Chapter Two: The Man in the Bloodstained Coat
The first time Harry saw him outside the mirror, he thought he was dreaming.
It had been another sleepless night. He sat in the dimly lit library of Grimmauld Place, staring at an old, leather-bound book he wasn't really reading. The words swam before his eyes, his thoughts too tangled to focus.
The candlelight flickered.
And then—
"Verdammt. What a mess you have made of yourself."
The voice was right behind him. Low, almost amused.
Harry turned sharply, knocking over his cup of tea. His breath hitched.
A figure stood in the doorway, half-shrouded in darkness. He was wearing a tattered military coat, once pristine, now stained with dark, dried blood. His face was pale, almost gray, but the most horrifying part was the wound.
A bullet hole, right in the center of his forehead. Blood ran down his temple in sluggish streams, staining his collar, dripping onto the floor. His dead, glassy eyes stared straight at Harry.
Harry gripped the edge of the table. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real.
"Ah, you see me now. Gut."
Harry forced himself to speak. "You're not real."
The man in the bloodstained coat took a slow step forward, boots eerily silent against the wooden floor.
"And yet, here I am."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. His head pounded. This was a hallucination. It had to be.
"You know who I am."
Harry's stomach churned. The name was right there, clawing at the edges of his mind. He had seen this face in history books, in his own nightmares.
Adolf Hitler.
"No," Harry whispered, shaking his head violently. "No, this is some kind of—of curse. A trick."
Hitler—or whatever this thing was—tilted his head, regarding him like a scientist observing a specimen. Then he smirked.
"Lügen helfen dir nicht, Junge." Lies won't help you, boy.
Harry's breathing turned ragged. He stumbled back, nearly knocking over a bookshelf. His skin was cold, his hands trembling.
The ghost—or hallucination, or whatever it was—didn't vanish. He simply watched, calm, patient.
"You feel it, don't you?" The voice was quiet, insidious. "The memories creeping in. The thoughts that are not your own. The instincts."
Harry gritted his teeth. "You're nothing. You're dead."
The smirk widened.
"And yet, you are still me."
The candlelight flickered violently—then, in a blink, the figure was gone.
But the bloodstains on the floor remained.
Harry didn't sleep that night.
And for the first time, he was terrified of closing his eyes.
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