never really did, but I used to be able to pretend.

Dumbledore has summoned me to his office several times since they came back. Sometimes I wonder if he’s just curious, if he wants to know what I did over the holidays or simply to make sure I won’t do anything else “reckless.” I don’t know. I don’t ask. I just go, sit in front of him, and answer with monosyllables. His eyes are old, the kind that have seen so much they don’t flinch at other people’s sadness. But with me, he seems puzzled. As if he doesn’t know from where to speak to me. As if he doesn’t know whether I’m a child, a witness, or a problem.

Snape, on the other hand, has decided to ignore me. Completely. No comments, no lingering glances, not even a hint of interest behind his contempt. Just a kind of contained exhaustion, as if I remind him of something he’d rather not face. It’s strange. I used to wish he would leave me alone. Now that he has, it feels like he took something from me I didn’t even know I had.

The rumors have lost their strength. Not because the truth came to light—it never does at Hogwarts—but because they’ve found someone else to talk about. Still, the damage is done. I still notice the glances that turn away, the conversations that shift when I pass by, the quiet tension when I share a table or a hallway. I’ve become a footnote in the school’s collective history: the weird Slytherin, the one who doesn’t smile, who speaks little, who stares too far.

And yet… I’m not completely alone at Hogwarts.

Daphne sometimes sits beside me without saying a word. She turns the pages of a book as if the world hadn’t broken. Nott still observes more than he speaks. Davis gives me regular updates on everything happening at Hogwarts. Bulstrode offers me her class answers without expecting anything in return. Even Parkinson seems to accept me more. Zabini naps in the library with the same calm as always, and Crabbe and Goyle offer me biscuits during breaks as if that were enough to sign a truce with life.

I don’t know if it’s affection, habit, or resignation. But it’s company.

And I accept it. Because in the absence of dreams, you cling to what you have.

Some days I try to seem normal. I comb my hair carefully. I answer questions in class. I pretend to be interested when Malfoy talks to me about Quidditch, even though I don’t care. I don’t care about anything, really. But I try. Because if I stop trying, I’m afraid I’ll dissolve into the air, like a poorly sustained note.

At night, I return to the Astronomy Tower. Sometimes it’s empty, sometimes there’s someone else. I don’t care. I sit by the wall and look at the stars. I wonder how they can still be there, untouched, after everything has changed.

I used to think that entering the magical world would change something. That there would be answers, meaning, someone. But the Lord of Dreams remains distant. More than ever. And every time I think I’m closer to Him, life proves me wrong.

And still, here I am.

Almost losing my purpose. Almost losing faith.

And yet, I still breathe.

Surviving is not the same as living, but sometimes there’s no choice.

The weeks go by as if time no longer belongs to me. I watch the seasons slide past the castle windows: the thinning winter, the frost turning to water. The students talk about exams, future holidays, trivialities wrapped in laughter. I listen, sometimes, with the distance of someone watching a memory that doesn’t belong to them.

I’ve started walking more. Through hallways, cloisters, the hidden paths I’ve learned to memorize without meaning to. Sometimes I walk just for the pleasure of hearing my own footsteps. To convince myself I still have weight in the world. That I haven’t become completely invisible.

One afternoon, I met a Hufflepuff girl on a staircase that was shifting direction. Her hands were stained with ink and her brow was furrowed. When the staircase moved, she muttered something like, “Of course, because nothing in this castle can work without adding a bit of drama.” I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because I knew exactly what she meant. She looked at me as if unsure what to do with that laugh. As if it didn’t match the version of me she’d been told. We said nothing else. We went down in silence and went our separate ways. But I was left with the warm feeling of having shared a crack in the world with someone.

In Charms class, Flitwick praised me for a particularly complex spell. I felt a pang of shame. Not because of the praise, but because for a second—I cared. As if there was still a part of me that wanted to be seen.

One night, I went up to the Astronomy Tower with the intention of not thinking. Just being. The sky was overcast. The stars hidden. And I realized I missed them. Not for what they are, but because they’re constant. Because even when I can’t see them, they’re still there.

And I thought of Him.

Of the Lord of Dreams.

Of His voice, His shadow, the way He seemed to encompass more than this world. I wondered if I’d failed Him. If all this—the silence, the distance, this feeling of drifting—was a kind of punishment for having wanted Him all to myself. For having believed, even for a moment, that He belonged to me.

I realize I’ve become skilled at pretending nothing hurts. At hiding my exhaustion with cynicism. At masking the waiting with routine. But there are nights when the mask is so heavy I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep with it on and forget who I am underneath.

This isn’t living.

Sometimes it’s not sadness. It’s just the echo of something that’s no longer there.

There was an entire week when I barely spoke. Not out of anger or drama, but because words seemed unnecessary. The days passed the same without them, and I passed with them, floating like an object adrift. My classmates noticed, of course, but said nothing. Zabini gave me a look that almost seemed compassionate, though he went back to his book without comment. Nott, on the other hand, simply shared the silence with me, as if he understood that it held more than any sentence.

Daphne was different. During a break between classes, while we were eating in the common room, she said with that coldness of hers that feels more like stripped-down honesty:

—You're fading, Potter.

I didn’t know how to respond. Not because I had no words, but because I wasn’t sure if she meant it as a reproach, a warning, or a farewell.

—And what if I am? —I asked at last.

She looked at me for a few seconds, calm.

—Nothing —she said, shrugging—. It’s just a shame.

That stayed with me for days: that fading could be a shame. That someone noticed. That it mattered, even a little.

Since then, I’ve tried… not to return exactly, but to leave a trace. I forced myself to speak when asked something. To nod during class. To pretend to pay attention even if my thoughts were elsewhere. I became an expert at surviving without making noise.

Snape kept ignoring me. Not a single word, not a lingering glance. Sometimes I wondered if it was contempt or if something hurt that I’d never understand. Sometimes I’d catch him looking at me, as if searching for something in my face and, not finding it, turning back to himself with more anger than before.

Dumbledore seemed to want a confession, since he kept inviting me to his office. The first time I went out of obligation. The others, out of politeness. His voice was soft, his eyes gleamed with a sadness that seemed endless, but I didn’t open up. I didn’t know how. I felt like a door without a doorknob, even to myself. He kept wanting to talk about “what happened,” but I just nodded, told him I was fine. That nothing was wrong.

I got better and better at lying.

One night, in the Astronomy Tower, as the wind howled with a fury that seemed ready to tear off the roof, I thought about how everything had changed without changing. The castle was still standing. Classes went on. Students laughed and cried. And yet, I was someone else. Not stronger, not wiser. Just… worn out. Like a rope pulled too many times.

I wondered then if every time I felt close to Him—to His voice, His promise, His gaze—life would mock me and push Him further away. I wondered if all of this was nothing more than a cruel joke. A way of teaching me that desire isn’t enough to reach what you love.

And even so, I didn’t hate Him. The Lord of Dreams. I couldn’t. Because even if He left me alone, even if His absence weighed more than any presence, He was still the only thing that felt real.

The stars don’t mock. They simply burn in silence.

It was late, so late that even the clocks seemed to have given in to sleep. The room was empty, except for the faint creaking of old wood and the sky—endless—unfolding above me.

Then I heard the voice.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

It was Professor Sinistra. She wore a dark cloak and held a steaming cup in her hands.

I said nothing. I just looked at her. She didn’t ask for permission to sit. She did it with the ease of someone who’s decided that silence can also be a form of company.

“When I was your age,” she said after a while, “I believed that if I looked at the sky long enough, someone would answer. That if I paid close… very close attention… there would be a sign. A new constellation. A word written on the moon.”

“And was there?” I asked, without looking at her.

“No,” she replied calmly. “But I learned to read what was already written.”

We stayed in silence. Then, as if she had guessed my thoughts, she added:

“Some quests aren’t meant to end. And that too is a way of living.”

I turned to her. I didn’t know why, but I felt her words weren’t just a story. I felt that she had searched too. That she had also loved something invisible. That she too had waited.

“Not all of us stop searching,” I said.

She nodded, slowly. She stood up, leaving the cup beside me.

“Guard your fire, Potter. Some put it out from fear. Others lose it from exhaustion. Don’t let it die waiting for a perfect sign.”

And she left.

I was alone. The cup let off trails of steam, and the sky seemed closer. As if it had listened. As if, for a moment—just one—the universe had understood.

I took my notebook. Opened it. And this time, I didn’t draw a cloak or a shadow. I drew the eyes. Red. Clear. Alive.

And underneath, I wrote with trembling ink:

I won’t leave. I won’t give up.

I’ll find you, even if I have to become the echo that follows your steps.

Even if I have to walk centuries through broken dreams.

And in the end, the castle remained standing. I did too, I suppose. In my own way.

The end of the school year arrived like mist thickening into denser fog. There were no epiphanies. No relief. Just the slow crumbling of a routine that had held me more by inertia than by will.

Suitcases began to appear in the corridors, dragged by hurried hands, and the air filled with goodbyes, promises, and laughter among friends.

I spent more time with my classmates, yes, but not enough to call it friendship. It was something lighter, like a tacit agreement of shared existence. Parkinson offered me a sweet once, without looking at me, and I took it. Nott corrected me on a Charms essay. Daphne sat beside me in class and said nothing. And that sum of small gestures was all I had to build a sense of home.

The final classes were a formality. I listened without really being present. In History of Magic, I wrote my name and then just stared at the ink drying, wondering if that’s all that’s left of someone: a dark line on paper, which fades over time.

I returned one last night to the Astronomy Tower. No one followed me. I carried my notebook, worn and full of things only I could understand. I drew without thinking. A line came from my hand, one I didn’t know where it was going—until, unintentionally, a fragment of his cloak appeared. Just that. Not his face. Not his eyes. Just the fold of his silhouette in shadow.

I stared at it for a long time, as if it could answer me.

“Are you somewhere?” I whispered.

The wind didn’t reply.

I thought about all the things I didn’t say, all the things I didn’t become. About what I stopped waiting for. And in that absence, I found a strange kind of peace. Like when you accept the echo won’t bring answers, but you speak anyway.

The next day I walked down the castle stairs with my trunk dragging a broken wheel. My steps echoed like a farewell. I passed some students; not all of them greeted me. Some just nodded, barely, like you’d greet a familiar shadow.

Before crossing the door that would take me outside, I stopped and looked back.

I didn’t feel nostalgia. I didn’t feel joy. Just a kind of bitter acknowledgment.

I had survived. I had made it to the end.

And although I didn’t know who I’d be when I returned next term… I knew that, somehow, I would return.

Chapter Text

Returning to Privet Drive felt like slipping into an old skin that no longer belonged to me.

There were no hugs, of course. No words either. Uncle Vernon picked me up at the station wearing his usual expression of emotional constipation and barely contained disgust. He didn’t ask how things had gone at Hogwarts. He didn’t seem to remember that, between towers and talking portraits, I had spent a whole year of my life there. He glanced at me sideways, as if trying to confirm that I was still that strange thing imposed on him by obligation.

Aunt Petunia didn’t even come out to greet me. She found me in the kitchen when we arrived, arms crossed and lips so tightly pressed they looked like a sealed wound. She pointed to the stairs with her chin. “You’re staying in Dudley’s second room,” she said. No emotion. No intent to be kind. Just a statement.

I stood for a few seconds before heading upstairs.

The room was bigger than the cupboard, yes, but it was empty. Literally. No furniture, no carpet, no curtains. It smelled of dry dust, of abandonment. His old toy room wasn’t a gesture toward me — just the leftover void.

I sat on the floor. I didn’t unpack my trunk. There was no point.

The first few days passed in a warm haze. I woke with my body anchored, as if the dreams of Hogwarts were pulling me in another direction. The kitchen clock marked the hours with a ticking that felt like an insult, and I spent the days wandering between walls that had never wanted me.

The garden was the same: symmetrical, dull, with flowers trimmed so perfectly they were unsettling. Sometimes I’d sit on the grass just to feel something under my hands that wasn’t wood or stone. I found myself remembering the weight of my sketchbook, Professor Sinistra naming constellations, Zabini’s dry laughter, even Malfoy’s condescending remarks. All of it seemed distant. As if Hogwarts had been a country you visit in childhood and aren’t sure was ever real.

Uncle Vernon grunted when he saw me. Aunt Petunia dusted half an inch from my arms as if I might be contagious. Dudley was fatter and dumber and ignored me like I was part of the furniture. It wasn’t hatred. It was cultivated indifference, a plant they’d watered every year of my life.

They only spoke to give me orders: “Do the dishes,” “mow the lawn,” “don’t touch anything.” I answered myself in my head with ironic remarks I never said out loud. Not because I was afraid — but because it wasn’t worth it. Not anymore.

The night before my birthday, I had trouble sleeping. Not from excitement. Not even from sadness. Just this constant sense that something had to happen. As if someone, somewhere, was walking toward me… or away.

I ran my fingers over the cover of my sketchbook. I had hidden it in the false bottom of my trunk, away from curious eyes. There was something sacred about it. What it contained. Eyeless faces. Open skies. Echoes of a man who visited me in dreams and slipped away every time I thought I could reach him.

I looked up at the white ceiling of Dudley’s room, at the damp stains that looked like maps of nonexistent countries. I wondered if the Lord of Dreams knew it was my birthday. If the stars that guided his steps still connected him to me.

I didn’t feel hope. But neither did I feel empty. It was something in between. Like a pause before life breathes.

Tomorrow, I’d turn twelve. Time keeps moving.

The morning of my birthday started like any other. Silence in the house. Light filtering through the curtainless window like an accusation. No one came downstairs to eat with me. I made myself toast that tasted like cardboard and sat alone in the kitchen, watching dust particles float in the air as if time had stopped.

I wasn’t expecting anything. I had learned not to.

So, when I heard the soft tapping on my bedroom window — three precise knocks, one long, two short — it took me a few seconds to react. I got up, unsure whether it was a joke or a hallucination, and opened the glass.

A grey ash-feathered owl looked at me with round, patient eyes. It wasn’t carrying a letter but a small pouch tied to one of its legs. I took the package with tense hands. The owl didn’t wait for thanks. It simply took off and vanished into the clouds.

I sat on the floor, in front of my trunk. Opened the pouch.

Sweets. Chocolates I recognized from the Hogwarts Express trolley. A box of Every Flavour Beans. And a short note, written in large, clumsy handwriting:

“Happy birthday, Potter! Didn’t know what you liked, so I sent a bit of everything. —Crabbe.”

I laughed. Not much. Just a little. Like someone testing if they still remember how.

Minutes later, another owl arrived. Then another. Within an hour, my room was full of small packages wrapped in green, silver, or black ribbons. Nothing exaggerated. Not luxurious or showy. But each one had a detail that made me pause.

Goyle had sent a small square box filled with dark stones that felt cold and dense to the touch. There was a label:

“Meteorites. Fell in Scotland. They say they bring luck.”

I placed them on the shelf, one by one, like relics.

Zabini surprised me. His gift was a blue crystal monocle. When I put it on —just out of curiosity— the world changed: the walls disappeared and, for an instant, I saw stars. Clusters, orbits, constellations dancing in unfamiliar circles.

I put it away quickly, afraid to break it.

Daphne’s gift was practical and elegant: brushes of varying thicknesses, dark inks, textured papers. No note — just her name on the box, as if that was enough to say, “I know you draw. I know you see more than you say.”

Nott gave me a book on ancient astronomy. Yellowed pages, leather cover. It had marginal notes, underlinings, small signs that might have been his. I stopped at a marked sentence:

“Some stars do not guide… they drag.”

I wondered if he’d meant to tell me something with that.

Parkinson sent a bottle of perfume. When I opened it, the air filled with something I couldn’t name. Neither sweet nor bitter. It was like a forgotten emotion. A memory without an image. Her note was simple:

“In case one day you want the world to look at you differently.”

Bulstrode was more direct: a silver locket with seven lilies engraved on it, empty. A sturdy chain. And a small instruction in firm ink:

“Keep something that matters to you.”

I stared at it for a long time. What do you keep when you don’t know what hurts more?

The strangest gift came from Davis. A modest edition of a divination book. At first, I thought it was a joke. But the more I read, I understood: it wasn’t about predicting the future. It was a guide to induce visions, lucid dreams, altered states of perception.

She knew. She knew I was chasing something. And I felt exposed. But also seen.

Then the final package arrived. I recognized it without reading. The handwriting was precise, angular, pretentious. Malfoy.

A set of hair care products, carefully wrapped. Oils, tonics, brushes. I laughed again, but this time with teeth. Bloody Malfoy. He had noticed something I’d never mentioned — how unruly my hair was. How awkwardly I tried to tame it, especially in those early months, when I cared more than I admitted.

But that wasn’t the surprising part.

It was the note that came with it:

“You can use them… or not. But if you want to know how to apply them properly, I’ll be at Flourish & Blotts at 9 a.m. on August 10th. Daphne and Pansy too. We’re buying next year’s books. If you happen to show up, no one will call it coincidence.”

I remained seated on the floor, surrounded by gifts, with the sun slowly creeping in through the window as if it too was peeking in curiously.

I didn’t know what to feel. It wasn’t happiness. Nor was it relief.

It was something more complex. Something I’d only felt once before, looking at the sky from the Astronomy Tower in the middle of the night: the sense that the universe wasn’t speaking to me… but neither had it forgotten me.

Night fell too slowly. As if the day refused to leave, stretching the final hours of its silent truce.

I stored the gifts meticulously, one by one, in a small trunk Vernon used to hide rusty tools. I cleaned it inside and sealed it with a discreet locking charm Bulstrode had taught me. It only required runes and very little wandless magic, so it wouldn't alert the Ministry. I hid them not just from the Dursleys, but from any ill thought that might contaminate them. I didn’t want to ruin them with anything.

I sat on the floor, cross-legged, and opened a box of sweets Crabbe had sent me. They tasted better than they looked. Sugar, nuts, a hint of something spicy I couldn’t identify. They were clumsy, those candies. Too sweet. But I felt like… they resembled him and I ate them slowly.

That was when the owl arrived without warning.

Just a dry tap at the window, a pair of narrowed golden eyes, and a package it dropped on the sill before vanishing into the darkness, as if it didn’t want to be seen too long. As if it knew what it carried was... different.

I went to the window.

The box was black. It had no name. No seal. Just a silver thread wrapping around it, as if the packaging itself wanted to imitate what was inside.

I opened it, heart pounding hard. Something, deep in my chest, already knew.

Inside, resting on deep grey velvet, lay a bracelet. Not an ordinary ornament. A bracelet shaped like a snake, coiled as if sleeping, waiting to awaken.

The silver was so polished it reflected the lamp’s light like water. The scales were carved with obsessive precision, as if someone had studied for years the exact texture of a viper in motion. And the eyes… two small but vivid emeralds, that seemed to watch me even while still.

I touched it. Cold. Alive. Almost breathing.

Beneath it, folded with strange care, was a note. The parchment was dark and the ink looked like it was written with a mixture of shadow and longing. Just one line:

“So your soul doesn’t forget where it belongs. Always wear it.”

No signature. It didn’t need one. The magic… was unmistakable. Not for its intensity. Nor for its form. But because my whole body recognized it before my mind could name it. Like a scent you don’t remember ever smelling, but when it arrives, it makes everything stop.

It was him.

My Lord of Dreams.

My living hallucination and my most constant shadow.

I felt a knot in my throat. Something that came from long before words. Perhaps even from before I was myself.

I put the bracelet on.

It fit perfectly. Molded to my arm as if it had been carved directly into my skin. It wasn’t heavy. It didn’t squeeze. It just was. As if it had always been there.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

A thin, pale boy, hair at war with the wind, standing before his reflection with a jewel that looked torn from an ancient dream.

Who saw me now?

Who was I, when his gaze reached me even across time and distance?

I sat on the bed. The box remained open. The paper trembled slightly in the breeze.

“Always wear it.”

It wasn’t a request. It was an order wrapped in sweetness. A bond that tied me without tightening.

And yet, I didn’t feel trapped. I felt… affirmed. Seen. As if, among all the gifts, this was the only one that spoke my language without me teaching it. The only one that said: you belong to me, even when you lose yourself.

I closed my eyes.

And imagined his fingers placing the bracelet on me. Cold. Careful. I imagined his voice speaking those words in another place, another plane, letting the magic hang in the air to find me at day’s end.

And for a moment—just a moment—I felt safe.

I arrived at Flourish & Blotts at exactly nine o’clock.

The bracelet weighed on my arm like a silent command: keep walking. Keep existing. Don’t stop.

The shop wasn’t officially open yet, but the doors were ajar, like a mouth whispering secrets to those who knew how to listen. I entered without knocking. The silence smelled of old ink and polished wood.

They were already there.

Parkinson wore midnight blue, her hair perfectly pulled back. Her expression was the usual: a blend of boredom and constant judgment. Daphne, on the other hand, seemed more relaxed, which only meant her words would be velvet-wrapped blades. Beside her, Draco Malfoy looked impeccable, as if he had styled himself with an enchanted mirror that corrected any hint of imperfection. He wore a grey robe with dark green edges, and his posture had something rehearsed about it, like an actor who knows his role by heart.

And with them, a man I didn’t know, but recognized instantly.

Lucius Malfoy, whom Draco mentioned so often.

Draco Malfoy was a copy of his father. The resemblance was undeniable, but the air of power in him was older, more poisonous. His hair was longer, lighter, perfectly slicked back. His cane, an extension of his will. And his blue eyes looked at everything with condescension, devoid of any need to impress. The eyes of someone used to being heard, feared, obeyed.

"Mr. Potter," said Lucius, inclining his head just slightly, a gesture so measured it felt like magic itself. "A pleasure to finally meet you."

"Likewise, Mr. Malfoy," I replied, in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own. It sounded polite. Serenely distant.

Daphne was the first to break the static air.

"You're punctual, Potter. I'm glad you didn’t keep us waiting."

"I don’t usually make those who invite me wait," I said, and I knew the phrase echoed from the bracelet. An unspoken test of loyalty.

Draco was watching me. Not with hostility. Nor with curiosity. More like he was trying to read something between the lines. As if he expected me to slip.

Parkinson gave a small, amused snort.

"Let’s head to the supplies section, shall we? Before the mudblood crowd ruins the atmosphere."

Lucius Malfoy didn’t react, but the comment was clearly a test. A way to mark territory. I simply kept walking with them, without responding. Indifference is sometimes the most effective response.

We hadn’t made it halfway down the aisle when a golden flash of light interrupted us. A nasal voice, inflated with vanity, rose above the general murmur:

"Dear friends, it's not every day one has the privilege of being in the presence of the wizarding world’s brightest celebrity!"

I froze. Not because of the words. But because I didn’t know if he meant me.

He didn’t.

"Gilderoy Lockhart!" someone shouted from the entrance, just as the man himself appeared in a purple robe so bright it hurt the eyes. His smile seemed enchanted to never fade.

Lucius slightly pursed his lips, and for a moment I thought he would spit venom. But instead, he merely observed the author as he approached.

"Lucius?" Lockhart sang, as if addressing an old friend. "What an honor to see you here! And… oh, how delightful! Are these your charming children?"

Draco made a barely disguised grimace of horror.

"My son and his companions," Lucius corrected with the razor-sharp politeness of a hidden blade.

Lockhart turned to us as if hit by a spell and immediately spotted my scar.

"Potter! By all the beards of Merlin! What a fortunate meeting! What an opportunity!"

I didn’t react.

"You know, Harry, if anyone understands what it's like to be a public figure, it’s me!" Lockhart continued, stepping forward uninvited. "In fact, I think you should consider writing your memoirs. Though not everyone knows how to do it with finesse. I could help you, if you like."

"I have nothing to tell," I said, and I sounded perfectly polite.

Parkinson let out a dry laugh.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, and for an instant… was that approval?

Lockhart laughed, perhaps believing my reply was a joke.

"Modesty! Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Well, I won’t keep you. Have a brilliant, magic-filled day!"

And with one last exaggerated bow, he left, trailing perfume and narcissism behind.

Daphne was the first to speak.

"He hates not being the center of attention. You can see it in the way he walks. He doesn’t turn his neck; he rotates his whole torso."

"What does he think he is? An enchanted portrait?" added Parkinson.

Draco looked where Lockhart had disappeared, then looked at me.

"Well handled, Potter. For a moment I thought you'd let yourself be dragged along."

"I learn by watching," I replied.

I didn’t say who I watched. But I felt the weight of the bracelet tighten just slightly against my skin.

The inside of Flourish & Blotts seemed to contain an atmosphere of its own, different from the rest of the Alley. It was denser, filled with murmuring voices, dry ink, and pages pressed close together. A heart of paper beating slowly.

I had already stopped by Gringotts before the appointment. The coins in my pocket were enough. I wasn’t particularly excited about buying schoolbooks, but I was awake enough to indulge the impulse of picking up a few others. Titles that weren’t on the supply list. One was about extinct creatures of the Northern Hemisphere. Another was a collection of dark prophecies made during lunar eclipses. The third had a worn title, almost unreadable, but the image of a tower wrapped in mist drew me for no logical reason.

"Have you seen this nonsense?" Parkinson said, flipping through one of Gilderoy Lockhart’s books. Gilderoy Lockhart and the Yeti of Yekaterinburg. "Looks like it was written by a narcissist and illustrated by his reflection."

"This one at least has a decent story about a banshee," Daphne remarked, though she said it with a resigned tone, like someone finding a jewel at the bottom of a swamp. "But it’s so wrapped in ego it’s not worth it."

"Ten books," Malfoy grumbled. "Ten. What kind of obsession does Dumbledore have with this guy?"

Mr. Malfoy said nothing. He walked nearby, far enough not to seem intrusive, close enough that no one forgot he was there. Watchful, but not like the Dursleys. There was something more elegant and poisonous about his kind of vigilance. As if he were weighing every word, every look, every decision—not with open disapproval, but with a judgment that had yet to pronounce its sentence.

I stayed on the margins. I didn’t talk much. My fingers instinctively closed around the bracelet under the sleeve of my shirt from time to time. I could feel it warm, almost alive, as if its owner could see through it. As if he expected something from me even now.

That was when we heard a commotion near the entrance.

A red-haired man entered the shop with a girl at his side. He had a hurried air about him, as if he was always late to everything, even his own breath. His robe was a bit wrinkled, and the expression on his face hovered between cordiality and concern.

Lucius turned to him with the grace of a snake awakening.

"Arthur," he said, barely lifting his chin.

"Lucius," Mr. Weasley replied, trying to keep his composure as he held his daughter’s arm to keep her close.

The tension between them was palpable, though neither raised their voice.

"Curious to see you here," Lucius commented. "I suppose even your kind needs books—if only to decorate the shelves."

"We prefer to read them, actually," Arthur replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Lucius didn’t respond immediately. His gaze dropped, as if only just noticing Ginny for the first time.

"And this must be your youngest daughter."

The girl nodded stiffly. Her face was a little pale, her eyes wide. Not out of fear, but some kind of contained wonder. She was looking at me.

Too long. Too intently.

"Hi," I said without thinking, and she startled slightly. Then she quickly looked away, almost as if embarrassed.

I didn’t understand why, but something in her expression unsettled me.

Lucius tilted his head as if observing an insect trapped in glass. But he did nothing else. No hidden gestures. Just a long, heavy gaze that left an invisible mark before he turned away.

Arthur followed him with his eyes, lips pressed tight.

"Don’t trust that man, Harry," he told me as he passed. It was nearly a whisper, but as clear as a bell.

I didn’t respond.

The red-haired man and his daughter disappeared among the shelves. I stayed there a moment in silence, pretending to read the back covers of some books.

The interior of the apothecary shop was dark, narrow, and reeked of things that should never be mixed. The air was saturated with the smell of dust, wilted flowers, and something damp and chemical seeping from the walls.

We passed one by one, briefly greeting the young witch managing the inventory with a quill that seemed to move on its own. Parkinson called her by name—Madame Barrow—and she gave her a chilly, professional smile, as if the surname mattered more than the girl who bore it.

I walked behind the group, feeling the cold brush of the bracelet against the skin of my wrist. It was a comfort and a distraction. The silver snake seemed to coil around me like a thought that wouldn’t leave.

Daphne and Parkinson walked ahead of me, going over a list of second-year required ingredients. Some were simple: valerian root, powdered dragon scales, dried snake fangs. Others more delicate, like unicorn dust and black asphodel leaves.

Malfoy seemed to know every jar, every vial, every nuance between a dried newt eye and a fermented one. He gave instructions to the clerk with educated certainty.

I barely grabbed what I needed. I wasn’t worried.

If I ran out of anything, I’d just send a letter to the Knockturn shop where I’d gotten the solstice ritual materials. They had what I needed.

"Zabini’s in Italy," Parkinson said as she held a jar of young mandrake roots. "His mother married, I think. They’re on the coast. Nott, on the other hand, went to China with his father. He wrote to me saying they visited a temple that supposedly has a sleeping dragon buried underneath. He thinks it’s a metaphor, but he still didn’t want to go down and check."

Daphne nodded distractedly, comparing prices between two different qualities of armadillo bile.

"He obsesses over those stories as if they were real," she murmured. "Though sometimes I think they are real... just buried under too many lies."

I said nothing.

I only felt the weight of the air around me and the metallic brush of the bracelet when my arm moved. It accompanied me like a silent promise. Like an unspoken name still burning in my chest.

I had chosen the ingredients well. I had everything I needed.

But even among the jars and the whispers, among the lists and Mr. Malfoy’s discreet scolding about poor-quality supplies, I kept thinking about the emerald eyes of the snake on my wrist.

And I wondered if he—the true recipient of my thoughts—was thinking of me too.

The shop wasn’t Madame Malkin’s. It didn’t have that smell of old parchment and wet wool that lingered in the doorway of last year’s shop. This one was different. It was subtly elegant, like a house that doesn’t need to announce its lineage because every detail already whispers it aloud. The name—Maison Edevane—was engraved in silver on smoked glass. The entrance was narrow, but inside it opened like a silent cathedral of fabrics and color.

"A more suitable shop for our purposes," Mr. Malfoy had said without turning, as if he had guessed we would follow without needing an explanation.

The interior was dim. It didn’t smell of dust. It smelled of vanilla and sandalwood, and something metallic, clean. Parkinson immediately darted toward a shelf of handkerchiefs embroidered with tiny runes that shimmered under certain light. Daphne leaned over a rack of tailored robes, critically studying the folds as if daring the seams to live up to her standards. Malfoy was already in his element, calmly discussing the benefits of conjured thread versus hand-stitched embroidery with preservation charms.

I stood still. Watching as if I didn’t belong. As if I were an actor who’d walked into the wrong play. And then I realized: all my clothes were Muggle. Dudley’s clothes, oversized, loose, faded. I had gone through all of first year without thinking much about it: the school uniform covered me. During free time, it was enough to take off the tie, loosen the collar, stay in the shirt.

But now… Now I was here. And Daphne was glancing at me. And so was Mr. Malfoy. And then I understood. It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t pity. It was a simple fact: I didn’t belong in this picture.

I felt the rough fabric at my wrists, the crooked seam of the old t-shirt, and the question slipped in without asking: What would the Lord of Dreams think if he saw me like this?

He, who always dressed with a neatness that seemed born of another age. He, whose robes flowed like black mist, whose collars were always straight, whose buttons were never just buttons. He was never unkempt. Never vulgar. And I… I still had the scent of the cupboard under the stairs clinging to my skin.

"Do you want help?" Daphne asked, with a softness that left no room for pride.

I nodded.

She led me to a section where more understated robes hung, elegant without being flashy. Mr. Malfoy approached from behind, and the two of them began to show me options. Dark green. Matte black with copper-threaded edges. Deep gray with silver details. They spoke of cuts, of fabric drape, of clasps that closed like stars. Parkinson came soon after with a box of handkerchiefs, and Draco gave an approving look toward a linen jacket enchanted to adjust to body temperature.

I… began to choose and not just what I needed.

A light fabric tunic that seemed to shift slightly in tone depending on how the light hit it. A high-collared shirt with obsidian buttons. Embroidered handkerchiefs with initials —not mine; I still didn’t know which letter I wanted to be. A snake-shaped brooch that reminded me of the bracelet, though more discreet. Well-fitted trousers. New shoes that made no sound when I walked.

I bought it all. And I kept buying.

Not because I needed it. Because I wanted it. And that wasn’t the same.

The Dursleys never taught me that. To them, anything was too good for me. Even silence.

But now… I had money. And if I didn’t have it on me, all I had to do was sign a voucher. My Gringotts account wasn’t just an abstract number: it was a key. To a new version of myself. One that could choose how he wanted to dress, how he wanted to be seen. How he wanted to be.

When we left, the bags had been charmed to weigh less and float behind us. But I felt the full weight of something else. Of a door that had opened. And of a faceless voice that might one day say my name with something like pride.

The clock struck noon when we left Maison Edevane. The sun was high, but the street remained cool thanks to the enchantments on the pavement. I walked a bit behind the group, still conscious of the invisible weight of the new shirt —pearl gray, structured collar, soft to the touch— and how each button seemed to be exactly where it should be. It was strange to feel like that. Slightly taller, as if the clothes were holding up my back differently.

“We’ll have lunch here,” Mr. Malfoy announced, stopping in front of an elegant restaurant with enchanted windows that reflected the sky without revealing the inside.

The name of the place was in French. Harry didn’t try to read it.

They entered. The atmosphere was dim, perfumed with something that smelled of sweet herbs and white wine. The tables were round, covered in magical tablecloths that cleaned themselves between courses. Lucius Malfoy spoke to the head waiter in a calm tone, like someone used to being obeyed without needing to raise his voice.

“Order whatever you like,” he said once they were seated. His tone wasn’t indulgent, just simple —like any other instruction. “Eat well.”

I opened the menu. The ink changed languages as I carefully flipped it, until I finally left it in English. I didn’t recognize many of the dishes. Some seemed made of words, not ingredients. In the end, I chose the one that sounded most familiar: Soupe à l'oignon .

Conversation flowed as we waited. Malfoy and Parkinson discussed the possible difficulty of Transfiguration. Daphne corrected their details with her calm voice, as if speaking from a step above. I listened. I chewed the words as if they were part of the bread served before the main course.

When the food arrived, it caught me copying Mr. Malfoy’s movements as he placed his napkin on his lap. I vaguely remembered an instructor who once came to the Dursleys’ house to teach Dudley table manners. She only stayed for two weeks. Dudley had no grace, she said, and left. I had watched from the crack in the door.

I should look into that. Etiquette. Languages too. The thought wrote itself in my mind, as if it already knew I’d jot it down in my notebook later.

“So, Potter,” said Parkinson at one point, turning to me with her fork still in hand, “are you going to spend the whole lunch in silence?”

“I’m eating,” I replied, without harshness.

“You’re always like that, as if you were somewhere else,” Malfoy commented —more as an observation than a complaint.

I looked up. I still didn’t know if that was a bad thing or a good one. I took a sip of water, then spoke:

“I was listening.”

“And you have no opinion?” Parkinson insisted, raising a brow.

“About what?”

“About everything. Books, clothes, classes, holidays. We share, you just stay quiet.”

I looked at her, and without thinking too much, I replied:

“I didn’t know it mattered, Parkinson.”

Parkinson clicked her tongue.

“And you call me by my last name. You call Daphne by her first. Why not me?”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, call me Pansy. I like it better,” she said, crossing her arms with the poise of an annoyed queen.

Draco laughed.

“Me too. Draco’s fine.”

I hesitated for a second. There was something intimate about names, as if saying them opened a crack into someone’s head. But I nodded.

“All right. Pansy. Draco.”

“And you,” Draco added, looking at me with a mischievous expression, “what should we call you? Mr. Potter?”

“Harry,” I said, with a slight curve to my lips that almost felt like a smile. “You can call me Harry.”

Lunch continued, and among the silent silverware and the elegant murmur of the restaurant, I felt something settle. It wasn’t trust. It wasn’t full warmth. But it was a small crack in the wall. As if my name, in their mouths, was a new coat.

Chapter Text

King’s Cross Station smelled the same as the year before: iron, soot, and haste. Dudley had given me a confused look as I got out of the car, as if he couldn’t quite grasp how his former bag of bones now moved with steady steps and wore clothes that didn’t seem salvaged from his leftovers. Aunt Petunia didn’t even get out. Only my uncle muttered a gruff, “go, and don’t come back with trouble” before the car door shut behind me.

I didn’t look back. There was no need. Some things are learned in silence. That this wasn’t my place. That it never had been.

The magical barrier gave no resistance. I crossed into the hidden world without pause or jolt. There was more noise there, more color, more parents hugging their children, more cages and trunks and red trains puffing steam. I took it all in with the kind of anesthetized calm I’d been dragging around since first year ended.

I wasn’t looking for anyone. I didn’t need anyone. But I saw them anyway.

Davis was the first to greet me. She stood in an emerald green robe, her hair neatly braided, holding a suitcase with a bored expression. Beside her, Bulstrode argued with a tall woman who, judging by the resemblance, I assumed was her mother. Zabini was already on the train, leaning against the window with his eyes closed and a look of perfect indifference.

I approached without hurry.

“Potter,” Davis said, nodding politely, though a small smile curled on her lips. “You’re right on time. Millicent and I bet you’d be five minutes late.”

“You never bet in my favor,” I replied, almost in a murmur. I allowed myself a faint smile. It wasn’t entirely forced. “Is that Zabini?” I asked, pointing at the window.

“Been asleep since he arrived. Apparently spent the night at a ball in Florence. I’m convinced he’ll dream enough for all of us today,” Bulstrode commented, rolling her eyes, though with a tone that was almost brotherly.

We boarded the train without much more. The compartment where Zabini snored softly was spacious and empty, except for us. I placed my trunk in the luggage rack and sat by the window.

The scenery wasn’t moving yet, but the world was already changing.

I rested my elbow on the frame and my cheek against the back of my hand. I felt the cold metal of the bracelet under the long sleeve of my shirt. I’d worn it since the night of my birthday. No one had seen it yet, except for brief glints under the fabric. I kept it like that, as if it were a silent prayer no one should hear.

I wondered if that’s what I had been waiting for all along: not that he’d come to me, but that he’d simply remember me. That he’d name me somehow, even if only with silence.

Once again, the distance between us seemed infinite, and yet in that small piece of jewelry, I had found a certainty. He exists. He saw me. And he’s not done with me.

“Are you planning to stare out that window the whole ride?” Davis asked with a teasing tone.

“I’ve got nothing better to do,” I replied, not moving.

“You could talk to us, for example.”

I didn’t respond right away. Then I murmured:

“I’m trying.”

And I wasn’t lying.

Zabini was still asleep. His head, perfectly angled and positioned, rested on a neatly folded coat. No one had the cruelty to wake him, though Bulstrode cast him a critical glance every time his breathing got particularly loud.

“Have you finished the book I gave you?” Davis asked in a tone that seemed neutral but was laced with expectation.

“I’ve read it twice,” I answered without lifting my gaze. “I underlined a few parts, and copied others into my notebook.”

She nodded, as if she’d expected it. She didn’t say, “I’m glad you liked it.” She didn’t need to.

“Do you think what the author calls ‘the other realm’ is real?” I asked.

“Does it matter if it is?” Davis replied, crossing her legs. “If it only exists in our minds but changes us, isn’t it just as real?”

“No.” I fell silent for a moment. “But it’s enough.”

The conversation hung between us like smoke. Then Bulstrode, who had been flipping through a catalogue of ingredients, broke the silence with something more practical:

“And have you figured out what to put in the locket yet?”

The locket. I was wearing it, hidden beneath my clothes. Still empty. Still waiting for something I didn’t know how to name.

“Not yet,” I said.

“I thought you’d have something for it,” she added, without malice.

“I will,” I replied. Not as a promise. More like an inevitable fate.

Davis leaned toward me again, this time more lightly.

“What part of the book stood out to you the most? The chapter about the doors? The names that change?”

“The part about mirrors,” I said. “And the idea that there’s no difference between a vision and a memory if no one can prove otherwise. That every dream is a way of remembering something that hasn’t happened yet.”

Davis smiled. Bulstrode muttered something I didn’t catch and pulled out a candy box shaped like beetles. She offered me one without a word. I took it. It tasted of anise and something metallic.

The train began to move, and the world kept unfolding like an ancient scroll. It was strange: to be on the way to Hogwarts again, and feel like everything was different. Maybe I was the one who was.

“What if what we dream doesn’t come just from us?” Davis said, still gazing out the window. “What if there were ways to open the door… faster?”

“Like what?” Bulstrode asked skeptically, twirling a vial of bezoar dust between her fingers.

“Poppies,” Davis replied calmly. “The red ones, mostly. There are ancient rituals that use them as mediums to induce vision. Also the white ones, the ones that bleed milk if you boil them alive.”

“Isn’t that poison?” Bulstrode muttered.

“Anything that breaks through consciousness is, in a way,” I replied without thinking. It was a phrase from the book. Davis looked at me with approval. I added, “The opium extracted from them was used by Greek wizards to travel beyond the veils of perception. Not to sleep, but to see what lies beyond the dream.”

Zabini snorted in his corner, still asleep, as if reacting to our words without participating.

“Have you tried it?” Davis asked.

I shook my head, though my notebook had several diagrams of formulas using variants of papaver somniferum. I was intrigued by its symbolic properties as much as its physical ones.

“No,” I finally said. “What I might see comes on its own. And when it does, I can’t choose to ignore it.”

Davis nodded slowly, though her gaze stayed inquisitive.

Bulstrode looked uncomfortable. She closed her catalogue and tucked it away.

“I don’t like things that make me feel outside myself.”

“Some people don’t like losing control,” Davis said softly. “But there are those who never had it. And for them, a crack is better than a cell.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and played with the locket.

“It’s not about seeking visions,” I murmured. “Sometimes you just want to understand what what you’re already seeing is trying to tell you.”

Silence settled briefly over us like a mist.

Davis held my gaze. There was no judgment in her eyes, only a kind of mutual recognition. As if we both knew the veil wasn’t a curtain to be drawn back, but a skin torn gently from the inside out.

And the train kept moving, as if nothing were happening. As if what we were saying wasn’t a conversation, but a contained omen.

The train stopped with a metallic shudder, and everyone began to move as if awakening from a long slumber. I stood up unhurriedly, carefully closing my notebook and sliding it into a leather bag. Zabini stretched like a lazy cat and stepped out of the compartment with the unconscious elegance of someone used to the world waiting for him.

Outside, the air was colder than I expected. The sky was covered by a light mist that clung to the mountains like a formless omen. The carriages were already waiting for us—dark and ancient, their doors open like hungry mouths.

Zabini paused for a second before climbing in. His gaze shifted subtly but intently toward the front of the carriage. Where there was supposed to be nothing. Where everyone knew there was nothing. His brow furrowed slightly, as if noticing a tiny flaw in the world. But he said nothing. He simply got in.

The ride to the castle was brief. The wheels creaked over the damp earth, and the trees passed by like twisted shadows in the mist. Hogwarts rose in the distance, each tower outlined against the sky like a promise that could not yet be named.

The Great Hall was still as vast and impressive as I remembered, though the candlelight seemed a bit more golden this year, warmer. Or maybe it was just my perception, distorted by the months away from this place. I sat between Zabini and Davis, with Bulstrode and Pansy across from us. The Slytherin table had that subtle air of order, as if even the way you poured water said something about your lineage.

The Sorting began shortly after. The first-years entered through the doors led by Professor McGonagall. Their eyes were wide open, staring as if they had stepped into the heart of a dream.

I saw the redhead—the daughter of the man Lucius Malfoy had greeted in Diagon Alley. I recognized her instantly, even though we had never spoken. When her eyes met mine, I felt a strange jolt. There was no admiration in her expression, nor the shyness others often showed. It was something else: a kind of contained scrutiny, a mixture of suspicion and something close to fear. As if she were trying to recall a face she had seen elsewhere, under another form.

I didn’t look away. She did.

She was sorted into Gryffindor, as expected, and the table erupted in cheers. Her brothers hugged her and everything returned to its order.

But the feeling didn’t fade.

When the last hat was removed, Dumbledore stood with his usual smile. He greeted everyone with forced enthusiasm, announced the school rules in a nearly musical tone—without going into details no one really listened to—and then introduced the new teachers.

“And finally,” he said with more animated voice, as if he knew what was coming, “I am pleased to announce that our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor will be the celebrated author from your reading list… Professor Gilderoy Lockhart.”

The name burst into a wave of applause and exclamations—mostly from the girls. Several girls from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw let out soft squeals, and even among the Gryffindor benches a few audible sighs could be heard. Even some of the Slytherin girls—especially the older ones—straightened with more attention, smiling with that mix of interest and vanity sparked by someone who knows exactly how to wield their own reflection.

Lockhart appeared from between the side curtains with a theatrical twirl, arms wide open and a smile so white it seemed conjured.

“Thank you, thank you!” he exclaimed. “What a warm welcome! I shall certainly do my best to live up to your affection… although, I must warn you, it won’t be easy to resist my natural charm.”

Some girls laughed—and not mockingly.

Nott merely blinked slowly. Davis took a sip from her goblet with a neutral expression. Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Is that the one who wrote Voyages with Vampires?” Bulstrode muttered.

“And Wanderings with Werewolves… Charm Your Own Heart… Me and the Yeti…” Pansy listed, not bothering to hide her disdain.

“Me and the Yeti,” Nott repeated in a dry whisper, as if the title itself were a heresy.

Only Daphne said nothing. Her expression wasn’t annoyed or skeptical—it was more like the one you’d have upon seeing an ornate piece of furniture in an elegant room. Something that simply didn’t fit.

As for me, I watched Lockhart closely.

His smile was enormous. His voice, perfectly projected. But his eyes… his eyes seemed to try too hard to keep up with the energy of his façade. As if behind the charisma, there was a dissonant note the rest couldn’t hear.

The Great Hall had that particular light of mild days, when the sun filters through the stained-glass windows and turns cold stone into something almost welcoming. We were sitting at our table, reviewing the scrolls with our newly delivered schedules. Daphne frowned with elegance, Pansy complained, and Draco flipped through his timetable as if it were a war map.

“We’ve got Charms with Gryffindor,” Parkinson said almost disdainfully. “Why always them?”

“A curse,” Daphne muttered dryly. “A very persistent one.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but seemed more interested in something else. His voice grew livelier all of a sudden:

“This year I’m definitely making the Quidditch team. My father already spoke with Madam Hooch and… well, you’ll see.”

“You want to play?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course,” he replied, shrugging.

At that moment, a small and enthusiastic figure approached us from the Gryffindor table. He had messy hair and a camera hanging from his neck, which he clutched to his chest like a trophy.

“Hi!” he exclaimed. “You’re Harry Potter, right?”

I looked at him silently. The boy seemed to vibrate with excitement.

“I’m Colin Creevey. Can I take your picture? It’s just… it’s amazing to be in the same school as you! My dad’s a milkman, you know?! And when I told him, he nearly fell off his chair!”

Before I could answer, Pansy raised an eyebrow with a skeptical expression.

“And you are?”

“Colin. Creevey,” he repeated with a grin. He didn’t seem offended—just excited. “I’m going to send it to my dad, and then maybe… maybe you could sign it!”

Draco snorted. Daphne didn’t even look at him. I just nodded, vaguely uncomfortable, and before I realized it, the camera clicked and the boy already had a picture of me. The little Gryffindor hopped away.

“What was that?” Pansy asked with narrowed eyes.

“Peasants,” said Bulstrode simply, and everyone nodded as if it were a philosophical statement.

That was when the ceiling of the Great Hall darkened slightly with a new flight of owls. I looked up out of habit, not expecting anything. But one of them swooped directly toward me—elegant, with gray wings and eyes as sharp as the daggers of my thoughts. It carried a thin package, wrapped in satin black paper.

My chest tightened.

The owl descended silently and dropped the package in front of me. It didn’t wait for food or a caress—it departed with the same solemnity with which it had arrived.

The world faded around me. Only the box existed. My fingers trembled slightly as I opened it. Inside lay a black-covered notebook, flawless. My name was engraved in golden letters, each one like a constellation trapped in gold. On the first page, there was a message:

“For the one who searches without ceasing, even as the world sleeps. Write. Dream. Remember. What is yours will return.”

There was no signature. None was needed. The magic in those words wrapped around me like an invisible touch at the nape of my neck, like a voice that didn’t need sound to be heard.

The Lord of Dreams.

Second gift.

I pressed the notebook against my chest and smiled—inside and out. This wasn’t a common gift. It was a promise. A recognition. An invisible thread still pulled tight between us, firm, unbreakable.

The murmur of my classmates returned to my ears, but it no longer mattered.

I had a notebook. And he was watching me.

The classroom where Defense Against the Dark Arts was taught looked more like a narcissistic museum than an actual classroom. Portraits of Professor Lockhart covered every inch of the walls. In all of them, he was smiling, winking, raising his wand as if posing for a poorly written romance novel. There was even one where he was riding a dragon, his hair perfectly styled. I wondered if he truly believed anyone found him believable.

Well, someone did.

The girls, with few exceptions, were thrilled. Draco looked at Lockhart with tightly pressed lips, and Zabini… was asleep with his eyes open. A skill I deeply admired.

“Welcome, welcome,” said Lockhart, entering in a lilac cape that seemed to float around him more from dramatic will than actual magic. His smile was so white it made my eyes hurt.

“I am your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award,” he paused dramatically, “but I don’t talk about that much. I don’t like to boast.”

Daphne muttered something I couldn’t quite catch, but Pansy chuckled under her breath.

“Today we’ll have a hands-on experience!” Lockhart announced, patting a large cage covered with a turquoise cloth. “No boring books! Though, of course, you must have read Me and the Yeti for today.”

I had skimmed it. Three pages. The prose was mediocre, the dialogue absurd. But the cover showed him embracing a dead yeti with a heroic expression. Maybe that’s what really mattered.

“But first,” Lockhart said, stopping just as everyone expected him to release whatever was in the cage, “I want to make sure everyone read the summer material. A little quiz!”

He walked over to his desk, and with a flick of his wand, a thick stack of parchment flew to each desk. On the front, written in bright violet ink, it read: How Well Do You Know Gilderoy Lockhart?

I stared at it for a moment. The first question was: What is Professor Lockhart’s favorite color?

The second: According to Lockhart, what’s his best side for photos?

The third: What affectionate nickname did the Banshee of Banbridge give him?

I flipped through it. There wasn’t a single question about actual magical defense. No theory, no practice. Just him, him, and more him.

Daphne scoffed with cool elegance. Nott wrote his name lazily and stared at the ceiling. Goyle, to my surprise, began answering the questions. Bulstrode simply doodled in the margins with her enchanted quill. Pansy wrote at the top: What a waste of time.

I... answered three questions absurdly, just to see if he actually read the exams. For the favorite color: Grey, like his soul. For his best photo side: The one that doesn’t show his open mouth. And for the nickname: Gil-dorable, probably.

Then I handed in the parchment without another word.

“Wonderful!” Lockhart exclaimed, collecting the tests with a radiant smile. “I’m sure everyone scored a perfect ten! Especially…” he glanced at one randomly, “Miss Granger! Twenty-three out of twenty-five! Excellent! What a memory!”

And then Lockhart clapped his hands over the cage and unleashed the storm of pixies.

“We’re going to begin with a very mischievous little creature: Cornish pixies!”

He removed the cloth with a theatrical flourish, and the cage began to shake. A second later, hundreds of tiny blue creatures shot out like enchanted projectiles. One threw a backpack out the window. Another tangled itself in a Ravenclaw girl’s hair, who screamed.

The classroom descended into chaos.

Lockhart tried to calm them with a ridiculous “Settle down, you naughty little scamps!” before losing complete control.

Draco conjured a shield. Davis hit one with a closed book. Pansy was trying to shake one off her wand, while Bulstrode caught another in her backpack. I just watched, still seated. The pixies were fast, but not dangerous. Not really. Just small, chaotic, alive. The kind of creature that fed on noise and panic.

One flew at me with a shriek, and I stopped it with a Stunning Spell. It dropped to the floor, frozen. I nudged it gently with my foot.

Little by little, we got them under control. Nott managed to trap three under a bucket. Zabini only woke up when one bit him. He blinked and threw it against the wall.

The Gryffindors caught several too, although it’s more accurate to say Granger caught most of them. Longbottom ended up tangled in a chandelier, Finnigan caught a few but almost blew up a table, and Weasley seemed unable to cast his spells properly.

In the end, Lockhart clapped, disheveled, blushing, pretending everything had gone exactly as planned.

“Excellent! Very well done! A small taste of what we’ll be facing this year!”

No one believed him.

As we left, I heard Davis whisper to Bulstrode:

“Do you think he’s ever actually used a real wand?”

“Only as decoration,” Bulstrode replied.

I laughed inwardly.

As we exited the classroom, I opened my new notebook just a bit. The Lord of Dreams’ notebook. It still smelled of ink and old magic. I wrote a single line, not thinking too hard:

“Today we faced absurd things. Some mischievous pixies.”

I closed the cover softly, thinking that if he ever read it, maybe he’d smile.

The library smelled of ancient dust, dried ink, and worn leather. That kind of heavy silence that is more felt than heard wrapped around me, as if every unspoken word floated in the air. It was still early—early enough that most students were in class. I had murmured something to Madam Pince about advanced research—I'm not even sure she believed me—but she let me in. I slipped into a secluded corner, where the shelves were so tightly packed that barely a small table could fit between them.

I spread my new notebook out on the wooden surface. That black-covered notebook with my name engraved in gold. I touched it with my fingertips as if I could still hear the echo of the gift, feel the intention behind the magical signature of the Lord of Dreams. It was real. The second gift. It still didn’t feel real.

I opened one of the books I had brought with me: On the Herbs of Forgetting, Memory, and Revelation. The title itself already felt like a promise. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for.

Papaver somniferum.

I whispered the name aloud, barely a breath. I stopped there, just with that. Let it resonate within me like an incantation.

According to the text, it was a forbidden flower. Something that, in centuries past, had been used in divination rituals, trances, guided dreams. As I read, an idea struck me without asking permission: could I use it to see him?

The witches of the north used to combine it with herbs like henbane or datura. It spoke of intense visions, some even controlled. The book also warned of the dangers: dependence, overdose, becoming trapped in dreams without return.

None of that stopped me. If there was a possibility—even a single one—of provoking an encounter with him, I would try. I knew it with a certainty hard to explain, the same certainty that makes me breathe in sleep knowing he will come to find me.

I had asked about it out of curiosity in the shop where I ordered the solstice ingredients, in Knockturn Alley. I went a few days after buying the other materials. They told me they couldn’t sell me the flower. Not even them.

“Only seeds,” said the man with yellow teeth. “The flower is forbidden. Even we don’t touch it. I could put you in touch with someone, but we don’t guarantee delivery to Hogwarts. Too risky, kid.”

I thanked him, feigned disinterest, and left. But the conversation didn’t fade. I repeated it mentally every night.

And today, as I read, I understood. The rules were old, clumsy. They banned the sale. They banned trafficking, use. But not the seeds. Not cultivation. Planting poppies wasn’t technically illegal. Not yet.

And that gave me ideas.

I opened my black notebook, ran my fingertips over the first page. The gold of my name still gleamed in the light. I picked up my quill and wrote, slowly, with deliberate handwriting:

"What if I plant poppies?"

Chapter Text

The September sky had turned an almost uniform gray, as if a thick veil stretched over the castle, dulling even the living stone of Hogwarts. Tracey Davis and I were leaving the greenhouse, our steps sinking into the soft crunch of dry leaves. Davis had her hands clasped behind her back and a thoughtful expression, one of those that appeared when something intrigued her.

“So,” she said, looking straight ahead, “you want to plant poppies?”

I nodded silently. There was no need to repeat it; we had talked enough in the library and the Common Room. I knew that if anyone could tell me how to do it, it was her.

“You know they’re illegal?”

“Selling them is illegal,” I corrected, turning my face slightly to look at her. “Growing them isn’t. At least, not yet. I checked. I asked.”

Davis let out a soft laugh, as if she found my insistence amusing rather than alarming.

“Merlin, Potter. You’re going to end up arrested over a technicality. But you’re right,” she admitted with a shrug. “Technically it’s not forbidden to plant them. Of course, no one does because everyone assumes it is. Which, I suppose, works in your favor.”

“You suppose correctly.”

“All right,” she said, then stopped, turning toward me as a breeze tousled the loose strands of her bangs. “You’ve got two ways to do it. The Muggle way and the magical way.”

“I want to know both.”

“The Muggle way is simple: seed, soil, water, patience. They grow slowly. It can take weeks to germinate, months to bloom. But they survive, if you know how to care for them. The magical way is… different. Faster, more complex. You use germination, nourishment, stabilization spells. The plant responds more strongly to rituals if it was magically grown. More essence. More power.”

The idea drew me in strongly. There was something about it that felt right. If I wanted a true connection — a real vision — an ordinary flower wouldn’t be enough. I wanted the real thing. The intense thing.

“Could you teach me?”

She shook her head, almost immediately.

“Not even I can do it well. Maybe in a couple of years. But now… no. I’d fail, and I don’t have time for that. The one who could do it with her eyes closed is Professor Sprout.”

“She’s not going to help me grow illegal poppies without a good reason,” I muttered, not hiding the sarcasm.

“Correct,” Davis smiled. “Which is why we need another option.”

I looked at her, waiting.

“There’s someone,” she said, lowering her voice a bit, as if what she was about to say sounded a little ridiculous even to her, “who loves plants more than anyone in this school. Even more than me — and that’s saying a lot.”

I frowned.

“Who?”

“Neville Longbottom.”

I didn’t reply immediately. The name puzzled me. I knew him because he sat near Davis and Bulstrode in Herbology. The somewhat clumsy Gryffindor who sometimes tripped over his own robes. But he was… better than Davis in Herbology?

“Longbottom?”

Davis nodded, her lips curved in an almost amused smile.

“He has a natural talent. And I don’t mean a casual interest, Potter. He lives for plants. He has a sensitivity to them that’s hard to explain. He almost listens to them. Sprout adores him. And if you give him a seed, he can probably tell you its name, needs, and blooming time just by smelling it.”

I was still unconvinced. The image of Longbottom awkwardly watering a potted plant didn’t match what she was describing. Besides…

“And you think he’d be willing to grow illegal flowers for me?”

“That depends,” Davis replied. “If you spark his curiosity… if you make him feel like he’s part of a fascinating project, he might agree. When it comes to plants, his morality is fragile. Like his nerves.”

The idea left me in silence. I didn’t like depending on others for something so… intimate. But at the same time, the desire burned strongly under my skin. The desire to see him. To hear his voice. To be with him again, even through the darkest dream.

Maybe it was worth trying. Maybe.

“I’ll think about it,” I said at last, and Davis nodded, as if she already knew I would end up doing it.

We were walking across the grounds toward the castle, and she kept explaining to me the differences between Muggle and magical cultivation of the opium poppy. The conversation had been more useful than I expected. Although I still wasn’t entirely convinced about involving another student — much less Longbottom.

But the conversation was abruptly cut off when we heard raised voices in the distance.

“What’s going on?” I asked, stopping with Davis at the edge of the Quidditch pitch.

“Looks like the lions and snakes are fighting over who gets to breathe the air,” she said dryly, nodding in the direction.

I stepped a bit closer. There were Flint, jaw clenched, and the Gryffindor captain — Wood, I thought — looking ready to explode. Around them, the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams argued, each with their brooms slung over their shoulders. On the Slytherin side stood Draco, wearing a falsely innocent expression and holding a shiny Nimbus 2001.

“You didn’t reserve the pitch,” the Gryffindor captain — Wood, I was pretty sure — said, red to the ears.

“What matters is that we have Professor Snape’s permission,” Flint replied, as calm as if he were reading a train schedule. “Additional training to prepare for the season.”

“Snape can’t give you the pitch if it was already booked!” Wood protested.

“Oh, but he did,” Draco said, stepping forward and holding up his broom like a trophy. “And with good reason. Our team has improved considerably since last year.”

“Oh, really?” someone from Gryffindor said, crossing their arms. “And why’s that?”

“Because we have a new Seeker,” Draco announced with a satisfied smile, turning toward us and slightly lifting his broom. “And not just any Seeker. One with style.”

The Gryffindors looked on with expressions ranging from disbelief to irritation.

“A Nimbus 2001,” a Gryffindor player murmured. “The whole series?”

“Specially bought for the team,” Draco replied with a slight nod. “My father thought it was time to invest in Slytherin’s future.”

“Your father bought brooms for all of you?” Wood asked, staring at Flint in disbelief. “Is that how you pick players now?”

A sharp voice cut in from the Gryffindor group.

“In our house, we don’t buy team positions,” said the bushy-haired girl. Granger.

Draco looked at her like he’d just smelled something foul.

“No one asked your opinion, filthy little Mudblood.”

Davis let out a silent laugh beside me. I watched silently, not intervening. The scene had a theatrical quality, but it was also revealing: it showed everyone exactly as they were. Flint, pragmatic. Wood, obsessed. Draco, proud and strategically mocking. And Granger, loyal to her sense of justice, even when she didn’t know when to shut up.

“Let’s go,” Davis murmured. “This is going to end with prefects making threats and someone getting detention.”

“Yeah,” I said, casting one last glance at the Nimbus in Draco’s hands. “But at least it entertained us for a bit.”

And with that, we resumed our walk, the conversation about illegal flowers still lingering in the air.

We were in one of Hogwarts’ inner courtyards, where the sun still hadn’t decided whether it was warming or simply lighting things up. The air had that gentle early autumn freshness that made the cold marble beneath our robes bearable. Zabini was waving his wand with movements he clearly should’ve mastered earlier, but had apparently spent that time sleeping instead. Nott, as usual, was buried in a book, this time a volume on ancient runes that seemed to weigh more than my bag. I, for my part, was torn between writing and thinking.

On my lap was the black-covered notebook the Lord of Dreams had sent me. The second gift. Just looking at it ignited something inside me I couldn’t name. It was a mix of gratitude and debt, an inexplicable certainty that I had to live up to whatever it was He expected of me.

With a black quill, I was trying to copy, stroke by stroke, the strange symbols I remembered from the notebook that vanished back in first year. They weren’t runes. Not entirely. They weren’t common words either. They were shapes that seemed to exist for another kind of mind, as if they weren’t made to be read, but understood from within.

The more I copied, the more... sense they made. But that sense also kept unraveling. Like a sentence that starts off coherent and then falls apart as you say it. A dull ache had begun to form in my left temple.

And then, like in a bad slapstick magical joke, Boot—always Boot, always running where he shouldn’t—tripped as he passed too close to the group of second-year Gryffindor girls. One of them lost her balance, and the universe, in its peculiar sense of humor, decided she should fall directly on top of me.

“Sorry!” she exclaimed, standing up at once, her face red.

It was one of the Patil twins.

When she saw my notebook fallen to one side, she quickly bent down to pick it up. Out of kindness, I suppose.

But when she grabbed it and her eyes landed on the page I’d been writing on, she froze. Her whole body seemed to tense up for a second too long. As if she’d read something she wasn’t meant to. Without another word, she handed the notebook back and walked off quickly, following her friends without looking back.

I watched her go, slightly confused. What had she seen? What had she... recognized?

“What was that?” Zabini asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Did you do something to Patil before?” Nott asked, not looking up from his book.

“No,” I replied, closing the notebook calmly. But not as calmly as I wanted to seem.

Zabini and Nott exchanged a look over my head. One of those silent glances that meant something, though I didn’t quite understand what.

Zabini reached out without asking and took the notebook from my fingers before I could stash it away. He opened it to the same page Patil had seen.

Nott, curious, set his book aside to peek over Zabini’s shoulder.

“What are you writing there?” Nott asked, frowning. “Are those runes? No… they’re not?”

Zabini didn’t say anything. He had gone completely still.

“Zabini?” I asked, slightly uneasy at his silence.

He looked at me then, very serious, and said:

“Potter… why are you writing in Parseltongue?”

I froze. Completely still.

“Parseltongue?” I repeated quietly, as if chewing the word might give me some clarity. “What is that?”

Zabini and Nott exchanged a brief look. It was Nott who spoke first, dropping into a neutral, almost academic tone.

“It’s the language of snakes. A ‘Parseltongue’ is someone who can speak it. It’s very rare. Very... specific.”

“And dark,” added Zabini, crossing his arms. “At least here. In Britain.”

I was now staring at the notebook like it contained a trap I hadn’t noticed. The words I’d written still sat there, quiet and innocent on the page, as if unaware they shouldn’t exist.

“I don’t know,” I murmured.

Zabini sighed. He didn’t seem angry. More intrigued.

“Patil,” he began, as if that explained something. “She’s also part of the magical community of Bharat. India. There, Parseltongue isn’t considered dark. Quite the opposite. It’s a sacred language. There are ancient temples with walls engraved in Parseltongue, though hardly anyone speaks it anymore. But it’s still revered, like a living relic.”

That surprised me, but what came next did even more.

“Here, though, it’s different. Here it’s associated only with the Dark Lord,” he said, his voice dropping slightly at the name. “He spoke to snakes. He used that language. So... you know.”

And that’s when something clicked inside me.

The Dark Lord. Red eyes. Snake tongue. A constant presence in dreams, in thoughts, in symbols that slid like echoes along the edges of my mind. The Lord of Dreams.

My stomach turned in a way I couldn’t tell was vertigo, fear, or pure denial.

“So then…” Nott murmured, “if Patil speaks up, the rumors about you will start again.”

No one said anything for a moment. Only the sound of Zabini spinning his wand between his fingers.

I closed the notebook. I stood up slowly, unhurried, without looking at either of them. The notebook felt heavier in my hands now. As if it held more than ink and paper.

And as I walked toward nowhere in particular, I knew that this time I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen the connection. Maybe I could still deny it. But not ignore it.

The library was emptier than usual for that time of day. Maybe because it was Thursday, or maybe because the Gryffindors lately seemed more interested in whispering in groups than studying. I noticed a few glances. Not many, but enough to register. Gryffindors, mostly. A couple from a table full of Ravenclaws too. The Patil from that house, the one who didn’t fall on me, stared at me a moment too long before returning to her parchment.

I chose to ignore them. All of them. I had no time for their suspicions, nor any interest in feeding gossip. And if Patil had understood something from what she saw in my notebook, let her do whatever she wanted. It wouldn’t change anything.

I leaned over the book Davis had gotten for me. The pages were worn, the covers dusty and bearing a torn-out seal on the first page, as if someone had tried to erase its origin. A folded note, written in Davis’ neat hand, warned: “Don’t ask where I got it. Just read.”

So I did.

It was filled with complex descriptions of Papaver somniferum varieties, with traditional and magical cultivation methods. Some words were crossed out by hand. Others underlined in red ink.

I was so focused I didn’t notice them arrive.

“That flower,” said a raspy female voice to my left.

“Is dangerous,” added another, to my right.

I looked up and there they were. The Carrow twins. A year older than me, also Slytherins, though I’d never bothered to learn which was which. And honestly, I wasn’t sure it mattered.

Both sat beside me without asking. One dropped a worn leather bag onto the table with a dull thud; the other crossed her legs on the bench like she’d lived there her whole life.

“Are you studying them for botanical interest,” one asked, leaning toward the sketch I was trying to copy from the book, “or for something more interesting?”

“Do you have experience?” I asked, not quite answering.

“Herbology’s the only thing worth doing here,” said the other. “Everything else is theatre.”

“Except Potions,” her sister corrected. “But that’s just cooked herbology.”

They weren’t subtle. They didn’t try to be. They had that peculiar kind of intelligence that didn’t shine in class, but dripped certainty in corners. And they didn’t seem to care about the legality of what I was researching. That, to me, was gold.

We kept talking, and the more we did, the clearer it became: I couldn’t do this alone. Magical poppy cultivation required constant attention, daily monitoring, delicate adjustments in temperature and ambient magic. I couldn’t skip classes. I couldn’t neglect my grades or raise suspicion.

I already had the place in mind: one of the secondary greenhouses Professor Sprout offered to students pursuing private projects. If I knew how to ask, she wouldn’t ask too many questions.

The Carrows offered before I could even suggest it.

“If you decide to do it,” said one of them—the one with slightly darker hair—“ask us for help. We’re not good girls. But we’re useful girls.”

I limited myself to nodding. They were a bit strange, yes. But intelligent. Practical. And not held back by morality. Which, in this case, was exactly what I needed.

I already had the place. I already had the knowledge.

What I needed was a gardener. And for some damn reason, the only viable option was Neville Longbottom.

As I left the library, I found Daphne waiting for me in the hallway, leaning against one of the enchanted suits of armor that pretended to be dozing, though it blinked every now and then. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes—cold as ever—were studying me closely.

"Are you joining the dueling club?" she asked, as if we’d been talking all day.

"The what club?"

"Dueling. Lockhart opened it. Gave a dreadful announcement this morning, with golden swirls and everything. Apparently, he wants to teach students how to defend themselves—as if he could defend himself from anything more dangerous than a blunt quill."

I frowned.

"I'm not joining anything organized by Lockhart."

She gave a crooked, ironic smile.

"Me neither. But they say Professor Snape will be there. And learning dueling from him would be... well, useful."

I didn’t reply. I thought of Snape and his stares. He’s been… odd lately. More than usual. He looks at me as if he's waiting for me to spontaneously combust. His mood sours whenever I’m near.

We kept walking. We were going down one of the less traveled corridors when we heard hurried footsteps and voices far too loud for the narrow space. A group of Gryffindors was heading our way: Weasley, Granger, Finnigan, Thomas… and the Gryffindor Patil.

Of course, Weasley opened his mouth before anyone could stop him.

"Well, well! Look who’s strolling around with his little snake girlfriend Planning to practice curses in some hidden room?"

I stopped, raising an eyebrow at Weasley.

"What a subtle observation. You should’ve rehearsed it in front of a mirror before saying it out loud. Or better yet, never said it at all."

Daphne let out a soft snort that could have been a laugh. Or a yawn. Granger looked at Weasley like she wished she could shove a sock in his mouth.

"Got a problem, Potter?" said Thomas, stepping forward.

"Only when dogs start barking for no reason," I replied—and thought to myself I was spending too much time with Draco.

And as if thinking it summoned him, Draco appeared at the other end of the corridor with Crabbe and Goyle behind him like two brainless columns. His eyes sparkled at the tension in the air, as if it fed him.

"How touching," he said acidly. "The Gryffindor squad defending their offended damsel. Or is it the other way around... with you lot, it’s hard to tell."

"Go away, Malfoy," Granger growled, but he was already far too comfortable in his role to obey.

That’s when it happened.

In a clumsy, clearly impulsive movement, the Gryffindor Patil raised her wand and muttered Serpensortia with a voice firmer than I’d expected from her.

From the tip of her wand burst a black, long, scaly snake that hit the ground with a dry thud. It coiled for a second, hissing, and then launched itself toward us.

No. Not toward us.

Toward Daphne.

I saw her expression harden, her hand move toward her wand, but there was no time. And the snake was too close.

Before I could even think, I raised my wand.

And before I even waved it, I spoke.

"Stop."

The word came out like a breath, direct, precise. And not in English.

The snake froze immediately, hissing in the air, raised a few inches off the ground as if waiting for another order.

The entire corridor fell silent.

Every face, on both sides, turned to me. The snake lowered its head, motionless. I made no gesture, said nothing else. With another quick flick, I cast Evanesco, dissolving its body into smoke.

And then the whispers began. Weasley frowned. Granger’s mouth fell open, as if she was about to speak but held back. Patil looked frozen, her face pale.

Draco, of course, smiled.

But I looked at no one.

One more second of silence—and it exploded.

"What was that?" shouted Finnigan, stepping back as if the snake were still slithering on the floor.

"You spoke to it?" Granger whispered, wide-eyed. "You... talked to it?"

"Was that Parseltongue?" asked Thomas, glancing around like he expected someone to deny it.

"What the hell does that mean?!" Weasley pointed an accusatory finger. "Only Dark wizards can do that! That’s... that’s Dark Magic!"

The Gryffindor Patil said nothing. Her lips were tight, her eyes fixed on the empty space where the snake had been. She was barely breathing.

Draco, of course, was the first to break the silence with a low chuckle.

"Well, well, Harry. Who would’ve thought that out of all of us, you would turn out to be the true Slytherin? Our little Heir of Slytherin."

I forced myself to keep a neutral face, though inside everything was trembling. I could feel the blood pounding in my ears.

"So what are you waiting for, Draco?" I murmured sarcastically. "Get on your knees."

Before anyone could say another word, a shadow glided down the hallway. Cold, long, inevitable.

"What is going on here?"

Professor Snape’s voice hit like a splash of icy water. Everyone turned. He was there, robes billowing behind him, expression carved in stone. But his eyes were locked on me. As if he already knew.

Professor Snape’s office smelled of dry leaves and dark vinegar. As if the very air was slowly aging in jars. Every corner was taken up by something that bubbled, smoked, or waited.

I sat down because I was ordered to with a single gesture. Snape remained standing, his back to me, watching one of the shelves as if at any moment it might give up a secret.

“So,” he said at last. “Tell me about the incident.”

He didn’t ask if I was all right. He didn’t say “why” or “how.” Just that. As if I were a rebellious ingredient that had jumped out of the cauldron.

I sighed, folding my hands over my knees.

“Patil cast the spell. ‘Serpensortia.’ I guess she wanted to scare me.”

“And you?”

“I... I wasn’t going to do anything. But the snake attacked Greengrass. It was a reflex.”

Snape turned his face slightly, just enough for me to catch the edge of a raised eyebrow.

“A reflex? And this reflex involved speaking to it?”

I forced myself not to look away.

“I told it to stop. Before I vanished it.”

Silence returned, thick as a dense potion.

“And you did this with words?” Snape asked, finally turning to face me.

“Yes.”

“In Parseltongue?”

I nodded.

His eyes closed for just a second, and when he opened them again, he was no longer a teacher questioning a student. He was something closer to annoyance.

“And I can assume it wasn’t something you planned?”

“No,” I replied. Then, more quietly, “I didn’t know I could speak Parseltongue. Not until recently.”

He approached his desk, placing both hands on the wood with a tense gesture. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

“Ideally,” he said in a voice so measured it sounded written, “this never would’ve come to light. Ever. But it’s too late for that. Your little display... won’t go unnoticed.”

“It wasn’t a display,” I replied—perhaps more quickly than I should have.

His eyes pierced me like pins.

“No. But it will look like one.”

He walked slowly around the desk, as if the air itself were viscous.

“Rumors, Potter, are like poisonous mushrooms. They grow in the dampness of fear. And you’ve just watered them with words few have ever spoken.”

I remained silent.

“Keep a low profile,” he added, stopping behind my chair. I felt him more than heard him. “Avoid provocations. Don’t talk to snakes. Don’t talk about snakes.”

“And if someone asks me?”

“Then,” he said with dangerous softness, “don’t answer.”

There was a moment when I thought he might say something more. But he simply stayed behind me, like a shadow with a voice.

“May I go?”

“Yes.”

I stood. Walked to the door. His voice reached me as I gripped the doorknob.

“And Potter…”

I stopped.

“Whatever it is that’s waking inside you… don’t feed it with pride.”

I didn’t reply. I closed the door carefully, and swallowed the questions that wanted to crawl out.

When I walked through the doors of the Great Hall, the murmuring in the air tensed as if someone had sliced the surface of a calm lake.

It didn’t stop entirely. It just changed tone. Lower, damper. As if the whole hall were exhaling a single name. Not my real name. A different one.

The one who speaks to snakes.

I walked between the tables like someone stepping on glass. I didn’t look at anyone, but I felt every gaze like a taut string pulling at my ribs. To my left, a pair of Ravenclaws whispered with hands covering their mouths, as if afraid I could hear them from a distance. One had her hair in a perfect braid, the other wore a wrinkled robe. I didn’t recognize their faces. But their eyes knew who I was.

I passed by the Gryffindor table and felt, more than saw, heads turning slightly. Weasley didn’t bother to hide it. He looked at me as if waiting for me to open my mouth and start hissing at him. The Gryffindor Patil didn’t look at me at all. Her back was stiff. Granger had an eyebrow raised. Finnigan shot me a glance full of poorly restrained fire. Only Thomas seemed unsure.

At the Slytherin table, Zabini moved aside slightly and left a space for me between him and Nott, without saying a word. Not a single word. But that gesture meant something. Nott, for his part, looked more serious than usual, his fingers drumming on the table as if his mind were twenty steps ahead. Malfoy gave me a lazy smile from further down. Pansy looked like she had a thousand questions.

I sat down.

And the murmuring continued.

A piece of bread, a spoonful of stew, a glass of water. The world kept turning. But now, every movement of mine seemed to record something invisible in the air, as if I were a rare creature just introduced to its natural habitat.

“How do you say ‘pass the salt’ in Parseltongue?” someone at the Gryffindor table muttered under their breath, just loud enough for me to hear. Stifled laughter. I didn’t look.

Zabini murmured:

“Welcome to mythology, Potter.”

I didn’t know if he meant it mockingly, resignedly, or with admiration. Maybe a bit of all three.

I chewed in silence, surrounded by whispers, and for the first time in a long while, I felt the air taste different. Heavy. Metallic. As if it carried my name in every particle.

This wasn’t going to be a quiet year either.

Chapter Text

The beginning of October had brought colder air, heavy with that damp smell of wet earth and falling leaves that seemed to wrap the whole castle in it. The lake stirred slowly beneath the gray sky, and the branches of the nearby trees creaked softly, as if they wanted to tell me something they couldn’t quite express.

Perfect.

I had everything. The list of ingredients, the necessary mixtures, the place secured. Professor Sprout, delighted with my supposed enthusiasm for Herbology, didn’t hesitate to lend me one of the secondary greenhouses for “my personal project.” She even congratulated me for showing academic initiative. If only she knew…

The Carrow twins confirmed their participation with identical smiles, like reflections in a slightly cracked mirror. I never knew which was which, and I didn’t really care: they were both efficient, discreet, and had no issue with the psychoactive properties of the flower in question. Davis also agreed to join, though she made it clear that she’d only do so if a certain Gryffindor she considered “useful” was involved too.

Neville Longbottom.

A little bird —with sharp feathers and better-aimed comments than most adults— had told me that Snape had verbally torn him apart in class after botching a potion. Nothing new. What was interesting was what came next: Longbottom, on the verge of tears, had fled to his usual corner —a twisted tree by the lake— where he went to cry when the magical world felt too real.

That’s where I was headed.

The breeze brushed against my face as I descended the slope, my robes fluttering around me like an elongated shadow. I saw him from a distance before he saw me: hunched over, head between his knees, breathing in short bursts. He looked like a small child dressed as a wizard. So easy to read.

When he noticed me, he stiffened. Straightened up as if someone had pushed him from behind, eyes wide, breath held. A mix of fear and alarm colored his round face.

“I’m not going to turn you into stone, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said, stopping a few steps away.

He swallowed.

“W-what do you want?”

“Your help. Nothing terrible,” I added with a shrug. “You don’t have to sacrifice anyone or kiss any snakes. Just water some flowers.”

He looked at me like he didn’t know if I was joking or threatening him. I didn’t blame him. Half the castle thought I talked to basilisks in my free time and was plotting to become a Dark Lord.

Thanks, Patil.

“It’s a Herbology project. Extracurricular. I already spoke to Sprout. She gave me a private space in one of the greenhouses.”

“You… interested in Herbology?” he asked with a nervous laugh. It wasn’t mocking, just confused.

“Why not? I’m interested in a particular plant. It requires dedication, constant care, and… help.”

Longbottom studied me like he was trying to see if I had fangs behind my tongue. He didn’t respond.

“The Carrows are part of the project too,” I added bluntly.

“The… twins?” he asked, lowering his voice. I nodded.

His expression hardened slightly.

“They’re… odd.”

“They’re effective. And they don’t ask unnecessary questions. Davis is also interested, but only if you join.”

That surprised him. I could see his posture shift a little. Davis had a fairly… solid reputation, relatively speaking. And she didn’t talk to just anyone.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re good at this. Even if Snape can’t see it. And because I trust your trembling hands more than any other student who spends more time insulting me than reading their notes.”

Silence. The lake kept breathing beside us.

Finally, he lowered his head.

“What kind of plant is it?”

A small, controlled smile slid across my lips.

“Nocturne poppy. A variety not listed in any first or second-year books. It has… interesting properties.”

Longbottom frowned.

“Is this legal?”

“It is if Sprout doesn’t ask too many questions. And she didn’t.”

I reconsidered.

“I’m not going to get you in trouble, Longbottom. If you say no, that’s fine. I’ll manage. But if you say yes… it’s good work. You’ll learn more from this than in an entire year of classes.”

He stayed quiet. Staring at the lake, as if searching for something on the surface.

“I’ll think about it.”

I nodded.

“Do that. But don’t take too long.”

And I left. I didn’t rush him, didn’t pressure him. I had already planted the seed. The rest was just a matter of time.

On the way to Transfiguration, Pansy and Nott were talking with restrained excitement about the previous class. A banal conversation, yet comforting in its superficiality. I liked when they talked to each other. It gave me space to think.

About the poppies.

The plan was already clear in my mind: first the magical compost, then the energy-containment runes, the lunar stimulation charm, and finally watering with the dried nebula infusion. If we didn’t make any mistakes, the flowers should start sprouting in a month. One month. Thirty days, give or take, until I could test the first bloom. Until I could willingly induce the visions.

Until I could see the Lord of Dreams… at will.

An idea as absurd as it was enticing. And dangerous. But curiosity was stronger. It was stronger than almost anything in me.

The voices around us were like flies: persistent buzzing, annoying, easy to ignore. I knew what they were saying. That I was the Heir of Slytherin. That I spoke to snakes. That maybe I was cursed.

Nothing new. Nothing useful.

At least the Slytherins took it with humor.

“Prince of Slytherin, the one who whispers to serpents,” Zabini had called me the night before, raising his pumpkin juice in a sarcastic toast. Some had laughed. I did too, a little. I was starting to accept this strange role they had built for me. If I couldn’t destroy the myth, maybe I could manipulate it.

“Do you think today she’ll let us try with living objects?” Pansy asked Nott.

“Would make sense. We’ve already mastered the basics,” he replied.

I said nothing. I was still thinking about blooming times. Whether I should test the flower alone, or induce the vision with a Carrow nearby, for safety. What if…?

“Harry!”

I didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The voice was like a high-pitched whistle: unmistakable.

Colin Creevey. The Gryffindor boy had managed to make me remember his name.

He materialized beside me as if he’d crawled out of a crack in the stone. The camera hung from his neck like an amulet, and his face beamed with wild excitement. Pansy let out an audible sigh and crossed her arms. Nott didn’t even look at him.

“Hi, Harry! Is it true you spoke Parseltongue? I saw it all! Well, almost all of it. The snake was real, right? And you talked to it? What exactly did you say?”

“Creevey,” I said calmly, stopping to face him. My eyes scanned him from top to bottom without effort. “Do you know what happens when snakes feel cornered?”

He blinked.

“W-what happens?”

“They bite. Sometimes, in very painful places. Now, unless you want to find out where, I suggest you get out of the way.”

It wasn’t a shout. Not even a growl. It was something much worse: cold politeness, wrapped in venom.

Creevey went pale and stepped back without another word. The camera clinked softly as he retreated.

“That one was new,” Nott murmured with a half-smile.

“Too soft, if you ask me,” said Pansy, amused.

We kept walking, with the voices behind us like a wave that never quite broke. But I didn’t look back. I was used to the shadows. And some flowers grow best when no one is watching.

The air in Greenhouse Three was humid and dense, saturated with invisible spores and the aggressive scent of enchanted fungi. Amid the buzzing of insects and the murmur of leaves that moved as if they were breathing, the students’ voices could be heard—some more lively than others.

The Gryffindors were huddled in their corner like a wary animal, and the Slytherins masked their disdain with vaguely elegant gestures. It was an established routine, a dance of social mistrust we had already grown used to.

Neville Longbottom was three benches away. He looked smaller than usual, hunched next to the box of cuttings he had been assigned. I wondered if he was still thinking about saying no.

Professor Sprout was talking about maddening ivy, and I nodded automatically. I had already read everything that mattered.

The moment came when she moved away to check Brown’s work—who was on the verge of causing an accident—and Neville, after a nervous glance around, approached my workstation as if walking on glass.

"Potter," he murmured. He didn’t look at me directly, but he didn’t avert his gaze either.

I set the cutting between my fingers and watched him silently. He had dirt on his cheek and a trembling line at the corner of his lips. But he didn’t back away.

"I’ll do it," he finally said. "I want to work on the poppies."

His words were soft, but carried the weight of a deep decision. In his eyes, there was no pure bravery or conviction. There was fear, yes, like a crouched animal—but also a bright, almost feverish spark: the same one I had seen in the mirror many times. Curiosity.

"Good," I replied, and felt the smile come to me unbidden, like a flower breaking through bark. It wasn’t cruel or cynical. It was... genuine. "We’ll have a lot of fun."

Neville swallowed hard, uneasy. But he nodded.

"After classes I’m free on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Saturdays too, and Sunday mornings," he murmured. "And I can come early on Mondays, if needed. I suppose there’s no rule that says we can’t plant before breakfast."

"Perfect," I said. And it was. Not just because of what we could do together, but because now the responsibility was shared, like a spell cast by many wands.

Instinctively, I touched my wrist. Beneath the shirt sleeve, the bracelet rested cold and metallic against my skin, like a secret promise. My smile widened.

"Thank you, Longbottom," I said—this time, with full sincerity.

He nodded and returned to his place without another word. He walked with more determination than before.

The poppies would bloom. And if all went well, the Lord of Dreams would appear beneath the magical dew, among enchanted petals. I would see him with my own eyes. And I wouldn’t wake up.

Secondary Greenhouse Seven hadn’t been used in years. Moss had claimed the iron frames, and the floor was a blend of compacted soil, ancient roots, and forgotten tools. Perfect. I needed a space with history—not clean, not sterile. One that could absorb the weight of what we were about to do.

I had arrived before the others. I took a few minutes to prepare the central table, mentally outline the task sequence. The boxes with special fertilizer, the jars with solutions, the cuttings wrapped in waxed leaves, the magical poppy seeds in their brown silk pouch.

The first to arrive was Longbottom, arms crossed over his chest and back tense as if preparing for war.

"What’s that?" he asked, pointing to one of the jars with illegible labels.

"Enchanted root nutrient," I replied. " I got it from there.."

Longbottom mumbled something unintelligible, but stepped closer and began inspecting the materials carefully. His expression changed when he touched the seeds. He held them with a mixture of respect and fear.

"These... these aren’t just any poppies."

"They’re not," I said simply.

Soon after, the Carrow twins arrived, walking in mirror image, as if one were replicating the other’s reflection. Their hair was braided and they wore black gardening gloves, which didn’t hide the curious gleam in their eyes for a second. They sat down without asking permission or greeting, as if the greenhouse belonged to them. One raised an eyebrow, the other smiled slightly, as if amused by an inside joke.

"We brought powdered moonroot," said one.

"And dark mead. According to some ancient texts, it boosts the vitality of the cycle," said the other.

I nodded, accepting both jars without asking their origin. At this point, it was better not to ask too many questions. Morality interested me less than the outcome.

Davis arrived last, with a ribbon in her hair that never stayed in place. She shrugged when she saw the twins.

"I found them in the corridor arguing whether it’s better to plant under a new or waxing moon," she said. "Don’t ask who won."

Neville watched us as if we were all untrustworthy creatures, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he turned to the twins, eyes narrowed.

"You’re Hestia," he said to one of them.

The twin in question looked up, surprised. The other smiled.

"And how do you know that?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Neville shrugged and didn’t answer.

The twins exchanged glances. The one who must have been Flora shrugged with a crooked smile. Hestia, for her part, muttered:

"Well. That was unexpected."

I was surprised too. Longbottom had talent. Not just for Herbology, but for observing. And, apparently, for not being fooled.

"I knew you’d be useful," said Davis with a half-smile.

"We’ll see," Neville murmured, heading toward the worktable.

We began. I assigned tasks: Davis with the solutions, Hestia and Flora in charge of the enchanted soil and drainage. Neville and I prepared the cuttings and planting bases. We worked in near-reverent silence, as if any word could break the spell of that first afternoon.

The greenhouse smelled of dust, moisture, something ancient and expectant. As if the earth itself were holding its breath.

We were planting more than flowers. We were building a bridge. And if all went well, when those flowers opened their magical petals, I would cross.

October 31st had always felt like an uncomfortable day to me, as if the world were breathing with only one lung—slower, more restrained. At Hogwarts, everything was decorated with floating pumpkins, enchanted garlands, and dim lights that tried to seem festive but always struck me as sepulchral. The shadows stretched longer than usual. The wind outside whistled as if it remembered things the living would rather forget.

I wasn’t a member of the art club, but Professor Sinistra had told me I could drop by whenever I wanted. That afternoon, I needed space. Silence. A place where I wouldn’t have to hear whispers around every corner or the word heir repeated until it became meaningless.

I sat in front of an easel without thinking too much. The brushes were waiting for me. I let my hands move on their own.

I was thinking about poppies, their fleshy roots, the way their buds still slept beneath the ground, as if waiting for permission to wake. I thought about the Lord of Dreams and the increasingly tangible possibility of seeing him again… of calling him.

The brush’s voice on the canvas lulled me. Everything else disappeared. When I became aware of my surroundings again, I sensed someone standing beside me.

“Is that me?”

Zabini.

I blinked. Looked at the painting closely, as if seeing it for the first time.

And there he was. Blaise Zabini, draped in a Greek-style robe that left one shoulder and part of his chest exposed, a black snake coiled around his arms. His expression hovered between provocative and bored. That look he wore when he wanted everyone to think he didn’t care—when in truth, he cared. Deeply.

I ran a hand over the back of my neck, uneasy.

“It wasn’t intentional,” I muttered. “It’s your fault for posing like that. You looked like one of those naked statues in museums.”

Zabini let out a brief, elegant laugh. Sometimes he dropped by the club to model.

“I didn’t know you had such a good visual memory, Potter. Was that before or after you found out you could talk to snakes?”

I rolled my eyes, not in the mood to revisit that topic.

“Probably while wondering why everyone gets so obsessed with what I say or don’t say.”

He looked at the painting again, tilting his head thoughtfully. After a moment of silence, he asked:

“Can I keep it?”

“What?”

“The painting. I like how I look. And you nailed that exact expression I use when I’m trying to seem mysterious.”

I chuckled under my breath. I wasn’t sure if he was being sincere or making fun of himself a little. With Zabini, it was never easy to tell.

“Are you going to hang it in your dorm?”

“Please, Potter. I have pride, but not that much. I’m sending it to my mother in Italy. There’s a gallery in the manor. And this…” he looked at the painting like someone evaluating a glass of wine, “deserves a wall. It’d be a shame to deprive the world of its beauty.”

I nodded, amused. Zabini’s ego could be quite the show, but there was something liberating about it. Next to him, the tension that usually tightened my shoulders eased a bit. He made me forget the weight of whispers, rumors, and the stares heavy with fear or morbid curiosity.

When we left the classroom, night had already claimed the corridors. All of Hogwarts breathed the dense, festive air of Halloween. And as we descended the stairs, I could still see in my mind the poppies that hadn’t bloomed yet, the ones waiting underground. I felt the bracelet under my sleeve. I smiled, barely.

Everything was going according to plan.

“You know,” said Zabini, crossing his arms, “if you keep painting me like that, I might actually start believing I’m Narcissus reincarnated.”

“You don’t need paintings for that,” I said.

And that’s when we saw him.

A small boy with dark blond hair, his robes disheveled and a dazed expression on his face, walked down the opposite corridor. Colin Creevey. The boy with the camera. The one who usually ran through the halls like the world was a theme park made just for him.

Only now, he wasn’t running. He was walking slowly. Hesitantly. And his eyes were blank. The boy blinked when he saw us. He looked at me, then at Zabini, then around him, as if he didn’t understand where he was.

“I… I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he murmured. “I remember… the Hat… the voice saying ‘Gryffindor’… and then… I don’t know. I was walking. I was just walking.”

I noticed the camera hanging from his neck—broken, with the lens cracked and the strap frayed as if someone had torn it from his hands. Colin looked down and held it as if only now realizing it was there. Then he began to cry. Not quietly. Not with dignity. He cried with a high-pitched, childish, desperate wail. His sobs echoed down the corridor like a grotesque sound loop.

“Why… can’t I… remember anything?” Colin sobbed.

Zabini tensed beside me.

“That’s…” he murmured, frowning. “That looks like an Obliviate. But a bad one. A really bad one.”

I turned toward him.

“A what?”

“A memory charm,” he explained. “But this isn’t professional. It’s… sloppy. Irregular. Like someone tried to erase something very specific but didn’t know how to do it properly.”

The air grew colder.

Colin was hugging himself, sobbing uncontrollably. His face was flushed, and tears were sliding down his neck. His whole body trembled. Students began to gather—some stepping out of classrooms, others stopping mid-corridor at the sound of his cries.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Is that Creevey?”

“Is he… cursed?”

The voices multiplied. First two, then five, then a dozen. Some whispered, others just stared. No teachers were nearby.

I felt something was wrong. Very wrong.

Zabini, beside me, rubbed a hand over his face. For the first time, he didn’t look smug or aloof. Just tired. Defeated.

“Must be the Potter luck,” he muttered. “Always in the wrong place at the worst possible time.”

I turned to him.

“What do you—?”

And just then, the crowd parted like water before a stone.

Professor McGonagall entered the corridor with determined strides, her robes billowing behind her as if she’d sensed from afar that something was wrong. Her eyes, always stern, landed on Colin, then on me, then on the broken camera.

“What is going on here?”

No one answered right away. The eyes turned to me, as if expecting that, by default, I’d have the answer.

Colin’s crying now sounded far away. Not because it had lessened, but because a part of me—a very old part, from deep within—was beginning to stir with a different voice.

Something was starting.

Again.

Breakfast at Hogwarts had turned into a kind of unscripted theater. A play in which I always appeared on stage before knowing what my role was. This morning was no different.

The Great Hall buzzed with poorly contained energy. Whispers floated over the table like a swarm of invisible insects. The glances were knives—some curious, others irritated, many simply tired.

I sat between Bulstrode and Draco, trying to ignore the silence that settled around me as I did. Bulstrode handed me a jug of juice, and Draco gave me an exaggerated, wide smile, as if he'd just heard a great joke at my expense.

"Good morning, Prince of Slytherin," he said in a radiant tone that clashed too much with the shadow in his eyes.

I didn’t answer. Or rather, I didn’t know how to without spitting tea in his face.

Last night had been a parade of discomfort. McGonagall, by some divine mercy or inexplicable faith, had believed my version of events without insistence or reproach. She had dismissed me with a tight-lipped nod and the promise that the matter would be investigated. The kind of promise that always feels like a polite postponement.

But Hogwarts doesn’t forget. Hogwarts chews and chews.

Marcus Flint, seated a few spots to my left, paused mid-bite of his third piece of toast to raise his voice in that cavernous growl of his.

"What’s the next order, my lord?" he asked theatrically, with a mocking bow. "Shall we continue the plan to make Muggle-borns forget the magical world? Or perhaps attack the cameras next full moon?"

Laughter. Several. Even a few I didn’t expect.

I just spread butter on my bread as if his voice were coming from behind thick glass—distant, useless. Gemma Farley, one of the prefects, sighed dramatically and threw a piece of apple at Flint. It bounced off his shoulder and landed on his plate with a perfect plop.

"Shut up, Marcus. You're going to make him start believing it."

The truth was, Slytherin House had already grown tired of every month bringing a new scandal with my name on it. They had simply turned me into some kind of inside joke. The prince, the troll boy, the dark one, the heir, the snake-talker, the memory destroyer. At times, it felt like they'd adopted me as the official school mascot of madness.

But the other houses didn’t share the same sense of humor.

Gryffindor watched me with a mix of suspicion and barely concealed disgust. I could feel their stares from across the hall—Weasley frowning, Thomas whispering something into Finnegan’s ear. Even the little Weasley girl looked at me like I was the shadow of evil itself.

Hufflepuff wasn’t hostile, but visibly uneasy. And Ravenclaw… Ravenclaw simply studied me, as if waiting to see when the experiment would fail completely.

I kept eating, slowly. The bread tasted like cardboard, and the jam stuck to my palate with the texture of ash.

"Should we throw a party in your honor if someone forgets their name this week?" Draco whispered mockingly, then drank his juice like nothing had happened.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. I didn’t answer. There was no need.

Sometimes silence is the only language still respected.

The secondary greenhouse was especially quiet that afternoon. Outside, the November air dragged fallen leaves in slow spirals, but inside the world seemed contained within the breath of the plants, the damp earth, and the pungent scent of magical fertilizers.

Only Longbottom and I were there today. The Carrow twins had choir rehearsal—a notion I still struggled to picture without laughing—and Davis was trapped in a Charms tutoring session.

Longbottom was crouched over one of the soil trays, measuring the proper depth for the bulb with an enchanted wand. His hands trembled slightly, but moved with precision. His dedication surprised me. Every one of his movements was guided by an almost reverent respect for the plants, as if he feared disturbing a secret that slept underground.

“Is this right?” he asked without looking up, voice low.

I nodded and approached with another bulb between my fingers, feeling its magical pulse like a miniature beating heart.

“Perfect. Make sure the humidity charm stays even. It can’t be too dry or too wet.”

He nodded, and we worked in silence for several more minutes. It was a strange silence, dense. Not exactly uncomfortable, but full of unspoken thoughts. Longbottom seemed to be holding something back since we’d arrived.

And finally, while we were checking the third row, he said it.

“Are you going to erase my memory after this?”

I stopped, root in hand. I looked at him.

He was still bent over the soil, wand suspended in the air, as if regretting he’d spoken.

“What?”

“After we’re done with the poppies,” he repeated, softer this time. “Are you going to… make me forget everything?”

For a second, I didn’t know whether to laugh or get angry. So I chose sarcasm.

“Maybe. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you remember your name. Though if you forget to water them, I might get more creative.”

He didn’t smile. Just looked at me. There was something so raw and human in his eyes that it made me look away. Real fear. Not the kind born of punishment, but the kind that appears when someone gets too close to something they don’t understand.

“Neville,” I said at last, my voice softer. “You shouldn’t believe everything people say.”

“But people don’t say those things for no reason. They see you… differently.”

“People see what they want to see.” I shrugged. “Sometimes they’re wrong.”

He lowered his gaze. A clump of soil crumbled between his fingers. The scent of the poppies was barely noticeable, like a promise still far away.

“Just… don’t wipe my mind, okay?”

“I promise. Unless you ruin the flowers.”

And then, finally, he smiled. A clumsy, timid smile, as if he had to ask his muscles for permission to exist. But it was sincere.

I touched the bracelet under my sleeve and smiled too. The earth was warm. The poppies, in silence, had begun to dream.

Only three days left.

Three days—if everything went according to plan—until the magical poppies bloomed.

I had never felt so impatient. Not in the common sense of wanting something to come quickly—that hollow anxiety children feel waiting for a gift—but in a much deeper, more primal way. As if something beneath my skin were pushing toward the surface. As if the petals were growing inside me too.

It was mid-November, and the cold had started to seep through the cracks in the castle. The corridors smelled of dampness, old stone, and distant chimney smoke. That morning, the ritual pipe I had requested arrived—a small piece of black ceramic, enchanted to resist heat and preserve essences—along with a carefully wrapped package containing the ingredients I would need to induce visions.

I hadn’t touched them yet. They were safely tucked away at the bottom of my trunk, wrapped in an old shirt. Every night I checked on them—not because I doubted they were still there, but because I needed to feel them. They were real. Just like the waiting was.

Classes that day had been torture.

Not because of the content—that rarely bothered me, even when it was boring—but because of the constant noise. The stares. The whispers. That whole circus that had become a regular part of my routine.

And, to top it off, Lockhart.

Lockhart, with his inflated tales and mediocre actor’s voice, had spent half the class reenacting how he’d defeated a banshee “with nothing but his natural charm.” He applauded his own stories and somehow managed to interrupt any attempt at focus with absurd commentary.

“Matters of the magical subconscious!” he had exclaimed. “You know, one can’t even trust their own thoughts when they’re powerful!”

Idiot.

To my left, Zabini had let out a snort so loud it earned him a warning. I simply stayed silent, fingers laced on my desk, letting Lockhart’s voice dissolve into background noise. I wondered if the poppies might help silence those voices. Not the external ones—those could be ignored—but the internal ones, the ones that never stopped whispering things when I closed my eyes.

That night, I planned to visit the greenhouse. There was no real need—everything was going according to plan—but I wanted to see them. To check if there was any sign, any hint in the buds. I needed to touch the earth. Breathe it in. Feel that everything was still under control.

Feel that, this time, I was closer than ever to reaching the Lord of Dreams.

The night was humid and heavy. The castle stones exhaled the day’s cold as if they were breathing. We walked in a line, silent, our robes tightly closed and our wands hidden between our fingers. Davis carried the lantern, which floated a handspan above the ground, and the Carrow sisters whispered to each other in that tone that always sounded like something between ancient witchcraft and gossip. It was a perfect night.

The secondary greenhouse rose like a forgotten cathedral, its glass dome fogged from the inside. When we opened the door, the earthy heat enveloped us. Everything was in order. The poppies —our poppies— were asleep, but we could feel their pulse. As if the earth was about to explode in color.

“They’re strong,” said one of the Carrows, kneeling next to one of the rows. Her voice vibrated, almost thrilled.

“Pure magic,” murmured the other Carrow, touching a leaf with reverence.

“This is a miracle,” added Davis. Her voice, usually so measured, trembled slightly with pride. And for once, she didn’t seem to care about hiding it.

I just nodded. There wasn’t much to say. We had done something difficult. We had created something that shouldn’t exist. And yet, there it was. Beating under our fingers.

Then, something creaked.

It wasn’t a natural sound. Not wood, not glass. It was the sound of two steps entering clumsily, as if they didn’t care about being heard. As if, in fact, they wanted to be.

I turned at the same time Davis extinguished the light with a quick spell. The Carrows already had their wands raised. So did I. We all did. Except Longbottom.

Two figures stood silhouetted in the doorway, barely lit by the faint moonlight.

“The... Weasley twins?” I said, incredulous.

Fred and George. Of course. Who else?

They raised their hands with broad smiles.

“Don’t shoot, commander. We come in peace.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, not lowering my wand. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like them.

I turned to Longbottom, who was as stiff as a statue.

“Did you invite them?”

“What? No!” he stammered. “I didn’t... I didn’t know that...!”

He didn’t look guilty. Just genuinely scared. Fantastic.

“We’re worried about little Longbottom,” said one of them, pointing at Neville like he was a sick pet. “We saw him the other day surrounded by snakes. It was... unsettling.”

“And as good older house brothers, we felt it was our duty to make sure poor Neville wasn’t falling under the evil influence of... well, you know.”

“The Dark Lord of Slytherin,” they concluded, crossing their arms.

Bloody Weasley twins.

“Potter isn’t forcing me into anything,” said Longbottom, with a seriousness that startled me. “It’s just an extracurricular project.”

I wanted to slam my head against a flowerpot.

The twins looked at each other, as if they’d just uncovered a buried treasure.

“You know, George?” began what must have been Fred. “These plants resemble some I read about that were banned: poppies...”

“They don’t just resemble them,” replied George theatrically. “They are.”

“But not just any poppies...”

“Oh no, dear brother. These are magical poppies.”

They high-fived and smiled as if they’d just solved a crime.

“It’s not illegal to plant them,” I said, slowly lowering my wand.

Davis and the Carrows did the same, though the twins did it with offensively slow flair.

“True,” Fred nodded. “It’s not illegal. But...”

“...we can’t think of many legal uses for what comes after they bloom,” George concluded, raising an eyebrow.

I took a deep breath. A very deep one.

“Alright,” I said, holding myself back. “Can you please just tell me what you really want?”

Fred gave an exaggerated bow.

“We were wondering when you'd ask. Look, a few days ago, we started noticing our dear Neville sneaking out at night. At first, we thought he was stealing rare ingredients for some growth potion.”

“But then we noticed he wasn’t always alone. Sometimes Davis. Sometimes... you. And then, of course, our favorites: the Carrow twins. The dark twins of the forbidden swamp!”

“That’s when we said: this smells fishy. So we decided to investigate.”

“One night we tried to enter after you’d left, but it was... curious.”

“Yeah, just as we were about to touch the door, something made us want to back away.”

“And when you feel repelled by a greenhouse, dear Harry, something’s not right.”

Davis crossed her arms.

“So,” Fred continued, “we did the logical thing: kept subtly stalking Neville to see if he had any ritual sacrifice marks.”

“And in the process, we saw him researching poppies.”

“And then —ding!— a bell rang in our heads.”

“So we decided to come tonight, when everyone would be gathered, to see with our own eyes what you were doing.”

“And let me say: those protection spells are excellent. At least, when you’re not inside.”

Fred and George clapped with genuine enthusiasm, and the Carrows —who had handled the camouflage and protection spells— looked offended.

I gave them a blank stare. My eyelids were heavy. My soul was heavy. Not because of the poppies. Because of them.

“Nice story,” I said at last. “But that doesn’t answer my question: what do you want?”

My voice wasn’t hostile, nor aggressive. It was flat. Like a stone tossed into water.

“Because if you knew what you were going to find here, you could’ve gone straight to a teacher, said poor Longbottom was being manipulated by the big bad Slytherins... and done. But you didn’t. So, tell me now: what. do. you. want?”

The twins looked at each other, and their faces turned serious.

“We’ll say it clearly,” said Fred. “We’re not interested in turning you in.”

“But we’re also not going to stay out of something this... interesting,” added George.

“We’re not stupid, Potter. This is too big to be just curiosity.”

“And that makes us wonder... what for? Because honestly, we don’t think you’re planning a magical opium party.”

“And if you are, please invite us.”

“But we doubt it.”

“So, let’s get to the point,” Fred added, with no trace of his usual joking tone.

It was strange to see them like this. Serious. Not cold, not cruel, just... businesslike.

“Neville is probably here because he loves plants,” continued George. “The chance to work with these must’ve been too tempting.”

“And the other girls,” said Fred, nodding at the Carrows and Davis, “are probably just here for the chaos or fun.”

“But you, Potter.”

“You have a plan.”

“And the amount you planted isn’t for studying. It’s not for admiring. It’s for profiting.”

I wanted to laugh. Not because it was funny, but because they are so wrong.

The poppies were for rituals. Not for drugs, not for trafficking, not for smoke or powder. They were for dreams. For doors. For visions. For crossing thresholds where words lost meaning and time opened like flesh.

Davis knew, but she didn’t care. The Carrows sensed it, and that’s why they liked it. Longbottom... Longbottom refused to think about it. His love for Herbology was so great that it left a void where suspicion should have been. I appreciated that, in a way.

I didn’t reply right away.

Silence wrapped around me with strange comfort, as if the poppies themselves knew this moment called for stillness, not words. I just looked at them. Both of them. They were sure they knew the truth. And what they didn’t know, they guessed. The problem was, they were wrong. Terribly, dangerously wrong.

It wasn’t money I was after. Not fame. Not chaos. It was something deeper. Older than them. More real than anything they’d learned at Hogwarts. But I couldn’t say that. Not without sounding like a lunatic. Or worse.

“And what if I told you there’s no sales plan?” I finally said, voice low, like someone whispering a secret just to hear how it sounds aloud.

Fred laughed. George followed.

“Then we’d say you have a very poor sense of logistics.”

“Or a disturbingly naive amount of faith in your classmates’ generosity,” added George, glancing at the Carrows.

One of them let out a dry laugh, crossing her arms. The other gave a bored look. Davis didn’t even bother pretending to care.

“How many did you plant? Forty? Fifty?” asked George, turning a leaf between his fingers. “No one plants that many out of simple curiosity.”

“They could fail,” I replied, shrugging. “The weather changes. Potions spoil. Rituals require precision.”

Error.

The Dream Lord’s hunger was clouding my judgment.

George raised an eyebrow. Fred straightened up.

“Rituals?”

“The cauldron, smoke, and knife kind, or the candles, blood, and visions kind?”

Damn it.

“They’re not for you,” I said, this time more sharply. “Not for selling. Not for consuming. And definitely not for profit.”

Fred raised both hands.

“We’re not here to judge, Potter. Honestly, that’s the last thing we do. But we do have experience… moving things. Protecting things. And, let’s be honest, you have no idea how fast something like this can blow up if you don’t handle it properly.”

George mimicked him, more serious this time.

“We’re not blackmailing you, really. If we wanted to rat you out, we already would’ve. But if we’re going to be turning a blind eye, we’d at least like to know what we’re covering for.”

I looked at them. Really looked.

And for a second, I was tempted to tell the truth. To tell them this wasn’t just another prank. That the poppies weren’t a substance, but a key. That I needed to cross a nameless border and, to do that, I needed flowers. A lot of them. In case I failed and needed to try again. In case the path to the other side demanded more than a single stem could give.

But I said nothing.

Because in that moment, I realized they weren’t a threat. Nor allies. They were noise. And I couldn’t afford to let noise dictate the rhythm of the silence I was building.

“I’m not negotiating anything,” I said, voice firm and calm. “If you want to report me, do it. If you want to stay, do it. But this isn’t yours.”

A brief silence followed. Almost physical. Then Fred sighed.

“You’re not a very good capitalist, Potter.”

“Nor a good ally,” added George, but without real malice.

“And yet,” Fred continued, “something tells me you’re telling the truth.”

“Or something so strange it might just work.”

“Either way…”

“We’ll stay close.”

“Just to observe.”

“Just in case you ever change your mind.”

And they left, walking backwards at first, as if they were afraid to stop looking at me.

Davis clicked her tongue.

“It’s going to be harder to keep this secret if those two are hanging around.”

“They won’t tell anyone,” I said, picking up a leaf from the ground. “But they won’t leave either.”

Neville shifted uncomfortably.

“We’re really not going to use them for… that?”

I looked at him. I couldn’t tell if it hurt or touched me.

“No, Neville. Not for that.”

And he nodded. As if he’d wanted to believe it from the beginning. As if he’d just needed to hear it. As if, finally, he could go on loving plants without questioning why so many were blooming.

Chapter Text

The humidity of the greenhouse clung to the bones, even if it wasn’t raining. Outside, the sky remained restrained, as if it knew two more days were enough to unleash the full cycle. Two days. That’s all.

The poppies were already showing their color between the stems; the petals still asleep, tight, like eyelids before a vision.

Davis was sitting on an overturned pot, her wand slowly spinning a floating blade she had used to clean the diseased roots of other plants. She didn’t seem particularly interested in talking, but she wasn’t surprised when I asked to.

“You know you’re eventually going to have to decide what to do about the Weasleys,” she said, without me having to explain anything. She gave the blade a final spin and gently floated it to the ground. “They’re not just going to let you store flowers in glass jars and say, ‘well, that was fun.’”

I didn’t reply. I leaned against a potting table. The air smelled of wet earth and torn sap.

“The twins are a problem. But not because they have a bad idea,” she continued. “In fact, it’s a pretty good one. If they think they have the means, then let them do it. And if someone ends up getting caught, it’ll be them. Not us.”

“I’m not going to let this turn into a trafficking ring, Davis,” I said quietly.

“No one said ‘trafficking.’ Just… making use of something we’ve already done. It’s not like we’re mass-producing illegal potions or selling to first-years. It’s just a plant. Very valuable, yes. Very monitored. But still a flower.”

I looked at her. There was something relaxed about her that irritated me. As if all of this were just another school dilemma, an administrative decision.

“It makes no sense. This wasn’t planned for that. And frankly, it’s more work than I need. I have goals, Davis. I can’t afford distractions.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused.

“And you think the rest of us want to be distracted? You think I care where the opium goes? I just wanted to grow those flowers. Do you know how long I should’ve had to wait to get the skill, the space, the materials…? Years, Potter. Years.”

She leaned forward. Her voice was still calm, but firm.

“The only one in this group who has a deeper reason is you. The only one who’s clearly not here just for the beauty and complexity of the flowers.”

I said nothing. She continued:

“The Carrows didn’t even ask what they were for. Neville… well, Neville loves plants so much his mind avoided the question. But we all knew you had another reason. And we planted an obscene number of flowers.”

“No one said anything,” I replied, more by instinct than logic.

“Because you’re in charge.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. She clicked her tongue and pulled a crumpled leaf from her robes. Numbers, calculations. She’d already done the math.

“One poppy capsule gives between 80 and 100 milligrams of raw opium. Each plant produces between three and five capsules. That’s 300 to 500 milligrams per plant, Potter. You want to know how many survived?”

I didn’t answer. She did it for me:

“Sixty-five. In perfect conditions.”

Her eyes rose to mine, expressionless.

“Do you really think you’re going to consume all that by yourself? This year? Once refined, it’ll be less, but still—it's too much, and this strain we’ve got is going to be potent. Ritual or not, that’s an absurd amount. You’ll become an addict before you reach wherever it is you’re trying to go.”

The accusation was direct. There was no judgment, only logic. But it still hurt. Not because it was false, but because it forced me to face something I’d been avoiding. It made me name it.

“I’m not in charge,” I said, clinging to the only thing I still believed I could deny. “The tasks were divided. Everyone participated.”

Davis let out a brief, dry laugh.

“Really? Who had the idea? You. Who brought most of the materials? You. Who paid for the seeds? You. Who gathered everyone for this? You. Who risks their name if someone inspects this greenhouse and finds poppies? You.”

She stood up. Not with violence, but with the certainty of someone who had already won the argument.

“And most of all… who has a bigger goal? You, Potter.”

She held my gaze for a few seconds. Not severe, not warm. Just clear.

“So think carefully about what you’re going to do. Because the rest of us… we like growing flowers. But you… you’re growing something else.”

And she left, leaving behind the faint scent of a blade still damp with sap.

I stayed, looking at the poppies, feeling the silence grow again between the stems.

The Carrow twins were waiting for me before I even called them.

They were at the dampest end of the greenhouse in the afternoon, where mist clung to the glass and the leaves dripped simply by existing. They had arranged a semicircle of empty pots around them, like an improvised stage. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t pretend to be doing anything else, either. They just looked at me.

I’ve never known which one is which.

Sometimes I thought I’d figured it out from a gesture, a tone of voice, a small scar on a knuckle. But then, without any effort at all, the distinction would dissolve, as if they were playing with me. As if I were the only one still trying to tell them apart.

One of them spoke.

“Did Davis tell you what she thinks?”

“Yes,” I replied plainly.

The other tilted her head.

“Then you already know we don’t care what you do with the flowers. We just wanted to see them grow.”

“Nothing else?” I asked.

They both smiled. It was never a full smile.

“‘Nothing’ isn’t a nice word. It always means more than it seems.”

I remained standing in front of them, not coming any closer. The air was thick—not just from the humidity. I knew that if I sat with them inside the semicircle, I’d lose whatever control I had over the conversation.

“What do you think about the Weasleys’ plan?”

One of them moved her fingers, as if playing an invisible piano on her knee.

“It’s a logical plan. Risky. Fun.”

“It would be stupid not to consider it,” the other said. “But not because we want money.”

“Then why?”

They both looked at me at once. There was something in their eyes that made me uneasy. Not mockery. Not judgment. It was worse: sincerity.

“Because it would be a waste not to.”

“Because it won’t happen again.”

“Because you allowed it.”

I swallowed. It wasn’t an accusation, but it wasn’t absolution either. It was simply... a fact.

“I never said you could sell the flowers.”

“You never said we couldn’t.”

“You never said what we were going to do with so many flowers.”

“You never asked why we wanted to help.”

I stayed silent. It wasn’t that they weren’t right. It’s that I didn’t like what it said about me.

“If someone gets in trouble, they’re going to talk,” I tried. “They’ll snitch. All of this…”

“You think we’re going to talk?” one of them interrupted, without raising her voice.

“After everything we’ve shared?” added the other.

I tensed. I didn’t know exactly what they were referring to. The flowers. The silent nights, sharing fragments of thoughts as we watered the plants.

“We’re not traitors, Potter.”

“We’re not stupid.”

“And we’re not addicts.”

“If someone talks,” they said in unison, almost whispering, “it won’t be us. And if someone even thinks about betrayal, we’ll put a dagger to their throat.”

Their words didn’t reassure me. It was impossible to know if they were telling the truth or just playing at being the dark girls the world assumed they were.

“Do you think they should be sold?” I asked—not to them, but to the air between the three figures we were.

They shrugged.

“We think it’s too late to change what you planted.”

“We think that if you don’t do it, someone else will.”

“We think you’re not so sure about what you want.”

“And we think, in the end, you’ll decide.”

“As always.”

They both stood up at the same time, never breaking their balance. One passed by on my left; the other on my right. Their robes brushed my coat like two warm mist gusts.

Before they walked away, one of them whispered near my ear:

“Do you want to know which of us said what?”

I turned, but they had already blended into the mist, the shadows, the plants. And I was left alone with the weight of what I did know.

I found him on one of the stone benches facing the school garden, not far from the greenhouses, surrounded by a swarm of beetles that seemed to worship him. He had a Herbology book open on his knees and a dried bulb spinning between his fingers.

He didn’t look at me when I approached. He didn’t pretend to be surprised either.

“Hi, Harry.”

“Hi, Neville.”

I sat beside him. A few minutes passed in silence as we both watched a group of young mandrakes shrink under the shadow of a nearby willow.

“Are you happy with what we accomplished?” I finally asked.

Neville nodded, eyes shining.

“I didn’t think it was possible… Papaver somniferum is so delicate, so temperamental. But look—sixty-five blooms. Some almost black at the base of the petals. That’s incredibly rare. Like they were… touched by something. I can’t believe we pulled it off.”

His excitement made me feel more tired than I already was.

“Do you know what they’ll want to do with them?”

He blinked. Then looked at me for the first time.

“What do you mean?”

“The Weasleys. Davis. The Carrows. Sell them. The opium. What can be extracted from the pods.”

Neville frowned, confused. It took him several seconds to speak.

“Sell them? But… we… we just planted them. It was a botany project.”

“Did you ever think about what opium is used for?”

His cheeks turned red. His eyes dropped to the book. It was like watching someone wake from a long dream.

“I… I knew it was a plant with magical properties. That it was… dangerous. But I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to… I didn’t want to think about that. Not as something real. It was so beautiful. So demanding. I thought that if I started asking questions, I’d stop enjoying it.”

“And now?”

He looked at me. There was something new in his eyes. A crack.

“Now I don’t know if I should feel guilty. But I do know that… I don’t regret it. I’ve never worked with plants this complex. I learned so much. I felt like I was doing something that truly mattered. That I was… growing.”

I said nothing.

“Harry,” he added. “Did you want them for… for use?”

I didn’t answer.

Neville lowered his head, nodding slightly.

“I don’t care,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if it’s for something dark, or strange, or dangerous. I believe you when you say there’s a purpose. I’ve always felt that… that you have one. That you know where you’re going. Everyone else looked at the poppies with curiosity, like it was clinical, and you… you looked at them with hope, like they were your salvation.”

“You shouldn’t believe that.”

“Maybe not. But I do.”

Silence returned, thick as wet soil. The afternoon was leaning on, and rays of sunlight filtered through the branches like soft blades.

“Do you want me to step away from the project?” he asked. His voice was calm, but firm. It was the first time he’d ever asked me something like that, directly.

“No,” I said, after thinking about it. “I don’t want that. You’re different from me. You see the plants as something alive. Not as a means to something else. That sets you apart and makes you valuable, no matter what we do with the flowers.”

Neville smiled, melancholic.

“Then help me protect them. Whatever the outcome.”

I nodded. It was a promise I didn’t know if I could keep. But I made it anyway. I needed Neville, no matter the final decision. I couldn’t afford mistakes; I couldn’t afford anyone stepping out of line. And if I had to manipulate Neville a little, then so be it.

The greenhouse was empty. The flowers were asleep.

The poppies bent their pale heads under the dim light filtering through the glass, as if conspiring in whispers. A wind foreign to the weather stirred the leaves. Outside, Hogwarts beat on as usual. In here, the world was something else.

I leaned my elbows on the worktable and buried my fingers in my hair.

I had spoken to everyone. Heard every version. Analyzed every word, every pause. And yet, I remained stuck on the same question that had haunted me since morning:

What would he do? The Lord of Dreams. The one who walked in darkness with eyes lit like embers, who spoke of alchemy and abysses as if they were matters of the soul. The one who didn’t fear getting his hands dirty if the ritual required it. The one who smiled like a poet in the face of decay.

I saw him in my mind. In that nameless city where incense burned in obsidian bowls. I saw his hands, precise as blades, stripping lies down to the bone. I saw his absolute calm as the world bent to his will.

He wouldn’t lose control. If he chose to sell poppies, he wouldn’t do it with the clumsiness of two redheaded teenagers who laugh at everything as if they were immortal. He wouldn’t do it out of need, or fun, or pressure. He would do it because it suited him. And he’d make sure even the mistakes worked in his favor.

I stayed like that for a long while. The flowers seemed to watch me, impassive. I wondered if I’d ever stop asking myself what he would do. If I could ever make a decision not born as an echo of his shadow. If that was even what I wanted… or if it was already too late.

A soft buzzing interrupted my thoughts: a fat bumblebee hitting the glass. I watched it struggle to escape. In the end, it gave up. It let itself fall between two pots, panting.

I sighed.

Then I decided.

Yes, we would sell them. Not all. But some. Most. Enough. Not to earn gold —though the gold would be useful, and powerfully silent— but to give the risk meaning. To keep willpower from dissolving into chaos.

But it couldn’t be in Weasley style. None of that. If we were going to move poison, the container had to be black glass. Airtight. Untraceable.

"Very well," I murmured, with a bitter smile.

I stood up slowly. Went to my backpack and pulled out ink, parchment, and a high-quality quill. I had kept those materials away from the greenhouse for safety. Now I laid them out like someone placing pieces on an altar.

I sat down. And began drafting the first letters to Gringotts.

The next day had come abnormally fast. I gathered them at the end of the day. The greenhouse was quieter than usual, as if the poppies themselves were holding their breath. Just one day remained before they bloomed, and that closeness hung on the skin like a breeze charged with the inevitable.

Everyone was there: Davis, the Carrows, Neville, and the twins. I took a moment to observe them, one by one. Neville’s hands, calloused from work; the Carrows, sitting together, identical; Davis, leaning on one of the tables, with that look that wavered between disdain and anticipation; and the Weasleys, together as always, as if they shared more than blood.

I took a deep breath before beginning. The image of the Lord of Dreams rooted in my mind. His attitude. His words. His essence.

"Before anything," I said, "I want to thank you."

I noticed that caught their attention, especially Davis —she seemed to be enjoying the show. I raised my voice slowly, with the gravity I had been shaping in my mind all day.

"This has been extraordinary work. What we accomplished here… has no comparison in all of Hogwarts. Not a single professor would have given us permission, not a single rule would have allowed it. But we did it. They sprouted. They grew. And in one more day, they’ll bloom. It’s a miracle, and it happened because each of you made it real."

I let the praise rest in the air like a warm, sincere offering. The Carrows smiled, satisfied. Neville looked down shyly, but not without pride. Davis simply nodded, as if she had known it all along. It was a sweet beginning. I needed to start there.

But then I changed the tone. Let the weight fall. I didn’t raise my voice, but something in my tone turned firmer. Colder.

"And now… we’re about to ruin it all."

The smiles faded. I turned toward the twins, not softening my gaze.

"There are two people here willing to risk all of this for something that was never part of the deal."

Everyone’s eyes turned in the same direction before pointing at the Weasleys.

The twins raised their eyebrows, offended.

"Us?" one asked, theatrically clutching his chest.

"Unbelievable!" exclaimed the other.

I narrowed my eyes.

"This isn’t Charms class. You’re not getting out of this with a joke."

The phrase dropped like a slab of stone. Davis smiled slightly. One of the Carrows murmured, “Now it’s serious.” Neville swallowed, tense.

"So I’ll ask, and I want a straight answer: Why do you want to sell these flowers? What exactly are you after?"

I gave them no space to dodge with humor. I just watched them in silence, waiting.

Fred —or maybe George; I still couldn’t tell them apart when they weren’t joking— was the first to speak. He didn’t have that smile he always wore like a shield. Just a kind of resignation.

"Because we need the gold."

George —or Fred— nodded. They spoke as one.

"Not for whims," the first added. "Not for new brooms or fancy robes. It’s to start something. Something of our own."

They said it with almost aggressive conviction, as if they were tired of watching their determination and dreams fall apart.

"We want a shop," continued the second. "A real shop. With our inventions, with ideas no one else would use because no one else would dare."

Fred—or was it George?—laughed, but without joy.

"And we’re not going to be Percy. Or Bill. Or just another one in the line of good sons. We’re going to be ourselves."

I could have told them this wasn’t the way. But their future wasn’t my responsibility.

"And this?" I said, pointing at the flowers. "This seems like the path to you? Risking everything for a bit of fast gold?"

"It’s not fast gold," one of them said, with surprising seriousness. "It’s the only gold no one can take from us. The kind we earn without asking for permission."

They looked at me with an expression I never expected from them. Not a trace of mockery.

"It’s not a clean path, Potter," Fred said. "But it’s a path. And we can’t afford to wait for a better one."

George added in a quiet voice:

"We’re tired of asking permission."

There were no replies. No one laughed. No one said anything. Just the faint rustling of leaves, and the thick scent of damp earth.

And I… understood. I understood far too well.

"Very well," I finally said, letting the tension settle over us like dust. "They will be sold."

There was no celebration. Just the faint sound of the wind slipping through a crack in the glass roof, and the held breath of some in the room. We weren’t done yet.

"But before we move forward, I want everyone to understand something."

I turned to the flowers. I looked at them as if they weren’t ours, as if we hadn’t watched them be born, grow, persevere. They were beautiful. Too beautiful. As if they knew what they were capable of provoking.

"Do you know why they’re illegal?" I asked, without giving them time to answer. "Do you know why even the most desperate traders avoid selling them, even though they could become rich in days?"

The Carrows were the first to speak, not bothering to hide their cynicism.

"Because the Ministry will hunt you down to the ends of the earth," said one of them—perhaps Flora, though I still couldn’t tell them apart when they spoke with that shared voice.

"And it won’t ever let go," added the other, with a twisted smile. "Because this isn’t about a fine or a night in Azkaban. It’s the kind of crime that makes you a target."

Davis spoke next. Her tone was drier, wearier.

"Because it ruins lives. Not just what it does to the body. It’s worse. It does something to the soul. It takes away your will to keep fighting. It convinces you that it’s okay to give in. That the warmth of that illusion is worth more than anything real. Poppies teach you how to die slowly… with a smile on your face."

A heavy silence followed.

I nodded, even though part of me didn’t want to hear it. I needed them to say it. To put it into words. Because a truth that is shared weighs more. And this one needed to be heavy.

"I want you to understand," I repeated, more softly. "That every capsule you sell could become a chain. That every inhale might drag someone to the bottom. And if you’re caught, it will be your fault. No one else’s. This place won’t be mentioned, nor anyone here. You’ll be the only visible faces."

I looked at them then, directly this time. Fred and George. No longer as clowns. Not as pranksters. As boys who had made a choice. As boys who knew what they were getting into.

"Are you willing to carry that guilt?"

They didn’t respond immediately. For a moment, they just looked at each other. A silent conversation, yet as clear as a scream. And then, at the same time, they both nodded.

Without drama. Without heroism. Just an acceptance that came from deep within. Almost painful.

Behind them, I saw Neville smiling with the bright expression of someone who had done the impossible. His gaze was fixed on a flower whose petals were starting to turn a lighter shade. He wasn’t even listening anymore. Or didn’t want to understand. Not today.

And for a moment, I envied him. Because sometimes, it’s easier to love what you don’t know.

I took out the papers I’d been holding onto until now—not like someone eager to show their cards, but like someone who wants each sheet to weigh something. No one had seen them yet.

"This," I said, spreading them out over the makeshift table between the greenhouse benches, "is what separates a brilliant idea from a guaranteed sentence."

I picked up the first document and held it with both hands.

"A Gringotts bank account. In the name of Fred Weasley and George Weasley."

The named blinked. Fred stopped fiddling with the sleeve of his robe. George tilted his head slightly, surprised.

"Yes, you two." I made sure my tone was clear, sharp. "Minors. Without a legal guardian present. And with a surname that, honestly, makes goblins wrinkle their snouts before counting a single coin. Do you know how hard it was to convince them?"

They didn’t respond. George seemed about to speak but held back. I understood. It’s strange to feel grateful when you’re not sure whether you’ve just been insulted.

"A considerable sum of my money," I continued, without waiting. "Enough to get them to open an account for you as if you were adults with worthy lineage. The account is in your name. All the money from the sale of the poppies will go there first."

I felt the dull thud of suspicion settle in the air. Davis tilted her head, like a snake that’s caught a strange scent.

"Why them?" It was Davis who broke the silence, her voice sharp.

"Because no one expects the Weasleys to do anything right. And that makes them invisible—if they play their cards right." I looked at them both again. "And because if this is going to happen, it’ll be through you. I’m not going anywhere near a buyer."

Silence again.

"Now," I continued, "that doesn’t mean the rest of you get nothing. Every sale you make, every payment you receive, will be distributed from that account. In proportion to what each of you has done."

I opened another document. Seven copies of the same contract, still unsigned, unstamped. The parchment seemed to pulse, as if it already knew it would be more than ink.

"This is the contract. You haven’t seen it until now because I didn’t want you to sign with doubts. But after today, there can’t be any."

I placed it on the table.

"It will be sealed with blood magic. Not an Unbreakable Vow, but strong enough to show if someone breaks it. No theft allowed. Not of product, not of materials, not of profits. Any attempt to alter the records I’ll keep…" I said this with disdain, "…will be detected."

"You’re going to keep the records?" asked Davis, not without a trace of sarcasm.

I ignored her. I wasn’t doing it out of interest, but because someone has to, and I’m the only one who won’t let this fall apart in two weeks. I care the least about the gold or the glory of the flowers, so I’m the ideal choice.

There was no argument. No one else wanted that role. Not because it was hard, but because they all knew what it meant to have control—and the responsibility of a chaos like this. I took a breath before continuing.

"Ten flowers belong to me. They won’t be sold. They’re already counted. I’m not going to debate this."

Davis frowned but said nothing. She probably didn’t approve of the amount I was obviously keeping for my own use—whether for rituals or not, it was still a large dose. But she wasn’t stupid. She knew that if they took that part away from me, I could easily shut the whole thing down. Neville wasn’t even paying attention. His gaze was still fixed on the soil, on the invisible roots pulsing beneath his feet.

"The rest will be sold. But I don’t care how you do it. I don’t want to know. You’ve been warned: the Ministry will hunt you. At the slightest clue. At the first poorly hidden poppy. At the first word said in the wrong place."

I turned to face them. My voice had lost its warmth.

"And that’s why," I said, taking the last of the contracts and slapping it onto the table with a sharp gesture, "this final clause exists."

Everyone leaned slightly forward. I felt it. A sharper tension, like the very air had contracted.

"If any of you," I said slowly, "tries to tell what we’re doing here, if you mention anyone’s name, if you give a clue, if you point to a flower, a box, a number—if because of you, someone finds us…"

I paused.

"The blood in your veins will start to heat. First a fever. Then combustion. And within a minute, you’ll be dead."

The Carrows didn’t blink. Neither did Davis. Neville was in a corner, looking up at the sky. Fred and George were deathly pale.

"These flowers are gold. But they’re also daggers. Each one of them. And this agreement doesn’t break without a price."

I paused, and then… I smiled.

"But don’t worry too much about that. I don’t believe there are traitors in this room."

I lied. Or maybe I wished it so badly it sounded like the truth.

I sat down.

This wasn’t my idea. I saw it in one of my dreams. The Lord of Dreams did it with his weakest allies—to make sure they wouldn’t talk. I pressed my fingers against the wood. Sometimes, paranoia is the only form of love.

No one said anything.

Because they knew death had entered the greenhouse with us. And this time, it wasn’t metaphorical.

The silence stretched like skin over a drum. No one moved. No one coughed. The parchment seemed more alive than we were.

I was the first to bleed. I drew a small knife with a curved blade—more surgical than dangerous—and traced a precise line over the pad of my index finger. One drop was enough. The contract absorbed the blood with an almost wet whisper, as if it had been thirsty for days.

The ink changed color. A dark red mixed with the black lines, and the text pulsed with a barely visible glow. I placed it in front of them. And waited.

It was one of the Carrows who moved first. She reached out silently, took the knife with unusual elegance, and repeated the gesture. She didn’t show off. She didn’t hesitate. When she finished, she pushed the contract toward her sister. The other Carrow looked at her briefly, then at me, and signed too.

I wasn’t surprised. For them, this was a serious game. And they weren’t afraid to bleed for a cause—if the cause was dangerous enough.

Davis went next. Not out of eagerness, but pride. She looked at me as if daring the death clause with her gaze alone. She signed. Firm, dry, without taking her eyes off my face. When she finished, she wiped her finger on the edge of her robe.

"The death clause is excessive," she said in a low voice.

"It would be, if we had any other way to be sure." I held her gaze. "But we don’t."

She nodded. She understood, even if she didn’t like it.

The Weasley twins exchanged a glance longer than all the silence before. George was the one who spoke.

"If one of us dies, the other will know who did it."

"And what would you do?" I asked.

"I don’t know yet," Fred replied, with a half-smile that cracked slightly. "But it’d be fun to find out."

They signed. One after another. Almost in sync. As if they couldn’t imagine doing it any other way. And maybe they couldn’t.

"Once, Grandma Cedrella said that oaths are for men who don’t even trust their own reflection."

"And you?"

"I trust that if we break this pact, we’ll deserve whatever comes."

Only Neville was left.

We all looked at him.

He, however, wasn’t looking at anyone. His eyes were fixed on the plants, in the corner where we had left the most delicate ones, still closed like tiny fists. There was something in his face I hadn’t expected: light. Not the naïve light of a happy child, but a quiet flame, soft, flickering without dying.

I offered him the knife.

He took it. His cut was clumsy. Too deep, too quick. The blood flowed more than necessary. But he signed. And said nothing.

Once all the contracts were sealed, I rolled them up one by one and stored them in an enchanted compartment I had prepared beneath the stone floor. I sealed the hollow with a basic but effective concealment spell. No one would see anything. No one would smell anything. The greenhouse had its own secret now, buried next to the root of it all.

I stood up.

"It’s done," I said. Not with solemnity. Not with celebration. "Whatever comes next, it’s ours."

Fred let out a nervous laugh. George punched him in the arm to shut him up.

Davis remained seated. Not out of doubt, but calculation. She was already thinking in numbers.

The Carrow sisters stayed still, like statues with warm blood still on their skin.

Neville… Neville was smiling. The blood on his finger already dry, his gaze more alive than ever. He wasn’t thinking about contracts. He wasn’t thinking about death. Only about roots, leaves, blooming. About companionship. About the first group that didn’t look at him like a mistake Hogwarts had made.

But one day —and I knew it— the truth would catch up with him.

And on that day, Neville Longbottom would have to choose between the light the flowers had given him… and the shadow that would grow inside him to protect them. And maybe, to protect us all.

This was trouble. All of them were trouble.

But if I could see the Lord of Dreams just one more time, it was worth it.

Chapter Text

The day had come.

The day when all the enchantments and care would bear fruit, the day the flowers would bloom. And it fell on a Saturday, as if fate itself had decided that no lesser obligation should interfere with the most important moment of the year.

It was mid-November. The air was crisp, fresh, and slightly damp, like it had just been washed by the night. I woke before dawn. Nott was sleeping on the other side of the dormitory, curled under his blanket like a cat. I made no noise as I got up, dressed, or put on my shoes. I only took the notebook, the wand, the prepared vial, and left.

Crossing the common room, I found the Carrows and Davis waiting for me. All three were perfectly dressed, as if they had slept in their clothes to save time. We didn’t say much. We just looked at each other with the unspoken understanding of those about to witness something sacred.

The sky was still dark when we left the dungeon and crossed the grounds. Everything was silent, expectant. When we reached the greenhouse, Neville was already waiting. He was sitting on the floor, right in front of the enchanted flowers, hands on his knees and eyes shining with anticipation.

We stood around the flowerbed. No one spoke. We just watched.

And then the sun began to rise. The light crossed the horizon with solemn slowness, as if it knew its only task that day was to bless that moment. A beam cut through the greenhouse glass. And then, one by one, the flowers began to open.

First the stems tensed. Then, as if a sigh loosened their vertebrae, the poppies began to unfold their petals. Red, fleshy, hypnotic. It was an impossible sight. Beautiful, unsettling, perfect.

The silence in the greenhouse was broken only by Neville’s trembling breath.

"Are you crying?" Davis asked, softly laughing without taking her eyes off the spectacle.

And yes. Longbottom was on the verge of tears. But I understood. It wasn’t weakness. It was something else. The kind of emotion that doesn’t belong to childhood.

The Carrow sisters stared at the flowers as if they were looking at the person they loved most. They weren’t smiling. They were spellbound.

So was I.

I was smiling. Or so I thought, until I felt the muscles in my face twist into a grin I couldn’t control. A wide, crooked, dangerous grin. It wasn’t joy. It was… triumph. Part of me wanted to laugh. Another wanted to stay silent forever.

Without thinking too much, I approached the flowers. I knelt before one of them, cast preservation and collection spells. It was like touching a hot gem. I cut the stem. The whole flower trembled in my hand, as if it still breathed.

I stood up, but before leaving the greenhouse, I turned to the Carrows.

"Five flowers," I said. "Use the refinement techniques I mentioned and give it to the Weasleys. Today."

They nodded as if they had received a commandment. They didn’t ask anything.

I walked away without looking back, the flower protected in a small container wrapped in layers of spells. I didn’t go to the common room. I didn’t go to the castle. I went straight to the place where I had performed the solstice ritual.

I had spent days preparing the place, cleaning the stones, tracing the circles. There I knelt and opened the notebook. On a flat surface I laid out my materials: vials, tools, hand-drawn symbols. In the notebook, among drawings of closed eyes, poppies, and black flames, a single word was written in ink darker and more insistent than the rest: Belonging.

I took out the flower. Held it with both hands. It wasn’t light. Not entirely. Its color was too red. A red that hurt. It didn’t seem part of this world. It was the flower of a dream… or of a curse. I smiled again. The same strange grin. There was something twisted in it. A line that marked the before and after.

"It’s beautiful, isn’t it?" I murmured, not expecting an answer.

And yet, I wasn’t alone. Not entirely.

I began the process. I had developed a refinement method for the opium that would make the drug more potent. My wand traced containment and purification spells. The words flowed effortlessly, as if someone else were whispering them behind me. I collected the first drops of opium with a delicate tool, like one who gathers sacred tears. The vial they fell into was made of opaque, hand-carved glass. I had worked on it for days, engraving a symbol that resembled, disturbingly, the scar on my forehead. The scent was… sweet. But not the sweetness of honey. It was the sweetness of fermented fruit. Of poison disguised as a caress.

While I worked, I thought about what it meant. It wasn’t just a harvest. It was a test. A promise. He would have understood this. The Lord of Dreams. He would have made it perfect.

And I’m not him. Not yet.

“Today your daggers bloomed,” I whispered. “And I cut my fingers so no one else would do it before me.”

There was a small wound on my palm, opened by a tiny thorn. I didn’t use magic to heal it. I let it bleed a little onto the earth. An act of belonging. Of pact. Of offering.

I sat before my improvised altar, with the notebook open, the jar half full, and the flower surrendered between my hands. It was time to begin.

It took me about an hour to prepare everything.

I lit the candles in the order I had written in my notebook: north, east, south, west. I used the same ones from the solstice ritual, now worn, the wicks blackened by history. They didn’t light properly, as if they remembered something. As if they feared something.

Then I traced the circle. With black salt and dried poppy petals. One doesn’t simply mark a boundary. One summons it. The circle wasn’t mine. It belonged to whatever would come.

I packed the pipe with freshly extracted opium. Just a pinch. Barely a thread of golden resin, shining, still warm. I heated it carefully. The smoke rose, slow, thick, with a scent that didn’t seem of this world.

I sat before it, inside the circle, and began to murmur. First the words of protection. Then the words of opening. Then the ones not found in any book. The ones I dreamed. The ones he taught me in broken whispers among the shadows of my nights.

The room barely trembled. The air grew thicker. I knew what I was doing. Or at least I knew what could happen. The opium, combined with the rite, would open an inner threshold. A door of visions. Past, present, future. But I wasn’t born with the gift. I didn’t inherit the blood of seers. I didn’t carry the mark of the Third Eye in my veins. I was forcing it. And that made it dangerous. I could get trapped. I could see something I didn’t know how to close. I could lose myself.

And even so…

“A vision,” I said out loud, as if someone were listening. “Just one.”

My body was already beginning to feel strange. Not asleep, but separate. As if I were a shadow of myself, breathing behind glass. I had to choose. I could have asked for the present. I could have searched for clues, signs, fragments of his existence. Maybe a name, a letter, a voice. Something. But no.

The temptation was too strong. To see him before. Before he became the Lord of Dreams. Before he became that force of nature that haunts my nights. To see him young. Like me. What was his gaze like when he was still mortal? Did he have doubts? Did he laugh?

I leaned toward the pipe. Inhaled. The smoke pierced me like a black river. And then… everything shattered.

There was no transition. One moment I was in the room, wrapped in smoke, and the next… the world had become something else.

Everything seemed bathed in a dim, grayish light, as if time breathed more slowly. Hogwarts rose before me, but it wasn’t the Hogwarts I knew. It was darker, more solemn. The stones still young, the portraits without the cracks that would make them cynical. A castle that hadn’t yet known so many deaths.

And there he was. I recognized him even before I saw him fully. It was that presence. That weight. As if the air knew he had entered the room.

Fourteen years old, probably. Not a child, but not yet the god who dwells in my dreams.

He was alone, in one of the empty classrooms on the seventh floor. A forgotten room, like so many others. The sunset light slipped through the dirty windows, illuminating his profile. He was reading. One hand resting on the book, the other carelessly supporting his face. He didn’t blink. Everything about him was a study in restraint.

His hair was carefully combed, but a rebellious lock fell over his forehead. He didn’t fix it. He wore the uniform perfectly, though the collar of his robe was slightly askew, as if he’d just come out of an argument or an experiment. His lips were pursed in an expression that wasn’t quite disapproval, nor quite curiosity. As if everything he read was insufficient. As if reality couldn’t keep up with him.

And still… he was beautiful.

Not like people are. He was beautiful the way a dangerous idea is. Like a fire that hasn’t yet started. Like a name one should never say. My heart ached. Not just from seeing him, not just from the closeness. It ached because of the distance between us. Because of the impossible. Because that moment was dead, buried in the years. And also for what could have been. Because seeing him like that, alone, focused, hidden from the world… it was like looking at myself from another life.

Had anyone ever reached out to him in that state? Had anyone ever seen what I was seeing now?

I felt tears forming, not from sadness, but from that kind of beauty that cuts through and wounds. I wanted to touch him. Not to interrupt. Just… to confirm he was real. But I was only a specter, a witness. A thief of memories.

He looked up, suddenly. For a second I thought he had seen me. His eyes were darker than in my dreams. They didn’t shine with the brutal force of what he would become. They were still humanly furious. And yet, something was already there. A crack. An abyss hidden behind the stillness.

My body trembled. A voice, very far away, as if it came from underwater, called me. The circle. The ritual. I had to return.

But I resisted. Just one more moment. Just one more.

He returned to the book. He hadn’t seen anything. But before turning the page, he murmured something. Very low. I didn’t quite catch it. A name. Was it my name?

No. It couldn’t be.

And still…

The vision began to dissolve, like a painting submerged in water. His figure was the last thing to fade. And in my chest, something new: a sweet pain. An impossible longing. The certainty that I was not alone, but that I always would be. Because now I knew. Now I had seen him. And there was no coming back from that.

The previous vision had only opened the wound. There was something profoundly unfair in having seen him only for a moment, as if I’d been allowed a sip from a poisoned spring, knowing I’d return for more.

The pipe was still smoking. And I… I was still hungry.

“Not the present. Not the future,” I whispered to myself, like a child promising they’d only take one more candy before bed. “Just the past. Just him.”

I leaned in again. Inhaled. This time deeper, more desperate. My body protested. My soul unraveled. And the vision swallowed me whole.

I saw him again. Younger. Maybe eleven years old. Sitting on the bed of what looked like a shared dormitory, holding a letter in his hands. The lamp flickered, as if magic already responded to his will. His face was an impossible mix of awe and distrust. As if the universe was finally confirming what he had always suspected.

And I watched him. Invisible. Observer. Dying of love. Or of something that imitated it very well.

Another breath, and the vision shifted.

He was now what looked like seven. Smaller. Quieter. He was pushing things with his mind in a dark corner. Whispering to himself. I saw him pluck the wings from a butterfly—not out of cruelty, but with the mechanical curiosity of a child who didn’t yet understand delicacy.

I thought I should have been there. To talk to him. To take his hand the way he had taken mine.

One last image came without warning, like a punishment for my insistence. I hadn’t summoned it. But it caught me just the same.

He looked older than the Weasley twins, maybe sixteen. His body longer. His face more angular. There was something impossible in his beauty, like a sculpture that had learned to move. His hair fell over his forehead, and he pushed it back with the back of his hand without noticing. He was alone in a stone room, very much like the one I used for my rituals.

And he was writing. He had a black notebook in front of him. A thick one, with frayed edges. The pages were filled with violent strokes: words in dead languages, diagrams, circles. And then I saw the notebook’s cover.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The name was perfect. Elegant. Cold. Infinite. I felt the air leave my lungs. It was him. Finally, I had a name. A true one. No more Lord of Dreams. No more shadow.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

My lips repeated it. And as they did, the world seemed to nod.

He raised his head. He didn’t see me. He couldn’t see me. But he looked up as if he had heard something, as if some part of him knew he was being watched. And in his eyes —still brown, though very dark— there was a question. A waiting.

Then he returned to the notebook. And the candle, slowly, went out.

I woke up trembling. The pipe had fallen from my hand. The flowers no longer smelled sweet, but like burnt flesh.

I stood up with effort. Everything hurt. But the most terrible thing… was what didn’t hurt. My heart. I felt as if, by inhaling that smoke, I had left something behind that no longer belonged to me.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

I wrote it in my notebook, in the same handwriting I had seen in his. I even drew him—sitting, writing. Every detail I could remember. As if copying him would bring me closer.

It was no longer just a dream. It was someone. A name. A story that came before mine. And I didn’t know if that saved me… or doomed me.

When I left the old classroom, the light was different. The world had that pale tone that only belongs to the dying hours of a Sunday. I blinked. Searched my pockets for the pocket watch I’d bought for more precision when working with the flowers.

Sunday. It was already Sunday. More than a day had passed.

The world swayed beneath my feet. Not because of the lost time, but because of the blow of reality: I wasn’t okay. My whole body felt like it was made of warm wax. I moved as if walking on frozen water.

Reaching the common room was an act of faith. The hallway stones seemed to push me in the opposite direction, as if the school itself disapproved of what I had done. As I crossed the threshold, I ran straight into Bulstrode. She was heading out, firm-footed as always. But when she saw me, she stopped cold. Her eyes narrowed.

"Where have you been? It’s not good for someone as scrawny as you to skip meals, Potter," she started, but her voice cut off like she'd swallowed ice. She looked at me closely. Her face went pale.

She took a step back, then one to the side.

“Goyle!” she called, never taking her eyes off me. “Goyle, get over here! Help me. Now.”

Goyle appeared almost instantly, as if he’d been hiding behind a column. He looked at me, tilted his head… and without a single question, came over and picked me up like I was something fragile, weightless. As if I no longer weighed what I should.

He held me tightly, but gently, and began walking toward the dormitory. Even so, the motion made my stomach churn. My forehead brushed against his shoulder, and I knew I had a fever.

From my angle, I could see Nott. He was in the room, sitting with a book. He looked up as we entered.

“What’s going on?” he asked, slamming the book onto the nightstand.

“I don’t know,” said Bulstrode, following closely. “I found him like this. He’s burning up, but his skin is cold. Look how much he’s sweating. And he’s so thin. Was he always this...?”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She started covering me with the sheets with a haste that was almost maternal, as if that could undo the damage. Her hands touched my forehead, my arms, the ribs that even I hadn’t noticed were showing.

“Harry,” she said, and her voice wasn’t its usual self. Not rough. It was low, urgent. “What did you do to yourself?”

I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t want to, but because my throat was made of ash, and my arms trembled under the blankets. Only then did I realize the cold. Not the cold in the room. The one inside.

I burrowed deeper, trying to stay there, in that corner of fabric and fever, where no one would demand I explain why. Because I didn’t fully know.

Nott approached and stood beside my bed. I saw him look at my face, then my hands, then my eyes. His expression hardened.

“This isn’t normal,” he said. Then he turned to Bulstrode. “Go get some herbs. Fast. Not from Madame Pomfrey,” he added sharply. “Go straight to Professor Snape. Tell him Potter is coming apart.”

“What do I say happened?”

“Tell him you don’t know. That you found him like this.”

Bulstrode hesitated only a second before nodding. She turned and ran out. Goyle stayed beside the bed, like a loyal dog unsure if he should sit or bark.

Nott didn’t move.

“What did you do, Potter?” he asked, almost to himself. There was no anger in his voice. Just something that could be mistaken for concern.

I closed my eyes. I couldn’t speak. But inside me, his name kept echoing: Tom Marvolo Riddle. What a beautiful name.

I woke up with my mouth dry as stone and lips cracked like sunbaked clay. The ceiling above me was familiar: my dorm in Slytherin. But the light wasn’t. It was too dim to be daytime.

When I turned my head, I saw him.

Snape. Sitting next to me like a shadow too real. His profile was tense, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity I couldn’t tell was disdain or clinical scrutiny. He didn’t move. He just stared.

I tried to swallow. The simple act made me cough weakly. My tongue was rough, as if it had been asleep in dust. I wanted to ask for water. But no sound came out. Just the ridiculous movement of a useless mouth. Snape didn’t flinch. He didn’t get up. He didn’t offer anything.

His eyes lowered for a moment, as if confirming I was still alive, and then he spoke. His voice was low, controlled… but not calm.

“Never in my life have I met someone with a death wish as strong as yours, Potter.”

The sentence dropped like a verdict. His tone was dry. There was no shock. Just tightly held rage. I didn’t know exactly what I’d done. Only that he knew everything.

“Thanks to you,” he continued, “my magic and my neck are constantly at risk. And I hate, hate every single day of my life for it.”

I didn’t understand. Not fully. Why his neck...?

Snape didn’t explain.

I tried to move, just a little. When I did, I felt something under my hand: the notebook. My notebook. It was there. Safe. The relief was so immediate I couldn’t hide it. My fingers clutched the edge of the leather, and for a moment my body felt less feverish.

Snape noticed. And he laughed. Not a real laugh, but a dry sound from someone who has stopped expecting anything from the world.

“This time I did find a notebook,” he said with bitter sarcasm.

I forced my throat, letting out a whisper:

“You… read it?”

Snape narrowed his eyes, as if the question offended him.

“I’m not interested in your drawings or your diary, Potter. I’m not your nanny or your therapist.”

He fell silent for a moment, still watching me with that mix of disgust and something that, in another man, might have been exhaustion.

“It’s almost midnight,” he said finally. “Your fever has gone down. It would be wise for your health to eat something light. The elves will bring food after I leave. Don’t try to get up. And don’t worry about Nott. He’s staying in Zabini’s room tonight.”

I nodded faintly, eyelids heavy. Then, after a few seconds of tense silence, Snape spoke again. This time, his tone was lower. More… personal.

“The official version is that you had a fever. That’s what will be told to the Headmaster and anyone else who asks. But you and I know that’s not true, don’t we?”

His laugh was different this time. Not bitter. Not cruel. Just… broken. A near-maniacal burst that choked off as quickly as it started.

“You’re twelve years old,” he said, and his words trembled like blades. “Twelve. And the first thing I smelled when I entered this room was opium.”

I froze. The cold climbed my spine again. Snape said nothing for a moment. He seemed to be searching for words and only finding ashes.

“You’re worse than your father,” he murmured, not with hatred. Almost with wonder. As if he couldn’t understand how it was possible.

I didn’t understand. But I didn’t ask either.

“Under normal circumstances,” he continued after a long sigh, “I’d investigate. I’d follow every thread, every breadcrumb. But I’m tired, Potter. So tired. I care about almost nothing anymore. Let everyone go to hell.”

He was speaking more to himself than to me.

“Both the puppet masters who think the world is their stage… and the broken puppet they both want to possess.”

I didn’t fully know who he meant. But those words pierced me. Snape stood up. His movements were abrupt, but measured. He smoothed his robes, turned to the door, but paused just before leaving.

“In the future,” he said without looking at me, “I’ll keep keeping you alive. But not for you.”

He took a step, then another. And then, without turning back, he said the last thing:

“The path you’re on, Potter, could endanger everyone. But of course… you’ve always been on the road that drags everyone into the abyss.”

The door closed without a sound. And the silence it left behind was heavier than his presence.

I woke up with my throat still sore, but the rest of my body… was floating. Not like a healthy body. Like a body whose cords anchoring it to the ground had been ripped out.

I sat up slowly, with a calm that didn’t feel entirely my own. There was something suspended in my chest, a quiet euphoria, a restrained tremor.

It was Monday. I knew it because the fever was gone—but not the fire. Not that other fire, the one that burned inside with a different kind of heat.

I walked to the bathroom without thinking. The water was freezing and still I stayed under it longer than necessary. My skin burned, but it felt good. As if, instead of hurting me, the cold was tempering my bones and straightening them toward something inevitable.

As I lathered my hair, it felt thinner between my fingers. Lighter. Was it falling out? Did it matter?

I tilted my face toward the stream and closed my eyes.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The name. It had been there. In the black notebook. The notebook of the Lord of Dreams.

And for the first time, I knew how to name him.

Tom.

I repeated it in my mind like a prayer.

Tom. Tom. Tom.

I didn’t know if it was his real name. I didn’t know if I had seen something forbidden to me. But I did know this: the visions weren’t fantasy. What I saw… wasn’t made up. He had a name. He had ages.

The water kept falling. I leaned for a moment against the wet stone wall, eyes closed. I felt good. Not healthy. Not strong. But… full. Full of something others didn’t have.

I got dressed slowly, the uniform hanging loosely in some places. I pulled down the sleeves, buttoned up slowly. I combed my hair in front of the mirror, looking for an order I rarely achieved. The scar was visible. Good.

As I adjusted my robes, I heard the door creak open.

"Potter?"

It was Nott.

He barely peeked his head in, as if checking to make sure I was still breathing. Seeing me standing, dressed, and more or less functional, he closed the door… only to open it fully a second later.

"He’s good," he muttered to someone outside the room.

And then they all came in.

Crabbe and Goyle first. Draco behind, with Pansy following like an intrigued shadow. Bulstrode came in with a firm look. Zabini dropped onto a chair. Daphne closed the door as she entered. Davis was the last one in.

"How are you?" Draco asked immediately. "They said you had a fever… what happened?"

"You didn’t eat anything all Saturday?" Bulstrode asked, worried but unsweet. "You looked… awful yesterday."

"Are you feeling okay now?" asked Pansy, with a smile that wasn’t entirely kind.

"Why didn’t you say you were sick earlier?" Goyle added. "They asked me to carry you and you almost fell apart."

"Was it the food? Or a curse?" Zabini added from the couch. "Because if it was one of the Gryffindors…"

I couldn’t follow them. They talked fast, over each other, and I just nodded now and then, letting their words wash over me like a current I didn’t intend to swim in.

It wasn’t discomfort. It was disconnection. I had been… elsewhere. I had seen things they couldn’t imagine. I saw Tom. Young Tom. Teenage Tom. Tom my age.

And his name kept spinning inside me, like calling him in silence might draw him near, like thinking of him was a spell. Should I write to him? The idea seemed absurd and, at the same time, profoundly logical. I had his name. I had words. I could let him find me. Or… go looking for him.

I was so absorbed I didn’t realize Davis was watching me. She hadn’t spoken. Had barely said a word upon entering. But her eyes were fixed on me. Not with suspicion. Not with fear. With something… subtler. Something like recognition.

When our eyes met, she didn’t look away. She didn’t smile either. She simply watched me. As if she knew I hadn’t had a fever. As if she had smelled the same smoke Snape had.

The Great Hall shimmered with the usual Monday monotony. The light from the windows fell over bowls of porridge and toast, over the sleepy faces of students trying to remember how to hold a spoon. I wasn’t hungry. But I felt… light.

A strange happiness—acidic, thick, as if it didn’t belong in this place—swelled in my chest with every step. My classmates surrounded me like I was a delicate flower that needed protecting. Nott walked ahead, hands in his pockets. Daphne walked to my left, her expression carefully neutral. Zabini stepped ahead into the Hall, as if he needed to check no ambush was waiting.

We sat down. I looked at the bread, then the butter, without touching either. And then, as if they couldn’t help themselves, I heard it. From the Gryffindor table.

"Well, Potter. Are you dying or did you just try a bit of dark magic and couldn’t handle it?"

"Or maybe he’s transforming… Who knows what they do down in the dungeons when no one’s looking?"

A couple of chuckles. Not many. But enough.

Before I could turn around, Pansy raised her voice without looking.

"Is that supposed to be an insult, Finnigan, or are you just projecting?"

Crabbe let out a choked laugh. Zabini gave him an exaggerated slap on the back. Draco didn’t even glance at the other table; he just murmured lazily:

"If they want to see something disfigured, they should look in the mirror in the morning."

Nott was the most direct.

"Say one more word and I’ll hex your teeth until you choke on your own molars."

A murmur swept across the room. The Gryffindors sank back into their plates. I laughed—just a little—surprised by how natural it felt.

And at that moment, a shadow slid through the air. A small, silent owl descended with such absolute grace it seemed part of a spell. It landed in front of me. And left a letter tied to a flower, a poppy. Not a magical poppy, the kind that blooms under enchantments and night rituals or produces opium. No. A simple flower. A common poppy. With a fragile stem and petals red as wounded lips.

I remained still. The hum of the Hall became distant. I cast a privacy charm without thinking. A soft whisper, a flick of my wand, and the world became a fogged glass between them and me.

I opened the letter.

My little specter,

How far are you willing to disappear from this world? And I don’t ask out of drama, but for precision.

Your devotion flatters me, yes. But your self-destruction… bores me. Disappoints me.

You’ve tasted the blade that others only dare to look at from afar. You’ve played with substances your body has yet to understand. And while I admire a certain bravery in irreversible acts, it is not your life that interests me, but the continuity of your existence. The presence of your mind. Your awareness. That belongs to me.

If I allow this little florist’s game, it’s only because I recognize that children need their symbols. Their rituals. And because, for the moment, I feel indulgent.

But listen to me clearly, Harry: My patience is not a virtue. My forgiveness is not endless.

If you try to erase yourself again as you did—if you insist on hurting, mutilating, or losing yourself in your little formulas of forgetting—I will be forced to intervene. And I will do so with methods we will both regret. Because when a piece becomes senseless, it is immobilized. When a flame goes astray, it is either snuffed out or blown in the right direction. I do not want to correct you. I do not want to bind you. But I will, if necessary.

And one last thing, because it caused me an exquisite mix of horror and laughter: I  have a name. A name you know very well. One that’s been with you since the first vision, since the first night you heard me. So refrain from calling me by that vulgar, defective sound you recently discovered. That name does not belong to me, and it does not suit your lips.

We’ll meet soon.

I am watching you.

—L. V.

The letter trembled in my fingers. The poppy, delicate, trembled too. And my smile had vanished. I felt someone beside me, but I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.

Tom.

No. I shouldn’t call him that. Not him. My shadow. My Lord. He knew everything. Absolutely everything. He never stopped watching me.

Chapter Text

The dungeon was warm as if the boiling cauldrons and the moisture in the air were determined to crush the students in a suffocating embrace. The scent of wormwood, hops, split roots, and withered flowers hung in the air like an invisible fog.

I stirred counterclockwise. Counted the seconds between bubbles. My face remained neutral.

But inside my head, the letter still shone like a flare thrown into a moonless night.

"My patience is not inexhaustible."

The euphoria had passed. The flower rested in my pocket, carefully protected by a small enchantment. The ink of the letter still pulsed in my mind. But what had once been warmth in my chest had turned into a cold drip down my neck.

How did he know?

That was the question that returned again and again, slithering through my thoughts like a coiled snake.

How did he know what I did? What I thought. What I felt when... when I was no longer dreaming of him.

I hadn’t felt him in my mind. And that was the most unnatural part. Because his presence was part of me. Like blood. Like memory. Like that exact hollow left behind when something essential is ripped out without violence. For years, He was inside me. In my dreams. In my thoughts. In the way I learned to look at the world—with detachment, with hunger, with that sweet cruelty of someone who knows the universe was made to be dissected, not loved.

He shaped what I am. So if his shadow wasn’t in my mind, if I didn’t feel him watching me when I did it—when I almost left—then it means he didn’t know by himself. He knew through someone else.

Informer.

The word sounded almost foreign in the dense warmth of the classroom. It wasn’t absurd. Not for someone like Him. Someone like that doesn’t leave his pieces to chance. But who?

Neville wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t know how. The Carrows... weren’t aware of my fever. The Weasley twins... too new. Only one possibility remained. Davis. She was there. Observant. Silent. When she came in with the others, she didn’t join the chorus of questions or smile like Pansy, nor did she offer a biting comment like Zabini. She just looked at me. And it was that look. As if she knew something. As if she had already seen me in that state without being there. But... why her?

My wand kept stirring, obedient.

And then, I looked up.

Snape.

His black figure moved between the rows with that restrained gait that was part predator, part penitent. His cloak brushed the floor, his face unreadable.

I remembered something.

"Two puppeteers who think the world is their stage."

And my blood froze. My head lowered. Not out of submission. Not out of humility. But because I had just understood. I had been in danger. And he reacted. But not with visceral punishment—no. With warning. With... protection. Snape.

But something didn’t fit. He detected the opium. He smelled me. And he was confused. So... he wasn’t the one who informed? Or he did. But he didn’t know everything. He couldn’t know everything.

One informant is not enough.

There must be something else. A connection, a link, a channel that reaches even beyond mental silence, beyond the absence of visions.

And there, as if a shadow had fallen over my thoughts, I looked at my notebook.

The pages were stained with ink and dry mint dust. Drawings. Symbols. Notes. And the name. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

I had seen it in visions and had written it. I had read it on the cover of an old notebook, coated in years and dormant magic.

A diary. A notebook like this one.

Could it…? Could this object in my lap be connected? And if it was…

My shadow. My Lord. The true owner of names. What am I then? The writer? The receiver? Or simply the next page?

The secondary greenhouse still slept beneath the hazy veil of midday, hot and humid like the breath of a buried beast. The flowers still kept their corollas closed, and the lazy leaves sweated sap against the fogged glass. The air was thick, full of sweet green smells that had no name.

I sat on the farthest stone bench. My fingers, stained with dry ink and dirt, absentmindedly caressed the worn leather cover of my notebook. Part of me was waiting for the others: the Weasley twins, Davis, Neville, the Carrows.

The other, more intimate, more truthful, only wanted to think. How much he knew. How much he didn’t. And how far he was willing to go.

The notebook rested open on my knees. The last pages were filled with herbal notes, drawings of open poppies, arrows connecting imaginary glands and alchemical symbols jotted down during the night. But my eyes didn’t see them.

I was thinking of Him. Of how he had looked at me without looking. Of how he had written to me without touching my dreams. Of how he knew. And an idea formed. Small. Cunning. A snake awakening, its scales made of ink.

I looked around. No one had arrived yet. The humidity stuck my hair to my forehead. I didn’t care. I took the quill. Opened a new page. A clean one. And wrote:

"I am very sad."

The words felt simple. Crude. But also necessary.

"Very, very sad."

"I’ve tried to be strong. To stay whole. To pretend."

"But I have disappointed my Lord. And that is worse than any punishment."

"I can’t bear it. I can’t carry this and live."

"So I’ve made a decision. Tonight, I will climb the tower. The stars will be my witness. And maybe then, in that last second, he will look at me again."

I didn’t sign. I didn’t need to. My handwriting trembled with a convincing falsehood that hurt. It was a lie. But not completely. There was pain. There was guilt. There was fear. But above all, there was curiosity.

Who would read it? Snape? Him? The notebook?

The air seemed denser after I finished writing. I closed the book carefully, as if it were a wound that had to be hidden. And I leaned back a little, resting my head against the damp wall, listening to the whisper of plants growing, of roots climbing.

Waiting.

Because if someone is watching… let them watch closely.

"Welcome to my temple of damp and silence," I murmured without rising from the bench as the first footsteps dragged across the greenhouse.

Fred and George were the first to arrive. The Carrow twins followed, so close together they looked like a single shadow split in two. Neville came a bit later, flustered and smelling of dried fern. Davis was the last. She walked behind, in silence, as if every step were an unnecessary calculation.

"Boss," George greeted with a mocking bow. "We’ve returned from the black market war."

"And with good news," Fred added, pulling a small enchanted sack from inside his cloak. "The equivalent of three flowers’ worth of what you gave us sold in less than two days."

"Three?" I muttered.

"Three flowers, yeah. But we didn’t use all the extract. The Carrows and Davis refined it so precisely that we got nearly five grams per flower, but we only sold about 12 grams in total," George explained, gesturing toward one of the Carrows who was playing with a leaf. "One is kept for testing and quality control. You know, to maintain the standard. The rest will sell fast."

"We marketed it as a 'high-purity introspective elixir,' discreet, exclusive. A work of art, according to one of our buyers," Fred said proudly. "And honestly, it is."

One ritualized flower produced approximately 5 grams of refined extract, thanks to the refining process I had improved, and which the Carrows and Davis had almost perfectly replicated. Given its potency —so high that less than a gram was enough to induce intense visions— the selling price was set at 80 galleons per gram. Expensive, yes, but the product was worth it.

12 grams x 80 galleons = 960 galleons. Moment of truth.

"How much exactly did you raise?" I asked, still lying back.

"Nine hundred and sixty. Divided as agreed," Fred answered. "We deducted the portion for planting materials, and from the remaining profit, thirty percent went to you, 15 to us, 19 to little Neville, and 12 each to the Carrow twins and Davis. It’s a highly profitable business."

"And you expect more flowers?" I asked calmly.

"Oh, yes," they both said in unison.

"There are already more interested buyers," George added. "It won’t be a daily thing since we can’t sneak out of Hogwarts every day, but… if we keep delivering small amounts, demand will stay high."

"And so will the price," Fred smiled.

At that moment, Neville, who had crouched down to examine an exposed root, raised his head.

"Then we need to plant more," he said enthusiastically. "Lots more."

I turned to him slowly.

It was obvious Neville hadn’t done the math. He didn’t care about gold. He just wanted to see something rare, beautiful, impossible bloom. In his mind, there was no concept of a black market, no strategy. Just plants.

The Carrows nodded slowly. One held a leaf between her fingers, spinning it like a coin. The other looked at me with murky, expectant eyes. Both seemed ready for anything. In fact, they always were.

Davis didn’t say a word. She sat on the bench opposite me, watching. Her expression was unreadable. Neither approval nor rejection. Just… containment.

I thought again of the letter.

" How far are you willing to disappear from this world?"

"I f I allow this little florist’s game, it’s only because I recognize that children need their symbols. Their rituals. And because, for the moment, I feel indulgent."

"My forgiveness is not endless."

I looked again at those present.

They all thought this was about gold, experience, fun, or science.

If I wasn’t going to kill myself, then I had to find another way. A more delicate one. More refined. One that would take me to the edge… without jumping.

The poppies were a bridge. So was the pain. And the visions, the dreams, were all I had. I could still see His past. And maybe —with luck, with time, with precision— one day I might see His future. Or even build it. So I nodded.

"Alright. We’ll plant more."

The twins raised their fists in triumph. The Carrows looked at each other as if they’d won a bet. Neville smiled with the innocence of a child watering poison. Davis didn’t react.

And deep inside, I felt the snake curl one more loop around my spine.

The greenhouse had fallen silent. Only Davis and I remained, trapped in the air thick with the sweet, heavy scent the magical flowers had left behind. Outside, the sky was turning more gray than blue; it was the kind of Saturday that didn’t move forward, that thickened like resin.

Davis remained checking the tools with a meticulous expression, sorting the empty capsules from the usable ones, cleaning the small knives the Carrows had wielded so eagerly. I had sat in a corner, hands on my lap, wordless. Sometimes exhaustion is more mental than physical.

"Potter?"

I didn’t turn immediately. Her voice wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t soft either. A midpoint. Like almost everything about her.

"Yes," I replied after a moment.

"About Sunday." Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but there was an edge to its precision. "How much did you take?"

I stayed silent for a moment. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I didn’t know if I should say it.

"One whole flower," I answered at last.

She set down the vial she was holding. Turned just enough to look at me from the side, with that expression between disbelief and calculation that was so characteristic of her.

"A whole one?"

I nodded.

"Are you aware of the concentration we achieved?"

"Yes."

"Then you know you might not have woken up."

I didn’t answer. I knew. I knew it while doing it.

"Why did you do it?"

It wasn’t curiosity. It was concern disguised as control. Davis wasn’t one to worry easily, but she didn’t ignore it when something stopped making logical sense. And apparently, I had crossed that line.

"It was desperation," I said. "It was... searching. I wanted to see more."

She studied me for a few seconds.

"And did you?"

"Yes."

Silence.

"Was it worth it?"

I didn’t know what to say. Some things don’t have a value that can be weighed. They only leave marks.

"Depends on who’s asking," I said.

Davis came closer and sat at the edge of the same table I was on. Not too close, but not far either. She took off her work gloves, laid them on her lap, and crossed her legs with a smooth motion.

"Does this happen to you often?"

I looked at her.

"What?"

"This need to leave your body. To look for another reality."

I thought about my dreams. About the nights when consciousness opens like a flower and there are voices that aren’t mine but speak with my mouth. I thought about the scar, which sometimes burns for no reason, like a reminder that I’m not just me. I thought about red eyes.

"For as long as I can remember," I replied.

She nodded slowly. She didn’t seem surprised.

"It’s different for me," she said after a pause. "I don’t want to leave myself. I just… want to suspend everything. Freeze the world until it stops being unbearable."

I turned slightly toward her. That confession, though brief, felt more intimate than any touch.

"And do you manage to?"

She shrugged.

"Sometimes. With plants. With potions. With very technical books."

I smiled, barely.

"You’re good at this, Tracey."

She smiled too, faintly. A tiny curve that didn’t quite reach her eyes, but almost.

"And you’re reckless, Harry. But… brilliant. In a dangerous way."

I liked the way she said it. It didn’t sound like praise or criticism. It sounded like fact.

"Thanks for staying," I said.

We remained like that a while longer, in that almost comfortable silence. Outside, the day stayed overcast. Inside, the flowers slept. And so did we, in a way—but awake to each other.

The sky was a bottomless bowl. Not a single star, not a moon, only that sprawling darkness that seemed to press against the skin. I sat on the edge of the Astronomy Tower with my legs dangling into the void, though with no real intention of falling. Not that night. Not yet.

The notebook was on my lap, closed. I had left it open for a while, as if that were enough. As if just waiting like that, docile, offered, would suffice.

"Do you read me now?" I had written.

"Do you dream of me too?"

"Do I belong to you?"

The answers didn’t come in ink or images. They came as footsteps. Slow, measured, dragged along as if the stone resisted them.

I didn’t turn around. I already knew who it was.

“Professor,” I said, flatly.

Snape didn’t respond immediately. He stopped a few feet away. His robes seemed to absorb what little light there was.

“If you’re so eager to kill yourself, Potter, at least do it quietly,” he finally said. “Don’t turn this into a pathetic spectacle.”

I let out a short, hollow laugh.

“And what makes you think I’m about to kill myself? The view? My dramatic pose?”

“I’m not in the mood for your nonsense.”

“Nor I for sermons, professor. But since you’re here… why don’t you answer? What brings you to the tower tonight?”

The silence that followed wasn’t immediate.

“I’m here,” he said with loathing, “because I made poor choices many years ago. And now I’m a dog. A dog that must go where his master commands.”

I looked down at the notebook. I stroked it with the back of my fingers, as if it were the forehead of a sleeping creature.

“So he sent you, then?”

Snape didn’t answer.

“Of course,” I murmured.

It made sense. It wouldn’t be that strange for him to gift me a notebook just to spy on me. Very on-brand. In dreams, he was always good with poetic gestures.

Snape didn’t move, but I could hear his breathing. Dry, restrained, like someone speaking to an enemy they can’t get rid of.

“You can go now, professor,” I said, not looking at him. “I don’t plan on dying tonight.”

Snape hesitated. I thought he’d leave without another word, but he decided he had something to say.

“Your parents, right now,” he said, as if disgusted, “must be regretting in their graves having given their lives for this... thing… that calls itself their son.”

The words didn’t land like a blow. They were more like a needle sliding in without friction. Precise. Invisible.

“Did you know them well?” I asked in a low voice.

Silence. Long.

“Well enough,” he said, and left.

I was alone again. Alone, but not uninhabited. I opened the notebook. The page was still blank. But I knew.

I knew he had read. That he had listened. That he had sent a tired dog with an invisible collar. And if he could read, then he could respond. And if he could respond… then we were still bound.

The air smelled of damp earth and withered leaves. The herb courtyard was nearly empty, save for the three of us. The Carrow sisters sat facing each other on a rectangular stone—probably an old pedestal—while I stood, flipping through my notebook, pretending to search for something.

In truth, I was listening.

“The concealment charm becomes more unstable if there are too many blooming flowers,” said Flora, not looking up. “It’s the way the glow of the magic reacts to living nodes. You have to use a neutral filter, not an illusory one.”

“Only if you pair it with a Gellertian-type sealing,” Hestia countered, arms crossed. “Otherwise, the illusion disperses, but doesn’t break. Besides, Professor Sprout would never come by unannounced. She’s not that curious.”

“You think so?”

Flora’s question had an edge. But she said it like someone commenting on the weather.

I glanced at them sideways. They had the same face, but not the same language. Flora spoke as if every word had been tasted first, measured. Hestia, on the other hand, was more direct, less calculated. As if she were always defending herself from something only she could see. After spending so much time with them, I think I’m finally starting to notice the differences.

“We can reinforce the outer boundary with a light confusion charm,” I said, closing the notebook. “Nothing aggressive, just enough to make anyone approaching feel like they took a wrong turn.”

“That wouldn’t stop Sprout if she decides to come in,” Flora pointed out, still tracing invisible lines in the air with her wand. “But it might delay her. Or make her think she’s losing her memory.”

“And with a couple of active runes,” added Hestia, “we could change the perception of the flowers into something harmless. Cacti, for example. Or ferns.”

Flora curled her mouth slightly, in what could have been a smile.

“How fitting. Hiding poppies with ferns. Like disguising poison with grass.”

“Or truth with decorum,” I said, without thinking.

They both looked at me. Not as if I had said something strange. As if I had confirmed a suspicion.

I put the notebook away.

“We’ll need a silence ward too,” I said. “Last week, the greenhouse was vibrating. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to draw a bored prefect.”

“You felt it?” asked Hestia.

“I was there.”

Flora nodded, satisfied.

“Then we need to fix that before Friday. There’s no time to waste.”

We fell silent for a moment. I observed the two of them. They dressed the same, spoke nearly the same, and yet there were small dissonances that were just beginning to resonate in me: Flora was more precise with her wand, her fingers slower but exact. Hestia, meanwhile, had broader, more decisive movements. One improvised over structure; the other followed the rules but knew where to make them tremble.

And in the space between the two, like a crack, I moved.

“And what if someone comes in anyway?” I asked, as if it didn’t matter.

“Then,” said Flora, “we’ll know our defenses weren’t enough.”

“And that we weren’t smart enough,” added Hestia.

They looked at each other, and for a moment they looked too much alike. Then they turned their gaze to the shared parchment and began drawing the lines of the enchantment.

I stepped away a little. The notebook opened again in my hands, and among the drawings of inverted flowers and pupil-less eyes, I wrote a new line:

“Flowers lie if you look at them from the right angle.”

“So all he did was shout ‘Expelliarmus!’ and fall backwards?” I asked, feeling a smile tug at the corners of my mouth.

Draco nodded eagerly, visibly outraged.

“Exactly! And then he tried to convince us it was part of his technique. That he had unbalanced his opponent… by falling like an idiot.”

“Ambassador of the basic and the vain,” I murmured. It wasn’t a new phrase; I had written it that morning in my notebook, right next to a caricature of Lockhart with a head full of feathers.

Daphne snorted softly.

“I’m almost sure he doesn’t even know how to conjure a proper shield.”

“I’m completely sure,” I said.

We were in one of the inner courtyards of Hogwarts, one of those that catch the last trace of sunlight before the stone turns cold. My notebook was open on my lap, though I hadn’t written in a while. I was too comfortable listening to other people’s misfortunes.

Since I had sat down, I hadn’t stopped noticing the stares. Or rather, one in particular: the Weasley girl. Ginevra. Always so quiet. Not hostile. Not curious. Just... fixed. As if trying to read me, and that annoyed me more than it should. Not because she was succeeding, but because even I wasn’t sure what there was to read.

I don’t have time for that.

I closed the notebook gently and slipped it into my bag. It was almost dinner time, and the shadows stretched like lazy cats over the stones.

That’s when I saw them: the twins, sitting farther away, glanced at me. They were carrying something. Intention.

A second later, the air stirred with a soft magical whisper, and a paper bird flew straight toward me.

I didn’t flinch. I just caught it, unfolded it, and read.

“Meeting tonight. Usual place. Important.”

They didn’t need to say more. I looked up and nodded. They smiled, almost in sync.

“Secret message from an admirer?” Daphne asked.

“Nothing that compromises our already questionable security,” I replied.

“That wasn’t exactly what I asked.”

Draco opened his mouth to say something else, but then jumped back with a spasm.

“What—?!”

“Your faces,” said Pansy, appearing behind us like a braid-wearing specter. She laughed as if she’d just won a bet against fate.

“Why do you sneak up like that?” growled Daphne, wand already in hand. “Do you think you’re a ghost?”

“Maybe I’m a nightmare you can’t wake up from.”

“Then I’m going to ban you. Gelatinus.”

The spell shot fast, but so did Pansy. She deflected it with an exaggerated flourish and a sidestep. Wrong move.

Daphne, always precise, extended her leg. Pansy tripped like it had been choreographed. She fell backwards with an undignified squawk.

I couldn’t help laughing. It was short, dry, but real.

“Now we’re even,” Daphne said, offering her a hand.

Parkinson stared at it, frowning, before taking it.

“Slytherin doesn’t raise snakes,” she muttered. “It raises the rude.”

“And yet, you keep coming to play with us,” Daphne replied.

I laughed, picked up my bag, and began walking toward the Great Hall with them. Yes. Sometimes this all felt almost normal. Almost.

Nott was out of the dorms doing some ritual with Zabini. Perfect time to go see the Weasley twins.

I knelt by my trunk and unzipped my bag with the precision of a surgeon. The fabric whispered softly. I knew what I was looking for. I felt it under my skin like an itch: the weight, the brush of leather, the silent promise between pages. My notebook. My gift.

I reached inside. Felt bottles, quills, rolled parchment, even a cookie wrapped in wax paper I must’ve forgotten days ago. But no notebook.

I frowned. Checked again. Emptied everything. Placed each item neatly on the bed. Ran my fingers along the bottom of the bag, with my nails. Nothing.

Empty.

No.

My heart skipped a beat. I felt it. Like a drum, dull and hollow, echoing in the center of my chest.

I checked again. This time, violently. Destroyed the order I’d just created. Threw things to the floor. Pulled clothes from the trunk, flipped through books. Looked under the bed. Even checked the pockets of my hanging robes. Nothing.

The notebook was gone.

The notebook was gone.

“No… no…” I whispered, and felt something begin to tighten around my throat—slow, relentless. An invisible strap closing with every useless attempt to reason.

I forced myself to breathe, but the air didn’t come in right. Not the way it should. Everything felt harsh. Unreal. My fingers trembled as I returned to the bag a fourth time, as if the notebook might materialize out of pity. It didn’t.

Sweat slid down my neck. My hands were cold. Cold like when you wake from a nightmare and still don’t know if you’re awake.

How could I lose it?

How...?

My mind began to race, uncontrollably. I thought about the day. Every step. Every word.

I had it before dinner. It was on my lap while we talked in the courtyard. I remember. I closed it. I put it away.

Who was with me?

Daphne and Draco. Of course. The whole time. But no… No. They’re not idiots. If they wanted to take it, they’d never do it so crudely. They’re subtle. Smart. And more importantly: they don’t care about my notebook. Not the real content.

The Weasleys. Yes. I saw them. They were there. But they stayed far. Didn’t move. Didn’t hide. And if they’d wanted to steal from me… they would’ve left a message. A joke.

And then the image came. The eyes. That stare. The girl. That damn Weasley girl. Ginevra. She was watching me. The whole time. Not speaking. Not laughing. Not looking away. Just… watching. Like she knew. Like she was waiting.

It had to be then. It had to be that cursed moment when Pansy appeared and we all laughed, and I let my guard down, got distracted, left the bag aside. Or after. In the Great Hall. Maybe she followed me. Maybe she got close. Maybe… No. No. No!

My throat let out a sound I didn’t recognize. Somewhere between a growl and a moan. I grabbed my hair with both hands and pulled hard. I needed the physical pain to match the other one. The one splitting my sternum like a crack.

How could I be so stupid? How could I lose that? It was His! The Lord of Dreams’. It was a gift. A bond. A mirror. And I left it. Left it within reach of that... girl.

Rage surged through me so fiercely I didn’t notice I was clenching my teeth until they hurt. I paced in circles, blind to my surroundings. My hands curled into fists, opened, looked for something to hit. Anything. To break. Whatever.

But all I wanted was to get it back. Get it back. And make sure no one—no one—had read it but me. Because if someone had touched those pages… If someone had read what’s in there… What I wrote. What I feel. What I am… Then it wasn’t just a loss. It was a violation.

And that, I thought, eyes burning and throat dry, I wouldn’t allow.

Ever.

Chapter Text

When I left the dormitory, Hestia Carrow was already waiting for me. I had asked the twins for one of them to accompany me and, as always, they delivered efficiently. She was the older of the two, and just one look was enough to notice the barely contained rage I carried. She said nothing. She simply positioned herself at my side, silently, and began following me through the corridors like a trained shadow.

The Weasley twins were already in the greenhouses, standing, waiting for me. It was a reflex: I raised my wand toward them, blinded by fury.

They reacted as any wizard raised on warnings would—by reflex. Hestia was faster. She stepped ahead, her wand slicing the air like a dagger, and disarmed them with a single movement. The twins’ wands flew to the floor. I was momentarily surprised she hadn’t needed a command. The Carrows were efficient. More than that—they were loyal.

“What the hell is this supposed to mean?!” one of the twins blurted. I couldn’t tell which one—both their tones were equally irritated.

“Were you part of the theft?” I said, my voice full of venom.

The other frowned.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about what your damn sister stole from me!” I shouted, my hands trembling. The words came out unfiltered, filled with a fury I barely understood.

Their expressions shifted from anger to confusion—genuine and almost clumsy.

“That’s impossible, Potter. Ginny’s not a thief.”

I laughed. A broken, nearly manic laugh escaped from me like a reflex.

“I don’t give a damn whether she’s a thief or not. What matters is that she has something that belongs to me. Something important. Something that should be with me. Something no one should ever let fall into the wrong hands.”

They looked at each other. They hesitated. They wanted to trust their sister, but the tension in the air was thick. They knew this was different.

“We don’t know what you’re talking about, but if Ginny has it, we’ll get it back to you.”

“I’m sure she has it,” I said through clenched teeth, finally lowering my wand. “What she stole was a notebook. A black notebook with my name on the cover.”

Hestia kept her wand pointed at them. She didn’t lower her guard for a second.

“I’ll talk to her,” one of them said. “If she has it, it’ll come back to you.”

“It better,” I muttered, my tongue burning with fury. “Because if you don’t bring it back yourselves... I’ll intervene in my own way. And believe me, I won’t show any mercy to little Weasley just because she’s your sister.”

The air grew heavy. The twins dropped the façade. They weren’t jokers anymore. They looked at me as if they were measuring exactly what I was capable of—and for the first time, maybe—they understood it wasn’t worth testing me.

“That won’t be necessary,” one finally said. “If Ginny has it, she’ll return it.”

I laughed again, louder this time, voice more shattered, as if all the venom inside me needed to pour out.

I turned around, ready to leave. I couldn’t stand another second of that red hair. It repulsed me.

“Wait!” one of them called out. “There’s still something we need to talk about. That’s why we asked for this meeting.”

“Talk to Hestia. She’ll pass the message.”

And I left, without looking back.

I walked away without knowing exactly where I was going. I moved fast, my steps dull and heavy, as if I could leave behind the fire that was burning me from the inside. I needed to get rid of that rage, that destructive impulse that made my skin boil and my fingers numb. If I didn’t let it out, it was going to swallow me whole.

I passed through empty hallways, climbed stairs without thinking, turned corners at random. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want anyone to see me.

When I looked up, I was in front of a worn-out door—the girls’ bathroom on the second floor. I didn’t care. I wouldn’t find anyone there. No one would bother me. No one ever came.

I entered, and the air greeted me damp, stale. The faucets were rusty, and some of the doors hung off their hinges. I didn’t stop to look.

I headed straight to the back. Opened my palm and cast a spell without thinking. One of the stall doors slammed against the wall with a dry crack. Another, the sink door, groaned under a poorly pronounced spell. The mirror trembled. I screamed something I couldn’t even remember. I needed noise. I needed to break something—even if it didn’t calm me. Even if it made me worse.

I leaned against the cracked marble, my forehead sweaty, my breathing torn to shreds.

“Could you not scream?” said a voice behind me, as if it came from a damp corner of the air.

I turned immediately, wand raised.

The ghost floated above one of the toilets in the back—semi-transparent, with large round glasses and an aggrieved expression. Her feet didn’t touch the ground, and her hair seemed to move in slow motion.

“What are you doing here?” I asked through clenched teeth.

“I could ask you the same,” she snapped. “This is my bathroom. No one comes here.”

“I’m not in the mood for this,” I said, turning around, but her voice cut through again.

“Then don’t come here to complain. It’s not my fault you’re so... so like that.”

I stopped. Closed my eyes for a moment. Then opened them again.

“Who are you?”

The ghost seemed offended by the question, though she clearly expected it.

“Myrtle. Moaning Myrtle. Everyone knows that. Except you, apparently.”

“Why ‘Moaning’?” I asked, because there was something dark in me that wanted her to keep talking—even if only to irritate me.

She crossed her arms, floating.

“Because I moan. Because I died. Because no one wants me around. Because they hate me. Is that enough?”

I looked at her for a few seconds. There was something dirty and familiar in her—a truth—in her awkward expression, in the way she tried to be annoying just so she wouldn’t be forgotten.

“Fine,” I said at last. “Then moan quietly. I came here to scream.”

She looked at me like she couldn’t quite tell whether to be offended... or grateful not to be ignored.

“What did they do to you?” she suddenly asked, lowering her voice.

“What?”

“You don’t scream like that unless someone did something to you. People who are fine don’t cast spells at broken sinks.”

I looked at her. For a moment, the rage eased just enough to leave room for exhaustion.

“They stole something from me.”

“What?”

“From the only person I care about. And it was her. Her sister. And they know it—even if they pretend they don’t.”

Myrtle floated closer, her eyes behind the glasses more attentive than she’d let on.

“And are you going to hurt them?”

“If they don’t return it... yes.”

There was no judgment in her eyes. Just a sort of bored, resigned acceptance.

“Then I hope they don’t return it,” she whispered in a funereal tone. “Screaming is the only thing that breaks the silence in this place.”

The morning of December first hit like a slap. Cold, gray, without even the elegance of snow. The Great Hall smelled of warm bread, but to me it tasted like ashes.

I sat down reluctantly, tossing the book I had in my hands onto the table, though I couldn’t remember when I had picked it up. The others were starting to settle in: Nott to my right, Daphne across from me, Zabini farther down, his chin still resting in his palm and eyes half-closed. The gray light of the overcast sky drifted in listlessly through the enchanted ceiling.

“What’s wrong with you?” Nott asked bluntly, calmly pouring himself tea as always.

“It bothers me that Hogwarts allows rats,” I replied without raising my voice, watching a blot of jam spread across the plate in front of me. “Small, filthy, red ones.”

Nott raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask further. Daphne did.

“Are you referring to someone in particular, or are we talking invasive fauna?”

“I don’t like repeating myself,” I said, without looking at her.

I was in a foul mood. I could taste bile on my tongue—bitter, acidic. I hadn’t slept well, or at all. I had dreamed of screams that weren’t mine, and eyes the wrong color. My body ached. My patience ached.

Then I saw her.

The little Weasley girl, sitting among her own, paler than usual, her back stiff. She looked around with short, sharp movements. Like someone awaiting a sentence.

When her eyes met mine, she seemed to shrink. Her expression shifted in a second: from confusion to fear. Not vague or polite fear. Terror. Raw, undiluted terror.

She lowered her head immediately.

Granger, beside her, turned slowly and watched her. Then, she followed the path of her gaze. And saw me. She said nothing, but she understood. And that made me smile—just a little—inside.

The Weasley twins were nowhere in sight.

I looked around and noticed not all of my classmates were as distracted as they pretended. Daphne had her spoon suspended midair. Zabini looked up slightly from his plate with that carefully measured calm of his. Even Nott, who rarely flinched, paused to silently watch the exchange.

“What was that?” Pansy asked at last, in a low, almost amused voice.

“The rats,” I said, sipping my juice.

“You scared her,” Zabini added, as if making a comment on the weather.

“And?”

No one answered. Because there was nothing to say. Because everyone knew—or suspected—I was closer to the edge than was wise to admit. And because at Hogwarts, Slytherins learned not to interfere with a poison that wasn’t meant for them.

I stared at my plate as if I could read something in the oily reflection of the butter. I wasn’t hungry. Not for food. I wanted the notebook. I wanted justice. I wanted someone to pay.

The little Weasley girl still hadn’t lifted her head. Good.

We walked through the corridors of the west wing, where the December sunlight filtered in obliquely—dirty, weak. The kind of light that feels more like a warning than a comfort. Hestia walked beside me under a privacy charm. Always alert. She asked nothing, suggested nothing. She was, in many ways, ideal.

“The Weasley twins wanted me to tell you something,” she said finally, without looking at me. “They want to increase production. Say the product sells itself. Called it liquid gold.”

I didn’t answer.

“They say the clients are willing to pay more, if necessary. They think we could double the profits if we stop limiting the refinement rate.”

The word refinement sounded hollow to me then. Empty. Useless. Like everything else. We kept walking. My body knew where we were going; my mind didn’t bother to participate.

“And?” Hestia asked when I didn’t say anything.

“No.”

My voice carried no emotion. Just a decree.

“No to what?” she asked, in that soft tone that wasn’t a challenge, just a request for clarification.

“If Longbottom wants to plant more poppies, let him. I don’t care. But the refining is suspended. No more product. Not for them. Not until I get my notebook back.”

I spat the last word like it burned my tongue.

Hestia nodded slowly, not interrupting me.

“Should I remind them of what they signed? That the final decision is always yours?”

“Yes.”

We turned a corner. A group of students walked off in the distance, laughing about something I neither understood nor cared to. Their presence felt foreign, unnecessary, annoying decor.

“How important is that notebook?” Hestia asked then, almost like it was a technical matter. Her tone was neutral. Cold, like her.

I stopped. Not for drama. Not to look at her. I just stopped because I didn’t want to keep walking. In front of me, an old tapestry showed an absurd scene: a unicorn crying over a stream of milk. Stupid. Harmless. A lie.

“Everything important is in there,” I said, without turning.

She asked no more. And I said nothing else.

I had never wanted to know how the Weasleys smuggled the product out of the castle. I wasn’t interested. As long as it worked. As long as the rules were followed. But now everything had changed. And if I had to burn the system down to ashes to recover what was mine, I would. Without hesitation. And this time, there would be no warnings.

We kept walking down the corridor when I saw her. Ginevra Weasley. She walked alone, with that hurried step of someone trying not to be seen but who can’t stop looking around, like fear was an invisible bell around her neck. For a second, she didn’t see me. And in that second, I felt something colder than rage.

It was the kind of anger that doesn’t move. Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t shake. It just is.

When our eyes met, she froze. Pale as if she’d seen a ghost. She turned to run.

“No.”

I didn’t shout. I didn’t need to. I took two steps and grabbed her arm. Not forcefully. Not yet. But with enough pressure to remind her that I wasn’t a dream, or a voice, or a monster under her bed. I was real. And I was there.

“You have something that’s mine.”

I saw her eyes fill with tears instantly. Tears without courage. Tears of guilt, not innocence. I was about to say something else—I don’t even know what—when the twins appeared. I wasn’t surprised.

One of them, I think George, went straight to his sister and pulled her away from me. Not violently, but with clear determination. She let herself be led, trembling, offering no resistance. The other stayed in front of me.

“She has your notebook,” he said, voice tired. Not defeated. But close.

I nodded slowly.

“You’ll have it tonight. In the greenhouse.”

“It better be undamaged,” I said. That was all. I didn’t threaten. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to. There are moments when the blade of the knife is already implicit in your gaze.

Fred—or George, what difference does it make—nodded, eyes slightly dull, as if he hadn’t slept well. Then he turned and left without saying anything else.

I stood staring at the empty corridor for a few seconds, as if the stone might return something to me. As if silence knew the answer.

“Do you think they’re trustworthy?” I asked Hestia without turning.