Darkness loomed, and something stirred in the depths of the nightmares.

One morning, when Sirius and Remus noticed the dark circles under Harry's eyes and asked why he looked so exhausted, he hesitated for only a moment before deciding to tell them.

He described the dreams that had begun haunting him this summer—all of them. He hadn't thought much about the earlier ones; they had been vague, a whisper of something dark stirring, and he had dismissed them as nightmares. But last night, last night was something else. A clearer sense of Voldemort, of something moving in the shadows. And he always woke with his scar aching after having these dreams. He wasn't sure if it was truly him, but after Professor Trelawney's ominous prophecy and the attack at the World Cup, he wasn't willing to ignore it.

To his surprise, Sirius and Remus regarded it with a gravity he hadn't anticipated.

Sirius, who was usually quick to scoff at Divination, fell into an uncharacteristic silence, his fingers drumming restlessly against the table. Remus, ever the rational one, didn't dismiss it either. Instead, he exchanged a glance with Sirius before saying carefully, "You should tell Dumbledore."

Harry frowned. "I don't want to blow this out of proportion. They're just dreams—"

"Harry," Sirius interrupted, leaning forward. "You felt something like this before, didn't you? Back in your first year? Around Quirrell? Your scar hurt when you were near him."

Harry nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, and it was Voldemort. Or at least, what was left of him."

Sirius exhaled sharply. "And now, after the World Cup, you're having dreams about him again."

Remus's expression was unreadable. "Even if they are just dreams, they're worth paying attention to."

Harry shifted uneasy under their gazes. He didn't like the way they were looking at him, as if he were carrying something fragile and dangerous coiled within him. As if they already suspected what Dumbledore might say.

Remus sent a letter to Dumbledore that same afternoon, keeping the details vague—just that Harry had experienced strange dreams, and they wanted his opinion.

Dumbledore's response came not in writing, but in person. He arrived earlier than usual before the next meeting, stepping gracefully through the front door of Grimmauld Place. But what caught everyone off guard was that he was not alone.

Snape followed him in, his black robes billowing slightly as he moved, his face an impassive mask. He took his usual place in the shadows of the room, arms crossed, his presence as silent as it was sharp-edged.

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably under Snape's gaze but pushed aside the unease as Dumbledore gestured for him to speak. Taking a steadying breath, he recounted his dreams—every detail he could remember. His voice felt too loud in the quiet room.

When he finished, the silence stretched uncomfortably. Snape remained motionless in his corner, silent yet watchful, his gaze a blade of scrutiny dissecting something unseen.

As Harry spoke, he hesitated before mentioning the prophecy and Trelawney's weird behavior when she said it—but after everything that had happened at the World Cup and with these dreams, it felt too important to leave out.

"The last time I saw Trelawney," he said carefully, "she gave a prophecy, it felt different." He recited it as best as he could remember, his voice uncertain.

From his corner, Snape stiffened. It was barely perceptible—a tightening of his jaw, a flicker of tension of his stance—but Harry caught it.

Dumbledore, however, did not react with surprise. Instead, he simply inclined his head, as if he had already expected such a revelation.

"I see," he said, his voice calm but thoughtful. "It seems, then, that the currents of fate are once again stirring."

Harry didn't know what he had expected—concern, urgency, even outright dismissal—but not this.

"That's it?" he asked. "You're not going to explain what it means?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly, though a quiet weariness lurked beneath the surface. "Prophecies are tricky things, Harry. Often, they are clearest in hindsight. But I do believe it would be wise for us to take precautions."

He glanced at Snape then, as if silently consulting him. Snape's expression remained unreadable, but Harry had the distinct impression that something unspoken passed between them.

Harry frowned. "But what about the dreams? They feel… different. Like they're real."

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Dreams are often more than what they seem, Harry," he said gently. "But for now, I ask only this—if you have another like it, you must tell me immediately."

Harry didn't miss the way Dumbledore's gaze flickered toward Snape as he spoke. It was brief, but deliberate.

Snape's expression remained unchanged, yet the air between them tensed—like the charged stillness before a storm. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, but he had the uneasy feeling that whatever remained left unsaid wouldn't stay that way forever.

—-

A few nights later, the dream came back—stronger, more vivid, more terrifying.

Harry stood in a dim, freezing room, the air thick with something unspoken. Shadows stretched unnaturally, flickering with the dim light of a dying fire.

Wormtail was there, hunched over, wringing his hands nervously. His breath came in quick, shallow pants as he gazed at the twisted, small form sitting in the high-backed chair.

It wasn't human.

The thing's red eyes glowed like embers in the darkness, watching, waiting. When it spoke, its voice was high and cruel, sending a shiver down Harry's spine.

"It must be done soon," it hissed.

"Yes, my Lord," Wormtail whimpered, bowing lower.

A plan was unfolding. A plot to kill.

A great shape slithered through the shadows, its movements slow and deliberate. A snake, its gleaming body coiling lazily around the chair's legs.

The thing in the chair let out a cruel, high-pitched laugh, and suddenly—

Blinding green light. Agony.

Harry jolted awake, his scar searing as if Voldemort himself loomed beside him.

Harry clutched his forehead, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His scar seared with pain, fading ever so slowly, but the echo of that laughter still rang in his ears.

He shoved his blankets off and sat on the edge of his bed, his heart pounding. This was worse than the other dreams. The last ones had been vague—images, feelings, a sense of something lurking. But this… this felt real. Like he had been in that room.

Like he had been there.

Harry shivered, rubbing his arms. He needed to tell someone.

Harry remembered the way Snape had gone still when he mentioned the prophecy. The way Dumbledore had looked at him after the last meeting.

No, this wasn't something to keep to himself.

Resolute, he yanked on his dressing gown and hurried downstairs, the creaky floorboards barely registering in his mind.

He found Sirius and Remus in the kitchen, still awake, nursing cups of tea by the dim candlelight. Sirius was talking quietly, and Remus—looking as tired as ever—was rubbing his temple with two fingers.

Both of them looked up when they saw him.

"Harry?" Sirius frowned, setting his cup down. "What are you doing up?"

Harry hesitated only for a moment before blurting, "I had another dream."

That got their full attention. Remus straightened, and Sirius's face darkened.

"Sit," Remus said, his voice calm but firm, nudging a chair toward him.

Harry sat, the weight of the dream still pressing against his chest.

And then, slowly, he told them everything.

When Harry finished recounting the dream, silence settled over the kitchen. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows on the walls.

Remus folded his hands on the table, his face carefully neutral, but his fingers were pressed tightly together. Sirius, on the other hand, looked anything but calm—his jaw was clenched, and his grip on his teacup was white-knuckled.

"It was real," Harry said, voice barely above a whisper. "Wasn't it?"

Neither of them answered immediately.

Finally, Remus sighed. "It's possible."

"Possible?" Sirius scoffed, shaking his head. "A deformed baby, Wormtail, and murder? That sounds exactly like him." His voice grew sharper. "And you heard a snake. We know what that means."

Harry swallowed. "Parseltongue."

Sirius nodded grimly. "And if he's keeping a snake by his side…" He let the words hang, unfinished but heavy with implication.

Harry looked between them, frustration rising. "So what do we do? We have to tell Dumbledore, right?"

"Of course," Remus said immediately. "I'll write to him now." He pushed his chair back and stood.

Sirius, however, was watching Harry carefully. "How's your scar?"

Harry hesitated, then touched his forehead. "It hurt when I woke up, but it's fading now."

Sirius exhaled through his nose, glancing at Remus. "This is getting worse."

"I know," Remus murmured.

Harry's fingers dug into the wood. "You think it means something, don't you?"

Sirius met his eyes. "I think it means he's coming back."

The words sent a chill down Harry's spine. He had suspected as much, but hearing Sirius say it out loud made it real.

Remus reappeared with parchment and quill in hand, already writing as he murmured, "Dumbledore needs to know immediately."

Notes:

A bit of a filler chapter, nothing much happens, and Severus doesn't even get a chance to speak.

This story won't focus on the wizarding war, and some major canon events will be shuffled or altered. The main arc is about personal growth and how their relationships evolve.

Also, English is not my first language. I usually have my work checked by ChatGPT, but I often make mistakes when making quick edits. Please feel free to point out any typos, grammatical errors, or anything that seems unclear. Thanks for reading ️