The Dream
Green eyes snapped to the ship as it rose and fell with the rhythm of the sea. It loomed in the storm like a wounded beast, its rust-streaked hull and peeling paint told tales of forgotten battles and distant voyages. There was a bleakness to it, a sense of decay and resignation that mirrored the storm raging in Harry's own mind. The rough, barnacled railing seemed to reach out to him, cold and unwelcoming, as though it shared his unwillingness to be touched. Above, tattered sails flapped weakly against the wind, their frayed edges casting fleeting, jagged shadows against the darkened sky. They reminded Harry too much of himself- broken but unwilling to fall. A crow perched on the mast, its black feathers slick with rain, its beady eyes unblinking as it watched Harry with an unsettling stillness.. The ship felt like a monument to something lost—like glory stolen by time. Harry swallowed, the taste of salt and brine lingering on his lips, a bitter reminder of the impending doom he would inevitably face. An unsure smile curved onto the side of his face.
"It's just a dream" he said, the tone of the sentence lacking any reassurance or certainty.
The wind screamed, tearing at Harry's soaked robes and whipping his hair into his face. He gripped the splintered railing with all his strength, the sharp wood biting into his palms as he tried to steady himself against the ship's violent rocking. His breath came in short gasps, each one sharp and icy, burning in his lungs.
Far ahead, cutting through the chaos of the storm, loomed the black spires of a fortress.
Nurmengard.
He recognized it immediately from the illustrations in Hermione's books—books he hadn't bothered to read thoroughly at the time but now wished he had.
The sight of it sent a shiver down Harry's spine. It was ancient and terrible, carved from the shadows of the world itself. The flashes of lightning illuminated its jagged edges, revealing towers that seemed to claw at the sky in defiance. The fortress radiated something dark and powerful, a presence that pulled at Harry like a magnet, even as every instinct in his body screamed at him to run.
But he couldn't move. He was trapped, rooted to the deck of the ship, as though the storm had chained him in place.
"This isn't real, it's just in my head" he muttered under his breath, though the words felt small and hollow. His voice was drowned out by the roar of the sea, swallowed whole by the storm's fury.
And yet, everything felt painfully real. The salt spray stung his skin, the cold wind cut through him like a blade, and the ship's lurching made his stomach churn.
A voice shattered the chaos, cutting through the storm like a knife.
"Not quite in your head Mr. Potter, but why should that mean it's not real?"
Harry froze. The voice was deep and smooth, each word laced with a quiet, dangerous power.
He turned sharply, his heart pounding. A man stood on the deck, impossibly steady despite the ship's violent movements.
His hair was silver, catching the dim moonlight like polished steel, and his pale blue eyes burned with an intensity that made Harry's stomach twist. He was tall, his posture straight and regal, his dark robes billowing softly in the wind. He looked untouched by the storm, as though the chaos around him was merely a backdrop for his presence. As if his attendance to decades of imprisonment had been a mere tea party.
"Gellert Grindelwald," Harry said, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and unease. His fingers tightened around the holly wand in his hand, though he didn't remember drawing it.
Grindelwald smiled faintly, the expression sharp and humourless. "Ah, so you know my name," he said softly. "Good. That will save us some time."
"Get out of my head!" Harry shouted, his voice rising over the storm.
Grindelwald tilted his head, studying him with a kind of detached curiosity. "Your head?" he repeated, his tone almost amused. "Oh, my dear boy, this is not your head. This is a place of… shared opportunity."
Harry's gaze narrowed as he met Grindelwald's eyes, his voice steady despite the tension swirling around him. "You think this is some game? That you can pull me into your web, just like that?"
"And yet, here you are," Grindelwald replied, taking a step forward. His movements were unhurried, almost languid, as though the storm itself bent to his will. "Drawn to me, whether you realize it or not. Tell me, Harry Potter, why do you think that is?"
Harry took a step back, his boots sliding slightly on the slick deck. "I didn't choose this!"
Grindelwald's smile widened, though his eyes remained cold. "Perhaps not consciously," he said, his tone soft but cutting. "But deep down, you know there are questions you've been too afraid to ask. Questions only I can answer."
"I don't have any questions for you," Harry snapped.
Grindelwald's pale eyes seemed to glimmer in the dim light. "Don't you?"
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat.
Grindelwald's smile widened, though it didn't reach his eyes.."Tell me, Harry Potter, how many times have they failed you? How many times have you been left to fight alone?"
The words hit like a physical blow, and Harry's breath caught. Images flashed through his mind unbidden: the Dursleys locking him in the cupboard under the stairs, Dudley and his gang chasing him across the schoolyard, Ron and Hermione's strained faces when his name came out of the Goblet of Fire.
"Stop," Harry said, his voice trembling.
Grindelwald stepped closer, his gaze piercing. "You can deny it all you like, but the truth is written all over you. They fear you, Harry—not because of what you've done, but because of what you could become."
The world shifted. Sails collapsing in on themselves, the creak of the ship now a low, mournful groan that echoed in the air. The storm seemed to churn around him, twisting reality, warping everything he knew.
When Harry's vision cleared, he was no longer himself.
He was smaller, thinner, and his wrists stung where rough rope bound them together. He could feel the coarse fibres digging into his skin, the ache in his shoulders as his arms were forced into an awkward position. His breaths came in shallow gasps, and his chest burned with the effort of staying upright.
He realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was no longer Harry Potter but Gellert Grindelwald, seeing the world through his eyes.
The room around him was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of mildew and smoke. Cracks ran through the stone walls, and water dripped from the ceiling in a slow, steady rhythm. A single torch flickered in its bracket, casting eerie shadows across the floor.
A figure loomed over him, tall and broad-shouldered, with a cruel smile twisting his features. The man held a heavy club in one hand, its surface worn and splintered, while his other hand rested on the hilt of a dagger strapped to his belt.
"You thought you could hide it from us, didn't you?" the man growled, his voice low and gravelly.
Harry tried to speak, but the words that came out were not his own. "I—I don't know what you're talking about," Grindelwald said, his voice high and trembling.
The man sneered, taking a step closer. "Magic," he spat, the word dripping with venom. "It's in your blood. I can smell it on you. A filthy stain, poisoning everything it touches."
Grindelwald shook his head frantically, his hands trembling against the ropes. "I didn't do anything! Please, you have to believe me!"
"Liar," the man hissed. His grip on the club tightened, his knuckles turning white. "You'll pay for what you are."
The first blow came without warning. The club struck Grindelwald's ribs with a sickening crack, and Harry felt the pain ripple through him like a shockwave.
Grindelwald cried out, collapsing to the floor, but the man didn't stop.
Another blow landed on his back, then another. Each strike sent fresh waves of agony through Harry's body, leaving him gasping for air.
"You're a freak," the man snarled, punctuating his words with another blow. "An abomination. You and your kind will burn for what you've done."
Grindelwald's hands clawed at the dirt floor, his nails scraping against the stone as the blows rained down. But even as his body screamed in pain, something deep inside him burned.
It was anger.
The pain was unbearable. Each strike of the club sent waves of agony coursing through Harry—no, Grindelwald. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud, the dirt beneath him rough and cold. He felt the boy's ribs shudder with every gasping breath, his wrists raw and bleeding where the ropes dug into his skin.
Above him, the man sneered, his shadow stretching across the room like a living thing.
"You think you're special, don't you?" the man growled, his voice low and venomous. "You think your kind is better than us?"
"I didn't do anything!" Grindelwald's voice rang out, high and trembling, almost childlike.
The man's face twisted with anger, and he raised the club again. "Liar," he spat. "Magic doesn't belong in this world. It poisons everything it touches—just like you."
The club came down again, this time across Grindelwald's shoulder. Harry felt the bone creak under the impact, and his vision blurred with tears.
"You'll learn your place," the man said, circling him like a predator. "You and your filthy blood. We'll break it out of you if we have to."
The shadows around the room flickered with each step, and for the first time, Harry noticed there were others. Silhouettes moved in the background, murmuring softly to one another. They didn't intervene—they only watched.
Harry felt Grindelwald's body tremble, his hands clenching into fists against the cold stone. Beneath the fear, beneath the pain, something else stirred.
"You're weak," the man said, crouching down to grab a fistful of Grindelwald's hair. He forced the boy to look up, his face inches away. "That's all your kind is. Weak and unnatural."
Something snapped.
The air in the room shifted, heavy and electric. Harry felt it rippling through Grindelwald like a wildfire, the raw, unrestrained surge of magic that he could no longer contain.
"Let me go," Grindelwald said, his voice low and trembling, filled with a cold fury.
The man's sneer faltered. "What did you say?"
Grindelwald's hands began to glow, the ropes binding his wrists burning away into ash. The boy stood, his small frame seeming to grow as the air around him thickened. His grey eyes gleamed with a dangerous light.
"I said," he repeated, his voice stronger now, "let me go."
The man stumbled back, his confidence cracking as the magic swirled around Grindelwald like a living thing. The shadows in the room seemed to bend toward him, drawn to his power.
"Enough," Grindelwald said softly.
The room erupted in chaos.
Roots burst from the ground, twisting and writhing like snakes as they surged toward the man. He screamed, swinging the club wildly, but it was no use. The roots coiled around his arms and legs, dragging him to his knees as the floor cracked beneath him.
The boy raised his hands, the glow around them intensifying. "You will never hurt me again," he said, his voice steady and cold.
The roots tightened, and the man's screams were swallowed by the light.
When the glow faded, the room was silent. The man was gone, and the figures in the shadows had vanished. Grindelwald stood alone in the center of the room, his chest heaving, his hands still faintly glowing.
"Do you see now?" Grindelwald's voice echoed, soft but insistent. "Power was my salvation, Harry Potter. It will be yours too."
Waking Reflections:
Harry jolted awake, his chest heaving as though he had been the one fighting for his life. Sweat clung to his skin, soaking through his shirt and chilling him to the bone.
The dormitory was dark, the only sound the soft snores of his roommates. But the silence felt oppressive, heavy, as if the weight of Grindelwald's words had followed him out of the dream.
Harry sat up, his hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the bed. His heart was pounding, and his thoughts were a tangled mess of fear, anger, and confusion.
It was just a dream, he told himself. It wasn't real.
But it had felt real. Too real. The memory of the boy—of Grindelwald—was burned into his mind like a scar. The pain, the humiliation, the rage—it had been his.
Harry clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to reject Grindelwald's words, to bury them in the deepest part of his mind and never think about them again. But they wouldn't go away.
"Power is the only shield," Grindelwald had said.
Harry shook his head, his jaw tightening. He didn't believe that. He couldn't. But the memory—the sheer weight of it—made him question everything.
The corridor was quiet at first, its emptiness a welcome reprieve from the noise of the day. Harry had taken a longer route back to Gryffindor Tower to avoid the busiest hallways, his bag weighed down with textbooks and parchment. The weight on his shoulders wasn't just physical; it was the accumulation of sneers, whispers, and pointed glares that had followed him relentlessly.
His head was down as he walked, his fingers clutching the strap of his bag tightly. His scar throbbed faintly, though it was nothing compared to the tension curling in his chest.
He turned a corner, and that's when he saw them.
Zacharias Smith and three other Hufflepuffs lounged near the stairs, their wands in hand. They were laughing about something, but as soon as they spotted Harry, the laughter stopped.
Harry's stomach sank.
"Potter," Zacharias called out, his voice light but with an unmistakable edge. He stepped forward, the others falling into place behind him like a pack of wolves.
Harry stopped, his grip on his bag tightening. "What do you want?"
Zacharias smirked, his arms crossing over his chest. "What, no greeting? No 'Good evening, Zacharias'? Honestly, Potter, I thought a Triwizard champion would have better manners."
The other boys chuckled.
Harry kept his expression blank. "I don't have time for this."
"Oh, you don't have time for us now," Zacharias said mockingly, feigning a pout. "Too busy plotting your next big moment in the spotlight, are you?"
Harry's jaw clenched. "I didn't put my name in the Goblet. I've told you that already."
"And we're supposed to believe you?" Zacharias shot back. "Come off it, Potter. You've been playing the hero since first year. What's this—just another act to get everyone fawning over you?"
Harry's fingers twitched at his sides, and he fought the urge to reach for his wand. He knew it wouldn't end well. There were four of them, and even if he managed to cast a spell or two, the odds weren't in his favour.
"Leave me alone," he said quietly.
"Leave you alone?" Zacharias echoed, his voice rising in mock outrage. "Why should we? You're the one who's been lying to everyone, making the rest of us look like fools."
One of the boys behind him snickered. "Bet he used a Confundus Charm on the Goblet."
"Or bribed someone," another chimed in. "Wouldn't be the first time Potter used his fame to get ahead."
Harry took a step forward, his voice sharp. "I didn't cheat."
"And I'm the Minister for Magic," Zacharias said with a laugh.
Before Harry could respond, one of the boys stepped forward and shoved him hard. The force sent him stumbling backward, and his bag slipped from his shoulder, spilling books and parchment across the stone floor.
The sound echoed in the empty corridor, loud and final.
"Oops," Zacharias said, his grin widening. "Looks like you dropped something."
Harry's face burned as he crouched down to gather his things. His hands shook as he grabbed at the scattered parchment, and he felt the eyes of the Hufflepuffs on him, watching his every move.
"Careful, Potter," one of them jeered. "Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation as the golden boy."
As Harry reached for his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook, a foot shot out and kicked it across the floor. It skidded several feet away, spinning before it came to a stop against the wall.
"Stop it," Harry said through gritted teeth, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface.
"Make us," Zacharias taunted, his wand now in his hand.
Harry stood slowly, his fists clenched at his sides. "I'm warning you," he said, his voice low.
"Warning us?" Zacharias said with mock fear. "Hear that, lads? The great Harry Potter is warning us."
The others laughed, their voices ringing through the corridor.
Before Harry could react, Zacharias flicked his wand, muttering an incantation under his breath. A trip jinx shot toward Harry, and he barely had time to brace himself before his legs gave way beneath him. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him.
The laughter grew louder.
Harry scrambled to his feet, his hand reaching for his wand, but another spell hit him square in the chest, sending him sprawling again. His wand flew from his grasp, skidding across the floor and out of reach.
"Stop it!" he shouted, his voice raw.
But they didn't stop.
One of the boys raised his wand, sending a Stinging Hex toward Harry. It struck his arm, and he hissed in pain, clutching the spot where the spell hit. Another hex followed, this one sending a sharp jolt through his ribs.
By the time they were done, Harry was left on the floor, his chest heaving, his body aching. His books were scattered, his robes torn, and blood trickled from a cut on his lip.
Zacharias stepped forward, crouching down so he was level with Harry.
"Maybe next time," he said softly, "you'll think twice before lying to everyone."
With that, the group walked away, their laughter echoing behind them.
Harry lay there for a moment, his body trembling. His mind raced with anger, humiliation, and frustration, all of it swirling into a single, crushing weight. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his hands scraping against the stone as he gathered his things.
His Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook was stained with blood where his fingers had pressed against it, and he shoved it into his bag without bothering to clean it.
By the time he made it to the stairs, he felt hollow.
The castle was eerily silent as Harry wandered its darkened halls. The glow of the enchanted torches cast flickering shadows on the walls, their soft light doing little to warm the chill that had settled deep in his bones.
His footsteps echoed with every step, the sound bouncing off the stone like a haunting reminder of how alone he truly was.
He didn't know where he was going. He only knew that he couldn't face the Gryffindor common room—not tonight. The thought of walking through the portrait hole, of seeing Seamus's glare and hearing the whispers of his housemates, was unbearable.
Without realizing it, his feet carried him to the second floor.
He stopped in front of the girls' bathroom, the faint sound of running water reaching his ears. The door creaked as he pushed it open, the dim light revealing cracked tiles and the familiar sight of the sink in the centre of the room.
"Open," Harry whispered, his voice hoarse.
The snake-engraved taps responded immediately, twisting apart as the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets revealed itself. The sound of grinding stone filled the room, and the floor trembled slightly as the dark, gaping hole appeared before him.
Harry hesitated for a moment, staring into the abyss. The memories of his second year flooded back—Emily Riddle, the basilisk, Ginny lying cold and pale on the floor.
But this time, there was no fear.
He stepped forward, the descent into darkness feeling almost like a release.
The air grew colder as he descended, the faint green glow of the Chamber's ancient magic lighting the way. The silence was thick, pressing against his ears, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing through the tunnels.
When he finally reached the Chamber, he stopped, his breath catching in his throat.
The space was massive, its towering pillars carved with twisting serpents that seemed to writhe in the flickering light. The great statue of Salazar Slytherin loomed at the far end, its face stern and unyielding, watching over the chamber like a sentinel.
Harry dropped his bag onto the stone floor, the sound echoing loudly in the vast space.
His legs gave out beneath him, and he sank to his knees, his hands trembling as they pressed against the cold floor.
For the first time in weeks, the weight of everything crashed down on him. The bullying, the isolation, the suffocating pressure of the tournament—it all came pouring out in a wave of emotion he could no longer hold back.
Tears blurred his vision as he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, the sound swallowed by the emptiness of the Chamber.
Here, in the depths of the castle, there was no one to judge him. No one to mock him or question his worth.
For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to feel.