Chapter Three: Whispers in the Blood
Harry Potter was losing his mind.
At first, it had just been the dreams. Then the flickering shadows in the mirror. But now—now he was seeing him in broad daylight.
The man in the bloodstained coat. The man with the bullet wound in the side of his head, where the blood never stopped dripping, staining his collar and pooling at his feet. A man who should not exist, a man Harry had learned about in Muggle history books but had never thought twice about.
A man who called himself him.
"Schläfst du schlecht, mein Junge?" The voice cut through the silence. "Are you sleeping poorly, my boy?"
Harry was in Diagon Alley when it happened. He had been walking past Flourish Blotts, his hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets, trying to ignore the gnawing exhaustion weighing him down. The streets were busy, people laughing, talking, completely unaware of the ghost standing just beside him.
Harry swallowed. He refused to look.
"Ignoring me won't make me disappear."
The voice was so casual, as if they were old friends discussing the weather.
Harry's fingers clenched into fists. "You're not real," he muttered under his breath. "You're just a hallucination."
"Is that what you think?" The bloodstained figure walked alongside him, matching his pace effortlessly. "Then tell me, Junge, why do I feel more real to you with each passing day?"
Harry kept walking, jaw tight, breath shallow. He wouldn't do this. Not here.
The ghost chuckled.
"How strange it must be for you. The wizarding world sees you as a hero, yet you feel the truth clawing inside you, don't you?"
Harry's stomach twisted. He had to get out of here. He turned into a side alley, away from the crowds, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The moment he was alone, he spun on his heel.
The bloodstained ghost was still there, standing just a few feet away. His face was eerily calm, but his dead eyes bore into Harry's soul.
Harry's breathing turned ragged. "Why you?" he whispered. "Why am I seeing you?"
Hitler tilted his head, blood dripping slowly from the wound in his skull.
"Because, mein Junge… I am you."
Harry recoiled as if struck.
"No." He shook his head violently. "No, that's not—"
"You feel it, don't you? The thoughts creeping in. The instincts you shouldn't have."
Harry's throat tightened.
It was true. Lately, strange things had been happening. Words in a language he didn't know slipping into his mind. A sense of déjà vu in places he had never been. A creeping, sickening familiarity with war, with leadership, with strategy.
With power.
He gritted his teeth. "You're lying."
The ghost only smiled.
"Time will tell."
Then, just like that, he was gone.
But the bloodstains on the cobblestone remained.
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